Eminent Authors of Contemporary Japan/Volume 1/The Story of a Fallen Head
The Story of a Fallen Head
By
Ryunosuke Akutagawa
(A Short Story),
Translated by
Eiji Ukai & Eric S. Bell.
For a short biography and a portrait of Ryunosuke Akutagawa the reader will kindly refer to Book II.
The Story of a Fallen Head
Part I
Khashoji, a Chinese cavalryman, throwing aside his sabre, clung to the head of his horse in panic. He was sure that his neck had been badly slashed. He remembered having been struck with something, and at the same time he had frantically clung to his horse’s neck. The animal may also have been wounded, for the very moment when Khashoji bent his body upon his saddle, the animal gave a loud neigh, tossed its muzzle in the air, and immediately charged into the centre of the enemy’s cavalry, and began to gallop furiously across the wide Manchurian high-growing millet-fields. A few gun-shots came from behind, but Khashoji seemed to hear them as in a dream.
The millet-stalks, which were taller than a man, were trampled down by the madly-galloping horse, and as he rushed through them, they rose and fell like the waves of an angry sea. From right and left they swept Khashoji’s pig-tail from side to side. They struck his uniform, and smeared him with the dark-red blood which ran from his neck. But his brain was too confused to notice these things clearly. Only the simple fact that he had been wounded was branded upon his. consciousness with a terrible certainty. “I’m wounded! I’m wounded!” he repeated mechanically over and over again to himself, and he wildly kicked at his horse which was already covered from head to foot with sweat.
Only ten minutes before, Khashoji, starting from a Chinese encampment, had been reconnoitering with some of his fellow-soldiers in the vicinity of a hamlet beyond a river, and as they were crossing a field of already-yellowing giant millet, they came upon a troop of Japanese horsemen. The encounter was so sudden that both sides had scarcely time to raise their guns or sabres. The Chinese perceiving a number of caps and uniforms decorated with red-ribbed lines—which distinguish the Japanese soldiers—drew their sabres immediately, and instantly their horses were charging into the enemy’s line. Naturally, under such sudden circumstances, the thought of being killed never entered their heads. “The enemy!” or “Kill them!” was their only idea. Turning their horses suddenly roundabout, and grinding their teeth like angry wolves, they furiously charged the Japanese cavalry. The enemy must have felt the same impulse, for in an instant the Chinese found themselves surrounded with a host of terrible-looking faces. With them were intermingled numberless swords, flashing and hissing in every direction.
From that moment Khashoji lost all sense of time. He remembered strangely and clearly that the tall millet-stalks had swayed beneath his charging horse as if in a storm, and that red-hued sun was glaring down above their waving ears. But how long the noise of the battle had continued, or what losses had occurred, he could not remember at all.
He also recollected that in the confusion of the moment he had shouted madly and had frantically brandished his sabre. Once it had glittered with the colour of fire, but he could not remember whether it had struck anything. The hilt of his sword had become grimy and greasy with sweat. At the same time he felt a terrible thirst in his throat. Then all of a sudden there appeared right in front of him, a threatening-looking Japanese horseman, with his mouth wide open, and with eyes so dilated that his eyeballs seemed to be jumping out of their sockets. From a big rip in his red-lined cap peeped the top of a head shaped like a chestnut.
Instinctively Khashoji raised his sabre and drove it down upon the ugly head and cap with all his strength. But what resisted his stroke was not the cap or the head beneath it, but the hard steel of the sword with which his assailant suddenly parried the blow with the splendid skill of a Japanese swordsman. The clashing sound of the two swords rang out with awful clarity amidst the deafening noise of the conflict, and a penetrating odour of polished steel sharply entered his nostrils. At the same time the broad sword of his opponent flashed in the sunshine, and flew widely round his head, and he felt something unspeakably cold entering the joints of his neck with a cruel hissing sound.
The horse continued to rush headlong through the almost endless millet-fields, with Khashoji on its back. The din of fighting men and horses, and the clash of swords were now hushed. The autumn sunshine in Liaotung was serene and peaceful. It was like an autumn afternoon in Japan.
