I Am a Cat

by Sōseki Natsume

  “How the devil should I know? You’d better run along and ask him.”

  “What were they worth?”

  “I wouldn’t know the price of yams.”

  “In that case, let’s say twelve yen fifty sen.”

  “That’s ridiculous. How could a box of yams, even ones grown down in Kyushu and then transported here, cost as much as that?”

  “You said you didn’t know what they would cost.”

  “I did, and I don’t. But twelve yen fifty sen would be plain absurd.

  Far, far too much.”

  “How can you say in one and the same breath that you don’t know their price but that twelve yen fifty sen is absurd? It makes no sense at all. Except to prove that you’re an Otanchin Palaeologus.”

  “That I’m a what?”

  “That you’re an Otanchin Palaeologus.”

  “What’s that?”

  One can hardly blame the lady. Though long experience has given me a certain facility in decoding my master’s thoughts as expressed in vile puns and twisted references to Japanese provincial slang and the mustier tracts of Western scholarship, this particular demonstration of his skills is both sillier and more obscure than usual. I’m still not sure that I understand his full intention, but I suspect he meant no more than that he thought his wife a blockhead. Why then didn’t he just leave it at “Otanchin?” Because, despite his temerarious attack on her balding pate, he lacks the guts to risk a head-on clash, and he’s not entirely certain that she’s never heard that slang-term for a fool. So what does he do? He sees a similarity of sound between “Otanchin” and “Konstantin,” the name of the last Palaeologue Emperor of Byzantium. Not that the sounds are sufficiently similar to justify a pun. Not that Constantine the Eleventh has any remote connection with the price of yams. Not that such truths would sway my master. He simply wants to call his wife a blockhead without having to cope with the consequences of doing so. No wonder Mrs. Sneaze is foxed and no wonder she presses for an explanation.

  “Never mind about that. What’s next on the list? You haven’t yet mentioned my own kimono.”

  “Never mind about what’s next. Just tell me what ‘Otanchin Palaeologus’ means.”

  “It hasn’t got any meaning.”

  “You’re so excessively clever that I’m sure you could explain what it means if you wanted to. What kind of a fool do you take me for? I bet you’ve just been calling me names by taking advantage of the fact that I can’t speak English.”

  “Stop talking nonsense and get on with the rest of the list. If we aren’t quick in lodging this complaint, we’ll never get our property returned.”

  “It’s already too late to make an effective complaint. I’d rather you told me something more about Otanchin Palaeologus.”

  “You really are making a nuisance of yourself. As I said before, it has no meaning whatsoever. There’s nothing more to be said.”

  “Well, if that’s how you feel, I’ve nothing more to say about the list.”

  “What pigheadedness! Have it your own way. I won’t then write out this complaint for you.”

  “Suit yourself. But don’t come bothering me for details of what’s missing. It’s you, not me, who’s lodging the complaint. I just don’t care two hoots whether you write it or you don’t.”

  “Then let’s forget it,” snaps my master. In his usual abrupt manner he gets up and stalks off into his study. Mrs. Sneaze retires to the living room and dumps herself down in front of her sewing-box. For some ten minutes, this precious pair sit glaring in silence at the paper-door between them.

  That was the situation when Mr. Tatara Sampei, donor of yams, came bustling gaily in through the front door. This Tatara was once the Sneazes’ houseboy, but nowadays, having received his degree in law, he works in the mining department of some big company or other. Like, but junior to, the slippery Suzuki, he’s another budding businessman.

  Nevertheless, because of his former connection with the family, he still occasionally visits the humble dwelling of his erstwhile benefactor. Indeed, having once been almost one of that family, he sometimes spends whole Sundays in the house.

  “What wonderful weather, Mrs. Sneaze.” He sits on the floor in front of her, with his trousered knees drawn up, and speaks as ever in his own Karatsu dialect.

  “Why, hello, Mr. Tatara.”

  “Is the master out?”

  “No, he’s in the study.”

  “It’s bad for the health to study as hard as he does. Today’s a Sunday, and Sundays don’t come every day of the week. Now do they?”

  “There’s no point in telling me. Go and say it to my husband.”

