If you are an intermediate student of Japanese or above (or an aggressive upper beginner), 吾輩は猫である is a great story to learn from. If you are a beginner, while this may be too hard, I highly recommend memorizing the opening line:
吾輩は猫である。名前はまだ無い。
I am a cat. I do not yet have a name.
Not only is it very famous, it is a cool "party trick" line to use whenever you see a cat, talk about Natsume Souseki, or just want to show off your knowledge of the Japanese classics.
BTW, I made a separate lesson page that breaks down seven famous lines from the story, including the opening and closing lines. Click here to view that lesson.
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About 吾輩は猫である
The story is written from the perspective of a stray cat that comes to stay with a not-too-bright teacher. The teacher spends most of his time behind the closed door of his study, and is therefore considered to be well read by everyone else in the house. But the cat knows better. His master spends most of his study time sleeping. That is until his master discovers other pursuits such as composing haiku, writing grammatically incorrect English compositions, and, finally, water coloring.
吾輩 is a first person pronoun, but it isn't used in modern Japanese. Most likely, if you say 吾輩, your listener will immediately think of this novel. The cat's speech is that of a learned scholar or nobleman (noblecat). One of his acquaintances, the cat of a 車屋 rickishaw or cartman, uses very low brow speech that contrasts with the high-brow speech of the main cat character.
About this page
This is the first chapter in 夏目漱石's masterpiece, 吾輩は猫である (I am a Cat). While there are other chapters in the book, this was initially released as a stand alone story.
I split the story into seven mostly equally-sized chunks. This was mostly to keep the audio files a decent size while also making it easier to keep track of your progress. The Anki deck (free for Makoto+ members) covers words throughout the entire chapter. However, the order is from top to bottom. So, if you use the Anki deck, you may only need to learn the first quarter of the deck before you can start the story.
Furigana
I (painstakingly) added furigana to every kanji. Simply mouse over to see the reading. I compared the furigana to two audio recordings and tried to find a happy medium. In some cases, the furigana may be slightly off due to inconsistencies in okurigana in Souseki's time and modern Japanese. There are other small problems such as 後 is sometimes ご and sometimes あと depending on how Yumi decided to read it. So, while I think the furigana is pretty accurate, if you find anything you know to be wrong, please let me know.
Translation
The English is the 1906 translation by Kan-ichi Ando with slight modifications by us. We believe this text to be in the public domain and is offered here for educational purposes.
Makoto+ Members
If you are a member, you can download an Anki flashcard deck with most vocabulary found in this story. Having a solid knowledge of the vocabulary will greatly improve your reading ability. If you find the text difficult, please spend a few days or weeks going through the vocabulary Anki deck and then attempt to read the story in Japanese here.
Members can also download a higher quality full audio file of the entire chapter as well as a printable PDF of the story with full furigana and a version with only the furigana provided by Aozora.
Where I was born is entirely unknown to me. But this still dimly lives in my memory. I was mewing in a gloomy damp place, where I got the first sight of a creature called man. This human being, as I afterwards learned, belonged to the most brutal class of his race, known by the name of “students,” who, as it is said, will not unfrequently seize, boil and devour us. But knowing at that time little of what he was like, I felt no fear in particular. Only when he lighted me lightly on his hand, I experienced a strange sensation of buoyancy passing through me. That was all.
It was at this instant that I, collecting myself a little, while thus perched on his palm, cast a glance at his face. This was my first contact with a human creature. I thought then how strange he looked. And I bear this impression to this day. To begin with, his face, which ought to have been adorned with hair, was as smooth and slippery as a kettle. I have seen many a cat in my day, but never have I come across one so deformed. Not only that, the face protruded too much in the centre; and from the two cavities of this projection, smoke puffed out now and then, making it hard for me to keep from choking. That this smoke came from tobacco which man uses, did not come to my knowledge until quite recently.
