Notes from a Withered Field

Basho called Joso and Kyorai to his side. He had not slept the night before, and a poem had come to him as he lay thinking. He had Donshu write it down, and he told them all to read it. So says The Hanaya Diary, a record of Basho's last days.

芭蕉は丈艸と去来を枕もとに呼んだ。前の晩は眠れず、あれこれ思いめぐらすうちに、一句が浮かんだという。それを呑舟に書かせ、皆に詠んでみよと言った。芭蕉の最期の日々を記した『花屋日記』は、そう伝えている。

Sick on a journey, my dreams go wandering over withered fields.

旅に病んで夢は枯野をかけめぐる

It was the afternoon of the twelfth day of the tenth month, in the seventh year of Genroku, 1694. The sky had glowed red at dawn, and the merchants of Osaka had wondered if it would rain again as it had yesterday. But luckily no rain came, and it became a quiet, cloudy, softly bright winter afternoon. Even the slow river between the shops had lost its shine, and the people on its banks walked quietly, as if they had forgotten the cold winds of the world.

元禄七年（1694年）十月十二日の午後である。朝焼けの空を見て、大阪の商人たちは、また昨日のように時雨れるのかと気にしていた。が、さいわい雨は降らず、曇りながらもうす明るい、もの静かな冬の昼になった。町家の間をゆっくり流れる川の水さえ、今日はつやを消している。岸を行く人々も、木枯らしの吹く世の中を忘れたように、ひっそりと歩いていた。

At this time, in a back room of the house of Hanaya Nizaemon, in front of the Mido temple, the great haiku master Matsuo Basho lay dying. He was fifty-one. Cared for by disciples who had gathered from all over the country, he was quietly breathing his last, "like the warmth of buried embers growing cold." It was nearly four in the afternoon.

この時、御堂前の花屋仁左衛門の裏座敷では、俳諧の大宗匠、松尾芭蕉が死の床についていた。五十一歳である。四方から集まってきた門弟たちに看病されながら、芭蕉は「埋火のあたたまりの冷むるが如く」、静かに息を引きとろうとしていた。時刻は午後四時に近かった。

The sliding doors between the rooms had been taken away to make one large room. A thin line of incense smoke rose beside his pillow, and the air was cold enough to sink into the body. Basho lay perfectly still with his head toward the paper doors, and around him sat his disciples.

間の襖をとり払った、だだっ広い座敷である。枕もとには香の煙がひとすじ昇り、身にしみるように冷え冷えとしていた。芭蕉は障子のほうを枕にして、ひっそりと横たわり、そのまわりを門弟たちが囲んでいた。

Close to him was the doctor Mokusetsu, his hand under the bedding, feeling the slow pulse with a worried frown. Behind him, the old servant Jirobei was softly chanting the name of the Buddha. Next to Mokusetsu sat Kikaku, big and fat, and the dignified Kyorai, both watching their master closely. Behind Kikaku sat Joso, who looked like a monk, with a rosary around his wrist. Beside him, Otsushu kept sniffing, unable to bear his sadness.

いちばん近くには医者の木節がいて、夜具の下から手を入れ、間遠い脈をはかりながら、浮かない顔で眉をひそめていた。その後ろでは、老僕の治郎兵衛が、小声で念仏を唱えつづけている。木節の隣には、大柄で太った其角と、ものごしの凛々しい去来が並び、じっと師匠の容態をうかがっていた。其角の後ろには、法師のような丈艸が、手首に数珠をかけて控えている。その隣の乙州は、悲しさに堪えきれず、しきりに鼻をすすっていた。

Watching Otsushu was a short monk in an old robe, Izenbo, who sat next to Shiko, a man with dark skin and a stubborn face. The other disciples sat around the bed, hardly breathing. Only one, crouched in a corner with his face to the floor, was sobbing aloud. It was probably Masahide. But even his crying was pressed down by the cold silence of the room.

その乙州をじろじろ眺めているのは、古い法衣を着た背の低い僧、惟然坊である。彼は、色の浅黒い、強情そうな支考と並んで座っていた。ほかの弟子たちも床を囲み、息もしないように静まり返っている。ただ一人、座敷の隅にうずくまり、畳にひれ伏して声をあげて泣いている者がいた。正秀であろう。しかしその泣き声さえ、座敷の冷たい沈黙に押さえつけられていた。

A little while before, Basho had spoken his last wishes in a hoarse voice. Since then he seemed to have fallen into a deep sleep, his eyes half open. His thin face, lightly marked by old smallpox, showed only its cheekbones, and his lips had lost all color. Most painful of all were his eyes. They gazed vaguely far away, as if at the endless cold sky beyond the roofs. Perhaps, just as in his last poem, he was seeing in a dream the evening darkness of the endless withered fields.

