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
WISTARIA, KABATA