CARMEN SYLVA 
 
 AND 
 
 SKETCHES FROM THE ORIENT
 
 THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 
 
 NEW YORK BOSTON CHICAGO 
 DALLAS SAN FRANCISCO 
 
 MACMILLAN & CO., LIMITED 
 
 LONDON BOMBAY CALCUTTA 
 MELBOURNE 
 
 THE MACMILLAN CO. OF CANADA, LTD. 
 TORONTO
 
 14MZ/
 
 CARMEN SYLVA 
 
 AND 
 
 SKETCHES FROM THE ORIENT 
 
 BY 
 PIERRE LOTI 
 
 MEMBER OF THE FRENCH ACADEMY 
 
 AUTHORIZED TRANSLATION 
 BY 
 
 FRED ROTHWELL 
 
 Nefo ||0rfc 
 
 THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 
 1912 
 
 AQ rights reserved
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1912, 
 BY THE MACMILLAN COMPANY. 
 
 Set up and electrotyped. Published November, 1912. 
 
 Norfoooft 
 
 J. 8. Gushing Co. Berwick & Smith Co. 
 Norwood, Mass., U.S.A.
 
 STACK 
 ANNEX 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 CARMEN SYLVA i 
 
 THE EXILE 27 
 
 CONSTANTINOPLE IN 1890 . . . . .87 
 
 SERPENT CHARMERS 151 
 
 A FEW FORGOTTEN PAGES OF "MADAME CHRYS- 
 
 ANTHEME" 157 
 
 JAPANESE WOMEN IN 1890 . . . . .177
 
 CARMEN SYLVA
 
 CARMEN SYLVA 
 
 NOVEMBER, 1887. 
 
 URING my wanderings, I once 
 chanced to spend a few days with 
 a fairy, in an enchanted castle. 
 
 The distant sound of a horn in 
 the forest depths invariably brings back to 
 my mind the most trivial incidents of this 
 visit. 
 
 The reason was that the fairy's castle lay in 
 the very heart of a densely wooded forest in 
 which the distant blasts of martial trumpets 
 were constantly heard resounding on every side. 
 There was a strange, weird melancholy of its 
 own about the sound, resembling some magic 
 call, in the vibrant air we breathed, the 
 silent, pure, invigorating air of the mountain 
 peaks. . . . 
 
 For me, music has a power of evocation that 
 is absolute; fragments of melodies heard years 
 3
 
 4 Carmen Sylva 
 
 ago remind me, far better than any visual image 
 would do, of certain spots I have seen, certain 
 persons who have come into my life. 
 
 And so whenever I hear a distant clarion call, 
 there arises before my mind, as distinctly as 
 though I were actually present, a royal boudoir 
 (for the fairy of whom I speak is a queen as 
 well) whose lofty Gothic windows overlook an 
 endless stretch of green firs, thickly clustered 
 together as in a primeval forest. The boudoir, 
 stored with a profusion of valuable objects, 
 possesses a rather gloomy kind of splendour, 
 the colour of these objects being indefinable: 
 faint crimson turning a tawny hue, and dark- 
 ened gold tints assuming the look of smoulder- 
 ing embers ; there are galleries resembling small 
 inner balconies, large heavy hangings that con- 
 ceal recesses full of mystery. . . . And there 
 the fairy reappears before me, dressed all in 
 white and wearing a long veil ; she is seated in 
 front of an easel, painting on parchment 
 Byzantine fashion with light, easy touch, the 
 most wonderful archaic illuminations, in which 
 gold is the predominant colour: work antique
 
 Carmen Sylva 5 
 
 which she had begun three years previously, a 
 priceless missal, intended for a cathedral. 
 
 The fairy's white robe is Oriental in form, 
 woven and worked in silver thread. But the 
 face, emerging from out the veil's transparent 
 folds, bears that inexpressibly gentle though 
 somewhat sad expression which belongs to none 
 but the most refined Northern races. And yet 
 the general effect is so harmonious that one 
 would think the dress had been invented for 
 the fairy who wears it, and for no one else, 
 the fairy who somewhere said : "Dress is not a 
 matter of indifference. It makes of you a liv- 
 ing work of art, the sole condition being that 
 you adorn that which adorns you." 
 
 How shall we describe the features of this 
 queen ? This is a delicate, a difficult task, for 
 the ordinary expressions one would use are imme- 
 diately rejected as irreverent, so instinct with 
 respect is the feeling she arouses within the 
 soul. The light of eternal youth is in her smile, 
 on her velvet-pink cheeks, shining and dancing 
 in the laughter of her beauteous lips. Her 
 magnificent tresses, however, visible through the
 
 6 Carmen Sylva 
 
 silver-spangled veil, are almost white ! . . . 
 "White locks," she wrote in her Thoughts, "are 
 the foam-topped waves which ride upon the sea 
 after a storm." 
 
 And what words could express the unrivalled 
 charm of her glance, of those clear grey eyes, 
 somewhat overshadowed by the broad open 
 forehead : the charm of a lofty intelligence, a 
 discreet, sympathetic power of penetration, 
 habitual suffering, and a wide-embracing pity? 
 The countenance almost continually changes 
 its expression, although the smile can scarcely 
 ever be said to be absent. "It is part of our 
 role," she once said to me, "to be constantly 
 smiling . . . like idols." But there are many 
 differences, many varieties of this queenly 
 smile: suddenly it appears as frank, almost 
 childish, gaiety; often it is a smile of mingled 
 resignation and melancholy, at times, even, of 
 infinite sadness. 
 
 With one of the many sorrows that have 
 turned white the hair of this sovereign I am 
 acquainted, can I not understand it better 
 than another ? and I will tell it. In the
 
 centre of a large garden adjoining the royal 
 residence stood the tomb of a little princess, 
 who had inherited the features and the beauti- 
 ful broad forehead of the queen by whose orders 
 I was conducted to the spot. 
 
 On the tombstone was inscribed the follow- 
 ing sentence : "Weep not; she is not dead, but 
 sleepeth." And indeed, the small recumbent 
 statue did seem to be peacefully sleeping in its 
 marble robe. 
 
 "Weep not." Nevertheless, the mother of the 
 little sleeping damsel still bitterly mourns her 
 only child. A phrase she often used comes back 
 to my mind, as though some voice within my- 
 self were repeating it in slow, funereal accents : 
 "A home without a child is like a bell without a 
 tongue : the sound slumbering within might 
 be very musical, could it only be aroused to 
 life." 
 
 How distinctly I remember every moment of 
 those exquisite conversations with that white- 
 robed queen, as we sat in the sombre boudoir. 
 At the beginning of these notes, I spoke of 
 a fairy : that was my way of referring to a being
 
 8 Carmen Sylva 
 
 of superior essence. I could not use the word 
 angel, which, through misuse, has become anti- 
 quated and ridiculous. Moreover, the word 
 fairy, interpreted as I understand it, seems to 
 me quite applicable to this woman youthful 
 in spite of her grey locks; smiling through a 
 mist of tears ; a daughter of the North and yet 
 a queen of the Orient ; speaking many languages 
 and transforming each into perfect music; 
 ever fascinating, possessing the gift of creating 
 around her sometimes merely by the aid of 
 a genial smile a kind of beneficent charm, of 
 the most reassuring and consoling nature. 
 
 Thus do I call back to mind the queen with 
 her flowing veil (no longer dare I speak of the 
 fairy, now that I have denned her more openly). 
 She is speaking to me as she sits before her 
 easel, whilst archaic drawings, which seem the 
 natural offspring of her fingers, succeed one 
 another on the parchment of the missal. By the 
 side of Her Majesty sit two or three young ladies, 
 her maids of honour, dark-complexioned girls 
 wearing strange-coloured gold-spangled Oriental 
 costumes ; they are engaged either in reading,
 
 Carmen Sylva g 
 
 or in embroidering on silk large, old-fashioned 
 flowers. They raise their eyes from time to 
 time, whenever the conversation appears to 
 interest them more particularly. The place 
 Her Majesty generally appoints for me is in 
 front of herself, near a large single-paned win- 
 dow, which offers the illusion of opening out 
 upon the surrounding forest. With true artis- 
 tic feeling, the king had allowed the forest to 
 approach within twenty paces of the walls; 
 the result being that the windows of the royal 
 apartments look upon nothing but gigantic 
 firs and undergrowth, or wide-spreading ver- 
 dant stretches, the sylvan peaks of the Car- 
 pathians rising tier upon tier in the limpid 
 atmosphere. And the forest, which you feel 
 to be close at hand, creates an impression of 
 enchantment, of mystery, within the magnifi- 
 cent castle. . . . 
 
 Whole sentences, spoken by the queen in 
 sweet, musical tones, come back to my mind. 
 I replied almost in whispered accents, for the 
 quiet, meditative atmosphere of a church seemed
 
 io Carmen Sylva 
 
 present in this boudoir. I remember, too, those 
 occasional silences after some profound utter- 
 ance whose meaning seemed to gain in intensity 
 by reason of the prevailing calm. It was then, 
 during these intervals of silence, that I heard 
 as though coming from the distant confines 
 of the forest those unknown, military sounds 
 resembling that of a horn. It was autumn, and 
 I even remember the following insignificant 
 detail : the last few moths and flies that had 
 heedlessly flown into this sumptuous tomb to 
 die dashed their poor wings against the large, 
 transparent glass window by my side. 
 
 As I have said, the queen's voice was pure 
 music, music as delightful and fresh as it 
 was instinct with youth ! I do not think I 
 ever heard the sound of a voice that could com- 
 pare with hers, that I ever listened to any one 
 reading with like charm. On the morrow of 
 my arrival, Her Majesty had expressed curiosity 
 as to what I thought of a certain German poem, 
 unknown to me. In the course of a private 
 conversation, her secretary put me on my 
 guard: "If the queen reads it to you herself,"
 
 Carmen Sylva n 
 
 he said, "you will be unable to judge; no mat- 
 ter what the queen reads, it always appears 
 delightful, like the songs she sings, but if 
 you take up the book afterwards, to read alone, 
 it is not at all the same thing and you are often 
 completely disillusioned." 
 
 Subsequently I discovered how true this 
 warning was; being privileged to listen whilst 
 Her Majesty was reading to the ladies of the 
 Court, certain chapters from a book of mine, 
 I actually failed to recognise my own work, so 
 embellished and transfigured did it appear. 
 
 Of the whole castle, appearing in the midst 
 of that forest, like an artist's dream which the 
 touch of a magic wand had made real, my 
 memory retains nothing so distinctly as this 
 boudoir. Already there is something vague and 
 indistinct in what I can recall of those long 
 galleries with their heavy hangings and ancient 
 panoplies; those stairs up and down which 
 passed maids of honour, ushers, or lackeys; 
 those Renaissance rooms which made one think 
 of an inhabited Louvre, a Louvre in times of
 
 12 Carmen Sylva 
 
 royalty; that music room, so conducive to 
 reverie, lofty and dim, with its wonderful 
 stained windows, and containing the great 
 organ which the queen played in the evenings 
 . . . whereas I immediately recall without the 
 slightest difficulty the room in which Her 
 Majesty was at times so gracious as to receive 
 me, when she was engaged in painting or some 
 other occupation. After being permitted to 
 pass those double doors, it seemed as though 
 one had entered some serene abode from which 
 so many persons and interests are shut out. 
 It is there I always prefer to think of this queen, 
 whose guest I was. When she walked across 
 the boudoir, her white costume contrasted strik- 
 ingly with the dark background formed by the 
 door hangings or the rare woodwork sketches 
 made by armies of sculptors. When she was 
 seated working, from the place she had assigned 
 to me the first day and which I was wont to 
 take afterwards, I saw her face and veil appear 
 prominent in front of that great, that superb 
 painting of Delacroix, La Mise au tombeau du 
 Christ. And invariably, on either side of her,
 
 Carmen Sylva 13 
 
 sat the young ladies in Oriental costumes, 
 completing a picture I would gladly have trans- 
 ferred to canvas, had I been able. From 
 time to time these little maids of honour, all 
 so different in aspect and features, changed and 
 took each other's place. When one had left 
 the room, another was seen at the entrance 
 door, raising the hangings with their large, heavy 
 folds. After the usual ceremonial courtesy, she 
 advanced, and kissed the queen's hand, 
 sometimes sitting on the ground at her feet and 
 leaning her head on the queen's knees, in a 
 caressing, though respectful, attitude. Then 
 the queen would explain, with a plaintive, 
 motherly smile, that she regarded them as her 
 own "daughters." To my mind, what con- 
 stituted the one attraction of this smile, more 
 than aught else, was its excessive kindness and 
 benevolence. 
 
 How well, too, do I remember these young 
 ladies, who every morning shook hands with 
 me so simply and gracefully, with such an air 
 of friendliness ! On reaching the Court, I had 
 been surprised to hear them all, in spite of their
 
 14 Carmen Sylva 
 
 Oriental costumes, speaking in the most elegant 
 French and with the purest accent, on all kinds 
 of novel and intelligent topics, like Parisiennes 
 of the best society perhaps even better than 
 Parisiennes of their own age, with more real 
 learning, and less conventionality and frivolity. 
 One felt that the queen had moulded to her own 
 liking this nursery of the Roumanian aristocracy, 
 amongst whom French is the language usually 
 spoken. 
 
 The first time I had the honour of conversing 
 with Her Majesty, I was not greatly astonished 
 at hearing her speak in a superior fashion of 
 superior things, for I knew this would be the 
 case. But, in her position as a queen, as one 
 who had to wear the "constant smile of an idol," 
 I imagined she must have been ignorant of 
 certain of the deepest troubles and sorrows of 
 the human soul. Great was my astonishment, 
 however, to find that she was well acquainted 
 with the woes and miseries of the humblest as 
 well as of the greatest. For the queen to be of 
 this nature, a sad and austere childhood in a
 
 Carmen Sylva 15 
 
 castle away in the North was needed ; a child- 
 hood purposely kept away from Court life, and 
 brought into continual contact with the poor 
 on her father's estate. To make her so kind- 
 hearted and accessible to all who suffer, her 
 early education must have been a simple, family 
 one, doubtless such as her mother, the princess 
 of Wied, and her aunt, the Queen of Sweden, 
 had received. Then followed a kind of pil- 
 grimage through Europe, to London, Paris, 
 the Courts of Berlin and Saint Petersburg, in 
 the company of her aunt, the grand duchess 
 Helene of Russia. And in the countries she 
 visited, the greatest masters stored her mind 
 with a transcendent resume, as it were, of hu- 
 man knowledge, with the quintessence of the 
 world's literature. Then followed the long 
 series of years on the throne of Roumania. . . . 
 She was still quite young when she came to 
 this unsettled land, and must have gazed with 
 astonishment on many a drama. The lonely 
 and the widowed, childless mothers and mother- 
 less girls, instantly became her friends. She 
 regarded it as the duty of a queen never to turn
 
 1 6 Carmen Sylva . 
 
 a deaf ear to affliction and sorrow, however 
 heartrending, it was her role to comfort and 
 reconcile, to pardon and obliterate. . . . Her 
 adopted "daughters," brought up by her side 
 in the palace, were always chosen preferably 
 from amongst families afflicted with some mys- 
 terious misfortune or bereavement, and those 
 who tearfully left her, when entering upon mar- 
 ried life, seem to have retained in their hearts 
 feelings of profound reverence and affection for 
 the queen. 
 
 Boundless, unrestricted pity, all-pardoning 
 and all-embracing, expecting nothing in return, 
 such, to my mind, is the rare, the somewhat 
 superhuman gift with which time and suffering, 
 deception and ingratitude, have endowed this 
 queen. But with that ardent nature of hers, 
 that passionate enthusiasm for everything noble 
 and beautiful, she must have passed through 
 many a surprise, submitted to many an indig- 
 nity, and felt the stirrings of many a rebellion, 
 before winning that ultra-terrestrial smile which 
 seems to form an integral part of her being. 
 "Almost everyone of us has passed through
 
 Carmen Syha 17 
 
 his Gethsemane and his Calvary," she wrote 
 once ; "Those who rise again belong to earth no 
 more." 
 
 Amongst my most delightful recollections of 
 the castle of Sinaia I count the morning walks 
 along the forest paths. It was then that I was 
 permitted to converse with Her Majesty at 
 greater length. The Court life at Sinaia, which 
 is in a wild part of the country, high in the Car- 
 pathians, was simpler than in the large stately 
 palace of Bucharest, both king and queen 
 showing themselves so gracious and admitting 
 their guest into all the charm of family life. 
 
 Generally about nine o'clock, with the sun 
 shining gaily through the fresh morning air, 
 and near the end of September, an usher would 
 knock at my door and say in Roumanian ac- 
 cents : "Her Majesty is about to take a walk, 
 and is asking for you down-stairs, captain." 
 I immediately descended, running down the 
 soft-carpeted stairs, with armoured panoplies 
 on either side. Below, I found the queen smil- 
 ing, her fine figure, with its graceful lines, en- 
 cased in a European robe of white cloth
 
 1 8 Carmen Sylva 
 
 etiquette requiring the Roumanian costume and 
 long veil only inside the castle). By her side, 
 dressed in black and leaning on her arm, stood 
 the Princess of Hohenzollern (the mother of 
 King Charles and of the late Queen of Por- 
 tugal). Then came two or three maids of 
 honour, no longer wearing Oriental costume, but 
 dressed like fashionable young ladies of the 
 West, in neutral tints, somewhat after the Eng- 
 lish style, giving them the appearance of 
 quite different persons, so great was the change. 
 
 The keen mountain air was delightful to 
 breathe. The sun shone brightly with that 
 glorious light so usual in the Levant. On 
 grass and moss were mirrored drops of dew, 
 little crystals of hoar-frost, as we started along 
 the sandy paths which straightway disappeared 
 in the forest, beneath the giant firs. 
 
 The queen seemed happy and tranquil. As 
 at all times, her countenance wore an expres- 
 sion of reposeful freshness, and yet she had 
 been working four or five hours, having risen 
 before the dawn, the first in the castle to be 
 astir. Ensconced in a cosey little corner, she
 
 Carmen Sylva 19 
 
 had already ended her daily task, written out 
 her orders, finished her letters, and covered 
 several pages of foolscap with her dainty, free 
 handwriting. All this so that she might be 
 free to attend to her "daughters" and guests 
 and give herself up wholly to visitors and music, 
 to conversation and games. 
 
 From time to time, King Charles joined in 
 these morning walks. The worthy soldier always 
 appeared wearing his military tunic buttoned 
 from top to bottom. 
 
 Now that I have mentioned him, I will say a 
 few words regarding his general aspect. He had 
 a benevolent, grave countenance, with very 
 refined, regular features. His beard was raven 
 black. A deep, anxious line furrowed his brow, 
 generally giving his face a gloomy expression, 
 but his smile redeemed everything, a kind, 
 attractive smile, like the queen's. And what 
 distinction and simplicity, what natural grace 
 and majesty ! How perfect the courtesy he 
 showed towards his guests ! 
 
 Generally the king would walk apart from 
 the rest, accompanied by the Princess of Hohen-
 
 2O Carmen Sylva 
 
 zollern, and the queen refrained from breaking 
 upon the tete-a-tete of mother and son, united 
 by such a bond of affection, and who were des- 
 tined so soon to be separated (I also remember 
 the farewell day on which the princess returned 
 to Germany, and we all accompanied her to 
 the Austrian frontier). A feeling of veneration 
 comes over me when I think of this princess- 
 mother, so beautiful in spite of her years, in 
 her long lace and black dress; she seemed to 
 me the ideal of a princess, the ideal of a mother 
 as well, bearing a distinct resemblance to my 
 own whenever she looked at her son. . . . 
 
 As I am not a Roumanian, and shall probably 
 never return to that distant castle where I was 
 honoured with so hospitable a reception that 
 I can never forget it, I feel absolutely free to 
 say how delightful in every respect this royal 
 family was. I only wish I could express my 
 meaning in quite exceptional language, bearing no 
 resemblance whatever to a courtier's adulation. 
 
 In an open space some distance from the 
 castle stands a strange-looking hunting lodge,
 
 Carmen Sylva 21 
 
 of ancient Gothic architecture, filled with bear- 
 skins, aurochs' horns, and boars' and stags' 
 heads. Here the queen has a very quiet, mys- 
 terious room for work and study. The whole 
 building suggests the chalet of the Sleeping 
 Beauty, hidden away amongst the firs ever 
 since the Middle Ages. 
 
 Here, every morning, all assembled before 
 returning to dress for lunch. The queen's 
 "daughters" and maids of honour, who had 
 not joined in the walk, had reached the rendez- 
 vous by another path. 
 
 It was here that I first heard the queen read 
 us one of those Stories she signs Carmen Sylva. 
 A religious silence fell around as soon as the 
 music of her voice began to be heard. 
 
 It was a heart-rending little tale, written with 
 rare dramatic power, and I still remember 
 how I thrilled with emotion as I sat listen- 
 ing. . . . 
 
 However, this is not the place to speak of 
 her talent as a writer. I do not even wish to 
 enter into the subject, however slightly, for to 
 do this adequately would be a lengthy and seri-
 
 22 Carmen Sylva 
 
 cms task; I only mentioned it for the purpose 
 of relating a trifling anecdote which has remained 
 in my memory. 
 
 Before beginning, the queen wished to take 
 up her lorgnon, which was fastened to her bodice 
 by one of those enormous diamond clasps such 
 as queens alone appear to possess. Her "daugh- 
 ters," seated around, protested: "No! It 
 does not become Your Majesty. It's too bad 
 to think that we cannot see Your Majesty's 
 eyes !" One of them, evidently the enfant gate 
 for the time being, made a formal resistance, and 
 the queen gave way, with a smile. 
 
 But after a few pages, as the writing appeared 
 indistinct or her eyes became somewhat clouded, 
 she addressed the girl with a beseeching smile, 
 saying in suppliant tones: ''Come, please . . . 
 reading aloud makes me so tired ! . . . " 
 
 Just this short sentence, uttered in such a 
 tone of voice by a queen, appeared to me some- 
 thing altogether exquisite. 
 
 The lofty firs surrounding us cast a kind of 
 bluish semi-darkness over the pointed wood- 
 carvings of the room in which we were sitting.
 
 Carmen Sylva 23 
 
 The splash of water was heard mingling with 
 the queen's voice ; it came from a stream running 
 down from the heights and passing close to the 
 hunting lodge. 
 
 I was sufficiently close to Her Majesty to see 
 the words of the book as she turned over the 
 pages, and great was my surprise to discover 
 that what she was reading in French was written 
 in German. It would have been impossible 
 to guess it, for there was not the slightest hesi- 
 tation in her charming diction ; even the phrases 
 she improvised were always harmonious. 
 
 Only once did she pause for a word which 
 did not come to her mind, the name of a 
 plant whose equivalent in French she had for- 
 gotten. "Oh! . . ." she exclaimed, looking up 
 to the ceiling, and then she began a little 
 impatient tapping of the foot, endeavouring 
 to think of the word. Then, of a sudden, she 
 shook the arm of the girl seated by her side, 
 with the remark: "Come, now, what are you 
 doing to help me to find the word . . . you 
 little log!" 
 
 Her charming voice and manner transformed
 
 24 Carmen Sylva 
 
 this familiar phrase which, coming from the 
 lips of another, would have seemed trivial and 
 commonplace into something delightful, some- 
 thing distinguished, so unexpected and droll 
 that we burst out laughing. ... All the same, 
 it happened just at a point where she was 
 reading something that brought tears to our 
 eyes as we listened in perfect silence. Carmen 
 Sylva, reading her own works, is the only person 
 who ever stirred me, with fiction, to the point 
 of making me weep ; perhaps this is the strong- 
 est praise of her talent that I can give, for even 
 at the theatre, where men are so frequently 
 moved to tears, I am never affected in the slight- 
 est degree. 
 
 On another occasion I heard her perform the 
 same wonderful feat in translating from the 
 Roumanian. She was reading aloud an old 
 mountain ballad, transposing it right off into 
 rhythmical, poetical French. It would appear 
 as though it were a matter of indifference to 
 her which language she used as the vehicle of 
 her thoughts. In this respect she resembles 
 those accomplished musicians who play a piece
 
 Carmen Sylva 25 
 
 of music in any key with like facility and in- 
 tensity of feeling. . . . 
 
 Now that I have come to the end of these 
 few notes, I have the impression of having said 
 nothing of what I wished to say. It was my 
 intention to speak of Her Majesty, Queen Eliz- 
 abeth of Roumania, whereas I have merely 
 touched the fringe of my subject. I have de- 
 scribed the frame rather than the portrait, and 
 that but lightly by reason of my excessive re- 
 spect and reverence and from fear that I might 
 not make it sufficiently life-like and beautiful. 
 
 I hope Her Majesty will not be angry with 
 me for attempting to sketch her shadow, should 
 these pages chance to come to her notice. All 
 the same, that sentence in her Thoughts, which 
 one might regard as her own description or paint- 
 ing of herself, startles me somewhat : Some 
 women are majestically pure, like swans. Offend 
 them and you will see their plumes bristle up for 
 one brief moment, then they turn away in silence 
 and take refuge in the bosom of the waters.
 
 THE EXILE
 
 THE EXILE 
 
 BUCHAREST, APRIL, 1890. 
 I 
 
 HIS morning, as I entered the 
 queen's rooms, I was surprised at 
 seeing an unwonted profusion of 
 flowers; the salons were full of 
 roses, like the sanctuaries of Indian idols on 
 special days of worship. There were bouquets 
 on every seat, on the gilt forms, the Oriental 
 cushions and the dainty, artistic tables; others 
 were in flower-stands made of reeds, suspended 
 by ribbons of the national colours; other buds, 
 of a golden yellow tint, were arranged so as to 
 imitate the royal crowns. 
 
 At the far end of the salon, on a slightly raised 
 kind of platform, sat the queen, who was once 
 more being feted. She was dressed in white, 
 as usual; her white hair surrounding her still 
 youthful countenance, which was lit up with 
 29
 
 30 The Exile 
 
 a smile indicative of the most exquisite kindness 
 of heart. Two maids of honour, sitting at her 
 feet, were tearing open and reading telegrams 
 of congratulations, with which a silver tray 
 was filled. . . . 
 
 "... Signed Humber First," one was just 
 saying. 
 
 Another began: "This, madame, is from the 
 Queen of Sweden, who wishes Your Ma- 
 jesty ..." 
 
 As I entered, the queen smilingly raised her 
 head, and, in tones of ineffable melancholy, 
 gave me the explanation she evidently saw I 
 was expecting : 
 
 "This is my fete day . . . but of course you 
 knew nothing of it. I ordered these little maid- 
 ens not to tell you ; for I receive quite sufficient 
 flowers, mon Dieu ..." 
 
 The unfinished sentence clearly indicated 
 that the queen was not deceived by such a 
 profusion of roses. 
 
