Rashomon and Other Stories E-Book

Ryūnosuke Akutagawa

• Herausgeber: Lebooks Editora
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 205

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

"Rashomon and Other Stories" has had a profound impact on both Japanese and international literature. The stories "Rashomon" and "In a Bamboo Grove" were famously adapted into the 1950 film Rashomon by Akira Kurosawa, which brought Akutagawa's work to a global audience and won numerous awards, including the Golden Lion at the Venice Film Festival. Akutagawa's exploration of the human condition, his innovative narrative techniques, and his ability to capture the complexities of moral and existential dilemmas have cemented his place as one of Japan's greatest writers. His works continue to be studied and appreciated for their literary merit and their insights into the human psyche.

Leseprobe

Ryunosuke Akutagawa

RASHOMON AND OTHER STORIES

Contents

INTRODUCTION

A WORLD IN DECAY

RASHOMON

IN A BAMBOO GROVE

THE NOSE

DRAGON: THE OLD POTTER,S TALE

THE SPIDER THREAD

HELL SCREEN

UNDER THE SWORD

DR. OGATA RYÕSAI: MEMORANDUM

O-GIN

LOYALTY

MODERN TRAGICOMEDY

THE STORY OF A HEAD THAT FELL OFF

INTRODUCTION

Ryunosuke Akutagawa

1892-1927

Ryunosuke Akutagawa was a Japanese writer often referred to as the "father of the Japanese short story." He was born in Tokyo, Japan, and his short but prolific literary career left a lasting impact on Japanese literature. Akutagawa is known for his keen psychological insights, his exploration of human nature, and his masterful storytelling.

Akutagawa was born into a family with a troubled history. His mother experienced severe mental illness, which deeply affected him throughout his life. Raised by his maternal uncle, he excelled academically and developed a strong interest in literature from a young age. Akutagawa attended the University of Tokyo, where he studied English literature and began to immerse himself in the works of Western writers, which influenced his own writing style.

Akutagawa's literary career began with the publication of his short story "Rashomon" in 1915, which garnered critical acclaim. Over the next decade, he wrote numerous short stories, essays, and novellas, earning him a reputation as a leading figure in Japanese literature. His works often delved into themes of existentialism, morality, and the complexities of human nature.

Despite his professional success, Akutagawa struggled with mental health issues and a sense of alienation. He suffered from hallucinations and paranoia, which were exacerbated by his fear of inheriting his mother's mental illness. Tragically, Akutagawa took his own life in 1927 at the age of 35, leaving behind a significant body of work that continues to be celebrated today.

Rashomon and Other Stories

"Rashomon and Other Stories" is a collection of short stories by Ryunosuke Akutagawa, showcasing his versatility and skill as a writer. The collection includes some of his most famous works, which explore themes of human nature, morality, and the clash between traditional and modern values in early 20th-century Japan.

Style and Narrative

Akutagawa's writing style is characterized by its clarity, precision, and psychological depth. He often employed a third-person omniscient narrative, allowing him to delve into the inner thoughts and motivations of his characters. His stories frequently incorporate elements of traditional Japanese culture, folklore, and history, blending them with modernist sensibilities and philosophical inquiries.

Impact and Legacy

"Rashomon and Other Stories" has had a profound impact on both Japanese and international literature. The stories "Rashomon" and "In a Bamboo Grove" were famously adapted into the 1950 film Rashomon by Akira Kurosawa, which brought Akutagawa's work to a global audience and won numerous awards, including the Golden Lion at the Venice Film Festival.

Akutagawa's exploration of the human condition, his innovative narrative techniques, and his ability to capture the complexities of moral and existential dilemmas have cemented his place as one of Japan's greatest writers. His works continue to be studied and appreciated for their literary merit and their insights into the human psyche.

A WORLD IN DECAY

RASHOMON

Evening, and a lowly servant sat beneath the Rashomon, waiting for the rain to end.

Under the broad gate there was no one else, just a single cricket clinging to a huge red pillar from which the lacquer was peeling here and there. Situated on a thoroughfare as important as Suzaku Avenue, the Rashomon could have been sheltering at least a few others from the rain — perhaps a woman in a lacquered reed hat, or a courtier with a soft black cap. Yet there was no one besides the man.

