When I explained the exercise called "fence-walking," I believe I briefly mentioned the bamboo fence that encloses and winds around the master's garden. But it would be a mistake to think that just beyond this bamboo fence lies the neighboring house—that is, the home of little Jirō next door to the south. The rent may be cheap, but this is, after all, the residence of Mr. Kushami. He does not maintain the sort of intimate neighborly relations, separated only by a flimsy single fence, with the so-called "-chan" crowd who go by names like Yatchan and Jirōchan. Beyond this fence lies an empty lot some five or six ken wide, and at its end stand five or six luxuriant cypress trees growing close together. Viewed from the veranda, the opposite side appears a thick grove, and one might feel as though the master dwelling here were a recluse of the rivers and lakes, passing his days in a lone house amid the fields, with an unnamed cat for company. However, since the cypress branches are not as densely grown as one might proclaim, between them one can plainly make out the unpretentious roof of a cheap boarding house called Gunsekikan—"Crane Gathering Hall"—which is impressive in name only. Thus, to imagine the master in such a light requires no small effort, as is only natural. Still, if that boarding house is Gunsekikan, then the master's residence is surely worth the name Garyūkutsu—"Crouching Dragon Cave." Since no tax is levied on names, each may freely attach whatever grand-sounding title he pleases. This strip of empty land, some five or six ken wide with the bamboo fence alongside, runs east and west for about ten ken, then suddenly bends at a right angle to encircle the north side of Garyūkutsu. It is this north side that became the seed of trouble.
Ordinarily, one might boast that the land wraps around two sides of the house with empty lot beyond, but neither the master of Garyūkutsu nor even I, the wise cat within the cave, have any command over this vacant ground. Just as cypresses dominate the south side, seven or eight paulownia trees stand in a row along the north. They have grown to about one shaku in circumference, so that if only a clog-maker were brought in, they would fetch a fair price; yet, such is the sorrow of a rented house that, however much one may notice, action is impossible. It is a pity for the master as well. Not long ago the school janitor came and cut off one branch; the next time he came, he was wearing brand-new paulownia geta and boasted unasked that they were made from that very branch. The rascal. Though the paulownia is there, for me and the master's family it is a paulownia worth not a single coin. There is an old saying, "To embrace jade and yet be guilty"—but in this case it should rather be, "To grow paulownia and yet have no money," a veritable case of rotting treasure in hand. The fool is neither the master nor I, but the landlord, Denbē. Though he never comes to urge the paulownia's use, he appears with an indifferent face only to collect the rent. I bear Denbē no grudge, so I shall cease this abuse of him and return to the main subject: the strange tale of how this empty lot became the seed of trouble. But you must never tell the master. This is strictly between us.
Now, the first inconvenience regarding this empty lot is that it has no fence. It is swept clear, blown through, an open back alley, a public thoroughfare beneath the open sky. To say there was one would be a lie, which is improper. In truth, there was one—but unless the story goes back into the past, the cause cannot be understood, and without the cause even a doctor would be at a loss for prescription. So I shall begin at leisure from the time we first moved in. A breezeway is refreshing in summer and pleasant to the spirit; and where there is no money, there can be no theft, so the master's house had no need whatsoever of walls, fences, or even such things as scattered stakes and sharpened bamboo. However, this is a question decided by the type of human or animal dwelling on the opposite side. To determine the matter, one must inevitably clarify the nature of the gentlemen encamped there. To call them gentlemen before knowing if they are human or beast may seem precipitate, but they are most likely gentlemen—for in this world even thieves are called "gentlemen of the beam." Yet these gentlemen are by no means the sort who trouble the police; instead, they seem to prevail by numbers, and there are many—swarms of them. They belong to a private middle school called Rakunkan, which collects two yen monthly tuition to cultivate gentlemen, whether they like it or not. One might think from the name Rakunkan that only refined gentlemen attend, but that is the first mistake. Its untrustworthiness is like the absence of cranes at Gunsekikan, or the presence of a cat at Garyūkutsu. Once one knows that among those styled "scholar" or "teacher" is a madman like the master, Kushami, it becomes clear that Rakunkan's gentlemen are not all men of refinement. If you doubt this, just come lodge at the master's house for three days and see.
