二 1

Having become somewhat famous since the New Year, I, a cat, feel a slight swelling of pride—and it is gratifying. Early on New Year’s morning a picture postcard arrived at my master’s. It was a greeting from a certain painter friend of his, painted with red at the top and deep green at the bottom, and in the middle an animal crouching, drawn in pastel. My master, in his usual study, looked at this picture from the side, peered at it upright, and murmured what fine colors. Having already admired it once, I thought he would stop, but again he looked from the side and from above. He twisted his body, stretched out his hand like an old man reading a fortune sheet, and even turned toward the window holding it right up to his nose. If he didn’t stop soon, his knees would shake and it would be precariously uncomfortable. At last, when the wobbling seemed to subside, he said in a small voice, “I wonder what on earth he’s drawn.” Though my master was impressed by the colors, he evidently had been puzzling since earlier because he could not make out the true identity of the animal depicted. Thinking it a picture postcard he couldn’t even recognize, I elegantly half-opened my sleeping eyes and calmly looked—it was unmistakably my own portrait. He may not be one to pose as an Andrea del Sarto like my master, but as a painter the form and color were neatly done. Anyone would know it is a cat. Even one with a little discernment could clearly see it is not just any cat but me. It makes one feel a bit sorry for humans, that they should struggle so over something so obvious. If possible I would like to let him know it is me. Even if he cannot grasp that it is me, at least I would like to make him understand it is a cat. But humans are creatures not blessed by heaven to the extent of understanding the language of us cats, so regrettably I left it as it was.

I should like to remark to the reader that humans have a bad habit of lightly dismissing us with a “you cats” tone of contempt. To think, as if cows and horses were made from human lees and cats manufactured from cow and horse dung, is perhaps common among proud teachers unaware of their own ignorance, but from the sidelines it is most unbecoming. However much a cat, we are not so crudely and simply made. To the outside eye all cats may seem one and the same, equal and undifferentiated, with no individual character, but step into cat society and it is quite complex—the human saying “ten men, ten colors” applies here as well. Eyes, noses, coats, gaits—all differ. From the set of the whiskers to the angle of the ears, to the droop of the tail, not one is the same. In looks, plain or handsome, likes and dislikes, smart or vulgar, the variations are countless. Despite such clear distinctions, human eyes only look upward and at the sky, so they cannot even distinguish the finer points of our appearance—pitiful. As the old saying goes, “like seeks like”: the rice-cake maker knows rice cakes, and cats know cats; only a cat can understand a cat. No matter how advanced humans become, this they cannot do. Moreover, in truth they are not so great as they believe, making it all the harder. And my master, lacking in sympathy, does not even understand that mutual understanding is the first principle of love—helpless. Like a malicious oyster he clings to his study and never opens his mouth to the outside world. Yet he puts on a face of deep comprehension, which is rather funny. Proof of his lack of insight: even with my portrait before his eyes he shows no sign of realization, and calmly says something odd like, “Since this is the second year of the war against Russia, it’s probably a picture of a bear.”

While I sat on my master’s knee, eyes half-closed, thinking thus, the maid brought a second postcard. It was printed type: foreign cats in a row, four or five of them, holding pens or opening books, studying. One had left its seat and was dancing “cat-cat” at the corner of the desk. Above, in Japanese ink, was written boldly “I am a cat,” and on the right even a haiku: “Reading, or dancing—a cat’s spring day.” This came from a former pupil of my master’s, and anyone should understand at a glance, yet my dull master, still uncomprehending, tilted his head strangely and muttered, “I wonder, is this the Year of the Cat?” He has not yet noticed how famous I have become.

Then the maid brought a third card. This time no picture: “Happy New Year,” and beside it, “Though I hesitate, please pass my regards to the cat.” Even my slow master understood when it was written so plainly; he gave a little “hmm” and looked at my face. His gaze seemed to hold a bit more respect than before. Considering that my master, until now unrecognized by the world, suddenly gained a new face, all thanks to me, such a look is only fair.

Just then the gate bell rang: chirin, chirin, chiriri-rin. Probably a visitor; if so, the maid would show them in. Except when the fishmonger’s Mei comes, I never go out, so I calmly remained on my master’s knee. My master, however, looked uneasy, like a man suddenly visited by a loan shark, and glanced toward the entrance. He evidently dreaded New Year callers and having to drink with them. A human this eccentric is beyond complaint. If so, he might simply go out early, but he lacks even that courage—fully revealing his oyster nature. Presently the maid came and said, “Mr. Kangetsu has arrived.” This Kangetsu was apparently another former pupil, now graduated and said to be doing better than my master. For some reason he often visits. He comes and talks only of whether he has a lover, whether the world is interesting or dull, eerie or amorous, then leaves. Why he seeks out a withered creature like my master to tell such tales is beyond me, but funnier still is that the oyster-master occasionally nods along.

