PublishedbyTuttlePublishing,animprintofPeriplusEditions(HK)Ltd.OriginallypublishedinthreevolumesbyTuttlePublishingin1972 (Vol. I), 1979 (Vol. II), and1986 (Vol. III).Volume Iwasoriginallypublished inJapanby theAsahiShimbunPublishingCompanyintheJapanQuarterly,Vol.XVII,No.4,andVol.XVIII,Nos.1and2.ChapterIofVolumeIIwasoriginallypublishedinJapanbytheAsahiShimbunPublishingCompanyintheJapanQuarterly,Vol.XII,No.4.

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Copyright©1972,1979,1986,2002(compilation)byAikoItoandGraemeWilsonAll rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic ormechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior writtenpermissionfromthepublisher.

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contentsIntroduction ivVolumeOne 1ChapterI 3ChapterII 18ChapterIII 70VolumeTwo 117ChapterI 119ChapterII 153ChapterIII 187ChapterIV 224VolumeThree 263ChapterI 265ChapterII 309ChapterIII 351ChapterIV 400

S

INTRODUCTION

ŌSEKINATSUMEisthepennameofKin’nosukeNatsume(1867-1916),theeighthandyoungest son of a family of minor town-gentry. The family’s hereditary occupation asward-chiefs in Tokyo under the Tokugawa shogunate disappeared with the MeijiRestoration of 1868, and thus they fell upon hard times, yet Sōseki received the

compulsory modern education, both primary and at middle school level, which had beenintroducedin1872.

In hismid-teens he switched to a private school for Chinese studies and, though upper-classtraditionregardedliteratureasnomorethanacivilizeddiversion,hebegantotoywiththeideaofadoptingitasaworkingprofession.However,extensivelyeducatedinboththeChineseand the Japanese literary traditions,Sōseki recognizedearly on the importanceofEnglish toanyseniorcareerunder thewesternizing influenceof the restored regimeand,specifically, tothe entry requirements of Tokyo Imperial University-then the only university in the capital.Hopingtobecomeanarchitect,heenteredthatuniversity’sDepartmentofEngineeringin1881,buthesoon transferred to theDepartmentofLiterature that sameyear. InSeptember1890,SōsekijoinedtheDepartmentofEnglishLiteratureasaloan-scholarshipstudentoftheMinistryofEducation.

The English department, founded in 1888, had produced only one previous graduate, astudentofthefirstyearwhobecameacustomsinspectorinShanghai.SōsekigraduatedinJuly1893andthenbrieflyenrolledasapostgraduatestudent.Heappliedunsuccessfullyforapostas a journalist with the English-language JapanMail in Yokohama and taught for a time atTokyoNormalCollege. ln 1895he suddenly leftTokyo tobecomeaprovincial teacher-first inShikoku(wherehisuniversityfriend,thehaikupoetMasaokaShiki,resided)andlater,in1896,atKumamoto inKyushu.There,byformalarrangement,hemarriedNakaneKyoko, theeldestdaughterof thechiefsecretaryof theHouseofPeers. In1900theMinistryofEducationsenthim on a miserable scholarship to London University. For two unhappy years in London, heseems to have done nothing but read an almost incredible number of books on everyconceivable subject and, at the same time, make himself an authority on eighteenth-centuryliterature.HisonlysocialcontactswiththeBritishappeartohavebeenaweeklyprivateEnglishlessonwithW J. Craig-subsequently the editor of theArden Shakespeare--and a single teapartygiveninDulwichbythewifeofamissionarywhomhehadmetontheshipbringinghimtoEngland. It is, therefore,perhapsnot surprising thatSōseki formedapooropinionofEnglishsociallifeandthatbackinjapanhewaswidelyrumoredtohavegonemad.

In1903hereturnedtoTokyoand,shortlythereafter,infulfillmentofthetermsofhisLondonscholarship, served four years as a lecturer inEnglish literature at Tokyo ImperialUniversity.During thisperiodhebeganwriting.Hehad formedvarioususeful literary friendshipswhilehewasastudentattheuniversity,and,thoughhisclosefriendShikihaddiedin1902,theeditorialboard of the influential literary magazineHototogisu (Cuckoo), which Shiki had founded, stillincludedmanymenwhowereSōseki’spersonalfriends.

Takahama Kyoshi--one of the editors of Hototogisu, but not a close friend of Sōseki-allegedlyaskedSoseki towritesomethingfor themagazine.Accordingly,during1904,Sōsekiproducedhisfirstshortstory,whichhecalledIAmaCat.Takahamareadit,toldSōsekithatitwasnogood,and,whenSōsekiasked foranexplanation,providedcomment inconsiderabledetail. Today it seems ludicrous that one of the three or four best novelists ever to write injapaneseshouldhavebeenglad to receiveguidance fromsucha relatively insignificant figureasTakahama. However, we must remember that, at that time, Takahama was a wellknown,well-established,andveryinfluentialeditor(amanwiththesensitivitytodivineSōseki’spromiseandthekindnesstogivehimguidance),whileSōsekiwasavirtuallyunknownyoungmanwhohadjustproducedhisfirst,andreallyratherodd,shortstory. Inanyevent,Sōsekiappearstohaveacceptedtheadvice(thoughhelaterstatedthathecouldnotrememberwhatthatadvicehad been) and rewrote the story. Takahama liked the second version and published it in theJanuary1905issueofHototogisu.

Sōsekihadnot intended towritemore than that single short story,which isnow the firstchapterofaverylongbook,butTakahamawassopleasedwithitsimmediatesuccessthathepersuadedSōsekitowritefurtherinstallments.ThesubsequenttenchaptersthatmakeupIAmaCatwere thussuccessivelypublished inHototogisu’s issues forFebruary,April, June, July,andOctober 1905 and for January,March, April, and August 1906. The seventh and eighthchaptersappeared together in the issue forJanuary1906.ThissomewhatcuriousaccountoftheoriginanddevelopmentofSōseki’sfamousnovelrestsprimarilyuponTakahama’stestimonyinhislaterbookSosekiandI,butthereisnoreasontodoubtthatitissubstantiallycorrect.Theactualbookof IAmaCatwas firstpublished in three-volume form, thevolumesappearing inOctober1905,November1906,andMay1907.Thefirstsingle-volumeeditionwaspublishedin1911.

Takahama’saccountofhow thisstorycame tobeanovelexplains theunevenness,evenjerkiness, of the early parts of the book. Indeed, though the first chapter is adequatelyarticulated into the totalwork, it isas clear from that chapter’sendingas fromSōseki’sownlater remarks- “When the first chapter appeared inHototogisu, it was my intention to stopthere”-thatheoriginallymeanttowritenomore.Thereare,moreover,oneortwominorpointsin that first chapter that an ungenerous critic might highlight as inconsistent with subsequentportions of the book. The second chapter, nearly the longest of them all, shows Sōseki stillfeeling hisway towards the right chapter length.Hedid not really hit his stride until the thirdchapter,whichfinallyestablishedthetone,length,andcharacteroftheremainingeight.

The circumstances of the book’s construction no doubt largely account for its ramblingstructure and discursive content; however, Sōseki must very quickly have realized that thetechniqueusedbyLaurenceSterne for theconstructionofTheLifeandOpinions ifTristramShandywouldveryneatlysolvehisownproblems.ThoughSōseki’stotalbookisheldtogetherby the continuing theme of a nameless eat’s observations on upper-middle-class JapanesesocietyoftheMeijiperiod,theessenceofthebookresidesinthehumorandthesardonictruthof thosevariousobservations,not inthedevelopmentof thestory.Theeat’seventualdrunkendeath in a water-butt comes without any particular reason or structural build-up, and one isforced to the conclusion that Sōseki simply drowned his hero because he had run out ofsufficientlyhumorousobservationstoofferonMeijisociety.Consequently,itispossibletotakealmostanysinglechapterofthebookasanisolatedshortstory.

It isalsoworth stressing theapparentoddityof choosing for themain character inone’s

first publishedwriting a stray kitten, and a stray kit tenworld-weary from themoment of itsbirth.However,muchofthecharmofIAmaCatresidesinitsdivertingpresentationofaeat’sviewofmankind.Thesatireisofmaningeneralbuttheassociatedcaseforthesuperiorityofcats,howeverentertaininglyandpersuasivelyput, isnot inexhaustible;so that theuniquecat-nessof theopeningchapterssimplycouldnotbemaintainedin itsoriginalandbeguilingpuritythroughout the further chapters demanded by a happily insulted public. Sōseki himself wasclearlyalivetotheseconsiderations,forasearlyastheopeningparagraphofthethirdchapterthe cat apologizes to readers for his growing resemblance to a human being and for hisconsequentnewtendencytocriticizehumanityasthoughhe,too,werehuman.Thusthesatirebeginning in Chapter 3 is less specifically feline. In yet later chapters the eat’s viewpointbecomes almost totally human, while the object of satire narrows from mankind in general(albeit as exemplified in Meiji, middle-class society) to a concentrated satirization of theparticularitiesofthatparticularsociety.By·acombinationofsheerliteraryskillandaseeminglyendless inventiveness, Sōseki contrived tomaintain the vitality of his book throughout elevenchapters and some quarter million words: but one understands why, eventually, he had nochoice but to drown his hero. It would, however, be unreasonable to denigrate the first-ratesatire of the later parts of I Am a Cat simply because they lack the full felinity, the quiteexceptional beguilement, of the earlier parts of the book. Moreover, one has only to readSōseki’sothercomicnovelBotchan(TheYoungMaster),of1906,withitsentirelyhumanstyleofhumansatire,torealizethat,howevermuchhumanityseepsintosoftenthelaterportionsofIAmaCat,eventheirmostuncatlikepassagescontainthatglint, thatclaw-flashundervelvet,whichstampthemultimatelyaluroid.Inaddition,choosingakittenforthemaincharacterhasatwo-fold meaning as Soseki was, in fact, himself a stray kitten. As soon as he was born,Sōseki’s parents hadput himout to nurse. In his first year hewasadoptedby theShiobarafamily. He only rejoined his own family when the Shiobaraswere divorced some eight yearslater.Andeventhenheonlylearnedthathisparentswerehisparentsfromthewhisperingsofservants.Sōsekilivedhislifeasdoallthosewhofeelthemselvesbornmiddle-aged.

While at the university Sōseki wrote several other books, notably Botchan (a satirereflecting his teaching experience at Shikoku), but he disliked university life and, rightly,consideredhimselfverypoorlypaid.Heaccordinglyresignedassoonashecould(1907)andbecame the literary editor of theAsahiShimbun. He continued in that journal’s employment,publishing several novels as serials in its pages, until his death in 1916 from complicationsarisingfromthestomachtroublesthatplaguedthelasttenyearsofhislife.

*

Sōseki Natsume is generally recognized in Japan as the best writer of prose to haveemergedduring the century since contactwas re-establishedwith theoutsideworld in 1868.Despitethelatenessofhisdevelopmentasanovelist(hewasonlyjustshortoffortywhenhisfirst book was published), Sōseki rapidly achieved, and has since maintained, widespreadrecognitionas thebestofmodernJapanesenovelists.His literary reputation reflectsnotonlythe variety, quality, andmodernity of his novels, but thehigh regard still paid to hisworksof

scholarlycriticism, tohisenchantingessays,and,especially, tohispoetry.Hishaiku, stronglyinfluencedbyhispersonalfriendMasaokaShiki,wereonceconsideredoutstandingbut,thoughtheycontinuetobe included inanthologiesofmodernhaiku, theirdiminutive formwasnot thenatural mode for the expression of his genius. His poems in English, poor imitations of thepoorest style of Edwardian poetry, are appalling. But his many excellent poems in Chinese,some written even in the month before his death, are the last (or, rather, the most recent)floweringofaformidabletraditionofsuchwritingbyJapanesepoetswhich,unbroken,extendsright back to theKaifūsō of 751. Sōseki’s deep scholarship, both in Chinese and in Englishliterature, eminently qualified him for that marrying of Eastern andWestern traditions, whichwas the declared objective of Meiji policy-makers. Unlike themajority of his contemporarieswho had learned their English inmission schools, Sōseki approachedWestern literaturewiththewarysensitivityofamandeeplyversedintheChinesetradition.

Sōsekiwas,ofcourse,alsowell-versedinJapaneseliterature.However,oddlyenoughforamanofgentlebirth,themainJapaneseinfluencesuponhiswritingarefoundintherakugo---comic recitationsbyprofessional storytellers-towhichhis childhoodcirclehadbeenaddicted.Therakugotechniquesareespeciallynoticeableinhismasterlyuseofdialogue.Itisalsoworthstressingthat, thoughSōseki’sChinesestudiesresulted inastyleasconciseasthe languagetraditionallyusedinthecompositionoftankaandhaiku,muchofthevitalityofhisprosewritingcomesfromhisskilledexploitationofcolloquialJapanesespeech(kogotai).

Sōseki’swriting representsacontinuation intomodern timesof thecity-culturewhich firstflowered in the late seventeenth centurywhen thewealth of the towns prospering under thePax Tokugawa provided the economic base for an urban and specifically non-aristocraticliterature. Sōseki’s writing contains an untraditional independence of thought and attitude-arationalist and (in thebest sense) liberal outlook-which is often contrastedwith the very rigidsamuraiattitudethatwasalsoprevalentduringSōseki’stime.

Sōseki’s longernovels reflect hisassiduousstudyof the constructionandmechanismsoftheEnglishnoveland,inparticular,hislikingfortheworksofLaurenceSterne,JonathanSwift,andJaneAusten.Heshared their sly, ironic turnofmind,and their influence’onhisworkwasmoredeepand lasting than thatofGeorgeMeredith,asso frequentlycitedbycontemporarycritics.

There is an understandable tendency for critics of any literature to emphasize thedependenceofawriteronhispredecessors,but the“gameof influences” isall toofrequentlyplayedwithallenthusiasmthatleadstoanunfairdisregardofthewriter’srealoriginality;’SofarasJapanisconcerned,therecanbenodoubtwhatsoeverthatSōseki’soriginalitywasamainfactor in his popular success-but he also has genuine claims to originality in world literature.World literature has, of course, a long tradition of animal-fables, animal myths, and majorgroupingsofstoriesaroundsuchfiguresasRenardtheFoxandevenBrerRabbit.ButSōseki’sdeviceofdealingwithahumanworldthroughanimaleyesappearstobeentirelyoriginal.

Sōseki’smodernity is evenmore strikingly illustrated by the fact that sixty years ago thecharacters in IAmaCat (notably “theaesthete”)wereall fullyengaged in thosecomicploysand counter-ploys of gamesmanship, lifemanship, and one upmanship that are now usuallyassociated with the comparatively recent work of Stephen Potter. The passages in the firstchapter of I Am a Cat about Gibbon’s History of the French Revolution and Harrison’sTheophanoarebothextremely fineexamplesofwhatPotterhascalled“rilking.”Similarly, thedescription of the visit to a restaurant in the second chapter is a particularly well-developed

exampleofPotter’scomictechniques.PerhapsthemostsignificantaspectofSōseki’sworkisthat,whiledeeplyconversantwith

WesternliteratureandwhilesharplyandpersistentlycriticalofJapanesesociety,heremainedunswamped(even,perhaps,unimpressed)byWesternenlightenment.ThroughouthiscareerheremainedessentiallyanduncompromisinglyJapanese;hisdeadlyseriousattitude is, typically,revealed in that comic, even coarse, account in Koto no Sorane (1905) of the protest byJapanesebadgersagainstcontemporaryJapaneseinfatuationwithroutinebadger-tricks(suchasthe“hypnoticmethod”)whosesolenoveltyisthattheirnameshavebeenexportedtoJapanby “badgers in the West.” Probably for this reason Sōseki’s writings have retained theirpopularityand,perhaps,evenextendedtheirinfluence.InapublicopinionsurveyconductedbytheAsahiShimbunamongstudentsandprofessorsat fouruniversitieswhichstillproduce thesocial and intellectual elite of Japan, Sōseki‘s Kokoro (The Heart of Things) of 1914 wassecond only to Dostoievski’s Crime and Punishment in the list of books which had mostinfluenced the thinking of the interviewees. Yukiguni (Snow Country) by Nobel Prize winnerKawabataYasunariwasseventeenth.

*

Sōseki‘s brilliant and extremely concise use of the Japanese languagemakes all hiswritingsdifficulttotranslate.Inthecaseofthisparticularbook,difficultyariseswiththeveryfirstwordofitstitle,WagahaiwaNekodeAru.TherebeingnoEnglishequivalentfortheJapanesewordWagahai, themainsignificanceofthattitle, thecomic incongruityofamerecat,amerestraymewling kitten, referring to itself in so lordly a manner, cannot be conveyed to the Englishreader.AnadditionaldifficultythatfacesanytranslatorofSōseki’sworkishisindividualliterarystyle: its reflection of his deep scholarship in Chinese, Japanese, and English literature, itsconsequent exploitationof a singularlywide rangeof referenceand its unique combinationofclassicalandcolloquiallanguage.Suchproblemsusuallyleadtranslatorstobegtheindulgenceoftheirreaders:butforgivethemnot,fortheyknowwhattheydo.

VOLUMEI

I

I

AMACAT.AsyetIhavenoname.I’venoideawhereIwasborn.AllIrememberisthatIwasmiaowinginadampishdarkplacewhen,forthefirsttime,Isawahumanbeing.Thishuman

being,Iheardafterwards,wasamemberofthemostferocioushumanspecies;ashosei,oneofthosestudentswho,inreturnforboardandlodging,performsmallchoresaboutthehouse.Ihear that, on occasion, this species catches, boils, and eats us. However as at that time Ilackedallknowledgeofsuchcreatures,Ididnotfeelparticularlyfrightened.Isimplyfeltmyselffloating in the air as I was lifted up lightly on his palm. When I accustomed myself to thatposition,Ilookedathisface.ThismusthavebeentheveryfirsttimethateverIseteyesonahumanbeing.The impressionofoddity,which I then received,still remains today.Firstofall,the face that shouldbedecoratedwithhair isasbaldasakettle.Since thatday Ihavemetmany a cat but never have I come across such deformity. The center of the face protrudesexcessively and sometimes, from the holes in that protuberance, smoke comes out in littlepuffs. Iwasoriginally somewhat troubledbysuchexhalations for theymademechoke,but Ilearntonlyrecentlythatitwasthesmokeofburnttobaccowhichhumansliketobreathe.

Fora littlewhile Isatcomfortably in thatcreature’spalm,but thingssoondevelopedatatremendousspeed.IcouldnottellwhethertheshoseiwasinmovementorwhetheritwasonlyI thatmoved;butanywayIbegantogrowquitegiddy, to feelsick.And justas Iwasthinkingthat the giddiness would kill me, I heard a thud and saw a million stars. Thus far I canrememberbut,howeverhardItry,Icannotrecollectanythingthereafter.

When I came to myself, the creature had gone. I had at one time had a basketful ofbrothers,butnownotonecouldbeseen.Evenmypreciousmotherhaddisappeared.MoreoverInowfoundmyselfinapainfullybrightplacemostunlikethatnookwhereonceI’dsheltered.Itwas in fact sobright that I couldhardly keepmyeyesopen.Sure that therewas somethingwrong, Ibegan tocrawlabout.Whichprovedpainful. Ihadbeensnatchedaway fromsofteststrawonlytobepitchedwithviolenceintoapricklyclumpofbamboograss.

After a struggle, Imanaged to scramble clear of the clump and emerged to find awidepondstretchingbeyondit. Isatat theedgeof thepondandwonderedwhattodo.Nohelpfulthoughtoccurred.Afterawhileitstruckmethat,ifIcried,perhapstheshoseimightcomebacktofetchme.Itriedsomefeeblemewing,butnoonecame.Soonalightwindblewacrossthepondanditbegantogrowdark.Ifeltextremelyhungry.Iwantedtocry,butIwastooweaktodoso.Therewasnothingtobedone.However,havingdecidedthat Isimplymustfindfood,Iturned,very,veryslowly, leftaround thepond. Itwasextremelypainfulgoing.Nevertheless, IperseveredandcrawledonsomehowuntilatlonglastIreachedaplacewheremynosepickedupsometraceofhumanpresence.Islippedintoapropertythroughagapinabrokenbamboofence, thinking that something might turn up once I got inside. It was sheer chance; if thebamboo fence had not been broken just at that point, I might have starved to death at theroadside. I realizenowhowtrue theadage is thatwhat is tobewillbe.To thisveryday thatgaphasservedasmyshortcuttotheneighbor’stortoiseshell.

Well,thoughIhadmanagedtocreepintotheproperty,Ihadnoideawhattodonext.Soonitgotreallydark.Iwashungry,itwascoldandrainbegantofall.Icouldnotaffordtoloseanymore time. I had no choice but to struggle toward a place which seemed, since brighter,warmer. Ididnotknow it then,but Iwas in factalready inside thehousewhere Inowhadachance to observe further specimens of humankind. The first one that ImetwasO-san, theservant-woman,oneofaspeciesyetmoresavage than theshosei.Nosoonerhadsheseenme thanshegrabbedmeby thescruffof theneckand flungmeoutof thehouse.Acceptingthat I had no hope, I lay stone-still, my eyes shut tight and trusting to Providence. But thehungerandthecoldweremorethanIcouldbear.SeizingamomentwhenO-sanhadrelaxedher watch, I crawled up once again to flop into the kitchen. I was soon flung out again. Icrawledupyetagain,onlytobeflungoutyetagain.Irememberthattheprocesswasseveraltimesrepeated.Eversincethattime,IhavebeenutterlydisgustedwiththisO-sanperson.TheotherdayImanagedatlonglasttoridmyselfofmysenseofgrievance,forIsquaredaccountsbystealingherdinnerofmackerel-pike.As Iwasabout tobe flungout for the last time, themaster of the house appeared, complaining of the noise and demanding an explanation. Theservant liftedmeup, turnedmyface to themasterandsaid, “This littlestraykitten isbeinganuisance. Ikeepputting itoutand itkeepscrawlingback into thekitchen.”Themasterbrieflystudiedmyface, twistingtheblackhairsunderhisnostrils.Then,“In thatcase, let itstay,”hesaid; and turned and went inside. The master seemed to be a person of few words. Theservant resentfully threwme down in the kitchen. And it was thus that I came tomake thishousemydwelling.

Mymasterseldomcomesface-to-facewithme. Ihearhe isaschoolteacher.Assoonashecomeshome fromschool,heshutshimselfup in thestudy for the restof theday;andheseldom emerges. The others in the house think that he is terribly hard-working. He himselfpretends to be hard-working. But actually he works less hard than any of them think.SometimesItiptoetohisstudyforapeepandfindhimtakingasnooze.Occasionallyhismouthisdroolingontosomebookhehasbeguntoread.Hehasaweakstomachandhisskinisofapale yellowish color, inelastic and lacking in vitality. Nevertheless he is an enormousgormandiser.Aftereatingagreatdeal,hetakessometaka-diastaseforhisstomachand,afterthat,heopensabook.Whenhehasreadafewpages,hebecomessleepy.Hedroolsontothebook. This is the routine religiously observed each evening. There are timeswhen even I, amerecat,canputtwothoughtstogether.“Teachershaveiteasy.Ifyouarebornahuman,it’sbesttobecomeateacher.Forifit’spossibletosleepthismuchandstilltobeateacher,why,even a cat could teach.” However, according to the master, there’s nothing harder than ateacher’slifeandeverytimehisfriendscomeroundtoseehim,hegrumblesonandon.

During my early days in the house, I was terribly unpopular with everyone except themaster.EverywhereIwasunwelcome,andnoonewouldhaveanythingtodowithme.Thefactthatnobody,eventothisday,hasgivenmeanameindicatesquiteclearlyhowvery littletheyhave thought about me. Resigned, I try to spend as much of my time as possible with themaster,themanwhohadtakenmein.Inthemorning,whilehereadsthenewspaper,Ijumptocurluponhisknees.Throughouthisafternoonsiesta,Isituponhisback.ThisisnotbecauseIhaveanyparticularfondnessforthemaster,butbecauseIhavenootherchoice;nooneelsetoturnto.Additionally,andinthelightofotherexperiments,Ihavedecidedtosleepontheboiled-rice container, which stayswarm through themorning, on the quilted foot-warmer during theevening,andoutontheverandawhenitisfine.ButwhatIfindespeciallyagreeableistocreep

intothechildren’sbedandsnuggledownbetweenthem.Therearetwochildren,oneoffiveandoneofthree:theysleepintheirownroom,sharingabed.Icanalwaysfindaspacebetweentheirbodies,andImanagesomehowtosqueezemyselfquietly in.But if,bygreat ill-luck,oneofthechildrenwakes,thenIamintrouble.Forthechildrenhavenastynatures,especiallytheyounger one. They start to cry out noisily, regardless of the time, even in themiddle of thenight,shouting,“Here’s thecat!”Then invariably theneuroticdyspeptic in thenextroomwakesandcomes rushing in.Why,only theotherday,mymasterbeatmybacksideblackandbluewithawoodenruler.

Livingas Idowithhumanbeings, themore that Iobserve them, themore Iamforced toconclude that they are selfish. Especially those children. I find my bedmates utterlyunspeakable.Whenthefancytakesthem,theyhangmeupside-down,theystuffmyfaceintoapaper-bag,theyflingmeabout,theyrammeintothekitchenrange.Furthermore,ifIdocommitso much as the smallest mischief, the entire household unites to chase me around andpersecute me. The other day when I happened to be sharpening my claws on some strawfloor-matting, themistressof thehousebecamesounreasonably incensed thatnow it isonlywiththegreatestreluctancethatshe’lleven letmeenteramattedroom.ThoughI’mshiveringonthewoodenfloorinthekitchen,heartlesslysheremainsindifferent.MissBlanche,thewhitecatwholivesoppositeandwhomImuchadmire, tellsmewheneverIseeherthatthere isnoliving creaturequite soheartlessasahuman.Theother day, shegavebirth to four beautifulkittens.But threedays later, theshoseiofherhouseremovedall fourand tossed themawayinto the backyard pond.MissBlanche, having given throughher tears a complete account ofthisevent,assuredmethat,tomaintainourownparentalloveandtoenjoyourbeautifulfamilylife, we, the cat-race,must engage in total war upon all humans.We have no choice but toexterminatethem.Ithinkitisaveryreasonableproposition.Andthethree-coloredtomcatlivingnextdoorisespeciallyindignantthathumanbeingsdonotunderstandthenatureofproprietaryrights.Amongourkinditistakenforgrantedthathewhofirstfindssomething,beittheheadofadriedsardineoragraymullet’snavel,acquirestherebytherighttoeat it.Andif thisrulebeflouted, one may well resort to violence. But human beings do not seem to understand therightsofproperty.Everytimewecomeonsomethinggoodtoeat,invariablytheydescendandtake it fromus.Relyingon theirnakedstrength, theycoolly robusof thingswhichare rightlyours to eat.MissBlanche lives in the house of amilitaryman, and the tomcat’smaster is alawyer.ButsinceIliveinateacher’shouse,Itakemattersofthissortrathermorelightlythanthey.Ifeelthatlifeisnotunreasonablesolongasonecanscrapealongfromdaytoday.Forsurelyevenhumanbeingswillnotflourishforever.IthinkitbesttowaitinpatiencefortheDayoftheCats.

Talkingofselfishnessremindsmethatmymasteroncemadeafoolofhimselfbyreasonofthisfailing.I’ll tellyouallaboutit.Firstyoumustunderstandthatthismasterofminelacksthetalenttobemorethanaverageatanythingatall;butnonethelesshecan’trefrainfromtryinghishandateverythingandanything.He’salwayswritinghaikuandsubmittingthemtoCuckoo;hesends off new-style poetry toMorning Star; he has a shot at English prose peppered withgrossmistakes;hedevelopsapassionforarchery;hetakeslessonsinchantingNoplay-texts;andsometimeshedevoteshimselftomakinghideousnoiseswithaviolin.ButIamsorrytosaythat none of these activities has led to anythingwhatsoever. Yet, though he is dyspeptic, hegetsterriblykeenoncehehasembarkeduponaproject.Heoncegothimselfnicknamed“TheMaestro of the Water-closet” through chanting in the lavatory, but he remains entirely

unconcernedandcanstillbeheardtherechanting“IamTaira-no-Munemori.”Weallsay,“TheregoesMunemori,”and titterathisantics. I donot knowwhy it happened,butone fineday (apayday roughly four weeks after I’d taken up residence) this master of mine came hurryinghomewitha largeparcelunderhisarm. Iwonderedwhathe’dbought. It turnedout thathe’dpurchasedwatercolorpaints,brushes,andsomespecial“Whatman”paper.Itlookedtomeasif haiku-writing, and mediaeval chanting were going to be abandoned in favor of watercolorpainting.Sureenough,fromthenextdayonandeverydayforsomelongtime,hedidnothingbut paint pictures in his study.He evenwentwithout his afternoon siestas.However, no onecould tellwhathehadpaintedby lookingat theresult.Possiblyhehimself thought littleofhiswork;for,onedaywhenhisfriendwhospecializesinmattersofaestheticscametovisithim,Iheardthefollowingconversation.

“Do you know it’s quite difficult? When one sees someone else painting, it looks easyenough;butnottillonetakesabrushoneself,doesonerealizejusthowdifficult it is.”Sosaidmynoblemaster,anditwastrueenough.

His friend, looking at my master over his gold-rimmed spectacles, observed, “It’s onlynaturalthatonecannotpaintparticularlywellthemomentonestarts.Besides,onecannotpainta picture indoors by force of the imagination only. The Italian Master, Andrea del Sarto,remarkedthat ifyouwant topaintapicture,alwaysdepictnatureasshe is. In thesky, therearestars.Onearth,therearesparklingdews.Birdsareflying.Animalsarerunning.Inapondthere are goldfish. On an old tree one sees winter crows. Nature herself is one vast livingpicture. D’you understand? If you want to paint a picturesque picture, why not try somepreliminarysketching?”

“Oh,soAndreadelSartosaidthat?Ididn’tknowthatatall.Cometothinkof it, it’squitetrue. Indeed, it’s very true.”Themasterwasunduly impressed. I sawamockingsmilebehindthegold-rimmedglasses.

Thenext daywhen, asalways, Iwashavingapleasant napon the veranda, themasteremerged fromhis study (an act unusual in itself) and beganbehindmyback to busy himselfwithsomething.AtthispointIhappenedtowakeupand,wonderingwhathewasupto,openedmyeyesjustoneslitthetenthofaninch.Andtherehewas,fairlykillinghimselfatbeingAndreadelSarto. Icouldnothelpbut laugh.He’sstarting tosketchme justbecausehe’shadhis legpulledbyafriend.Ihavealreadysleptenough,andI’mitchingtoyawn.Butseeingmymastersketchingawaysoearnestly,Ihadn’tthehearttomove:soIboreitallwithresignation.Havingdrawnmyoutline,he’sstartedpainting the face. Iconfess that,consideringcatsasworksofart,I’mfarfrombeingacollector’spiece.Icertainlydonotthinkthatmyfigure,myfur,ormyfeaturesaresuperiortothoseofothercats.ButhoweveruglyImaybe,there’snoconceivableresemblancebetweenmyselfandthatqueerthingwhichmymasteriscreating.Firstofall,thecoloringiswrong.Myfur, likethatofaPersian,bearstortoiseshellmarkingsonagroundofayellowish pale grey. It is a fact beyond all argument. Yet the color which my master hasemployedisneitheryellownorblack;neithergreynorbrown;norisitanymixtureofthosefourdistinctivecolors.Allonecansayisthatthecolorusedisasortofcolor.Furthermore,andveryoddly, my face lacks eyes. The lack might be excused on the grounds that the sketch is asketch of a sleeping cat; but, all the same, since one cannot find even a hint of an eye’slocation, it isnotall clearwhether thesketch isofasleepingcatorofablindcat.Secretly Ithoughttomyselfthatthiswouldneverdo,evenforAndreadelSarto.However,Icouldnothelpbeingstruckwithadmirationformymaster’sgrimdetermination.Haditbeensolelyuptome,I

wouldgladlyhavemaintainedmyposeforhim,butNaturehasnowbeencallingforsometime.Themusclesinmybodyaregettingpinsandneedles.WhenthetinglingreachedapointwhereIcouldn’tstanditanotherminute,Iwasobligedtoclaimmyliberty. Istretchedmyfrontpawsfarout in frontofme,pushedmyneckout lowandyawnedcavernously.Havingdoneall that,there’snofurtherpointintryingtostaystill.Mymaster’ssketchisspoiltanyway,soImightaswellpadroundtothebackyardanddomybusiness.Movedbythesethoughts,Istarttocrawlsluggishlyaway.Immediately,“Youfool”cameshoutedinmymaster’svoice,amixtureofwrathanddisappointment,outoftheinnerroom.Hehasafixedhabitofsaying,“Youfool”wheneverhe curses anyone. He cannot help it since he knows no other swearwords. But I thought itrather impertinentofhimthusunjustifiablytocallme“afool.”Afterall, Ihadbeenverypatientup to this point. Of course, had it been his custom to show even the smallest pleasurewheneverIjumponhisback,Iwouldhavetamelyenduredhisimprecations:butitisabitthicktobecalled“afool”bysomeonewhohasneveroncewithgoodgracedonemeakindnessjustbecause I get up to goandurinate.Theprime fact is that all humansare puffedupby theirextreme self-satisfaction with their own brute power. Unless some creatures more powerfulthanhumansarriveonearthtobullythem,there’sjustnoknowingtowhatdirelengthstheirfoolpresumptuousnesswilleventuallycarrythem.

Onecouldputupwiththisdegreeofselfishness,butIonceheardareportconcerningtheunworthinessofhumans,whichisseveraltimesmoreuglyanddeplorable.

At thebackofmyhouse there isasmall tea-plantation,perhapssomesixyardssquare.Thoughcertainlynot large, it isaneatandpleasantlysunnyspot. It ismycustomtogotherewhenevermymoraleneedsstrengthening;when,forinstance,thechildrenaremakingsomuchnoise that I cannotdoze inpeace,orwhenboredomhasdisruptedmydigestion.Oneday,aday of Indian summer, at about two o’clock in the afternoon, I woke from a pleasant after-luncheonnapandstrolledouttothistea-plantationbywayoftakingexercise.Sniffing,oneafteranother,at the rootsof the teaplants, I came to thecypress fenceat thewesternend;andthere I saw an enormous cat fast asleep on a bed of withered chrysanthemums, which hisweighthadflatteneddown.Hedidnotseemtonoticemyapproach.Perhapshenoticedbutdidnotcare.Anyway,therehewas,stretchedoutatfulllengthandsnoringloudly.Iwasamazedatthe daring courage that permitted him, a trespasser, to sleep so unconcernedly in someoneelse’s garden.Hewas a pure black cat. The sun of earliest afternoonwas pouring itsmostbrilliantraysuponhim,anditseemedasifinvisibleflameswereblazingoutfromhisglossyfur.Hehadamagnificent physique; the physique, onemight say, of theEmperor ofCatdom.Hewas easily twicemy size. Filled with admiration and curiosity, I quite forgot myself. I stoodstock-still, entranced, all eyes in front of him. The quiet zephyrs of that Indian summer setgentlynoddingabranchofSultan’sParasol,whichshowedabovethecypressfence,andafewleaves pattered down upon the couch of crushed chrysanthemums. The Emperor suddenlyopenedhishugeroundeyes.Irememberthatmomenttothisday.Hiseyesgleamedfarmorebeautifully than that dull amber stuff which humans so inordinately value. He lay dead still.Focussing thepiercing light that shone fromhis eyes’ interior uponmydwarfish forehead, heremarked,“Andwhothehellareyou?”

I thoughthisturnofphraseashadeinelegant foranEmperor,butbecausethevoicewasdeepandfilledwithapowerthatcouldsuppressabulldog. I remaineddumb-struckwithpureawe. Reflecting, however, that I might get into trouble if I failed to exchange civilities, Iansweredfrigidly,withafalsesangfroidascoldasIcouldmakeit,“I,sir,amacat.Ihaveas

yetnoname.”Myheartatthatmomentwasbeatingagreatdealfasterthanusual.In a tone of enormous scorn, theEmperor observed, “You. . . a cat?Well, I’m damned.

Anyway,wherethedevildoyouhangout?”Ithoughtthiscatexcessivelyblunt-spoken.“Ilivehere,intheteacher’shouse.”“Huh,I thoughtasmuch. ’Orriblescrawnyaren’tyou.”LikeatrueEmperor,hespokewith

greatvehemence.Judgedbyhismannerofspeech,hecouldnotbeacatofrespectablebackground.Onthe

otherhand,heseemedwellfedandpositivelyprosperous,almostobese,inhisoilyglossiness.Ihadtoaskhim“Andyou,whoonearthareyou?”

“Me?I’mRickshawBlacky.”Hegavehisanswerwithspiritandsomepride: forRickshawBlacky iswell-known in the neighborhood as a real rough customer.As onewould expect ofthosebroughtupinarickshaw-garage,he’stoughbutquiteuneducated.Henceveryfewofusmixwithhim,anditisourcommonpolicyto“keephimatarespectfuldistance.”ConsequentlywhenIheardhisname,Ifeltatriflejitteryanduneasybutatthesametimealittledisdainfulofhim.Accordingly,andinordertoestablishjusthowilliteratehewas,Ipursuedtheconversationbyenquiring,“Whichdoyouthinkissuperior,arickshaw-ownerorateacher?”

“Why,arickshaw-owner,ofcourse.He’sthestronger.Justlookatyourmaster,almostskinandbones.”

“You,beingthecatofarickshaw-owner,naturallylookverytough.Icanseethatoneeatswellatyourestablishment.”

“Ahwell, as far as I’mconcerned, I neverwant for decent grubwherever I go.You too,insteadofcreepingaround ina tea-plantation,whynot followalongwithme?Withinamonth,you’dgetsofatnobody’drecognizeyou.”

“InduecourseImightcomeandaskto joinyou.But itseemsthat theteacher’shouse islargerthanyourboss’s.”

“You dimwit! A house, however big it is, won’t help fill an empty belly.” He looked quitehuffed.Savagely twitchinghisears,earsassharpasslant-slicedstemsof thesolidbamboo,hetookoffrowdily.

ThiswashowIfirstmadetheacquaintanceofRickshawBlacky,andsincethatdayI’verunacross him many times. Whenever we meet he talks big, as might be expected from arickshaw-owner’scat;butthatdeplorableincidentwhichImentionedearlierwasatalehetoldme.

OnedayBlackyand Iwere lyingasusual,sunningourselves in the tea-garden.Wewerechattingaboutthisandthatwhen,havingmadehisusualboastsas if theywereallbrandnew,heaskedme,“Howmanyratshaveyoucaughtsofar?”

While I flatter myself that my general knowledge is wider and deeper than Blacky’s, Ireadily admit that my physical strength and courage are nothing compared with his. All thesame,hispoint-blankquestionnaturallyleftmefeelingabitconfused.Nevertheless,afact’safact, and one should face the truth. So I answered “Actually, though I’m always thinking ofcatchingone,I’veneveryetcaughtany.”

Blackylaughedimmoderately,quiveringthelongwhiskers,whichstuckoutstifflyroundhismuzzle.Blacky,likealltruebraggarts,issomewhatweakinthehead.Aslongasyoupurrandlisten attentively, pretending to be impressed by his rhodomontade, he is a more or lessmanageablecat.Soonaftergettingtoknowhim,Ilearntthiswaytohandlehim.Consequentlyon thisparticularoccasion Ialso thought itwouldbeunwise to furtherweakenmypositionby

tryingtodefendmyself,andthat itwouldbemoreprudenttododgetheissuebyinducinghimtobragabouthisownsuccesses.Sowithoutmakingafuss,Isoughttoleadhimonbysaying,“You, judging by your age, must have caught a notable number of rats?” Sure enough, heswallowedthebaitwithgusto.

“Well,nottoomany,butImust’vecaughtthirtyorforty,”washistriumphantanswer.“Icancope,”hewenton,“withahundredortwohundredrats,anytimeandbymyself.Butaweasel,no.ThatIjustcan’ttake.OnceIhadahellishtimewithaweasel.”

“Did you really?” I innocently offered. Blacky blinked his saucer eyes but did notdiscontinue.

“It was last year, the day for the general housecleaning. Asmymaster was crawling inunderthefloorboardswithabagoflime,suddenlyagreat,dirtyweaselcamewhizzingout.”

“Really?”Imakemyselflookimpressed.“Isaytomyself,‘Sowhat’saweasel?Onlyaweebitbiggerthanarat.’SoIchaseafterit,

feelingquiteexcitedandfinallyIgotitcorneredinaditch.”“Thatwaswelldone,”Iapplaudhim.“Notintheleast.Asalastresortituppeditstailandblewafilthyfart.Ugh!Thesmellofit!

Sincethattime,wheneverIseeaweasel,Ifeelpoorly.”Atthispoint,heraisedafrontpawandstrokedhismuzzletwoorthreetimesasifhewerestillsufferingfromlastyear’sstench.

Ifeltrathersorryforhimand,inanefforttocheerhimup,said,“Butwhenitcomestorats,Iexpectyoujustpinthemdownwithonehypnoticglare.AndIsupposethatit’sbecauseyou’resuchamarvelous ratter,acatwellnourishedbyplentyof rats, thatyouaresosplendidly fatandhavesuchagoodcomplexion.”ThoughthisspeechwasmeanttoflatterBlacky,strangelyenough ithadprecisely theoppositeeffect.He lookeddistinctlycastdownand repliedwithaheavysigh.

“It’s depressing,” he said, “when you come to think of it. However hard one slaves atcatchingrats...Inthewholewideworldthere’snocreaturemorebrazen-facedthanahumanbeing.EveryratIcatchtheyconfiscate,andtheytotethemofftothenearestpolice-box.Sincethecoppercan’t tellwhocaught therats,he justpaysupapennyatail toanyonethatbringsthem in.Mymaster, for instance, has already earned about half a crown purely throughmyefforts,buthe’sneveryetstoodmeadecentmeal.Theplainfactisthathumans,oneandall,aremerelythievesatheart.”

ThoughBlacky’s far frombright,onecannot faulthim in thisconclusion.Hebegins to lookextremelyangryandthefuronhisbackstandsupinbristles.SomewhatdisturbedbyBlacky’sstoryand reactions, Imadesomevagueexcuseandwentoffhome.Buteversince then I’vebeendeterminednevertocatcharat.However,IdidnottakeupBlacky’sinvitationtobecomehis associate in prowling after dainties other than rodents. I prefer the cozy life, and it’scertainlyeasiertosleepthantohuntfortitbits.Livinginateacher’shouse,itseemsthatevenacat acquires the character of teachers. I’d best watch out lest, one of these days, I, too,becomedyspeptic.

Talkingofteachersremindsmethatmymasterseemstohaverecentlyrealizedhistotalincapacity as a painter of watercolors; for under the date of December 1st his diarycontains the followingpassage:At today’sgathering Imet for the first timeamanwho

shallbenameless.Heissaidtohaveledafastlife.Indeedhelooksverymuchamanoftheworld.Sincewomenlikethistypeofperson,itmightbemoreappropriatetosaythathehasbeen forced to lead, rather than thathehas led,a fast life. Ihearhiswifewasoriginallyageisha.He is tobeenvied.For themostpart, thosewhocarpat rakesarethose incapable of debauchery. Further, many of those who fancy themselves asrakehellsareequally incapableofdebauchery.Such folkareundernoobligation to livefastlives,butdosooftheirownvolition.SoIinthematterofwatercolors.Neitherofuswillevermakethegrade.Andyetthistypeofdebaucheeiscalmlycertainthatonlyheistruly amanof theworld. If it is to be accepted that aman canbecomeamanof theworld by drinking saké in restaurants, or by frequenting houses of assignation, then itwouldseemtofollowthatIcouldacquireanameasapainterofwatercolors.Thenotionthat my watercolor pictures will be better if I don’t actually paint them leads me toconcludethataboorishcountry-bumpkinisinfactfarsuperiortosuchfoolishmenoftheworld.

Hisobservationsaboutmenoftheworldstrikemeassomewhatunconvincing.Inparticularhisconfessionofenvy in respectof thatwifewho’dworkedasageisha ispositively imbecileand unworthy of a teacher. Nevertheless his assessment of the value of his ownwatercolorpainting iscertainly just. Indeedmymaster isaverygood judgeofhisowncharacterbutstillmanagestoretainhisvanity.Threedayslater,onDecember4th,hewroteinhisdiary:

Last night I dreamt that someone picked up one of my watercolor paintings which I,thinking it worthless, had tossed aside. This person inmy dream put the painting in asplendidframeandhung ituponatransom.Staringatmyworkthusframed, I realizedthatIhavesuddenlybecomeatrueartist.Ifeelexceedinglypleased.Ispendwholedaysjust staring atmyhandiwork, happy in the conviction that the picture is amasterpiece.Dawnbrokeand Iwokeup, and in themorning sunlight itwasobvious that thepicturewasstillaspitifulanobjectaswhenIpaintedit.

Themaster,eveninhisdreams,seemsburdenedwithregretsabouthiswatercolors.Andmenwhoaccept theburdensofregret,whether inrespectofwatercolorsorofanythingelse,arenotthestuffthatmenoftheworldaremadeof.

The day after my master dreamt about the picture, the aesthete in the gold-rimmedspectacles paid a call upon him.He had not visited for some long time. As soon as hewasseatedheinquired,“Andhowisthepaintingcomingalong?”

Mymaster assumed a nonchalant air and answered, “Well, I took your advice and I amnow busily engaged in sketching. And I must say that when one sketches one seems toapprehend those shapes of things, those delicate changes of color, which hitherto had goneunnoticed.ItakeitthatsketchinghasdevelopedintheWesttoitspresentremarkableconditionsolelyastheresultoftheemphasiswhich,historically,hasalwaystherebeenplaceduponthe

essentiality thereof.PreciselyasAndreadelSartoonceobserved.”Withoutevensomuchasalludingtothepassageinhisdiary,hespeaksapprovinglyofAndreadelSarto.

Theaesthetescratchedhishead,andremarkedwitha laugh,“Wellactually thatbitaboutdelSartowasmyowninvention.”

“What was?” My master still fails to grasp that he’s been tricked into making a fool ofhimself.

“Why,all thatstuffaboutAndreadelSartowhomyousoparticularlyadmire, Imade itallup. I never thought you’d take it seriously.” He laughed and laughed, enraptured with thesituation.

IoverheardtheirconversationfrommyplaceontheverandaandIcouldnothelpwonderingwhatsortofentrywouldappearinthediaryfortoday.Thisaestheteisthesortofmanwhosesole pleasure lies in bamboozling people by conversation consisting entirely of humbug. Heseemsnottohavethoughtof theeffecthistwaddleaboutAndreadelSartomusthaveonmymaster’sfeelings,forherattledonproudly,“SometimesIcookupalittlenonsenseandpeopletake it seriously, which generates an aesthetic sensation of extreme comicality which I findinteresting. The other day, I told a certain undergraduate thatNicholasNickleby had advisedGibbon to cease using French for thewriting of hismasterpiece,The History of the FrenchRevolution,andhadindeedpersuadedGibbontopublishit inEnglish.Nowthisundergraduatewasamanofalmosteideticmemory,anditwasespeciallyamusingtohearhimrepeatingwhatI told him,word forwordand in all seriousness, to a debating sessionof the JapanLiterarySociety. And d’you know, there were nearly a hundred in his audience, and all of them satlisteningtohisdrivelwiththegreatestenthusiasm!Infact,I’veanother,evenbetter,story.Theother day, when I was in the company of some men of letters, one of them happened tomentionTheofano,Ainsworth’shistoricalnoveloftheCrusades.I tooktheoccasiontoremarkthatitwasaquiteoutstandingromanticmonographandaddedthecommentthattheaccountoftheheroine’sdeathwastheepitomeofthespectral.Themansittingoppositetome,onewhohas never uttered the three words ‘I don’t know,’ promptly responded that those particularparagraphswere indeedespecially finewriting.Fromwhichobservation Ibecameaware thathe,nomorethanI,hadeverreadthebook.”

Wide-eyed,mypoordyspepticmasteraskedhim,“Fairenough,butwhatwouldyoudo iftheotherpartyhadinfactreadthebook?”Itappearsthatmymasterisnotworriedaboutthedishonestyofthedeception,merelyaboutthepossibleembarrassmentofbeingcaughtoutinalie.Thequestionleavestheaestheteutterlyunfazed.

“Well,ifthatshouldhappen,I’dsayI’dmistakenthetitleorsomethinglikethat,”andagain,quiteunconcerned,hegavehimselftolaughter.

Thoughnattilytrickedoutingold-rimmedspectacles,hisnatureisuncommonlyakintothatofRickshawBlacky.Mymastersaidnothing,butblewoutsmokeringsasifinconfessionofhisown lackofsuchaudacity.Theaesthete (theglitterofwhoseeyesseemed tobeanswering,“andnowonder;you,beingyou,couldnotevencopewithwatercolors”)wentonaloud. “But,jokingapart,paintingapicture’sadifficult thing.LeonardodaVinci issupposed tohaveoncetoldhispupilstomakedrawingsofastainontheCathedralwall.Thewordsofagreatteacher.Inalavatoryforinstance,ifabsorbedlyonestudiesthepatternoftherainleaksonthewall,astaggeringdesign,anaturalcreation,invariablyemerges.Youshouldkeepyoureyesopenandtrydrawingfromnature.I’msureyoucouldmakesomethinginteresting.”

“Isthisanotherofyourtricks?”

“No;thisone,Ipromise, isseriouslymeant. Indeed,I thinkthatthat imageofthelavatorywallisreallyratherwitty,don’tyou?QuitethesortofthingdaVinciwouldhavesaid.”

“Yes, it’scertainlywitty,”mymastersomewhatreluctantlyconceded.ButIdonotthinkhehassofarmadeadrawinginalavatory.

RickshawBlackyhas recentlygone lame.Hisglossy furhas thinnedandgraduallygrowndull.Hiseyes,whichIoncepraisedasmorebeautifulthanamber,arenowblearedwithmucus.WhatInoticemostishislossofallvitalityandhissheerphysicaldeterioration.WhenlastIsawhimintheteagardenandaskedhimhowhewas,theanswerwasdepressinglyprecise:“I’vehadenoughofbeingfartedatbyweaselsandcrippledwithside-swipesfromthefishmonger’spole.”

Theautumn leaves,arranged in twoor threescarlet terracesamong thepine trees,havefallenlikeancientdreams.Theredandwhitesasan-quasnearthegarden’sornamentalbasin,droppingtheirpetals,nowawhiteandnowaredone,arefinallyleftbare.Thewintrysunalongthe ten-foot length of the southwards-facing verandagoesdowndaily earlier than yesterday.Seldomadaygoesbybutacoldwindblows.Somysnoozeshavebeenpainfullycurtailed.

Themastergoes toschooleverydayand,assoonashereturns,shutshimselfup in thestudy.He tells all visitors that he’s tired of being a teacher.He seldompaints.He’s stoppedtakinghis taka-diastase, saying it doesnogood.Thechildren,dear little things,now trotoff,dayafterday,tokindergarten:butontheirreturn,theysingsongs,bounceballsandsometimeshangmeupbythetail.

SinceIdonotreceiveanyparticularlynourishingfood,Ihavenotgrownparticularlyfat;butI struggle on from day to day keeping myself more or less fit and, so far, without gettingcrippled. Icatchnorats. Istilldetest thatO-san.Noonehasyetnamedmebut,since it’snousecryingforthemoon,Ihaveresolvedtoremainfortherestofmylifeanamelesscatinthehouseofthisteacher.

S

II

INCENewYear’sDayIhaveacquiredacertainmodestcelebrity:sothat,thoughonlyacat,Iamfeelingquietlyproudofmyself.Whichisnotunpleasing.

OnthemorningofNewYear’sDay,mymasterreceivedapicture-postcard,acardofNewYeargreetingsfromacertainpainter-friendofhis.Theupperpartwaspainted

red,thelowerdeepgreen;andrightinthecenterwasacrouchinganimalpaintedinpastel.Themaster,sittinginhisstudy,lookedatthispicturefirstonewayupandthentheother.“Whatfinecoloring!”heobserved.Havingthusexpressedhisadmiration,Ithoughthehadfinishedwiththematter.Butno,hecontinuedstudyingit,firstsidewaysandthenlongways.Inordertoexaminetheobjecthetwistshisbody,thenstretchesouthisarmslikeanancientstudyingtheBookofDivinationsandthen,turningtofacethewindow,hebringsitintothetipofhisnose.Iwishhewouldsoonterminatethiscuriousperformance,fortheactionsetshiskneesaswayandIfindithardtokeepmybalance.Whenatlonglastthewobblingbegantodiminish,Iheardhimmutterin a tiny voice, “I wonder what it is.” Though full of admiration for the colors on the picture-postcard,hecouldn’tidentifytheanimalpaintedinitscenter.Whichexplainedhisextraordinaryantics.Could itperhapsreallybeapicturemoredifficult to interpret thanmyown firstglancehad suggested? I half-opened my eyes and looked at the painting with an imperturbablecalmness.Therecouldbenoshadowofadoubt:itwasaportraitofmyself.IdonotsupposethatthepainterconsideredhimselfanAndreadelSarto,asdidmymaster;but,beingapainter,whathehadpainted,bothinrespectofformandofcolor,wasperfectlyharmonious.Anyfoolcould see it was a cat. And so skillfully painted that anyone with eyes in his head and themangiest scrapofdiscernmentwould immediately recognize that itwasapictureofnoothercatbutme.Tothinkthatanyoneshouldneedtogotosuchpainfullengthsoversuchablatantlysimplematter...Ifeltalittlesorryforthehumanrace.Iwouldhavelikedtohavelethimknowthatthepicture isofme.Evenif itweretoodifficult forhimtograspthatparticularity, Iwouldstillhavelikedtohelphimseethatthepaintingisofacat.Butsinceheavenhasnotseenfittodowerthehumananimalwithanabilitytounderstandcatlanguage,IregrettosaythatIletthematterbe.

Incidentally,Iwouldliketotaketheoccasionofthisincidenttoadvisemyreadersthatthehuman habit of referring to me in a scornful tone of voice as somemere trifling “cat” is anextremely bad one. Humans appear to think that cows and horses are constructed fromrejectedhumanmaterial,and that catsareconstructed fromcowpatsandhorsedung.Suchthoughts,objectivelyregarded,areinverypoortastethoughtheyarenodoubtnotuncommonamong teachers who, ignorant even of their ignorance, remain self-satisfied with their quaintpuffed-upideasoftheirownunrealimportance.Evencatsmustnotbetreatedroughlyortakenforgranted.Tothecasualobserveritmayappearthatallcatsarethesame,facsimilesinformand substance, as indistinguishable as peas in a pod; and that no cat can lay claim toindividuality.Butonceadmittedtofelinesociety,thatcasualobserverwouldveryquicklyrealizethatthingsarenotsosimple,andthatthehumansayingthat“peoplearefreaks”isequallytrue

in the world of cats. Our eyes, noses, fur, paws—all of them differ. From the tilt of one’swhiskers to the set of one’s ears, down to the very hang of one’s tail, we cats are sharplydifferentiated.Inourgoodlooksandourpoorlooks,inourlikesanddislikes,inourrefinementandourcoarsenesses,onemayfairlysaythatcatsoccurininfinitevariety.Despitethefactofsuchobviousdifferentiation,humans,theireyesturneduptoheavenbyreasonoftheelevationoftheirmindsorsomesuchotherrubbish,failtonoticeevenobviousdifferencesinourexternalfeatures,thatourcharactersmightbecharacteristicisbeyondtheircomprehension.Whichistobe pitied. I understand and endorse the thought behind such sayings as, the cobbler shouldsticktohislast,thatbirdsofafeatherflocktogether,thatrice-cakesareforrice-cakemakers.Forcats,indeed,areforcats.Andshouldyouwishtolearnaboutcats,onlyacatcantellyou.Humans,howeveradvanced,cantellyounothingonthissubject.Andinasmuchashumansare,in fact, far less advanced than they fancy themselves, they will find it difficult even to startlearningaboutcats.Andforanunsympatheticmanlikemymasterthere’sreallynohopeatall.Hedoesnotevenunderstandthatlovecannevergrowunlessthereisatleastacompleteandmutualunderstanding.Likeanill-naturedoyster,hesecreteshimselfinhisstudyandhasneveronceopenedhismouthtotheoutsideworld.Andtoseehimthere,lookingasthoughhealonehas truly attained enlightenment, is enough to make a cat laugh. The proof that he has notattainedenlightenmentisthat,althoughhehasmyportraitunderhisnose,heshowsnosignofcomprehensionbutcoollyofferssuchcrazycommentas,“perhaps,thisbeingthesecondyearofthewaragainsttheRussians,itisapaintingofabear.”

As,withmyeyesclosed,Isatthinkingthesethoughtsonmymaster’sknees,theservant-woman brought in a second picture-postcard. It is a printed picture of a line of four or fiveEuropeancatsallengagedinstudy,holdingpensorreadingbooks.Onehasbrokenawayfromthe line to perform a simpleWestern dance at the corner of their common desk. Above thispicture“Iamacat”iswrittenthicklyinJapaneseblackink.Anddowntheright-handsidethereisevenahaikustatingthat“onspringdayscatsreadbooksordance.”Thecardisfromoneofthemaster’soldpupilsand itsmeaningshouldbeobvious toanyone.Howevermydimwittedmasterseemsnottounderstand,forhelookedpuzzledandsaidtohimself,“CanthisbeaYearoftheCat?”Hejustdoesn’tseemtohavegraspedthatthesepostcardsaremanifestationsofmygrowingfame.

At thatmomenttheservantbrought inyetathirdpostcard.Thistimethepostcardhasnopicture,butalongsidethecharacterswishingmymasterahappyNewYear,thecorrespondenthasaddedthosefor,“Pleasebesokindastogivemybestregardstothecat.”Bone-headedthough he is, my master does appear to get the message when it’s written out thusunequivocally: forheglanceddownatmy faceand,as ifhe reallyhadat lastcomprehendedthe situation, said, “hmm.” And his glance, unlike his usual ones, did seem to contain a newmodicumofrespect.Whichwasquiterightandproperconsideringthefactthatitisentirelyduetome thatmymaster, hitherto a nobody, has suddenly begun to get a name and to attractattention.

Just then thegate-bell sounded: tinkle-tinkle,possiblyeven ting-ting.Probablyavisitor. Ifso, theservantwillanswer.Since Inevergooutofmyway to investigatecallers,except thefishmonger’s errand-boy, I remained quietly on my master’s knees. The master, however,peeredworriedlytowardtheentranceasifdunswereatthedoor.Ideducethathejustdoesn’tlikereceivingNewYear’scallersandsharingaconvivialtot.Whatamarvellouswaytobe.Howmuch furthercanpurebigotrygo? Ifhedoesn’t likevisitors,heshouldhavegoneouthimself,

buthe lackseven thatmuchenterprise.The inaudacityofhis clam-likecharactergrowsdailymore apparent. A few moments later the servant comes in to say that Mr. Coldmoon hascalled.IunderstandthatthisColdmoonpersonwasalsoonceapupilofmymaster’sandthat,after leaving school, he so rose in theworld to be far better known thanhis teacher. I don’tknowwhy,butthisfellowoftencomesroundforachat.Oneverysuchvisithebabbleson,withadreadful sort of coquettishness, about being in loveor not in lovewith somebodyor other;about howmuchheenjoys life or howdesperately he is tiredof it.And thenhe leaves. It isquaintenoughthat todiscusssuchmattersheshouldseekthecompanyofawitheredoldnutlikemymaster,butit’squainterstilltoseemymolluskopeninguptocomment,nowandagain,onColdmoon’smawkishmaunderings.

“I’mafraid Ihaven’tbeen round forquitesome time.Actually, I’vebeenasbusyas,busysincetheendoflastyear,and,thoughI’vethoughtofgoingoutoftenenough,somehowshanks’ponyhasjustnotheadedhere.”Thus,twistinganduntwistingthefastening-stringsofhisshortsurcoat,Coldmoonbabbledon.

“Wherethendidshanks’ponygo?”mymasterenquiredwithaseriouslookashetuggedatthecuffsofhisworn,black,crestedsurcoat.Itisacottongarmentundulyshortinthesleeves,andsomeofitsnonde-script,thin,silkliningsticksoutaboutahalfaninchatthecuffs.

“Asitwereinvariousdirections,”Coldmoonanswered,andthenlaughed.Inoticethatoneofhisfrontteethismissing.

“What’shappenedtoyourteeth?”asksmymaster,changingthesubject.“Well,actually,atacertainplaceIatemushrooms.”“Whatdidyousayyouate?”“Abitofmushroom.AsItriedtobiteoffamushroom’sumbrellawithmyfrontteeth,atooth

justbrokeoff.”“Breakingteethonamushroomsoundssomewhatsenile.Animagepossiblyappropriateto

a haiku but scarcely appropriate to the pursuit of love,” remarkedmymaster as he tappedlightlyonmyheadwiththepalmofhishand.

“Ah!Isthatthecat?Buthe’squiteplump!Sturdyasthat,notevenRickshawBlackycouldbeathimup.Hecertainlyisamostsplendidbeast.”Coldmoonoffersmehishomage.

“He’sgrownquitebiglately,”respondsmymaster,andproudlysmacksmetwiceuponthehead.Iamflatteredbythecomplimentbutmyheadfeelsslightlysore.

“Thenightbeforelast,what’smore,wehadalittleconcert,”saidColdmoongoingbacktohisstory.

“Where?”“Surelyyoudon’thavetoknowwhere.But itwasquiteinteresting,threeviolinstoapiano

accompaniment. However unskilled, when there are three of them, violins sound fairly good.Two of them were women and I managed to place myself between them. And I myself, Ithought,playedratherwell.”

“Ah, and who were the women?” enviously my master asks. At first glance my masterusually lookscoldandhard;but, to tell the truth,he isbynomeans indifferent towomen.HeoncereadinaWesternnovelofamanwhoinvariablyfellpartiallyinlovewithpracticallyeverywomanthathemet.Anothercharacterinthebooksomewhatsarcasticallyobservedthat,asaroughcalculation,thatfellowfellinlovewithjustunderseven-tenthsofthewomenhepassedinthestreet.On reading this,mymasterwasstruckby itsessential truthand remaineddeeplyimpressed.Whyshouldamansoimpressionableleadsuchanoysterishexistence?Amerecat

such as I cannot possibly understand it. Some say it is the result of a love affair that wentwrong;somesayit isduetohisweakstomach;whileotherssimplystatethat it’sbecausehelacksbothmoneyandaudacity.Whateverthetruth,itdoesn’tmuchmattersincehe’sapersonof insufficient importance to affect the history of his period. What is certain is that he didenquire enviously aboutColdmoon’s female fiddlers.Coldmoon, looking amused, picked up asliverofboiledfishpasteinhischopsticksandnippedatitwithhisremainingfrontteeth.Iwasworriedlestanothershouldfallout.Butthistimeitwasallright.

“Well,bothofthemaredaughtersofgoodfamilies.Youdon’tknowthem,”Coldmooncoldlyanswered.

Themasterdrawled“Is—th-a-t—,”butomittedthefinal“so”whichhe’dintended.Coldmoonprobablyconsidered itwasabout time tobeoff, forhesaid, “Whatmarvellous

weather.Ifyou’venothingbettertodo,shallwegooutforawalk?AsaresultofthefallofPortArthur,”headdedencouragingly,“thetown’sunusuallylively.”

Mymaster, lookingas thoughhewouldsoonerdiscuss the identityof the female fiddlersthanthefallofPortArthur,hesitatedforamoment’sthought.Butheseemedfinallytoreachadecision, forhestoodupresolutelyandsaid,“All right, let’sgoout.”Hecontinuestowearhisblack cotton crested surcoat and, thereunder, a quilted kimono of hand-woven silk which,supposedlyakeep-sakeofhiselderbrother,hehasworncontinuouslyfortwentyyears.Eventhemost strongly woven silk, cannot survive such unremitting, such preternaturally, perennialwear.Thematerialhasbeenwornsothinthat,heldagainstthelight,onecanseethepatchessewn on here and there from the inner side.Mymasterwears the same clothes throughoutDecemberandJanuary,notbotheringtoobservethetraditionalNewYearchange.Hemakes,indeed, no distinction betweenworkaday andSunday clothes.When he leaves the house hesauntersoutinwhateverdresshehappenstohaveon.Idonotknowwhetherthisisbecausehehasnootherclothestowearorwhether,havingsuchclothes,hefindsittoomuchofaboretochange into them.Whatever thecase, Ican’tconceivethat theseuncouthhabitsare inanywayconnectedwithdisappointmentinlove.

Afterthetwomenleft,ItookthelibertyofeatingsuchoftheboiledfishpasteasColdmoonhad not already devoured. I am, these days, no longer just a common, old cat. I considermyselfat leastasgoodasthosecelebratedinthetalesofMomokawaJoenorasthatcatofThomas Gray’s, which trawled for goldfish. Brawlers such as Rickshaw Blacky are nowbeneath my notice. I don’t suppose anyone will make a fuss if I sneak a bit of fishpaste.Besides, this habit of taking secret snacks between meals is by no means a purely felinecustom. O-san, for instance, is always pinching cakes and things, which she gobbles downwheneverthemistress leavesthehouse.Nor isO-santheonlyoffender:eventhechildren,ofwhose refinedupbringing themistress is continually bragging, display the selfsame tendency.Onlyafewdaysagothatpreciouspairwokeatsomeungodlyhour,and,thoughtheirparentswerestillsoundasleep, took itupon themselves tositdown, face-to-face,at thedining-table.Nowitismymaster’shabiteverymorningtoconsumemostofaloafofbread,andtogivethechildrenscrapsthereofwhichtheyeatwithadustingofsugar.Itsohappenedthatonthisdaythe sugar basinwas already on the table, even a spoon stuck in it. Since therewas no onetheretodolethemouttheirsugar,theelderchildscoopedupaspoonfulanddumpeditonherplate.Theyoungerfollowedherelder’sfineexampleandspoonedanequalpileofsugarontoanother plate. For a brief while these charming creatures just sat and glared at each other.Thentheeldergirlscoopedasecondspoonfulontoherplate,andtheyoungeroneproceeded

toequalize theposition.Theelder sister tooka third spoonful and the younger, ina splendidspiritofrivalry,followedsuit.Andsoitwentonuntilbothplateswerepiledhighwithsugarandnotonesinglegrain remained in thebasin.Mymaster thereuponemerged fromhisbedroomrubbing half-sleepy eyes and proceeded to return the sugar, so laboriously extracted by hisdaughters, back into the sugar-basin. This incident suggests that, though egotisticalegalitarianismmay bemore highly developed among humans than among cats, cats are thewisercreatures.Myadvicetothechildrenwouldhavebeentolickthesugarupquicklybeforeitbecamemassed into such senseless pyramids, but, because they cannot understandwhat Isay,Imerelywatchedtheminsilencefrommywarm,morningplaceontopofthecontainerforboiledrice.

My master came home late last night from his expedition with Coldmoon. God knowswherehewent,but itwasalreadypastninebeforehesatdownat thebreakfast table.Frommy same old place I watched hismorose consumption of a typical NewYear’s breakfast ofrice-cakesboiledwithvegetables,allservedupinsoup.Hetakesendlesshelpings.Thoughtherice-cakesareadmittedlysmall,hemusthaveeatensomesixorsevenbeforeleavingthelastone floating in the bowl. “I’ll stop now,” he remarked and laid his chopsticks down. Shouldanyoneelsebehaveinsuchaspoiltmanner,hecouldbereliedupontoputhisfootdown:but,vainintheexerciseofhispettyauthorityasmasterofthehouse,heseemsquiteunconcernedbythesightofthecorpseofascorchedrice-cakedrowninginturbidsoup.Whenhiswifetooktaka-diastase from the back of a small cupboard and put it on the table,mymaster said, “Iwon’ttakeit,itdoesmenogood.”

“Buttheysayit’sverygoodaftereatingstarchythings.I thinkyoushouldtakesome.”Hiswifewantshimtotakeit.

“Starchyornot,thestuff’snogood.”Heremainsstubborn.“Really,youareamostcapriciousman,”themistressmuttersasthoughtoherself.“I’mnotcapricious,themedicinedoesn’twork.”“Butuntil theotherdayyouusedtosay itworkedverywellandyouusedtotake itevery

day,didn’tyou?”“Yes, it did work until that other day, but it hasn’t worked since then,” an antithetical

answer.“Ifyoucontinueintheseinconsistencies,takingitonedayandstoppingitthenext,however

efficacious themedicinemay be, it will never do you any good. Unless you try to be a littlemorepatient,dyspepsia,unlikeotherillnesses,won’tgetcured,willit?”andsheturnstoO-sanwhowasservingatthetable.

“Quiteso,madam.Unlessonetakesitregularly,onecannotfindoutwhetheramedicineisagoodoneorabadone.”O-sanreadilysideswiththemistress.

“I don’t care. I don’t take it because I don’t take it.Howcanamerewomanunderstandsuchthings?Keepquiet.”

“All right. I’m merely a woman,” she says pushing the taka-diastase toward him, quitedetermined tomake him see he is beaten.Mymaster stands upwithout saying aword andgoesoffintohisstudy.Hiswifeandservantexchangelooksandgiggle.IfonsuchoccasionsIfollowhimandjumpupontohisknees,experiencetellsmethatIshallpaydearlyformyfolly.Accordingly, I go quietly round through the garden and hop up onto the veranda outside hisstudy. I peeped through the slit between the paper sliding doors and found my masterexamining a book by somebody called Epictetus. If he could actually understand what he’s

reading,thenhewould indeedbeworthyofpraise.Butwithinfiveorsixminutesheslamsthebookdownonthetable,whichisjustwhatI’dsuspected.AsIsattherewatchinghim,hetookouthisdiaryandmadethefollowingentry.

Took a stroll with Coldmoon round Nezu, Ueno, Ikenohata and Kanda. At Ikenohata,geishas in formal spring kimono were playing battledore and shuttlecock in front of ahouseofassignation.Theirclothesbeautiful,buttheirfacesextremelyplain.Itoccurstomethattheyresemblethecatathome.

I don’t seewhy he should singleme out as an example of plain features. If I went to abarberandhadmy faceshaved, Iwouldn’t lookmuchdifferent fromahuman.But, thereyouare,humansareconceitedandthat’sthetroublewiththem.

AsweturnedatHotan’scorneranothergeishaappeared.Shewasslim,well-shapedandhershouldersweremostbeautifullysloped.Thewaysheworehermauvekimonogaveher a genuine elegance. “Sorry about last night, Gen-chan—I was so busy. . .” Shelaughed and one glimpsedwhite teeth.Her voicewas so harsh, as harsh as that of arovingcrow,thatherotherwisefineappearancediminishedinenchantment.SomuchsothatIdidn’tevenbothertoturnaroundtoseewhatsortofpersonthisGen-chanwas,butsauntered on toward Onarimachi with my hands tucked inside the breast-fold of mykimono.Coldmoon,however,seemedtohavebecomeatriflefidgety.