This was because Kyoto had been struck by one calamity after another in recent years — earthquakes, whirlwinds, fires, famine — leading to the capital’s extraordinary decline. Old records tell us that people would smash Buddhist statues and other devotional gear, pile the pieces by the roadside with flecks of paint and gold and silver foil still clinging to them, and sell them as firewood. With the whole city in such turmoil, no one bothered to maintain the Rashomon. Foxes and badgers came to live in the dilapidated structure, and they were soon joined by thieves. Finally, it became the custom to abandon unclaimed corpses in the upper story of the gate, which made the neighborhood an eerie place everyone avoided after the sun went down.

Crows, on the other hand, flocked here in great numbers. During the day they would always be cawing and circling the roof’s high fish-tail ornaments. And when the sky above the gate turned red after sunset, the crows stood out against it like a scattering of sesame seeds. They came to the upper chamber of the gate to peck the flesh of the dead. Today, however, with the late hour, there were no crows to be seen. The only sign of them was their white droppings on the gate’s crumbling steps, where long weeds sprouted from cracks between the stones. In his faded blue robe, the man had settled on the topmost of the seven steps and, worrying a large pimple that had formed on his right cheek, fixed his vacant stare on the falling rain.

We noted earlier that the servant was “waiting for the rain to end,” but in fact the man had no idea what he was going to do once that happened. Ordinarily, of course, he would have returned to his master’s house, but he had been dismissed from service some days before, and (as also noted earlier), Kyoto was in an unusual state of decline. His dismissal by a master he had served for many years was one small consequence of that decline. Rather than say that the servant was “waiting for the rain to end,” it would have been more appropriate to write that “a lowly servant trapped by the rain had no place to go and no idea what to do.” The weather, too, contributed to the sentimentalism of this Heian Period menial. The rain had been falling since late afternoon and showed no sign of ending. He went on half-listening to the rain as it poured down on Suzaku Avenue. He was determined to find a way to keep himself alive for one more day — that is, a way to do something about a situation for which there was nothing to be done.

The rain carried a host of roaring sounds from afar as it came to envelop the Rashõmon. The evening darkness brought the sky ever lower until the roof of the gate was supporting dark, heavy clouds on the ridge of its jutting tiles.

To do something when there was nothing to be done, he would have to be prepared to do anything at all. If he hesitated, he would end up starving to death against an earthen wall or in the roadside dirt. Then he would simply be carried back to this gate and discarded upstairs like a dog. But if he was ready to do anything at all —

His thoughts wandered the same path again and again, always arriving at the same destination. But no matter how much time passed, the “if” remained an “if.” Even as he told himself he was prepared to do anything at all, he could not find the courage for the obvious conclusion of that “if”: All I can do is become a thief.

The man gave a great sneeze and dragged himself to his feet. The Kyoto evening chill was harsh enough to make him yearn for a brazier full of warm coals. Darkness fell, and the wind blew unmercifully through the pillars of the gate. Now even the cricket was gone from its perch on the red-lacquered pillar.

Beneath his blue robe and yellow undershirt, the man hunched his shoulders and drew his head down as he scanned the area around the gate. If only there were some place out of the wind and rain, with no fear of prying eyes, where I could have an untroubled sleep, I would stay there until dawn, he thought. Just then he caught sight of a broad stairway — also lacquered red — leading to the upper story of the gate. Anybody up there is dead. Taking care lest his sword, with its bare wooden handle, slip from its scabbard, the man set one straw-sandaled foot on the bottom step.

A few minutes later, halfway up the broad stairway, he crouched, cat-like, holding his breath as he took stock of the gate’s upper chamber. Firelight from above cast a dim glow on the man’s right cheek — a cheek inflamed with a pus-filled pimple amid the hairs of a short beard. The servant had not considered the possibility that anyone but dead people could be up here, but climbing two or three more steps, he realized that someone was not only burning a light but moving it from place to place. He saw the dull, yellow glow flickering against the underside of the roof, where spider webs hung in the corners. No ordinary person could be burning a light up here in the Rashõmon on a rainy night like this.

