Crackling Mountain and Other Stories

by Osamu Dazai

  Finally the badger lifted his foot and kicked the rabbit away. Then, quicker than the eye could see, he smeared the medicine on his face.

  “I’m ashamed of my face,” he exclaimed. “The features are fine, but this dark complexion—well, this’ll fix it. Wow! That’s awful. Does it ever sting. If the medicine wasn’t strong, though, it wouldn’t cure my complexion. Ah, this is terrible. I’ll bear it, though. Damn! Next time we meet, she’ll really be taken with this face of mine. Heh-heh, so what if she hankers for me. Won’t be my fault. Ah, does that ever sting. This medicine’ll do the trick for sure. Well, I’ve come this far, so you might as well smear it all over—on my back or wherever. I don’t care if I die, not if it lightens my complexion. Go ahead, smear the stuff on. Don’t hesitate, just start splashing.”

  Already the badger was a pathetic sight. But a proud, beautiful teen is a virtual demon who is utterly ruthless. The rabbit calmly picked herself up and applied a thick layer of the pepper paste to the badger’s burnt back.

  The badger writhed in pain. “Oh, nothing to it. This medicine’ll work for sure. Wow! That’s awful. Gimme water! Where am I! In hell! Hey, you’ve got to forgive me—l don’t remember falling into hell! I didn’t want to become badger stew, that’s why I went after the old woman. I haven’t done anything wrong. In my thirty-odd years—and all because of this dark complexion—not one lady friend! Then, there’s that appetite of mine—ah, what an embarrassment! But nobody’s concerned about me, I’m entirely on my own. Yet I’m a good man and not so bad-looking, either.” Racked with pain, the badger kept on with his pathetic ranting before fainting to the ground in a heap.

  Even so, the badger’s ordeal wasn’t over yet. So terrible was his plight that your author, even as he writes these words, can feel a sigh welling up inside. In all of Japanese history, there are scarcely any instances of so depressing an end. No sooner had he rejoiced over escaping the ordeal with the badger stew than he sustained that queer burn on Mount Roaring and barely escaped alive once again. He just managed to crawl back to his lair where he lay groaning through twisted lips—only to have so much hot pepper smeared over his burn that he fainted in agony. Next he’ll launch his clay boat on Lake Kawaguchi and sink to the bottom. What an utter mess! Yes, there’s something to be said for a broken affair. Unfortunately, a sleazy instance like this one hasn’t got any romance to it.

  Hardly able to breathe, the badger remained in his lair for three days, his spirit wandering forth, but only along that dim border between life and death. When the hunger pangs started up on the fourth day, he was more miserable than words can describe. Nevertheless, he hobbled forth on his cane, mumbling to himself as he searched here and there for food.

  Thereafter he quickly recovered, thanks to the large, sturdy body with which he was endowed. Within ten days he was back to normal, his appetite flourishing as of old, his lust also beginning to stir. He should have known better by now, but eventually he found himself heading once more toward the rabbit’s nest.

  “Here I am,” the badger sheepishly announced. “Just thought I’d drop by for a visit, heh-heh.”

  “Oh!” the startled rabbit exclaimed, the malice in her look conveying a good deal more. So it’s you?!! Or something even stronger, like, What’s the big idea! Here! Again? The nerve ... No, it was even stronger than that. Oh, I can’t stand it! The plague’s arrived! Or even worse. Filthy! Stinking! Rot in hell! Yes, her look was one of utter hatred. But our uninvited guest doesn’t seem to notice the host’s mood—a strange phenomenon which the reader should take note of. You set out grudgingly for a boring, irksome visit and end up being most heartily welcomed. On the other hand, you fondly imagine, ah, what a comfortable place ...it’s almost like my own ...no, more cozy than home even ...a refuge . . . Yet, in spite of your high spirits, the host is usually upset, frightened, repelled—and the broom behind the sliding door is turned upside down to bring about your early departure. One who looks for refuge in the home of another proves himself a fool. A mere visit can lead to amazing blunders, so one should keep away even from close relatives unless there’s a special reason for the visit. If you doubt my advice, observe the badger as he becomes entangled in this very folly.

