Crackling Mountain and Other Stories

by Osamu Dazai

  I wouldn’t stay!

  A bulletin from the London Zoo was issued in mid-June, 1896. A break had occurred at Monkey Island. Two Japanese monkeys, not merely one, had escaped. Both of them, the bulletin concluded, remain at large.

  Heed

  My Plea

  Kakekomi uttae

  The first of several tales in this collection based extensively on other texts, “Heed My Plea” amply demonstrates the author’s familiarity with the New Testament and his intense interest in the figure of Christ. Dazai calls up his biblical quotations and references so freely as to startle the reader accustomed to seeing the scriptural passages in their usual context. Since the author employs a lively style to recast the biblical episodes, it seemed preferable to depend on a contemporary translation for the quoted passages rather than one of the more stately, older translations. The New English Bible: New Testament, published by Oxford University Press, was judged most suitable for this purpose.

  Scholars have shown that Dazai began to study the Bible during the mid-1930s, applying himself to the task with special intensity in the autumn of 1936 while spending a month in a hospital for psychiatric observation. Although his interest appears to have diminished after his marriage to Ishihara Michiko in 1939, there is documentation showing that he subscribed from 1941 through 1946 to a Japanese periodical entitled Biblical Knowledge.

  Dazai’s wife has revealed that her husband dictated “Heed My Plea” to her orally at one sitting early in their marriage—without pausing to choose his words, either. Her testimony is occasionally cited as evidence that the author was expressing ideas and feelings very close to him—indeed, that he had personally experienced an internal conflict acted out in the tale between Christ and Judas. Be that as it may, the tale is wholly in the form of a dramatic monologue by Judas, his breathless tone being crucial to the narrative but difficult to convey in translation.

  Although Judas addresses his plea to one or more officials, some Japanese critics, mindful of the above testimony, contend that Dazai is simply using Judas as a means of venting his own cri du coeur upon the reader. Although the author presumably prepared himself carefully before sitting down with Michiko, the heightened rhetoric and the sudden transitions of the monologue do convey an impression of spontaneous composition.

  However, the degree of authorial deliberation behind the tale becomes evident when one takes note of the irony in a host of passages. Such irony is especially evident in those passages where Judas abruptly changes his mind—and he often does, nowhere more egregiously than at the end of his monologue, where he seems to deny his entire protest. Furthermore, the original title of the tale, “The Direct Appeal,” possibly evokes less immediate sympathy for Judas than the freely rendered English title.

  In any event some readers will possibly dismiss Judas as a totally unreliable narrator because of his sudden changes of mind; others will possibly take this very phenomenon as a sign that the witness is being forthright. Dazai himself seems to render an adverse judgment by having Judas finally admit to a mercenary motive. Although the passage where this occurs seems conclusive in the telling, it does not come across as the culmination to which the tale has been leading. The sense of an arbitrary ending could signify that the author might not have resolved the precise nature of Judas’ quarrel with Christ.

  Listen to me! Listen! I’m telling you, master, the man’s horrible. Just horrible. He’s obnoxious. And wicked. Ah, I can’t bear it! Away with him!

  Yes, yes, I’ll be calm. But you must put an end to him—he’s against the people. Yes, I’ll tell everything—the whole story from beginning to end. And I know where he is, so I’ll take you there right away. Put him to the sword then, and don’t show any mercy. It’s true that he’s my teacher and lord, but I’m thirty-three years old too; I was born just two months after him, so there’s really not much difference between us. The arrogance of the man, the contempt ...Imagine, ordering me about like that! Oh, I’ve had enough. I can’t take it anymore—better to be dead than to hold in one’s wrath. How many times have I covered up for him? But no one realizes that—not even him. I take that back, he does realize it. He’s fully aware of it, and that makes him all the more contemptuous of me. He’s proud too, so he resents any help I give him. He’s so conceited that he ends up making a fool of himself. He’s convinced that taking help from someone like me makes him look weak. That’s because he’s desperate to have others believe him omnipotent. Pure stupidity! The world’s not like that. You’ve got to bow before someone to get on. That’s the only way—struggle ahead one step at a time while keeping the others back. What can he do, really? Not a thing. He’s like a lamb that’s lost in the woods. Without me he’d have died long ago in some abandoned meadow, together with his good-for-nothing disciples. “Foxes have their holes, the birds their roosts, but the Son of Man has nowhere to lay his head.” There’s the evidence! You see it, don’t you?

