I Am a Cat

by Sōseki Natsume

  “I’ve only this minute arrived. With your servant’s kind assistance I’ve just been having a most splendid shower in the bathroom. As a result I now feel greatly refreshed. Hot, though, isn’t it?”

  “Very hot. These last few days one’s been perspiring even when sitting still. . . But you look as well as ever.” Mrs. Sneaze has not yet wiped the sweat-drop from her nose.

  “Thank you, yes I am. Our usual spells of heat hardly affect me at all, but this recent weather has been something special. One can’t help feeling sluggish.”

  “How very true. I’ve never before felt need of a nap but in this weather, being so very hot. . .”

  “You had a nap? That’s good. If one could only sleep during the daytime and then still sleep at night. . . why, nothing could be more wonderful.” As always, he rattles along as the mood of the moment takes him. He seems, however, this time faintly dissatisfied with what’s popped out of his mouth, for he hurries to add, “Take me, for example.

  By nature I need no sleep. Consequently, when I see a man like Sneaze who is invariably sleeping whenever I call, I feet distinctly envious. Well, I expect such heat is pretty rough on a dyspeptic. On days like this even a healthy person feels too tired to balance his head on his shoulders.

  However, since one’s head is fixed tight, one can’t just wrench it off.”

  Rather unusually,Waverhouse seems uncertain what to do with his head.

  “Now you, Mrs. Sneaze, with all that hair on your head, don’t you find it hard even to sit up? The weight of your chignon alone must leave you aching to lie down.”

  Mrs. Sneaze, thinking that Waverhouse is referring again to her nap by drawing attention to her disordered hair, giggles with embarrassment.

  Touching her hand to her hair, she mumbles “How unkind you are!”

  Waverhouse, totally unconscious of her reaction, goes off at a tangent. “D’you know,” he says, “yesterday I tried to fry an egg on the roof.”

  “How’s that?”

  “The roof tiles were so marvelously baking-hot that I thought it a pity not to make practical use of them. So I buttered a tile and broke an egg onto it.”

  “Gracious me!”

  “But the sun, you know, let me down. Even though I waited for ages, the egg was barely half-done. So I went downstairs to read the newspapers. Then a friend dropped in, and somehow I forgot about the egg. It was only this morning that I suddenly remembered and, thinking it must be done by now, went up to took at it.”

  “How was it?”

  “Far from being ready to eat, it had gone completely runny. In fact, it had run away, all down the side of the house.”

  “Oh dear.” Mrs. Sneaze frowned to show she was impressed.

  “But isn’t it strange that all through the hot season the weather was so cool and then it should turn so hot now.”

  “Yes, indeed. Right up until recently we’ve been shivering in our summer clothes and then, quite suddenly, the day before yesterday, this awful heat began.”

  “Crabs walk sideways but this year’s weather walks backward. Maybe it’s trying to teach us the truth of that Chinese saying that sometimes it is reasonable to act contrary to reason.”

  “Come again,” says Mrs. Sneaze who’s not much up on Chinese proverbs.

  “It was nothing. The fact is that the way this weather is retrogressing is really just like Hercules’ bull.” Carried away on the tide of his crankiness, Waverhouse starts making ever more odd remarks. Inevitably, my master’s wife, marooned in ignorance, is left behind as Waverhouse drifts off beyond the horizons of her comprehension. However, having so recently burnt her fingers over that bit of unreasonable Chinese reason, she was not out looking for a further scorching. So, “Oh,” she says, and sits silent. Which doesn’t, of course, suit Waverhouse. He hasn’t gone to the trouble of dragging in Hercules’ bull not to be asked about it.

  “Mrs. Sneaze,” he says, driven to the direct question, “do you know about ‘Hercules’ bull’?”

  “No,” she says, “I don’t.”

  “Ah, well if you don’t, shall I tell you about it?”

  Since she can hardly ask him to shut up, “Please do,” she answers.

  “One day in ancient times Hercules was leading a bull along.”

  “This Hercules, was he some sort of cowherd?”

  “Oh no, not a cowherd. Indeed he was neither a cowherd nor yet the owner of a chain of butcher-shops. In those far days there were, in fact, no butcher-shops in Greece.”

  “Ah! So it’s a Greek story? You should’ve told me so at the start. . . ”

  At least Mrs. Sneaze has shown that she knows that Greece is the name of a country.

