Kwaidan: Stories and Studies of Strange Things
ugliness,—caring nothing for the trouble of those poor folk... Yes,
such a creature you were, and such were your doings.
“And now that you have a comely form, you despise your old comrades,
the insects; and, whenever you happen to meet any of them, you pretend
not to know them [literally, ‘You make an I-don’t-know face’]. Now you
want to have none but wealthy and exalted people for friends... Ah! You
have forgotten the old times, have you?
“It is true that many people have forgotten your past, and are charmed
by the sight of your present graceful shape and white wings, and write
Chinese verses and Japanese verses about you. The high-born damsel, who
could not bear even to look at you in your former shape, now gazes at
you with delight, and wants you to perch upon her hairpin, and holds
out her dainty fan in the hope that you will light upon it. But this
reminds me that there is an ancient Chinese story about you, which is
not pretty.
“In the time of the Emperor Gensō, the Imperial Palace contained
hundreds and thousands of beautiful ladies,—so many, indeed, that it
would have been difficult for any man to decide which among them was
the loveliest. So all of those beautiful persons were assembled
together in one place; and you were set free to fly among them; and it
was decreed that the damsel upon whose hairpin you perched should be
augustly summoned to the Imperial Chamber. In that time there could not
be more than one Empress—which was a good law; but, because of you, the
Emperor Gensō did great mischief in the land. For your mind is light
and frivolous; and although among so many beautiful women there must
have been some persons of pure heart, you would look for nothing but
beauty, and so betook yourself to the person most beautiful in outward
appearance. Therefore many of the female attendants ceased altogether
to think about the right way of women, and began to study how to make
themselves appear splendid in the eyes of men. And the end of it was
that the Emperor Gensō died a pitiful and painful death—all because of
your light and trifling mind. Indeed, your real character can easily be
seen from your conduct in other matters. There are trees, for
example,—such as the evergreen-oak and the pine,—whose leaves do not
fade and fall, but remain always green;—these are trees of firm heart,
trees of solid character. But you say that they are stiff and formal;
and you hate the sight of them, and never pay them a visit. Only to the
cherry-tree, and the _kaido_[15], and the peony, and the yellow rose
you go: those you like because they have showy flowers, and you try
only to please them. Such conduct, let me assure you, is very
unbecoming. Those trees certainly have handsome flowers; but
hunger-satisfying fruits they have not; and they are grateful to those
only who are fond of luxury and show. And that is just the reason why
they are pleased by your fluttering wings and delicate shape;—that is
why they are kind to you.
“Now, in this spring season, while you sportively dance through the
gardens of the wealthy, or hover among the beautiful alleys of
cherry-trees in blossom, you say to yourself: ‘Nobody in the world has
such pleasure as I, or such excellent friends. And, in spite of all
that people may say, I most love the peony,—and the golden yellow rose
is my own darling, and I will obey her every least behest; for that is
my pride and my delight.’... So you say. But the opulent and elegant
season of flowers is very short: soon they will fade and fall. Then, in
the time of summer heat, there will be green leaves only; and presently
the winds of autumn will blow, when even the leaves themselves will
shower down like rain, _parari-parari_. And your fate will then be as
the fate of the unlucky in the proverb, _Tanomi ki no shita ni amé
furu_ [Even through the tree upon which I relied for shelter the rain
leaks down]. For you will seek out your old friend, the root-cutting
insect, the grub, and beg him to let you return into your old-time
hole;—but now having wings, you will not be able to enter the hole
because of them, and you will not be able to shelter your body anywhere
between heaven and earth, and all the moor-grass will then have
withered, and you will not have even one drop of dew with which to
moisten your tongue,—and there will be nothing left for you to do but
to lie down and die. All because of your light and frivolous heart—but,
ah! how lamentable an end!”...
III
Most of the Japanese stories about butterflies appear, as I have said,
to be of Chinese origin. But I have one which is probably indigenous;
and it seems to me worth telling for the benefit of persons who believe
there is no “romantic love” in the Far East.
Behind the cemetery of the temple of Sōzanji, in the suburbs of the
capital, there long stood a solitary cottage, occupied by an old man
named Takahama. He was liked in the neighborhood, by reason of his
amiable ways; but almost everybody supposed him to be a little mad.
Unless a man take the Buddhist vows, he is expected to marry, and to
bring up a family. But Takahama did not belong to the religious life;
and he could not be persuaded to marry. Neither had he ever been known
to enter into a love-relation with any woman. For more than fifty years
he had lived entirely alone.
One summer he fell sick, and knew that he had not long to live. He then
sent for his sister-in-law, a widow, and for her only son,—a lad of
about twenty years old, to whom he was much attached. Both promptly
came, and did whatever they could to soothe the old man’s last hours.