With all the stealth of a lizard, the servant crept to the top tread of the steep stairway. Then, hunching down and stretching out his neck as much as possible, he peered fearfully into the upper chamber.

There he saw a number of carelessly discarded corpses, as the rumors had said, but he could not tell how many because the lighted area was far smaller than he had thought it would be. All he could see in the dim light was that some of the corpses were naked while others were clothed. Women and men seemed to be tangled together. It was hard to believe that all of them had once been living human beings, so much did they look like clay dolls, lying there with arms flung out and mouths wide open, eternally mute. Shoulders and chests and other such prominent parts caught the dim light, casting still deeper shadows on the parts lower down.

The stink of the rotting corpses reached him, and his hand flew up to cover his nose. But a moment later the hand seemed to forget its task when a powerful emotion all but obliterated the man’s sense of smell.

For now the servant’s eyes caught sight of a living person crouched among the corpses. There, dressed in a rusty-black robe, was a scrawny old woman, white-haired and monkey-like. She held a burning pine stick in her right hand as she stared into the face of a corpse. Judging from the long hair, the body was probably a woman’s.

Moved by six parts terror and four parts curiosity, the servant forgot to breathe for a moment. To borrow a phrase from a writer of old, he felt as if “the hairs on his head were growing thick.” Then the crone thrust her pine torch between two floorboards and placed both hands on the head of the corpse she had been examining. Like a monkey searching for fleas on its child, she began plucking out the corpse’s long hairs, one strand at a time. A hair seemed to slip easily from the scalp with every movement of her hand.

Each time a hair gave way, a little of the man’s fear disappeared, to be replaced by an increasingly violent loathing for the old woman. No, this could be misleading: he felt not so much a loathing for the old woman as a revulsion for all things evil — an emotion that grew in strength with every passing minute. If now someone were to present this lowly fellow again with the choice he had just been mulling beneath the gate —  whether to starve to death or turn to thievery — he would probably have chosen starvation without the least regret, so powerfully had the man’s hatred for evil blazed up, like the pine torch the old woman had stood between the floorboards.

The servant had no idea why the crone was pulling out the dead person’s hair, and thus could not rationally call the deed either good or evil. But for him, the very act of plucking hair from a corpse on this rainy night up here in the Rashõmon was itself an unpardonable evil. Naturally he no longer recalled that, only moments before, he himself had been planning to become a thief.

So now the servant, with a mighty thrust, leaped from the stairway and, grasping his sword by the bare hilt, he strode forcefully to where the old woman crouched. Terrified at the sight of him, the crone leaped up as if launched by a catapult.

“Where do you think you’re going?” he shouted, blocking her way. Panic-stricken, she stumbled over corpses in an effort to flee. She struggled to break past him, but he pushed her back. For a time, the two grappled in silence among the corpses, but the outcome of the struggle was never in doubt. The servant grasped the old woman’s arm — sheer skin and bone like the foot of a chicken — and finally twisted her to the floor.

“What were you doing there?” he demanded. “Tell me now, or I’ll give you a piece of this.”

Shoving her away, he swept his sword from its scabbard and thrust the white steel before her eyes. The old woman said nothing. Arms trembling, shoulders heaving, wide eyes straining from their sockets, she kept her stubborn silence and struggled to catch her breath. Seeing this, the servant realized that this old woman’s life or death was governed entirely by his own will. The new awareness instantly cooled the hatred that had been burning so violently inside him. All he felt now was the quiet pride and satisfaction of a job well done. He looked down at her and spoke with a new tone of gentleness.

“Don’t worry, I’m not with the Magistrate’s Office. I’m just a traveler who happened to be passing beneath the gate. I won’t be tying you up or taking you away. I just want you to tell me what you’ve been doing up here at a time like this.”

The old woman stretched her wide eyes still wider and stared hard at the servant. Her red-lidded eyes had the sharpness of a predator-bird’s.

Then, as if chewing on something, she began to move her lips, which seemed joined with her nose by all her deep wrinkles. He could see the point of her Adam’s apple moving on her scrawny neck, and between her gasps the voice that issued from her throat reached the servant’s ears like the cawing of a crow.

