by Ivan Morris
A quick glance tells me that there is nothing in the way of a garden; the house blends abruptly into the woods. “Blends” is indeed the only word, for as I have said I came upon the house all of a sudden and could not catch a glimpse of it from the distance. The house has clearly been built in such a position that it can be seen only when one is standing directly before it.
As I walk closer I see that it is quite a commonplace sort of house. At the same time, it is rather hard to put my finger on exactly what type of house it is. It has a thatched roof, but it is not like an ordinary farmhouse. The windows are all glazed in the Western style. Since I cannot see any entrance, I gather that we must be facing the back. From where I stand I notice that the two side walls are half covered with ivy. This is the only embellishment to give the house any interest or character. At first I thought it was a lodge, but it is too big for that and, besides, this wood doesn’t seem large enough to require a keeper. Well, if it isn’t a lodge, what can it be? Whatever happens I must go in and have a look. I can say that I have lost my way. No doubt they will offer me a cup of tea, and Fraté and I will eat the box lunch that I have brought.
With this in mind I walk round to the front of the house. Until now my sense of sight seems to have submerged my sense of hearing, but suddenly I realize that there is a stream nearby. The gurgling sound that I heard earlier must have come from near here. When I reach the front, I find that, like the rest of the house, it directly faces the forest. There is one peculiar thing about it, however: it is far more luxuriously built than the other parts of the building. Four fine stone steps lead up to the front door. This stone is far older than the remainder of the house and it is thickly overgrown with moss.
The house faces south and beneath the front window a row of small red roses grows along the wall. The roses stand there with a proprietary air. They are in full bloom and I have the impression that they blossom regardless of the season. And that is not all. From under a clump of roses flows a stream of water, the width of a sash, glittering brightly in the sun. At first glance it looks as if the water were flowing out of the house itself. My retainer Fraté starts lapping the water avidly; he evidently finds it delicious.
Now I walk quietly up the steps. I can clearly hear the sound of my shoes against the stone, but they do not really disturb the quiet of the surrounding scene. Playfully I mutter to myself: “I am now visiting the house of a hermit, or perhaps of a magician.” I look round and see Fraté standing there nonchalantly with his pink tongue hanging out and his tail wagging.
In the Western manner I knock on the Western-style door. There is no answer. I have to knock again. Still no answer. This time I call out: “May I come in?” There is not the slightest reaction. Is the owner out, I wonder, or is the house completely unoccupied? I am overcome by a rather weird feeling. I go to the front window where the roses are growing—for some reason I walk as quietly as possible—and standing on tiptoe look inside the house.
The window has a heavy, dark-maroon curtain decorated with blue lines. Obviously of very good quality, it does not go with the rest of the house. The curtain has been partly pulled aside and I can see clearly into the room. To my surprise I see a large stone basin, about two feet high, standing in the middle of the room. Water is gushing up from the center of the basin and pouring constantly over the sides. The basin is overgrown with moss. The floor, too, is of stone and it looks rather damp. (When I think about it later, I realize that the water spilling over the edge of the basin is the same glittering water that I saw slithering out like a snake from among the roses.)
That basin really amazes me. Although I have felt from the beginning that there was something rather peculiar about the house, I never expected to find such a weird arrangement inside. A new surge of curiosity comes over me and I start carefully examining the inside of the house through the window. The floor is made of some pale stone whose name I do not know. Round the basin where it is wet it has taken on a beautiful blue color. In laying out the floor they evidently used the stone just as it came from the quarry; there is something peculiarly natural about the surface. On the wall furthest from the entrance there is a fireplace also made of stone, and to the right I notice three bookshelves with what look like dishes piled on top. At the other end of the room, near the window where I am standing, is a large plain desk, and on the desk—yes, what is on the desk? I bring my face as close to the glass as possible, but the window is so shaped that I cannot see. Oh, wait a moment! This house is far from being deserted. Indeed, someone must have been here only a moment ago. For on the corner of that desk lies a cigarette butt and from it, very gently, rises a thread of smoke; it goes up vertically for about two feet, then starts wavering and, as it goes higher, becomes more and more disturbed.
Amidst all the unexpected happenings of today’s walk I have completely forgotten about smoking. Now I am reminded of it and I take a cigarette out of my pocket and light it. At the same moment my desire to enter the house and have a look becomes quite irresistible. I think carefully for a few moments and make up my mind. Yes, I shall go in. Even if the owner happens to be out. In case he comes back and finds me, I’ll explain my reason to him honestly. Since he is leading such a peculiar existence in any case, I am sure he won’t object to my uninvited visit. He may even welcome me. The paintbox, which have taken along on my walk and which has begun to be rather a nuisance, will now turn out to be useful since it will prove that I am not a thief. No, nothing will stop me: I’m going into this house. Once again I climb the steps to the entrance. As a final precaution I call out: “Is anyone there?” No answer. Quietly I open the door. It is unlocked.
As soon as I have walked in, I draw back a few steps. For there, lying in the sun under the window, is a coal-black Spanish dog; the dog, who has been dozing with his chin touching the floor and his body curled in a ball, opens his eyes in a sly, furtive manner when he hears me and sluggishly stands up.
