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
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!”...