I sat comfortably for a few moments on this student’s palm; then I began to feel myself in full motion. Whether he was moving or I alone was being whirled, was more than I could tell. At any rate, I felt fearfully giddy and qualmish, and began to prepare for the worst, when “thud!” came a sound, and sparks flew from my eyes. As to what happened next my memory utterly fails me.
When I came to myself the student had already gone, and not a shadow was to be seen of my brothers and sisters who had been with me en masse. But the worst was the disappearance of my mamma. Besides, instead of being in the shade, I now found myself in a flood of light,—so dazzling that I could scarcely keep my eyes open.
“There is something strange about this, “thought I, and began to creep slowly, when I felt a pricking pain in my paws. Out of the straw that received me at my birth, I had been cast away into a thicket of bamboo grass!
I toiled through the thicket as far as a big pond, which I saw in front of me. I sat down by it, and wondered what I had better do. But nothing bright came into my mind. After a while, the thought struck me that if I mewed that student might come again to get me. This experiment, however, was of no avail. In the meantime a smart breath of air rippled the pond, and the sun began to sink. I was feeling very hungry, and fain would cry, but my voice failed me. The only thing I could do was to go somewhere in search of something to eat. Thus resolved, I wormed my way along the left side of the pond. It was indeed a trying expedition. But taking heart I steadily worked on until at last I came to a place where I fancied it smelled of man.
A gap in a bamboo fence caught my eye. Thinking it would help me, I crawled through it into a yard. How strangely the wheel of Fortune turns! Had it not been for this gap, I might have starved to death on the roadside. “Even a rest under the shade of the same tree has something to do with a certain affinity in a previous life.” The proverb has much truth in it, for this gap has become the passage by which, to this day, I pay visits to Miss Mikè who lives next door.
Well, I said I crept into the yard. But I was quite at a loss what to do next. By this time it was growing dark; hunger was staring me in the face. Cold came, and rain began to fall, into the bargain. This drove me towards a lighter and warmer place. I think now that I had then already made my way into a dwelling house. Here I had a chance to see other human beings.
The first one was a maid, whom I found to be a more violent creature than the student mentioned before. For, no sooner did she catch sight of me, than she seized me by the neck, and flung me into the yard. Before this formidable foe struggling was useless. So I shut my eye, and gave myself up to Providence. To this brutal treatment were added the pangs of starvation. So I watched another chance, and stole into the kitchen only to be hurled out again. I remember that the same thing was repeated four or five times at least, which deeply impressed me with the feeling that a maid is a very disgusting brute. The other day, by way of tit for tat, I secretly devoured a mackerel pike that was on her plate, and thus relieved my feelings to a certain extent.
When I was about to be thrown out for the last time, a voice came, saying: “What’s all this row about, eh?” And the master of this house appeared. “This homeless cat tries my patience,” responded the maid. “It insists upon coming into the kitchen, do what I will.” She showed me to him, snatching me up by the neck. And he, looking at my face, while twirling the black hair above his upper lip, at last said: “Keep it, then,” and walked into a back room. He seemed a close-tongued man. The maid dashed me fretfully on to the kitchen floor. It was in this way that I came to settle in this house.
It is rarely that I meet my master in the house. They say he is a teacher by profession. When he comes back from school, he usually shuts himself up in his study for the remainder of the day. The members of his family think him a very diligent scholar; and he himself is trying to appear as such. But in reality he is not so hard at work as his folk say. I often make a stealthy approach to his “den”, peep in, and not unfrequently find him taking a nap. Sometimes I even catch him in a ludicrous state, letting water drop from his mouth on to the book he has been reading. He suffers from indigestion, and his sallow complexion tells of the want of elasticity and vitality of his skin. Nevertheless, he is a gormandizer. He eats his fill, takes a drug of “Taka Diastase,” opens a book, and reads two or three lines. Then “his eyes begin to draw straws, ” and spittle drops upon the book. This is his routine of every night. Though I am a cat, I often think that the lot of a teacher is a very easy one, and that it would be well for every creature that is born a man, to enter upon the profession. For, if one who thus dozes away his time, passes as teacher, it cannot be altogether impossible for a cat to be one. Yet, in the opinion of my master, nothing seems harder than to teach. In fact, he makes a business of complaining of his work whenever a friend calls.