One sultry afternoon, while the widow and her son were watching at his
bedside, Takahama fell asleep. At the same moment a very large white
butterfly entered the room, and perched upon the sick man’s pillow. The
nephew drove it away with a fan; but it returned immediately to the
pillow, and was again driven away, only to come back a third time. Then
the nephew chased it into the garden, and across the garden, through an
open gate, into the cemetery of the neighboring temple. But it
continued to flutter before him as if unwilling to be driven further,
and acted so queerly that he began to wonder whether it was really a
butterfly, or a _ma_[16]. He again chased it, and followed it far into
the cemetery, until he saw it fly against a tomb,—a woman’s tomb. There
it unaccountably disappeared; and he searched for it in vain. He then
examined the monument. It bore the personal name “Akiko,” (3) together
with an unfamiliar family name, and an inscription stating that Akiko
had died at the age of eighteen. Apparently the tomb had been erected
about fifty years previously: moss had begun to gather upon it. But it
had been well cared for: there were fresh flowers before it; and the
water-tank had recently been filled.
On returning to the sick room, the young man was shocked by the
announcement that his uncle had ceased to breathe. Death had come to
the sleeper painlessly; and the dead face smiled.
The young man told his mother of what he had seen in the cemetery.
“Ah!” exclaimed the widow, “then it must have been Akiko!”...
“But who was Akiko, mother?” the nephew asked.
The widow answered:—
“When your good uncle was young he was betrothed to a charming girl
called Akiko, the daughter of a neighbor. Akiko died of consumption,
only a little before the day appointed for the wedding; and her
promised husband sorrowed greatly. After Akiko had been buried, he made
a vow never to marry; and he built this little house beside the
cemetery, so that he might be always near her grave. All this happened
more than fifty years ago. And every day of those fifty years—winter
and summer alike—your uncle went to the cemetery, and prayed at the
grave, and swept the tomb, and set offerings before it. But he did not
like to have any mention made of the matter; and he never spoke of
it... So, at last, Akiko came for him: the white butterfly was her
soul.”
IV
I had almost forgotten to mention an ancient Japanese dance, called the
Butterfly Dance (_Kochō-Mai_), which used to be performed in the
Imperial Palace, by dancers costumed as butterflies. Whether it is
danced occasionally nowadays I do not know. It is said to be very
difficult to learn. Six dancers are required for the proper performance
of it; and they must move in particular figures,—obeying traditional
rules for every step, pose, or gesture,—and circling about each other
very slowly to the sound of hand-drums and great drums, small flutes
and great flutes, and pandean pipes of a form unknown to Western Pan.
[Illustration] BUTTERFLY DANCE
MOSQUITOES
With a view to self-protection I have been reading Dr. Howard’s book,
“Mosquitoes.” I am persecuted by mosquitoes. There are several species
in my neighborhood; but only one of them is a serious torment,—a tiny
needly thing, all silver-speckled and silver-streaked. The puncture of
it is sharp as an electric burn; and the mere hum of it has a
lancinating quality of tone which foretells the quality of the pain
about to come,—much in the same way that a particular smell suggests a
particular taste. I find that this mosquito much resembles the creature
which Dr. Howard calls _Stegomyia fasciata_, or _Culex fasciatus:_ and
that its habits are the same as those of the _Stegomyia_. For example,
it is diurnal rather than nocturnal and becomes most troublesome in the
afternoon. And I have discovered that it comes from the Buddhist
cemetery,—a very old cemetery,—in the rear of my garden.
Dr. Howard’s book declares that, in order to rid a neighborhood of
mosquitoes, it is only necessary to pour a little petroleum, or
kerosene oil, into the stagnant water where they breed. Once a week the
oil should be used, “at the rate of once ounce for every fifteen square
feet of water-surface, and a proportionate quantity for any less
surface.” ...But please to consider the conditions in _my_
neighborhood!
I have said that my tormentors come from the Buddhist cemetery. Before
nearly every tomb in that old cemetery there is a water-receptacle, or
cistern, called _mizutamé_. In the majority of cases this _mizutamé_ is
simply an oblong cavity chiseled in the broad pedestal supporting the
monument; but before tombs of a costly kind, having no pedestal-tank, a
larger separate tank is placed, cut out of a single block of stone, and
decorated with a family crest, or with symbolic carvings. In front of a
tomb of the humblest class, having no _mizutamé_, water is placed in
cups or other vessels,—for the dead must have water. Flowers also must
be offered to them; and before every tomb you will find a pair of
bamboo cups, or other flower-vessels; and these, of course, contain
water. There is a well in the cemetery to supply water for the graves.
Whenever the tombs are visited by relatives and friends of the dead,
fresh water is poured into the tanks and cups. But as an old cemetery
of this kind contains thousands of _mizutamé_, and tens of thousands of
flower-vessels the water in all of these cannot be renewed every day.
It becomes stagnant and populous. The deeper tanks seldom get dry;—the
rainfall at Tōkyō being heavy enough to keep them partly filled during
nine months out of the twelve.
Well, it is in these tanks and flower-vessels that mine enemies are
born: they rise by millions from the water of the dead;—and, according
to Buddhist doctrine, some of them may be reincarnations of those very
dead, condemned by the error of former lives to the condition of
_Jiki-ketsu-gaki_, or blood-drinking pretas.... Anyhow the malevolence
of the _Culex fasciatus_ would justify the suspicion that some wicked
human soul had been compressed into that wailing speck of a body....
Now, to return to the subject of kerosene-oil, you can exterminate the