This too will surely not last long. My master’s heart changes as incessantly as the pupil of my own eye. Whatever he does, he is a man who never perseveres. Moreover, though he worries so much about his stomach ailment in his diary, it is laughable how he puts on a bold front in public. The other day a friend of his, a certain scholar, came to visit and argued from a particular standpoint that all illness is nothing but the result of the sins of one’s ancestors and of one’s own sins. He seemed to have studied the matter considerably, and his reasoning was clear, his order systematic—a splendid theory. Though it pains me to say it, our master has by no means the intellect or learning to refute such a thing. Yet, as he was suffering from his stomach trouble at the time, he apparently wished to make some excuse to preserve his dignity, and offered the irrelevant remark, “Your theory is interesting, but Carlyle was weak-stomached, you know,” as if to say that because Carlyle had a weak stomach, his own was thereby an honorable affliction. Whereupon the friend concluded, “Even if Carlyle had a weak stomach, a weak-stomached patient can’t necessarily become a Carlyle,” and the master fell silent. Thus, though rich in vanity, he evidently would still prefer not to have a weak stomach in reality, so it is rather absurd that he should start taking his evening sake from tonight. On reflection, his eating so much zoni this morning may have been the effect of having overturned sake with Kangetsu last night. I have rather a mind to try some zoni myself.
Though I am a cat, I eat most things. I have not the energy to make expeditions to the fishmonger at the end of the lane like the black cat at the cart shop, nor am I of a station to indulge in luxury like the calico at the shamisen teacher’s on the new road. Consequently I am, unexpectedly, little given to aversion. I eat the bread children drop, and lick the crumbs of rice-cake sweets. Pickles are vile, but for experience’ sake I once ate two slices of takuan. Having tried it, strange to say, one can eat almost anything. To say “I dislike this” or “I loathe that” is the caprice of luxury, and not for the mouth of a cat residing in a teacher’s house. According to my master, there was once a French novelist named Balzac. This man was a great luxury-lover—though not of the palate; being a novelist, he exhausted luxury in his prose. One day Balzac wished to name a character in the novel he was writing, and tried various names, but none pleased him. Just then a friend came to call, and they went out for a walk together. The friend, knowing nothing, was merely dragged along, but Balzac, intending to find his troubled-over name by eye, looked at nothing in the street but the shop signs as they walked. Still he found no name to his liking. He walked the friend about aimlessly. The friend, understanding nothing, trailed after him. They ended by exploring Paris from morning till night. On the way back, Balzac happened to notice the sign of a tailor. Looking, he saw the name “Marcus” written there. Balzac clapped his hands: “This is it, this is it, nothing but this. Marcus is a fine name, is it not? Put the initial Z above Marcus, and you have a flawless name. It must be Z. Z. Marcus is splendid. However hard one tries with a self-made name, there is somehow an artificial feel and it is not amusing. At last I have a name I like”—forgetting entirely his friend’s trouble, he rejoiced alone. But if one must explore Paris for a day merely to name a character in a novel, it is a terribly troublesome business. If luxury can go that far, it is well enough, but with a master as stingy as an oyster, I could never feel such inclination. To think “anything will do, so long as I eat” is no doubt the working of circumstance. Hence my sudden wish for zoni is by no means the result of luxury; it is from the thought that since I can eat anything, I had best eat when I can, and the recollection that perhaps the master’s leftover zoni might still remain in the kitchen. …I shall go round to the kitchen.
