Kwaidan: Stories and Studies of Strange Things

the sensations of a butterfly in that dream. For his spirit had really been wandering about in the shape of a butterfly; and, when he awoke, the memories and the feelings of butterfly existence remained so vivid in his mind that he could not act like a human being... Finally I should like to know the text of a certain Chinese official recognition of sundry butterflies as the spirits of an Emperor and of his attendants... Most of the Japanese literature about butterflies, excepting some poetry, appears to be of Chinese origin; and even that old national aæsthetic feeling on the subject, which found such delightful expression in Japanese art and song and custom, may have been first developed under Chinese teaching. Chinese precedent doubtless explains why Japanese poets and painters chose so often for their _geimyō_, or professional appellations, such names as _Chōmu_ (“Butterfly-Dream),” _Ichō_ (“Solitary Butterfly),” etc. And even to this day such _geimyō_ as _Chōhana_ (“Butterfly-Blossom”), _Chōkichi_ (“Butterfly-Luck”), or _Chōnosuké_ (“Butterfly-Help”), are affected by dancing-girls. Besides artistic names having reference to butterflies, there are still in use real personal names (_yobina_) of this kind,—such as Kochō, or Chō, meaning “Butterfly.” They are borne by women only, as a rule,—though there are some strange exceptions... And here I may mention that, in the province of Mutsu, there still exists the curious old custom of calling the youngest daughter in a family _Tekona_,—which quaint word, obsolete elsewhere, signifies in Mutsu dialect a butterfly. In classic time this word signified also a beautiful woman... It is possible also that some weird Japanese beliefs about butterflies are of Chinese derivation; but these beliefs might be older than China herself. The most interesting one, I think, is that the soul of a _living_ person may wander about in the form of a butterfly. Some pretty fancies have been evolved out of this belief,—such as the notion that if a butterfly enters your guest-room and perches behind the bamboo screen, the person whom you most love is coming to see you. That a butterfly may be the spirit of somebody is not a reason for being afraid of it. Nevertheless there are times when even butterflies can inspire fear by appearing in prodigious numbers; and Japanese history records such an event. When Taïra-no-Masakado was secretly preparing for his famous revolt, there appeared in Kyōto so vast a swarm of butterflies that the people were frightened,—thinking the apparition to be a portent of coming evil... Perhaps those butterflies were supposed to be the spirits of the thousands doomed to perish in battle, and agitated on the eve of war by some mysterious premonition of death. However, in Japanese belief, a butterfly may be the soul of a dead person as well as of a living person. Indeed it is a custom of souls to take butterfly-shape in order to announce the fact of their final departure from the body; and for this reason any butterfly which enters a house ought to be kindly treated. To this belief, and to queer fancies connected with it, there are many allusions in popular drama. For example, there is a well-known play called _Tondé-déru-Kochō-no-Kanzashi;_ or, “The Flying Hairpin of Kochō.” Kochō is a beautiful person who kills herself because of false accusations and cruel treatment. Her would-be avenger long seeks in vain for the author of the wrong. But at last the dead woman’s hairpin turns into a butterfly, and serves as a guide to vengeance by hovering above the place where the villain is hiding. —Of course those big paper butterflies (_o-chō_ and _mé-chō_) which figure at weddings must not be thought of as having any ghostly signification. As emblems they only express the joy of living union, and the hope that the newly married couple may pass through life together as a pair of butterflies flit lightly through some pleasant garden,—now hovering upward, now downward, but never widely separating. II A small selection of _hokku_ (1) on butterflies will help to illustrate Japanese interest in the aæsthetic side of the subject. Some are pictures only,—tiny color-sketches made with seventeen syllables; some are nothing more than pretty fancies, or graceful suggestions;—but the reader will find variety. Probably he will not care much for the verses in themselves. The taste for Japanese poetry of the epigrammatic sort is a taste that must be slowly acquired; and it is only by degrees, after patient study, that the possibilities of such composition can be fairly estimated. Hasty criticism has declared that to put forward any serious claim on behalf of seventeen-syllable poems “would be absurd.” But what, then, of Crashaw’s famous line upon the miracle at the marriage feast in Cana?— Nympha pudica Deum vidit, et erubuit.[1] Only fourteen syllables—and immortality. Now with seventeen Japanese syllables things quite as wonderful—indeed, much more wonderful—have been done, not once or twice, but probably a thousand times... However, there is nothing wonderful in the following _hokku_, which have been selected for more than literary reasons:— Nugi-kakuru[2] Haori sugata no Kochō kana! [_Like a_ haori _being taken off—that is the shape of a butterfly!_] Torisashi no Sao no jama suru Kochō kana! [_Ah, the butterfly keeps getting in the way of the bird-catcher’s pole!_[3]] Tsurigané ni Tomarité nemuru Kochō kana! [_Perched upon the temple-bell, the butterfly sleeps:_] Néru-uchi mo Asobu-yumé wo ya— Kusa no chō! [_Even while sleeping, its dream is of play—ah, the butterfly of the grass!_[4] Oki, oki yo! Waga tomo ni sen, Néru-kochō! [_Wake up! wake up!