WISTARIA AND PÆONY
The last petals of the cherry blossoms have only just fallen, and
Nature hastens to provide a new treasure for the flower kingdom, and
the first blooms of the wistaria _Fuji no hana_ will be opening at
the base of the quickly growing racemes. Not the far-famed _Wistaria
multijuga_, whose immense long sprays of delicate mauve flowers are
so associated throughout the world with the name of Japan, but the
early-flowering wistaria, _Brachy botris_, with its tufts of white
blossoms completely covering the closely pruned branches before any
trace of a leaf appears. It would seem as if this modest white wistaria
had been allowed by nature to bloom so early, for fear she should be
overlooked and not appreciated when her more showy successor flings
her purple mantle over the land. The Royal Fuji, fancifully called
_Niki-so_, meaning “plant of the two seasons,” because, appearing
between the third and fourth months (old calendar), it belongs both to
spring and summer, has rightly attained her high rank among the floral
kingdom of Japan, for in no other country can be seen a restaurant set
out for the entertainment of perhaps a hundred guests, who will all
feast wrapped in the purple haze of a roof of wistaria blossoms, all
from a single vine.
Perhaps the most popular haunt of the pleasure-seeker in the month
of May is the celebrated Kameido Temple in Tokyo. Words fail me to
describe the beauty of the scene: it is a real feast of _fuji_;
the, long purple trails cover the large trellises, the wide rustic
galleries, and connect the little matted restaurants, where hosts
of people throughout the day sit feasting under the purple roof and
feeding the gold fish in the lake. The matted benches are set out on
a thick mauve carpet of fallen blossoms, and the little maids seem to
have a never-ending task in sweeping away great heaps of the freshly
fallen flowers, as though fearing that their guests will be smothered
by them. No one seems to know so wisely as the Japanese in what
surroundings to plant their flowers, so as to show them to their best
advantage. Wistaria seems always to be grown near water, so that the
trellis which is to bear its flower burden can be built out over the
water. So it is at Kameido; and as I sat surrounded, almost smothered,
by the blossoms, inhaling their delicious scent and listening to the
droning of the bees, I could gaze across the water at the reflection
of a never-ending vista of mauve blossoms reaching on one side to the
celebrated round wooden bridge, the delight of children, who seemed
to cross it in one ceaseless stream, and on the other to the fine old
temple, where a few ancient pine-trees are placed just where they will
best harmonise with the long purple blossoms. The late sweet-scented
white variety will prolong the _fuji_ season by a few days; their glory
is but short-lived, a few days and then their colour begins to fade,
the leaves appear among the blossoms, and their beauty is gone. I felt
if I wanted to see wistaria again that year I must fly to the northern
provinces, where the bean-scented blossoms will soon be clothing the
forest trees. I turned away sadly, not forgetting the Japanese theory
that the wistaria loves _saké_. So strong is their belief, that I was
told that if you set a jar of the wine under the plant, its spray will
grow longer from its desire to reach the jar; so I ordered my
[Illustration: WISTARIA, KAMEIDO]
little cup of _saké_, sipped it, and then emptied the cup on the roots,
according to their custom, hoping that I too might help to contribute
to its great size and beauty.
Very lovely is the scene at Kashukabe, where another famous wistaria
grows. The vine is said to be some five hundred years old, its pendent
clusters over 50 inches long and growing over trellises covering a
space of 4000 feet. Noda in the province of Settsu is also celebrated
for its wistaria, and a special variety has been named after the place.
The cultivation of _Wistaria multijuga_, with its racemes from two to
three feet in length, and the individual flowers having a lip of darker
purple, seems to belong more especially to the eastern provinces. And
it must not be imagined that _all_ wistaria in Japan has these immense
long sprays. In the whole neighbourhood of Kyoto I know of only two
fine specimens of _multijuga_, and all the wild variety seems to be
_Wistaria chinensis_, with its tufts of shorter racemes.