At this, Fraté starts growling and walks up to the black dog. For a time they both growl at each other. But the Spanish dog seems to have a peculiarly gentle disposition: after the two dogs have sniffed carefully at each other, it is he who starts wagging his tail. My dog joins in and soon they are both wagging busily. Then the Spanish dog lies down in the same place as before. Fraté lies down directly beside him. Strange indeed to see such a friendly attitude between two dogs of the same sex who have only just met each other! Of course Fraté has a very amiable nature, but the Spanish dog deserves the main praise for his amazing magnanimity in welcoming a stranger. I feel reassured and walk into the room.
This Spanish dog is unusually large for the breed. He has the characteristically thick, tufted tail and when he winds it up on his back he looks very impressive indeed. From the little I know about dogs I can tell from the luster of his fur and the look of his face that he is quite old. I walk up to him and pat him on the head by way of paying my respects to my temporary host. From past experience I know that dogs (so long as they are not strays who are in the habit of being badly treated by human beings) tend by nature to be friendly to people. This is especially true of dogs who live in lonely places. Such dogs will never hurt people who are nice to them, even if they are complete strangers. Besides, their instinct tells them instantly whether a man is a dog lover or the type that is likely to treat dogs unkindly. My theory proves to be correct, for the Spanish dog now starts happily licking my hand.
This is all very well, but who on earth is the owner of the house? And where is he? Will he be back soon? Despite my resolutions, now that I am actually in the house I am beginning to have compunctions. I am free to examine the place from top to bottom, but instead I remain standing by the large stone basin. Just as I had expected when I looked through the window, it comes up only to my knees. The brim is about two inches across and is provided with three grooves. The water runs along the grooves, round the outer edge of the basin, and then spills onto the floor. Yes, to be sure, in places situated like this house, this is
one possible way to draw water. No doubt the people who live here use the water for drinking. The basin is certainly no mere ornament.
From the look of things this room seems to be serving several purposes at once. There are one, two, three chairs. Yes, just three—one by the basin, one by the fireplace, and one next to the table. They are all practical, down-to-earth chairs; neither they nor anything else in the room bespeaks the slightest effort at elaboration. As I continue looking round the room, I feel myself gradually becoming emboldened. I notice that a clock is ticking away the time. Tick-tock, tick-tock—like the pulsation of the quiet house itself. Where can the clock be? It is nowhere on the dark reddish-yellow wall. Ah yes, there it is, standing on the table that I saw from the window. With a slight feeling of diffidence toward the Spanish dog, the temporary master of the house, I walk up to the table. There on the corner lies the cigarette that I saw from outside. By now it has completely burned out and is nothing but a cylinder of white ash.
Above the dial of the clock is painted a picture. This gives it a toy-like appearance which contrasts curiously with the generally uncouth aspect of the room. I examine the picture. It shows a lady of noble deportment standing next to a gentleman. There is a third member in the party—a bootblack who polishes the left shoe of the gentleman once each second. A childish picture, but nevertheless interesting. I am no expert where foreign matters are concerned, but from the lady’s wide skirt that trails its lace frills on the floor and from the gentleman’s top hat and side whiskers I gather that the scene depicted on the clock must be some fifty years old. Well, well—what a pathetic fellow that bootblack really is! There he has to crouch in this quiet house, and in the smaller world contained inside this house, and day and night he has to keep on polishing a single shoe. As I observe the monotony of his ceaseless movements, I feel my own shoulder becoming stiff. The clock says quarter past one; it is one hour slow.
Some four or five dozen dusty books are piled on the table and a couple of others are lying by themselves. All the books are rather bulky—they might be albums of pictures, or books of architecture, or again, atlases. The titles seem to be in German and I cannot understand them. On the wall hangs a heliochrome seapiece. I’ve seen this picture before somewhere—isn’t that Whistler’s coloring? I strongly approve of having such a picture here. Anyone secluded among the hills like this would probably forget that the world contained such things as the sea unless he had a picture to remind him.
I decide to leave the house and go home. Perhaps I’ll call again one of these days and meet the real owner. Still, I feel a little uneasy about having entered the house while it was empty and to be leaving now while it is still empty. On second thought, perhaps I’d better wait until he comes back. I watch the water gushing out of the basin and light another cigarette. For some time I stand there gazing at the water. Now that I really absorb myself in it, I seem to hear some sort of music coming from the distance. I listen with admiration and rapture. Can it be that music is actually coming from the depths of this constantly gushing water? The owner of such an unusual house must be an extremely eccentric individual…. Wait! Is it possible that I have become a sort of Rip Van Winkle? Shall I return home to find that my wife has turned into an old woman? I imagine myself leaving the forest and asking a passing peasant where the village of Kurosaka is. “Kurosaka?” he answers. “There’s no such place in these parts.” A queer feeling comes over me and I decide to hurry home at once.