At the time when I was first received into this house, I was far from being a pet of any member of the family, save the master. Go where I would, I was kept at arm’s length. How badly I have been slighted is known by the fact that to this day they have not even named me. In this sorry plight, I had no choice but to keep as close as possible to the master who had given me permission to stay. I made it a rule to get on his lap when I saw him reading a paper in the morning, and to crawl upon his back when he was taking a siesta. This was not exactly because I liked him, but because I could not help it, there being no one else who cared for me. After many experiences, however, I have come to choose lying on a rice-tub in the morning, on a Kotatsu at night, and in the daytime, when the day is fine, on the veranda. But the most comfortable bed I ever have is when I creep in and sleep with the children in their bed. There are two girls in the household, the one aged five, and the other, three. They sleep in the same bed at night made in one of the rooms. I usually find room between, and manage somehow or other to force my way in. But if by ill chance one of the kids awake, I am certain to get into a scrape. They— the younger is especially churlish,—will cry out no matter how late it is, “The cat is here! The cat is here!” Then my master, who is nervous through indigestion, is sure to open his eyes and come flying from the next room. In fact, the other night I received a severe blow on the back from a measuring-stick he had in his hand.
Since coming to live with human beings, the more I observe them, the more I am led to conclude that they are very selfish. But of all the human creatures with whom I have come into contact, there are none so selfish as the children into whose bed I now and again creep. They often amuse themselves by holding me by the tail, covering my head with a bag, throwing me about, or thrusting me into the oven. And if I dare make the slightest resistance, the whole household runs after me to punish me. The other day when I sharpened my claws a little on a padded mat, the mistress got so angry that she has rarely let me into the living-rooms since. And they do not “care a straw for me” even if they see me shivering with the cold on the kitchen floor.
Mrs. White, my opposite neighbor, whom I hold in high esteem, also gives expression to the same sentiment whenever I meet her, saying that there hardly exists any creature less capable of compassion than man. Sometime ago, she gave birth to four lovely kittens. What has become of them? Three days later they were seized by the fiendish student of her house, and cast away, all of them, into a pond behind the house. Mrs. White, with tears in her eyes, told me this sad fact; and added that unless we wage war against the human race, and succeed in destroying it to the last man, we, cats, can never make sweet peaceful homes to safeguard true domestic affection,—an opinion full of sense and truth.
Again, Miss Mikè, my next door neighbor, is very indignant that man has not a perfect conception of ownership. It is, among our cat society, an established usage that the first discoverer of any food, whether it be a head of dried sardine or a slice of mullet, is entitled to eat it. In case anyone should defy this time honored custom, we may go so far as to wrench our prize away from him by force. But man seemingly fails to take in this idea. As it is, he always robs us of the dainties we have found. Using his force, he remorselessly snatches from us that to which we lay just claim. Mrs. White lives in a soldier’s household, and Miss Mikè in a barrister’s. But living with an easy-going teacher, I hold rather an optimistic view with regard to such matters. I am satisfied if I can only manage to procure my daily food. Mighty as man is, he will not always be “lord of creation.” In the meanwhile, let us patiently wait for the day when we shall have it all our own way.
