Modern Japanese Stories/An Autumn Mountain

Shūzanzu

An Autumn Mountain

by Akutagawa Ryūnosuké

“And speaking of Ta Ch’ih, have you ever seen his Painting of an Autumn Mountain?”

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 Painting of Sandy Shore and the Picture-Scroll of a Joyful Spring.

“Well, strange to say,” said Wang Shih-ku, “I’m really not sure whether or not I have seen it. In fact…”

“You don’t know whether you have seen it or you haven’t?” said Yün Nan-t’ien, looking curiously at his guest. “Do you mean that you’ve seen an imitation?”

“No, not an imitation. I saw the original. And it is not I alone who have seen it. The great critics Yen-k’o and Lien-chou both became involved with the Autumn Mountain.” Wang Shih-ku sipped his tea and smiled thoughtfully. “Would it bore you to hear about it?”

“Quite the contrary,” said Yün Nan-t’ien, bowing his head politely. He stirred the flame in the copper lamp.

“At that time the old master Yüan Tsai was still alive. One evening while he was discussing paintings with Yen-k’o, he asked him whether he had ever seen Ta Ch’ih’s Painting of an Autumn Mountain. As you know, Yen-k’o made a veritable religion of Ta Ch’ih’s paintings and was certainly not likely to have missed any of his works. But he had never set eyes on this Autumn Mountain.

“ ‘No, I haven’t seen it,’ he answered shamefacedly, ‘and I’ve never even heard of its existence.’

“ ‘In that case,’ said Yüan Tsai, ‘please don’t miss the first opportunity you have of seeing it. As a work of art it is on an even higher level than his Summer Mountain or his Wandering Storm. In fact I’m not sure that it isn’t the finest of all Ta Ch’ih’s paintings.’

“ ‘Is it really such a masterpiece? Then I must do my best to see it. May I ask who owns this painting?’

“ ‘It is in the house of Mr Chang in the county of Jun. If you ever have occasion to visit the Chin-shan Temple, you should call on him and see the picture. Allow me to give you a letter of introduction.’

“As soon as Yen-k’o received Yüan Tsai’s letter, he made plans to set out for the county of Jun. A house which harboured so precious a painting as this would, he thought, be bound to have other great works of different periods. Yen-k’o was quite giddy with anticipation as he started out.

“When he reached the county of Jun, however, he was surprised to find that Mr Chang’s house, though imposing in structure, was dilapidated. Ivy was coiled about the walls, and in the garden grass and weeds grew rank. As the old man approached, chickens, ducks and other barnyard fowl looked up, as if surprised to see any stranger enter here. For a moment, he could not help doubting Yüan Tsai’s words and wondering how a masterpiece of Ta Ch’ih could possibly have found its way into such a house. Upon a servant’s answering his knock, he handed over the letter, explaining that he had come from far in the hope of seeing Ta Ch’ih’s Painting of an Autumn Mountain.

“He was led almost immediately into the great hall. Here again, though the divans and tables of red sandalwood stood in perfect order, a mouldy smell hung over everything and an atmosphere of desolation had settled even on the tiles. The owner of the house, who now appeared, was an unhealthy-looking man; he had a pleasant air about him and his pale face and delicate hands bore signs of nobility. Yen-k’o, after briefly introducing himself, lost no time in telling his host how grateful he would be if he might be shown the famous Ta Ch’ih painting. There was an urgency in the master’s words, as if he feared that were he not to see the great painting at once, it might somehow vanish like a mist.

“Mr Chang assented without hesitation and had the picture-scroll hung on the bare wall of the great hall.

“ ‘This,’ he said, ‘is the Autumn Mountain to which you refer.’

“At the first glance Yen-k’o let out a gasp of admiration. The dominant colour was a dark green. From one end to the other a river ran its twisting course; bridges crossed it at various places and along its banks were little hamlets. Dominating it all rose the main peak of the mountain range, before which floated peaceful wisps of autumn cloud. The mountain and its neighbouring hills were fresh green, as if newly washed by rain, and there was an uncanny beauty in the red leaves of the bushes and thickets scattered along their slopes. This was no ordinary painting, but one in which both design and colour had reached an apex of perfection. It was a work of art instinct with the classical sense of beauty.

“ ‘Well, what do you think of it? Does it please you?’ said Mr Chang, peering at Yen-k’o with a smile.

“ ‘Oh, it is truly of godlike quality!’ cried Yen-k’o, while he stared at the picture in awe. ‘Yüan Tsai’s lavish praise was more than merited. Compared to this painting, everything I have seen until now seems second-rate.’

“ ‘Really? You find it such a masterpiece?’

“Yen-k’o could not help turning a surprised look at his host.

“ ‘Can you doubt it?’