  And what good does Peter do? Or James, John, Andrew, and Thomas? Fools, the whole bunch of them! They only follow at his heels uttering their unctious, spine-chilling compliments. They’re completely taken in by this mad notion of a heaven, and every one of them will want to be some sort of royal minister as the day of the kingdom draws near. The fools can’t even earn their daily bread here in this world. Wasn’t it I who kept them from starving? I who had him preach his sermons and then coaxed a donation from the crowd? I who got the wealthy villagers to contribute as well? Besides that, I did our everyday shopping and looked after our lodging too. I did everything and didn’t complain either. But not a word of gratitude did I get, either from him or from those foolish disciples. Day after day I slaved on my own, but instead of thanking me, he would pretend not to know. And always there were those impossible commands: “Feed the multitude!” he insisted, when all we had were five loaves and two fishes. I had to struggle behind the scenes then and fill the order. Oh yes, I admit that I helped him time and again with all those miracles and sleight-of-hand tricks.

  Considering the sort of things I did, I might seem a stingy person. I’m a man of taste, though, and not stingy at all. I saw him as a lovely, innocent person without the slightest greed. That’s why even though I scrimp and save to buy the daily bread, I don’t hate him for squandering our every penny. He’s a beautiful man of the spirit, and I appreciate him even though I’m only a poor merchant. I don’t even mind when he wastes every pittance I’ve scraped together. But if he only had a kind word for me now and then . . . instead of all this hostility.

  He was kind to me just once. We were all strolling along the shore one spring when he suddenly called out to me and said, “I realize that you, so helpful to me always, feel pangs of loneliness. But you mustn’t keep looking so depressed. It’s the hypocrite, wishing others to know of his melancholy, who lets his feelings show. You may be lonely, but you can wash your face, smooth your hair with pomade, and smile as if nothing is wrong. That’s the way of the true believer. You don’t quite understand? Let me put it this way, then. We may not be able to see our True Father, but He can see even into our hearts. Isn’t that enough for you? No? It isn’t? But everyone gets lonely.”

  At these words I felt like crying out, “I don’t care whether the Heavenly Father knows about me or not. Or people too, for that matter. I’m satisfied so long as you know. I love you. The other disciples may love you, but not the way I do. I love you more than anyone else does. Peter and the two Jameses merely follow you in hopes of getting something, but I alone understand. And yet I know that nothing will come of following you, and that makes me wonder why I can’t leave. Well, without you, I would simply perish. I could not go on living. Here’s an idea that I’ve kept to myself until now. Why don’t you just abandon those useless disciples and give up preaching the Heavenly Father’s creed. Be an ordinary man and live the rest of your life with your mother Mary and with me. I still own a small house in my native village. The large peach orchard is still there, and so are my aging parents. In the sp
ring, just about now, the blossoms are splendid. You could spend your entire life there in comfort. And I would always be near, anxious to help. Find a good woman and take her as your wife.”

  After I had spoken, he smiled wanly and murmured as if to himself, “Peter and Simon are fishermen. They have no fine orchard. James and John are also poor fishermen. They have no land on which to spend their lives in comfort.”

  He resumed his quiet stroll along the beach, and thereafter we never spoke intimately to one another again. He simply would not confide in me.

