五 1

To write down everything that happens in a twenty-four-hour period, and to read it all without omission, would take at least twenty-four hours. Even I, who so fervently advocate the sketch-from-life style, must confess that this is a feat no cat could ever accomplish. Thus, however much my master may utter strange words and perform bizarre deeds worthy of minute description at every hour of the day and night, I regret that I lack the ability and the patience to report each and every one of them to the reader. It is regrettable, but unavoidable. Even a cat needs rest. After Mr. Suzuki and Mr. Miting went home, the wintry wind howled abruptly, and all fell as silent as a night of steadily falling snow. As usual, the master shut himself in his study. The children laid their pillows side by side in the six-mat room and went to sleep. Beyond a one-and-a-half-mat sliding door, in the south-facing room, the mistress lay down to nurse Menko, her three-year-old (by count) daughter. The day, hastening toward dusk beneath a hazy spring sky, had long since set, and the sound of clogs passing out front reached the sitting room as clearly as if placed in one's hand. From a boarding house in the next town came the fitful notes of a bright flute, now ceasing, now continuing, now and then giving a dull刺激 to the sleepy ear. Outside was probably mostly veiled in mist. After a dinner of abalone shells stripped clean of their meat in a broth of half a penny's worth, rest was an absolute necessity.

From what I faintly hear, there is among the world a phenomenon of haikai taste called "a cat's love," and they say that on certain nights in early spring the cats of the neighborhood, even to the unsettling of their fellows' dreams, go about in revelry—but I have yet to encounter such a change of heart. Love, after all, is the cosmic life force. From Jupiter, the god in heaven above, down to the earthworms and mole crickets that cry beneath the soil, to squander one's self in this way is the custom of all living things; thus it is no unreasonable tale that we cats, in the misty bliss, should display a troublesome elegance. Looking back, even I, who speak thus, have at times pined for Mikeko. Even Obekawa Tomiko, daughter of Mr. Kaneda—the very fountainhead of triangularism—is rumored to have loved Mr. Kangetsu. Therefore I bear not the slightest contempt for the delusion of passion that drives male and female cats of the whole world mad on precious spring nights; but, be that as it may, I feel no such inclination even when invited, so there is nothing to be done. My present state is one of mere desire for rest. This sleepy, love is impossible. I creep slowly around to the foot of the children's bedding and fall into a pleasant sleep. …

Opening my eyes suddenly, I find that the master has somehow slipped into the bedding laid out beside the mistress in the bedroom, having moved from his study without my notice. It is the master's habit, upon retiring, to bring a thin Western-style book from his study. Yet he has never, lying down, read two consecutive pages of it. Sometimes he brings it and leaves it by the pillow, never so much as touching it. One would think he need not trouble to carry it over if he reads not a line, but that is just what makes him the master he is; no matter how the mistress laughs or tells him to stop, he never consents. Every night he laboriously carries his unread book to the bedroom. Sometimes, greedy, he carries three or four volumes. The other day he even carried Webster's unabridged dictionary every night. I surmise this is a sickness of the master's: just as a luxurious man cannot sleep without hearing the sound of pine wind at Ryubundo, the master cannot sleep without a book at his pillow. Seen thus, to the master a book is not for reading but a device to invite sleep—a typographical sleeping draught.

Peering to see if there is something tonight, I find a thin red book lying half-open at a position nearly touching the tip of the master's mustache. That his left thumb remains caught between its pages suggests, remarkably, that he read five or six lines tonight. Beside the red book, as usual, a nickel pocket watch gives off a cold shine unsuited to spring.

The mistress has flung the nursing infant some one shaku away, and lies with her pillow askew, snoring with mouth agape. I should think nothing in human life is more unseemly than to sleep with the mouth open. We cats have never in our lives suffered such shame. The mouth is by nature for making sound, the nose for breathing air. To be sure, farther north there are zuzu-boys who, grown lazy, economize by avoiding the mouth and speak through the nose; but to block the nose and breathe only through the mouth seems to me more unsightly than a zuzu-boy. Dangerous, too, should a mouse dropping fall from the ceiling.