“Long time no see. Actually, since last winter I’ve been quite active, so though I thought I’d come, my feet just never turned this way,” he said, twisting his haori cord, cryptic. “Which way did your feet turn?” my master asked seriously, pulling at the sleeve of his black cotton crested haori. The haori was cotton with short sleeves; beneath, a flashy lining stuck out left and right about five centimeters. “Heh heh, a slightly different direction,” Kangetsu laughed. I noticed a front tooth missing today. “Did something happen to your tooth?” the master changed the subject. “Well, I ate some shiitake at a certain place—” “Ate what?” “That is, some shiitake. I tried to bite the cap with my front tooth and it chipped off.” “A front tooth chipping from shiitake—sounds old-man-ish. Might make a haiku, but not a love story,” he said, lightly tapping my head with his palm. “Ah, this is that cat? Quite fat, isn’t he? Then even the drayman’s Black wouldn’t stand a chance—splendid,” Kangetsu praised me greatly. “He’s grown a lot lately,” the master said proudly, pounding my head. Praise felt good, but the head hurt a little. “The night before last we had a little concert,” Kangetsu returned to topic. “Where?” “Wherever—you needn’t know. Three violins and piano accompaniment, quite enjoyable. With three violins even poor playing sounds fine. Two were women; I joined in, and thought I played well.” “Hmm, and who were these women?” the master asked enviously. Though my master usually wears a face like dead wood or cold rock, he is by no means cold to women. Once reading a Western novel, a character who fell a little in love with nearly every woman; calculated, he was attached to under seventy percent of women passing by—satirically written, and my master thought it truth. Why such a fickle man leads an oyster life, I a cat cannot fathom. Some say failed love, some weak stomach, some cowardice from poverty. Either way he’s no figure in Meiji history, so who cares. But his envious query about Kangetsu’s female company is fact. Kangetsu, amused, picked up a piece of kamaboko with chopsticks and bit half with his front tooth. I worried it might chip again, but this time safe. “Both were young ladies of a certain house, not someone you know,” he answered distantly. “Narl,” the master drew out, omitting “hood,” pondering. Kangetsu, thinking it time, said, “Fine weather, isn’t it? If free, shall we walk? Port Arthur fell, the town’s in high spirits.” The master, more eager to learn the women’s identity than Port Arthur, thought a while, then seemingly resolved: “Then let’s go,” and stood. Still in the black cotton crested haori and a twenty-year-old Yūki pongee wadded jacket, said to be his brother’s memento. Tough as Yūki is, worn so long is too much; thin in places, held to light, the darning stitches show through. My master’s clothes know no December or January, no daily or formal wear. Going out, hands in sleeves, he strolls. Whether no other clothes or too lazy to change, I know not. Only this seems not from failed love.

After they left, I begged leave and ate the rest of Kangetsu’s kamaboko. These days I am no ordinary cat. I think myself worthy as the cat after Momokawa Jyōen, or the cat that stole Gray’s goldfish. The drayman’s Black is beneath notice. Eating a piece of kamaboko draws no comment. This sneaking snacks when unseen is not just us cats. Our Okusan steals rice cakes when the wife’s out; even the well-mannered child the wife brags of does so. Some days ago, two kids woke early, before the couple rose, and faced each other at the table. Usually they get sugar on bread; that day the sugar pot with spoon sat there. No one to serve, so the elder scooped a spoonful onto her plate, the younger copied. They glared; elder added another, younger matched; again and again until both plates were heaped and the pot empty—then the master came rubbing sleepy eyes and poured it back. Thus humans, though perhaps fairer from selfish calculation, are wiser worse than cats. I thought they should have eaten quickly, but as usual my words don’t reach, so I watched from the cupboard.

Where the master and Kangetsu walked, I know not; he returned late, next day at table nine. From the cupboard I saw him silently eat zōni. Swap and eat, swap and eat. Small pieces, six or seven, then left the last in the bowl, put chopsticks down. Others’ selfishness unallowed, but he waves authority; seeing burnt mochi corpses in cloudy broth, calm. The wife brought Takadiastase from the closet; “That doesn’t work, I won’t,” he said. “But they say it’s good for starch, take it.” “Starch or what, no use,” stubborn. “You truly are fickle,” she muttered. “Not fickle, medicine fails.” “Even so you said it worked wonders and took it daily.” “Then it worked, now it doesn’t,” he answered in parallel. “Stopping and starting, no medicine helps; with weak stomach you need perseverance,” she said to Okusan. “True, without more he won’t know good or bad,” Okusan sided. “Fine, won’t drink, women know nothing, silence,” he stood and left. Wife and Okusan smiled. Following then risks trouble, so I slipped to the veranda, peeped through the shoji: he opened a book by Epictetus. If he understood, impressive. In five or six minutes he slammed it down. Likely. Then diary, wrote:

Walked with Kangetsu through Nezu, Ueno, Ikenohata, Kanda. At Ikenohata a geisha in spring kimono played hanetsuki. Fine clothes, ugly face—somehow like our cat.

No need to pick me as ugly example. Had I gone to Kitatoko and shaved, no different from humans. Such vanity troubles.

Past Hōtan corner, another geisha—tall, sloping shoulders, well-made, light purple worn elegantly. Smiling white teeth: “Gen-chan, last night—so busy.” But voice dry as traveling crow, lowering all; who Gen-chan was, I cared not, hands in sleeves to Onari. Kangetsu seemed restless.

Human mind is hardest. Angry, gay, seeking solace in a philosopher’s will? Unknown. Scoffing or wanting society, petty rage or detached? No clue. Cats are simple: eat, sleep, rage, cry. No diary—no need. Duplicitous humans may need dark-room self; we are walking diary, no such trouble. Better nap on veranda.

Dinner at Kanda restaurant. Two or three cups of Masamune after long, stomach fine this morning. Evening sake best for weak stomach. Takadiastase no. No use. Won’t work, won’t.

He attacks Takadiastase alone, like fighting self; morning rage tails here. Human diary’s true color maybe this.

○○ said skip breakfast helps; tried, only hunger. △△ said quit pickles; all stomach ills from them, quit and cure sure. A week no pickles, no effect, resumed. ×× said massage, Maekawa style, cures; Yasui Soken loved it, Sakamoto Ryōma too; went to Uenishi, cruel bone massage, felt cotton-faint, quit. A said no solid food; milk only, guts sloshed, sleepless. B said diaphragmatic breath moves organs, cure; tried, uneasy, forgot, quit when Mimbei mocked “not birthing, stop.” C said soba; tried, only diarrhea. All failed. Only last night’s three cups of Masamune worked. Henceforth nightly two or three.

“Stories of the world, in your language.”