The rice cake lies glued to the bottom of the bowl, exactly as I saw it this morning, in exactly the color of this morning. I confess I have never once put rice cake in my mouth. It looks tasty, yet also somewhat uncanny. I scrape with my front paw at the greens laid over it. My claw catches the upper skin of the cake and grows sticky. I sniff; it smells as when rice is transferred from the kettle bottom to the tub. Shall I eat, or not? I look about. Fortunately or not, no one is there. O-San, indifferent to year’s end or spring, is playing battledore. The children sing “What did the rabbit say?” in the inner room. If I eat, now is the time. Miss this chance, and I shall pass the year without knowing the taste of rice cake. In this instant, cat though I am, I attained a first truth: “Rare opportunity makes all animals dare even what they dislike.” To tell the truth, I do not much want the zoni. Nay, the more I gaze at the bowl’s bottom, the eerier it grows, and I grow reluctant to eat. Had O-San opened the kitchen door then, had I heard the child’s footsteps approaching, I would have abandoned the bowl without regret, and the thought of zoni would not have risen till next year. But none came; however long I hesitated, none came. I felt urged: eat quickly or not at all. Peering into the bowl, I prayed someone would come soon. Still none came. I was at last compelled to eat the zoni. Finally, as if dropping my whole weight upon the bowl’s bottom, I bit an inch or so into the cake’s corner. With such force I had bitten, an ordinary thing would have been severed; but, astonished! When I thought “enough” and tried to draw back my teeth, they would not come. I tried to chew again; they would not move. Too late I realized the cake was a demon. As a man sunk in a swamp sinks deeper with each struggle to free his foot, the more I chewed the heavier my mouth became, the less my teeth would move. There was resistance, but resistance only, and no resolution. The aesthete Mr. Meitei once said of my master, “You are an indivisible fellow”; truly well said. This cake, like its master, is utterly indivisible. Chew as I might, it seemed as with dividing ten by three, no end would ever come. In this anguish I inadvertently encountered a second truth: “All animals intuitively foresee the fitness of things.” Though I had now invented two truths, the cake stuck fast, and I felt not the least pleasure. My teeth were sucked into the cake’s flesh, aching as if to fall out. If I did not quickly bite through and flee, O-San would come. The children’s song had ceased; surely they would dash to the kitchen. In extremity I swung my tail round and round, to no effect; pricked or laid my ears, to no avail. On reflection, ears and tail have no relation to cake; perceiving this was all wasted motion, I stopped. At last I conceived that I must borrow my front paws to shake off the cake. First I raised the right and stroked around my mouth. Stroking alone would not divide it. Next I stretched the left, circling rapidly about the mouth. No spell drops a demon thus. Thinking force was key, I moved them alternately, but still my teeth dangled in the cake. “Bother!” I used both at once. Then, strange, for this moment alone I stood on my hind legs. I felt somehow not a cat. Cat or not, in such a pass who cares? With the spirit to scratch on till the cake’s spell broke, I clawed my face wildly. The violent motion of my forepaws nearly lost me balance at every turn; each time I must steady with the hind, so I could not stay in place, but flew about the kitchen hither and thither. I thought myself clever to rise so nimbly. A third truth burst upon me: “In peril, one does what in calm he cannot; this is called heaven’s aid.” Blessed with heaven’s aid, I fought the cake with all my might, when footsteps sounded from within, as of one coming. Thought I, if seen now, disgrace; and more frantic, I raced the kitchen. The steps drew nearer. Alas, regrettable, heaven’s aid fell short. The child found me. “Oh, the cat is eating zoni and dancing!” she cried loud. First to hear was O-San; abandoning battledore, she flew in from the kitchen: “Oh my!” The mistress, in crepe with family crest, said, “Nasty cat.” Even the master came from his study: “You fool!” Only the child found it funny. All laughed together, gales of it. I was furious, in pain, could not stop dancing—dire straits. When the laughter neared ceasing, the five-year-old girl said, “Mama, the cat is something, isn’t it?” and like a wave against the doomed, they laughed again hugely. I have seen and heard much human want of sympathy, but never felt it so hateful. At last heaven’s aid vanished; on all fours as ever, I rolled my eyes in ugly plight. Apparently loath to leave me to die, the master ordered O-San, “Take the cake off.” O-San looked to the mistress as if to say, can’t we let it dance more? The mistress, though wishing to watch, would not kill for it, and said nothing. “It will die if you don’t; quickly!” the master urged again. O-San, like one half-fed and roused from dream, grasped the cake with listless face and pulled hard. Not being Kangetsu, I thought all my front teeth would break. The pain—she tore without mercy at teeth sunk hard in cake. When I, having learned a fourth truth—“All ease must pass through suffering”—looked about blankly, the family had already retired to the inner room.
