Mikeko is dead. Kuro was no match for me, and though there is a slight sense of desolation, I have fortunately made the acquaintance of humans, so I do not find it all that boring. The other day a man wrote asking me to send him a photograph of myself addressed to my master. And just recently someone went to the trouble of delivering a famous Okayama specialty, Kibi dumplings, addressed to me. As I am gradually shown sympathy by humans, I have come almost to forget that I am a cat. Without noticing it, I have come to feel closer to humans than to cats, and at present I have not the slightest intention of rallying my kind to decide the issue with the two-legged gentlemen. Nay more, I have evolved to the point where I sometimes think of myself as one of the human world—which is gratifying. I do not mean to despise my own kind. It is simply the way of things that one seeks peace by leaning toward what is akin in nature, and I am rather troubled to be accused of fickleness, shallowness, or betrayal. Those who hurl such words to revile others seem mostly to be impecunious fellows of an inflexible temper. Having thus shed the habits of a cat, I cannot go on being burdened by the affairs of Mikeko and Kuro. I naturally come to want to judge their thoughts and words and deeds with the pride of an equal human. This is not unreasonable. Yet, that one such as I, possessed of this degree of insight, should still be thought of as merely a furred specimen of the common cat, and that my master should offer me not a word of greeting and devour the Kibi dumplings as if they were his own—this is a matter of regret. He has not yet taken my photograph and sent it either. If this be called a grievance, it is one; but master is master and I am I, and it is perhaps unavoidable that our views differ naturally. Since I am passing myself off as human to the end, the doings of cats with whom I do not associate are, after all, a little hard to put to paper. I shall beg off with merely the reputations of Messrs. Meitei and Kogetsu.
Today being a fine Sunday, my master crawled out of his study and, laying brush, inkstone, and manuscript paper beside me, flopped down on his belly and began muttering something steadily. Thinking he was probably emitting odd sounds as a prelude to drafting some composition, I watched; after a while he wrote in bold strokes, “Kōichi※.” Hmm, I wondered—would it be a poem, or a haiku? “Kōichi※” seemed a bit too witty for my master—but before I could think further, he abandoned “Kōichi※” and started a new line: “I have been thinking of writing about Tennen Koji.” The brush ran on, then stopped short and moved no more. My master twisted his neck, brush in hand, but apparently having no bright idea, began to suck the brush tip. As I watched his lips turn jet black, he next drew a small circle beneath. Inside the circle he put two dots for eyes. In the center he drew a nose with flared nostrils, and a mouth pulled straight across—this was neither prose nor haiku. My master, seeming to have lost patience with himself, hastily scribbled the face out. He started a new line. By his thinking, merely changing lines would somehow produce a poem, or an inscription, a saying, or a record. Presently he flowed in one breath in the colloquial style: “Tennen Koji is one who studies space, reads the Analects, eats roasted sweet potatoes, and drips nasal mucus.” A rather muddled sentence. Then he read it aloud without reserve and laughed, unusually: “Hahaha, how amusing,” but said, “‘drips nasal mucus’ is a bit too harsh, let us strike it,” and drew a line through just that phrase. One line would have sufficed, but he drew two, then three, describing neat parallel lines; even when the lines ran into other rows he kept drawing. When eight lines stood parallel and still no following phrase came, he threw down the brush and twisted his mustache. Just as he was about to twist and wrench it up, then wrench it down, with the air of offering to squeeze a composition out of his mustache, the mistress emerged from the sitting room and plopped down right before my master’s nose. “Say, you—” she calls. “What?” my master answers in a voice like a gong struck underwater. Displeased with the reply, the mistress starts over: “Say, you—” “What is it?” this time he sticks thumb and forefinger up his nostrils and yanks out a nose hair. “This month we are a bit short, but…” “There’s no reason to be short. I settled the doctor’s fee, and paid the bookstore last month, didn’t I? This month there should be a surplus.” He calmly eyes the plucked nose hair as if it were a wonder of the world. “But you don’t eat your rice and eat bread instead, and lick jam—” “How many jars of jam have I licked anyway?” “Eight came in this month.” “Eight? I don’t remember licking that many.” “It isn’t just you; the children lick it too.” “Even so, it’s only five or six yen at most.” My master, unperturbed, plants the nose hairs one by one carefully on the manuscript paper. With flesh attached, they stand stiff like pins set upright. Master, as if struck by an unexpected discovery, blows at them lightly. The adhesion is strong; they will not fly. “Stubborn little things,” he blows with all his might. “It isn’t only jam; there are other things we must buy,” the mistress says, her cheeks swelling with grievance. “There may be,” says master, and again digs in and yanks a hair. Among red and black and various colors, one is pure white. Greatly startled, he stares as if to bore a hole, then holds the hair, still pinched between his fingers, before the mistress’s face. “Oh, how disgusting,” she scowls and pushes his hand away. “Look, a white hair among the nose hairs,” master is deeply moved. Even the mistress laughs and retreats to the sitting room. The economic question is abandoned. Master returns to Tennen Koji.
