The Heat of the Sun

overlooking the harbour. White screens slide back and a dark polished terrace juts into lush gardens. Goro, the nakodo – the marriage broker
– shows his latest client the house. Exotic, is it not? So very Japanese! The perfect love nest for Pinkerton-san!
    Lieutenant Pinkerton is a dashing fellow, big and handsome, filled with bonhomie and bent on pleasure. A local geisha girl has bewitched him with her charms. The Abraham Lincoln is
becalmed in port. Why should he not contract a marriage with the girl? Sailors in these waters know all about such marriages. What Goro offers is prostitution, though the word, or any word like it,
does not pass his lips. Unctuously, he offers a contract for the bridal bower: a lease of nine hundred and ninety-nine years, no less, with the option to cancel at the end of every month.
    Wedding festivities begin. The first guest is Sharpless, the American consul. But does he display a wedding day demeanour? No: Pinkerton is his friend; he admires his friend, but cannot approve
this marriage. The girl, says Sharpless, is young, too young; loving her American with a credulous passion, she cannot see how lightly he will treat her devotion. Must Pinkerton, to gratify a
passing fancy, bruise the wings of this little Butterfly? But Pinkerton has no time for his grave friend. Guests are milling in earnest, and here, radiant among them, comes the Butterfly herself!
Has there ever been so charming a girl? No photograph does her justice. This is no waxwork fixed in sepia but a fluttering gay creature, at once child and woman.
    She tells the Americans her story. I fifteen years old. Noble family fall in world. Father, dishonoured, commit ritual suicide. Mother, left in poverty, not provide for me. Had no choice but
to become geisha. But now, what change of fortune! How happy am I to enter upon honourable marriage!
    Watching her, Goro the nakodo smacks his lips. He thinks her the most accomplished of all his charges: a harlot of genius! But Goro’s heart is too corrupted to know the truth. For
everything the girl has said is sincere, and, as if to show this, she reveals that she has renounced her religion. At the Christian mission house in Nagasaki, the girl has been received into her
husband’s faith. If her family knew, they would disown her. But she cares only for the new life that awaits her.
    The commissioner reads out the marriage contract. Bride and bridegroom sign their names. The joy is general. Wily Goro has been nothing but thorough. Food and drink flow. The house spills over
with guests. Look at the girl’s relatives, feasting with abandon! Look at that old rogue Uncle Yakuside, carousing drunkenly at the American’s expense!
    The girl’s face is filled with joy. Does Pinkerton not believe he really loves her? What thought has he for the attritions of time? There is only this moment, with its promise of bliss.
And Sharpless, what feelings stir in Sharpless? Envy, undoubtedly – for must he not love the girl himself? But sorrow too, a soul-harrowing sorrow, for the destiny that awaits her.
    An intruder bursts upon the scene. Look at his rage! Look at his fury! Is it a madman? It is the Bonze, Butterfly’s most eminent uncle, a holy man of high degree. Word of his niece’s
apostasy has reached him. Wicked girl, to betray the faith of her ancestors! He curses her. Pinkerton laughs at the madman. But Pinkerton does not understand. The girl’s other relatives join
the denunciation. Even the drunkard Yakuside is filled with righteous indignation.
    Wicked girl! Cursed be the girl! To betray her ancestors!
    Pinkerton, growing angry, clears the house. Butterfly sobs. What has she done, to marry an American? What has she done, to forget her race and kindred? But she loves Pinkerton too well to be
downcast for long. His caresses restore her. All will be well, won’t it? Weep no more.
    Three years pass.
    How rapidly Butterfly’s happiness has flown! For, of course, a few months after the marriage, the Abraham Lincoln sailed away. Pinkerton said he would return when the robins nested
in spring. Lightly enough he flung out the words, and Butterfly believed him; though robins, she fears, may nest less often in America than in Japan.
    Seasons come and go. The funds left by Pinkerton dwindle. Penury awaits. Butterfly tells her maid, Suzuki, that Pinkerton will come back. One fine day, she declares, we’ll see a thread of
smoke above the sea, coiling up from the far horizon;