芭蕉は少し前に、かすれた声で遺言をしたあと、眼を半ば開いたまま、昏睡に入ったらしい。うすいあばたのある顔は痩せ細って、頬骨ばかりが目立ち、唇からはとうに血の気が失せていた。ことに痛ましいのは、その眼である。屋根の向こうの、果てしない寒空でも眺めるように、ぼんやりと遠くを見やっている。もしかするとこの時、彼自身が辞世の句に詠んだとおり、果てしない枯野の夕暮れが、夢のように見えていたのかもしれない。

"Water," said Mokusetsu at last, turning quietly to Jirobei. The old servant had already prepared a bowl of water and a feather brush. He timidly placed them by his master's pillow and then hurried back to his prayers. In his simple heart, raised in the mountains, he firmly believed that anyone who was going to the other world, Basho or not, should rely on the mercy of the Buddha.

「水を。」やがて木節はそう言って、静かに治郎兵衛をふり返った。一椀の水と羽根楊子は、この老僕がすでに用意していた。彼は二つの品をおずおずと主人の枕もとに並べると、また急いで念仏を唱えはじめた。山家育ちの素朴な心には、芭蕉であれ誰であれ、あの世へ行く者は仏の慈悲にすがるべきだという、堅い信念が根を張っていたのである。

As he said "Water," Mokusetsu felt his usual doubt: had he really done everything he could as a doctor? But he soon encouraged himself and silently signaled to Kikaku. It was time for the last water, the custom of wetting the lips of a dying person. At that moment a tense feeling flashed through everyone around the bed: the end had come. But at the same time, they all felt a kind of relief, as if the thing that had to come had finally come.

「水を」と言ったその瞬間、木節は、医者として本当に手を尽くしたのだろうかと、いつもの疑いにとらわれた。が、すぐに自分を励まし、無言で其角に合図をした。末期の水の時が来たのである。死にゆく人の唇を水でしめす、別れのならわしだ。床を囲む一同の心に、「いよいよ」という緊張が走った。だが同時に、来るべきものがついに来たという、安心に似た気持ちも通りすぎた。

The feeling was so subtle that no one would admit to having it. Even Kikaku, the most practical of them all, was startled when his eyes met Mokusetsu's and each read the same feeling in the other. He quickly looked away, casually picked up the feather brush, and said to Kyorai beside him, "Well, I'll go first."

その気持ちはあまりに微妙で、誰ひとり、自分がそう感じたとは認めようとしなかった。いちばん現実的な其角でさえ、木節と目が合い、互いの眼の中に同じ気持ちを読みとった時には、さすがにぎょっとした。彼はあわてて目をそらすと、何気なく羽根楊子を取り上げ、隣の去来に「では、お先へ」と挨拶した。

Dipping the brush in the water, he moved forward on his heavy knees and looked down at his dying master's face. To tell the truth, he had expected that saying goodbye to his master would be very sad. But now that he was actually giving him the last water, his heart felt cold and clear. And to his surprise, the sight of his master, wasted to skin and bone, filled him with such strong disgust that he could hardly bear to look.

羽根楊子を水にひたし、厚い膝をにじらせて、其角はそっと死にゆく師匠の顔をのぞきこんだ。実を言えば、師匠と別れるのはさぞ悲しいだろうと思っていた。ところが、いざ末期の水をとってみると、心は冷たく澄みわたっている。そればかりか、骨と皮ばかりに痩せ衰えた師匠の姿は、意外にも、顔をそむけたくなるほど激しい嫌悪を彼に起こさせた。

It was the most unbearable kind of disgust, working on his body like an invisible poison. Was he showing his hatred of everything ugly through his master's sick body? Or was death, to a man who loved the pleasures of life, the most hateful threat of nature? At any rate, Kikaku felt hardly any sadness. As soon as he had brushed water on the thin purple lips, he drew back with a frown. A feeling like guilt crossed his mind for a moment, but his disgust was too strong to care about it.