As I said before, when we first moved in, there was no fence on the empty lot, so the gentlemen of Rakunkan, like the black of a cart house, would saunter into the paulownia field, chat, eat lunch, and lie sprawled on the bamboo grass—all manner of things. Afterward they seemed to discard here all manner of refuse: bamboo husks from lunches, old newspapers, old straw sandals, old clogs—anything with "old" in its name. The indifferent master took it with surprising equanimity, offering no protest, whether from ignorance or deliberate forbearance none can say. But as these gentlemen received schooling, they seemed to grow more gentlemanlike, and gradually began to scheme encroachment from the north side toward the south. If "encroachment" ill suits gentlemen, the word may be dropped, but there is no other. Like desert dwellers who follow the water plants and shift their homes, they left the paulownia and advanced toward the cypress. Where the cypress stands is the very front of the parlor. None but the boldest gentleman would dare such conduct. A day or two later their boldness grew bolder still into grand boldness. Nothing is so fearful as the fruit of education. Not content with pressing upon the parlor front, they began to sing there. I have forgotten the song, but it was surely no thirty-one syllable sort, rather something more lively and more easily entering vulgar ears. Not only the master was astonished; even I admired the gentlemen's talent and could not help but lend an ear. Yet as the reader knows, admiration and annoyance may at times coexist. That the two should here unawares unite as one is, in retrospect, deeply regrettable. The master, too, regretted it, but had no choice but to burst from his study, saying, "This is no place for you; be gone," and drove them out two or three times. But being educated gentlemen, they would not quietly obey. Driven out, they immediately re-entered; re-entered, they sang lively songs and talked in loud voices. And being gentlemen's talk, it was of a different stripe: "You there," "Don't know nothin'." Such words, I hear, before the Restoration belonged to the specialized vocabulary of vagrants, ruffians, and bathhouse men, but since the twentieth century they are said to be the sole language learned by educated gentlemen. Someone has explained this as the same phenomenon as a once-despised sport becoming welcomed today. The master again flew from his study, seized one most fluent in this gentlemanly tongue, and demanded why he entered. The gentleman instantly forgot his elegant "You there" and answered in most inelegant words: "Thought this was the school's botanical garden." The master admonished him for the future and let him go. "Let him go" sounds like releasing a turtle, but in fact he had gripped the gentleman's sleeve and negotiated. The master thought that having spoken so sharply, it would do. But reality, as since the age of Eve, defies expectation, and he failed again. This time they crossed the grounds from the north and exited through the front gate; the gate would rattle open, and one thought a guest had come, only to hear laughter from the paulownia field. The situation grew ever more unsettled. The effect of education became ever more manifest. The pitiable master, thinking himself unequal to these fellows, barricaded himself in his study and respectfully sent a letter to the principal of Rakunkan, begging some discipline. The principal sent a courteous reply, saying he would build a fence, to wait. Presently two or three workmen came, and in about half a day erected along the boundary between the master's house and Rakunkan a four-eyed fence some three feet high. The master rejoiced, thinking now he could rest easy. The master is a fool. Such a thing could not change the gentlemen's behavior.
In general, teasing others is great sport. Even a cat like me will at times tease the young mistress of this house for play, so it is most natural that the gentlemen of Rakunkan tease the unsubtle Mr. Kushami, and the only one who resents it is likely the teased party himself. Analyzing the psychology of teasing reveals two elements. First, the teased party must not remain indifferent. Second, the teaser must be superior in force and number. The master once returned from the zoo and spoke with admiration of seeing a camel and a small dog quarrel. The small dog raced like a whirlwind around the camel, barking; the camel, oblivious, stood with its hump on its back as before. No matter how the dog barked or raved, the camel paid no mind, and at last the dog wearied and quit. The master laughed at the camel's insensibility, but it is a fitting example here. However skilled the teaser, if the other is a camel, it fails. Yet if the other is too strong, like a lion or tiger, it will not do either—one would be torn to pieces at once. It is most pleasant when the teased shows teeth and anger, yet one is safe in the knowledge that he can do nothing. Why is this amusing? Reasons vary. First, it suits killing time. In boredom one would count even his whiskers. An old tale tells of a prisoner who, in utter ennui, drew overlapping triangles on his cell wall to pass the days. Nothing is harder to bear than boredom; without some stimulating event, life is painful. Teasing is a kind of amusement creating such stimulation. But unless it somewhat angers, provokes, or weakens the other, it is no stimulus; thus those who indulge in teasing are either bored fools like ignorant lords, or youths whose minds are too undeveloped to think beyond their own amusement yet overflow with vitality. Next, it is the simplest proof of one's own superiority. Killing, wounding, or ruining others can prove superiority, but those are means when such is the aim; superiority is merely the resultant phenomenon. When one wishes to show power yet avoid harm, teasing is ideal. Without some hurt, one's greatness lacks factual proof; and without fact, mere mental assurance yields thin pleasure. Man relies on self; nay, even when he cannot, he wishes to. Thus he must practically apply his worth to others to be satisfied. The vulgar or insecure seize every chance to grasp this certificate—like a jujitsu man itching to throw someone. The dubious jujitsu adept walks the town hoping to meet someone weaker, even a layman, to throw—a perilous notion. Other reasons exist, but I shall omit them for length. If you wish to learn, bring a pack of dried bonito and come; I will teach anytime. From the above, it is clear that the most suitable targets for teasing are mountain monkeys and schoolteachers. To compare a schoolteacher to a mountain monkey is undue honor—not to the monkey, but to the teacher. Yet they are much alike. As you know, the mountain monkey is chained; however it bares teeth or screeches, one need not fear scratches. The teacher, though unchained, is bound by salary; however teased, he will not resign and strike students. One with the courage to resign would never have become a teacher and guarded students. The master is a teacher—not of Rakunkan, but a teacher nonetheless. He is most apt, cheap, and safe to tease. The Rakunkan students are youths; teasing elevates their noses, a right they deem proper fruit of education. Moreover, without teasing they would not know what to do with their vigorous limbs and brains during holiday. With these conditions, the master is naturally teased and they naturally tease; none can fault it. The master's anger is the height of boorishness and folly. I shall now detail how the Rakunkan students teased the master and how he betrayed his boorishness.
