THE TALE OF A FAN[1]
Pah! it is too devilishly hot to write anything about anything practical and serious—let us dream dreams.
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We picked up a little fan in a street-car the other day,—a Japanese fabric, with bursts of blue sky upon it, and grotesque foliage sharply cut against a horizon of white paper; and wonderful clouds as pink as Love, and birds of form as unfamiliar as the extinct wonders of ornithology resurrected by Cuvieresque art. Where did those Japanese get their exquisite taste for color and tint-contrasts?—is their sky so divinely blue?—are their sunsets so virginally carnation?—are the breasts of their maidens and the milky peaks of their mountains so white?
But the fairy colors were less strongly suggestive than something impalpable, invisible, indescribable, yet voluptuously enchanting which cling to the fan spirit-wise,—a tender little scent,—a mischievous perfume,—a
- ↑ Item, July 1, 1881. Hearn's own title.
