Crackling Mountain and Other Stories

by Osamu Dazai

  Presently he faced the crowd gathered at the temple and spewed forth the most insolent abuse yet. I was right—surely the man was desperate. To my eye he even looked slightly bedraggled. He was just itching to be slain.

  “Alas for you, lawyers and Pharisees, hypocrites! You clean the outside of your cup and dish, which you have filled inside by robbery and self-indulgence! Blind Pharisees! Clean the inside of the cup first; then the outside will be clean also.

  “Alas for you, lawyers and Pharisees, hypocrites! You are like tombs covered with whitewash; they look well from outside, but inside they are full of dead men’s bones and all kinds of filth. So it is with you: outside you look like honest men, but inside you are brimful of hypocrisy and crime.

  “You snakes, you vipers’ brood, how can you escape being condemned to hell?

  “O Jerusalem, Jerusalem, the city that murders the prophets and stones the messengers sent to her! How often have I longed to gather your children as a hen gathers her brood under her wings; but you would not let me.”

  Silly and stupid—that’s what I thought. It turns my stomach just to repeat his words here. Why, the man who says such things has got to be deranged. He’s carried on about other nonsense too—famines, earthquakes, stars falling from the sky, the moon not giving its light, vultures gathering to peck the carcasses that fill the land, the weeping and the gnashing of teeth. He speaks in such a reckless manner, as if he’s stuck on himself. It’s madness—the man doesn’t know his place. But he won’t get away with it. It’s the cross for him—that’s for certain.

  Yesterday I heard from a pedlar in town how the elders and priests had met secretly in the latter’s court and decided to execute him. I also learned they were fearful the people would rise up if he were seized in public, so thirty pieces of silver would be given to anyone who reported when he would be alone with his disciples. He was going to die then, so there was no time to lose. I had better hand him over, I thought, rather than let someone else do it. It was my duty to betray him, a last sign of my enduring love. But this would place me in a trap too—will anyone, I wondered, recognize the devotion behind this deed? It makes no difference, though, because mine is a pure love that doesn’t seek recognition. And even if people despise me forever and I end up suffering in eternal hellfire, it will be like nothing alongside of my unquenchable love for him. So determined was I to fulfill my mission that a shudder ran over me as I thought the matter over. I quietly watched for an opportunity, and finally, on the day of the Feast, it came.

  We had rented a second-floor room in an old eating place upon the hill. All thirteen of us, both Master and disciples, were seated in the dim chamber about to begin the supper when suddenly he rose and removed his tunic without a word. What could he be up to? we wondered. We watched as he took the pitcher from the table and carried it to a corner. There he emptied the water into a small basin. Then, having tied a clean, white towel about his waist, he began to wash our feet. While he was washing the feet of one disciple, the others would idle about in total bewilderment. I alone sensed what was lurking in the Master’s mind.

  He was lonely—and so frightened that he would now cling to these ignorant bigots. What a pity. He must have realized what fate held in store for him. Even as I watched, I felt a cry rising in my throat until suddenly I wanted to embrace him and weep. Oh, how sad. Who could ever accuse you? You were always kind and just, ever a friend to the poor, and always shimmering with beauty. I know that you are truly the Son of God. Please forgive me, for I have watched these two or three days for a chance to betray you. But not any more. How criminal to think of betraying you! Rest assured that, even if five hundred officials or a thousand soldiers should come, they won’t lay a finger on you. But they are watching, so let’s be wary. And let’s be on our way too. Come, Peter. And you too, James. Come, John. Everyone, come! Let’s live the rest of our lives protecting this gentle Master of ours.

  I felt a profound love for him, but I couldn’t express it. There was something sublime about it that I had never known before. The tears of contrition that flowed down my cheeks felt quite agreeable. Finally he washed my feet—ever so quietly and gently, and then he wiped them dry with the towel at his waist. Oh, how he touched me! Ah, at that moment I seemed to be in paradise.

  Thereafter he washed the feet of Philip and Andrew. Peter was next, but the simple man could not hide his misgivings. Pursing his lips, he petulantly asked, “Master, why do you wash my feet?”

