Art, too, comes to the same fate as marriage. The development of individuality means freedom of individuality, I suppose. And freedom of individuality means 'I am I, and others are others,' doesn't it? In that case, how could such a thing as art exist? Art flourishes because there is a unity of individuality between the artist and the appreciator. No matter how hard you strain as a new-style poet, if there's not a single person who finds your poems interesting to read, then, sorry as it is for you, there'll be no reader of your new-style poetry but yourself. Writing dozens of love songs won't get you anywhere. Fortunately, being born in Meiji today, the whole world reads you devotedly, but...
"No, it's not quite that much."
"If it's not even that much now, then in the future, when humanity has advanced and that great philosopher of yours appears advocating non-marriage, there won't be any readers at all. It's not that they won't read yours because it's yours. Everyone has their own special individuality, so another person's poems or essays aren't interesting in the least. Even now in England, this tendency is clearly showing. Look at Meredith, whose works show the most striking individuality among contemporary English novelists; look at James. Don't they have very few readers? Few, that's all. Such works can only be interesting to read for someone with that kind of individuality, so it can't be helped. As this tendency develops and marriage becomes immoral, art will be utterly destroyed. Won't it? When what you write becomes incomprehensible to me, and what I write becomes incomprehensible to you, then between you and me there's neither art nor anything else, is there?"
"That may be so, but I somehow can't feel it intuitively."
"If you can't feel it intuitively, then I'll feel it un-intuitively, that's all."
"It may be un-intuitive," this time Dokusen intervened, "but at any rate, the more freedom of individuality you allow people, the more cramped everyone will feel with each other. The reason Nietzsche hauled out the Superman was precisely because he had no outlet for this cramped feeling and helplessly transformed it into that philosophy. At a glance it looks like that was his ideal, but it wasn't an ideal, it was a grievance. In the nineteenth century, where individuality had developed, he was cowed, and since he couldn't even turn over freely in his sleep next to others, the general got a bit reckless and scattered that violence around. Reading him makes you feel not so much exhilarated as rather sorry for him. That voice is not the voice of vigorous striving; it is without fail the sound of resentment and pent-up anger. And naturally so—in old times, if there was one great man, the whole world would rally under his banner, which was delightful. If such delight appeared in fact, there'd be no need to express it on paper with the power of pen and paper as Nietzsche saw it. That's why Homer or Chevy Chase, even when depicting superhuman characters, feel completely different. They're cheerful. They're written with enjoyment. Since there was the enjoyable fact and they merely copied that enjoyable fact onto paper, there's no bitterness. Nietzsche's age doesn't go that way. Not a single hero appears. Even if one did, no one would hail him as a hero. In the past Confucius was alone, so Confucius had sway, but now there are many Confuciuses. Possibly the whole world is Confucius. So even if I puff up and say 'I am Confucius,' it carries no weight. Because it carries no weight, there's grievance. Because there's grievance, he swings the Superman around only on the pages of books. We desired freedom and obtained freedom. As a result of obtaining freedom, we feel unfree and are in trouble. That's why Western civilization, however nice it may seem, is ultimately no good. In contrast, the East has practiced mental cultivation since ancient times. That is the correct way. Look—as a result of individuality's development, everyone falls into nervous prostration, and when it becomes unmanageable, they discover for the first time the value of the line 'The king's people, at ease.' They realize the phrase 'transform through non-action' is not to be trifled with. But even if they realize it, by then it's too late. It's like suffering from alcoholism and thinking 'I wish I hadn't drunk.'"
"You gentlemen seem rather pessimistic in your views, but it's strange to me. No matter how much I hear, I feel nothing. What do you suppose it means?" said Kanko.
"That's because you're buoyed up by having a wife," Mentei immediately interpreted. Then the master suddenly said:
"Thinking that because you have a wife, women are wonderful—that's a terrible mistake. For your reference, I'll read you something interesting I've read. Listen well." He picked up an old book he'd brought from the study earlier and said, "This is an old book, but from this era it's already clear how bad women are."
Kanko asked, "That's rather surprising. Just when is this book from?"
"By Thomas Nashe, a sixteenth-century work."
"Even more surprising. Already back then there were those bad-mouthing my wife?"
"There are various insults against women, and among them your wife must surely be included, so listen."
"Yes, I'll listen. How fortunate for me."
"First it is written that one should introduce the views of ancient sages on women. Understand? Are you listening?"
"We're all listening. Even me, the bachelor."
