“There are generally pretty geishas here,” he said to me, when we had lighted the ridiculous little pipes—mere tubes of silver, with a pigmy bowl at the end—which the mousmé had now brought us.
The jars placed before each of us, filled with sweet-scented tobacco of the colour of tow, and so “mild” that a baby might have inhaled its smoke; the spittoons and the porcelain stove containing the glowing embers at which we lit our pipes; always made me smile—they were so toy-like and minute—and long for my briar and honey-dew.
“Yes?” I replied interrogatively between the puffs. “Shall I tell Gazelle” (for such was the mousmé’s poetic name) “to summon one?” he continued.
Why not? I had seen them many times before, it was true; but we were in no hurry, and they were always graceful, dainty, pretty and amusing—at least the best of them were, and no one troubled about those who were not.
“Is there dancing?” Kotmasu asked Gazelle, who had stood regarding us with a friendly look during our colloquy.
“Yes. Some of the best geishas from the town are here in the house. There is a party below, the most noble young Sen” (we had never heard of him, but no matter—it was but the mousmé’s way of describing a good customer, who had probably kissed her pretty Dresden-china face and given her half a yen for the privilege) “is here with his most noble companions from the big ship. They have brought the geishas with them. They are dancing now. Listen! But doubtless I can get one to come for the pleasure of Mr. the English sir.”
We nodded assent, and with a smile Gazelle vanished.
We heard the sound of the pad, pad of her footsteps retreating along the passage, then a sudden cessation of the noises in the room below, as we could imagine her opening the door. The zing, zing of the samisen suddenly ceased, and the girls’ voices stopped their monotonous, chant-like song. Then came the sound of other voices seemingly in argument; then a recommencement of the previous noises as before our mousmé had interrupted the proceedings.
Then we hear Gazelle returning.
“Alone?” I suggest to my companion, who merely shakes his head and laughs, replying, “No. The geisha is light of foot—a butterfly, coming without sound, the heavy circling flutter of her fan like the beatings of the wings of the great grey moths outside there in the garden.”