 One of the two maids of honour seated by 
 her side on this occasion was destined soon to 
 return to a life of obscurity; the other was
 
 The Exile 31 
 
 Mademoiselle Helene . . . who, at a later date, 
 had the misfortune to see her name in all 
 the journals of Europe, in connection with her 
 short-lived betrothal to the heir to the throne. 
 She was quite small and would scarcely have 
 been noticed at a first glance, though she soon 
 attracted attention by the charm of her intel- 
 lect. She was gay and childlike on the surface, 
 but possessed of a soul that was not easy to 
 fathom ; somewhat intoxicated with her literary 
 success and rapid rise; ambitious, perhaps, 
 though with every excuse for it, and, at all 
 events, capable of spontaneous outbursts of 
 affection and love, especially for such as did 
 not oppose her. The queen, at first attracted 
 by the rare intelligence of Mademoiselle Helene 
 . . . , had gradually come under the sway of 
 her poetic talent. Herself a childless mother, in 
 perpetual mourning for her own daughter, she 
 came to lavish a truly maternal affection on this 
 adopted child, who was so marvellously gifted. 
 
 In honour of the queen's fete, the last one 
 she received from her own people, there
 
 32 The Exile 
 
 was a private reception in the palace that 
 afternoon. 
 
 About two o'clock there began to arrive all 
 the maids of honour whom the queen called 
 her "daughters." She received them in a 
 large salon containing a church organ, which 
 rose to the dim-looking ceiling. They entered 
 in small groups from the conservatory; and 
 it was a dream of delight to see them wearing 
 embroidered robes all spangled with gold, for, 
 on this occasion, the queen had bid them wear 
 the old national costume, and was herself dressed 
 in a severe-looking cloth-of-silver gown, and the 
 long, old-fashioned veil. 
 
 Amongst the new-comers, I saw many whose 
 acquaintance I had made three years previously 
 at the fairy castle of Sinaia, and with them I 
 exchanged a few pleasant words of greeting. 
 
 All these giddy, elegant creatures, however, 
 infatuated with the fashion of the day, these 
 pretty, dark eyes, with their searching, treach- 
 erous glances, were more than ever out of 
 harmony with bygone customs. Besides, even 
 then there was an element of ingratitude, of
 
 The Exile 33 
 
 hatred and cruelty, in the courtesies, the hand- 
 kissing, and the smiles they gave the queen. . . . 
 Oh ! It was not so in the case of all, certainly; 
 some were loyal and faithful, grateful and warm- 
 hearted, quite different from the rest. But the 
 majority, suddenly seen under unexpected cir- 
 cumstances, sent a cold shiver through my whole 
 frame. . . . 
 
 And what a change had come over the queen 
 in these three years ! So youthful in appearance 
 then; and now, overwhelmed by a loss that 
 could never be forgotten, some great deception, 
 perhaps ; thin and aged, with the light all gone 
 from her smile ! 
 
 Tzigane musicians (Laotaris) followed ; these 
 were hidden away in the conservatory. Be- 
 neath the artificially sun-lit palm-leaves, which, 
 seen from the dim salons, bore a striking sem- 
 blance to an Oriental garden, only their auburn 
 locks could be seen, like so many coolies in an 
 Indian jungle, hiding away in ambush; whilst 
 the sad, fevered strains of their music fell faintly 
 on our ears.
 
 34 The Exile 
 
 Then all these dangerous little gold-spangled 
 dolls formed themselves into one long chain, 
 delightful to behold, and, following the fashion 
 of the day, began an old but popular country 
 dance, called the "hora." 
 
 They entreated the queen to join them, which 
 she was quite willing to do with her never fail- 
 ing good grace and a perpetual sad smile on her 
 brow. The chain had now formed itself into 
 a circle, and she advanced to the centre, taller 
 than any of her "daughters," and dressed all 
 in white, wearing her silver cloth gown and 
 muslin veil, amid the many-coloured embroid- 
 eries and the spangles of the rest. She resembled 
 a sedate, gentle figure from some Byzantine 
 fresco, for she had for the first time put on, 
 beneath her white veil, an old-fashioned head- 
 band, which came very low down over the 
 brow: "You see," she had said to her maids 
 of honour that very morning, "at my age, I 
 cannot continue to do without an old woman's 
 head-band, in Roumania, can I?" Nor had 
 any attempt been made to dissuade her, so well 
 did it become her. , With a charm and art
 
 The Exile 35 
 
 that none of her "daughters" could equal, she 
 danced the slow, solemn dance, which resembled 
 a kind of ritual. 
 
 Then they requested her to sing; and, bent 
 on pleasing them, she sang an old German lied 
 which she asked me to accompany on the or- 
 gan. All the anguish of her soul passed into 
 her voice, and when it was over, I thought I 
 noticed more than one pair of pretty, wicked, 
 eyes brimming with tears. . . . 
 
 That evening it was my lot to take my seat 
 at the small royal table for the last time. We 
 were in the centre of the private suite of rooms, 
 in a lofty circular dining-room of red marble, 
 with black marble panellings, adorned with 
 the paintings of old masters. Quite a simple 
 dinner, on a round table just large enough for 
 the six persons seated there : the king and queen, 
 the prince royal, two maids of honour and the 
 guest whom Their Majesties had graciously 
 invited. But for the austere splendour of the 
 place and the number of servants in Court 
 livery, all silent and attentive, it would have
 
 36 The Exile 
 
 been the most intimate family meal imagi- 
 nable. 
 
 During dinner the king always showed him- 
 self in the most affable and charming light, 
 there being no trace of his usual grave, imposing 
 expression, beyond a deep wrinkle between 
 his dark eyebrows. "No one who sees that 
 deep line on the king's brow," the queen said 
 to me one day in accents of tender reverence, 
 "would ever suspect how much labour and 
 thought, struggle and suffering, have gone to 
 create it." 
 
 But neither the benevolent simplicity of the 
 sovereigns, the youthful faces of the prince royal 
 and the maids of honour, nor even their quiet 
 laughter and chatter, could dispel a feeling of 
 sadness, which seemed to descend from the 
 lofty ceiling above. 
 
 The red marble rotunda looked down upon 
 high dimly-lit rooms, the magnificence of which 
 bore the impress of the king's austere, refined 
 tastes. These rooms included the library, at 
 the farther end of which was lit the historic 
 lantern of the gondola of the old doges of Venice.
 
 The Exile 37 
 
 The two maidens, rendered nervous by the 
 somewhat sequestered life of the palace, cast 
 startled glances from time to time about them, 
 as though in vague dread of beholding some 
 phantom or apparition of the past. 
 
 What was the cause of all this? Perhaps 
 the isolation of the life without; perhaps that 
 empty, magnificent open space, guarded by 
 sentinels, and that dead silence in the midst of 
 one of the noisiest cities in the world, where 
 the rumbling of carriages and conveyances is 
 most restless and intermittent. . . . Indeed, 
 one was conscious of something unusual in the 
 air, something never felt at a great Court 
 dinner, all blazing with light, and which might 
 be said to suggest palaces and the oppressive 
 burden of royalty. 
 
 By the side of the heir presumptive, every 
 evening, at the small family table, sat Made- 
 moiselle Helene. . . . Doubtless this continual 
 association had already given birth to feelings 
 that might easily have been foreseen. It was 
 the most natural thing in the world that a
 
 38 The Exile 
 
 prince of twenty-four, kept strictly away from 
 the pleasures of his age, living a life of intel- 
 lectual labour and military manoeuvres, should 
 fall in love with a bright, extremely intelligent 
 girl, the only one, moreover, whom he was per- 
 mitted to see at all intimately. The romance 
 here outlined, which a certain section of the 
 press did its best to mar and spoil, was thus 
 essentially honourable and straightforward. And 
 the idea of marriage, however opposed to es- 
 tablished rules, became the only one capable 
 of offering itself to a youth, brought up as was 
 the prince royal in quite a puritan atmosphere 
 and having the most worthy examples about 
 him to follow; Mademoiselle Helene, . . . 
 whose keen intellect, moreover, was by no 
 means calculated to excite the seductions of a 
 fleeting love, but far rather to hold and retain 
 true affection. 
 
 The following evening I was to start for Con- 
 stantinople, and I well remember my distress 
 at taking leave of the queen in this palace to 
 which I had so strong a foreboding that I should 
 never return.
 
 The Exile 39 
 
 I was ignorant as to where lay the danger, 
 or from what direction the ill wind would begin 
 to blow, but the impression left upon me by 
 that last day, and by the fete, was a dull inward 
 chill. As I watched the young guests, on taking 
 leave, kiss the beautiful hand of the queen, I 
 caught premonitions of hatred and hardness of 
 heart in those who bowed most devoutly, and 
 in the sovereign who smiled upon them I divined 
 a new-born clairvoyance, an indulgent though 
 boundless mistrust. 
 
 n 
 
 A year later, the queen, seriously ill, was taken 
 first to the south of Italy and afterwards to 
 Venice. It was alleged that she needed the 
 milder sea air and the constantly moist atmos- 
 phere of the lagoons. 
 
 In reality, it was the beginning of her exile. 
 
 And there, in Venice, I was permitted to come 
 and see her, though for the last time. . . .
 
 4O The Exile 
 
 III 
 
 VENICE, Friday, i4th August, 1891. 
 
 It is an August morning, at daybreak. Sum- 
 moned by Her Majesty, I arrive from Nice for 
 two brief days, all the leave of absence from 
 the squadron that I am allowed. 
 
 We are just beginning to see distinctly when 
 I descend from the Genoa express at the station 
 of Venice, which resembles a tiny island. Every- 
 thing is still indistinct in that hazy semiobscur- 
 ity before the sun appears, a kind of luminous 
 mist, of a grey-linen hue, peculiar to the last 
 few mornings of summer. 
 
 At the station harbour, I enter one of the 
 dark-looking gondolas shut in like a floating 
 sarcophagus, which ply for hire in Venice as 
 cabs do in other cities. 
 
 We start off, gliding over the still waters of 
 the streets, immediately finding ourselves, after 
 a few windings, in a maze of old surroundings, 
 between black-looking, ancient houses, full of 
 cracks, and still plunged in the slumber of past 
 ages. The silence of these watery streets calls
 
 The Exile 41 
 
 to mind some gloomy town of Ys, drowned and 
 submerged in the long-distant past, but which 
 the sea would appear now to have forsaken. 
 
 Then a sudden turn, and we come out into 
 open air and space. The light of dawn reap- 
 pears and we have before us the magic splendour 
 of the Grand Canal before it awakens to life, 
 lying there absolutely motionless, of a uniform 
 pearl-grey hue, with the pink dawn appearing, 
 here and there, above the tops of its palaces. . . . 
 
 Still, on the present occasion, I scarcely look 
 at this marvellous Venice; the only value it 
 has to me now is that of being a charming 
 accessory, a somewhat ideal background or 
 frame to the sweetly sad figure of the queen, 
 the fairy I have come to visit. 
 
 Another turn and we are once more in semi- 
 darkness. For the second time we make our way 
 into the narrow streets, between the old, black- 
 looking buildings which rise above the dismal 
 waters. There is still slumber all around, 
 and the silence of the early morn. When, 
 perchance, some distance away, as we approach 
 a dark crossing, the regular splash of oars is
 
 42 The Exile 
 
 heard, my gondolier raises a prolonged warning 
 call which goes echoing between the damp marble 
 walls, these deserted streets are as sonorous 
 as a vault, someone yet invisible responds, 
 and soon there appears another gondola, as 
 black and shut in as mine, and the two sarcophagi 
 glide past each other in perfect order. . . . 
 
 With my thoughts farther and farther away 
 as I draw near my destination, I follow neither 
 the route nor the direction taken, I have even 
 ceased looking. . . . And now we are about 
 to pass beneath that "Bridge of Sighs," whose 
 name is as antiquated as an old romance, but 
 which still leaves anything but a faint impression, 
 when seen appearing in view so unexpectedly. 
 . . . Then we emerge from the darkness into 
 wide-stretching, luminous, pink-tinted space, 
 and suddenly we find ourselves in the Great 
 Lagoon, with all the glory and splendour of 
 Venice before us: close by stands the palace 
 of the Doges and the Lion of St. Mark ; away 
 on the other bank, situated in the midst of sun- 
 lit waters, like some fairy isle, stands St. George 
 the Greater, its dome and campanile ablaze
 
 The Exile 43 
 
 with light. All this is a classic, an eternal 
 marvel, known to all, for it has been painted 
 again and again, but so glorious is the summer 
 dawn, that I do not think any artist has ever 
 had the courage to use such vivid tints of pink, 
 red, and orange for the light and such iris violet 
 for the shade. 
 
 And now we reach the hotel Danieli, where 
 the queen is staying. 
 
 This hotel Danieli, where in former times the 
 Republic of St. Mark received its ambassadors, 
 is one of the most beautiful Gothic palaces in 
 Venice. It stands close to that of the Doges, 
 and is in the same line with it. The interior 
 still retains its marble staircases, its mosaic 
 floors, and magnificent ceilings in two or three 
 of the rooms. In these democratic times, how- 
 ever, it has become a vulgar, an ordinary hotel, 
 at which anyone may put up. 
 
 The whole of the first floor, containing the 
 large halls and the State salons of old, had been 
 reserved for the queen and such few members 
 of her suite as still accompanied her. 
 
 The friendly faces that welcomed my arrival
 
 44 The Exile 
 
 have a sad, disquieting expression which I 
 never saw at Bucharest : the queen's secretary, 
 her doctor, a maid of honour, Mademoiselle 
 Catherine. . . . Ah ! She, at all events, was 
 sincere and faithful ! . . . May I be pardoned 
 for mentioning her, and acknowledge, in pass- 
 ing, her discreet and steadfast devotion to her 
 sovereign. 
 
 About ten o'clock I am informed that the 
 queen can receive me. The room to which I 
 am conducted is guarded by loyal old servants 
 whom I remember having frequently seen at 
 Bucharest. 
 
 Right at the end of the large salon, the doors 
 of which are surmounted with royal crowns 
 and from whose still splendid ceiling hang huge 
 Venetian glass chandeliers, reclining in an arm- 
 chair, I saw the queen, dressed in white, and 
 with a gracious smile of welcome on her face. 
 . . . But how that face had changed, how thin 
 it was ! . . . She seems to have aged ten years 
 since last spring. 
 
 "She is so ill," Mademoiselle Catherine had
 
 The Exile 45 
 
 said to me that very morning. "Besides, she 
 cannot walk any more; we have to carry her 
 or roll her in the arm-chair ; her graceful bear- 
 ing and queenly gait have vanished." 
 
 Seated on a stool at her feet, like a little 
 coaxing child, is Mademoiselle Helene . . . , 
 dressed very simply in pink, nothing escaping 
 her dark, inquisitive glance. In her attitude 
 there is a something affected, as though she 
 were playing at being the spoiled child of this 
 adorable mother; besides, I noticed that 
 whenever no one was watching, or she was 
 practically alone with the queen, her attitude 
 towards the latter was invariably of a colder 
 and more reserved nature. I do not mention 
 this as a reproach : so few women are capable 
 of appearing just as they really are, without a 
 more or less affected pose, or even unconsciously 
 calculating the effect they are producing. More- 
 over, I have not the faintest doubt but that she 
 had a sincere feeling of attachment for this 
 adopted mother of hers, and that she shed 
 genuine tears when bidding her a last farewell. 
 
 Around the queen is the little group of eight
 
 46 The Exile 
 
 or ten, faithful to a certain extent, who 
 have been with her since leaving Bucharest, 
 and now constitute her Court in Venice. Con- 
 versation is almost gay, but complete confidence 
 seems lacking. With a laugh, the queen utters 
 the following sentence, which indeed is not far 
 from the truth, "We are the exiles of Venice, 
 you know." She continues, more sadly, "And 
 some allege that we are even a little group of 
 malefactors against Europe. ..." 
 
 Here I must briefly state what, at this date, 
 was the position of Mademoiselle Helene at 
 the Court of Roumania. The simple maid of 
 honour I had formerly known was now be- 
 trothed to the prince royal. True, Parliament 
 had never given its consent to the marriage, 
 and the king had just withdrawn his consent. 
 Still, there was no rupture, for the prince royal, 
 recalled by his family to Germany to live in 
 strict seclusion within his hereditary castle, 
 had given back to Mademoiselle Helene neither 
 her promise, letters, nor engagement ring. The 
 queen, who was so anxious to bring about the
 
 The Exile 47 
 
 marriage of these two adopted children, and 
 who, through urging forward this mesalliance, 
 had drawn upon herself the disfavour of the 
 nation, had not yet lost all hope. The entire 
 press of Europe published malevolent com- 
 ments on the strange situation. And Made- 
 moiselle Helene, . . . after visions of the throne 
 and a four months' sojourn in this enchanted 
 dreamland, was beginning to feel that every- 
 thing was crumbling to the ground, as when 
 one awakes. . . . 
 
 This was the first time the queen had appeared 
 before me, apart from her special environment, 
 or setting, so to speak, I mean, away from her 
 palaces in Bucharest and Sinaia, in which the 
 maxim of elegance defined, I think, by E. de 
 Goncourt finds such justification: "A person's 
 good taste may be judged by the good taste of 
 the things around him." 
 
 Here, doubtless from a feeling of intense 
 lassitude, the great stately salon, which might 
 have been so beautiful to behold, had been 
 left just as it was, with its lodging-house orna-
 
 48 The Exile 
 
 ments of the most atrocious taste, modern gilt 
 bronzes beneath globes, and a detail quite 
 unexpected the vulgarly rich arm-chair in 
 which Her Majesty sat languidly, was covered 
 with a small white crocheted veil. 
 
 The work-table alone revealed the queen's 
 presence, for it was spread with writing-pads 
 and a number of precious writing utensils 
 stamped with her initials and crown. 
 
 As soon as each sheet was finished, it was 
 torn off. Poems and spontaneous thoughts, 
 novels and dramas, were conceived and feverishly 
 transferred to paper, in the exhausting effort 
 to lay hold, as rapidly as possible, of all those un- 
 expressed ideas to which her fertile imagination 
 gave birth. This work was of unequal merit; 
 some was of sublime grandeur, some again in- 
 complete, thrust aside, as it were, by the bud- 
 ding germ of the work following. She did not 
 take sufficient pains with her writings, it 
 being the queen's opinion that, in the matter 
 of literature, everything ought to be spontaneous, 
 written in obedience to the initial impulse and 
 then left as it is, without there being any neces-
 
 The Exile 49 
 
 sity to perform the indispensable task of con- 
 densing one's own thoughts ever more and more, 
 and thus making them as clear and intelligible 
 as possible to the reader. The extensive literary 
 output of Carmen Sylva, very little of which 
 has appeared in French, most of it being 
 destined to be forever lost or unpublished, 
 would have needed passing through the hands 
 of someone capable of pruning and curtailing 
 it, and that conscientiously; after such treat- 
 ment, this work of genius would have attained 
 to the place it merits in public esteem. . . . 
 Oh ! I do not mean to say that the queen's writ- 
 ings are not charming, just as they stand; she 
 soars aloft in a manner unattainable by so many 
 clever writers of books ; and even at her weak- 
 est, one is ever conscious of the presence of a 
 great and noble soul, throbbing with pity for 
 human woes, and that is sufficient for those 
 who are sensitive, for those who mourn, 
 though it may not be for the crowd of official 
 scribblers. One even wonders how it has come 
 about that this woman, born a princess and 
 crowned a queen twenty years ago, can thus
 
 50 The Exile 
 
 have sounded all the depths of human sorrow, 
 and thoroughly sympathised with the distress 
 of the poor and the down-trodden. 
 
 And how motherly you feel her to be in all 
 circumstances, how conscious you are that her 
 heart must often have been torn with the grief 
 and the infinite tenderness of a Mater Dolo- 
 rosal 
 
 You are also aware that she is indulgent 
 towards all sins and failings, with the serene in- 
 dulgence of a spotless soul ; free from the prudery 
 of the impure and looking upon everything 
 with rare breadth of vision and the spirit of 
 forgiveness. This, indeed, it is that in certain 
 narrow-minded, pharisaical sects in Germany 
 raised up against her bitter and implacable ene- 
 mies, even amongst those who ought to have 
 cherished her name and upheld her cause. 
 
 I think the very illness that keeps her con- 
 fined to this arm-chair is the result not so much 
 of grief and trouble, as of a state of intellectual 
 overwork, of that fevered condition in which 
 one feels that the pen runs too slowly to express 
 the thought. I remember how she spent her
 
 The Exile 51 
 
 time at Bucharest and Sinaia ; from my room in 
 the palace I saw her lamp burning every night 
 at the window of a distant tower. It was lit 
 between three and four in the morning, and 
 there, in peace and silence, she would work 
 alone until the usual morning occupations be- 
 gan, or her "daughters" came in a group to 
 bid her a pleasant good morning; then, with- 
 out apparent fatigue, until eleven at night, 
 she went through her daily round of duties, a 
 perpetual smile and a look of never failing 
 charity in her face. 
 
 On the table of the salon, my eyes involun- 
 tarily fall on a manuscript, whereupon the queen 
 says in that musical voice of hers, with its de- 
 lightfully foreign modulations : 
 
 "That is my new book, at which I am work- 
 ing so hard ! Do you know, I am afraid I shall 
 not finish it and that it can never be published. 
 I intend to call it The Book of the Soul, and will 
 read you a few passages if you wish." 
 
 "Oh! Not here," she continued, on my 
 eager acceptance of this gracious offer. "This
 
 52 The Exile 
 
 afternoon, in the gondola. You see, I spend 
 my days on the water; that forms part of the 
 treatment of a poor patient. To keep me com- 
 pany, you will be forced to do the same and 
 live on the lagoons all the time you stay in 
 Venice." 
 
 The Book of the Soul! On the queen's table, 
 I looked at the unfinished manuscript, divining 
 from the title alone what it must be : a kind of 
 swan song, a masterpiece of grief, destined to 
 be heard only by a few intimate friends, and 
 whose very pages have perhaps now been de- 
 stroyed. . . . 
 
 With a smile of resignation and in gentle 
 tones that seemed to extend forgiveness to all 
 her enemies, the queen added : 
 
 "All the same, I must warn you to be on your 
 guard : this is the work of one who is insane ! 
 My head, it appears ..." 
 
 With her beautiful, though almost transpar- 
 ently thin, hand she described two or three 
 circles in the air to indicate she was now 
 laughing heartily that she was accused of 
 being very light-headed. . . .
 
 The Exile 53 
 
 Indeed, an entire party was at that time trying 
 to insinuate that Her Majesty had lost her 
 reason. This was repeated throughout Europe, 
 in more or less corrupt journals. It was even 
 one of the least harmful things then being 
 retailed by one section of the press, against a 
 sovereign who was to be crushed and ruined at 
 whatever cost. 
 
 Soon afterwards luncheon was announced, 
 and then I witnessed something of a painful 
 nature, though now it happened daily : two 
 men-servants, whose special duty it was, pre- 
 sented themselves for the purpose of removing 
 the queen in her arm-chair, for she was unable 
 to walk. 
 
 "Oh ! Thanks ! Just wait a moment, please, 
 will you?" she said, so gently and politely that 
 I immediately called to mind that sentence 
 from her Thoughts: A true lady has the same 
 manners with her servants as with her guests. 
 ... "I feel a little better this morning, so 
 I will try to go alone." 
 
 Very slowly at first, she rose to her feet, tall
 
 54 The Exile 
 
 and upright, a thing she had not done for months, 
 and looked round upon us all with a charming 
 smile, as though to say : 
 
 "You see I was right ; I feel much better." 
 Thereupon she deliberately started off for 
 the dining-room, the rest of us, in utter sur- 
 prise, following in her train. 
 
 Glancing at Mademoiselle Catherine . . . 
 walking by my side, I remember the joyful 
 expression, so full of affectionate hope, which 
 came into her eyes. 
 
 "Look at the queen," she said. " Incredible ! " 
 Our joy was not destined to continue, alas ! 
 After all, such deceptive changes for the better 
 are characteristic of this malady. 
 
 In the dining-room, the queen did not sit at 
 table. She lay stretched on one of those Empire 
 couches, the gilt arms of which represent swans, 
 and there she received, at the hands of Made- 
 moiselle Helene . . ., who served her with the 
 most respectful attention, a small quantity of 
 special food in tiny cups, almost such as a child 
 would use for her doll !
 
 The Exile 55 
 
 IV 
 
 As soon as luncheon was over, we entered the 
 gondola for our long, aimless sail, a daily expe- 
 rience, peaceful and soothing. Along the old 
 'marble staircase, the same two servants carried 
 the queen in their clasped hands, forming an ex- 
 tempore chair on which she was transported 
 right to the door of the hotel. A few inquisi- 
 tive spectators, as always happens when a 
 queen passes by, including a dozen tourists, 
 had collected to watch the sad procession and 
 greet the queen with respectful bows. 
 
 A dark-looking gondola, of mourning black, 
 as all the gondolas of Venice have remained 
 ever since the sumptuary laws; on the ends 
 the two traditional sea-horses, of shining brass ; 
 behind, the large, dark, black-curtained shelter ; 
 the gondoliers, in a dress suggestive of the stage, 
 though here it forms an actual uniform for 
 the crews of the leisured classes : white shirt 
 and trousers, with a very long blue silk girdle 
 streaming behind. 
 
 Without indicating any special direction,
 
 56 The Exile 
 
 the only order given them was to go slowly, 
 and we set forth, wherever their fancy willed. 
 
 We were speedily lost in an old quarter of 
 the city, silent as death, beneath the shade of 
 closed-in, mysterious-looking houses, overhang- 
 ing us from great heights ; along these submerged 
 streets we made our way by jerks, noiseless and 
 scarcely perceptible, over the silent, stagnant 
 water. The queen, reclining with sovereign 
 grace beneath the shade of the dark shelter, a 
 maid of honour on either side, looked exquisite, 
 though it filled one's mind with anguish to be- 
 hold her. Everything except herself, moreover, 
 seemed but of secondary importance, nothing 
 but frame and accessories, so to speak. The 
 foreboding that she might soon be taken from 
 us made us concern ourselves with her alone 
 and with the thoughts to which she gave utter- 
 ance, or even her slightest remarks, to which 
 the sound of her voice added special charm. 
 From time to time we passed by some old Vene- 
 tian palace we could not help noticing; or, as 
 we wound round one of those shaded, watery 
 streets, there appeared a wonderful vista in the
 
 The Exile 57 
 
 distance : some dome or spire, with the golden 
 sunlight streaming on it, only to disappear 
 from view a moment later. 
 
 The queen had again become almost gay ; for 
 after all, it was a principle of hers that one must 
 always smile, like the gods. "A certain outer 
 gaiety," she once said to me, "like one's toilet, 
 is a matter of decency or good breeding ; that is 
 your duty both to your neighbour and to your- 
 self, just as one ought to contrive to be no more 
 unsightly to behold than one can possibly help." 
 She looked out from between the black curtains 
 of the shelter, appearing to take an interest in 
 the various incidents, as we slowly sailed along. 
 