There is nothingmore difficult than understanding humanmentality. Mymaster’s presentmentalstateisveryfarfromclear;ishefeelingangryorlighthearted,orsimplyseekingsolaceinthescribblingsofsomedeadphilosopher?Onejustcan’ttellwhetherhe’smockingtheworldoryearningtobeacceptedintoitsfrivolouscompany;whetherheisgettingfuriousoversomepiddling little matter or holding himself aloof from worldly things. Compared with suchcomplexities,catsare trulysimple. Ifwewant toeat,weeat; ifwewant tosleep,wesleep;when we are angry, we are angry utterly; when we cry, we cry with all the desperation ofextremecommitment toourgrief.Thusweneverkeep things likediaries.Forwhatwouldbethepoint?Nodoubthumanbeingslikemytwo-facedmasterfinditnecessarytokeepdiariesinordertodisplayinadarkenedroomthattruecharactersoassiduouslyhiddenfromtheworld.Butamongcatsbothourfourmainoccupations(walking,standing,sitting,andlyingdown)andsuchincidentalactivitiesasexcretingwastearepursuedquiteopenly.Weliveourdiaries,andconsequently have no need to keep a daily record as a means of maintaining our realcharacters.Had I the time tokeepadiary, I’duse that time tobettereffect; sleepingon theveranda.

We dined somewhere in Kanda. Because I allowed myself one or two cups of saké(whichIhadnottastedforquiteatime),mystomachthismorningfeelsextremelywell.Iconclude that the best remedy for a stomach ailment is saké at suppertime. Taka-diastase just won’t do.Whatever claims aremade for it, it’s just no good. That whichlackseffectwillcontinuetolackeffect.

Thus with his brush he smears the good name of taka-diastase. It is as though hequarreledwithhimself,and in thisentryonecanseea last flashof thismorning’suglymood.Suchentriesareperhapsmostcharacteristicofhumanmores.

Theotherday,Mr.Xclaimedthatgoingwithoutone’sbreakfasthelpedthestomach.SoItook no breakfast for two or three days but the only effectwas tomakemy stomachgrumble.Mr.Ystronglyadvisedme to refrain fromeatingpickles.According tohim,alldisordersofthestomachoriginateinpickles.Histhesiswasthatabstinencefrompicklessodessicatesthesourcesofallstomachtrouble, thatacompletecuremust follow.Forat least a week no pickle crossed my lips, but, since that banishment produced nonoticeable effect, I have resumed consuming them. According to Mr. Z, the one trueremedy is ventralmassage. But no ordinarymassage of the stomachwould suffice. Itmust bemassage in accordancewith the old-worldmethods of theMinagawaSchool.Massagedthusonce,oratmosttwice,thestomachwouldberidofeveryill.Thewisestscholars, suchasYasuiSokuken,and themost resourceful heroes, suchasSakamotoRyoma, all relied upon this treatment. So off I went to Kaminegishi for an immediatemassage.But themethodsusedwereof inordinatecruelty.They toldme, for instance,that no good could be hoped for unless one’s bonesweremassaged; that itwould bedifficultproperly toeradicatemy troublesunless,at leastonce,myviscerawere totallyinverted.Atallevents,asinglesessionreducedmybodytotheconditionofcotton-woolandIfeltasthoughIhadbecomealifelongsuffererfromsleepingsickness.Ineverwentthereagain.Oncewasmorethanenough.ThenMr.Aassuredmethatoneshouldn’teatsolids. So I spent a whole day drinking nothing butmilk. My bowels gave forth heavyploppingnoisesasthoughtheyhadbeenswamped,andIcouldnotsleepallnight.Mr.Bstates that exercising one’s intestines by diaphragmic breathing produces a naturallyhealthystomachandhecounselsmetofollowhisadvice.AndIdidtry.Foratime.Butitprovednogood for itmademybowelsqueasy.Besides, thougheverynowandagain Istrivewithallmyheartandsoultocontrolmybreathingwiththediaphragm,infiveorsixminutes I forget to discipline my muscles. And if I concentrate on maintaining thatdiscipline I get so midriff-minded that I can neither read nor write. Waverhouse, myaesthete friend, once foundme thusbreathing in pursuit of a naturally healthy stomachand,ratherunkindly,urgedme,asaman,toterminatemylabor-pangs.Sodiaphragmicbreathing is now also a thing of the past. Dr. C recommends a diet of buckwheatnoodles.Sobuckwheatnoodlesitwas,alternatelyinsoupandservedcoldafterboiling.It didnothing,except loosenmybowels. I have triedeverypossiblemeans tocuremyancientailment,butallof themareuseless.Butthosethreecupsofsakéwhich Idrank

lastnightwithColdmoonhavecertainlydonesomegood.Fromnowon,Iwilldrinktwoorthreecupseachevening.

Idoubtwhetherthissakétreatmentwillbekeptupverylong.Mymaster’smindexhibitsthesame incessant changeability as can be seen in the eyes of cats. He has no sense ofperseverance. It is, moreover, idiotic that, while he fills his diary with lamentation over hisstomachtroubles,hedoeshisbesttopresentabravefacetotheworld;togrinandbearit.

Theotherdayhisscholar friend,ProfessorWhatnot,paidavisitandadvancedthetheorythatitwasatleastarguablethateveryillnessisthedirectresultofbothancestralandpersonalmalefaction.Heseemedtohavestudiedthematterprettydeeplyforthesequenceofhislogicwasclear, consistent,andorderly.Altogether itwasa fine theory. Iamsorry tosay thatmymaster has neither the brain nor the erudition to rebut such theories. However, perhapsbecause he himself was actually suffering from stomach trouble, he felt obliged tomake allsortsof face-savingexcuses.He irrelevantly retorted, “Your theory is interesting,butareyouawarethatCarlylewasdyspeptic?”asifclaimingthatbecauseCarlylewasdyspeptichisowndyspepsiawasanintellectualhonor.Hisfriendreplied,

“ItdoesnotfollowthatbecauseCarlylewasadyspeptic,alldyspepticsareCarlyles.”Mymaster, reprimanded, held his tongue, but the incident revealed his curious vanity. It’s all themoreamusingwhenonerecallsthathewouldprobablyprefernottobedyspeptic,forjustthismorninghe recorded inhisdiaryan intention to take treatmentbysakéas from tonight.Nowthat I’ve come to think of it, his inordinate consumption of rice-cakes thismorningmust havebeen the effect of last night’s saké session with Coldmoon. I could have eaten those cakesmyself.

ThoughIamacat,Ieatpracticallyanything.UnlikeRickshawBlacky,I lacktheenergytogooffraidingfishshopsupdistantalleys.Further,mysocialstatusissuchthatIcannotexpectthe luxury enjoyed by Tortoiseshell whosemistress teaches the idle rich to play on the two-stringedharp.ThereforeIdon’t,asotherscan, indulgemyself inlikesanddislikes.Ieatsmallbits of bread left over by the children, and I lick the jam frombean-jamcakes.Pickles tasteawful, but to broadenmy experience I once tried a couple of slices of pickled radish. It’s astrangethingbutonceI’vetriedit,almostanythingturnsoutedible.Tosay,“Idon’tlikethat”or“Idon’tlikethis”ismereextravagantwillfulness,andacatthatlivesinateacher’shouseshouldeschewsuchfoolishremarks.

Accordingtomymaster,therewasonceanovelistwhosenamewasBalzacandhelivedinFrance.Hewasanextremelyextravagantman. Idonotmeananextravaganteaterbut that,being a novelist, hewas extravagant in hiswriting.One day hewas trying to find a suitablenameforacharacterinthenovelhewaswriting,but,forwhateverreason,couldnotthinkofaname that pleased him. Just then one of his friends called by, and Balzac suggested theyshould go out for awalk. This friend had, of course, no ideawhy, still less that Balzacwasdetermined to find the name he needed.Out on the streets, Balzac did nothing but stare atshopsignboards,butstillhecouldn’t findasuitablename.Hemarchedonendlessly,whilehispuzzled friend, still ignorant of the object of the expedition, tagged along behind him. HavingfruitlesslyexploredParis frommorning tillevening, theywereon theirwayhomewhenBalzachappened to notice a tailor’s signboard bearing the name “Marcus.” He clapped his hands.

“This is it,”heshouted.“It justhastobethis.Marcusisagoodname,butwithaZinfrontofMarcus itbecomesaperfectname. Ithas tobeaZ.Z.Marcus is remarkablygood.Namesthat I inventarenevergood.Theysoundunnaturalhowevercleverlyconstructed.Butnow,atlong, long last, I’ve got the name I like.” Balzac, extremely pleasedwith himself, was totallyoblivioustotheinconveniencehehadcausedhisfriend.Itwouldseemundulytroublesomethatone should have to spend a whole day trudging around Paris merely to find a name for acharacter inanovel.Extravaganceof suchenormityacquiresa certain splendor, but folk likeme,acatkeptbyaclam-like introvert,cannotevenenvisagesuch inordinatebehavior.That Ishouldnotmuchcarewhat,so longas it’sedible, Ieat isprobablyan inevitable resultofmycircumstances.Thus itwas innowayasanexpressionofextravagance that Iexpressed justnow my feeling of wishing to eat a rice-cake. I simply thought that I’d better eat while thechanceoffered,andIthenrememberedthatthepieceofrice-cakewhichmymasterhadleftinhisbreakfastbowlwaspossiblystillinthekitchen.SoroundtothekitchenIwent.

The rice-cakewasstuck, just as I saw it thismorning,at thebottomof thebowland itscolorwasstillas I remembered it. Imustconfess that I’veneverpreviously tasted rice-cake.Yet,thoughIfeltashadeuncertain,itlooksquitegoodtoeat.WithatentativefrontpawIrakeatthegreenvegetablesadheringtotherice-cake.Myclaws,havingtouchedtheouterpartofthe rice-cake,becomesticky. I sniffat themand recognize thesmell thatcanbesmeltwhenrice stuck at the bottom of a cooking-pot is transferred into the boiled-rice container. I lookaround, wondering, “Shall I eat it, shall I not?” Fortunately, or unfortunately, there’s nobodyabout.O-san,witha face thatshowsnochangebetweenyearendand thespring, isplayingbattledoreandshuttlecock.Thechildrenintheinnerroomaresingingsomethingaboutarabbitandatortoise.IfIamtoeatthisNewYearspeciality,now’sthemoment.IfImissthischanceIshallhavetospendawhole,longyearnotknowinghowarice-caketastes.Atthispoint,thoughamerecat, Iperceiveda truth: thatgoldenopportunitymakesallanimalsventure todoeventhosethingstheydonotwanttodo.Totellthetruth,Idonotparticularlywanttoeattherice-cake. In fact the more I examined the thing at the bottom of the bowl the more nervous Ibecameandthemorekeenlydisinclinedtoeatit.IfonlyO-sanwouldopenthekitchendoor,orif I couldhear thechildren’s footstepscoming towardme, Iwouldunhesitatinglyabandon thebowl;notonlythat,Iwouldhaveputawayallthoughtofrice-cakesforanotheryear.Butnoonecomes. I’vehesitated longenough.Stillnoonecomes. I feelas ifsomeonewerehotlyurgingmeon,someonewhispering,“Eat it,quickly!”I lookedintothebowlandprayedthatsomeonewouldappear.Butnoonedid.Ishallhavetoeattherice-cakeafterall.Intheend,loweringtheentireweightofmybodyintothebottomofthebowl,Ibitaboutaninchdeepintoacorneroftherice-cake.

Most things that I bite that hard come clean off inmymouth.Butwhat a surprise! For Ifoundwhen I tried to reopenmy jawthat itwouldnotbudge. I tryonceagain tobitemywayfree,but find I’mstuck.Too late I realize that the rice-cake isa fiend.Whenamanwhohasfallen intoamarshstrugglestoescape, themorehethrashesabout tryingtoextracthis legs,thedeeperinhesinks.Justso,theharderIclampmyjaws,themoremymouthgrowsheavyandmyteethimmobilized.Icanfeeltheresistancetomyteeth,butthat’sall.Icannotdisposeofit.Waverhouse,theaesthete,oncedescribedmymasterasanaliquantmanandImustsayit’s ratheragooddescription.This rice-cake too, likemymaster, isaliquant. It looked tomethat,howevermuchIcontinuedbiting,nothingcouldeverresult:theprocesscouldgoonandoneternallylikethedivisionoftenbythree.InthemiddleofthisanguishIfoundmysecondtruth:

that all animals can tell by instinct what is or is not good for them. Although I have nowdiscovered twogreat truths, I remainunhappyby reasonof theadherent rice-cake.My teetharebeingsuckedintoitsbody,andarebecomingexcruciatinglypainful.UnlessIcancompletemybiteandrunawayquickly,O-sanwillbeonme.Thechildrenseemtohavestoppedsinging,and I’m sure they’ll soon come running into the kitchen. In an extremity of anguish, I lashedaboutwithmy tail,but tonoeffect. Imademyearsstandupand then lie flat,but thisdidn’thelpeither.Cometothinkofit,myearsandtailhavenothingtodowiththerice-cake.Inshort,Ihad indulged inawasteofwagging,awasteofear-erection,andawasteofear-flattening.SoIstopped.

At long last it dawnedonme that thebest thing todo is to force the rice-cakedownbyusingmytwofrontpaws.FirstIraisedmyrightpawandstrokeditaroundmymouth.Naturally,thismerestrokingbroughtno reliefwhatsoever.Next, I stretchedoutmy leftpawandwith itscrapedquickcirclesaroundmymouth.Theseineffectualpassesfailedtoexorcizethefiendinthe rice-cake.Realizing that itwasessential toproceedwithpatience, Iscrapedalternativelywithmy rightand left paws,butmy teethstayedstuck in the rice-cake.Growing impatient, Inow used both front paws simultaneously. Then, only then, I found tomy amazement that Icouldactuallystanduponmyhindlegs.SomehowIfeelun-catlike.ButnotcaringwhetherIamacat or not, I scratchaway likemadatmywhole face in frenzieddetermination to keeponscratchinguntilthefiendintherice-cakehasbeendrivenout.Sincethemovementsofmyfrontpaws are so vigorous I am in danger of losing my balance and falling down. To keep myequilibrium I find myself marking time with my hind legs. I begin to tittup from one spot toanother,and I finishupprancingmadlyallover thekitchen. Itgivesmegreatpride to realizethatIcansodextrouslymaintainanuprightposition,andtherevelationofathirdgreattruthisthus vouchsafed me: that in conditions of exceptional danger one can surpass one’s normallevelofachievement.ThisistherealmeaningofSpecialProvidence.

SustainedbySpecialProvidence,Iamfightingfordearlifeagainstthatdemonicrice-cakewhen I hear footsteps. Someone seems to be approaching. Thinking it would be fatal to becaughtinthispredicament,Iredoublemyeffortsandampositivelyrunningaroundthekitchen.Thefootstepscomecloserandcloser.Alas,thatSpecialProvidenceseemsnottolastforever.IntheendIamdiscoveredbythechildrenwholoudlyshout,“Whylook!Thecat’sbeeneatingrice-cakes and is dancing.” The first to hear their announcement was that O-san person.Abandoning her shuttlecock and battledore, she flew in through the kitchen door crying,“Graciousme!”Thenthemistress,sedateinherformalsilkkimono,deignstoremark,“Whatanaughtycat.”Andmymaster,drawnfromhisstudybythegeneralhubbub,shouts,“Youfool!”Thechildrenfindmefunniest,butbygeneralagreementthewholehouseholdishavingagoodoldlaugh.Itisannoying,itispainful,itisimpossibletostopdancing.Hellanddamnation!Whenat longlastthelaughterbegantodiedown,thedear, littlefive-year-oldpipedupwithan,“Ohwhat a comical cat,”whichhad theeffect of renewing the tideof their ebbing laughter.Theyfairlysplit theirsides. Ihavealreadyheardandseenquitea lotofheartlesshumanbehavior,but never before have I felt so bitterly critical of their conduct. Special Providence havingvanishedintothinair, Iwasbackinmycustomarypositiononall fours,finallyatmywit’send,and,by reasonofgiddiness,cuttingaquite ridiculous figure.Mymasterseems tohave felt itwouldbeperhapsapitytoletmediebeforehisveryeyes,forhesaidtoO-san,“Helphimgetrid of that rice-cake.” O-san looks at the mistress as if to say, “Why not make him go ondancing?”Themistresswouldgladlyseemyminuetcontinued,but,sinceshewouldnotgoso

faraswantingmetodancemyselftodeath,saysnothing.Mymasterturnedsomewhatsharplytotheservantandordered,“Hurry itup, ifyoudon’thelpquicklythecatwillbedead.”O-san,withavacantlookonherface,asthoughshehadbeenroughlywakenedfromsomepeculiarlydeliciousdream,tookafirmgripontherice-cakeandyankeditoutofmymouth.Iamnotquiteas feeble-fanged asColdmoon, but I really did thinkmy entire front toothworkwas about tobreakoff.Thepainwasindescribable.Theteethembeddedintherice-cakearebeingpitilesslywrenched.Youcan’t imaginewhat itwas like. Itwas then that the fourthenlightenmentburstuponme: that all comfort is achieved through hardship.When at last I came to myself andlooked around at a world restored to normality, all the members of the household haddisappearedintotheinnerroom.

Havingmadesuchafoolofmyself,IfeelquiteunabletofacesuchhostilecriticsasO-san.It would, I think, unhinge my mind. To restore my mental tranquillity, I decided to visitTortoiseshell, so I left the kitchen and set off through the backyard to the house of the two-stringedharp.Tortoiseshell is a celebratedbeauty in our district. Though I amundoubtedly acat,Ipossessawidegeneralknowledgeofthenatureofcompassionandamdeeplysensitiveto affection, kind-heartedness, tenderness, and love.Merely to observe the bitterness inmymaster’s face, just tobesnubbedbyO-san, leavesmeoutofsorts.Atsuch times Ivisit thisfair, lady friend of mine and our conversation ranges over many things. Then, before I amaware of it, I find myself refreshed. I forget my worries, hardships, everything. I feel as ifreborn.Female influence is indeedamost potent thing.Throughagap in the cedar-hedge, Ipeertoseeifsheisanywhereabout.Tortoiseshell,wearingasmartnewcollarincelebrationofthe season, is sitting very neatly on her veranda. The rondure of her back is indescribablybeautiful.It isthemostbeautifulofallcurvedlines.Thewayhertailcurves,thewayshefoldsher legs, the charmingly lazy shake of her ears—all these are quite beyond description.Shelookssowarmsittingtheresogracefullyintheverysunniestspot.Herbodyholdsanattitudeofutter stillness and correctness. And her fur, glossy as velvet that reflects the rays of spring,seemssuddenly toquiveralthough theair is still.Forawhile I stood,completelyenraptured,gazingather.ThenasIcametomyself,Isoftlycalled,“MissTortoiseshell,MissTortoiseshell,”andbeckonedwithmypaw.

“Why, Professor,” she greeted me as she stepped down from the veranda. A tiny bellattached toherscarletcollarmade little tinklingsounds. Isay tomyself, “Ah, it’s for theNewYearthatshe’swearingabell,”and,whileIamstilladmiringitslivelytinkle,findshehasarrivedbesideme. “A happyNewYear,Professor,” and shewavesher tail to the left; forwhen catsexchangegreetingsonefirstholdsone’stailuprightlikeapole,thentwistsitroundtotheleft.Inour neighborhood it is only Tortoiseshell who calls me Professor. Now, I have alreadymentioned that I have, as yet, no name; it is Tortoiseshell, and she alone,whopaysme therespectduetoonethatlivesinateacher’shouse.Indeed,IamnotaltogetherdispleasedtobeaddressedasaProfessor,andrespondwillinglytoherapostrophe.

“AndahappyNewYeartoyou,”Isay.“Howbeautifullyyou’redoneup!”“Yes,themistressboughtitformeattheendoflastyear.Isn’titnice?”andshemakesit

tinkleforme.“Yesindeed,ithasalovelysound.I’veneverseensuchawonderfulthinginmylife.”“No! Everyone’s using them,” and she tinkle-tinkles. “But isn’t it a lovely sound? I’m so

happy.”Shetinkle-tinkle-tinklescontinuously.“Icanseeyourmistresslovesyouverydearly.”Comparingmylotwithhers,Ihintedatmy

envyofapamperedlife.Tortoiseshell isasimplecreature.“Yes,”shesays,“that’strue;shetreatsmeasif Iwere

herownchild.”Andshelaughsinnocently.Itisnottruethatcatsneverlaugh.Humanbeingsaremistaken in theirbelief thatonly theyarecapableof laughter.When I laughmynostrilsgrowtriangularandmyAdam’sappletrembles.Nowonderhumanbeingsfailtounderstandit.

“Whatisyourmasterreallylike?”“Mymaster?Thatsoundsstrange.Mineisamistress.Amistressofthetwostringedharp.”“Iknowthat.Butwhatisherbackground?Iimagineshe’sapersonofhighbirth?”“Ah,yes.”AsmallPrincess-pineWhilewaitingforyou...Beyondtheslidingpaper-doorthemistressbeginstoplayonhertwo-stringedharp.“Isn’tthatasplendidvoice?”Tortoiseshellisproudofit.“It seemsextremelygood,but Idon’tunderstandwhatshe’ssinging.What’s thenameof

thepiece?”“That?Oh,it’scalledsomethingorother.Themistressisespeciallyfondofit.D’youknow,

she’sactuallysixty-two?Butinexcellentcondition,don’tyouthink?”Isupposeonehas toadmit thatshe’s inexcellentcondition ifshe’sstillaliveatsixty-two.

SoIanswered,“Yes.”I thoughttomyself thatI’dgivenasillyanswer,butIcoulddonoothersinceIcouldn’tthinkofanythingbrightertosay.

“Youmaynotthinkso,butsheusedtobeapersonofhighstanding.Shealwaystellsmeso.”“Whatwassheoriginally?”“Iunderstandthatshe’sthethirteenthShogun’swidowedwife’sprivate-secretary’syounger

sister’shusband’smother’snephew’sdaughter.”“What?”“ThethirteenthShogun’swidowedwife’sprivate-secretary’syoungersister’s...”“Ah!But,please,notquitesofast.ThethirteenthShogun’swidowedwife’syoungersister’s

private-secretary’s...”“No,no,no.ThethirteenthShogun’swidowedwife’sprivate-secretary’syoungersister’s..

.”“ThethirteenthShogun’swidowedwife’s...”“Right.”“Private-secretary’s.Right?”“Right.”“Husband’s...”“No,youngersister’shusband’s.”“Ofcourse.HowcouldI?Youngersister’shusband’s...”“Mother’snephew’sdaughter.Thereyouare.”“Mother’snephew’sdaughter?”“Yes,you’vegotit.”“Notreally.It’ssoterriblyinvolvedthatIstillcan’tgetthehangofit.WhatexactlyisherrelationtothethirteenthShogun’swidowedwife?”“Oh,butyouaresostupid!I’vejustbeentellingyouwhatsheis.She’sthethirteenthShogun’swidowedwife’sprivate-secretary’syoungersister’shusband’s

mother’s...”“ThatmuchI’vefollowed,but...”“Then,you’vegotit,haven’tyou?”“Yes.”Ihadtogivein.Therearetimesforlittlewhitelies.Beyond theslidingpaper-door thesoundof the two-stringedharpcametoasuddenstop

and themistress’ voice called, “Tortoiseshell, Tortoiseshell, your lunch is ready.” Tortoiseshelllooked happy and remarked, “There, she’s calling, so I must go home. I hope you’ll forgiveme?”WhatwouldbethegoodofmysayingthatImind?“Comeandseemeagain,”shesaid;andsheranoffthroughthegardentinklingherbell.Butsuddenlysheturnedandcamebacktoaskmeanxiously,“You’relookingfarfromwell.Isanythingwrong?”Icouldn’tverywelltellherthatI’deatenarice-cakeandgonedancing;so,“No,”Isaid,“nothinginparticular. Ididsomeweighty thinking,whichbroughtonsomethingofaheadache. Indeed Icalled todaybecause Ifanciedthatjusttotalkwithyouwouldhelpmetofeelbetter.”

“Really?Well,takegoodcareofyourself.Good-byenow.”Sheseemedatinybitsorrytoleaveme,which has completely restoredme to the liveliness I’d felt before the rice-cake bitme. Inowfeltwonderfulanddecidedtogohomethroughthat tea-plantationwhereonecouldhavethepleasureoftreadingdownlumpsofhalf-meltedfrost.Iputmyfacethroughthebrokenbamboo hedge, and there was Rickshaw Blacky, back again on the dry chrysanthemums,yawninghisspineintoahigh,blackarch.NowadaysI’mnolongerscaredofBlacky,but,sinceanyconversationwithhim involves the riskof trouble, Iendeavor topass,cuttinghimoff.Butit’snot inBlacky’snaturetocontainhisfeelingsifhebelieveshimself lookeddownupon.“Heyyou,Mr.No-name.You’re very stuck-up these days, now aren’t you?Youmay be living in ateacher’shouse,butdon’tgogivingyourselfsuchairs.Andstop,Iwarnyou,tryingtomakeafoolofme.”Blackydoesn’tseemtoknowthatIamnowacelebrity.IwishIcouldexplainthesituationtohim,but,sincehe’snotthekindwhocanunderstandsuchthings,IdecidesimplytoofferhimthebriefestofgreetingsandthentotakemyleaveassoonasIdecentlycan.

“AhappyNewYear,Mr.Blacky.Youdolookwell,asusual.”AndIliftupmytailandtwistittotheleft.Blacky,keepinghistailstraightup,refusedtoreturnmysalutation.

“What!Happy?IftheNewYear’shappy,thenyoushouldbeoutofyourtinymindthewholeyearround.Nowpushoffsharp,youback-endofabellows.”

That turnof phraseabout theback-endofabellowssoundsdistinctlyderogatory, but itssemanticcontenthappenedtoescapeme.“What,” Ienquired,“doyoumeanbytheback-endofabellows?”

“You’rebeingswornatandyoustandthereasking itsmeaning. Igiveup! I reallydo!YoureallyareaNewYear’snit.”

ANewYear’snitsoundssomewhatpoetic,butitsmeaningisevenmoreobscurethanthatbitaboutthebellows.Iwouldhavelikedtoaskthemeaningformyfuturereference,but,asitwas obvious I’d get no clear answer, I just stood facing him without a word. I was actuallyfeeling rather awkward, but just then the wife of Blacky’s master suddenly screamed out,“WhereinhellisthatcutofsalmonIlefthereontheshelf?MyGod,Idodeclarethathellcat’sbeenhereandsnitcheditonceagain!That’sthenastiestcatI’veeverseen.Seewhathe’llgetwhenhecomesback!”Her raucousvoiceunceremoniouslyshakes themildairof theseason,vulgarizingitsnaturalpeacefulness.Blackyputsonanimpudent lookas if tosay,“Ifyouwanttoscreamyourheadoff,screamaway,”andhe jerkedhissquarechin forwardatmeas if tosay, “Did you hear that hullaballoo?”Up to this point I’ve been too busy talking to Blacky to

notice or think about anything else; but now, glancing down, I see between his legs amud-coveredbonefromthecheapestcutofsalmon.

“Soyou’vebeenat it again!”Forgettingour recentexchanges, I offeredBlackymyusualflatteringexclamation.Butitwasnotenoughtorestorehimtogoodhumor.

“Beenat it!What thehell d’youmean, you saucyblockhead?Andwhat do youmeanbysaying‘again’whenthisisnothingbutaskinnysliceofthecheapestfish?Don’tyouknowwhoIam! I’m Rickshaw Blacky, damn you.” And, having no shirtsleeves to roll up, he lifts anaggressiverightfront-pawashighashisshoulder.

“I’vealwaysknownyouwereMr.RickshawBlacky.”“Ifyouknew,whythehelldidyousayI’dbeenatitagain?Answerme!”Andheblowsout

overmegreatgustsofovenbreath.Werewehumans,Iwouldbeshakenbythecollarofmycoat. I amsomewhat takenabackandam indeedwonderinghow togetoutof thesituation,whenthatwoman’sfearfulvoiceisheardagain.

“Hey!Mr.Westbrook.Youthere,Westbrook,canyouhearme?Listen,Igotsomethingtosay.Bringmeapoundofbeef,andquick.O.K.?Understand?Beefthatisn’ttough.Apoundofit.See?”Herbeef-demandingtonesshatterthepeaceofthewholeneighborhood.

“It’sonlyonceayearsheordersbeefand that’swhysheshoutsso loud.Shewants theentire neighborhood to know about her marvellous pound of beef. What can one do with awoman like that!” asked Blacky jeeringly as he stretched all four of his legs. As I can findnothingtosayinreply,Ikeepsilentandwatch.

“Amiserablepoundjustsimplywillnotdo.ButIreckonitcan’tbehelped.Hangontothatbeef. I’ll have it later.” Blacky communeswith himself as though the beef had been orderedspeciallyforhim.

“Thistimeyou’reinforarealtreat.That’swonderful!”WiththesewordsI’dhopedtopackhimofftohishome.

But Blacky snarled, “That’s nothing to do with you. Just shut your big mouth, you!” andusinghisstronghind-legs,hesuddenlyscrabblesupatorrentoffallenicicleswhichthudsdownon my head. I was taken completely aback, and, while I was still busy shaking the muddydebrisoffmybody,Blackyslidoffthroughthehedgeanddisappeared.PresumablytopossesshimselfofWestbrook’sbeef.

WhenIgethomeIfindtheplaceunusuallyspringlikeandeventhemasterislaughinggaily.Wonderingwhy,Ihoppedontotheveranda,and,asIpaddedtositbesidethemaster,noticedanunfamiliarguest.Hishairispartedneatlyandhewearsacrestedcottonsurcoatandaduck-cloth hakama. He looks like a student and, at that, an extremely serious one. Lying on thecorner of my master’s small hand-warming brazier, right beside the lacquer cigarette-box,there’s a visiting card on which is written, “To introduce Mr. Beauchamp Blowlamp: fromColdmoon.”

Whichtellsmeboththenameofthisguestandthefactthathe’safriendofColdmoon.TheconversationgoingonbetweenhostandguestsoundsenigmaticbecauseImissedthestartofit. But I gather that it has something to dowithWaverhouse, the aesthetewhom I have hadpreviousoccasiontomention.

“Andheurgedme tocomealongwithhimbecause itwould involvean ingenious idea,hesaid.”Theguestistalkingcalmly.

“Do you mean there was some ingenious idea involved in lunching at aWestern stylerestaurant?”Mymasterpoursmoreteafortheguestandpushesthecuptowardhim.

“Well,atthetimeIdidnotunderstandwhatthis ingeniousideacouldbe,but,sinceitwashisidea,Ithoughtitboundtobesomethinginterestingand...”

“Soyouaccompaniedhim.Isee.”“Yes,butIgotasurprise.”Themaster,lookingasiftosay,“Itoldyouso,”givesmeawhackonthehead.Whichhurts

a little. “I expect it proved somewhat farcical. He’s rather thatway inclined.”Clearly, he hassuddenlyrememberedthatbusinesswithAndreadelSarto.

“Ahyes?Well,ashesuggestedwewouldbeeatingsomethingspecial...”“Whatdidyouhave?”“Firstofall,whilestudyingthemenu,hegavemeallsortsofinformationaboutfood.”“Beforeorderingany?”“Yes.”“Andthen?”“Andthen, turning toawaiter,hesaid, ‘Theredoesn’tseemtobeanythingspecialon the

card.’ The waiter, not to be outdone, suggested roast duck or veal chops. WhereuponWaverhouseremarkedquitesharplythatwehadn’tcomeaveryconsiderabledistancejustforcommon or garden fare. The waiter, who didn’t understand the significance of common orgarden,lookedpuzzledandsaidnothing.”

“SoIwouldimagine.”“Then,turningtome,WaverhouseobservedthatinFranceorinEnglandonecanobtainany

amountofdishescookedà laTenmeiorà laManyōbut that inJapan,whereveryougo, thefood isallsostereotyped thatonedoesn’teven feel tempted toentera restaurantof theso-calledWesternstyle.Andsoonandsoon.Hewasintremendousform.Buthasheeverbeenabroad?”

“Waverhouseabroad?Ofcoursenot.He’sgotthemoneyandthetime.Ifhewantedto,hecouldgooffanytime.Heprobablyjustconvertedhisfutureintentiontotravelintothepasttenseofwidely traveledexperienceasasortof joke.”Themaster flattershimself thathehassaidsomethingwittyandlaughsinvitingly.Hisguestlookslargelyunimpressed.

“I see. I wondered when he’d been abroad. I took everything he said quite seriously.Besides,hedescribedsuch thingsassnailsoupandstewedfrogsas thoughhe’d reallyseenthemwithhisowntwoeyes.”

“He must have heard about them from someone. He’s adept at such terminologicalinexactitudes.”

“Soitwouldseem,”andBeauchampstaresdownat thenarcissus inavase.Heseemsalittledisappointed.

“So,thatthenwashisingeniousidea,Itakeit?”asksthemasterstillinquestofcertainties.“No,thatwasonlythebeginning.Themainpart’sstilltocome.”“Ah!”Themasteruttersaninterjectionmingledwithcuriosity.“Having finished his dissertation on matters gastronomical and European, he proposed

‘sinceit’squiteimpossibletoobtainsnailsorfrogs,howevermuchwemaydesirethem,let’satleasthavemoat-bells.

Whatdoyousay?’Andwithoutreallygivingthematteranythoughtatall,Ianswered,‘Yes,thatwouldbefine.’”

“Moat-bellssoundalittleodd.”“Yes,veryodd,butbecauseWaverhousewasspeakingsoseriously,Ididn’tthennoticethe

oddity.”Heseemstobeapologizingtomymasterforhiscarelessness.“What happened next?” asks my master quite indifferently and without any sign of

sympatheticresponsetohisguest’simpliedapology.“Well, then he told thewaiter to bringmoat-bells for two. Thewaiter said,‘Do youmean

meatballs,sir?’butWaverhouse,assuminganevermoreseriousexpression,correctedhimwithgravity.‘No,notmeatballs,moat-bells.’”

“Really?Butisthereanysuchdishasmoat-bells?”“WellIthoughtitsoundedsomewhatstrange,butasWaverhousewassocalmlysureand

issogreatanauthorityonall thingsOccidental—remember itwas thenmyfirmbelief thathewas widely traveled—I too joined in and explained to the waiter,‘Moat-bells, my good man,moat-bells.’”

“Whatdidthewaiterdo?”“Thewaiter—it’s really rather funnynowonecomesto thinkbackon it—lookedthoughtful

forawhileandthensaid,‘I’mterriblysorrysir,buttoday,unfortunately,wehavenomoat-bells.Though should you care for meatballs we could serve you, sir, immediately.’ Waverhousethereupon looked extremely put out and said, ‘So we’ve come all this long way for nothing.Couldn’t you reallymanagemoat-bells?Please do seewhat can be done,’ and he slipped asmall tip to the waiter. The waiter said he would ask the cook again and went off into thekitchen.”

“Hemusthavehadhisminddeadsetoneatingmoat-bells.”“Afterabrief interval thewaiter returned to say that ifmoat-bellswereorderedspecially

theycouldbeprovided,but that itwould takea long time.Waverhousewasquitecomposed.Hesaid,‘It’stheNewYearandweareinnokindofhurry.Solet’swaitforit?’HedrewacigarfromtheinsideofhisWesternsuitandlightedupinthemostleisurelymanner.Ifeltcalleduponto match his cool composure so, taking the JapanNews frommy kimono pocket, I startedreadingit.Thewaiterretiredforfurtherconsultations.”

“What a business!” Mymaster leans forward, showing quite asmuch enthusiasm as hedoeswhenreadingwarnewsinthedailies.

“Thewaiter reemergedwithapologiesand theconfession that, of late, the ingredientsofmoat-bellswereinsuchshortsupplythatonecouldnotgetthematKameya’snorevendownatNo.15inYokohama.

Heexpressed regret, but it seemedcertain that thematerial formoat-bellswouldnotbebackinstockforsomeconsiderabletime.

Waverhousethenturnedtomeandrepeated,overandoveragain,‘Whatapity,andwecameespeciallyforthatdish.’IfeltthatIhadtosaysomething,soI

joinedhiminsaying,‘Yes,it’saterribleshame!Really,agreat,greatpity!’”“Quiteso,”agreesmymaster,thoughImyselfdon’tfollowhisreasoning.“Theseobservationsmusthavemadethewaiterfeelquitesorry,forhesaid,‘When,oneof

thesedays,wedohavethenecessaryingredients,we’dbehappyifyouwouldcome,sir,andsampleourfare.’ButwhenWaverhouseproceededtoaskhimwhatingredientstherestaurantdiduse, thewaiter just laughedandgavenoanswer.Waverhouse thenpressinglyenquired ifthe key-ingredient happened to be Tochian (who, as you know, is ahaikupoet of the NihonSchool);andd’youknow,thewaiteranswered,‘Yes,it is,sir,andthatispreciselywhynoneiscurrentlyavailableeveninYokohama.Iamindeed,’headded,‘mostregretful,sir.’”

“Ha-ha-ha!So that’s thepointof thestory?Howvery funny!”and themaster,quiteunlike

hisusualself,roarswithlaughter.HiskneesshakesomuchthatInearlytumbleoff.Payingnoregardtomypredicament, themaster laughsand laughs.HeseemssuddenlydeeplypleasedtorealizethatheisnotaloneinbeinggulledbyAndreadelSarto.

“Andthen,assoonaswewereout inthestreet,hesaid ‘Yousee,we’vedonewell.Thatploy about the moat-bells was really rather good, wasn’t it?’ and he looked as pleased aspunch.IletitbeknownthatIwaslostinadmiration,andsoweparted.However,sincebythenitwaswellpastthelunch-hour,Iwasnearlystarving.”

“Thatmusthavebeenverytryingforyou.”Mymastershows,forthefirsttime,asympathytowhichIhavenoobjection.Forawhiletherewasapauseintheconversationandmypurringcouldbeheardbyhostandguest.

Mr. Beauchamp drains his cup of tea, now quite cold, in one quick gulp and with someformalityremarks,“Asamatter-of-factI’vecometodaytoaskafavorfromyou.”

“Yes?AndwhatcanIdoforyou?”Mymaster,too,assumesaformalface.“Asyouknow,Iamadevoteeofliteratureandart...”“That’sagoodthing,”repliesmymasterquiteencouragingly.“Sincealittlewhileback,Iandafewlike-mindedfriendshavegottogetherandorganizeda

readinggroup.Theideaistomeetonceamonthfor thepurposeofcontinuedstudying inthisfield.Infact,we’vealreadyhadthefirstmeetingattheendoflastyear.”

“MayIaskyouaquestion?Whenyousay,likethat,areadinggroup,itsuggeststhatyouengageinreadingpoetryandprose inasingsongtone.But inwhatsortofmannerdoyou, infact,proceed?”

“Well, we are beginning with ancient works but we intend to consider the works of ourfellowmembers.”

“Whenyouspeakofancientworks,doyoumeansomethinglikePoChu-i’sLuteSong?”“No.”“PerhapsthingslikeBuson’smixtureofhaikuandChineseverse?”“No.”“Whatkindsofthingdoyouthendo?”“Theotherday,wedidoneofChikamatsu’slovers’suicides.”“Chikamatsu?YoumeantheChikamatsuwhowrotejōruriplays?”There are not two Chikamatsus. When one says Chikamatsu, one does indeed mean

Chikamatsu theplaywrightandcouldmeannobodyelse. I thoughtmymaster really stupid toasksofoolaquestion.However,oblivioustomynaturalreactions,hegentlystrokesmyhead.Icalmly let himgoon strokingme, justifyingmy compliancewith the reflection that so small aweakness ispermissiblewhen thereare those in theworldwhoadmit to thinking themselvesunderlovingobservationbypersonswhomerelyhappentobecross-eyed.

Beauchampanswers,“Yes,”andtriestoreadthereactiononmymaster’sface.“Thenisitonepersonwhoreadsordoyouallotpartsamongyou?”“Weallotpartsandeachreadsouttheappropriatedialogue.Theideaistoempathizewith

the characters in the play and, above all, to bring out their individual personalities. We dogestures as well. The main thing is to catch the essential character of the era of the play.Accordingly, the linesare readout as if spokenbyeach character,whichmayperhapsbeayoungladyorpossiblyanerrand-boy.”

“Inthatcaseitmustbelikeaplay.”“Yes,almosttheonlythingsmissingarethecostumesandthescenery.”

“MayIaskifyourreadingwasasuccess?”“Forafirstattempt,Ithinkonemightclaimthatitwas,ifanything,asuccess.”“Andwhichlovers’suicideplaydidyouperformonthelastoccasion?”“WedidasceneinwhichaboatmantakesafaretotheredlightquarterofYoshiwara.”“Youcertainlypickedonamostirregularincident,didn’tyou?”Mymaster,beingateacher,

tiltshisheada littlesidewaysas if regardingsomethingslightlydoubtful.Thecigarettesmokedriftingfromhisnosepassesupbyhisearandalongthesideofhishead.

“No, it isn’t that irregular. The characters are a passenger, a boatman, a high-classprostitute, a serving-girl, an ancient crone of a brothel-attendant, and, of course, a geisha-registrar. But that’s all.” Beauchamp seems utterly unperturbed. My master, on hearing thewords“ahigh-classprostitute,”wincesslightlybutprobablyonlybecausehe’snotwellupinthemeaningsofsuchtechnicaltermsasnakai,yarite,andkemban.

He seeks to clear the ground with a question. “Does not nakai signify something like amaid-servantinabrothel?”

“Though I have not yet given themattermy full attention, I believe thatnakai signifies aserving-girlinateahouseandthatyariteissomesortofanassistantinthewomen’squarters.”AlthoughBeauchamprecentlyclaimedthathisgroupseekstoimpersonatetheactualvoicesofthecharacters in theplays,hedoesnot seem tohave fullygrasped the realnatureofyariteandnakai.

“Isee,nakaibelongtoa teahousewhileyarite live inabrothel.Next,arekembanhumanbeingsorisitthenameofaplace?Ifhuman,aretheymenorwomen?”

“Kemban,Iratherthink,isamalehumanbeing.”“Whatishisfunction?”“I’venotyetstudiedthatfar.ButI’llmakeinquiries,oneofthesedays.”Thinking, in the light of these revelations, that the play-readings must be affairs

extraordinarilyill-conducted,Iglanceupatmymaster’sface.Surprisingly, I findhim lookingserious. “Apart fromyourself,whowere theother readers

takingpart?”“Awidevarietyofpeople.Mr.K,aBachelorofLaw,played thehigh-classprostitute,but

his delivery of thatwoman’s sugary dialogue through his verymalemustache did, I confess,createaslightlyqueerimpression.Andthentherewasasceneinwhichthisoiranwasseizedwithspasms...”

“Do your readers extend their reading activities to the simulation of spasms?” askedmymasteranxiously.

“Yesindeed;forexpressionis,afterall,important.”Beauchampclearlyconsidershimselfaliteraryartistàl’outrance.

“Didhemanagetohavehisspasmsnicely?”Mymasterhasmadeawittyremark.“Thespasmswereperhapstheonly thingbeyondourcapabilityatsucha firstendeavor.”

Beauchamp,too,iscapableofwit.“Bytheway,”asksmymaster,“whatpartdidyoutake?”“Iwastheboatman.”“Really?You,theboatman!”Mymaster’stonewassuchastosuggestthat,ifBeauchamp

couldbeaboatman,hehimselfcouldbeageisha-registrar.Switchinghistonetooneofsimplecandor,hethenasks:“Wastheroleoftheboatmantoomuchforyou?”

Beauchamp does not seem particularly offended. Maintaining the same calm voice, he

replies, “As a matter of fact, it was because of this boatman that our precious gathering,though itwent up like a rocket, came down like a stick. It so happened that four or five girlstudentsare living in theboardinghousenextdoor toourmeetinghall. Idon’tknowhow,butthey foundoutwhenour readingwas to take place.Anyway, it appears that they cameandlistenedtousunderthewindowofthehall.

Iwas doing the boatman’s voice, and, justwhen I hadwarmedup nicely andwas reallygetting into the swing of it—perhaps my gestures were a little over-exaggerated—the girlstudents,allofwhomhadmanagedtocontroltheirfeelingsuptothatpoint,thereuponburstoutintosimultaneouscachinnations.Iwasofcoursesurprised,andIwasofcourseembarrassed:indeed,thusdampened,Icouldnotfinditinmetocontinue.Soourmeetingcametoanend.”

If thiswereconsideredasuccess,even fora firstmeeting,whatwould failurehavebeenlike? I could not help laughing. Involuntarily, my Adam’s apple made a rumbling noise. Mymaster,wholikeswhathetakestobepurring,strokesmyheadevermoreandmoregently.I’mthankfultobelovedjustbecauseIlaughatsomeone,butatthesametimeIfeelabituneasy.

“Whatverybadluck!”MymasterofferscondolencesdespitethefactthatwearestillinthecongratulatoryseasonoftheNewYear.

“Asforoursecondmeeting,weintendtomakeagreatadvanceandmanagethingsinthegrandstyle.That, in fact, is theveryreasonformycall today:we’d likeyouto joinourgroupandhelpus.”

“Ican’tpossiblyhavespasms.”Mynegative-mindedmasterisalreadypoisedtorefuse.“No, you don’t have to have spasms or anything like that. Here’s a list of the patron

members.” So saying, Beauchamp very carefully produced a small notebook from a purple-colourcarrying-wrapper.Heopenedthenotebookandplacedit infrontofmymaster’sknees.“Willyoupleasesignandmakeyourseal-markhere?”Iseethatthebookcontainsthenamesof distinguished Doctors of Literature and Bachelors of Arts of this present day, all neatlymusteredinfullforce.

“Well,Iwouldn’tsayIobjecttobecomingasupporter,butwhatsortofobligationswouldIhavetomeet?”Myoyster-likemasterdisplayshisapprehensions...

“There’shardlyanyobligation.Weasknothingfromyouexceptasignatureexpressingyourapproval.”

“Well, in that case, I’ll join.” As he realizes that there is no real obligation involved, hesuddenlybecomeslighthearted.Hisfaceassumestheexpressionofonewhowouldsignevenasecret commitment toengage in rebellion,provided itwasclear that thesignaturecarriednobinding obligation. Besides, it is understandable that he should assent so eagerly: for to beincluded,evenbynameonly,amongsomanynamesofcelebratedscholarsisasupremehonorforonewhohasneverbeforehadsuchanopportunity.“Excuseme,”andmymastergoesofftothestudytofetchhisseal.Iamtippedtofallunceremoniouslyontothematting.

Beauchamphelpshimself toasliceofspongecake fromthecake-bowlandcrams it intohismouth.Forawhileheseemstobe inpain,mumbling.Just forasecondIamremindedofmy morning experience with the rice-cake. My master reappears with his seal just as thespongecakesettlesdowninBeauchamp’sbowels.Mymasterdoesnotseemtonoticethatapiece of sponge cake is missing from the cake-bowl. If he does, I shall be the first to besuspected.

Mr.Beauchamphaving takenhisdeparture,mymaster reenters thestudywherehe findsonhisdeskaletterfromfriendWaverhouse.

“IwishyouaveryhappyNewYear...”Mymasterconsiders the letter tohavestartedwithanunusualseriousness.Letters from

Waverhouseareseldomserious.Theotherday,forinstance,hewrote:“Oflate,asIamnotinlove with any woman, I receive no love letters from anywhere. As I ammore or less alive,please set yourmind at ease.”Comparedwithwhich, thisNewYear’s letter is exceptionallymatter-of-fact:

Iwould liketocomeandseeyou,but Iamsoveryextremelybusyeverydaybecause,contrarytoyournegativism,IamplanningtogreetthisNewYear,ayearunprecedentedinallhistory,withaspositiveanattitudeasispossible.Hopingyouwillunderstand...

Mymasterquiteunderstands,thinkingthatWaverhouse,beingWaverhouse,mustbebusyhavingfunduringtheNewYearseason.

Yesterday,findingaminutetospare,IsoughttotreatMr.Beauchamptoadishofmoat-bells. Unfortunately, due to a shortage of their ingredients, I could not carry out myintention.Itwasmostregrettable...

Mymastersmiles,thinkingthattheletterisfallingmoreintotheusualpattern.

TomorrowtherewillbeacardpartyatacertainBaron’shouse;thedayaftertomorrowaNewYear’s banquet at the Society of Aesthetes; and the day after that, awelcomingpartyforProfessorToribe;andonthedaythereafter...

Mymaster,findingitratherabore,skipsafewlines.

Soyousee,becauseoftheseincessantparties—nōsongparties,haikuparties, tankaparties, even parties for New Style Poetry, and so on and so on, I am perpetuallyoccupiedforquitesometime.AndthatiswhyIamobligedtosendyouthisNewYear’sletterinsteadofcallingonyouinperson.Iprayyouwillforgiveme...

“Ofcourseyoudonothavetocallonme.”Mymastervoiceshisanswertotheletter.

Nexttimethatyouarekindenoughtovisitme,Iwouldlikeyoutostayanddine.Thoughthere is no special delicacy inmy poor larder, at least I hope to be able to offer yousomemoat-bells,andIamindeedlookingforwardtothatpleasure...

“He’s still brandishinghismoat-bells,”mutteredmymaster,who, thinking the invitationaninsult,beginstofeelindignant.

However, because the ingredients necessary for the preparation of moat-bells arecurrentlyinrathershortsupply,itmaynotbepossibletoarrangeit.Inwhichcase,Iwillofferyousomepeacocks’tongues...

“Aha!Sohe’sgot twostringstohisbow,” thinksmymasterandcannotresistreadingtherestoftheletter.

As you know, the tonguemeat per peacock amounts to less than half the bulk of thesmallfinger.Therefore,inordertosatisfyyourgluttonousstomach...

“Whatapackoflies,”remarksmymasterinatoneofresignation.

Ithinkoneneedstocatchatleasttwentyorthirtypeacocks.However,thoughoneseesan occasional peacock,maybe two, at the zoo or at theAsakusaAmusementCenter,therearenonetobefoundatmypoulterer’s,whichisoccasioningmepain,greatpain...

“You’rehavingthatpainofyourownfreewill.”Mymastershowsnoevidenceofgratitude.

Thedishofpeacocks’tongueswasonceextremelyfashionableinRomewhentheRomanEmpirewas in the fullprideof itsprosperity.How Ihavealwayssecretlycovetedafterpeacocks’ tongues, that acme of gastronomical luxury and elegance, you may wellimagine...

“Imaywellimagine,mayI?Howridiculous.”Mymasterisextremelycold.

Fromthat time forwarduntilabout thesixteenthcentury,peacockwasan indispensabledelicacy at all banquets. If mymemory servesme, when the Earl of Leicester invitedQueen Elizabeth to Kenilworth, peacocks’ tongues were on the menu. And in one ofRembrandt’sbanquetscenes,apeacockisclearlytobeseen,lyinginitsprideuponthetable...

MymastergrumblesthatifWaverhousecanfindtimetocomposeahistoryoftheeatingofpeacocks,hecannotreallybesobusy.

Anyway,ifIgooneatinggoodfoodasIhavebeendoingrecently,Iwilldoubtlessenduponeofthesedayswithastomachweakasyours...

“‘Like yours’ is quite unnecessary. He has no need to establish me as the prototypicaldyspeptic,”grumblesmymaster.

According to historians, the Romans held two or three banquets every day. But theconsumption of somuch good food,while sitting at a large table two or three times aday,must produce in anyman, however sturdy his stomach, disorders in the digestivefunctions.Thusnaturehas,likeyou...

“‘Likeyou,’again,whatimpudence!”

But they,who studied longandhard simultaneously to enjoy both luxury andexuberanthealth, considered it vital not only to devour disproportionately large quantities ofdelicacies,butalsotomaintainthebowelsinfullworkingorder.Theyaccordinglydevisedasecretformula...

“Really?”Mymastersuddenlybecomesenthusiastic.

Theyinvariablytookapost-prandialbath.Afterthebath,utilizingmethodswhosesecrethaslongbeenlost,theyproceededtovomitupeverythingtheyhadswallowedbeforethebath. Thus were the insides of their stomachs kept scrupulously clean. Having socleansed theirstomachs, theywouldsitdownagainat the tableand theresavor to theuttermost thedelicaciesof their choice.Then they tookabathagainandvomitedoncemore. In this way, though they gorged on their favorite dishes to their hearts’ content,noneof their internalorganssuffered the leastdamage. Inmyhumbleopinion, thiswasindeedacaseofhavingone’scakeandeatingit.

“They certainly seem to have killed two or more birds with one stone.” My master’sexpressionisoneofenvy.

Today,thistwentiethcentury,quiteapartfromtheheavytrafficandtheincreasednumberof banquets,whenour nation is in the second year of awar againstRussia, is indeedeventful. I,consequently, firmlybelievethatthetimehascomeforus, thepeopleof thisvictorious country, to bend our minds to study of the truly Roman art of bathing andvomiting.Otherwise,Iamafraidthateventhepreciouspeopleofthismightynationwill,intheverynearfuture,become,likeyou,dyspeptic...

“What,againlikeme?Anannoyingfellow,”thinksmymaster.

Now suppose that we, who are familiar with all thingsOccidental, by study of ancienthistoryandlegendcontrivetodiscoverthesecretformulathathaslongbeenlost;thentomake use of it now in our Meiji Era would be an act of virtue. It would nip potentialmisfortune in the bud, and, moreover, it would justify my own everyday life which hasbeenoneofconstantindulgenceinpleasure.

Mymasterthinksallthisatrifleodd.

Accordingly,Ihavenow,forsometime,beendiggingintotherelevantworksofGibbon,Mommsen, andGoldwin Smith, but I am extremely sorry to report that, so far, I havegainednoteventheslightestcluetothesecret.However,asyouknow,Iamamanwho,once set upon a course, will not abandon it until my object is achieved. Thereforemybeliefisthatarediscoveryofthevomitingmethodisnotfaroff.Iwillletyouknowwhenithappens. Incidentally, Iwouldpreferpostponing that feastofmoat-bellsandpeacocks’tongues,whichI’vementionedabove,until thediscoveryhasactuallybeenmade.Which

wouldnotonlybeconvenienttome,butalsotoyouwhosufferfromaweakstomach.

“So,he’sbeenpullingmylegallalong.ThestyleofwritingwassosoberthatIhavereaditall,andtookthewholethingseriously.

Waverhousemustindeedbeamanofleisuretoplaysuchapracticaljokeonme,”saidmymasterthroughhislaughter.

Severaldaysthenpassedwithoutanyparticularevent.Thinkingittooboringtospendone’stimejustwatchingthenarcissusinawhitevasegraduallywither,andtheslowblossomingofabranch of the blue-stemmed plum in another vase, I have gone around twice to look forTortoiseshell, but both timesunsuccessfully.On the first occasion I thought shewas just out,butonmysecondvisitIlearntthatshewasill.

Hidingmyselfbehindtheaspidistrabesideawash-basin,Iheardthefollowingconversationwhich took place between themistress and hermaid on the other side of the sliding paper-door.

“IsTortoiseshelltakinghermeal?”“No,madam, she’s eaten nothing thismorning. I’ve let her sleep on the quilt of the foot-

warmer, well wrapped up.” It does not sound as if they spoke about a cat. Tortoiseshell isbeingtreatedasifshewereahuman.

AsIcomparethissituationwithmyownlot,IfeelalittleenviousbutatthesametimeIamnotdispleasedthatmybelovedcatshouldbetreatedwithsuchkindness.

“That’sbad.Ifshedoesn’teatshewillonlygetweaker.”“Yesindeed,madam.Evenme,ifIdon’teatforawholeday,Icouldn’tworkatallthenext

day.”The maid answers as though she recognized the cat as an animal superior to herself.

Indeed,inthisparticularhouseholdthecatmaywellbemoreimportantthanthemaid.“Haveyoutakenhertoseeadoctor?”“Yes, and the doctor was really strange.When I went into his consulting room carrying

Tortoiseshellinmyarms,heaskedmeifI’dcaughtacoldandtriedtotakemypulse.Isaid‘No,Doctor, it is not I who am the patient, this is the patient,’ and I placed Tortoiseshell on myknees.

Thedoctorgrinnedandsaidhehadnoknowledgeof thesicknessesofcats,and that if Ijustleftit,perhapsitwouldgetbetter.Isn’thetooterrible?IwassoangrythatItoldhim,‘Then,please don’t bother to examine her, she happens to be our precious cat.’ And I snuggledTortoiseshellbackintothebreastofmykimonoandcamestraighthome.”

“Trulyso.”“Trulyso”isoneofthoseelegantexpressionsthatonewouldneverhearinmyhouse.One

hastobethethirteenthShogun’swidowedwife’ssomebody’ssomethingtobeabletousesuchaphrase.Iwasmuchimpressedbyitsrefinement.

“Sheseemstobesniffling...”“Yes, I’msureshe’sgota coldandasore throat;wheneveronehasacold,onesuffers

fromanhonorablecough.”As might be expected from the maid of the thirteenth Shogun’s somebody’s something,

she’squickwithhonorifics.

“Besides,recently,there’sathingtheycallconsumption...”“Indeed these days one cannot be too careful.What with the increase in all these new

diseasesliketuberculosisandtheblackplague.”“ThingsthatdidnotexistinthedaysoftheShogunateareallnogoodtoanyone.Soyoube

carefultoo!”“Isthatso,madam?”Themaidismuchmoved.“Idon’tseehowshecouldhavecaughtacold,shehardlyeverwentout...”“No,butyouseeshe’srecentlyacquiredabadfriend.”ThemaidisashighlyelatedasifsheweretellingaStatesecret.“Abadfriend?”“Yes,thattatty-lookingtomattheteacher’shouseinthemainstreet.”“D’youmeanthatteacherwhomakesrudenoiseseverymorning?”“Yes, theonewhomakes thesounds likeagoosebeingstrangledevery timehewashes

hisface.”The sound of a goose being strangled is a clever description. Every morning when my

mastergarglesinthebathroomhehasanoddhabitofmakingastrange,unceremoniousnoiseby tapping his throat with his toothbrush. When he is in a bad temper he croaks with avengeance; when he is in a good temper, he gets so pepped up that he croaks evenmorevigorously. In short, whether he is in a good or a bad temper, he croaks continually andvigorously.Accordingtohiswife,untiltheymovedtothishouseheneverhadthehabit;buthe’sdone iteverydaysince thedayhe firsthappenedtodo it. It is rathera tryinghabit.Wecatscannot even imaginewhy he should persist in such behavior.Well, let that pass. Butwhat ascathingremarkthatwasabout“atatty-lookingtom.”Icontinuetoeavesdrop.

“Whatgoodcanhedomakingthatnoise!UndertheShogunateevenalackeyorasandal-carrierknewhowtobehave;andinaresidentialquartertherewasnoonewhowashedhisfaceinsuchamanner.”

“I’msuretherewasn’t,madam.”Thatmaidisalltooeasilyinfluenced,andsheuses“madam”fartoooften.“Withamaster like thatwhat’s tobeexpected fromhiscat? Itcanonlybeastray. Ifhe

comesroundhereagain,beathim.”“MostcertainlyI’llbeathim.Itmustbeallhisfault thatTortoiseshell’ssopoorly. I’ll takeit

outonhim,thatIwill.”Howfalsetheseaccusationslaidagainstme!Butjudgingitrashtoapproachtooclosely,I

camehomewithoutseeingTortoiseshell.WhenIreturn,mymasteris inthestudymeditatinginthemiddleofwritingsomething.IfI

toldhimwhattheysayabouthiminthehouseofthetwo-stringedharp,hewouldbeveryangry;but,asthesayinggoes,ignoranceisbliss.Therehesits,posinglikeasacredpoet,groaning.

Just then,Waverhouse,whohasexpresslystated inhisNewYear letter thathewouldbetoobusytocallforsomelongtime,droppedin.

“Areyoucomposinganew-stylepoemorsomething?Showittomeifit’sinteresting.”“Iconsidered it rather impressiveprose,so I thought I’d translate it,”answersmymaster

somewhatreluctantly.“Prose?Whoseprose?”“Don’tknowwhose.”

“Isee,ananonymousauthor.Amonganonymousworks,thereareindeedsomeextremelygoodones.Theyarenottobeslighted.Wheredidyoufindit?”

“TheSecondReader,”answersmymasterwithimperturbablecalmness.“TheSecondReader?What’sthisgottodowiththeSecondReader?”“Theconnection is that thebeautifullywrittenarticlewhich I’mnow translatingappears in

theSecondReader.”“Stoptalkingrubbish. Isupposethis isyour ideaofa lastminutesquaringofaccountsfor

thepeacocks’tongues?”“I’m not a braggart like you,” says my master and twists his mustache. He is perfectly

composed.“OncewhensomeoneaskedSanyowhetherhe’dlatelyseenanyfinepiecesofprose,that

celebrated scholar of theChinese classics produced a dunning letter from a packhorsemanandsaid,‘Thisiseasilythefinestpieceofprosethathasrecentlycometomyattention.’Whichimplies that your eye for the beautiful might, contrary to one’s expectations, actually beaccurate. Read your piece aloud. I’ll review it for you,” saysWaverhouse as if he were theoriginatorofallaesthetictheoriesandpractice.MymasterstartstoreadinthevoiceofaZenpriest, reading that injunction left by theMostReverendPriestDaitō. “‘GiantGravitation,’” heintoned.

“Whatonearthisgiantgravitation?”“‘GiantGravitation’isthetitle.”“Anoddtitle.Idon’tquiteunderstand.”“Theideaisthatthere’sagiantwhosenameisGravitation.”“Asomewhatunreasonableideabut,sinceit’satitle,I’llletthatpass.Allright,carryonwiththetext.Youhaveagoodvoice.Whichmakesitratherinteresting.”“Right,butnomoreinterruptions.”Mymaster,havinglaiddownhispriorconditions,begins

toreadagain.

Katelooksoutofthewindow.Childrenareplayingball.Theythrowtheballhighupinthesky. The ball rises up and up. After a while the ball comes down. They throw it highagain: twice, three times.Every time they throw itup, theball comesdown.Kateaskswhyitcomesdowninsteadofrisingupandup.“It isbecauseagiantlivesintheearth,”replieshermother.“HeistheGiantGravitation.Heisstrong.Hepullseverythingtowardhim. He pulls the houses to the earth. If he didn’t they would fly away. Children, too,wouldflyaway.You’veseentheleavesfall,haven’tyou?That’sbecausetheGiantcalledthem.Sometimesyoudropabook. It’sbecausetheGiantGravitationasksfor it.Aballgoesupinthesky.Thegiantcallsforit.Downitfalls.

“Isthatall?”“Yes,isn’titgood?”“Allright,youwin.Iwasn’texpectingsuchapresentinreturnforthemoat-bells.”“Itwasn’tmeantasareturnpresent,oranythinglikethat.ItranslateditbecauseIthought

it was good. Don’t you think it’s good?” My master stares deep into the gold-rimmed

spectacles.“Whatasurprise!Tothinkthatyouofallpeoplehadthistalent...Well,well!I’vecertainlybeentakeninrightandproperthistime.Itakemyhatofftoyou.”

He is alone in his understanding. He’s talking to himself. The situation is quite beyond mymaster’sgrasp.

“I’venointentionofmakingyoudoffyourcap.ItranslatedthistextsimplybecauseIthoughtitwasaninterestingpieceofwriting.”

“Indeed,yes!Mostinteresting!Quiteasitshouldbe!Smashing!Ifeelsmall.”“You don’t have to feel small. Since I recently gave up painting inwatercolors, I’ve been

thinkingoftryingmyhandatwriting.”“And compared with your watercolors, which showed no sense of perspective, no

appreciationofdifferencesintone,yourwritingsaresuperb.Iamlostinadmiration.”“Suchencouragingwordsfromyouaremakingmepositivelyenthusiasticaboutit,”saysmy

master,speakingfromunderhiscontinuingmis-apprehension.JustthenMr.Coldmoonenterswiththeusualgreeting.“Why,hello,”respondsWaverhouse,“I’vejustbeenlisteningtoaterrificallyfinearticleand

the curtain has been rung down uponmymoat-bells.” He speaks obliquely about somethingincomprehensible.

“Haveyoureally?”Thereply isequally incomprehensible.It isonlymymasterwhoseemsnottobeinanyparticularlylighthumor.

“Theotherday,”heremarked, “amancalledBeauchampBlowlampcametoseemewithanintroductionfromyou.”

“Ah, did he? Beauchamp’s an uncommonly honest person, but, as he is also somewhatodd,Iwasafraidthathemightmakehimselfanuisancetoyou.However,sincehehadpressedmesohardtobeintroducedtoyou...”

“Notespeciallyanuisance...”“Didn’the,duringhisvisit,goonatlengthabouthisname?”“No,Idon’trecallhimdoingso.”“No?He’sgotahabitatfirstmeetingofexpatiatinguponthesingularityofhisname.”“What is the nature of that singularity?” butts inWaverhouse, who has been waiting for

somethingtohappen.“HegetsterriblyupsetifsomeonepronouncesBeauchampasBeecham.”“Odd!”saidWaverhouse,takingapinchof tobaccofromhisgold-painted, leathertobacco

pouch.“InvariablyhemakestheimmediatepointthathisnameisnotBeechamBlowlampbutBo-

champBlowlamp.”“That’sstrange,”andWaverhouseinhalespriceytobacco-smokedeepintohisstomach.“Itcomesentirelyfromhiscrazeforliterature.Helikestheeffectandisinexplicablyproud

ofthefactthathispersonalnameandhisfamilynamecanbemadetorhymewitheachother.That’s why when one pronounces Beauchamp incorrectly, he grumbles that one does notappreciatewhatheistryingtogetacross.”

“Hecertainly isextraordinary.”Gettingmoreandmoreinterested,Waverhousehaulsbackthepipesmoke fromthebottomofhisstomach to let it looseathisnostrils.Thesmokegetslost en route and seems to be snagged in his gullet. Transferring the pipe to his hand, hecoughschokingly.

“Whenhewasheretheotherday,hesaidhe’dtakenthepartofaboatmanatameetingofhisReadingSociety,andthathe’dgottenhimself laughedatbyagaggleofschoolgirls,”saysmymasterwithalaugh.

“Ah,that’sit,Iremember.”Waverhousetapshispipeuponhisknees.This strikes me as likely to prove dangerous, so I move a little way farther off. “That

ReadingSociety,now.TheotherdaywhenItreatedhimtomoat-bells,hementionedit.Hesaidthey were going to make their second meeting a grand affair by inviting well-known literarymen,andhecordiallyinvitedmetoattend.WhenIaskedhimiftheywouldagaintryanotherofChikamatsu’sdramasofpopularlife,hesaidnoandthatthey’ddecidedonafairlymodernplay,TheGoldenDemon. Iaskedhimwhat rolehewould takeandhesaid, ‘I’mgoing toplayO-miya.’

Beauchamp as O-miya would certainly be worth seeing. I’m determined to attend themeetinginhissupport.”

“It’sgoingtobeinteresting,Ithink,”saysColdmoonandhelaughsinanoddway.“Butheissothoroughlysincere,whichisgood,andhasnohintoffrivolousnessabouthim.

Quitedifferent fromWaverhouse, for instance.”Mymaster is revenged forAndreadelSarto,forpeacocks’tongues,andformoat-bellsallinonego.Waverhouseappearstotakenonoticeoftheremark.

“Ahwell,whenall’ssaidanddone,I’mnothingbutachoppingboardatGyōtoku.”“Yes, that’s about it,” observes my master, although in fact he does not understand

Waverhouse’sinvolvedmethodofdescribinghimselfasahighlysophisticatedsimpleton.Butnotfornothinghashebeensomanyyearsaschoolteacher.He isskilled inprevarication,andhislong experience in the classrooms can be usefully applied at such awkwardmoments in hissociallife.

“WhatisachoppingboardatGyōtoku?”askstheguilelessColdmoon.My master looks toward the alcove and pulverizes that chopping board at Gyōtoku by

saying,“Thosenarcissiare lastingwell. Iboughtthemonmywayhomefromthepublicbathstowardtheendoflastyear.”

“Whichremindsme,”saysWaverhouse,twirlinghispipe,“thatattheendoflastyearIhadareallymostextraordinaryexperience.”

“Tell us about it.” My master, confident that the chopping board is now safely back inGyōtoku, heaves a sigh of relief. The extraordinary experience of Mr. Waverhouse fell thusuponourears:

“IfIremembercorrectly,itwasonthetwenty-seventhofDecember.Beauchamphadsaidhewouldliketocomeandhearmetalkuponmattersliterary,andhad

askedmetobesuretobein.Accordingly,Iwaitedforhimallthemorningbuthefailedtoturnup. I had lunch andwas seated in front of the stove reading one ofPain’s humorous books,whenaletterarrivedfrommymotherinShizuoka.She,likealloldwomen,stillthinksofmeasachild.Shegivesmeallsortsofadvice;thatImustn’tgooutatnightwhentheweather’scold;thatunlesstheroomisfirstwell-heatedbyastove,I’llcatchmydeathofcoldeverytimeItakeabath.Weowemuchtoourparents.Whobutaparentwouldthinkofmewithsuchsolicitude?ThoughnormallyItakethingslightlyandastheycome,Iconfessthatatthatjuncturetheletteraffectedmedeeply. For it struckme that to idlemy life away, as indeed I do,was rather awaste. I felt that Imust win honor formy family by producing amasterwork of literature orsomething like that. I felt Iwould like thenameofDoctorWaverhouse tobecome renowned,

that I shouldbeacclaimedasa leading figure inMeiji literary circles,whilemymother is stillalive.

Continuingmyperusalof the letter, I read,‘Youare indeed lucky.Whileour youngpeoplearesufferinggreathardshipsforthecountryinthewaragainstRussia,youarelivinginhappy-go-lucky idleness as if life were one long New Year’s party organized for your particularbenefit!’

Actually, I’mnotas idleasmymotherthinks.Butshethenproceededto list thenamesofmyclassmatesatelementaryschoolwhohadeitherdiedorhadbeenwoundedinthepresentwar. As, one after another, I read those names, the world grew hollow, all human life quitefutile.

Andsheendedher letterbysaying, ‘since Iamgettingold,perhaps thisNewYear’s rice-cakeswillbemylast...’Youwillunderstandthat,asshewrotesoverydishearteningly,Igrewmoreandmoredepressed. Ibegan toyearn forBeauchamp tocomesoon,butsomehowhedidn’t. And at last it was time for supper. I thought of writing in reply to my mother, and Iactuallywroteaboutadozenlines.Mymother’sletterwasmorethansixfeetlong,but,unablemyselftomatchsuchaprodigiousperformance,Iusuallyexcusemyselfafterwritingsometenlines.AsIhadbeensittingdownforthewholeoftheday,mystomachfeltstrangeandheavy.ThinkingthatifBeauchampdidturnuphecouldjollywellwait,Iwentoutforawalktopostmyletter.InsteadofgoingtowardFujimicho,whichismyusualcourse,Iwent,withoutmyknowingit, out toward the third embankment. It was a little cloudy that evening and a dry wind wasblowingacross from theother sideof themoat. Itwas terribly cold.A train coming from thedirection of Kagurazaka passed with a whistle along the lower part of the bank. I felt verylonely.Theendof theyear, thosedeathson thebattlefield, senility, life’s insecurity, that timeand tidewait fornoman,andother thoughtsofasimilarnature ranaround inmyhead.Oneoftentalksabouthangingoneself.

