their poems and essays in Chinese are now quite forgotten, and the least interesting poem in any of the famous anthologies of Japanese verse has probably been read more often than the best poem in the Chinese manner. Bakin’s novels, to the degree that they are derivative from Chinese precedents, are already falling into oblivion, even though fifty years ago he was considered by most Japanese to be the greatest of their novelists.
It is hard to give any idea with mere extracts of what Bakin is like, because the whole effect of his artistic method was achieved by drowning the inadequacies in the plot with a flood of beautiful words. The closest approximation to his style is perhaps obtained in the highly inaccurate Victorian translation of the novel entitled The Moon Shining Through a Cloud-Rift on a Rainy Night. The boy Tajikichi has just shot a hawk, and now rather regrets killing the bird. His sister speaks first.
“ ‘Ah!’ sadly ejaculated Taye; then, noticing the scroll, added, ‘What is that tied to its leg?’
“Her brother cut the silk cord, and, seeing the seal, exclaimed—
“ ‘This is a letter from our honourable father! I have killed his loyal messenger!’ As he spoke, he reverently pressed the scroll to his forehead, then, removing the fastening, read a few words; when big tears dropped from his red eyelids, and his bosom heaved with grief. After a moment he controlled his emotion, and said—‘Honourable elder sister, this is from our honourable father—written when he was about to start upon the lonely road.’ ”[1]
This is bad enough to be at once a parody of Bakin and of translation from the Chinese in general. Although the language
- ↑ Translated by Edward Greey, p. 205.
