CHAPTER XV
GARDEN FOLK-LORE AND LEGENDS—(I)
“Chide me not, laborious band,
For the idle flowers I brought;
Every Aster in my hand
Goes home loaded with a thought.
There was never mystery
But ’tis figured in the flowers;
Was never secret history
But birds tell it in the bowers.”
The garden and flower lore of Japan is strangely impersonal. As in her poetry, there is little of simile, or of the turning of plant life into human beings, or the endowment of personality on inanimate things. It seems as if the Japanese love flowers more for themselves than for the images they evoke, and yet what is love but a divine imagination! A man who loves his mistress for her beauty or for her character alone, who endows her not with transcendental qualities, has a narrow margin of affection on which to draw; that which is all explained is at the end of its interest. How, then, is it that the Japanese—of all the people on this earth the fondest, as a nation, of flowers—without the fairy wand of impersonation to assist are such true and faithful lovers of them! But, in spite of the absence of the fiction of personality—which forms the bulk of our own flower folk-lore—and partly, also, because the Japanese regard each other and their own egos in the same way (for instance, there are almost no personal pronouns in use in the language), so that the human entity is only a drop in the vast sea of divine entity—there are some lovely elusive thoughts, of spiritual ideas, colouring every object in Nature, giving rainbow tints even to the muddy waters of the ditch. Things are endowed with qualities, excellences, shades and glamours, instead of being simply transformed into men and women, gods and goddesses.
For instance, the Wistaria is likened not so much to a particular woman as to the lovely abstract ideal of one. Clinging, drooping, graceful, robed in the delicate pale hues a highly bred lady chooses, fragrant and bounteously sweet, she yet—although she is as her lord would have her, helpless and dependent on his (the sturdy Pine’s) support—can still with tenacious tendrils hold the house of his love together, bind fast the framework of home. It rather spoils the pretty notion to remember that the lovely Fuji[1] is supposed to be over-fond of saké, and that she will be grateful if you will throw the dregs from your wine-cup on her roots!
One of the Nō plays is founded on a personification of the Wistaria vine, but it is somewhat more spiritual and remote than the same kind of legend would be with Western nations. A priest, on his way to view the famous Fuji of Tako no Ura, meets a sweet and beautiful young girl, who is soon to turn into the spirit of the Wistaria. She asks for his prayers to assist her soul to enter Paradise. Poor pretty flower! She loves the world, and the beauty and fragrance that are hers; but later, swaying and lithe in clinging purple silks, the long sleeves swinging like the great racemes of honey-scented blooms, she appears to dance her last dance before she vanishes to the happy Nirvana in which the priest’s prayers have won her a place.
So also the Convolvulus, in one word, typifies all that is most brief and beautiful in life. The very essence of poetry is in it, to the Japanese mind, and they never weary of making delicate little verses on the subject, suggesting at least—for that, to them, is more desirable than expressing—the evanescent loveliness of life, and its eternity. One poet, Matsunaga, says—
“Although thy bloom may not outlast the day,
O Morning Glory, would thy heart were mine!
Eternity dwells in thy cup as in
The thousand years that ring the stately Pine.”
A dozen more might be quoted.
The Pine tree (Matsu) symbolizes long life, and it is believed that after a thousand years its sap turns to amber; but it also implies other things, sturdiness and strength and steadfastness. Again, two Fir trees standing side by side (more especially the famous two at Takasago and Suminoye, of the popular old Nō drama) typify a husband and wife growing aged together. In the quaint old play the spirits of these trees are changed into an elderly peasant and his wife—a reversal of the plan of our folk-lore, which converts people into trees—and they converse together thus:
Tomonari, the guardian of a Shinto shrine, says, “Strange! I see you old couple here together. What mean you, then, by saying that you dwell apart, one in distant Suminoye, the other in Takasago, divided from one another by seashore, hill, and province?” To which the old woman replies, “What an odd speech! Though many a mile of mountain and river separate them, the way of a husband and wife, whose hearts respond to one another with mutual care, is not far apart.”
“The hoar frost falls
On the Fir tree twigs;
But its leaves’ dark green
Suffer no change.