"Aristotle says: women are good-for-nothings anyway, so if you marry, take a small wife rather than a large one. A small good-for-nothing brings less disaster than a large good-for-nothing..."
"Is Kanko's wife large or small?"
"In the large good-for-nothing category."
"Hahaha, this is a funny book. Go on, read more."
"Someone asked: what is the greatest miracle? The sage answered: a chaste wife..."
"Who's the sage?"
"No name is written."
"Must be a sage who got dumped, no doubt."
"Next Diogenes appears. Someone asked: at what time should one take a wife? Diogenes answered: youth is too early, old age too late."
"The master thought that in his tub."
"Pythagoras says: in the world there are three fearful things—fire, water, and woman."
"Greek philosophers say surprisingly careless things. If you ask me, there's nothing fearful in the world. Enter fire and not burn, enter water and not drown..." Dokusen here stalled briefly.
"Meet a woman and not melt," Mentei came to the rescue. The master read on briskly.
"Socrates said that managing women and children is the greatest difficulty for man. Demosthenes said: if one wishes to torment his enemy, there is no better plan than to give him one's wife. For she will reduce him to daily and nightly exhaustion from domestic storms. Seneca counted women and ignorance as the two great calamities of the world; Marcus Aurelius said women resemble ships in being hard to control; Plautus held that women's innate tendency to adorn themselves with finery is a base scheme to cover their natural ugliness. Valerius once wrote to a friend, saying: there is nothing women cannot endure. May Heaven have mercy and not let you fall into their snares. He also said: what is woman? Is she not the enemy of friendship, unavoidable suffering, necessary evil, natural temptation, poison like honey? If abandoning them is immoral, then not abandoning them must be doubly blameworthy...."
"That's plenty, sir. Hearing that much vilification of my foolish wife is more than satisfactory."
"There are four or five more pages; why not hear them while you're at it?"
"Please leave it about there. It must be about time for the mistress to return," Mentei teased, and from the sitting-room came the wife's voice calling the maid: "Kiyo! Kiyo!"
"This is bad. The mistress is right here, you know."
"Ufufufu," the master laughed. "Who cares."
"Mistress, mistress! When did you come back?"
The sitting-room was silent, no answer.
"Mistress, did you hear what was just said? Hmm?"
Still no answer.
"That just now wasn't the master's opinion, you know. It's the theory of Mr. Nashe from the sixteenth century, so rest assured."
"I know nothing of it," the wife replied briefly from afar. Kanko tittered.
"I also knew nothing of it, pardon me, ahahaha," Mentei laughed without reserve, when the front door was flung open rudely, and without so much as a 'may I' or 'excuse me,' a heavy footstep sounded, and the sliding door to the room was violently opened, and Tataro Sanpei's face appeared in the gap.
Sanpei today, unlike usual, wore a pure white shirt and a brand-new frock coat, and on top of already somewhat unsettling the market, he set down four bottles of beer tied with rope, heavily borne in his right hand, beside the dried bonito, and without greeting, plopped himself down and even collapsed his knees—a striking warrior's posture.
"Sir, how's the stomach ailment lately? Staying cooped up at home like this is no good, you know."
"Still bad, or rather not bad at all."
"Be that as it may, your complexion's not good. Sir, your face is yellow. Fishing's been good lately. Hired a boat from Shinagawa—I went last Sunday."
"Catch anything?"
"Caught nothing."
"Is it fun even if you catch nothing?"
"To cultivate the spirit of vastness, you see. How about you all? Ever been fishing? It's fun, fishing. You sail a small boat around on the big sea, you know," he addressed everyone without distinction.
"I want to sail a big ship around on a small sea," Mentei played along.
"If you're going to catch anything, it's no good unless it's a whale or a mermaid," Kanko answered.
"Can you catch such things? Literateurs lack common sense, don't they?..."
"I'm not a literateur."
"Is that so, what are you then? For a business man like me, common sense is most important. Sir, I've recently become quite rich in common sense. Staying in such a place, with that company, it naturally becomes so."
"How does it become?"
"Even with tobacco, you get no sway puffing Asahi or Shikishima," he said, pulling out Egyptian cigarettes with gold-foil tips and puffing away.
"You have money for such luxuries?"
"No money, but it'll work out somehow. Smoking these cigarettes, your credit changes dramatically."
"Easier credit than Kanko polishing his bead, no trouble, lightweight credit," Mentei said to Kanko, and while Kanko gave no answer, Sanpei said:
"Are you Mr. Kanko? Still not a doctor? Since you wouldn't become one, I've decided to take her."
