The Battle of the Monkey and the Crab

The monkey who stole the crab's rice ball was at last avenged upon by the crab. Together with the millstone, the bee, and the egg, the crab killed its mortal enemy. There is no need to retell that familiar tale. What must be told, however, is the fate that befell the crab and its comrades after they had finished off the monkey, for the fairy tale says nothing whatever about that.

Indeed, not only does it say nothing; it makes it appear as though the crab returned to its hole, the millstone to a corner of the earthen kitchen floor, the bee to its hive beneath the eaves, and the egg to its box of rice husks, and all lived out their days in peace and safety.

But that is false. After taking their revenge, they were arrested by the police and every one of them was thrown into prison. After a succession of trials, the crab, as principal offender, was sentenced to death, while its accomplices—the millstone, the bee, the egg, and the rest—were condemned to penal servitude for life. Readers who know only the fairy tale may find their fate puzzling. Yet it is fact: fact beyond the slightest doubt.

According to the crab's own testimony, it exchanged its rice ball for a persimmon. The monkey, however, not only withheld the ripe fruit and offered nothing but green persimmons, but repeatedly hurled them at the crab with the intention of causing injury. The crab and the monkey had exchanged no written contract. Even if that omission were disregarded, the agreement had merely specified an exchange of a rice ball for a persimmon; it had never expressly stipulated a ripe persimmon. As for the final pelting with green fruit, there was insufficient evidence to establish malice on the monkey's part. Thus even the celebrated and eloquent attorney who defended the crab could apparently devise no strategy beyond appealing to the judge's sympathy. They say that, while compassionately wiping the foam from the crab's mouth, he told his client, "You must resign yourself to it." No one can decide whether he meant that the crab should resign itself to the death sentence or to having paid its lawyer an enormous fee.

Moreover, hardly a newspaper or magazine seems to have expressed sympathy for the crab. The crab's killing of the monkey, they argued, was nothing but an outburst of private resentment. And what was that resentment, after all, but vexation that the monkey had profited from the crab's own ignorance and rashness? In a world where the strong prevail and the weak perish, anyone who vents such a private grievance must be either a fool or a madman. Such, apparently, was the prevailing criticism. One baron who served as president of a chamber of commerce broadly endorsed this view and further concluded that the crab's murder of the monkey had probably been influenced to some extent by the dangerous ideas then in fashion. Perhaps for that reason, after the crab's act of vengeance, the baron is said to have kept ten bulldogs in addition to his hired toughs.

Nor did the crab's revenge find the least favor among the so-called intellectuals. A certain university professor, speaking from the standpoint of ethics, declared that the crab had killed the monkey out of a desire for revenge and that revenge could hardly be called good. A certain socialist leader said that, since the crab had set such store by private property in the form of persimmons and rice balls, the millstone, bee, and egg must also have held reactionary views; indeed, the National Essence Society might have been behind the entire affair. The head priest of a certain sect said that the crab evidently knew nothing of Buddhist compassion: even if struck by green persimmons, had it possessed true compassion, it would have pitied rather than hated the monkey for its conduct. "Ah, if only I could have made it hear one of my sermons, just once," he lamented. Distinguished figures in many other fields also offered their opinions, but every voice opposed the crab's vendetta. Only one man spoke spiritedly in its defense, a hard-drinking poet who was also a member of parliament. He maintained that the crab's revenge accorded with the spirit of bushido. But no one was likely to heed so antiquated an argument. Besides, newspaper gossip claimed that several years earlier, while visiting a zoo, the parliamentarian had been sprayed with urine by a monkey and had never forgiven the insult.

Readers acquainted only with the fairy tale may shed sympathetic tears over the crab's sorrowful fate. But its death was only proper. To feel sorry for it is mere sentimentality fit for women and children. The whole nation approved the crab's death. Indeed, on the night of the execution, the judge, prosecutor, defense attorney, warders, executioner, prison chaplain, and all the rest are said to have slept soundly for forty-eight hours. What is more, each of them saw the gates of heaven in his dreams. According to their accounts, heaven resembles a department store built like a feudal castle.

I should also write a little about what became of the crab's family after its death. The crab's wife became a prostitute. Whether she was driven to it by poverty or by her own disposition remains unclear. After his father's death, the eldest son, to borrow the language of newspapers and magazines, "saw the error of his ways and underwent a complete change of heart." He is now said to be a senior clerk or something of the kind at a stockbroker's office. Once, in order to eat the flesh of his own species, this crab dragged an injured fellow crab into his hole. This is the very crab Kropotkin cited in Mutual Aid as an example of crabs caring for their own kind. The second son became a novelist. Naturally, being a novelist, he does nothing but fall in love with women. Taking his father's life as his example, he merely strings together irresponsible ironies such as "good is only another name for evil." The third son was a simpleton and could therefore become nothing but a crab. One day, as he scuttled sideways, he found a rice ball lying on the ground. Rice balls were his favorite food. He raised the prize in the tip of his great claw. Then, high in the crown of a persimmon tree, there was a monkey picking lice from its fur—and there is surely no need to tell what happened next.

At any rate, one fact remains: once a crab fights a monkey, the crab is certain to be killed in the name of the nation. I address these words to all my readers throughout the land: most of you are crabs too.

—February 1923—