I Am A Cat. Natsume Soseki

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СКАЧАТЬ is achieved through hardship. When at last I came to myself and looked around at a world restored to normality, all the members of the household had disappeared into the inner room.

      Having made such a fool of myself, I feel quite unable to face such hostile critics as O-san. It would, I think, unhinge my mind. To restore my mental tranquillity, I decided to visit Tortoiseshell, so I left the kitchen and set off through the backyard to the house of the two-stringed harp. Tortoiseshell is a celebrated beauty in our district. Though I am undoubtedly a cat, I possess a wide general knowledge of the nature of compassion and am deeply sensitive to affection, kind-heartedness, tenderness, and love. Merely to observe the bitterness in my master’s face, just to be snubbed by O-san, leaves me out of sorts. At such times I visit this fair, lady friend of mine and our conversation ranges over many things. Then, before I am aware of it, I find myself refreshed. I forget my worries, hardships, everything. I feel as if reborn. Female influence is indeed a most potent thing. Through a gap in the cedar-hedge, I peer to see if she is anywhere about. Tortoiseshell, wearing a smart new collar in celebration of the season, is sitting very neatly on her veranda. The rondure of her back is indescribably beautiful. It is the most beautiful of all curved lines. The way her tail curves, the way she folds her legs, the charmingly lazy shake of her ears—all these are quite beyond description. She looks so warm sitting there so gracefully in the very sunniest spot. Her body holds an attitude of utter stillness and correctness. And her fur, glossy as velvet that reflects the rays of spring, seems suddenly to quiver although the air is still. For a while I stood, completely enraptured, gazing at her. Then as I came to myself, I softly called, “Miss Tortoiseshell, Miss Tortoiseshell,” and beckoned with my paw.

      “Why, Professor,” she greeted me as she stepped down from the veranda. A tiny bell attached to her scarlet collar made little tinkling sounds. I say to myself, “Ah, it’s for the New Year that she’s wearing a bell,” and, while I am still admiring its lively tinkle, find she has arrived beside me. “A happy NewYear, Professor,” and she waves her tail to the left; for when cats exchange greetings one first holds one’s tail upright like a pole, then twists it round to the left. In our neighborhood it is only Tortoiseshell who calls me Professor. Now, I have already mentioned that I have, as yet, no name; it is Tortoiseshell, and she alone, who pays me the respect due to one that lives in a teacher’s house. Indeed, I am not altogether displeased to be addressed as a Professor, and respond willingly to her apostrophe.

      “And a happy New Year to you,” I say. “How beautifully you’re done up!”

      “Yes, the mistress bought it for me at the end of last year. Isn’t it nice?” and she makes it tinkle for me.

      “Yes indeed, it has a lovely sound. I’ve never seen such a wonderful thing in my life.”

      “No! Everyone’s using them,” and she tinkle-tinkles. “But isn’t it a lovely sound? I’m so happy.” She tinkle-tinkle-tinkles continuously.

      “I can see your mistress loves you very dearly.” Comparing my lot with hers, I hinted at my envy of a pampered life.

      Tortoiseshell is a simple creature. “Yes,” she says, “that’s true; she treats me as if I were her own child.” And she laughs innocently. It is not true that cats never laugh. Human beings are mistaken in their belief that only they are capable of laughter. When I laugh my nostrils grow triangular and my Adam’s apple trembles. No wonder human beings fail to understand it.

      “What is your master really like?”

      “My master? That sounds strange. Mine is a mistress. A mistress of the two stringed harp.”

      “I know that. But what is her background? I imagine she’s a person of high birth?”

      “Ah, yes.”

       A small Princess-pine

       While waiting for you. . .

      Beyond the sliding paper-door the mistress begins to play on her two-stringed harp.

      “Isn’t that a splendid voice?” Tortoiseshell is proud of it.

      “It seems extremely good, but I don’t understand what she’s singing. What’s the name of the piece?”

      “That? Oh, it’s called something or other. The mistress is especially fond of it. D’you know, she’s actually sixty-two? But in excellent condition, don’t you think?”

      I suppose one has to admit that she’s in excellent condition if she’s still alive at sixty-two. So I answered, “Yes.” I thought to myself that I’d given a silly answer, but I could do no other since I couldn’t think of anything brighter to say.

      “You may not think so, but she used to be a person of high standing. She always tells me so.”

      “What was she originally?”

      “I understand that she’s the thirteenth Shogun’s widowed wife’s private-secretary’s younger sister’s husband’s mother’s nephew’s daughter.”

      “What?”

      “The thirteenth Shogun’s widowed wife’s private-secretary’s younger sister’s. . .”

      “Ah! But, please, not quite so fast. The thirteenth Shogun’s widowed wife’s younger sister’s private-secretary’s . . .”

      “No, no, no. The thirteenth Shogun’s widowed wife’s private-secretary’s younger sister’s. . .”

      “The thirteenth Shogun’s widowed wife’s. . .”

      “Right.”

      “Private-secretary’s. Right?”

      “Right.”

      “Husband’s. . .”

      “No, younger sister’s husband’s.”

      “Of course. How could I? Younger sister’s husband’s. . .”

      “Mother’s nephew’s daughter. There you are.”

      “Mother’s nephew’s daughter?”

      “Yes, you’ve got it.”

      “Not really. It’s so terribly involved that I still can’t get the hang of it.

      What exactly is her relation to the thirteenth Shogun’s widowed wife?”

      “Oh, but you are so stupid! I’ve just been telling you what she is. She’s the thirteenth Shogun’s widowed wife’s private-secretary’s younger sister’s husband’s mother’s. . .”

      “That much I’ve followed, but. . .”

      “Then, you’ve got it, haven’t you?”

      “Yes.” I had to give in. There are times for little white lies.

      Beyond the sliding paper-door the sound of the two-stringed harp came to a sudden stop and the mistress’ voice called, “Tortoiseshell, Tortoiseshell, your lunch is ready.” Tortoiseshell looked happy and remarked, “There, she’s calling, so I must go home. I hope you’ll forgive me?” What would be the good of my saying that I mind? “Come and see me again,” she said; and she ran СКАЧАТЬ