ButIwasbeginningtothinkthatonecouldbetemptedtocommitsuicidejustatsuchatimeasthis.ItsohappenedthatatthatmomentIraisedmyheadslightly,and,asIlookeduptothetopofthebank,Ifoundmyselfstandingrightbelowthatverypinetree.”

“Thatverypinetree?What’sthat?”cutsinmymaster.“Thepineforhangingheads,”saysWaverhouseduckinghisnoddle.“Isn’tthepineforhangingheadsthatoneatKo-nodai?”Coldmoonamplifiestheripple.“ThepineatKōnodai is thepine forhanging templebells.ThepineatDotesambanchō is

theoneforhangingheads.Thereasonwhyithasacquiredthisnameisthatanoldlegendsaysthat anyone who finds himself under this pine tree is stricken with a desire to hang himself.Thoughthereareseveraldozenpinetreesonthebank,everytimesomeonehangshimself,itisinvariablyonthisparticular treethat thebody is founddangling. Icanassureyouthereareatleasttwoorthreesuchdanglingseveryyear.Itwouldbeunthinkabletogoanddangleonanyother pine. As I stared at the tree I noted that a branch stuck out conveniently toward thepavement.Ah!Whatanexquisitelyfashionedbranch.Itwouldbearealpitytoleaveitasitis.IwishsomuchthatIcouldarrangeforsomehumanbodytobesuspendedthere.Ilookaroundtoseeifanyoneiscoming.Unfortunately,noonecomes.Itcan’tbehelped.

Shall I hang myself? No, no, if I hang myself, I’ll lose my life. I won’t because it’sdangerous.But I’veheardastory thatanancientGreekused toentertainbanquetpartiesbygiving demonstrations of how to hang oneself. A man would stand on a stool and the verysecond thatheputhishead throughanoose,asecondmanwouldkick thestool fromunder

him.The trickwas that the firstmanwould loosen the knot in the rope just ashis stoolwaskicked away, and so drop down unharmed. If this story is really true, I’ve no need to befrightened.So thinking Imight try the trickmyself, I placemyhandon thebranchand find itbendsinamannerpreciselyappropriate.Indeedthewayitbendsispositivelyaesthetic.IfeelextraordinarilyhappyasItrytopicturemyselffloatingonthisbranch.IfeltIsimplymusttryit,but then I began to think that it would be inconsiderate if Beauchamp were waiting for me.Right,IwouldfirstseeBeauchampandhavethechatI’dpromised;thereafterIcouldcomeoutagain.Sothinking,Iwenthome.”

“Andisthatthehappyendingtoyourstory?”asksmymaster.“Veryinteresting,”saysColdmoonwithabroadgrin.“When I got home, Beauchamp had not arrived. Instead, I found a postcard from him

saying that hewas sorry he could not keep our appointment because of some pressing butunexpectedhappening,and thathewas looking forward tohavinga long interviewwithme inthenearfuture.Iwasrelieved,andIfelthappy,fornowIcouldhangmyselfwithaneasymind.

Accordingly, I hurry back to the same spot, and then. . .” Waverhouse, assuming anonchalantair,gazesatColdmoonandmymaster.

“Andthen,whathappened?”Mymasterisbecomingalittleimpatient.“We’venowcometotheclimax,”saysColdmoonashetwiststhestringsofhissurcoat.“And then, somebody had beatenme to it and had already hanged himself. I’m afraid I

missedthechancejustbyasecond.IseenowthatIhadbeeninthegripoftheGodofDeath.WilliamJames,thateminentphilosopher,wouldnodoubtexplainthattheregionofthedeadintheworldof one’s subliminal consciousnessand the realworld inwhich I actually exist,musthave interacted inmutual response inaccordancewithsomekindof lawofcauseandeffect.Butitreallywasextraordinary,wasn’tit?”Waverhouselooksquitedemure.

Mymaster,thinkingthathehasagainbeentakenin,saysnothingbutcramshismouthwithbean-jamcakeandmumblesincoherently.

Coldmoon carefully rakes smooth the ashes in the brazier and casts down his eyes,grinning;eventuallyheopenshismouth.Hespeaksinanextremelyquiettone.

“Itisindeedsostrangethatitdoesnotseemathinglikelytohappen.Ontheotherhand,becauseImyselfhaverecentlyhadasimilarkindofexperience,Ican

readilybelieveit.”“What!Didyoutoowanttostretchyourneck?”“No,minewasn’tahangingmatter.Itseemsallthemorestrangeinthatitalsohappenedat

the end of last year, at about the same time and on the same day as the extraordinaryexperienceofMr.Waverhouse.”

“That’sinteresting,”saysWaverhouse.Andhe,too,stuffshismouthwithbean-jamcake.“Onthatday,therewasayear-endpartycombinedwithaconcertgivenatthehouseofa

friend ofmine atMūkōjima. Iwent there takingmy violinwithme. Itwas a grand affairwithfifteenorsixteenyoungormarriedladies.Everythingwassoperfectlyarrangedthatonefeltitwasthemostbrillianteventofrecenttimes.Whenthedinnerandtheconcertwereover,wesatandtalkedlate,andasIwasabouttotakemyleave,thewifeofacertaindoctorcameuptomeandaskedinwhisperifIknewthatMissOwasunwell.Afewdaysearlier,whenlastIsawMissO,shehadbeenlookingwellandnormal.SoIwassurprisedtohearthisnews,andmyimmediatequestionselicitedtheinformationthatshehadbecomefeverishontheveryeveningof the daywhen I’d last seen her, and that shewas saying all sorts of curious things in her

delirium.Whatwasworse,everynowandagaininthatdelirium,shewascallingmyname.”NotonlymymasterbutevenWaverhouserefrainfrommakinganysuchhackneyedremark

as“youluckyfellow.”Theyjustlisteninsilence.“Theyfetchedadoctorwhoexaminedher.Accordingtothedoctor’sdiagnosis,thoughthe

name of the disease was unknown, the high fever affecting the brain made her conditiondangerousunlesstheadministrationofsoporificsworkedaseffectivelyaswastobehopedfor.As soon as I heard this news, a feeling of something awful grewwithinme. It was a heavyfeeling,asthoughonewerehavinganightmare,andallthesurroundingairseemedsuddenlytobesolidifyinglikeaclampuponmybody.Onmywayhome,moreover,IfoundIcouldthinkofnothingelse,andithurt.Thatbeautiful,thatgay,thatsohealthyMissO...”

“Justaminute,please.You’vementionedMissOabout two times. Ifyou’venoobjection,we’dliketoknowhernamewouldn’twe?”asksWaverhouseturningtolookatmymaster.Thelatterevadesthequestionandsays,“Hmm.”

“No,Iwon’ttellyouhernamesinceitmightcompromisethepersoninquestion.”“Doyouthenproposetorecountyourentirestoryinsuchvague,ambiguous,equivocal,and

noncommittalterms?”“Youmustn’tsneer.Thisisaseriousstory.Anyway,thethoughtofthatyoungladysuffering

fromsooddanailmentfilledmyheartwithmournfulemotion,andmymindwithsadreflectionsontheephemeralityof life. I feltsuddenlydepressedbeyondallsaying,as ifevery lastounceof my vitality had, just like that, evaporated from my body. I staggered on, tottering andwobbling,untilIcametotheAzumaBridge.AsIlookeddown,leaningontheparapet,theblackwaters—at neap or ebb, I don’t know which—seemed to be coagulating, only just barelymoving.ArickshawcomingfromthedirectionofHanakawadoranoverthebridge.IwatcheditslampgrowsmallerandsmalleruntilitdisappearedattheSapporoBeerfactory.Again,Ilookeddownatthewater.

AndatthatmomentIheardavoicefromupstreamcallingmyname.Itismostimprobablethat anyone should be calling afterme at this unlikely time of night, and,wonderingwhom itcould possibly be, I peered down to the surface of thewater, but I could see nothing in thedarkness.Thinkingitmusthavebeenmyimagination,Ihaddecidedtogohome,whenIagainheardthevoicecallingmyname.Istooddead-stillandlistened.WhenIhearditcallingmeforthe third time, though I was gripping the parapet firmly, my knees began to trembleuncontrollably.

Thevoiceseemedtobecomingeitherfromfarawayorfromthebottomoftheriver,butitwasunmistakablythevoiceofMissO.InspiteofmyselfIanswered,‘Yes.’Myanswerwassoloudthat itechoedbackfromthestillwater,and,surprisedbymyownvoice,I lookedaroundmeinastartledmanner.Therewasnoonetobeseen.Nodog.Nomoon.Nothing.Atthisverysecond Iexperiencedasuddenurge to immersemyself in that totaldarkness fromwhich thevoice had summoned me. And, once again, the voice of Miss O pierced my ears painfully,appealingly,asifbeggingforhelp.ThistimeIcried,‘I’mcomingnow,’and,leaningwelloutovertheparapet, I lookeddownintothesomberdepths.For, itseemedtomethatthesummoningvoice was surging powerfully up from beneath the waves. Thinking that the source of thepleadingmustlieinthewaterdirectlybelowme,Iatlastmanagedtoclamberontotheparapet.Iwasdeterminedthat,next timethevoicecalledout tome, Iwoulddivestraight in;and,asIstoodwatching thestream,onceagain the thin threadof thatpitifulvoicecame floatingup tome.This,Ithought,isit;jumpinghighwithallmystrength,Icamedroppingdownwithoutregret

likeapebble,orsomething.”“So,youactuallydiddivein?”asksmymaster,blinkinghiseyes.“Ineverthoughtyou’dgoasfarasthat,”saysWaverhousepinchingthetipofhisnose.“AftermydiveIbecameunconscious,andforawhileIseemedtobelivinginadream.But

eventually Iwokeup,and, though I felt cold, Iwasnotatallwetanddidnot feelas if Ihadswallowed any water. Yet I was sure that I had dived. How very strange! Realizing thatsomethingpeculiarmusthavetakenplace,Ilookedaroundmeandreceivedarealshock.

I’dmeant todive into thewaterbutapparently I’daccidentally landed in themiddleof thebridgeitself.Ifeltabysmallyregretful.Having,bysheermistake,jumpedbackwardsinsteadofforwards, I’d lost my chance to answer the summons of the voice.” Coldmoon smirks andfiddleswiththestringsofhissurcoatasiftheywereinsomewayirksome.

“Ha-ha-ha, how very comical. It’s odd that your experience somuch resemblesmine. It,too,couldbeadducedinsupportofthetheoriesofProfessorJames.Ifyouweretowriteitupin an article entitled ‘The Human Response,’ it would astound the whole literary world. Butwhat,”persistedWaverhouse,“becameoftheailingMissO?”

“When I called at her house a few days ago, I saw her just inside the gate playingbattledoreandshuttlecockwithhermaid.SoIexpectshehascompletelyrecoveredfromherillness.”

Mymaster,whoforsometimehasbeendeepinthought,finallyopenshismouth,and,inaspiritofunnecessaryrivalry,remarks,“Itoohaveastrangeexperiencetorelate.”

“You’vegotwhat?”InWaverhouse’sview,mymastercountsforsolittlethatheisscarcelyentitledtohaveexperiences.

“Minealsooccurredattheendoflastyear.”“It’squeer,”observedColdmoon,“thatall lastyear,”andhesniggers.Apieceofbean-jam

cakeadherestothecornerofhischippedfronttooth.“And it took place, doubtless,” addedWaverhouse, “at the very same time on the very

sameday.”“No,Ithinkthedateisdifferent:itwasaboutthe20th.Mywifehadearlieraskedme,asa

year’s-endpresenttoherself,totakehertohearSettsuDaijō.I’drepliedthatIwouldn’tsayno,and asked her the nature of the program for that day. She consulted the newspapers andanswered that it was one of Chikamatsu’s suicide dramas,Unagidani. ‘Let’s not go today, Idon’tlikeUnagidani,’saidI.Sowedidnotgothatday.Thenextdaymywife,bringingoutthenewspaper again, said, ‘Today he’s doing theMonkeyManatHorikawa, so, let’s go.’ I saidlet’snot,becauseHorikawawassofrivolous, justsamisen-playingwithnomeat in it.Mywifewentaway lookingdiscontented.The followingday,shestatedalmostasademand, ‘Today’sprogramisTheTempleWithThirty-ThreePillars.YoumaydisliketheTemplequiteasstronglyas you disliked all the others, but since the treat is intended to be forme, surely youwon’tobjecttotakingmethere.’Iresponded,‘Ifyou’vesetyourheartonitsofirmly,thenwe’llgo,butsincetheperformancehasbeenannouncedasSettsu’sfarewellappearanceonthestage,thehouseisboundtobepackedfull,andsincewehaven’tbookedinadvance,itwillobviouslybeimpossibletogetin.Tostartwith,inordertoattendsuchperformancesthere’sanestablishedproceduretobeobserved.Youhavetogotothetheatre-teahouseandtherenegotiateforseatreservations.Itwouldbehopelesstotrygoingaboutitinthewrongway.Youjustcan’tdodgethisproperprocedure.So,sorrythoughIam,wesimplycannotgotoday.’

My wife’s eyes glittered fiercely. ‘Since I am a mere woman, I do not understand your

complicatedprocedures,butbothOhare’smotherandKimiyooftheSuzukifamilymanagedtogetinwithoutobservanceofanysuchformalities,andtheyheardeverythingverywell.Irealizethatyouarea teacher,butsurelyyoudon’thave togo throughall that troublesomerigmarolejusttovisitatheatre?It’stoobad.. .youareso.. .’andhervoicebecametearful. Igavein.‘Allright.We’llgotothetheatreevenifwecan’tgetintoit.Afteranearlysupperwe’lltakethetram.’Shesuddenlybecamequite lively. ‘Ifwe’regoing,wemustbe thereby fouro’clock,sowemustn’tdilly-dally.’WhenIaskedherwhyonehadtobetherebyfouro’clock,sheexplainedthatKimiyohadtoldherthat,ifonearrivedanylater,alltheseatswouldbetaken.Iaskedheragain, tomake quite sure, if it would be fruitless to turn up later than four o’clock; and sheansweredbriskly,‘Ofcourseitwouldbenogood.’

Then,d’youknow,atthatverymomenttheshiveringsetin.”“Doyoumeanyourwife?”asksColdmoon.“Oh, no, my wife was as fit as a fiddle. It was me. I had a sudden feeling that I was

shrivelinglikeaprickedballoon.ThenIgrewgiddyandunableeventomove.”“Youweretakenillwithamostremarkablesuddenness,”commentedWaverhouse.“This is terrible.Whatshall Ido? I’d likesomuch tograntmywifeherwish,heroneand

only request in thewhole longyear.All Ieverdo isscoldher fiercely,ornotspeak toher,ornagherabouthouseholdexpenses,orinsistthatshecaresmorecarefullyforthechildren;yetIhaveneverrewardedherforallhereffortsinthedomesticfield.Today,luckily,Ihavethetimeandthemoneyavailable.Icouldeasilytakeheronsomelittleouting.Andsheverymuchwantstogo. Justas I verymuchwant to takeher.Butmuch indeedas Iwant to takeher, this icyshiveringandfrightfulgiddinessmakeitimpossibleformeeventostepdownfromtheentranceofmyownhouse,letalonetoclimbupintoatram.ThemoreIthinkhowdeeplyIgrieveforher,the poor thing, the worse my shivering grows and the more giddy I become. I thought if Iconsultedadoctorand tooksomemedicine, Imightgetwellbefore fouro’clock. Idiscussedthematterwithmywifeandsent forMr.Amaki,BachelorofMedicine.Unfortunately,hehadbeenonnightdutyattheuniversityhospitalandhadn’tyetcomehome.However,wereceivedevery assurance that he was expected home by about two o’clock and that he would hurryroundtoseemetheminutehereturned.Whatanuisance.IfonlyIcouldgetsomesedative,IknowIcouldbecuredbeforefour.Butwhenluckisrunningagainstone,nothinggoeswell.

Here I am, just thisonce ina long, long time, looking forward to seeingmywife’shappysmile,andtobesharing inthathappiness.Myexpectationsseemsadlyunlikelytobefulfilled.Mywife,withamostreproachfullook,enquireswhetheritreallyisimpossibleformetogoout.‘I’llgo;certainlyI’llgo.Don’tworry.I’msureI’llbeallrightbyfour.Washyourface,getreadytogo out and wait for me.’ Though I uttered all these reassurance, mymind was shaken withprofoundemotions.Theshiveringstrengthensandaccelerates,andmygiddinessgrowsworseandworse.UnlessIdogetwellbyfouro’clockandimplementmypromise,onecannevertellwhatsuchapusillanimouswomanmightdo.

Whatawretchedbusiness.WhatshouldIdo?AsI thought itpossiblethattheveryworstcouldhappen,Ibegantoconsiderwhetherperhapsitmightbemydutyasahusbandtoexplainto my wife, now while I was still in possession of my faculties, the dread truths concerningmortalityandthevicissitudesoflife.Foriftheworstshouldhappen,shewouldthenatleastbeprepared and less liable to be overcome by the paroxysms of her grief. I accordinglysummonedmywifetocomeimmediatelytomystudy.ButwhenIbeganbysaying,‘Thoughbutawomanyoumustbeawareof thatWesternproverbwhichstates that there ismanyaslip

“twixt thecupand the lip,”’she flew intoa fury.‘Howshould Iknowanythingatallaboutsuchsideways-writtenwords?You’redeliberatelymakingafoolofmebychoosingtospeakEnglishwhen you know perfectly well that I don’t understand a word of it. All right. So I can’tunderstandEnglish.Butifyou’resobesottedaboutEnglish,whydidn’tyoumarryoneofthosegirls from themission schools? I’ve never comeacrossanyonequite so cruel as you.’ In thefaceofthistirade,mykindlyfeelings,myhusbandlyanxietytoprepareherforextremities,werenaturallydampeddown.I’dlikeyoutwotounderstandthatitwasnotoutofmalicethatIspokeinEnglish.Thewordssprangsolelyfromasinceresentimentofloveformywife.Consequently,mywife’smalign interpretationofmymotives leftme feelinghelpless.Besides,mybrainwassomewhatdisturbedbyreasonofthecoldshiveringandthegiddiness;ontopofallthat,Iwasunderstandablydistraughtbytheeffortoftryingquicklytoexplaintoherthetruthsofmortalityandthenatureofthevicissitudesoflife.Thatwaswhy,quiteunconsciouslyandforgettingthatmywifecouldnotunderstandthetongue,IspokeinEnglish.IimmediatelyrealizedIwasinthewrong.Itwasallentirelymyfault.Butasaresultofmyblunder,thecoldshiveringintensifieditsviolenceandmygiddinessgrewevermore viciously vertiginous.Mywife, in accordancewithmy instructions, proceeds to the bathroomand, stripping herself to thewaist, completes hermake-up.Then,takingakimonofromadrawer,sheputsiton.Herattitudesmakeitquiteclearthatsheisnowreadytogooutanytime,andissimplywaitingforme.Ibegintogetnervous.WishingthatMr.Amakiwouldarrivequickly,Ilookatmywatch.It’salreadythreeo’clock.Onlyonehourtogo.Mywifeslidesopenthestudydoorandputtingherheadin,asks,‘Shallwegonow?’Itmaysoundsillytopraiseone’sownwife,butIhadneverthoughtherquitesobeautifulas shewas at thatmoment.Her skin, thoroughly polishedwith soap, gleams deliciously andmakesamarvelouscontrastwith theblacknessofher silkensurcoat.Her facehasakindofradiancebothexternallyandshiningfromwithin;partlybecauseofthesoapandpartlybecauseofher intense longing to listen toSettsuDaijō. I feel Imust,comewhatmay, takeherout tosatisfythatyearning.Allright,perhapsIwillmaketheawfulefforttogoout.IwassmokingandthinkingalongtheselineswhenatlonglastMr.Amakiarrived.Excellent.Thingsareturningoutasonewouldwish.However,whenI toldhimaboutmycondition,Amakiexaminedmytongue,tookmy pulse, tappedmy chest, strokedmy back, turnedmy eyelids inside out, pattedmyskull, and thereafter sank into deep thought for quite some time. I said to him, ‘It is myimpressionthattheremaybesomedanger...’buthereplied,‘No,Idon’tthinkthere’sanythingseriouslywrong.’ ‘I imagine itwould be perfectly all right for him to go out for a littlewhile?’askedmywife.

‘Let me think.’ Amaki sank back into the profundities of thought, reemerging toremark,‘Well,solongashedoesn’tfeelunwell...’‘Oh,butIdofeelunwell,’Isaid.InthatcaseI’ll give you a mild sedative and some liquid medicine. . .’‘Yes please. This is going to besomething serious, isn’t it?’ ‘Oh no, there’s nothing toworry about. Youmustn’t get nervous,’saidAmaki,andthereupondeparted.Itisnowhalfpastthree.

The maid was sent to fetch the medicine. In accordance with my wife’s imperativeinstructions,thewretchedgirlnotonlyranthewholewaythere,butalsothewholewayback.Itisnowaquartertofour.Fifteenminutesstilltogo.Then,quitesuddenly,justaboutthattime,Ibegantofeelsick.Itcameonwithaquiteextraordinarysuddenness.Alltotallyunexpected.Mywifehadpouredthemedicineintoateacupandplacedit infrontofme,butassoonasItriedtolifttheteacup,somekeck-keckthingstormedupfromwithinthestomach.Iamcompelledtoputtheteacupdown.‘Drinkitupquickly’urgesmywife.Yes,indeed,Imustdrinkitquicklyand

gooutquickly.MusteringallmycouragetoimbibethepotionIbringtheteacuptomylips,whenagainthat insuppressiblekeck-keckthingpreventsmydrinkingit.Whilethisprocessofraisingthecupandputtingitdownisbeingseveraltimesrepeated,theminutescreptonuntilthewallclockinthelivingroomstruckfouro’clock.

Ting-ting-ting-ting.Fouro’clock it is. Icanno longerdilly-dallyandI raisetheteacuponceagain.D’youknow,itreallywasmoststrange.I’dsaythatitwascertainlytheuncanniestthingI’veeverexperienced.Atthefourthstrokemysicklinessjustvanished,andIwasabletotakethemedicinewithoutanytroubleatall.And,byabouttenpastfour—hereImustaddthatInowrealizedforthefirsttimehowtrulyskilledaphysicianwehaveinDr.Amaki—theshiveringofmyback and the giddiness in my head both disappeared like a dream. Up to that point I hadexpectedthatIwasboundtobelaidupfordays,buttomygreatpleasuretheillnessprovedtohavebeencompletelycured.”

“Anddidyoutwothengoouttothetheatre?”asksWaverhousewiththepuzzledexpressionofonewhocannotseethepointofastory.

“Wecertainlybothwantedtogo,butsinceithadbeenmywife’sreiteratedviewthattherewasnohopeofgettinginafterfouro’clock,whatcouldwedo?Wedidn’tgo.IfonlyAmakihadarrived fifteen minutes earlier, I could have kept my promise andmy wife would have beensatisfied.Just that fifteenminutedifference. Iwas indeeddistressed.Evennow,when I thinkhownarrowthemarginwas,Iamagaindistressed.”

Mymaster,having toldhis shabby tale, contrives to look likeapersonwhohasdonehisduty.Iimaginehefeelshe’sgottenevenwiththeothertwo.

“Howveryvexing,”saysColdmoon.Hislaugh,asusual,displayshisbrokentooth.Waverhouse,witha falsenaivety, remarksas if tohimself. “Yourwife,withahusbandso

thoughtfulandkind-hearted,isindeedaluckywoman.”Behindtheslidingpaper-door,weheardthemaster’swifemakeanharumphingnoiseasthoughclearingherthroat.

Ihadbeenquietlylisteningtothesuccessivestoriesofthesethreeprecioushumans,butIwas neither amusednor saddenedbywhat I’d heard. Imerely concluded that humanbeingsweregoodfornothing,exceptforthestrenuousemploymentoftheirmouthsforthepurposeofwhiling away their time in laughter at things which are not funny, and in the enjoyment ofamusements which are not amusing. I have long known of my master’s selfishness andnarrowmindedness,but,becauseheusuallyhaslittletosay,therewasalwayssomethingabouthimwhichIcouldnotunderstand.I’dfeltacertaincaution,acertainfear,evenacertainrespecttowardhimonaccountofthataspectofhisnaturethatIdidnotunderstand.Buthavingheardhis story, my uncertainties suddenly coalesced into a mere contempt for him.Why can’t helisten to the stories of the other two in silence?What good purpose can he serve by talkingsuch utter rubbish just because his competitive spirit has been roused? I wonder if, in hisportentous writings, Epictetus advocated any such course of action. In short, mymaster,Waverhouse,andColdmoonarealllikehermitsinapeacefulreign.Thoughtheyadoptanonchalantattitude,keepingthemselvesalooffromthecrowd,segegratedlikesomanysnake-gourdsswayedlightlybythewind,inrealitythey,too,areshakenbyjustthesamegreedandworldlyambitionastheirfellowmen.

The urge to compete and their anxiety to win are revealed flickeringly in their everydayconversation,andonlyahair’sbreadthseparates them from thePhilistineswhomtheyspendtheir idledaysdenouncing.Theyareallanimals fromthesameden.Which fact, froma felineviewpoint,isinfinitelyregrettable.Theironlymoderatelyredeemingfeatureisthattheirspeech

andconductarelesstediouslyuninventivethanthoseoflesssubtlecreatures.As I thus summed up the nature of the human race, I suddenly felt the conversation of

thesespecimenstobeintolerablyboring,soIwentaroundtothegardenofthemistressofthetwo-stringedharp toseehowTortoiseshellwasgettingon.Already thepine treedecorationsfor theNewYearand thatseason’ssacred festoonshavebeen takendown. It is the10thofJanuary.Fromadeepskycontainingnotevenasinglestreakofcloudthegloriousspringtimesunshinesdownuponthelandsandseasofthewholewideworld,sothatevenhertinygardenseemsyetmorebrilliantlylivelythanwhenitsawthedawnofNewYear’sDay.

There is a cushion on the veranda, the sliding paper-door is closed, and there’s nobodyabout.Whichprobablymeansthat themistresshasgoneoff tothepublicbaths. I’mnotatallconcernedifthemistressshouldbeout,butIdoverymuchworryaboutwhetherTortoiseshellisanybetter.Sinceeverything’ssoquietandnotasignofasoul, Ihopuponto theverandawithmymuddypawsandcurluprightinthemiddleofthecushion,whichIfindcomfortable.Adrowsinesscameoverme,and,forgettingallaboutTortoiseshell,IwasabouttodropoffintoadozewhensuddenlyIheardvoicesbeyondthepaper-door.

“Ah,thanks.Wasitready?”Themistresshasnotgoneoutafterall.“Yes,madam. I’msorry tohave taken sucha long time.When I got there, themanwho

makesBuddhistaltarfurnituretoldmehe’donlyjustfinishedit.”“Well, letmesee it.Ah,but it’sbeautifullydone.With this,Tortoiseshellcansurely rest in

peace.Areyousurethegoldwon’tpeelaway?”“Yes, I’vemadesureof it.Theysaid thatas theyhadusedtheverybestquality, itwould

last longer thanmosthumanmemorial tablets.Theyalsosaid that thecharacter for ‘honor’ inTortoiseshell’sposthumousnamewould lookbetter ifwritten in thecursivestyle, so theyhadaddedtheappropriatestrokes.”

“Is that so? Well, let’s put Myōyoshinnyo’s tablet in the family shrine and offer incensesticks.”

HasanythinghappenedtoTortoiseshell?Thinkingsomethingmustbewrong,Istanduponthecushion.Ting!“Amen!Myōyoshinnyo.Saveus,mercifulBuddha!Maysherestinpeace.”Itisthevoiceofthemistress.

“You,too,sayprayersforher.”Ting! “Amen!Myōyoshinnyo.Saveus,mercifulBuddha!Maysherest inpeace.”Suddenly

myheart throbsviolently. I standdead-stillupon thecushion, likeawoodencat;notevenmyeyesaremoving.

“Itreallywasapity.Itwasonlyacoldatfirst.”“PerhapsifDr.Amakihadgivenhersomemedicine,itmighthavehelped.”“ItwasindeedAmaki’sfault.HepaidtoolittleregardtoTortoiseshell.”“Youmustnotspeakillofotherpersons.Afterall,everyonedieswhentheirallottedspanis

over.”ItseemsthatTortoiseshellwasalsoattendedbythatskilledphysician,Dr.Amaki.“Whenall’ssaidanddone,Ibelievetherootcausewasthatthestraycatattheteacher’s

inthemainstreettookherouttoooften.”“Yes,thatbrute.”I would like to exculpate myself, but realizing that at this juncture it behoves me to be

patient,Iswallowhardandcontinuelistening.Thereisapauseintheconversation.“Lifedoesnotalwaysturnoutasonewishes.AbeautylikeTortoiseshelldiesyoung.That

uglystrayremainshealthyandflourishesindevilment...”“It is indeed so, Madam. Even if one searched high and low for a cat as charming as

Tortoiseshell,onewouldneverfindanotherpersonlikeher.”Shedidn’t say ‘another cat,’ she said ‘anotherperson.’Themaid seems to think that cats

andhumanbeingsareofone race.Which remindsme that the faceof thisparticularmaid isstrangelylikeacat’s.

“IfonlyinsteadofourdearTortoiseshell...”“. . . thatwretched stray at the teacher’s had been taken. Then,Madam, how perfectly

everythingwouldhavegone...”Ifeverythinghadgone thatperfectly, Iwouldhavebeen indeep trouble.Since Ihavenot

yethadtheexperienceofbeingdead,IcannotsaywhetherornotIwouldlikeit.Buttheotherday,ithappeningtobeunpleasantlychilly,Icreptintothetubforconservinghalf-usedcharcoalandsettleddownuponitsstill-warmcontents.Themaid,notrealizingIwasinthere,poppedonthelid.IshudderevennowatthemerethoughtoftheagonyIthensuffered.AccordingtoMissBlanche,thecatacrosstheroad,onediesifthatagonycontinuesforevenaveryshortstretch.Iwouldn’tcomplainifIwereaskedtosubstituteforTortoiseshell;butifonecannotdiewithoutgoingthroughthatkindofagony,Ifranklywouldnotcaretodieonanyone’sbehalf.

“Thoughacat,shehadherfuneralserviceconductedbyapriestandnowshe’sbeengivenaposthumousBuddhistname.Idon’tthinkshewouldexpectustodomore.”

“Of course not,madam.She is indeed thrice blessed. The only comment that onemightmakeisthatthefuneralservicereadbythepriestwas,perhaps,alittlewantingingravity.”

“Yes,and I thought it rather toobrief.Butwhen I remarked to thepriest fromtheGekkeiTemple ‘you’ve finished very quickly, haven’t you?’ he answered ‘I’ve done sufficient of theeffectiveparts,quiteenoughtogetakittyintoParadise.’”

“Dearme!Butifthecatinquestionwerethatunpleasantstray...”Ihavepointedoutoftenenoughthat Ihavenoname,but thismaidkeepscallingme“that

stray.”Sheisavulgarcreature.“Soverysinfula creature.Madam,wouldneverbeable to rest inpeace,howevermany

edifyingtextswerereadforitssalvation.”I do not know how many hundreds of times I was thereafter stigmatized as a stray. I

stoppedlisteningtotheirendlessbabblewhileitwasstillonlyhalf-run,and,slippingdownfromthe cushion, I jumped off the veranda. Then,simultaneously erecting every single one of myeighty-eightthousand,eighthundred,eightyhairs,Ishookmywholebody.

SincethatdayIhavenotventurednearthemistressofthetwo-stringedharp.Nodoubtbynowsheherself ishavingtextsofinadequategravityreadonherbehalfbythepriestfromtheGekkeiTemple.

NowadaysIhaven’tevenenergytogoout.Somehowlifeseemsweary.Ihavebecomeasindolent a cat asmymaster is an indolent human. I have come to understand that it is onlynatural that people should so often explainmymaster’s self-immurement in his study as theresultofaloveaffairgonewrong.

AsIhavenevercaughtarat,thatO-sanpersononceproposedthatIshouldbeexpelled;butmymasterknowsthatI’mnoordinarycommonorgardencat,andthatiswhyIcontinuetoleadanidleexistenceinthishouse.ForthatunderstandingIamdeeplygratefultomymaster.What’smore,Itakeeveryopportunitytoshowtherespectduetohisperspicacity.IdonotgetparticularlyangrywithO-san’s ill-treatmentofme,forshedoesnotunderstandwhyIamasI

now am. But when, one of these days, somemaster sculptor, some regular Hidari Jingorō,comesandcarvesmyimageonatemplegate;whensomeJapaneseequivalentoftheFrenchmaster portraitist, Steinlein, immortalizes my features on a canvas, then at last will the sillypurblindbeingsinshameregrettheirlackofinsight.

T

III

ORTOISESHELL is dead,one cannot consort with Rickshaw Blacky, and I feel a littlelonely.LuckilyIhavemadeacquaintancesamonghumankindsoIdonotsufferfromanyreal sense of boredom. Someone wrote recently asking my master to have myphotograph taken and the picture sent to him. And then the other day somebody else

presented somemillet dumplings, that speciality of Okayama, specifically addressed to me.Themore thathumansshowmesympathy, themore I am inclined to forget that I ama cat.Feeling that I amnowcloser to humans than to cats, the ideaof rallyingmyown race in aneffort towrest supremacy from thebipedsno longer has the least appeal.Moreover, I havedeveloped,indeedevolved,tosuchanextentthattherearenowtimeswhenIthinkofmyselfasjustanotherhumaninthehumanworld;whichIfindveryencouraging.ItisnotthatIlookdownon my own race, but it is no more than natural to feel most at ease among those whoseattitudesare similar toone’sown. Iwould consequently feel somewhatpiqued ifmygrowingpenchant formankindwerestigmatizedas ficklenessor flippancyor treachery. It ispreciselythosewhoslingsuchwordsaboutinslanderousattacksonotherswhoareusuallybothdrearilystraight-lacedandbornunlucky.Havingthusgraduatedfromfelinitytohumanity,IfindmyselfnolongerabletoconfinemyintereststotheworldofTortoiseshellandBlacky.Withahaughtinessnotlesspridefulthanthatofhumanbeings,I,too,nowliketojudgeandcriticizetheirthoughtsandwordsanddeeds.This,surely, isequallynatural.Yet,thoughIhavebecomethusproudlyconsciousofmyowndignity,mymasterstill regardsmeasacatonlyslightlysuperior toanyothercommonorgardenmoggy.For,as if theywerehisownandwithout somuchasaby-your-leave tome,hehaseatenall themilletdumplings;which is, I find, regrettable.Nordoesheseemyet tohavedispatchedmyphotograph. I suppose Iwouldbe justified if Imade thisfactacauseforgrumbling,butafterall,ifouropinions—mymaster’sandmine—arenaturallyatdifference, the consequences of that difference cannot be helped. Since I am seeking tobehavewithtotalhumanity,I’mfindingitincreasinglydifficulttowriteabouttheactivitiesofcatswithwhomInolongerassociate.ImustaccordinglyseektheindulgenceofmyreadersifInowconfinemywritingtoreportsaboutsuchrespectedfiguresasWaverhouseandColdmoon.

Today isaSundayandtheweather fine.Themasterhasthereforecreptoutofhisstudy,and,placingabrush,aninkstone,andawritingpadinarowbeforehim,henowliesflatonhisbelly beside me, and is groaning hard. I watch him, thinking that he is perhaps making thispeculiarnoiseinthebirthpangsofsomeliteraryeffort.Afterawhile,andinthickblackstrokes,hewrote,“Burnincense.”Isitgoingtobeapoemorahaiku?JustwhenIwasthinkingthatthephrasewasrathertoowittyformymaster,heabandonsit,and,hisbrushrunningquicklyoverthepaper,writesanentirelynewline:“NowforsomelittletimeIhavebeenthinkingofwritinganarticleaboutMr. the-late-and-saintedNaturalMan.”At thispoint thebrushstopsdead.Mymaster,brushinhand,rackshisbrains,butnobrightnotionsseemtoemergeforhenowstartslicking the head of his brush. Iwatchedhis lips acquire a curious inkiness. Then, underneathwhathehadjustwritten,hedrewacircle,put intwodotsaseyes,addedanostrillednosein

the center, and finally drew a single sideways line for a mouth. One could not call suchcreationseitherhaikuorprose.Evenmymastermusthavebeendisgustedwithhimself,forhequickly smeared away the face. He then starts a new line. He seems to have some vaguenotionthat,providedhehimselfproducesanewline,maybesomekindofaChinesepoemwillevolveitself.

After furthermoonings,hesuddenlystartedwritingbriskly in thecolloquialstyle. “Mr. the-late-and-saintedNaturalManisonewhostudiesInfinity,readstheAnalectsofConfucius,eatsbaked yams, and has a runny nose.” A somewhat muddled phrase. He thereupon read thephrase aloud in a declamatory manner and, quite unlike his usual self, laughed. “Ha-ha-ha.Interesting!Butthat‘runnynose’isashadecruel,soI’llcrossitout,”andheproceedstodrawlinesacrossthatphrase.

“Thoughasingle linewouldclearlyhavesufficed,hedrawstwolinesandthenthreelines.Hegoesondrawingmoreandmorelinesregardlessoftheircrowdingintotheneighboringlineofwriting.Whenhehasdrawneightsuchobliterations,heseemsunabletothinkofanythingtoadd tohisopeningoutburst.Sohe takes to twirlinghismustache,determined towringsometellingsentencefromhiswhiskers.Heisstilltwistingthemupandtwirlingthemdownwhenhiswife appears from the living room, and sitting herself down immediately beforemymaster’snose,remarks,“Mydear.”

“What is it?” My master’s voice sounds dully like a gong struck under water. His wifeseemsnottoliketheanswer,forshestartsalloveragain.

“Mydear!”shesays.“Well,whatisit?”Thistime,crammingathumbandindexfingerintoanostril,heyanksoutnostrilhairs.“Weareabitshortthismonth...”“Couldn’tpossiblybeshort.We’vesettledthedoctor’sfeeandwepaidoffthebookshop’s

billlastmonth.Sothismonth,thereoughtinfacttobesomethingleftover.”Hecoollyexamineshisuprootednostrilhairsasthoughtheyweresomewonderoftheworld.

“Butbecauseyou,insteadofeatingrice,havetakentobreadandjam...”“Well,howmanytinsofjamhaveIgonethrough?”“Thismonth,eighttinswereemptied.”“Eight?Icertainlyhaven’teatenthatmuch.”“Itwasn’tonlyyou.Thechildrenalsolickit.”“However much one licks, one couldn’t lick more than two or three shillings worth.” My

mastercalmlyplantshisnostrilhairs,onebyone,onthewritingpad.Thesticky-rootedbristlesstanduprighton thepaper likea littlecopseofneedles.Mymasterseems impressedby thisunexpecteddiscoveryandheblowsuponthem.Beingsosticky,theydonotflyaway.

“Aren’ttheyobstinate?”hesaysandblowsuponthemfrantically.“It is not only the jam. There’s other things we have to buy.” The lady of the house

expressesherextremedissatisfactionbypoutingsulkily.“Maybe.”Again insertinghis thumband finger,heextractssomehairswitha jerk.Among

thesehairs of varioushue, redonesandblackones, there is a single purewhite bristle.Mymasterwho,withalookofgreatsurprise,hasbeenstaringatthisobject,proceedstoshowittohiswife,holdingitupbetweenhisfingersrightinfrontofherface.

“No,don’t.”Shepusheshishandawaywithagrimaceofdistaste.“Lookat it!Awhitehair fromthenostrils.”Mymasterseemstobeimmensely impressed.

Hiswife, resigned,went back into the living roomwith a laugh.She seems to havegivenuphope of getting any answer to her problems of domestic economy. Mymaster resumes hisconsiderationoftheproblemsofNaturalMan.

Havingsucceededindrivingoffhiswifewithhisscourgeofnostrilhair,heappearstofeelrelieved,and,whilecontinuingthatdepilation,strugglestogetonwithhisarticle.Buthisbrushremainsunmoving.

“That ‘eats baked yams’ is also superfluous. Out with it.” He deletes the phrase. “And‘incense burns’ is somewhat over-abrupt, so let’s cross that out too.” His exuberant self-criticism leavesnothingon thepaperbut thesinglesentence“Mr. the-late-and-saintedNaturalMan is onewho studies Infinity and reads theAnalectsof Confucius.”Mymaster thinks thisstatementa trifleover-simplified. “Ahwell, let’snotbebothered: let’sabandonproseand justmakeitaninscription.”Brandishingthebrushcrosswise,hepaintsvigorouslyonthewritingpadinthatwatercolorstylesocommonamongliterarymenandproducesaverypoorstudyofanorchid.Thusall hispreciousefforts towriteanarticlehavecomedown to thismerenothing.Turning thesheet,hewritessomething thatmakesnosense. “Born in Infinity, studied Infinity,anddiedintoInfinity.

Mr. the-late-and-saintedNaturalMan. Infinity.”At thismomentWaverhouse drifts into theroominhisusualcasualfashion.Heappearstomakenodistinctionbetweenhisownandotherpeople’s houses; unannounced and unceremoniously, he enters any house and,what’smore,willsometimes float inunexpectedly throughakitchendoor.He isoneof thosewho, fromthemomentoftheirbirth,discaulthemselvesofallsuchtiresomethingsasworry,reserve,scruple,andconcern.

“‘GiantGravitationagain?’”asksWaverhousestillstanding.“How could I be always writing only about ‘Giant Gravitation?’ I’m trying to compose an

epitaph for the tombstone of Mr. the-late-and-sainted Natural Man,” replied my master withconsiderableexaggeration.

“Is that some sort of posthumous Buddhist name like Accidental Child?” inquiresWaverhouseinhisusualirrelevantstyle.

“IstherethensomeonecalledAccidentalChild?”“No,ofcoursethereisn’t,butItakeitthatyou’reworkingonsomethinglikethat.”“Idon’tthinkAccidentalChildisanyoneIknow.ButMr.the-late-and-saintedNaturalManis

apersonofyourownacquaintance.”“Whoonearthcouldgetanamelikethat?”“It’s Sorosaki. After he graduated from the University, he took a post-graduate course

involving study of the ‘theory of infinity.’ But he over-worked, got peritonitis, and died of it.Sorosakihappenedtobeaveryclosefriendofmine.”

“All right,sohewasyourveryclose friend. I’m far fromcriticizing that fact.ButwhowasresponsibleforconvertingSorosakiintoMr.the-late-and-saintedNaturalMan?”

“Me. I created thatname.For there is reallynothingmorephilistine than theposthumousnamesconferredbyBuddhistpriests.”Mymasterboastsas if hisnominationofNaturalManwereafeatofartistry.

“Anyway, let’s see the epitaph,” says Waverhouse laughingly. He picks up my master’smanuscriptandreadsitoutaloud.“Eh...‘Bornintoinfinity,studiedinfinity,anddiedintoinfinity.Mr.the-late-and-saintedNaturalMan.Infinity.’Isee.Thisisfine.QuiteappropriateforpooroldSorosaki.”

“Good,isn’tit?”saysmymasterobviouslyverypleased.“Youshouldhave thisepitaphengravedonaweight-stone forpicklesand then leave itat

thebackof themainhallofsometemple for thepractice-benefitofpassingweight lifters. It’sgood.It’smostartistic.Mr.the-late-and-saintedmaynowwellrestinpeace.”

“Actually,I’mthinkingofdoingjustthat,”answersmymasterquiteseriously.“Butyou’llhavetoexcuseme,”hewenton,“Iwon’tbelong.

Justplaywiththecat.Don’tgoaway.”AndmymasterdepartedlikethewindwithoutevenwaitingforWaverhousetoanswer.

Beingthusunexpectedlyrequiredtoentertaintheculture-vultureWaverhouse,Icannotverywellmaintainmysourattitude.Accordingly, Imewathimencouraginglyandsidleupontohisknees.“Hello,”saysWaverhouse,“you’vegrowndistinctlychubby.Let’stakealookatyou.”

Grabbingme impolitelyby thescruffofmyneckhehangsmeup inmidair. “Cats likeyouthat let theirhind legsdanglearecats thatcatchnomice. . .Tellme,”hesaid, turning tomymaster’swifeinthenextroom,“hasheevercaughtanything?”

“Farfromcatchingsomuchasasinglemouse,heeatsrice-cakesandthendances.”Theladyofthehouseunexpectedlyprobesmyoldwound,whichembarrassedme.EspeciallywhenWaverhousestillheldmeinmidairlikeacircus-performer.

“Indeed, with such a face, it’s not surprising that he dances. Do you know, this catpossessesatrulyinsidiousphysionomy.Helookslikeoneofthosegoblin-catsillustratedintheold storybooks.” Waverhouse, babbling whatever comes into his head, tries to makeconversationwiththemistress.Shereluctantlyinterruptshersewingandcomesintotheroom.

“Idoapologize.Youmustbebored.Hewon’tbelongnow.”Andshepouredfreshteaforhim.

“Iwonderwherehe’sgone.”“Heavenonlyknows.Heneverexplainswherehe’sgoing.Probablytoseehisdoctor.”“YoumeanDr.Amaki?WhatamisfortuneforAmakitobeinvolvedwithsuchapatient.”Perhapsfindingthiscommentdifficulttoanswer,sheanswersbriefly:“Well,yes.”Waverhouse takes not the slightest notice, but goes on to ask, “How is he lately? Is his

weakstomachanybetter?”“It’simpossibletosaywhetherit’sbetterorworse.HowevercarefullyDr.Amakimaylook

after him, I don’t see howhis health can ever improve if he continues to consume such vastquantitiesofjam.”ShethusworksoffonWaverhouseherearliergrumblingstomymaster.

“Doesheeatallthatmuchjam?Itsoundslikeachild.”“Andnot just jam.He’s recently taken toguzzlinggrated radishon thegrounds that it’sa

sovereigncurefordyspepsia.”“Yousurpriseme,”marvelsWaverhouse.“Itallbeganwhenhereadinsomeragthatgratedradishcontainsdiastase.”“Isee.Isupposehereckonsthatgratedradishwillrepairtheravagesofjam.It’scertainly

aningeniousequation.”Waverhouseseemsvastlydivertedbyherrecitalofcomplaint.“Thenonlytheotherdayheforcedsomeonthebaby.”“Hemadethebabyeatjam?”“No,grated radish!Wouldyoubelieve it?Hesaid, ‘Comehere,my littlebabykin, father’ll

give you something good. . .’Whenever, once in a rare while, he shows affection for thechildren,healwaysdoesremarkablysilly things.A fewdaysagoheputourseconddaughter

ontopofachestofdrawers.”“Whatingeniousschemewasthat?”Waverhouselookstodiscoveringenuitiesineverything.“Therewas no question of any ingenious scheme. He just wanted the child tomake the

jumpwhenit’squiteobviousthatalittlegirlofthreeorfourisincapableofsuchtomboyfeats.”“I see. Yes, that proposal does indeed seem somewhat lacking in ingenuity. Still, he’s a

goodmanwithoutanillwishinhisheart.”“Do you think that I could bear it if, on top of everything else, hewere ill-natured?” She

seemsinuncommonlyhighspirits.“Surely you don’t have cause for such vehement complaint?To be as comfortably off as

youareis,afterall,thebestwaytobe.Yourhusbandneitherleadsthefastlifenorsquandersmoneyondandifiedclothing.

He’saborn familymanofquiet taste.”Waverhouse fairly letshimselfgo inunaccustomedlaudofanunknownwayoflife.

“Onthecontrary,he’snotatalllikethat...”“Indeed? So he has secret vices? Well, one cannot be too careful in this world.”

Waverhouseoffersanonchalantlyfluffycomment.“Hehasnosecretvices,buthe is totallyabandoned in thewayhebuysbookafterbook,

never to readasingleone. Iwouldn’tmind ifheusedhisheadandbought inmoderation,butno.Wheneverthemoodtakeshim,heamblesofftothebiggestbookshopinthecityandbringsback homeasmany books as chance to catch his fancy. Then, at the end of themonth, headoptsanattitudeofcompletedetachment.Attheendoflastyear,forinstance,Ihadaterribletimecopingwiththebillthathadbeenaccumulatingmonthaftermonth.”

“Itdoesn’tmatterthatheshouldbringhomehowevermanybookshemaylike.If,whenthebillcollectorcomes,youjustsaythatyou’llpaysomeothertime,he’llgoaway.”

“Butonecannotputthingsoffindefinitely.”Shelookscastdown.“Thenyoushouldexplainthemattertoyourhusbandandaskhimtocutdownexpenditure

onbooks.”“Anddoyoureallybelievehewouldlistentome?Why,onlytheotherday,hesaid,‘Youare

so unlike a scholar’s wife: you lack the least understanding of the value of books. Listencarefully to this story from ancient Rome. It will give you beneficial guidance for your futureconduct.’”

“That sounds interesting.What sort of storywas it?”Waverhouse becomes enthusiastic,thoughheappearslesssympathetictoherpredicamentthanpromptedbysheercuriosity.

“ItseemstherewasinancientRomeakingnamedTarukin.”“Tarukin?ThatsoundsoddinJapanese.”“Icanneverrememberthenamesofforeigners.It’salltoodifficult.Maybehewasabarrel

ofgold.Hewas,atanyrate,theseventhkingofRome.”“Really? The seventh barrel of gold certainly sounds queer. But, tell me, what then

happenedtothisseventhTarukin.”“Youmustn’tteasemelikethat.Youquiteembarrassme.Ifyouknowthisking’struename,

youshouldteachmeit.Yourattitude,”shesnapsathim,“isreallymostunkind.”“Iteaseyou?Iwouldn’tdreamofdoingsuchanunkindthing.Itwassimplythattheseventh

barrelofgoldsoundedsowonderful.Let’ssee...aRoman,theseventhking...Ican’tbeabsolutelycertainbutIratherthinkitmusthave

beenTarquiniusSuperbus,TarquintheProud.Well,itdoesn’treallymatterwhoitwas.Whatdid

thismonarchdo?”“I understand that some woman, Sibyl by name, went to this king with nine books and

invitedhimtobuythem.”“Isee.”“Whenthekingaskedherhowmuchshewanted,shestatedaveryhighprice,sohighthat

thekingasked foramodest reduction.Whereupon thewoman threw threeof theninebooksintothefirewheretheywerequicklyburnttoashes.”

“Whatapity!”“Thebooksweresaidtocontainprophecies,predictions,thingslikethatofwhichtherewas

nootherrecordanywhere.”“Really?”“Theking,believingthatsixbookswereboundtobecheaperthannine,askedthepriceof

theremainingvolumes.Thepriceprovedtobeexactlythesame;notonepennyless.Whenthekingcomplainedofthisoutrageousdevelopment,thewomenthrewanotherthreebooksintothefire.Thekingapparentlystillhankeredforthebooksandheaccordinglyaskedthepriceofthelast three left.Thewomanagaindemanded thesamepriceasshehadasked for theoriginalnine.Ninebookshadshrunktosix,andthentothree,butthepriceremainedunalteredevenbyafarthing.

Suspectingthatanyattempttobargainwouldmerelyleadthewomantopitchthelastthreevolumes into the flames, the king bought them at the original staggering price. My husbandappeared confident that, having heard this story, I would begin to appreciate the value ofbooks,butIdon’tatallseewhatitisthatI’msupposedtohavelearnttoappreciate.”

Havingthusstatedherownposition,sheasgoodaschallengesWaverhousetocontraverther.Even the resourcefulWaverhouseseems tobeata loss.Hedrawsahandkerchief fromthesleeveofhiskimonoandtemptsmetoplaywithit.Then,inaloudvoiceasifanideahadsuddenly struckhim,he remarked, “But you know,Mrs.Sneaze, it is preciselybecauseyourhusband buys so many books and fills his head with wild notions that he is occasionallymentioned as a scholar, or something of that sort. Only the other day a comment on yourhusbandappearedinaliterarymagazine.”

“Really?”Sheturnsaround.Afterall,it’sonlynaturalthathiswifeshouldfeelanxietyaboutcommentsonmymaster.

“Whatdiditsay?”“Oh,onlya few lines. Itsaid thatMr.Sneaze’sprosewas likeacloud thatpasses in the

sky,likewaterflowinginastream.”“Isthat,”sheaskssmiling,“allthatitsaid?”“Well, it also said ‘it vanishes as soon as it appears and, when it vanishes, it is forever

forgetfultoreturn.’”Theladyofthehouselookspuzzledandasksanxiously“Wasthatpraise?”“Well,yes,praiseofasort,”saysWaverhousecoollyashejiggleshishandkerchiefinfront

ofme.“Since books are essential to his work, I suppose one shouldn’t complain, but his

eccentricityissopronouncedthat...”Waverhouseassumesthatshe’sadoptinganewlineofattack.“True,”heinterrupts,“heis

a little eccentric, but any man who pursues learning tends to get like that.” His answer,excellentlynoncommittal,contrivestocombineingratiationandspecialpleading.

“Theother day,whenhe had to go somewhere soonafter he got home fromschool, hefoundittootroublesometochangehisclothes.

Sodoyouknow,hesatdownonhislowdeskwithouteventakingoffhisovercoatandatehisdinnerjustashewas.HehadhistrayputonthefootwarmerwhileIsatonthefloorholdingthericecontainer.Itwasreallyveryfunny...”

“Itsounds like theold-timecustomwhengeneralssatdownto identify theseveredheadsofenemieskilledinbattle.ButthatwouldbequitetypicalofMr.Sneaze.Atanyratehe’sneverboringlyconventional.”

Waverhouseoffersasomewhatstrainedcompliment.“Awomancannot saywhat’s conventionalorunconventional, but I do thinkhis conduct is

oftenundulyodd.”“Still,that’sbetterthanbeingconventional.”AsWaverhousemovesfirmlytothesupportof

mymaster,herdissatisfactiondeepens.“People are always saying this or that is conventional, but would you please tell what

makes a thing conventional?” Adopting a defiant attitude, she demands a definition ofconventionality.

“Conventional?Whenonesayssomethingisconventional...It’sabitdifficulttoexplain...”“If it’ssovaguea thing,surely there’snothingwrongwithbeingconventional.”Shebegins

tocornerWaverhousewithtypicallyfemininelogic.“No,itisn’tvague,it’sperfectlyclear-cut.Butit’shardtoexplain.”“I expect you call everything youdon’t like conventional.” Though totally uncalculated, her

words land smack on target.Waverhouse is now indeed cornered and can no longer dodgedefiningtheconventional.

“I’llgiveyouanexample.Aconventionalmanisonewhowouldyearnafteragirlofsixteenoreighteenbut,sunkinsilence,neverdoanythingaboutit;amanwho,whenevertheweather’sfine,woulddonomore thanstrollalong thebanksof theSumida taking,ofcourse,a flaskofsakéwithhim.”

“Are there really such people?” Since she cannot make heads or tails of the twaddlevouchsafedbyWaverhouse, shebegins toabandonherposition,whichshe finally surrendersbysaying,“It’sallsocomplicatedthatit’sreallyquitebeyondme.”

“You think that complicated? Imagine fitting the head of Major Pendennis onto Bakin’storso,wrappingitupandleavingitallforoneortwoyearsexposedtoEuropeanair.”

“Wouldthatproduceaconventionalman?”Waverhouseoffersnoreplybutmerelylaughs.“Infactitcouldbeproducedwithoutgoingtoquitesomuchtrouble.If you added a shop assistant from a leading store to any middle school student and

dividedthatsumbytwo,thenindeedyou’dhaveafineexampleofaconventionalman.”“Doyoureallythinkso?”Shelookspuzzledbutcertainlyunconvinced.“Areyoustillhere?”MymastersitshimselfdownonthefloorbesideWaverhouse.Wehad

notnoticedhisreturn.“‘Stillhere’isabithard.Yousaidyouwouldn’tbelongandyouyourselfinvitedmetowait

foryou.”“Yousee,he’salwayslikethat,”remarkstheladyofthehouseleaningtowardWaverhouse.“WhileyouwereawayIheardallsortsoftalesaboutyou.”“Thetroublewithwomenisthattheytalktoomuch.Itwouldbegoodifhumanbeingswould

keepassilentasthiscat.”Andthemasterstrokesmyhead.

“Ihearyou’vebeencramminggratedradishintothebaby.”“Hum,”saysmymasterandlaughs.Hethenadded“Talkingofthebaby,modernbabiesare

quite intelligent.Since that timewhen Igaveourbabygrated radish, ifyouaskhim ‘where isthehotplace?’heinvariablysticksouthistongue.Isn’titstrange?”

“You sound as if you were teaching tricks to a dog. It’s positively cruel. By the way,Coldmoonoughttohavearrivedbynow.”

“IsColdmooncoming?”asksmymasterinapuzzledvoice.“Yes.Isenthimapostcardtellinghimtobeherenotlaterthanoneo’clock.”“Howverylikeyou!Withoutevenaskingusifithappenedtobeconvenient.What’stheidea

ofaskingColdmoonhere?”“It’snotreallymyidea,butColdmoon’sownrequest.Itseemsheisgoingtogivealecture

totheSocietyofPhysicalScience.Hesaidheneededtorehearsehisspeechandaskedmetolistento it.Well, I thought itwouldbeobligingto letyouhear it, too.Accordingly, Isuggestedhe should come to your house. Which should be quite convenient since you are a man ofleisure.Iknowyouneverhaveanyengagements.

You’ddowelltolisten.”Waverhousethinksheknowshowtohandlethesituation.“Iwouldn’tunderstandalectureonphysicalscience,”saysmymasterinavoicebetraying

hisvexationathisfriend’shigh-handedaction.“Onthecontrary,hissubjectisnosuchdry-as-dustmatteras,forexample,themagnetized

nozzle. The transcendentally extraordinary subject of his discourse is ‘The Mechanics ofHanging.’Whichshouldbeworthlisteningto.”

“Inasmuchasyouonceonly just failed tohangyourself, I canunderstandyour interest inthesubject,butI’m...”

“...Themanwhogotcoldshiversovergoingtothetheatre,soyoucannotexpectnottolisten to it.”Waverhouse interjectsoneofhisusual flippant remarksandMrs.Sneaze laughs.Glancing back at her husband, she goes off into the next room. My master, keeping silent,strokesmyhead.Thistime,foronce,hestrokedmewithdeliciousgentleness.

Somesevenminutes later incomes theanticipatedColdmoon.Sincehe’sdue togivehislecture this sameevening,he isnotwearinghisusual get-up. Ina fine frock-coatandwithahighandexceedinglywhitecleancollar,helookstwentypercentmorehandsomethanhimself.“Sorrytobelate.”Hegreetshistwoseatedfriendswithperfectcomposure.

“It’s ages that we’ve now been waiting for you. So we’d like you to start right away.Wouldn’t we?” says Waverhouse, turning to look at my master. The latter, thus forced torespond,somewhatreluctantlysays,

“Hmm.”ButColdmoon’sinnohurry.Heremarks,“IthinkI’llhaveaglassofwater,please.”“I seeyouaregoing todo it in real style.You’ll becallingnext fora roundofapplause.”

Waverhouse,buthealone,seemstobeenjoyinghimself.Coldmoonproducedhistextfromaninsidepocketandobserved,“Since it is the established practice,may I say Iwouldwelcome criticism.”That invitation

made,heatlastbeginstodeliverhislecture.“Hanging as a death penalty appears to have originated among the Anglo-Saxons.

Previously, inancient times,hangingwasmainlyamethodofcommittingsuicide. IunderstandthatamongtheHebrewsitwascustomarytoexecutecriminalsbystoningthemtodeath.Studyof theOld Testament reveals that the word ‘hanging’ is there used to mean ‘suspending acriminal’s body after death for wild beasts and birds of prey to devour it.’According to

Herodotus, itwouldseem that theJews,evenbefore theydeparted fromEgypt,abominatedthemerethoughtthattheirdeadbodiesmightbeleftexposedatnight.TheEgyptiansusedtobeheadacriminal,nailthetorsotoacrossandleaveitexposedduringthenight.ThePersians...”

“Steadyon,Coldmoon,”Waverhouseinterrupts.“Youseemtobedriftingfartherandfartherawayfromthesubjectofhanging.Doyouthinkthatwise?”

“Pleasebepatient.Iamjustcomingtothemainsubject.Now,withrespecttothePersians.They, too, seemed to have used crucifixion as a method of criminal execution. However,whether the nailing took place while the criminal was alive or simply after his death is notincontrovertiblyestablished.”

“Who cares? Such details are really of little importance,” yawned my master as fromboredom.

“Thereare stillmanymatters ofwhich I’d like to informyoubut, as itwill perhapsprovetediousforyou...”

“ ‘As itmight prove’would sound better than ‘as itwill perhaps prove.’What d’you think,Sneaze?”Waverhouse starts carping again but mymaster answers coldly, “What differencecoulditmake?”

“Ihavenowcometothemainsubject,andwillaccordinglyrecitemypiece.”“Astoryteller‘recitesapiece.’Anoratorshouldusemoreelegantdiction.”Waverhouseagain

interrupts.“Ifto‘recitemypiece’soundsvulgar,whatwordsshouldIuse?”asksColdmooninavoice

thatshowedhewassomewhatnettled.“It is never clear, when one is dealing with Waverhouse, whether he’s listening or

interrupting.Paynoattentiontohisheckling,Coldmoon, justkeepgoing.”Mymasterseekstofindawaythroughthedifficultyasquicklyaspossible.

“So,havingmadeyour indignant recitation,now I supposeyou’ve found thewillow tree?”With a pun on a little known haiku,Waverhouse, as usual, comes up with something odd.Coldmoon,inspiteofhimself,brokeintolaughter.

“MyresearchesrevealthatthefirstaccountoftheemploymentofhangingasadeliberatemeansofexecutionoccursintheOdyssey,volumetwenty-two.Therelevantpassagerecordshow Telemachus arranged the execution by hanging of Penelope’s twelve ladies-in-waiting. IcouldreadthepassagealoudinitsoriginalGreek,but,sincesuchanactmightberegardedasanaffectation, Iwill refrain fromdoingso.Youwill, however, find thepassagebetween lines465and473.”

“You’d better cut out all that Hellenic stuff. It sounds as if you are just showing off yourknowledgeofGreek.Whatdoyouthink,Sneaze?”

“Onthatpoint, Iagreewithyou. Itwouldbemoremodest,altogetheran improvement, toavoid such ostentation.”Quite unusuallymymaster immediately sideswithWaverhouse. Thereasonis,ofcourse,thatneithercanreadawordofGreek.

“Verywell,Iwillthiseveningomitthosereferences.AndnowIwillrecite...thatistosay,Iwill now continue. Let us consider, then, how a hanging is actually carried out. One canenvisage twomethods.The firstmethod is thatadoptedbyTelemachuswho,with thehelpofEumaeusandPhiloetios,tiedoneendofaropetothetopofapillar:next,havingmadeseveralloose loops intherope,heforcedawoman’sheadthrougheachsuch loop,andfinallyhauleduphardontheotherendoftherope.”

“Inshort,hehadthewomendanglinginarowlikeshirtshungoutatalaundry.Right?”“Exactly.Nowthesecondmethodis,asinthefirstcase,totieoneendofaropetothetop

ofapillarandsimilarly tosecuretheotherendof theropesomewherehighupontheceiling.Thereafter, several other short ropes are attached to the main rope, and in each of thesesubsidiaryropesaslipknot isthentied.Thewomen’sheadsaretheninsertedintheslipknots.The idea is thatat thecrucialmomentyouremove thestoolsonwhich thewomenhavebeenstood.”

“They would then look something like those ball-shaped paper-lanterns one sometimesseessuspendedfromtheend-tipsofropecurtains,wouldn’tthey?”hazardedWaverhouse.

“ThatIcannotsay,”answeredColdmooncautiously.“Ihaveneverseenanysuchballasapaper-lantern-ball,but ifsuchballsexist, the resemblancemaybe just.Now, the firstmethodasdescribedintheOdyssey is, in fact,mechanically impossible;andIshallproceed, foryourbenefit,tosubstantiatethatstatement.”

“Howinteresting,”saysWaverhouse.“Indeed,mostinteresting,”addsmymaster.“Letus suppose that thewomenare tobehangedat intervalsofanequaldistance,and

thattheropebetweenthetwowomennearestthegroundstretchesouthorizontally,right?Nowα1,α2uptoα6becometheanglesbetweentheropeandthehorizon.T1,T2,andsoonuptoT6representtheforceexertedoneachsectionoftherope,sothatT7=Xistheforceexertedonthelowestpartoftherope.Wis,ofcourse,theweightofthewomen.Sofarsogood.Areyouwithme?”

MymasterandWaverhouseexchangeglancesandsay,“Yes,moreorless.”Ineedhardlypointoutthatthevalueofthis“moreorless”issingulartoWaverhouseandmymaster.Itcouldpossiblyhaveadifferentvalueforotherpeople.

“Well, inaccordancewith the theoryofaveragesasapplied to thepolygon,a theorywithwhich you must of course be well acquainted, the following twelve equations can, in thisparticularcase,beestablished:

T1cosαl=T2cosα2......(1)T2cosα2=T3cosα3......(2)”“Ithinkthat’senoughoftheequations,”mymasterirresponsiblyremarks.“Buttheseequationsaretheveryessenceofmylecture.”Coldmoonreallyseemsreluctant

tobepartedfromthem.“In that case, let’s hear those particular parts of its very essence at some other time.”

Waverhouse,too,seemsoutofhisdepth.“But if I omit the full detail of the equations, it becomes impossible to substantiate the

mechanicalstudiestowhichIhavedevotedsomucheffort...”“Oh,nevermindthat.Cutthemallout,”camethecold-bloodedcommentofmymaster.“That’smostunreasonable.However,sinceyouinsist,Iwillomitthem.”“That’sgood,”saysWaverhouse,unexpectedlyclappinghishands.“Nowwe come toEnglandwhere, inBeowulf, we find theword ‘gallows’: that is to say

‘galga.’ It followsthathangingasapenaltymusthavebeeninuseasearlyastheperiodwithwhichthebookisconcerned.

AccordingtoBlackstone,aconvictedpersonwhoisnotkilledathisfirsthangingbyreasonofsomefaultintheropeshouldsimplybehangedagain.But,oddlyenough,onefindsitstated

inTheVisionofPiersPlowman thatevenamurderershouldnotbestrungup twice. Idonotknowwhichstatementiscorrect,buttherearemanymelancholyinstancesofvictimsfailingtobekilledoutright.In1786theauthoritiesattemptedtohanganotoriousvillainnamedFitzgerald,butwhenthestoolwasremoved,bysomestrangechancetheropebroke.Atthenextattempttheropeprovedsolongthathislegstouchedgroundandheagainsurvived.Intheend,atthethirdattempt,hewasenabledtodiewiththehelpofthespectators.”

“Well,well,”saysWaverhousebecoming,aswasonlytobeexpected,re-enlivened.“Atruethanatophile.”Evenmymastershowssignsofjollity.“Thereisoneotherinterestingfact.Ahangedpersongrowstallerbyaboutaninch.Thisis

perfectlytrue.Doctorshavemeasuredit.”“That’sanovelnotion.Howaboutit,Sneaze?”saysWaverhouseturningtomymaster.“Try

getting hanged. If you were an inch taller, youmight acquire the appearance of an ordinaryhumanbeing.”Thereply,however,wasdeliveredwithanunexpectedgravity.

“Tell me, Coldmoon, is there any chance of surviving that process of extension by oneinch?”

“Absolutelynone.Thepointisthatitisthespinalcordwhichgetsstretchedinhanging.It’smoreamatterofbreakingthanofgrowingtaller.”

“Inthatcase,Iwon’ttry.”Mymasterabandonshope.Therewas still a good deal of the lecture left to deliver andColdmoon had clearly been

anxioustodealwiththequestionofthephysiologicalfunctionofhanging.ButWaverhousemadesomanyandsuchcapriciously-phrased interjectionsandmymasteryawnedsorudelyandsofrequentlythatColdmoonfinallybrokeoffhisrehearsalinmid-flowandtookhisleave.Icannottellyouwhatoratoricaltriumphsheachieved,stilllesswhatgesturesheemployedthatevening,becausethelecturetookplacemilesawayfromme.

Afewdayspasseduneventfullyby.Then,onedayabouttwointheafternoon,Waverhousedroppedinwithhisusualcasualmannersandlookingastotallyuninhibitedashisownconceptof the “AccidentalChild.”Theminutehe sat downheaskedabruptly, “HaveyouheardaboutBeauchamp Blowlamp and the Takanawa Incident?” He spoke excitedly, in a tone of voiceappropriatetoanannouncementofthefallofPortArthur.

“No,Ihaven’tseenhimlately.”Mymasterishisusualcheerlessself.“I’vecometoday,although I’mbusy,especially to informyouof the frightfulblunderwhich

Beauchamphascommitted.”“You’reexaggeratingagain.Indeedyou’requiteimpossible.”“Impossible,never:improbable,perhaps.Imustaskyoutomakeadistinctiononthispoint,

foritaffectsmyhonor.”“It’sthesamething,”repliedmymasterassuminganairofprovokingindifference.Heisthe

veryimageofaMr.the-late-and-saintedNaturalMan.“LastSunday,BeauchampwenttotheSengakuTempleatTakanawa,whichwassillyinthis

coldweather,especiallywhentomakesuchavisitnowadaysstampsoneasacountrybumpkinouttoseethesights.”

“ButBeauchamp’shisownmaster.You’venorighttostophimgoing.”“True,Ihaven’tgottheright,solet’snotbotheraboutthat.Thepointisthatthetempleyard

containsashowroomdisplayingrelicsoftheforty-sevenronin.Doyouknowit?”“N-no.”“Youdon’t?Butsurelyyou’vebeentotheTemple?”

“No.”“Well,Iamsurprised.NowonderyousoardentlydefendedBeauchamp.Butit’spositively

shamefulthatacitizenofTokyoshouldneverhavevisitedtheSengakuTemple.”“Onecancontrive to teachwithout trailingout to theendsof the city.”Mymastergrows

moreandmorelikehisblessedNaturalMan.“Allright.Anyway,Beauchampwasexaminingtherelicswhenamarriedcouple,Germans

asithappened,enteredtheshowroom.TheybeganbyaskinghimquestionsinJapanese,but,asyouknow,Beauchamp isalwaysaching topracticehisGermansohenaturally respondedbyrattlingoffafewwordsinthatlanguage.Apparentlyhediditratherwell.