  “Ah, you do not understand what I am doing, but one day you will,” the master gently admonished, crouching next to Peter. But Peter grew yet more stubborn. “No! Never! You must never wash my feet, for I am unworthy of it,” he said, then drew back his feet.

  Raising his voice ever so slightly, the Master gave notice: “If I do not wash you, you are not in fellowship with me.” The startled Peter bowed low and implored, “Ah, forgive me. Not only my feet, Lord, wash my hands and head as well.”

  I couldn’t help laughing. The other disciples grinned, and the whole room seemed to brighten up. He smiled too and then said to Peter, “A man who has bathed needs no further washing; he is altogether clean. And not only you. But James and John too. All of you are clean and without sin. All except . . .” Here he paused and sat up straight. For an instant his eyes took on a look of unbearable suffering. Then they shut tightly and did not open. “Except ...if only all of you were clean ...”

  I instantly thought—Me! That’s who he meant! He had seen through my melancholy a moment ago and knew that I planned to betray him. But things were different now—I had changed completely. I was cleansed and my heart transformed. Ah, but he didn’t realize it. He hadn’t noticed. No! You’re mistaken! I wanted to cry out, but the words lodged in my throat and I cravenly swallowed them like spit. For some reason I couldn’t speak. I just couldn’t.

  After he had finished speaking, something perverse sprang up within me. Meekly I gave in to the feeling, whereupon the cowardly suspicion that perhaps I was unclean expanded into a dark, ugly cloud that swirled within my gut and exploded into a righteous indignation. What! Damned? Me damned? He despised me from the bottom of his heart. Betray him! I told myself. Yes, betray him! I would slay him—and myself too. My earlier determination revived, and I became an utter demon of vengeance. Seemingly unaware of how turbulent my feelings had become, he presently took up his tunic, carefully put it on, and sat down at the table. By the time he spoke, his face was pale.

  “Do you understand what I have done for you?” he asked. “You call me ‘Master’ and ‘Lord,’ and rightly so, for that is what I am. Then if I; your Lord and Master, have washed your feet, you also ought to wash one another’s feet. I shall probably not be always with you, and thus I have set an example for you to follow. In very truth I tell you, a servant is not greater than his master, nor messenger than the one who sent him. If you know this, happy are you if you act upon it.” Wearily he spoke these words, then began to eat in silence. Bowing his head, he spoke once more: “In truth, in very truth I tell you, one of you is going to betray me.” There was a deep sorrow in his voice, as if he were both weeping and moaning.

  The disciples nearly recoiled in shock. They stood up, knocking the chairs over, and gathered about him. “Is it I, Lord? Master, can you mean me?” they cried. Like one already condemned, he barely moved his head. “It is the man to whom I give this piece of bread when I have dipped it in the dish. Alas for that man by whom the Son of Man is betrayed. It would be better for that man if he had never been born.” For him, these were unusually specific words. After he had spoken them, he took a piece of bread and, stretching forth his hand, placed it unerringly in my mouth.