  “But I mentioned Hercules, didn’t I?”

  “Is Hercules another name for Greece?”

  “Well, Hercules was a Greek hero.”

  “No wonder I didn’t know his name! Well, what did he do?”

  “Like you, dear lady, he felt sleepy. And in fact he fell asleep. . . ”

  “Really! Mr. Waverhouse!”

  “And while he slept, along came Vulcan’s son.”

  “Now who’s this Vulcan fellow?”

  “Vulcan was a blacksmith, and his son stole Hercules’ bull, but in a rather special way. Can you guess what he did? He dragged the bull off by its tail. Well, when Hercules woke up he began searching for his bull and bellowing, ‘Bull, where are you?’ But he couldn’t find it and he couldn’t track it down because, you see, the beast had been hauled off backward so there weren’t any hoofmarks pointing to where it had gone. Pretty smart, don’t you agree? For a blacksmith’s son?” Dragged off track by his own tale, Waverhouse has already forgotten that he had been discussing the unseasonable heat.

  “By the way,” he rattled on, “what’s your husband doing? Taking his usual nap? When such noddings-off are mentioned in Chinese poetry they sound refined, even romantic, but when, as in your husband’s case, they happen day in, day out, the whole concept becomes vulgarized. He has reduced an eternal elegance of life to a daily form of fragmentary death. Forgive my asking you,” he brings his speech to a sudden conclusion, “but please do go and wake him up.”

  Mrs. Sneaze seems to agree with the Waverhouse view of naps as a form of piecemeal perishing for, as she gets to her feet, she says, “Indeed he’s pretty far gone. Of course it’s bad for his health. Especially right on top of his lunch.”

  “Talking of lunch, the fact is I’ve not had mine yet.” Waverhouse drops broad hints composedly, magnanimously, as though they were pearls of wisdom.

  “Oh, I am sorry. I never thought of it. It’s lunchtime, of course. . .

  Well, would you perhaps like some rice, pickles, seaweed, things like that, and a little hot tea?”

  “No thanks. I can manage without them.”

  “Well, as we hadn’t realized you would be honoring us today, we’ve nothing special we can offer you.” Not unnaturally, Mrs. Sneaze responds with an edge of sarcasm, which is all quite wasted on Waverhouse.

  “No and indeed no,” he imperturbably replies, “neither with hot tea nor with heated water. On my way here, I ordered a lunch to be sent to your house and that’s what I’m going to eat.” In his most matter-of-fact manner Waverhouse states his quite outrageous actions.

  Mrs. Sneaze said, “Oh!” But in that one gasped sound three separate “oh’s” were mingled: her “oh” of blank surprise, her “oh” of piqued annoyance, and her “oh” of gratified relief. At which moment my master comes tottering in from the study. He had just begun to doze off into sleep when it became so unusually noisy that he was hauled back into consciousness, like something being scraped against its natural grain.

  “You’re a rowdy fellow,” he grumbles sourly through his yawns. “Always the same. Just when I was getting off to sleep, feeling so pleasant and relaxed. . .”

  “Aha! So you’re awake! I’m extremely sorry to have disturbed your heavenly repose, but missing it just once in a while may even do you good
. Please come and be seated.”Waverhouse makes himself an agreeable host to my master in my master’s house. My master sits down without a word, and, taking a cigarette from a box of wooden crazy-work, begins to puff at it. Then, happening to notice the hat which Waverhouse had tossed away into a corner, he observes, “I see you’ve bought a hat.”

  “What d’you think of it?” Waverhouse fetches it and holds it proudly out for the Sneazes to inspect.

  “Oh, how pretty. It’s very closely woven. And so soft.” Mrs. Sneaze strokes it almost greedily.

  “This hat, dear lady, is a handy hat. And as obedient as a man could wish. Look.” He clenched his hand into a knobbly fist and drove it sharply into the side of his precious panama. A fist-shaped dent remained, but before Mrs. Sneaze could finish her gasp of surprise, Waverhouse whipped his hand inside the hat, gave it a sharpish shove, and the hat popped back into shape. He then grasped the hat by opposite sides of its brim and squashed it flat as dough beneath a rolling pin. Next he rolled it up, as one might roll a light straw mat. Finally, saying, “Didn’t I say it was handy,” be tucked it away into the breast-fold of his kimono.