Indeed,whenonethinksbackoverthewholedeplorableincident,hisveryfluencywastherootcauseofthetrouble.”

“Well,whathappened?”Mymasterfinallysuccumbs.“TheGermanspointedoutagold-lacqueredpill-boxwhichhadbelonged toOtakaGengo

and,sayingtheywishedtobuyit,askedBeauchampiftheobjectwereforsale.Beauchamp’sreplywas not uninteresting. He said such a purchasewould be quite impossible because allJapanesepeoplewere truegentlemenof thesternest integrity.Up to thatpointhewasdoingfine.However, theGermans, thinking that they’d foundauseful interpreter, thereupondelugedhimwithquestions.”

“Aboutwhat?”“That’sjust it.Ifhehadunderstoodtheirquestions,therewouldhavebeennotrouble.But

youseehewassubjected to floodsof suchquestions,all delivered in rapidGerman,andhesimply couldn’t make head or tail of what was being asked. When at last he chanced tounderstandpartoftheiroutpourings,itwassomethingaboutafireman’saxeoramallet—somewordhecouldn’ttranslate—soagain,naturally,hewascompletelyatalosshowtoreply.”

“That I can well imagine,” sympathizes my master, thinking of his own difficulties as ateacher.

“IdleonlookerssoonbegantogatheraroundandeventuallyBeauchampandtheGermansweretotallysurroundedbystaringeyes.

InhisconfusionBeauchampfelltoblushing.Incontrasttohisearlierself-confidencehewasnowathiswit’send.”

“Howdiditallturnout?”“In theendBeauchampcould stand it no longer, shoutedsainara in Japanese and came

rushinghome.Ipointedouttohimthatsainarawasanoddphrasetouseandinquiredwhether,in his home-district, people used sainara rather than sayonara. He replied they would saysayonara but, since he was talking to Europeans, he had used sainara in order tomaintainharmony.ImustsayIwasmuchimpressedtofindhimamanmindfulofharmonyevenwhenindifficulties.”

“Sothat’sthebitaboutsainara.WhatdidtheEuropeansdo?”“I hear that the Europeans looked utterly flabbergasted.” AndWaverhouse gave vent to

laughter.“Interesting,eh?”“Frankly, no. I really can’t find anything particularly interesting in your story. But that you

shouldhavecomeherespecially to tellme the tale, that Ido findmuchmore interesting.”Mymastertapshiscigarette’sashintothebrazier.Justatthatmomentthebellonthelatticedoorat the entrance rang with an alarming loudness, and a piercing woman’s voice declared,“Excuseme.”Waverhouseandmymasterlookateachotherinsilence.

Evenwhile Iamthinking that it isunusual formymaster’shouse tohavea femalevisitor,theownerofthatpiercingvoiceenterstheroom.

She is wearing two layers of silk crepe kimono, and looks to be a little over forty. Herforelock towersupabovethebaldexpanseofherbrow like thewallofadykeandsticksouttowardheavenforeasilyonehalfthelengthofherface.Hereyes,setatananglelikearoadcut through a mountain, slant up symmetrically in straight lines. I speak, of course,metaphorically. Her eyes, in fact, are even narrower than those of a whale. But her nose isexceedingly large. It gives the impression that it has been stolen from someone else andthereafterfastenedinthecenterofherface.Itisasifalarge,stonelanternfromsomemajorshrinehadbeenmovedtoatinyten-square-metergarden.

It certainly asserts its own importance, but yet looks out of place. It could almost betermedhooked: itbeginsby juttingsharplyout,but then,halfwayalong its length, it suddenlyturnsshysothat itstip,bereftoftheoriginalvigour,hangslimplydowntopeerintothemouthbelow.

Hernoseissuchthat,whenshespeaks,itisthenoseratherthanthemouthwhichseemstobeinaction.Indeed,inhomagetotheenormityofthatorgan,IshallreferhenceforwardtoitsownerasMadamConk.

Whentheceremonialsofherself-introductionhadbeencompleted,sheglaredaroundtheroomandremarked,“Whatanicehouse.”

“Whataliar,”saysmymastertohimself,andconcentratesuponhissmoking.Waverhousestudies the ceiling. “Tell me,” he says, “is that odd pattern the result of a rain leak or is itinherentinthegrainofthewood?”

“Rain leak, naturally” replies my master. To which Waverhouse coolly answers,“Wonderful.”

MadamConkclearlyregardsthemasunsociablepersonsandboilsquietlywithsuppressedannoyance.Foratimethethreeofthemjustsitthereinatrianglewithoutsayingaword.

“I’vecometoaskyouaboutacertainmatter.”MadamConkstartsupagain.“Ah.”Mymaster’sresponselackswarmth.MadamConk, dissatisfied with this development, bestirs herself again. “I live nearby. In

fact,attheresidenceonthecorneroftheblockacrosstheroad.”“ThatlargehouseintheEuropeanstyle,theonewithagodown?Ah,yes.Ofcourse.Have

Inotseen ‘Goldfield’on thenameplateof thatdwelling?”Mymaster,at last,seems ready totakecognizanceofGoldfield’sEuropeanhouseandhis incorporatedgodown,but hisattitudetowardMadamConkdisplaysnodeepeningofrespect.

“Ofcoursemyhusbandshouldcalluponyouandseekyourvaluedadvice,butheisalwayssobusywithhiscompanyaffairs.”Sheputsona“thatoughttoshiftthem”face,butmymasterremainsentirelyunimpressed.He is, in fact, displeasedbyhermannerof speaking, finding ittoo direct in a woman met for the first time. “And not of just one company either. He isconnected with two or three of them and is a director of them all, as I expect you alreadyknow.”Shelooksasifsayingtoherself,“Nowsurelyheshouldfeelsmall.”Inpointoffact,themasterof thishousebehavesmosthumbly towardanyonewhohappens tobeadoctororaprofessor, but, oddly enough, he offers scant respect toward businessmen. He considers amiddleschoolteachertobeamoreelevatedpersonthananybusinessman.Evenifhedoesn’treallybelievethis,heisquiteresigned,beingofanunadaptablenature,tothefactthathecanneverhopetobesmileduponbybusinessmenormillionaires.

Forhe feelsnothingbut indifference towardanyperson,nomatterhowrichor influential,fromwhomhehasceasedtohopeforbenefits.Heconsequentlypaysnotthefaintestattentionto anything extraneous to the society of scholars, and is almost actively disinterested in thegoings-on of the business world. Had he even the vaguest knowledge of the activities ofbusinessmen, he still could never muster the slightest feeling of awe or respect for suchabysmalpersons.While, forherpart,MadamConkcouldneverstretchher imaginationto thepoint of considering that any being so eccentric asmymaster could actually exist, that anycorner of theworldmight harbor such an oddity. Her experience has includedmeetingswithmanypeopleandinvariably,assoonasshedeclaresthatsheiswifetoGoldfield,theirattitudetowardsherneverfails immediatelytoalter.Atanypartywhatsoeverandnomatterhowloftythesocialstandingofanymanbeforewhomshehappenstofindherself,shehasalwaysfoundthatMrs.Goldfieldiseminentlyacceptable.Howthencouldshefailtoimpresssuchanobscureoldteacher?Shehadexpectedthatthemerementionofthefactthatherhousewasthecornerresidence of the opposite blockwould startlemymaster even before she added informationaboutMr.Goldfield’snotableactivitiesintheworldofbusiness.

“DoyouknowanyonecalledGoldfield?”mymasterinquiresofWaverhousewiththeutmostnonchalance.

“OfcourseIknowhim.He’safriendofmyuncle.Onlytheotherdayhewaspresentatourgardenparty.”Waverhouseanswersinaseriousmanner.

“Really?”saidmymaster.“Andwho,mayIask,isyouruncle?”“BaronMakiyama,”repliedWaverhouseinevengravertones.Mymasterisobviouslyabout

tosaysomething,butbeforehecanbringhimselftowords,MadamConkturnsabruptlytowardWaverhouseandsubjectshimtoapiercingstare.Waverhouse,secureinakimonoofthefinestsilk,remainsentirelyunperturbed.

“Oh, you are BaronMakiyama’s. . . That I didn’t know. I hope you’ll excuseme. . . I’veheard so much about Baron Makiyama from my husband. He tells me that the Baron hasalwaysbeensohelpful...”MadamConk’smannerofspeechhassuddenlybecomepolite.Sheevenbows.

“Ah yes,” observesWaverhouse who is inwardly laughing. My master, quite astonished,watchesthetwoinsilence.

“IunderstandhehaseventroubledtheBaronaboutourdaughter’smarriage...”“Has he indeed?” exclaims Waverhouse as if surprised. Even Waverhouse seems

somewhattakenabackbythisunexpecteddevelopment.“Weare, infact,receivingproposalafterproposal inrespectofmarriagetoourdaughter.

They flood in fromallover theplace.Youwillappreciate that,having to thinkseriouslyofoursocialposition,wecannotrashlymarryoffourdaughtertojustanyone...”

“Quiteso.”Waverhousefeelsrelieved.“I have, in point of fact,made this visit precisely to raisewith you a question about this

marriagematter.”MadamConkturnsbacktomymasterandrevertstoherearliervulgarstyleofspeech.“IhearthatacertainAvalonColdmoonpaysyoufrequentvisits.Whatsortofamanishe?”

“WhydoyouwanttoknowaboutColdmoon?”repliesmymasterinamannerrevealinghisdispleasure.

“Perhapsitisinconnectionwithyourdaughter’smarriagethatyouwishtoknowsomethingaboutthecharacterofColdmoon,”putsinWaverhousetactfully.

“Ifyoucouldtellmeabouthischaracter,itwouldindeedbehelpful.”“ThenisitthatyouwanttogiveyourdaughterinmarriagetoColdmoon?”“It’s not a question of my wanting to give her.” Madam Conk immediately squashes my

master. “Since therewill be innumerableproposals,wecouldn’t care less ifhedoesn’tmarryher.”

“In that case, you don’t need any information about Coldmoon,” my master replies withmatchingheat.

“But you’ve no reason to withhold information.” Madam Conk adopts an almost defiantattitude.

Waverhouse, sittingbetween the twoandholdinghis silverpipeas if itwereanumpire’sinstrumentofoffice,issecretlybesidehimselfwithglee.Hisgloatinghearturgesthemontoyetmoreextravagantexchanges.

“Tellme,didColdmoonactuallysayhewantedtomarryher?”Mymasterfiresabroadsidepointblank.

“Hedidn’tactuallysayhewantedto,but...”“You just think it likely that he might want to?” My master seems to have realized that

broadsidesarebestindealingwiththiswoman.“Thematterisnotyetsofaradvanced,but...well,Idon’tthinkMr.Coldmooniswhollyaversetotheidea.”MadamConkrallieswellinherextremity.“IsthereanyconcreteevidencewhatsoeverthatColdmoonisenamoredofthisdaughterof

yours?”Mymaster,asiftosay,“nowanswermeifyoucan,”sticksouthischestbelligerently.“Well, more or less, yes.” This time my master’s militance has failed in its effect.

Waverhousehashithertobeensodelightedwithhisself-appointed roleofumpire thathehassimplysatandwatchedthescrap,butnowhiscuriosityseemssuddenlytohavebeenaroused.He puts down the pipe and leans forward. “HasColdmoon sent your daughter a love letter?Whatfun!OnemoreneweventsincetheNewYearand,atthat,asplendidsubjectfordebate.”Waverhousealoneispleased.

“Notaloveletter.Somethingmuchmoreardentthanthat.Areyoutworeallysomuchinthedark?”MadamConkadoptsadisbelievingattitude.

“Are you aware of anything?” My master, looking nonplussed, addresses himself toWaverhouse.

Waverhouse takes refuge in banter. “I know nothing. If anyone should know, it would beyou.”Hisreactionisdisappointinglymodest.

“Butthetwoofyouknowallaboutit,”MadamConktriumphsoverbothofthem.“Oh!”Thesoundexpressedtheirsimultaneousastonishment.“Incaseyou’veforgotten,letmeremindyouofwhathappened.AttheendoflastyearMr.

ColdmoonwenttoaconcertattheAberesidenceinMukōjima,right?Thatevening,onhiswayhome,somethinghappenedatAzumaBridge.Youremember? lwon’t repeat thedetailssincethatmightcompromisethepersoninquestion,butwhatI’vesaidissurelyproofenough.Whatdoyouthink?”Shesitsbolt-uprightwithherdiamond-ringedfingersinher lap.Hermagnificentnose looksmore resplendent than ever, somuch so thatWaverhouse andmymaster seempracticallyobliterated.

Mymaster, naturally, butWaverhousealso, appeardumbfoundedby this surpriseattack.Forawhile they justsit there inbewilderment, likepatientswhose fitsofaguehavesuddenlyceased.But as the first shock of their astonishment subsides and they come slowly back to

normality,theirsenseofhumorirrepressiblyassertsitselfandtheyburstintogalesoflaughter.MadamConk,baulked inherexpectationsand, ill-prepared for this reactionof rude laughing,glaresatbothofthem.

“Wasthatyourdaughter?Isn’titwonderful!You’requiteright.IndeedColdmoonmustbemadabouther. Isay,Sneaze,there’snopointnowintryingto

keepitsecret.Let’smakeacleanbreastofeverything.”Mymasterjustsays“Hum.”“There’scertainlynopointinyourtryingtokeepitsecret.Thecat’salreadyoutofthebag.”

MadamConkisoncemorecock-a-hoop.“Yes, indeed, we’re cornered. We’ll have to make a true statement on everything

concerning Coldmoon for this lady’s information. Sneaze! you’re the host here. Pull yourselftogether, man. Stop grinning like that or we’ll never get this business sorted out. It’sextraordinary.

Secretiveness isamostmysteriousmatter.Howeverwelloneguardsasecret,soonerorlater it’s bound to come out. Indeed, when you come to think of it, it really is mostextraordinary. Tell us, Mrs. Goldfield, how did you ever discover this secret? I am trulyamazed.”Waverhouserattleson.

“I’veanoseforthesethings.”MadamConkdeclareswithsomeself-satisfaction.“Youmustindeedbeverywellinformed.Whoonearthhastoldyouaboutthismatter?”“Thewifeoftherickshawmanwholivesjustthereattheback.”“Doyoumeanthatmanwhoownsthatvileblackcat?”Mymasteriswide-eyed.“Yes,yourMr.Coldmoonhascostmeaprettypenny.EverytimehecomeshereIwantto

know what he talks about, so I’ve arranged for the wife of the rickshawman to learn whathappensandtoreportitalltome.”

“Butthat’sterrible!”Mymasterraiseshisvoice.“Don’tworry, Idon’tgiveadamnwhatyoudoorsay. I’mnot in the leastconcernedwith

you,onlywithMr.Coldmoon.”“WhetherwithColdmoonorwith anyoneelse. . .Really, that rickshawwoman is a quite

disgustingcreature.”Mymasterbeginstogetangry.“Butsurelyshe is free tostandoutsideyourhedge. If youdon’twantyourconversations

overheard,youshouldeither talk less loudlyor live ina largerhouse.”MadamConk isclearlynottheleastashamedofherself.“Andthat’snotmyonlysource.I’vealsoheardadealofstufffromtheMistressofthetwo-stringedharp.”

“YoumeanaboutColdmoon?”“Not solely about Coldmoon.” This sounds menacing but, far from retreating in

embarrassment,mymasterretorts.“Thatwomangivesherselfsuchairs.Actingasthoughsheand she alone were the only person of any standing in this neighborhood. A vain, an idioticfellow...”

“Pardonme!It’sawomanyou’redescribing.Afellow,didyousay?Believe me, you’re talking out of the back of your neck.” Her language more and more

betrays her vulgar origin. Indeed, it nowappears as if she has only come in order to pick aquarrel.ButWaverhouse,typically,justsitslisteningtothequarrelasifitwerebeingconductedforhisamusement.Indeed,helookslikeaChinesesageatacockfight:coolandaboveitall.

My master at last realizes that he can never match Madam Conk in the exchange ofscurrilities,andhelapsesintoaforcedsilence.Buteventuallyabrightideaoccurstohim.

“You’vebeenspeakingasthoughitwereColdmoonwhowasbesottedwithyourdaughter,butfromwhatI’veheard,thesituationisquitedifferent.Isn’tthatso,Waverhouse?”

“Certainly.Asweheardit,yourdaughterfellillandthen,weunderstand,beganbabblingindelirium.”

“No.You’vegotitallwrong.”MadamConkgivestheliedirect.“ButColdmoonundoubtedlysaidthatthatwaswhathehadbeentoldbyDr.O’swife.”“Thatwasourtrap.We’daskedtheDoctor’swifetoplaythattrickonColdmoonprecisely

inordertoseehowhe’dreact.”“Didthedoctor’swifeagreetothisdeceptioninfullknowledgethatitwasatrick?”“Yes.Ofcoursewecouldn’texpecthertohelpuspurelyforaffection’ssake.AsI’vesaid,

we’vehadtolayoutaveryprettypennyononethingandanother.”“YouarequitedeterminedtoimposeyourselfuponusandquizusindetailaboutColdmoon,

eh?” Even Waverhouse seems to be getting annoyed for he uses some sharpish turns ofphrasequiteunlikehisusualmanner.

“Ahwell,Sneaze,”hecontinues,“whatdoweloseifwetalk?Let’stellhereverything.Now,Mrs.Goldfield, bothSneazeand Iwill tell youanythingwithin reasonaboutColdmoon.But itwouldbemoreconvenientforusifyou’dpresentyourquestionsoneatatime.”

MadamConkwas thus at last brought to see reason.Andwhen shebegan to poseherquestions,herstyleofspeech,onlyrecentlysocoarselyviolent,acquiredacertaincivilpolish,at leastwhenshespoke toWaverhouse. “Iunderstand,” sheopens, “thatMr.Coldmoon isabachelorofscience.Nowpleasetellmeinwhatsortofsubjecthashespecialized?”

“In his post-graduate course, he’s studying terrestrial magnetism,” answers my masterseriously.

Unfortunately,MadamConkdoesnotunderstandthisanswer.Therefore, thoughshesays, “Ah,”she looksdubiousandasks: “Ifonestudies that,could

oneobtainadoctor’sdegree?”“Areyouseriouslysuggestingthatyouwouldn’tallowyourdaughtertomarryhimunlesshe

heldadoctorate?”Thetoneofmymaster’sinquirydiscloseshisdeepdispleasure.“That’sright.Afterall, if it’sjustabachelor’sdegree,therearesomanyofthem!”Madam

Conkreplieswithcompleteunconcern.Mymaster’sglanceatWaverhouserevealsadeepeningdisgust.“Since we cannot be sure whether or not he’ll gain a doctorate, you’ll have to ask us

somethingelse.”Waverhouseseemsequallydispleased.“Ishestilljuststudyingthatterrestrialsomething?”“Afewdaysago,”mymasterquiteinnocentlyoffers,“hemadeaspeechontheresultsof

hisinvestigationofthemechanicsofhanging.”“Hanging? How dreadful! Hemust be peculiar. I don’t suppose he could ever become a

doctorbydevotinghimselftohanging.”“Itwouldofcoursebedifficultforhimtogainadoctorateifheactuallyhangedhimself,but

itisnotimpossibletobecomeadoctorthroughstudyofthemechanicsofhanging.”“Isthatso?”sheanswers,tryingtoreadmymaster’sexpression.It’sasad,sadthingbut,

since shedoesnot knowwhatmechanicsare, she cannot help feelinguneasy.Sheprobablythinksthattoaskthemeaningofsuchatriflingmattermight involveherinlossofface.Likeafortuneteller,shetriestoguessthetruthfromfacialexpressions.Mymaster’sfaceisglum.“Ishestudyinganythingelse,somethingmoreeasytounderstand?”

“Heoncewroteatreatiseentitled‘ADiscussionoftheStabilityofAcornsinRelationtotheMovementsofHeavenlyBodies.’”

“Doesonereallystudysuchthingsasacornsatauniversity?”“Not being a member of any university, I cannot answer your question with complete

certainty, but since Coldmoon is engaged in such studies, the subject must undoubtedly beworthstudying.”Withadead-panface,Waverhousemakesfunofher.

MadamConkseemstohaverealizedthatherquestionsaboutmattersofscholarshiphavecarriedheroutofherdepth,forshechangesthesubject.“Bytheway,”shesays,“IhearthathebroketwoofhisfrontteethwheneatingmushroomsduringtheNewYearseason.”

“True,andarice-cakebecamefixedonthebrokenpart.”Waverhouse, feeling that this question is indeed up his street, suddenly becomes light-

hearted.“Howunromantic!Iwonderwhyhedoesn’tuseatoothpick!”“NexttimeIseehim,I’llpassonyoursageadvice,”saysmymasterwithachuckle.“Ifhisteethcanbesnappedonmushrooms,theymustbeinverypoorcondition.Whatdo

youthink?”“Onecouldhardlysaysuchteethweregood.Couldone,Waverhouse?”“Ofcoursetheycan’tbegood,buttheydoprovideacertainhumor.It’s odd that hehasn’t had them filled. It really is anextraordinary sightwhenaman just

leaveshisteethtobecomemerehooksforsnaggingrice-cakes.”“Is it becausehe lacks themoney toget them filledor becausehe’s just soodd that he

leavesthemunattendedto?”“Ah,youneedn’tworry.Idon’tsupposehewillcontinueasMr.Broken Front Tooth for any long time.” Waverhouse is evidently regaining his usual

bouyancy.MadamConkagainchangesthesubject.“Ifyoushouldhavesomeletteroranythingwhich

he’swritten,I’dliketoseeit.”“I have masses of postcards from him. Please have a look at them,” and my master

producessomethirtyorfortypostcardsfromhisstudy.“Oh,Idon’thavetolookatsomanyofthem...perhapstwoorthreewoulddo...”“Let me choose some for you,” offers Waverhouse, adding as he selects a picture

postcard,“Here’saninterestingone.”“Gracious! So he paints pictures as well? Rather clever that,” she exclaims. But after

examiningthepicturesheremarks“Howverysilly!It’sabadger!Whyonearthdoeshehavetopaintabadgerofallthings!Strange.Butitdoesindeedlooklikeabadger.”Sheis,albeitreluctantly,mildlyimpressed.“Readwhathe’swrittenbesideit,”suggestsmymasterwithalaugh.MadamConkbeginstoreadaloudlikeaservant-girldecipheringanewspaper.“OnNewYear’sEve,ascalculatedundertheancientcalendar,themountainbadgershold

agardenpartyatwhichtheydanceexcessively.Their song says, ‘This evening, beingNewYear’sEve, nomountain hikerswill come this

way.’ And bom-bom-bom they thump upon their bellies.What is he writing about? Is he notbeingatriflefrivolous?”MadamConkseemsseriouslydissatisfied.

“Doesn’tthisheavenlymaidenpleaseyou?”Waverhousepicksoutanothercardonwhichakindofangelincelestialraimentisdepictedasplayinguponalute.

“Thenoseofthisheavenlymaidenseemsrathertoosmall.”“Ohno,that’sabouttheaveragesizeforanangel.Butforgetthenoseforthemomentand

readwhatitsays,”urgesWaverhouse.“Itsays ‘Onceuponatimetherewasanastronomer.Onenighthewentaswashiswont

highup into his observatory, and, ashewas intentlywatching the stars, a beautiful heavenlymaidenappearedintheskyandbegantoplaysomemusic;musictoodelicateevertobeheardonearth.Theastronomerwassoentrancedbythemusic thathequite forgot thedarknight’sbittercold.Nextmorningthedeadbodyoftheastronomerwasfoundcoveredwithpurewhitefrost.Anoldman,aliar,toldmethatthisstorywasalltrue.’Whatthehellisthis?Itmakesnosense,nonothing.CanColdmoonreallybeabachelorofscience?

Perhaps he should read a few literary magazines.”Thus mercilessly does Madam ConklambastethedefenselessColdmoon.

Waverhouse for fun selectsa thirdpostcardand says, “Well then,what about this one?”Thecardhasasailingboatprintedonitand,asusual,thereissomethingscribbledunderneaththepicture.

LastnightatinywhoreofsixteensummersDeclaredshehadnoparents.Likeaploveronareefycoast,Sheweptonwakingintheearlymorning.Herparents,sailorsboth,lieatthebottomofthesea.

“Oh,that’sgood.Howveryclever!He’sgotrealfeeling,”eruptedMadamConk.“Feeling?”saysWaverhouse.“Ohyes,”saysMadamConk.“Thatwouldgowellonasamisen.“If it couldbeplayedon thesamisen, then it’s the realMcCoy.Well, howabout these?”

asksWaverhousepickingoutpostcardafterpostcard.“Thankyou,butI’veseenenough.Fornow,atleastIknowthatColdmoon’snotastraight-

lacedprude.”She thinks shehasachieved some real understandingandappears to havenomorequeriesaboutColdmoon,forsheremarks,“I’msorrytohavetroubledyou.Pleasedonotreportmyvisit toMr.Coldmoon.”Her request reflectsherselfishnature in thatsheseems tofeel entitled tomake a thorough investigation of Coldmoonwhilst expecting that none of heractivitiesshouldberevealedtohim.BothWaverhouseandmymasterconcedeahalf-hearted“Y-es,”butasMadamConkgetsuptoleave,sheconsolidatestheirassentbysaying,“Ishall,ofcourse,atsomelaterdaterepayyouforyourservices.”

The twomen showedher out and, as they resumed their seats,Waverhouse exclaimed,“What on earth is that?” At the very samemomentmymaster also ejaculated, “Whatever’sthat?”Isupposemymaster’swifecouldnotrestrainherlaughteranylonger,forweheardhergurglingintheinner-room.

Waverhousethereuponaddressedher inaloudvoicethroughtheslidingdoor.“That,Mrs.Sneaze, was a remarkable specimen of all that is conventional, of all that is ‘common orgarden.’Butwhensuchcharacteristicsbecomedevelopedtothatincredibledegreetheresultis

positivelystaggering.Suchquintessenceofthecommonapproximatestotheunique.Don’tseektorestrainyourself.Laughtoyourheart’scontent.”

Withevidentdisgustmymasterspeaks in tonesof thedeepestrevulsion.“Tobeginwith,”hesays,“herfaceisunattractive.”

Waverhouseimmediatelytakesthecue.“Andthatnose,squatting,asitwere,inthemiddleofthatphiz,seemsaffectedlyunreal.”

“Notonlythat,it’scrooked.”“Hunchbacked,onemightsay.Ahunchbackednose!Quiteextraordinary.”AndWaverhouse

laughsingenuinedelight.“Itisthefaceofawomanwhokeepsherhusbandunderherbottom.”Mymasterstilllooksresentful.“It is a sort of physiognomy that, left unsold in the nineteenth century, becomes in the

twentiethshop-soiled.”Waverhouseproducesanotherofhisinvariablybizarreremarks.Atwhichjuncturemymaster’swifeemergesfromtheinner-roomand,beingawomanandthusawareofthewaysofwomen,quietlywarns them, “Ifyou talksuchscandal, the rickshaw-owner’swifewillsnitchonyouagain.”

“But,Mrs.Sneaze,tohearsuchtattlewilldothatGoldfieldwomannoendofgood.”“Butit’sself-demeaningtocalumniateaperson’sface.Noonesportsthatsortofnoseasa

matter of choice.Besides, she is awoman.You’re goinga little too far.”Her defenseof thenoseofMadamConkissimultaneouslyanindirectdefenseofherownindifferentlooks.

“We’renotunkindatall.Thatcreatureisn’tawoman.She’sjustanoaf.Waverhouse,amInotright?”

“Maybe an oaf, but a formidable character nonetheless. She gave you quite a tousling,didn’tshejust?”

“Whatdoesshetakeateacherfor,anyway?”“Sheranksateacheronroughlythesamelevelasarickshaw-owner.Toearn the respectof suchviragoesoneneeds tohaveat leastadoctor’sdegree.You

wereill-advisednottohavetakenyourdoctorate.Don’tyouagree,Mrs.Sneaze?”Waverhouselooksatherwithasmile.

“Adoctorate?Quiteimpossible.”Evenhiswifedespairsofmymaster.“Younever know. Imight becomeone, oneof thesedays.Youmustn’t alwaysdoubtmy

worth.Youmaywell be ignorant of the fact, but in ancient times a certainGreek, lsocrates,produced major literary works at the age of ninety-four. Similarly, Sophocles was almost acentenarianwhenhe shook theworldwith hismasterpiece.Simonideswaswritingwonderfulpoetryinhiseighties.I,too...”

“Don’tbesilly.Howcanyoupossiblyexpect, youwithyourstomach troubles, to live thatlong.”Mrs.Sneazehasalreadydeterminedmymaster’sspanoflife.

“Howdareyou!JustgoandtalktoDr.Amaki.Anyway, it’sallyourfault. It’sbecauseyoumake me wear this crumpled black cotton surcoat and this patched-up kimono that I amdespisedbywomenlikeMrs.

Goldfield.Very well then. From tomorrow I shall rig myself out in such fineries asWaverhouseiswearing.Sogetthemready.”

“You may well say ‘get them ready,’ but we don’t possess any such elegant clothes.Anyway,Mrs.Goldfieldonlygrewcivil toWaverhouseafterhe’dmentionedhisuncle’sname.Herattitudewas innowayconditionedby the ill-conditionof your kimono.”Mrs.Sneazehas

neatlydodgedthechargeagainsther.The mention of that uncle appears to trigger my master’s memory, for he turns to

Waverhouseandsays,“Thatwasthefirst Ieverheardofyouruncle.Youneverspokeofhimbefore.Doeshe,infact,exist?”

Waverhousehasobviouslybeenexpecting thisquestion,andhe jumpstoanswer it. “Yes,that uncle of mine, a remarkably stubborn man. He, too, is a survival from the nineteenthcentury.”Helooksathusbandandwife.

“Youdosaythequaintestthings.Wheredoesthisunclelive?”asksMr.Sneazewithatitter.“InShizuoka.Buthedoesn’tjustlive.Heliveswithatop-knotstillonhishead.Canyoubeat

it?Whenwesuggestheshouldwearahat,heproudlyanswers thathehasnever found theweathercoldenoughtodonsuchgear.Andwhenwehint thathemightbewisetostayabedwhen theweather’s freezing,he replies that fourhour’ssleep issufficient foranyman.He isconvincedthattosleepmorethanfourhoursissheerextravagance,sohegetsupwhileit’sstillpitch-dark. It is his boast that it tookmany long years of training so tominimize his sleepinghours. ‘When I was young,’ he says,‘it was indeed hard because I felt sleepy, but recently Ihaveat lastachievedthatwonderfulconditionwhereIcansleeporwake,anywhere,anytime,just as I happen to wish.’ It is of course natural that aman of sixty-seven should need lesssleep. It hasnothing todowithearly training,butmyuncle ishappy in thebelief thathehassucceeded inattaininghispresentconditionentirelyasaresultof rigorousself-discipline.Andwhenhegoesout,healwayscarriesanironfan.”

“Whateverfor?”asksmymaster.“lhaven’t the faintest idea.He justcarries it.Perhapsheprefersa fan toawalkingstick.

As amatter of fact an odd thing happened only the other day.”Waverhouse speaks toMrs.Sneaze.

“Ahyes?”shenoncommittallyresponds.“InthespringthisyearhewrotetomeoutofthebluewitharequestthatIshouldsendhim

abowler hat and a frock-coat. Iwas somewhat surprised andwrote back asking for furtherclarification.IreceivedananswerstatingthattheoldmanhimselfintendedtowearbothitemsontheoccasionoftheShizuokacelebrationofthewarvictory,andthatIshouldthereforesendthemquickly.Itwasanorder.Butthequaintnessofhisletterwasthatitenjoinedme‘tochooseahatofsuitablesizeand,asforthesuit, togoandorderonefromDaimaruofwhateversizeyouthinkappropriate.’”

“CanonegetsuitsmadeatDaimaru?”“No.Ithinkhe’dgotconfusedandmeanttosayatShirokiya’s.”“Isn’titalittleunhelpfultosay‘ofwhateversizeyouthinkappropriate’?”“That’sjustmyuncleallover.”“Whatdidyoudo?”“WhatcouldIdo?IorderedasuitwhichIthoughtappropriateandsentittohim.”“Howveryirresponsible!Anddiditfit?”“Moreor less, I think.For I laternoticed inmyhome-townnewspaper that thevenerable

Mr.Makiyamahadcreatedsomethingofasensationbyappearingatthesaidcelebrationinafrockcoatcarrying,asusual,hisfamousironfan.”

“Itseemsdifficulttoparthimfromthatobject.”“Whenhe’sburied,Ishallensurethatthefanisplacedwithinthecoffin.”

“Stillitwasfortunatethatthecoatandbowlerfittedhim.”“But they didn’t. Just when I was congratulating myself that everything had gone off

smoothly,aparcelcamefromShizuoka.Iopeneditexpectingsometokenofhisgratitude,butitprovedonlytocontainthebowler.Anaccompanyingletterstated,‘Thoughyouhavetakenthetroubleofmakingthispurchaseforme,Ifindthehattoolarge.Pleasebesokindastotakeitback to thehatter’sandhave it shrunk. Iwill of coursedefrayyour consequentexpensesbypostalorder.’”

“Peculiar, one must admit.” My master seems greatly pleased to discover that there issomeoneevenmorepeculiarthanhimself.“Sowhatdidyoudo?”heasks.

“WhatdidIdo?Icoulddonothing.I’mwearingthehatmyself.”“Andisthattheveryhat?”saysmymasterwithasmirk.“Andhe’saBaron?”asksmymaster’swifefromhermystification.“Iswho?”“Yourunclewiththeironfan.”“Oh, no. He’s a scholar of theChinese classics.When hewas young he studied at that

shrinededicatedtoConfuciusinYushimaandbecamesoabsorbedintheteachingsofChu-Tzuthat, most reverentially, he continues to wear a top-knot in these days of the electric light.There’snothingonecandoaboutit.”Waverhouserubshischin.

“ButIhavetheimpressionthatinspeakingjustnowtothatawfulwomanyoumentionedaBaronMakiyama.”

“Indeedyoudid.Iheardyouquitedistinctly,evenintheotherroom.”Mrs.Sneazeforoncesupportsherhusband.“Oh,didI?”Waverhousepermitshimselfasnigger.“Fancythat.Well,itwasn’ttrue.HadIa

Baron for an uncle I would by now be a senior civil servant.”Waverhouse is not in the leastembarrassed.

“I thought itwassomehowqueer,”saysmymasterwithanexpressionhalf-pleased,half-worried.

“It’sastonishinghowcalmlyyoucanlie.Imustsayyou’reapastmasteratthegame.”Mrs.Sneazeisdeeplyimpressed.

“Youflatterme.Thatwomanquiteoutclassesme.”“Idon’tthinkshecouldmatchyou.”“But,Mrs.Sneaze,myliesaremerelytarrydiddles.Thatwoman’slies,everyoneofthem,

havehooksinsidethem.They’retrickylies.Liesloadedwithmaliceaforethought.Theyarethespawnofcraftiness.

Please never confuse such calculated monkey-minded wickedness with my heaven-senttasteforthecomicalityofthings.Shouldsuchconfusionprevail,theGodofComedywouldhavenochoicebuttoweepformankind’slackofperspicacity.”

“Iwonder,”saysmymaster, loweringhiseyes,whileMrs.Sneaze,still laughing, remarksthatitallcomesdowntothesamethingintheend.

UpuntilnowIhaveneversomuchascrossedtheroadtoinvestigatetheblockopposite.IhaveneverclappedeyesontheGoldfield’scornerresidencesoInaturallyhavenoideawhatitlooks like. Indeed today is the first time that I’ve even heard of its existence.No one in thishouse has ever previously talked about a businessman and consequently I, who am mymaster’s cat, have shared his total disinterest in the world of business and his equally totalindifference to businessmen. However, having just been present during the colloquy with

MadamConk, having overheard her talk, having imagined her daughter’s beauty and charm,andalsohavinggivensomethought to that family’swealthandpower, Ihavecometo realizethat, thoughnomore thanacat, Ishouldnot idleallmydaysaway lyingon theveranda.Noronly that, I cannot help but feel deep sympathy with Coldmoon. His opponent has alreadybribed a doctor’s wife, bribed the wife of the rickshaw-owner, bribed even that high-falutinmistressofthetwo-stringedharp.ShehassospieduponpoorColdmoonthatevenhisbrokenteeth have been disclosed,while he has done nomore than fiddlewith the fastenings of hissurcoat and, on occasion, grin.He is guileless even for a bachelor of science just out of theuniversity. And it’s not just anyonewho can copewith awoman equippedwith such a jut ofnose.Mymasternotonlylackstheheartfordealingwithmattersofthissort,buthelacksthemoney,too.

Waverhousehassufficientmoney,but issuchan inconsequentialbeing thathe’dnevergoout of hiswaymerely to helpColdmoon.How isolated, then, is that unfortunate personwholectureson themechanicsof hanging. Itwouldbe less than fair if I failedat least to try andinsinuate myself into the enemy fortress and, for Coldmoon’s sake, pick up news of theiractivities.Thoughbutacat, Iamnotquiteasothercats. Idiffer fromthegeneral runof idiotcatsandstupidcats.Iamacatthatlodgesinthehouseofascholarwho,havingreadit,canbang down any book by Epictetus on his desk. Concentrated in the tip of my tail there issufficientofthespiritofchivalryformetotakeituponmyselftoventureuponknight-errantry.ItisnotthatIaminanywaybeholdentopoorColdmoon,noramIengaginginfoolhardyactionfor the sake of any single individual. If I may be allowed to blow my own trumpet, I amproposing to take magnificent unself-interested action simply in order to realize the will ofHeaven that smiles upon impartiality and blesses the happy medium. Since Madam Conkmakes impermissibleuseof such thingsas thehappeningsatAzumaBridge; since shehiresunderlings to spy and eavesdrop on us; since she triumphantly retails to all and sundry theproducts of her espionage; since by the employment of rickshaw-folk, mere grooms, plainrogues, student riff-raff, crone daily-help, midwives, witches, masseurs, and other trouble-makerssheseekstotroubleamanoftalent;forallthesereasonsevenacatmustdowhatcanbedonetopreventhergettingawaywithit.

The weather, fortunately, is fine. The thaw is something of nuisance, but one must beprepared to sacrificeone’s life in thecauseof justice. Ifmy feetgetmuddyandstampplumblossompatternson the veranda,OSanmaybenarkedbut thatwon’tworryme.For I havecome to thesuperlativelycourageous, firmdecision that Iwill notputoffuntil tomorrowwhatneeds to be done today. Accordingly, I whisk off around to the kitchen, but, having arrivedthere,pauseforfurtherthought.

“Softly, softly,” I say to myself. It’s not simply that I’ve attained the highest degree ofevolution that canoccur in cats,but Imakebold tobelievemybrain isaswell-developedasthatofanyboyinhisthirdyearatamiddleschool.Nevertheless,alas,theconstructionofmythroat is still only that of a cat, and I cannot therefore speak the babbles ofmankind. Thus,even if I succeed in sneaking into the Goldfield’s citadel and there discovering matters ofmoment,IshallremainunabletocommunicatemydiscoveriestothatColdmoonwhosoneedsthem.Neither shall I be able to communicatemy gleanings tomymaster or toWaverhouse.Suchincommunicableknowledgewould, likeaburieddiamond,bedenieditsbrillianceandmyhard-wonwisdomwouldallbewonfornothing.

Whichwouldbestupid.PerhapsIshouldscrapmyplan.Sothinking,Ihesitatedonthevery

doorstep.Buttoabandonaprojecthalfwaythroughbreedsakindofregret,thatsenseofunfulfillment

whichonefeelswhenthesloweronehadsoconfidentlyexpecteddriftsawayunderinkycloudsintosomeotherpartof thecountryside.Ofcourse, topersistwhenone is in thewrong isanaltogetherdifferentmatter,buttopressonforthesakeofso-calledjusticeandhumanity,evenat the risk of death uncrowned by success, that, for a man who knows his duty, can be asourceofthedeepestsatisfaction.Accordingly,toengageinfruitlesseffortandtomuddyone’spaws on a fool’s errandwould seemabout right for a cat. Since it ismymisfortune to havebeenbornacat,Icannotbyturnsofthetipofmytailconvey,asIcantocats,mythinkingtosuch scholars as Coldmoon, Sneaze, andWaverhouse. However, by virtue of felinity, I can,betterthanallsuchbookmen,makemyselfinvisible.Todowhatnooneelsecandois,ofitself,delightful.ThatIaloneshouldknowtheinnerworkingsoftheGoldfieldhouseholdisbetterthanifnobodyshouldknow.

Though I cannot passmy knowledge on, it is still cause for delight that Imaymake theGoldfieldsconsciousthatsomeoneknowstheirsecrets.

Inthelightof thissuccessionofdelights,Iboldlymaketobelievemybrain isasdelightfulaswell.Allrightthen.Iwillgo.

Comingtothesidestreetintheoppositeblock,there,sureenough,IfindaWestern-stylehouse dominating the crossroads as if it owned thewhole area. Thinking that themaster ofsuchahousemustbenolessstuckupthanhisbuilding,Islidepastthegateandexaminetheedifice. Its construction has no merit. Its two stories rear up into the air for no purposewhateverbuttoimpress,eventocoerce,thepassersby.This,Isuppose,iswhatWaverhousemeanswhenhecallsthingscommonorgarden.Islinkthroughsomebushes,takenoteofthemainentrancetomyright,andsofindmywayroundtothekitchen.Asmightbeexpected,thekitchenislarge—atleasttentimesaslargeasthatinmymaster’sdwelling.

Everythingisinsuchapplepieorder,allsocleanandshining,thatitcannotbelesssplendidthan that fabulouskitchenofCountOkumaso ful-somelydescribed ina recentproductof thenationalpress. I tellmyself,as Islip insideonsilentmuddypaws, that thismustbe“amodelkitchen.”

On the plastered part of its floor the wife of the rickshaw-owner is standing in earnestdiscussionwithakitchen-maidandarickshaw-runner.

Realizingthedangersofthissituation,Ihidebehindawater-tub.“Thatteacher,doesn’thereallyevenknowourmaster’sname?”thekitchen-maiddemands.“Of coursehe knows it.Anyone in this districtwhodoesn’t know theGoldfield residence

mustbeadeafcripplewithouteyes,”snapsthemanwhopullstheGoldfield’sprivaterickshaw.“Well,youneverknow.Thatteacher’soneofthosecrankswhoknownothingatallexcept

what it says in books. If he knew even the least little thing aboutMr.Goldfield hemight bescaredoutofhiswits.Buthehasn’tthewitstobescaredoutof.Why,”snortsBlacky’sbloody-mindedmistress,“hedoesn’tevenknowtheagesofhisownmis-managedchildren.”

“Sohe’snotafraidofourMr.Goldfield!Whatacussedclotheis!There’snocalltoshowhimtheleastconsideration.Let’sgoaroundandgivehimsomething

tobescaredabout.”“Good idea!Hesayssuchdreadful things.Hewas tellinghiscrackpotcronies that,since

Madam’snoseisfartoobigforherface,hefindsherunattractive.Nodoubthethinkshimselfaproperpicture,buthismug’s thespitting imageofa terra-cottabadger.Whatcanbedone, I

askyou,withsuchananimal?”“And it isn’t only his face. Thewayhe saunters down to the public bathhouse carrying a

hand towel is far toohighandmighty.He thinkshe’s the cat’swhiskers.”MymasterSneazeseemsnotablyunpopular,evenwiththiskitchen-maid.

“Let’sallgoandcallhimnamesasloudaswecanfromjustoutsidehishedge.”“That’llbringhimdownapeg.”“Butwemustn’tletourselvesbeseen.Wemustspoilhisstudyingjustwithshouting,getting

himriledasmuchaswecan.ThoseareMadam’slatestorders.”“Iknowall that,”says the rickshawwife inavoice thatmakes itclear thatshe’sonly too

ready toundertakeone-thirdof their scurrilousassignment.Thinking tomyself, “So that’s thegangwho’regoingtoridiculemymaster,” Idriftquietlypast thenoisesometrioandpenetrateyetfurtherintotheenemyfortress.

Cat’spawsareasiftheydonotexist.Wheresoevertheymaygo,theynevermakeclumsynoises.Catswalkasifonair,asiftheytrodtheclouds,asquietlyasastonegoinglight-tappedunderwater,asanancientChineseharptouchedinasunkencave.Thewalkingofacatistheinstinctive realization of all that is most delicate. For such as I am concerned, this vulgarWestern house simply is not there. Nor do I take cognizance of the rickshaw-woman,manservant,kitchen-maids,thedaughterofthehouse,MadamConk,herparlor-maidsorevenherghastlyhusband.Formetheydonotexist.IgowhereIlikeandIlistentowhatevertalkitinterestsmetohear.Thereafter,stickingoutmytongueandfriskingmytail, Iwalkhomeself-composedlywithmywhiskersproudlystiff.Inthisparticularfieldofendeavorthere’snotacatin all Japan so gifted as am I. Indeed, I sometimes think I really must be blood-kin to thatmonstercatoneseesinancientpicturebooks.Theysaythateverytoadcarriesinitsforeheadagemthat inthedarknessutters light,butpackedwithinmytail IcarrynotonlythepowerofGod,Buddha,Confucius, Love, andevenDeath, but alsoan infalliblepanacea for all ills thatcouldbewitch theentirehuman race. I canaseasilymoveunnoticed through thecorridorsofGoldfield’sawfulmansionasagiantgodofstonecouldsquashamilk-blancmange.

Atthispoint,IbecomesoimpressedbymyownpowersandsoconsciousofthereverenceI consequently owe to my own most precious tail that I feel unable to withhold immediaterecognitionof itsdivinity. Idesire topray forsuccess inwarbyworshipingmyhonoredGreatTailGraciousDeity,soIlowermyheadalittle,onlytofindIamnotfacingintherightdirection.WhenImakethethreeappropriateobeisancesIshould,ofcourse,asfarasitispossible,befacingtowardmytail.ButasIturnmybodytofulfillthatrequirement,mytailmovesawayfromme.

Inaneffort to catchupwithmyself, I twistmyneck.But stillmy tail eludesme.Beingathing so sacred, containing as it does the entire universe in its three-inch length, my tail isinevitablybeyondmypowertocontrol.Ispunroundinpursuitofitsevenandahalftimesbut,feelingquiteexhausted,Ifinallygaveup.Ifeelatriflegiddy.ForamomentI loseallsenseofwhereIamand,decidingthatmywhereaboutsaretotallyunimportant,Istarttowalkaboutatrandom.ThenIhearthevoiceofMadamConk.Itcomesfromthefarsideofapaper-window.Myearsprickupinsharpdiagonalsand,oncemorefullyalert,Iholdmybreath.

ThisistheplacewhichIsetouttofind.“He’sfartoocockyforapenny-pinchingusher,”she’sscreaminginthatparrot’svoice.“Sure,he’sacockyfellow.I’llhaveabitofthebouncetakenoutofhim,justtoteachhima

lesson. There are one or two fellows I know, fellows frommy own province, teaching at his

school.”“Whatfellowsarethose?”“Well, there’sTsukiPinsukeandFukuchiKishagoforastart. I’llarrangewiththemforhim

toberaggedinclass.”Idon’tknowfromwhatprovinceoldmanGoldfieldcomes,butI’mrathersurprisedtofindit

stiffwithsuchoutlandishnames.“IsheateacherofEnglish?”herhusbandasks.“Yes.According to thewife of the rickshaw-owner, his teaching specializes in anEnglish

Readerorsomethinglikethat.”“Inanycase,he’sgottabearottenteacher.”I’malsostruckbythevulgarityofthat“gottabe”phraseology.“When I saw Pinsuke the other day he mentioned that there was some crackpot at his

school.WhenaskedtheEnglishwordforbancha,thisfatheadansweredthattheEnglishcalledit,not ‘coarsetea’as theyactuallydo,but ‘savagetea.’He’snowthe laughingstockofallhisteachingcolleagues.Pinsukeaddedthatall theotherteacherssufferforthisone’sfollies.Verylikelyit’stheself-sameloon.”

“It’s bound to be. He’s got the face you’d expect on a fool who thinks that tea can besavage.Andtothinkhehasthenervetosportsuchadashingmustache!”

“Saucybastard.”Ifwhiskersestablishsauciness,everycatisimpudent.“AsforthatmanWaverhouse—StaggeringDrunkI’dcallhim—he’sanobstreperousfreakif

everIsawone.BaronMakiyama,hisuncleindeed!Iwassurethatnoonewithafacelikehiscouldhaveabaronforanuncle.”

“You,too,areatfaultforbelievinganythingwhichamanofsuchdubiousoriginsmightsay.”“MaybeIwasatfault.Butreallythere’salimitandhe’sgonemuchtoofar.”MadamConk

sounds singularly vexed. The odd thing is that neither mentions Coldmoon. I wonder if theyconcludedtheirdiscussionabouthimbeforeIsneakeduponthemorwhetherperhapstheyhadearlierdecided toblockhismarriagesuitandhad thereforealready forgottenallabouthim. Iremaindisturbedaboutthisquestion,butthere’snothingIcandoaboutit.ForalittlewhileIlaycroucheddown insilencebut thenIheardabell ringat the farendof thecorridor.What’supdownthere?Determinedthistimenottobelateonthescene,Isetoutsmartlyinthedirectionofthesound.

Iarrived to findsome femaleyatteringawaybyherself ina loudunpleasant voice.Sinceher tones resemble those ofMadamConk, I deduce that thismust be that darling daughter,thatdeliciouscharmerforwhosesakeColdmoonhasalreadyriskeddeathbydrowning.

Unfortunately, the paper-windows between usmake it impossible forme to observe herbeautyandIcannotthereforebesurewhethershe,too,hasamassivenoseplonkeddowninthe center of her face. But I infer from hermannerisms, such as theway she sounds to beturninguphernosewhenshetalks,thatthatorganisunlikelytobeaninconspicuouspug-nose.Thoughshetalkscontinuously,nobodyseemstobeanswering,andIdeducethatshemustbeusingoneofthosemoderntelephones.

“IsthattheYamato?Iwanttoreserve,fortomorrow,thethirdboxinthelowergallery.Allright?Gotit?What’sthat?Youcan’t?Butyoumust.

WhyshouldIbejoking?Don’tbesuchafool.Whothedevilareyou?Chōkichi?Well,Chōkichi, you’renotdoingverywell.Ask theproprietress tocome to the

phone.What’sthat?Didyousayyouwereabletocopewithanypossibleinquiries?Howdareyouspeaktomelikethat?

D’youknowwhoIam?ThisisMissGoldfieldspeaking.Oh,you’rewellawareofthat,areyou?Youreallyareafathead.Don’tyouunderstand,thisistheGoldfield.Again?Youthankusfor being regular patrons? I don’t want your stupid thanks. I want the third box in the lowergallery.

Don’tlaugh,youidiot.Youmustbeterriblystupid.Youare,yousay?Ifyoudon’tstopbeinginsolent,Ishall justringoff.Youunderstand?Icanpromiseyouyou’llbesorry.Hello.Areyoustillthere?Hello,hello.

Speakup.Answerme.Hello,hello,hello.”Chōkichiseemstohavehungup,fornoansweris forthcoming. The girl is now in something of a tizzy and she grinds away at the telephonehandleasthoughshe’sgoneoffherhead.Alapdogsomewherearoundherfeetsuddenlystartstoyap,and,realizingI’dbetterkeepmywitsaboutme,Iquicklyhopofftheverandaandcreepinunderthehouse.

JustthenIhearapproachingfootstepsandthesoundofapaper-doorbeingslidaside.Itiltmyheadtolisten.

“Yourfatherandmotherareaskingforyou,Miss.”Itsoundslikeaparlor-maid.“Sowhocares?”wasthevulgaranswer.“Theysentmetofetchyoubecausethey’vesomethingtheywanttotellyou.”“You’rebeinganuisance.IsaidIjustdon’tcare.”Shesnubsthemaidoncemore.“They said it’s something to do with Mr. Coldmoon.” The maid tries tactfully to put this

youngvixenintoabetterhumor.“Icouldn’tcare less if theywant to talkaboutColdmoonorPiddlemoon. Iabominate that

manwithhisdaft face looking likeabewilderedgourd.”Her thirdsouroutburst isdirectedattheabsentColdmoon.“Hello,”shesuddenlygoeson,“whendidyoustartdressingyourhairintheWesternstyle?”

Theparlor-maidgulpsandthenrepliesasbrieflyasshecan“Today.”“What sauce. A mere parlor-maid, what’s more.” Her fourth attack comes in from a

differentdirection.“Andisn’tthatabrandnewcollaryou’vegoton?”“Yes,it’stheoneyougavemerecently.I’vebeenkeepingit inmyboxbecauseitseemed

too good for the likes ofme, butmy other collar became so grubby I thought I’dmake thechange.”

“WhendidIgiveityou?”“ItwasJanuaryyouboughtit.AtShirokiya’s.It’sgottheranksofsumōwrestlerssetoutas

decoration on thegreeny-brownmaterial.You said itwas too somber for your style.So yougaveitme.”

“DidI?Well,itcertainlylooksniceonyou.Howveryprovoking!”“I’mmuchobliged!”“Ididn’tintendacompliment.I’mverymuchputout.”“Yes,Miss.”“Whydidyouacceptsomethingwhichsoverymuchbecomesyouwithoutlettingmeknow

thatitwould?”“ButMiss...”“Sinceitlooksthatniceonyou,itcouldn’tfail,couldit,tolookmoreniceonme?”“I’msureitwouldhavelookeddelightfulonyou.”

“Then why didn’t you say so? Instead of that, you just stand there wearing it when youknowI’dlikeitback.Youlittlebeast.”Hervituperationsseemtohavenoend.Iwaswonderingwhat would happen when, from the room at the other end of the house, old man Goldfieldhimselfsuddenlyroaredoutforhisdaughter.“Opula,”hebellowed.

“Opula,comehere.”Shehadnochoicebut toobeyandmoochedsulkilyoutof the roomcontaining the telephone. Her lapdog, slightly bigger thanmyself with its eyes andmouth allbunchedtogetherinthemiddleofitsrevoltingmug,sloppedalongbehindher.

Thereupon, with my usual stealthy steps, I tiptoed back to the kitchen and, through thekitchen-door, foundmywaytothestreet,andsobackhome.Myexpeditionhasbeennotablysuccessful.

Comingthussuddenlyfromabeautifulmansiontoourdirtylittledwelling,IfeltasthoughIhad descended from a sunlit mountaintop to some dark dismal grot. Whilst on my spyingmission. I’d been far too busy to take any notice of the ornaments in the rooms, of thedecorationofthesliding-doorsandpaper-windowsorofanysimilarfeatures,butassoonasIreturnedandbecameconsciousof theshabbinessofhome, I foundmyselfyearning forwhatWaverhouseclaimstodespise.Iaminclinedtothinkthat,afterall,there’sagooddealmoretoabusinessmanthanthereistoateacher.Uncertainofthesoundnessofthisthinking,Iconsultmyinfallibletail.Theoracleconfirmsthatmythinkingiscorrect.

IamsurprisedtofindWaverhousestillsittinginmymaster’sroom.Hiscigarettestubs,stuffedintothebrazier,makeitlooklikeabeehive.Comfortablycross-leggedon the floor,he is,asusual, talking. Itappears,moreover, that

duringmyabsenceColdmoonhasdroppedin.Mymaster,hisheadpillowedonhisarms,liesflatonhisbackraptincontemplationofthe

patternoftherainmarksontheceiling.Itisanotherofthosemeetingsofhermitsinapeacefulreign.

“Coldmoon,mydearfellow,Iseemtorememberthatyouinsisteduponmaintainingasthedarkestofdarksecretsthenameofthatyoungladywhocalledyournamefromthedepthsofherdelirium.Butsurelythetimehasnowcomewhenyoucouldrevealheridentity?”

WaverhousebeginstoniggleColdmoon.“Were it justsolelymyconcern, Iwouldn’tmind tellingyou,butsinceanysuchdisclosure

mightcompromisetheotherparty...”“Soyoustillwon’ttell?”“Besides,IpromisedtheDoctor’swife...”“Promisednevertotellanyone?”“Yes,”saysColdmoonbackathisusualfiddlingwiththestringsofhissurcoat.Thestrings

areabrightpurple,objectsofacoloronecouldnevernowadaysfindinanyshop.“The color of those strings is early nineteenth century” remarksmy supinemaster.He is

genuinelyquiteindifferenttoanythingthatconcernstheGoldfields.“Quite.Itcouldn’tpossiblybelongtothesetimesoftheRusso-JapaneseWar.Thatkindof

stringwouldbeappropriateonlytothegarmentswornbytherankandfileofsoldiersundertheShogunate.Itissaidthatontheoccasionofhismarriage,nearlyfourhundredyearsago,OdaNobunaga dressed his hair back in the fashion of a tea whisk, and I have no doubt hisprojecting top-knot was bound with precisely such a string.”Waverhouse goes, as usual, allaroundthehousestomakehislittlepoint.

“Asamatterof fact,mygrandfatherworethesestringsat thetime,notfortyyearsback,

whentheTokugawawereputtingdownthelastrebellionbeforetherestorationoftheEmperor.”Coldmoontakesitalldeadseriously.

“Isn’titthenabouttimeyoupresentedthosestringstoamuseum?Forthatwell-knownlectureronthemechanicsofhanging,thatleadingbachelorofscience,

Mr.AvalonColdmoontogoaroundlookinglikearelicofmediaevalismwouldscarcelyhelphisreputation.”

“Imyselfwouldbeonlytooreadytofollowyouradvice.However,there’sacertainpersonwhosaysthatthesestringsdospeciallybecomeme...”

“Whoonearthcouldhavemadesuchanimperceptivecomment?”asksmymasterinaloudvoiceasherollsoverontohisside.“Apersonnotofyouracquaintance.”“Nevermindthat.Whowasit?”“Acertainlady.”“Graciousme,whatdelicacy!ShallIguesswhoitis?Ithinkit’stheladywhowhimperedfor

you from the bottomof theSumidaRiver.Whydon’t you tie up your surcoatwith thosenicepurplestringsandgoonoutandgetdrownedagain?”Waverhouseoffersahelpfulsuggestion.

Coldmoonlaughsatthesally.“Asamatteroffactshenolongercallsmefromtheriverbed.Sheisnow,asitwere,inthePureLand,alittlenorthwestfromhere...”

“Don’thopefortoomuchpurity.Thatghastlynoselookssingularlyunwholesome.”“Eh?”saysColdmoon,lookingpuzzled.“TheArchnosefromoverthewayhasjustbeenroundtoseeus.Yes,righthere.Icantell

youwehadquiteasurprise.Hadn’twe,Sneaze?”“Wehad,”repliesmymasterstilllyingonhissidebutnowsippingtea.“WhomdoyoumeanbytheArchnose?”“Wemeanthehonorablemotherofyourever-darlinglady.”“Oh!”“A woman calling herself Mrs. Goldfield came round here asking all sorts of questions

aboutyou.”Mymaster,clarifyingthesituation,speaksquiteseriously.IwatchpoorColdmoon,wonderingifhewillbesurprisedorpleasedorembarrassed,but

infacthelooksexactlyashealwaysdoes.Andinhisaccustomedquiettoneshecomments“Isuppose she’s asking if I’ll marry the daughter?Was that it?” and he goes on twisting anduntwistinghispurplestrings.

“Far from it! That mother happens to own the most enormous nose. . .” But beforeWaverhousecouldfinishhissentencemymasterinterruptedhimwithasuddenirrelevance.

“Listen,”hechirps,“I’vebeentryingtocomposeanew-stylehaikuon thatsnoutofhers.”Mrs.Sneazebeginstogiggleinthenextroom.

“You’retakingitallextremelylightly!Andhaveyoucomposedyourpoem?”“I’vemadeastart.Thefirstlinegoes‘AConkerFestivaltakesplaceinthisface.’”“Andthen?”“‘Atwhichoneofferssacredwine.’”“Andtheconcludingline?”“I’venotyetgottothat.”“Interesting,”saysColdmoonwithagrin.“Howaboutthisforthemissingline?”improvisesWaverhouse.“‘Twoorificesdim.’”WhereuponColdmoonoffers,“‘Sodeepnohairsappear.’”

Theywerethusthoroughlyenjoyingthemselvesbyproposingwilderandwilder lineswhenfrom the street beyond the hedge came the voices of several people shouting “Where’s thatterra-cottabadger?Comeonout,youterra-cottabadger.Terra-cottabadger!Yah!”

Bothmymaster andWaverhouse look somewhat startled and they peer out through thehedge.Loudhootsofderisivelaughterarefollowedbythesoundoffootstepsrunningaway.

“Whatevercantheymeanbyaterra-cottabadger?”Waverhouseasksinpuzzledtones.“I’venoidea,”repliesmymaster.“Anunusualoccurrence,”saysColdmoon.Waverhouse suddenly gets to his feet as if he had remembered something. “For some

severallustra,”hedeclaimsinparodyofthestyleofpubliclecturers,“IhavedevotedmyselftothestudyofaestheticnasofrontologyandIwouldaccordinglynowliketotrespassonyourtimeand patience in order to present certain interim conclusions at which I have arrived.” Hisinitiative has been so suddenly taken that my master just stares up at him in silent blankamazement.

Coldmoon’stiniestvoiceobserves,“I’dlovetohearyourinterimconclusions.”“ThoughIhavemadeathoroughstudyofthismatter,theoriginofthenoseremains,alas,

still deeplyobfuscated.The first question thatarises reflects theassumption that thenose isintended for use.The functional approach. If that premise is valid,would not twomere vent-holesmeet the case?There is no obvious needeither for such arrogant profusion or for thenasal arrogation of amedian position in the human physiognomy.Why then should the nasalorganthus,”andhepausedtopinchhisown,“thrustitselfforward?”

“Yoursdoesn’tstickoutmuch,”cutsinmymasterratherrudely.“At any rate it has no indentations, no incurvations; still less could it be described as

countersunkorinfundibular.Idrawyourattentiontothesefactsbecauseifyoufailtomakethenecessarydistinctionbetweenhavingtwoholesinthemedio-frontalareaofthefaceandhavingtwo such holes in some form of protuberance, you will inevitably be unable to follow thequintessentialdriftofmydissertation.Now,itisatleastmyown,albeithumble,opinionthatitisby an accumulation of human actions trifling in themselves, for who could attach majorimportance to the blowing of one’s nose, that the organ in question has developed into itspresentphenomenalform.”

“Howveryhumblyyoudoholdyourhumbleviews,”interjectsmymaster.“Asyouwillknow,theactofblowingthenoseinvolvesthecoarctationofthatorgan.Such

stenosisofthenose,suchastrictiveand,onemightevenventuretosay,pleonasticstimulationofso localizedanarea results,by response to thatstimulusand inaccordancewith thewell-established principles of Lamarckian evolutionary theory, in the development of that specificarea to a degree disproportionate to the development of other areas. The epidermis of theaffectedareainevitablyinduratesandthesubcutaneousmaterialsocoagulatesaseventuallytoossify.”

“That’s a bit extreme. Surely you can’t turn flesh to bone just by blowing your nose.”Coldmoon, as behoves a bachelor of science, lodges a protest. Waverhouse continues todeliverhisspeechwiththeutmostnonchalance.

“Icanwellappreciateyournaturaldubieties,buttheproofofthepuddingistheeating.For,behold, there isbonethere,andthatbonehasdemonstrablybeenmolded.Nevertheless,anddespitethatbone,onesnivels.Ifonesnivelsonehastoblowthenose,andinthecourseofthatactionbothsidesof thebonegetwornawayuntil thenose itselfacquirestheshapeofahigh

andnarrowbulge.Itisindeedaterrifyingprocess.Butjustaslittletapsofdroppingwaterwilleventuallyborethroughgranite,sohasthehigh,

straight ridge of the nasal organ been smithied by incessant nose-blows. Thus painfully wasfangledthehardstraightlineonone’sface.”

“Butyoursisflabby.”“Ideliberatelyrefrainfromanydiscussionofthisparticularfeatureasitmaybeobservedin

the physiognomy of the lecturer himself; for such a purely personal approach involves thedangers of self-exculpation, the temptation to gloss over, even to defend, one’s individualdefectsordeficiencies.ButthenoseofthehonorableMrs.GoldfieldissuchthatIwouldwishtobringittoyourattentionasthemosthighlydevelopedofitskind,themostegregiouslyrareobject,intheworld.”

Coldmooncriesoutinspontaneousadmiration.“Hear,hear.”“Butanythingwhateverthatdevelopstoanextremedegreebecomestherebyintimidating.

Eventerrifying.Spectacularitmaybe,butsimultaneouslyawesome,unapproachable.Thusthebridge of that lady’s nose, though certainly magnificent, appears to me unduly rigid,unacceptablysteep.Ifonepausestoconsiderthenatureofthenosesoftheancients,itseemsprobable that those of Socrates, Oliver Goldsmith, and William Thackeray were strikinglyimperfectfromthestructuralpointofview,butthoseveryimperfectionshadtheirownpeculiarcharms.Thisis,nodoubt,theintellectionbehindthesayingthatanose,likeamountain,isnotsignificant because it is high but because it is odd. Similarly, the popular catch-phrase that‘dumplingsarebetterthannosegays’isnodoubtacorruptionofsomeyetmoreancientadageto the effect that dumplings are better than noses. From which it follows that, viewedaesthetically,thenoseofCitizenWaverhouseisjustaboutright.”

Coldmoonandmymastergreet thisfantasticationwithpealsofappreciative laughter,andevenWaverhousejoinsin.

“Now,thepieceIhavejustbeenreciting...”“Distinguished speaker, I must object to your use of the phrase ‘reciting a piece’: a

somewhat vulgar word one would only expect from a storyteller.” Coldmoon, catchingWaverhouseintheuseoflanguagewhichonlyrecentlyWaverhousehadcriticized,feelshimselfrevenged.

“In which case, sir, and having with your gracious permission purged myself of error, Iwould now like to touch upon thematter of the proper proportion between the nose and itsassociatedface.IfIweresimplytodiscussnosesindisregardoftheirrelationtootherentities,thenIwoulddeclarewithoutfearofcontradictionthatthenoseofMrs.

Goldfield issuperb,superlative,and, thoughpossiblysupervacaneous,onewell-placed towin first prize at any exhibition of nasal development whichmight be organized by the long-nosedgoblinsonMountKurama.

Butalas!Andevenalack!Thatnoseappears tohavebeenformed, fashioned,dareIsayfabricated,withoutanyregardfortheconfigurationofsuchothermajor itemsastheeyesandmouth. JuliusCaesarwasundoubtedlydoweredwithavery finenose.Butwhatdoyou thinkwouldbetheresultifonescissoredoffthatJulianbeakandfixeditonthefaceofthiscathere?Cats’foreheadsareproverbiallydiminutive.ToraisethetowerofCaesar’sbonedproboscisonsuchatinysitewouldbelikeplonkingdownonachessboardthegiantimageofBuddhanowtobeseenatNara.The juxtaposingofdisproportionateelementsdestroysaestheticvalue.Mrs.Goldfield’s nose, like that of Caesar’s, is, as a thing in itself, a most dignified andmajestic

protuberance. But how does it appear in relation to its surroundings? Of course thosecircumjacentareasarenotquitesobarrenofaestheticmeritasthefaceofthiscat.

Nevertheless,itisabloatedface,thefaceofanepilepticskivvywhoseeyebrowsmeetinasharp-pitchedgableabovethintiltedeyes.

Gentlemen,Iaskyou,whatsortofnosecouldeversurvivesolamentableaface?”AsWaverhouse paused, a voice could be heard from the back of the house. “He’s still

goingonaboutnoses.Whataspitefulboreheis.”“That’sthewifeoftherickshaw-owner,”mymasterexplainstoWaverhouse.Waverhouse resumes. “It is a great, if unexpected, honor for this present lecturer to

discover at, as it were, the back of the hall an interested listener of the gentle sex. I amespeciallygratifiedthatagleamofcharmshouldbeaddedtomyaridlecturebythebell-sweetvoiceofthisnewparticipant.Itis,indeed,ahappinessunlookedfor,aserendipity.Tobeworthyofourbeautifullady’spatronageIwouldgladlyaltertheacademicstyleofthisdiscourseintoamorepopularmode,but,asIamjustabouttodiscussaprobleminmechanics,theunavoidablytechnicalterminologymayproveatrifledifficult fortheladiestocomprehend.Imustthereforebegthemtobepatient.”

Coldmoonrespondstothementionofmechanicswithhisusualgrin.“ThepointIwishtoestablishisthatsuchanoseandsuchafacewillneverharmonize.In

brief, they cannot conform toZeising’s rule of theGoldenSection, a factwhich I propose toprovebyuseofamechanical formula.Weshould firstdesignateHas theheightof thenose,andαastheanglebetweenthenoseandthelevelsurfaceoftheface.PleasenotethatWis,ofcourse,theweightofthenose.Areyouwithmethusfar?”

“Hardly,”breathesmymaster.“Coldmoon,whataboutyou?”“I,too,amslightlyataloss.”“Youdistressme,Coldmoon.Sneazedoesn’tmatter,butI’mshockedthatyou,abachelor

ofscience,shouldfailtounderstand.Thisformulaisakeypartofmylecture.Toabandonthisportionofmyargumentmustrenderthewholeendeavorpointless.However,suchthingscan’tbehelped.I’llomittheformulaandmerelydelivertheperoration.”

“Isthereaperoration?”asksmymasteringenuinecuriosity.“Why,naturally!AlecturewithoutaperorationislikeaWesterndinnershornofthedessert.

Now,listen,bothofyou,carefully.Iamlaunchingonmyperoration.Gentlemen,ifonereflectsupon the theorywhich I haveadvancedon this occasionandgivesdueweight to the relatedtheories of Virchow and ofWisemen, one is bound also to take appropriate account of theproblemoftheheredityofcongenitalform.

Furthermore,thoughthere isasubstantialbodyofevidencetosupport thecontentionthatacquired characteristics are not hereditarily transmissible, one cannot lightly dismiss the viewthatthementalconditionsassociatedwithhereditarilytransmissibleformsarethemselvesalsotransmissible.It isconsequentlyreasonabletoassumethatachildborntothepossessorofanoseofsuchenormitywillhaveanabnormalnose.

Because Coldmoon is still young, he has not noticed any particular abnormality in thestructureofMissGoldfield’snasalorgan.Butthegeneslurk.Theproductsofhereditytakelongtoincubate.Oneneverknows.Perhapsitwouldneednomorethanasharpchangeofclimateforthedaughter’ssnoutsuddenlytogerminateand,inamereinstant,totumesceintoareplicaof that of her most honorable mother. In sum, I believe that in the light of my theoretical

demonstration,itwouldseemprudenttoforswearanyideaofthismarriage.Now,whileitisstillpossibletodoso.Iwouldgosofarastoclaimthat,quiteapartfromthemasterofthishouse,evenhismonstrouscatasleepamongus,wouldnotdissentmyconclusions.”

