"The new moon! What a fool this priest is!" cried one. "The poem should be about the full moon." "Let him go on," said another; "it will be all the more fun." So they gathered round, and mocked and laughed at him. Bashō paid no attention, but went on—
Since then I waited—
And lo! to-night!
[I have my reward]."
The whole party were amazed. They took their seats again and said, "Sir, you can be no common priest to write such a remarkable verse. May we ask your name?" Bashō smilingly replied, "My name is Bashō, and I am travelling about on a pilgrimage for the sake of practising the art of Haikai." The rustics, in great excitement, apologised for their rudeness to an eminent man "whose fragrant name was known to all the world." They sent for their friends who were interested in Haikai, and began their al fresco feast anew in his honour.
It has been objected that Haikai, even in the hands of an acknowledged master like Bashō, is too narrow in its compass to have any value as literature. The Kangakusha Dazai Shuntai calls it a tsutanaki mono (a stupid sort of thing), and Shōtei Kinsui admits that in the eyes of "the superior man" this is doubtless so. Its popularity, however, is undeniable. The name of Bashō was known to the very cow-herds. He had ten disciples, and they in their turn had pupils whose name is legion. Monthly conferences of Haikai amateurs were held regularly both in the capital and the provinces, and there were professors who contrived to make a living by practising this art.