  The rabbit exclaimed, “Oh!” and gave the badger a malicious look, but he did not catch on. To him that “Oh!” seemed a maiden’s impulsive cry of surprise and delight—and her look conveyed sympathy because of his recent accident on Mount Roaring. The badger shuddered with pleasure and said, “I’m fine, thank you,” even though he had not been asked how he felt.

  “Don’t worry,” he continued. “I’ve already recovered. The gods were with me. And I’m lucky. Mount Roaring wasn’t much—just a farting kappa.1 A kappa’s supposed to be tasty, too. I’ve thought about getting hold of one and having myself a meal. Well, that’s another matter. That was some surprise the other day. A real blaze. How’d you make out? Don’t seem to have any burns. You got away quick, then, did you?”

  “Got away quick, my foot!” the rabbit objected, looking quite peeved. “You’re the one. You ran away and left me alone with that fire. The smoke was so stifling I almost choked to death. Was I ever furious. I realized then how little I meant to you. Now I can see what you’re really like.”

  “I’m sorry, please forgive me. I got a bad burn too. Maybe the gods weren’t with me. I ran up against it there. It’s not that I forgot about you. You see, my back got scorched right away and I didn’t have time for a rescue. Can’t you see that? I’m no traitor— anyone would be helpless with a burn like that one. And then there’s that elementary—I mean, alimentary salve or whatever it was. The worst thing—just terrible stuff. Doesn’t help a dark complexion at all.”

  “A dark complexion?”

  “No . . . I meant to say a dark, syrupy concoction. That was really strong. There was this odd runt—he looked a lot like you—and he said he wouldn’t charge, either. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. And so I asked him to put some of it on. Good lord! I tell you, be careful when the medicine’s free. You can’t be too cautious. I felt this whirlwind swirl right through my head and then I toppled over.”

  “H’mm,” the rabbit murmured disdainfully. “Serves you right. That’s the price for being stingy. Trying out a medicine because it was free—and not the least ashamed to tell about it, either.”

  “Damn your tongue,” the badger muttered, although he didn’t appear upset. Indeed, he seemed to bask in the warm presence of his sweetheart. He plopped down, his turbid, dead-fish eyes roaming about for something he could snatch up. “Guess I’m just lucky,” he uttered, gobbling an insect. “I keep ticking no matter what happens. The gods must be with me. You made it through, and this burn of mine got better without any trouble. So now we can just take it easy and have a chat. Ah, this is just like a dream.”

  The rabbit had been hoping he would leave, and now she could tolerate him no longer. He was so awful she felt like dying. Desperate to be rid of him, she again came up with a devilish scheme.

  “By the way,” she asked, “have you heard that Lake Kawaguchi is swarming with carp? They’re supposed to be delicious.”

  “Nope, I haven’t heard that,” the badger replied, his eyes now sparkling. “When I was three years old, my old lady caught me a carp. That was some meal. But I can’t even catch any sort of fish, let alone a carp. Not that I’m clumsy—no, not at all. I know how delicious carp is, but for some thirty-odd years now—hah-hah, there I go again, mimicking my older brother. He likes carp, too.”

  “Is that so?” the rabbit remarked offhandedly. “I don’t care for them myself. But if you like them that much, I can take you fishing.”

  “Yeah?!” The badger was elated. “Those carp are slippery fellows, though. I tried catching one and almost went under for good.” Having confessed to his own ineptitude, the badger came right out and asked, “But how do you catch them?”

  “It’s easy with a net. Some really big carp have been coming near the shore at Ugashi
ma. Well? Shall we give it a try? How about a boat? Do you know how to row?”

  The badger sighed. “I wouldn’t say I can’t row. Not,” he anxiously insisted, “if I put my mind to it.” “Then you do row?” The rabbit knew the badger was only putting on, but she pretended to believe him. “Ah, that’s perfect. I’ve got a boat, but it’s so small we can’t get in it together. It’s not well made, and the flimsy boards always leak. I don’t care about myself, but nothing must happen to you. Why don’t we both pitch in and build you a boat. A wooden one’s dangerous, so let’s build something sturdy out of clay.”

  “Sorry to be such trouble. I’m about to weep—you won’t mind if I have myself a good cry. Oh, why do I break down so easily?” But even as he pretended to weep, the badger came out with a brazen proposal. “Could you go ahead and build a sturdy boat, then? Huh, would you do that? I’ll do something for you in return. Maybe I could put together a small meal while you’re working. I do think I’d make a fine chef.”

