And thus was it that I found Mousmé and fell in love with her at first sight.
She, it appears, is the sister of Kotmasu’s friend. In the subdued light of the little pagoda, where all the lanterns swinging to and fro in slight draught of air are yellow or red, I am introduced with marvellous ceremony to this radiant, childish being who is destined at once to captivate the heart and senses of the “English sir,” as Kotmasu grandiloquently describes me.
She is clad in silks of extreme richness, and brocades which glitter with gold thread (for her family is a wealthy one), and her obi of turquoise-blue silk swathes her supple waist, and makes her look still more slender by reason of its exaggerated bow.
Her coiffure is pyramidical, the ebon-hued hair dressed à la butterfly. And the fantasy suits her; even the long, large-headed pins, which serve as mock antennæ, seem appropriate to the queer grace of my mousmé. Her brilliant complexion is softened by the subdued light. Only her eyes sparkle innocently with interest.
Why had not Kotmasu presented me before? Was he about to relinquish his bachelor and somewhat erratic and amorous habits? The thought gave me quite a new sensation. Upon analysis I was forced to admit that it was jealousy. Miss Hyacinth (for that was Mousmé’s name, I soon discovered), so fresh and delicate, a little figure off a tea-caddy, quaint and charming withal, had no doubt ensnared his vagrant affections, as she had my own admiration already.
Miss Hyacinth was addressing me in soft tones from behind her paper fan, which had pagodas, willows, and dainty little women like herself painted upon it.
Yes! I had been in Nagasaki a long time. I was English. No: England was not like Japan. Everything was larger, people ate more. There were no gardens like these, except sometimes when there was some grand feast taking place. This is but a tithe of the replies I made.
“Are the women pretty, and do they all wear rich clothing?” my mousmé inquired.
And I said “Some” in answer to the former, and earned a petulant moue. And “Not often” in reply to the latter, gaining thereby a smile of evident satisfaction as my reward; adding that “an ugly climate enforces ugly clothes.” But I felt sorry almost on the instant, because she seemed not to understand.