The Butterfly Spirit

In the county of Wu lived a young man named Shen Yanqiu. Orphaned early, he was of a solitary temper and loved quiet. At twenty he rented a deserted garden on the city's western edge. The garden had once belonged to an official's family and, fallen to ruin after the wars, kept only an old osmanthus, an ancient vine, and a single frame of sweetbrier; wild flowers grew of themselves, and bees and butterflies came and went. Shen minded none of it. He sat each day beneath the vine with his books and was content.

One late-spring day he noticed upon the sweetbrier a strange butterfly, its wings crimson barred with gold, as broad as a child's palm, beating but unable to fly. He looked closer: it was bound in a spider's thread and near to perishing. He pitied it, broke a bamboo twig, and lifted away the silk. The butterfly spread its wings, circled him three times, and drifted into the flowers. Shen thought it odd, then thought no more of it.

After that the butterfly came often. When he read, it rested at the corner of his desk; when he walked by the water, it followed above the ripples. Shen was pleased and set out dozens of yellow chrysanthemums along the step, saying, "I shall wait for autumn and make my pleasure of them."

On a summer night Shen took the cool in the waterside pavilion. The moon was like rinsed jade; his lamp guttered low. Suddenly from the shadow of the flowers a young woman stepped forth, in green, light in her bearing as a butterfly in flight. She made her courtesy and said, "I am A-Die. You gave me my life, and I have no other way to repay you than to wash your inkstone and boil your tea, and keep you company by the lamp." Shen started up. "Who are you?" The woman smiled. "You knew only to pity a creature; did you not know a creature might pity you? I am the garden's butterfly. I felt your kindness and came." Shen's heart stirred, yet he dared not be familiar.

For several nights she came without fail, setting his disordered books in order and brewing fresh tea. He tested her with a poem; she answered on the instant, clear and graceful beyond his own. He teased, "You are no common thing - surely an immortal?" She grew grave. "I am indeed a butterfly spirit. Your heart is pure, and so I dare draw near; had there been the least impurity, I had fled long since." "Then you came only to repay me?" "Only that. And you are alone here, your lamp so lonely; I came merely to ease your boredom."

There was an old gardener, Old Jiao, who had kept the garden in the former master's day. Seeing Shen speak with the woman, he took him aside. "This garden is said to harbour a flower-spirit. The former master's son was bewitched by it and died in madness. You are young - leave at once, lest you follow him." That night Shen put it to her. Her eyes filled. "The old man speaks truth. The former master's son loved a maid; the maid died and the son lost his wits. I pitied his grief and took the maid's shape to comfort him, hoping to cure his madness - but the son only pined away and died. I repented bitterly and swore never again to bewitch a man. I came to you only because you saved my life, to keep you company in your reading, and nothing more. If you doubt me, I will go this moment." She turned to leave. Shen caught her sleeve. "I know you now. What is there to doubt?" And he kept her.

As autumn neared, her face grew anxious. He asked why. She said, "The old pond to the west has drunk a whole summer of rain; its bank is soft and will break within a day or two and drown the garden. Move your books and goods to higher ground." Shen laughed. "Is this a spirit's tale to frighten me?" "Go and see for yourself tonight," she said. He did. At the second watch he stole thither and found the bank split several feet, water seeping through, the whole on the verge of collapse. Greatly alarmed, he roused Old Jiao; together they called the tenants, carried earth and stone, and banked it up until dawn. The garden was saved.

When it was done, she came to take her leave, her face pale. "My debt is paid, my warning given; I may not stay. Remember only this: when the chrysanthemums turn gold next year, I may pay you one visit." With that she became the crimson butterfly, circled him three times, and vanished into the chrysanthemums by the step. Shen stood in the wind; the chrysanthemums had not yet flowered, and he was long in his sorrow.

The next autumn he kept the garden, waiting for the flowers. When they opened in gold, a crimson-and-gold butterfly came from among them, hovered about him a long while, and then was gone. Shen watched it out of sight and wrote the Record of the Butterfly Villa to mark the thing. Thenceforth he waited for the chrysanthemums every year and never took a wife.

The Chronicler of the Strange would say: The power to bewitch men is commonly lodged in beauty; yet A-Die repaid kindness with kindness and danger with warning, neither seducing nor deceiving, free in her coming and going - how could this be the work of a mere demon? That which takes a shape to confound a man is a demon indeed, yet it is but the foolishness of feeling. I have watched a single butterfly and learned that even so small a creature has a heart of honour; while men, who call themselves the lords of all things, betray kindness and break faith - how do they compare? The garden falls to ruin, yet the chrysanthemum remains; the person departs, yet the feeling stays. The butterfly's repayment is faint and long, and surpasses a thousand human vows.