Having driven off the mistress with the nose hair, master, all but saying “now I can relax,” is impatient to pluck more and write, but the brush will not move. “Eating roasted sweet potatoes is superfluous; cut it,” and he erases that phrase too. “‘Kōichi※’ is too abrupt; abandon it,” and he strikes it without regret. What remains is the single line: “Tennen Koji is one who studies space and reads the Analects.” Master thinks this rather too simple, but says, “Oh, bother, dispense with the prose, just make it an inscription,” and swings the brush crosswise to boldly draw a clumsy literati-style orchid on the paper. His painstaking effort ends in total failure. Turning the sheet over, he strings together meaningless words: “Born of space, fathoms space, dies of space. Space, interval—Tennen Koji, alas,” when in comes Meitei as usual. Whether he thinks others’ homes his own, Meitei gives no announcement, strides right in; nay, sometimes he drifts in through the back door—a man who lost worry, reserve, constraint, and toil somewhere at birth.
“Still on ‘giant gravitation’?” he asks master, standing. “Yes, but I’m not always writing about giant gravitation. I’m composing an epitaph for Tennen Koji,” he says grandly. “Tennen Koji—is that a posthumous name like ‘Accidental Boy’?” Meitei spouts nonsense as ever. “Is there such a thing as ‘Accidental Boy’?” “No, but I thought that’d be about the mark.” “‘Accidental Boy’ is not something I know, but Tennen Koji is a man you know.” “Who on earth goes calling himself Tennen Koji?” “The late Sorozaki. He graduated and entered the graduate school, researching a topic called ‘Theory of Space,’ but studied too hard and died of peritonitis. Sorozaki was a close friend of mine, you see.” “A close friend is fine, no one says it’s bad. But who transformed Sorozaki into Tennen Koji?” “I did; I named him. After all, nothing is as vulgar as the posthumous names priests give.” He boasts as if Tennen Koji were a refined name. Meitei laughs: “Well, show me that epitaph,” takes the manuscript and reads aloud: “Born of space, fathoms space, dies of space. Space, interval—Tennen Koji, alas. Indeed, not bad; fitting for Tennen Koji.” Master, pleased: “Isn’t it?” “You’ll carve this on a Takuan stone and toss it behind the main hall like a strength stone? Elegant, Tennen Koji can rest in peace.” “That’s what I intend,” master answers quite seriously, but “I’ll be off a moment; I’ll be right back, so amuse yourself with the cat,” and without waiting for reply, breezes out.
Caught unawares as Meitei’s receptionist, I cannot keep a sour face, so I meow coquettishly and climb onto his knee. Meitei, rudely, grabs my scruff and dangles me in the air. “Iyo, gotten fat, let’s see,” he says. “With hind legs dangling like this, no catching mice… Say, madam, does this cat catch mice?” finding me insufficient, he addresses the mistress next door. “Not just mice—it eats New Year soup and dances,” she exposes old misdeeds from afar. Dangling, I am a bit embarrassed. Meitei still won’t put me down. “Indeed, a face that might dance. Madam, this cat has a treacherous look—like the cat-familiar in old chapbooks,” he chatters on to the mistress, who reluctantly stops sewing and comes to the room.