それは目に見えない毒のように、体にまで働きかけてくる、最も堪えがたい種類の嫌悪だった。師匠の病んだ体に、醜いものすべてへの反感を向けたのだろうか。それとも、生を楽しむ彼にとって、死というものが、この上なく呪わしい自然のおどしだったのだろうか。とにかく其角は、ほとんど何の悲しみも感じなかった。紫がかった薄い唇に水をひと塗りするやいなや、顔をしかめて引き下がった。自分を責めるような気持ちが一瞬心をかすめたが、嫌悪のほうがあまりに強く、その気持ちを気にとめる余裕もなかった。

Next to take the brush was Kyorai, who had lost his calm ever since Mokusetsu's signal. Known for his humility, he bowed lightly to the others and moved up to Basho's pillow. But when he saw the old poet's worn-out face, he was filled with a strange mix of satisfaction and regret. These two feelings, like shade and sunlight, could not be separated, and for four or five days they had been troubling his timid heart.

次に羽根楊子をとったのは、木節の合図の時から落ち着きを失っていた去来である。日ごろから謙虚な人として知られる彼は、一同に軽く会釈をして、芭蕉の枕もとへ寄った。ところが、病みやつれた老俳人の顔を見ると、満足と後悔とが不思議にまじり合った気持ちが、胸にあふれてきた。この満足と後悔とは、陰と日向のように離れがたく、この四、五日、小心な彼の心をずっとかき乱していたのである。

As soon as he had heard that his master was seriously ill, Kyorai had taken a boat from Fushimi and knocked at the Hanaya's gate in the middle of the night. Since then he had not missed a single day of nursing. He had found helpers, sent someone to pray at the Sumiyoshi shrine, and bought everything they needed, almost all by himself. He did not expect anyone's thanks. But the knowledge that he had given himself completely to caring for his master planted a seed of great satisfaction deep in his heart.

師匠の重病を聞くやいなや、去来は伏見から船に乗り、夜中にもかまわず花屋の門をたたいた。それからは一日も看病を怠ったことがない。手伝いの人を集め、住吉の社へ人をやって回復を祈らせ、入り用の品も買いそろえた。ほとんど彼一人で、何から何まで世話を焼いたのである。誰かに恩を着せようという気は、まったくなかった。だが、身も心も師匠の看病にささげたという自覚が、心の底に大きな満足の種をまいた。

As long as that satisfaction stayed unconscious, it had only warmed his work. One night, however, sitting up by the lamp with Shiko, he made a long speech about duty to parents, saying that he served his master as he would serve his own father. Then he caught a bitter little smile on Shiko's face, and at once he felt the harmony in his heart break. He saw that instead of worrying about his master's illness, he was looking with satisfaction at his own hard work. For an honest man like him, this was a shameful thing.

その満足が意識されないうちは、仕事を暖かく支えていただけだった。ところがある夜、行燈のそばで支考と夜伽をしていた時、去来は親に仕える道を長々と語り、自分は親に仕えるつもりで師匠に仕えているのだと言った。その時、支考の顔にちらりと苦笑が浮かんだ。それを見て、彼はとたんに、心の調和が狂ったのを感じた。自分は師匠の病を心配するよりも、自分の骨折りぶりを満足げに眺めている。彼はそれに気づいたのである。彼のような正直者にとって、それは恥ずかしいことだった。

Since then, the struggle between his satisfaction and his regret had held him back in everything he did. Now, giving the last water at his master's pillow, the moral, sensitive Kyorai lost his calm completely. His whole body grew stiff, and the white tip of the brush trembled as it touched Basho's lips. But luckily, tears were also filling his eyes. So the disciples, perhaps even the sharp-tongued Shiko, took his excitement as a sign of grief.

それ以来、満足と後悔とのせめぎ合いが、何をするにも彼を縛るようになった。そして今、師匠の枕もとで末期の水をとる段になって、道徳に潔癖で神経の細い去来は、すっかり落ち着きを失ってしまった。体中がこわばり、羽根楊子の白い先は、芭蕉の唇にふれながら、しきりにふるえていた。が、さいわい、その眼には涙もあふれていた。だから門弟たちは、おそらくあの辛辣な支考までが、この興奮を悲しみのせいだと思ったことだろう。

When Kyorai had nervously returned to his seat, the brush passed to Joso. The faithful Joso, his eyes cast down, quietly wet his master's lips, murmuring something softly. Anyone would have found it solemn. But in this solemn moment, a strange laugh seemed to come from a corner of the room. It sounded like a great laugh rising from deep in someone's belly, held back by the throat and lips, but escaping in bursts through the nose.

