ooks like a Japanese picture: we have
folding-screens, little odd-shaped stools bearing vases full of flowers,
and at the farther end of the apartment, in a nook forming a kind of
altar, a large gilded Buddha sits enthroned in a lotus.

The house is just as I had fancied it should be in the many dreams
of Japan I had had before my arrival, during the long night watches:
perched on high, in a peaceful suburb, in the midst of green gardens;
made up of paper panels, and taken to pieces according to one's fancy,
like a child's toy. Whole families of cicalas chirp day and night
under our old resounding roof. From our veranda we have a bewildering
bird's-eye view of Nagasaki, of its streets, its junks, and its great
pagodas, which, at certain hours, is illuminated at our feet like some
scene in fairyland.

CHAPTER VII. THE LADIES OF THE FANS

Regarded as a mere outline, little Chrysantheme has been seen everywhere
and by everybody. Whoever has looked at one of those paintings on china
or silk that are sold in our bazaars, knows perfectly the pretty, stiff
head-dress, the leaning figure, ever ready to try some new gracious
salutation, the sash fastened behind in an enormous bow, the large,
flowing sleeves, the drapery slightly clinging about the ankles with a
little crooked train like a lizard's tail.

But her face--no, not every one has seen that; there is something
special about it.

Moreover, the type of women the Japanese paint mostly on their vases is
an exceptional one in their country. It is almost exclusively among the
nobility that these personages are found, with their long, pale faces,
painted in tender rose-tints, and silly, long necks which give them the
appearance of storks. This distinguished type (which I am obliged to
admit was also Mademoiselle Jasmin's) is rare, particularly at Nagasaki.

Among the middle classes and the common people, the ugliness is more
pleasant and sometimes becomes a kind of prettiness. The eyes are still
too small and hardly able to open, but the faces are rounder, browner,
more vivacious; and in the women remains a certain vagueness of feature,
something childlike which prevails to the very end of their lives.

They are so laughing, and so merry, all these little Nipponese dolls!
Rather a forced mirth, it is true, studied, and at times with a false
ring; nevertheless one is attracted by it.

Chrysantheme is an exception, for she is melancholy. What thoughts are
running