Towards the end of the first week in May I made a pilgrimage to see
the wistaria blossoms in Kasuga Park at Nara, and I shall never forget
the enjoyment of that day, the blessed relief of being able to find a
quiet spot away from the gazing crowd, in which to ramble or sit and
enjoy the scene. The vines have clambered to the top of many of the
tallest pines and cryptomerias, and their blossoms hang in wreaths;
in the distance the effect was suggestive of smoke rising among the
trees. Many of the lower trees seemed to have been completely taken
possession of by the trespasser, and the dead branches transformed into
big bouquets of pale mauve. How far more beautiful were these natural
supports than the somewhat unsightly bamboo poles which usually form
the trellis for the vines. Little glades, down which winds a tiny clear
stream, divide the ground, and the banks were covered with these old
trees, completely smothered by the weight of blossom. Often the vine
seemed not content with covering a single tree, but had thrown out long
branches beyond, which, fallen to the ground, had rooted and then risen
again to find a fresh prey, thus forming a double arch wreathed with
purple tassels. This park is one of the few places in Japan where there
is real turf, closely cropped by the herd of deer, and in the open
spaces broad stretches of brilliant-coloured _Azalea sinensis_ added to
the enchantment of the scene and formed a perfect foreground.
To the Japanese mind the _fuji_ is essentially feminine, and they
find in the wistaria their ideal of woman,--the Japanese woman--whose
charm of temperament and whose beauty has been so praised. It is a
pretty idea, and it is not difficult to understand their ideal of woman
when one observes how the wistaria clings to the undaunted pine, and
how gently she falls down, easily moved by a breath of wind and yet
firmly holding her own place. The wistaria is regarded as the emblem
of gentleness and obedience, and these are the keynotes of a Japanese
woman’s character.
The young tender leaves of wistaria are sometimes eaten, and also used
in the place of tea; and the flowers themselves are used for food in
some parts of China. The seeds baked in the fire have very much the
same flavour as that of a chestnut. The bark is used for ropes and
sandals; and its branches are used, it is said, as cables, and also for
bridge-making, as it is supposed that there is nothing more durable
than a wistaria bridge. Japanese antiquarians will tell you that in
olden times, before carpenters’ tools had been invented, the dwellings
of the people in Japan were constructed of young trees with the bark
left on, fastened together with ropes made of the tough shoots of
wistaria, and thatched with the grass called _kava_. _Fuji_ appears to
be a real Japanese flower, though in the Western countries it is called
wistaria, in honour of Caspar Wistar, an American physician.
One of the most celebrated classical _No_ dances of Japan has wistaria
as its theme. The little square boxes in front of the stage, with
its long gallery or bridge (along which the _No_ actors make their
entrances and exits), are filled by the audience, apparently patiently
waiting in quiet, somewhat sleepy expectancy. The long piercing sound
of flutes mingled with the curiously sad rhythm of _Tsuzumi_ drums
has ceased; and the high distinct declamation of the libretto begins.
The priest, who is a necessary part of any _No_ dance, is the first
to appear on the stage; he is supposed to reach Taka no Ura in the
province of Ecchu, a place famous for wistaria, and here he meets a
country girl who in a short time will reappear as the spirit of the
wistaria; she entreats him to pray for her, so that through the virtue
of his prayer her flower spirit may enter into Nirvana or Paradise;
doubtless the spirit of the last flower of spring is not able to
release herself from the world to attain Buddhistic perfection, so she
hates to say her quick
[Illustration: WISTARIA, NAGAOKA]
farewell to spring. Presently the flower spirit, arrayed in gorgeous
purple brocade, dances her last spring dance, and then, after receiving
the priest’s repeated prayer, she will disappear with joy. So ends the
_No_ play, so full of emblematical meaning to the minds of the Japanese.