I go to the door and whistle for Fraté. The Spanish dog, who seems to have been following my every movement, now gazes at me as I prepare to leave. I become frightened. Perhaps that dog has only been pretending to be gentle, and now that he sees me going he may jump on me from behind and bite me. I wait impatiently for Fraté to follow me, then I hurry out of the door, carefully watching the Spanish dog, and shut it with a bang.
Before setting out for home, I decide to have a final glance inside the house. I stand on tiptoe by the window and look in. The Spanish dog gets slowly to his feet and walks toward the table.
“Well, that was quite a startling visit I had today,” he seems to say to himself in a human voice, evidently unaware of my presence. He yawns in the way that dogs so often do—and then in a twinkling he becomes a middle-aged man in glasses and a black suit who stands leaning against the chair by the desk with a still-unlit cigarette in his mouth, and who slowly turns the pages of one of those large books.
It is a very warm spring afternoon. I am in a thicket of trees that nestles among the hushed hills.
AUTUMN MOUNTAIN
BY Ryūnosuké Akutagawa
TRANSLATED BY Ivan Morris
Ryūnosuké Akutagawa was born in Tokyo in 1892 and lived all his life in the capital. He committed suicide in 1927 by carefully administering an overdose of veronal.
While still a student in the English Literature Department of Tokyo Imperial University, Akutagawa collaborated with his friends (among them Kan Kikuchi and Kumé Masao, both of whom later also became well-known writers) to produce a literary magazine. His short story, Hana (“The Nose”) appeared in the first issue and its importance was immediately recognized by Akutagawa’s mentor, the great novelist Natsume Sōseki. Rashomon was published in 1915 in another student magazine and the young man was rapidly acclaimed in literary circles for the power and brilliance of his conception and for the vivid, individual quality of his style. During the remaining twelve years of his life he devoted himself entirely to writing and became famous as the leading figure among the so-called neo-realists.
Although he produced a number of poems and essays, and also one brief novel, his creative energies were largely devoted to the short story. He wrote a total of some 130 stories, which were published in seven collections; a considerable number have been translated into English, French, German, and Spanish.
Akutagawa’s writing, like that of so many authors in the present anthology, represented in part a revolt against the naturalist school, whose influence predominated in Japan until a very late date. In Akutagawa’s case this revolt took two main forms. In the first place, he abandoned the confessional type of writing. Whereas the naturalists deliberately narrowed their range of material to what was covered by personal experience, Akutagawa, except toward the end of his career, very rarely introduced himself in his work. Instead he used his literary erudition (he was thoroughly familiar with the classical literature of China and Japan, as well as with nineteenth-century Western writing), to provide inspiration and material for an immensely wide range of scenes and subjects. A large number of his stories derive from classical tales, which Akutagawa reinterprets in the light of modern psychological insight, thereby imbuing them with new and complex meanings. He had a particular penchant for strange, vaguely disturbing stories. Yet, however weird his material may have been, his vivid, realistic method of presentation prevents the stories from lapsing into the obscure or the “quaint.”
Apart from the novelty of his subject matter, Akutagawa differed from the naturalists in his absorption in literary style. He was a painstaking perfectionist in matters of wording and construction. His language is original and often highly colored; at the same time it has the economy that is so essential for successful short stories. Occasionally Akutagawa’s overwhelming concern with style led to a type of preciosity, but on the whole his struggle with literary form was remarkably successful.
Though in most of his stories Akutagawa avoided anything in the way of autobiographical outpourings, his personality and his outlook on life emerge throughout his work. Akutagawa had a powerful, critical intelligence and a nature that since his youth had been sensitive to the point of neurosis. He looked hard and clearly at the people about him, as well as at the people whom he knew from his study of history and literature, and on the whole he did not like what he saw. In his writing an increasing pessimism about human nature is combined with a harsh irony as he describes the devious, and usually unpleasant, motives that drive his characters. Apart from this
pessimism, Akutagawa was plagued by doubts about his own artistic abilities and by a temperamental inability to face the practical aspects of life. All this culminated in the “vague uneasiness” which he enigmatically gave as the cause of his suicide.
The only positive ray to relieve the growing darkness of Akutagawa’s thought was his belief in aesthetic values. This is exemplified by the present story (Shuzanzu in Japanese), first published in 1921, when the author was twenty-nine, and one of the stories most valued by his admirers. Even here there is a powerful touch of irony, inasmuch as the painting about which the story centers appears to have been merely a figment of the imagination. The important point for Akutagawa, however, is the fact that supreme beauty has actually existed, even if only in the mind of the observer. The story ends on a sanguine note as the two old Chinese sages, having realized the significance of the elusive painting, laugh and clap their hands with delight.
AND SPEAKING OF TA CH‘IH, have you ever seen his Autumn Mountain painting?”
One evening, Wang Shih-ku, who was visiting his friend Yün Nan-t‘ien, asked this question.
“No, I have never seen it. And you?”
Ta Ch‘ih, together with Mei-tao-jen and Huang-hao-shan-ch‘iao, had been one of the great painters of the Mongol dynasty. As Yün Nan-t‘ien replied, there passed before his eyes images of the artist’s famous works, the Sandy Shore painting and the Joyful Spring picture scroll.