  “Oh yes,” the rabbit nodded, as if she agreed with this conceited opinion. The badger, musing about how indulgent people were, smiled gleefully—and thereby sealed his fate right then and there. The rabbit was nurturing a horrible scheme even as she pretended to indulge his silliness. But the simpering badger didn’t notice. He merely thought that all was well.

  When they arrived at Lake Kawaguchi, the surface was clear and utterly calm. The rabbit went quickly to work, kneading the clay for a fine, sturdy boat. For his part the badger scampered about diligently gathering a meal and mumbling over and over, Sorry to be such trouble. Eventually an evening breeze came up, and tiny waves rose all over the lake. In due course the small clay boat, gleaming like a piece of steel, slid into the water.

  “Yep, not bad,” the badger jested as he placed on board the large gasoline utility can that held the lunch. “You’re good with your hands too—building such a nice boat in a twinkling. Now that’s real talent,” he concluded, a piece of flattery so transparent as to set your teeth on edge.

  Greed, as well as lust, now held the badger in thrall. He imagined himself taking this clever, industrious girl for his wife, then living a life of ease and luxury on her labor. Regardless of what happened, he would cling to her forever. And, with this thought in mind, he clambered aboard.

  “I guess you’re pretty good at rowing too, then? When it comes to rowing a boat, even I ... certainly ... Well, it’s not that I don’t know how. But just for today I’d like to observe my wife’s skill.” It was utter impudence, and it didn’t stop there. “I used to row in the old days,” he went on. “They called me an expert, a champ, and all that. But I’ll just lie here today and watch. Since it’s all right with me, you go ahead and fasten my boat to yours. If our boats hug one another, we can only perish together. Don’t abandon me now.” After this odious and affected speech, the badger sprawled out on the bottom of his clay boat.

  Did the fool suspect? Fasten my boat to yours— that remark had caught the rabbit off guard. One glimpse, though, and she knew that nothing was amiss. The badger was already dreaming, blissful love written all over his smiling face. The rabbit grinned scornfully as the badger began to mumble in his sleep—Wake me up when the carp’s ready. I can taste ’em now. Thirty-seven, that’s me. Presently the rabbit tied the clay boat to her own and dipped her oar in the water. With a splash, the two boats slid away from the shore.

  The Ugashima pines seemed to flare up, bathed as they were in the light of the setting sun. Now this next part will make me seem a know-it-all, but that description of a pine grove comes from a pack of Shikishima cigarettes. I’ve checked this out with a dependable person, and readers won’t be any worse off taking my word for it. But then again, Shikishimas aren’t around any longer, so younger readers won’t care anyway. To them, I’ll just be showing off about nothing. Pretend to know something, and you end up with this sort of foolishness. Oh, those pines! Perhaps readers thirty years or older—no one else—will faintly remember the pines, along with their geisha friends and parties. Maybe such readers can’t do anything other than look bored.

  “Ah, how lovely,” the rabbit murmured, entranced by the sunset over Ugashima.

  This is strange indeed. It seems that not even the worst villain could be taken with natural beauty the moment before carrying out some cruel deed. Yet, our fifteen-year-old charmer squints her eyes and contemplates the scenery, an indication that innocence is truly a hairbreadth from villainy. Certain men will sigh—Ah, the Innocence of Youth—and drool over the nauseating affectations of a selfish, carefree teen. They had better watch out, though. She remains as composed as this rabbit, even while Murder and Intoxication dwell together in her breast. A wild and sensuous dance goes on, and no one notices. It’s like the foam on beer—nothing more perilous.

  Idiotic, demonic—such words come to mind when mere skin-deep feeling takes precedence over ethics. Sometime ago popular American movies portrayed boys and girls who were full of innocence. Highly endowed with this skin-deep feeling, they fidgeted around and darted about as if on springs. I don’t mean to stretch things, but this “Youthful Innocence” I’m talking of might well be traced to America or thereabouts. It’s just a Merrily-We-Ski-Along sort of thing.

  On the other hand these innocents commit silly crimes without the least concern. That’s the demonic, rather than idiotic, side of this. Or, maybe sometime in the past, the demonic was idiotic. Once comparable to Artemis the Moon Goddess—she of the graceful limbs and small, delicate figure—our fifteen-year-old rabbit has suddenly become dull and dreary. Idiotic, you say? Well, that’s the way things go.