Talking of selfishness reminds me of my master who went astray through this very weakness. He has no special attainment to recommend him above any other person. But he wishes to try his hand at everything. Now he makes a kind of verse called “Haiku,” which he contributes to the Hototogisu (magazine); again, he writes another kind of poem known as “Shintaishi,” and puts it in the Myojo. He sometimes writes an English composition full of blunders. Then he is taken up with archery; and then he learns to sing an operatic song named “Utai.” Then his whim is to scrape noisily on a fiddle. But in any of these things, I am sorry to say, he never does well. Nevertheless, he stubbornly sticks to each of them at the start, though suffering from indigestion. He is nicknamed. “Professor Privy” by the neighbors, for he often sings “Utai” in a backhouse. Still he keeps to repeat unconcernedly, “Of the Taira clan I am, known by the name of Munemori.” Here he begins ‘Munemori,’ say the neighbors, bursting out laughing.
I do not know what put it into his head; but one day—it was on the day he usually receives his salary—after I had been with him a month, my master came home in great haste with a big parcel in his hand. I wondered what he had bought; but I soon found that they were a box of pigments for water coloring, some brushes, and some sheets of paper called “Watman’s.” It seemed his intention to give up “Utai” and “Haiku” from that day for painting. I was right. For some time he was daily seen in his study engrossed in using his brushes, entirely forgetting to take his customary nap. But the pictures he worked out were such that no one could tell what they represented. The painter himself seemed to think he was not up to the mark; for, one day when one of his friends who is studying —esthetics, if I remember rightly, called on him, I heard the following conversation.
“It’s really very hard to be a good artist,” confessed my master. “When we see the productions of others, we fancy they may be easily done. But we never realize the difficulties until we actually take up a brush ourselves.” And this was what he really thought.
“You can hardly expect to be perfect from the outset,” responded the guest, glancing at my master over his gold-rimmed glasses. Besides, it is of no use to shut yourself up and try to paint from mere imagination. Andrea del Sarto, an old Italian artist of note, once said:— ‘An artist should sketch nature itself. Stars twinkle in the sky. Dew spangles the earth with its watery pearls. Here, fowls of the air are floating at their ease; there, beasts of the field are roaming in peace. Here is a crow perched on a dead leafless branch, its black plumage contrasting with the yellow scales of the gold fish that swim leisurely in the pond below. In a word, nature is a big stretch of living pictures.’ What do you say,” added the esthete, “if you study painting at all, to take to sketching nature, as this great artist urges?”
“Did Andrea del Sarto give such a valuable suggestion? I have never heard of it before. He is quite right. Yes, every word he says is true.” My master was lost in admiration, while the other eyed him, as I thought, from the corner of his glasses with a sort of derisive smile.
The next day when I was comfortably napping as usual on the veranda, my master—strange to say — was found out of his study, busily occupied in some work behind my back. I chanced to awake; and wondering what he was doing, cast a side-long glance with my eyes partially opened, and perceived him intent upon imitating Andrea del Sarto. The sight was so amusing that I could hardly keep from laughing. As you know, the esthetician was making a hare of him, but he took it in earnest, with the result that he made me the first object of his sketching. I had slept sufficiently, and wanted to yawn very much, but I kept forbearing it with effort, for I felt sorry to disturb him by moving; he was working so earnestly. He had just completed my outlines, and was now coloring about the face.
Now, I confess that I, as a cat, am not handsome. And so I never presume that I am in any respect more attractive than any other cat, either as to my features, the form of my back, or the color of my hair. But however homely I may look, I could not for a moment believe I was like that strange animal outlined by my master. In the first place, the color of hair was different. My hair is, not unlike that of a cat of Persian birth, tinted with a yellowish-grey with jet-black spots. This at least is, I think, a self-evident fact. But the color he used was neither yellow, black, grey, nor brown. Nor was it a mixture of all these. I do not know how to express it, excepting to say that it was a sort of color. Added to this was the fact that the animal had no eyes. True, it was excusable to a certain extent since he sketched me while sleeping. But then even an indication of eyes should have been seen. As it was, nobody could tell whether it was a blind cat or a sleeping one. In the face of this gross daub, I secretly concluded that the would- be pupil of Andrea del Sarto would never make a good artist. But at the same time I could not but admire his zeal. I meant to oblige him, if possible, by remaining motionless; but unfortunately I could endure it no longer. I got up abruptly, stretched my paws fully, lengthened my neck low, and yawned heartily. Now that I once moved, it was of no use remaining still; my master’s plan was upset after all. So I began to creep off slowly towards the back door. “You blockhead!” my master cried behind me in a tone of voice mingled with anger and despair.