“ ‘Oh no, it isn’t that I have any doubts,’ said Mr Chang, and he blushed with confusion like a school-boy. Looking almost timidly at the painting, he continued, ‘The fact is that each time I look at this picture I have the feeling that I am dreaming, though my eyes are wide open. I cannot help feeling that it is I alone who see its beauty, which is somehow too intense for this world of ours. What you just said brought back these strange feelings.’

“But Yen-k’o was not much impressed by his host’s evident attempt at self-vindication. His attention was absorbed by the painting, and Mr Chang’s speech seemed to him merely designed to hide a deficiency in critical judgment.

“Soon after, Yen-k’o left the desolate house.

“As the weeks passed, the vivid image of the Autumn Mountain remained fresh in his mind,” continued Wang Shih-ku after accepting another cup of tea. “Now that he had seen Ta Chi’h’s masterpiece, he felt ready to give up anything whatsoever to possess it. Inveterate collector that he was, he knew that not one of the great works that hung in his own house—not even Li Ying-ch’iu’s Painting of the Floating Snow-Flakes, for which he had paid 500 taels of silver—could stand comparison with that transcendent Painting of an Autumn Mountain.

“While still sojourning in the county of Jun, he sent an agent to the Chang house to negotiate the sale of the painting. Despite repeated overtures, he was unable to persuade Mr Chang to enter into any arrangement. On each occasion that pallid gentleman would reply that while he deeply appreciated the master’s admiration of the Autumn Mountain and while he would be quite willing to lend the painting, he must ask to be excused from actually parting with it. These refusals only served to strengthen the impetuous Yen-k’o’s resolve. ‘One day,’ he promised himself, ‘that great picture will hang in my own hall.’ Confident of the eventual outcome, he finally resigned himself to returning home and abandoning temporarily the Painting of an Autumn Mountain.

“About a year later, in the course of a further visit to the county of Jun, he tried calling once more at the house of Mr Chang. Nothing had changed; the ivy was still coiled in disorder about the walls and fences, and the garden was covered with weeds. But when the servant answered his knock, Yen-k’o was told that Chang was not in residence. The old man asked if he might have another look at the Painting of an Autumn Mountain, despite the owner’s absence, but his importunacy was of no avail: the servant repeated that he had no authority to admit anyone until his master returned. As Yen-k’o persisted, the man finally shut the door in his face. Overcome with chagrin, Yen-k’o had to leave the house and the great painting that lay somewhere in one of the dilapidated rooms.”

Wang Shih-ku paused for a moment.

“All that I have related so far,” he said, “I heard from the master Yen-k’o himself.”

“But tell me,” said Yün Nan-t’ien, stroking his white beard, “did Yen-k’o ever really see the Painting of an Autumn Mountain?”

“He said that he saw it. Whether or not he did, I cannot know for certain. Let me tell you the sequel, and then you will judge for yourself.”

Wang Shih-ku continued his story with a concentrated air, and now he was no longer sipping his tea.

“When Yen-k’o told me all this, almost fifty years had passed since his visits to the county of Jun. The master Yüan Tsai was long since dead and Mr Chang’s large house had already passed into the hands of two successive generations of his family. There was no telling where the Painting of an Autumn Mountain might be—nor if the best parts of the scroll might not have suffered hopeless deterioration. In the course of our talk old Yen-k’o described that mysterious painting so vividly that I was almost convinced I could see it before my eyes. It was not the details that had impressed the master but the indefinable beauty of the picture as a whole. Through the words of Yen-k’o, that beauty had entered into my heart as well as his.

“It happened that about a month after my meeting with Yen-k’o, I had myself to make a journey to the southern provinces, including the county of Jun. When I mentioned this to the old man, he suggested that I go and see if I could not find the Autumn Mountain. ‘If that painting ever comes to light again,’ he said, ‘it will indeed be a great day for the world of art.’

“Needless to say, by this time I also was anxious to see the painting, but my journey was crowded and it soon became clear that I would not find time to visit the house of Mr Chang. Meanwhile, however, I happened to hear a report that the Painting of an Autumn Mountain had come into the hands of a certain nobleman by the name of Wang. Having learned of the painting, Mr Wang had dispatched a messenger with greetings to Chang’s grandson. The latter was said to have sent back with the messenger not only the ancient family documents and the great ceremonial cauldron, which had been in the family for countless generations, but also a painting which fitted the description of Ta Ch’ih’s Autumn Mountain. Delighted with these gifts, Mr Wang had arranged a great banquet for Chang’s grandson, at which he had placed the young man in the seat of honour and regaled him with the choicest delicacies, gay music and lovely girls; in addition he had given him 1,000 pieces of gold.

“On hearing this report, I almost leapt with joy. Despite the vicissitudes of half a century, it seemed that the Painting of an Autumn Mountain was still safe! Not only that, but it actually had come within my range. Taking along only the barest necessities, I set out at once to see the Autumn Mountain.