  “Hyaa!” cries a strange voice from down below. It’s that dear badger of mine, a thirty-seven-year-old male who’s not the least bit innocent. “Water!” he cried, “it’s water! This is awful!”

  “What a nuisance you are! A clay boat’s bound to sink. You didn’t know that?”

  “I don’t get it. This is much too much. And not proper at all. Unreasonable—that’s the word for it. Surely you wouldn’t—not to me, anyway—surely not such a dastardly thing as ... No, I don’t get it at all. Aren’t you my wife? Ya! I’m sinking! That’s all I can tell—I’m sinking! The joke’s gone too far—it’s almost a crime. Ya! I’m sinking! Hey, what’re you doing to me? Won’t the meal go to waste? There’s earthworm macaroni and skunk droppings in the box. Isn’t that a shame? Gulp! Ah, I just swallowed water. Look here, this bad joke’s gone far enough. I’m begging you. Hey there, don’t cut that rope! If we perish, it’ll be together. Husband and wife for two lives—that’s a bond you can’t severe. No! Don’t! Oh, now you’ve done it. Help! I can’t swim! I’ll be honest with you. In the old days I could swim a little, but the muscles stiffen here and there on a thirty-seven-year-old badger. I can’t swim at all. I’ll be honest. I’m thirty-seven—too old for you, really. But you mustn’t forget the old maxims—Respect your Elders! Help the Aged! Gulp! Ah, you’re a nice girl. So act like you should now and stretch your oar over here. I’ll get a grip on ... Ouch! What’re you doing? Don’t you know that hurts—banging an oar on someone’s head really hurts! So that’s it. I get it. You mean to kill me. Now I know.” Faced with his own death, the badger finally saw into the rabbit’s scheme. But it was too late.

  The oar banged mercilessly against his skull time after time. The water glistened in the sunset as the badger sank into the lake and rose to the surface over and over again.

  “Ouch! Ouch! Aren’t you going too far? What did I do to you? What’s wrong with falling in love?” he exclaimed before going under for good.

  Wiping her brow, the rabbit declared, “Whew, I’m drenched with sweat.”

  So, what have we here? A cautionary tale on lust? A comedy scented with advice on avoiding pretty teenagers? Or perhaps an ethics lesson that bids the suitor to moderate his delight in the beloved? After all, persistent visits provoke such contempt that one’s life is endangered.

  But maybe the tale is mostly humorous, merely
hinting that people don’t revile and chastise one another because of morality. (Actually, they do these things simply out of hatred, just as they praise others or submit to them out of affection.)

  But no, let’s not fret over what conclusions a social critic might reach. Sighing, we allow instead the last word to our badger—“What’s wrong with falling in love?”

  That sums up, briefly and without any exaggeration, all of the world’s woeful tales from the days of old. In every woman dwells this cruel rabbit, while in every man a good badger always struggles against drowning. In the mere thirty-odd years of your author’s life, uneventful though they be, this has been made utterly clear. And probably, dear reader, it’s the same with you. I’ll just skip the rest of it, however.

  Notes

  Introduction

  1. Masuji Ibuse is known outside of Japan primarily as the author of Black Rain, a novel describing the atomic bombing of Hiroshima and some of its aftereffects. Besides Black Rain, Ibuse has written of everyday life in Japan in a variety of settings. Born in 1898, he became Dazai’s mentor, advising the younger writer on problems of style and helping him find outlets for his early stories.

  Memories

  1. Requiem posts are pointed slats of wood propped against railings and gravestones in a Japanese cemetery. The writing on the posts consists of Sanskrit letters, sutra passages, and religious admonitions.

  2. The Festival of the Dead is a traditional Buddhist feast observed in July or August. Akin to All Soul’s Day, various rituals are conducted as a way of welcoming back the spirits of one’s ancestors and then seeing them off.

  3. The Girls’ Festival, held on March 3, is marked by a display of dolls on a tiered platform. The dolls are thought to originate from paper figures used in an ancient Chinese rite of purification. The Girls’ Festival is also known as the Peach Festival.

  4. “Earthquake, Lightning, Fire, and Father” constitutes a humorous aphorism pinpointing the four most frightening things, in descending order, to the Japanese people.