Morning and evening
Beneath its shade
The leaves are swept away,
Yet they never fail.
PINE AND PINK LOTUSES AT KOFU
True it is
That these Fir trees
Shed not all their leaves;
Their verdure remains fresh
For ages long,
As the Misaka trailing vine;
Even amongst evergreen trees—
The emblem of unchangeableness—
Exalted is their fame
As a symbol to the end of time—
The fame of the Fir trees that have grown old together.”[2]
Pines, Fir trees, and Cryptomerias have also the halo of sanctity about them. Whenever we find a stately avenue of the dark bronze and blue-green Firs, we may know that sooner or later they will lead us to a temple, or some sacred shrine. Buddhist and Shinto alike plant these great conifers on the hill sites where their holy places are, and they are almost as infallible a sign of the proximity of a temple as are rows of stone lanterns, or the red wooden gateways called Torii. At Nikko there is a tree, a conifer of some sort, set around with a stone railing, visited, loved and venerated still, which, when it was a baby plant a few inches high in a flower-pot cradle, is said to have been brought there by the great Iyeyasu. To this famous men come and leave a visiting card, as is the Japanese custom nowadays in going to heroes’ graves.
Another tree, like the latter too tourist-ridden to appeal to me as it should have done, is the great Pine tree at Karasaki, on the shores of Lake Biwa. It is hardly strange, however, that it should be considered sacred; for, reversing the old Greek adage, if the gods did not love this tree why has it lived so long? Again, such size, is it not miraculous? Murray says that the trunk is thirty-five feet in circumference, that it is ninety feet high, and that the length of its branches, from north to south, is two hundred and eighty-eight feet. To me it was a monstrous shambling Caliban, a caricature of the grandeur I expected. Crutches of bamboo and stone pillars supported its tottering old limbs, a silly little roof covered its bald spot up above, and the holes and cavities in its trunk had been stopped with plaster to prevent the spread of decay. We bought post-cards, and hated the place. The lofty spirit of Old Japan dwells not in that decrepit old hulk, which survives without dignity, lives without that beauty or joy or usefulness, which, if man or creature have not prolonged, life is but a mockery and a disgrace.
The Bamboo (Také), in addition to its almost limitless practical uses, has many pretty legends connected with it, and its place in decoration, in sentiment, and in poetic significance is an honourable one. Although it is a grass, and “in the morning it flourisheth, and groweth up; in the evening it is cut down, and withereth,” yet long life, in Chinese (and, hence, in Japanese) eyes, is suggested by it. All over the Far East it is considered very lucky, and many are the qualities with which it is supposed to endow the wearer; strength, vigour, uprightness, these are the main ones; while its constant colour suggests virtue and purity in a woman, and constancy—a rare gift, I fear, in that fair land—in a man. With the Chrysanthemum, the Plum, and the Orchid, the Bamboo forms the company of the ‘Four Floral Gentlemen’—a grouping that bears thinking on, aside from the quaint charm of the idea. In picture lore, sparrows are always put with the Bamboo, as are nightingales with the Plum, and quails with Reeds and other grasses.
My first introduction to the old stories connected with the Bamboo was in a curio-shop in Yokohama, where I was buying some beautiful old faded embroideries. The Lady from California, who had paid for her gay new work four times what I had given for my ‘washed-out old rags,’ as she called them, was very indignant that, on every subsequent visit we paid to the shop, even the proprietor, as well as every available assistant, hurried to show me old treasures the moment they spied me, while the young man who exhibited magenta Pæonies and vivid roosters to her cast constant rueful glances towards the other group. It was not that I bought much, but that a Japanese, even a shopkeeper in mercantile Yokohama, will never tire of showing the beautiful things he loves himself, and recounting the stories connected with them, if he finds a sympathetic audience. And so the following year to these kind, friendly people I went again, with Himself, and we looked, and they talked, and we bought a little, and wasted a lot of their time. One of the things we carried away with us, besides their good wishes, was a faroushiki, and this legend. Now, a faroushiki is a handkerchief-shaped piece of silk, in which a gift is wrapped up for presentation. It, and the lacquer box which actually contains the present, have to be returned. As it is a permanent institution, and may convey many beautiful things, it is correspondingly rich and fine, and there are inexorable laws as to the colours and subjects appropriate to every possible occasion. This one had been purposely made to enwrap what we might call a christening present to a child. It is of the palest moonlight-blue satin, lined with scarlet crêpe (Oh! that scarlet, like velvet Nasturtiums), and on it is embroidered an old man, in a driving snowstorm, bending over a clump of Bamboo shoots with a triumphant expression on his face. And the story, from China, I believe, is that a dutiful son, being asked by his aged mother to get her some Bamboo shoots in the depth of winter, was so full of filial piety as to go out to perform the impossible, and so great was his faith that a miracle happened, and these, sprouting through the snow, were the first green-gold shoots of the Bamboo. The son was represented as old because he afterwards became one of the Twenty-four Wise Men, who all lived to a great old age. I only hope that the child who first received a gift so wrapped was old enough to appreciate it all, but the story is sure to have been told him later, if not then, as it is a great favourite in Japan.