After such failure, to stay in and meet O-San’s eye was somehow shameful. I changed my mood and went from kitchen to back, thinking to visit the calico at the shamisen teacher’s on the new road. Calico is a famed beauty hereabouts. I am unquestionably a cat, yet know a little of sentiment. When at home I see the master’s bitter face or suffer O-San’s sharpness and feel low, I always visit this female friend and talk; then somehow my heart clears, and past cares and toils are forgotten, as if born anew. The influence of the fair is vast indeed. Through the cedar fence gap I looked—was she there? Calico, it being New Year, wore a new collar and sat primly on the veranda. The round of her back was ineffably beautiful, all curves. The bend of tail, fold of legs, the languid flick of ears—past description. Bathed in sun, warm and refined, though her body was still, her fur, smoother than swan’s down, seemed to shimmer with spring light, moving without wind. I gazed entranced; then, returning to self, in low voice called “Miss Calico, Miss Calico,” beckoning with a paw. “Oh, sir!” she stepped down; the bell on her red collar tinkled. “My, a bell for New Year—fine sound,” said I, admiring, as she came and swung her tail left in greeting. Among us cats, greeting is tail stiff as rod, swung round left. Only Calico in the ward calls me “sir.” Though, as before stated, I have no name, being of a teacher’s house, she respectfully says “sir.” I mind not, and answer “yes, yes.” “Happy New Year; you are finely made up.” “Oh, the teacher bought it for me at year’s end; isn’t it nice?” she tinkled. “Indeed a fine sound; I have never seen such since birth.” “Oh stop, everyone hangs them,” tinkle again. “Nice sound, I am glad,” tinkle tinkle. “Your teacher must dote on you,” I said, comparing to self, hinting envy. Innocent, she laughed, “Truly, like her own child.” Cats too can laugh; humans wrongly think none but they. I laugh by triangular nostrils and vibrating Adam’s apple, unknown to men. “What is your master, pray?” “Master? Odd. The teacher, of course—shamisen teacher.” “I know; but his station? Once grand, no doubt.” “Yes—
Waiting for you, the princess pine…
” Inside, the teacher struck the shamisen. “Fine tone,” boasted Calico. “Fine, but I know it not; what is it?” “That? Something-or-other; teacher loves it.… Teacher is sixty-two, quite hearty.” Sixty-two alive is hearty, so I said “Hm.” A pause; no better answer came. “Yet was once of high station; she always says so.” “Indeed, what was she?” “Why, niece of the mistress her sister-in-law married, scribe to Tenshōin.” “What?” “The scribe to Tenshōin’s sister—” “No, Tenshōin’s scribe’s sister—” “Oh no, Tenshōin’s scribe’s sister who married—” “I see; wait. Tenshōin’s sister’s scribe—” “Not so! Tenshōin’s scribe’s sister—” “Good, I understand: Tenshōin’s?” “Yes.” “Scribe’s?” “Yes.” “Married?” “Sister married, yes.” “Right, sister married to the—” “Mistress’s niece.” “Mistress’s niece?” “Yes. Clear?” “No, it is tangled, no gist. In short, what of Tenshōin is she?” “You too quite lost. She is the niece of the mistress her sister-in-law married, scribe to Tenshōin; I said from first.” “That I grasp fully.” “Then enough.” “Yes,” and I surrendered. Sometimes we must utter logical lies.