This abusive language is invariably used by him when he is angry with others. He does not know of any other way of calling names. Still it was unpardonable to insult me in this way, with no feeling of gratitude for the patience with which I had served as a model. However I would not have minded it, had he proved more obliging when I wished to sit on his back now and again. He has never willingly granted me any favor. And now he dared call me a blockhead for leaving the veranda. This was more than I could bear. The so- called human beings, one and all, conduct themselves with the most arrogant audacity, taking undue pride on their superior strength. There is no knowing how far they will carry on their arrogance, if some stronger creatures do not appear in the world to suppress them. Such an instance of selfishness, however, may be leniently regarded. I have been informed of a much more lamentable proof of human wickedness.
There is a small tea-garden at the back of my house, about ten tsubo in area. Though not wide, it is a nice clean place, and is comfortably lighted by the sun. It is my favorite resort when I cannot indulge in a nap at home on account of the deafening noise made by the children, or when I am not well. One mild autumn day, about two o’clock in the afternoon, after having had lunch and a comfortable sleep, I betook myself there for a stroll. Sniffing the roots of tea-plants, one after the other, I came as far as the hedge on the western side, where I found a big cat in a deep sleep on the withered chrysanthemums pressed down under his weight. He lay snoring loudly, measuring his length as if quite unconscious of my approach, or if conscious, as if pretending to take no notice of me. Think of anyone thus making himself at home in another man’s yard! I could not help admiring the stranger’s boldness. He was jet-black from head to foot. It was a little past noon, and the bright sun threw its transparent rays upon his glossy fur coat, making it shine as if emitting some invisible flame. His physical constitution, too, was so splendid that we might offer him the title of King of Cats. I may safely say that he was twice as large as I. I stood like a statue gazing at this noble creature, lost in mingled feelings of admiration and curiosity.
Just then a gentle puff of autumn wind lightly waved the branches of the kiri above the hedge, and sent two or three leaves fluttering down on a bunch of withered chrysanthemums. Black King flashed open his round eyes, which shone far more beautifully, as I remember to this day, than the so- called amber much valued by man. Without in the least moving his body, he rested a fiery glare upon me, and demanded: “What the deuce are you?”
I thought his language was a little too rude for King; but then there was in his tone of voice something imperial which might cow even a dog. I was not a little frightened. Not to make any answer, however, was dangerous, I thought. “I am a cat; but I have no name yet,” I replied in a cold tone, assuming an air as calm as possible. But I confess that my heart throbbed harder than usual.
“Cat? Hang it! Where are you vegitating?” said he, curling up his lip as proud as Lucifer.
“I live in this teacher’s house.”
“I am not a bit surprised to hear it. No wonder you are as thin as a wafer!” bragged Black King, with looks befitting a King.
Conjecturing from his manner of speaking, I could not but infer that he was anything but a well-bred cat. But at the same time it must be allowed, considering he was so fat and plump, that he was well fed, in other words, he “lived in clover.”
“And who on earth are you?” I inquired,
prompted by curiosity.
“I am Black of the rikisha man’s house,” was the proud answer.
Now, Black of the jinrikisha man’s house is notorious in the neighborhood for the wild unruly manner with which he carries himself. “Like master, like man.” He is only very strong, with no education at all. For this reason, few cats go into his society, all agreeing to keep him at a respectful distance. As is imagined, his name inspired in me some fear on one hand; but also roused contempt on the other. I wanted to test first of all how little he knew, and so carried on a conversation thus:—
“It goes without saying that the latter is stronger. Look at your master. He is mere skin and bone.”