Another well-loved tale is that of the Moon Princess, who appeared from out the shining stem of a Bamboo to an old man, a wood-cutter, who took her home and adopted her, naming her Kaguyahime (‘The Shining Damsel’). She quickly grew up to be a most beautiful woman, and had innumerable suitors, to each of whom she allotted a task, on the performance of which (generally an impossibility) she promised to marry him. Naturally, they all failed. The Mikado himself then became a candidate, but she refused him without any test, though they remained good friends nevertheless, and subsequently kept up a correspondence, consisting chiefly of sentimental verses (Tanka). She was finally taken up to heaven in a fiery chariot, which came for her from her real home in the Moon.[3]
Another story connected with Bamboos, as familiar as our ‘Cinderella,’ is ‘The Tongue-cut Sparrow.’ An aged childless couple dwelt far out in the country. The old man was kind, gentle, and cheerful, but his wife was a cruel, scolding shrew. The husband had a pet Sparrow of which he was very fond, as was the bird of him; but the old woman was jealous of the little creature, and hated it. One day, in the absence of the man at his work in the fields, the old woman missed some starch which she had mixed over-night, and became very angry at being unable to find it, upon which the Sparrow came and confessed to having eaten it, and prayed for forgiveness. But she, furious with the little bird, cut out its tongue with a pair of scissors, and drove it from the house. When the old man returned he was greatly exercised in his mind at the disappearance of his little pet, and wanted to know where it was; but his wife at first prevaricated, and said she did not know what had become of it. On being pressed, however, she acknowledged what she had done, and why, and attempted to justify herself. Her husband was , and in the morning, instead of going to his work, he set forth to try to find the bird. After walking many, many miles, stopping at every clump of Bamboos and calling to it, he came at last to a big Bamboo wood, at the edge of which, to his great delight, he found his little favourite, which greeted him effusively. It showed him that a new tongue had grown to replace that which the cruel old woman had so barbarously cut out, telling him that he was not to trouble himself more about it, as it was now quite right again. Thereupon the old man knew at once that the Sparrow was a fairy. Then the fairy asked him to follow her, and took him to a most beautiful house in the middle of the wood, and entertained him there to dinner. After dinner the old man got up to go, saying that he had far to travel, and that his wife would be very angry if he were late. The little Sparrow tried hard to persuade him to remain for the night, but when he insisted on going she brought in two boxes, one large and the other small, and asked him to choose one of them as a present. He chose the smaller, as being the lighter, and, after much bowing and many compliments and thanks, took his departure on his long walk home.
On arrival at his hovel, late at night, he was met with a scolding from his wife, who wanted to know where he had been and why he was so late. The old man tried to pacify her by showing her the box, and related all his adventures, but she continued to nag, and to find fault with everything. They then opened the box, which they found to be full of gold and silver coins and many other valuable things. At this the woman was furious with the old man, because he had chosen the smaller box, and showered abuse on him.
In the morning the greedy old woman, who had been making her plans for getting the big box, made her husband tell her the way to the Sparrow’s house, and, without thinking that the Sparrow, which was now undoubtedly a fairy, might wish to retaliate upon her for the loss of its tongue, started off at once on the long tramp.