  “Yes, but. . .” He looks around the room and then half-asks his hostess, “The girls, now, they’re not in?” But the words are hardly out of his mouth when Tonko and Sunko both run in from the next room.

  “Mr. Tatara, have you brought the goodies?” Tonko, the elder daughter, wastes no time in reminding him of a recent promise.

  Tatara scratches his head. “What a memory you’ve got! I’m sorry I forgot them, but really, next time, I promise to remember.”

  “What a shame,” says Tonko, and her younger sister immediately echoes “What a shame.” Mrs. Sneaze, in a modest revival of her natural good humor, smiles slightly.

  “I confess I forgot the raw fish goodies, but I did bring around some yams. Have you two girls yet tried them?”

  “What’s a yam?” asks Tonko, and little Miss Echo pipes up with,

  “What’s a yam?”

  “Ah, so you’ve not yet eaten them. Ask your mother to cook you some at once. Karatsu yams are especially delicious, quite different from those you get in Tokyo.” As Tatara tootles away on his provincial trumpet, Mrs. Sneaze remembers to thank him again for his kindness.

  “It really was kind of you, Mr. Tatara, to bring us yams the other day.

  And so many of them. Such a generous thought.”

  “Well, have you eaten them? I had the box I made specially so that they wouldn’t get broken. I hope you found them undamaged and in their full length.”

  “I’m sure we would have. But I’m sorry to say that, only last night, the whole lot were stolen by a burglar.”

  “You’ve been burgled for yams? What a peculiar criminal. I’d never have dreamt that the passion for yams, even Karatsu yams, could be carried so far.”Tatara is enormously impressed.

  “Mother,” says Tonko, “Was there a burglar here last night?”

  “Yes,” Mrs. Sneaze answers lightly.

  “A burglar? Here? A real, real burglar?” Sunko voices wonderment, but immediately goes on to ask, “What sort of face did he have?”

  Mrs. Sneaze, stumped by this curious question, finds something suitable to say, “He had,” she says, looking over at Tatara for sympathetic understanding, “a most fear-some face.”

  “Do you mean,” asks the tactless Tonko, “that he looked like Mr. Tatara?”

  “Really,Tonko, that’s very rude of you.”

  “Dear, oh dear,” laughs the visitor, “is my face as fearsome as all that?”

  He once more scratches his head. There’s a bald patch, about an inch across, on the back of his head. It began to appear not much more than a month ago and, though he’s taken it round to the quack, it shows no sign of improvement. It is, of course,Tonko who draws attention to the patch.

  “Why look,” she says, “Mr. Tatara’s head is shiny just like mother’s.”

  “Tonko, behave yourself. I told you to be quiet.”

  “Was the thief’s head shiny, too?” Sunko innocently asks. In spite of themselves, the adults burst out laughing. Still, the children’s chatter so interrupts all conversation that Mrs. Sneaze decides to pack them off.

  “Run along now and play in the garden. Be good girls and later on I’ll find you both some sweeties.”

  After the girls had gone, Mrs. Sneaze turned to Tatara and with all the gravity of a fellow-sufferer enquired, “Mr. Tatara, what has happene
d to your head?”

  “Some kind of skin-infection. Not exactly moth, but a bug of some sort which takes ages to clear up. Are you having the same trouble?”

  “Ugh! don’t talk about bugs. In my case the trouble’s the usual female problem of the hair thinning because it’s drawn so tight in the married woman’s hairstyle.”

  “All baldness is caused by bacteria.”

  “Well, mine’s not.”

  “Come, come, Mrs. Sneaze, you’re being obstinate. One cannot fly in the face of the Scientific facts.”

  “Say what you like, it’s not bacteria. But tell me, what’s the English word for baldness?”

  Tatara said he wasn’t sure, but he answered her correctly.

  “No, no,” she said, “Not that, it’s a very much longer word.”

  “Why not ask your husband? He could tell you straight off.”

  “I’m asking you precisely because he refuses to help.”

  “Well, all I know is ‘baldness.’ You say the word you want’s much longer. Can you give me an idea of its sound?”