Poor Khashoji was groaning with the pain of his wound, which was emphasised by the rocking movement of his horse. But there was a deeper meaning in the moans which broke through his grinding teeth. He was not only struggling against bodily pain, but he was being tormented with an agony that was spiritual—he was crying out against the sudden terror of death which he felt was upon him. To say farewell to life filled him with an unspeakable sorrow. A deep resentment against all men and their worldly affairs for causing him to be mortally wounded surged in his heated brain. He was angered at having to leave the world. Thoughts of this kind flashed one by one through his brain, inflicting endless sorrow upon him, and as these feelings came and went, he cried out in a heart-rending groan, “I’m dying! I’m dying!”
He cursed the Japanese cavalry, and then in gentler tones he muttered the loved names of his parents. But already he was so exhausted that as soon as these cries rose to his lips, they changed into senseless, hoarse moans.
“Oh, how unhappy I am! What a misery it is to have been brought here in the very prime of my life, to fight and be killed like a dog! What a hateful beast is that Japanese who tried to kill me! What fools those officers were to have sent me on that reconnaissance! And how detestable are the two fighting powers, China and Japan!
“But even more abominable than these are all the human beings who have in any way been responsible for making me a soldier. They are all my enemies! Through the stupidity of these people I am obliged to give up my life and leave the world in which I still have so many things to do. Alas! what an idiot I have been to have allowed myself to be the tool of circumstance and to have let these people do just as they liked with me!”
These thoughts surged through his brain one after another as poor Khashoji continued on his mad stampede through the high millet-fields.
Being surprised by the rush of the horse, flocks of quail here and there started up in confusion. The horse paid little heed to anything. It only felt its master clinging to its back, sometimes nearly falling from the saddle, but on and on it galloped, with froth dripping from its mouth.
Khashoji might have continued his perilous journey on the back of his horse for that whole day, and he might have kept going until the copper-hued sun had sunk in the western sky, complaining to heaven in his misery and groaning incessantly. But where the fields gradually began to slope down towards a narrow and dirty river which ran through the tall millet-fields, a few willow-trees, with their lower boughs still covered with withered leaves, stood solemnly in his way on the brink of the stream. Just as his horse made a dash through them, he was roughly torn from his saddle by the branches, and was deposited headlong on the muddy bank that bordered the stream.
At that instant some old association of the past flashed into his mind, and he fancied he saw before him a brilliant yellow flame burning in the sky. It was the same bright, yellow flame he had so often watched when he had been a child, the fire that burnt under the big kitchen oven of his home. “My God! Look at the fire burning!” he muttered, and the next instant he had lost consciousness.
Part II
But did Khashoji really faint when he was thrown from his horse? It is true that he had been unconscious of any pain from his wounded neck, and he distinctly remembered lying helpless on the muddy bank of a lonely river, smeared from head to foot with mud and blood. As he lay there he gazed up into a clear blue sky, and across his vision a few branches of willows waved to and fro.
How densely blue the sky seemed to him compared with any he had ever looked at hitherto! It appeared as if he were peering from below into a gigantic, inverted jar of indigo. At the bottom of the jar, clouds like gathering foam were drifting, and as fast as they came they disappeared again behind the quivering leaves of the willows.
So was it possible that Khashoji had been unconscious? Between his eyes and the blue sky, however, floated many curious things like shadows, things that did not exist at all, but merely visions of his fevered brain. First there appeared the old skirt which his mother used to wear. When he had been a child, how often he had clung to it in joy or sorrow! Poor Khashoji stretched out his hands to grasp it, but it at once eluded him. It flapped like transparent silk-gauze, allowing the drifting banks of clouds to be seen through its folds like glittering mica, and then it disappeared altogether.
Then behind that gauzy film appeared the same vast fields of sesame which had grown at the rear of his house—the sesame fields, which in mid-summer were dotted with delicate, pale flowers. He tried hard to see if he and his brothers were playing there, but there was no sign of a human being. He could only see the ghastly, pale flowers and leaves of the sesame basking in a dim sunshine, and soon they also vanished into the blue of the sky.
Then a strange thing appeared, wriggling in the sky. It proved to be a big ‘Dragon-lantern,’ the kind which is carried in the streets during religious festivals. It was some twenty feet long, and its body was a framework of bamboo, covered with paper. On it was painted in red and blue a gorgeous dragon. Though it was bright day-light, the candles in the lantern were alight, and as it floated in the air the lantern looked to him like a real, living creature. He noted how its long whiskers waved to and fro as it moved along. And lo! it too gradually melted from his sight, then suddenly disappeared altogether.