“I still vividly remember the day. It was a clear, calm afternoon in early summer and the peonies were proudly in bloom in Mr Wang’s garden. On meeting Mr Wang, my face broke into a smile of delight even before I had completed my ceremonial bow. ‘To think that the Painting of an Autumn Mountain is in this very house!’ I cried. ‘Yen-k’o spent all those years in vain attempts to see it again—and now I am to satisfy my own ambition without the slightest effort….’

“ ‘You come at an auspicious time,’ replied Mr Wang. ‘It happens that today I am expecting Yen-k’o himself, as well as the great critic Lien-Chou. Please come inside, and since you are the first to arrive, you shall be the first to see the painting.’

“Mr Wang at once gave instructions for the Autumn Mountain to be hung on the wall. And then it all leapt forth before my eyes: the little villages on the river, the flocks of white cloud floating over the valley, the green of the towering mountain range which extended into the distance like a succession of folding-screens—the whole world, in fact, that Ta Ch’ih had created, a world far more wonderful than our own. My heart seemed to beat faster as I gazed intently at the scroll on the wall.

“These clouds and mists and hills and valleys were unmistakably the work of Ta Ch’ih. Who but Ta Ch’ih could carry the art of drawing to such perfection that every brush­ stroke became a thing alive? Who but he could produce colours of such depth and richness, and at the same time hide all mechanical trace of brush and paint? And yet … and yet I felt at once that this was not the same painting that Yen-k’o had seen once long ago. No, no, a magnificent painting it surely was, yet just as surely not the unique painting which he had described with such religious awe!

“Mr Wang and his entourage had gathered around me and were watching my expression, so I hastened to express my enthusiasm. Naturally I did not want him to doubt the authenticity of his picture, yet it was clear that my words of praise failed to satisfy him. Just then Yen-k’o himself was announced—he who had first spoken to me of this Painting of an Autumn Mountain. As the old man bowed to Mr Wang, I could sense the excitement inside him, but no sooner had his eyes settled on the scroll than a cloud seemed to pass before his face.

“ ‘What do you think of it. Master?’ asked Mr Wang, who had been carefully observing him. ‘We have just heard the teacher Wang Shih-ku’s enthusiastic praise, but…’

“ ‘Oh, you are, sir, a very fortunate man to have acquired this painting,’ answered Yen-k’o promptly. ‘Its presence in your house will add lustre to all your other treasures.’

“Yen-k’o’s courteous words only seemed to deepen Mr Wang’s anxiety; he, like I, must have heard in them a note of insincerity. I think we were all a bit relieved when Lien-Chou, the famous critic, made his appearance at this juncture. After bowing to us, he turned to the scroll and stood looking at it silently, chewing his long moustaches.

“ ‘This, apparently, is the same painting that the master Yen-k’o last saw half a century ago,’ Mr Wang explained to him. ‘Now I would much like to hear your opinion of the work. Your candid opinion,’ Mr Wang added, forcing a smile.

“Lien-Chou sighed and continued to look at the picture. Then he took a deep breath and, turning to Mr Wang, said, ‘This, sir, is probably Ta Ch’ih’s greatest work. Just see how the artist has shaded those clouds. What power there was in his brush! Note also the colour of his trees. And then that distant peak which brings the whole composition to life.’ As he spoke, Lien-Chou pointed to various outstanding features of the painting, and needless to say, a look of relief, then of delight, spread over Mr Wang’s face.

“Meanwhile I secretly exchanged glances with Yen-k’o. ‘Master,’ I whispered, ‘is that the real Autumn Mountain?’ Almost imperceptibly the old man shook his head and there was a twinkle in his eyes.

“ ‘It’s all like a dream,’ he murmured. ‘I really can’t help wondering if that Mr Chang wasn’t some sort of hobgoblin.’ ”

“So that is the story of the Autumn Mountain, said Wang Shih-ku after a pause, and took a sip of his tea. ‘Later on it appears that Mr Wang made all sorts of exhaustive enquiries. He visited Mr Chang, but when he mentioned to him the Painting of an Autumn Mountain, the young man denied all knowledge of any other version. So one cannot tell if that Autumn Mountain which Yen-k’o saw all those years ago is not even now hidden away somewhere. Or perhaps the, whole thing was just a case of faulty memory on an old man’s part. It would seem unlikely, though, that Yen-k’o’s story about visiting Mr Chang’s house to see the Autumn Mountain was not based on solid fact.”

“Well, in any case the image of that strange painting is no doubt engraved for ever on Yen-ko’s mind. And on yours too.”

“Yes,” said Wang Shih-ku, “I still see the dark green of the mountain rock, as Yen-k’o described it all those years ago. I can see the red leaves of the bushes as if the painting were before my eyes this very moment.”

“So even if it never existed, there is not really much cause for regret!”

The two men laughed and clapped their hands with delight.

Akutagawa Ryūnosuké (1892–1927)
This story was first published in 1921
Translated by Ivan Morris