  “‘Otanchin Palaeologus.’ I have an idea that ‘Otanchin’ means bald and ‘Palaeologus’ head.”

  “Possibly. I’ll pop into the master’s study a little later and look it up for you in Webster’s Dictionary. By the way, the master is eccentric, isn’t he? Fancy staying indoors and doing nothing on such a lovely day! No wonder his stomach-troubles never get better. Why don’t you persuade him to go and view the flowers at Ueno?”

  “Please, you ask him. He never listens to what a woman says.”

  “Is he still licking jam?”

  “Yes, as always.”

  “The other day he was complaining that you’re always telling him he overdoes it. ‘But she’s wrong,’ he said, ‘I really don’t eat all that much.’

  So I told him the obvious answer was that you and the girls are also fond of jam. . .”

  “Mr. Tatara, how could you say such a thing!”

  “But, Mrs. Sneaze, you’ve got a jam-licker’s face.”

  “How can you tell a thing like that by looking at someone’s face?”

  “I can’t, of course. But, honestly, Mrs. Sneaze, don’t you ever take any?”

  “Well, naturally I sometimes take a little. And why shouldn’t I? After all, it’s ours.”

  Tatara laughed right out. “I thought that was the answer. But seriously,” he said, adopting a more sober tone, “that really was bad luck about the burglar. Was it only yams that he filched?”

  “If it were only yams, we wouldn’t be so upset. But he’s taken all of our everyday clothing.”

  “Then you really are in trouble. Will you have to borrow money again? If only this thing here were a dog, not just an idle cat. . . What a difference that might have made. Honestly, you ought to keep a dog, a big sturdy dog. Cats are practically useless. All they do is eat. This cat, for instance, has it ever even caught a rat?”

  “Not a single one. It’s a very lazy and impudent cat.”

  “Ah! that’s terrible. You must get rid of it at once. Shall I take it along with me? Boiled, you know, they’re really quite good eating.”

  “Don’t tell me you eat cats!”

  “Yes, indeed, every now and again. They taste delicious,”

  “You must have a remarkably strong stomach.”

  I have heard that among these degraded houseboys there are some so close to outright barbarism that they do, in fact, eat cats: but not until now had I ever dreamt that our Tatara, a person with whom I’d long been on terms of quite some coziness, could be so base a creature. Of course he’s not our houseboy any longer. Far from it. Though barely out of university, he is now not only a distinguished Bachelor of Law but also a rising executive in that well-known limited company, Mutsui Products. I was, therefore, more than surprised. The proverb says, “When you see a man, take him for a felon;” the truth of that adage has been well-demonstrated by the thieving conduct of last night’s pseudo-Coldmoon. Thanks now to Tatara, I have just invented another proverb: “When you see a man, take him for a felophage.” The longer one lives in this wicked world, the more one learns. It is always good to learn, but as one accumulates knowledge of the world’s wickedness, one grows ever the more cautious, ever the more prepared for the worst. Artfulness, uncharitableness, self-defensive wariness: these are the fruits of worldly learning. The penalty of age is this rather ugly knowingness. Which would seem to explain why one never finds among the old a single decent person. They know too much to see things straight, to feel things cleanly, to act without compromise.

  Thinking that there might then be some merit in departing this world while still in my prime, I was making myself small in a corner lest such a departure should be forced upon me in the company of onions stewing in Tatara’s pot, when my master, drawn from his study by the sound of Tatara’s voice, slouched back into the living room.

  “I hear, sir, you’ve been burgled. What a stupid thing to have happen.”

  Tatara opens the conversation somewhat bluntly.

  “That yam-purloiner was certainly stupid.” My master has no doubt whatsoever of his own profound intelligence.

  “Indeed, the thief was stupid, but his victim wasn’t exactly clever.”

  “Perhaps those with nothing worth stealing, people like Mr. Tatara, are the cleverest of all.” Rather surprisingly Mrs. Sneaze comes out on her husband’s side.

  “Anyway, one thing’s clear. That this cat’s totally useless. Really, one can’t imagine what it thinks it’s for. It catches no rats. It sits calmly by while a burglar breaks in. It serves no purpose whatsoever. How about letting me take it?”