 We were now passing through a poor and pop- 
 ulous quarter, with narrow streets into which 
 it was as impossible for the light to stream as 
 into the bottom of a well. Evidently it was 
 bathing time for the little ones. From the 
 windows, the parents kept watch over them as 
 they splashed about, close to the doors, in the 
 still water. Some of the tiny infants looked so 
 comical in their bathing costumes that the queen 
 could not refrain from a hearty laugh.
 
 58 The Exile 
 
 Then silence again fell on the party, as though 
 the anxiety caused by thoughts of the dim, un- 
 certain future were pressing heavily on all. 
 
 Absentmindedly, perhaps even in slightly 
 ironical tones, the queen asked Mademoiselle 
 Helene . . .: 
 
 "Ah ! Has any one seen the papers to-day? 
 Is there anything new concerning us?" 
 
 " Certainly. To think that I had forgotten to 
 inform Your Majesty. ... In those of France, 
 there is quite a serious item of information. ..." 
 
 Then, after a pause which made us only the 
 more attentive, she continued, without the 
 slightest change of expression : 
 
 "It would seem that I have committed suicide 
 for the third time!" 
 
 This was so unexpected, and uttered in so 
 irresistibly droll a tone of voice, that we all 
 burst out laughing. 
 
 "Yes," continued the young lady, calmly, 
 though in somewhat savage and mocking ac- 
 cents, "this time it is laudanum ! It appears 
 I swallowed a considerable quantity, but Your
 
 The Exile 59 
 
 Majesty, warned in time, succeeded in restoring 
 me to life." 
 
 About that time, indeed, the journals were 
 continually giving details of the suicide of Made- 
 moiselle Helene . '. . and as she was very intelli- 
 gent and rather inclined to scoff and ridicule, 
 all this introduced quite an unexpected and comi- 
 cal element into the painful situation. I re- 
 member, too, what she said to me in this con- 
 nection, and this time she showed herself grave 
 and dignified: "Never! . . . Just what a 
 servant-girl would do, is it not? ... I quite 
 agree that such a denouement would settle many 
 difficulties, but it is too vulgar a solution to 
 please me." She further implied that there 
 would be greater dignity in retiring to a life of 
 obscurity and quiet, which subsequently she 
 actually did. 
 
 In Venice, she still felt interested in all the 
 excitement she was causing in Europe; for she 
 was too young and too womanly not to enjoy 
 the intoxication of the romantic adventure of 
 which she found herself the heroine. True, the 
 press had converted this love story, which was
 
 60 The Exile 
 
 so honourable and natural, almost inevitable in 
 fact, into something dramatic and strange. All 
 the same, to pass as a charmer, or even a per- 
 verse instrument of destiny, still, in some re- 
 spects, excited the imagination of Mademoiselle 
 Helene . . .; at all events, this seemed less 
 cold and gloomy than the deathlike silence which 
 was subsequently to be her lot when she was in 
 disfavour and had left the court never to re- 
 turn. . . . 
 
 All sadness had now departed, thanks to the 
 beautiful autumn evening sun, as his setting 
 radiance streamed over Venice. Those who 
 watched the passage of the handsome gondola, 
 from their windows, peering through the curtains 
 of the shelter at the white princess who was 
 enjoying the sail, might easily have caught 
 snatches of gay conversation, borne across the 
 water. 
 
 During the past year the queen, to my mind, 
 had made considerable progress towards that 
 state of supreme dispassion which brings with it 
 perfect serenity of soul and the favour of heaven.
 
 The Exile 61 
 
 When twilight fell, we had made considerable 
 progress, finding ourselves in a lonely quarter, 
 and separated from Venice by a wide lagoon. 
 The silence, the old ruins of houses and quays, 
 the still water around, suddenly filled us with 
 gloom as the light faded away. A sort of old 
 curiosity shop, containing Venetian glass and 
 old iron all covered with dust, attracted our 
 attention as we passed along ; so we craved the 
 queen's permission to land on this deserted 
 quay, and examine the strange articles for sale. 
 
 Extraordinarily slender and dainty little 
 ewers, small caskets ornamented with swans and 
 dolphins, were what we discovered as we rum- 
 maged about in the dust-covered collection, a 
 number of strange objects which we purchased 
 as we went along, as quickly as possible so 
 as not to keep the queen waiting too long, 
 finding pleasure in drawing lots when, perchance, 
 the same article was pounced upon by more 
 than one of us. And Mademoiselle Helene . . ., 
 quite a child on such an occasion and free from 
 any visible sign of affectation, ran off, on each new 
 acquisition, to show her prize to the queen, into
 
 62 The Exile 
 
 whose care it was forthwith handed; whilst 
 Her Majesty, whom, contrary to all etiquette, 
 we had left alone, received this childlike way 
 of doing things with indulgent, motherly smiles. 
 
 The night had almost fallen when we returned 
 to the hotel Danieli. Immediately after dinner, 
 we were to start again and enjoy a serenade. 
 
 The queen, who refused to eat anything, keep- 
 ing up her strength by means of some medical 
 preparation or other, remained lying in the 
 gondola; she merely ordered that the latter 
 be rowed out more into the open, in order that 
 she might enjoy a greater degree of quiet. She 
 assured us of her wish to be alone, so as to com- 
 pel the rest of us to dine in the hotel dining- 
 room. 
 
 But it was not long before we returned. 
 Meantime, our music had arrived: a large 
 broad gondola, lit up by numerous lanterns 
 and containing a double string quartet, a chorus, 
 and two soloists a contralto and a tenor. 
 
 The illuminated gondola started as soon as we 
 had taken our seats in the queen's, and we fol- 
 lowed. The black shelter had been removed,
 
 The Exile 63 
 
 and, in the dim light, we could see the white 
 fairy, reclining on her cushions. 
 
 Then, following in the wake of the music, we 
 again began a slow, winding sail, now passing 
 along wide streets, well lit within and without, 
 for the moon was shining brightly, and then 
 again traversing some dismal old quarter, dark 
 almost as pitch. A number of other gondolas 
 also followed, our floating cortege increasing 
 with each bend of the lagoon, and all these 
 silent lovers of song, gliding behind, listened to 
 the serenade. 
 
 Natural and languishing, thrilling one through 
 and through, was this Italian music; at times 
 rising in an anticipated crescendo and echoing 
 between the marble walls of the palaces, and 
 then again dying away by degrees in lingering 
 cadences. There was no trace of fatigue in the 
 thrilling voices, which were employed with a 
 degree of skill native to this land, even in the 
 case of the least gifted singers. 
 
 The music of a people is intended to be heard 
 in the country which gave it birth, with its 
 natural environment of sound, odour, and light.
 
 64 The Exile 
 
 Even this Italian music which, speaking abso- 
 lutely, is of an inferior kind, may charm the 
 soul to its depths when thus heard at nighttime, 
 reaching one's ears, with its occasional de- 
 lightful surprises caused by echoes or varying 
 distances, from an ever gliding gondola, which 
 one follows, in a reclining posture, rocked on the 
 surface of the waters, now near, now far away, 
 in the midst of the glory of Venice, and be- 
 neath the summer moon and stars. 
 
 "This forms part of my treatment," said the 
 queen, with a smile. "Songs and the open air 
 are my doctors. You know the beneficent 
 influence of music on ... (she pointed to her 
 head). Remember King Saul of old. ..." 
 Her irony, however, modified by the sweetness 
 of her voice, never succeeded in manifesting 
 the least tinge of bitterness. 
 
 We now formed a long cortege of over a hun- 
 dred gondolas, an eager pushing throng, grazing 
 the stones or the marble walls, as we glided 
 along the narrow streets. Close by, in barques 
 which obstinately hugged our own, I remem- 
 ber there were some beautiful young women
 
 The Exile 65 
 
 whether Venetians or foreigners I know not 
 extravagantly attired and wearing lace mantillas. 
 The light from the beacons enabled us to catch 
 a glimpse of them from time to time, lying 
 stretched on cushions. Moreover, the queen 
 had been recognised; her name was repeated 
 from mouth to mouth, and the crowd, interested 
 in the charming patient, maintained a discreet 
 attitude. 
 
 People came to the windows to watch the 
 serenade pass below, greeting it with applause. 
 The sound of violin or 'cello would at times 
 add its mystery to that of the human voice, 
 as we advanced in that music-laden dark- 
 ness. . . . 
 
 Beneath the Rialto Bridge it is customary 
 for serenades to halt. Here, in stranger fashion 
 than elsewhere, between the stagnant water 
 and the archway of stone, the vibrations become 
 intensified. We made a rather lengthy stay, 
 listening to a plaintive duet, with chorus, which 
 gradually doubtless because of the place and 
 the hour came to sound in our ears as a sort 
 of incantation.
 
 66 The Exile 
 
 Back at the hotel Danieli, about eleven o'clock, 
 we took leave of the queen. The windows of 
 the old palace looked down on the lagoon, re- 
 splendent beneath the moon's beams. Not a 
 breath of air that warm August night, glorious 
 beyond compare. Right in front, beyond the 
 reflecting waters, could be seen two figures of 
 St. George the Greater, the one of a luminous 
 grey tint, rising heavenwards ; the other darker 
 and reversed, plunging into the watery depths. 
 Above, in the mighty azure vault, and below, in 
 imaginary depths, shone similar stars, in perfect 
 symmetry. And the silent gondolas, shadow 
 and substance, with two sterns and two prows, 
 like black paper-cut figures that have just been 
 unfolded, passed along, with their red lanterns, 
 between the two skies, looking as though they 
 were proceeding through empty air, dragging be- 
 hind them long undulating streaks in their train. 
 
 Then, for the first time since my arrival, I 
 became fully conscious that I was no longer in a 
 Venice of dreamland, such as was visible from 
 between the curtains of the shelter, but in the 
 real Venice, which in itself alone deserves to be
 
 The Exile 67 
 
 visited and admired. And, so as not to lose so 
 glorious a night, I again went down to the quay, 
 took the first gondola that came up, and out 
 again into the open, in the direction of St. 
 George, on the other bank. 
 
 We advanced slowly, with no special aim in 
 view, fascinated by the light of the moon mir- 
 rored in the still water. Little by little, as we 
 went farther away from the bank, the delicate, 
 exquisite outlines of the palaces became more 
 distinct. 
 
 Thus did Venice, the Venice of classic story, 
 wrapped in the moon's soft beams, quite un- 
 changed in its main features, once more become 
 the one, incomparable city, wonderful to behold, 
 as in the centuries long past. 
 
 SATURDAY, i5th August, 1891. 
 
 A splendid sky and the sun brightly shining. 
 The bells of Venice are ringing out from every 
 steeple, for to-day is the festival of the Assump- 
 tion of the Virgin.
 
 68 The Exile 
 
 This morning the queen is more dejected, 
 more sad and depressed than she has been for 
 some time. In the first place, yesterday's 
 apparent improvement has not been maintained, 
 she has not even the strength to stand upright, 
 and the ominous two men-servants are again 
 needed to carry her from one salon to another. 
 
 The news of a recent execution troubled her 
 greatly. A treacherous servant-girl, whom the 
 maids of honour had long ago surnamed Marino 
 Falieri, had just been dismissed and sent back 
 to Germany, convicted of having purloined and 
 copied some of the queen's letters and pages 
 from her private diary, for the benefit of some 
 mysterious enemies. . . . Ah ! It is quite cer- 
 tain in the case of anyone at all acquainted 
 with this ideal queen, that nothing in these 
 pages, if read aloud to the whole world, would 
 be of a nature to rouse doubts regarding her 
 integrity and rectitude, though dangerous poli- 
 tics might occasionally have been mentioned, 
 useless revelations made, and cruel truths told. 
 What appalled the queen most of all was to 
 feel herself surrounded by anonymous enemies,
 
 The Exile 69 
 
 lurking beneath her very shadow, so to speak, 
 and who shrank from nothing, not even from 
 such cowardly expedients as this. 
 
 Then, too, another mail had arrived from 
 Germany without bringing any letter from the 
 prince royal. His expected reply was not forth- 
 coming. The queen, whose somewhat intolerant 
 loyalty caused her to rebel against such treat- 
 ment, had written to him several days pre- 
 viously, calling upon him to state whether or not 
 he had withdrawn his promise, and if he had, to 
 return to Mademoiselle Helene . . . her letters 
 and betrothal ring. In fact, the marriage 
 seemed broken off, though the prince had said 
 nothing; days and weeks passed without any 
 answer. 
 
 At the first blush, one is tempted to blame 
 him, and yet, before judging from the ordinary 
 standards, we must remember that there may 
 have been State reasons for his silence, that he 
 was very young, and perhaps suffering, and 
 finally that absolutely nothing is known of his 
 inner struggles or of the pressure that may have 
 been brought to bear upon him.
 
 yo The Exile 
 
 And also, before attaching any degree of blame 
 to Mademoiselle Helene ... for giving way to 
 ambitious dreams, we must ask ourselves if 
 any young lady, whoever she might be, loved 
 by a charming prince, the heir to a throne, 
 would not have done everything possible to 
 bring such a marriage to a successful issue. 
 
 About eleven o'clock, as the sun was blazing 
 down upon us, the queen had requested to be 
 carried back into her room and left alone for 
 an hour or two, to try to obtain a little sleep. 
 Her two maids of honour, her secretary, and my- 
 self thereupon set out on foot, proceeding along 
 the quays and the arcades of the palace of the 
 Doges, then taking the large paved squares, 
 and finally going along any passage where it is 
 possible to walk about as in an ordinary town. 
 We hastened to make our several purchases 
 and return before Her Majesty awoke, so that 
 not a moment of her precious presence might 
 be lost. To us, this was an occasion of relaxa- 
 tion and recreation, almost of child's play, such 
 as happens from time to time in the most anxious
 
 The Exile 71 
 
 and storm-tossed periods of life : we felt al- 
 most as though we were playing truant, in a 
 place where, after all, we were practically 
 strangers and free to enjoy ourselves in this 
 innocent fashion. All the dealers of the Piazza 
 San Marco had spread out their white tents; 
 as we hurried along, an African sun streamed 
 down upon innumerable displays of glassware 
 and the jewellers' shops, all coral red; its rays 
 shone everywhere, on cathedral and palaces, 
 burning and flashing upon that wealth of mosaics 
 and statues which makes up Venice. 
 
 A few passers-by, however, turned to look 
 again at us, as though half recognising Mademoi- 
 selle Helene . . . , the romantic heroine of the 
 day. And she, with soul lulled to rest, or 
 perhaps because she was carefully concealing 
 her true feelings, seemed this morning to take 
 a child's delight in everything she saw. On 
 calling to mind the news contained in the pre- 
 vious day's papers, we even exercised our im- 
 agination in dwelling on the possibility of the 
 four of us committing suicide, with all kinds 
 of dreadful details, right in the middle of the
 
 72 The Exile 
 
 Piazza San Marco, a catastrophe which as- 
 suredly would have dumfounded the press. 
 
 Feeling somewhat rested on awaking, the 
 queen read a letter from the king, stating that 
 the political business which detained him in the 
 East would soon be finished, and that he hoped 
 to be in Venice within a few days. She appeared 
 glad at the idea of seeing him again. 
 
 During the midday meal, she asked how we 
 had been spending the time, as though we 
 were children returning from a walk, listening 
 with an indulgent, almost amused, smile as 
 we told of our purchases, the terrible heat of the 
 sun, and even the suicide idea. From time to 
 time the laughter shone in her eyes, lighting 
 them up as we had so often seen in the past. 
 
 This, indeed, in happier times, was one of the 
 signs and charms of her profound, though de- 
 lightful nature, these furtive outbursts of gaiety 
 and spontaneous laughter, invariably aroused 
 by the most incoherent, fleeting, and childish 
 trifles. After all, a nature that is rigidly cor- 
 rect and knows nothing of this kind of laughter
 
 The Exile 73 
 
 and childlike innocence is almost inevitably 
 harsh and limited in its outlook, or at all events 
 of a very ordinary and commonplace type. 
 
 We started again for our daily sail in the 
 gondola. Yielding to my entreaties, the queen 
 had kindly brought with her the manuscript 
 of the Book of the Soul, to read passages from it 
 aloud as we went along. 
 
 "Not just now," she said; "this evening, 
 when we come to a quieter spot, a little farther 
 out. I feel so tired. ..." And her resigned 
 smile, so sweet and sad, seemed to crave in- 
 dulgence for everything she did. 
 
 At first, not a word was uttered, for we all 
 felt sympathy with the queen's dejected attitude. 
 
 By degrees, however, obedient to her will, 
 the life returned to her voice and eyes, as we 
 continued to glide along at the same measured 
 swing through old, sad-looking quarters, with 
 their armour-sheathed windows. At first, the 
 conversation was intermittent, consisting of 
 short, tired sentences ; but gradually the queen 
 grew more animated, she regained her wonted
 
 74 The Exile 
 
 vivacity, and, touching upon one subject after 
 another, we came to speak of the religions of 
 India, of Buddhism and Nirvana. 
 
 Then Her Majesty and myself engaged in a 
 discussion on such questions as the survival of 
 the soul and the eternal revoir. Oh ! We did 
 not discuss the reality of these things, alas ! . . . 
 but only the more or less consoling forms in 
 which such books as claim to be revelations 
 have presented them to mortals. And I de- 
 fended both because I was really attached to 
 it and because of the sweet traditions of child- 
 hood the ineffably alluring Christian creed, 
 convinced then, as I am now and shall always be, 
 that no more radiant or glorious mirage will ever 
 enchant the long hours of suffering or give con- 
 solation at the moment of death. And some 
 misunderstanding or other must have arisen, 
 though, at bottom, we were of the same mind. 
 The rest of the party, listening in the gondola, 
 now began to use stronger arguments than the 
 queen had used, and appeared to insinuate that 
 the Book of tJie Soul, to which I was about to 
 listen, contained a more consoling message than
 
 The Exile 75 
 
 Christianity could give. The queen, doubtless 
 absent-minded, permitted them to champion the 
 bold proposition they had put forth, and to 
 speak, in terms almost of disdain, of the faith 
 which, for centuries past, has brought peace and 
 comfort to the dying. They themselves were 
 the initiates, learned in the Book of tJie Soul; 
 they were in possession of something superior, 
 something more soothing, which caused them to 
 think pityingly of the Gospel. To me, it all 
 appeared childish blasphemy and puerile vanity ; 
 of a sudden, the queen seemed less great, by 
 reason of the false pride inspired by her book, 
 and a painful feeling of sadness came over me 
 at this unexpected disappointment. . . . Then 
 I began violently to defend Christianity, as 
 though I had been personally abused and insulted. 
 This was followed by an embarrassing silence, 
 spell-breaking and disenchanting. The gondola 
 was still gliding through the stagnant waters, 
 past ruins and the old quarters of the city. It 
 was again the bathing hour ; from time to time 
 little girls came out of the houses and took de- 
 light in swimming after us, their laughing faces,
 
 76 The Exile 
 
 like those of little sirens, rising above the water, 
 close to the gondola. 
 
 VI 
 
 Now we are far from the land, on the vast 
 lagoon, and quite alone. In the distance, Venice 
 appeared much lower, for domes and spires had 
 regained their true proportions, rising, in mingled 
 groups, high above the houses. 
 
 The maids of honour declared this to be a 
 suitable place to stop and open the Book of the 
 Soul, which they had brought with as much 
 ceremony as though it were the Tables of the 
 Law. I now dreaded the reading that was to 
 follow, as something vain and foolish. 
 
 The queen, however, still smiling serenely, 
 replied that it was too soon, and that we must 
 first lunch, like ordinary people out on a picnic. 
 At a sign of her hand, the two gondolas follow- 
 ing us and bearing the rest of the small court, 
 drew up alongside the one in which we were 
 seated, and Her Majesty, opening a luncheon 
 basket, began to distribute our portions to each 
 of us, playfully treating us as though we were
 
 The Exile 77 
 
 children. Then came the turn of the gondoliers, 
 whom she served herself, with her beautiful, 
 almost transparent, hands. We partook of 
 bread and cake, currants and peaches the 
 beautiful, sun-ripened fruit of Italy. 
 
 In this connection, there comes to my mind a 
 trifling incident, one, however, which in itself 
 affords a striking index to the queen's nature. 
 On her lap, over her white dress, she had spread 
 a small light-grey mantle, with several over- 
 lapping capes. An overripe peach fell on it, 
 leaving a slight stain. "Oh!" she exclaimed, 
 in half jesting, half serious accents, "What a 
 pity ! And I was so fond of this little mantle !" 
 On handing it back, after shaking it over the 
 sea, I ventured to remark that there was scarcely 
 any sign of a stain and that in any case it would 
 not be seen, as it chanced to be underneath one 
 of the capes. 
 
 "Oh ! whether it is seen or not is a matter of 
 indifference to me. All the same, / shall know it 
 is there; and that is sufficient, you understand." 
 
 An answer expressive both of her great loyalty 
 and of her purity of soul.
 
 78 The Exile 
 
 The summer sun was a glowing ball of fire, 
 low in the heavens, when the queen began the 
 promised reading of the Book of the Soul. His 
 ruddy golden tints flashed upon Venice in the 
 distance. And there lay our three gondolas, at 
 rest on the surface of the broad lagoon. Not 
 another barque was visible. 
 
 Before beginning, the queen gave me a re- 
 proachful look, a very kind though roguish and 
 confident glance. 
 
 Then that incomparably charming voice of 
 hers began to make itself heard. She read 
 slowly, in a way entirely her own, with a gentle 
 soothing effect, like the music murmuring 
 through some stately cathedral. One would 
 have been content merely to listen to the voice ; 
 that alone would have been a delight, even if 
 the meaning and sense had not been clear. 
 My mind, however, was somewhat anxiously 
 intent on grasping the signification of every 
 word. . . . 
 
 How beautiful the book was, how different 
 from what I had feared ! There was nothing
 
 The Exile 79 
 
 dogmatic, nothing subversive or presumptuous. 
 It was the expression of the human soul probed 
 to its depths, and the effect was strange and 
 novel; every page seemed to breathe forth a 
 spirit of deep humility in suffering. The chapters 
 were short, each developing some rare and pro- 
 found thought, clothed in grandly simple lan- 
 guage, as poetical as that of the Bible. From 
 time to time came passages chanted in a kind 
 of apocalyptic tongue. The peace and comfort 
 that breathed from this endless plaint lay in its 
 spirit of sweet resignation, of pity for the lowliest 
 of her fellow-beings. The book was a new and 
 sublime form of prayer, the beseeching appeal 
 to a God, raised by an entire humanity. It made 
 no presumptuous claim to destroy, to build up, 
 or to promise anything. 
 
 And to think that this book, almost through- 
 out a work of genius, a work in which her nobility 
 of soul shone brightest, is doubtless now lost, 
 torn up, or burned; to think that men will 
 never read it! ... 
 
 From time to time the queen stopped. "Oh ! 
 I am so tired," she said, "so tired, . . ." For
 
 8o The Exile 
 
 a brief moment her voice seemed to fade away 
 and die. Yes, worn out through suffering for 
 others : that was more evident than ever, when 
 one looked upon her colourless face, which vied 
 in whiteness with her hair and her dress. 
 
 Then the music of her voice returned, in a 
 fresh outburst of sound, as she sang the mysteries 
 of the soul. And I remember my surprise when 
 my gaze once chanced to fall on the gondoliers, 
 as they sat there motionless, leaning over to- 
 wards the queen, unable to grasp anything be- 
 yond the charm of sound and rhythm, listening 
 all the same, in captivated wonderment at some- 
 thing they felt to be religious and sublime. 
 
 The light was growing dimmer and dimmer. 
 The great red sun had just disappeared behind 
 a corner of the city. 
 
 Two small, strange-looking women had by 
 this time approached in a tiny canoe. They 
 were frail and ugly, of an age and class impos- 
 sible to define. They handled the paddle with 
 the skill of savage women and were dressed in 
 English bathing costumes. Drawing near, they 
 sprang into the water and swam right up to the
 
 The Exile 81 
 
 gondolas. For a few moments they listened to 
 the queen as she read, a strange, evil look on 
 their faces, then they dived and swam away, 
 only to reappear shortly afterwards. 
 
 "I cannot see any longer," said the queen. 
 Whereupon the gondoliers removed the shelter, 
 and the white fairy appeared more in view as 
 the light faded. Her voice, too, was growing 
 fainter and fainter. Venice now appeared out- 
 lined in the distance against the pale yellow sky. 
 And in the twilight, the two little creatures, 
 noiselessly diving again and again, seemed like 
 mocking evil spirits of the night, held there, all 
 the same, by the charm of that melodious 
 voice. 
 
 Finally we said, "Enough, please do not read 
 any more, Your Majesty is quite worn out. 
 ..." The manuscript fell from the queen's 
 hand. Night had now closed all around. 
 
 Back in the hotel, the queen, really exhausted, 
 was straightway carried to her bed, and I was 
 deprived of the pleasure of spending my last 
 evening in her company. I was to leave Venice 
 next morning, and she had promised to receive
 
 82 The Exile 
 
 me for a few moments in her room before I took 
 my departure. As I bent over to kiss her hand, 
 just when the two men-servants carried her 
 away in her arm-chair, I had no suspicion I was 
 seeing her for the last time. 
 
 Entering my room, I had not been there more 
 than a few minutes when a faithful servant of 
 Her Majesty handed me one of those familiar 
 grey envelopes, stamped with her initials and 
 crown. It contained a sheet of paper on which 
 she had written in pencil, in large elegant charac- 
 ters: 
 
 / hope you no longer think my book claims to 
 be more consoling than Christianity. No, all it 
 claims is, that it is true. 
 
 After all, how few attain to real Christianity/ 
 What falsehoods have found refuge beneath that 
 excellent cloak! Leave us to pass through those 
 phases of intellectual development along which 
 we are probably predestined to travel. Fear 
 nothing; we are too honest to be shattered and 
 destroyed. 
 
 CARMEN SYLVA.
 
 The Exile 83 
 
 I sat long at my window, leaning on the bal- 
 cony of Gothic marble, and looking at the fairy- 
 land of Venice in the summer moonlight. I 
 reflected on the sombre destiny of this admirable, 
 this revered woman. Memory brought back to 
 me, in that great palace of Bucharest, the cruel 
 eyes of all her "daughters," on the occasion of 
 her fete, those "daughters" who owe everything 
 to her and yet bear her a grudge for not doing 
 even more for them. 
 
 I know not what political errors this queen 
 may have committed to have incurred such dis- 
 favour in a land to which she had given her whole 
 heart and life. After all, it would not be for 
 me to judge them. 
 