“I — I was pulling — I was pulling out hair to make a wig.”

The servant was startled, and disappointed at how ordinary the woman’s answer turned out to be. But along with his disappointment, the earlier hatred and a cold contempt came back to fill his heart. The woman seemed to sense what he was feeling. Still holding in one hand the long hairs she had stolen from the corpse, she mumbled and croaked like a toad as she offered this explanation:

“I know, I know, it may be wrong to pull out dead people’s hair. But these people here deserve what they get. Take this woman, the one I was pulling the hair from: she used to cut snakes into four-inch pieces and dry them and sell them as dried fish at the palace guardhouse. If she hadn’t died in the epidemic, she’d still be out there selling her wares.

The guards loved her ‘fish’ and they bought it for every meal. I don’t think she was wrong to do it. She did it to keep from starving to death. She couldn’t help it. And I don’t think what I’m doing is wrong, either. It’s the same thing: I can’t help it. If I don’t do it, I’ll starve to death. This woman knew what it was to do what you have to do. I think she’d understand what I’m doing to her.”

The servant returned his sword to its sheath and, resting his left hand on the hilt, listened coolly to her story. Meanwhile, his right hand played with the festering pimple on his cheek. As he listened, a new kind of courage began to germinate in his heart—a courage he had lacked earlier beneath the gate: one that was moving in a direction opposite to the courage that had impelled him to seize the old woman. He was no longer torn between starving to death or becoming a thief. In his current state of mind, the very thought of starving to death was so nearly banished from his consciousness that it became all but unthinkable for him.

“You’re sure she would, eh?” the servant pressed her, with mockery in his voice. Then, stepping toward her, he suddenly shot his right hand from his pimple to the scruff of her neck. As he grasped her, his words all but bit into her flesh: “You won’t blame me, then, for taking your clothes. That’s what I have to do to keep from starving to death.”

He stripped the old woman of her robe, and when she tried to clutch at his ankles, he gave her a kick that sent her sprawling onto the corpses. Five swift steps brought him to the opening at the top of the stairs. Tucking her robe under his arm, he plunged down the steep stairway into the depth of the night.

It did not take long for the crone, who had been lying there as if dead, to raise her naked body from among the corpses. Muttering and groaning, she crawled to the top of the stairway in the still-burning torchlight. Her short white hair hung forward from her head as she peered down toward the bottom of the gate. She saw only the cavernous blackness of the night.

What happened to the lowly servant, no one knows.

(September 1915)

IN A BAMBOO GROVE

The Testimony of a Woodcutter under Questioning by the Magistrate

That is true, Your Honor. I am the one who found the body. I went out as usual this morning to cut cedar in the hills behind my place. The body was in a bamboo grove on the other side of the mountain. Its exact location? A few hundred yards off the Yamashina post road. A deserted place where a few scrub cedar trees are mixed in with the bamboo.

The man was lying on his back in his pale blue robe with the sleeves tied up and one of those fancy Kyoto-style black hats with the sharp creases. He had only one stab wound, but it was right in the middle of his chest; the bamboo leaves around the body were soaked with dark red blood. No, the bleeding had stopped. The wound looked dry, and I remember it had a big horsefly sucking on it so hard the thing didn’t even notice my footsteps.

Did I see a sword or anything? No, Sir, not a thing. Just a length of rope by the cedar tree next to the body. And — oh yes, there was a comb there, too. Just the rope and the comb is all. But the weeds and the bamboo leaves on the ground were pretty trampled down: he must have put up a tremendous fight before they killed him. How’s that, Sir — a horse? No, a horse could never have gotten into that place. It’s all bamboo thicket between there and the road.