  “How extraordinary!” Mrs. Sneaze marvels as if she were watching that master magician Kitensai Shoichi performing one of his most dazzling sleights of hand. Waverhouse himself appears to be bitten by the spirit of his own act for, producing from his left-hand sleeve the tube of hat he’d thrust into the breast of his kimono, he announces, “Not a scratch upon it.” He then bats the hat back into its original shape and, sticking his forefinger into its crown, spins it around like a conjuror’s plate. I thought the act was over, but Waverhouse proceeded neatly to flip his whirling headgear over his head and onto the floor behind him, where, as the climax of his performance, he sat down squarely on it with a heavy solid whump.

  “You’re sure it’s all right?” Even my master looks somewhat concerned. Mrs. Sneaze, genuinely anxious, squeaks, “Please, you’d better stop. It would be terrible to spoil so fine a hat.”

  Only its owner wants to keep going. “But it can’t be spoiled. That’s the wonder of it.” He heaves the crumpled object out from under his bottom and jams it on his head. It sprang back into shape.

  “Indeed it’s a very strong hat. Isn’t it extraordinary? Quite amazing.”

  Mrs. Sneaze is more and more impressed.

  “Oh, there’s nothing extraordinary about it. It’s just that kind of hat,” says Waverhouse smirking out from under its brim.

  A moment later Mrs. Sneaze turns to her husband. “I think you, too, had better buy a hat like that.”

  “But he’s already got a splendid boater.”

  “Just the other day the children trampled on it and it’s all squashed out of shape.” Mrs. Sneaze persists.

  “Oh dear. That was a pity.”

  “That’s why I think he should buy a hat like yours, strong and splendiferous.” She has no idea what panama hats can cost, so nothing moderates the urgency of her proddings. “Really, my dear, you must get one, just like this. . . ”

  At this point Waverhouse produces from his right sleeve a pair of scissors in a scarlet sheath. “Mrs. Sneaze,” he says, “forget the hat for a moment and take a look at these scissors. They, too, are fantastically handy. You can use them in fourteen different ways.” If it hadn’t been for those scissors my master would have succumbed to wifely pressure in the matter of the hat. He was extremely lucky that the inborn female sense of curiosity diverted his wife’s attention. It crossed my mind that Waverhouse had acted of intent, helpfully and tactfully, but after careful consideration I’ve concluded that it was pure good luck that saved my master from painful outlay on a panama hat.

  No sooner has Mrs. Sneaze responded with a, “What are the fourteen ways?” than Waverhouse is off again in triumphantly full flow. “I shall explain each of them, so listen carefully. All right? You see here a crescent-shaped opening? One sticks one’s cigar in here to nip its lip-end before smoking. This gadget down here by the handle can cut through wire as though it were mere noodle. Now if you put the scissors flat down upon paper, there’s a ruler for you. Here, on the back-edge of this blade, there’s a scale engraved so the scissors can be used as a measure.

  Over here there’s a file for one’s fingernails. Right? Now then, if you push this blade-tip out, you can twist it around and around to drive screws. Thus, it serves as a hammer. And you can use this blade-tip to lever open with the greatest of case even the most carefully nailed lid.

  Furthermore, the end of this other blade, being ground to so fine a point, makes an excellent gimlet. With this thing you can scrape out any mistakes in your writing. And finally, if you take the whole thing to pieces, you get a perfectly good knife. Now, Mrs. Sneaze, there’s actually one more especially interesting feature. Here in the handle there’s a tiny ball about the size of a fly. You see it? Well, take a peep right into it.”

  “No. I’d rather not. I’m sure you’re going to make fun of me again.”

  “I’m grieved that you should have so little confidence in me. But, just this once, take me at my word and have a little look. No? Oh, please, just one quick squint.” He handed her the scissors.

  Mrs. Sneaze takes them very gingerly and, setting her eyeball close to the magic spot, does her best to see into it.

  “Well?”

  “Nothing. It’s all black.”

  “All black? That won’t do. Turn a little toward the paper-window and look against the light. Don’t tilt the scissors like that. Right, that’s it.

  Now you can see, can’t you?”

  “Oh, my! It’s a photograph, isn’t it? How can a tiny photograph be fixed in here?”