 There is only one fault I can see clearly: 
 that of having tried to bring about this marriage, 
 and imagined that a maiden, one amongst so 
 many others who envied the favour lavished 
 upon her, could become a queen in her own 
 country ! And this fault was probably more 
 dangerous than all the rest ; the one which all 
 those little charming dolls, who, a year ago, 
 danced the hora in a long gold-spangled chain
 
 84 The Exile 
 
 around their sovereign, will never forgive. 
 This was the origin of that raging feminine 
 hatred which stops at nothing and gradually 
 brings every other kind of hatred into mani- 
 festation. 
 
 And there welled up within my heart a great 
 wave of pity for this queen, a feeling of despair 
 at my inability to defend and avenge her so 
 little. 
 
 vn 
 
 SUNDAY, i6th August. 
 
 This morning, half an hour before my de- 
 parture, I came down to bid farewell to the 
 queen. 
 
 There, in the large salon, I found the maids of 
 honour awaiting me. The queen, they tell me, 
 is much worse than the previous evening. They 
 have both spent the night by her bedside. It is 
 quite impossible for her to receive me. 
 
 Then I begin to write down all I intended to 
 say in that farewell conversation. I hand my 
 letter to the two maids of honour and a gondola 
 takes me to the station.
 
 The Exile 85 
 
 Seated in the carriage which is to convey me 
 to Genoa, I see approaching a faquino who 
 had run after me and is perspiring freely. He 
 hands me a grey envelope bearing the royal arms 
 and containing the following message, written 
 in pencil : 
 
 I can scarcely write, for I am in bed and feel 
 much worse. 
 
 On the other hand, your enthusiasm has been 
 so helpful to us! Still, I should have been 
 glad to resume our discussion in a calmer 
 spirit. Then you would not have taken fright; 
 you would have seen how fervent and sincere 
 Christianity still is in our hearts, and how far- 
 reaching are our hopes. Fear no petty meanness 
 in your small circle of devoted friends I 
 
 CARMEN SYLVA. 
 
 VIII 
 
 NOVEMBER, 1892. 
 
 This was the very last time I saw the queen's 
 handwriting.
 
 86 The Exile 
 
 I know not in what gloomy silence she is en- 
 veloped, behind what leaden curtain her fair open 
 countenance is veiled. Vague rumours reached 
 me that she had been taken away, far from all 
 her companions of the past, to the banks of 
 an Italian lake, there to spend several months 
 in rest and solitude, and that she is now in a 
 gloomy castle on the banks of the Rhine. . . .
 
 CONSTANTINOPLE IN 1890
 
 CONSTANTINOPLE IN 1890 
 
 JN uneasy feeling of profound sad- 
 ness comes over me as I begin this 
 chapter. On being asked to write 
 it, my first impulse was to put 
 forward some excuse or other, but that seemed 
 to be a kind of treason against the land of 
 Turkey; so now I begin. 
 
 Still, in the present instance, it is more im- 
 possible than ever for me to give an impersonal 
 description, with that unconcern and mental 
 detachment an artist requires. Once again, 
 those who wish to follow me must reconcile 
 themselves to seeing everything with my eyes: 
 it is almost as though they must catch faint 
 glimpses of mighty Istambul through the mirror 
 of my soul. . . . 
 
 Istambul ! The most magical of all the names 
 that still fill me with enchantment and delight. 
 No sooner is it uttered than there stands out- 
 89
 
 go Constantinople in 1890 
 
 lined before me an inner vision : at first, in the 
 vague distance and high in the air, I see a faint 
 sketch of something gigantic, the silhouette of a 
 city that compares with none other. At its 
 feet lies a sea ploughed by thousands of ships 
 and craft of every description in ceaseless motion 
 and agitation, whilst a very babel of sound is 
 heard, uttered in every tongue of the Levant. 
 Like a long horizontal cloud, smoke hovers 
 above the dense mass of black steamboats and 
 gilded caiques, above the motley crowd who 
 raise their strident voices in sales and bargain- 
 ings, an ever present mist casting a veil over all 
 the tumult. And there, above this steam and 
 coal-dust, appears the great city, suspended in 
 midair, so to speak. Into the clear, open sky 
 shoot minarets, keen as lances, dome after 
 dome, large and round, of dull greyish white, 
 rising tier upon tier like pyramids of stone 
 steeples : the still mosques, unchanged by the 
 rolling ages, whiter, perhaps, in those by- 
 gone times before our Western steamers had 
 denied the surrounding air, and the swift sailers 
 of the past were the only ones to anchor in their
 
 Constantinople in 1890 91 
 
 shade, though still of the same type, crowning 
 Istanbul for centuries past with the same 
 gigantic cupolas, and giving it that unique 
 silhouette, the result being more magnificent 
 and splendid than any other city on earth could 
 offer. These mosques represent the unalterable 
 past; their stones and marbles manifest the 
 old Mussulman spirit, still dominant wherever 
 they are to be found. Whether coming from 
 distant Marmora or the far-off plains of Asia, 
 they are the first thing one sees emerge out of the 
 moving mists of the horizon ; above all the 
 paltry turmoil of modern life on quay and sea 
 they carry the thrill of old memories, the great 
 mystic dream of Islam, the thought of Allah the 
 terrible, and of death. . . . 
 
 At the foot of these gloomy mosques I have 
 spent the most unforgettable time of my life; 
 they have been the constant witnesses of my 
 adventures as those delightful days sped by so 
 swiftly. I saw them everywhere, with their 
 great round domes, now white and dull beneath 
 the summer suns when I would seek the shade of 
 the plane-trees on some lonely old square; and
 
 92 Constantinople in 1890 
 
 then again dimly black in December midnights, 
 beneath the cold uncertain moon, as my caique 
 glided secretly past sleeping Istambul; ever 
 present and almost eternal by my side, as 
 I passed along by chance and with no thought 
 of the morrow. Each mosque seemed to exhale 
 a different kind of sadness, a peace and spirit 
 of meditation all its own which hovered above 
 the solemn neighbourhood around. By de- 
 grees I came to love them with a strange love, 
 the more I lived the Turkish life, the more I 
 became attached to this proud, dreamy race, 
 and my soul, passing through that period, filled 
 with mingled anguish and love, began to open 
 out to Oriental mysticism. 
 
 And afterwards, when I had to leave, how 
 profound was the melancholy which came over 
 me one pale March evening, on the Sea of 
 Marmora, as I watched the outlines of the city 
 gradually fade away and finally disappear from 
 view. . . . When everything else was dim and 
 almost out of sight, the great domes and minarets 
 still appeared above the cold sea mist, and the 
 loftly, stately contour of Istambul was the last
 
 Constantinople in 1890 93 
 
 to vanish. This final image symbolised, so to 
 speak, all the bitter regrets I was leaving be- 
 hind, all that dear Turkish life for ever ended : 
 that one silhouette was graven on my memory, 
 never again to be effaced. During the wander- 
 ing years that followed, especially when travel- 
 ling on distant seas, often have I seen in dreams 
 that city of domes and spires outlined on the 
 grey imaginary horizon of my slumbers, each 
 time bringing with it an impression of sadness, 
 as of a dear lost fatherland. I could sketch it 
 by heart, without a single error, and, in real 
 life, every time I return, there comes over me a 
 feeling of mingled sadness and delight, which 
 the flight of time has scarcely yet succeeded in 
 diminishing. 
 
 Still, I do not think the mirage of my personal 
 memories deludes me unduly as regards the 
 charm and the spell of this aspect. It is undis- 
 puted as well as legendary ; whosoever the travel- 
 lers may be, even though they know nothing 
 about the place, they are strangely impressed 
 when they draw near the city and that imposing 
 silhouette begins to take shape in the distance
 
 94 Constantinople in 1890 
 
 And as long as Istambul though daily be- 
 coming more commonplace, and continually 
 being desecrated by all retains the charming 
 outline of this first approach, it will remain, in 
 spite of everything, the wondrous city of the 
 Caliphs, the Queen of the Orient. 
 
 Around Istambul are grouped other districts 
 and towns, series of palaces and mosques whose 
 ensemble forms Constantinople : first, we have 
 Pera, where the Christians live ; then, along the 
 Bosphorus, from the sea of Marmora to the 
 Black Sea, an almost uninterrupted succession 
 of suburbs. And all these various parts of the 
 same whole communicated with one another by 
 means of boats and caiques innumerable. The 
 motley crowds of the great city are scattered 
 along the coast, and the sea is covered with 
 passers-by who continually come and go in 
 rapid succession. 
 
 These districts are quite distinct from each 
 other; different in race, religion, and customs. 
 
 No capital anywhere could be more diverse in 
 aspect, more changing from hour to hour, for
 
 Constantinople in 1890 95 
 
 sky, wind, and clouds vary incessantly. This 
 is a climate of burning summers and gorgeous 
 light; it is also one of dismal winters and rain 
 showers, of snowy mantles suddenly shrouding 
 thousands of black roofs. 
 
 And it seems to me as though the streets and 
 squares and suburbs of Constantinople belong 
 to me in some degree, and that I also belong to 
 them. I feel a grudge against all these boulevard 
 loungers, deposited here in crowds by the Orient 
 express, for I cannot help regarding them as 
 trespassers profaning a domain dear and sacred 
 to me, and feeling nothing of the admiration 
 and respect that old Istambul still commands. 
 These districts, which they look upon with 
 vapid astonishment and with which I am better 
 acquainted than with those of any other city in 
 the world, in bygone days I traversed at all hours, 
 day and night, obeying the dictates of my 
 fancy, and mingling generally in the life and in- 
 terests of the humblest of the people. But how 
 could I speak here of all this with the requisite 
 degree of impartiality? Every step I take I 
 recall memories of youth and love. How could
 
 96 Constantinople in 1890 
 
 I be expected to judge these memories when I 
 adore them ! . . . 
 
 Before writing this, I was determined to pay 
 another visit to Constantinople, as a mere 
 tourist, for the purpose of obtaining a more de- 
 tached impression of a city with which, alas ! 
 I have not a single living link remaining, my 
 only duty being that of visiting tombs in the 
 cemeteries. 
 
 I proceeded thither from Roumania, in the 
 spring of 1890, in the month of May, via Rust- 
 chuk, Varna, and the Black Sea. All the passen- 
 gers are on deck, on the lookout, so that they 
 may not miss the entrance of the Bosphorus, a 
 classic site, extolled in all the guide-books. 
 
 Throughout the world there are far more 
 gorgeous sites, with more luxuriant vegetation 
 and loftier mountains ; it is in its inmost de- 
 tails, doubtless, that the unique charm of the 
 Bosphorus lies, a very real one and quite in- 
 dependent of my own predilections, since it is 
 felt by all who come here. 
 
 And now we have Cheragan, Dolma-Bagche, 
 a line of snow-white palaces on marble quays
 
 Constantinople in 1890 97 
 
 along the seaside. And the sight becomes 
 beautiful beyond compare, for through the morn- 
 ing mist the three towns simultaneously ap- 
 pear over against each other: Scutari on the 
 left, in the form of an amphitheatre on the 
 Asiatic coast; Pera on the right, tier upon tier 
 of houses and palaces covering the entire Eu- 
 ropean coast; and there in the middle, on a head- 
 land projecting between the two, towering above 
 the confused jumble of smoke and craft and 
 dominating all else, the stately domes and 
 minarets of Istambul ! 
 
 On the heights of Pera, in a hotel filled with 
 English tourists where I have put up and form 
 one of the crowd, there is a marvellous view from 
 my sitting-room over the Golden Horn, the 
 head of the Old-Seraglio, and the endless stretches 
 of azure sea dotted with the isles of Asia. The 
 glimpses one obtains over immense distances 
 from every side form one of the subtle attrac- 
 tions of this land; each of these three towns 
 affords a view of the other two, with the sea in 
 the background; wherever you live, you are
 
 98 Constantinople in 1890 
 
 sure to perceive, rising above the housetops 
 and the trees, fairy scenes outlined in the air. 
 Indeed the range of vision here is wider and more 
 far-reaching than in any other place with which 
 I am acquainted. 
 
 Six o'clock the same evening. (May I be par- 
 doned for spending the whole day in a pilgrim- 
 age to the cemeteries, and in souvenir visits to 
 various spots of interest to no one but myself.) 
 
 The hour of sunset finds me on the quay of 
 Tophaneh, seated in the open air in front of a 
 cafe, as is the custom in the Orient, watch- 
 ing the passers-by as the shades of night fall. 
 
 The quay of Tophaneh is filled with a medley 
 crowd who come and go; it is a kind of vast 
 square, the outlet of wide thoroughfares, the 
 tributaries of districts entirely different from 
 one another. 
 
 On fine evenings, half the pathway is ob- 
 structed by rows of divans, of red or motley 
 velvet, and occupied by smokers plunged in 
 reverie. They sit there, as though in the pit 
 of a huge theatre, watching the mighty stream
 
 Constantinople in 1890 99 
 
 of Oriental life, and the coming and going of 
 ships on the Bosphorus. Above the blue 
 waters and the far-distant hills of Asia rises a 
 lofty mosque, with its intricate and complex 
 dome and its minarets with their open galleries. 
 It is set off with glaring white and yellow, two 
 altogether Turkish tints in which all the frame- 
 work and panelling of the comparatively modern 
 buildings are decorated : most of the mosques, 
 palaces, and modern mansions are partially 
 painted in these colours, which match well with 
 the distant blue of sea and sky, for they serve 
 as a background to the motley groups of passers- 
 by and the red head-gear which is to be seen 
 everywhere. Nor must we forget the crude 
 green of the large slabs, ornamented with 
 gold inscriptions, which are inevitably to be 
 seen above every porch, gateway, or fountain. 
 White, yellow, and gold-striped green are the 
 colours of the elegant mosque opposite as well 
 as of the surrounding kiosks and of all that 
 mass of Oriental-looking buildings which stands 
 out against the dull, glimmering blue tints of 
 the Bosphorus and the Asiatic coast.
 
 zoo Constantinople in 1890 
 
 The rows of open-air divans gradually be- 
 come filled with persons representing every 
 costume and every race in the Levant. Bus- 
 tling waiters hurry about, carrying tiny cups of 
 coffee, raki, bonbons, and glowing embers in 
 small brass vases; and the long, pleasant 
 evening hours of Oriental idleness begin; the 
 narghiles are lit, and yellow cigarettes fill the 
 air with odorous fumes. All kinds of people 
 and carriages pass along, handsome cavalry 
 riders on their well-groomed steeds going to or 
 from the Sultan's palaces ; livery-stable keepers, 
 leading their saddled horses by the bridle; 
 sailors of nondescript nationality out for a 
 stroll now that their day's work is over ; itiner- 
 ant traders tinkling their little bells, or scream- 
 ing out at the top of their voices the merits of 
 their cakes, sherbets, or fruit of various kinds. . . . 
 
 At Galata, whose principal thoroughfare 
 in a state of eternal clamour and uproar ends 
 in this square, there rises a shout and din, 
 louder and louder, until it reaches, somewhat 
 muffled by the distance, the loungers seated on 
 the red divans. This Galata is the mighty babel
 
 Constantinople in 1890 101 
 
 of the Levant ; from the whole district rises an 
 infernal noise all along the Bosphorus until 
 morning dawns. 
 
 Here, too, debouches the largest of the steep 
 streets mounting to Pera the Christian suburb 
 perched above our heads. On both sides of 
 the street, beneath bowers of vine leaves, sit 
 hundreds of porters engaged the whole day in 
 carrying, from ship, quay, or custom-house, 
 travellers' trunks or bundles and bales of goods, 
 and now taking their refreshment in front of 
 the Turkish cafes which succeed one another 
 in unbroken sequence. Scarcely a foot of ground 
 remains unoccupied by their little stools and 
 tables. Glad of their evening's rest, they come 
 along, one after another, and ask for a narghile : 
 these men, whose business it is, by the aid of 
 their broad shoulders and limbs of steel, to take 
 the place of waggons and carts, which are un- 
 known in Constantinople. 
 
 The crowd gradually swells in volume, and 
 soon the mass of porters actually touch one 
 another. They are all dressed alike in rough 
 brown cloth, oddly streaked with red and black,
 
 IO2 Constantinople in 1890 
 
 the jacket wide open, exposing to view their 
 stalwart, sun-burnt chests. Their serried ranks 
 rise tier upon tier, varying with the steepness of 
 the street, their murmuring voices mingle with 
 the peculiar gurgling sound coming from their 
 innumerable narghiles, and intoxicating fumes 
 increasingly fill the air as night falls on the 
 scene. . . . 
 
 This way of spending the evenings has re- 
 mained the same ever since I can remember 
 everything that happens during this hour in 
 the various districts of the immense city returns 
 vividly to my mind ! . . . 
 
 Towards the north, by the broad thorough- 
 fare parallel to the sea, may be reached the 
 Sultan's quarters : impenetrable palaces, lofty 
 walls enclosing parks, barracks, and seraglios. 
 All that the night brings hither is peace and 
 quiet, beneath the avenues of acacias, now all 
 white with bloom. 
 
 On the heights above our heads, cosmopolitan 
 Pera will soon light up its great European shops, 
 filled with goods for sale, modelled after those 
 to be seen in London or Paris. Beneath the
 
 Constantinople in 1890 103 
 
 artificial light, carriages will roll to and fro, in 
 Western fashion. Instead of diminishing the 
 incessant stir and tumult of life, the approach 
 of the evening hour, with the gas everywhere 
 ablaze, rather intensifies it. Tourists rush about 
 as they return from their day's excursions, eager 
 to feel themselves safe in their hotels before 
 night overtakes them. Table d'hote is served 
 in English .fashion; out in the street, you feel 
 as though you were in Europe. Levantine 
 women wear loud, extravagant dresses; large- 
 eyed beauties who would have looked so attrac- 
 tive had they been dressed as Greeks, Armeni- 
 ans, or Jewesses. All the same, in this amusing 
 pele-mele, we find the Oriental touch in the 
 numerous red fezzes, the gangs of porters, with 
 their medley of embroidered costumes, having 
 mounted from the more Oriental streets below, 
 or again since that portion of the city is far 
 above the sea-level in glimpses of distant 
 scenes, the dull blue expanse of the Sea of 
 Marmora, or a portion of the Asiatic coast, 
 almost lost to view in the twilight. . . . 
 
 Behind us and beyond the overhanging hill
 
 io4 Constantinople in 1890 
 
 of Pera lie the Jewish, Armenian, and Turkish 
 quarters, scattered about hillside and valley, 
 all along the Golden Horn and facing mighty 
 Istambul, which overtops them from the other 
 bank. It is mostly by sea that they communi- 
 cate with one another, in light caiques which re- 
 main in perpetual motion as long as there is the 
 faintest glimpse of light in the sky. . . . How 
 strange that the mere proximity of things long 
 lost sight of has the power to revive their mem- 
 ory ! It it almost fifteen years since I lived 
 here and I had almost forgotten how the even- 
 ings were spent and yet I need only find myself 
 idly dreaming in Constantinople, though in 
 a different street, far away from my usual former 
 haunts, and lo ! everything comes back to 
 my mind with the utmost distinctness, as though 
 I had left the place only the previous day. . . . 
 First, the very Turkish quarter of Kassim-Pacha, 
 with its tiny old houses, all in Oriental style, 
 its little ancient-looking shops and cafes, with 
 their overhanging plane-trees : this was one of 
 my favourite resorts in bygone days. Even 
 now I see it in imagination, with its own peculiar
 
 Constantinople in 1890 105 
 
 animation as evening approaches. Sailors be- 
 longing to the marine service are everywhere, 
 having just left the arsenal or the great black 
 ironclads anchored opposite, in the Golden 
 Horn. Laughing heartily, they stroll along in 
 groups, hand in hand, crowding the streets and 
 squares. All wear fezzes, and their collars are 
 red instead of blue: with this exception, they 
 resemble our own sailors. Women await them 
 (mothers or sisters, naturally) and fall in by 
 their side ; they wear long white, blue, or pink 
 veils. Their officers, too, halt here for a smoke, 
 in the humblest cafes frequented by the poorest 
 of the people. Moreover, these very democratic 
 interminglings of rich and poor are peculiar to 
 Turkey : pachas and beys drinking in public 
 in the company of the poor, chatting with them 
 and explaining the news all without loss of 
 dignity, for Mussulmans never drink to the 
 point of intoxication. Other districts follow, 
 assuming more and more a village aspect the 
 farther one advances into the interior; then 
 the deserted, trackless, barren country begins, 
 with a sad charm of its own, in spite of the
 
 io6 Constantinople in 1890 
 
 fact that it is dotted with tombstones every- 
 where. 
 
 The Golden Horn separates all these quarters 
 from mighty Istambul, over which a kind of re- 
 ligious silence is about to descend as night falls. 
 
 And in the heart of this gulf, locked within a 
 city, beneath the old cypress and plane-trees, 
 lies the sacred quarter of Eyub, the soul of Is- 
 lam in Europe, buried in a sort of funereal grove, 
 close to the great cemeteries, and with tombs 
 all around. It slumbers in awful silence, broken 
 only from time to time by the chanting of 
 psalms in a neighbouring mosque. In all the 
 kiosks of the dead, before the lofty catafalques 
 crowned with turbans, small night-lamps will 
 soon be lit ; passing along the sombre avenues, 
 they are seen shining through the window-frames, 
 like yellow eyes in the darkness. 
 
 For great Istambul is about to sink in almost 
 as peaceful a slumber as in past ages, whilst 
 Western tumult and noise are beginning in those 
 portions of the shore occupied by infidels. In 
 the new streets, around the neighbourhood of 
 Santa Sophia, a few shops, here and there, will
 
 Constantinople in 1890 107 
 
 be lit up, and the shining lanterns of some strag- 
 gling cafe may be seen : everywhere else in the 
 immense city, mysterious darkness and dull 
 slumber will reign supreme. It would appear as 
 though this Golden Horn were something more 
 than an arm of the sea separating the two parts 
 of Constantinople, and that it actually set up 
 an interval of two or three centuries between the 
 active fevered life on the one bank and the peace- 
 ful sleep and quiet on the other. 
 
 Whilst I am here, plunged in reverie out in 
 the street on this red divan and watching the 
 crowd passing in the dim light through the 
 fumes of narghiles, suddenly, high in the air, a 
 flaming circle appears as a signal around the 
 slender spire of a minaret in Tophaneh the 
 religious illuminations : the Ramazan ! . . . 
 I had forgotten that this was the ninth month of 
 the Mohammedan year, when every Turk be- 
 longing to the lower classes turns night into day. 
 And I was expatiating on the calm of Istambul ! 
 . . . Very soon, it will be more noisy than 
 Pera and Galata combined, and the uproar will
 
 io8 Constantinople in 1890 
 
 be continued throughout the night, so I shall 
 join the crowd and share in this unwonted 
 gaiety. . . . 
 
 It is time to return to lunch at the hotel. In- 
 stead of making my way to Pera along the 
 direct and steep route, I will make a sign to one 
 of these good fellows before me, leading their 
 saddled horses by the bridle, and will make a 
 circuit, right through all the noise and tumult 
 of Galata, before subsequently ascending by the 
 Field of the Dead. 
 
 Galata, in the late twilight and illumined 
 with lanterns ! Noise and racket on all sides ! 
 Somewhat startled, my horse skips about on the 
 pavement, in the midst of numberless passers- 
 by, and a sea of red fezzes and rough-spun cos- 
 tumes. Other horsemen pass along at full speed ; 
 there is a continual coming and going of carriages 
 and heavy tram-cars, preceded by runners blow- 
 ing horns. An indescribable odour of alcohol, ab- 
 sinthe, and aniseed fills the air. The large and 
 dangerous coffee-houses open their doors and are
 
 Constantinople in 1890 109 
 
 speedily ablaze with light; the great would-be 
 alcazars illuminate their flag-decked faqades 
 here an Italian pantomime is being played, 
 whilst close by an orchestra of Hungarian ladies 
 plays selections from Strauss. Resorts of ill 
 fame are already crowded ; the men and women 
 seated in front of the cafes obstruct the narrow 
 pathway and frequently come into unpleasant 
 contact with the horses. One is deafened by 
 the hubbub of conversation carried on in many 
 tongues, as well as by the confused clashing 
 sound of cymbals, tinkling bells, and big drums. 
 I trot past the surging masses, amusing myself 
 by calling aloud, as in bygone days: "Bestour ! 
 Bestour !" (Look out ! Look out !), the cry of 
 Turkish crowds, just as "Balekt Balek!" is 
 that of an Arab mob. . . . 
 
 In the hotel above, the usual banalities of a 
 table d'hote. A tourist, recently disgorged by 
 the Orient Express, deigns to make a few practi- 
 cal enquiries : 
 
 "There is nothing to do in Istambul at night, 
 is there, monsieur? (This is the stereotyped 
 piece of information served out to one by every
 
 no Constantinople in 1890 
 
 hotel guide ; viz. that during the evening hours 
 there is nothing to see in Istambul, and that it is 
 dangerous to walk the streets of the city.) 
 
 I stare at him, and then reply : 
 
 " Oh, no, monsieur : nothing at all in Istambul. 
 Here, in Pera, however, close by, you will find 
 two or three most delightful howlers of the cafe 
 chantant type. . . ." 
 
 After dinner I mount a hired horse and escape 
 as fast as I can. . . . 
 
 It is a fine starry night as I make my way 
 through Galata, which is in the height of the 
 fete. Finally, leaving the noisy street, I halt, at 
 the water's edge, close to a bridge which stretches 
 away in the distance and disappears in the dim 
 darkness. Here, a sudden change, like a fairy 
 scene at a pantomime. The crowd, the lights 
 and the noise : all gone ; a profound void of dark- 
 ness and silence is in front of me ; an arm of the 
 sea lies stretched between this noisy quarter 
 and another great fantastic-looking city, which 
 is seen in the starry background with its dark 
 silhouettes of minarets and domes. It is a 
 Ramazan evening. Suddenly, on every floor of
 
 Constantinople in 1890 in 
 
 these minarets, around their festooned galleries, 
 shine rows of fiery garlands, whilst in the empty 
 spaces between these stone steeples pointing 
 straight upwards, luminous inscriptions are sus- 
 pended by invisible wires, as startling as apocalyp- 
 tic signs traced in the air with a pen of fire. 
 
 I am eager to be there ; the invincible attrac- 
 tion of stirring memories causes me to hurry 
 onwards along the dark, interminable bridge 
 which leads, across this arm of the sea, to the 
 dark-looking city. The nearer I approach, the 
 higher rise the cupolas and minarets with their 
 wreaths of flame. Now I am at their feet; I 
 quit the moving floor of the bridge for the peb- 
 bles and shingle of a dim-looking square over 
 which towers a superb mosque : I am in Istam- 
 bul at last ! 
 