“Like your master you look very strong. I presume you feed on good food.”
Pshaw! For my part, I believe I shall never be in want of food wherever I may go. It would be well for you to turn away from your idle rambling round the tea-garden, and follow at my heels a little. And then you’ll grow marvelously fat ere a month passes away.”
“Thanks! I’ll do so by and by. By the way the teacher lives, I think, in a larger house than the rikisha man.”
“Bah! Simpleton you are to think a big house brings a full stomach!”
He appeared to be very much offended; for he rose up and went away rudely, convulsively moving his ears which bore some resemblance to a piece of bamboo obliquely chipped.
It was in this way that I became acquainted with Black of the jinrikisha man’s house.
I have often fallen in with him since then. And every time I meet with him, he talks big after a fashion becoming his social position. The case of human scandal, which I referred to before, was in fact related to me by Black.
One day Black and I were lying as usual in the sunny tea-garden desultorily talking. After going over his habitual boasting as if it always sounded novel, he popped a question:—
“How many rats have you caught?” Now I believe that in the development of intellectual powers I have quite the upper-hand of him: in point of strength and courage, however, I must admit that he is more than my match. In the face of this question, therefore, I could not but feel very small. But a fact is a fact; it cannot be lied.
“I have always had a great desire to catch them,” I confessed, “but I have not yet realized my wish.”
At this Black laughed a hearty laugh, quivering the long whiskers sticking out from the sides of his mouth. As is ordinary with boasters, he has some apartments to let. If I only pretend to listen to his self-commendation by purring as if in admiration, he is an easy customer to deal with. I shrewdly learned this way of handling him almost as soon as I got acquainted with him.
Under the circumstance, therefore, I thought it unwise to attempt an explanation and perhaps make matters worse. Far better to let him mount his high horse again and thus to give him the slip. Thus determined, I said in a gentle subdued tone of voice:—
“You have lived long in the world, and I have no doubt you have caught a lot of the animals.”
This had the desired effect; for he swallowed the bait easily.
“Not very many. Between thirty and forty, if I remember rightly,” he answered pleased as Punch. “I can at any time take solely upon myself to catch one or two hundred rats,” he went on, “but the most cunning wretch is a weasel, as I once found by experience.”
“Oh, indeed!” I chimed in.
“It was one day last year,” continued my friend, snapping his big eyes, “when we house-cleaned, that a big weasel jumped out helter-skelter from under the floor taken by surprise by my master who crept under with a bag of lime.”
“Hum!” I inserted, feigning amazement.
“You may take a weasel for a big animal; but in reality he is only slightly larger than a rat. ‘I’ll catch him,’ thought I, and gave chase, succeeding at last in driving him into a drain.”
Hurrah for your success!” I cried ostentatiously in applause.
“But listen! When I was about to have him in my power, he emitted, by way of final defense, a very disagreeable gas. How offensively it smelt may be known by the fact that I, to this day, feel sick whenever I catch sight of the animal.”
Here he raised one of his paws and rubbed the tip of his nose two or three times as though he smelt the dreadful odor. I felt a little sorry for him, and thought of encouraging him a bit.
“But so far as rats are concerned, I presume that they are undone when once under your fatal glance. No doubt you are much of a ratter and feast luxuriously on them. That accounts for your stout muscles and glossy coat; doesn’t it?” The question which was intended to please him, strangely brought about a contrary issue.
“The thought of it makes me tired,” he said, with a heavy sigh of dejection. Strive as I may to catch rats …… There hardly lives in the whole world a more shameless brute than man. He seizes upon the rats we catch, and takes them to a police-box. Not knowing who has caught them, policemen give five sen per head to anyone who brings them. The master of my house, for instance, has already pocketed one yen and fifty sen at my expense. And yet he gives me nothing good to eat. I declare that man, in plain terms, a wolf in sheep’s clothing.” Uneducated as he was, he seemed to have sense enough to see through such a question. His hair stood erect, and he was evidently flushed with anger against human injustice. Having become a little fearful, I managed artfully to slip away from him, and got home.