Succeeding this strange dragon, the pretty, delicate foot of a woman began to take shape in the blue dome of the sky. The foot was bound after the manner of Chinese women. It was very thin and slender, and no more than five inches long. At the end of each gracefully-bent toe, the soft, white flesh showed itself through a delicately pale nail. The memory of this slender foot brought a deep sorrow to the heart of Khashoji. Oh, if he could but touch that delicate foot again! But he knew that such an accomplishment was quite impossible, for a distance of hundreds of miles lay between Khashoji and the place where the foot was seen. Then suddenly the foot became transparent and evaporated into the shadows of the clouds, as all the other visions had done.
It was then that Khashoji felt a strange, lonely feeling in the depths of his heart, a feeling such as he had never experienced before. Above his head the endless blue sky glared dumbly down upon him. Under that self-same sky all the miseries of human existence must continue, and men must accept their destinies whether they liked it or not. They would continue being blown about like helpless leaves which are swept here and there by the winds of heaven. Oh! what great loneliness he felt! And a deep heart-rending sigh escaped his dry lips.
Suddenly between his eyes and the sky there appeared a host of Japanese cavalry. They were charging down upon him at a furious pace. But just as they were about to trample upon him they vanished from his sight again as quickly as they had appeared. If it had not been a vision, he would have raised his voice in a mad cheer so as to forget his intense loneliness for one short minute. As he was thinking this, the troop of cavalry completely disappeared.
Then tears began to roll down his cheeks. He began to think over the shameful way in which he had lived, and as he raised his wet eyes to the sky, he felt a desire to fall at the feet of everyone whom he had harmed, and to ask for their forgiveness.
“If I am ever rescued, I will compensate for my ugly past by living a better life!” As these words were wrung from his heart, he again sobbed bitterly. The endless blue sky only stared cruelly down upon him, and foot by foot, and inch by inch it seemed to be dropping upon him and pressing heavily upon his breast. No more visions passed before him now. He sighed again, his lips suddenly quivered, and gradually his eyes closed.
Part III
It was an early Spring morning in the following year after the Sino-Japanese war. In a room of the Japanese Embassy in Peking a Japanese military attache, Major Kimura by name, was chatting over coffee and cigars with a certain Mr. Yamakawa, a Bachelor of Science, and a civil engineer of the Japanese Agricultural Department, who had just been sent to China on some official business. These two men were talking in a very leisurely way, and had forgotten all the business which they had in hand. Though it was still early spring, a hot stove in the room made the atmosphere comfortably warm. On the table a potted plum-tree, already in bloom, gave off a faint fragrance.
For a while their conversation turned on the Chinese Empress Dowager, and then it drifted to stories and incidents of the Sino-Japanese war. Suddenly Major Kimura stood up, and fetching a file of Peking daily papers from a near-by table, selected one of the numerous sheets from the pile and spread it before Mr. Yamakawa. Pointing to a certain paragraph, he asked his friend to read it. His suggestion was so abrupt that Mr. Yamakawa was a little surprised, but knowing the Major’s peculiar manner rather well, he took the paper and read what was pointed out to him, naturally expecting to find there some extraordinary anecdote of the war. His supposition was right, for in the paper he found a paragraph printed in rather square and elaborate Chinese characters, which read as follows:
“Khashoji, the master of a certain barber’s shop, and a hero of the Sino-Japanese war, who rendered great services to his country, has, since his return home, become a man of very loose morals, indulging rather freely in wine and women.
“A few days ago he had a quarrel with another man while at a bar, and fighting with him, received a severe wound in his neck, and died on the spot.
“The cause of his death was due not so much to the wound inflicted during this quarrel, as to the opening of an old cut which he had received during the war. According to a witness, Khashoji’s head suddenly fell from his body with a thud, just as he was grappling over a small table with his assailant. But for a short strip of skin which connected the head from the body, the former seemed completely severed. As it fell, a great deal of blood gushed from the gaping neck. The police are very puzzled over the curious cirumstances of his death, and are now said to be searching for his assailant. Referring to an ancient book entitled Ryosai-Shii, there is an account of a man’s head having fallen from his body in a similar manner. Therefore the circumstances connected with the falling-off of Khashoji’s head cannot be treated as a mere romance, etc., etc.”