去来がおずおずと席に戻ると、羽根楊子は丈艸の手に渡った。誠実な丈艸が伏し目になり、口の中で何かかすかに唱えながら、静かに師匠の唇をうるおしている姿は、誰の目にも厳かに見えたにちがいない。ところが、この厳かな瞬間に、座敷の片隅から、不気味な笑い声が聞こえたように思われた。それは、腹の底からこみあげてくる大笑いが、喉と唇にせき止められながら、ちぎれちぎれに鼻の穴からほとばしってくるような声だった。

Of course, no one was really laughing. It was Masahide, who had held back his sobs for so long that they now burst out at last. His crying was terribly sad, and many of the disciples must have remembered their master's famous poem: "Shake, O grave! My weeping voice is the autumn wind." But Otsushu, who was also close to tears, felt a little displeased at something exaggerated in it, or rather, at Masahide's lack of will to control himself.

もちろん、本当に笑った者などいない。それは、長いあいだこらえにこらえていた正秀の泣き声が、ついにあふれ出たのである。その泣き声はひどく悲痛で、弟子たちの多くは、師匠の名句「塚も動けわが泣く声は秋の風」を思い出したことだろう。だが、同じく涙にむせびかけていた乙州は、その泣き声にどこか大げさなものを感じて、少し不快になった。いや、それよりも、泣き声を抑えようとする意志の足りなさが不快だったのである。

But that displeasure was only in his head. His heart was moved at once by Masahide's sobbing, and before he knew it, his eyes were full of tears. He still found the sobbing unpleasant, and he was not proud of his own tears. And yet the tears kept coming, until at last, with his hands on his knees, Otsushu broke into sobs. Almost at the same moment, the sound of sniffing began to come from the other disciples at the foot of the bed.

しかし、その不快は頭の中だけのものだった。彼の心はたちまち正秀の泣き声に動かされ、いつのまにか眼に涙がいっぱいになった。正秀の泣き声を不快に思う気持ちも、自分の涙をいさぎよしとしない気持ちも、少しも変わらない。それでも涙はあふれてくる。乙州はとうとう両手を膝についたまま、声をあげて泣いてしまった。ほとんど同時に、床の裾のほうに控えていた弟子たちの中からも、鼻をすする音が聞こえはじめた。

Amid this sad sound, Joso quietly returned to his seat, and Shiko came forward to the pillow. Known as a cynic, he did not have the weak nerves that cry just because others are crying. With the same mocking look on his dark face as always, he carelessly brushed water on his master's lips. Even so, he certainly had some feelings at this moment.

そのしめやかな悲しい声の中で、丈艸は静かに席に戻り、かわって支考が枕もとへ進み出た。皮肉屋で知られる彼には、まわりにつられて涙を流すような、弱い神経はなかったらしい。いつものように浅黒い顔に人を小ばかにしたような表情を浮かべ、無造作に師匠の唇へ水を塗った。しかしその彼にも、この時ばかりは何かしらの感慨があったにちがいない。

A few days earlier, Basho had thanked them. "I always thought I would die on the grass, with the earth for my pillow. Nothing makes me happier than to die on such beautiful bedding." But in truth, Shiko thought, the middle of a withered field and this back room were not so different. Three or four days ago, he had worried that his master had no farewell poem. Yesterday he had planned to collect his master's poems after his death. And today he had been watching his dying master with the curious eye of an observer.

四、五日前、師匠は自分たちに礼を言ったことがある。「かねては草を敷き、土を枕にして死ぬ身と思っていたが、こういう美しい蒲団の上で死ねるのは、何よりもうれしい。」しかし実のところ、と支考は思った。枯野のただ中も、この花屋の裏座敷も、たいした違いはない。三、四日前、自分は師匠に辞世の句がないのを気にかけていた。昨日は、師匠の亡きあと、その句を集にまとめる計画を立てていた。そして今日は、死にゆく師匠を、どこか観察するような興味の眼で眺めていたのだ。

Thinking still more cynically, he might even have been imagining a chapter of the record of Basho's death that he would write some day. Sitting at his master's deathbed, what filled his head was his fame among other schools, the interests of the disciples, and his own profit and curiosity. None of it had anything to do with the dying man. So it was fair to say that his master had died, just as he had so often imagined in his poems, alone in the endless withered field of life.

