Crackling Mountain and Other Stories Read online

  “Who knows,” Harada replied, looking quite sleepy. “By the way, is the saké all gone?”

  Though fallen from his former glory, a samurai is still someone special. With this thought, Harada’s wife went proudly to the kitchen and warmed the remaining saké.

  (Based on ‘‘Tales from the Provinces,“ vol. 3, no. 1, “New Year’s Eve with Debts Unmet.”)

  The

  Monkey’s

  Mound

  Saruzuka

  In retelling the tales from Saikaku,1 Dazai usually followed the general outline of his source while adding numerous details of his own invention. The source tale for “The Monkey’s Mound” is a brief work with a rather arch title: “Imitating People, the Monkey Gives a Bath.” Eschewing elaborate description and detail, Saikaku again focuses on the main actions of his story—the love of Oran and Jiroemon, the arranged engagement of Oran to another man and the subsequent elopement by the lovers, the role of the monkey-servant, and the tragic death of the baby Kikunosuke.

  The opening line of the original tale, one which Dazai ignored in his reworking, describes a playful monkey swinging from branch to branch in a tree. Saikaku explicitly equates the branches with the five senses, the source of sin in the Buddhist view of things, thereby investing the monkey with its sometime connotation of passion on the loose. In his tale the lovers Oran and Jiroemon disregard the social code in order to fulfull their own desires. And so they come to grief, just as the lovers often do in many of Saikaku’s better known works such as Five Women Who Loved Love. Misfortune impels Oran and Jiroemon to consider seriously the religion the two of them have casually dismissed in their attachment to one another; in the final line of the tale they are described as chanting the Lotus Sutra2 without pause.

  Dazai turned these religious references into an occasion for comedy. He also blurred the outline of Saikaku’s tale by adding incidents and dialogue that make for caricature, especially in the case of Jiroemon. One unnamed and hardly mentioned figure in Saikaku’s account is expanded by Dazai into the calculating but foolish figure of Denroku, the intermediary for the two lovers. Again, the beauty of Oran, merely mentioned in Saikaku’s story as a fact, becomes in the retelling an imagistic set piece, with a dash of humor thrown in for good measure.

  The retelling gains something by its fuller description and dialogue. However, Dazai certainly incurs a loss in omitting the very device that sets the Saikaku narrative in motion—early mention of the monkey’s mound as a local feature requiring some historical explanation, a technique common to Noh drama. In another departure from Saikaku, Dazai often has his own narrator abruptly interrupt the action, a regular feature of many of his retold tales.

  When the lovers elope, their journey is described in terms that suggest a michiyuki. This type of literary scene, especially notable in the plays of Saikaku’s contemporary, Chikamatsu Monzaemon, evokes the beauty and pathos of a pair of lovers as they seek out a place to die. In the final line of “The Monkey’s Mound,” Dazai departs drastically from Saikaku’s original tale by sending his lovers off once more. This time there is no attempt to render the poetic feeling of the michiyuki, the lovers now being past the stage of dying for one another.

  Some years ago Shirasaka Tokuzaemon was the wealthiest man in Dazai Town, the capital of Chikuzen Province. Not only did he have a saké shop that his family had run for generations, he was also blessed with a daughter of unsurpassed beauty. Her name was Oran, and she astonished all who saw her from the time she was six or seven years old. Marveling at her beauty, a man might well recall the sniveling countenance of his own daughter and take to drinking in despair.

  In her mid-teens at the time of our story, Oran would drape her delicate figure in a long-sleeved kimono, bestowing her radiance upon the neighborhood. The spring sunlight so enhanced her beauty that the girl’s mother merely gazed at her in wonder, forgetting what she was about to say to her own daughter. Oran’s beauty lent a sweet fragrance to the region well beyond her own neighborhood. Indeed, many men fell in love without even seeing her.

  Let’s have a look now at our hero, Kuwamori Jiroemon. The heir to a thriving pawnshop run by his family in the district next to that of Tokuzaemon’s business, Jiroemon wasn’t terribly bad-looking. True, his face was somewhat plain, what with his large nose, bushy beard, and eyes that seemed to tail downward at the corners. But he seemed an honest person, and he did have fine teeth and a charming smile. Perhaps that’s all he needed. Anyway, something got started when he dropped into the saké shop during a rainstorm. Everyone knows that love is blind and foolish and that you don’t judge a book by its cover. Nevertheless, Oran fell in love. That’s where our story really begins, with Jiroemon winning the affections of this prized jewel.