Arrived at the house she knocked loudly at the door, and was greeted politely by the Sparrow, who, though very much surprised at the visit and the frame of mind which prompted it, was much too well-mannered to give any expression to its feelings. The old woman wasted no time in formalities, however, but bluntly stated the object of her visit, which was to get the large box that her husband, she said, had stupidly left behind. The Sparrow at once acquiesced, and had the box brought out, upon which the old woman, without a word of thanks, promptly shouldered it and walked off.
The box was very heavy, so she could not go fast, as she wanted to do in order to find out its contents (for even she could not so violate every rule of Japanese etiquette as to look at the gift in sight of the donor); instead, she had to sit down and rest frequently, and it was during one of these rests that her desire to see what was inside the box overcame her. After looking stealthily round to see if anyone was in sight, she carefully opened it, expecting to find further stores of wealth. What she found, however, was a selection of the most hideous and malevolent demons and goblins, which bounced out on her like a Jack-in-the-box, and gave her such a thorough fright that she repented of her evil ways and became the kindest, best-natured, and hardest-working old woman that ever was, and the old couple ended their days in happiness and prosperity.
Not all the Bamboo stories are pleasant. One tells of a Chinese victim of torture, who was bound down upon a bed of the plants overnight, and by the morning the shoots, so fierce and rapid was their growth, had pierced right through his body. But this is too gruesome a tale with which to leave the subject of the beautiful Bamboo, so I will tell you that, in Japan, if lovers will give their names each to a branch of Bamboo, and tie the two twigs together with a long pin of thorn, forming a wish, after a time the wish will come true—for what does Bamboo mean but constancy! And what will lovers wish for but the continuance of their love!
But the Bamboo is also associated with the ‘religious plants,’ and Mr. Percival Lowell in his absorbingly interesting book, Occult Japan, never omits to mention that the ‘eight points’ in the sacred space made for the Shinto rites of spirit possession are marked by Bamboo wands, with the leaves left at the top in tufts.
About the Lotus flower a wealth of mystic lore has accumulated, for it is the emblem of Buddha, and its very prayer is “Oh, the jewel in the Lotus!” (Om Mani Padmi Hum). The blooms outspread, like the sun’s rays, are emblems of Buddha’s enlightenment, and the spokes marked on the top of the seed-pod denote the wheel of Eternity. In the ponds of every temple the plants may be found springing—a lovely token of purity, spotless and unsoiled—from the mud of their miry bed. Once this symbolized the spiritual triumph of the body over the debasing and polluting acts of birth and of death; but now it is no more associated with the new life, I suppose because it is too favourite an emblem of death. At funerals Lotus flowers of gold and silver paper are carried, and real flowers, if obtainable, are set in the bamboo flower-holders on the graves. At the Bon, the ‘Festival of the Dead,’ the food for the returning spirits is set out on Lotus leaves. Even the sacred mountain, Fuji, is hkened to the Lotus, and is called Fugo Ho, meaning ‘Lotus Peak,’ and truly may it be said to resemble the flower, deep rose at the base, pale rose where the morning sun paints its top with a concealed and secret heart of fire. In an old Buddhist Sutra we hear of a pond in Paradise “where the Lotus flowers large as a carriage wheel grow; the green flowers shine in green light, the yellow flowers in yellow light, red flowers in red light, and the white flowers are supreme in beauty and odour.” In a Buddhist temple in Kyoto may still be seen an old piece of tapestry, with the figure of Buddha exquisitely embroidered in silk which has been drawn from the stem of his flower, the Lotus. It was done, they say, by the beautiful and devout poetess, Princess Hase. Again, it is the dream of lovers to sit some day together on the ‘Lotus Throne’—so says Miss Du Cane; in other words, to die together, that is, to commit suicide! She also tells a story from Chinese literature of the extravagant Lord Tokonko, of the Sei province, which I have not met with elsewhere. This nobleman had a mistress named Han Hi, a singularly lovely girl. One day he made Lotus petals of pure gold and scattered them in his garden for her to walk upon, in order that he might compare their beauty with hers. He found them well matched. For even to this day the swaying, gliding walk of a graceful woman is likened to the balanced, rhythmic poise of the Lotus on its stalk.
