But for the same reason that Japanese short poems may be said to
resemble. Japanese pictures, a full comprehension of them requires an
intimate knowledge of the life which they reflect. And this is
especially true of the emotional class of such poems,—a literal
translation of which, in the majority of cases, would signify almost
nothing to the Western mind. Here, for example, is a little verse,
pathetic enough to Japanese comprehension:—
Chōchō ni!..
Kyonen shishitaru
Tsuma koishi!
Translated, this would appear to mean only,—“_Two butterflies!… Last
year my dear wife died!_” Unless you happen to know the pretty Japanese
symbolism of the butterfly in relation to happy marriage, and the old
custom of sending with the wedding-gift a large pair of
paper-butterflies (_ochō-mechō_), the verse might well seem to be less
than commonplace. Or take this recent composition, by a University
student, which has been praised by good judges:—
Furusato ni
Fubo ari—mushi no
Koë-goë![1]
—“_In my native place the old folks [or, my parents] are—clamor of
insect-voices!_”
[1] I must observe, however, that the praise was especially evoked by
the use of the term _koë-goë_—(literally meaning “voice after voice”
or a crying of many voices);—and the special value of the syllables
here can be appreciated only by a Japanese poet.
The poet here is a country-lad. In unfamiliar fields he listens to the
great autumn chorus of insects; and the sound revives for him the
memory of his far-off home and of his parents. But here is something
incomparably more touching,—though in literal translation probably more
obscure,—than either of the preceding specimens;—
Mi ni shimiru
Kazé ya!
Shōji ni
Yubi no ato!
—“_Oh, body-piercing wind!—that work of little fingers in the
shōji!_”[2]…. What does this mean? It means the sorrowing of a mother
for her dead child. _Shōji_ is the name given to those light
white-paper screens which in a Japanese house serve both as windows and
doors, admitting plenty of light, but concealing, like frosted glass,
the interior from outer observation, and excluding the wind. Infants
delight to break these by poking their fingers through the soft paper:
then the wind blows through the holes. In this case the wind blows very
cold indeed,—into the mother’s very heart;—for it comes through the
little holes that were made by the fingers of her dead child.
[2] More literally:—“body-through-pierce wind—ah!—_shōji_ in the
traces of [viz.: holes made by] fingers!”
The impossibility of preserving the inner quality of such poems in a
literal rendering, will now be obvious. Whatever I attempt in this
direction must of necessity be _ittakkiri;_—for the unspoken has to be
expressed; and what the Japanese poet is able to say in seventeen or
twenty-one syllables may need in English more than double that number
of words. But perhaps this fact will lend additional interest to the
following atoms of emotional expression:—