As for the children, they lie in equal disgrace to their parents. The elder, Tonko, stretches her right arm out as if to say, "Such are the rights of an elder sister," and lays it atop her younger sister's ear. The younger, Sunko, in revenge, lifts one leg onto her sister's belly and kicks backward. Both have rotated fully ninety degrees from their sleeping posture. Yet maintaining this unnatural pose, both sleep soundly without complaint.

Truly the spring lamplight is exceptional. Behind this innocently artless, utterly unromantic scene, it shines tenderly, as if to bid one cherish the fine night. Wondering the hour, I glance about; all is silent, and the only sounds are the wall clock, the mistress's snore, and, from afar, the maid's teeth-grinding. This maid is one who always denies grinding her teeth when told. "I have no memory of grinding my teeth from birth to this day," she insists stubbornly, never saying "I shall mend" or "I am sorry," only asserting she has no such memory. Indeed, since it is done in sleep, she surely has no memory. But facts may exist without memory, and that is the trouble. In this world there are those who do evil yet consider themselves wholly good. They are innocently fine in their confidence of innocence, but no innocence erases the troubling fact. Such gentlemen and ladies, I think, belong to this maid's lineage. — The night has grown late.

At the kitchen shutters came two light taps, ton-ton. Strange—no one should call at this hour. Probably that rat again; if a rat, I am resolved to catch it, so let it rampage as it will. — Again, ton-ton. Not at all like a rat. A most cautious rat, if rat. The rats in the master's house, like the students of the school where the master teaches, practice violence by day or night without cease, taking as their heavenly duty the shattering of the master's pitiful dreams; they would show no such restraint. This was certainly no rat. The other day one even burst into the master's bedroom and bit his not-tall nose tip, then withdrew in triumph—too cowardly for such a rat. Decidedly no rat. Next came the sound of the shutter lifted from bottom to top, gii, and simultaneously the sliding door eased along its groove as gently as possible. Surely no rat. A human. A human who, at this deep night, opens the latch uninvited, must be neither Mr. Miting nor Mr. Suzuki. Could it be the famed thief, the Dark Gentleman? I should like to behold his honorable face soon. The Dark Gentleman now, it seems, lifts a great muddy foot onto the kitchen floor and advances two steps. Just as I think a third step, he stumbles on the board and makes a clang that rings through the night. My back hair bristles as if brushed backward with a shoe brush. For a while no footstep. The mistress still breathes the air of peace with open mouth in dream. The master likely dreams with thumb in red book. Presently comes the sound of rubbing matches in the kitchen. The Dark Gentleman, it seems, has poorer night eyes than I. Awkward in the kitchen, no doubt inconvenient.

Crouching, I considered: would the Dark Gentleman appear from kitchen toward the sitting room, or turn left through the front hall to the study? — Footsteps with the slide of a door stepped onto the veranda. The Dark Gentleman entered the study. Then no sound, no word.

In the meantime I thought to wake the master and mistress, but how to rouse them? Only useless thoughts whirled in my head like a waterwheel, no wisdom came. I thought to bite the bedding hem and shake; tried two or three times, no effect. Thought to rub my cold nose on the cheek; brought it to the master's face, and he, still asleep, thrust out his arm and pushed my snout away as if refusing. The nose is a cat's vital point; the pain was terrible. Then, hopeless, I cried "nyan, nyan" twice to wake them, but strangely, just then my throat clogged and no proper voice came. Straining, I forced a low note—and was startled. The master showed no sign of waking, yet suddenly the Dark Gentleman's steps began. Michiri-michiri, along the veranda, approaching. At last he comes; it is hopeless, I resigned, and hid between the sliding door and the wicker trunk to watch.

The Dark Gentleman's steps reached the bedroom shoji and stopped. I held my breath, intent on what next. Later I thought: were I catching a rat, such a feeling would be natural—my soul seemed ready to leap from both eyes. Thanks to the Dark Gentleman, I gained an enlightenment never to be repeated; truly grateful. Soon the third slat of the shoji, as if wet by rain, changed color only at its center. Through it a pale red something gradually darkened, and then the paper was torn and a red tongue flicked out. The tongue vanished into the dark. In its place, beyond the torn hole, shone one fearful thing. Undoubtedly the Dark Gentleman's eye. Strangely, that eye seemed to look not at anything in the room but solely at me, hidden behind the trunk. Though less than a minute, I thought my life shortened under that glare. Just as I resolved to leap from the trunk's shadow, the bedroom shoji slid open and the long-awaited Dark Gentleman appeared before me.