Another plant which, like the Lotus, is associated with religious ideas is the Hemp. As the ‘most precious of the productions of the soil’ it was, in old days, presented as an offering to the gods in the Shinto temples, and it was also used in the ceremony of purification. In modern times paper has taken the place of the precious material, and so the idea of the ceremony is lost. Again, the priests, in offering gifts to the gods at the altar, tied up their long ceremonial sleeves with hempen cords, or the fibre of a creeping plant. Nowadays the serving-maids fasten back their sleeves with ribbons in the same way, and the act, now one for convenience only, has lost its former standing as a token of service and devotion.
The Plum blossom (Ume no hana) is masculine, but it typifies spiritual strength and beauty. If we translate this into courage, it sounds like a more manly characteristic. Of all the flowers of this flowery land it is the one most often referred to in poetry, one might well say the best loved. With its delicate petals, white as snowflakes, rosy as a child’s cheeks, deep red as a woman’s mouth, it seemed the last flower to place as the foremost of the ‘Four Floral Gentlemen,’ to liken to the sturdy qualities of a man, but as I looked longer I saw the subtle comparison. First flower of the year, braving the bleak winds, and even the snow, as early as January, what more courageous? And with trunk and branches hoary and grey (pure silver in the sunlight), and every year the returning bloom—a true type of Japan, with the new hopes and promise on the old rugged stock. The people who venerate age love the Plum for its beauty of crooked bough and ancient trunk, as much as for the frail promise of spring in its bloom; and I, who am half a Japanese in this, can sympathize with those who nip off the buds, so that the exquisite lines of stem and branch may not be lost with overweight of fragrant flowers.
It is a tragedy when the petals begin to fall. “Alas, that spring should vanish with the Rose.” There is a story told of a famous poet and courtier of the Fujiwara family, named Saigyo, who, in driving away a bird that with its fluttering wings was scattering the Plum blossoms, killed it. When he reached home his wife told him that she had dreamed that she was changed into a bird, and that he had struck her. It made such an impression on his mind that he retired from Court, and from attendance on the Emperor, and became a monk.
I love the soldier who, the good Rein tells us,—Kajiwara Genda Kagesugi was his fine, big-mouthed name,—went into battle in the fierce days of the twelfth century with fresh branches of Ume in his quiver, and I do not believe for an instant, as the Japanese do, that it was from them alone that he gained his splendid courage. The soldier who carries a flower into a fight carries already in his heart that which cannot be defeated—faith in his cause, and high resolve; better than a thousand scapularies and charms—the noble faith that, centuries later, defeated Holy Russia.
Another man, a sage, Sugawara-no-Michizana, whose memory is haloed in Plum blossoms, does not thrill me as Kajiwara does, but his name inspires the Japanese schoolboy even more, I fancy; for the twenty-fifth of every month is a holiday in his honour, and on that date in June a great festival is celebrated each year. I cannot quite see his greatness, except through martyrdom, which is an unhappy fruit of virtue that does not appeal to me. This man had been a Minister to the Emperor, and, losing the fickle favour of princes, he was banished, and died. Every one felt sorry, and he was canonized as a saint, and given the name of Tenjin, or ‘Heavenly God.’ A play has been written about him,[4] and every year verses composed in his honour and praise hang, like Orlando’s to Rosalind, from the twigs of Plum trees all over the country.
Another story of the Plum is of the daughter of the poet Kino Tsurayuki, whose best-loved tree was the one chosen to replace that of the Emperor Mura Kami at the palace at Nara, which had died. The fair lady was loath to part with her treasure, so, with a fine eye for effect, wrote a tanka and attached it to the tree when it was taken away. The Emperor was, of course, so struck with the verses that he sent the tree back to her. Here are the verses, as translated by Captain Brinckley:—
“Claimed for our Sovereign’s use,
Blossoms I’ve loved so long,
Can I in duty fail?
But for the nightingale,
Seeking her home of song,
How shall I find excuse?”