The wistaria and pæony seem to be closely associated, as not only do
they flower at the same time and many gardens seem devoted to their
combined culture, but just as in Japanese literature the wistaria is
an emblem of womanhood, so in Chinese literature the pæony is compared
to a beautiful woman. The pæony seems to be a plant of Chinese origin,
and though it can hardly be classed as one of the most popular flowers
of Japan, it plays an important part in the art of the country. The
tree pæony is a delicate plant and requires scrupulous care and nursing
in order that its blooms should attain their full size and colour. It
is regarded as essentially the rich man’s flower, and therefore it is
often called the “flower of prosperity”; another fancy name by which
it is known is the “plant of twenty days,” because it will preserve
its freshness and beauty for that time. The celebrated garden at
Honjo in Tokyo combines the cultivation of _botan_ (tree pæony) with
that of wistaria. A fine old vine of _multijuga_ overhangs the pond;
but one of the especial features of the garden is the cultivation of
wistarias in pots and tubs--some grand old plants, flowering as though
they would flower themselves to death. Others there were of all sizes
and shapes; some bent and leaning, some bearing veritable canopies of
blossoms; some pure white, some the pale mauve _sinensis_, and others
the deeper-coloured _multijuga_.
My first visit to “view the pæonies” was rather a disappointment to
me, as, in order to protect the blooms from heavy rain or wind storms,
the plants are all placed under the cover of temporary matting sheds.
They seemed mostly to be grown in pots, and the effect of these rows
of plants, each with its large and heavy blossoms supported by bamboo
stakes, was somewhat stiff and prim. A few stray plants there were,
which, possibly for some slight defect in the shape or colour of the
blooms, had not been included in the show collection; and to the
uninitiated these gave most pleasure, left standing in the open, their
colour blending harmoniously with that of the wistaria blossoms. The
pæony gardens seemed no haunt for the holiday-maker, but rather for the
serious-minded gardener, who, truly interested in their culture, would
spend
[Illustration: A PÆONY GARDEN]
hours in quiet contemplation of the plants, discussing the merits of
the different varieties with some fellow-enthusiast. There were some
hundred different kinds of the tree pæony. The most prized ones were
all either pure white blossoms, or those whose colour ranged from pale
pink to red,--quite rightly, however rare they may be, the purple-hued
and yellow are less valued. Many a private garden belonging to the
rich has its pæony show, and the plants are mostly brought from the
neighbourhood of Nara, which is celebrated for its pæony gardens. And
the gardens at Kabata are also famous for their blooms; where too may
be seen the combination of the _fuji_ flowers covering long trellises
and the little standard trees growing along the margin of the stream,
their pendent trails reflected in the water, softening as it were the
gorgeous splendour of the flaunting pæony blossoms.
There is no more gorgeous floral sight than the pæony with its
tremendous curling petals; but a Japanese artist told me that its
fulness in splendour made those with a better poetical fancy and more
quiet taste dislike it and think the beauty of the pæony to be even
vulgar. Japan is nothing if she be not light and airy, and therefore
the Japanese consider flowers with more delicate grace to be more
artistic; so the pæony has little chance to become their favourite
flower, its beauty is too heavy. It has found, however, some admirers
among the poets of Western Japan. In comparison to the people of the
eastern provinces the inhabitants of Osaka and Kyoto are said to be
more showy in their taste, their art is heavier, so the pæony is called
the Western Flower of Japan. If you compare China and Japan, the
former’s taste in art is more decorative and heavier, and remember what
a favourite the pæony is as a decoration for their priceless porcelain.
The variety of pæony known as _Pæonia sinensis_, the true Chinese
pæony, does not seem to be much regarded in Japan, and little attention
seems to be given to its cultivation.
The _botan_ calls to mind the pæony lantern, and the pæony lantern or
_botan toro_ is suggestive of the Buddhist festival of _Bon_ (from July
13-16), when the great gates of Hades will open wide, and those dead
souls who are still wandering about, being unable to enter Nirvana,
will come back again to receive their relatives’ prayers, by whose
virtue they may get their final rest. So this festival is universally
called the Soul Festival: in literature it is closely connected with
ghosts. The theatres will all play “ghost plays,” as, of course, the
story of the pæony lantern is a ghost story.