  Instead of shame, I now felt hatred. My courage immediately came back, and I hated him for turning malicious once again—he was his old self, humiliating me before the others. He and I were like fire and water; we would always be separate. To place a piece of bread in my mouth as though feeding his dog or cat—was this all he could
do in revenge? Ha! The fool! Master, he then told me to do the deed quickly, and so I ran from the place and fled along the dark road as fast as I could. I arrived here only moments ago, and I’ve made my plea in haste. You must punish him—punish him as you see fit. You can seize him and beat him with a rod, strip and crucify him even. I’ve had enough of him; he’s terrible . . . obnoxious . . . Tormenting me even yet . . . Ah, damn him! He’ll be in the Garden of Gethsemane, by the River Kidron. The meal is over, and it’s the hour for prayer, so he’ll be there with the disciples. No one else will be around. If you go right away, you can capture him easily. Oh, those birds are making such a ruckus, aren’t they? I wonder why I hear them singing tonight? I remember how the birds were chirping even as I ran through the wood. It’s an unusual bird that sings in the night. My childlike curiosity got the better of me, and I wanted a glimpse of the bird. So I stopped and, tilting my head, looked up at the trees ... ah, forgive me, I’m boring you. Master, is everything ready? Ah, the sweetness—it makes me feel splendid. It’s also the final night for me, isn’t it? Master, you’ll be so good as to observe both of us standing side by side after tonight. I’ll show you the two of us, Master, standing side by side this evening. I don’t fear him. We’re the same age, and I won’t lower myself. I’m a young man of quality, just like him. Ah, those birds are still making a ruckus. How annoying! Why do songbirds chirp here and there? What’s all the noise about? Oh yes, the money! You’re handing it over? Thirty pieces of silver—for me? Ah yes, but I really don’t want it. So take it back before I hit you. I didn’t make this plea for money. Také it back! No, wait, I didn’t mean that. Please forgive me. I accept your offer. Yes, I’m a merchant. That’s why that lovely man always scorned me. But I am a merchant, so I’ll take it. I’ll betray him fully, just for the lucre. That’ll be my best revenge. Betrayed for thirty pieces of silver—just what he deserves! And I won’t shed a tear since I don’t love him anyway. I never loved him at all. Master, everything I said was false; there’s no question that I followed him around for the money. When I realized this evening that he wouldn’t let me earn a penny, I quickly changed sides, like any merchant would. Money—that’s the only thing. Thirty pieces of silver. Oh, how splendid! I accept. I’m just a penny-pinching merchant, and I can’t help being greedy. Yes, thank you. Yes, yes, I forgot to mention it, but I’m Judas the Merchant. Yes, that’s Judas Iscariot.

  Melos, Run!

  Hashire Merosu

  Based partly on the classic tale of Damon and Phintias, but following in the main the retelling of this legend by the German poet Friedrich Schiller in “The Hostage,” “Run, Melos!” could possibly be the most widely read work by Dazai in his own country. Simple in style and highly moralistic in substance, the tale has found its way into many school anthologies and into popular editions of Dazai as well.

  Insofar as the Schiller poem will be unfamiliar to many, a brief summary is in order. Much shorter than Dazai’s retelling, the poem contains just twenty stanzas of seven lines each. In the first stanza Damon the hero is seized by the guards of Dionysius, the tyrannical king of Sicily. Thereafter Damon persuades the king to release him, so that he can arrange his sister’s wedding. The king agrees, on the condition that Damon return to face execution within three days, leaving his friend (named Philostratus in Schiller’s poem) as a hostage. The wedding is described in several lines, with the remainder of the poem taken up mostly with the obstacles Damon encounters on his return journey to Syracuse—the flood, brigands, enervating heat—and the ominous news that Philostratus has likely been executed. However, Damon reaches the execution ground just in time, his effort wringing from the tyrant-king the admission that fidelity is not the empty illusion he had thought it to be.

  Dazai both expands episodes in Schiller and adds some of his own invention. Nowhere does he add more blatantly than in the anticlimactic paragraphs depicting Melos as foolishly unaware of his own nakedness, a stroke that certainly deviates from the heavy didacticism of the tale. (This passage, it should be mentioned, has usually been excised from the school anthologies.) Particularly when read alongside of Schiller’s poem, “Melos, Run!” can almost seem to be a mock-heroic tale, the passages that Dazai added to Schiller’s work often portraying Melos as a somewhat proud simpleton. It must be admitted, however, that many critics do accept the hero’s self-assessment at face value, and thus see him as embodying ideals of trust, fidelity, and friendship.

  Quivering with rage, Melos decided that he must rid the land of this wicked and ruthless king.

  He was only a village shepherd who tended his flock and played upon his flute. Yet, though ignorant of politics, he was more sensitive to evil than most other people.

  He had left his village early that morning and traveled the ten leagues to Syracuse over mountains and fields. His younger sister was a shy girl of fifteen who had become engaged to an honest shepherd. Since Melos had neither father nor mother nor wife, he must select the bride’s gown and order food for the wedding feast himself. It was to perform these tasks that he had come to Syracuse.