From that time I made up my mind never to catch a rat. Nor have I stooped to become a follower of Black in order to hunt after nice food other than rats. I content myself with having a sleep in a snug corner rather than supping on a rich meal. Even a cat, if he lives with a teacher, seems to take after his disposition. If I do not take care of myself, I shall probably become a dyspeptic myself. Talking of a teacher, my master seemed to see that he would never make a good painter; for on the first of December he recorded in his diary as follows:—
“Made acquaintance with A… at to-day’s meeting. They say he was once dissipated; could see that plainly by his easy manners. This sort of man is generally liked by the opposite sex. May be, he was tempted to sow his wild oats, simply because he was invited to sow them. His wife is said to be a geisha: what a Bohemian! Most of those who attack sensualists are those who would like to be in the same place themselves. And of a class of men acknowledging themselves as such, few have the true epicurean taste. They plunge into dissipation, without the least idea of deriving any benefit out of it. I wager they will never come off well, just as I shall not in water-coloring. Notwithstanding this they take delight in assuming the petty airs of knowing ones. If the mere practice of drinking at a restaurant or haunting machi-ai could make a beau, there is no reason why I could not be a good water-colorist. Such a dauber as I had better not daub at all. For the same reason, it is far better to be a greenhorn than a stupid dude.”
I cannot easily agree with this opinion of his. As to his envious reference to another man’s having a geisha as wife, it was a great shame for a teacher to give utterance to such an idea. I admit, however, that his critical judgment of his own ability for water-coloring was quite right. But with this self-knowledge, he is still not free from vanity. Two days after, on the fourth of December, he made the following entry in his diary:—
“Dreamed last night that somebody had hung on the wall, in a fine frame, one of my pictures, which I had laid aside as a poor piece of work. Thus set up in a frame, it seemed suddenly transformed, much to my delight, to a beautiful picture. I kept looking at it with admiration until the dawn of day, when I awoke to find in it the former daub as clearly as the rising sun which fell upon it.”
He seems to carry his water colours on his back even into the realm of his dreams. As things stand, it is not possible for him to form an idea as to what an arbiter elegantiarum is, not to say anything of becoming an artist.
The day after he had that dream of water-coloring, the esthetician with gold-rimmed glasses on who had not come for a long time, turned in to see my master.
“How are you getting on with your water-coloring?” were the first words the visitor uttered on being seated.
“Following your counsel, I am devoting my self to sketching,” replied my master with a calm air. “By the practice of sketching, as you rightly remarked, we come to take in the various forms of objects which otherwise escape our attention, as well as the delicate shades of colors. The present progress in painting in Western lands has undoubtedly much to do with the unfailing application with which the artists have held on to sketching for ages. And Andrea del Sarto among the rest claims our special attention.” Not breathing a word of what he had noted in his diary, my master again sang praises to Andrea del Sarto.
“To be frank, I spoke it at random,” laughed the esthetician, scratching his head.
“What do you mean?” returned my master who was still not aware of his having been made game of.