Mymastersitsupat last.“Ofcourse,”hesays“nooneinhissenseswouldevermarryadaughter of that creature!Really,mydearColdmoon,” he insists in real earnest, “you simplymustnotmarryher.”

Iseekinmyownhumblewaytosecondallthesesentimentsbymewingtwice.Coldmoon,however, does not seem to be particularly alarmed. “If you two sages share that opinion, Iwouldbepreparedtogiveherup,but itwouldbecruel if theconsequentdistressbroughtthepersoninquestionintopoorhealth.”

“That,”burbledWaverhousehappily,“mightevenberegardedasasortofsexcrime.”Onlymymastercontinuestotakethematterseriously.“Don’tjokeaboutsuchthings.That

girlwouldn’twitheraway,not ifshe’sthedaughterofthatforwardandpresumptuouscreaturewhostrovetohumiliatemefromthemomentshesetanuninvitedfootinmyhouse.”Mymasteragainworkshimselfupintoagreathuff.

Atwhichpointthereisafurtheroutbreakoflaughterfrom,bythesoundofit,threeorfourpeople on the far side of the hedge. A voice says, “You’re a stuck-up blockhead.” Anotherjeers,“Ibetyou’dliketoliveinabiggerhouse.”Athirdloudvoiceannounces,“Ain’titapity!Youswaggeraroundbutyou’reonlyasillyoldwindbag.”

My master goes out on to the veranda and shouts with matching violence, “Hold yourtongues. What do you think you’re doing making this sort of disturbance so close to myproperty?”

Thelaughtergetsevenlouder.“Harkathim.It’ssillyoldSavageTea.SavageTea.SavageTea.”Theysetupanabusivechant.Mymaster, looking furious, turns abruptly, snatches up his stick and rushes out into the

street.Waverhouseclapshishands inpuredelight. “Upguardsandat ’em”heshouts,urgingmy

masteron.Coldmoonsitsandgrins,twistinghispurplefastening-strings.Ifollowmymasterand,asIcrawloutthroughagapinthehedge,findhimstandinginthe

middle of the street with his stick held awkwardly in his hand. Apart from him, the street isempty.Icannothelpbutfeelthathe’sbeenmadetomakeaninnyofhimself.

VOLUMEII

I

I

THASbecomemy usual practice to I sneak into theGoldfields’mansion. Iwon’t expandupon themeaningofmyuseof “usual,”which ismerely aword expressing the square of“often.”What one does once, onewants to do again, and things tried twice invite a thirdexperience.Thissenseofenquiryisnotconfinedtohumanity,andImustaskyoutoaccept

thateverycatbornintothisworldisendowedwiththispsychologicalpeculiarity.Justasinthehuman case, so with cats: once we’ve done a thing more than three times over, the actbecomes a habit and its performance a necessity of our daily life. If you should happen towonder why I so often visit the Goldfield place, let me first address a modest enquiry tomankind.Whydohumanbeingsbreathesmokeinthroughthemouthandthenexpel it throughthe nose? Since such shameless inhalation and exhalation can do little to ease the belly’shungerandlesstocuregiddiness,IdonotseewhyaraceofhabitualsmokersshoulddaretooffercriticismofmycallsontheGoldfields.Thathouseismytobacco.

Tosay that I “sneak in”givesamisleading impression: itsoundsvaguely reprehensible,atermtobeusedfortheself-insinuationsofthievesandclandestinelovers.ThoughitistruethatIamnotaninvitedguest,IdonotgototheGoldfields’inordertosnitchasliceofbonitoorforacozychatwiththatdisgustinglapdogwhoseeyesandnoseareconvulsivelyagglomeratedinthe center of its face. Hardly! Or are you suggesting that I visit there for the sheer love ofsnooping?Me,adetective?

Youmustbeoutofyourmind!Amongtheseveralmostdegradingoccupationsinthisworld,thereare,inmyopinion,nonemoregrubbythanthoseofthedetectiveandthemoney-lender.Itistruethatonce,forColdmoon’ssake,Idisplayedachivalrousspiritunbecominginacatandkeptan indirectlywatchfuleyeon theGoldfields’goingson. Itwasbutonce that Iactedwithsuch ill-placed kind-heartedness, and since that isolated occasion I have done nothingwhatsoever that could bring a twinge to the conscience of themost pernickety cat. Inwhichcase,youmayask,whydid Idescribemyownactionswithsuchanunpleasantlysuggestivephraseas“tosneakin?”Ihavemyowngoodreasons,buttheirexplanationinvolvesanalysisindepth.

Inthefirstplaceitismyopinionthattheskywasmadetoshelterallcreation,andthattheearth wasmade so that all things created that were able to standmight have something tostandon.Eventhosehumanbeingswholoveargumentforthearguing’ssakecouldsurelynotdeny this fact.Nextwemayask towhatextentdidhumaneffortcontribute to thecreationofheaven and earth, and the answer is that it contributed nothing.What right, then, do humanbeings hold to decide that things not of their own creation nevertheless belong to them?Ofcourse the absence of right need not prevent such creatures frommaking that decision, butsurelytherecanbenopossiblejustificationforthemprohibitingothersfrominnocentpassageinandoutofso-calledhumanproperty. If itbeacceptedthatMr.So-and-somaysetupstakes,fenceoffsectionsofthisboundlessearth,andregisterthatareaashisown,whatistopreventsuchpersonsfromropingoffbluesky,fromstakingclaimsonheaven,anenclosureoftheair?

Ifnatural lawpermittedproprietorialparceling-outof the landand itssaleandpurchaseatsomuchthesquarefoot, then itwouldalsopermitpartitionof theairwebreatheatsomuchthecubic unit and its three-dimensional sale. If, however, it is not proper to trade in sky, ifenclosureoftheempyreanisnotregardedasjustinnaturallaw,thensurelyitmustfollowthatall land-ownership is unnatural and irrational. That, in fact, ismy conviction, therefore I enterwhereverI like.Naturally,IdonotgoanywherewhereIdonotwanttogo:but,providedtheyareinthedirectionIfancy,allplacesarealiketome.Islopealongasitsuitsme,andfeelnoinhibition about entering the properties of people like the Goldfields if I happen to want to.However, thesadfact is that,beingnomorethanacat, Icannotmatchmankind in thecrudematterofsimplephysicalstrength.Inthisrealworldthesayingthat“mightisright”hasveryrealforce;somuchso thatnomatterhowsoundmyargumentsmaybe, the logicofcatswillnotcommandrespect.WereItopresstheargumenttoofar,Ishouldbeanswered,likeRickshawBlacky,withaswipefromafishmonger’spole.Insituationswherereasonandbruteforceareopposedandonemaychooseeither tosubmitbyaperversionof reasonor toachieveone’sreasonableendsbyoutwittingtheopposition,Iwould,ofcourse,adoptthelattercourse.Ifoneisnottobemaimedwithbamboopoles,onemustputupwiththings:onemustpresson.Thus,since theconceptof trespass is irrational,andsince “sneaking in” isonlya formof “pressingon,”Iampreparedtodescribemyvisitsassneakingin.

ThoughIhavenowishwhatsoevertospyupontheGoldfields,inevitably,asthenumberofmyvisitsmount, Iget toknow thingsabout that familywhich I’d rathernothaveknownand Iseehappeningswhich,willy-nilly,Icannotpurgefrommymemory.Iam,forinstance,regretfullyaware that whenMadam Conk dabs water on her face she wipes her nose with inordinatecare; thatMissOpulapersistentlyglutsherselfonrice-cakesdustedwithbean-flour;and thatoldmanGoldfield, instrikingcontrastwithhiswife,hasanoseas flatasapancake. Indeed,not justhisnose,buthiswhole face is flat. It isa faceso leveledonesuspects thatwhenhewas a lad he must have got into a fight with the strong boy of some children’s gang who,grabbing him by the scruff of the neck, rammed his face so hard against a plasterwall thateven now, forty years on, his squashed and crumpled features are a livingmemento of thatunluckyday.Thoughitiscertainlyanextremelypeaceful,evenaharmless,face,itissomewhatlackinginvariety.Howevermuchthatfacebecomesinfuriated,stillitstaysflat.Icametolearn,moreover,thatoldmanGoldfieldlikestunafish,slicedandraw,andthatwheneverheeatsthatdelicacy,hepatshimselfonhisownbaldpatewithaplashy,patteringsound.Further,becausehis body is as squat as his face is flat, he affects tall hats and high-steppedwooden clogs;factswhichhispersonalrickshawmanfindssovastlyentertainingthathe’salwaysyatteringonabout them to the houseboy who, for his part, finds such sharp accuracy of observationimpressivelyremarkable.IcouldgoonforeverwithsuchdetailsoftheGoldfields’goings-on.

Ithasbecomemypracticetoenterthegardenbytheback-gateandtosurveythelieoftheland from the cover of a small artificial mound helpfully constructed there for decorativepurposes. Havingmade sure that everything is quiet and that all the paper-windows are slidshut, I gingerly creep forward and hop up onto the veranda. But if I hear lively voices orconsiderthere’sariskthatImightbeseenfromwithin,Imoseyoffeastwardaroundthepond,nippastthelavatoryandfinishup,safeandunobserved,undertheveranda.Myconscienceisinnowaytroubled,I’venothingtohideandnoreasontobescaredofanythingwhatsoever,butI’ve learnt what to expect if one should have the vile ill-luck to run up against one of thoselawless and disorderly bipeds. Were the human world cram-jammed with robber-toughs as

violent as that long-departed villain, Kumasaka Chōhan, then even the most illustrious andvirtuousofmenwouldactascautiouslyasIdo. Inasmuch,asoldmanGoldfield isadignifiedsortofbusinessman,Iwouldn’texpecthimtocomeaftermewithanysuchdirtygreatsword,five feet, three inchesof it they tellme, asKumasakawaswont to brandish.However, fromwhatI’veseenandheard,Goldfieldhashisownunpleasantquirksandiscertainlynotdisposedto accept that aman’s aman for a’ that. IfGoldfield is overbearingwith his fellowmen, howwouldhetreatacat?Acat,asIkeeponsaying,isalsoacatfora’that,butgivenGoldfield’snature,evena felineof themostuprightvirtueswouldbewise toadopta lowpostureandaverycautiousattitudeonceinsidetheGoldfieldpremises.

Thisveryneedtobeconstantlyonthequiviveis,Ifind,delightful,andmytastefordangerexplainswhy Imake these frequent risky visits. I will give further and careful thought to thisfascinating point and, when I have completedmy analysis of cat-mentality, I will publish theresults.

What’s up today, I wonder, as I settlemy chin against the grass on top of the garden-hillockandsurveytheprospectspreadbelowme.Thedoorsoftheirampledrawingroomareopen wide to the full spring day and I can see, inside, the Goldfields busily engaged inconversationwithaguest.IamsomewhatdauntedbythefactthatMadamConk’sproboscisispointeddirectlyinmydirection:itglaresacrossthepondstraightatmyunprotectedforehead.This ismy first experienceofbeingglaredatbyanose.Facinghisguest, oldmanGoldfieldpresentshimselftomygazeinfullprofile.Myeyesaresparedonehalfofhisflattenedfeaturesbut, for the same profilic reason, the location of his nose is indeterminable, and it is onlybecauseonecanseewherehisgrayish-whitemoustachesproutsraggedlyfromthefleshthatonecandeducethatthevent-holesofhisnostrilsmustbegapingcloselythereabove.Iamusemyselfwiththereflectionthatthelightspringbreezemightwellblowonforeverifitencounteredno more formidable obstruction than that jutless physiognomy. Of the three, the Goldfields’guesthasthemostnormal featuresbut,preciselybecauseof theirregularity, there’snofacialpeculiarity I see reason to point out. For anything to be regular suggests that the thing’s allright,butregularitycanbesoutterlyregularastobecome,byitsveryulteriority,mediocreandofnoaccount,whichisextremelypitiable.

Iwonderwhoheis,thisunfortunatefellowfatedtobeborninthisgloriousreignbehindsomeaningless a phiz. My curiosity can’t be satisfied unless I crawl more close and, in myaccustomedmanner, establishmyself underneath the veranda and listen to what is said. SounderitIgo.

“. . .andmy wife actually took the trouble to call on theman to ask for information.”Asusual,oldmanGoldfieldspeaksinanarrogantmanner.Themanneriscertainlyprideful,buthisvoicecontainsnohintofsharpness.Itgives,likehisface,animpressionofmassiveflatness.

“Isee.Sohe’sthefellowwhousedtoteachyourMr.AvalonColdmoon.Isee,Isee.Yes,yoursisagoodidea...Indeed,Isee.”Thisguestispositivelyoverflowingwith“Isee’s.”

“Butsomehowmywife’sapproachesallprovedprettypointless.”“Nowonder.Sneazeisnotstrongonpoint.EveninthedayswhenheandIshareddigsand

looked after ourselves, his lack of point, his lack of resolution, were painfully extreme. Youmust,”hesaid,turningtoMadamConk,“havehadadifficulttime.”

“Difficult! That’s hardly theword.Never inmy life have Imadea visit andbeen sobadlytreated.”Asisheruglycustom,MadamConksnortsstorm-windsdownhersnout.

“Didhesayanythingrudetoyou?He’salwaysbeenobstinate,arealoldstick-in-the-mud.

He’sbeenteachingthatEnglishReaderforyearswithoutabreak,soyoucanimagine...”Withwhatcharmandtactthisguestismakinghimselfagreeable.

“Heisbeyondhelp.Iunderstandthateverytimemywifeaskedaquestion,shereceivedabluntrebuff.”

“What impudence! As I see it, persons of some small education tend to grow conceitedand,iftheyhappenalsotobepoor,theircharactersbecomeasbitterassourgrapes.Indeed,some people in that condition turn truly quite absurd. For no reason at all, they flare up atpersonsofwealthasifunconsciousoftheirowntotalineffectiveness.It’squiteastonishinghowtheybehave;asiftherichhadrobbedthempersonallyofthingstheyneverowned.”Theguest’slaughterrangoutaffectedly,buthecertainlyseemsdelightedwithhimself.

“Scandalous behavior! It’s because they knownothing of theworld that they carry on sooutrageously. So I thought I’d have him taken down a peg or two. It’s time he learned howmanybeansmakesix.”

“I see. Splendid. That should have shaken him up a bit. Done him no end of good.”Goldfieldissmotheredinhisguest’scongratulations,eventhoughthatsycophantstill lackstheleastideaofthekindofrodwhichGoldfield’sputinpickleforpoorSneeze.

“Butreally,Mr.Suzuki,Sneazeisimpossible.D’youknow,”saidMadamConk,“downathisschoolhewon’texchangetwowordswithourfriend,Mr.Fukuchi?Nor,cometothinkofit,withMr.Tsukieither.

We’dthoughthe’dlearnthislessonandwaskeepingquietbecauseheknewhe’sbeensaton,but,wouldyoubelieveit,onlytheotherdayweheardhe’dbeenchasingafterourharmlesshouseboywithawalkingstick!

Just imagine that. He’s a man of thirty. No sane grown-up could act in such a way.Perhaps,”sheendedhopefully,“despairhasdrivenhimdotty.”

“Butwhatcanhavedrivenhimtosuchanactofviolence?”TheirguestseemsmystifiedthatSneazecouldactsofirmly.

“Nothingmuchreally.ItseemsthatourhouseboyhappenedtobepassingSneaze’splace,madesomeinnocentremark,and,beforeyoucouldsayJackRobinson,Sneazecamerushingoutinhisbarefeetandbeganlashingaroundwithhisstick.Whateverthehouseboymayhavesaid, he is, after all, nomore than a boy. But Sneaze is a beardedman and, what’smore,supposedtobeateacher.”

“Someteacher,”saystheguest.“Someteacher,”echoedGoldfield.Itwouldseemthatthisprecioustriohasreachedcompleteagreementthat,ifonehappens

tobea teacher,oneshould, likesomewoodenstatue,grinandbearwhatever insultsanyonecarestooffer.

“And then,” saidMadamConk, “there’s that fibbing crank calledWaverhouse. I’ve neverheardaman tell sucha streamofwhoppers.All quitepointless, but all f lat lies.Really, I’veneverclappedeyesonsuchaloonyinmylife.”

“Waverhouse?Yes, he seems to be bragging on as usual.Was he also therewhen youcalledonSneaze?He, too,canbea trickycustomer.Hewasanotherofourgroup indigs. Iremember Iwasalwayshaving rowswithhimonaccountofhis incessant, ill-judgedmockeryandhiswarpedsenseofhumor.”

“Aman like that would rile a saint.We all, of course, tell lies, sometimes out of loyalty,sometimesbydemandoftheoccasion,andinsuchcircumstancesanyonemayfairlybendthe

truth.ButthatmanWaverhousetellshisliesfornogoodreasonatall.Whatcanonedowithaman like that? I just can’t see how he brings himself to rattle off such reams of barefacedbalderdash.Whatdoesheexpecttogainbyit?”

“You’ve hit the nail on the head. There’s nothing one can dowhen aman tells lies for ahobby.”

“Imadeaspecialvisit to thatmiserablehouse toasknomore than thenormalquestionsabout Avalon that anymotherwould, but allmy efforts came to nothing; they vexedme andtheyputmedown.Butall thesame, I feltobliged todo thedecent thing,soafterward Isentourrickshawmanaroundwithadozenbottlesofbeer.Canyouimaginewhathappened?ThatsaucyusherSneazehadthecheektoorderourmantotakethebottlesawaybecause,sohesaid,hesawnoreasonwhyheshouldacceptthem.Ourfellowpressedhimtotakethebottlesasa tokenofourappreciation.So thenSneazesaid thathe liked jambut reckonedbeer toobitter.Thenhejustshutthedoorandwentoffbacktohisroom.Nowcanyoubeatthat?Howdamnedrudecanoneget?”

“That’sterrible.”Theguestseems,thistimegenuinely,tothinkit’sreallyterrible.AfterabriefpauseIhearthevoiceofoldmanGoldfield.“Andthat’s,infact,preciselywhy

we’veaskedyouheretoday.It’ssomething,ofcourse,tomakefunofthatfoolSneazebehindhis back, but that sort of thingdoesn’t entirely suit our present purpose. . .”Splash, spatter;spatter,spatter,splash.He’spattinghispateas thoughhe’s justbeeneatingsliced, rawtunafish.Ofcourse,beingtuckedawayunderneaththeveranda, Icannotactuallyseehimbeatingthatwettattooontheskinofhishairlesshead,butI’veseensomuchofhimlatelythat,justasapriestess inatemplegetstorecognizethesoundofeachparticularwoodengong,soIcantell, from the quality of the sound, even though I’m under the floor, when old man Goldfieldtakestodrummingonhisskull.

“Anditoccurredtometoaskforyourassistanceinthismatter...”“IfIcanbeofanyservice,pleasedon’thesitatetoaskme.Afterall,it’sentirelyduetoyour

kind influence that I have had the great good fortune to be transferred to the Tokyo office.”Theirguest is soobviouslyanxious tooblige thathemustbeanotherof thosemanypersonsunder obligation to return some form of help to Goldfield.Well, well, so the plot thickens. Iwandered out today simply because the weather was so wonderful, and I certainly had notexpected tostumbleuponsuchexcitingnewsofplannedskulduggery. It isas thoughonehadgonetothefamilytempledutifullyintendingtofeedtheHungryDead,onlytofindoneselfinvitedtoarightoldlash-upofrice-cakedumplingsandbean-pastejamintheprivateroomofapriest.Wondering what kind of assistance will be sought from this client-guest, I prick my ears tolisten.

“Don’t askme to explain it, but that nitwitted teacher keeps planting crazy notions in thehead of young Coldmoon: like, for instance, hinting that he shouldn’t marry any daughter ofmine.”Heturnedtohiswife.

“That’swhathehinted,didn’the?”“Hinting’snottheword.Hesaidflatout‘Nooneinhissenseswouldevermarryadaughter

ofthatcreature.Coldmoon,’hesaid,‘yousimplymustn’tmarryher.’”“Well,blowmedown.Didhereallyhave,thebrazencheektospeakofmeasacreature?

Didhereallypitchitasstrongasthat?”“Nothalfhedidn’t.Thewifeoftherickshawmancamearounddouble-quickjusttobesureI

knew.”

“Well, there you are,Suzuki. ThatmanSneaze is getting to be a nuisance,wouldn’t youagree?”

“Howextremely irritating.Marriagenegotiationsarenotmatters inwhichtomeddlelightly.Surelyevenadunderhead likeSneazeought tohavethecommonsensetoknowthat.Really,thewholething’sbeyondmycomprehension.”

“Inyourundergraduatedaysyoulivedinthesameboarding-houseasSneaze,and,thoughthingsmayhavechangedbynow,Iunderstandthatyoutwothenusedtobeprettypally.Now,whatIwantyoutodoistogoandseeSneazeandtrytotalksomereasonintohim.Hemaybefeelingoffended,butifheis,it’sreallyallhisownfoolfault.Ifheplaysball,I’dbewillingtogivehimgeneroushelpwithhispersonalaffairs,andwewould,ofcourse,layoffannoyinghim.Butifhekeepsongummingthingsupthewayhe’ssofardone,itwillonlybenaturalifIfindwaysof my own to settle his meddlesome hash. In short, it just won’t pay him to go on actingobstinate.”

“Howveryrightyouare.Continuedresistanceonhispartwouldbeidiotic.Itcouldbringhimnopossibleprofitandcouldwellcausehimloss.I’lldomybesttomakehimunderstand.”

“Onemorething.Sincetherearemanyothersuitorsforourdaughter,Ican’tmakeanyfirmpromiseofgivinghertoColdmoon,butyoucouldusefullygosofarastohintthat,ifhestudieshardandgetshisdegreeinthenearfuture,hestandsachanceofwinningher.”

“Thatshouldencouragehimtobuckledowntostudy.Allright,I’lldoasyouwish.”“One last thing. Itmaysoundodd,butwhatespeciallysticks inmygullet is theway that

Coldmoon,who’ssupposedtobesosmart,lapsupeverythingthatSneazeletsdrop,andevengoes around addressing that crack-brained ninny as though he were some kind of sageprofessor.

Of course, since Coldmoon’s not the only man we are considering for Opula, suchunbecomingconductisnotofvastimportance.

Nevertheless...”“Yousee,”squawkedMadamConk,butting inonherhusband’scarefulsentence,“it’s just

thatwe’resorryforColdmoon.”“I’ve never had the pleasure of meeting the gentleman, but, since to marry into your

distinguished family would be to ensure a lifetime’s happiness, I’m quite convinced that hehimselfcouldnotpossiblywishotherthanthemarriage.”

“You’reabsolutely right,”saidMadamConk. “Coldmoon’skeen tomarryher. It’sonly thatnumbskull Sneaze and his crackpot crony Waverhouse who keep throwing spanners in theworks.”

“Most reprehensible. Not the style of behavior one expects from any reasonable, well-educatedperson.I’llgoandtalkwithSneaze.”

“Pleasedo,we’dbemostgrateful.Remember,too,thatSneazeknowsbetterthananyoneelsewhatColdmoon’sreally like.Asyouknow,duringherrecentcallmywifefailedtodigoutanythingmuchworthknowing.Ifinadditiontoascertainingdetailsofhisscholastictalentandallthat stuff, you could also find out more about Coldmoon’s character and conduct, I’d beparticularlyobliged.”

“Certainly.Sinceit’sSaturdaytoday,Sneazemustbehomebynow.Wheredoeshelive,Iwonder,”saysSuzuki.“Youturnrightfromourplace,thenturnleftattheendoftheroad.About one block along, you’ll see a housewith a tumbled down black fence. That,” said

MadamConk,“isit.”“So it’s righthere in thisneighborhood!Then itshouldbeeasy. I’llgoandseehimonmy

wayhome.Itwillbesimpletoidentifythehousebythenameplate.”“Youmay,oryoumaynot,findhisnameplateondisplay.Iunderstandheusesoneortwo

grainsofcookedricetostickhisvisitingcardonhiswoodengate.Whenitrains,ofcourse,thecardboard comes unstuck. Then on some convenient sunny day he’ll paste another card inplace.Soyoucan’t besure thathisnameplatewill beup. It’shard toseewhyhekeeps tosuchatroublesomeroutinewhentheobviousthingtodoistohangupawoodennameboard.Butthat,”sighedMadamConk,“isjustanotherexampleofhisgeneralcussedness.”

“Astonishing,”remarkedSuzuki,“but I’ll findtheplaceinanycasebyaskingfor thehousewiththeblackfenceinastateofdisrepair.”

“Ohyes,you’ll find iteasilyenough.There’snotanotherhouse in thewholeneighborhoodquiteso filthy-looking.Waitaminute! I’ve just rememberedsomethingelse.Look forahousewithweedsgrowingoutoftheroof.It’simpossibletomiss.”

“Infact,aquitedistinguishedresidence,”saidSuzukiand,laughing,tookhisleave.ItwouldnotsuitmybooktohaveSuzukibeatmehome.I’vealreadyoverheardasmuchas

I need to know; so, still concealed beneath the veranda, I retracemy steps to the lavatorywhere, turning west, I briefly break cover to get back behind the hillock and, under itsconcealment,regainthesafetyof thestreet.Abriskcattrotsoonbringsmeto thehousewiththeweed-grownroofwhere,withtheutmostnonchalance,Ihoppedupontoourownveranda.

Mymasterhadspreadawhitewoolenblanketonthewoodenboardsandwaslyingthere,facedown,with the sunshineof thiswarmspringday soaking intohisback.Sunshine, unlikeother things, is distributed fairly. It falls impartially upon the rich and the poor. It makes asqualidhut,whoseonlydistinctionsarethetuftsofshepherd’spursesproutingfromitsroof,nolessgailywarmthan,forallitssolidcomfort,theGoldfields’mansion.Iam,however,obligedtoconfess that that blanket jarswith the day’s spring feeling.No doubt itsmanufacturermeantthatitshouldbewhite.Nodoubt,too,itwassoldaswhitebysomehaberdasherspecializingingoodsimportedfromabroad.Nolesscertainly,mymastermusthaveaskedforawhiteblanketatthetimeheboughtit.Butallthathappenedtwelveorthirteenyearsago,andsincethatfar-offAgeofWhite,theblankethasdeclinedintoaDarkAgewhereitspresentcolorisasombergray.Nodoubtthepassageoftimewilleventuallyturnitblack,butI’dbesurprisedifthethingsurvivedthatlong.Itisalreadysobadlywornthatonecaneasilycounttheindividualthreadsofitswarpandwoof.Itswoolinessisgoneanditwouldbeanexaggeration,evenapresumption,todescribethisscrawnyhalf-erodedobjectasablanket.A“blan,”possibly;evena“ket,”butafull-blown “blanket,”no.However,mymasterholds,orat leastappears tohold, thatanythingwhichonehaskeptforayear,twoyears,fiveyears,andeventuallyforadecade,mustthenbekept for the rest of one’s natural life.Onewould think hewere a gypsy. Anyway,what’s hedoing,sprawledbelly-downonthatremnantof thepast?Helieswithhischinstuckout, its jutsupportedonacrotchofhands,withalightedcigaretteprojectingfromhisright-handfingers.

And that is all he’s doing. Of course inside his skull, deep below the dandruff, universaltruthsmaybespinningaroundinashoweroffierysparkslikesomanyCatherineWheels.It’spossiblebut,judgingfromhisexternalappearance,notlikelyeveninone’swildestimaginings.

Thecigarette’s lit tip is steadilyburningdownandan inchofash, likesomegraycaddis-case,ploppeddownontotheblanket.Mymaster,ignoringthatdeclension,staresintentlyattherising smoke. Stirred by the light spring breeze, the smoke floats up in loops and vortices,

finallytogather inakindofclinginghazearoundtheendsofhiswife’s just-washedblackhair.Gentle reader,pleaseacceptmyapologies. Ihadcompletely forgotten tomention that lady’spresence.

Mrs. Sneaze is sitting so that her bottom presents itself before her husband’s face. Youthink that impolite?Speaking formyself Iwould not call it so.Both courtesy anddiscourtesydependonone’spointofview.

Mymaster is lyingperfectly at easewithhis cupped face in closeproximity to hiswife’sbottom:he isneitherdisturbedby itsproximitynorconcernedathisownconduct.Hiswife isequallycomposedtopositionhermajesticbumbanginherhusband’sface.Thereisneithertheslightesthintnor intentionofdiscourtesy.Theyaresimplyamuch-marriedcouplewho, in lessthan a year of wedlock, sensibly disengaged themselves from the cramps of etiquette.Mrs.Sneazeseemstohavetakenadvantageoftheexceptionallyfineweathertogiveherpitch-blackhaira really thoroughwashwithaconcoctionmade from raweggsandsomespecialkindofseaweed.Somewhat ostentatiously, she has let her long straight hair hang loose around hershouldersandallthewaydownherback,andsits,busyandsilent,sewingachild’ssleevelessjacket.Inpointoffact,Ibelieveitispurelybecauseshewantstodryherhairthatshe’sbroughtboth her sewing-box and a flattish cushionmade from some all-woolenmuslin out here. It issimilarly to present her hair at the best angle to the sun that, deferentially, she presents herbottom to her spouse. That’smy belief, but itmay, of course, be thatmymastermoved tointrudehisfacewhereherbumalreadywas.

Now, to return to that business of the cigarette smoke, my master lay watching withfascinatedabsorptionthewayinwhichthesmoke,floatingupwardthroughhiswife’sabundantand now loosened hair, was itself combed into an appearance of filaments of blue-gray air.However, it is inthenatureofsmoketogoonrising,sothatmymaster’sfascinationwiththissingular spectacle of hair-entangled smoke compels him, lest he miss any phase of itsdevelopment,steadilytolifthisgaze.Hiseyes,firstleveledonherhips,moveupherback,overhershoulders,andalongherneck.Anditwasafterhisconcentratedstarehadcompletedtheascentofherneckandwasfocusedontheverycrownofherheadthathesuddenlyletoutaninvoluntarygaspofsurprise.

For there, on the very summit of the ladywhomhehadpromised to loveand cherish tilldeath did them part, was a large round patch of baldness. That unexpected nakedness,catchingtheclearspringsunshine,threwbackthelightandshonewithanalmostbraggartself-confidence. My master’s eyes remain fixed open in surprise at this dazzling discovery and,disregardingthedangerofsuchbrightnesstohisownuncoveredretinaltissue,hecontinuestogoggleatherskin’sbrightmirror.Theimagethatthenimmediatelyshotintomymaster’smindwasof thatdishonwhichstoodthetapersetbefore thealtar in thehouseholdshrinehandeddown in his family for untold generations. My master’s family belongs to the Shin sect ofBuddhism,asectinwhichitistheestablishedcustomtolayoutsubstantialsums,moreindeedthanmostof itsadherentscanafford,onhouseholdshrines.Mymastersuddenly remembershow,whenhewasaverysmallboy,he firstsawtheshrine in the familysafe-room. Itwasaminiatureshrine,somberthoughthicklygilded, inwhichabrasstaper-dishwashanging.Fromtheburningtaperafaintlightshone,eveninthedaytime,ontheroundeddish.

Bright against the shrine’s general darkness, that image of the shining dish, seen in hischildhood timeand timeagain, leaptback intohismindashegapedathiswife’sbaldpatch.Butthatfirstremembrancequicklyvanished,tobereplacedbymemoriesofthepigeonsatthe

Kannon Temple in Asakusa. There seems no obvious connection between temple doves andMrs.Sneaze’sgleamingscalp,but inmymaster’smindtheassociationof imagesisclearandveryclose.It,again,isanassociationderivingfromhisearlychildhood.Wheneverthenhewastakentothattemple,hewouldbuypeasforthepigeons.Thepeascost lessthanafarthingasaucer.Thesaucers,madeofanunglazedreddishclay,wereremarkablysimilar,both insizeandcolor,tohiswife’sbarepatch.

“Astonishinglysimilar.”Thewordsescapefromhislipsintonesofanawedwonder.“Whatis?”sayshiswifewithouteventurningtowardhim.“Whatis?There’sabigbaldpatchonthecrownofyourhead.Didyouknow?”“Yes,”sheanswers,stillnotinterruptinghersewing.Sheseemsnottheleastembarrassed

byhisdiscovery.Amodelwife,atleastinpointofimperturbability.“Wasittherebeforewemarriedordiditcropuplater?”Thoughmymasterdoesnotcome

outwithanopenaccusation,heclearly soundsas if hewould regardhimselfashavingbeentrickedintomarriageifthebaldpatchwas,infact,presentinhermaidenhood.

“Idon’trememberwhenIgotit.Notthatitmatters.Whateverdifferencecouldabaldpatchmake?”Quitethephilosopher,isn’tshejust.

“Notthatitmatters!Butit’syourownhairthatwe’retalkingabout.”Mymasterspeakswithacertainsharpness.“It’sjustbecauseitismyownhairthatitdoesn’tmatter.”Aneffectiveanswer,butshemay

havebeenfeelingslightlyself-consciousforshe liftedherrighthandgently tostrokethespot.“Ohdear,”shesaid, “it’sgotmuchbigger. Ihadn’t realized that.”Her toneconceded that thepatch was larger than would be normal at her age and, now driven onto the defensive, sheadded, “Onceonestartsdoingone’shair in themarriedstyle, thestrandsat thecrowncomeunderaveryrealstrain.Allmarriedwomenlosehairfromthetopofthehead.”

“Ifallmarriedwomenlosthairatyourrate,bythetimetheywereforty they’dbebaldaskettles.Youmust have caught some kind of disease.Maybe it’s contagious.You’d better goroundandhave it lookedatbyDr.Amakibefore thingsgotoofar,”saysmymaster,carefullystrokinghisownhead.

“That’s all very well, but what about you? White hairs in your nostrils! If baldness iscontagious,whitehairswillbecatching.”Mrs.Sneazebeginstogoovertotheattack.

“Asingle,whitehairinthenostrilsisobviouslyharmless,anditdoesn’tevenshow.Butfox-mange on the crown of the head cannot be ignored. It is, especially in the case of a youngwoman,positivelyunsightly.It’sadeformity.”

“Ifyou think I’mdeformed,whydidyoumarryme? Itwasyouwhowanted themarriage,yetnowyoucallmedeformed...”

“ForthesimplereasonthatIdidn’tknow.Indeed,Iwasunawareofyourconditionuntilthisvery day. If youwant tomake an issue of it, why didn’t you reveal your naked scalp tomebeforewegotmarried?”

“What a silly thing to say!Where in theworldwould you find a placewhere girls had tohavetheirscalpsexaminedbeforetheycouldgetmarried?”

“Well, the baldness might be tolerable but you’re also uncommonly dumpy, and that iscertainlyunsightly.”

“There’s never beenanythinghiddenaboutmyheight.You knewperfectlywellwhen youmarriedmethatI’mslightlyontheshortside.”

“OfcourseIknew,butI’dthoughtyoumightextendabit,andthat’swhyImarriedyou.”

“Howcouldanyonegrow tallerafter theageof twenty?Areyou trying tomakea foolofme?Eh?”Shedropsthesleevelessjacketand,twistingaroundtofaceherhusband,giveshimathreateninglookasiftosay,

“Nowwatchyourstep,yougotoofar,andyou’llbesorry.”“There is surely no law forbidding people from growing taller after the age of twenty. I

cherisheda fainthope that, if I fedyouupondecent food,youmightprolongyourself.”Withevery appearance of meaning what he said, my master was about to develop his curiousreasoning,whenhewascutoffbyasharpringingof thedoorbell followedbya loudshoutof“Hello.”Snufflingafterthescentofthatshepherd’spurseontheroof,thedoggedSuzukiseemsatlasttohavetrackeddownSneaze’sden.

Mymaster’swife, temporarilypostponing theirdomestic row,snatchesup the jacketandhersewing-boxandvanishesintoaninnerroom.Mymasterscrabbleshisgrayblanketupintoaballandslingsitintothestudy.Themaidbringsinthevisitor’scardandgivesittomymaster,who,havingreadit,looksalittlesurprised.Then,havingtoldthemaidtoshowthevisitorin,hegoes off into the lavatory with the card still clasped in his hand. If it is beyond one’scomprehensionthatheshouldthussuddenlytaketothe loo, it isevenmoredifficult toexplainwhyhe should have takenwith him the visiting-card ofSuzuki Tōjūrō. It is, in any case, veryhardluckonthesoulofthatvisiting-cardthatitshouldhavetoaccompanyhimtothatnoisomeplace.

The maid deposits a printed, cotton cushion on the floor in front of the alcove-recess,invites the guest to be seated in that place of honor, and then removes herself. Suzuki firstinspects the room. He begins by examining the scroll displayed in the alcove: its Chinesecharacters, allegedly written by Mokuan, that master calligrapher of the Zen sect, are, ofcourse,faked,buttheystatethatflowersareinbloomandthatspringiscometoalltheworld.Henext tarnshisattention tosomeearly-floweringcherry-blossomsarranged inoneof thoseceladonvaseswhichtheyturnoutcheapinKyoto.Then,whenhisrovingglancechancestofallupon the cushion provided for his particular convenience, what should he find but, plantedserenelysmack in itscenter,asquattingcat. Ineedhardlyadd that thecat inquestion ismylordlyself.

Itwasatthispointthatthefirstquicktremoroftension,aripplesosmallitdidnotshowonhisface,quakedinSuzuki’smind.Thatcushionhadundoubtedlybeenprovidedforhimselfbutbeforehecouldsitdownonit,somestrangeanimal,withoutsomuchasaby-your-leave,haddispossessedhimof theseatofhonorandnow laycrouchedupon itwithanair of firmself-confidence.Thiswas the first consideration to disturb the composureof hismind. In point offact,hadthecushionremainedunoccupied,Suzukiwouldprobablyhavesoughttodemonstratehis modesty by resting his rump on the hard matfloor until such time as my master himselfinvited its transfer to the comfort of the cushion. So who the hell is this that has so blithelyappropriatedthecushionwhichwasdestined,soonerorlater,tohaveeasedSuzukibuttocks?Hadtheinterloperbeenahumanbeing,hemightwellhavegivenway.Buttobepre-emptedbyamerecat,thatisintolerable.Itisalsoalittleunpleasant.

This minor animality of his dissedation was the second consideration to disturb thecomposure of Suzuki’s mind. There was, moreover, something singularly irritating about theveryattitudeofthecat.Withouttheleastsmalltwitch-signofapology,thecatsitsarrogantlyonthecushion ithas filchedand,withacoldglitter in itsunamiableeyes,staresup intoSuzuki’sfaceas if tosay, “Andwho thehellareyou?”This is the thirdconsideration to ruffleSuzuki’s

composure.Ofcourse ifhe’sreally irked,heought to jerkmeoff thecushionby thescruffofmyneck.Buthedoesn’t.Hejustwatchesmeinsilence.Itisinconceivablethatanycreatureasmassiveandmuscularasmancouldbesoafraidofacatasnottodaretobringcrudeforcetobear in any clash of wills. So why doesn’t Suzuki express his dislike by turfing me off thecushion with summary dispatch? The reason is, I think, that Suzuki is inhibited by his ownconceptionoftheconductpropertoaman.Whenitcomestotheuseofforceanychildthreefeet tall can, andwill, flingme about quite easily. But a full-grownman, even Suzuki Tōjūrō,Goldfield’sright-handman,cannotbringhimselftoraiseafingeragainstthisSupremeCatDeityensconcedupontheholygroundofacottoncushiontwofeetsquare.Eventhoughtherewerenowitnesses,amanwouldregarditasbeneathhisdignitytoscufflewithacatforpossessionof a cushion. One would make oneself ridiculous, even a figure of farce, if one degradedoneselftothelevelofarguingwithacat.ForSuzuki,thepriceofthishumanestimateofhumandignityistoendureacertainamountofdiscomfortinthenates,butpreciselybecausehefeelshemust endure it, his hatred of the cat is proportionately increased.When, every now andagain he looks at me, his face exudes distaste. Since I find it amusing to see such wrydistortion of his features, I domy bestmyself tomaintain an air of innocence and resist thetemptationtolaugh.

While this pantomime was still going on, my master left the lavatory and, having tidiedhimselfup,cameinandsatdown.“Hello,”hesaid.

Sincethevisitingcardisnolongerinhishand,thenameofSuzukiTōjūrōmusthavebeencondemnedtopenalservitudeforlifeinthatevil-smellingplace.AlmostbeforeIcouldfeelsorryforthevisitingcard’sill-luck,mymaster,saying,“Oh,you!”grabsmebythescruffofmyneckandhurlsmeouttolandwithabangontheveranda.

“Do take this cushion. You’re quite a stranger. When did you come up to Tokyo?” Mymasteroffers thecushion tohisold friend,andSuzuki, having turned it catside-down,dumpshimselfuponit.

“As I’ve been so busy I haven’t let you know, but Iwas recently transferred back to ourmainofficeinTokyo.”

“That’ssplendid.Wehaven’tseeneachotherforquitealongwhile.Thismustbethefirsttimesinceyouwentofftotheprovinces?”“Yes, nearly ten years ago. Actually, I did sometimes come up to Tokyo, but as I was

alwaysfloodedwithbusinesscommitments,Isimplycouldn’tmanagetogetroundtoseeyou.Idohopeyouwon’t think toobadlyofme.But, unlike yourownprofession, abusiness firm ishonestlyverybusy.”

“Tenyearsmakebigchanges,”observesmymaster,lookingSuzukiupanddown.Hishairisneatlyparted.HewearsanEnglish-madetweedsuitenlivenedbyagaudytie.Abrightgoldwatchchainglitters fromhiswaistcoat.All thesesartorial touchesmake it hard to credit thatthiscanreallybeoneofSneaze’sfriends.

“Well,onegetson.Indeed,I’mnowvirtuallyobligedtosportsuchthingsasthis...”Suzukiseemsalittleself-consciousaboutthevulgarlyfashionabledisplayofhiswatchchain.

“Isthatthingreal?”Mymasterposeshisquestionwiththeminimumoftact.“Solid gold. Eighteen carat,” Suzuki answers, smilingly smug. “You, too,” he continued,

“seemtohaveaged.AmIrightinthinkingyou’vechildrennow?One?AmIright?”“No.”“Two?”

“No.”“What,more?Three,then,isit?”“Yes,Ihavethreechildrennow,andIdon’tknowhowmanymoretocomeinthefuture.”“Stillaswhimsicalasever.Howoldisyoureldest?Quitebig,Isuppose.”“Yes,I’mnotquitesurehowold,butprobablysixorseven.”Suzukilaughed.“Itmustbepleasanttobeateacher,everythingsofreeandeasy.IwishI

toohadtakenupteaching.”“Justyoutry.You’dbesorryinthreedays.”“I don’t know. It seemsagoodkindof life: refinedandnot too stressful, plentyof spare

time,andtheopportunitytoreallystudyone’sownspecialinterest.Beingabusinessmanisnotbad,either,thoughatmypresentlevelthingsaren’tparticularlysatisfactory.Ifonebecomesabusinessman,onehastogettothetop.Anywherelowerontheladder,youhavetogoaroundspouting idiotic flatteriesanddrinkingsakéwith thebosswhen there’snothingyouwant less.Altogether,it’sastupidwayoflife.”

“Ever since my school days I’ve always taken a scunner to businessmen. They’ll doanythingformoney.Theyare,afterall,what theyusedtobecalled in thegoodolddays: theverydregsof society.”Mymaster,withabusinessman right there in frontof him, indulges intactlessness.

“Oh, have a heart. They aren’t always like that.Admittedly, there’s a certain coarsenessaboutthem;forthere’snopointineventryingtobeabusinessmanunlessyourloveformoneyissoabsolute thatyou’re ready toaccompany iton thewalk toadoublesuicide.Formoney,believeyoume,isahardmistressandnoneofherloversareletofflightly.Asamatteroffact,I’ve just been visiting a businessman and, according to him, the only way to succeed is topracticethe‘triangledtechnique’:trytoescapeyourobligations,annihilateyourkindlyfeelings,andgeldyourselfofthesenseofshame.Try-an-geld.Yougetit?Jollyclever,don’tyouthink?”

“Whatawfulfatheadtoldyouthat?”“He’snofathead.Smartasawhip,infact.Andincreasinglyrespectedinbusinesscircles.I

ratherfancyyouknowhim.Helivesupasidestreetjustaroundthecorner.”“YoumeanthatfrightfulGoldfield?”“Goodnessme,butyou’rereallygettingworkedup.Heonlymeantit,youknow,asakind

ofjoke.It’ssimplyawayofsummarizingthefactthattomakemoneyonemustgothroughhell.Sopleasedon’ttakeajoketooseriously.”

“His ‘triangledtechnique’may,Igrant,bea joke: let’ssay it’sscreaminglyfunny.Butwhatabouthiswifeandhernauseatingnose? If you’vebeen to their houseyoucouldhardlyhaveavoidedcollidingwiththatbeak.”

“Ah,Mrs.Goldfield.Sheseemsasensiblewomanofbroadunderstanding.”“Damn her understanding. I’m talking about her nose. Her nose, Suzuki, it’s a positive

monstrosity.OnlytheotherdayIcomposedahaitaipoemaboutit.”“Whatthedickensisahaitaipoem?”“Doyoumean tosayyou’veneverheardof thecurrentexperiments in thecompositionof

extendedhaiku?Youdoseemcutofffromwhat’sgoingonintheworld.”“True.Whenone isasbusyas Iam, it’sabsolutely impossible tokeepupwith things like

literature.Anyway,evenwhenalad,Ineverlikeditmuch.”“AreyouawareoftheshapeofCharlemagne’snose?”“Youareindeedinawhimsicalmood.”Suzuki laughedquitenaturally.“OfcourseIhaven’t

thefaintestideaoftheshapeofCharlemagne’snose.”“Well,whataboutWellingtonthen?HistroopsusedtocallhimNosey.Didyouknowthat?”“Whyonearthareyousobattyaboutnoses?Surelyitdoesn’tmatterifanosehappensto

beroundorpointed.”“Onthecontrary,itmattersverymuch.D’youknowaboutPascal?”“Questions, questions! Am I supposed to be taking an exam or something? No, I don’t

knowaboutPascal.Whatdidhedo?”“Hehadthistosay.”“Whattosay?”“‘HadCleopatra’snosebeena littlebit shorter, thehistoryof theworldwouldhavebeen

changed.’”“Didhenow!”“Perhapsnowyouseewhyonecan’taffordtounderestimatetheimportanceofnoses.”“All right, I’ll be more careful in future. By the way, I dropped in today because there’s

somethingI’dliketoaskyou.It’saboutachapyouusedtoteach.Avalonsomethingorother.Ican’trememberhisothername,butIunderstandthatyouandheseealotofeachother.”

“YoumeanColdmoon?”“That’sit,Coldmoon.Well,I’vereallycometomakeenquiriesabouthim.”“Aboutamatrimonialmatter?”“Onemightsaythat.Yousee,IcalledinearlierontheGoldfields...”“TheNoseherselfcamesniffingroundhereonlytheotherday.”“Didshe?Well,asamatteroffactshementionedthatshe’dcalled.Shesaidshe’dpaida

visitinordertopresentherrespectstoMr.Sneazeandtoentreathisassistanceinamatterofinformation, but that Waverhouse was present and made so many and such frivolousinterruptionsthatshejustgotmuddled.”

“Itwasallherownfault.Comingroundherewithanoselikethat.”“Shespokeofyouwiththedeepestrespect.She’s justregretful that theperformanceput

onbyWaverhousemadeit impossibletoaskyoucertainpersonalquestionsaboutColdmoon,andshehasthereforeaskedmetospeakonherbehalf.Forwhatit’sworth,I’veneverbeforeplayedthepartofanhonestbroker inmattersof thissort,but if thetwopartiesmostdirectlyconcernedarenotagainsttheidea,it’snotabadthingtoserveasago-betweenandsobringaboutamarriage.Indeed,that’sthereasonformypresentvisit.”

“Howkindofyoutocall,”commentedmymastersomewhatacidly.But, thoughhecouldnotexplainhisfeeling,hewas inwardlya littlemovedbythatphrase

about“thetwopartiesmostdirectlyconcerned.”Its slightly sentimental appeal made him feel as though a wraith of cool air had drifted

throughhissleevesonahotandhumidsummer’snight.Itistruethatmymaster’scharacterisbasedonsofirmaninbornbedrockofcoldreserve

andobstinacythatheis,bynature,oneofthisworld’swetblankets.Nevertheless,hisnatureisofacompletelydifferenttypefromthatofthevicious,heartlessproductsofmoderncivilization.The antique mold of his nature is clearly evidenced in the way in which he flares up at theslightestprovocation.ThesolereasonforhisbarneywithMadamConkwasthathecouldnotstandhermodern-dayapproach.Buthisflatdislikeofthemotherwasnofaultofherdaughter.

Similarly, because he abominates all businessmen, he finds Goldfield acutely distasteful:yethereagain,noblamecanbelaidonthedaughter.

Sneazebearsnorealill-willtowardher,andColdmoonishisfavoritepupilandhelovesthatlad more deeply than he would a brother. If Suzuki is correct in his statement that the twopartiesmostdirectlyconcerneddo,infact,loveeachother,thenitwouldbeanactunworthyofa gentleman even indirectly to hinder true love’s course. Sneaze is quite convinced that hehimselfisagentleman,sohisonlyremainingquestioniswhetherColdmoonandMissGoldfieldareinlove.Hemust,ifheistoamendhisattitude,firstbesureofthefacts.

“Tellme,doesthatgirl reallywant tomarryColdmoon?Idon’tcarewhatGoldfieldor theNosefeelaboutthematter,butwhatarethegirl’sownfeelings?”

“Well,yousee...thatis,Iunderstand...well,yes,Isupposeshedoes.”Suzuki’sanswerisnotexactlyclear-cut.ThinkingthatallhehadtodowastofindoutmoreaboutColdmoon,hecameunbriefedonOpula’sviewofthematch;soeventhisslipperyladnowfindshimselfinabitofajam.

“Theword ‘suppose’ implies somemeasure of uncertainty.”Mymaster, tactless as everandnotamantobeputoff,goesinagainlikeabullatagate.

“Trueenough.PerhapsIshouldhaveexpressedmyselfmoreclearly.Now,thedaughtercertainlyhasacertaininclination.Indeed,that’strue.What? Oh yes, Mrs. Goldfield told me so herself, though I gather she sometimes says

someawfulthingsaboutColdmoon.”“Whodoes?D’youmeanthedaughter?”“Yes.”“What impudence!ThatsnipofagirldisparagingColdmoon!Well, itcanhardlymeanthat

shecaresforhim.”“Butthat’sjustit.Oddyoumaythinkit,butsometimespeopledorundownpreciselythose

theylove.”“Ican’tconceive thatanyonecouldbesoderangedas tobehave like that.”Such intricate

convolutionsofhumannaturearequitebeyondmymaster’sbluntandsimplemind.“Infacttheworldisfullofsuchpeople.Certainlythat’showMrs.Goldfieldinterpretsherdaughter’scomments.Shesaidtome‘Mydaughtermustbequite

takenwiththatyoungColdmoon,forI’veevenheardhersayhelookslikeabewilderedgourd.’”These revelations of the strangeness of the human heart leave my master dumbstruck.

Wide-eyed and wordless, he stares in astonishment at Suzuki as though he were somesoothsayerwandered in from thestreet.Suzukiseems tohave themind tosense thedangerimplicit in my master’s unbelief and, fearful lest further discussion should wreck his wholeapproach,quicklychangesthesubject toaspectsof thematterwhichevenmymastercannotfailtounderstand.

“Considerthesefacts,”hesaid.“Withhergoodlooksandmoneythatgirlcanmarryalmostwhere she chooses. Now Coldmoon may be a splendid fellow, but comparing their relativesocialpositions.. .No,suchcomparisonsarealwaysodiousandcouldbetakenasoffensive.Soletmeputitthisway:that,intermsofpersonalmeans,thecoupleareobviouslyill-matched.Surelythen,youcanseethatiftheGoldfieldsaresoworriedthattheyaskmetocomeroundhere and talk to you, that very fact indicates the strength and nature of their daughter’syearnings?” One can’t deny Suzuki’s clever. He is relieved to notice that my master seemsimpressed by his latest line of argument, but realizing that the question of the degree ofbleedinginMissGoldfield’sheartislikelytobere-openedifheallowstheconversationtoloiteronherfeelingsaboutColdmoon,heconcludesthatthebestwaytocompletehismissionisto

drivethediscussionforwardasquicklyaspossible.“So, you see, as I’ve just explained, the Goldfields aren’t expecting money or property;

what they’d like instead is thatColdmoonshouldhavesomestatusofhisown,andbystatustheymean thepublic recognitionofqualification that issymbolized inaseniordegree. It’snotthatthey’resostuck-upastosaythatthey’llonlyconsidergivinghimtheirdaughterifheholdsadoctorate.Youmustn’tmisunderstandthem.

Things got jumbled up the other day whenMrs. Goldfield called on you purely becauseWaverhouse chose to amuse himselfwith his usual display of verbal fireworks and distortingmirrors.No,no,pleasedon’tprotest.Iknowitwasnoneofyourfault.Mrs.Goldfieldspokeinadmirationofyouasafrankandhonestman.I’mcertainthattheblameandanyawkwardnessthat may have arisen must be laid atWaverhouse’s door. Anyway, you see, the nub of thematter is this: if Coldmoon can get a doctorate, he would have independent status. Peoplewouldnaturally lookuptoDr.Coldmoon,andtheGoldfieldswouldbeproudofsuchason-in-law. So what are the chances of Coldmoon’s making an early submission of his thesis andreceivinghisdoctorate?Yousee,sofarastheGoldfieldsthemselvesareconcerned,they’dbethelasttodemandadoctor’sdegree,theywouldn’tevenaskforabachelor’s.Buttheyhavetoconsider what the world and his wife will say, and when dealing with the world one simplycannotbetoocareful.”

Sopresented, theGoldfields’ request foradoctorateseemsnotaltogetherunreasonable,andanythinghedeemsnotaltogetherunreasonablequalifiesformymaster’ssupport.Hefeelsinclined toactasSuzukisuggests.Suzuki, it isclear,can twiddlemymasteraroundhisartfullittlefinger.Irecognizemymasterasindeedasimple,honestman.

“Well,inthatcase,nexttimeColdmoondropsaround,I’llurgehimtogetonwithhisthesis.However,IfeelthatImustfirstquestionhimcloselytoascertainwhetherornothereallywantstomarrythatGoldfieldgirl.”

“Questionhimclosely!Ifyouactwithsuchmeticulousformality,thebusinesswillnevergetsettled.Thequickestwaytoahappyendingistosoundhismind,casually,inthecourseofanordinaryconversation.”

“Tosoundhismind?”“Yes, but perhaps theword ‘sound’ is not quite right since it canbe thought to smackof

indirection.OfcourseI’mnotsuggestingdeceptionofanykind.WhatImeanisthatyouwouldunderstandthedriftofhismindinthismatterfromsimplytalkingwithhimaboutgeneralities.”

“Youmightunderstand,butIwouldn’tunlessIaskhimpoint-blank.”“Ah well, I suppose that’s up to you. But I don’t think it would be reasonable to ruin a

romance by slinging coldwater on it, quite unnecessarily and even for fun, likeWaverhouse.Perhaps one doesn’t need actually to jostle them intomarriage, but surely inmatters of thissort, the twopartiesmostdirectlyconcernedshouldbe leftundistractedby irrelevantoutsideinfluencestosettletheirfutureforthemselves.SonexttimeColdmooncalls,try,please,nottointerfere.Ofcourse Idon’tmeanyouyourself. I’m referring toWaverhouse;nobodyemergesscatheless whomWaverhouse discusses.” Since Suzuki could not very well speak ill of mymaster,hespoke thusbitterlyagainstWaverhouse,when, talkof thedevil,whoshouldcomefloatingunexpectedlyinonaspringbreezethroughthekitchenbutWaverhousehimself.

“Hello,” he said, throwing the accent onto the second syllable, “a visitor from the past! Ihaven’tseenyouinyears.Youknow,”herattledon,

“Sneazetreatsintimatefriendslikemewithscantceremony.Shockingbehavior!Oneought

tovisithimroughlyonceadecade.Thosesweets, for instance,youwouldn’tget those ifyoucalledhereoften.”Scantingallceremony,Waverhousereachesoverandcramshismouthwithalarge piece of red-bean sugar-paste confection from the well-known Fujimura shop. Suzukifidgets.Mymastergrins.Waverhousemunches.AsfromtheverandaIwatchedthisinterlude,Irealized that good theater need not depend upon speech, that high dramatic effect can beachievedwithmime.TheZensectpracticesinstantaneousmentalcommunicationoftruthfrommindtomind indialoguesofsilence.Thedumbshowgoingonwithintheroomis,nodoubt,aversion of that practice; and the dialogue, though brief is pretty sharply worded. It was, ofcourse,Waverhousewhobrokethesilence.

“I’d thought, Suzuki, that you’d become a bird of permanent passage, always coming orgoingsomewhere,but Iseeyou’ve landedback.The longerone lives, thegreater thechancethatsomethingoddwillturnup.”WaverhousebabblesawaytoSuzukiwiththatsamecompleteabsenceofreservewhichcharacterizeshisconversationswithmymaster.Thoughtheylodgedtogetherintheirstudentdays,stillitwouldbenormalforamantoaddresssomeonewhomhehasn’t seen for at least ten years with a little more formality. Except when that man isWaverhouse.Thathepaysnot the least regard to the requirementsof conventionmarkshimoutaseitherasuperiorsoulorarightdownjob-bernowl.Butwhichonecannotsay.

“That’s a little hard. Aren’t you being a trifle pessimistic,” commented Suzukinoncommittally,buthiswayoffingeringhiswatch-chainbetrayedacontinuingunease.

“Tellme,haveyoueverriddenonatram?”MymastershotthissuddenandpeculiarenquiryatSuzuki.

“It seems that I’ve come here today simply to provide you two city-wits with alaughingstock on which to hone your singular sense of humor. Though it’s true that I’m verymuchupfromtheprovinces,IactuallyhappentoownsomesixtysharesintheTramCompanyofyourpreciouscity.”

“Well, that’s not to be sneezed at! Imyself once used to own eight hundred and eighty-eightandahalfof them.But I’msorry tosay that thevastmajorityhavenowbeeneatenbyinsects,sothatI’venothingbutonesinglehalf-shareleft. Ifyou’dcomeuptoTokyoalittlebitearlier, Iwouldgladlyhavegivenyousometenshares that,untilveryrecently, themothshadnotyetgotat.Whatasadmisfortune.”

“Iseeyouhaven’tchangedyourpersonalstyleofridicule.Butjokingapart,you’reboundtodowellifyoujusthangontostocksofthatquality.Theycannotfail,yearafteryear,toclimbinvalue.”

“Quiteright.Evenhalfashare,providedoneholdsitforroughlyathousandyears,willendupmakingyousorichyou’llneedthreestron-grooms.YouandI,razor-mindedfellowswithoursenses keyed to the economic inwardness of these stirring times, are, of course, keenlyconsciousofthesignificanceofstocks.ButwhataboutpoorSneaze?Justlookathim.Tohim,”saidWaverhouse,conferringonmymastera lookofwitheringpity, “stocksarenomore thansome vague kind of gillyflower.” He helped himself to another piece of confectionery. Hisappetiteiscontagious,formymaster,too,stretchesouthisarmtowardthesweetdish.Itisintheimmutablenatureofthehumanworldthatpositivityshouldtriumph,thatinitiativebeaped.

“Idonotcaretwohootsaboutstocksorshares,butIdowishpooroldSorosakihadlivedtoride, ifonlyonce,onatram.”Withmoroseconcentrationmymasterstudiesthepatterncutbyhisteethinhishalf-eatensweet.

“HadSorosakievergotintoatram,sureaseggisegg,he’dhavefinishedupattheendof

the line in Shinagawa. He was an absent-minded man. He’s better off where he is now,engraved upon a weight-stone as Mr. the-late-and-sainted Natural Man. At least he knowswhereheis.”

“I’dheardthatSorosakihaddied.I’msorry.Hewasabrainychap,”saysSuzuki.“Brainy, all right,”Waverhouse chipped in, “but when it came to cooking rice he was a

positiveimbecile.EverytimeitcameroundtoSorosaki’sturntodothecooking,Icontrivedtokeepbodyandsoultogetherbyeatingoutonnoodles.”

“True, Sorosaki’s rice had the peculiar characteristics of smelling burnt yet beingundercooked. I, too,used tosuffer.What’smore,hehadanoddwaywith theaccompanyingbean-curds.Uncookedandsocoldthatonecouldnoteatthem.”Suzukidredgesupagrievancetenyearsold.

“Even in thosedaysSneazewasSorosaki’sclosest friend.Theyused to trotoff togetherevery evening to gulp down rice-cakes swamped in red-bean soup, and, as a proper andinevitableresult,Sneazeisnowamartyrtodyspepsia.Asamatteroffact,sinceitwasSneazewhoalwaysguzzledmost,heshouldbyrightshavepredeceasedhiscrony.”

“Whatextraordinarychainsof logicdorunaround inyourcontraptionofamind.Anyway,”remarked my master, “there was nothing particularly reprehensible about my going out forsweet-beansoup.AsIrememberit,yourowneveningexpeditionstooktheformofhauntingagraveyardinordertobeatuptombstoneswithabamboostick.Youcalleditphysicalexercise,but that didn’t save you from a right old rap on the knuckles when the priest came out andcaughtyou.”InthisexchangeofstudentreminiscenceIthoughtmymaster’scounter-swipewiththe tombstones far more telling than that dribble of soup fromWaverhouse. Indeed, by hislaughter,Waverhousehimselfacknowledgedthedefeat.

“Indeed,”hesaid,“Iwellrememberthatpriest.HetoldmeIwasthumpingonthenoddlesofthedeardeparted,whichwoulddisturbtheirsleep.So,wouldIpleasedesist.AllIdidwastomakesomepracticepasseswithabamboowand,butGeneralSuzukihere, traininghisbodywith wrestlers’ drills, engaged those stones in violent personal combat. I recall that on oneoccasionhewrestledlooseandoverthrewthreemonumentsofassortedsizes.”

“Thatdidannoythepriest.Hegotquitefierceaboutit,insistingIrestoremyvictimstotheiroriginal positions. I asked him to hold his horses for amomentwhile Iwent and hired somenavviesforthejob,buthewouldn’thearofit.‘Navvies,’hesaid,‘won’tdo.Onlyyourownhandscanpurgetheeviltheyhavedone.Thedeadwillacceptnopenitencebutyours.’”

“And what a sight you were! Moaning and groaning through those muddy puddles in acalicoshirtandaloinclothtiedwithstring...”

“AndIrememberyou,withacoldlyseriousfaceyoustoodandsketchedmeasIstruggledwith thosegoddamstones.Suchutterheartlessness. I’mveryslowtoanger,butat that time,fromthebottomofmyheart,Iachedtokillyouforyourinsultinglydispassionatedetachment.

Icanstillrememberwhatyousaidthatday.Canyou,Iwonder?”“How could anyone remember what was said ten years ago. I do, however, recall the

wordsengravedononeof the stones:ReturningFountainHall, LordYellowCrane theGreatDeceased,January1776.

The stone, moreover, was antique and elegant. I was tempted to make off with it. Itsgeneral style was Gothic and chimed entrancingly with those aesthetic principles I cherish.”Waverhouse is off again, flaunting his gimcrack knowledge of aesthetics.Whoever heard ofJapaneseGothicfrom1776...

“That’sasmaybe,butlistentowhatyousaid.Theseareyourverywords.‘SinceIproposeto devotemy days to the study of aesthetics, I must, for future reference, grasp each andeveryopportunity to set downuponpaperanyevent of interest in this universewhich comesbeforemyeyes.’What’smore,youwerekindenoughtodispassionatelyadd‘AmansuchasI,onetotallyandexclusivelycommittedtothepursuitoflearning,cannotpermithimselftheluxuryof such personal feelings as those of pity or compassion.’ I could have done you in for suchnonchalance.ButallIdid,infact,wastograbyoursketchbookwithmymuddiedhandsandripthethingtoribbons.”

“And it was from precisely thatmoment thatmy talent as a creative artist, up until thenwidelyacceptedasremarkablypromising,wasnippedinthebud,nevertobloomagain.Ihavemyownwholeskeletonofbonesstilltopickwithyou.”

“Don’tbesodaft.Ifanyone’sentitledtoagrudge,it’sme.”“Waverhouse, fromas farbackasmymindcan reach,hasalwaysbeenawindbag.”My

master, having munched his sweet to extinction, rejoins the conversation. “He never meanswhathesaysandhasneverbeenknowntokeepapromise.Pressedhardforanexplanation,heneverapologizesbut trotsoutendlesspretextsandprevarications.Oncewhenthemyrtleswereinbloominthetempleyard,hetoldmethathewouldcompleteatreatisehewaswriting,on those same old cherished principles of aesthetics, before the flowers fell. ‘Impossible,’ Isaid.Can you guess his answer?He claimed, despite appearances, to be of ironwill.‘If youdoubtmyword,’hesaid,‘justnameyourbet.’Itookhimuponitandweagreedthatthelosershould stand a dinner at aWestern restaurant over in Kanda. I took the bet because I wascertainthathe’dnevergethiswritingdoneintime,butIconfessthat,notinfacthavingthecashto pay for the dinner if I lost, I remained a little nervous that he still might work a miracle.Anyway,heshowednosignsofgettingdowntowork.Aweekwentby,threeweekswentby,andstillhehadn’twrittenasinglepage.At last the flowersof themyrtle fell,and, though thetree stood empty,Waverhouse stood calm. Looking forward tomyWesternmeal, I pressedourfriendtomeethisobligation.Nottoputtoofineapointuponhisanswer,hetoldmetogetlost.”

“Nodoubt,”chimedinSuzuki,“heofferedthis,thatandtheotherreason?”“Indeedhedid, thebarefacedrogue.Youcan’t imaginehowobstinatehewas. ‘Saywhat

youwill,’ hesaid, ‘aboutmyother flawsand faults. Iadmit themall,and readily.But the factremainsthatinstrengthofwillI’mstrongerthanthepackofyou.’”

“Doyoumean,”askedWaverhousehimself,“that,havingwrittennothing,Istillclaimednottohavelostthebet?”

“Ofcourseyoudid.Yousaidthebetwasnotaboutfinishingthetreatisebutaboutyourironwill.And in respect of that ironquality, so youmostwillfully informedme, youwould yield tonone.Youconceded that yourmemorymightbepoor; sopoor indeed that youhadnextdayforgottenthatyouintendedtowriteapaperontheprinciplesofaesthetics;butyoumaintainedthatyourwill towrite it remained ferric to thecore.The fault lay inyourmemory,not inyourwill. So, though the myrtle flowers were fallen and the treatise still unwritten, you made itpainfullyclearthatyousawnoreasonwhyyoushouldcomeacrosswithmydinner.”

“Now that’svery interesting.Andsovery typicalofWaverhouse.” I can’t seewhat in thatrather tedious story should so particularly interest Suzuki, but the tone of his comments ismarkedly different from that which he used before Waverhouse came in. Perhaps suchvariousnessisasignofacleverman.

“Notintheleastinteresting.”Mymasterinterjectsasharpishcontradiction.“Itdistressesmethatyoushouldstillbefeelingsoputoutaboutit,butisitnotforthatvery

reasonthatI’vehadmenoutwithlanternssearchinghighandlowforthosepeacocks’tonguesIpromisedyou?

Don’tbesohuffy,Sneaze.Justwaitawhileandallshallbemadeup.Incidentally, this talkaboutwritinga treatise remindsme that I’vecalled todaywithsome

especiallyoddnews.”“Sinceyoubringroundoddnewseverytimeyouvisit,I’lltakethatstatementwithapinchof

salt.”“But today’soddnews truly issensational.Crossmyheartandhope todie, it’sstunning.

Coldmoon’sstartedwritinghisthesis.Whataboutthat?SinceinhisownquaintwayColdmoonhas a fairly elevated opinion of himself, I wouldn’t have expected him to engage in such amundane, tasteless chore as getting a thesis actually written, but it appears that he, too, istainted with wordly ambition. Now don’t you think that odd? You’d better let that Goldfieldwoman know that she may now start dreaming of decking her family tree with a full-blowndoctorofacorns.”

At the firstmention ofColdmoon’s name,Suzuki begins jerking his chin and twitching hiseyesatmymaster insilentpleas thatnothingshouldbesaidof their recentconversation.Mymaster fails to notice these entreating galvanisms. A short while back, under the suasion ofSuzuki’smorallecture,hehadfeltsufficientlysorryforthelove-lorndaughternottoindulgehisunabatedantipathytowardhermother.ButassoonasWaverhousereferredtoMadamConk,hisrecollectionofhisrecentrowwiththatviragocamefloodingbackinfullspate.Thattherowhadhaditscomicaspectsdidnotmakeitanythelessprovoking.ButthenewsthatColdmoonhadstartedtowritehisthesis,thatwasreallymarvelous.HewasgratefultoWaverhouse,whohad more than fulfilled his boast of having something startling to say, for bringing such awelcomepresent.Itwas,indeed,astunningpieceofnews;stunningbutsingularlypleasant.Itdoesn’t greatly matter, one way or the other, whether Coldmoon marries the girl, but it iscertainlyanexcellentthingfortheladtogethisdoctorate.Insurprisingwaysmymasterknowshimself,andwouldwithabsolutehumilityaccept thatnota tearneedfall ifabotchedwoodenstatueisleftundecoratedtorotawayinsomedarkback-cornerofasculptor’sshop.Butwhenastatueissuperblycarved,whenitsbasicqualityisnoble,thennoeffortshouldbesparedandnotimewastedinensuringthatitbegivengildingofappropriatesplendor.

“Are you really tellingme that Coldmoon’s started writing?”mymaster enquires eagerlyandpayingnoattentionatalltothejitteringSuzuki.

“What a suspicious mind you’ve got! Don’t you ever believe what I tell you? Yes, he’sstarted,but I regret Icannot tellyouwhetherhis thesiswillbeconcernedwith thestabilityofacornsorwiththemechanicsofhanging.Whateverthesubject,aColdmoonthesismustbeaglorioussnubfortheNose.”

Suzukihasbeengettingmoreandmore restiveasWaverhouserepeatsanddevelopshisdiscourteousreferencestoMadamConk;Waverhouse,notnoticing,sailsunconcernedlyon.

“I have,” he said, “carriedout some further research intonosesandamhappy to adviseyou of an interesting treatment of the subject in the Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy,Gentleman.HadSternebutknownof thatmountainof relevantmaterial,howgreatly itwouldhave helped him. The sadness of chronology! To think that that staggering organ, eminentlyqualified as it is to gain immortal nose-fame, should be born, likemany another nosegay, to

blushunseen!One’sheartisfilledwithanimmensecompassion.Whennextitthrustsitselfuponus, I shall sketch that vast promontory of flesh for my future reference in the study ofaesthetics.”There’snorestrainingWaverhouse.