—I will make thee my comrade, thou sleeping butterfly._[5]] Kago no tori Chō wo urayamu Metsuki kana! [_Ah, the sad expression in the eyes of that caged bird!—envying the butterfly!_] Chō tondé— Kazé naki hi to mo Miëzari ki! [_Even though it did not appear to be a windy day_,[6] _the fluttering of the butterflies—!_] Rakkwa éda ni Kaëru to miréba— Kochō kana! [_When I saw the fallen flower return to the branch—lo! it was only a butterfly!_[7]] Chiru-hana ni— Karusa arasoü Kochō kana! [_How the butterfly strives to compete in lightness with the falling flowers!_[8]] Chōchō ya! Onna no michi no Ato ya saki! [_See that butterfly on the woman’s path,—now fluttering behind her, now before!_] Chōchō ya! Hana-nusubito wo Tsukété-yuku! [_Ha! the butterfly!—it is following the person who stole the flowers!_] Aki no chō Tomo nakéréba ya; Hito ni tsuku [_Poor autumn butterfly!—when left without a comrade_ (of its own race), _it follows after man_ (or “a person”)!] Owarété mo, Isoganu furi no Chōcho kana! [_Ah, the butterfly! Even when chased, it never has the air of being in a hurry._] Chō wa mina Jiu-shichi-hachi no Sugata kana! [_As for butterflies, they all have the appearance of being about seventeen or eighteen years old._[9]] Chō tobu ya— Kono yo no urami Naki yō ni! [_How the butterfly sports,—just as if there were no enmity_ (or “envy”) _in this world!_] Chō tobu ya, Kono yo ni nozomi Nai yō ni! [_Ah, the butterfly!—it sports about as if it had nothing more to desire in this present state of existence._] Nami no hana ni Tomari kanétaru, Kochō kana! [_Having found it difficult indeed to perch upon the_ (_foam_-) _blossoms of the waves,—alas for the butterfly!_] Mutsumashi ya!— Umaré-kawareba Nobé no chō.[10] [_If_ (in our next existence) _we be born into the state of butterflies upon the moor, then perchance we may be happy together!_] Nadéshiko ni Chōchō shiroshi— Taré no kon?[11] [_On the pink-flower there is a white butterfly: whose spirit, I wonder?_] Ichi-nichi no Tsuma to miëkéri— Chō futatsu. [_The one-day wife has at last appeared—a pair of butterflies!_] Kité wa maü, Futari shidzuka no Kochō kana! [_Approaching they dance; but when the two meet at last they are very quiet, the butterflies!_] Chō wo oü Kokoro-mochitashi Itsumadémo! [_Would that I might always have the heart_ (desire) _of chasing butterflies!_[12]] Besides these specimens of poetry about butterflies, I have one queer example to offer of Japanese prose literature on the same topic. The original, of which I have attempted only a free translation, can be found in the curious old book _Mushi-Isamé_ (“Insect-Admonitions”); and it assumes the form of a discourse to a butterfly. But it is really a didactic allegory,—suggesting the moral significance of a social rise and fall:— “Now, under the sun of spring, the winds are gentle, and flowers pinkly bloom, and grasses are soft, and the hearts of people are glad. Butterflies everywhere flutter joyously: so many persons now compose Chinese verses and Japanese verses about butterflies. “And this season, O Butterfly, is indeed the season of your bright prosperity: so comely you now are that in the whole world there is nothing more comely. For that reason all other insects admire and envy you;—there is not among them even one that does not envy you. Nor do insects alone regard you with envy: men also both envy and admire you. Sōshū of China, in a dream, assumed your shape;—Sakoku of Japan, after dying, took your form, and therein made ghostly apparition. Nor is the envy that you inspire shared only by insects and mankind: even things without soul change their form into yours;—witness the barley-grass, which turns into a butterfly.[13] “And therefore you are lifted up with pride, and think to yourself: ‘In all this world there is nothing superior to me!’ Ah! I can very well guess what is in your heart: you are too much satisfied with your own person. That is why you let yourself be blown thus lightly about by every wind;—that is why you never remain still,—always, always thinking, ‘In the whole world there is no one so fortunate as I.’ “But now try to think a little about your own personal history. It is worth recalling; for there is a vulgar side to it. How a vulgar side? Well, for a considerable time after you were born, you had no such reason for rejoicing in your form. You were then a mere cabbage-insect, a hairy worm; and you were so poor that you could not afford even one robe to cover your nakedness; and your appearance was altogether disgusting. Everybody in those days hated the sight of you. Indeed you had good reason to be ashamed of yourself; and so ashamed you were that you collected old twigs and rubbish to hide in, and you made a hiding-nest, and hung it to a branch,—and then everybody cried out to you, ‘Raincoat Insect!’ (_Mino-mushi_.)[14] And during that period of your life, your sins were grievous. Among the tender green leaves of beautiful cherry-trees you and your fellows assembled, and there made ugliness extraordinary; and the expectant eyes of the people, who came from far away to admire the beauty of those cherry-trees, were hurt by the sight of you. And of things even more hateful than this you were guilty. You knew that poor, poor men and women had been cultivating _daikon_ (2) in their fields,—toiling under the hot sun till their hearts were filled with bitterness by reason of having to care for that _daikon;_ and you persuaded your companions to go with you, and to gather upon the leaves of that _daikon_, and on the leaves of other vegetables planted by those poor people. Out of your greediness you ravaged those leaves, and gnawed them into all shapes of