The petals from a branch of Plum sometimes fill the rôle of the Marguerite with Japanese girls. Three is the magic number which will bring good luck, if the petals are properly arranged, and if the number is repeated often enough.
The Cherry blossom signifies bodily or sensuous beauty, or, if the man who tells you is very patriotic,—for this may well be called the national flower of Japan,—beauty in the abstract. It does for them all. About it, also, there are pretty legends—the wonder is that there are not more, for, like a lovely, alluring woman, the Cherry blossom would seem born for adventure and story. It is, with the Plum, the most lavishly sung of by the poets. There is a certain fitness, too (for Wine, Women, and Song have from time immemorial been catalogued together), that when viewing Cherry blossoms saké is the prescribed drink. This custom has been in vogue since the fifth century of our era; up to that time the Cherry blossom does not seem to have made any special appeal. The Emperor Rikiu, banqueting in a pleasure boat with courtiers and song on a lake in one of the Royal pleasure grounds, like King Cophetua saw the beautiful beggar maid, the Cherry Blossom, and declared her fair. She had attracted his attention by falling into his cup of saké. “Without wine, who can properly enjoy the sight of the Cherry blossoms?” he cried. I could improve on this story by putting a more gallant speech into the mouth of the monarch, but history would not bear me out, so I refrain. I should like to be able to say that from that incident dated the rosy blossom’s royalty, but, as a matter of fact, it was not proclaimed the national flower until three slow centuries had passed. However, it has been since then a bloom favoured by Royalty as well as by poets (often they are one and the same, in Japan); and to an Imperial lover, the Emperor Shomu, is due the credit of planting the first trees near the palace at Nara. He had seen the rustic beauty while hunting on Mount Mikasa, in Yamato, and sent some of the flushed and lovely boughs, with verses in their praise, to his consort. Jealousy is hardly an attribute of Japanese wives, so a harem of the young trees was set out close to the palace, and the practice is now general throughout the country: priest and peasant, as well as prince, have groves of them, or at the least single trees, near their dwellings.
Another exalted admirer of the Cherry was the Shogun Yoshimune, who is said to have planted ten thousand of the trees along the banks of the Tamagawa (which is the main water-supply of the great city of Tokio), in order, so the charming story has it, that the purity of the flowers should also keep the water pure!
Of one of the famous Fujiwara family in the twelfth century, who so dearly loved the flowers that he was nicknamed ‘Sakura Machi,’ and who had planted over a hundred trees near his house, the story is told that, miserable at their short-lived beauty, he prayed to the god Taisan-fu-kuu to let them last longer. His prayer was answered, and for three even weeks the ruddy glory lingered.
But loved as the Cherry blossoms are by Emperor and artist, by poet and plain man alike, this is not for their sensuous beauty alone, not for their suggestion of an almost human claim to flesh and blood, their yet nearer touch to divinity in the perfection of delicate and ethereal grace; they stand for an idea, they represent a symbol. As the Plum speaks of the still beating heart of old Japan, so the Cherry typifies the old and ever-new spirit of Chivalry (Bushido), the knightly ideal—the ideal of Japan.
“Among flowers the Cherry,
Among men the Samurai,”
and—
“It is a Cherry blossom, it falls when it must,”
suggest, in the haunting, elusive way of the Japanese, the courage and faith of Japan.
- ↑ Fuji no hana is the Japanese name for Wistaria and does not here refer to the mountain.
- ↑ W. G. Aston’s translation.
- ↑ This is taken from the classic Taketori Monogatari (meaning ‘The Romance of the Bamboo Gatherer’), which has been delightfully rendered into English by Miss Yei Theodora Ozaki, in her Japanese Fairy Book. The Japanese, however, do not consider it a fairy tale by any means. In the same book is the story of ‘The Tongue-cut Sparrow,’ of which I here give a very brief résumé. Both these, by other translators, and many others, may be bought for a small sum at any Japanese bookstall, beautifully printed and illustrated in colours on crêpe paper, from the pens of various translators, and published by Hasegawa of Tokio. Some are Lafcadio Hearn’s translations, if I remember rightly.
- ↑ Sugawara Tenjin Ki.