Now follows a poetic scene unsurpassed for picturesque charm and grace.
In accordance with Japanese custom, the two women sprinkle the room with flowers, in honor of his home-coming.
Great baskets full of blossoms are brought in by Susuki, while Butterfly, always singing, showers the room with petals. She sways with the rhythm of joy and music, flinging the flowers in reckless profusion, her voice seeming to follow their flight—up in the air—and down again.
Susuki, too, scatters rainbow-clouds of jasmine, peach-blooms, and violets; her contralto voice at the same time giving depth of color to the music. In the orchestra dainty, fluttering phrases are lightly tossed about, as tho shaken from the instruments by a passing breeze.
Full of strange involutions and harmonies, the music of this "flower-duet" possesses the essential quality of all that is lasting and classic—hidden beauty beneath the obvious. With the choicest "mixing" of harmony, orchestra and voice, Puccini has brewed a "blend" most rare, and sugared it with melody.
When the baskets are emptied and the last flower fallen, a few final notes of the refrain still left in the orchestra are hurriedly brushed out by the conductor's baton.
On the stage, as the daylight melts into dusk, Butterfly, all in a flurry, is decking herself in her wedding gown, while the orchestra calls up memories of the lilac-garden and the fire-flies.
When all is ready, Butterfly, Susuki, and the little one take positions at the window.
Long and patiently they watch and wait.
The orchestra plays a soft, unchanging staccato accompaniment. The moonlight finds its way into the room.