“ButIhearthattheGoldfieldgirlisyearningtobeColdmoon’sbride.”Mymastermakesafair summary of Suzuki’s representations, while the latter, annoyance twitching from everyfeature on his face and electric messages flashing from his eyes, signals desperately fordisengagement. My master, like some nonconducting substance, remains immune to thesedistraughtdischarges.

“Howbizarre.Itstrainsthemindtothinkthatthedaughterofsuchamanmightfallinlove...Not,Iwouldimagine,thatitcouldbeloveofanyquality,justrubbingnoses.”

“Whateveritsnature,”mymastercommented,“let’shopethatColdmoonmarriesher.”“What’sthat?”saidWaverhouse.“Who’snowhopingColdmoonmarriesher?Onlytheother

dayyouweredeadagainstsuchadisastrousmatch.Haveyougonesoftorsomething?”“It’snotamatterofgoingsoft.Inevergosoft,but...”“But something’s happened?That’s it, isn’t it?Now look here, Suzuki, since you’re some

kindoflowerlife-forminthebusinessjungle,letmegiveapieceofadvicetoguideyourfutureslitherings. It’swith reference to thatgruntingGoldfieldandhispigletdaughter.The idea thatreasonablepersonsmightbecalledupontotreatthatcreaturewiththerespectduetothewifeofMr.AvalonColdmoon,thattalentednationalfigure,why,man,thething’simpossible.They’dnomorebalanceeachotherthanwouldapaper-lanternandabigbronzebell.Noonewhocallshimself a friend to Coldmoon could stand by and not speak against the folly of such amisalliance.Surely,Suzuki,evenyou,lookingatitasabusinessman,canseethesenseinwhatI’msaying.”

“Whatakerfuffleyoudostillmanagetokickup!Alwayssomethingstirring,eh?Youhaven’tchangedonelittlebitinallofthesetenyears.

Really,it’sremarkable.”Suzukitriestoslitherroundthequestion.“Since you compliment me as being remarkable, let me display some more remarkable

dollopsoflearningappropriatetothiscase.TheancientGreekssetveryhighstorebyphysicalprowessandencouraged itspursuitbyawardingvaluableprizes to thewinnersofallsortsofathletic contests. But, strangely enough, there is no record that they ever offered prizes forintellectualprowess.Untilrecentlythiscuriouscircumstanceincessantlypuzzledme.”

“Isee,”saysSuzukistilltryingtomakehimselfagreeable.“Thatdoesseemodd.”“However,justtheotherday,Ichanced,inthecourseofmyresearchesintoaesthetics,to

lightupon theexplanation.Yearsofaccumulatedworrying fell instantlyaway frommeand, inthat blessed trice, as though disburdened of all errors and earthly delusions, I foundmyselftransported to that pure realm of infinite enlightenment where my soul rejoiced in itstranscendence of the world and its attainment of pansophic self-awareness.”WaverhousedepartsonsuchaflightofgongoristicdrivelthateventhetoadyingSuzukiallowshisfacetoslipinto the lineaments of having had enough. “He’s at it again” may be read in my master’sresignedexpressionas,witheyescastdown,hesitstheretapping,kan-kan-kan,ontherimofthecake-dishwithhisivorychopsticks.

Nowisedisconcerted,Waverhouseblatherson.“Andtowhomdoyou thinkweare indebted for thatbrilliant logicalanalysis,which,by its

simple explanation of this seeming anomaly, has rescued us forever from the dark abyss ofdoubt? It was that famous Greek philosopher, the greatest of all scholars since scholarship

began, the renowned founder of the Peripatetic School, Aristotle himself. His explanation—Isay, Sneaze, please stop flogging that cake-dish and pay a little more attention—may besummarized thus. The prizes awarded at Greek contests were worth more than theperformancesthatearnedthem,fortheprizeswereintendednotonlytostimulateeffortbuttoreward achievement. Consequently, if one were to give a prize for intellectual prowess, forknowledge itself, onewould have to find something to awardwhichwasmore valuable thanknowledge. But knowledge already is the rarest gem in the world. The Greeks, unwilling todebase thevalueofknowledge,piledupchestsallcrammedwithgold to theheightofMountOlympus.Theygathered in thewealthofCroesus,andwealthbeyond thatwealth,but in theendtheyrecognizedthat thevalueofknowledgecannotbematched, letaloneexceeded.So,mastersof reason that theywere, theydecided that theprize shouldbenothingat all. Fromthis,Suzuki, I trustyouwillhave learnt that,whatever thecolorofyourmoney, it isworthlessstuff compared with learning. Let us accordingly apply this revealed truth, this fundamentalprinciple, to the particular problem that has arisen today. Surely you’re bound to see thatGoldfield’smerelyapaperman,abillofexchangewitheyesandanosescrawledonto it. If Imayputitepigrammatically,theman’snomorethanananimatedbanknote.Andifhe’smoneyinmotion,currencyonemightsay,hisdaughter’snothingbutacirculatingpromissorynote. Incontrast, now, letusconsiderColdmoon.Withconsummateeasehegraduatedwith thebestdegree of his year from the highest seat of learning in our land. On leaving the ImperialUniversity,heshowednosignofslackeningofeffort.Onthecontrary,fiddlingwiththeantiquefastening-stringsofhisshortsurcoat,hedevoteshimselfbothdayandnightto intensivestudyof the thorny problem of the stability of acorns. And in addition to all that, this indefatigableservant of learning is just about to publish a thesis which, unquestionably, will embodyintellectualconceptsbesidewhosedepth,originality,andscopethoseadumbratedbythegreatLordKelvinmustpaleintoinsignificance.It istruehewasconcernedinanabortiveattemptatsuicide, but that was nomore than a passing fancy of a kind common among lads of spirit.Certainly the incident can cast no serious doubt upon his reputation as a vast repository oflearning and intelligence. If Imay adapt to Coldmoon’s case one ofmy own earlier turns ofphrase,Ishoulddescribehimasacirculatinglibrary.Heisahigh-explosiveshell,perhapsonlyatwenty-eightcentimeter,butcompactlychargedwithknowledge.

Andwhenat the properly chosen time this projectilemakes its impact upon theworld oflearning,then,ifitdetonates,detonateitwill.”

Waverhouse,unbelievably,seemstohaverunoutofsteam.Confusedbyhisownjumbleofmetaphors,healmost flinches,andhis flowof languagepeterspointlesslyout.As thesayinggoes, the dragon’s head of his opening remarks has dwindled down to a snake’s tail of anending.

However, thoughWaverhousemay falter,he’sunlikely toshutup. Inamatterof secondshe’soffagain.

“In that inevitable explosion things like promissory notes, though there be thousands ofthem,willallbeblasted intodust. It follows that, forColdmoon,sucha femalesimplywillnotdo.Icannotconsenttosoill-suitedanalliance.Itwouldbeasthoughanelephant,thatwisestandmostnobleofallanimals,were tomarry thegreediestpigletofagreedy farrow.”Withafinal burst of speedWaverhouse breasts the tape. “That’s so, isn’t it, Sneaze?”Mymaster,silent,resumedhismelancholytappingonthecake-dish.

Looking a bit depressed and obviously at his wit’s end for a suitable answer, Suzuki

mumblessomethingaboutnotbeingabletoentirelyagree.His position is, indeed, delicate. His hands, as it were, are still wet with blood from his

verbal assassination, barely a half-hour back, of Waverhouse’s character, and a man asoutrageously tactless asmymastermight, at anymoment, come straight out with anything.Suzuki’s soundest tactic is to receive, and if possible smother, theWaverhouse attack, andthen, in the general confusion, to wriggle away to safety as quickly as he can. Suzuki’sclever.Verymuch aman cast in themodernmold, he seeks to avoid head-on collisions andconsiders it positively medieval to enter into arguments that, of their nature, can have nopracticalresult.Inhisopinionthepurposeoflifeisnottotalk,buttoact.Ifeventsdevelopasonewishes, then life, itspurpose thus fulfilled, isgood.But ifeventsnotonlydevelopasonewishesbutdosowithoutdifficulties,fret,oraltercation,thenlife,itspurposeslitheringlyfulfilled,isparadisal.Suzuki’sunwaveringdevotiontothisElysianprincipleofslitheringhadbroughthimgreat success in the businessworld he’d entered after graduating from the university. It hadbroughthimawatchofeighteen-caratgold. Ithadbroughthima request from theGoldfieldsthatheshoulddothemasmallfavor.

IthadevenenabledhimtomaneuverSneazenine-tenthsofthewaytowarddoingwhattheGoldfieldswished.ThenWaverhousedescendsupon thescene.Outof theordinary,carelessof all conventions, totally eccentric, hemanifests himself as an incarnation of capriciousnessoperating inaccordancewithapsychological patternneverpreviouslyobserved in thehumancreature.NowonderthatSuzukifeelsabitbewildered.ThoughSuzuki’sprinciplewasinventedbyavarietyofclevergentlemenseekingsuccess inMeijicircumstances, itsprimepractitioneris Suzuki Tōjūrō himself, and it is consequently he who is most signally stumped when theprincipleprovesinapplicable.

“It’sonlybecauseyou’reoutofyourdepth,”Waverhousepressedon,“thatyousit there lookingsuperciliousandoffernomoreusefulcontribution than thecool

comment that you can’t entirely agree.But if you’d been here the other daywhen thatNosecame throwing her weight around, even you, businessman to the backbone though you are,evenyouwouldhave felt like throwingup. It’s true,Sneaze, isn’t it?Goon, tellhim. I thoughtyouhandledthesituationmagnificently.”

“But I’m told,” my master almost smirked, “that my conduct on that occasion created amorefavorableimpressionthandidyours.”

Theanswering laughwasamixtureof pity and scorn. “What incredible self-confidence! Ibegin to understand how youmanage to sail along at school unperturbed by themockery ofyourcolleaguesandyourpupils’shoutsofSavageTea.InmattersofwillpowerI’mamatchforanyone,butwhen itcomes tosheernerve, I’m justnoteven inyourclass. Ihumblemyself inthepresenceofsuchstaggeringself-confidence.”

“WhyonearthshouldIbemovedbysuchpuerilecarryings-on?Theirgrumblesdon’tscareme.ThoughSainte-Beuvewasperhapsthegreatestofallcritics,his lecturesattheSorbonneprovedsounpopularthat,wheneverhewalkedinthestreets,hewasobligedtocarryadaggerup his sleeve to defend himself against attacks from students. Similarly, when Brunetière’slecturesattackedthenovelsofZola...”

“Comeoffit,Sneaze.You’renotaprofessororauniversitylecturer.For amere teacher of the EnglishReader to start comparing himself withworld-famous

professorsislikeaminnowdemandingtobetreatedasawhale.Ifyoukeeponsayingthingslikethat,you’reboundtobelaughedat.”

“That’s just your opinion.As I see it,Sainte-Beuveand I, consideredas scholars, are ofroughlythesamestandard.”

“Whatfantasticself-esteem!Butif Iwereyou,I’dgiveupanyideaofgoingaroundwithadagger.Youmight cut yourself.Of course, if universityprofessorsdogoarmedwithdirks, itmightbereasonableforateacherof theEnglishReadertocarryafoldingpenknife.Butevenso, any edged tool is dangerous.What you ought to do is to toddle along to the NakamisearcadedowninAsakusaandgetyourselfatoypop-gun.

You could carry it slung from your shoulder. You’dmake a charming picture.What d’youthink,Suzuki?”

Suzuki’s feeling better.Relieved that the conversation hasat long last veeredaway fromthe subject of the Goldfields, he feels it safe to venture a few, and preferably flattering,sentences.

“As italwayswas, it’sbeengreat fun to takepartagain insucha livelybutgood-natureddiscussion.Nothavingseenyoutwoforafulltenyears,IfeelasthoughIhadjustwalkedbackinto a spacious sunny landscape out of some dark and narrow alley. As you’ll understand,conversations among business associates tend to be pretty tricky. One has to watch one’sstep, constantlyminding one’s p’s and q’s, and ever alert for a stab in the back. The never-endingworry and strain is genuinely painful. But Imyself enjoy frank and open conversation,and it’s marvelous to be talking again with one’s student-chums in the same old style ofuninhibitedhonesty.I’mdelightedthatmyvisitbroughtmetheaddedandunexpectedpleasureof running intoWaverhouse.Well,” he concluded, “I must leave you now. I’ve got a man tomeet.”

Havingdeliveredhimselfoftheseslitherysentences,Suzukiwasbeginningtoleverhimselfloosefrommycushion,whenWaverhouseremarked,“I’llcomealong, too.They’rewaitingformeattheEntertainmentTemperanceUnionoverinNihombashi.Let’srunalongtogether.”

“Fine,”saidSuzuki.“Partofthewaywe’llbegoinginthesamedirection.”So,arminarm,theyleft.

T

II

OWRITEdowneveryevent that takesplaceduringaperiodof twenty-fourhours,andthen to read that record would, I think, occupy at least another twenty-four hours.ThoughIamallinfavorofrealisticallydescriptiveliterature,Imustconfessthattomakealiteralrecordofall thathappenedinadayandanightwouldbea tourde forcequite

beyondthecapacitiesofacat.Therefore,howevermuchmymaster’sparadoxicalwordsandeccentricactsmaymeritbeingsketchedfromlifeatlengthandinexhaustivedetail,IregretthatIhaveneitherthetalentnortheenergytosetthemalldownformyreaders.Regrettableas itis,itsimplycan’tbehelped.Evenacatneedsrest.

AfterSuzukiandWaverhousehadtakentheirdeparture,itbecameasquietasanightwhenwinter’s icywind suddenly drops and the snow falls soundlessly.Mymaster, as usual, shutshimselfupinhisstudy.Intheirsix-matsleeping-room,side-by-sideinabumpyrow,thechildrenlieasleep.Mrs.Sneazeintheadjoiningroom,aroomthatfacessouth,liesinbedgivingsucktoMenko, her one-year-old baby daughter. It has been a hazy day of the typeweoften get inspringtime,andduskhasfallenearly.Thesoundofwoodenclogspassinginfrontofthehousecan be heard quite distinctly in the living room and the sound of a Chinese flute, played inrandomsnatchesbysomeoneintheboarding-houseonthenextstreet, falls lullingly inbrokendriftsuponmysleepyears.

Outsideitmuststillbehazy.HavingfilledmystomachwiththatdinnerofricewithfishgravywhichO-sanhadprovided inmyabalone-shell, I feel that a little shut-eye is preciselywhat Ineed.

Ithascometomyears thathaikupoetshave taken tousing thephrase“cat’s love”asameansofindicatingthatapoemisconcernedwiththeseasonofspring.Indeed,Ihavemyselfobservedthattherearenights inearlyspringwhenmyfellowcatsinthisneighborhoodsetupsuchacat-erwaulingthatsleepiswell-nighimpossible.Asithappens,Ipersonallyhavenotyetexperiencedsuchaderangementofmysenses.

Nevertheless, love isauniversalstimulant. It is thewayofall things, fromOlympianZeusrightdowntotheveryhumblestoftheearth-wormsandmole-cricketsthatchirruponthisearth,towear themselves out in this exhausting field of endeavor. It is, therefore, only natural thatcats,too,dreamilyjoyful,shouldindulgethemselvesintherisk-fraughtsearchforlove.Indeed,onlookingback,IrememberthatImyselfoncepinedawayforloveofTortoiseshell.IhearthatevenOpula,thatgormandizerofrice-cakesdustedwithbean-flour,thatdaughterlyextensionoftheverybaselineof thetriangledtechnique,oldmanGoldfield, IhearthatevensheissmittenwithlovefortheunlikelypersonofColdmoon.I,consequently,wouldnotdreamofsneeringatthosetomcatsandtheirladyconsortswho,throughoutthewholewideworld,aresoinspiredbytheineffablemagicoftheseeveningsofthespringthattheyrunamuckundertheexcruciationsoftheirlustsandloneliness.

However, and tomy infinite regret, evenwhen invited to participate, I just don’t have theurge.InmypresentconditionallthatIneedisrest.

Iamsoutterlysleepythat Isimplycouldn’tperform.Accordingly, Isidlesluggishlyaroundthechildren’sbedding,setpawon that forbidden territoryat theendwhere theirown feet lieand,findingasuitablespace,curlupcomfortablyanddropoffintoslumber.

Ihappentoopenmyeyesand,lookinground,findthatmymasterislyingasleepinsidethebeddingspreadbesidehiswife’s.Whenhegoestobed,itishisinvariablehabittobringalongsomesmallWesternbookfromhiscollection,butI’veneverseenhimactuallyreadsomuchastwo consecutive pages. Sometimes he just brings the book, places it beside his pillow, andmakesnofaintestattempttoreadit.Thoughitseemspeculiarlyunnecessarytobringabookofwhichnotonelinewillberead,suchactionsarequitetypicalofmymaster.Howevermuchhiswifelaughsathim,howeversuasivelyshebegshimtogiveupthisstupidhabit,stillhepersists.Every evening he makes a point of going to bed with a book which he does not read.Sometimeshemakesapositivebeastofhimselfandshufflesinwiththreeorfourbookstuckedunder his arms. For several days until a littlewhile ago, it was his nightly practice to tote inWebster’s whacking great dictionary. I suppose this behavior reflects some kind ofpsychologicalailment.Justassomemenofpeculiarlyextravagant tastecanonlyget tosleeptothegentlesimmeringsingingofoneofRyūbundō’sspecial ironkettles,sotoo,perhaps,mymastercannotsleepwithoutabookbesidehispillow.Itwouldseemthatformymasterabookis not a thing to be read, but a device to bring on slumber: a typographical sleeping-pill, apaginatedsecurity-blanket.

Itakeapeeptoseewhathe’sbroughttonightandfindthathe’sfallenasleepwithaslim,redvolumelyinghalf-openonhischin,withitstopedgealmostbrushinghismoustache.Judgingby the fact that his left-hand thumb is sandwiched between the pages, hemust tonight havemadeapraiseworthyimprovementonhisusualperformancetotheextentofreadingatleastalineor two.Beside thebed, in itsaccustomedplace, itscold,graysurfaceadull reflectionofthiswarmspringnight,hisnickelwatchliesgleaming.

My master’s wife, the nursling baby tumbled about a foot away from her, lies open-mouthed and snoring. Her head has slipped down from the pillow. In my opinion, there isnothingmoreunbecoming in thehumantypethan its indecenthabitofsleepingwith themouthleftopen.

Neverinalifetimewouldacatbecaughtinsuchdegenerateconduct.The mouth and the nose have their separate functions: the former is provided for the

makingofsoundsandthelatterforrespiratorypurposes.However, innorthern landsthehumancreaturehasgrownslothfulandopens itsmouthas

seldomandaslittleaspossible.Oneobviousresultofthismuscularparsimonyisthatnorthernstyle of tight-lipped speech in which the words would seem to be enunciated through thenostrils.

Thatisbad,butit’sevenworsewhenthenoseiskeptclosedandthemouthassumestherespiratoryfunction.Theresultisnotonlyunsightly,butcouldindeed,whenratshitdropsfromtherafters,involverealrisktohealth.

Asforthechildren,theytoo,small-scalereproductionsoftheindignitiesoftheirparents,liesprawledaboutontheirbedding.Tonko,theelderdaughter,asiftodemonstratethemonstrousregiment of elder sisters, lies with her right arm stretched out full so that her fist is firmlyplantedagainsthersister’sear.Inakindofsleepingcounterattack,Sunkoliesflatonherbackwith one leg flung across her elder’s stomach.Both havemanaged to revolve through ninetydegrees since, properly positioned, they drifted off to sleep. But, perfectly at ease in their

unnaturaldispositions,theyslumberdeeplyon.Thereissomethingpeculiarlymovingaboutthefaintilluminationofanight-lampinthedark

hoursofthespring.Overtheunpretentious,butsadlyinelegantinterior-sceneofourdwelling,itcasts a flickering radiance so sweet and gentle that it seems to be inviting our gladdestmarvelment at the beauty of this night.Wonderingwhat the time is, I look around the room.Deadsilence reigns,brokenonlyby the tickingof thewall clock, thesnoresofMrs.Sneaze,and,despitethedistance,therelentlessgrindingoftheservant’steeth.WhenevertheytellthatOsanwomanof her grindingways, she swears it isn’t true.Obstinately, flatly, she takesheroaththat,neverfromthedaysinceshewasborn,notthatmanybabiesturnuptusked,hassheever ground a tooth. She neither apologizes nor attempts to break the habit, just stubbornlyinsiststhatshedoesn’tremembereverhavingdonesuchathing.Sinceshedoesitinhersleep,it’s probably true that she doesn’t remember doing it. But facts, remembered or not, are all,alas, still facts. There are persons in this world who, having perpetrated villainies, remainassuredoftheirownabsolutesaintliness.Theyreallydoconvincethemselvesthatthey’repureofanyguilt.Suchutterself-deceptionis,Idaresay,aformofsimple-mindedness,buthowevergenuine the self-deception, if the actuality is objectionable to other people it should be putdown. As I lay there thinking that there’s no real difference between our grinding skivvy andthoseevil-doinggentlefolkwhothinkthemselvessorighteous,thenightworepeacefullyon.

Suddenly I hear a light double-tapping on the wooden shutters of the kitchen entrance.Odd. People would hardly come visiting at this time of the night. It must be one of thosedamnablerats.So let itbump.AsImentionedearlier, I longagodecidednever tocatchrats.Then,onceagain,Iheardadouble-tapping.Somehowitdoesn’tsoundlikearat.Ifitisarat,itmustbeanextremelycautiousone.Fortheratsinmymaster’shouse,likethestudentsathisschool,devotetheirentireenergies,bothdayandnight,tothepracticeofriotousbehaviorandseem tobelieve that theywereonlybrought into thisworld todisruptasviolentlyaspossiblethedopeydreamingsofthatpitiableman.Noratofourswouldmakesuchmodestnoises.No,itisnotarat.Fartootimid.

Theothernightwehadaratcomeboldlyintomymaster’sbedroom,nipoffasnippetfromthetipofhisalreadystuntednoseandthendepart insqueakingtriumph.It justcan’tbearat.Asiftoconfirmmysuspicions,thenextsoundthatIhearisthescrapingcreakofthewoodenshutterbeingliftedfromitsgroove,andthenIheartheslidingscreenbeingeasedsidewaysasquietlyaspossible.Beyondalldoubt,it’snotarat.Itcanthenbutbehuman.EvenWaverhouseorSuzukiwouldhesitateatthislatehourtoliftthelatchandwalkinunannounced,andneither,Ithinkwould go so far as to dismantle awooden shutter.Could it, Iwonder, be oneof thosegentleman-burglarsofwhomI’veheardsomuch?Ifitreallyisaburglar,I’dliketoseewhathelookslike.

AsfarasIcanjudge,twostepswithmuddyfeethavesofarbeentakenacrossthekitchenfloor.Thethirdstepmusthavebeenplantedononeoftheremovablefloorboardsfortherewasasharpthwackingsoundloudenoughtoechothroughthesilenceofthenight.Ifeelasifthefuronmybackwerebeingrubbedinthewrongdirectionwithabootbrush.Forawhiletherewasno further sound, not even the stealthiest footstep.Mrs.Sneazesnoresgently on, sucking inandblowingout throughhergapinggob thebeneficentairof thispeacefulera.Mymaster isprobablydreamingsomedreaminwhichhisthumbistrappedinascarletbook.Afterawhile,therecomesthesoundofamatchbeingstruck in thekitchen.Evenagentleman-thiefcannot,asIcan,seeinthedark.Itmustbeveryinconvenientforhim.

AtthispointIcrouchedwelldownandtriedtoworkoutwhatmovestheintruderwouldnextmake.Willheproceedhitherfromthekitchenbywayofthelivingroom,orwillhe,turningleftthrough the hall, make his way to the study? I hear the sound of a sliding door, and thenfootstepsontheveranda.He’sgonetothestudy.Deadsilencefollowed.

Itthenoccurredtomethatitwouldbekind,whiletherewasstilltime,towakemymasterandhiswife.Buthow?Afewimpracticalnotionsspinaroundinsidemyskulllikewater-wheels,but Iamnotvisitedwithanysensible ideas. Itstruckme that Imightpossibly rouse thembytugging at the bedcovers. Twoor three times I tried,worrying away at the lower end of thematerial,butmyeffortshadnoeffect.IthenthoughtImightdobetterifIrubbedmywetcoldnoseagainstmymaster’scheek. Iaccordinglyputmymuzzle tohis face,butall Igot formytroublewasasharpsmack in thesnoot.Hedidn’tevenwakebut, liftinghisarm inhissleep,rapped me hard on the nose. The nose, even in cats, is a vulnerable area and I sufferedagonies.Nevertheless,Ipersisted.SinceIcouldthinkofnothingelse,Itriedmiaowingatthem.

IndeedI tried.At least twice,butsomehowmythroat just failed to functionandnosoundemerged.When at long last, and by enormous self-discipline I did manage to emit a singlefeeblemew,Iwasquicklyshockedback intosilence.For, thoughmymastercontinued just tolietherelikealog,suddenlyIheardtheinterloperoncemoreonthemove.

Ihearthelittlecreakingsofhisinexorableapproachalongtheveranda.This, I think, is it.There’snothingmore Icando.So,slipping inbetween theslidingdoor

and a wickerwork trunk, I get myself into a position suitable at least for this stage of theproceedings:ahidey-holefromwhich,inthesafetyofconcealment,Icanspyuponacriminalatwork.

Thefootstepsadvancealongtheverandauntiltheyareimmediatelyoutsidethepaper-doorofmymaster’sbedroom.Theretheystopdead.

Idarenotevenbreathe.Myeverynerve isat fullstretchas Ihunchdownwaiting for thethief’s next move. I realized later that my feelings at that time were precisely those which IcouldexpecttofeelifIeverhuntedrats.Itwasasthoughmyverysoulwereabouttopouncefrommyeyes.

Iamindebtedtothisthiefthat,thoughlongagoIresolvednevertoturnratter,neverthelessIhavebeenenlightened,thisonceinmylifetime,astothenatureofthehuntingthrill.

Thenextmomentatinyareaintheverymiddleofthethirdframeofthepaper-doorbeganto change color, to darken as though it had been struck by a raindrop. As I stare at thatdampenedspot, Icanseebehind itsdarkeninganobjectofpalescarlet.Suddenly thepapergivesandthroughitpokesthebarelengthofawetredtongue.Thetongueseemsjusttopulsethere for a second, and then it vanishes into the darkness. In its place a shining thing,somethingmenacinglyglittery,appears inthetongue-lickedhole.Theeyeofathief.Strangelyenough, that gleaming eye seems to disregard all other objects in the room and to beconcentratingitsgazedirectlyupontheplacewhereIlurkbehindthewickerworktrunk.Thoughthat terrifying inspection cannot have lasted for even so much as a minute, I have neverenduredastaresobalefulorintense.

Sotobestaredatburnsawaywholestretchesofone’slife-expectancy.Thescorchingofthateyebecameintolerable,andIhadjustmadeupmymindtojumpout

from behind the trunk when the paper-door slid gently sideways and the thief was at lastdisclosedtomyfascinatedsight.

Thoughatthispointitwouldbenormal,inaccordancewiththeestablishedcustomsofthe

storyteller’s art, to offer a description of this rare and unexpected visitor, I must beg thereader’sindulgenceforasmalldigressionofwhichthepointandpertinencewill,induecourse,become clear. My digression takes the form of a statement of my humble views upon thenatureofomnipotenceandomniscience,bothhumananddivine;viewsuponwhichIwouldinvitethediscerningcommentofallmyhonoredreaders.

From time immemorial God has been worshiped as omniscient and omnipotent. Inparticular,theChristianGod,atleastupuntilthetwentiethcentury,washonoredforhisallegedpossessionofthosequalities.

However, that alleged omniscience and omnipotence could well be regarded by theordinary man in the street as, in fact, their precise opposites: nescience and impotence. Ibelievethat,notsincetheworldwasfirstcreated,hasanyoneprecededmein identifyingthisextraordinaryparadox. It isconsequentlyunavoidablethat Ishouldfeelacertainprideofself-discovery, pride in this revelation that I am indeed no ordinary cat. It is accordingly to drivehome to numbskull human beings the unwisdomof sneering at cats that I offer the followinganalysisoftheparadoxwhich,ifIhadaname,wouldbenamedafteritsinimitablediscoverer.Iam informed thatGod created all things in this universe, fromwhich itmust follow thatGodcreatedmen.Infact, IamadvisedthatthispropositionisspecificallystatedasafundamentaltruthinsomefatbookwhichhumanbeingscalltheBible.Now,mankindhasbeenengagedforseveral thousands of years in the accumulation of human observations about the facts ofhumanity. From whichmass of data one particular fact has emerged which not only causeshuman beings to wonder at and admire themselves, but also inclines them to acquire ever-deepeningcredenceintheomniscienceandomnipotenceofGod.Theparticularfactinquestionis the fact that, althoughmankind now teems upon this earth, no two human creatures haveidenticalfaces.Theconstituentsofthehumanfaceare,ofcourse,fixed:twoeyes,twoears,anoseandamouth.Further,thegeneraldimensionsofthoseconstituentitemsare,moreorless,thesame.Nevertheless, though themyriadsofhumanfacesare thusallconstructed fromthesamebasicmaterials,all the finalproductsdiffer fromeachother.Thehumanreaction to thisstateofaffairs isnotonly torejoice inhowbloodymarvelous it is thateachandeveryoneofthemcommandsan individuality of appearance, but also toadmire themiraculous skill of theCreatorwho,usingsuchsimpleanduniformmaterials,hasyetproducedsuchaninfinitevarietyof result.Forsurelyonlyapowerof infiniteoriginalityof imaginationcouldhavecreatedsuchalmost incrediblediversity.Eventhegreatestofpainterscannotproduce,howeverstrenuouslyheexertshimselfinpursuitofvariety,morethantwelveorthirteenindividualmasterpieces.Soitis natural thatmankind shouldmarvel atGod’s astonishing and sin-glehanded achievement inthe production of people. Since such a pro-tean creativity cannot be matched by men asthemselves creators, inevitably they regard the process as amanifestation of divinity and, inparticular, of divine omnipotence. For which reasons human beings stand in endless awe ofGod, and, of course, considered from the human viewpoint, it is entirely understandable thattheyshould.

However, considered from the feline viewpoint, the same facts lead to the oppositeconclusion: that God, if not entirely impotent, is at least of limited ability, even incompetent.Certainlyofnogreatercreativecapabilitythanmuddle-headedman.Godissupposedtohavecreated,of intent,asmany facesas therearepeople.Butsurelyonecannot justdismiss thepossibilitythat,infact,helackedsurenessoftouch;that,thoughheoriginallyintendedtocreateevery man-jack of mankind with the same face, he found the task impossible, and that he

consequentlyproducedsolongastringofbotchedappearancesastoendupwiththepresentdisorderlystateofthehumanphysiognomy.Thusthevariformityofthehumanfacecanequallywell be regarded either as a demonstration of God’s success or as evidence of his failure.Lacking knowledge of his original creative intent, one can only say that the evidence of thehumanfacearguesnomorestronglyforGod’somnipotencethanitdoesforhisincompetence.

Considerhumaneyes.Theyareembeddedinpairswithinaflatsurfaceandtheirowners,therefore,cannotsimultaneouslysee toboth their leftandright. It is regrettable,butonlyoneside of any object can, at any one time, enter their field of vision. Being thus incapable ofseeing in the round, even the daily happenings of life in his own society, it is perhaps notsurprisingthatmanshouldgetsoexcitedaboutcertainone-sidedaspectsofhislimitedviewofreality,and,inparticular,shouldallowhimselftofall intoaweofGod.Anycreaturecapableofseeing thingswholemust recognize that, if it isdifficult tocreate infinitevariation, it isequallydifficult to create absolute similitude. Had Raphael ever been asked to paint two absolutelyidenticalportraitsof theMadonna,hewouldhavefounditnoless irksomethantobepressedfor twopictures of that subject inwhich every single detailwas totally different. Indeed, it isprobable that thepaintingof identicalportraitswouldprove theharder task.KōbōDaishiwasnotonlytheGreatTeacherbutalsoamastercalligrapher.Buthadhebeenaskedonemorningto inscribe the twocharactersofhisownname inexactly thesamestyleashehaddone thedaybefore,hewouldhave found itmoredifficult than towrite themdifferently.Consider, too,thenatureof language-learning.Humanbeings learn their various tonguespurelyby imitation.Theyreproduce,withoutanydisplayofinitiativeorinventiveness,thenoisesmadebythedailymouthings of their mothers, nurses, and whomsoever else theymay happen to hear. To thebest of their ability, they imitate. Nevertheless, in the course of one or two decades, thelanguages thus produced by imitation show distinct changes in pronunciation. Which amplydemonstratesthehumaninabilitytomakeperfectimitations.Exactimitationisextremelydifficulttoachieve.

Now if God had shown himself able to create human beings indistinguishable from eachother,thatwouldhavebeenimpressive.Ifeverysingleoneofthemappearedwiththeselfsamefeatures, like so many mold-cast masks of a fat-faced woman, then indeed would God’somnipotence have been tellingly demonstrated. But the actual state of affairs, a situation inwhichGod has let loose under the sun allmanner of different faces, couldwell be taken toprovethelimitedcompetenceofhiscreativepower.

Imustconfess that Ihavenow forgottenwhy Iembarkedupon thisdigression.However,since similar forgetfulness is common among mankind, I trust such a lapse will be foundpardonable in a cat. The fact is that the foregoing thoughts leapt naturally to my mind themomentthatthepaper-doorslidopenandIatlastclappedeyesuponthethief.

Whyso?youmayask.Whyshould thesuddenappearanceofa thiefupon the thresholdprompt thisclosely reasoned, this irrefutablecritiqueofdivineomnipotence?As Isaid, Ihaveforgottenwhy.But if Imayhaveamomenttorecollectmytrainofthought,I’msureIcanfindthereason.

Ahyes,Ihaveit.WhenIlookedatthethief’scalmface,Iwassostruckbyonepeculiaritythatmylong-held

theories aboutGod’s incompetenceas a face-creator seemed in that instant to he crumblingdown to nothing. For the peculiarity was that the thief’s face was the spitting image of thehandsomefaceofourmuch-lovedAvalonColdmoon.Naturally,Ilackacquaintancesamongthe

burglaring fraternity,but,basingmy judgmenton theiroutrageousbehaviors, Ihad formedmyownprivatepictureofaburglar’sface.Butthefaceofthisparticularburglardidnotmatchmyimage.Ihadalwaysassumedthataburglar’snostrilswouldbewidelysplayedtoleftandright,that his eyeswould be as big and round as copper coins, and that his hairwould be close-cropped.But there’s a vast difference between the fancied and the fact, so vast one shouldalwaysbewaryofgivingfreereintoone’simagination.Thisthief istallandslimlybuilt,withacharmingly darkish complexionand straight, level eyebrows: altogether a verymodish sort ofburglar.Heseems,againlikeColdmoon,tobeabouttwenty-sixortwenty-seven.IndeedaGodso deft as to be able to produce this startling likeness cannot possibly be regarded asincompetent.To tell the truth, the resemblance issoclose thatmy immediateandastonishedreactionwas towonderwhether,bursting in like this in themiddleof thenight,Coldmoonhadgonemad.

ItwasonlywhenInoticedtheabsenceofanysignofabuddingmoustachethatIrealizedthattheintrudercouldnotpossiblybeColdmoon.

Coldmoonisbothmasculineandhandsome.HehasbeenmanufacturedbyGodwithsuchespecial care that it isproperheshouldsoeasilybesot thatwalkingcredit card,MissOpulaGoldfield.Yet,tojudgefromhisappearance,thisthief’spowertoattractwomencanbenolessstrong than Coldmoon’s. If that Goldfield girl is besotted by Coldmoon’s eyes and mouth, itwouldbenomore thanamatterofcourtesy thatsheshouldgo intosimilarlyardent rapturesover those of this burglar.Quite apart from the question of courtesy, itwould be contrary tologic if she failed to love him. Being so naturally quick-minded and intelligent, she would, ofcourse,immediatelygraspthepoint,anditwouldfollowthat,ifshewereofferedtheburglarasasubstitute forColdmoon,shewould,bodyandsoul,adorehimand livewithhim inconjugalfelicitytilldeathdidthempart.EvenifColdmoonsosuccumbstothewilesofWaverhousethatthisveryrareandexcellentmatch isbrokenoff,still,so longas theburglar remainsaliveandwell, there is no real cause for concern. Having thus projected the possible train of futureevents, I felt,purely forMissGoldfield’ssake,relievedandreassured.That thisnobleburglarexistsasahusband-in-reserveis,Ithink,likelytobeimportanttoherhappinessinlife.

The thief is carrying something under his arm. Peering, I discover that it’s that decrepitblanket which, a little earlier on, my master had pitched away into his study. The thief isdressedinashortcoatofcottondrawntightbelowhisbottomwithasashofblue-graysilk.Hispallid legsarebare from the kneesdown.Gently heextendsone foot from the verandaandsets it softly on the bedroom matting. At which moment my dozing master, no doubt stilldreamingthathisfingerisbeingsavagedbyascarletbook,turnsoverinhissleepand,asheslumpswith a heavy thud into a new position, suddenly shouts, “It’s Coldmoon!” The burglardropstheblanketandwhipsbackasthoughhe’dtroddenonascorpion.

Throughtheflimsypaperoftheslidingdoor,Iseethesilhouetteoftwolonglegsa-tremble.My master grunts in his sleep, mumbles something meaningless and knocks his red booksideways.Hethenbeginsanoisyscratchingofhisdark-skinnedarmasthoughhe’dcaughtthescurvy.Hesuddenlygoesquiet,andliestherefastasleepwithhisheadoffthepillow.HisshoutofColdmoon-recognitionrelates,nottoreality,buttosomeincidentofdream.Nevertheless,forquite a little while the burglar stood silent on the verandawatching the room for any furtherliveliness.Satisfiedat lastthatmymasterandhiswifearesafelydeepinsleep,hereintrudesonecautiousfoot.Thereis,thistime,nocommentaryonColdmoon.Almostatoncethesecondfootappears.

Theglowofthenightlamp,whichhithertohadbathedthewholeofthissix-matbedroom,isnow sharply segmented by the shadow of the thief. An utter darkness has fallen upon thewickerworktrunkandreacheshalfwayupthewallbehindit.Iturnmyheadandseetheshadowof the intruder’s skull drifting about the wall some two-thirds of the way up to the ceiling.Thoughthemaniscertainlyhandsome,themisshapenshadowofhishead,likesomedeformedpotato, ispositively ludicrous.Forawhilehestood therestaringdownatMrs.Sneaze’s faceandthen,suddenlyandforgoodnessknowswhatreason,brokeintoagrin.IwassurprisedtofindthateveninsuchaimlessgrinninghewasatwintoColdmoon.LyingclosetoMrs.Sneaze’spillowthereisanoblongbox,perhapsfifteenincheslongandsomefourinchesbroad.Thelidisnaileddownfastandtheboxitselfsoplacedastosuggestthatitscontentsmustbeprecious.It is in fact that box of yamswhich, just the other day,Mr. Tatara Sampei presented to theSneazes on his return from holiday at his family’s country place in Karatsu. It is, one mustadmit,ratherunusualtogotosleepwithyamstodecorateone’sbedside,butMrs.Sneazeisaladylittletroubledbynotionsofproprietyofplacement.Shekeepshigh-qualitycookingsugarinher chest of drawers, so the presence in her bedroom of pickles, let alone of yams, wouldhardly even ruffle her placid unconcern. But the burglar, a non-participant in the allegedomniscienceofGod,couldhardlybeexpectedtohavesuchknowledgeofhernatureandit isconsequentlyunderstandablethatheshouldjumptotheconclusionthataboxsocarefullykeptwithinhand’sreachofasleepingwomaniscertaintobeworthremoving.Heliftsandheftsthebox.Findingitsweightmatcheshisexpectations,henodsinsatisfaction.Itsuddenlystruckmeas extremely funny that this gentleman-thief this very prepossessing burglar, was about towastehisexpertskillsinvegetablefuracity.However,sinceitcouldbedangeroustomakemypresenceheard,Iholdbackthelaughterburstingtoescape.

The burglar wraps the yam box carefully in the blanket and looks round the room forsomethingwithwhichtotiethebundle.Hiseyelightsuponthesashthatmymasterthrewdownonthe floorwhenhewasundressing forbed.Theburglar tiesandknots thesasharound theyamboxandhoistsitsmoothlyontohisback.Idoubtifwomenwouldbeattractedtothefigurehenowpresents.Heproceedstostufftwoofthechildren’ssleevelessjacketsintomymaster’sknittedunderpants.

Eachof the legparts looks likeasnakethathasswallowedafrog.Perhapstheirswollenugliness couldbebetter compared to the shapeof somepregnant serpent.At all events theshapeproducedwasoddandratherugly. Ifyoudon’tbelieveme, try it foryourself.Thethiefthentiedthepantlegsroundhisneck,leavinghishandsfreeforfurtherrummage.

Wondering what he’ll nobble next, I watch him closely. He spreads outmymaster’s silkkimonoonthefloorandneatly,quickly,pilesuponitMrs.Sneaze’sobi,mymaster’shaori,andhis remainingunderwear togetherwithvariousbitsandbobswhichhe findsabout theroom. Iam deeply impressed by the sheer professionalism of his larceny, the technical polish of hispackagingandparcelwork.First he fashionsa long silk cordby knottingMrs.Sneaze’sobi-stringtoherwaistband-fastener.

Withthiscordhetieshisloot intoatidypackage,andliftsthelotwithonehand.Takingalastlookround,hespotsapacketofcheapgasperslyingbesidemymaster’shead.Heshovesthepacket intohissleevebut,onsecondthought, takes itoutagainand,carefullyselectingacigarette,bendstolightitattheflameofthenightlamp.Heinhalesdeeply,likeamancontentwith a jobwell done.Before theexhaled smokehad thinned to nothingnessaround themilkyglassofthenightlamp’schimney,thesoundoftheburglar’sfootfallshadfadedawayintosilent

distance.Husbandandwife remaindeep-sunk inslumber.Contraryeven to theirown ideaofthemselves,humanbeingsareacarelessandunwary lot. Imyself feelquitewornoutby thenight’sexcitementsand,ifInowcontinuethisaccountofthem,Ishallhavesomekindofbreak-down...

Isleptbothdeepandlate,sothat,whenIfinallyawoke,thesunwasalreadybrightinthebluespringsky.Mymasterandhiswifeweretalkingtoapolicemanatthekitchenentrance.

“Isee.Youreckonheenteredhereandthenworkedroundtowardthebedroom?Andyoutwowereasleepandnoticednothingatall?”

“That’sright.”Mymasterseemsabitembarrassed.“And about what time did this burglary take place?” The policeman asks the usual silly

question.Ifonecouldheinapositiontostatethehourofsuchanoffense,thechancesarethatnooffensewouldhaveoccurred.

Mymasterandhiswifeseemnottorealizethispointandtakethequestioninrealearnest.“Iwonderwhenaboutsitwas.”“Wellnow, letmethink,”saysMrs.Sneaze.Sheseemsto imagine thatby taking thought

onecanfixthetimeofeventsthattookplacewhenonewasunconscious.“Whatwasthetime,”sheasksherhusband,“whenyouwenttobed?”

“ItwasafteryouthatIwenttobed.”“Yes,”sheagrees,“Iwenttobedbeforeyoudid.”“IwonderwhattimeIwokeup.”“Ithinkitwasathalfpastseven.”“Sowhattimewouldthatmakeitwhenthethiefbrokein?”“Itmust,Isuppose,havebeensometimeinthedeadofnight.”“Of course it was sometime in the dead of night. But what I’m asking you about is the

particulartime.”“Well,thatIcan’tjustsayforcertain.NotuntilI’vehadagoodthink.”She’sstillcommitted

toherthinkingways.The policeman had only asked his potty question as amatter of form, and he is in fact

totally indifferentas to theprecise timeatwhich theburglarbroke in.Allhewants is thatmymasterandhiswifeshouldgivesomekindofananswer:anyanswer,nevermindwhethertrueor not, would do. But the victims engage in such pointless and protracted dialogue that thepolicemanshowssignsofirritation.Eventuallyhesnapsatthem.

“Rightthen.Sothetimeoftheburglaryisnotknown.Isthatcorrect?”“I suppose it does come down to that,”mymaster answers in his usual drily pedagogic

manner.Thepolicemanwasnotamused.Heploddedstolidlyoninaccordancewithhisownroutine

ofpoliceprocedure.“Inthatcaseyoushouldsendinawrittenstatementofcomplainttotheeffectthatonsuch

and such a date in this the thirty-eighth year of the Meiji Era, you, having fastened theentrances to your dwelling, retired to bed, and that subsequently a burglar, having removedsuchandsuchaslidingwoodenshutter,sneakedintosuchandsucharoomorroomsandtherestole such and such items of property. Remember, this paper is not just a statement of lostgoodsbutconstitutesaformalcomplaintwhichmaylaterbeusedasanaccusation.You’dbeadvisednottoaddressittoanyoneinparticular.”

“Dowehavetoidentifyeverysingleitemthat’sbeenstolen?”

“Yes.Set itall out inadetailed list.Coats, for instance,setdownhowmanyhavegone,andthevalueofeachonetaken.No,”hewentoninanswertomymaster’snextsuggestion,“Idon’t think itwouldhelpmuch if Istepped inside.Theburglaryhasalreadytakenplace.”Withwhichunhelpfulcommenthetookhimselfoff.

Mymaster,havingplantedhimselfwithhiswritingbrushandink-stoneintheverycenteroftheroom,callshiswifetocomeandsitbesidehim.Then,almostinbelligerence,heannounces,“I shall now compose awritten statement of complaint. Tellmewhat’s been stolen. Item byitem.Sharp,ifyouplease.”

“What cheek!Whod’you think youare to tellme to looksharp? If you talk tome in thatdictatorialmanner,Ishalltellyounothing.”Hertoiletincomplete,sheplonksherselfdownsulkilybesidehim.

“Just lookat yourself!Youmight be somecheap tart at apost-town inn.Whyaren’t youwearinganobi?”

“If youdon’t likehow I look,buymedecentclothes.Apost-town tart, indeed!Howcan Idresscorrectlywhenhalfmystuff’sbeenstolen?”

“Hetookyourobi?Whatadespicablethingtodo!Allrightthen,we’llstartwiththat.Whatkindofobiwasit?”

“Whatd’youmean?Whatkind?HowmanyobidoyouthinkI’vegot?Itwasmyblacksatinwiththecrêpelining.”“Oneobiofblacksatinlinedwithcrêpe...Andwhatwouldyousayitcost?”“Aboutsixyen,Ithink.”“Sixyen!That’s far tooexpensive.Youknowwecan’tafford to flingourmoneyabouton

fripperies.Don’tspendmorethanoneyenfiftysenonthereplacement.”“And where do you think you’d find a decent obi at that price? As I always say, you’re

totallyheartless.Youcouldn’tcarelesshowwretchedlyyourwifemaybedressed,solongasyouyourselflookreasonablyturnedout.”

“Allright.We’lldropthematter.Now,what’snext?”“Asurcoatwovenwith thrownsilk. Itwasgiven tomeasakeepsakeofAuntKōno.You

won’tfindsurcoatsthesedaysofthatquality.”“Ididn’taskforalectureonthedeclineoftextiles.Whatwoulditcost?”“Notlessthanfifteenyen.”“Youmeanyou’vebeengoingaround inasurcoatworthnot less than fifteenyen?That’s

realextravagance.Astandardoflivingmilesbeyondourmeans.”“Oh,whatdoesitmatter?Youdidn’tevenbuyit.”“What’sthenextitem?”“Onepairofblackfoot-gloves.”“Yours?”“Don’tbesilly.Whoeverheardofawomanwearingblackones?They’reyours,ofcourse.Andtheprice,twenty-sevensen.”“Next?”“Oneboxofyams.”“Didheevenfilchtheyams?Iwonderhowhe’lleatthem.Stewed,d’youthink?Orinsome

kindofsoup?”“HowthedevilshouldIknow?You’dbetterrunalongandaskhim.”“Whatweretheyworth?”

“Iwouldn’tknowthepriceofyams.”“Inthatcase,let’ssaytwelveyenfiftysen.”“That’s ridiculous.Howcould a box of yams, evenonesgrowndown inKyushuand then

transportedhere,costasmuchasthat?”“Yousaidyoudidn’tknowwhattheywouldcost.”“Idid,andIdon’t.Buttwelveyenfiftysenwouldbeplainabsurd.Far,fartoomuch.”“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 anOtanchinPalaeologus.”

“ThatI’mawhat?”“Thatyou’reanOtanchinPalaeologus.”“What’sthat?”Onecanhardlyblame the lady.Though longexperiencehasgivenmeacertain facility in

decodingmymaster’sthoughtsasexpressedinvilepunsandtwistedreferencestoJapaneseprovincialslangandthemustier tractsofWesternscholarship, thisparticulardemonstrationofhisskills isbothsillierandmoreobscure thanusual. I’mstillnotsure that Iunderstandhis fullintention,butIsuspecthemeantnomorethanthathethoughthiswifeablockhead.Whythendidn’t he just leave it at “Otanchin?” Because, despite his temerarious attack on her baldingpate,he lacks theguts to riskahead-onclash,andhe’snotentirely certain that she’sneverheardthatslang-termforafool.Sowhatdoeshedo?Heseesasimilarityofsoundbetween“Otanchin”and“Konstantin,”thenameofthelastPalaeologueEmperorofByzantium.Notthatthe sounds are sufficiently similar to justify a pun.Not thatConstantine theEleventh has anyremote connection with the price of yams. Not that such truths would sway my master. Hesimply wants to call his wife a blockhead without having to cope with the consequences ofdoingso.NowonderMrs.Sneazeisfoxedandnowondershepressesforanexplanation.

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

“Nevermindaboutwhat’snext.Justtellmewhat‘OtanchinPalaeologus’means.”“Ithasn’tgotanymeaning.”“You’resoexcessivelyclever that I’msureyoucouldexplainwhat itmeans ifyouwanted

to.Whatkindofafooldoyoutakemefor?Ibetyou’vejustbeencallingmenamesbytakingadvantageofthefactthatIcan’tspeakEnglish.”

“Stoptalkingnonsenseandgetonwiththerestofthelist.Ifwearen’tquickinlodgingthiscomplaint,we’llnevergetourpropertyreturned.”

“It’salreadytoolatetomakeaneffectivecomplaint.I’dratheryoutoldmesomethingmoreaboutOtanchinPalaeologus.”

“You really are making a nuisance of yourself. As I said before, it has no meaningwhatsoever.There’snothingmoretobesaid.”

“Well,ifthat’showyoufeel,I’venothingmoretosayaboutthelist.”“Whatpigheadedness!Haveityourownway.Iwon’tthenwriteoutthiscomplaintforyou.”“Suityourself.Butdon’tcomebotheringmefordetailsofwhat’smissing.It’syou,notme,

who’slodgingthecomplaint.Ijustdon’tcaretwohootswhetheryouwriteitoryoudon’t.”“Thenlet’sforgetit,”snapsmymaster.Inhisusualabruptmannerhegetsupandstalksoff

into his study.Mrs.Sneaze retires to the living roomanddumpsherself down in front of her

sewing-box. For some tenminutes, this precious pair sit glaring in silence at the paper-doorbetweenthem.

That was the situation when Mr. Tatara Sampei, donor of yams, came bustling gaily inthrough the front door. This Tatara was once the Sneazes’ houseboy, but nowadays, havingreceivedhisdegree in law,heworks intheminingdepartmentofsomebigcompanyorother.Like,butjuniorto,theslipperySuzuki,he’sanotherbuddingbusinessman.

Nevertheless, becauseof his former connectionwith the family, he still occasionally visitsthehumbledwellingofhiserstwhilebenefactor. Indeed,havingoncebeenalmostoneof thatfamily,hesometimesspendswholeSundaysinthehouse.

“What wonderful weather, Mrs. Sneaze.” He sits on the floor in front of her, with histrouseredkneesdrawnup,andspeaksaseverinhisownKaratsudialect.

“Why,hello,Mr.Tatara.”“Isthemasterout?”“No,he’sinthestudy.”“It’sbadforthehealthtostudyashardashedoes.Today’saSunday,andSundaysdon’t

comeeverydayoftheweek.Nowdothey?”“There’snopointintellingme.Goandsayittomyhusband.”“Yes,but. . .”He looksaround the roomand thenhalf-askshishostess, “Thegirls, now,

they’renot in?”But thewordsarehardlyoutofhismouthwhenTonkoandSunkoboth run infromthenextroom.

“Mr.Tatara,haveyoubrought thegoodies?”Tonko, theelderdaughter,wastesnotimeinremindinghimofarecentpromise.

Tatarascratcheshishead.“Whatamemoryyou’vegot!I’msorryIforgotthem,butreally,nexttime,Ipromisetoremember.”

“Whatashame,”saysTonko,andheryoungersisterimmediatelyechoes“Whatashame.”Mrs.Sneaze,inamodestrevivalofhernaturalgoodhumor,smilesslightly.

“IconfessI forgot therawfishgoodies,but Ididbringaroundsomeyams.Haveyoutwogirlsyettriedthem?”

“What’sayam?”asksTonko,andlittleMissEchopipesupwith,“What’sayam?”“Ah, so you’venot yet eaten them.Ask yourmother to cook you someat once.Karatsu

yamsareespeciallydelicious,quitedifferent from thoseyouget inTokyo.”AsTatara tootlesawayonhisprovincialtrumpet,Mrs.Sneazerememberstothankhimagainforhiskindness.

“Itreallywaskindofyou,Mr.Tatara,tobringusyamstheotherday.Andsomanyofthem.Suchagenerousthought.”“Well, have you eaten them? I had the box I made specially so that they wouldn’t get

broken.Ihopeyoufoundthemundamagedandintheirfulllength.”“I’msurewewouldhave.ButI’msorrytosaythat,onlylastnight,thewholelotwerestolen

byaburglar.”“You’vebeenburgled for yams?What a peculiar criminal. I’d never havedreamt that the

passion for yams, even Karatsu yams, could be carried so far.”Tatara is enormouslyimpressed.

“Mother,”saysTonko,“Wasthereaburglarherelastnight?”“Yes,”Mrs.Sneazeanswerslightly.“Aburglar?Here?A real, realburglar?”Sunkovoiceswonderment,but immediatelygoes

ontoask,“Whatsortoffacedidhehave?”Mrs.Sneaze,stumpedbythiscuriousquestion, findssomethingsuitabletosay,“Hehad,”

shesays,lookingoveratTataraforsympatheticunderstanding,“amostfearsomeface.”“Doyoumean,”asksthetactlessTonko,“thathelookedlikeMr.Tatara?”“Really,Tonko,that’sveryrudeofyou.”“Dear,ohdear,”laughsthevisitor,“ismyfaceasfearsomeasallthat?”Heoncemorescratcheshishead.There’sabaldpatch,aboutaninchacross,ontheback

of his head. It began to appear notmuchmore than amonth ago and, though he’s taken itroundtothequack,itshowsnosignofimprovement.Itis,ofcourse,Tonkowhodrawsattentiontothepatch.

“Whylook,”shesays,“Mr.Tatara’sheadisshinyjustlikemother’s.”“Tonko,behaveyourself.Itoldyoutobequiet.”“Wasthethief’sheadshiny,too?”Sunkoinnocentlyasks.Inspiteofthemselves,theadults

burst out laughing. Still, the children’s chatter so interrupts all conversation thatMrs. Sneazedecidestopackthemoff.

“Runalongnowandplay in thegarden.Begoodgirlsand lateron I’ll findyoubothsomesweeties.”

Afterthegirlshadgone,Mrs.SneazeturnedtoTataraandwithall thegravityofafellow-suffererenquired,“Mr.Tatara,whathashappenedtoyourhead?”

“Somekindofskin-infection.Notexactlymoth,butabugofsomesortwhichtakesagestoclearup.Areyouhavingthesametrouble?”

“Ugh!don’t talkaboutbugs. Inmycasethetrouble’s theusual femaleproblemof thehairthinningbecauseit’sdrawnsotightinthemarriedwoman’shairstyle.”

“Allbaldnessiscausedbybacteria.”“Well,mine’snot.”“Come, come, Mrs. Sneaze, you’re being obstinate. One cannot fly in the face of the

Scientificfacts.”“Saywhatyoulike,it’snotbacteria.Buttellme,what’stheEnglishwordforbaldness?”Tatarasaidhewasn’tsure,butheansweredhercorrectly.“No,no,”shesaid,“Notthat,it’saverymuchlongerword.”“Whynotaskyourhusband?Hecouldtellyoustraightoff.”“I’maskingyoupreciselybecauseherefusestohelp.”“Well,allIknowis‘baldness.’Yousaythewordyouwant’smuchlonger.Canyougiveme

anideaofitssound?”“‘OtanchinPalaeologus.’Ihaveanideathat‘Otanchin’meansbaldand‘Palaeologus’head.”“Possibly. I’ll pop into themaster’s studya little later and look it up for you inWebster’s

Dictionary. By the way, the master is eccentric, isn’t he? Fancy staying indoors and doingnothingonsuchalovelyday!Nowonderhisstomach-troublesnevergetbetter.Whydon’tyoupersuadehimtogoandviewtheflowersatUeno?”

“Please,youaskhim.Heneverlistenstowhatawomansays.”“Ishestilllickingjam?”“Yes,asalways.”“Theotherdayhewascomplainingthatyou’realwaystellinghimheoverdoesit.‘Butshe’s

wrong,’hesaid,‘Ireallydon’teatallthatmuch.’SoItoldhimtheobviousanswerwasthatyouandthegirlsarealsofondofjam...”

“Mr.Tatara,howcouldyousaysuchathing!”“But,Mrs.Sneaze,you’vegotajam-licker’sface.”“Howcanyoutellathinglikethatbylookingatsomeone’sface?”“Ican’t,ofcourse.But,honestly,Mrs.Sneaze,don’tyouevertakeany?”“Well,naturallyIsometimestakealittle.Andwhyshouldn’tI?Afterall,it’sours.”Tataralaughedrightout.“Ithoughtthatwastheanswer.Butseriously,”hesaid,adoptinga

moresobertone,“thatreallywasbadluckabouttheburglar.Wasitonlyyamsthathefilched?”“Ifitwereonlyyams,wewouldn’tbesoupset.Buthe’stakenallofoureverydayclothing.”“Thenyoureallyareintrouble.Willyouhavetoborrowmoneyagain?Ifonlythisthinghere

were a dog, not just an idle cat. . .What a difference thatmight havemade. Honestly, yououghttokeepadog,abigsturdydog.Catsarepracticallyuseless.Alltheydoiseat.Thiscat,forinstance,hasiteverevencaughtarat?”

“Notasingleone.It’saverylazyandimpudentcat.”“Ah!that’sterrible.Youmustgetridofitatonce.ShallItakeitalongwithme?Boiled,you

know,they’rereallyquitegoodeating.”“Don’ttellmeyoueatcats!”“Yes,indeed,everynowandagain.Theytastedelicious,”“Youmusthavearemarkablystrongstomach.”I haveheard thatamong thesedegradedhouseboys therearesomesoclose tooutright

barbarismthattheydo,infact,eatcats:butnotuntilnowhadIeverdreamtthatourTatara,apersonwithwhomI’dlongbeenontermsofquitesomecoziness,couldbesobaseacreature.Ofcoursehe’snotourhouseboyanylonger.Farfromit.Thoughbarelyoutofuniversity,heisnow not only a distinguished Bachelor of Law but also a rising executive in that well-knownlimited 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-demonstratedbythethievingconductoflastnight’spseudo-Coldmoon.ThanksnowtoTatara,Ihave just invented another proverb: “When you see a man, take him for a felophage.” Thelongerone lives in thiswickedworld, themoreone learns. It isalwaysgood to learn,butasone accumulates knowledge of the world’s wickedness, one grows ever the more cautious,ever themore 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.Whichwouldseemtoexplainwhyoneneverfindsamongtheoldasingledecentperson.Theyknowtoomuchtoseethingsstraight,tofeelthingscleanly,toactwithoutcompromise.

Thinkingthattheremightthenbesomemeritindepartingthisworldwhilestillinmyprime,Iwasmakingmyself small in a corner lest such a departure should be forced uponme in thecompanyofonionsstewinginTatara’spot,whenmymaster,drawnfromhisstudybythesoundofTatara’svoice,slouchedbackintothelivingroom.

“Ihear,sir,you’vebeenburgled.Whatastupidthingtohavehappen.”Tataraopenstheconversationsomewhatbluntly.“Thatyam-purloinerwascertainlystupid.”Mymasterhasnodoubtwhatsoeverofhisown

profoundintelligence.“Indeed,thethiefwasstupid,buthisvictimwasn’texactlyclever.”“Perhapsthosewithnothingworthstealing,peoplelikeMr.Tatara,arethecleverestofall.”

RathersurprisinglyMrs.Sneazecomesoutonherhusband’sside.“Anyway,onething’sclear.Thatthiscat’stotallyuseless.Really,onecan’timaginewhatit

thinksit’sfor.Itcatchesnorats.Itsitscalmlybywhileaburglarbreaksin.Itservesnopurposewhatsoever.Howaboutlettingmetakeit?”

“Well,”saysMymaster,“maybeIwill.Whatwouldyoudowithit?”“Cookitandeatit.”Onhearingthatferociousproposition,mymastergaveventtoaministerwailofdyspeptic

laughter,butheansweredneitheryesnorno.This, tomymingledsurpriseandglad relief, seemed to satisfyTatara forhepressedno

further with his disgusting proposal. After a brief pause, my master, changing the subject,remarks,“Thecatdoesn’tmatter,butIdoobjectmoststronglytoanyonestealingmyclothes.Ifeelsocold.”

He looks indeeddispirited,andnowonderhe feels cold.Until yesterdayhewaswearingtwoquilted kimonos: but today,wearing only a single lined-kimonoand a short-sleeved shirt,he’s been sitting about sincemorning and has taken no exercise.What little blood he has istotallyengagedinkeepinghismiserablestomachgoing,sonaturallyitdoesn’tgetroundtohisarmsandlegs.

“It’shopelessbeingateacher.Yourworldgetsturnedupside-downbyamereburglar.It’sstillnottoolatetomakeachange.Whynotcomeintothebusinessworld?”

“Sincemyscholarlyspousejustdoesn’tcareforbusinessmen,it’sawasteoftimeeventosuggesttheidea.”Mrs.Sneaze,ofcourse,wouldbedelightedtoseehimgointobusiness.

“Howmanyyearsisit,”Tataraasks,“sinceyoutookyourdegree?”“Eightyears,Ithink,”answersMrs.Sneazelookingtowardherhusband.Mymasterneither

confirmsnordeniestheperiod.“Eightyearsandyourpay’sthesameasonthedayyoustarted.Howeverhardyoustudy,nooneappreciatesyourmerits.‘Allbyhimselfthemasteris,and

lonely.’”ForMrs.Sneaze’sbenefitTataraquotesascrapofChinesepoetryrememberedfromhisdaysinmiddleschool.

Sinceshefailstounderstandhimshemakesnoanswer.“Ofcourse Idon’t like teaching,but Idislikecommerceevenmore.”Mymasterseemsto

beabituncertaininhisownmindwhatitishedoeslike.“Hedislikeseverything,”saysMrs.Sneaze.“Well,anywayI’msurehedoesn’tdislikehiswife.”Tataramakesanunexpectedsally.“Idislikehermostofall.”Mymaster’scommentisextremelyterse.Mrs. Sneaze turns slightly away and her face stiffens, but she then looks back at her

husbandandsays,asifshethoughtsheweregettingagooddiginathim,“Isupposeyou’llbesayingnextthatyoudislikeliving.”

“True,”camehisoff-handanswer, takingthewindcleanoutofhersails, “Idon’t like livingmuch.”He’swaypastprayingfor.

“You should go for a brisk walk every now and again. Staying indoors all day must beruiningyourhealth.Andwhat’smore,youreallyshouldbecomeabusinessman.Makingmoneyissimpleaspie.”

“Lookwho’stalking.Youyourselfaren’texactlyrollinginit.”“Ah,well.But Ionly joined thecompany lastyear.Evenso, I’vemoresavedup thanyou

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

questionwithrealearnestness.

“Fiftyyen,already.”“Andhowmuchisyoursalary?”Againit’sMrs.Sneazewhoasksthequestion.“Thirty yen a month. The company retains five yen and saves it up for me. In an

emergency, Icandrawon theaccumulatedcapital.Really,whydon’tyoubuysome tramwayshareswithyourpin-money?Theirvaluewilldoublewithinthreeorfourmonths.Indeedanyonewithabitofcapitalcoulddouble,eventriple,hismoneyinnexttonotime.”

“IfIhadanypin-money,”Mrs.Sneazesomewhatsourlyobserves,“Iwouldn’tnowbeupagumtreeallonaccountofsomepettytheft.”

“That’s why I keep saying your husband should go into business. For instance, if he’dstudied lawand then joinedacompanyorabank,hewouldbynowbeearning threeor fourhundredyenamonth. Itseemsashamehedidn’t.By theway,sir,doyouhappen toknowamancalledSuzukiTōjūrōwhogothisdegreeinengineering?”

“Yes,hecalledhereonlyyesterday.”“Soyou’veseenhimthen.Iranintohimafewdaysbackatapartyandyournamecropped

up.IsaidI’doncebeenamemberofyourhousehold,andherepliedthatheandyouhadoncesharedlodgingsatsometempleinKoishikawa.‘Nexttimeyouseehim,’hesaid,‘pleasegivehimmykindestregardsandsayI’llbelookinghimuponeofthesedays.’”

“Igatherhe’srecentlybeentransferredbacktoTokyo.”“That’sright.UntiltheotherdayhewaspiningawaysomewheredowninKyushu,buthe’s

justbeenmoveduptotheheadofficehereinTokyo.He’sasmoothlad,thatone.Smoothasakegoflacquer.Heeventakesthetroubletospeakengaginglytome...Have

youanyideahowmuchheearns?”“Notthefoggiest.”“Well,ontopofhisbasicmonthlypayof250yen,he’llbegettingbonusestwiceayear,in

JulyandDecember,sothathisoverallincomecan’tbelessthanfourorfivehundredyeneachmonth.Tothinkthatamanlikethatcanbecoiningthestuffwhileyou,ateacheroftheEnglishReader,canscarcelymakeendsmeet.It’salunaticstateofaffairs.”

“Lunatic’stheword.”Evenamanassnootyandsuperiorasmymasterisnodifferentfromtheherdofhisfellowmenwhenitcomestomattersofmoney.Indeed,theveryfactthathe’sskintthewholeyearlongmakeshimrathermorekeenthanmosttogethisclawsonacopper.However, having spoken at such length on the marvels of making money, Tatara has nowexhaustedhis stockof slogansabout thebeatitudesof thebusiness life: sohe turns toMrs.Sneazeonatotallydifferenttack.

“DoesamancalledColdmooncomevisitingyourhusband?”“Yes,often.”“Whatsortoffellowishe?”“I’mtoldhe’sabrilliantscholar.”“Handsome,wouldyousay?”Mrs.Sneazepermitsherselfanunbecomingtitter. “I’dsay that in lookshe’s justaboutas

goodlookingasyou,”“Isthatso?Aboutasgood-lookingasme...”“HowdoyoucometobeinterestedinColdmoon?”enquiresmymaster.“Theother day someoneaskedme to askaroundabout him. Is heamanworthmaking

enquiriesabout?”Evenbeforehegetsananswer,Tatarashowsbyhiscondescendingtonethathedoesn’tthinkmuchofColdmoon.

“Asaman,”saysmymaster,“he’sagreatdealmoreimpressivethanyou.”“Ishe,now?Moreimpressivethanme?”Characteristically,Tataraneithersmilesnorseems

offended.Asensitivemanoftheutmostself-control?Adenseunfeelingdullard?Needoneask?Heeatscats,doesn’the?

“Buttellme,willthisColdmoonfellowbegettingadoctorateoneofthesedays?”“I’mtoldhe’swritingathesisnow.”“Sohe’safoolafterall...Writingathesisforadoctorateindeed!I’dexpectedhimtobe

brighterthanthat.”“You don’t half fancy yourself,” saysMrs. Sneaze with a laugh. “You always did reckon

yourself the bee’s knees and the cat’s whiskers. But what’s so foolish about being welleducated?”

“Someone told me that once this Coldmoon gets his doctorate, then he’ll be givensomeone’sdaughter.Somethinglikethat.SoofcourseIsaid,‘Aman’safoolwhoworksforadoctoratejusttomarryagirl.

Someoneshouldnotmarrysomeone’sdaughtertoanyonesofoolish.Betterfor,’Isaid,‘someone’sdaughtertomarryme.’”Mymasterwobbledhishead.“Towhomdidyousayallthat?”“TotheManwhoaskedmetoaskaroundaboutColdmoon.”“Suzuki?”“Golly,no.Iwouldn’tbebandyingwordswithabigshotlikethatonsuchadelicatematter.

Atleast,notyetIwouldn’t.”“A lionathome,awood louse in theopen!”saysMrs.Sneaze. “You talkbig,Mr.Tatara,

whenyou’reherewithus,butIbetyoucurlupsmallandquietwhenyoutalktoMr.Suzuki.”“OfcourseIdo.Itwouldbefoolhardytodoanythingelse.OnewrongwordandIcouldbe

outonmyear.”“Tatara,”mymastersuddenlybreaksin,“let’sgooutforawalk.”Sitting there in thescanty remnantsofhiswardrobehe’sgrown to feeldownright frozen,

andthethoughthas just filteredthroughthat theexerciseofwalkingmightwarmhimupabit.Therecanbenootherexplanationforsuchanunprecedentedsuggestion.

Tatara,thatunpetrineperson,thatseaweedinthetide-flowsoftheworld,thatreedwhichbendstoitslightestwind,doesn’tevenhesitate.

“Yes,indeed,let’sgo.HowaboutUeno?Let’sgotrysomeofImozaka’sfamousdumplings.Haveyouevertriedthosedumplings?You,too,Mrs.

Sneaze,sometimeyoureallyought,ifonlyjustonce,totrythem.They’rebeautifullysoftandevenmorebeautifullycheap.Theyservesakéaswell.”Tatara

wasstillbabblingawayaboutdumplingswhenmymaster,hishatonhishead,was readyonthedoorstonewaitingtoleave...