  “Well,” says My master, “maybe I will. What would you do with it?”

  “Cook it and eat it.”

  On hearing that ferocious proposition, my master gave vent to a minister wail of dyspeptic laughter, but he answered neither yes nor no.

  This, to my mingled surprise and glad relief, seemed to satisfy Tatara for he pressed no further with his disgusting proposal. After a brief pause, my master, changing the subject, remarks, “The cat doesn’t matter, but I do object most strongly to anyone stealing my clothes. I feel so cold.”

  He looks indeed dispirited, and no wonder he feels cold. Until yesterday he was wearing two quilted kimonos: but today, wearing only a single lined-kimono and a short-sleeved shirt, he’s been sitting about since morning and has taken no exercise. What little blood he has is totally engaged in keeping his miserable stomach going, so naturally it doesn’t get round to his arms and legs.

  “It’s hopeless being a teacher. Your world gets turned upside-down by a mere burglar. It’s still not too late to make a change. Why not come into the business world?”

  “Since my scholarly spouse just doesn’t care for businessmen, it’s a waste of time even to suggest the idea.” Mrs. Sneaze, of course, would be delighted to see him go into business.

  “How many years is it,”Tatara asks, “since you took your degree?”

  “Eight years, I think,” answers Mrs. Sneaze looking toward her husband. My master neither confirms nor denies the period.

  “Eight years and your pay’s the same as on the day you started.

  However hard you study, no one appreciates your merits.‘All by himself the master is, and lonely.’” For Mrs. Sneaze’s benefit Tatara quotes a scrap of Chinese poetry remembered from his days in middle school.

  Since she fails to understand him she makes no answer.

  “Of course I don’t like teaching, but I dislike commerce even more.” My master seems to be a bit uncertain in his own mind what it is he does like.

  “He dislikes everything,” says Mrs. Sneaze.

  “Well, anyway I’m sure he doesn’t dislike his wife.” Tatara makes an unexpected sally.

  “I dislike her most of all.” My master’s comment is extremely terse.

  Mrs. Sneaze turns slightly away and her face stiffens, but she then looks back at her husband and says, as if s
he thought she were getting a good dig in at him, “I suppose you’ll be saying next that you dislike living.”

  “True,” came his off-hand answer, taking the wind clean out of her sails, “I don’t like living much.” He’s way past praying for.

  “You should go for a brisk walk every now and again. Staying indoors all day must be ruining your health. And what’s more, you really should become a businessman. Making money is simple as pie.”

  “Look who’s talking. You yourself aren’t exactly rolling in it.”

  “Ah, well. But I only joined the company last year. Even so, I’ve more saved up than you have.”

  “How much have you saved?” Inevitably, Mrs. Sneaze rises to such bait, and puts her question with real earnestness.

  “Fifty yen, already.”

  “And how much is your salary?” Again it’s Mrs. Sneaze who asks the question.

  “Thirty yen a month. The company retains five yen and saves it up for me. In an emergency, I can draw on the accumulated capital. Really, why don’t you buy some tramway shares with your pin-money? Their value will double within three or four months. Indeed anyone with a bit of capital could double, even triple, his money in next to no time.”

  “If I had any pin-money,” Mrs. Sneaze somewhat sourly observes, “I wouldn’t now be up a gum tree all on account of some petty theft.”

  “That’s why I keep saying your husband should go into business. For instance, if he’d studied law and then joined a company or a bank, he would by now be earning three or four hundred yen a month. It seems a shame he didn’t. By the way, sir, do you happen to know a man called Suzuki Tōjūrō who got his degree in engineering?”

  “Yes, he called here only yesterday.”

  “So you’ve seen him then. I ran into him a few days back at a party and your name cropped up. I said I’d once been a member of your household, and he replied that he and you had once shared lodgings at some temple in Koishikawa.‘Next time you see him,’ he said,‘please give him my kindest regards and say I’ll be looking him up one of these days.’”

  “I gather he’s recently been transferred back to Tokyo.”

  “That’s right. Until the other day he was pining away somewhere down in Kyushu, but he’s just been moved up to the head office here in Tokyo. He’s a smooth lad, that one.