The Three-Cornered World
Page 17
I was being dragged back more and more into the world of reality. Anywhere that you can find a railway train must be classed as the world of reality, for there is nothing more typical of twentieth-century civilization. It is an unsympathetic and heartless contraption which rumbles along carrying hundreds of people crammed together in one box. It takes them all at a uniform speed to the same station, and then proceeds to lavish the benefits of steam upon every one of them without exception. People are said to board and travel by train, but I call it being loaded and transported. Nothing shows a greater contempt for individuality than the train. Modern civilization uses every possible means to develop individuality, and having done so, tries everything in its power to stamp it out It allots a few square yards to each person, and tells him that he is free to lead his life as he pleases within that area. At the same time it erects railings around him, and threatens him with all sorts of dire consequences if he should dare to take but one step beyond their compass. It is only natural that the man who has freedom within the confines of his allocated plot, should desire to have freedom to do as he wishes outside it too. Civilization's pitiable subjects are forever snapping and snarling at imprisoning bars, for they have been made as fierce as tigers by the gift of liberty, but have been thrown into a cage to preserve universal peace. This, however, is not a true peace. It is the peace of the tiger in a menagerie who lies glowering at those who have come to look at him. If just one bar is ever taken out of the cage, the world will erupt into chaos, and a second French Revolution will ensue. Even now there are constant individual revolts. That great North-European writer, Ibsen, has cited in detail the circumstances which will lead to this outbreak. Whenever I see the violent way in which a train runs along, indiscriminately regarding all human beings as so much freight, I look at the individuals cooped up in the carriages, and at the iron monster itself which cares nothing at all for individuality, and I think, 'Look out, look out, or you'll find yourselves in trouble.' The railway train which blunders ahead blindly into the pitch darkness is one example of the very obvious dangers which abound in modern civilization.
We went and sat down in a tea-shop in front of the station. I stared at the rice-cake before me and thought about railway trains. This did not make me want to draw one, and there was no reason for me to impart my views to the others, so I ate my cake and drank my tea in silence.
Seated at the other table across the room were two men. They both wore identical straw sandals, but one was wrapped in a red blanket, while the other had on a pair of closely fitting light-green trousers which were patched at the knees. His hands resting on the patches completed the interesting contrast of colours.
'So it's no good after all then?' one of them was saying.
'No good at all.'
'It'd be all right if men had two stomachs like a cow. Then if anything went wrong with one of them, you'd just have to cut it out, and that'd be the end of the matter.'
Apparently, one of these countrymen was suffering from stomach trouble. They knew nothing of the stench which the wind was carrying across the plains of Manchuria, neither did they realise the shortcomings of modern civilization. As for revolution, why, they had never heard of the word. In all probability they were not even sure whether they had one or two stomachs. I took out my sketchbook and drew them.
Presently there came the shrill ringing of a bell, announcing the train's arrival.
'Well, shall we go?' suggested O-Nami standing up.
'All right,' agreed the old man also rising. Since we had already bought our tickets, we went straight to the barrier and passed through on to the platform. The bell continued to ring insistendy.
There was a rumbling sound, and belching black smoke from its mouth, a serpent born of civilization came slithering its way over the silver rails.
'We'll have to say good-bye now,' said Mr Shioda.
'Yes. Well good-bye and take care of yourselves,' replied Kyuichi with a slight bow.
'Go and get killed,' said O-Nami for the second time.
"How about your luggage? Has it come? asked O-Nami's brother.
The serpent came to a halt in front of us, and as the many doors in its side opened, people began to stream in and out. Kyuichi climbed in, leaving the old man, O-Nami, her brother and myself standing on the platform.
One turn of the wheels, and Kyuichi would no longer belong to our world, but would already have gone to a world far, far away where men were moving midst the acrid fumes of burnt powder, and where they slipped and floundered wildly in a crimson quagmire, while overhead the sky was filled with the roar of unnatural thunder. Now he stood in the carriage about to depart for such a place, and stared at us mutely. This was where the rope of fate by which he had dragged us down from the mountains would be severed. The strands had, in fact, already begun to part. Although the carriage door and window stood open, although we could still see each other's face, and although there were no more than six feet between him who was to leave and us who were to remain behind, the rope was already fraying.
The guard ran along the platform towards us, slamming the doors as he came. With the closing of each door, the gulf widened between those that were leaving and those who had come to see them off. At length, Kyuichi's door banged shut, and the world was cut in half. Unconsciously the old man moved closer to the window, and Kyuichi put his head out.
'Look out there! She's off!' Before the last echoes of this cry had died away, there came the rhythmic blasts of steam being expelled from the engine as it slowly worked into its stride, and the train started to move. One by one the carriage windows passed by, and Kyuichi's face gradually grew smaller. As the last third-class carriage went past, another face emerged. There was the shaggy beard and well-worn brown Homburg of the 'soldier of fortune' who, filled with the sadness of parting, was taking one last look out of the window. Just then, he and O-Nami happened to catch sight of each other, but the engine continued to chug on, and very soon his face disappeared from view.
O-Nami gazed after the train abstractedly, but strangely enough the look of abstraction was suffused with that 'compassion' which had hitherto been lacking.
'That's it! That's it! Now that you can express that feeling, you are worth painting,' I whispered, patting her on the shoulder. It was at that very moment that the picture in my mind received its final touch.
1st September 1906