Myself,Ineedrest.There’snoconceivablereasonwhyIshouldkeepwatchupon,stilllessrecord,howmymasterandTatarabehavedatUenoPark,howmanyplatesofdumplingstheyconsumed,andwhatotherpointlesshappenings transpired. Inanycase, I lack theenergy totrailalongafter them. Ishall thereforeskipallmentionof theirafternoondoingsand, instead,relax.Allcreated thingsareentitled todemandof theirCreatorsomerest for recreation.Weare bornwith an obligation to keep goingwhilewe can, and if, likemaggotswriggling in thefabricofthisworld,wearetokeeponthrashingaboutdownhere,wedoneedresttodoit.IftheCreatorshould takethe line that Iamborntoworkandnot tosleep, Iwouldagreethat I

am indeed born to work but I would also make the unanswerable point that I cannot workunlessIalsorest.Evenmymaster,thattimidbutcomplainingcrankinthegrindingmechanismofournationaleducation,sometimesthoughitcostshimmoney,takesaweekdayoff.Iamnohuman cog. I am a cat, a being sensitive to themost subtle shades of thought and feeling.Naturally,Itiremorequicklythanmymaster.Naturally,Ineedmoresleep.ButIconfessI’malittleworriedbyTatara’srecenttravestyofmycase,hiswickedmisrepresentationofmynaturalneed for sleep as evidence of my practical uselessness. Philistines such as he, creaturesresponsiveonlytothecrudestmaterialphenomena,cannotappreciateanythingdeeperthanthesurface appearances recorded by their five coarse senses. Unless one is rigged out in anavvy’sclobberandthesweatcanbeseenandsmeltasitpoursfromone’sbrowandarmpits,suchpersonscan’tconceivethatoneisworking.IhaveheardtherewasaZenpriestcalled,Ifancy,Bodhidharma,whoremainedsolongimmobilizedinspiritualmeditationthathislegsjustrottedaway.Thathemadenomove,evenwheniviescreptthroughthewallandtheirspreadingsuckerssealedhiseyesandmouth,didnotmeanthatthepriestwassleepingordead.Onthecontrary,hismindwasverymuchalive.Leglessinthebondsofdustyvegetation,Bodhidharmacametograspsuchbrilliantlystylishtruthsasthenotionthat,sinceZenisofitselfsovastandso illumining, therecanbenoappreciabledistinctionbetweensaintsandmediocrities.What’smore,IunderstandthatthefollowersofConfuciusalsopracticeformsofmeditationthoughnotperhapstotheextentofself-immurementandoftrainingtheirfleshtocrippledombyidleness.

Allsuchmeditantshavepowersburninginthebrainthatarealotmorefiercethananythingnon-meditantscouldpossiblyconceive.Butbecausetheoutwardappearanceofthesespiritualgiantsissosolemn,calm,unutterablyserene,thefatheadnincompoopswhocomeandstareatthemcanseenothingmorethanordinarypersonsinstatesofcoma,catatonia,orevensimplesyncope.Suchmediocritiesslander theirbettersasdronesand layabouts.But the fault lies intheveryordinarinessof theeyesofordinarypeople, for, in truth, theireyesight isdefective inthat their glancesmerely slither over external appearances, never pierce through to spiritualinwardness.Nowit isunderstandablethatamanlikeTataraSampei,thatpersonificationofallthingssuperficial,wouldonlyseeshitonashovelif,undergoingtheZentestofaman’sabilitytofindpurityamongimpurities,heweresoshownashittenshovel.Butitgrievesmetothecoretofindthatmymasterwho,afterall,hasreadfairlywidelyandoughttobeabletoseesomelittlewaybeyondthemeresurfaceof things,shouldneverthelesssoreadilyconcur in the flip-pertigibbetfanciesofhisshallowhouseboy;atleasttotheextentoffailingtoraiseobjectionstohiscasseroleofcat.

However,when I think thingsoverandsee them inperspective, Icanunderstand that it’snotaltogetherunreasonable thatmymasterandhishouseboyshould thus lookdownonme.TworelevantsayingsbyancientChinesesagesoccur tomymind. “Elevatedandnoblemusiccannotpenetratetheearsoftheworldlywise”and“Everyonesingsstreet-songsbutveryfewcanjoininsingingsuchlearnedairsas‘ShiningSpring’and‘WhiteSnow.’”It’sawasteofeffortto try and force those incapable of seeing more than outer forms to understand the innerbrillianceoftheirownsouls.Itislikepressingashavenpriesttodohishairinabun,likeaskingatunny-fishtodeliveralecture,likeurgingatramtoabandonitsrails,likeadvisingmymastertochangehis job, like tellingTatara to thinknomoreaboutmoney. Inshort, it isexorbitant toexpectmen tobeother than theyare.Now thecat isasocialanimaland,assuch,howeverhighlyhemayratehisowntrueworth,hemustcontrivetoremain,at least tosomeextent, inharmonywithsocietyasawhole.It isindeedamatterforregretthatmymasterandhiswife,

evensuchcreaturesasO-sanandTatara,donottreatmewiththatdegreeofrespectwhichIproperlydeserve,butnothingcanbedoneaboutit.That’sthewaythingsare,anditwouldbeverymuchworse,indeedfatal,ifintheirignorancetheywentsofarastokillme,flayme,serveupmy butchered flesh at Tatara’s dinner table, and sellmy emptied skin to amaker of cat-banjos.

Since I ama truly unusual cat, oneborn into thisworldwith amissiondemandingpurelymentalactivity,Iamresponsibleforsafeguardingtheinestimableworthofmyownrarity.Astheproverbsays,“Therichman’ssonisneverseatedattheedgeoftheraisedhall.”I,too,amfartooprecioustobeexposedtothedangerofatumbleintocalamity.Ifsheervaingloryledmetorun such risks, I would not only be inviting personal disaster but flouting the evident will ofHeaven.However,eventhefiercesttiger,onceinstalledinazoo,settlesdownresignedlynexttosomefilthypig.Eventhelargestofwildgeese,onceinthepoulterer’shands,mustfinishupon the selfsame chopping board as the scrawniest chickling. Consequently, for as long as Iconsortwithordinarymen, Imust conductmyselfas if Iwereanordinarycat.Ordinarycatscatch rats. This long but faultless chain of logic leads to but one conclusion. I have finallydecidedtocatcharat.

I understand that, now for some time, Japan has been at war with Russia. Being aJapanese cat, I naturally side with Japan. I have even been cherishing a vague ambition toorganize somekindofCatsBrigadewhich, if only a scratch formation, could still inflict claw-damage on the Russian horde. Being thus magnificently militant, why should I dither over amiserableratortwo?Solongasthewilltocatchthemburnswithinme,why,Icouldraketheminwithmyeyesshut.Longago,whensomeoneaskedawell-knownZenpriestofthatancienttimehow to attain enlightenment, thepriest replied “You shouldproceed likea cat stalkingarat.” Indeed, such utter concentration on one’s objective is always certain to bring success.There is, of course, that otherproverbwhichwarnsagainst over-cleverness.Theover-cleverwomanmaywell have failed to sell her cow, but I’ve never heard it suggested that an over-clevercatmightfailtocatcharat.Thusacatofmyoutstandingqualitiesshouldhavenotroubleincatchinganyrataround.Indeed,IcannotseehowIcouldfailtocatchone.ThefactthatupuntilnowI’venotcaughtany,reflectsnomorethanmyerstwhiledisinclinationtodoso.Nothingmorethanthat.

Just as yesterday, the spring sun sets and flurries of falling cherry-blossoms,whirled onoccasionalgustsoftheeveningwind,burst inthroughthebrokenkitchendoor.Floatingonthewaterinakitchenpail,theyglimmerwhitelyinthedimlightofakitchenlamp.NowthatIhavedecidedtosurprisetheentirehouseholdwiththefeatofarmswhichIpurposetoachieveduringthecomingnight,Irealizethatsomepreliminaryreconnaissanceofthebattlefieldisneededtoensure my proper grasp of the topography of the ground. The field of maneuver is notparticularlylarge,coveringperhapsanareaoffourmats.Ofthatareaafulleighthisoccupiedby thesink,whileanothereighthconsistsof thatunflooredspacewhere roundsmen from thewineshopandthegreen-grocer’sstandtowaitfortheday’sorder.Thestoveisunexpectedlygrand forapoorman’skitchenand itevenboastsabrilliantlyshinycopperkettle.Behind thestove,onastripofwoodenboardingabout twofeetwide,standstheabalone-shell inwhichIamservedmymeals.Closetothelivingroomthereisacupboardforplatesandbowls,which,being six feet long, severely reduces the already limited space. Beside the cupboard andreaching roughly up to the level of its top, shelves extend along thewall, and on one of twolowershelvesthereisanearthenwaremortarwithasmallpailplacedinsideitupside-down.A

wooden pestle and a radish-grater hang side-by-side from hooks, and ranged beside themthere’sadreary-lookingpotforextinguishinglivecharcoal.Fromthepointwheretheblackenedrafters cross, apot-hook is suspended,andon that hooka large flat basket floats inmidair.Every now and again, under the pressure of the kitchen’s drafts, the basket moves with acertainmagnanimity.WhenIwasanewcomertothishouse,Isimplycouldnotunderstandwhythis basket hungwhere it did, but, learning later that itwas so placed specifically to preventcats getting at the foodwhich it contained, I realized once again how thoroughlymean, howpreternaturallybloody-minded,aretheheartsandheadsofhumankind.

The reconnaissancecompleted,onemustplana campaignappropriate to the site.Butabattlewith rats canonly takeplacewhere ratsareavailable tobe fought.Howeverbrilliantlyonemaypositionone’sforces,theycanachievenothingiftheyarealoneuponthefield.Itwasthusobviouslyvitaltodeterminetheratsweremostlikelytoappear.

Standing in themiddleof thekitchen, I lookaroundandwonder fromwhatdirection theywouldprobablyemerge. I feel asAdmiralTōgōmust havedoneashepondered the likeliestcourseoftheRussianfleet.

ThatawfulO-sanwentofftoabathhousealittlewhileagoandshehasn’tyetcomeback.Longago the childrenwent to sleep.Mymaster ate dumplingsat Imozaka, camehomeandhasnowvanishedintohisstudy.Hiswife,Idon’tknowwhatshe’sdoingbutIwouldguessshe’sdozing somewhere deep in yammy dreams. An occasional rickshaw can be heard passingalongthestreetinfrontofthehouse:eachsubsequentsilencemakesthenightmoredeep,itsdesolation lonelier. My decision to take action, my sense of resolute high spirit, the waitingkitchen-battlefield, the all-pervading feeling of loneliness: it is the perfect setting andatmospherefordeedsofhighrenown.There’snodoubtaboutit.IamtheAdmiralTōgōofthecats.Anyonesoplacedmust feel, however terrifying thesituation,a certainwildexhilaration,but I confess that,underneath thatpleasurableexcitement, Iwaspersistentlynaggedbyonedisquietingconsideration. Ihavedecidedtodobattlewithrats,soIcarenothingfor themerenumberoftheratstobefought,butIdofinditworryinglyinconvenientnottoknowfromwhichdirection or directions the rats will make their appearance. I have collated and analyzed theresultsofmyrecentreconnaissance,andhaveconcludedthattherearethreelinesofadvancebywhichtheserobberriffraffmightdebouchuponthefield.Iftheyaregutterrats,they’llcomesneakingupthedrainpipetothesinkandthenceniproundbehindthestove.Inwhichcase,mycorrecttacticistobeinhidingbehindthecharcoalextinguisherandthenceinterdicttheirlineofretreat. Alternatively, such villains might slide in through the hole cut at the base of thewashroom’splaster-wall fortheescapeofdirtywater intotheoutsidedrain: if theyadoptthatpointofentry, theycouldthensneakacrossthewashroomandsopopout intothekitchen.Inwhichcase,mybesttacticistostationmyselfonthelidoftherice-cookerfromwhichposition,asthefilthybrutesglidepastbelowme,Icoulddropuponthemfromthesky.

Finally,myvisualcheckof theterrainhasrevealed,at thebottomright-handcornerof thecupboard, a gnawed halfmoon of a holewhich looks suspiciously convenient for raiding rats.Puttingmynose to theplace, Isniff theground. Itsmellsa little ratty. Ifa ratcomesdashingout tobattle fromthatcurvedsally-port,mybest tactic is to lurkbehind thepillarandpounceuponhimfromthesideashescuttlesby.

Afurtherthoughtthenstruckme.Supposetheratsshouldfindsomelineofadvancealongunexpectedlyhigherground.Ilookupandthesoot-blackceilinggleamsevillyintheglowofthelamp. It looks like hell hung upside-down. It is plain thatwithmy limited strength and skills I

could neither climb up there, still less climb down. Either because if I can’t, rats can’t, orbecause if Ican’t, ratswouldn’t, Idecidethat there’sno likelihoodthat theywilldescendfromthoseinfernalaltitudes,andIaccordinglyabandonanyattempttomakeplanstocopewiththatthreat.

Even so, there’s danger of being simultaneously attacked from three directions. If theycomefromonlyasingledirection,withoneeyeshutIcouldwipethewholelotout.Iffromtwodirections,stillI’dbeabletocope.Butiftheycomefromthreedirections,howeverconfidentImay be ofmy instinctive aptitude for catching rats, the situation would be distinctly dicey. ItwouldbeanaffronttomyowndignitytogobeghelpfromsuchasRickshawBlacky.WhatonearthshallIdo?When,havingwonderedwhatonearthtodo,onestillcan’tthinkofanything,itis,I’vefound,theshortestwaytopeaceofmindtodecidethatwhatonefearswon’thappen.Inpointoffact,everyonechoosestoassumethattheinsupportablewillneveroccur.Lookaroundat the world. Today’s delighted bride holds no guarantee against death tomorrow, but thebridegroom, happily chanting auspicious texts, displays no sign of worry. The fact that hedoesn’tworryisnotbecausethere’snothingtobeworriedabout.Thereasonisthat,howevermuchheworries, itwillnotmake theslightestdifference.So, too, inmycase. I’venoreasonwhatsoevertoassertthatsimultaneoustriple-prongedattackswillcertainlyneverbelaunched,buttodecidethattheywon’tsortsbestwithmyself-assurance.Allthingsneedassurance.Notleast myself. I have, consequently, reached the firm conclusion that attacks from threedirectionswillnothappen.

EvensoIstillfeeltweaksofdoubt.IponderedthecauseofthiscontinuinguneasinessandworriedawayattheproblemuntilatlastIunderstoodthesourceofmydisquiet.Itistheagonyofnotbeingabletofindasingleclear-cutanswertoaproblem:inmycase,totheproblemofdecidingwhichofthreestrategieswillprovemostprofitable.Ifratsemergefromthecupboard,I have a plan to deal with the situation. If they appear from the bathroom, I have anotherscheme tocopewith that.And if theycomesneakingup through thesink, Ihaveyetanotherwheezeworkedout tosettle their slitheryhash.But tochooseoneof these threecoursesofactionand thenstick firmly tomychoice, that I findexcruciatinglydifficult. Ihear thatAdmiralTōgōwas similarly excruciated as he ponderedwhether theRussianBaltic Fleetwould passthrough the Straits of Tsushima, or would steer a more easterly course for the Straits ofTsugaru, or would take the longest way around by heading out into the Pacific and thenswinging back through the Straits of La Pérouse between Hokkaido and Sakhalin. My ownpredicamentenabledmefullytoappreciatejusthowworriedthenobleAdmiralmusthavebeen.NotonlyamIplacedinasimilarsituation,butIsharehisagonyofchoice.

While I was thus absorbed in contriving a solution tomy problem ofmajor strategy, thedamagedpaper-doorwassuddenlyslidopen,and theugly faceofO-san loomed intoview. Idonotintendthatturnofphrasetoimplythatthatcreaturelacksarmsandlegs;simplythattheremainderofhercarcasswassoindistinguishablefromthebackgrounddarknessthatonlyherface,hecticallybrightandsavagelycolored,struckuponmyeyes.Shehas just returnedfromthepublicbathhouse,andhernormallyredcheekslookpositivelyscarlet.Eventhoughitisstillquite early, she proceeds, probably in belated wisdom learnt from last night’s happenings,carefullytofastenupthekitchendoor.Fromthestudycomesmymaster’svoiceenjoininghertoplacehiswalkingstickathand’sreachbyhisbedside.Really,I fail toseewhysuchamanshouldwant todecoratehisbedsidewithawalkingstick.Can itbe thathe’sstarted to fancyhimself intheroleofthatheroicassassinwho,sotheclassicstellus,attackedthefirstofthe

ChineseEmperors?Canitbethatheseeshiswalkingstickasthattomb-treasureswordwhich,ata robber’s touch, roared likea tiger,growled likeadragon,and then flewupward into thesky?Surelynotevenmyperplexedmastercouldharborsuchdaftdelusions.Butyesterday itwastheyams.Nowit’sawalkingstick.Whatwillitbetomorrow?

Thenightisstillyoung.Theratsarenotlikelytoappearforsometimeyet.Ineedreposebeforethecomingbattle.

Therearenowindows inmymaster’s kitchen. Instead, just below the level of theceilingthere’sasortoftransomaboutonefootwide,which,leftopenalltheyearround,servesasaskylight. I was brought suddenly out of my sleep by a flurry of blossoms from the early-floweringcherriesblown through thatopeningonagustofwind.Ahazymoonlight slants intothekitchenandcastsashadowofthestovesidelongacrossthewoodenfloor.Wonderingif Ihave overslept, I shakemy ears two or three times and then look carefully around to see ifanything’sdeveloped.Deadsilencereigns,throughwhich,aswasthecaselastnight,theclocktickssteadilyon.It’shightimethattheratscameout.Iwonderwheretheywillappear.It’snotlongbeforegentlenoisesstart-up inside thecupboard. It soundsas though ratsare trying togetatsomethingonaplateandarescrabblingattheplate’sedgewiththeirhornyclaws.Intheexpectation that thesecupboardratswilleventuallyemerge fromthegnawedhalfmoonat thebottomof its door, I hunker down towait beside that opening. The rats seem in no hurry tocomeout.Eventually theplatenoisestopped,butwassoonsucceededbysoundsof rat feetonsomesortofbowlorbasin.Everynowandagaintherewereheavyhumpingsontheotherside of the cupboard door, only a bare three inches distant from the tip ofmywaiting nose.Sometimes thesoundscomeevencloser to thehole,but then theyscamperawayagainandnot one single rat so much as shows its face. Just beyond that door the foe is rampagingthroughthecupboard,butall Icando is lurkherequietlyat thehalfmoonexit.Whichcalls forpatience;verygreatpatience.Therats, like theRussians in thebasinofPortArthur,seemtobehavingarareoldshindigintheirbowl.IwishthatthatfoolO-sanhadthemindtoleavethecupboard door at least sufficiently ajar to allowme to slip through, butwhat can oneexpectfromsothick-skulledacountrybumpkin.

Frombehindthestovemyabalone-shellemitsasoundofgentlerocking.Aha!Theenemyisalsocomingfromthatdirection.Verywell,then.

I creep forward on the stealthiest of paws but catch only a glimpse of a tail among thebucketsbeforeitwhisksawaybelowthesink.AshortwhilelaterIheartheclinkofmymaster’sgarglingglassagainst themetalof thewash-basin.So!Nowtheyarebehindme.As I turn tofacethisnewdanger,awhoppinggreatrat,atleastsixincheslong,adroitlytipsasmallbagoftooth-powderofftheshelfabovethebasin,andthenitselfgoesskitteringawaytosafetyunderthefloorboards.Determinednottolethimescape,Ispringdownafterhim,butevenbeforeI’dlanded,thefilthybeasthadvanished.Catchingrats,Ifind,istrickierthanI’dthought.PerhapsIamcongenitallyinculpableofcatchingthem.

WhenIadvanceuponthebathroom,ratspopoutofthecupboard.WhenItakepostbythecupboard,ratseruptfromthesink.AndwhenIplantmyselffirmly

in thecenterof thekitchen, ratsshoot racketinguponall three fronts together.Neverhave Iseen such impudent bravado combinedwith such poltroonery! Their skittering evasion of fairfightbrandsthemunworthyadversariesforagentleman.Fifteen,maybesixteentimesIdartedhitherandthitheruntil,alltonopurpose,Ihadexhaustedmyselfbothphysicallyandmentally.Iam ashamed to confess my failure, but against such mean-souled adversaries even the

resourcefulAdmiralTōgōwouldhavefoundhimselfstumped.Ihadlauncheduponthisventurewithhighcourage,adeterminationtosubduethefoe,andevenacertainelevatedsenseofthespiritual beauty of my undertaking, but now, tired out and downright sleepy, I find it merelyfatuousandirksome.Iceasetorusharoundandsquatdownrightinthecenterofthekitchen.But, though utterlymotionless, if Imaintain a sharp lookout all aroundme, the enemy, beingsuchmiserabledastards,willneverdaretotryonanythingserious.When,unexpectedly,one’senemy turns out to be so pettily paltry, the sense ofwar as an honorable activity cannot besustainedandoneisleftwithnothingbutafeelingofnakedhatred.Whenthatacridanimositydulls, one becomes downhearted and even absent-minded. And after that general dimnessfadesaway,one just feelssleepy.Sodeep is the lethargyofcompletedisdain thatone feelspreparedtoletone’sfoesdoanythingtheylike.Forwhatofanypossiblesignificance,sooneasksoneself,arebeingssodebasedcapableofdoing?Havingmyselfgone throughall thosestages,I,too,eventuallygrewsleepy,anddozedoff.Allthatlivesmustrest,eveninthemidstofenemies.

I woke to find a violent wind blowing aroundme. Again, a gust was pitching handfuls ofpetals through the open transom running along below the eaves. At the verymoment ofmywaking,something,shootingout fromthecupboard likeabullet fromagun,slicedacross theblowingwindand,quickasaflash,fasteneditssnappingteethintomyleftear.I’dbarelytimeto realizewhatwashappeningbeforeanother black shadow flickeredaroundbehindmeandcloseditsjawsuponmytail.Thisalltookplacewithinthebattingofaneye.Takingnothoughtwhatsoever, by simple reflex action I spring to my feet. Converting all my strength into ashudderingparoxysmofmyskin,Itrytoshakethesemonstersoff.Thedemonanchoredtomyear,yankedoffhisfeetasIsprangtomine,danglesdownbesidemyface.Theendofhistail,spongily soft like a rubber tube, falls unexpectedly into mymouth. I take a firm grip on thebeastlyobjectand,teethclampedfastuponit,Iwagglemyheadfromside-to-sideashardasIcan go. The tail came off in my jaws, while the jactitated body, slung first against the wallplasteredwitholdnewspapers,bouncedoffontothefloorboards.Whiletheratstillstrugglestoregainhisbalance,quicktoseizemychanceIpounceuponhim,but,likesomereboundingball,he whizzes up past my descending muzzle and lands surprisingly high on one of the uppershelves.Tuckinginhislegs,hestaresdownatmeovertheedgeofhisshelf.Istareupathimfromthewoodenfloor.Thedistancebetweenusisaboutfivefeet.Cleanacrossthatdistance,themoonlightslantsfromthetransomlikeawoman’sbroadwhitesashstretchedoutalongtheair.

Concentratingallmystrength inmy legs, I leaptupat theshelf.My frontpawsgrasp itsedge but,weighted downby the rat still riveted tomy tail,my hindlegs are left scrabbling inmidair. Iam indanger. I try toclamberupwardby judiciousadjustmentof thepositionsofmypaws, but each such effort, by reason of the rat weight on my tail, merely results in aweakeningofmypawhold. Ifmypawsslip justonefurtherquarterofan inchIshallbe lost. Iamreallyingreatdanger.Myclawsscrapenoisilyalongthewoodenledge.Inalasteffort,Itrytoadvancemy leftpaw,but itsclaws fail togainpurchase in thesmoothwoodsurfaceand Ifinishuphangingbyasingleclawofmy rightpaw.Mybody,dragged fullyoutunder itsownandtherearrat’sweight,beginsbothtoswingandtorotate.Themonsterontheshelf,whichhashithertobeencontenttositmotionlessandglareatme,nowhopsdownontomyforehead.Mylastclawloseshold.

Melded into one black lump, the three bodies plummet downward through the slanted

moonlight.Objectsontheshelfbelow,theearthenwaremortar,thesmallpailstandinginsideit,andanemptytin,swellthefallinglumpwhich,furtherswollenbythedislodgementofacharcoalextinguisher,finallysplitsintwo.Halftheuglymassfallsstraightintoawaterjar,whiletherestdisintegrates into bodieswildly rolling across the kitchen floor. In the dead quiet of night thenoisewastrulyappalling.

Evenmyownalreadyfranticsoulwasfurthershakenbythedin.“Burglars!”Hoarselybellowing,mymastercomesrushingoutfromthebedroom.Hecarries

a lamp in one hand and awalking stick in the other. From his sleepy eyes there flashes asmuch of the light of battle as such aman could be expected ever tomuster. I crouch downsilentlybesidemyabalone-shell.Thetworat-monstersvanishintothecupboard.“What’sgoingonhere?Whomadeallthathideousnoise?”Mymaster,lookingvaguelysheepish,shoutsinhisangriestvoicequestionsthatnoone’stheretoanswer.

Thewesteringmoonsanksteadilylowerandlower,anditsbroadwhitesashoflightacrossthekitchennarrowedandnarrowedasitsank.

T

III

HIS HEAT is quite unbearable,especially for a cat. An English clergyman, a certainSydney Smith, once remarked that theweather was so intolerably hot that therewasnothingleftforitbuttotakeoffhisskinandsitaboutinhisbones.Thoughtobereducedto a skeletonmight be going too far, I would at least be glad to slip out ofmy fur of

spotted,palishgrayandsendittobewashedorevenpoppedtemporarilyintopawn.Tohumaneyes, the felinewayof lifemayseembothextremelysimpleandextremely inexpensive, foracat’sfacelooksthesamealltheyearroundandwewearthesameoldonlysuitthrougheachofthefourseasons.Butcats,Icanassureyou,justlikeanyoneelse,feeltheheatandfeelthecold.TherearetimeswhenIconsiderthatIreallywouldn’tmind,justthatonce,soakingmyselfinabath,but if Igothotwaterallovermyfur, itwouldtakeagestogetdryagainandthat iswhyIgrinandbearthestinkofmyownsweatandhaveneverinallmylifeyetpassedthroughtheentranceofapublicbathhouse.EverynowandagainI thinkaboutusingafanbut,sinceIcannotholdoneinmypaws,thethought’snotworthpursuing.

Comparedwithour simplistic style, humanmannersare indeedextravagant.Some thingsshouldbeeateneitherraworastheyare,buthumansgoquiteunnecessarilyoutoftheirwayto waste both time and energy on boiling them, grilling them, pickling them in vinegar, andsmarming them over with bean-paste. The horrible results of all these processes appear toticklethemtodeath.Inmattersofdresstheyaresimilarlyabsurd.Inasmuchastheyarebornimperfect,itmightbeaskingtoomuchifoneexpectedthemtowear,asisthecustomofcats,thesameclothesallyearlongbut,surelytogoodness,theycannotneedtoswaddletheirskinsinsuchaheterogeneityofsheerclobber.Sinceitseemsnottoshamethemtobeindebtedtosheep, to be dependent on silkworms, and even to accept the charity of cotton shrubs, onecouldalmostassertthattheirextravaganceisanadmissionofincompetence.

Evenifoneoverlookstheiroddityandallowsthemtheirperversitiesinmattersoffoodandclothing, I completely fail to see why they have to exhibit this same crass idiosyncrasy inmattersthathavenobearingwhatsoeverontheircontinuingexistence.Take,forinstance,theirhair.Since,willy-nilly,itgrows,Iwouldhavethoughtitsimplestandbestforanycreaturejusttoleaveitalone.Butno.Notforhumans.Totallyunnecessarily,theytrickthemselvesoutineveryconceivablesortandkindofhair-do.Andeventakeprideintheiridiotvariations.Thosewhocallthemselvespriestskeeptheirheadsclean-shavenblue:blueinsummer,winterblue.Yetwhenit’shottheyputonsunhats,andwhenit’scoldtheyhoodthemselvesinbitsofblanket.Givenallthishattingandhooding,whydotheyshavetheirheads?It’sabsolutelysenseless.Again,therearesomewho,usingasawlike instrumentcalledacomb,part theirhairdownthemiddleandlook as pleased as punchwith the result.Others rake out an artificial separation of the hairthree-seventhsof thewayacross theircranialbones,andsomeof theseextend thatscrapeddivisionrightoverthetopoftheirskullssothatthehairflopsoutatthebacklikefalsebanana-leaves.Somehavethehairontheircrownsshornflatbutcutthehairatthesides,bothleftandright, to hang down straight. This creation of a square frame for a round headmakes them

look, if they can be said to look like anything, as though theywere staring out on theworldthroughacedarhedgejusttrimmedbyamaniacgardener.Inadditiontothesestylestherearethosebasedoncuttingeveryhairtoastandardlength:thefive-inchcut,thethree-inchcut,andeventheone-inchcut.

Whoknows,ifsuchclosecroppingiscontinued,they’llfinishupwithacutinsidetheirskulls.Maybe theminus-one-inchcut,evenaminus-three-inchcutwillbe theultimate fashion. Inanyevent,Icannotunderstandwhymankindbecomesenslavedtosuchfoolfads.

Why, for instance,dotheyusetwolegswhentheyallhavefouravailable?Suchwasteofnatural resources! If they used four legs to get about, they’d all be a great deal nippier;nevertheless, they persist in the folly of using only two and leave the other pair just hangingfromtheirshoulders likeacoupleofdriedcodfishthatsomeonebroughtaroundasapresent.Onecanonlydeduce thathumanbeings,havingsoverymuchmorespare time thandocats,lighten their natural boredom by putting their minds to thinking up such nonsenses. The oddthingisnotsimplythatthesecreaturesofendlessleisureassureeachother,whenevertwoofthemget together,of justhowbusytheyare,but that their facesdo infact lookbusy. Indeedthey look so fussed that one wonders just how many men get eaten by their business. Isometimes hear them say,when they have the good fortune tomakemy acquaintance, howniceandeasylifecouldbeifoneliveditlikeacat.Iftheyreallywanttheirlivestobeniceandeasy,it’salreadyintheirowngoodpowertomakethemso.

Nothing stands in the way. Nobody insists that they should fuss about as they do. It isentirelyof theirown freewill that theymakemoreengagements than theycanpossiblykeepand then complain about being so horribly busy. Men who build themselves red-hot firesshouldn’t complain of the heat.Evenwe cats, ifwe had to think up twenty differentways ofscissoringour fur,wouldnot for longremainascarefreeasweare.Anyonewhowantstobecarefreemusttrainhimselftobe,likeme,abletowearafurcoatinthesummer.Still...Imustadmititisalittlehot.Really,itistoohot,afurcoatinthesummer.

In this appalling heat I can’t even get that afternoon nap which is my sole and specialpleasure.HowthenshallIwhilethetimeaway?SinceIhavelongneglectedmystudyofhumansociety,IthoughtImightusefullydevoteafewhourstowatchingthemtoilingandmoilingawayin theirusual freakish fashions.Unfortunately,mymaster’scharacter,at least in thematterofnapping,ismorethanalittlealuroid.HetakeshisafternoonsiestasnolessseriouslythanIdoand, since thesummerholidaysbegan,hehasnotdoneastrokeofwhathumanswould callwork.

Thus, however closely I may observe him, I should learn nothing new about the humancondition. Ifonlysomeone likeWaverhousewoulddrop in, then there’dbesomechanceofatwitch inmymaster’s depressingly dyspeptic skin, somehopeof him stirring fromhis catlikelanguor.

JustisIwasthinkingitisindeedabouttimethatWaverhousedroppedby,Ihearthesoundofsomebodysplashingwaterinthebathroom.Andit’snotjustsplashingwaterthatIhear,forthesplasherpunctuateshisaquaticswith loudexpressionsofhisappreciation. “Perfect.Howwonderfullyrefreshing.Onemorebucketful,ifyouplease!”Thevoiceringsbrashlythroughthehouse. There’s only oneman in theworld whowould speak so loudly andwhowouldmakehimself, unbidden, so very much at home in my master’s dwelling. It must, thank God, beWaverhouse.

I was just thinking, “Well, at least today I shall be eased of half the long day’s tedium,”

when the man himself walks straight into the living room. His shoulders recovered beneathkimonosleeves,he’swipingsweatfromhisfaceas,withoutanyceremonyatall,hepitcheshishatdownonthemattingandcallsout,“Hellothere.Tellme,Mrs.Sneaze,how’syourhusbandbearinguptoday?”Mrs.Sneazehadbeencomfortablyasleepinthenextroom.Hunkereddownonherkneeswithhergormlessfacebentoverontohersewing-box,shewasshockedawakeasWaverhouse’s yelpings pierced deep into her ears.When, trying to lever her sleepy eyeswideopen,shecame into theroom,Waverhouse,alreadyseated inhis fine linenkimono,washappilyfanninghimself.

“Goodafternoon,”shesaysand,still lookingsomewhatconfused,almostshylyadds, “I’dnoideayouwerehere.”Asshebowedingreetingabeadofsweatglissadestogatheratthetipofhernose.

“I’ve only thisminute arrived.With your servant’s kind assistance I’ve just been having amostsplendidshower in thebathroom.Asa result Inow feelgreatly refreshed.Hot, though,isn’tit?”

“Veryhot.Theselastfewdaysone’sbeenperspiringevenwhensittingstill...Butyoulookaswellasever.”Mrs.Sneazehasnotyetwipedthesweat-dropfromhernose.

“Thank you, yes I am. Our usual spells of heat hardly affect me at all, but this recentweatherhasbeensomethingspecial.Onecan’thelpfeelingsluggish.”

“Howverytrue.I’veneverbeforefeltneedofanapbutinthisweather,beingsoveryhot...”

“Youhadanap?That’sgood.Ifonecouldonlysleepduringthedaytimeandthenstillsleepatnight...why,nothingcouldbemorewonderful.”Asalways,herattlesalongasthemoodofthemomenttakeshim.Heseems,however,thistimefaintlydissatisfiedwithwhat’spoppedoutofhismouth,forhehurriestoadd,“Takeme,forexample.

BynatureIneednosleep.Consequently,whenIseeamanlikeSneazewhois invariablysleepingwheneverIcall,Ifeetdistinctlyenvious.Well,Iexpectsuchheatisprettyroughonadyspeptic.Ondays like thisevenahealthyperson feels too tired tobalancehisheadonhisshoulders.

However,sinceone’sheadisfixedtight,onecan’tjustwrenchitoff.”Ratherunusually,Waverhouseseemsuncertainwhattodowithhishead.“Nowyou,Mrs.Sneaze,withallthathaironyourhead,don’tyoufindithardeventositup?

Theweightofyourchignonalonemustleaveyouachingtoliedown.”Mrs.Sneaze,thinkingthatWaverhouseisreferringagaintohernapbydrawingattentionto

herdisorderedhair,giggleswithembarrassment.Touchingherhandtoherhair,shemumbles“Howunkindyouare!”Waverhouse, totally unconsciousof her reaction, goesoff at a tangent. “D’youknow,” he

says,“yesterdayItriedtofryaneggontheroof.”“How’sthat?”“Therooftilesweresomarvelouslybaking-hotthatIthoughtitapitynottomakepractical

useofthem.SoIbutteredatileandbrokeaneggontoit.”“Graciousme!”“But thesun,youknow, letmedown.Even though Iwaited forages, theeggwasbarely

half-done. So I went downstairs to read the newspapers. Then a friend dropped in, andsomehow I forgot about the egg. It was only thismorning that I suddenly remembered and,thinkingitmustbedonebynow,wentuptotookatit.”

“Howwasit?”“Far from being ready to eat, it had gone completely runny. In fact, it had run away, all

downthesideofthehouse.”“Ohdear.”Mrs.Sneazefrownedtoshowshewasimpressed.“But isn’t it strange that all through the hot season theweather was so cool and then it

shouldturnsohotnow.”“Yes, indeed.Rightupuntilrecentlywe’vebeenshiveringinoursummerclothesandthen,

quitesuddenly,thedaybeforeyesterday,thisawfulheatbegan.”“Crabswalksidewaysbut thisyear’sweatherwalksbackward.Maybeit’s tryingtoteach

usthetruthofthatChinesesayingthatsometimesitisreasonabletoactcontrarytoreason.”“Comeagain,”saysMrs.Sneazewho’snotmuchuponChineseproverbs.“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 evermore odd remarks. Inevitably, my master’s wife, marooned in ignorance, is left behind asWaverhousedriftsoffbeyondthehorizonsofhercomprehension.However,havingsorecentlyburnther fingersover thatbitofunreasonableChinese reason,shewasnotout looking forafurther scorching. So, “Oh,” she says, and sits silent. Which doesn’t, of course, suitWaverhouse.Hehasn’tgonetothetroubleofdragginginHercules’bullnottobeaskedaboutit.

“Mrs.Sneaze,”hesays,driventothedirectquestion,“doyouknowabout‘Hercules’bull’?”“No,”shesays,“Idon’t.”“Ah,wellifyoudon’t,shallItellyouaboutit?”Sinceshecanhardlyaskhimtoshutup,“Pleasedo,”sheanswers.“OnedayinancienttimesHerculeswasleadingabullalong.”“ThisHercules,washesomesortofcowherd?”“Ohno,notacowherd.Indeedhewasneitheracowherdnoryet theownerofachainof

butcher-shops.Inthosefardaystherewere,infact,nobutcher-shopsinGreece.”“Ah!Soit’saGreekstory?Youshould’vetoldmesoatthestart...”AtleastMrs.SneazehasshownthatsheknowsthatGreeceisthenameofacountry.“ButImentionedHercules,didn’tI?”“IsHerculesanothernameforGreece?”“Well,HerculeswasaGreekhero.”“NowonderIdidn’tknowhisname!Well,whatdidhedo?”“Likeyou,dearlady,hefeltsleepy.Andinfacthefellasleep...”“Really!Mr.Waverhouse!”“Andwhileheslept,alongcameVulcan’sson.”“Nowwho’sthisVulcanfellow?”“Vulcanwasablacksmith,andhissonstoleHercules’bull,butinaratherspecialway.Can

youguesswhat hedid?Hedragged thebull off by its tail.Well,whenHerculeswokeuphebegansearchingforhisbullandbellowing,‘Bull,whereareyou?’Buthecouldn’tfinditandhecouldn’t track it down because, you see, the beast had been hauled off backward so thereweren’t any hoofmarks pointing to where it had gone. Pretty smart, don’t you agree? For ablacksmith’sson?”Draggedoff trackbyhisown tale,Waverhousehasalready forgotten thathehadbeendiscussingtheunseasonableheat.

“Bytheway,”herattledon,“what’syourhusbanddoing?Takinghisusualnap?Whensuch

noddings-offarementionedinChinesepoetrytheysoundrefined,evenromantic,butwhen,asinyourhusband’scase, theyhappenday in,dayout, thewholeconceptbecomesvulgarized.Hehas reducedaneternaleleganceof life toadaily formof fragmentarydeath.Forgivemyaskingyou,”hebringshisspeechtoasuddenconclusion,“butpleasedogoandwakehimup.”

Mrs.Sneazeseems toagreewith theWaverhouseviewofnapsasa formofpiecemealperishingfor,asshegetstoherfeet,shesays,“Indeedhe’sprettyfargone.Ofcourseit’sbadforhishealth.Especiallyrightontopofhislunch.”

“Talking of lunch, the fact is I’ve not had mine yet.” Waverhouse drops broad hintscomposedly,magnanimously,asthoughtheywerepearlsofwisdom.

“Oh,Iamsorry.Ineverthoughtofit.It’slunchtime,ofcourse...Well,wouldyouperhaps likesomerice,pickles,seaweed, things likethat,anda littlehot

tea?”“Nothanks.Icanmanagewithoutthem.”“Well,aswehadn’trealizedyouwouldbehonoringustoday,we’venothingspecialwecan

offeryou.”Notunnaturally,Mrs.Sneazerespondswithanedgeofsarcasm,which isallquitewastedonWaverhouse.

“Noand indeedno,”he imperturbably replies, “neitherwithhot teanorwithheatedwater.Onmywayhere,Iorderedalunchtobesenttoyourhouseandthat’swhatI’mgoingtoeat.”Inhismostmatter-of-factmannerWaverhousestateshisquiteoutrageousactions.

Mrs.Sneazesaid,“Oh!”Butinthatonegaspedsoundthreeseparate“oh’s”weremingled:her “oh” of blank surprise, her “oh” of piqued annoyance, and her “oh” of gratified relief. Atwhichmomentmymastercomestotteringinfromthestudy.Hehadjustbeguntodozeoffintosleep when it became so unusually noisy that he was hauled back into consciousness, likesomethingbeingscrapedagainstitsnaturalgrain.

“You’re a rowdy fellow,” he grumbles sourly through his yawns. “Always the same. JustwhenIwasgettingofftosleep,feelingsopleasantandrelaxed...”

“Aha!So you’re awake! I’mextremely sorry to havedisturbed your heavenly repose, butmissingitjustonceinawhilemayevendoyougood.Pleasecomeandbeseated.”Waverhousemakes himself an agreeable host tomymaster inmymaster’s house.Mymaster sits downwithoutaword,and,takingacigarettefromaboxofwoodencrazy-work,beginstopuffat it.Then, happening to notice the hat which Waverhouse had tossed away into a corner, heobserves,“Iseeyou’veboughtahat.”

“Whatd’youthinkofit?”WaverhousefetchesitandholdsitproudlyoutfortheSneazestoinspect.

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

“This hat, dear lady, is a handy hat. And as obedient as a man could wish. Look.” Heclenchedhishandintoaknobblyfistanddroveitsharplyintothesideofhispreciouspanama.A fist-shaped dent remained, but before Mrs. Sneaze could finish her gasp of surprise,Waverhousewhipped his hand inside the hat, gave it a sharpish shove, and the hat poppedbackintoshape.Hethengraspedthehatbyoppositesidesofitsbrimandsquasheditflatasdough beneath a rolling pin.Next he rolled it up, as onemight roll a light strawmat. Finally,saying,“Didn’tIsayitwashandy,”betuckeditawayintothebreast-foldofhiskimono.

“Howextraordinary!”Mrs.Sneazemarvelsas if shewerewatching thatmastermagicianKitensai Shoichi performing one of his most dazzling sleights of hand. Waverhouse himself

appearstobebittenbythespiritofhisownactfor,producingfromhisleft-handsleevethetubeofhathe’dthrustintothebreastofhiskimono,heannounces,“Notascratchuponit.”Hethenbats the hat back into its original shape and, sticking his forefinger into its crown, spins itaroundlikeaconjuror’splate.Ithoughttheactwasover,butWaverhouseproceededneatlytofliphiswhirlingheadgearoverhisheadandontothefloorbehindhim,where,astheclimaxofhisperformance,hesatdownsquarelyonitwithaheavysolidwhump.

“You’re sure it’s all right?” Even my master looks somewhat concerned. Mrs. Sneaze,genuinelyanxious, squeaks, “Please, you’dbetter stop. Itwouldbe terrible to spoil so fineahat.”

Only itsownerwants tokeepgoing. “But it can’tbespoiled.That’s thewonderof it.”Heheavesthecrumpledobjectoutfromunderhisbottomandjamsitonhishead.Itsprangbackintoshape.

“Indeedit’saverystronghat.Isn’titextraordinary?Quiteamazing.”Mrs.Sneazeismoreandmoreimpressed.“Oh, there’s nothing extraordinary about it. It’s just that kind of hat,” says Waverhouse

smirkingoutfromunderitsbrim.Amoment laterMrs.Sneaze turns toherhusband. “I thinkyou, too,hadbetterbuyahat

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

Sneazepersists.“Ohdear.Thatwasapity.”“That’swhy I thinkheshouldbuyahat likeyours,strongandsplendiferous.”Shehasno

ideawhatpanamahatscancost,sonothingmoderatestheurgencyofherproddings.“Really,mydear,youmustgetone,justlikethis...”

At this point Waverhouse produces from his right sleeve a pair of scissors in a scarletsheath. “Mrs. Sneaze,” he says, “forget the hat for a moment and take a look at thesescissors.They,too,arefantasticallyhandy.Youcanusetheminfourteendifferentways.”If ithadn’t been for those scissors my master would have succumbed to wifely pressure in thematterofthehat.Hewasextremelyluckythattheinbornfemalesenseofcuriositydivertedhiswife’sattention.ItcrossedmymindthatWaverhousehadactedofintent,helpfullyandtactfully,butaftercarefulconsiderationI’veconcludedthatitwaspuregoodluckthatsavedmymasterfrompainfuloutlayonapanamahat.

No sooner has Mrs. Sneaze responded with a, “What are the fourteen ways?” thanWaverhouseisoffagainintriumphantlyfullflow.“Ishallexplaineachofthem,solistencarefully.Allright?Youseehereacrescent-shapedopening?Onesticksone’scigarinheretonipitslip-endbefore smoking.This gadget downhereby thehandle can cut throughwireas though itweremerenoodle.Now if youput thescissors flatdownuponpaper, there’sa ruler foryou.Here,ontheback-edgeofthisblade,there’sascaleengravedsothescissorscanbeusedasameasure.

Overherethere’safileforone’sfingernails.Right?Nowthen,ifyoupushthisblade-tipout,youcantwistitaroundandaroundtodrivescrews.Thus,itservesasahammer.Andyoucanusethisblade-tiptoleveropenwiththegreatestofcaseeventhemostcarefullynailedlid.

Furthermore, the end of this other blade, being ground to so fine a point, makes anexcellentgimlet.With this thingyoucanscrapeoutanymistakes inyourwriting.Andfinally, if

youtakethewholethingtopieces,yougetaperfectlygoodknife.Now,Mrs.Sneaze,there’sactuallyonemoreespeciallyinterestingfeature.Hereinthehandlethere’satinyballaboutthesizeofafly.Youseeit?Well,takeapeeprightintoit.”

“No.I’drathernot.I’msureyou’regoingtomakefunofmeagain.”“I’mgrievedthatyoushouldhavesolittleconfidenceinme.But,justthisonce,takemeat

my word and have a little look. No? Oh, please, just one quick squint.” He handed her thescissors.

Mrs. Sneaze takes them very gingerly and, setting her eyeball close to themagic spot,doesherbesttoseeintoit.

“Well?”“Nothing.It’sallblack.”“Allblack?Thatwon’tdo.Turnalittletowardthepaper-windowandlookagainstthelight.

Don’ttiltthescissorslikethat.Right,that’sit.Nowyoucansee,can’tyou?”“Oh,my!It’saphotograph,isn’tit?Howcanatinyphotographbefixedinhere?”“That’s what’s so remarkable.”Mrs. Sneaze andWaverhouse are now absorbed in their

conversation.Mymaster,silentnowforsometimebutintriguedbytheideaofthephotograph,seemssuddenlypossessedbyanurgetosee it.Heaskshiswife to lethimbutshe,hereyestill glued to the scissors, just babbles on. “How very lovely. What a beautiful study of thenude.”Shewon’tbepartedfromthescissors.

“Comeon,letmeseeit.”“Youwait.What lovely tresses, all the way down to her hips. Howmovingly her face is

lifted.Ratheratallgirl,I’dsay,butindeedabeauty!”“Damnit,letmesee.”Mymaster,nowdistinctlymarked,flaresupathiswife.“Thereyouarethen.Gawpawaytoyourheart’scontent.”Asshewashandingthescissors

over, the servant trundles in from the kitchenwith an announcement thatWaverhouse’smealhas been delivered. Indeed she carries with her two lidded bamboo plates loadedwith coldbuckwheatnoodles.

“Aha,” saysWaverhouse, “sohere,Mrs.Sneaze, is the lunch I boughtmyself.With yourpermission,Iproposetoeatitnow.”Hebowsrespectfully.Asheseemstohavespokenhalfinearnestandhalfinjest,Mrs.

Sneaze isata losshowbest toanswer,soshe justsays lightly, “Pleasedo,”andsettlesbacktowatch.

Atlonglastmymasterdragshiseyesawayfromthephotographandremarks,“Inweatherashotasthis,noodlesarebadforone’shealth.”

“Nodanger.Whatonelikesseldomupsetsone.InfactI’veheard,”saysWaverhouse,liftingoneof the lids, “thata littleofwhatyou fancydoesyougood.”Heappearssatisfiedbywhathe’s seen on the plate for he goes straight on to observe, “Inmy opinion noodles that havebeen left to stand are, like heavily bearded men, never to be relied upon.” He adds greenhorseradishtohisdishofsoysauceandstirsawaylikemad.

“Steadyon,”saysmymaster ingenuinelyanxioustones,“ifyouput inthatmuchspice it’llbetoohottoeat.”

“Noodlesmust beeatenwith soy sauceandgreenhorseradish. I bet youdon’t even likenoodles.”

“Idoindeed.Thenormalkind.”

“That’sthestuffforpack-horsedrivers.Amaninsensitivetocoldbuckwheatnoodlesspicedlikethisisamantobedevoutlypitied.”Sosaying,Waverhousedigshiscedar-woodchopsticksdeepintothemassofnoodles,scoopsupaheftyhelpingandliftsitsometwoinches.“Didyouknow,Mrs.Sneaze,thatthereareseveralstylesforeatingnoodles?

Rawbeginnersalwaysusetoomuchsauceandthentheymunchthisdelicacylikesomanycattle chewing the cud. That way, the exquisite savor of the noodles is inevitably lost. Thecorrectprocedure is toscoop themup like this. . . ”Waverhouseraiseshischopsticksabovethebambooplateuntila foot-longcurtainofnoodlesdangles in theair.He looksdownat theplatetocheckthathe’sliftedhisladingclearoftheplatebutfindsadozenorsoofthetail-endsstilllyingcoiledwithinit.

“Whatvery longnoodles!Look,Mrs.Sneaze,aren’t they the longest thatyoueversaw?”Waverhousedemandsthathisaudienceshouldparticipate,ifonlybyinterjections.

“Indeed,theyarelengthy!”sheanswers,asifimpressedbyhisdissertation.“Now, you dip just one-third of these long strands in the sauce, then swallow them in a

singlegulp.Youmustn’tchewthem.Masticationdestroystheiruniqueflavor.Thewholepointofnoodles is in theway theyslitherdownone’s throat.”He thereuponraiseshischopsticks toadramaticheightandtheendsofthelongeststrandsatlastswingclearoftheplate.Then,ashestarts to lower his arm again, the tail-ends of the noodles slowly start submerging into thesaucedishheldinhislefthand.

Which,inaccordancewithArchimedes’Law,causesthesauceslowlytoriseinthedishasits volume is displaced by noodles.However, since the dishwas originally eight-tenths full ofsauce, the levelof the liquid reached itsbrimbeforeWaverhousecouldgetevenone-quarter,letalonetheconnoisseur’sone-third,ofthelengthofhiswrigglingnoodlesintothesauce.

The chopsticks appear paralyzed about five inches above the dish and so remain for anawkwardpausewhileWaverhouseconsidershisdilemma. Ifhe lowers thenoodlesonemorefraction of an inch, the saucemust overflow, but if he does not lower them, hemust fail toconform with the standards he has established for the proper style of stuffing oneself withnoodles. No wonder he looksmoithered and half-hesitates. Then, suddenly, jerking his headand neck forward and downward like a striking snake, he jabbed his mouth at thechopsticks,Therewasaslushyslurpingsound,his throttle surgedand recededonceor twiceandthenoodleswereallgone.

Afewtearsoozedfromthecornersofhiseyes.To thisday Iamnotsurewhether thosetear dropswere a tribute to the strength of the greenhorseradish or evidenceof the painfuleffortsuchgurgitationmustinvolve.

“What an extraordinary performance! How on earth,” enquiresmy flabbergastedmaster,“doyoucontrivetogulpdownsuchamassofvermicelliinoneconsuminggo?”

“Amazing,isn’the!”Mrs.Sneazeisequallylostinadmiration.Waverhousesaysnothing,putsdownthechopsticks,andpatshischestaneasingcouple

oftimes.“Well,Mrs.Sneaze,”heeventuallyanswers,“aplateofnoodlesshouldbeconsumedinthreeandahalf,atmostinfour,mouthfuls.Ifyoudragouttheprocesslongerthanthat,thenoodleswillnottastetheirbest.”Hewipeshisfacewithahandkerchiefandsitsbacktotakeawell-earnedbreather.

AtthispointwhoshouldwalkinbutColdmoon.Hisfeetaresoiledwithsummerdustbut,fornoreasonIcanoffer,despitethebroilingheathe’swearingawinterhat.

“Hello!Herecomesourhandsomehero!However,sinceI’mstillinthemiddleofeating,you

must excuseme.”Waverhouse, totally unabashed, settles down to finishing off the noodles.This time, rather sensibly, he makes no effort to give a repeat performance as a vermicellivirtuoso,andisconsequentlysparedtheindignitiesofneedingsupportfromhandkerchiefsandbreathersbetweenmouthfuls.Eatingnormallyheemptiesboth thebambooplates inamatterofminutes.

“Coldmoon,” saysmymaster, “how’s your thesis coming along?” AndWaverhouse adds,“Since thedelectableMissGoldfield is yearning tobeyours, youshould incommonkindnesssubmitthefinishedtextasfastaspossible.”

Coldmoonbreaksasusualintohisdisconcertinglyidiotgrin.“Inasmuchaswaiting isacrueltytoher, I’d like indeedtofinish itquickly,”hereplies,“but

the nature of its subject is such that a great deal of drudging research is unavoidable.” Hespokewithmeasuredseriousnessofthingshecouldn’tpossiblyhimselfbetakingseriously.

“Quite so,” says Waverhouse adopting Coldmoon’s style with contra-puntal skill. “Thesubjectbeingwhatit is,naturallyitcannotbehandledjustasColdmoonwishes.Nevertheless,thatnasalityhermotherbeingthesnorterthatsheis,naturallyitwouldbeprudenttotrimone’ssailstothewaysheblows.”

Theonly relativelysensiblecommentcomes frommymaster. “Whatdidyousaywas thesubjectofyourthesis?”

“It is entitled ‘The Effects of Ultraviolet Rays uponGalvanic Action in the Eyeball of theFrog.’”

“Remarkable. Justwhatonemightexpect fromColdmoon. I likeboth the rhythmand thesubstantial originality of that last bit, the electrifying shock in that ‘eyeball of the frog.’ Howaboutit,Sneaze?OughtwenottoinformtheGoldfieldsofatleastthetitlebeforeourscholarfinisheshispaper?”

Mymaster,disregardingthesewaggeriesfromWaverhouse,asksColdmoon,“Cansuchasubjectreallyinvolvemuchdrudgeryofresearch?”

“Ohyes, it’sacomplicatedquestion.Foronething,thestructureofthelensintheeyeballof the frog isbynomeanssimple.Hundreds,even thousands,ofexperimentswillhave tobecarriedout.ForastartI’mplanningtoconstructaroundglassball.”

“Aglassball?Surely,youcouldfindonequiteeasilyinaglassshop?”“Oh,no,farfromit,”saysColdmoon,throwingouthischestalittle.“To begin with, things like circles and straight lines are pure geometrical concepts, and

neither actual circles nor actual straight lines can, in this imperfect world, ever realize suchidealities.”

“If they canneverexist, hadn’t youbetter abandon theattempt to create them?”butts inWaverhouse.

“Well,IthoughtI’dbeginbymakingaballsuitableformyexperimentsand,infact,Istartedonittheotherday.”

“Andhaveyoufinishedit?”asksmymasterasifthetaskwereaneasymatter.“Howcould I?”saysColdmoon,but then, realizingperhaps thathe’sgettingclose toself-

contradiction,hurriesontoexplain.“It’sreallyfrightfullydifficult.AfterI’vefileditforsometime,Inoticethattheradiusononesideistoolong,soIgrinditfractionallyshorter,butthisleadsontotrouble,becausenowIfindtheradiusontheothersideexcessive.When,withgreateffortIgrind that excess off, the entire ball becomes misshapen. After I’ve at last corrected thatdistortion,Idiscoverthatthediametricaldimensionshave,somehoworother,oncemoregone

agley. The glass ball, originally the size of an apple, soon becomes a strawberry and, as Ipatientlystruggleforperfection,itrapidlyshrinkstonomorethanabean.Eventhen,it’snotaperfectsphere.Believeme,Ihavestriven...Ihavededicatedmywholelifetothegrindingofglassballs.

SinceNewYear’sDayno lessthansixof them,admittedlyofdifferingsizes,havemeltedaway tonothing in thesehands. . .”Hespeakswithsuch rarepassion thatnoonecouldsaywhetherornothe’stellingthetruth.

“Wheredoyoudothisgrinding?”“Intheuniversitylaboratoryofcourse.Istartgrindinginthemorning.Itakeashortrestfor

lunch,andthencontinuegrindinguntilthelightfails.It’snotaneasyjob.”“D’youmean to say that yougodown to theuniversity dayafter day, includingSundays,

simply togrindglassballs? Is thatwhatkeepsyou,asyou’realways tellingus,so inexorablybusy?”

“That’s correct. At this stage in my studies I have no choice but to grind glass ballsmorning,noon,andnight.”

“Iseemtorecall,”saysWaverhouse,nowverymuchinhiselement,“aKabukiplayinwhichonecharactergainshisendsbydisguisinghimselfasagardener.”Hestrikesanattitudeandquotes, “‘As Iwas luckilybroughtupamongciviliannon-officials,nooneknowsmy face:so Ienter as a cultivator of chrysanthemums.’ You, Coldmoon, seem bent on gaining your endsdisguisedasacultivatorofcrystals.For I’msure thatwhen themotherofallnoses learnsofyourardor,yoursingle-mindeddedicationtoyourwork,yourselflessdevotiontothegrindingofglassballs,shecannotfailtowarmtowardyou.

Incidentally, the other day I had somework to do in the university library and, as I wasleaving, I chanced to bump into an old colleague, Knarle-Damson, at the door. Thinking itpeculiar that, years after his graduation, he should still be using the library, I said to him,‘Knarle-Damson,’ I said, ‘I’mmost impressed,Knarle-Damson, to find youstill imbibingat thefountoflearning.’Hegavemeaveryoddlookandexplainedthat,farfromwantingtoconsultabook,he’dbeencaughtshortashepassedtheuniversityandhadjustpoppedinforapee.Acurious use for a seat of learning. However, it’s just occurred to me that you and Knarle-Damson both exemplify, though in contrasting styles, how tomisuse a university. Youwill, ofcourse,have read thatChineseclassicwhich isconstructed frompairsofparallelanecdotes,oneancientandonemodern,about famousmen. Iamproposingtobringoutanewselectionalongsimilar linesand,withyourpermission,will includethereinashortsectiononglassballsandurinals.”

Mymaster,however,tookamoreseriousviewofthematter.“It’sallverywell,”hesaid,“topassyourdaysfrottingawayatglassbutwhendoyouexpecttofinishyourthesisandgetyourdoctorate?”

“Atmypresentrateofprogress,maybeintenyears.”Coldmoonseemsfarlessconcernedthanmymasteraboutthedoctorate.

“Tenyears,eh?Ithinkyou’dbetterbringyourgrindingtoahaltrathersoonerthanthat.”“Tenyearsisanoptimisticestimate.Itcouldwelltakemetwenty.”“That’sterrible.Youcan’t,then,hopeforadoctorateforalongtime.”“No.OfcourseI’dbeonlytoohappytogetitquickly,andsosettheyounglady’smindat

rest, but until I’ve got the glass ball properly ground, I can’t even launch out on my firstexperiment.”Coldmoon’svoice trailedoff intosilenceas thoughhismindwerestaring into the

lensofa frog’seyeballbut,afterabriefpause,hecontinued.“There’snoneed,youknow, togetsoworriedaboutit.TheGoldfieldsarefullyawarethatIdonothingbutgrindawayattheseglassballs.Asamatteroffact,IgavethemafairlydetailedexplanationwhenIsawthemjustafewdaysback.”Hesmiledinquietcomplacence.

Mrs.Sneazewho,thoughhardlyunderstandingawordofit,hasbeenlisteningtothethreemen’sconversation,interjectsinapuzzledvoice,

“But the whole Goldfield family has been away at the seaside, out at Oiso, since lastmonth.”

ThisflummoxesevenColdmoon,buthemaintainsapretenseofinnocence.“Howveryodd,”hesays,“Ican’tunderstandit.”

ThereareoccasionswhenWaverhousefulfillsausefulsocialfunction.Whena conversation flags,whenone is embarrassed,whenonebecomes sleepy,when

one is troubled, then, as on all other occasions, Waverhouse can be relied upon to havesomething immediateanddiverting to say. “Tohavemet someonea fewdaysback inTokyowhohadgone toOiso lastmonth isengaginglymysterious. It is anexample, is it not, of theexchangeofsouls.Suchaphenomenonislikelytooccurwhenthesentimentofrequitedloveisparticularlypoignant.Whenonehearsofsuchahappening,itsoundslikeadream,but,evenifit isadream, it isadreammoreactual thanreality.Forsomeonelikeyou,Mrs.Sneaze,whoweremarried toSneazenot because you lovedhimor becausehe loved you, life has nevergivenanopportunityforyoutounderstandtheextraordinarynatureoflove:soitisonlynaturalthatyoushouldfindoddthedisparitiesyoumentioned...”

“Idon’tknowwhyyoushouldsaysuchnastythings.Whyareyoualwaysgettingatmelikethis?”Mrs.SneazeroundssnappishlyonWaverhouse.

“What’smore,youyourselfdon’t look likeamanwhohasanyexperienceof thepangsoflove.”Mymasterbringsupreinforcementsinsurprisingsupportofthefrontlinepositionmannedbyhiswife.

“Well, sinceallmy loveaffairswereover longbefore theninedaysback thatmighthavemade themwonders,youdoubtlessdon’t remember them.But it remainsa fact that itwasadisappointmentinlovethathasmademe,tothisday,alonelybachelor.”Waverhouseleveledasteadylookuponeachofhislisteners,oneaftertheother.

ItwasMrs.Sneazewholaughed,thoughsheadded,“Buthowinteresting.”Mymastersaid,“Bosh,”andturnedtostareoffintothegarden.Coldmoon,thoughhegrinned,saidpolitely,“Iwouldlike,formyownfuturebenefit,tohear

thestoryofyourancientlove.”“My story, too, contains elements of the mysterious. So much so that, if he were not

lamentably dead, it must have moved the interest of the late Lafcadio Hearn. I am, I mustconfess,alittlereluctanttotellthispainfultalebut,sinceyouinsist,I’llconfideinyouallonthesoleconditionthatyoulistencarefullytotheveryend.”Theypromised,andhestarts.

“AswellasIcanrecollect...itwas...hum...howmanyyearsagowasit,Iwonder...Nevermind,let’ssayitwasmaybefifteenorsixteenyearsago.”

“Incorrigible,”snortsmymaster.“Youdohaveaverypoormemory,don’tyou,Mr.Waverhouse?”Mrs.Sneazeputsinajabbingoar.Coldmoon is the only person who, keeping the promise, says nothing but wears the

expressionofamaneagerlywaitingfortheremainderofastory.

“Anyway, itwas in thewinter,someyearsback.Havingpassed through theValleyof theBambooShootsatKambarainEchigo,IwasclimbingupthroughthePassoftheOctopusTraponmywaytotheAizuterritory.”

“Whatodd-namedplaces!”Mymasterinterruptsagain.“Oh, do keep quiet and listen. This is getting interesting.” Mrs. Sneaze reins back her

husband.“Unfortunately, it was getting dark. I lost my way. I was hungry. So, in the end, I was

obliged to knock at the door of a hut way up in the middle of the Pass. Explaining mypredicament,Ibeggedforanight’slodging.Anddoyouknow,theminutethatIsawthefaceofthe girl who, thrusting a lit candle out toward me, answered, ‘Of course, please enter,’ mywhole body began to tremble. Since that moment I’ve been very acutely conscious of thesupernaturalpowerofthatblindforcewecalllove.”

“Fancy that,” saysMrs.Sneaze. “Are there really, Iwonder,manybeautifulgirls livingupthereinthosegodforsakenmountains?”

“IthardlymattersthatI foundher inthemountains.Itmight justaswellhavebeenbesidetheseaside.But,ohMrs.Sneaze,wouldthatyoucouldhaveseenher,ifonlyforaglance...Sheworeherhairinthehigh-dressedfashionofamarriageablegirl...”

Mrs.Sneaze,renderedspeechlessbythewonderofitall,givesventtoalong-drawnsigh.“Onentering thehut, I foundabig fireplacesunk in thecenterofaneight-mat room,and

soon the four of us—the girl, her grandfather, her grandmother, and myself—were sittingcomfortablyaroundit.TheysaidImustbeveryhungry.AndIwas.Very.SoIaskedforsomefood,anything,nomatterwhat,solongasImighthaveitquickly.Theoldmansaid,‘It’sseldomwehavevisitors,so let’spreparesnake-rice inhonorofourguest.’Now then, this iswhere Icometothestoryofmydisappointmentinlove,solistencarefully.”

“Ofcoursewe’lllistencarefully,”saysColdmoon,“butIfindithardtobelievethatevenoutinthewildsofEchigotherearesnakesaroundinthewinter.”

“Well, that’sa fairobservation.But ina romanticstorysuchas this,oneshouldn’tbe tooscrupulousoverthelogicofitsdetails.Why,inoneofKyoka’snovels,you’llfindacrabcrawlingoutofthesnow.”

“Isee,”saidColdmoonwhothereuponresumedhisseriousattitudeoflistening.“In those days I was outstandingly capable, really in the champion class, of eating ugly

foods, but, beingmore or lesswearied of locusts, slugs, red frogs, and such like, I thoughtsnake-ricesoundedlikeawelcomechange.SoItoldtheoldmanI’dbedelighted.Hethensetapotonthefireandputsomericeinsideit.Slowlyitbegantocook.Theonlyodditywasthattherewereabouttenholesofvarioussizesinthelidofthepot.Throughtheseholes,thesteamcame fuffingup. Iwas really fascinatedby theeffectand I remember thinkinghow ingeniousthesecountrypeoplewere.Justthen,theoldmansuddenlystoodupandwentoutofthehut.Awhilelater,hecamebackwithalargebasketunderhisarmand,whenheputitcasuallydownbeside the hearth, I took a look inside.Well, there theywere. Snakes, and all of them longones,coileduptight,asColdmoonwillappreciate,intheirwintertorpor.”

“Pleasestoptalkingaboutsuchnastythings.It’squiterevolting,”saysMrs.Sneazewithagirlishshudder.

“OhIcan’tpossiblystop,forallthesematterslieatthebottomofmybroken-heartedness.Well,byandby,theoldmanliftedthepot’slidwithhislefthandwhilewithhisotherhenimblygrabbedupawadofsnakes fromthebasket.Hethrewtheminto thepotandpoppedthe lid

backon.AndImustadmitthat,thoughI’mneithersqueamishnorparticularlyscaredofsnakes,theoldman’snonchalantactiondid,atthatmoment,leavemegasping.”

“Oh, please do stop. I can’t stand gruesome stories.” Mrs. Sneaze is actually quitefrightened.

“VerysoonnowI’llbecomingtothebroken-heartedbit,sopleasejustdobepatient.Well,barelyaminutehadpassedwhen,tomygreatsurprise,asnake’sheadpoppedoutofaholeinthe lid. I’d barely realized what it was before another one popped its face out from aneighboringhole,and I’dbarely registered that secondheadbeforeanotherandanotherandanothereruptedintoviewuntilthewholelidwasstuddedwithsnakes’faces.”

“Whydidtheysticktheirheadsout?”asksmymaster.“Because,inagony,theyweretryingtocrawlawayfromtheheatbuildingupinsidethepot.

After awhile the oldman said, speaking, naturally, in his local dialect, something like, ‘Rightthen,give’emtheoldheave-ho.’Hiswifesaid, ‘Aye’andthegirlsaid, ‘Yes’andeachofthem,graspingasnake’sheadfirmly,gaveitasavageyank.Whilethefleshremainedinthepot,theheadandalengthofbonescamewagglingfreeintheirhands.”

“Whatyoumightcallbonedsnake?”asksColdmoonwithalaugh.“Yes,indeed.Boned,orevenspineless.Butwasn’titallexceedinglyclever?Theyliftedthe

lid, took a ladle, stirred the rice and the snake-flesh into one greatwonderfulmishmash andtheninvitedmetotuckin.”

“Didyouactuallyeatit?”asksmymasterinaslightlyedgysortofvoice.Hiswifemakesasourfaceandgrumblinglycomplains.“Idosowishyou’dallstoptalking

aboutit.I’mfeelingsickrightdowntomystomach,andIshan’tdareeatfordays.”“Youonlysaythat,Mrs.Sneaze,becauseyou’veneverhadthelucktotastesnake-rice.If

youbuttrieditonce,you’dneverforgetitsexquisiteflavor.”“Never.Nothingonearthcouldinducemetotouchthenastystuff.”“Anyway,Idinedwell.Iforgotthebittercold.Istudiedthegirl’sfacetomyheart’scontent

and, though I could happily have stared at her forever, when they suggested I should go tosleep,IrememberedthatIwasinfactdogtiredfrommytraveling.SoI tooktheiradviceandlaiddown,andbeforelongeverythingblurredandIwasfastasleep.”

“Andwhathappenedthen?”Thistimeit’sMrs.Sneazewhourgeshimtocontinue.“WhenIwokeupnextmorning,heartachehadsetin.”“Didanythinghappentoyou?”asksMrs.Sneaze.“No,nothingspecialhappenedtome.Ijustwokeupand,whileIwassmokingacigarette,I

chanced to lookout through thebackwindow,and there Isaw,washing its face in thewaterflowingfromabamboo-pipe,someoneasbaldasakettle.”

“Theoldman,”asksmymaster,“ortheoldwoman?”“At first I couldn’t tell. I sat therewatching it in vague distaste for quite some time and,

when at last the kettle turned towardsme, I got the shock ofmy life. For it was the girl towhomIhadalreadylostmyheart.”

“Butyousaidearlierthatsheworeherhair inthestyleofamarriageablegirl,”mymasterpromptlyobjects.

“Thenightbefore,unmitigatedbeauty:inthemorning,unmitigatedkettle.”“Really!What balderdash will you trot out next.” As is usual when he feels put out, my

masterstaresattheceiling.“Naturally, I was most deeply shocked, even a little frightened, but, making myself

inconspicuous, I continued to watch. At long last the kettle finished washing its face, featlydonned the wig waiting on a nearby stone and then came tripping primly back to the hut. Iunderstoodeverything.ButthoughIunderstood,Ihavefromthatmomentbeenamanincurablywretched,amanwithabrokenheart.”

“Thesilliestbrokenheart thateverwas.Observe,mydearColdmoon,howgayand livelyhecontrivestobedespitehisbrokenheart.”TurningtowardColdmoon,mymasterregistershislowopinionofhisfriend’sdisastrousloveaffair.

“But,” saysColdmoon, “if thegirl hadnot beenbald, and ifWaverhousehadbrought herbackwithhimtoTokyo,hemightnowbelivelierthanheis.Thefactremainsthatit isinfinitelypitiable that the young lady happened to be bald. But tellme,Waverhouse, howdid it comeaboutthatagirlsoyoungshouldhavelostherhair?”

“Well,naturallyI’vethoughtaboutthattoo,andI’mcertainnowthatthedepilationmustbedueentirelytoover-indulgenceinsnake-rice.Itgoestothehead,youknow.Itdrivesthebloodupward,damagingthecapillariesinthefolliclesofthescalp.”