  I love him. If he dies, I shall die with him. He is mine—mine alone, and I will slay him rather than hand him over. I forsook my father, my mother, and my land. I followed him until now. But I don’t believe in heaven or in God, and I don’t believe he will rise from the dead either. Him the King of Israel? Those foolish disciples believe he’s the Son of God, and that’s why they leap about each time he speaks the Good News of God’s Kingdom. They’ll be disappointed soon—I’m certain of that. The man even says that he who exalts himself shall be humbled and he who humbles himself shall be exalted. Does anyone in the real world get away with such cajolery? Deceiver! One thing after another—nonsense from beginning to end. Oh, I don’t believe a word he says, but I do believe in his beauty. Such beauty is not of this world, and I love him for that—not for any reward. I’m not one of your minions who believes the Heavenly Kingdom is at hand and cries out, “Hurrah! Now I’ll be a minister of some branch or other!” I simply don’t want to leave him, that’s all. I’m content to be near him, to hear his voice and to gaze upon his person. If only he would cease preaching and live a long life together with me. Ah, if only that were possible, how happy I’d be. I only believe in happiness in this world. I’m not afraid of any judgment hereafter.

  Why doesn’t he accept this pure and unselfish love of mine? Ah, slay him for me! I know where he is, master, and I’ll take you there. He hates me, despises me. Scorned—that’s what I am. But he and his disciples would have starved without me. How could he mistreat me when I kept all of them fed and clothed?

  Listen to this! Six days ago a woman from the village stole into the room where he was dining at Simon of Bethany’s house. It was Mary, the younger sister of Martha, and she was carrying an alabaster jar filled with Oil of Nard. Without a word she poured the oil over him from head to toe—and didn’t beg his pardon afterward either. No, she merely crouched there, quite calm, and began gently wiping his feet with her own hair.

  The whole thing appeared very strange as the room became filled with fragrance. Then I shouted angrily at the girl—she shouldn’t be so rude! Look! I went on, Wasn’t his garment soaked through? And spilling such expensive oil—wasn’t that almost a crime? What a foolish woman! Didn’t she realize that such oil cost three hundred denarii? How pleased the poor would be if the oil were sold and the money given to them. Where waste occurs, want will follow.

  After I had scolded her, he looked straight at me and said, “Why must you make trouble for the woman? It is a fine thing she has done for me. You have the poor among you always; but you will not always have me. When she poured this oil on my body it was her way of preparing me for burial. I tell you this: wherever in the world this gospel is proclaimed, what she has done will be told as her memorial.” By the time he finished, his pale cheeks were slightly flushed.

  I usually don’t believe what he says, and I could easily have ignored this as more puffery on his part. But there was something different, a strangeness in the voice and in the look too, that had never been there before. For a moment I was taken aback; but then I looked again at the slightly flushed cheeks and faintly brimming eyes, and suddenly I knew. Oh, how horrible! How disgraceful even to mention it. A wretched farmgirl—and him in love with ...No, not quite that—surely not that. And yet, it was something perilously close to it. Wasn’t that how he felt? How humiliating for him to be moved even slightly by an ignorant farmgirl. A scandal beyond repair.

  All my life I’ve had this vulgar, detestable ability to sniff out a shameful emotion. One look and I can spot a weakness. It might have been slight, but there was something special in his feeling for her. That’s the truth, no question about it. My eyes cannot err.

  No, it just couldn’t be so! This was intolerable! He was caught in a trap. Never had he seemed so ridiculous. No matter how much a woman had loved him, he had always remained beautiful—and calm as the very waters. Never had he been the least bit ruffled. And then he gave in, like any slouch. He’s still young, so perhaps this was natural. But I was born just two months after him, so we’re almost the same age. We’re young, both of us, but I’m the one who’s held out. I gave my heart to him alone and refused to love any woman.

  Martha the older sister has a sturdy build; indeed, she’s big as a cow, and has a violent temper too. She works furiously at her chores—that’s her one virtue. Otherwise she’s just another farmgirl. But Mary the younger sister is different. She has delicate limbs and almost transparent skin. Her hands and feet are tiny but plump, and her large eyes are deep and clear as a lake. There’s a distant dreaminess about them too, and that’s partly why the villagers all marvel at her gracefulness. Even I was so astonished that I thought of buying her something, maybe even some white silk, while I was in town. Oh, now I’m getting off the track. Let’s see, what was I saying ... Oh yes, I was bitter. It just didn’t make sense. I could have stamped my feet in resentment. If he’s young, well so am I. I’ve got talent too, and I’m a fine man with a house and orchard besides. I gave up everything for him only to realize that I’d been taken in. I discovered that he was a fraud.