  While the parents on either side were still ignorant of the affair, Jiroemon confided his hopes to Denroku the fishmonger, a regular customer of his family’s pawnshop. He urged Denroku to approach Tokuzaemon and propose a marriage between himself and Oran. Denroku was elated over the idea. Deeply in debt to the pawnshop for some time, he was now being asked to do something that Jiroemon could hardly manage by himself. The pawnshop was in this district, the saké shop in the neighboring one. If Denroku could adroitly negotiate the distance between them, he would end up drinking to his heart’s content while postponing the interest payment on his debt too. With this in mind, he looked among the unredeemed clothes in the pawnshop for a fancy outfit. Then, all decked out, he marched into Tokuzaemon’s place with such a discriminating air that those who saw him might wonder, Now who could that be?

  “Heh-heh,” Denroku chuckled as he snapped his fan open and shut. He then proceeded to praise the rocks in Tokuzaemon’s garden. Watching him, Tokuzaemon felt his flesh crawl. But he inquired all the same, “Is there anything I can do for you, Sir?”

  “Oh, nothing much,” Denroku calmly replied. Eventually, however, he got around to speaking of Jiroemon’s hopes. “Sir,” he pointed out, “you own a saké shop while the other party runs a pawnshop. Different businesses, but connected all the same— make for the saké shop, but stop at the pawnshop first; leave a pawnshop and the saké shop’s bound to be next.” He babbled on in this insolent manner, claiming that the two businesses were related to one another like a doctor and a priest; that their strength was that of a demon armed with a club; that together they could lay the town low.

  Denroku strained his wits as never before, and even Tokuzaemon felt tempted by his plea.

  “If Mr. Kuwamori is the eldest son and heir, there’s no objection on my part. By the way, his religion is . . . ?”

  “Well . . . maybe it’s . . .” replied Denroku hesitantly. Then he blurted out in desperation, “I’m not positive, but it must be Pure Land.”3

  “Then I refuse,” said Tokuzaemon spitefully, his mouth curling with malice. “My family’s been in the Lotus Sect for years. During my lifetime we’ve become especially devoted to St. Nichiren,4 and everyone recites the Invocation to the Sutra each morning and evening. I’ve brought up my daughter that way, so I can’t have her marrying into another religion. Incidentally,” he testily concluded, “If you’re going to play the go-between, you shouldn’t come around until you’ve investigated at least that much.”

  “But, uh . . . I . . .” Denroku felt the cold sweat on his back. “My people have been in the Lotus Sect for years. We recite St. Nichiren’s prayer both morning and night. All Hail to the Lotus Sutra—that’s how it goes.”

  “What’re you prattling about?” Tokuzaemon retorted. “I’m not marrying my daughter to you. If Mr. Kuwamori is Pure Land, the answer is no. I don’t care how much money he has or how good-looking and clever he is. Why, it would be an insult to St. Nichiren. Show me anything worthwhile in that gloomy Pure Land sect. The nerve—asking for my daughter when we’ve been in the Lotus Sect all these years. Just looking at you makes my stomach turn. Off with you, now.”

  Having retreated from the fray, Denroku carried the sad news back to Jiroemon. Un
perturbed, the latter merely remarked, “Oh, religion’s nothing to fret about. My family can switch easily enough. We’ve been more or less agnostic for generations, anyway. Lotus or Pure Land, it’s all the same to us.”

  Without wasting any time, Jiroemon got hold of a tasseled rosary and began reciting the Invocation both morning and evening. When he suggested to his parents that they do exactly as he bade, neither one had the slightest idea what was going on. And yet, being so indulgent toward their child, they too began chanting, “All Hail to the Lotus Sutra,” even as they gawked about and yawned.

  Shortly thereafter, Denroku again headed for Tokuzaemon’s place. Upon reaching the premises, he proclaimed that Mr. Kuwamori, along with his entire family, had converted to St. Nichiren’s sect and had taken up the Invocation.