さらに皮肉に考えれば、いつか自分の筆で書くはずの、師匠の最期の記録の一節さえ、頭の中で思い描いていたかもしれない。師匠の臨終の床にいながら、自分の頭を占めていたのは、ほかの一門への名聞、門弟たちの利害、そして自分自身の損得と興味だった。どれも、死にゆく師匠とは関係のないことばかりである。だから師匠は、句の中でたびたび思い描いたとおり、果てしない人生の枯野の中で、ひとり野ざらしになったと言ってよい。

"We disciples are not mourning our master," Shiko thought. "We are mourning ourselves for having lost him. We are not grieving for a teacher who died in a withered field. We are grieving for ourselves, left without a teacher in the dusk. But what is the use of blaming that? We humans are cold-hearted by nature." Sinking into such gloomy thoughts, and proud that he could sink into them, Shiko put the brush back in the bowl. He looked around scornfully at the weeping disciples and slowly returned to his seat.

「自分たち門弟は、師匠の最期を悼んでいるのではない。師匠を失った自分たち自身を悼んでいるのだ」と支考は思った。「枯野で死んだ師を嘆いているのではない。夕暮れに師を失った自分たち自身を嘆いているのだ。だが、それを責めてみたところで何になろう。人間はもともと薄情にできているのだ。」こういう厭世的な思いに沈みながら、しかもそれに沈めることを得意にしていた支考は、羽根楊子を湯呑に返した。そして涙にむせぶ門弟たちを、あざけるようにじろりと見まわし、ゆっくりと自分の席へ戻った。

The good-natured Kyorai was hurt by his cold manner and felt his earlier unease again. Only Kikaku wore a strangely uncomfortable expression, as if he found Shiko's habit of always looking down on everything a little tiresome.

人の好い去来は、その冷ややかな態度にあてられて、さっきの不安をまた新たにした。ただ其角だけは、妙に落ち着かない顔をしていた。何ごとも見下してかかる支考のこの癖を、小うるさく感じていたらしい。

When Izenbo crept forward after Shiko, dragging the hem of his black robe, Basho's death was only moments away. His face had lost still more color, and sometimes his breath stopped between his wet lips, as if he had forgotten it. Then his throat would move with a jerk, and weak air would pass again. As Izenbo was about to touch his lips with the brush, he was suddenly seized by a fear that had nothing to do with grief. It was the almost groundless fear that the next one to die after his master might be himself.

支考に続いて、惟然坊が墨染めの法衣のすそを引きずりながら、這うように進み出た時には、芭蕉の最期はもう間近に迫っていた。顔色はいっそう血の気を失い、濡れた唇の間からは、ときどき息が忘れたように途絶える。と思うと、ぎくりと喉が大きく動いて、力のない空気がまた通いはじめる。羽根楊子の先を唇に当てようとしたその時、惟然坊は急に、死別の悲しみとは関係のない、ある恐怖に襲われはじめた。師匠の次に死ぬのは自分ではないかという、ほとんど理由のない恐怖である。

The more groundless it was, the less he could fight it once it took hold. He was the kind of man who trembled with a sickly fear at the thought of death. Even on his poetry journeys, the thought of his own death made him break out in a cold sweat. When he heard that someone else had died, he felt relieved that it was not him, and at the same time uneasy, wondering what it would be like if it were.

理由がないだけに、一度とりつかれると、どうにも抵抗のしようがない。もともと彼は、死というと病的におびえる人間だった。風流の旅の途中でも、自分の死ぬことを考えると、全身に冷や汗が流れた。だから人が死んだと聞くと、自分でなくてよかったと安心する。と同時に、もし自分だったらどうだろうと、不安にもなるのだった。

It had been the same with Basho. In the early days of the illness, when the winter sun shone on the paper doors and the narcissus flowers sent by Sonojo filled the room with their clean smell, Izenbo had wandered between these two feelings, light and dark. But as the end came near, especially since the day of the first winter rain, when Basho could not eat even the pears he loved, his relief had slowly turned to unease. And at last the unease had become a chilling fear that he himself might be next.

芭蕉の場合も同じだった。病の初めのころ、障子に冬の日がさし、園女の贈った水仙が清らかな香りを流していたころは、惟然坊はこの明暗二つの気持ちの間を行き来していた。だが最期が近づくにつれ、ことに初時雨の日、好物の梨さえ師匠が食べられなくなってからは、安心はしだいに不安に変わった。そしてついには、その不安が、次に死ぬのは自分かもしれないという、うすら寒い恐怖になったのである。

So while he sat by the pillow wetting his master's lips, this fear haunted him, and he could hardly look at the dying face. He may have tried once, but at that moment the faint sound of phlegm came from Basho's throat, and his courage broke. "The next to die after the master may be me." Hearing this voice deep in his ears, the little Izenbo shrank back to his seat. He made his sullen face still more sullen and kept his eyes turned upward, trying not to look at anyone.

