As to Oyouki, she rushes upon us ten times a day,—whether
we are sleeping, or dressing,—like a whirlwind
on a visit, flashing upon us, a very gust of dainty
youthfulness and droll gayety,—a living
peal of laughter. She is round of figure, round
of face; half baby, half girl; and so affectionate
that she bestows kisses on the slightest occasion
with her great puffy lips,—a little moist,
it is true, like a child’s, but nevertheless
very fresh and very red.
In our dwelling, open as it is all the night through,
the lamps burning before the gilded Buddha procure
us the company of the insect inhabitants of every
garden in the neighborhood. Moths, mosquitoes,
cicalas, and other extraordinary insects of which I
don’t even know the names,—all this
company assembles around us.
It is extremely funny, when some unexpected grasshopper,
some free-and-easy beetle presents itself without
invitation or excuse, scampering over our white mats,
to see the manner in which Chrysantheme indicates
it to my righteous vengeance,—merely pointing
her finger at it, without another word than “Hou!”
said with bent head, a particular pout, and a scandalized
air.
There is a fan kept expressly for the purpose of blowing
them out of doors again.
Here, I must own, that to the reader of my story it
must appear to drag a little.
In default of exciting intrigues and tragic adventures,
I would fain have known how to infuse into it a little
of the sweet perfumes of the gardens which surround
me, something of the gentle warmth of the sunshine,
of the shade of these graceful trees. Love being
wanting, I should like it to breathe of the restful
tranquillity of this far-away suburb. Then, too,
I should like it to reecho the sound of Chrysantheme’s
guitar, in which I begin to find a certain charm, for
want of something better, in the silence of the lovely
summer evenings.
All through these moonlit nights of July, the weather
has been calm, luminous and magnificent. Ah!
what glorious clear nights, what exquisite roseate
tints beneath that wonderful moon, what mystery of
blue shadows in the thick tangle of trees. And,
from the heights where stood our verandah, how prettily
the town lay sleeping at our feet!
After all, I do not positively detest this little
Chrysantheme, and when there is no repugnance on either
side, habit turns into a make-shift of attachment.