 I soon turn my back on the more modern 
 quarters in the neighbourhood of Santa Sophia 
 and the Sublime Porte, the boulevards recently 
 erected in orderly rows and now lit up, alas ! 
 by gas-jets, whilst venturesome travellers ride 
 about in gaudy equipages. I now make my 
 way towards Old Istambul, still a great city,
 
 ii2 Constantinople in 1890 
 
 thank Heaven ! ascending along small streets, 
 dark and mysterious as ever, with yellow dogs 
 rolled up on the ground and growling whenever 
 one's feet brush against them. Mon Dieu! So 
 far they have escaped destruction by the city 
 officials, poor animals ! I experience a feeling 
 of mingled sadness and voluptuousness, almost 
 of frenzy, as I plunge into this labyrinth where I 
 am quite unknown now, though I myself know 
 it all. It is as though the memory of a long-dis- 
 tant past, of a former life, were being restored 
 to my present consciousness. . . . 
 
 It is a wonderfully peaceful May night. The 
 semitransparent darkness allows me to find my 
 way about. High above my wandering steps 
 so high that they afford no more light than 
 the stars themselves fiery circles appear on 
 every side, suspended to the minarets of the 
 mosques, with luminous inscriptions hanging in 
 the air. The sombre, narrow streets I have taken 
 suddenly open on to the immense Seraskierat 
 square, with all its light and music, its many- 
 costumed crowds. I merely cross this square to 
 plunge deeper into the heart of the old city, into
 
 Constantinople in 1890 113 
 
 the delightful and still unprofaned quarters of 
 the Suleimanieh and of Sultan-Selim. Then fol- 
 lows an alternating succession of dismal little 
 streets, of lights and human beings. In the 
 cafes, Oriental music is heard : sorry violins 
 groaning out soul-harassing melodies; corne- 
 muses, or hornpipes, singing some old-fashioned 
 air, in shrill plaintive strains. Asiatic peasants, 
 all men, dance together in long chains, holding 
 one another by the hand. 
 
 Amazing is a Ramazan night in Istambul, 
 but this evening, the thing that charms me most 
 is simply a harem passing along a solitary street, 
 about midnight. . . . The street is very dark 
 and narrow ; above the lofty railed-in houses, over 
 against a starry patch of sky, may be seen point- 
 ing upwards the minarets of the Suleimanieh, 
 gigantic black lines seemingly diaphanous 
 with two or three coronets of dying fires above 
 each other from top to bottom. Profound si- 
 lence ; not a soul in view. Then there arrives 
 a group of five or six women, wearing noiseless 
 babouches; blue, red, or pink phantoms, wrapped 
 up to their very eyes in folds of Asiatic, gold-
 
 ii4 Constantinople in 1890 
 
 wrought silk. They are preceded by two 
 eunuchs, staff in hand, who light the way by 
 means of great antique-looking lanterns. It 
 is all so charming and reminds one of a scene 
 from the Arabian Nights, as it passes away and 
 is lost from view in some corner or other of 
 the mysterious labyrinth. . . . And the night 
 seems darker than ever, on the disappearance of 
 the lantern lights, whose shadows have now 
 ceased to dance about on the old walls and pave- 
 ments. . . . 
 
 TUESDAY, i3th May, 1890. 
 
 I continue the recital of my second day's im- 
 pressions only at five o'clock to break off 
 before night. 
 
 At five o'clock, then, my back turned upon the 
 modern quarters of the city, I enter a caique 
 and make for the farther point of the Golden 
 Horn, on my way to the suburb of Eyub. 
 
 (For the benefit of those unacquainted with 
 Constantinople, it may be explained that a 
 caique is a kind of long, slender canoe, with 
 the bow bent crescent-wise, on which one sails
 
 Constantinople in 1890 115 
 
 in a reclining posture. There are hundreds of 
 them in every harbour, like the gondolas of 
 Venice.) 
 
 The Golden Horn is quieter the farther one 
 sails from the entrance, which is crowded with 
 craft of various kinds. The part of Istamboul 
 along which I am now sailing is more ancient, 
 more dilapidated and deathlike than I have ever 
 seen it; these are the very old quarters, from 
 which all life has gradually been withdrawing 
 and transferring itself to the other bank. Nor 
 had I ever before seen them with that aspect as 
 of ruins overrun with verdure ; the dark tops of 
 the trees almost disappearing beneath the fresh 
 green of the month of May. And there is Eyub 
 at the farther end, surrounded by black cypresses 
 and the great dark-looking woods. 
 
 A biting, almost cold, wind arises at the hour 
 of sunset every evening, and small waves form 
 on the surface of the ruffled water. 
 
 Eyub, the holy suburb, is still the unique abode 
 of profound peace and silent prayer. At the en- 
 trance of the splendid avenue which runs parallel 
 to the sacred tombs I land, and find myself on
 
 n6 Constantinople in 1890 
 
 stone flags, green with the flight of time. This 
 avenue which opens out in all its whiteness buries 
 itself in a kind of sacred wood dotted with tomb- 
 stones, a greenish whiteness like that of an- 
 cient marble seen in the shade. It ends in 
 yonder impenetrable mosque, whose dome is 
 just perceptible beneath a clump of huge cy- 
 presses and plane-trees. On right and left it is 
 lined with kiosks of white marble, filled with 
 catafalques, or with walls pierced with small 
 pointed arches through which the cemeteries 
 can be seen: strange-looking tombs with their 
 faded gildings appearing in the green-tinted dark- 
 ness of the undergrowth, all interspersed with 
 a confused mass of wild rose-trees, grass, bram- 
 bles. . . . 
 
 Only a very few ever pass along this avenue 
 of the dead : dervishes returning from prayer 
 or beggars on their way to the mosque, near 
 whose doors they crouch for alms. This even- 
 ing, there are three little Turkish girls, from five 
 to ten years of age, looking very pretty as they 
 play about in their bright green and red dresses. 
 They form a striking and somewhat puzzling
 
 Constantinople in 1890 117 
 
 contrast with the marble tombs and the funereal 
 gloom of the surroundings. Besides, this was 
 the first time I had ever been here in the full 
 glory cf the month of May, and I find the fresh 
 verdure and the springing flowers form quite as 
 jarring an element as these three little girls. 
 Resorts of such infinite gloom never become gay 
 and cheerful in spring; on the contrary, this 
 soft, billowy sky, these clusters of roses, these 
 jessamines hanging from the walls and which, 
 for centuries, have smiled upon the passers-by, in 
 so ephemeral and deceptive a guise, always at 
 the same season: all this only adds to the im- 
 pression from which no escape is possible : that 
 of universal desolation, a state of nothingness. 
 
 WEDNESDAY, i4th May, 1890. 
 
 We numbered at least thirty guests this morn- 
 ing, all of us tourists, as we sat at lunch round a 
 large table, adorned with yellow roses. 
 
 Formerly, the crossing of the Black Sea proved 
 an obstacle, but now that there is a railway 
 coming to the very foot of the Old Seraglio, amaz-
 
 u8 Constantinople in 1890 
 
 ing numbers of sight-seers arrive from every part 
 of Europe, curiously peering here and there. 
 
 Nor can I reflect, without a smile, on the re- 
 mark of the charming wife of the ambassador, 
 as she glanced round at the company, an in- 
 describably amused look in her eye, and said : 
 "Oh, you see, nowadays I don't mind a tourist 
 more or less. ..." The phrase was devoid of 
 the faintest tinge of discourtesy towards her 
 guests, though it was uttered in such a way as to 
 make the insignificant words seem extremely 
 droll. All chosen guests, these travellers; very 
 polite and pleasant in speech ; the only objection 
 being that there were too many of them an 
 artistic perception could not appreciate such an 
 invasion; though let it be understood that, in 
 uttering such a reproach, there is no more ill 
 will in my mind than was shown in the remark 
 of the lady at the head of the table. 
 
 This same evening, about four o'clock in the 
 afternoon, it is raining in Istambul. The air 
 has been heavy with storm all morning, and now 
 it is pouring in torrents. 
 
 On leaving the Sublime Porte, I take refuge
 
 Constantinople in 1890 119 
 
 for the rest of the day in the labyrinth of the 
 Great Bazaar. (Istambul, following the Orien- 
 tal custom, has its " bazaar" a city within a 
 city, shut in by walls, and which closes its solid 
 doors every night.) 
 
 It is dull and gloomy to-day with the rain 
 descending, as one sits beneath the wooden roof- 
 ing that covers every small street, listening to 
 the trickling of the water as it oozes through the 
 tiles. Through a kind of mist, or twilight fog, 
 can be seen the glitter of gold-embroidered silks 
 and satins, surrounded by thousands of bibelots 
 hung up on the stalls ; crowds of people swarm 
 around: white- veiled women and red-capped 
 men. Thank Heaven, this bazaar has scarcely 
 changed at all ! In familiar corners I recognise 
 once more the same dark little cafes, flagged 
 with their old tiled floors of Persian porcelain 
 and the curious flowery decoration, in which the 
 same tiny old cups have served for years and 
 years. Looking out through the open door on 
 to the Turkish crowds hurrying along in the 
 fantastic shades of the avenues, one can indulge 
 in the same dreams as in bygone days. In
 
 I2O Constantinople in 1890 
 
 these sheltered retreats, as one smokes the strong, 
 light-coloured tobacco, the whole of this com- 
 motion and din away in the distance seems like 
 the jostle and rush of a veritable army of ghosts. 
 Alas ! however, here are further attempts to 
 imitate European glass-windowed shops. And 
 a few groups of gaping foreigners conducted 
 tourists evidently pass along, elbowing one 
 another, in the tow of some bold-faced guide. 
 (The English tourists take things more quietly : 
 in spite of the fact that they walk about as 
 though they owned the whole place, I really 
 think I prefer them to the quizzing Frenchmen, 
 who eternally complain of the ill-paved streets, 
 find fault with the bazaar for containing nothing 
 more than a collection of articles de Paris, and 
 are disposed to believe that all these old turbaned 
 dealers, crouching in their corners, obtain their 
 carpets from the Bon Marche or the Louvre.) 
 Off they go, saying they have seen Constanti- 
 nople; they even exclaim against Mussulman 
 dishonesty, because they have been robbed and 
 plundered (what else could they expect !) by 
 the lower type of guides and interpreters, who
 
 Constantinople in 1890 121 
 
 are Greeks and Armenians, Jews and Maltese, 
 or any other race except Turks. The ordinary 
 Turk might be a boatman, a porter, or a common 
 workman, he would never descend to the servile 
 business of exploiting foreigners. 
 
 I linger for a time, bargaining for old bibelots 
 in silverware, whilst outside the daylight is 
 rapidly fading and the rain steadily falling. This 
 bazaar looks more empty and desolate than ever, 
 now that business hours are past; the shops 
 close in the old, narrow-covered streets ; buyers 
 and sellers depart, and grey darkness falls on 
 this labyrinth, which, throughout the night, will 
 be nothing more than a bleak wilderness. 
 
 Really I must stay no longer, and so I mount 
 once again a sorry-looking hired horse, dripping 
 with rain, standing close to one of the doors of 
 the bazaar, and make for Pera. 
 
 The rain stops, but the sky is still grey and 
 lowering, the old roofs streaming with the recent 
 downpours. Descending towards the Golden 
 Horn, along narrow alleys, the puddles along the 
 path send the mud flying in every direction as 
 we trudge through them. Of a sudden, the city
 
 122 Constantinople in 1890 
 
 has again resumed its winter garb, the one with 
 which I am best acquainted and which attracts 
 me most. Now my impressions become alto- 
 gether personal: Istambul, on such a night, is 
 ugly and dull, and still I like it best under this 
 aspect. Slowly and regretfully do I return, in 
 spite of the rain which is again drizzling in in- 
 numerable streamlets from the glistening roofs. 
 How easy it is for me to recall the past, this cool, 
 rainy evening ! 
 
 On reaching the hotel, in quite leisurely fashion 
 notwithstanding my dripping garments, I find 
 awaiting me a note from His Excellency the 
 Grand Vizier, stating that His Majesty the 
 Sultan invites me to the palace of Yildiz, to see 
 the illuminations of the Kadir-Guidjeci : "A 
 chaouch [usher]" he informs me, "and a carriage 
 will call for me. . . ." 
 
 Within about three-quarters of an hour, after 
 snatching a hasty dinner and changing into a 
 dress suit, I find myself driving at full speed in 
 the direction of Yildiz, in an open landau, pre- 
 ceded by a chaouch galloping ahead, the crowds 
 parting before him on either side. The sky is
 
 Constantinople in 1890 123 
 
 once more clear; the stars are shining. The 
 marvellous illuminations of the Ramazan are 
 seen everywhere; whenever a distant glimpse 
 is possible between the sombre-looking houses, 
 it resembles a scene from fairy-land. 
 
 The palace of Yildiz is a considerable distance 
 away, almost in the country, in the other direc- 
 tion from Istambul, which we are leaving be- 
 hind in our rapid course. The Bosphorus, which 
 also may be seen from time to time, and Scutari 
 beyond it, are likewise illumined like the Euro- 
 pean coast; the fairy scene extends as far as 
 the eye can reach. 
 
 In front of us, and running in the opposite 
 direction, a surging mass of human beings rushes 
 madly along; half -naked men galloping and 
 shrieking. From the distance, I make out the 
 sinister cry : Yangun vdr t 
 
 Fire ! An ever recurring event where there 
 are so many wooden houses. A whole district 
 is ablaze, the flames filling the heavens with a 
 great ruddy light, adding unexpected illumina- 
 tion to the fete. Those things that make such a 
 dull rumbling sound as they are swiftly dragged
 
 124 Constantinople in 1890 
 
 along are fire-engines, drawn by excited men, 
 running at the top of their speed ; the wheels get 
 locked with those of my landau. . . . Shrieks 
 and uproar. . . . The chaouch of the palace, 
 however, is recognised, order is restored, and we 
 pass on our way. . . . 
 
 Now we reach the broad, straight avenues, 
 almost deserted, and resume our course at head- 
 long speed. 
 
 Then, in front, shines a great white and yellow 
 illumination, no conflagration this time, but 
 fireworks and Bengal lights the gardens of 
 Yildiz. We pass the gates: then, a sudden 
 cessation of all sound, we are galloping along 
 silent, empty avenues, brilliantly lit and lined 
 with myriads of fiery garlands and girandoles. 
 Nothing but white lights in the trees and white 
 globes on the grass; no motley colours here, 
 whereas on the other hand the heavens seem 
 ablaze with blue and red rockets, streaked with 
 a multicoloured rain of fire. 
 
 The avenues continue to ascend; not a soul 
 is to be seen. The illumination grows more and 
 more intense, though in one direction the hori-
 
 Constantinople in 1890 125 
 
 zon is lurid with the ruddy glow of the con- 
 flagration. Another gate; then the route is 
 barred by battalions of horse- and foot-soldiers 
 in serried ranks; they all carry torches or lan- 
 terns, as though a torchlight retreat on a large 
 scale were being prepared. There are present 
 hundreds of officers, most of them wearing Orien- 
 tal dolmans, with long, flowing sleeves. What 
 an imposing army ! 
 
 These thousands of men, standing there mo- 
 tionless, seem absorbed in religious meditation, 
 throughout these fantastic, dazzling illumina- 
 tions, beneath that fiery downpour of changing 
 colours which fill the dark sky. 
 
 My guide, the chaouch, utters the appropriate 
 passwords, and a clear passage is made for us. 
 He conducts me to the first floor of the palace 
 through empty salons which are marvellously 
 light, for the lamps within and the illuminations 
 without flood the rooms with an intense glow. 
 The wainscoting and furniture are of white and 
 gold ; a radiant light is over all. There is some- 
 thing indescribable in this silence, causing one 
 to feel that all these armed men are standing
 
 126 Constantinople in 1890 
 
 there, mute and almost holding their breath, as 
 though overwhelmed by the presence of the 
 Sovereign. Sweet strains of religious music 
 come from without, a chorus of male voices, 
 clear and limpid, chanting psalms in a strangely 
 high key, with something unnatural about it 
 all, extraterrestrial, if one might thus express 
 the sensation. . . . 
 
 In the salons I am received by an aide-de- 
 camp, who informs me that the Sultan is still 
 in the Imperial mosque, whence issue these sweet 
 strains. The service, however, is now almost 
 over, and if I approach the window, I shall 
 shortly see His Majesty leave. 
 
 At a distance of about fifty yards, a little 
 below the window at which I have taken up my 
 position, the mosque appears before me. It is 
 quite white and new-looking, ornamented with 
 arabesques, in Alhambra fashion. Illumined 
 within and without, it appears to be as trans- 
 parent as a delicate alabaster carving, and the 
 music coming from it gives it an aspect of un- 
 reality, as though it were the principal item in 
 the glorious firework exhibition now taking place
 
 Constantinople in 1890 127 
 
 on every side. Around its strangely luminous 
 dome appear the avenues and gardens along 
 which I have come. Clouds of Bengal lights 
 make the distance look quite blurred, confusing 
 all perspectives already sufficiently compli- 
 cated by the heights on which I stand. A huge, 
 transparent object, apparently suspended in the 
 air, bears a shining inscription in Arabic on a 
 dark background ; the dazzling phantasmagoria 
 makes it impossible to guess the distance of this 
 aerial inscription : it looks large and far away, 
 like some sign from heaven ; this it is that gives 
 the fete its sacred, Mussulman character. Still 
 farther away, over the vague, dark expanse of 
 water, which must be the Bosphorus, are little 
 shining objects, very odd-looking, these are 
 ships, illumined even to the tops of the masts. . . . 
 Directly below, the splendid army, ever mo- 
 tionless and thoughtful, follows in spirit the 
 prayers which are being chanted in the luminous 
 mosque opposite. One would think the soul of 
 Islam were at this moment concentrated in the 
 white sanctuary. Ah ! those chants whose vibra- 
 tions fill this cupola, monotonous as magic in-
 
 128 Constantinople in 1890 
 
 cantations, so rare and beauteous are their melo- 
 dies ! One could scarcely be sure whether they 
 were the voices of children or of angels ! There 
 was something very Oriental about the music, 
 the notes were maintained without fatigue or 
 strain on the top notes, with the unchanging 
 freshness of tone of a hautbois. The chanting 
 was very prolonged, returning again and again 
 to the first few bars in tender, soothing strains, 
 expressing with infinite sadness the vanity of 
 human life and the shrinking dread of Nature's 
 mysteries. 
 
 Now, the Sultan is on the point of leaving the 
 mosque. A slight movement of attention is 
 noticed in the troops. A landau, drawn by erect, 
 prancing horses, draws up in front of the marble 
 steps of the mosque, on which red carpets have 
 been laid ; at the same time, over a score of 
 men-servants troop up, each carrying one of 
 those enormous white silk lanterns, a yard high, 
 which, from time immemorial, etiquette has in- 
 sisted on having to accompany the nocturnal 
 visits of the Caliphs. The choir beneath the
 
 Constantinople in 1890 129 
 
 cupola is now chanting more loudly and at a 
 quicker tempo, in supreme exaltation as the end 
 of the service is reached. 
 
 Allah ! Here comes the Sultan ! The palaces 
 and gardens, the very heavens glow with intenser 
 light. The cannons roar like thunder in a 
 storm, and the prostrate troops exclaim together 
 as with one voice : "Allah ! Allah !" in loud res- 
 onant accents. . . . 
 
 The landau bears away the Sovereign, and the 
 hundred yards which separate the mosque from 
 the gates of the palace are crossed at a gallop ; 
 other magnificent carriages follow close behind, 
 in which are seated veiled princesses who have 
 attended the service: the attendants rush to 
 and fro, waving their great white lanterns, and 
 with a clashing of steel the troops close behind 
 the cortege. It is all over. . . . 
 
 Following an aide-de-camp, I proceed through 
 salons and along passages, with their gilded and 
 light-toned walls and columns. Here, at Yildiz, 
 there is considerable moderation in adornment, 
 a truce to luxury, as it were : the Sovereign, who 
 possesses fairy palaces in the most enchanting
 
 130 Constantinople in 1890 
 
 spots along the Bosphorus, prefers, for purposes 
 of quiet work, the relative simplicity of this 
 mansion, which he had erected in close prox- 
 imity to a large shady park. 
 
 And now I find myself in a kind of immense 
 court anteroom, of equal simplicity, whose sole 
 luxurious element consists of magnificent car- 
 pets that deaden every sound. This evening it 
 is rilled with generals, aides-de-camp of every 
 grade, in fuU uniform, some wearing long straight 
 tunics and red fezzes ; others, Oriental dolmans 
 with large, waving sleeves and black Astrachan 
 caps. They look very martial, and here, on the 
 very threshold of the Imperial apartments, their 
 effect is more imposing than the most magnifi- 
 cent uniforms would be. Amongst them, I 
 notice the heroic figure of Osman le Ghazi, the 
 stern defender of Plevna. All are standing, and 
 they speak in low accents : a fact that seems to 
 indicate the proximity of the Sovereign. 
 
 In effect, His Majesty the Sultan is seated 
 alone on a sofa, in a small side salon, to which 
 I am conducted by the grand master of the cere- 
 monies. He is wearing a general's uniform, over
 
 Constantinople in 1890 131 
 
 which is thrown a brown cloth military capote; 
 there is nothing in outward appearance to dis- 
 tinguish him from the officers of his army. 
 
 It is long since I last had the honor of seeing 
 His Majesty, and as I make my court bow, there 
 suddenly comes into my mind the somewhat 
 sad memory of our previous irregular meeting, 
 of which, naturally, the Sovereign cannot have 
 retained the faintest remembrance. . . . 
 
 This was nearly fifteen years ago, on the Bos- 
 phorus, the very morning of his accession to 
 the throne one of those fine sunny days which, 
 imaged in the background of the past, seem 
 more luminous than those we now experience. 
 The large Imperial caiques, with golden prows, 
 had come to take him from the headland of the 
 Old Seraglio to the palace of Dolma-Bagtche. 
 It was very early, few barques were to be seen, 
 nor was there any guard round the cortege. Ig- 
 norant of his identity, I was gliding past, when, 
 as the result of a momentary blunder on the part 
 of our boatmen, my caique ran into his. There- 
 upon the young prince, who was within a few 
 hours to become the supreme Caliph, had me-
 
 132 Constantinople in 1890 
 
 chanically cast upon me one of those absent- 
 minded glances which mean nothing, his dark 
 eyes seeming to peer anxiously into the 
 future. . . . 
 
 Alas ! That future has become the past of 
 to-day, and the memory of this image makes me 
 suddenly conscious of the abyss of time which 
 separates both of us from that sunny morning 
 in early youth. . . . 
 
 The Sultan always receives his guests with a 
 quite natural graciousness and the most charm- 
 ing good-will. Never shall I forget the few min- 
 utes that evening, during which I had the honour 
 to converse with the Sovereign, in the some- 
 what strange, calm, small, soberly furnished, 
 ordinary looking little salon whose entrance was 
 so proudly guarded by these low-voiced mili- 
 tary chiefs, and whose windows opened upon 
 the distant uproar of a city en fete, beneath 
 a sky alight with Bengal fires and the glow of a 
 conflagration. 
 
 Certain that I should be understood and par- 
 doned in the most charming and indulgent man- 
 ner possible, I found courage to say how greatly
 
 Constantinople in 1890 133 
 
 I regretted seeing the old things disappear, and 
 mighty Istambul undergo such a transformation. 
 
 My complaint, however, from the artistic 
 point of view, went no further; what I should 
 have liked to add, I, a chance visitor, cannot 
 permit myself to say in conversation with a 
 sovereign, even when favoured with a most 
 gracious audience. 
 
 What will become of this poor though mighty 
 Turkey, so proud in the times when a nation's 
 power was founded on faith, sublime ideals, and 
 a noble personal courage? What will she do when 
 inexorably drawn into the yawning vortex of 
 modern vulgarity, and brought into contact with 
 the thousand petty and mean, practical, and 
 utilitarian aims and objects which once she 
 scorned so whole-heartedly? Above all, what 
 will become of her when her sons lose their 
 faith ? 
 
 Had I given expression to my profound attach- 
 ment to this brave nation, I should have been 
 tempted to show something of the sorrow and 
 anxiety I felt, to try to find out if the Caliph 
 has caught a glimpse, beyond this frightful
 
 134 Constantinople in 1890 
 
 transition period, of the mysterious dawning of 
 a new era, the signs and portents of which my 
 less practised eyes cannot yet distinguish. 
 
 THURSDAY, 15 May, 1890. 
 
 Morning, a bright early dawn. 
 
 I awake, not at Pera, in my own room, but in 
 the heart of Istambul in one of those small inns 
 where one sleeps, without undressing, on a white 
 mattress spread over the floor. 
 
 As I left the Imperial palace very late last 
 night, I called at my hotel to leave my gala 
 suit, and hurried here, to mingle once more in 
 the open-air festivities taking place on the other 
 bank of the Golden Horn. Then, as the last 
 few flickering lights of the Ramazan were dying 
 out, I entered the nearest place I could find for 
 a night's sleep. 
 
 No clock strikes the hour in this part of the 
 city; consequently, on awaking, I was anxious 
 to find out if I had slept too long, for an aide- 
 de-camp of His Majesty was to call for me at 
 my official address, to afford me an opportunity 
 of visiting the Sultans' treasures.
 
 Constantinople in 1890 135 
 
 On leaving the inn, life seemed all enchant- 
 ment; even to breathe was a delight. The 
 quiet little old streets light up joyously in the 
 eternal sunshine, as though to prepare for some 
 gay festival that is never to end. Oh ! How 
 rare and pure the life-giving freshness of this 
 air and light on a May morning in the 
 Orient! . . . 
 
 Reaching the Golden Horn, I soon find myself 
 on the square, dotted with ancient plane-trees, 
 overlooked on one side by the lofty grey mosque 
 of the Valideh, with its minarets and arabesque 
 denticulations. On the other sides there are 
 vine bowers, small cafes, barbers' and babouche 
 dealers' shops ; everything very ancient and 
 Oriental-looking, to all appearance quite indige- 
 nous to the place and such as one might find in 
 Ispahan or Bagdad. 
 
 On this May morning, it is even more delight- 
 ful on the square than in the streets. The rising 
 sun gilds the mosque, and the fresh-looking 
 plane-trees, from underneath ; in the atmosphere 
 hovers a white mist, the virginal veil of the day,
 
 136 Constantinople in 1890 
 
 so to speak. The small Turkish cafes begin to 
 open, and two or three men are already being 
 shaved by the barbers, beneath the trees, in 
 the open air. 
 
 Evidently it must be quite early, and I have 
 time to loiter here before returning to Pera. 
 I sit down in the shelter of a vine-arbour and 
 order a cafe and a few little warm bonbons such 
 as are here sold in the mornings to the worthy 
 citizens. I enjoy it all far better than I should 
 the most refined breakfast imaginable. One 
 seems to feel rising within oneself that resur- 
 gence of life so manifest all around, giving a 
 youthful aspect to everything. 
 
 A couple of hours later, about eight o'clock, 
 a carriage again takes me back to Istambul, in 
 a very different costume, and accompanied by 
 one of His Majesty's aides-de-camp. We reach 
 a solemn, deserted part of the city, with grass 
 growing between the paving-stones in the streets, 
 and here the coachman stops in front of a grim- 
 looking enclosure, like that of a fortress of the 
 Middle Ages. 
 