  Having taken care of this business, Melos strolled down the main street looking for Selinunteus, a boyhood friend of his who worked in the city as a stonemason. They had not seen each other for quite some time, and Melos looked forward to the meeting. As he walked along, however, he began to sense that something was wrong. Since dusk had fallen, it was only natural that the city was quiet. Despite that, the place seemed so desolate that even the carefree Melos began to feel uneasy.

  He stopped a youngster and asked if anything had happened. On a trip here two years ago, he had found the place lively, with people singing even at night. The boy merely shrugged and didn’t say anything. Melos next questioned an old man, more insistently than he had the boy. The man didn’t reply either until, seizing and shaking him with both hands, Melos again asked what the trouble was. In a whisper that couldn’t be overheard, the old man replied: “The king’s executing people.”

  “Why is that?”

  “He says we’re evil, but it’s not true.”

  “Has he executed many?”

  “Yes. First it was his own brother-in-law. And then his very son and heir. His sister and her children were next. And then the queen. The wise councilor Arekisus was . . .”

  “That’s terrible,” Melos interrupted. “Is the king mad?”

  “No, he’s not mad. He says he can’t trust people. Recently his own vassals have come under suspicion. If one of them lives a little too grandly, the king demands a hostage. And if the vassal refuses, why then he’s condemned to death. The king had six of them crucified today.”

  Melos quivered with rage as he listened. “That’s terrible,” he exclaimed. “The king has got to be stopped.”

  Melos, being a simple man, marched straight into the castle still carrying his purchases. When the guards seized him, they found a dagger inside his cloak. An uproar ensued, and Melos was dragged before King Dionysius. His face pale and his brow carved with wrinkles, the tyrant questioned Melos in a quiet but authoritative voice.

  “What were you going to do with this dagger? Speak up!”

  Without flinching, Melos responded, “Free this town from its wicked king.”

  “You . . . ?” The king’s smile was condescending. “Impossible fool! How could someone like you realize how alone I am."

  “Hold your tongue!” Filled with indignation, Melos came right back at the king. “There’s nothing worse than suspicion. And you suspect your own subjects.”

  “They made me suspicious. They’re selfish and unreliable, and I can’t trust them.” The tyrant spoke these words calmly and then he sighed, “After all, I too want peace and quiet.”

  “What for,” Melos sneered, “except to keep your power? Killing innocent people—that’s peace for you."

  Instantly the king looked up and retorted, “Silence, you wretch! You can prattle on about innocence, but I’ve got to see into people. I’ll have you begging for merc
y on the cross soon, but don’t expect me to listen.”

  “Ah, the king is wise. Go ahead, flatter yourself. I’ve decided to die, anyway. I won’t beg for mercy. Only ...” Melos hesitated, his eyes lowered. “If you pity me at all, delay the execution for three days while I see to my sister’s wedding. I’ll return from my village once the ceremony’s over. I’ll be here within three days, I promise that.”

  “Ridiculous!” The tyrant laughed softly, his voice hoarse. “Are you trying to tell me a captured bird will return after it’s been let free? What a joke.”

  “I’ll be back.” Melos insisted. “I don’t break my word. Give me three days. My sister’s expecting me. If you don’t trust me ... All right then, there’s a stonemason named Selinunteus in this city. He’s my best friend, and he’ll be my hostage. If I’m not back by sunset, have him strangled. Give me a chance; I’ll prove I can keep my word.”

  At these words the coldhearted tyrant grinned. He could tell that Melos was bluffing and that he would never return. He would play along, though, pretending to be taken in and letting Melos go free. It would be fun to have the hostage executed three days later. And as the execution was being carried out, he himself would wear a melancholy look to show how much he regretted that people could not be trusted. Yes, he would teach these so-called honest fools a thing or two.

  “I grant your request. You may summon the hostage. But come back,” he cautioned, “in three days. And by sunset. If you’re late, I shall execute him. Well, on second thought, you might come back a bit late. I’ll see that you’re acquitted for good.”

  “What was that?” Melos declared. “I don’t see what you’re getting at.”

  “Oh, come now, anyone can see that you don’t want to die. If it suits you, be late. I can tell what you re up to.