"The doctor?"
"No, the daughter of the Kaneda house. Actually I felt sorry for you, but since they insisted I take her, I've settled on taking her, sir. But I worry it's unfair to Kanko."
"Take her if you want," the master gave an ambiguous reply.
"That's happy news. So no matter what kind of daughter one gets, there's nothing to worry about. Once someone takes her, as I said earlier, a fine gentleman like this becomes the son-in-law, see? Kocho, material for a new-style poem. Get to it at once," Mentei roused as usual, and Sanpei said:
"Are you Mr. Kocho? Won't you compose something for the wedding? I'll have it typeset and distributed everywhere. Even in the Taiyo."
"Yes, I'll compose something. When will you need it?"
"Anytime. Even something you've already written is fine. In return, I'll invite you to the reception and treat you. Champagne I'll serve. Ever drunk champagne? Champagne is delicious.—Sir, at the reception I plan to call a band; how about having Kocho's piece scored and played?"
"Do as you like."
"Sir, won't you score it?"
"Don't be stupid."
"Isn't there anyone here who can do music?"
"The failed candidate Kanko is a violin virtuoso. Try pressing him hard. But he's not the sort to accept for just champagne."
"Champagne, you see, a bottle at four or five yen is no good. What I treat with isn't so cheap, but won't you compose a score?"
"Yes I'll compose, even for twenty-sen champagne. If you like, for free even."
"Not for free, I'll reward you. If champagne's unpleasant, how about this reward?" He pulled seven or eight photographs from the inside pocket of his coat and scattered them on the tatami. Some half-length, some full-length; some standing, some sitting; some in hakama, some in furisode, some with high Shimada coiffures—all young women of marriageable age.
"Sir, there are this many candidates. Kanko and Kocho, I can broker any of these as reward. How about this one?" He thrust a photo at Kanko.
"Fine. Please broker that one for sure."
"This one too?" thrusting another.
"That's fine too. Please broker it."
"Which one?"
"Any of them."
"You're quite the ladies' man. Sir, this is the doctor's niece."
"Is that so."
"This one's temperament is excellent. Young too. Only seventeen.—This one comes with a thousand yen dowry.—This one's the governor's daughter," he argued on by himself.
"Can't I take them all?"
"All of them? That's too greedy. Are you a polygamist?"
"Not polygamy, but a meat-eater."
"Whatever, put that away soon," the master snapped, and Sanpei pressed: "Then I take none of them?" and pocketed the photos one by one.
"What's that beer?"
"A gift. Bought at the corner liquor store for a pre-celebration. Have a drink."
The master clapped for the maid to open the bottles. The five gentlemen—master, Mentei, Dokusen, Kanko, Kocho—raised cups respectfully and toasted Sanpei's good fortune. Sanpei, greatly pleased, said:
"I invite all here to the reception. Will you all come? You will, won't you?"
"I won't," the master answered at once.
"Why? It's the great ceremony of my life. Won't you come? A bit inhuman, no?"
"Not inhuman, but I won't go."
"No clothes? A haori and hakama I can manage. You should show yourself a bit, sir. I'll introduce you to famous people."
"Not on your life."
"Your stomach will heal."
"No problem if it doesn't."
"If you're that stubborn, can't be helped. And you, will you come?"
"Me? I'll surely go. If possible I'd take the honor of being matchmaker. Champagne's three-times-nine sips and a spring evening.—What, Suzuki's Fujii is the go-between? I thought as much. Pity, but can't be helped. Two matchmakers would be too many; as a mere guest I shall attend."
"And you?"
"Me? 'One rod, wind and moon, a leisurely living; angling among white duckweed and red smartweed.'"
"What's that, a Tang poem?"
"Don't know what it is."
"Don't know? Troublesome. Kanko will come, with your prior connection."
"I'll surely go; it'd be a pity to miss the band playing my composition."
"Indeed. And you, Kocho?"
"Well, I'd like to read a new-style poem before the couple."
"That's delightful. Sir, never in my life such joy. So one more beer," and he drank his own bought beer alone, gulp gulp, turning red.
The short autumn day was ending; in the hibachi where cigarette stubs lay scattered, the fire had long gone out. Even the easygoing crew seemed somewhat spent, and Dokusen stood first: "It's late. Shall we head back?" One by one they went to the genkan. The room was desolate like after a storytelling hall closed.
The master finished dinner and went to the study. The wife pulled her light under-robe closed against the chill and sewed a washed everyday garment. The children slept side by side. The maid went to the bath.