“You must be bored; I’ll take my leave,” she serves fresh tea before Meitei. “Where’d he go?” “He never says where he’s off to, so I couldn’t say, but probably to the doctor.” “Dr. Ama? Dr. Ama is unfortunate to be caught by such a patient.” “Yes,” the mistress answers briefly, at a loss. Meitei is unfazed. “Lately, how is it—stomach any better?” “Better or worse I couldn’t say; no matter how much Dr. Ama treats him, licking jam like that, the stomach ailment won’t cure,” she hints her earlier grievance to Meitei. “He licks that much jam? Like a child.” “Not just jam; lately he licks grated radish claiming it’s stomach medicine…” “Astonishing,” Meitei marvels. “Ever since he read in the newspaper that grated radish contains diastase…” “I see, so he means to compensate for the jam loss. Quite the scheme, hahaha,” Meitei enjoys her complaint. “The other day he even made the baby lick it…” “The jam?” “No, grated radish… ‘Come, Papa has something good for you’—when he rarely dotes on the child, it’s such foolishness. A few days ago he lifted the second daughter onto the chest and…” “What was the scheme?” Meitei interprets everything as scheme. “No scheme at all; he just said jump down from there. A three- or four-year-old girl can’t be such a tomboy.” “Indeed, too scheme-less. But he’s a harmless good soul at heart.” “If he had malice in that belly, we couldn’t manage,” the mistress flares. “Now, now, no need for such complaint. If you can pass each day without want, that’s fortune. Kusamori is no dissipated man, cares nothing for dress, a plain, household sort.” Meitei preaches cheerfully, uncharacteristically. “But you’re quite different…” “Does he have some secret vice? The world is not to be trusted,” Meitei answers airily. “No other vice, but he buys books he won’t read. If he’d buy with some judgment, fine, but he goes to Maruzen on his own and brings back stacks, then ignores it at month’s end. Last year’s end, the monthly bills piled and we were in trouble.” “Oh, let him bring all the books he wants. When they come for payment, say ‘later, later’ and they’ll go.” “Still, we can’t stall forever,” the mistress is sulky. “Then explain and cut the book budget.” “How? He won’t listen. The other day he said, ‘You are unfit for a scholar’s wife, understand not a whit of books’ value. In ancient Rome there is a tale; hear it for your edification.’” “That’s interesting, what tale?” Meitei is intrigued, more from curiosity than sympathy. “Once in Rome there was a king called Tarukin or such…” “Tarukin? Odd.” “I can’t recall Chinese names. He was the seventh, they say.” “Seventh Tarukin, odd. Well, what of him?” “Oh, you tease and I’ve no footing. If you know, tell me, you wicked man,” she attacks Meitei. “Tease? I’m no such wicked man. Only ‘Seventh Tarukin’ sounds off… wait, seventh king of Rome—I don’t quite recall, but it’s Tarquin the Proud. Anyway, whoever; what happened?” “A woman came to that king with nine books, asking him to buy.” “Indeed.” “He asked the price; she said a huge sum. He asked to lower it; she threw three of the nine into the fire.” “What a waste.” “Those books held prophecies unseen elsewhere.” “Hmm.” “The king thought six left, price lower, asked; she held the same price. He called it outrageous; she burned three more. The king still lingered; asked the three left; she demanded the nine-book price. Though nine became six, six became three, not a coin less; fearing she’d burn the rest, he paid dear for the three remaining… How’s that—see the worth of books? He presses, but I see no worth,” she asserts the household’s wisdom, prompting Meitei. Meitei, slightly cornered, draws a handkerchief and dangles it before me. “But madam,” he suddenly cries loud, as if struck by thought. “Buying so many books and cramming them in, that’s why people call him a scholar. The other day a literary magazine had a critique of Kusamori.” “Truly?” the mistress turns. That his reputation concerns her shows wife indeed. “What did it say?” “Only two or three lines: ‘Kusamori’s prose is like drifting clouds and flowing water.’” The mistress smiles faintly. “Only that?” “Next: ‘When it appears, it vanishes; having gone, forgets to return.’” She makes a queer face. “Was it praise?” uncertain. “Why, praise, I suppose,” Meitei calmly dangles the handkerchief before my eyes. “Books are his trade, can’t be helped, but he’s quite eccentric.” Meitei, thinking from another angle, “Eccentric, yes, but scholars are such,” gives a noncommittal reply half-defense. “The other day he came from school, too lazy to change, ate at the desk in his coat. Put the meal on the foot-warmer—I held the rice pot and sat, it was funny…” “Like a high-collar beheading exhibition. But that is Kusamori being Kusamori—anyway, not commonplace,” he praises painfully. “Commonplace or not, a woman can’t tell, but it’s too rough.” “But better than commonplace,” he backs her; she unsatisfied: “Everyone says ‘commonplace, commonplace’—what is it?” demands definition. “Commonplace? It’s—hard to explain…” “If vague, commonplace might be fine,” she presses with womanly logic. “Not vague; I know well, only hard to explain.” “You just call what you dislike commonplace,” she unwittingly shrewd. Meitei must now dispose of commonplace. “Madam, commonplace is—a girl of eighteen or nineteen, lying pensive, who on fine days takes a gourd to the Sumida bank…” “Such people?” she vaguely answers, not understanding. “It’s all muddled, I don’t get it,” she yields. “Then take Bakin’s torso, attach Pendennis’s head, wrap in European air a year or two…” “Would that make commonplace?” Meitei laughs, no answer. “No need for such trouble. Add a Whitewood House clerk to a middle-school boy, divide by two, fine commonplace.” “Is that so?” she twists her neck, unconvinced.
“Still here?” master returns unnoticed, sits by Meitei. “‘Still here’ is harsh; I said I’d be right back, wait,” Meitei says. “That’s just him,” mistress looks to Meitei. “While you were out, heard all your anecdotes.” “Women talk too much; would men kept silence like this cat.” He pets my head. “You made the baby lick grated radish?” “Hm,” master laughs, “even babies are clever nowadays; since then, ask ‘where’s the bitter?’ and he sticks out his tongue—funny.” “Like training a dog, cruel. Kogetsu should be here soon.” “Kogetsu’s coming?” master doubts. “He is. I postcarded: come to Kusamori’s by one. Meddling without ask. Why call him?” “Not my scheme; Kogetsu’s own request. He’s to lecture at the Science Society, wanted me to hear his rehearsal, so I thought Kusamori should too, hence your house—you’re idle, just right—no objection, listen.” Meitei decides alone. “Physics lecture, I won’t follow,” master resenting the high-handedness. “But the topic isn’t dry as ‘nozzles with magnets’—‘The Mechanics of Hanging’—transcendent, worth hearing.” “You who failed hanging may hear; I…” “One who shivers at the Kabuki-za won’t conclude not to listen,” he quips. The mistress smiles, withdraws. Master silently pets me; this time most gently.
About seven minutes later Kogetsu comes as bidden. Tonight’s lecture, so unusually fine frock, stiff fresh collar, bearing up two notches: “A bit late,” he greets composedly. “We’ve waited eagerly; begin, eh?” master yields a vague “um.” Kogetsu unhurried: “A cup of water, please.” “Full formal, next you’ll ask for applause,” Meitei fusses alone. Kogetsu draws draft from inner pocket: “Rehearsal, critique freely,” and begins.
“Hanging as penalty prevailed among Anglo-Saxons; anciently it was mainly suicide. Jews stoned criminals. Old Testament ‘hanging’ means exposing corpse to beasts and birds. Herodotus suggests Jews dreaded night exposure before leaving Egypt. Egyptians beheaded and crucified torso by night. Persians…” “Kogetsu, hanging grows distant; all right?” Meitei interrupts. “Entering main soon; bear with me… Persians also used crucifixion, living or dead unclear…” “Needn’t know,” master yawns. “Much to tell, but you’d weary…” “‘You’d weary’—‘you’d be weary’ sounds better, eh Kusamori?” Meitei faults; master: “same either way.” “Now to the main, I argue.” “‘Argue’ is storyteller’s; lecturers should use finer words,” Meitei meddles. “If ‘argue’ is low, what should I say?” Kogetsu slightly…