By order of narration, I now have the honor to introduce to you the unexpected guest, the thief Dark Gentleman; but before that, I wish to state a humble view and trouble your consideration. The ancient gods are revered as all-knowing and all-powerful. Especially the Christian God still wears this mask of omniscience and omnipotence even in the twentieth century. Yet the omniscience and omnipotence conceived by vulgar men may at times be interpreted as ignorance and impotence. This is plainly a paradox. But if I consider that since the creation of heaven and earth I alone have exposed this paradox, a vanity arises that I am not such a bad cat, and I must state my reason here, to hammer into the proud human minds that a cat is not to be slighted. All things were made by God; then man too is His handiwork. The Bible, they say, states so clearly. Now regarding man, through thousands of years of observation man himself has come to marvel at the mystery, and at the same time to incline ever more to acknowledge God's omniscience and omnipotence. That is: though men swarm, not one shares the same face. The parts of the face are fixed, the size roughly similar. In other words, they are made from the same materials, yet not one turns out the same. To think that from such simple materials He devised such bizarre faces commands admiration for the Maker's skill. Without original imagination, such variety is impossible. A generation's painter, exhausting his spirit for variation, produces not beyond twelve or thirteen types; thus the hand of God, who singly undertook man's manufacture, must be extraordinary. Since such skill is unseen in human society, it may be called omnipotent. In this, man greatly fears God; from man's viewpoint, rightly so. But from a cat's standpoint, the same fact may prove God's impotence. If not wholly impotent, at least no greater than man. Did God make as many faces as men, with a plan beforehand, or, intending all alike, failed and botched both the possible and impossible into this chaos? Who knows. Their facial structure may be seen as monument of success or trace of failure. Omnipotent or impotent, either fits. Human eyes, set side by side on a plane, cannot see both sides at once, so only half of things enters sight—pitiful. Changing stance, such simple facts occur daily in their society, yet they are swollen with pride, swallowed by God, and cannot perceive. If variation in making is hard, thorough imitation is equally hard. To order Raphael two identical Madonnas is as troublesome as to demand two utterly dissimilar ones; perhaps the former harder. To ask Kobo Daishi to write "Kukai" exactly as yesterday may be harder than a new style. Human language is learned by pure imitation. When learning from mother, nurse, others, they have no ambition but to repeat. They imitate with all ability. That such language, born of imitation, changes in pronunciation over ten or twenty years proves imperfect imitative ability. Pure imitation is thus most difficult. Therefore, had God made men indistinguishable, like stamped pots, it would show His omnipotence; instead, exposing arbitrary faces to the sun, causing dizzying variation, may itself imply impotence.

Why I made such argument I forgot. Forgetting books happens even to men, so please overlook a cat's lapse. Anyway, when I beheld the Dark Gentleman who slid open the bedroom shoji and stood on the threshold, these thoughts welled naturally within. Why welled? — If asked why, I must reconsider. — Well, it is this:

The Dark Gentleman's face, appearing calmly before me, had features enough to overturn my doubt whether God's handiwork was perhaps impotent—for it was the very double of my beloved handsome Mr. Mizushima Kangetsu. I, of course, have few thief acquaintances, but from their violence I had privately sketched a face: a chestnut-bur head, with one-sen-coin eyes spread on both sides of the nose—I had decided so; but seeing, the difference was heaven and earth. Imagination is never vigorous enough. This Dark Gentleman was tall, lightly tanned, with straight brows—a dashing, fine thief. Age perhaps twenty-six or seven, itself a portrait of Kangetsu. If God can make two such similar faces, He is not to be called impotent. Indeed, I even thought: could Kangetsu himself have gone mad and come out at midnight? So alike. Only the dark mustache sprout was absent; then I knew another. Kangetsu is a bitter-handsome man, called by Miting an "active check," a careful product enough to absorb Miss Kaneda Tomiko. Yet this Dark Gentleman, by physiognomy, yields no step in attractive force upon women. If Tomiko was charmed by Kangetsu's eyes and lips, she must equally love this thief, or propriety suffers. Propriety aside, logic fails. Such a clever, quick girl would know without telling. Thus, even if Kangetsu, moved by Miting's talk, breaks this ancient match, while the Dark Gentleman lives, all is well. I foresaw thus far, and rested easy for Tomiko. This thief's existence is a prime condition for her happy life.