 These walls shut in a small corner of the earth
 
 Constantinople iu 1890 137 
 
 absolutely unique of its kind, an extreme pro- 
 jection of Oriental Europe, a promontory stretch- 
 ing out towards the neighbouring continent of 
 Asia, and a building which, for centuries, was 
 the residence of the Caliphs : a spot of incom- 
 parable splendour. Along with the holy sub- 
 urb of Eyub, it is the most exquisite thing in 
 Constantinople: the "Old Seraglio," the name 
 alone of which summons up a whole world 
 of dreams. . . . 
 
 A citadel door in the wall affords us access, 
 whereupon the delicious melancholy of the things 
 within is revealed; the dead past taking us to 
 itself and enveloping us in its shroud. 
 
 At first, all is silence and shadow. The empty 
 solitary courtyards with neglected grass sprout- 
 ing between the flags and centennial trees rais- 
 ing aloft their leafy heads, contemporaries of 
 the glorious Sultans of the past ; dark cypresses 
 rising upwards like towers, plane-trees that have 
 assumed unwonted forms, hollow and eaten 
 away by the ravages of time, bending forward 
 like old men and held together only by huge 
 strips of bark.
 
 138 Constantinople in 1890 
 
 Then come galleries and colonnades, in ancient 
 Turkish style; the verandah, still painted with 
 odd-looking frescoes, beneath which Suleiman 
 the Magnificent deigned to receive the ambas- 
 sadors of the kings of Europe. . . . Fortunately 
 this spot is but seldom accessible to the profane, 
 it has not yet become a vulgar resort for tourists. 
 Beyond its lofty walls it retains somewhat cf 
 its former mysterious peace, and bears the im- 
 press of the gloom and sadness of past splendour. 
 
 Passing through the first few courtyards, on 
 our right we [look upon impenetrable gardens, 
 whence are seen to emerge, from between the 
 clumps of cypresses, old kiosks with closed win- 
 dows: these are the residences of Imperial 
 widows and aged princesses who come to this 
 austere retreat to end their days in full view of 
 one of the most glorious sights the world affords. 
 
 The farthest part of this walled-in spot which 
 we have now reached is exposed to the sun and 
 blazing with light, it is the extreme point of the 
 Old Seraglio and of Europe. This is a solitary 
 esplanade, very high and white, dominating the 
 blue expanse of sea, with azure in the distance.
 
 Constantinople in 1890 139 
 
 The light morning sun floods with its rays these 
 far-away deeps, where towns, islands, and moun- 
 tains are daintily outlined above the still sur- 
 face of the Sea of Marmora. 
 
 All around us are ancient constructions, also 
 white, containing the rarest and most precious 
 possessions of Turkey. 
 
 First, there is the kiosk, which none but the 
 faithful are permitted to enter and where the 
 mantle of the Prophet is preserved in a cover, 
 embroidered with precious stones. 
 
 Then comes the kiosk of Bagdad, the interior 
 of which is wholly adorned with articles of an- 
 cient Persian porcelain which are priceless now- 
 adays : the branches of red flowers were made 
 of coral liquefied by a process now lost 
 which was spread over the porcelain like a 
 picture. 
 
 Afterwards, we came to the Imperial Treasury, 
 also very white beneath its layers of lime. It 
 is barred and railed in like a prison, though its 
 iron doors are shortly to open wide before me. 
 
 Finally we reach a palace uninhabited, 
 though kept in perfect order in which we
 
 140 Constantinople in 1890 
 
 are about to sit and rest. White marble steps 
 bring us to the ground-floor salons which had to 
 be furnished about the middle of the eighteenth 
 century in the European fashion of that period. 
 This is the Louis XV style to which a scarcely 
 perceptible blend of Oriental fancy imparts a 
 peculiar charm. . . . There are white and gold- 
 coloured wainscotings, old-cherry or old-lilac 
 flowered silks, all of light tints, softened by 
 time. Large Chinese and Sevres vases ; very few 
 objects, though every one ancient and rare. . . . 
 Considerable space, air, and light; a quiet sym- 
 metry in the arrangement of things which 
 one instinctively feels are never removed from 
 their places. 
 
 Here, in a kind of sumptuous solitude, seated 
 in arm-chairs of a delicately pale pink colour, in 
 front of the wide-open windows, we obtain, from 
 this the extreme promontory of Europe, that 
 glorious view which charmed the Sultans of by- 
 gone ages. On the left, far beneath our feet, 
 the Bosphorus rolls on, dotted with steamers 
 and caiques; the white marble quays and the 
 Imperial residences find inverted reflections of
 
 Constantinople in 1890 141 
 
 themselves in long pale lines; and lines of 
 mosques and palaces rise tier upon tier, in mag- 
 nificent array, along its banks. Opposite is Asia, 
 the last remnant of morning mist giving it a 
 bluish tint; Scutari, with its domes and min- 
 arets, its immense cemetery and forest of gloomy- 
 looking cypresses. To the right are the endless 
 stretches of the Sea of Marmora : distant steam- 
 ers almost lost in this diaphanous blue, like 
 little grey silhouettes followed by long lines of 
 smoke. . . . 
 
 How well chosen the place was for dominating 
 and overlooking this land of Turkey, in its 
 proud position on two of the world's conti- 
 nents ! And now how peaceful, how sadly splen- 
 did this complete isolation from the modern 
 life of the world, this profound silence expres- 
 sive of abandonment beneath the light, dismal- 
 looking sun ! . . . 
 
 When the keeper of the Treasury an old 
 white-bearded man makes ready to open the 
 iron door with his great keys, a score of sworn 
 individuals line the entrance, ten on each side 
 such are the demands of etiquette. We pass
 
 142 Constantinople in 1890 
 
 along the double file and enter the rather dark 
 rooms, followed by the rest. 
 
 No Ali-B aba's cave ever contained such 
 wealth ! Here, for eight centuries, have been 
 stored the rarest of precious stones: the most 
 astonishing marvels of art. Gradually, as our 
 eyes grow accustomed to the dim light within 
 after the glare of the sun, we see diamonds 
 sparkling all around. Priceless objects, of un- 
 known antiquity, are classed in order on shelf 
 after shelf, along with weapons of every period, 
 from Genghis Khan to Mahmud : all of silver 
 or gold and sparkling with gems. There are 
 collections of gold caskets of every style and size, 
 some covered with rubies, others with diamonds, 
 and others again with sapphires, some of the 
 emeralds being as large as an ostrich egg. Coffee 
 services, buires, and ewers, or jugs, of exquisite 
 antique patterns, come next. Then we see the 
 most dainty saddles and harness, state-switches 
 for horses, ornamented with silver and gold 
 brocade, embroidered over and over again with 
 flower-shaped precious stones; extremely wide 
 thrones, made for sitting in with crossed legs:
 
 Constantinople in 1890 143 
 
 one all adorned with rubies and fine pearls, 
 another entirely covered with emeralds and giv- 
 ing a green reflection as though a stream of sea- 
 water were pouring over it. 
 
 In the last room of all, behind glass windows, 
 an immovable, terrifying company awaits us: 
 twenty-eight death puppets, of the size of hu- 
 man beings, standing erect, in military file, 
 and with elbows touching. They all wear that 
 high pear-shaped turban which has been out of 
 fashion for over a century and is never seen 
 nowadays except on the catafalques of de- 
 funct persons of importance, in the dim light of 
 funeral kiosks or else engraved on tombstones: 
 to such an extent is this the case that it is in- 
 evitably connected, in my mind, with the idea 
 of death. Up to the beginning of the nine- 
 teenth century, whenever a Sultan died, there 
 was brought here a puppet, dressed in the gala 
 garments of the deceased sovereign ; marvellous 
 weapons were fixed in its girdle, and on its head 
 were set his turban and a magnificent aigrette of 
 precious stones. Thus it remained for all time, 
 covered with this eternally buried wealth. The
 
 144 Constantinople in 1890 
 
 twenty-eight Sultans, who have succeeded one 
 another from the capture of Constantinople to 
 the end of the eighteenth century, have, in this 
 room, their standing simulacra, in parade uni- 
 form ; by slow degrees the sombre though sump- 
 tuous assembly has grown, the new puppets com- 
 ing one by one to take their place in a line with 
 the old ones which have been awaiting them for 
 hundreds of years, certain that they would come 
 at last. And all these phantoms are touching 
 one another, figures that have reigned at cen- 
 turies of intervals, though remorseless time has 
 now brought them together in one and the same 
 pitiable state of non-existence. 
 
 Their long robes are made of the strangest 
 brocades, of large mysterious patterns, though 
 time has destroyed their colour ; priceless daggers, 
 with wide pommels consisting of a single precious 
 stone, in spite of every care, grow rusty in the 
 silk of the girdles ; it would even seem as though 
 the enormous diamonds composing the aigrettes 
 had, after the lapse of centuries, come to glow 
 with a yellow and worn-out sort of brilliancy. 
 
 How sad to behold is all this unheard of luxury,
 
 Constantinople in 1890 145 
 
 with its thin covering of dust. Of fabulous mag- 
 nificence are the puppets with their lofty coiffures, 
 objects of so much human covetousness, guarded 
 there behind double iron doors, alike useless 
 and dangerous. They witness the passing of 
 years and centuries, kingdoms and revolutions, 
 in the same immobility and silence ; during the 
 day, feeble rays of light finding their way through 
 the old barred windows, and in utter darkness 
 after sunset. . . . Each has its name, written 
 on a faded label, like any ordinary word, 
 names still famous and in bygone days terrible 
 to hear : Amurath the Conqueror, Suleiman the 
 Magnificent, Mohammed and Mahmud. ... I 
 do not think there is anything that gives me a 
 more awe-inspiring lesson on human vanity and 
 frailty than do these puppets. . . . 
 
 Close by the Old Seraglio awaits a large 
 caique from the palace, with eight pairs of oars. 
 Soon we are lying stretched on cushions, for this 
 method of sailing in a half reclining posture, 
 one's eyes almost on a level with the water over 
 which one is gliding, is peculiar to Turkey.
 
 146 Constantinople in 1890 
 
 All the rowers wear the traditional white 
 silk gauze shirt, unbuttoned so as to expose 
 their sun-burnt chests to the fresh air : impassive 
 and swarthy, they have the appearance of bronze 
 figures with ivory-white teeth. 
 
 The peaceful surface of the Bosphorus glitters 
 beneath the ardent beams of the sun. Out in 
 the open we pass steamers, the smoke of various 
 craft, of everything that obstructs and defiles 
 the sea opposite the Golden Horn. 
 
 In two or three places, we land on quays of 
 immaculately white marble in front of deserted 
 palaces with their white and gilded iron gates. 
 This snowy whiteness alongside the blue water 
 constitutes the great and unique charm of the 
 Sultan's various residences. 
 
 There is much splendour and magnificence 
 within these uninhabited palaces, whose doors 
 are flung open by their keepers : forests of multi- 
 coloured columns, a litter of candelabra and 
 girandoles, extremely complicated ceilings in 
 Oriental style, brocades worked with gold wire 
 and Brusa silks. But not a soul in these state-
 
 Constantinople in 1890 147 
 
 rooms, amid all this up-to-date and carefully 
 preserved luxury. The Sovereign and his court 
 no longer even visit them. 
 
 It is about noon when we return to the palace 
 of Yildiz after this rapid visit to the other Im- 
 perial residences. 
 
 At Yildiz one receives an impression of ut- 
 most calm, peace, and silence. It is still the Ra- 
 mazan, a time of seclusion and prayer, and in the 
 dwelling of His Majesty the Sultan, even more 
 than elsewhere, fasting is strictly practised dur- 
 ing the whole of this religious month, nor must 
 it be broken before sunset. Luncheon is served 
 for myself alone, since I am not bound by the 
 Mohammedan law ; but I feel quite ashamed to 
 find myself seated at table when no one else in 
 the whole palace is eating : for the first time in 
 my life, luncheon seems to me little more than 
 an act of impropriety or indelicacy imported 
 from the Occident. 
 
 Besides, I have something far better to do. 
 On the gilt pages of a writing-pad brought by 
 an interpreter, I am permitted to transfer some 
 of my impressions to the Sovereign, whose near
 
 148 Constantinople in 1890 
 
 presence one divines, though to-day he is not 
 to be seen. And I admire the fact that His 
 Majesty, amid the thousand engrossing occupa- 
 tions of a monarch's life, should interest him- 
 self in literature and art. 
 
 All is silent ; through the open windows pour 
 floods of light; sunbeams play on the white 
 walls and light brocade of the furniture. In the 
 foreground we have flower gardens, whilst far 
 in the distance are those charming vistas of sea 
 and continent which may be obtained from every 
 part of this terrace-built city, the projecting 
 balcony of Europe herself ! 
 
 The Imperial mosque is also close by, with its 
 dainty, slender dome. Smoking the most ex- 
 quisite cigarettes, I chat about last night's 
 religious music with His Excellency the Grand 
 Vizier who, when he pleases, can be the most 
 courteous and refined Frenchman imaginable. 
 
 "Draw nearer to the window," he says, "and 
 listen to the wonderful voice you will hear chant- 
 ing the prayers, in a moment." 
 
 In effect, from out of the exterior peace and 
 silence suddenly is heard a delightfully sonorous
 
 Constantinople in 1890 149 
 
 voice. It has the thrilling sound of a hautbois 
 combined with the celestial purity of a church 
 organ ; as in dream or sleep, the voice sends forth 
 the Mussulman prayer to the four corners of the 
 blue heavens with a sort of inexpressive uncon- 
 cern. . . . Then there comes over me an in- 
 tense impression of all that Islam stands for, 
 thrilling me to the very depths of my nature, 
 an impression of infinite melancholy, at once 
 soothing and torturing and which I have never 
 been able clearly to define. I had gradually 
 been losing it in this gay, light salon, which 
 might well have been anywhere else, in a French 
 chateau, for instance. 
 
 Even more beautiful than this golden voice, 
 now thrilling with all the power of youth, but 
 destined soon to pass away, is that almost im- 
 mortal chant which, for centuries past, is heard 
 five times each day in every town and village of 
 Turkey. It symbolises an entire religion, a 
 proud and tranquil mysticism ; it is an appeal- 
 ing plaint raised on high by our Oriental brothers, 
 who are better able than ourselves to keep alive 
 the old consoling dreams, who still go forward,
 
 150 Constantinople in 1890 
 
 with closed eyes, that they may not see the 
 abyss of dust and ashes yawning before them, 
 and are lulled to sleep in glorious mirages of 
 bliss. ... So long as this prayer causes men 
 to bow their heads around the mosques, Turkey 
 will never lack the same valiant soldiers, ever 
 careless of death.
 
 SERPENT CHARMERS
 
 SERPENT CHARMERS 
 
 T was spring, the twilight of a May 
 day, in T'etuan, the white city. 
 Not a sound was to be heard. Over 
 the terraces and the little old domes 
 and houses spread the endless white stretch of 
 lime; everywhere was this mysterious white 
 shroud. Men slowly passed along, clad in gar- 
 ments of the most exquisite tints, in dreamy 
 attitude; their dark and splendid oval eyes 
 did not appear to behold the things of earth. 
 The golden sunset cast a pink tint over all, 
 and in the inmost recesses of the old and 
 almost shapeless houses, the lime gradually as- 
 sumed a blue colour somewhat like snow in the 
 shade. There were passers-by dressed in golden 
 yellow, pale green, and salmon colour, others in 
 blue and pink, others who had chosen rarer and 
 indescribable tints, all majestic and grave, with 
 bronzed faces and intensely black eyes. Here 
 153
 
 1 54 Serpent Charmers 
 
 and there grew tufts of fresh spring plants, 
 poppies, buttercups, mignonette, springing up 
 all about, on the blue-white old walls. But it 
 was the dead, ghastly white of the lime that 
 dominated all; it seemed to give light and to 
 refract it, sending it back in softer beams to 
 the immense golden sky which now appeared all 
 refulgent with the glow. Nowhere could be 
 seen prominent shadows and outlines or sombre 
 colours ; the slowly moving living beings caused 
 none but strangely clear and distinct tints, as 
 pure and ethereal as one sees in heavenly visions, 
 to pass over this universal whiteness ; everything 
 was fused and melted in tranquil light; those 
 great, dreamy, human eyes were the only things 
 that were black. . . . 
 
 A short distance away were heard the first 
 faint notes of a flute, so sad and plaintive, and 
 the muffled tambourine of the serpent charmers. 
 Then the men, who had before been walking 
 aimlessly in this white labyrinth, gradually 
 directed their steps to the same spot, in response 
 to the appeal of the music. 
 
 The charmers had placed themselves in the
 
 Serpent Charmers 155 
 
 centre of the public square, in the highest part 
 of the town. In the blue distance could be seen 
 a series of white lines, almost devoid of outline ; 
 these were terraces. There was also visible a 
 succession of apparent snowdrifts, and these con- 
 sisted of T'etuan itself, half buried in the May 
 evening mist. 
 
 The men with their flowing robes formed a 
 circle around the charmers. The latter, naked 
 and tawny-hued, sang and danced like their 
 own serpents, twisting and twining their supple 
 busts to the music of their own flutes, the while 
 shaking and tossing their curly locks. The 
 whole scene was beautiful, from the sky above 
 down to the humblest bronze-armed camel- 
 driver, who looked on with vacant gaze, seeing 
 nothing of what was taking place. 
 
 And there I was in their midst, taking no 
 account of time, charmed like them, and, as it 
 happened, resting a little amongst these motion- 
 less beings, heedless of the passing hours. And 
 these sad-toned flutes and tambourines along 
 with the whole of this Africa filled me with 
 their soothing charm, with the same magic as
 
 156 Serpent Charmers 
 
 in bygone days, in my long-past youthful 
 years. . . . 
 
 This land is indeed the one that still sings for 
 me in sweetest strains the universal song of 
 death.
 
 A FEW FORGOTTEN PAGES OF 
 "MADAME CHRYSANTHEME"
 
 A FEW FORGOTTEN PAGES OF "MA- 
 DAME CHRYSANTHEME " 
 
 NAGASAKI, Sunday, i6th September, 1885. 
 
 HE previous evening I had made up 
 my mind to go with Yves to the tem- 
 ple of "Taki-no-Kanon," a place 
 of pilgrimage, at a distance of seven 
 or eight leagues, out in the woods. 
 
 At ten o'clock in the morning, in already 
 blazing sunshine, we started in jinrikishas, taking 
 a relay of chosen runners, three for each of us, 
 and also some fans. 
 
 We speedily left Nagasaki behind, rolling at 
 a great pace up the green mountain, ascending 
 all the time. At first, we went alongside a 
 wide, deep torrent, from the bed of which there 
 rose huge blocks of granite, like menhirs, some 
 of them natural, others erected by human agency, 
 and roughly carved to resemble gods ; there they 
 stood, amid the verdure and the raging stream, 
 159
 
 160 Forgotten Pages of Madame Chrysantheme 
 
 like rocks or grey phantoms, with stumps of 
 arms and rough-hewn faces. The Japanese can- 
 not leave nature natural; even in its wildest 
 aspects, they must give it a certain delicate fas- 
 tidious refinement, or else impress on it a grimace 
 or some horrible nightmare aspect. We roll on 
 very quickly, jolted from one side to the other ; 
 our runners show no signs of fatigue, even up 
 steep ascents, as we continue our course in wind- 
 ing zigzags. 
 
 The road is as smooth as our French roads, 
 and the presence of telegraph wires causes 
 us no little astonishment amid these strange, 
 unknown trees. 
 
 About noon, the sun now being hotter than 
 ever, we halt at a tea-house, a hospitable 
 structure by the roadside, in a cool, shady corner 
 of the mountain. There is a murmuring spring 
 right in the house, seeming to issue, as though by 
 miracle, from a bamboo vase, then it falls into 
 a basin, in whose clear waters we see eggs, fruit, 
 and flowers. We partake of rose-coloured water- 
 melons that have been kept cool in the foun- 
 tain, and taste like sherbet.
 
 Forgotten Pages of Madame Chrysantheme 161 
 
 We are off again, and have now reached the 
 top of the mountain-chain which surrounds 
 Nagasaki like a wall. Soon we shall descry the 
 country beyond. For the moment, we are 
 traversing a lofty region, where everything is 
 green, adorably green. The strident music of 
 the grasshopper is heard on all sides; wide- 
 winged butterflies flit about in the grass. 
 
 All the same, one feels that this is not the 
 eternal warm, dull repose of a tropical country. 
 It is the glory of summer, the summer of tem- 
 perate climes; the more delicate verdure of 
 annual plants that begin to sprout in spring; 
 the litter of long, thin weeds and herbs which 
 will die in autumn ; the more ephemeral charm 
 of a season like our own the delicious languor 
 of our European countries on a hot September 
 afternoon. These forests, suspended, as it were, 
 to the hill slopes, might in the distance be taken 
 for those of Europe ; one would say they were our 
 own oaks, beeches, and chestnut- trees. And 
 these small hamlets, with thatched or grey tiled 
 roofs, appearing here and there, dotted about the 
 valleys, do not seem out of their element ; they
 
 162 Forgotten Pages of Madame Chrysantheme 
 
 too look like those of our Western lands. There 
 is nothing definite that is indicative of Japan, 
 - these spots actually remind me of certain 
 sunny sites among the Alps or in Savoy. 
 
 But on a close examination the plants fill 
 one with wonder, for they are almost all un- 
 known ; the flitting butterflies are too large and 
 too odd-looking; the very odours are different. 
 Then, too, in these distant villages, one looks for 
 a church or steeple, such as one might expect to 
 find in Europe, but not a trace of such a building 
 is anywhere to be seen. At the corners of the 
 roads are neither crosses nor calvaries. Strange 
 gods who have no connection with those of the 
 Occident keep watch over the peaceful and silent 
 slumber of this land. . . . 
 
 On reaching the highest peak of the first wall 
 of mountains, we see opening out before us on 
 the other side an immense plain like a green 
 steppe, smooth as velvet, and in the distance a 
 bay gently laved by tiny ripples. 
 
 Along winding paths we shall have to descend 
 into this plain, our men inform us, and proceed
 
 Forgotten Pages of Madame Chrysantheme 163 
 
 right across it; we must likewise traverse those 
 hills that shut in the plain and form that far- 
 off horizon. 
 
 This is somewhat startling, for we had never 
 imagined the temple so far distant. . . . How 
 will it be possible to return to-night? 
 
 Reaching the foot of the rapid winding path, 
 we come to a halt in a wood of very lofty trees ; 
 in the shade stands an old granite temple, sullen 
 and morose, dedicated to the god of rice. Seated 
 on the altar are white foxes, in hieratical posture, 
 showing their teeth with an evil snarl. Clear 
 little streamlets babble beneath the trees, whose 
 leaves are black and motionless. 
 
 A band of carriers, men and women, have also 
 called a halt in this delightful spot, a very noisy 
 and childish company, clad in wretched blue- 
 cotton rags. Amongst them are some very 
 pretty mousmes with sturdy limbs and bronzed 
 complexions; they, too, are carriers by trade. 
 They form a company of fifty at least, a human 
 caravan, carrying bundles of goods and merchan- 
 dise in baskets, at the end of long staves. Many 
 similar caravans are also to be met with on the
 
 164 Forgotten Pages of Madame Chrysantheme 
 
 roads of this island Kiushu, where neither horses 
 nor carriages are seen, nor even railways, as in 
 Nippon, the large civilised island of Japan. 
 
 After a rest, our djinns now roll us across the 
 plain at a very rapid pace. They remove such 
 garments as prove troublesome, one by one, and 
 deposit them, all moist with sweat, beneath our 
 feet in the small cars. 
 
 We are crossing an immense rice plantation 
 beneath the full blaze of the midday sun in a 
 cloudless sky. This plantation is perfectly 
 level, of a soft, vernal colour, irrigated by 
 thousands of invisible streams of running water ; 
 all around us is a monotonous void, like the 
 sky above our heads, and as green as the latter 
 is blue. 
 
 The road is still a good one, and these amazing 
 telegraph lines continue all the way, supported 
 by posts, as in Europe. With this girdle of moun- 
 tains in the distance, slightly veiled behind the 
 haze of sunlight, one might imagine oneself in 
 certain parts of Europe : on the smooth pasture- 
 land of the plains of Lombardy, with the Alps
 
 Forgotten Pages of Madame Ckrysantheme 165 
 
 on the horizon. The only difference is that it is 
 hotter here. 
 
 Our third halt is at the end of the steppe on 
 the brink of a torrent. We take our seats in a 
 tea-house at the entrance to a large village. 
 
 To refresh themselves, our djinns are served 
 with plates of rice, cooked in water. This they 
 eat with the help of sticks, and with quite femi- 
 nine grace. The people troop around ; mousmes, 
 in considerable numbers, inspect us with an air 
 of polite and smiling curiosity. Very soon, all 
 the babies in the place are also gathered together 
 to look at us. 
 
 There is one of these yellow babies who fills 
 us with pity, a dropsical child, with a pretty, 
 gentle face. With both hands he holds his naked 
 little paunch, all swollen, and which will certainly 
 cause his speedy death. 
 
 We give him a few copper coins, and receive 
 in return a smile of joy and a look of deep grati- 
 tude from this poor little thing who will never 
 see us again and will surely before long be 
 gathered into Japanese earth. 
 
 The huts of this village are like those at Naga-
 
 1 66 Forgotten Pages of Madame Chrysantheme 
 
 saki, built of wood and paper, with similar mats, 
 all extremely clean. . . . Along the main street 
 are shops in which are sold various amusing little 
 things, along with numbers of plates, cups, and 
 tea-pots; but instead of the coarse pottery 
 found in the villages at home, everything here 
 is of fine porcelain, ornamented with pretty and 
 delicate designs. 
 
 We cross another range of hills, on a lower 
 level, and reach another plain. Here, too, we 
 find rice plantations, along with ditches full of 
 reeds and lotus-blooms. Our djinns, who have 
 come to the end of their progressive unrobing, 
 are now quite nude. Perspiration is streaming 
 down 'their tawny skins. One of my men, who 
 comes from the province of Owari, renowned 
 for its tattooers, has his body literally covered 
 with designs of the most refined though uncouth 
 nature. On his shoulders, of a uniformly blue 
 colour, is a garland of peonies of dazzling pink, 
 exquisitely designed. A lady, in an ostentatious 
 costume, occupies the middle of his back; the 
 embroidered garments of this odd-looking person, 
 descend along his loins down to his sinewy thighs.
 
 Forgotten Pages of Madame Chrysantheme 167 
 
 By the side of another torrent our djinns 
 come to a halt ; they are a little out of breath, 
 so they beg us to dismount. The road is no 
 longer good for carriages ; we have to ford the 
 stream on stones and continue on foot along 
 paths which will soon bury themselves in moun- 
 tain and forests. 
 
 One of them stays behind to take charge of the 
 jinrikishas ; the rest accompany us as guides. 
 
