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Updated: May 18, 2025
He was painted by the young Sargent, of course, and by the aging Whistler you remember the butterfly's portrait of him in a yellow kimono leaning against a black mantel? I, for one, think he was vastly amused by all this fury of admiration; he despised it and fed upon it. If he had been less great, he would have been utterly destroyed by it, even then.
It was that butterfly's beauty so in keeping with waltzing, darting about the garden, laughter and gaiety, and incongruous with serious thought, grief, and repose; and it seemed as though a gust of wind blowing over the platform, or a fall of rain, would be enough to wither the fragile body and scatter the capricious beauty like the pollen of a flower.
These transformations do not correspond to our common idea of metamorphoses, as observed in the Insect, for instance. In the Butterfly's life we have always one and the same individual, the Caterpillar passing into the Chrysalis state, and the Chrysalis passing into the condition of the Winged Insect.
What finicking dilettantism was ever such "antic, lisping, affecting fantastico?" that rough Neptune, who in blind fury bombards the stubborn beaches with blocks of coral, should be delicately susceptible to the downy print of a butterfly's wings!
"It is a scale from a butterfly's wing." "Why, it is as large as a small butterfly," said Daisy. The doctor shewed her where the little scale lay, so little that she could hardly see it out of the glass; and Daisy went back to the contemplation of its magnified beauty with immense admiration.
Tim and Charles, with four others, immediately repaired to the place where Joe Braman's boat, which had been hired for the enterprise, was concealed. Seating themselves in it, they waited till the hour had expired, and then, with muffled oars, pulled up to the Butterfly's house. The doors which opened out upon the lake were not fastened, and an entrance was readily effected.
She sounds very much like a "Dainty Novel heroine," but I have met her and I know, and she also had a mouth turned up at the corners, and the loveliest teeth, a nose which also turned up, not unduly, and a skin on which lay the merest suspicion of powder like dust on a butterfly's wings, also two jet black grains de beauté, one at the corner of her mouth and the other on top of the left cheek, just under the outside corner of the eye.
She took it up with an exclamation of pleasure, for never, within her memory, had such grapes as these come even from the Marsh vineyards. She held the heavy cluster to the sunlight, noting the perfect shape of the fruit, the purple goblets filled with sweetness, and the fairy-like bloom, more delicate even than the dust on the butterfly's wing.
Turning, Butterfly Bill saw that it was Jennie Junebug who had spoken to him. She had noticed the crowd from a distance. And she had just arrived, quite out of breath. Before Betsy Butterfly's cousin Bill could answer, Jennie Junebug actually threatened him. "If you were talking about me I shall have to knock you down," she declared. He had heard that Jennie delighted in flying bang into anybody.
Yes; that may be is true but only there where personality is not, where man is not, where freedom is not; the butterfly's wing spoiled appears again and again for a thousand years as the same wing of the same butterfly; there sternly, fairly, impersonally necessity completes her circle... but man is not repeated like the butterfly, and the work of his hands, his art, his spontaneous creation once destroyed is lost for ever.... To him alone is it vouchsafed to create... but strange and dreadful it is to pronounce: we are creators... for one hour as there was, in the tale, a caliph for an hour.
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