The Dark Gentleman carries something under his arm: the old blanket the master had thrown in the study. In a karasan half-coat, with a navy Hakata belt tied atop his hips, bare pale shins below the knee, he now lifts one foot onto the tatami. The master, dreaming of thumb bitten by red book, turns over with a thud and cries loud, "Kangetsu!" The Dark Gentleman drops the blanket, withdraws the foot; two slender shins stand in the shoji shadow, faintly moving. The master, "Un, munya-munya," pushes the red book away and scratches his black arm like a skin disease. Then all silent; he sleeps pillow askew. "Kangetsu" was sleep-talk. The Dark Gentleman, standing on the veranda watching, seeing the couple deep asleep, places the other foot on the tatami. No "Kangetsu" this time. Soon the remaining foot steps in. The six-mat room, richly lit by a spring lamp, is sharply split by his shadow; from the trunk over my head to mid-wall turns deep black. Turning, I see his face shadow vaguely moving at two-thirds wall height. A handsome man's shadow alone looks like an eight-headed monster—most odd. The Dark Gentleman peers down at the mistress's sleeping face, then smiles faintly. That even his smile mimics Kangetsu astonished me.

By the mistress's pillow sits a nailed box, four sun square, one and a half shaku long, carefully placed. It is mountain yam, a souvenir from Mr. Tatara Sanpei of Karatsu, Hizen, on his recent return home. Sleeping with mountain yam by the pillow is unusual, but the mistress is so vague on place fitness that she keeps cooking sanbon in the drawer; to her, yam or even pickles in bedroom is calm. But the Dark Gentleman, no god, could not know. That she places it so near proves it precious; his judgment natural. He lifts the yam box; its weight matches his expectation, satisfactory. I thought he would steal the yam—and a handsome man stealing yam struck me funny, but noise is dangerous, so I bore it.

Soon he wrapped the yam box reverently in the old blanket. Looking for more wrap, he found the master's discarded silk crepe belt. He tied the box firmly with it and easily hoisted it on his back—most ungentlemanly. Then he stuffed two children's garments into the master's meriyasu drawers; the crotch bulged round like a blue racer that swallowed a frog—or perhaps a gravid racer describes better. Anyway strange. He wound the meriyasu around his neck. Next, spreading the master's silk jacket like a cloth, he neatly folded the mistress's belt, the master's haori, socks, and sundry goods within—his skill impressed me. Then tying the bundle with the mistress's obi-age and shigoki joined, he hung it from one hand. Still seeking more, he found an Asahi bag at the master's feet, tossed it in his sleeve, drew a cigarette, lit it at the lamp, smoked deeply; the smoke around the milky shade not yet gone, his steps faded down the veranda. The couple slept on. Humans are careless.

I needed rest again. Talking ceaselessly exhausts. Sleeping hard, I woke to a clear March sky; at the kitchen door the master and mistress were in talk with a policeman.

"Then he entered here and went around to the bedroom. You were asleep and noticed nothing?"

"Yes," the master, slightly abashed.

"And when was the theft?" the policeman asks absurdly. If the time were known, nothing need be stolen. Unaware, the couple consult.

"About when?"

"Well," the mistress thinks, as if thought would tell.

"What time did you sleep?"

"I slept after you."

"I lay down before you."

"When did you wake?"

"About half past seven."

"Then the thief entered about when?"

"Must be midnight."

"Midnight is clear; I ask about when."

"I must think to know," the mistress still means to think. The policeman asked formally, feeling no itch; he wishes any answer. But the couple's pointless talk vexed him, and he said:

"Then the time of theft is unknown." The master, in his usual tone:

"Well, yes." The policeman, without smile:

"Then, on such-and-such a day of Meiji 38, having locked up and slept, a thief removed the shutter of so-and-so and crept into so-and-so—

“Stories of the world, in your language.”