 We soon find ourselves climbing amongst rocks 
 and roots and ferns along the tiny forest paths, 
 beneath the dense shade of the trees. Here and 
 there we pass an old granite idol, shapeless, 
 wasted away by time, and moss-covered, remind- 
 ing us that we are approaching a sanctuary. . . . 
 
 ... I feel quite incapable of expressing that 
 poignant, unexpected feeling which memory sud- 
 denly brings back to me along these shady paths. 
 This verdant night, with the huge trees overhead, 
 these ferns all too large, this odour of mosses, 
 and in front of me these copper-coloured men : 
 everything suddenly wafts me through time and 
 space back to Oceania, to the great woods of 
 Fatou-hiva, with which I was once so familiar.
 
 1 68 Forgotten Pages of Madame Chrysantheme 
 
 .... I have wandered in different countries 
 throughout the world since my departure from 
 Tahiti the isle of delight and have frequently 
 experienced these painful memories, coming 
 upon me like a lightning flash, and immediately 
 vanishing, leaving behind nothing but a vague 
 feeling of anguish, equally fleeting. . . . 
 
 The tumult, however, aroused within me at 
 the memory of that indescribable charm pos- 
 sessed by Polynesia, is localised in the profound- 
 est recesses of my being, perhaps previous to 
 my present existence. When I attempt to 
 speak of it, I feel I am entering upon an order of 
 things, misty and dark, scarcely comprehensible 
 even by myself. . . . 
 
 Farther on, in a higher region of the mountain, 
 we plunge into a forest of cryptomerias, or Japan 
 cedars. The foliage is thin and scanty, it is 
 dark-coloured; the trees are so crowded to- 
 gether and high, so slender and upright, that 
 they might almost be taken for a field of gigan- 
 tic reeds. An ice-cold stream flows beneath the 
 forest shade, roaring and rattling along in a 
 bed of grey stones.
 
 Forgotten Pages of Madame Ckrysantheme 169 
 
 Finally, there appear steps in front of us; 
 then a portico, all shapeless from the ravages 
 of time, leading into a kind of court shut in 
 between rocks and covered with straggling weeds. 
 In this court, monolithic gods, with towering 
 head-gear and faces spotted with moss, are 
 seated in rows, as though holding council to- 
 gether. 
 
 Afterwards comes a second portico, made of 
 cedar, odd-cornered and complicated in form. 
 To right and left, each in his iron-barred cage, 
 are the two inevitable guardians of every temple 
 entrance : the blue and the red monster, still 
 seeming to make feeble attempts to threaten with 
 their old worm-eaten arms, to terrify with 
 decrepit gestures of fury. They are pierced all 
 over with prayers on papier mdche, left by pass- 
 ing pilgrims ; they have them on the body and 
 face and in their very eyes, a horrible sight. 
 
 The second court, still more shut in, presents 
 an aspect of ruin and neglect, like the former. 
 It is a gloomy solitary kind of yard, containing 
 granite gods and tombs ; immediately on enter- 
 ing there is heard the splashing of an invisible
 
 170 Forgotten Pages of Madame Chrysantheme 
 
 cascade, the gushing and roaring of subterra- 
 nean water, as it were. The faithful visit this 
 temple only at certain times of the year, the 
 result being that the grass has plenty of time 
 to invade the stone flags. There also grow 
 long slender cycads, raising aloft, as high as they 
 can, towards the sun, their tufts of green plumes. 
 At the farther end stands the temple, with 
 vertical rocks overhanging, covered with lianas 
 and roots, all entangled together. 
 
 In China, Anam, and Japan, it is the custom 
 to conceal temples in all kinds of places : in the 
 depths of a forest, in obscure deep valleys, or 
 even in a dark greenish-looking cavern, or else 
 to perch them boldly on the solitary peaks of the 
 loftiest mountains. The inhabitants of farthest 
 Asia think that the gods delight in unexpected 
 and rare sites. 
 
 The entrance to the sanctuary is closed, but 
 through the bars of the door there can be seen 
 shining inside a number of gilded idols quietly 
 seated on old red-lacquered seats. 
 
 There is nothing very special about this
 
 Forgotten Pages of Madame Chrysantheme 171 
 
 pagoda in itself, it resembles any other one 
 would meet out in the country, in Japan. What 
 is strange is the position it occupies ; almost 
 immediately behind, the valley comes to a sud- 
 den termination, shut in by a precipitous moun- 
 tain, and into the recess between its walls and the 
 steep sides around falls the cascade I have just 
 heard, with mighty eternal crash. There is a 
 kind of sinister-looking basin, an infernal abyss, 
 where the wheat sheaf jet, falling from on high 
 into the void, hisses and rages, all white with 
 foam, between the black rocks. 
 
 Our runners plunge eagerly into this ice-cold 
 bath; they dive and swim about, uttering 
 little childlike cries, as they sport beneath 
 the enormous douche. Thereupon, we also, 
 unable to resist the temptation, fling off our 
 garments and follow their example. 
 
 Whilst resting afterwards on the stones by 
 the edge, delightfully refreshed by the cold 
 water, we receive an unexpected visit : the 
 bonze and his wife, for all the world resem- 
 bling two poor old apes, who issue from the
 
 172 Forgotten Pages of Madame Chrysanlheme 
 
 temple by a little side door, and have come to 
 pay us their respects. 
 
 At our request, they prepare for us a sort of 
 doll's dinner, in their own way; this consists 
 of rice and scarcely perceptible fishes, caught 
 in the cascade. This repast is served in dainty 
 blue cups, on pretty lacquered trays. We 
 share it with our djinns, all sitting together in 
 front of the rushing stream, amid the mist and 
 spray. 
 
 "What a distance we are from the old coun- 
 try!" exclaimed Yves suddenly, in dreamy 
 tones. 
 
 Yes, indeed ; there can be no doubt of that ; 
 and the remark at first appears as self-evident 
 and profound as those made by La Palisse in 
 his day. I understand, however, why he gave 
 expression to this sentiment, for the same thought 
 had entered my mind. There can be no doubt 
 that in this spot we are a great deal farther 
 away from France than we were this morning on 
 board the Triomphante. Whilst one is on his 
 own ship, that travelling house he has brought 
 with him, he is surrounded by the faces of his
 
 Forgotten Pages of Madame ChrysantMme 173 
 
 own countrymen, by all the customs and habits 
 of his land, and this deludes him. Even in the 
 large towns, Nagasaki, for instance, where 
 there are steamers, sailors, and all the stir of life, 
 one has no very clear notion of these great dis- 
 tances. No, it is rather in the calm of some 
 such isolated spot as this, especially when the 
 sun is going down as it is just now, that one 
 feels oneself a frightful distance away from home. 
 
 Scarcely an hour's rest before it is time to 
 start on our return journey. The djinns have 
 renewed their strength as a result of the cold 
 bath, and they speed along faster than ever, 
 leaping and bounding like goats and shaking 
 us considerably in our tiny cars. 
 
 Back again over the same plains and rice 
 plantations, across the same streams and villages, 
 more dull and gloomy looking, when seen in the 
 twilight. Thousands of grey crabs, that have 
 left their holes to enjoy the evening freshness, 
 flee before us as we advance. 
 
 At the foot of the last mountain range sep-
 
 174 Forgotten Pages of Madame Chrysantheme 
 
 arating us from Nagasaki, we light our lanterns, 
 for night has now overtaken us. 
 
 Our runners, still nude and indefatigable, 
 speed rapidly along, shouting and calling aloud 
 to encourage one another. 
 
 It is a peaceful, warm night, with innumerable 
 shining stars above, and scarcely perceptible 
 tiny lights below : glow-worms hidden in the 
 grass, and fire-flies fluttering about amongst 
 the bamboos like sparks. Naturally, the grass- 
 hoppers join in a mighty nocturnal chorus, and 
 the noise grows louder and louder, the higher 
 we rise into the woodland regions around Naga- 
 saki. All these masses of green, these appar- 
 ently suspended woods which were of such a 
 dazzling colour during the day, now form patches 
 of intense black ; some hanging over our heads, 
 the rest lost in the depths beneath our feet. 
 
 We frequently come across groups of travel- 
 lers : modest wayfarers on foot or people of rank 
 or importance in jinrikishas; all are carrying, 
 at the end of sticks, road lanterns consisting of 
 great white or red balloons, daubed over with 
 flowers and birds. The fact is that the road on
 
 Forgotten Pages of Madame Chrysantheme 175 
 
 which we are serves as the chief means of com- 
 munication with the interior of the island of 
 Kiushu, and even at nighttime is much fre- 
 quented ; both above and below, along the dark, 
 winding paths, we see many of these multi- 
 coloured lights quivering and flickering through 
 the branches of the trees. 
 
 About eleven o'clock, we chance to make 
 another halt, high on the mountain, at a tea- 
 house : a dismal old inn, doubtless used by 
 labourers and carriers. The people of the place, 
 though half asleep, relight their tiny lamps 
 and stoves to make tea for us. 
 
 This they serve under the verandah in the 
 fresh air, the stars shining in the blue-black 
 expanse of sky. 
 
 Yves again begins to give us those childlike 
 impressions of "being so far from home," which 
 came over him a few hours ago: "One feels 
 quite lost here," he remarks. Then he re- 
 flects that the sun, which has passed from view 
 a few minutes ago, has just risen on Tremoule- 
 en-Toulven, and that to-day happens to be the
 
 176 Forgotten Pages of Madame Chrysantheme 
 
 second Sunday in September, the anniversary 
 of the great pardon at which we were both pres- 
 ent last year, listening to the cornemuse in the 
 oak forests. . . . What changes have taken 
 place since that pardon, a year ago. . . . 
 
 It is after midnight when we return to Naga- 
 saki ; but as there is a religious festival at the pa- 
 goda of Osueva, the tea-houses are still crowded 
 and the roads lit. 
 
 At home, Chrysantheme and Oyouki await 
 us, in dozing attitude. 
 
 In the blue basin, out on Madame Prune's 
 roof, we place a handful of rare ferns, gathered 
 away in the forest, and then sink into deep sleep 
 beneath our gauze mosquito-nets.
 
 JAPANESE WOMEN IN 1890
 
 THOUGHT I had said my last 
 word on everything Japanese, 
 and now I find I have been pre- 
 vailed upon to promise a few 
 words on the subject of that mysterious little 
 ornamental bibelot, the Japanese woman. So 
 once again I surround myself with every- 
 thing capable of reviving my memories of that 
 delightful land; memories that have not yet 
 faded away into the dim past to such an extent 
 that I cannot regain the illusion of actual 
 reality : robes fragrant with Japanese perfumes, 
 vases, fans, pictures, and portraits. The latter 
 more especially, innumerable portraits scattered 
 all about my work-table, smiling faces of mous- 
 mes both known and unknown to me ; small eyes 
 drawn up to the temples, little cat's eyes. . . . 
 And their attitudes and the dresses they wore ! 
 ... All the roguish archness, all that strange 
 179
 
 180 Japanese Women in 1890 
 
 studied grace seen in the folds of flowing tunics 
 or sheltering beneath the extravagant motley 
 tints of sunshades. And the illusion after which 
 I am seeking comes over me " so completely, 
 that there seems to issue from these open albums 
 a gentle murmur of low voices; in the silence 
 around, I hear the ripple of light laughter, as 
 it were. . . . 
 
 I do not believe that a European can write 
 anything absolutely correct or exact about the 
 Japanese woman, if he insists on investigating 
 beneath the surface of things. Only a Japanese 
 could do this, or, perhaps, a la rigtieur, a 
 Chinese, for between these two nations, though 
 so different from each other, there exist the most 
 undeniable affinities of soul. Still, even if his 
 study of his own womankind went just a little 
 too deep, it would lose all meaning for us ; it 
 would teach us nothing, for a certain aspect 
 would elude our grasp, and that very aspect 
 would be the one of profoundest significance. 
 The yellow race and our own are the two oppo- 
 site poles of the human species ; there exists the
 
 Japanese Women in 1890 181 
 
 widest difference even in our ways of perceiving 
 external objects, whereas our ideas on things 
 in their essence are frequently the reverse of 
 each other. We can never fully penetrate the 
 mind of a Japanese or a Chinese ; there sud- 
 denly comes a time when, with mingled feel- 
 ings of terror and mystery, we find ourselves 
 checked by intellectual barriers beyond which 
 we cannot pass ; these nations feel and think 
 the very opposite from ourselves. 
 
 Consequently what I am about to say now 
 will be very superficial, and from the outset I 
 prefer to state frankly that it would be impos- 
 sible for my description to be anything else. . . . 
 
 Very plain-looking are these poor little 
 Japanese women ! I will say this from the be- 
 ginning, in all its brutality, for later on I shall 
 mitigate this impression by speaking of their 
 mincing daintiness and graceful drollery, of 
 their adorable little hands, and, finally, of 
 poudre de riz, of the pink and gold spread on the 
 lips, and of artifices of every kind. 
 
 Scarcely any eyes at all nothing worth 
 mentioning ; two thin, slanting, divergent slits,
 
 182 Japanese Women in 1890 
 
 deep sunk, in which roll a pair of cunning or 
 wheedling eyeballs, such as may be seen 
 between the half-open eyelids of a tabby, which 
 cannot endure the full glare of daylight. 
 
 Above these little curbed eyes high, 
 high above them appear the eyebrows, deli- 
 cate as the lines of an artist's brush, and not 
 curled in the slightest, or parallel to the eyes, - 
 to which they form so bad an accompaniment, 
 but each in a straight line, quite in contra- 
 distinction from the conventional European 
 representation of a Japanese woman. 
 
 In my opinion, the entire peculiarity and 
 oddity about these little faces lies in this ar- 
 rangement of the eyes, which never varies, and 
 also in the form of the cheek, which grows as 
 round as that of a doll; in their paintings, 
 moreover, the artists of the country are always 
 careful to reproduce these characteristic signs 
 of their race, even going so far as to exaggerate 
 them to the most improbable dimensions. 
 
 The other features change to a far greater 
 extent; first, in individuals themselves, but 
 more especially in the various social ranks.
 
 Japanese Women in 1890 183 
 
 Among the masses, the lips remain large, the 
 nose flat and short; in the nobility, the mouth 
 becomes thinner and the nose long and sharp, 
 sometimes even bending into a dainty aquiline 
 shape. 
 
 There is no country in the world in which 
 feminine types form such distinct contrasts 
 between the different castes. Dark peasant 
 women as bronzed as Hindus, with tiny, dainty, 
 well-dressed figures, their limbs plump and 
 muscular beneath their eternal blue cotton 
 dresses. Languishing diminutive townswomen, 
 white and pallid as unhealthy Europeans, with 
 that something furrowed and worn away, so to 
 speak, in the very flesh itself, which is indicative 
 of too old a race. And all the artisan women in 
 the large towns seem as though they have been 
 hereditarily worn out, used up even before 
 birth by too long and continuous labour, their 
 minds ever directed on the most minute details 
 of things; one might say that on their tiny 
 frail forms weighs all the toil and fatigue of 
 having produced, century after century, those 
 millions of bibelots, those innumerable little
 
 184 Japanese Women in 1890 
 
 works that demand inexhaustible patience, 
 with which Japan is overflowing. Lastly, in 
 the princesses, aristocratic refinement, going 
 back into the remote past, has come to form 
 astonishing little artificial persons, with the 
 hands and bodies of children, and whose painted 
 faces, more pink and white than a fresh bonbon, 
 give no indication of their age ; in their smile 
 there is a distant expression such as one sees in 
 the smile of an old idol, whilst the reserved look 
 in their eyes may be described as both youthful 
 and dead at the same time. 
 
 Then, again, high above all other Japanese 
 women, hovered the invisible Empress like a 
 goddess, even quite recently. The sovereign, 
 however, has gradually descended from her 
 empyrean; nowadays she shows herself, re- 
 ceives visitors, speaks, and even lunches 
 though only her thin lips appear to move. She 
 has abandoned her magnificent camails, adorned 
 with strange coats of arms, her wide idol coiffure 
 and huge fans ; and, alas ! she orders her corsets, 
 dresses, and hats from Paris or London.
 
 Japanese Women in 1890 185 
 
 On one of the rare and solemn occasions on 
 which a few privileged individuals were admitted 
 into her presence, I had the honour of seeing 
 her in her gardens. She was ideally charming, 
 passing like a fairy to and fro amid her flower- 
 beds, filled with drooping autumn blooms, and 
 then taking her seat beneath the dais of violet 
 crepon (the Imperial colour), in all the stately 
 rigidity of her multicoloured robes, varied as 
 the plumage of a humming-bird. The delight- 
 fully odd show and display with which she still 
 surrounded herself invested her with all the 
 charm of some unreal being. On her painted 
 lips was a forced smile, vague and disdainful. 
 Her delicate powdered face wore an inscrutable 
 expression; in spite of her gracious welcome, 
 we felt that our presence offended her, and that 
 it was nothing but the changed modern customs 
 which compelled her, the sacred Empress, once 
 invisible and unapproachable, as a religious 
 myth, to tolerate us ! 
 
 All this is now at an end: the wonderful 
 dresses that have remained unchanged in form 
 and style for hundreds of years, the lovely gor-
 
 1 86 Japanese Women in 1890 
 
 geous fans are now relegated for ever to ward- 
 robes and museums. The modern levelling 
 process has suddenly descended upon the 
 Mikado's court, which had hitherto been more 
 sacred than a cloister, and had retained, from 
 time immemorial, its unchanging elegance and 
 costumes, its rites and ceremonies. 
 
 The word of command has been given from 
 above; an edict of the Emperor has ordained 
 that the ladies of the palace shall dress like their 
 sisters in Europe; in feverish haste, models 
 and sempstresses, silks and hats, have been sent 
 for. The first attempts made to wear all these 
 travesties must have taken place in private, 
 perhaps accompanied with regrets and tears, 
 who knows, though more probably with jesting 
 and laughter. Then foreigners were invited to 
 come and see them; garden parties, dances, and 
 concerts were organised. The Japanese ladies 
 who had had the opportunity of travelling in 
 Europe in embassies set the tone to this astonish- 
 ing comedy, so quickly adopted. The first few 
 balls European style given in Tokio were 
 extremely clever feats of mimicry; there were
 
 Japanese Women in 1890 187 
 
 present young ladies dressed all in white muslin, 
 with gloves reaching above the elbow. They 
 were seated on chairs, and assumed mincing, 
 affected manners, as they toyed with their 
 programmes. Then they danced polkas and 
 waltzes in tolerably good time, to the tune of 
 operetta music, notwithstanding the enormous 
 difficulties all our unknown European rhythms 
 and measures must have had for them. Wines, 
 chocolates, and ices were passed round, and 
 dainty little hands took from the trays, with the 
 most charming grace, these refreshments, which 
 had before never even been tasted. Then there 
 were "cotillon rounds," supper, and a certain 
 amount of discreet flirting. 
 
 All this servile imitation, amusing enough to 
 passing strangers, really points, at bottom, to a 
 want of taste in this people; it even indicates 
 an utter lack of national dignity ; no European 
 race would ever consent to throw overboard 
 in this fashion, at a minute's notice, its age- 
 long traditions and customs, even in obedience 
 to the formal commands of an Emperor. 
 
 Thank Heaven, the new feminine masquerade
 
 1 88 Japanese Women in 1890 
 
 is still restricted to a very small circle : to none 
 but the Court and the official world at Tokio. 
 All these little persons, princesses, duchesses, 
 or marchionesses, the old Japanese titles of 
 nobility have also been changed into their 
 European equivalents ! who almost succeeded 
 in being charming in their sumptuous attire and 
 finery of bygone ages, are now frankly ugly in 
 these new dresses, which but accentuate in our 
 eyes their excessively affected figures, Asiatic flat- 
 ness of profile, and oblique vision. For the most 
 part, they still retain an air of distinction ; though 
 absurdly dressed, odd and ridiculous frights, they 
 are scarcely ever common-looking. Beneath the 
 gaucherie of the new customs with which they 
 have scarcely made acquaintance so far, beneath 
 the new attitudes acquired with so much diffi- 
 culty imposed by corset and whalebone busk, 
 a certain aristocratic refinement still persists, 
 though, as a matter of fact, that is all they 
 have left to constitute their charm. 
 
 It is in this mad and outrageous transition 
 period that the grande dame of Japan appears
 
 Japanese Women in 1890 189 
 
 before us. The world of princesses, with their 
 scarce visible, dead-looking little eyes, their 
 spreading coiffures pierced with hair-pins of the 
 most extravagant size, this world which, up 
 to recent years, had disdained to be seen by 
 Occidental eyes, suddenly lies unfolded before 
 our gaze. By some unexplained change, a world 
 which seemed to have become mummified in 
 ancient rites and customs has in a day shaken 
 off its mysterious immobility. Still, it is under 
 a somewhat disconcerting aspect that we see 
 these women dress like the most modern of our 
 own race, and, with infinite grace, receive their 
 visitors in imitation European salons. Nor must 
 the fact be lost sight of that all this is artificial 
 and on the surface, arranged for our special 
 benefit; we are altogether ignorant of what is 
 taking place behind those controlled counte- 
 nances ; consequently, there is no reason why we 
 should hasten to smile and regard as insignifi- 
 cant these singular, flat-profiled, doll-like faces. 
 After this mystifying performance, they cer- 
 tainly leave their dreadfully ugly gilt arm- 
 chairs, their new suites of rooms in the worst
 
 1 90 Japanese Women in 1890 
 
 possible Occidental taste, and who knows 
 perhaps dressing themselves in the gorgeous em- 
 blazoned robes of the past, they go and squat 
 down on their white mats in one of those small, 
 dismountable, paper-framed compartments, of 
 which the traditional Japanese house is com- 
 posed ; and then, looking with their scarce open 
 eyes at the dainty gardens in the distance, made 
 up of dwarf trees, small sheets of water and tiny 
 rocks, they become themselves once again and 
 there is nothing more to relate. Then, how do 
 they live in the coulisses of their own homes, of 
 what do they dream in the even more walled-in 
 coulisses of their own minds? This is the 
 riddle so hard to guess. In these palish heads 
 with their long, straight hair, these strange sickly 
 looking heads, are little brains, fashioned and 
 moulded just the reverse of ours by a whole 
 heredity of difference in culture; they contain 
 ideas unintelligible to us regarding religion, 
 death, and the mystery of life. 
 
 Do these women continue to write exquisitely 
 melancholy poems on flowers and cool-flowing 
 streams and forest shades as in the good old
 
 Japanese Women in 1890 191 
 
 days? Do they, maybe, resemble those ances- 
 tors of theirs, heroines of the poems and legends 
 of chivalry, who held such lofty ideals of honour 
 and love? ... I cannot answer, though, in 
 my opinion, one would be very thoughtless to 
 judge them by that eternal stupidly simple smile 
 they give us ; moreover, I have often caught a 
 most intense expression on these women's faces ; 
 on that of the Empress, for instance, on two or 
 three occasions, I remember seeing flashes of 
 interest and intelligence appear ; her pretty car- 
 mine-painted lips quivered, and her little aqui- 
 line nose became more pointed than ever. 
 
 The woman comme II faut who has not yet 
 become Europeanized may still be found, far 
 from Tokio and the Court, in the other towns of 
 the Empire. She has not given up her old 
 finery. You may see her in a jinrikisha or 
 small hand carriage, always very simply dressed 
 in the streets; she wears, one over the other, 
 three or four plain, sombre or neutral-tinted 
 dresses, of fine pale silk. In the middle of her 
 back, a small white daintily embroidered rosette
 
 192 Japanese Women in 1890 
 
 represents her family coat of arms; her hair, 
 smoothed and combed to an incredible state of 
 perfection, is held up with plain tortoise-shell 
 pins devoid of gold ornaments or precious stones. 
 When she grows old, and strictly conforms to 
 the traditional fashion, her eyebrows are shaved 
 and her teeth covered over with a coating of 
 black lake. She is of a more retiring disposition, 
 more difficult to tame, than the ordinary bour- 
 geoise, but if you insist, you may obtain from her 
 a charming smile or a bow, accompanied by some 
 polite commonplace remark or other: nothing 
 more. 
 
 And after all, you know her almost as well, 
 after this simple experience, as you know the 
 rest, the fashionable ladies belonging to the 
 newly formed strata of society, with whom you 
 may have danced a cotillon or a Strauss waltz 
 at a State ball. Consequently, if you are asked 
 to describe the Japanese grande dame, the wisest 
 course is to declare that, so far, she is a perfect 
 enigma. 
 
 The bourgeoises, the women who belong to 
 the trading and artisan classes, may everywhere
 
 Japanese Women in 1890 193 
 
 be seen without difficulty; intimacy with them 
 is so speedily acquired that an attempt may be 
 made to speak of them at greater length, even 
 though it be impossible to divine their inmost 
 nature. The general impression I have re- 
 tained of these thousands of little creatures one 
 meets with everywhere in tea-house, theatre, 
 and pagoda is an absolute lack of seriousness. 
 It is impossible for me to refrain from an in- 
 voluntary smile whenever I think of them. 
 
 My memory recalls crowds of amazing little 
 figures, eager and excited, somewhat apelike, 
 continually on the move and bowing to every- 
 body. They are surrounded by tiny dolls' 
 bibelots in diminutive rooms, the paper walls of 
 which would give way to the slightest blow of a 
 man's fist. Women in miniature, at once child- 
 ish and oldish, whose excessive grace is affected 
 and simpering to the point of becoming a sheer 
 grimace, whilst their never ceasing laughter 
 both contagious and devoid of gaiety is as 
 irresistible as a tickling sensation and in the long 
 run produces the same provoking lassitude. 
 They laugh from excessive amiability or as the
 
 194 Japanese Women in 1890 
 
 result of acquired habit ; they laugh in the most 
 solemn and grave circumstances of life ; they 
 even laugh in the temples or at a funeral. 
 
 Very tiny creatures they are, living amidst 
 very tiny objects, as delicate and finical as them- 
 selves. Their household utensils, of dainty china- 
 ware or thin metal, resemble children's toys; 
 their cups and tea-pots are quite Liliputian, and 
 their eternal pipes may be filled with a mere 
 pinch of finely shredded tobacco, picked up with 
 the tips of their elegant little fingers. 
 
 Never seated, but squatting on the ground, all 
 day long, on immaculate white mats, they per- 
 form almost all the actions of their life in this 
 unchanging posture; their little dinners are 
 served on the ground in microscopic plates and 
 dishes and daintily eaten with chopsticks ; on 
 the ground they go through their toilet in front 
 of ridiculously small mirrors, behind fragile- 
 looking screens scarcely large enough to conceal 
 them, and surrounded by a litter of funny little 
 instruments, tiny pots, and powder-boxes ; on 
 the ground, too, they work, sew and embroider, 
 play on their long-necked guitars, dream of im-
 
 Japanese Women in 1890 195 
 
 possibilities, or address long morning and evening 
 prayers to their inscrutable gods. 
 