After reading the newspaper account of the incident, Mr. Yamakawa who was much struck by the strange ness of the affair, thought for a moment, and then said rather abruptly, “What utter nonsense!”
Major Kimura smiled at the exclamation, and after sucking at his cigar for a moment or two he remarked dryly, “But, all the same it is very interesting, isn’t it? It is only in China where we should hear of such a thing!”
“Yes, I’m hanged if we should ever hear about such a thing happening anywhere else!” Mr. Yamakawa remarked dryly as he knocked off the ashes of his cigar into the ash-tray.
“But, listen! It may be more interesting for you to know….” Here the Major stopped short and paused for a moment. Then with a rather cynical expression on his serious face, he added, “I happened to have known this man Khashoji personally.”
“Oh, did you? I’m surprised to hear it. You don’t mean to say that you, a military attache, have conspired with the newspapers in concocting such a cock-and-bull story, do you?”
“Don’t be stupid, Mr. Yamakawa! After I was wounded in the battle of Teikaton, during the war, this man Khashoji was brought to our field-hospital, and while I was there I often talked to him, merely to get practice in my Chinese conversation. I am almost sure it was the same chap, because he had been badly slashed in the neck. He explained to me that while he was out on some reconnaisance, he encountered a party of our cavalry, and while fighting with them had been wounded in the neck with the stroke of a Japanese sword.”
“Yes, it was rather strange that you knew him. But this paper says that he was rather a rascal—wasn’t it so? If it is true, it might have been better for all concerned if he had died there and then!”
“But,” said the Major, “when he was there he seemed to be a very honest and decent fellow, and was one of the most obedient of our prisoners. Every one of our surgeons liked him, and it is said they favoured him with special treatment. He told us many interesting stories about his life. I can also remember quite clearly the description he gave us of his extraordinary psychological feelings when he fell off his horse after having been wounded. He told us that, as he gazed through the willow-branches from the muddy bank of the river where he was lying, he saw most vividly in the sky, visions of his mother’s skirt, a woman’s foot, and a field of blooming sesame.”
Major Kimura threw away his cigar, and after helping himself to a cup of coffee, his eyes turned to the pink plum-blossoms on the table. He seemed to be meditating. Then he went on.
“He told me that when he saw those visions, he felt heartily ashamed of the life he had been leading hitherto.”
“Yet no sooner did the war end than he became a thorough scoundrel again! It shows that we can put little reliance upon men!” said Mr. Yamakawa, flinging himself back in his chair and stretching his legs. In cynical silence he puffed at his cigar.
“By what you say, do you mean that he acted like a hypocrite?”
“Yes.”
“I’m afraid I can’t agree with you. I feel sure that what he said at the time was sincerely meant. Also, if I may be permitted to quote the newspaper, when ‘his head suddenly fell,’ perhaps for a moment he saw similar visions again. I should explain his death in this way: As he was drunk he was quite easily knocked down. The suddenness of his fall had opened his old wound, and with the long pig-tail hanging from it, his head came off and fell with a thud upon the floor. Perhaps he again beheld his mother’s skirt, a woman’s foot, etc., in a vision. Perhaps for a moment before death he had been gazing beyond the ceiling of the room into a deep blue sky. He might even have been tortured with the pangs of remorse—but this time it was too late.
“When he was first wounded, our military nurses, after having found him unconscious, tended him most kindly and with the greatest care, but during this quarrel later on, his antagonist, knowing his weaknesses, struck and kicked him. During his scuffle the poor man may have repented again, but in falling, his life ended.”
Mr. Yamakawa shrugged his shoulders and laughed.
“You are certainly very imaginative! But tell me, why did he become such a scoundrel after having shown so much sincerity?”
“Of course, because man is an unreliable creature, but in a different sense from what you mean,” Major Kimura answered, lighting another cigar. Then he continued smilingly and with rather an air of pride.
“We should all try to be aware of our own unreliability—but I’m afraid the only people who are at all reliable are those who realise that fact about themselves, otherwise the people who don’t, like Khashoji, who lost his head, can never be certain of not suddenly losing their own heads. I think that we must endeavour in the same way to try and find an inner meaning in what we read in the Chinese newspapers.”
The End