I
Would that I could hope for the luck of that Chinese scholar known to
Japanese literature as “Rōsan”! For he was beloved by two
spirit-maidens, celestial sisters, who every ten days came to visit him
and to tell him stories about butterflies. Now there are marvelous
Chinese stories about butterflies—ghostly stories; and I want to know
them. But never shall I be able to read Chinese, nor even Japanese; and
the little Japanese poetry that I manage, with exceeding difficulty, to
translate, contains so many allusions to Chinese stories of butterflies
that I am tormented with the torment of Tantalus... And, of course, no
spirit-maidens will even deign to visit so skeptical a person as
myself.
I want to know, for example, the whole story of that Chinese maiden
whom the butterflies took to be a flower, and followed in multitude,—so
fragrant and so fair was she. Also I should like to know something more
concerning the butterflies of the Emperor Gensō, or Ming Hwang, who
made them choose his loves for him... He used to hold wine-parties in
his amazing garden; and ladies of exceeding beauty were in attendance;
and caged butterflies, set free among them, would fly to the fairest;
and then, upon that fairest the Imperial favor was bestowed. But after
Gensō Kōtei had seen Yōkihi (whom the Chinese call Yang-Kwei-Fei), he
would not suffer the butterflies to choose for him,—which was unlucky,
as Yokihi got him into serious trouble... Again, I should like to know
more about the experience of that Chinese scholar, celebrated in Japan
under the name Sōshū, who dreamed that he was a butterfly, and had all
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.