  But Tokuzaemon was a difficult man and his response was blunt. “No,” he said, “a faith without root is shallow. Anyone can see that the fellow has converted merely to win Oran.” He went on to remark that such conduct was shameful and St. Nichiren himself would hardly approve of it. Why, anyone could see through this scheme in a moment. No, his mind was made up. He was going to marry his daughter into a family of Lotus Sect believers whom he knew.

  Upon hearing this news from Denroku, Jiroemon was so horrified that he wrote to Oran immediately. So you’re marrying into another Lotus Sect family, his letter began, and Denroku hasn’t accomplished a thing. Damn, I recited that disagreeable prayer and blistered my hands pounding a drum just for your saké. Maybe my name’s at fault. Jiroemon is quite close to Jirozaemon, and it’s bothered me a long time now that Sano no Jirozaemon,5 that fellow from the Eastland Province, got jilted right and left. If that happens to me, I’ll brandish my sword and take a hundred heads, just like he did. I’m a man, so I can do it. Don’t make a fool of me. Having finished the letter, Jiroemon sent it off, tears streaming down his face.

  Oran’s reply came back by return mail. I can’t fathom your letter at all, she began. You mustn’t do anything rash, like brandishing a sword or whatever. Before you take a single head, let alone a hundred, you’ll be cut down yourself. And what will I do if something happens to you? Please, don’t frighten me like that. This is the first time I’ve ever heard of another proposal. You’re always so worried about your nose and your slanted eyes—that’s why you lose confidence in yourself and start doubting me. It’s terrible to hear the things you say. Who would I marry now? You needn’t worry. If Father wants me to marry someone else, I’ll run away. I’m a woman, so I’ll come to you. Keep that in mind, please.

  Upon reading this, Jiroemon smiled a little. Still, he couldn’t rest easy yet. Now he truly felt like clinging to St. Nichiren and the Invocation. And so, contorting his face into a scowl, he began shouting, All Hail to the Lotus Sutra, and beating wildly upon the drum.

  The next day Tokuzaemon summoned Oran to his room and solemnly informed her that, owing to St. Nichiren’s providence, she was going to marry Hikosaku, a paper merchant from the Honmachi District. The bond would be forever, he declared, and she must enter into it gratefully.

  Oran was horrified. But she kept her feelings hidden as she bowed circumspectly and took her leave. Once she was out of the room, however, she rushed up to the second floor and scribbled a note. I must be brief, she wrote. It’s come, the day of decision is already here. I’m going to flee. So please, I beg you to meet me here this evening. Having finished the note, Oran had one of the clerks take it to the next district.

  As soon as he had scanned the message, Jiroemon started to tremble. To calm himself, he went to the kitchen and drank some water. He must make a decision right away, so he returned to the parlor and sat down in the center with his legs crossed. But he couldn’t figure out what to do. Finally he got up and changed his garment. He then went to the accounting room and started ransacking the drawers. Confronted by the watchman, he mumbled, “Oh, just a trifle,” whereupon he threw some coins into the sleeve of his gown and rushed blindly out of the shop.

  Along the way he realized that his clogs didn’t match. But he was afraid to return, so he went into a nearby shoe shop and bought a pair of straw, sandals. The money in his pocket was all he had, so he chose the cheapest pair possible. The soles proved so thin that he seemed to be barefoot. But he walked on to the next district, dejected and weeping. As he reached the back door of Tokuzaemon’s house, Oran came rushing out and, without uttering a word, seized his hand and started off. Sobbing as his sandals slapped against the ground, Jiroemon let himself be led off like a blind man.

  Well, this tale of a silly, thoughtless couple might seem trivial. It’s not over yet, though, for genuine hardship seems to lie ahead.

  That night they walked fifteen miles or more. The Sea of Hakata spread out on their left, and they gazed upon its pale, grey waters as if in a dream. They had neither food nor drink; they might be followed, too, and their insides froze in fear whenever they heard a footstep behind them. Tottering on more dead than alive, they reached a place called The Promontory of the Temple Bell, Where Riches are Revoked and Life Comes to an End. Crossing a field at the foot of a mountain, they finally reached the home of an acquaintance of Jiroemon’s. The man was rather cold toward them, but Jiroemon realized that this was only to be expected. Wrapping some of his coins in paper, he handed them over while saying, “It’s too much to ask, but . . .”