The Testimony of a Traveling Priest under Questioning by the Magistrate

I’m sure I passed the man yesterday, Your Honor. Yesterday at — about

noon, I’d say. Near Checkpoint Hill on the way to Yamashina. He was walking toward the checkpoint with a woman on horseback. She wore a stiff, round straw hat with a long veil hanging down around the brim; I couldn’t see her face, just her robe. I think it had a kind of dark-red outer layer with a blue-green lining. The horse was a dappled gray with a tinge of red, and I’m fairly sure it had a clipped mane. Was it a big horse? I’d say it was a few inches taller than most, but I’m a priest after all. I don’t know much about horses. The man? No, Sir, he had a good-sized sword, and he was equipped with a bow and arrows. I can still see that black-lacquered quiver of his: he must have had twenty arrows in it, maybe more. I would never have dreamt that a thing like this could happen to such a man. Ah, what is the life of a human being — a drop of dew, a flash of lightning? This is so sad, so sad. What can I say?

The Testimony of a Policeman under Questioning by the Magistrate

The man I captured, Your Honor? I am certain he is the famous bandit, Tajõmaru. True, when I caught him, he had fallen off his horse, and he was moaning and groaning on the stone bridge at Awataguchi. The time, Sir? It was last night at the first watch. He was wearing the same dark blue robe and carrying the same long sword he used the time I almost captured him before. You can see he also has a bow and arrows now.

Oh, is that so, Sir? The dead man, too? That settles it, then: I’m sure this Tajõmaru fellow is the murderer. A leather-wrapped bow, a quiver in black lacquer, seventeen hawk-feather arrows — they must have belonged to the victim. And yes, as you say, Sir, the horse is a dappled gray with a touch of red, and it has a clipped mane. It’s only a dumb animal, but it gave that bandit just what he deserved, throwing him like that. It was a short way beyond the bridge, trailing its reins on the ground and eating plume grass by the road.

Of all the bandits prowling around Kyoto, this Tajõmaru is known as a fellow who likes the women. Last fall, people at Toribe Temple found a pair of worshippers murdered — a woman and a child — on the hill behind the statue of Binzuru. Everybody said Tajõmaru must have done it. If it turns out he killed the man, there’s no telling what he might have done to the woman who was on the horse. I don’t mean to meddle, Sir, but I do think you ought to question him about that.

The Testimony of an Old Woman under Questioning by the Magistrate

Yes, Your Honor, my daughter was married to the dead man. He is not from the capital, though. He was a samurai serving in the Wakasa provincial office. His name was Kanazawa no Takehiro, and he was twenty-six years old. No, Sir, he was a very kind man. I can’t believe anyone would have hated him enough to do this.

My daughter, Sir? Her name is Masago, and she is nineteen years old. She’s as bold as any man, but the only man she has ever known is Takehiro. Her complexion is a little on the dark side, and she has a mole by the outside corner of her left eye, but her face is a tiny, perfect oval.

Takehiro left for Wakasa yesterday with my daughter, but what turn of fate could have led to this? There’s nothing I can do for my son-in-law anymore, but what could have happened to my daughter? I’m worried sick about her. Oh please, Sir, do everything you can to find her, leave no stone unturned: I have lived a long time, but I have never wanted anything so badly in my life. Oh how I hate that bandit — that, that Tajõmaru! Not only my son-in-law, but my daughter... (Here the old woman broke down and was unable to go on speaking.)

Tajõmam’s Confession

Sure, I killed the man. But I didn’t kill the woman. So, where did she go? I don’t know any better than you do. Now, wait just a minute — you can torture me all you want, but I can’t tell you what I don’t know. And besides, now that you’ve got me, I’m not going to hide anything. I’m no coward.

I met that couple yesterday, a little after noon. The second I saw them, a puff of wind lifted her veil and I caught a peek at her. Just a peek: that’s maybe why she looked so perfect to me — an absolute bodhisattva of a woman. I made up my mind right then to take her even if I had to kill the man.

Oh come on, killing a man is not as big a thing as people like you seem to think. If you’re going to take somebody’s woman, a man has to die. When I kill a man, I do it with my sword, but people like you don’t use swords. You gentlemen kill with your power, with your money, and sometimes just with your words: you tell people you’re doing them a favor. True, no blood flows, the man is still alive, but you’ve killed him all the same. I don’t know whose sin is greater — yours or mine. (A sarcastic smile.)

Of course, if you can take the woman without killing the man, all the better. Which is exactly what I was hoping to do yesterday. It would have been impossible on the Yamashina post road, of course, so I thought of a way to lure them into the hills.