  Master, he took my woman. No! That’s not it! She stole him from me. Ah, that’s wrong too. I’m just blurting things out—don’t believe a word. I’m confused, and you must pardon me. There’s not a word of truth to my babbling. Mere ranting and raving— nothing more. But I was ashamed, so ashamed that I wanted to rend my breast. I couldn’t understand why he felt this way. Ah, jealousy is such an unbearable vice, but my longing for him was so great that I continued to renounce my own life and kept following him till now. But instead of consoling me with a kind word, he favored this wretched farmgirl, blushing in her company even. Well, he’s a slouch and he’s done for. There’s no hope for him. He’s mediocre—a nobody. So what if he dies. Perhaps the devil had possessed me, but here I suddenly had a frightening thought. He was going to be slain anyway, I reasoned, so why shouldn’t I do it? He sometimes acted as though he wanted someone to slay him. I’d do it with my own hand, then, because I don’t want anyone else to. I’d slay him, then die myself. Master, I’m ashamed of these tears. Yes, all right, I won’t weep anymore. Yes, yes, I’ll speak calmly.

  The next day we set out for Jerusalem, the city of our dreams. As we drew near the temple, a large crowd of both young and old followed after him. Presently he took note of a lone, decrepit ass standing by the road, and, mounting the animal with a smile, he looked grandly at his disciples and spoke of fulfilling the prophecy, “Tell the daughters of Zion, “Here is your King, who comes to you in gentleness, riding on an ass.’” I alone was depressed by the incident. What a pathetic figure. Was this how the Son of David was to ride into the Temple of Jerusalem for the long-awaited Passover? This the debut for which he had always yearned? Making a spectacle of himself astride this decrepit, tottering ass? I could only pity him for taking part in this pathetic farce. Ah, the man was done for. If he lived another day even, he would only humiliate himself further. A flower doesn’t survive if it’s wilting—better to cut it in bloom. I love him best, and I don’t care how much the others despise me. I resolved ever more firmly to slay him right away.

  The crowd swelled moment by moment, and garments of red, blue, and yellow were flung down all along the route. The people welcomed him with their cries and lined the way with palm branches. Before and behind him, from the left and the right, the crowd swirled about like a great wave, jostling the man and the ass he was riding, while
everyone sang, “Hosanna to the Son of David. Blessings on him who comes in the name of the Lord. Hosanna in the Heavens.”

  Peter, John, Bartholomew, and the other disciples—fools to the man—embraced one another ecstatically and exchanged tearful kisses, as if they had been following a triumphant general or seen the Kingdom of Heaven with their own eyes. The stubborn Peter held onto John and broke into joyful weeping. As I watched, I recalled the days of poverty and hardship when we traveled about preaching the gospel. In fact, warm tears welled in my own eyes.

  And so he entered the temple and descended from the ass. Who knows what it was that possessed him then, but he picked up a rope and began brandishing it, both driving out all the cattle and sheep that had been on sale, and knocking over the tables of the money-changers and the seats of the pigeon sellers. “My house shall be called a house of prayer,” he thundered, “but you are making it a robber’s cave.”

  Was he daft? How, I wondered, could this gentleman carry on like a drunkard? The astonished multitude asked what he was talking about, and, gasping for breath, he replied: “Destroy this temple, and in three days I will raise it again.” Even those simple disciples, unable to accept this claim, could only stare.

  But I saw what he was up to—he was showing off like a child might. Since he was constantly saying that all things were possible through faith in him, here was his chance to show his mettle. But flailing a rope about and chasing away helpless merchants? What a niggardly way to prove something! I almost smiled at him from pity. If defiance meant no more than kicking over the seats of the pigeon sellers, then he was finished. His self-respect was gone, he simply didn’t care anymore. He knew that he had reached his limit. And so he would be seized during Passover and take leave of the world, before his weakness became too evident. When I realized what he was up to, I gave him up for good. How amusing to think that I had once loved this conceited pup so blindly.