だから枕もとに座って師匠の唇をしめしている間も、この恐怖にたたられて、彼は死にゆく師の顔をほとんどまともに見ることができなかった。一度は見ようとしたのかもしれない。だがちょうどその時、芭蕉の喉の奥で、かすかに痰のつまる音がした。せっかくの勇気も、それでくじけてしまった。「師匠の次に死ぬのは、もしかすると自分かもしれない。」耳の底でこの声を聞きながら、小柄な惟然坊は身をすくめて席に戻った。そして無愛想な顔をいっそう無愛想にして、誰の顔も見ないように、上目ばかり使っていた。

After him, Otsushu, Masahide, Shido and Mokusetsu wet their master's lips in turn. Meanwhile, Basho's breathing grew thinner and fainter with every breath, and his throat no longer moved. His small, waxen face, his faded eyes staring into the distance, the silver beard on his chin: all seemed frozen by the coldness of human hearts, quietly dreaming of the land of pure light where he was going.

続いて乙州、正秀、之道、木節が、順々に師匠の唇をうるおした。その間にも芭蕉の呼吸は、一息ごとに細くかすかになり、喉ももう動かない。蝋のような小さな顔、遠くを見すえる光のあせた瞳、あごにのびた銀のような白いひげ。それがみな、人の心の冷たさに凍りついて、やがて行くはずの清らかな光の国を、じっと夢みているように思われた。

Just then Joso, the faithful follower of Zen, who sat behind Kyorai with his head bowed, began to feel an endless sorrow and an endless peace flowing slowly into his heart as Basho's breathing faded. The sorrow needs no explanation. But the peace was a strangely bright feeling, like the cold light of dawn slowly spreading through the darkness. Moment by moment it washed away all other thoughts, and in the end it turned even his tears into a pure sorrow with no pain in it.

するとこの時、去来の後ろで黙ってうなだれていた丈艸、あの誠実な禅の人、丈艸は、ある気持ちを感じはじめた。芭蕉の呼吸がかすかになるにつれて、限りない悲しみと、限りない安らかさとが、ゆっくりと心の中に流れこんでくるのである。悲しみは説明するまでもない。だが、その安らかさは、明け方の寒い光がしだいに闇の中に広がっていくような、不思議に明るいものだった。それは刻々にあらゆる雑念を押し流し、ついには涙さえも、少しも心を刺す痛みのない、清らかな悲しみに変えてしまった。

Was he glad that his master's soul had passed beyond life and death and gone to the eternal land of the Buddha? No, he himself could not believe that was the reason. Then why? Ah, why should anyone fool himself by hesitating? Joso's peace was the joy of being set free. His free spirit, held down for so long by the heavy weight of Basho's great personality, was at last beginning to stretch its arms and legs with its own strength.

彼は、師匠の魂が生死を超えて、永遠の仏の国へ還ったのを喜んでいるのだろうか。いや、それは彼自身にも認められない理由だった。では、なぜなのか。ああ、ためらって自分をあざむくような愚かなまねを、誰がしようか。丈艸のこの安らかさは、解き放たれた喜びだったのである。芭蕉の大きな人格の重みに、長いあいだ押さえつけられていた彼の自由な精神が、本来の力で、ようやく手足をのばそうとしていたのだ。

In this dreamlike, sad joy, Joso counted the beads of his rosary. As if the weeping disciples around him had vanished from his sight, a faint smile came to his lips, and he bowed respectfully to the dying Basho.

この恍惚とした悲しい喜びの中で、丈艸は数珠をつまぐった。まわりですすり泣く門弟たちも目に入らないかのように、唇にかすかな笑みを浮かべ、臨終の芭蕉にうやうやしく礼拝した。

And so Matsuo Basho, the great haiku master who had no equal in any age, quietly breathed his last, surrounded by his disciples "in their boundless grief."

こうして、古今に並ぶ者のない俳諧の大宗匠、松尾芭蕉は、「悲歎かぎりなき」門弟たちに囲まれたまま、静かに息を引きとったのである。

— The End —