Even those who seem easygoing, when you tap the bottom of their hearts, somewhere a sad sound echoes. Though he seems enlightened, Dokusen's feet still tread only the ground. Carefree maybe, but Mentei's world is not a painted world. Kanko stopped polishing his bead and finally brought a wife from his home province. That's proper. But if proper continues long, surely it'll be boring. Kocho too, in ten years, will realize the error of offering new-style poems indiscriminately. As for Sanpei, whether he dwells in water or mountain is hard to judge. If he can spend life treating others to champagne and feel proud, fine. Suzuki's Fujii rolls on to the end. Rolling, he gathers mud. Even with mud, he has more sway than those who can't roll. Born a cat and living in the human world is now over two years. I thought there'd be no other such man of insight as me, but the other day an unknown kinsman named Cartel Mul suddenly raised a great cry, and I was startled. On inquiry, he'd actually died a century ago, but from mere curiosity became a ghost and came from distant Hades to surprise me. This cat, when meeting its mother, as a greeting took a fish in its mouth, but on the way couldn't bear it and ate it itself—such a unfilial one—yet cleverness not inferior to humans, once even composing a poem to surprise its master. If such a hero appeared a century ago, a good-for-nothing like me should long ago have taken leave and returned to the land of nothingness.
The master will die soon of stomach ailment. Old Kaneda already died of greed. Autumn leaves mostly fallen. Dying is the fixed karma of all things; if living serves little use, dying early may be wise. Per the gentlemen's theories, human fate reverts to suicide. Careless, and a cat too must be born into such a cramped world. Fearful. I feel utterly fed up. Let's drink Sanpei's beer for some cheer.
I go around to the kitchen. The wind-rattled door stood ajar; the lamp was out, seemingly blown out through the gap, but moonlight cast shadows through the window. Three cups on a tray, two half-filled with brown liquid. Glass contents feel cold even to thought of; lit by the night-cold moon, this liquid resting by the extinguished brazier—before lips touch, already too cold to want. But try we must. Sanpei drank that and turned red, breathing hot. A cat might cheer too. Life may end anytime; do while alive. Regret from the grave's shadow after death is no use. Decided to drink boldly, I put my tongue in and lapped—surprise. As if needle-pricked at the tip, a sharp sting. Why humans drink such rotten stuff for fun I know not, but a cat can't finish it. Cat and beer simply incompatible. Terrible—I withdrew my tongue once, but reconsidered. Humans say 'good medicine tastes bitter' and drink strange things screwing faces at colds. Whether drinking cures or curing makes drinking, long a question, but here's luck: solve it with beer. If belly turns bitter, so be it; if like Sanpei I forget all and cheer, unprecedented gain, teach the neighborhood cats. How it goes, leave to heaven; resolved, out with tongue again. Hard to drink with eyes open, so shut tight and lap on.
When I'd borne and borne and finally drained one cup of beer, a strange phenomenon arose. At first the tongue stung and the mouth felt oppressed from outside, but as I drank it eased, and by the first cup's end no effort. Confident, the second went easy. Then the spilled drops on the tray, wiped into the belly.
For a while I crouched still to observe myself. Gradually the body warmed. Eyes' rims flushed. Ears hot. Want to sing. Want to dance the cat-cat dance. Feel like telling master, Mentei, Dokusen to eat shit. Want to scratch old Kaneda. Want to bite the wife's nose. All sorts. Finally want to stand wobbly. Stand and stagger-walk. Fun, want outside. Outside, greet the moon: good evening. Quite cheerful.
Thinking 'this is what they call tipsy,' aimless, half-walking half-not, I dragged loose legs when sudden sleepiness. Sleeping or walking unclear. Eyes meant open but heavy beyond reckoning. Past this, no matter. Sea or mountain, no fear—front paws thrust forward, then splash, and with a start—got me. How got me no time to think. Only a sense of got me, then all became chaos.
When I came to, I floated on water. Suffocating, I clawed wildly, but only water to claw, and clawing sank me. Hind legs kick up, front claws—scrape sound, slight resistance. Head barely afloat, I looked: I'd fallen in a large jar. This jar held water plants called water shield till summer, then Crow Kanko came and ate the shield, then used it for bathing. Bathing lowered water; lowered, he stopped coming. Recently I thought crow absent as water lowered, but never dreamed I'd bathe here in his place.
From water to rim over four inches. Stretch legs, no reach. Jump, no exit. Easygoing, only sink. Flail, claws scrape jar, scrape only, scraped
