Kimono | Page 8

save by rumour, in the convent days or within the discreet
precincts of Monsieur Murata's villa. She was enchanted by the theatres,
the shops, the restaurants, the music, and the life which danced around
her. She wanted to rent an appartement, and to live there for the rest of
her existence.

"But the season is almost over," said her husband; "everybody will be
leaving."
Unaccustomed as yet to his freedom, he still felt constrained to do the
same as Everybody.
Before leaving Paris, they paid a visit to the Auteuil villa, which had
been Asako's home for so many years.
Murata was the manager of a big Japanese firm in Paris. He had spent
almost all his life abroad and the last twenty years of it in the French
capital, so that even in appearance, except for his short stature and his
tilted eyes, he had come to look like a Frenchman with his beard _à
l'impériale_, and his quick bird-like gestures. His wife was a Japanese,
but she too had lost almost all traces of her native mannerisms.
Asako Fujinami had been brought to Paris by her father, who had died
there while still a young man. He had entrusted his only child to the
care of the Muratas with instructions that she should be educated in
European ways and ideas, that she should hold no communication with
her relatives in Japan, and that eventually a white husband should be
provided for her. He had left his whole fortune in trust for her, and the
interest was forwarded regularly to M. Murata by a Tokyo lawyer, to be
used for her benefit as her guardian might deem best. This money was
to be the only tie between Asako and her native land.
To cut off a child from its family, of which by virtue of vested interests
it must still be an important member, was a proceeding so revolutionary
to all respectable Japanese ideas that even the enlightened Murata
demurred. In Japan the individual counts for so little, the family for so
much. But Fujinami had insisted, and disobedience to a man's dying
wish brings the curse of a "rough ghost" upon the recalcitrant, and all
kinds of evil consequences.
So the Muratas took Asako and cherished her as much as their hearts,
withered by exile and by unnatural living, were capable of cherishing
anything. She became a daughter of the well-to-do French bourgeoisie,
strictly but affectionately disciplined with the proper restraints on the

natural growth of her brain and individuality.
Geoffrey Barrington was not very favourably impressed by the Murata
household. He wondered how so bright a little flower as Asako could
have been reared in such gloomy surroundings. The spirits dominant in
the villa were respectable economy and slavish imitation of the tastes
and habits of Parisian friends. The living-rooms were as impersonal as
the rooms of a boarding-house. Neutral tints abounded, ugly browns
and nightmare vegetable patterns on carpets, furniture and wallpapers.
There was a marked tendency towards covers, covers for the chairs and
sofas, tablecloths and covers for the tablecloths, covers for
cushion-covers, antimacassars, lamp-stands, vase-stands and every kind
of decorative duster. Everywhere the thick smell of concealed grime
told of insufficient servants and ineffective sweeping. There was not
one ornament or picture which recalled Japan, or gave a clue to the
personal tastes of the owners.
Geoffrey had expected to be the nervous witness of an affecting scene
between his wife and her adopted parents. But no, the greetings were
polite and formal. Asako's frock and jewellery were admired, but
without that note of angry envy which often brightens the dullest talk
between ladies in England. Then, they sat down to an atrocious lunch
eaten in complete silence.
When the meal was over, Murata drew Geoffrey aside into his shingly
garden.
"I think that you will be content with our Asa San," he said; "the
character is still plastic. In England it is different; but in France and in
Japan we say it is the husband who must make the character of his wife.
She is the plain white paper; let him take his brush and write on it what
he will. Asa San is a very sweet girl. She is very easy to manage. She
has a beautiful disposition. She does not tell lies without reason. She
does not wish to make strange friends. I do not think you will have
trouble with her."
"He talks about her rather as if she were a horse," thought Geoffrey.
Murata went on,--

"The Japanese woman is the ivy which clings to the tree. She does not
wish to disobey."
"You think Asako is still very Japanese, then?" asked Geoffrey.
"Not her manners, or her looks, or even her thoughts," replied Murata,
"but nothing can change the heart."
"Then