Do you know the four-eyed fence? It is airy and simple. Even I can pass through its meshes at will; with or without it, matters little. But the Rakunkan principal did not build it for cats; he had workmen enclose the ground so his gentlemen could not sneak through. True, however fine the breeze, no human can slip through. Even a Chinese conjurer like Zhang Shizun could scarce pass his body through those four-inch square holes. So against humans it surely functions. The master, seeing it done, rejoiced that all was well—understandably. But his logic had a great hole—nay, a hole greater than the fence, a gap that would let through a boat-swallowing fish. He assumed a fence is not to be crossed. He presumed that once students, however crude the fence, know the boundary, they will not intrude. Then he relaxed the assumption, concluding even if intrusion came, it was safe—for no boy could pass the four-eyed holes, so no fear of intrusion. Indeed, unless they are cats, they will not pass those square eyes, nor could they wish to; but to climb over or leap across is nothing—rather fine exercise.
From the day after the fence was built, they leapt into the north lot as before, but did not penetrate to the parlor front. If chased, escape takes time, so they played within safe distance. What they did the master in the east detached room could not see; one must open the side gate and round the bend from the opposite side, or peer from the privy window over the fence. From the window one sees all clearly, but cannot catch them, only scold through the bars. If one circles via the gate, they hear and drop to the other side before capture—like poachers approaching a basking seal. The master does not stand watch at the privy, nor wait by the gate; to do so daily he'd need resign and specialize. The master's disadvantage: from the study he hears voices but sees no forms; from the window he sees forms but cannot reach. The enemy, seeing this, devised strategy. When they learned the master was barricaded in his study, they shouted loudly, mocking him audibly, yet obscured the source—so one could not tell if the noise was inside the fence or beyond. If he came, they fled or feigned ignorance from the other side. When they saw the master go to the privy—I have used that ugly word repeatedly, not with pride but necessity for this war's description—they loitered by the paulownia, plainly in his sight. If he roared from the privy, they withdrew calmly to base. This strategy sorely troubled him. Convinced they were in, he took his stick and found silence; thinking none, he peered from the window and saw one or two. He circled back, peered from privy, peered from privy, circled back—same tale however often told, yet repeated. This is what it means to be tired by constant running. He grew so flushed one could not tell if teaching or warring was his duty. At the peak of this flush, the following event occurred.
Events mostly arise from flushing. To flush is, as the characters show, to rise inverted; on this, Galen, Paracelsus, and old Bian Que all agree. Only the where and what of inversion is debated. European tradition says four humors once circulated: anger-fluid, which when inverted causes rage; dull-fluid, which dulls nerves; sorrow-fluid, which darkens mood; and blood, which strengthens limbs. Later, with civilization, the first three vanished, leaving only blood. Thus if one flushes, it must be blood. But blood's measure is fixed—about five sho five gō per person, with slight variation. When this rises inverted, the risen part acts vividly while the rest cools, like policemen all gathered at the station during a riot, leaving streets empty—a medical flush. To cure, blood must be redistributed; to do so, the risen must descend. Methods vary: the master's late father laid a wet towel on his head and sat by the kotatsu; as the Shang Han Lun says, head cool and feet warm prolongs life, and the wet towel is essential. Or try the monk's way: the wandering priest lodges under trees on stones—not for austerity, but to cure flush, a secret devised by the Sixth Patriarch while pounding rice. Sit on stone, buttocks cool, flush descends—natural order. Many cures are invented, but sadly no good method to induce flush. Generally flush is loss without gain, yet some professions need it—poets especially. For poets, flush is as vital as coal to a steamer; without it they are mere mortals who fold hands and eat. Flush is another name for madness; to avoid shame they call it "inspiration," a manufactured term to deceive. Plato called it sacred madness, but madness finds no audience; "inspiration" sells better. Yet as fish cake is yam, as Kannon is rotten wood, as duck-hotpot is crow, as boarding-house beef is horse, inspiration is flush. Flush is temporary madness; one avoids asylum only as temporarily mad. But inducing this temporary madness is hard. Lifelong madness is easier; to be mad only while writing defeats even gods. So men devised flush-methods: one ate twelve astringent persimmons daily, theorizing constipation induces flush; another jumped into a gun-barrel bath with a sake bottle, certain hot sake flushes. He claimed if that failed, a wine bath would work at once.
