Chapter 12 wetlands

wetlands Akutagawa Ryunosuke One rainy afternoon, I found a small oil painting in a room of an art exhibition.It would be an exaggeration to say "discovered", but this painting alone hangs as if forgotten in the darkest corner, and its frame is poorly framed, so it is not wrong to say so.Remember the title is "The Swamp" and the artist is not a well-known person.There are only turbid water, wet soil and overgrown vegetation on the screen.I am afraid that for ordinary visitors, it is worthy of the name to dismiss it. And it is strange that the painter did not use green at all, although he painted lush vegetation.Reeds, poplars, and fig trees, painted here and there a cloudy yellow, the dull yellow of a damp wall.Could it be that the painter really regarded the vegetation as this color?Perhaps it is deliberately exaggerated out of other preferences? ——I stood in front of this painting, pondering over it, and couldn't help but have such questions in my heart.

The more I look at it, the more I feel that there is a terrible power in this painting.Especially the soil in the foreground is so finely painted that it even reminds people of the feeling under their feet when they step on it.This is a piece of slippery mud, and if you step on it, you will lose your ankle if you step on it.I found in this small oil painting the image of that miserable artist trying to capture nature keenly.As with all good works of art, the grass and trees on the yellow swamp aroused in me a trance of tragic passion.To be honest, among the large and small paintings of various styles hanging in the same venue, none of them gave people a strong enough impression to compete with this one.

"I appreciate it very much." Someone said and patted me on the shoulder.I felt as if something in my heart had been thrown away, so I turned around suddenly. "How about this painting?" The other party said leisurely, while nudging his freshly shaved chin towards the painting of the swamp.He was an art reporter for a newspaper, a well-informed, heavyset man in a fashionable hazel suit. This reporter had given me a bad impression once or twice before, so I reluctantly replied, "It's a masterpiece." "A masterpiece—is it? This is interesting." The reporter laughed.

Probably startled by his voice, the two or three people who were looking at the painting on the left looked this way at the same time.I'm getting more and more unhappy. "It's really interesting. This painting was not originally drawn by the members. But because the author himself repeatedly said that it must be exhibited here, the survivors begged the censors, and it was finally able to hang in this corner." "The bereaved family? So the person who painted this painting has passed away?" "Dead. In fact, he was dead before he was alive." Before I knew it, curiosity overcame my aversion to this reporter.I asked, "Why?"

"The painter has long since gone mad." "Did you also go crazy when you drew this picture?" "Of course. Who would paint a picture like that if it wasn't a madman? And yet you're still admiring it and calling it a masterpiece. It's so much fun!" The reporter laughed triumphantly again.He probably expected that I would be ashamed of my ignorance; or else he would go a step further and try to impress me with his superior taste.But both of his hopes were in vain.Because before his words fell, an almost awe-inspiring feeling shook my whole body and mind like indescribable waves.With great solemnity I gazed again at the picture of the swamp.Once again I saw on this small canvas the tormented figure of the artist, tormented by terrible restlessness and restlessness.

"However, I heard that he seems to be crazy because he can't paint as he likes. If it is desirable, it is desirable." The reporter showed a cheerful look and smiled almost happily.This is the only reward that the unknown artist, one of us, sacrificed his life, got from the world!Shivering strangely, I looked at the melancholy painting for the third time.In the picture, between the gloomy sky and the water, the damp loess-colored reeds, poplars and fig trees grow so vigorously, as if seeing nature itself... "It's a masterpiece." I stared at the reporter's face and repeated emphatically.

(April 1919) translated by Wen Jieruo