  “That’s what’s so remarkable.” Mrs. Sneaze and Waverhouse are now absorbed in their conversation. My master, silent now for some time but intrigued by the idea of the photograph, seems suddenly possessed by an urge to see it. He asks his wife to let him but she, her eye still glued to the scissors, just babbles on. “How very lovely. What a beautiful study of the nude.” She won’t be parted from the scissors.

  “Come on, let me see it.”

  “You wait. What lovely tresses, all the way down to her hips. How movingly her face is lifted. Rather a tall girl, I’d say, but indeed a beauty!”

  “Damn it, let me see.” My master, now distinctly marked, flares up at his wife.

  “There you are then. Gawp away to your heart’s content.” As she was handing the scissors over, the servant trundles in from the kitchen with an announcement that Waverhouse’s meal has been delivered. Indeed she carries with her two lidded bamboo plates loaded with cold buckwheat noodles.

  “Aha,” says Waverhouse, “so here, Mrs. Sneaze, is the lunch I bought myself. With your permission, I propose to eat it now.” He bows respectfully. As he seems to have spoken half in earnest and half in jest, Mrs.

  Sneaze is at a loss how best to answer, so she just says lightly, “Please do,” and settles back to watch.

  At long last my master drags his eyes away from the photograph and remarks, “In weather as hot as this, noodles are bad for one’s health.”

  “No danger. What one likes seldom upsets one. In fact I’ve heard,” says Waverhouse, lifting one of the lids, “that a little of what you fancy does you good.” He appears satisfied by what he’s seen on the plate for he goes straight on to observe, “In my opinion noodles that have been left to stand are, like heavily bearded men, never to be relied upon.” He adds green horseradish to his dish of soy sauce and stirs away like mad.

  “Steady on,” says my master in genuinely anxious tones, “if you put in that much spice it’ll be too hot to eat.”

  “Noodles must be eaten with soy sauce and green horse-radish. I bet you don’t even like noodles.”

  “I do indeed. The normal kind.”

  “That’s the stuff for pack-horse drivers. A man insensitive to cold buckwheat noodles spiced like this is a man to be devoutly pitied.” So saying, Waverhouse digs his cedar-wood chopsticks deep
into the mass of noodles, scoops up a hefty helping and lifts it some two inches. “Did you know, Mrs. Sneaze, that there are several styles for eating noodles?

  Raw beginners always use too much sauce and then they munch this delicacy like so many cattle chewing the cud. That way, the exquisite savor of the noodles is inevitably lost. The correct procedure is to scoop them up like this. . . ” Waverhouse raises his chopsticks above the bamboo plate until a foot-long curtain of noodles dangles in the air. He looks down at the plate to check that he’s lifted his lading clear of the plate but finds a dozen or so of the tail-ends still lying coiled within it.

  “What very long noodles! Look, Mrs. Sneaze, aren’t they the longest that you ever saw?” Waverhouse demands that his audience should participate, if only by interjections.

  “Indeed, they are lengthy!” she answers, as if impressed by his dissertation.

  “Now, you dip just one-third of these long strands in the sauce, then swallow them in a single gulp. You mustn’t chew them. Mastication destroys their unique flavor. The whole point of noodles is in the way they slither down one’s throat.” He thereupon raises his chopsticks to a dramatic height and the ends of the longest strands at last swing clear of the plate. Then, as he starts to lower his arm again, the tail-ends of the noodles slowly start submerging into the sauce dish held in his left hand.

  Which, in accordance with Archimedes’ Law, causes the sauce slowly to rise in the dish as its volume is displaced by noodles. However, since the dish was originally eight-tenths full of sauce, the level of the liquid reached its brim before Waverhouse could get even one-quarter, let alone the connoisseur’s one-third, of the length of his wriggling noodles into the sauce.

  The chopsticks appear paralyzed about five inches above the dish and so remain for an awkward pause while Waverhouse considers his dilemma. If he lowers the noodles one more fraction of an inch, the sauce must overflow, but if he does not lower them, he must fail to conform with the standards he has established for the proper style of stuffing oneself with noodles. No wonder he looks moithered and half-hesitates. Then, suddenly, jerking his head and neck forward and downward like a striking snake, he jabbed his mouth at the chopsticks,There was a slushy slurping sound, his throttle surged and receded once or twice and the noodles were all gone.