A beautiful girl called O Tsuyu was the daughter of a certain samurai
Ijima San, who lived apart from her father with her faithful maid O
Yone. She happened to love Shinzaburo Ogihara, a young samurai, and
died of love, and her maid followed her. Ogihara did not know of their
death. He observed one summer evening that two young women--who were O
Tsuyu and O Yone--passed before the gate of his house, carrying pæony
lanterns in their hands, and he welcomed them. During the following
seven nights O Tsuyu called on him at night with her usual pæony
lantern in hand; and then Shinzaburo was told by his friend that she
was not a living person, but a ghost. He appealed to some holy priest
to protect him from the ghost. The priest gave him some charm to hang
at his door; and when the charm one night was taken away, Ogihara was
found dead the next morning.
There is a rather charming ghost story of the pæony which is of Chinese
origin; the story is called the Ko Gyoku or Incense Jewel. Kaseikyu
of Rozan, of fairy beauty, is famous for its pæonies. In Kaseikyu
there lived a young scholar called Kosei. He was looking out of his
window one day, and to his amazement he observed a beautiful young lady
dressed in white who stood among the pæonies; he saw her so often that
he fell in love with her, and wrote a love-song dedicated to her fair
soul. Then she appeared as in a dream to him one day and said, “My name
is Ko Gyoku; I was brought here from the city of Heiko, and my life is
not without sadness.” They promised to love each other, they continued
to meet every day, till one day Ko Gyoku told him sadly that she had
to go away; and the next morning, strange to say, Kosei observed that
the pæonies in the garden had disappeared. Was she not the spirit of
one of the pæonies? He passed day and night in sad dreams and with many
tears, thinking over his unhappy fate in love. To his surprise Ko Gyoku
appeared after a long time, and they held each other’s hands, but the
man found the lady’s hand cold. Ko Gyoku said, “Yesterday I was the
living spirit of the flower, but to-day I am merely the ghost. My body
is cold, the flower is dead.” However, she was to his eyes as beautiful
as before. She continued, “If you will be kind enough to give a cupful
of water to the roots of
[Illustration: WISTARIA, KABATA]
the old pæonies every day, you will receive a reward in due course of
time,” and disappeared. Kosei found the next morning that new sprouts
were beginning to come out from the old roots.
The pæony was introduced into Japan from China in the eighth century,
but failed to gain universal popularity, on account of the difficulty
of cultivating it successfully; but the Rich Man’s Flower came to
be regarded as the king of flowers, and therefore the lion and the
peacock, the kings of the animal world, are its companions in art. They
are always painted together in the decoration of a temple or palace
wall, and when lions dance on the Japanese stage they always have a
gorgeous background of pæonies. There may be more of myth than truth in
the pretty story of Ichinenko, a kind of pæony, whose flowers turned
crimson when Yo Ki Hi (the beloved mistress of the Emperor Genso,
famous in Chinese history in connection with the pæony) accidentally
touched the petals of the flower with her rouged finger-tips, when she
appeared in the garden after finishing her morning toilette.
So strong is the feeling among Japanese poets that the flower is
lacking in any poetical grace, that the _Hokku_[2] poet Hyoroku
remarks in his Essay on a Hundred Flowers, “The pæony is like the
mistress glorified in one’s love, who acts as she pleases without any
consideration for another’s feeling. It has such an attitude, as if it
spit out a rainbow into the blue sky.” The poet Bushon, who has written
more lines on the pæony than any other poet, says--
Niji wo haite
Hirakanto suru
Botan hana.
(Spitting forth a rainbow
Is about to bloom
The pæony flower.)
[2] _Hokku_ is a poem of seventeen syllables.