 Needless to relate, the small houses in which 
 they dwell are as elaborate and finical as them- 
 selves ; they are almost invariably easy to manage, 
 with partitions that can be removed, drawers 
 and compartments of all shapes, and wonder- 
 ful little cupboards. Everything is minutely 
 clean, even in the houses of the poorest ; every- 
 thing, also, is of the utmost simplicity, especially 
 in the houses of the wealthy. The ancestral 
 altar alone, on which incense burns, is slightly 
 gilt and lacquered, adorned, like a pagoda, with 
 china vases and lanterns; everywhere else is 
 intentional bareness, a bareness which is only 
 the more complete and white, the more elegant 
 the dwelling happens to be. Embroidered hang- 
 ings will be found nowhere, though sometimes 
 there are transparent falling curtains, composed 
 of stringed pearls and reeds. Nor is there any 
 more furniture ; the usual necessary objects and 
 the flower vases stand either on the ground or 
 on small lacquered pedestals. The mistress of 
 the house considers that the luxury of her home
 
 196 Japanese Women in 1890 
 
 consists in the very excess of that virtue of clean- 
 liness of which I spoke a short time ago : one 
 of the undoubted qualities of the Japanese as a 
 race. It is a universal custom to remove one's 
 foot-gear before entering a house; immaculate 
 is the whiteness of the mats, on which no one 
 ever steps except in dainty socks; immaculate, 
 too, the whiteness of the plain paper with which 
 walls and ceiling are covered. The very wood- 
 work is white, it is neither painted nor varnished 
 over; its only ornament, in the opinion of women 
 with real claims to taste, consists of its scarcely 
 perceptible veinings of new deal. More than 
 one fine lady have I seen personally superintend- 
 ing her comical little servants as they soaped and 
 scrubbed this woodwork, with might and main, 
 to give it quite a fresh appearance, as though it 
 had just left the carpenter's bench. 
 
 In our own lands, whenever mention is made 
 of Japanese women, we at once think of persons 
 wearing dazzling, bright-coloured dresses such 
 as they send across to us; dresses of soft, 
 indescribable shades, embroidered with long- 
 stalked flowers, large chimeras and fantastic
 
 Japanese Women in 1890 197 
 
 birds. Such is not the case: dresses of this 
 description are reserved for the theatre, or are 
 worn by a certain class of women, who live in a 
 special part of the city, and of whom I cannot 
 speak here. Japanese women all dress in dark 
 shades, they wear cotton or woollen stuffs, 
 generally of a plain, uniform pattern, or dotted 
 with dainty little cloudy designs, whose equally 
 dark tints scarcely differ from the background 
 itself. Marine blue is the predominating shade: 
 to such an extent is this the case that a femi- 
 nine crowd, even in holiday garb, seems, at a 
 distance, one mass of very dark blue, a swarm of 
 one and the same colour, relieved only here and 
 there by a few dazzling reds or fresh-looking 
 tints worn by babies or tiny little girls. 
 
 The form of these dresses is well known ; they 
 may be seen painted or sketched in all the 
 Japanese pictures and illustrations with which 
 we are inundated. The wide, flowing sleeves 
 leave free the slightly amber-coloured arms, which 
 are generally well shaped, whilst the hands are 
 invariably pretty. The dress is completed by 
 a broad sash, called an obi, usually made of the
 
 j.gS Japanese Women in 1890 
 
 finest silk ; the regular looped bows, resembling 
 some monster butterfly on the delicate little 
 backs, and giving that particular grace to a 
 feminine outline, which is so much sought after. 
 Our dull-coloured silk sunshades, in the case 
 of certain fashionable ladies, are beginning to 
 replace the charming painted parasols of the 
 past, on which pleasing thoughts from the poets 
 of old were often introduced between pictures of 
 flowers and birds. Our foot-gear has not yet 
 been adopted in Tokio, in important official circles ; 
 everywhere else the ancient sandal is worn. 
 This is fastened between the great toe and the 
 rest, and is deposited in the hall, just as we do in 
 the case of walking-sticks and hats. Sandals 
 obstruct the entrances of fashionable tea-houses, 
 and may be seen piled upon one another on the 
 outer steps of the pagodas when important re- 
 ligious ceremonies are taking place. In rainy 
 weather, when going out into the streets, they 
 put on, over the sandals, a kind of clog whose 
 excessively high wooden pattens make a loud clat- 
 ter on the pavement, as they hurry along, with 
 dresses tucked up. No European woman could
 
 Japanese Women in 1890 199 
 
 walk half a dozen yards in such foot-gear with- 
 out falling. These ladies, moreover, walk with 
 heels turned outwards such being the fash- 
 ion and loins slightly forward : doubtless 
 the outcome of an hereditary abuse of the cus- 
 tom of bowing. 
 
 Their head-dress also is well known to the 
 whole world; with two or three strokes of the 
 brush the Japanese artists show it in all its various 
 aspects, or caricature it with rare skill. What, 
 however, is perhaps not so well known, is that 
 the women, even those with pretensions to the 
 best taste, have their hair combed only two or 
 three times each week ; their chignons and bands 
 are so firmly set up by specialists in this partic- 
 ular style of coiffure that they will remain for 
 several days, if need be, without losing their 
 perfect smoothness or vivid lustre. It must, 
 however, be mentioned that ladies invariably 
 sleep on their backs, without a pillow, the head 
 touching nothing whatsoever and sustained by 
 a kind of small lacquered easel which fits into 
 the nape of the neck, all this so that the hair 
 may not become disarranged during the night.
 
 200 Japanese Women in 1890 
 
 I had also forgotten to state that they sleep on 
 the ground on such tiny mattresses that in our 
 country they would be taken for small quilts or 
 foot-coverings. By the way, at nighttime, 
 they are always very chastely dressed in long 
 and invariably blue nightgowns, whilst small, 
 unobtrusive lamps, veiled behind paper frames, 
 ever keep watch over their dreams, and serve to 
 dispel any evil spirits of darkness which may be 
 hovering in the air about these tiny houses of 
 thin wood. 
 
 In Japan, the poorer women and those of the 
 lower middle class share in almost every kind 
 of work carried on by the men. They are skilled 
 in business and know how to make a bargain ; 
 they cultivate the soil, and sell their produce; 
 they work in the mills; they even work as 
 street porters. 
 
 In early youth, if they happen to be pretty, 
 they frequently leave home and enter into ser- 
 vice in tea-houses and inns, as smiling and at- 
 tractive little soubrettes. There, for a time, 
 they go to swell the numbers of those thousands
 
 Japanese Women in 1890 201 
 
 of mousmes, whose destiny it is to amuse and 
 attend to the wants of customers wherever rest 
 or pleasure or drink is in request. In fact, it 
 almost seems as though Japan would lose its 
 raison d'etre were it not for the mousme. The 
 mousmes are countless as the sands on the sea- 
 shore; indeed, you might almost think there 
 were only one, multiplied ad infinitum, with 
 the same invariably blue dress cut very low in 
 front, the same dainty laugh, the same little 
 coquettish ways and mannerisms, always gay and 
 charming, ready for any amusement. Not only 
 is she seen in great numbers in towns and cities, 
 behind the thin paper partitions of restaurants 
 and inns; but even out in the open country, 
 wherever any particularly attractive site is en- 
 countered, you are sure to come across a tea- 
 house cosily nestling amid the trees, and if you 
 enter, it is once more the mousme always the 
 same, always smiling who greets you. She 
 is quite as artful here in the country as in the 
 main thoroughfares of Nagasaki or Tokio. Not- 
 withstanding her utter lack of beauty, the mousme 
 is often extremely pleasant and nice, for she
 
 2O2 Japanese Women in 1890 
 
 is very gay and young ; once she has passed her 
 prime, no one would tolerate her for a moment ; 
 her ephemeral grace would immediately be con- 
 verted into an apish grimace. As a rule, how- 
 ever, she retires before she is out of her teens, 
 returns to the bosom of her family, and takes a 
 husband, one who is perfectly resigned and will- 
 ing to shut his eyes to all the little flirtations 
 and romances she has passed through in former 
 days. . . . Besides, in Japan, nothing is of 
 much consequence; nothing is very serious, 
 neither in the past, nor, a la rigueur, in the pres- 
 ent. . . . And there is such a spirit of drollery 
 cast upon everything, such amusing bonhomie 
 shown by all, that one feels much less shocked 
 in that country than anywhere else, even by 
 the most inadmissible acts. In these tiny per- 
 sons there is an indescribable blend of cunning 
 trickery and childish innocence and unconscious- 
 ness, which causes one to pardon them with a 
 smile and feel almost disposed to see something 
 charming in their little lapses and peccadil- 
 loes. . . . 
 They are even devoid of our elementary ideas
 
 Japanese Women in 1890 203 
 
 as to the impropriety of appearing unclothed; 
 they dress themselves because clothes are pretty 
 and artistic, and because they keep one warm in 
 winter. But whenever it is necessary to dis- 
 robe, on taking a bath, for instance, that 
 does not annoy them to any great extent. Irre- 
 proachably clean, they bathe a great deal, though 
 without making the slightest mystery of the 
 performance ; in Nagasaki, a town far less Eu- 
 ropeanized than Yokohama or Kobe, the large 
 round tubs which serve as baths are carried 
 about anywhere, in the tiny gardens, for instance, 
 within sight of the neighbours, with whom they 
 chat away during their ablutions; or, in the 
 case of tradeswomen, in the very shops and 
 stores, without there being the faintest thought 
 of shutting the door upon the customers in 
 consequence. 
 
 All the same, it would not be right to look 
 upon them as devoid of moral sense, or even as 
 being faithless to their husbands : here, too, 
 there are a host of things we do not understand, 
 innumerable shades of difference in conduct 
 very difficult to grasp, but more especially dan-
 
 204 Japanese Women in 1890 
 
 gerous to interfere with. . . . There ! I have 
 been asked to write what may be read by every- 
 body, on the subject of the women of Japan, 
 and so I am forced to leave the question of their 
 morals quite untouched. 
 
 There can be no doubt, however, that they 
 have a strong family sentiment, that they tenderly 
 love their children, and hold their ancestors, both 
 living and dead, in the greatest respect. They 
 are admirable mothers and grandmothers; it 
 is delightful to see how gentle and devoted they 
 are in their care of the little ones, even in the 
 lowest classes of the people, the affectionate 
 intelligence they show in amusing them and in- 
 venting for them the most wonderful toys. 
 
 And with how perfect an art, with what in- 
 tuition of childish drollery and profound know- 
 ledge of what is becoming to the tiny faces, do 
 they dress them in the most delightfully absurd 
 little gowns, tie up their hair in extraordinary 
 chignons, and, in a word, turn them into the 
 most exquisitely comical babies imaginable! 
 
 Besides this, they are devoted elder sisters; 
 at any time you may see little girls of eight or
 
 Japanese Women in 1890 205 
 
 ten, far away from home, enjoying a stroll or a 
 game, with a scarce weaned brother whom they 
 keep amused in the gentlest manner possible, 
 fastened to their back with a band tied round the 
 waist. 
 
 To take another line of thought, I knew two 
 sisters, poor orphan girls, who, in order to con- 
 tribute towards the superior education of a 
 younger brother, the glory of the family, had 
 contracted a morganatic marriage with a rich 
 old man, and willingly deprived themselves, on 
 behalf of the young student, of all personal com- 
 fort in life. 
 
 I do not know if Japanese women are alto- 
 gether good and kind-hearted ; at all events, they 
 are neither ill-natured, rude, nor quarrelsome. 
 Moreover, their politeness cannot fail to be any- 
 thing else than an invariable quantity, for the 
 Japanese language does not contain a single 
 insulting word, and even amongst fish dealers 
 and street porters, only the most polite and 
 dignified expressions are used. 
 
 I once saw two poor old women on the beach,
 
 206 Japanese Women in 1890 
 
 gathering pieces of coal that had been washed 
 ashore, and going through endless ceremonies 
 as to which of the two should take some dis- 
 puted lump ; then a most unexpected series of 
 bows and compliments followed, just as though 
 they had been marchionesses of the old regime. 
 
 Notwithstanding their very real frivolity and 
 their continual silly laughter, in spite of the fact 
 that they resemble dolls worked with springs, 
 it would be quite unfair to give the impression 
 that all loftiness of thought is lacking in them ; 
 they have the sentiment of the poetry of things, 
 of the mighty and vague soul of nature, of the 
 charm of flowers, of woods and forests, of silence 
 and moonbeams. . . . All this they tell in 
 rather affected verse which possesses the grace 
 of the foliage and reeds at once very natural 
 and very improbable which we find painted 
 on silk and lacquer-work. 
 
 In a word, they resemble the art products of 
 their own country, bibelots of the utmost refine- 
 ment, but which it is prudent to sort out and 
 scrutinise very carefully before sending them to 
 Europe, lest some obscenity or other lie hidden
 
 Japanese Women in 1890 207 
 
 behind a bamboo stem or beneath a sacred stork. 
 They may likewise be compared with those 
 Japanese fans which, when opened from right 
 to left, represent the sweetest nosegays imagi- 
 nable ; whereas when opened in the other direc- 
 tion, from left to right, scenes of the most re- 
 volting indecency are shown. 
 
 Their music, of which they are passionately 
 fond, is to us something strange and far-away, 
 like the soul of this people. When young girls 
 meet together in the evenings to sing and play 
 on their long-necked guitars, after the first 
 smile of astonishment there comes over us the 
 impression of something quite unknown and 
 strange, something very mysterious, which 
 years of intellectual acclimation would never 
 succeed in making us fully understand. 
 
 Their religion, too, must seem very compli- 
 cated and vague to their frivolous little brains, 
 when even the most learned priests of the 
 land lose themselves in the symbols and cosmog- 
 onies, the metamorphoses of the gods and the 
 millennial chaos on which Indian Buddhism has
 
 2o8 Japanese Women in 1890 
 
 become grafted in so strange a fashion, without 
 destroying anything. 
 
 Their most serious cult appears to be that of 
 ancestral worship. The manes or lares, in every 
 family, have a perfumed altar of their own, 
 before which long prayers are recited, morning 
 and evening, without there being any absolute 
 belief, however, in the immortality of the soul 
 or in the persistence of the human "I" as 
 understood in our Western religions. The dead, 
 almost unconscious themselves of their own 
 survival as spirits, hover about in a kind of 
 neutral state, between an aerial condition and a 
 state of non-existence. All around these ancient 
 little houses of wood and paper, which have 
 witnessed a succession of pious generations and 
 whose ancestral altars are black with the smoke 
 of incense, there forms itself in the air, after a 
 time, an impersonal ensemble of anterior souls; 
 something like an ancestral fluid, which looks 
 down upon the living and keeps watch over them. 
 Here, too, our understanding is limited ; in the 
 prevailing darkness we have to come to a halt 
 before intellectual barriers we shall never cross.
 
 Japanese Women in 1890 209 
 
 Along with religious misinterpretations which 
 baffle and lead us astray we have the most 
 curious and sombre superstitions, old as the 
 world itself and terrifying to listen to, as night 
 descends. Beings that are half gods, half 
 ghosts, haunt the darkness ; at the crossways in 
 the woods stand ancient idols to which strange 
 powers are attributed, whilst there are miracu- 
 lous stones in the depths of the forests. . . . 
 
 To gain even an approximate idea of the be- 
 liefs of these women with their little slanting 
 eyes, all I have just said must be blended and 
 jumbled together, and then an attempt made to 
 introduce it into flighty little brains which 
 mostly reject with a laugh the very thought of 
 death and sometimes seem as frivolous and 
 giddy as a bird. 
 
 And yet they are attentive and unremitting 
 in their pilgrimages a never ending series 
 and in their presence at all the temple ceremonies 
 and festivals. 
 
 During the fine season, two or three times each 
 month, they betake themselves in smiling groups
 
 2io Japanese Women in 1890 
 
 to pagodas delightfully situated out in the coun- 
 try. They assemble from every part of the 
 country, filling the tiny roads and bridges with 
 an endless procession of azure blue dresses and 
 massive chignons of jet-black hair. 
 
 In the large towns during the summer, there is 
 a pilgrimage to one sanctuary or another almost 
 every evening, sometimes in honour of a god 
 so ancient that no one has any exact idea of the 
 part he plays in the control or management of 
 the world. 
 
 After work and business, dealing in curios and 
 second-hand goods, when the numberless petty 
 trades have ceased their monotonous activities 
 and the myriads of little houses and shops are 
 beginning to shut their doors, the women deck 
 themselves out, adorn their hair with the most 
 extravagant pins, and start off with large painted 
 lanterns at the end of flexible staves, in their 
 hands. The streets are thronged with these 
 little persons, ladies or mousmes, proceeding 
 slowly along, in sandals, and exchanging charm- 
 ing bows with one another. With a mighty wav- 
 ing of fans, the rustling of silk, and the prattle of
 
 Japanese Women in 1890 211 
 
 laughter, either at the fall of day, in the moon- 
 light, or when the stars are shining overhead, 
 they mount to the pagoda, where gigantic 
 gods await them, with horrible-looking masks, 
 half hidden behind golden gates, in all the 
 wonderful and incredible magnificence of the 
 sanctuaries. They fling coins to the priests, 
 throw themselves on to the ground in prayer, 
 the while beating together their hands with 
 sharp little taps clack, clack as though their 
 fingers were made of wood. Above everything 
 they prattle away, turn round, think of other 
 things, and do their best, by means of laughter, 
 to destroy their terror of the supernatural. . . . 
 The peasant woman, winter and summer alike, 
 wears a blue cotton dress. From a distance, 
 she can scarcely be distinguished from her 
 husband, who, like her, wears a chignon and a 
 dress of the same colour. You may see her 
 daily bending over her task in the tea fields or 
 the liquid swamps of the rice plantations, 
 wearing a coarse hat when the sun is blazing 
 above ; and when the cold bleak wind is blowing, 
 with her head completely wrapped up in an
 
 212 Japanese Women in 1890 
 
 invariably blue and ugly muffler, showing noth- 
 ing but her almond-shaped eyes. The droll little 
 Japanese peasant woman, wherever you chance 
 to find her, even out in the most abandoned 
 parts of the country, is indisputably far more 
 refined than our Western peasant ; she has pretty 
 hands and dainty feet; a mere trifle would 
 effect a complete transformation and make of 
 her a very presentable china vase or screen sort 
 of lady, whilst as regards affected manners and 
 mincing, simpering airs there would be very 
 little for her to learn. 
 
 Almost invariably she cultivates a pretty 
 little garden close to her old wooden cottage, the 
 interior of which, covered with white mats, is 
 scrupulously clean. Her kitchen utensils, her 
 tiny cups and pots and plates, instead of being, 
 as is the case in France, of thick earthenware 
 painted over with glaring flowers, are of transpar- 
 ent china adorned with those dainty, fine pictures 
 which, in themselves alone, testify to a long 
 heredity in art. There is originality in her 
 manner of decking out her modest ancestral 
 altar, and she can arrange in vases, with a hand-
 
 Japanese Women in 1890 213 
 
 ful of leaves and flowers, dainty and graceful 
 bouquets such as the most artistic of our own 
 women would scarcely be capable of putting 
 together. 
 
 Perhaps she is more honest and of stricter 
 morality from the European standpoint 
 than her sister in the town; certainly she is 
 more reserved towards strangers and more 
 timorous, whilst deep in her nature there is 
 considerable mistrust of, and hostility against, 
 these intruders, in spite of her smiling, amiable 
 welcome. 
 
 In the villages in the interior of Japan, far 
 from the recent railroads and all the imports 
 of modern civilization, where the age-long 
 immobility of the country has not been dis- 
 turbed, the peasant woman must be very slightly 
 different from what, centuries ago, her most 
 remote ancestor was, that ancestor whose 
 soul, dissipated by the flight of ages, has even 
 ceased to hover above the family altar. In the 
 so-called "barbarous" times of our Occidental 
 history, when our remote ancestors had some- 
 thing of the savage and uncouth coarseness of
 
 214 Japanese Women in 1890 
 
 primitive life, there were doubtless in these 
 Oriental islands of the ancient world the same 
 pretty little mincing peasant women, the same 
 little ladies of the towns, highly civilized, and 
 bowing to one another in the same adorable 
 fashion. . . . 
 
 To sum up, the reason that Japanese women 
 of every rank in society are affected and finical 
 in mind and body, artificial and prim; the 
 reason their very soul seems rather old and worn 
 out, so to speak, from the beginning of life, lies, 
 it may be, in the fact that their race has, for so 
 many centuries, been separated from the other 
 varieties of the human species, living on its own 
 stock and never being renovated. It would be 
 unjust to bear them a grudge on that account, 
 or because of the ugliness of their organs 
 of vision ; on the contrary, we must be pleased 
 with them for showing themselves so amiable, 
 graceful, and gay ; for having made of Japan the 
 country of the funniest and most ingenious 
 little things, the land of pretty manners and 
 of laughter. . . .
 
 'T^HE following pages contain advertisements of Mac- 
 millan books by the same author, and new fiction
 
 BY THE SAME AUTHOR 
 
 Disenchanted 
 
 Decorated Cloth, i2mo, $f.jo ; postpaid, $r.6j 
 
 " ' Disenchanted ! ' what a triumph of sincerity and 
 exactitude ! Those who have not had Loti's opportunities 
 for observation are astonished that Moslem women should 
 be so cultivated and so advanced. But I, who am a Mus- 
 sulman and who, moreover, have read the letters written to 
 Loti by those young Turkish girls, am in a position to affirm 
 that all this is reality itself." MOUSTAFA KAMEL PASHA, 
 translated from Le Figaro, 
 
 " Our romantic son of Hercules wields in defence of Liberty 
 a slender, aromatic sorcerer's wand. And his magic has 
 lost nothing of its might. We dare not begin quoting a 
 book of which every page is a picture." The London 
 Times. 
 
 "On reading 'Disenchanted' one feels that profound ex- 
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 News. 
 
 " For literary grace there is nothing to surpass Pierre Loti's 
 novel of Turkish harem life." Chicago Record-Herald. 
 
 " An admirable piece of work." New York Sun. 
 
 " The book abounds in beautiful word-pictures." 
 Argonaut. 
 
 "A wonderfully interesting romance, written in vivid 
 Oriental colors by a genius." Boston Times. 
 
 "... has fathomed with greater ability than any other 
 writer the abyss between Orient and Occident." Current 
 Literature. 
 
 THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 
 
 Publishers 64-66 Fifth Avenue New Tork
 
 THE NEW NOVEL OF JAMES LANE ALLEN 
 
 The Heroine in Bronze 
 
 Decorated cloth, $r.2j net; postpaid, $1.37 
 
 Rarely across the firmament of letters does there rise a 
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 events. "The Heroine in Bronze" may be called in truth 
 The Real American Novel and the Ideal Love Story. 
 
 " A golden book of beauty." MILTON BRONNER in The 
 Kentucky Post. 
 
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 " A life's masterwork." Philadelphia Press. 
 
 "A fresh field in fiction." Philadelphia North-American. 
 
 "No small literary feat." New York Times. 
 
 THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 
 
 Publishers 64-66 Fifth Avenue New York
 
 NEW MACMILLAN FICTION 
 
 A Man's World 
 
 BY ALBERT EDWARDS 
 
 Cloth, izmo, $1^5 net ; postpaid, 
 
 " There never has been a book like ' A Man's World.' . . . 
 Vividness and conviction unite in the wonderful portrait of 
 Nina. . . . There never has been such a character in 
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 famous twentieth century heroines." Brooklyn Eagle. 
 
 "Zola might have written such a book had he lived in 
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 Record-Herald. 
 
 " A new type of human document." New York Herald. 
 
 My Love and I 
 
 BY MARTIN REDFIELD 
 
 Cloth, J2mo, $1.35 net ; postpaid, 
 
 Even the publishers do not know who the author of this 
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 the struggle of a heart against the subtler problems of love 
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 THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 
 
 Publishers 64-66 Fifth Avenue Hew Tork
 
 NEW MACMILLAN FICTION Continued 
 
 The Rich Mrs. Burgoyne 
 
 BY KATHLEEN NORRIS 
 
 Author of " Mother" 
 Decorated cloth, ismo, illustrated, $1.25 net ; postpaid, $f.j8 
 
 " ' Mother' sounded notes of home beauty and simple living 
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 Standard Union. 
 
 " A first-rate, well-written, up-to-date, out-and-out love 
 story." St. Louis Globe-Democrat. 
 
 "A cheerful, optimistic story." New York Herald. 
 
 A BEAUTIFUL EDITION OF A BEAUTIFUL STORY 
 THE CHRISTMAS EDITION OF KATHLEEN NORRIS'S 
 
 Mother 
 
 Decorated cloth, rsmo, illustrations, $f^f ; by mail, $1.36 
 
 "A little book that can be finished in an hour, but the 
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 THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 
 
 Publishers 64-66 Fifth Avenue New York
 
 NEW MACMILLAN FICTION Continued 
 
 The Drifting Diamond 
 
 BY LINCOLN COLCORD 
 
 With Frontispiece in Colors by ANTON FISCHER 
 Decorated cloth, izmo, 
 
 The combination of the mystical, the imaginative, and the 
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 outcome. 
 
 London Lavender 
 
 BY E. V. LUCAS 
 
 Decorated cloth, I2mo, $f.J5 net ; postpaid, $1.47 
 
 We meet again several of the fine characters with whom Mr 
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 mate sketches of various phases of London life visits to the 
 Derby, Zoo, the National Gallery are delightfully chronicled 
 and woven into a novel that is a most charming entertainment. 
 
 THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 
 
 Publishers 64-66 Fifth Avenue New York
 
 A CHRISTMAS STORY BY ZONA GALE 
 
 Christmas 
 
 BY ZONA GALE 
 
 Author of " Mothers to Men," " The Loves of Pelleas and Etarre." 
 
 ILLUSTRATED IN COLORS BY LEON SOLON 
 
 Decorated cloth, izmo, $f.jo net 
 
 A town in the Middle West, pinched with poverty, decides that it 
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 into the hearts of its most positive objectors and how Christmas 
 cannot be arbitrated about, make up the basis of a more than 
 ordinarily appealing novel. 
 
 A NEW EDITION OF A MASTERPIECE 
 
 THE CHRISTMAS EDITION OF JACK LONDON'S 
 
 The Call of the Wild 
 
 Decorated cloth, izmo, profusely illustrated in color 
 ftf.fo net ; by mail, $fj 
 
 Some of the previous issues of this great book were thought to be 
 beautiful, but none of them seems so now in comparison with 
 the latest one, the make-up of which is distinguished by a 
 number of features. In the first place there are many full-page 
 plates reproduced in color from paintings done by Mr. Bransom. 
 More than this, the first two pages of each chapter are printed 
 in colors and decorated with head pieces and drawings, while 
 every other two pages carry black and white half-tones in the 
 text, also the work of Mr. Bransom. 
 
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