The shamisen stopped; the teacher called, “Calico, Calico, rice!” She gladly said, “Teacher calls, I must go; may I?” Refusal useless. “Do visit again,” she tinkled to the garden, then ran back: “You look pale; are you well?” Could not say I ate zoni and danced, so: “Nothing grave, but a headache from thought; I came hoping talk with you would cure.” “Then take care; farewell,” she seemed loath. Thus my zoni spirits fully recovered; light of heart, I went home by the tea garden, crushing thawing frost pillars, and from the fallen Kenninji wall peeped out—there was the cart-shop black, back arched on dead chrysanthemum, yawning. Lately I fear him not, but talk is trouble, so I pretended not to see and passed. Black, by nature, never silent when he deems himself slighted: “Oi, Nameless Gobē, lately high and mighty, eh? Teacher’s rice or no, no such proud face. No fun.” He seems unaware I am famous. I might explain, but he’d never understand; better greet and flee. “Happy New Year, Black; still hearty,” I said, tail up, swung left. Black kept tail up, no return. “Happy? New Year or no, you’re happy all year; watch it, you blow-pipe face!” “Blow-pipe face” seemed insult, but I knew not. “Pray, what means ‘blow-pipe face’?” “Hah, you insulted yet ask? Means New Year fellow.” “New Year fellow” is poetic, but vaguer than blow-pipe. I’d ask for clarity, but knew none would come, so stood mute. Awkward. Suddenly Black’s mistress bawled: “The salmon on the shelf is gone! That black beast took it again! Hateful cat! When he returns, see!” Her roar shook the calm spring air, vulgarizing the age. Black, as if to say roar on, faced impudently, square jaw forward, signaled “hear that.” Till then I’d not noticed; at his feet lay a salmon bone, worth two sen three rin, mud-covered. “Still at it,” I said, forgetting prior, offering an interjection. Black not pleased: “At it? This bastard. One or two slices of salmon ‘still’? Insult! I’m Black of the cart shop!” He rolled his right foreleg to the shoulder. Had I been man, he’d throttle me. I shrank, thinking trouble, when the mistress again: “Oi Nishikawa, beef, one pound, tender, now!” broke the silence. “Hah, once a year beef, loud to boast; hopeless hag,” Black sneered, bracing four legs. I silent. “One pound not enough, but keep it; I’ll eat,” he said as if his own. “A real feast; fine,” I tried to send him off. “None of your business; shut up,” he said, and flung with hind legs frost crumble on my head. While I shook mud, he slipped the fence and vanished—doubtless to eye Nishikawa’s beef.
Home, the room spring-like, master’s laugh cheerful. Strange, I went up the open veranda and neared him; an unfamiliar guest. Hair neatly parted, cotton crested haori, Ogara hakama, a very serious student. By the hand-warmer, with a lacquer tobacco case, a card: “Introducing Mizushima Kangetsu, from Ochi Tōfū.” Thus I knew the guest’s name and that he was Kangetsu’s friend. Their talk mid-way, unclear, but of the aesthete Meitei from before.
“He said there is an amusing device, so come surely,” the guest said calmly. “What, a device in eating lunch at a Western restaurant?” the master said, pouring tea. “Well, the device I knew not then, but being him, some fun seed, I thought….” “You went? I see.” “Then I was shocked,” the master, as if “see?”, patted my head on his knee. Slightly painful. “Some fool comedy again, that man’s habit,” he recalled the Andrea del Sarto affair. “Heh, he said, let’s eat something strange.” “What ate you?” “First, viewing menu, much talk of cuisine.” “Before ordering?” “Yes.” “Then?” “Then he cocked his head, looked at the boy: ‘Nothing strange, it seems’; boy, not to lose, said ‘duck loin or veal chop?’; master said, ‘I’d not come here for such commonplace’; boy, not knowing ‘commonplace,’ looked odd and shut.” “So.” “Then to me: ‘In France or England one eats Tenmei or Manyō style, but Japan, everywhere pressed by plate, no mood for Western’—has he been abroad?” “Meitei abroad? Money and time enough, could anytime, but likely plans it as past—