  Lodged in a mere shed, Oran and Jiroemon began to suspect that a life of misery lay in store for them. Pale and haggard, they looked at one another and let out a sigh. Oran sniffled over and over, trying to hold back her tears. She also stroked the fur of Kichibei, the monkey she had raised from infancy.

  And how did Kichibei get into the story? Well, Kichibei was Oran’s pet—and so attached to her that he had instinctively followed along when he saw her hurrying off in the darkness with a man he had never seen. Oran, after noticing that Kichibei had followed them for several miles, scolded, shooed, and even threw stones at the monkey. But Kichibei kept loping along behind until eventually Jiroemon took pity on the animal. Since he’s come this far, Jiroemon said, let’s take him along. Oran then beckoned, and the monkey scurried up to them. Once he was cradled in her arms, he blinked and gave them both a look of pity.

  Eventually Kichibei became their faithful servant. He brought meals to the shed for them and kept the flies away. Wielding a comb, he would even put the stray curls of his mistress back in place. Though a mere animal, he also tried to console the couple, doing one thing after another, even when it wasn’t necessary.

  Though they had chosen a life of obscurity, one could not expect them to live forever in a cramped shed. Giving most of the leftover money to his cold-hearted acquaintance, Jiroemon asked that a cottage be constructed nearby. When it was finished, the couple moved in with their monkey-servant and started a vegetable garden large enough to supply their table. When he had time, Jiroemon would go off to cut tobacco, leaving Oran at home to spin cotton into skeins. Having betrayed their parents and eloped, now they could hardly eke out a living. Certainly the dreams of youth, whether of love or hate, fade quickly.

  So they had ended up as one more hubby and his missis, staring at one another in their poor household. When a clatter arose in the kitchen, each of them would stand up with an angry look. Had a mouse made the noise? They wouldn’t tolerate having the beans soiled again. In circumstances such as these, even the autumn leaves and the spring violets failed to interest them.

  Sensing that now was the time to repay his debt to Jiroemon, Kichibei would go into the nearby hills to gather decaying oak branches and fallen leaves. Back home, he would squat before the stove, his face turned away from the smoke, and kindle the fire with rapid strokes of his persimmon-dyed fan. After a few minutes had passed, he would serve them each a lukewarm cup of tea—in a manner so comic that the couple found something pathetic in it. Although Kichibei couldn’t speak, he was visibly worried about the household’s poverty. He would dawdle over his supper, eating just a little before
rolling over to sleep as if he were full. Whenever Jiroemon finished his own meal, the monkey would run up to massage his master’s back and rub his legs. Then he was off to the kitchen to help Oran clean up. Each time he broke a plate, a look of shame would appear on his face.

  Consoled by the monkey, the couple gradually forgot about their wretched fate. After a year had passed and autumn had again come, Oran gave birth to a baby whom they named Kikunosuke. For the first time in months, the sound of laughter came from the simple cottage. Suddenly the couple found life worth living once more. They made a fuss over the child—Look! He’s opened his eyes. There! He’s yawning—and Kichibei pranced about with delight. The monkey would bring in nuts from the wild and place them in the infant’s hand. Though Oran would scold him for this, Kichibei would not leave the baby alone. He seemed beside himself with curiosity. He would gaze in amazement at the sleeping face, only to be startled by the infant’s sudden cry. Then he would run over to Oran and tug at her skirt, drawing her over to the cradle. The breast, the breast, he would motion to his mistress. As she proceeded to nurse the child, the monkey would crouch nearby, watching in fascination.

  A splendid guardian—that’s what Kichibei had become. Yet, no matter how pleased they were over the monkey’s attentions, the couple still felt sorry for Kikunosuke. If the child had only been born last year in the Kuwamori house, he would have received heaps of swaddling clothes from the celebrating relatives and slept on silk, too, with several nursemaids in attendance. Not a single flea could have come near him, his skin would have remained like a jewel. For being born a year later, however, the child had to sleep in a thatched cottage exposed to the wind and rain, with nuts and berries for his toys and a monkey as his guardian.

  Oran and Jiroemon had themselves brought on Kikunosuke’s plight by their rash love. They forgot about that, however, from sheer pity for the child. In spite of their poverty, they were determined to put something aside for when Kikunosuke became aware of such things as wealth. If they could manage that, they would return and set things right with their parents. Impelled by his love for the child, Jiroemon asked a neighbor how he could make some money in business.