“Why, I mean no other than that Andrea del Sarto affair you admire so much. It was brewed somewhere in the dim region of my imagination; nothing more. And I never thought that you would take it in sober-earnestness. Ha! ha! ha!” confessed the visitor with a self-flattering manner. I overheard this dialogue on the veranda, and could not but wonder what entry would be made in the poor teacher’s diary that day. This esthetician makes it his sole enjoyment to play tricks upon other people by means of such make-believes. As if quite unconcerned that his Andrea del Sarto had touched a chord of my master’s heart, the trickster continued triumphantly:—
“It is amusing to think that my facetious fancy is tickled by the credulity with which people receive my occasional jokes. The other day I told a certain student in joke that Nicholas Nicholbey suggested to Gibbon the idea of giving up his plan of writing in French one of his greatest works, “The French Revolution,” and that was why it came out in English. He was a man of remarkable memory; and it was funny to hear him seriously repeat in his speech at a meeting of Japanese Literary Society exactly what I had told him. All those present numbering some one hundred, in turn, listened to him in good earnest. I have a still more amusing story. Sometime ago, while in company with a certain man-of-letters, our conversation turned to Theophano, an historical romance by Frederic Harrison. I declared it a model historical novel, remarking that the chapters leading to the death of the heroine are especially thrilling. Then a man sitting in front of me, who never says “I don’t know” in any matter, chimed in with ‘Yes, yes, the passages you refer to are capital compositions.’ I understood by this remark that he, like myself, had not read the romance.”
My master, who is nervous through dyspepsia, opened his eyes in amazement, and questioned: “And what would you do after making such a statement, supposing the man had actually perused that novel?”
By this question it seemed that he thought there is no objection to deceiving other people, the only difficulty being the danger of being caught in his own trick.
“Why, I should have said then that I took it for another book, or some such things,” said Mr. Meitei, cackling. This esthetician, though wearing gold-rimmed glasses, bears some resemblance in his temperament to Kurumaya’s Black.
My master silently smoked Hinodiè in whiffs, with an expression of disapproval. The visitor eyed him as much as to say that it was this very want of tact that made my master a failure as an artist, and said: “But joking aside, it is really very hard to paint well. Leonardo da Vinci is said to have once advised his pupils to sketch the stains on the walls of a cathedral. His words also hold good even to a rain-stained wall of a back-house; for from close observation of such stains one is apt to derive excellent specimens of pictorial designs. Try such a sketch with proper care, and you are sure to get a good piece of work.”
“I see you are playing another trick on me.” “No, you may rely upon me this time. You see this is so suggestive and is just what Vinci would say.” “Yes, it is certainly suggestive,” said my master, half yielding. But he has not yet actually sketched in the privy.
Kurumaya’s Black has since become crippled. His glossy fur has begun to fade and grow thin. And his eyes, once brighter than amber, as I said before, have lost their brilliancy and seem very sore. But above all, what attracted my attention most was the decline of his spirits and physical constitution. When I saw him last in the garden and enquired after his health, he said: “I have never had such hard lessons as those from a weasel and a fishmonger’s tem-bimbo. (pole used for carrying burdens on the shoulder)
The leaves of the maples which spread betwixt the Akamatsu (red pine) a rich drapery of crimson hue, have faded away like a dream. Camellias have ceased to shower their red and white petals near the wash-stand outside the tea-room. The winter sun declines earlier on the south-facing veranda. We have scarcely a day which is not windy. And I feel as if the hours of my nap have been shortened. My master goes to school every day. Upon his return he confines himself to his study. When his friends come, he complains of the lot of a teacher. He rarely sits of late for water coloring. He has ceased to take Taka-Diastase, saying it does him little good. Much to their credit, the kids regularly go to a kinder-garten. When they come back, they sing nursery rhymes, play temari (small ball for children), and now and then hang me by the tail.
Not feeding on rich food, I have not grown fat in particular. But I am living in comparatively good health—for which I am thankful, not sharing the fate of Black. I never catch any rats. I dislike the maid-servant as much as ever. I am not named yet. But there is no end to one’s desires, so I mean to live and die a nameless cat in this teacher’s house.
なんという嬉しい驚き 本当にありがとうございます。
“吾輩は猫である.”
(What a pleasant surprise! I really appreciate your sharing
“吾輩は猫である.” )
Thank you! We also have it as a sleep story (to fall asleep while listening): https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oWtdEyVKuyU
Love the mouse over furigana feature. Brilliant!
Thank you! I do too. I’m better at ignoring furigana (unless I really need it) now, but in the past, my eyes went right to it. Easy isn’t always best.