“I’msogladnothingsoterriblehappenedtoyou,”saysMrs.Sneazewithanundertoneofsarcasm.

“ItistruethatIwassparedtheafflictionofgoingbald,butinstead,asyoucansee,Ihavebecomea presbyope.” Takingoff his goldrimmed spectacles, he polishes themcarefullywithhispockethandkerchief.

Therewasashortsilence.Tobeapresbyopesoundedsoawfulthatnonedaredaskforanexplanation.Butmymaster,possiblybeingmadeofsternerstuff,possiblybecauseheknowsthatnearsightednessismoreoftencausedbythepassingoftheyearsthanbyonenight’smealofsnake-rice,wasnotyetdone.

“I seem to remember,” he eventually said,“that youmentioned somemystery that wouldhavemovedtheinterestofLafcadioHearn.Whatmystery?”

“Did she buy the wig or simply pick it up, and, if she picked it up, where? That,” saidWaverhouse,replacinghisspectaclesonhisnose,“isthemystery.TothisdayIcannotworkitout.”

“It’sjustlikelisteningtoacomicstoryteller,”saysMrs.Sneaze.AsWaverhouse’s improbable talehadcome to its conclusion, I thoughthemight shut-up.

Butno.Heappearsbynatureincapableofkeepingquietunlessactuallygagged.Forhe’satitagainalready.

“My disappointment in love was, of course, a bitter experience: but had I married thatheavenly girl in ignorance of kettledom, thematter would have remained a lifelong cause offriction.Onehastobecareful.

Inmatterslikemarriage,onetendsonlytodiscoverattheverylastmomenthiddendefectsin unexpected places. I therefore advise you, Coldmoon, not to waste your youth in futileyearningsor in pointlessdespair but to keepongrindingawayat your balls of glasswithaneasymindandheart.”

“I’dbehappy,”answersColdmoon,“todonothingmore.However, theGoldfield ladies, tomyconsiderablebotheration,dokeeponatme.”

Hegrimacesinexaggeratedannoyance.“True. You are, in your case, somewhat put upon. But there are many comic cases of

peoplethrustingthemselvesforwardtoinvitedisquiet.Take, for example, the case of Knarle-Damson, that well-known piddler upon seats of

learning.Hiswasextremelyodd.”“Whatdidhedo?”asksmymaster,enteringintotheswingoftheconversation.“Well,itwaslikethis.Onceuponalong,longtimeago,hestayedattheEast-WestInnin

Shizuoka.Justforonenight,mindyou,butthatsameeveningheofferedmarriagetooneoftheservantsworkingthere.

Imyselfamprettyeasy-going,but Iwouldnot find iteasy togoas faras that.The factwas, that in those days one of themaids at that Inn, they called herSummer,was a ravingbeauty,and it justsohappened thatshe lookedafterKnarle-Damson’s room,sohecouldnothelpbutmeether.”

“Themeetingwasnodoubtfated,justlikeyoursinthatsomething-or-otherpass,”observesmymaster.

“Yes,thereissomeresemblancebetweenthecases.Indeed,thereareobvioussimilaritiesbetweenKnarle-Damsonandmyself.Anyway,heproposedtothisSummergirlbut,beforeshegaveheranswer,hefeltaneedforwatermelon.”

“Huh?”Mymaster looks puzzled. And not only he, for both hiswife andColdmoon cocktheirheadssidewaysas they try tosee theconnection.Waverhousedisregards themallandproceedsblithelywithhisstory.

“He summoned the girl and asked her if one could get a watermelon in Shizuoka. Shereplied that, though the townwasnotasup-to-dateasTokyo,even inShizuokawatermelonscould be had, and almost immediately she brought hima tray heaped highwith slices of thefruit.So,whilewaitingforheranswer,Knarle-Damsonscoffedthelot.Butbeforeshegaveheranswer,Knarle-Damsongot thegripes.Hegroanedaway likemadbut,since thatdidn’thelp,hesummonedthegirlagainandthistimeaskediftherewasadoctoravailable.Thegirlrepliedthat, though the townwas not as up-to-date as Tokyo, still, even in Shizuoka, doctors wereavailable,and inamatterofminutessheusheredone in tohis room.Thedoctor, incidentally,hadaveryoddname,somethinglikeHeaven-and-Earth,anywaysomethingobviouslycribbed,for effect, from the Chinese classics.Well, next morning when Knarle-Damson woke up, hewastofindhisgut-achegone,and,somefifteenminutesbeforehewasduetoleave,heagainsummoned the Summer girl and asked for her answer to his proposal of marriage. The girlreplied with laughter. She then said that down in Shizuoka it is possible to find doctors andwatermelonsat veryshortnoticebut that,even inShizuoka, few findbrides inasinglenight.Sheturned,wentoutoftheroomandthatwasthelasthesawofher.Andeversincethatday,Knarle-Damsonhasremained,likeme,amanscarredbyadisappointmentinlove.

Almost a recluse, he’ll only go to a librarywhen pressed there by his bladder.Which allgoestoshowthewickednessandcrueltyofwomen.”

Mymaster,mostunusually,comesoutthistimeinstrongsupportofWaverhouse’stheme.“How right you are,” he says, “how very right. Just the other day I was reading one of deMusset’splaysinwhichsomecharacterquotedOvidtotheeffectthat,lighterthanafeatherisdust; than dust, wind; than wind, woman; but than woman, nothing. A very penetratingobservation, isn’t it?Womenare indeed thedreadedend.”Mymasteradoptsanexceedinglycavalierattitude,buthiswife,ofcourse,isnotgoingtolettheseflourishespassunchallenged.

“Youcomplainaboutwomenbeinglight,butIcan’tseeanyparticularmerit inthefactthatmenareheavy.”

“Whatdoyoumeanbyheavy?”“Heavyisjustheavy.Likeyou.”

“Whyd’yousayI’mheavy?”“Becauseyouareheavy.Veryheavy.”They’reoffononeof theircrazyargumentsagain.Fora timeWaverhouse justsits there,

listening with amusement to their increasingly bitter bickering, but eventually he opens hismouth.

“Theway you two go on at each other, hammering away until you’re red in the face, isperhapstheclearestpossibledemonstrationthatyoutrulyarehusbandandwife.I’minclinedtothink thatmarriage in the old dayswas a lessmeaningful thing than it is today.”Noneof hislisteners could tell whether hewas teasing or complimenting his host and hostess but, sincetheirbickeringwashalted,hecouldwithprofithavejuststoppedthere.Butthat’snotthewayofaWaverhouse,whoalwayshasmoretosay.

“I hear that in the old days no woman would have dreamt of answering back to herhusband. From the man’s point of view it must have been like marriage to a deaf-mute. Iwouldn’thavelikedthat.Notonelittlebit.Icertainlypreferwomenwho,likeyou,Mrs.Sneaze,havethespirittoretort,‘Becauseyouareheavy,’orsomethingelseinthesamevein.

Ifone is tobemarried, itwouldbe insupportablyboringnever tohavethe livelinessofanoccasionalspat.Mymother,for instance,spentherwholelifesaying,‘Yes’and‘You’reright’ tomyfrequentlyfoolishfather.

She livedwithhim for twentyor soassentingyears,and inall that stretchshenever setfootoutsidethehouseexcepttogotoatemple.

Really, it’s too pitiful. There were, of course, advantages. Thus my mother has theenormoussatisfactionofknowingthatsheknowsbyheartthefullposthumousnamesofallmyfamily’sancestors.Thishideoussortofrelationshipdidnotexistsimplybetweenmanandwifebutextendedtocoverthewholerangeofrelationsbetweenthesexes.WhenIwasaladitwasquite out of the question for a youngman and a youngwoman even to playmusic together.Therewasnosuchthingasalovers’meeting.Theycouldn’tevenmeetintheworldofthespirit,likeColdmoonhere,byalongrangeswapofsouls.”

“Itmusthavebeenawful,”saysColdmoonwithasortofshrinkingbow.“Indeed it was. One weeps for one’s ancestors. Still, women in those days were not

necessarilyanybetterbehavedthanthewomenoftoday.You know, Mrs. Sneaze, people talk down their noses about the depraved conduct of

modern,girlstudents,butthetruthisthatthingswereverymuchworseinthoseso-calledgoodolddays.”

“Really?”Mrs.Sneazeisserious.“Of course. I’mnot justmaking it up. I canprovewhat I say.You,Sneaze,will probably

rememberthatwhenweweremaybefiveorsixthereweremengoingaboutinthestreetswithtwopanniershangingdownfromeachendoftheirshoulder-poles,andinthepanniers, likesomanypumpkins,theyhadlittlegirlsforsale.Youremember?”

“Idon’trememberanythingofthesort.”“Idon’tknowhowthingswereinyourpartofthecountry,butthat’smostcertainlytheway

itwasinShizuoka.”“Surelynot,”murmursMrs.Sneaze.“Doyoumeanthatforafact?”asksColdmooninatoneofvoicethatshowshecan’tquite

creditit.“Foranabsolute, rockhard fact. Icanevenrememberhowoncemy fatherhaggledover

thepriceofone.Imustthenhavebeenaboutsix.AsmyfatherandIwerecomingoutofasidestreetintothemainthoroughfare,wesawamanapproachinguswhowasbawlingout,‘Girlsforsale!Girlsforsale!Anyonewantababygirl?’Whenwereachedthecornerofthesecondblockin the street,we came face-to-facewith this hawker, just in front of thedraper’s. Isegen’s itwas. Isegen is quite the biggest draper in Shizuoka with a sixty-foot frontage and fivewarehouses.Havea lookat it thenext timeyou’redown there. It’s just thesame todayas itwas then.Quiteunaltered.A finebuilding.Thechiefclerk’sname isJimbei,andhesitsathiscounter with the invariable expression of amanwho’s lost hismother only three days back.Sitting right beside Jimbei you’ll find a youngman of twenty-four, maybe twenty-five, whosenameisHatsu.Hatsu’sverypale.Helookslikeoneofthosenoviceswho,indemonstrationoftheirdevotiontothethirty-thirdpriest-princeof theShingonSect, takenothingbutbuckwheat-waterfortwenty-onedaysatastretch.AndnexttoHatsuthere’sChodon.

Chodon’stheonewho’shuncheddejectedlyabovehisabacusasthoughbutyesterdayhelosthishomeinafire.AndnexttoChodon...”

“Comeoff it,Waverhouse,”snapsmymaster. “Is thisachantingof thegenealogyofyourdraperorisitataleaboutthemaiden-mongersofShizuoka?”

“Ahyes.Iwastellingyouthestoryofthemaiden-mongers.Asamatteroffact,there’sanextremely strange story I was going to tell you about that draper’s, but I’ll cut it out andconcentrateonthesellersoflittlegirls.”

“Whynotcutthattoo?”suggestsmymaster.“Ohno!Iwouldn’t feelright if Iabandonedthatstory.For itprovidesexceedinglyvaluable

databywhichtocomparethecharactersofmodernwomenwiththoseoftheirpredecessorsintheearlyMeijiEra.Now,asIwassaying,whenmyfatherandIarrivedinfrontofIsegen,themaiden-monger addressed my father in these terms: ‘’ow about one of these ’ere littleleftovers?Takeatoddler,sir,andI’llmake’erspecialcheap.’He’sputhisshoulder-poledownonthegroundandiswipingsweatfromhisbrow.Ineachofthetwodumpedpanniersthere’salittle girl about two-years-old. My father says,‘If they’re really cheap, I might, but is this allyou’vegot?’Themanrepliesrespectfully,‘Yes,sir,I’mafraidso.TodayI’vesoldI’emall,’ceptforthesetwolittle’uns.Takeyourchoice.’Heholdsthelittlegirlsupinhishandslike,asItoldyou,pumpkins,andhepushesthemundermyfather’snose.Myfathertapsontheirheadsasonemight rapamelonandsays,‘Yes, theysoundquitegood.’Thenegotiations thenbegin inearnestand,afteragreatdealofchaffering,myfatherfinallysays,‘That’sallverywell,butcanyouguaranteetheirquality?’‘Yes,’saystheman.‘That’unintheleadingbasket,Icantakemeoath issound, ’cosI’ve ’ad ’erallday longright infrontofmeowntwopeepers,but t’other intheback-sidebasketcouldbeaweemitecracked.I’venotgoteyesinthebackofme’ead,soIwon’tgomakingnopromises.Tellyouwhat,justforyou,I’llknockabitmoreoffforthat’un.’To this day I can clearly remember every word of their dickering and, though only a nippermyself,Ididthenlearnhowinsidiouslycrackedalittlegirlcanbe.However,inthisthirty-eighthyearof theEmperor’s reign there’snoneso foolishnowas togo trotting through thestreetswithlittlegirlsforsale.Soonenolongerhearspeoplesayinghowthoseattheback,thosethatonecan’tkeepone’sownsharpwatchfuleyeon,areliabletobedamaged.It isconsequentlymyopinion that, thanks to the beneficent influx ofWestern civilization, the conduct ofwomenhasinfactimproved.Whatdoyouthink,Coldmoon?”

Coldmoonhesitated, clearedhis throat and thengavehisopinion in a lowandmeasuredtone. “Women today,on theirway toand fromschools,atconcerts,atcharitypartiesandat

gardenparties,are, ineffect,alreadyselling themselves.Their lightbehavior is tantamount tosuchstatementsas,‘Hey,howaboutbuyingme?’or‘Oh,soyou’renotmuchinterested!’Thereis accordingly no contemporaryneed for hawkersor othermiddlemensellingon commission,and the street cries of ourmodern cities are of course the poorer by the disappearance ofmaiden-mongersshoutingtheirwares.Suchchangesareboundtofollowfromtheintroductionanddisseminationofmodern ideasof the individual’s independence.Theoldergenerationgetunnecessarilyworkedupandmoanandgroanasthoughtheworldwerecomingtoitsend,butthat’s the trendofmoderncivilizationand I, forone,welcomeandencourage thesechanges.Forinstance,there’snoneednowadaysforanyonetogotappingpoortotsontheskulltoseeifthey’regoodenoughtobuy.Inanycase,nooneevergetsanywhereinthishardworldbybeingunduly choosey. That way, one can easily end up husbandless and, even after fifty or sixtyyearsofassiduoussearch,stillnotbeabride.”

Coldmoon,verymuchabrightyoungmanofthistwentiethcentury,spokeforhisgenerationand,havingsospoken,blewcigarettesmokeintoWaverhouse’sface.ButWaverhouseisnotaman to flinch from a mere residue of burnt tobacco. “As you say,” he responded, “amongschoolgirlsandyoung ladies,nowadays theirvery fleshandbonesarepermeatedwith, ifnotactuallymanufacturedoutof,self-esteemandself-confidence,and it is indeedadmirable thattheyshouldprove themselvesamatch formen ineverypossible field.Take, for instance, thegirls at the high school near my house. They’re terrific. Togged out in trousers, they hangthemselvesupside-downfromironwall-bars.Truly, it’swonderful.Every timethat I lookdownfrommyupstairswindowandseethemcatapultingaboutattheirgymnastics,IamremindedofancientGrecianladiespursuingstrengthandbeautythroughthepatternsofcalisthenics.”

“Oh,no.NottheGreeksagain,”saysmymasterwithsomethinglikeasneer.“It’sunavoidable. lt justsohappensthatalmosteverythingaestheticallybeautifulseemsto

haveoriginatedinGreece.AestheticsandtheGreeks:youspeakofoneandyouarespeakingof the other. When I see those dark-skinned girls putting their whole hearts into theirgymnastics,intomymind,invariably,leapsthestoryofAgnodice.”He’swearinghisfont-of-all-wisdomfaceashebabblesonandon.

“So you’vemanaged to find another of those awkward names,” saysColdmoonwith hisusual,witlessgrin.

“Agnodicewasawonderfulwoman.WhenI lookbackatheracrossthegulfofcenturies,still Iamimpressed. In thosefardays theLawsofAthensforbadewomentobemidwives. Itwasmostinconvenient.OnecaneasilyseewhyAgnodicethoughtitunreasonable.”

“What’sthat?What’sthatword?”“Agnodice. A woman. It’s a woman’s name. Now this woman said to herself, ‘It’s really

lamentablethatwomencannotbemidwives,inconvenient,too.IwishtoGodIcouldbecomeamidwife. Isn’t thereanyway I can?’Soshe thoughtand thought,doingnothingelse for threestraightdaysandnights,andjustatdawnonthethirdday,assheheardtheyowlingofababenewbornnextdoor,thesolutionflasheduponher.

Sheimmediatelycutoffherlonghair,dressedherselfasaman,andtooktoattendingthelecturesonchildbirth thenbeinggivenby theeminentHierophilus.She learntall thathecouldteachand,feelinghertimehadcome,setupasamidwife.D’youknow,Mrs.Sneaze,shewasa great success. Here, there, and everywhere yowling babies put in their appearance, and,since theywereallassistedbyAgnodice,shemadea fortune.However, thewaysofHeavenare proverbially inscrutable. For seven ups there are eight downs. And it never rains but it

pours.Hersecretwasdiscovered.Shewashauledbeforethecourts.AndshestoodindangerofthedirestpunishmentforbreakingthelawsofAthens.”

“Yousoundjustlikeaprofessionalstoryteller,”saysMrs.Sneaze.“Aren’t I good?Well then, at that point all thewomenofAthensgot togetherandsigned

suchanenormousroundrobininsupportofAgnodicethatthemagistratesfeltunabletoignoreit.Intheendshewasletoff,andthelawswerechangedtoallowwomentobecomemidwives,andtheyalllivedhappilyeverafter.”

“Youdoknowaboutsomanythings.It’swonderful,”sighsMrs.Sneaze.“True. I know almost everything about almost everything. Perhaps the only thing I don’t

knowallaboutistherealextentofmyownfoolishness.Butevenonthat,Icanmakeaprettygoodguess.”

“You do say such funny things. . .”Mrs. Sneazewas still chortling awaywhen the frontdoorbell,itstoneunchangedsincethedayitwasfirstinstalled,begantotinkle.

“What!anothervisitor!”squeakedMrs.Sneazeandscuttledoffintothelivingroom.Andwho should it be but our old friendBeauchampBlowlamp.With his arrival the entire

castoftheeccentricswhohauntmymaster’shousewasgathereduponstage.Lestthatshouldsoundungracious,perhaps Icouldbetteremphasize thatsufficienteccentricsaregathered tokeepacatamused,and itwould indeedbeungracious if Iwerenotsatisfiedwith that.Had Ihad themisfortune to dwell in some other household, Imight have lived nine lives and neverknownthatsuchremarkablescholars, thatevenonesuchremarkablescholar,couldbe foundamongmankind. I countmyself fortunate to be sittinghere, his adopted cat-child, besidemynoblemaster.Itis,moreover,arareprivilegetobenumberedamongthedisciplesofProfessorSneaze: for only thus am I enabled, comfortably lying down, to observe the manners andactions not only of my master but of such heroic figures, such matchless warriors, asWaverhouse,Coldmoon,andtheboldSirBeauchamp.Even in thisvastcity,suchpersonagesare rare, and I take it as the highest accolade that I am accepted by them as one of theircompany. It isonly theconsciousnessof thathonor thatenablesme to forget thehardshipofbeingcondemnedtoendurethisheatinafurbag.AndIamespeciallygratefulthustobekeptamused for a whole half-day. Whenever the four of them get together like this, somethingentertainingisboundtotranspire,soIwatchthemrespectfullyfromthatdraft-cooledplacebythedoortowhichIhaveretired.

“I’mafraidIhaven’tbeenaroundtoseeyouforquitesometime,”saysBeauchampwithamodestbow.Hishead,Inotice,shinesasbrightlyasitdidtheotherday.Judgedbyhisheadalone, he might be taken for a second-rate actor, but the ceremonious manner in which hewearshis very stiffwhite cottonhakamamakeshim look like nothing somuchas a student-swordsmanfromthefencing-schoolofSakakibaraKenkichi.

Indeed,theonlypartofBeauchamp’sbodywhichlooksintheleastbitnormalisthesectionbetweenhishipsandhisshoulders.

“Well, how nice of you to call. In this hot weather, too. Come right in.”Waverhouse, asusual,playsthehostinsomeoneelse’shome.

“Ihaven’tseenyouforalongtime,sir,”Beauchampsaystohim.“Quite so.Not, I believe, since thatReadingParty last spring.Are you still active in that

line? Have you again performed the part of a high-class prostitute? You did it very well. Iapplaudedyoulikemad.Didyounotice?”

“Yes,Iwasmuchencouraged.Yourkindappreciationgavemethestrengthtocarryonuntil

theend.”“Whenareyouhavingyournextmeeting?”interjectsmymaster.“WerestduringJulyandAugustbutwehopetobeliveningupagaininSeptember.Canyou

suggestanythinginterestingwemighttackle?”“Well,”mymasteranswershalf-heartedly.“Lookhere,Beauchamp,”saysColdmoonsuddenly,“Whydon’tyoutrymypiece?”“Ifit’syours,itmustbeinteresting,butwhat’sthispieceyou’vewritten?”“Adrama,”saysColdmoonwithall thebrass-facedequanimityhecouldmuster.His three

companionsaredumbfounded,andstareuponhimwithlooksofunanimouswonder.“Adrama!Goodforyou!Acomedyortragedy?”Beauchampwasthefirst torecoverand

findhistongue.Withtheutmostcomposure.Coldmoongiveshisreply.“It’s neither a comedy nor a tragedy. Since people these days are always fussing about

whetheraplayshouldbeold-styledramaornew-styledrama,IdecidedtoinventatotallynewtypeandhaveaccordinglywrittenwhatIcallahaiku-play.”

“Whatonearth’sahaiku-play?”“Aplayimbuedwiththespiritofhaiku.”MymasterandWaverhouse,apparentlydazedby

the concept of an essentially tiny poem blown out to the length of a play, say nothing, butBeauchamppresseson.

“Howdoyouimplementthatinterestingidea?”“Well, since thework isof thehaikumode, I decided it shouldnotbe too lengthyor too

viciouslyclear-cut.Itisaccordinglyaoneactplay,infactasinglescene.”“Iunderstand.”“Letmefirstdescribethesetting.Itmust,ofcourse,beverysimple.Ienvisageonebigwillowinthecenterofthestage.Fromitstrunkasinglebranchextends

stage-right.Andonthatbranchthere’sacrow.”“Won’tthecrowflyoff?”saysmymasterworriedly,asiftalkingtohimself.“That’snoproblem.Onejust tiesthecrow’s legtothebranchwithastoutishbitofstring.

Now, underneath the branch there’s awooden bathtub. And in the bathtub, sitting sideways,there’sabeautifulwomanwashingherselfwithacottontowel.”

“That’sabitdecadent.Besides,whocouldyougettoplaythewoman?”asksWaverhouse.“Again,noproblem.Justhireamodelfromanartschool.”“TheMetropolitanPoliceBureauwill undoubtedlyprovesticky.”Mymaster’sworriment is

notallayed.“Butitoughttobeallrightsolongasonedoesn’tpresentthisworkofartassomeformof

show.Ifthiswerethesortofthingthatthepolicegetstickyabout,itwouldbeimpossibleevertodrawfromthenude.”

“Butnudemodelsareprovidedforstudentstostudy,notjusttostareat.”“If you scholars, the intellectual creamof Japan, remain so straight-laced in your ancient

bigotry,there’snorealhopeforthefutureofJapan.What’sthedistinctionbetweenpaintinganddrama?Are theynotbotharts?”Coldmoon,veryevidentlyenjoyinghimself, lashesoutat thepruderyofhislisteners.

“Well, let’s leave all that for the moment,” says Beauchamp, “but tell us how your playproceeds.”Hemaynotintendtousetheplay,butheclearlywantstoknowhowthatpromisingopeningscenewillbedeveloped.

“Enterthehaiku-poetTakahamaKyoshi.Headvancesalongtherampleadingtothestagecarryingawalkingstickandwearingawhitepith-helmet.Underhissilk-gauzesurcoat,hiswhitekimono,patternedwithcoloredsplashes, istuckedupattheback,andhewearsshoesintheWestern style. He is thus costumed to look like a contractor of Army supplies but, being ahaiku-poet, he must walk in a leisurely manner looking as though deeply absorbed in thecompositionofapoem.Whenhereaches themainstage,henotices first thewillowtreeandthenthelight-skinnedladyinherbath.Startled,helooksupandseesthecrowpeeringdownatherfromitslongbranch.Atthispointthepoetstrikesapose,whichshouldbeheldforatleastfiftyseconds,toindicatehowdeeplyheismovedbytherefinedhaiku-likeeffectofthescenebeforehim.Theninadeepresonantvoicehedeclaims:

“Acrow

IsinloveWithawomaninabath”

Assoonasthelastwordhasbeenspoken,theclappersarecrackedandthecurtainfalls.Wellnow,whatdoyou thinkof it?Don’t you like it? Ineedhardlysay thatanysensiblemanwouldratherplaythepartofahaiku-poetthanthatofahigh-classtart.”

Beauchamp,however, looksundecidedandcommentswithaserious face, “It seems tooshort.Ithinkitneedsalittlemoreaction,somethingthatwilladdrealhumaninterest.”

Waverhouse, who has so far been keeping comparatively quiet, can hardly be expectedindefinitelytopassupsuchasplendidopportunityforthedisplayofhispeculiartalents.“Sothatweebitofathingiswhatyoucallahaiku-play?Quiteawful!UedaBinisconstantlypointingoutin his essays and articles that the spirit of haiku, as also indeed the comic spirit, lacksconstructivepositivism.HearguesthattheyunderminethemoralsandhencethemoraleoftheJapanesenation.And,asonewouldexpect,whateverBinpointsoutisverymuchtothepoint.He’dhaveyoulaughedoutoftownifyoudaredriskstagingsuchanartsy-craftsybitofrubbish.Inanycase,it’sallsouncleancutthatnoonecouldtellwhetherit’smeanttobestraighttheateror burlesque.A thing so indeterminate could, in fact, beanything.Forgiveme that I take theliberty of saying so,my dearColdmoon, but I really do think you’d do better to stay in yourlaboratory and limit your creativity to the grinding of glass balls. You could, I’m sure, writehundredsof suchplaysbut, since they could achievenothingbut the ruin of our nation,whatwouldbethepoint?”

Coldmoon looks slightly huffed. “Do you think its effect is as demoralizing as all that?Myself, I think it’s constructive, positivist, definitely yea-saying.” He is seeking to vindicatesomething too unimportant to merit vindication. “The point is that Kyoshi actually makes thecrow fall in lovewith thewoman.His lineshaving thateffectare, Iconsider,anaffirmationoflife,andthat,Ithink,isverypositivist.”

“Now that,” saysWaverhouse, “is a totally new approach. A novel concept casting freshlightupondramatictheory.Wemustlistenwiththedeepestattention.”

“As a bachelor of science, such an idea as that of a crow falling in love with a womanstrikesmeasillogical.”

“Quiteso.”“Butthisillogicalityisexpressedwithsuchconsummateartistrythatitdoesnotseeminthe

least illogical to theaudience.Theeffectofgreatdramaticartistry is, in fact, to imposeuponthelistenerawillingsuspensionofdisbelief.”

“I doubt it,” saysmymaster in tonesof thedeepest dubiety, butColdmoonpayshimnoheed.

“Youaskwhy theunreasonableshouldnot soundunreasonable?Well,when Ihavegiventhepsychologicalexplanation,youwillunderstandwhy.Ofcourse,theemotionofbeinginlove,orofnotbeing in lovecanonlybeexperiencedby thepoet. It hasnothingwhatsoever todowiththecrow.Similarly,theconceptofacrowinloveisnotaconceptlikelytocrossthemindofacrow. Inshort, it is thepoethimselfwho is in lovewith thewoman.ThemomentKyoshiclappedeyesonherhemusthavefallenheadoverheelsinlove.Hethenseesthecrowsittingimmobileonthebranchandstaringdownather.Beinghimselfsmittenwithloveforthelady,he

assumesthatthecrowissimilarlymoved.Heis,ofcourse,mistaken,butnevertheless,indeedfor that very reason, the basic idea of the play is not simply literary, but positivist aswell. Iwould in particular suggest that themanner inwhich the poet,while still contriving himself toappearobjectiveandheart-free,transposeshisownsentimentstobecomecrow-sentimentsisindisputablyyea-sayingandpositivist.Iaskyou,gentlemen,amInotright?”

“It’sawell-turnedargument,”saysWaverhouse,“butIbetitwouldleaveKyoshi,ifheeverheard it,distinctly takenaback. Iacceptthatyourexpositionof theplay ispositivistbut, if theplayweretobestaged,theaudiencereactionwouldundoubtedlybenegative.Don’tyouagree,Beauchamp?”

“Yes, I confess I think it’s a little too negative.” Beauchamp confesses with due criticalgravity.

Mymasterseemstothinkthingshavegonefarenoughand,toeasethepressureuponhisfavoritedisciple,heseeksto leadtheconversationawayfromColdmoon’s ill-receivedventureinto the literary field. “But tellme,Beauchamp,”hesays, “haveyouperhapswrittenanynewmasterpiecesrecently?”

“Nothing reallyworth showing you, but I am, in fact, thinking of publishing a collection ofthem.Luckily,Ichancetohavethemanuscriptwithme,andI’dwelcomeyouropinionofthesetriflesI’vecomposed.”Hethereuponproducedfromhisbreastapackagewrappedinaclothofpurple crepe. Loosening the material, he carefully extracted a notebook some fifty or sixtypagesthickwhichheproceededtodeposit,reverently,beforemymaster.Mymasterassumeshismostmagisterialmienandthen,withagrave“Allowme,”opensthebook.There,onthefirstpage,standsaninscription:

Dedicated

TothefrailOpula

Mymasterstaredatthepage,wordlessandwithanenigmaticexpressiononhisface,forsuchalongtimethatWaverhousepeeredacrossfrombesidehim.

“Whathavewehere?New-stylepoetry?Aha!Alreadydedicated!Howsplendidofyou,Beauchamp,”hesayswithalltheenthusiasmofahoundonthescent,

“to come out bang with so bold a dedication. To, if my eyes do not deceive me, a certainOpula?”

My master, now looking more puzzled than enigmatic, turns to the poet. “My dearBeauchamp,”hesays,“thisOpula,isshearealperson?”

“Ohyesindeed.She’soneoftheyoungladieswhomIinvitedtoourlastReadingParty,theonewhereWaverhousesogenerouslyapplaudedme.She lives, in fact, in thisneighborhood.Actually, Icalledatherhomeonmywayherebut learnt, tomysorrow,thatshe’sbeenawaysincelastmonth.IgatherthatthewholefamilyisspendingthesummeratOiso.”

Beauchamp lookspeculiarly solemnas,with corroborativedetail, heaffirms the realityofhisdedication.

“Comenow,Sneaze,don’tgopullingalongfacelikethat.Thisisthetwentiethcenturyandyou’d best get used to it. Let’s get down to considering the masterpiece. First of all,Beauchamp,thisdedicationseemsabitofaboshshot.Whatdoyoumeanby‘frail’?”

“Well,Imeant‘frail’intheromanticsense,toconveytheideaofapersoninfinitelydelicate,infinitelyrefinedandethereal.”

“Didyounow.Well, thewordcan,ofcourse,besousedbut itdoeshaveother,coarserconnotations.Especiallyifitwerereadasanadjectivalnoun,youcouldbethoughttobecallinghersomesortoffranion.

SoifIwereyou,I’drephraseit.”“Couldyousuggesthow?I’dlikeittobeunmisinterpretablypoetic.”“Well,IthinkI’dsaysomethinglike‘Dedicatedtoallthat’sfrailbeneaththenaresofOpula.’

It wouldn’t involve much change in wording, but yet it makes an enormous difference in thefeeling.”

“Isee,”saysBeauchamp.Whileitisquiteclearthathedoesn’tunderstandthebalderdashproposedbyWaverhouse,heistryinghardtolookasthoughhehadgrasped,considered,andacceptedit.

Mymaster,whohasbeensittingsilently,turnsthefirstpageandbeginstoreadaloudfromtheopeningsection.

“InthefragranceofthatincensewhichIburn.WhenIamweary,seeminglyYoursoultrailsinthesmokytwistandturnOfloverequited.Woe,ahwoeisme,WhoinaworldasbitterasisthisMustinamistofuselessyearningyearnForthesweetfireofyourimpassionedkiss.

“This, I’mafraid,”hesayswithasigh, “isabitbeyondme,”andhepasses thenotebookalongtoWaverhouse.

“The effect is strained, the imagery too heightened,” saysWaverhouse passing it on toColdmoon.

“I...s...e...e,”saysColdmoon,andreturnsittotheauthor.“It’s only natural that you should fail to understand it.” Beauchamp leaps to his own

defense. “In the last ten years the world of poetry has advanced and altered out of allrecognition.Modernpoetryisnoteasy.

You can’t understand it if you do no more than glance through it in bed or while you’rewaitingatarailwaystation.Moreoftenthannot,modernpoetsareunabletoanswereventhesimplestquestionsabouttheirownwork.Suchpoetswritebydirectinspiration,andarenottobeheldresponsibleformorethanthewriting.Annotation,criticalcommentary,andexegesis,allthesemaybe left to thescholars.Wepoetsarenot tobebotheredwithsuch trivia.Only theotherdaysomefellowwithanamelikeSōsekipublishedashortstoryentitled‘ASingleNight.’Butit’ssovaguethatnoonecouldmakeheadortailofit.Ieventuallygotholdofthemanandquestionedhimveryseriouslyabout therealmeaningofhisstory.Henotonlyrefusedtogiveanyexplanation,butevenimpliedthat,ifthestoryhappenedinfacttohaveanymeaningatall,hecouldn’tcareless.Hisattitudewas,Ithink,typicalofamodernpoet.”

“Hemaybeapoet,buthesounds,doesn’the,downrightodd,”observesmymaster.“He’safool.”WaverhousedemolishesthisSōsekiinonecurtbreath.Beauchamp, however, has by no means finished defending the merits of his own daft

poem. “Nobody in our poetry group is in any way associated with this Sōseki fellow, and itwouldbeunreasonableifyougentlemenweretocondemnmypoemsbyreasonofsomesuchimaginedassociation. I tookgreatpainswith theconstructionof thiswork,and Iwould like inparticulartodrawyourattentiontomytellingcontrastofthisbitterworldwiththesweetnessofakiss.”

“Thepainsyoumusthavetaken,”saysmymastersomewhatambiguously,“havenotgoneunremarked.”

“Indeed,”saysWaverhouse,“theskillwithwhichyouhavemade‘bitter’and‘sweet’reflecteach other is as interesting as if you had spiced each syllable of a haiku with seventeendifferentpepperytastes.Thesayingspeaksofonlysevensuchpepperytangsbut,sotasteful,Beauchamp, is the concoction you’ve cooked up, that no saying is sufficient to say howinimitableitis,andhowtotallylostIaminadmirationofyourart.”

Ratherunkindly,Waverhousedivertshimselfattheexpenseofanhonestman.Possiblyforthatreason,mymastersuddenlygottohisfeetandwentoffintohisstudy.Possiblynot,forhequicklyre-emergedwithapieceofpaperinhishand.

“Now that we’ve considered Coldmoon’s play and Beauchamp’s poem, perhaps you willgrantmetheboonofyourexpertcommentsonthislittlethingherethatI’vewritten.”Mymasterlooks as if he means what he says to be taken seriously. If so, he is to be immediatelydisappointed.

“If it’s that epitaph thing for Mr. the-late and-sainted Natural Man, I’ve heard it twicealready.Ifnotthrice,”saysWaverhousedismissingly.

“Forheaven’ssake,Waverhouse,whydon’tyou justpipedown.Now,Beauchamp, I’d likeyou tounderstand that this isnotanexampleofmybestandseriouswork. Iwrote it just forfun,soI’mnotespeciallyproudofit.Butlet’sjustseeifyoulikeit.”

“I’dbedelightedtohearit.”“Youtoo,Coldmoon.Sinceyou’rehere,youmightaswelllisten.”“Ofcourse,butit’snotlong,isit?”“Very short. I doubt,” saysmymaster quite untruthfully, “whether it contains asmany as

three score words and ten,” whereupon, giving no opportunity for further interruptions, helaunchesoutuponarecitalofhishomespunmaster-work.

“‘TheSpiritofJapan,’criesJapaneseman;‘Longmayitlive,’criesheButhiscrybreaksoffinthatkindofcoughWhichcomesfromthesoul’sT.B.”

“What amagnificient opening,” burblesColdmoonwith real enthusiasm. “The theme risesbeforeone,immediate,undodgeable,andimposing,likeamountain!”

“‘TheSpiritofJapan,’screamthepapers,Pickpocketsscreamittoo:InonegreatjumptheJapaneseSpirit

CrossestheoceanblueAndislectureduponinEngland,WhileaplayonthisstaggeringthemeIsahugesuccessontheGermanstage.Ahugesuccess?Ascream!”

“Splendid,” saysWaverhouse, lettinghishead fall backwards in tokenofhisapprobation.“It’sevenbetterthanthatepiphanicepitaph.”

“AdmiralTōgōhastheJapaneseSpirit,Sohasthemaninthestreet:Fishshopmanagers,swindlers,murderers,Nonewouldbecomplete,Nonewouldbethementheyare,

NonewouldbeamanIfhewasn’twrappeduplikeatuppennycupIntheSpiritofJapan”

“Please,”breathesColdmoon,“pleasedomentionthatColdmoonhasittoo.”

“ButifyouaskwhatthisSpiritisTheygivethatcoughandsay‘TheSpiritofJapanistheJapaneseSpirit,’

ThentheywalkawayAndwhenthey’vewalkedtenyardsorsoTheycleartheirthroatsofphlegm,AndthatclearingsoundistheJapaneseSpiritManifestinthem.”

“Oh I like that,” saysWaverhouse, “that’s a verywell-turned phrase. Sneaze, you’ve gottalent,realliterarytalent.Andthenextstanza?”

“IstheSpiritofJapantriangular?Isit,doyouthink,asquare?Whynoindeed!AsthewordsthemselvesExplicitlydeclare,It’sanairy,fairy,spiritualthingAndthingsthatclosetoGodCan’tbedefinedinaformulaOrmeasuredwithameasuring-rod.”

“It’scertainlyaninterestingcompositionandmostunusualinthat,defyingtradition,ithasastrong didactic element. But don’t you think it contains too many Spirits of Japan. One canhave,”saysBeauchampmildly,“toomuchofthebestofthings.”

“Agoodpoint.Iagree.”Waverhousechipsinyetagainwithtwo-pen-nyworthoftar.

“There’snotonemaninthewholeofJapanWhohasnotusedthephrase,ButIhavenotmetoneuseryetWhoknowswhatitconveys.TheSpiritofJapan,theJapaneseSpirit,

CoulditconceivablybeNothingbutanotherofthoselong-nosedgoblinsOnlythemadcansee?”

My master comes to the end of his poem and, believing it pregnant with eminentlydebatablematerial,sitsbackinexpectationofanava-lancheofcomment.However,thoughthepieceisundoubtedlythatmasterpieceforwhichtheanthologistshavebeenwaiting,itsendlessWesternformanditslackofclearmeaninghaveresultedinthepresentaudiencenotrealizingthattherecitationisover.They,accordingly,justsitthere.Foralongtime.Eventually,nomoreversesbeingvouchsafedthem,Coldmoonventures“Isthatall?”

Mymasteranswerswithanoncommittal,Ithoughtfalselycarefree,kindofthroatygrunt.Verymuchcontrarytomyownexpectations,Waverhousefailedtorisetotheoccasionwith

oneofhisusualflightsoffantastication.Instead,afterabriefinterval,heturnedtomymasterandsaid,“Howaboutcollectingsome

ofyourshorterpiecesintoabook?Thenyou,too,coulddedicateittosomeone.”“Howabouttoyou?”mymasterflippantlysuggests.“Not on your life,” saysWaverhouse very firmly.He takes out the scissorswhich he had

earlieranalyzedforthebenefitofMrs.Sneazeandbeginsclippingawayathisfingernails.ColdmoonturnstoBeauchampand,somewhatcautiously,enquires,“AreyoucloselyacquaintedwithMissOpulaGoldfield?”“After I invitedher toourReadingParty lastspring,webecame friendsandwenowsee

quite a lot of each other.Whenever I’m with her I feel, as it were, inspired, and even afterwe’veparted,Istillfeel,atleastforquiteatime,suchaflamealightwithinmethatpoems,bothin the traditional forms and in themodern style, come singing up like steam from a kettle. IbelievethatthislittlecollectioncontainssohighaproportionoflovepoemspreciselybecauseIam so deeply stirred bywomen and, in particular, by her. The onlyway I know bywhich toexpressmysinceregratitudeisbydedicatingthisbooktothesourceof its inspiration.Istandat theendof a long tradition inasmuchas, since time immemorial, nopoetwrote finepoetrysaveundertheinspirationofsomedeeplycherishedwoman.”

“Is that indeed so?” saysColdmoon as though he had just learnt a fact of imponderablegravity.Butdeepbehind thesoberskinofhis face Icouldseehim laughingat the follyofhisfriend.

Even this gathering of gasbags cannot wheeze on forever, and the pressure of theirconversation is now fast whimpering down toward exhaustion. Being under no obligation tolistenallday long to theirendlessblather, theircarpingand flapdoodle, Iexcusedmyselfandwentoutintothegardeninsearchofaprayingmantis.

Thesun is goingdown. Its reddened light, filtered through thegreen foliageof a sultan’sparasol,flecksthegroundinpatches.Highuponthetrunkofthetree,cicadasaresingingtheirheartsout.Tonight,perhaps,alittlerainmayfall.

I

IV

HAVE,oflate,takentotakingexercise.Tothosewhomaysneeratmesaying,“Whatsauce,amerecattakingexerciseindeed!”Iwouldliketoaddressyouwiththefewfollowingwords.It

wasnotuntil recently thathumanbeings,previouslycontent to regardeatingandsleepingastheir only purposes in life, began to grasp the point of taking exercise. Let all mankindremember in what self-complacent idleness they used to pass their days; how passionatelytheyoncebelievedthat impassivityofmindandbodywerethesignsofanoblesoul,andthatthe honor of a nobleman resided in his ability to do nothingmore strenuous than to plant hisbumona cushion that there itmight, in comfort, rot away. It is only recently that, like someinfectious disease brought from the West to this pure land of the gods, a stream of sillyinjunctionshasbeensprayeduponus to takeexercise, togulpmilk, toshowerourselveswithfreezingwater,toplonkourselvesinthesea,and,inthesummertime,tosequesterourselvesinthemountainsonadiet,allegedlyhealthy,ofnothingmoresolid thanmist.Such importationsseem to me about as salubrious as the black plague, tuberculosis, and that very Westernmalady,neurasthenia.However,sinceIamonlyoneyearold,bornasIwaslastyear,Icannotpersonally testifyasto thestateofaffairswhenhumanbeingsherefirstbegantosuffer fromthese sicknesses. It happened at a time before I came to float along in this vale of tears.Nevertheless,onemay fairlyequateacat’soneyear,with ten forhumanbeings:and thoughourspanoflifeistwoorthreetimesshorterthantheirs,acatmaystillthereinachievefullfelineself-development.Itfollowsthatanyevaluationofacat’slifeandaman’slifebyreferencetoacommontime-scalemustresultingrievouserror.

That point is surely provenby the fact that I,whoambut a year anda fewmonthsold,possess the discernment to make such an analysis. In contrast, the third daughter of mymaster,whomIunderstandtobealreadyinherthirdyear,islamentablybackward,alaggardinalllearning,aslow-coachindevelopment.Heraccomplishmentsarelimited.

Sheyowls,shemucksherbedandshesucksmilkfromhermother.Compared with someone like myself who am distressed by the state of the world and

deplorethedegeneracyoftheage,thatgirl istruly infantile. It isconsequentlynot intheleastsurprising that I should have stored away, deep within mymind, the entire history of takingexercise, of sea-bathing, and of going away for a change of air. If there should be anyonesurprisedatathingsotriflingasthisvastextentofmyknowledge, itcouldonlybeanotherofthosehandicappedhumans,thosestumblingcreatureswhomheavenhasretardedwiththegiftofnomorethanameaslycoupleof legs.Fromtimeimmemorialmanhasbeenaslow-coach,soit isonlyveryrecentlythatsuchinveteratesluggardshavebeguntorecommendthevirtuesofexercise,and,asifthenotionweretheirownincrediblediscovery,tobabbleendlesslyofthebenefitsofbobbingabout in thesea.Percontra, Iwasawareof such things inmypre-natalcondition,andtofullyrealizethebenisonsofbrineoneneedsbutwalkonabeach.

Preciselyhowmanyfisharefrolickingaboutinsovastavolumeofwater,Iwouldnotcaretoguess;howeveritiscertainthatnotasinglespecimenhaseverfallensosickastoneedthe

attentionsofadoctor.There they all are, swimming about in the best of health.When a fish does catch some

illness, its body first becomes helpless. But let it be remembered that the death of a fish isdescribedinJapaneseasanascen-sion.Birds,wesay,dropdead,becomemerefallenthings.Menaresimplysaidtohavekickedthebucket.Butfish,Istress,ascend.Now,justaskanyonewho’s journeyed overseas, anyonewho’s crossed the IndianOcean,whether they’ve seen adying fish.Of course they haven’t. And nowonder.However often youmight plow back andforthacrossthatendlesswasteofwater,neverwouldyouseeafloatuponitswavesonesinglefishthathadjustgivenupitslastbreath.Givenup,Ishouldperhapsfish-pertinentlysay,itslastseawater gulp. Had you assiduously searched since time began, were you now to go onsteaming day and night up and down that wide and boundless expanse of water, not onesolitary fishwould ever be seen to ascend.Since fish do not ascend, their undying strength,theirhardihood,indeedtheirdeathlessness,iseasilydeduced.

Howcomesit,then,thatfishshouldbesodeathdefyinglyhardy?Hereonceagain,mankindcangivenoanswer.Buttheanswer,asIshortlyshalldisclose,

issimplicityitself.Theansweristhatfisharehardybecausetheyincessantlybatheinthesea,becausetheyswillsaltwater.

It’s as simple as that. Now, since the benefits of sea bathing are so evidenced by fish,surelyitmustfollowthatthepracticewouldbebeneficialtomankind.Loandbehold,in1750acertainDr.RichardRussellcameoutwiththehumanlyexaggeratedpronouncementthatanyonewhojumpedintotheseaatBrightonwouldfindthatallhisvariousdiseaseswouldbecuredonthespot. Is it not laughable that it tookmankindso long toarriveat sosimpleaconclusion?Even we cats, when the time is ripe, intend to go down to the seaside, to some place likeKaniakura.Butnow is not the time. There is always a right time for everything. Just as theJapanesepeoplebeforetheRestorationoftheEmperor,bothlivedanddiedwithoutbenefitofseabathing,socats todayhavenotyet reached theappropriatestage for leapingnaked intothebrinydeep.Timing isall important, andahurried job isa jobhalf-botched.Consequently,sincenocat takentoday tobedrowned insomeshrine’scanalwillevercomehomesafely, itwouldbemostimprudentindeedformetogoplungingin.Untilbythelawsofevolutionwecatshavedeveloped thecharacteristicsneeded to resist the rageofoverwhelmingwaves;until, infact,adeadcatcanbesaidnottohavediedbut, likefish,tohaveascended,untilthathappyday,Iwon’tgonearthewater.

Postponingmyseabathingtosomelaterdate,Ihaveanywaydecidedtomakeastartonsomesortofexercise.Inthisenlightenedtwentiethcentury,anyfailuretotakeexerciseislikelytobeinterpretedasasignofpauperdom.Whichwouldbebadforone’sreputation.Ifyoudon’ttakeexercise,youwillbejudgedincapableoftakingitbyreasonofaninabilitytoaffordeitherthetimeortheexpense,orboth.Itisthusnolongerasimplequestionofnottakingexercise.Inoldentimesthosewhodidtakephysicalexercise,personssuchastheriffraffofmaleservantsinanupper-classhousehold,wereregardedwithaproperscorn.

But nowadays it is precisely those who do not take some form of physical exercise atwhomtheworld turnsup itsnose.Theworld’sevalua-tionsofan individual’ssocialworth, liketheslits inmyeyeballs,changewithtimeandcircumstance.Inpointoffactmypupil-slitsvarybutmodestlybetweenbroadandnarrow,butmankind’svaluejudgementsturnsomersaultsandcartwheelsfornoconceivablereason.Still,nowthatIcometothinkofit,theremayperhapsbesenseinsuchpeculiartopsy-turvydom.Forjustastherearetwoendstoeverystring,thereare

twosides toeveryquestion.Perhaps in itsextremeadaptabilitymankindhas foundaway tomake apparent opposites come out with identical meanings. Thus, if one takes the symbolsmeaning“idea”andturnsthemupside-down,onefindsoneselfwiththesymbolsmeaning“plan.”

Charming, isn’t it?A similar conception canbe seenatwork in the Japanesepractice ofviewingtheso-calledBridgeofHeavenbybendingdownandpeeringbackwardbetweenone’spartedlegs.Seenthus,theseaanditsreflectionofthepine-treesonthesandbarappear liketruepines reared into thesky,whereas the truepinesand theskyappearas trees reflectedupon the water. It is indeed a remarkable effect. Even the works of Shakespearemight bemore thoroughly appreciated if they were re-examined from unorthodox positions. Someone,onceinawhile,shouldtakeagoodlonglookatHamletthroughhislegs.

Presented upside-down, that tragedymight earn the bald remark “YeGods, this play isbad.”Howelse, exceptby standingon their heads, can the critics inour literaryworldmakeanyprogress?

Consideredagainstthatbackground,itishardlysurprisingthatthosewhooncespokeillofphysicalexerciseshouldsuddenlygocrazyaboutsports, thatevenwomenshouldwalkabouton thestreetswith tennis racketsclutched in theirhands.So faras I’mconcerned, Ihavenocriticisms to offer on any of these matters provided no misguided human being has theeffronterytocriticizeacatforthesaucinessofitsinterestintakingphysicalexercise.Thatsaid,perhaps Iought tosatisfyyourprobablecuriosity, tooffersomeexplanationof theexercise Itake.

Asyouareaware,itismymisfortunethatmypawscannotgraspanykindofimplement.Iam consequently unable to pick up balls or to grip such things as bats and bloody rackets.Moreover,evencouldIhandlethem,IcannotbuythemforIdon’thaveanymoney.Forthesetwo reasons, I have chosen such kinds of exercise as cost nothing and need no specialequipment.Isupposeyoumightconsequentlyassumethatmyideaofexercisemustbelimitedtomerelywalkingabout,ortorunningawaylikeRickshawBlackywithasliceofstolentunafishjammedinmyjaws.Buttoswaggeraboutonthegroundbythemeremechanicalmovementoffour legs and in strict obedience to the laws of gravity, that is all too simple; simple andthereforetotallyuninteresting.Thereisindeedonekindofexercisecalled“movements”inwhichmymasteroccasionallyindulges.Butitis,infact,nomorethanitsnamesuggests,amatterofmeremechanicalmovements.Which,tomymind,isades-ecrationofthesanctityofexercise.Of course, if some true incentive is involved, I do not always scorn the simplicities of meremovement. For example, I get real pleasure from racing for dried bonito and from going onsalmon hunts. But those activities are related to specific objectives. If the incentives areremoved,theactivitiesbecomemerewasteofspirit,ashesinthemouth.

Whenthereisnoprizetoprovidetheneededstimulus,thenmypreferenceisforexercisesthat demand some kind of genuine skill. I have devised a variety of exercises satisfying thatrequirement.Oneisjumpingfromthekitchen-eavesupandontothemainroofofthehouse.

Anotherisstandingwithallfourlegstogetherontheplum-blossomshapeofthenarrowtileat thevery topof theroof.Anespeciallydifficult feat iswalkingalong the laundrypole,whichusually proves a failure because my claws can’t penetrate the hard and slippery surface ofbamboo. Perhaps my most interesting exercise is jumping suddenly from behind onto thechildren’sbacks.However,unlessIamextremelycarefulaboutthemethodandtimingofsuchexploits, the penalties involved can be uncommonly painful. Indeed, I derive so very littlepleasurefromhavingmyheadstuffeddeepinapaperbagthatIonlyriskthissplendidexercise

threetimes,atmost,inamonth.Onemustalsorecognizethedisadvantagethatanysuccessinthisformofexercisedependsentirely,andunsatisfactorily,upontheavailabilityofsomehumanpartner.Yetanotherformofexerciseisclawingthecoversofbooks.Inthiscasetwokindsofsnags arise. First, there is the invariable drubbing administered by my master whenever hecatchesmeatit.

Secondly, though the exercise undoubtedly develops a certain dexterity of finger, it doesnothingatallfortheremainingmusclesofmybody.

Ihaveso faronlydescribed thosecomparativelycrudeactivitieswhich Iwouldchoose tocall old-fashioned exercises. However, my newfangled sports include a few of the mostexquisiterefinement.Firstamongsuchsportscomeshuntingtheprayingmantis,which isonlyless noble than hunting rats by the lesser degree of its dangers. The open season,with thequarry in superb condition, runs from highmid-summer until early in the autumn. The huntingrulesareas follows.Firstonegoes to thegarden to flushone’squarryout.Given theproperweather,onemayexpecttofindatleastabraceofthembrowsingintheopen.

Next, having chosen one particularmantis, a sudden dash, a regular windslicer, ismadetowards thequarry.Themantis, thusalerted to itsdanger, rears itsheadandreadies for thefray. For all its puniness, themantis, at least until it realizes the hopelessness of any furtherresistance, isaplucky littlebeast,anditsfatuousreadinesstomakeafightof itaddszesttothe fun. I, accordingly, openby patting him lightly on the headwith the flat ofmy right, frontpaw.Theheadissoftandisgenerallycockedtooneside.Atthispoint,theexpressiononthequarry’s faceadds singular edge tomypleasure.Thebeast is clearly puzzled. I immediatelyspringaroundbehindhimand,fromthatnewposition,lightlyclawathiswings.Thesewingsarenormallyfoldedcarefullyclosebut,ifclawedwithexactlytherightdegreeofscratchiness,theycan be har-rowed loose, and from beneath the beast a disheveled flurry of underwear, ayellowishtatterofstufflikethintransparentpaper,droopsflimsyintoview.Oh,whatanelegantfellow!Trickedout indouble linedclothingevenat theheightofsummer!Andmayitbringhimluck!

Invariably,atthismomentthemantistwistshislong,greenneckaroundtofaceme.Then,turninghiswholebodyinthesamedirection,sometimeshedefiantlyadvancesandsometimessimply stands there like some dwarf-annoyed giraffe. If he remains transfixed in that latterattitudeIshallbecheatedofmyexercise.Accordingly,havinggivenhimeverychancetotaketheinitiative,Ithengivehimastimulatingsmack.

Ifthemantishappenstohavetheleastintelligence,hewillnowattemptescape,butsome,ill-schooled and of a barbarous ferocity, will persevere in derring-do, even to the point oflaunchinganattack.Whendealingwithsuchsavages,Icarefullycalculatethepreciselypropermomenttostrikebackandthen,suddenly,deliverareallyheavyblowasheadvancesatme.Iwould say that on such occasions the beast is usually batted sideways for a distance ofbetweentwoandthreefeet.However, ifmyquarrydisplaysacivilizedrecognitionof itsplightanddragsaway inpitiful retreat, then I ammoved topity.Off I go, racingalong likea flyingbird,twoorthreetimesaroundaconvenienttreeinthegarden.

Yet,whenIreturnIrarelyfindthatthemantishasmanagedtocrawlawaymorethanfiveorsixinches.Nowconsciousofmypower,hehasnostomachforcontinuedbattle.Hestaggersaway, tottering first left and then right in dazed attempts to escape me. Matching hismovements,thiswayandthat,Iharryhimbackandforth.Sometimesinhisultimatedespair,hemakestheultimateeffortofflutteringhiswings.Itisthenatureofthewings,asoftheneck,of

a praying mantis to be exceedingly long and exceedingly slender. Indeed, I understand thatthesewingsareentirelyornamentalandareofnomorepracticalusetoaprayingmantisthanare, to a humanbeing, theEnglish, French, andGerman languages. It follows that, howeverultimate his effort, however grand his pitiful remonstrance, no fluttering of those ineffectualwings can have onme the very least effect. One speaks of his effort but, in reality, there’snothing so purposeful about it. One should not use a word so energetic to describe theshambling totter, tornwingsa-dragalong theground, of this pathetic creature.For I confessthat I really do feel a wee mite sorry for my miserable antagonist. However, my need forphysicalexerciseoutweighsallotherconsiderations,andintoeverylife,eventhatofamantis,alittlerainmustfall.Myconsciencesalved,Idartbeyondhimfrombehind,twist,andsoconfronthim. Inhiscondition,havingcommittedhimself to forwardmovement,hehasnochoicebut tokeepcoming.Equallyandnaturally, facedwith suchaggression, I havenochoicebut togivehimawhackonthenose.Myfoecollapses,fallsdownflatwithhiswingsspreadoutoneitherside.Extendingafrontpaw,Iholdhimdowninthatsquashed-facepositionwhilstItakealittlebreather.Myselfateaseagain,Iletthewretchedperishergetupandstruggleon.Then,again,I catchhim.Mystrategy isbased,of course,on theclassicChinesemethodsofKungMing,thatmilitarymarvel of theShuKingdom in the third century,who, seven times in succession,firstcaught, then freed,hisenemy.Formaybe thirtyminutes Ipursue thatclassicalternation.Eventually, themantis abandons hope and, even when free to drag himself away, lies theremotionless. I lift him lightly inmymouthandspit himoutagain.Since,even then,he just liesloafing on the ground, I prod himwithmy paw.Under that stimulus themantis hauls himselferect andmakes a kind of clumsy leap for freedom. So once again, down comesmy quickimmobilizingpaw.Intheend,boredbytherepetitions,Iconcludemyexercisebyeatinghim.

Incidentally, for thebenefitof thosewho’venevermunchedmantis, Iwouldreport that thetaste is rather unpleasant and I have been led to understand that the nutrimental value isnegligible.

Nexttomantishunting,myfavoritesportiscricketing.Inexactlythesamewayas,amongthevarietiesofman,onecan findoilycreatures, cheekychaps,andchatterboxes, soamongthespeciesofcicadathereareoilycicadas,pertcicadas,andchatterboxes,too.Theoilyonesarenotmuchfun,beinginfacttoogreasilyimportunate.Thecheekychapsannoyone,beingasighttoouppity.AndIamconsequentlymostinterestedinsilencingthechatterboxes.Theydonotappearuntiltheendofsummer.Therecomesadaywhen,unexpectedly,thefirstcoolwindof autumn blows through the gaps torn in the sleeves of one’s kimono, making one feel asniffling cold is surely on its way. Just about then the chatterboxes, tails cocked up behindthem, start their singingdin.Andadeal of din theymake.Somuchnoise, in fact, one couldalmostbelievetheyhavenopurposes in lifeexcepttochatterat thetopof theirrowdyvoicesandtobecaughtbycats.ItisinearlyautumnthatIcatchthem,andcricketingiswhatIcallthisformof takingexercise. Imust firstemphasize that inhunting for livechatterboxes there’snopointinquest-ingontheground.Anythatareonthegroundwill invariablybefoundhalf-buriedunder ants. Thosewhich I stalk are not theperished relics at themercyof thepismires, butthose alive and chattering away in the branches of tall trees. Whilst I am on this generalsubject,itoccurstometoquerywhetherthesenoisycreaturesareshoutingo-shi-i-tsuku-tsukuor tsuku-tsuku-o-shi-i. Isuspect therecouldberealsignificance in thedifference,adifferencenodoubtcapableofcastingmuch-neededlightonthewholefieldofcicadastudies.Itisatopicthat cries out for the exercise of the particular gifts of humankind. Indeed, man’s natural

proclivityforthiskindofinvestigationisthesolecharacteristicbywhichheissuperiortoacat.Whichis,ofcourse,preciselythereasonthathumanbeings,proudoftheirsingularity,attachsomuch importance to such pettifogging points. Consequently, if men can’t offer an immediateanswer,Isuggestthatforalloursakestheythinkthematteroververycarefully.Ofcourse,sofar as my cricketing is concerned, the outcome of their ponderings, whatever that may be,couldhardlymatterless.

Now, with respect to the practice of cricketing, all I have to do is to climb toward thesourceofnoiseandcatchtheso-calledsingerwhileheistotallyabsorbedinhisso-calledactofsinging.Superficiallythesimplestofallexercises,itisinfactquitedifficult.SinceIhavefourlegs,Idonotregardmyselfasinferiortoanyotheranimalinthematterofmovingaboutonthesurfaceofthisplanet.Indeed,bymathematicaldeductionofcomparativemobilitybyreferencetothenumberof legs involved,theaveragecatwouldseemtobeat least twiceasnimbleastheaverageman.Butwhenitcomestoclimbingtrees,therearemanyanimalsmoredexterousthanthecat.Apartfrommonkeys,thoseabsoluteprofessionals,oneisboundtoconcedethatmen,descendedastheyarefromtree-conditionedapes,sometimesdisplayatrulyformidableskill at climbing trees. I hasten to add that, since climbing trees is unnatural, being a directdefianceofthelawsofgravity,Icannotconsiderafailuretoshineinsuchunreasonableactivityas inanywayshameful.But it isadisadvantage toacricketer.Luckily, Ihappen topossessthisusefulsetofclawswhichmakesitpossibleforme,howeverclumsily,togetuptrees,butit’snotaseasyasyoumightthink.What’smore,achatterbox,unlikethepitiablemantis,reallycanfly.Andonceittakestothewing,allmypainfulclimbingprofitsmenothing.Indeedadismaloutcome. It has, moreover, the dangerous and ugly habit of pissing in one’s eye. One can’tcomplain of its taking flight, but such filthy micturition is hardly playing the game. Whatpsychologicalpressure induces this incontinenceat themoment immediatelyprior toanactofaviation?Isit,perhaps,thatthethoughtofflyingistoounbearabletobear?Orisitsimplythata pissed-on prowler is so shockedly surprised that his intended prey gains ample time toescape? If that latterhypothesis is correct, thisurinating insect falls intoacommoncategorywiththeink-ejectingsquid,withthetattoo-flashingbrawler inthealleywaysofTokyo,andwithmy poor old idiot master spouting clouds of protective Latin. Again, I would stress that thisquestionofurinationattake-offisnomerepiddlingmatter,butanissueofpossiblyfundamentalrelevancetothestudyofcicadas.Theproblemcertainlymeritsthedetailedstudyofadoctoraldissertation.

ButIdigresstoofar.Letusreturntothepracticalitiesofcricketing.Thespotwherethecicadasmostthicklyconcentrate(ifyouobjecttomyuseinthiscontext

oftheword“concentrate,”thenIwasoriginallypreparedtosubstitutetheword“assemble,”butI find that latter word so banal that I have decided to stick to “concentrate”) is the greenpaulownia,theso-calledSultan’sParasolwhich,Iamreliablyinformed,isknowntotheChineseastheChineseParasol.Now,thegreenpaulowniaisdenselyfoliagedandeachofitsleavesisasbigasabig,roundfan.

Itisconsequentlyhardtoseethebrancheswheremyquarrylurks;afactwhichconstitutesanother hazard for the keen cricketer. I sometimes think that it was withmy predicament inmindthattheauthorofthatpopularsongwrotethosewordsofyearningfor“one,thoughheard,invisible.”Inanyevent,thebestIcandoistoworkmywaytowardthatplacefromwhichthesongappearstoemanate.

Aboutsixfeetupfromtheground,thetrunksofallgreenpaulowniasforkconvenientlyinto

two.WithinthatcrotchIrestfromtheexer-tionofmyinitialclimband,peeringupwardbetweenthebacksoftheleaves,trytoseewherethechatterboxesare.Sometimes,however,beforeIeven get to the crotch, one or two ofmy potential victims growalarmedand,with a curiousrustling sound, impatiently take flight. Then I’ve really had it. For, judging them by theirreadiness tobe led,and theirmindlesspassion forconformityofconduct, thesechatterboxesarenolessimbecilethanmen.Assoonasthefirstonefliesaway,alltheothersfollow.Thereare occasions, therefore, when by the time I’ve reached the fork, the whole tree standsdeserted inadeaddispiritingsilence.OnonesuchdayI’dclimbedupto theforkonly to find,however hard I peered and howevermuch I prickedmyears, no faintest sign or sound of achatterbox.Decidingitwouldbetoomuchofaboretostartalloveragaininsomeothertree,Iconcludedthat thesensible thingwouldbe tostaywhere Iwas,enjoy therelaxationandwaitfor a second chancewhen the refugees returned. Before long I grew sleepy, and soonwashappily far away in the pleasant land of Nod. My awakening was unpleasant, for I’d fallenthuddinglydownontoaflagstoneinthegarden.

Nevertheless,IusuallymanagetocatchonechatterboxforeverytreeIclimb.Itis,alas,anunavoidablecharacteristicofthissport,onewhichsadlyreducesmyinterestinit,that,solongasI’mupinthetree,Ihavetoholdmycaptiveinmymouth;for,bythetimeI’vedescendedandcanspithimoutontheground,heisusuallydead.HoweverhardImaythereafterplaywithhimandscratchhim,heoffersnoresponse.Themostexquisitemomentincricketingoccurswhen,after sneaking quietly upon a chatterbox whose whole vibrating being is concentrated uponsong,uponthesoul-absorbingbusinessofscrapinghistailpartsinandoutofthemainshellofhis body, suddenly I pounceandmypaws clampdownuponhim.Howpiercingly he shrieks,with what a threshing ecstasy of terror he shakes his thin transparent wings in efforts toescape. The sheer speed and intensity of these happenings creates an aesthetic experienceimpossible to describe. One can only say that the magnificence of its death-throes is thesupreme achievement of a cicada’s life. Every time I catch a chatterbox I ask, in suitablypressingterms,forademonstrationofhisthrillingartistry.

When tiredofhisperformance, Ibeghispardon for the interruptionandpophim intomymouth.Occasionalvirtuosihavebeenknowntocontinuewiththeiractevenaftermymouthhasclosedbehindthem.

Aftercricketing,mynextmost favoredformofphysicalexercise ispinesliding.Adetailedexplanation would be too much, so I’ll offer only the minimum of comment needed for anunderstandingof thissport. Itsnamesuggeststhat it isslidingdownpinetrees,but, infact, itdoesn’t.

Itis,indeed,anotherformofclimbingtrees.ButwhereaswhencricketingIclimbtocatchachatterbox,whenpine sliding I climbpurely for the climbing.Ever sinceGenzaemonwarmedthe roomfor laypriestSaimyoji, thatone-timeRegentatKamakura,byburning those trees towhichGenzaemon in his own happier days had been particularly attached, the pine tree hasbeennotonly,asthesongaboutthatincidentassuresus,naturallyanevergreen,butalsomostunnaturally rough-barked to one’s touch.Whatever the explanation, there is certainly no treelessslipperythanthepine,andnotrunkintheworldaffordsabetterclimbingsurfaceeitherforhands or for feet. Clearly, when it comes to claws, nothing is more clawable and I canconsequentlyrunupapinetrunkinonebreath.

Havingrunup, Irundown.Nowtherearetwostylesofdownwardrunning.Onewayistodescend,effectivelyupside-down,withone’shead facing theground; theother is todescend

tail-first in thenormal attitude for anascending climb.Andwhich, Iwouldask you know-it-allhumanbeings,wouldyousupposeisthemoredifficultstyleofthetwo?

Beingbutshallowbrained,youprobablythinkthatonewouldfinditeasiertopositionone’sheadsoastoleadinthedirectionofdesiredmovement;you’dbewrong.Whenyouheardmespeakofrunningdownward,nodoubtyouthoughtimmediatelyofYoshitsune’sheadlonghorsechargedownthecliffatHiyodori-goe.AndIcan imagineyouthinkingtoyourself thatanythinggoodenoughforahumanherolikeYoshitsunemustbemorethansufficientforsomeunnamed,unknown cat.But such disdainwould be entirelymisplaced. Just to beginwith, do you knowhowcats’clawsgrow,theirdirectionalpositioning inaccordancewiththeir function?Theyare,infact,retrorselycurvedsothat,likefiremen’shooks,theyarepeculiarlysuitedtocatchingholdofthingsanddrawingthemchestward.Theyarevirtuallyuselessforpushingthingsaway.Now,sinceIamaterrestrialcreature,itwouldbeabreachofnaturallawif,havingdashedupapinetreetrunk,Iweretoremainindefinitelyandunsupportedattheswayingtopofthetree.Iwouldcertainly fall down. And, if that fall were nowise checked, the rate ofmy descent couldwellprove lethal.Thus,when I takemeasures tomitigate thepotentially disastrouseffectsof thelawsofgravityandnature,Icalltheconsequentprocessofdescent“descending.”Thoughtheremayseemtobeasubstantialdifferencebetweendescendingandfreefalling, it isn’tasgreatasonemightfondlyimagine;indeed,nomorethanasingleletter’sworth.SinceIdonotcaretofreealloutofapinetreetop,Imustfindsomemeanstocheckthenaturalaccelerationofmybody.Andthat’swheremyclawscomein;orrather,out.Beingretrorselycurved,allmytwentyclaws, appropriately extended from my heaven-facing body, provide a gripping power andfrictional resistance sufficient to transform the hazards of free fall into the relative safety ofdescent.

Simple,isn’tit?ButyoujusttrytocomedownfromapinetreelikeawolfonthefoldintheheadlongYoshitsunestyle,andthat’snotsimpleatall.Clawsareuseless.Nothingretardstheslitheringaccelerationof your body’sweight, and thosewho’dhoped thus safely todescend,finish up by plummeting earthward like boulders dropped by rocs. You will, accordingly,appreciate that the headlong descent of Hiyodori-goewas an exceptionally difficult feat, onewhich only a veritable hero could successfully accomplish. Among cats, probably only I, theYoshitsuneofmykind,canpullitoff.IaccordinglyfeelIhaveearnedmyrighttogiveanametothisparticularsport,andIhavechosen“pinesliding.”

Icannotconcludethesefewwordsonthesubjectofsportwithoutatleastsomementionof“goingaroundthefence.”Mymaster’sgarden,rectangular inshape, isonallsidesseparatedfrom neighboring properties by a bamboo fence about three feet high. The section runningparallel to the veranda is some fifty feet long, and the twoside-sectionsareeachabouthalfthat length.Theobjectof theaforementionedsport is towalkrightaroundthewholepropertywithoutfallingoff thethintopedgeof thefence.Therearetimes,Iconfess,whenIdotoppleoff,but,whensuccessful,Ifindsuchtoursofthehorizoneminentlygratifying.

Really,greatfun.Thefenceissupportedhereandthere,andparticularlyatthecorners,bysturdycedarstakes, firehardenedateachend,on the topsofwhich I canconveniently takebreathers in the course of my circumambulation. I found myself today in really rather goodform.

Before lunch I managed three successful tours, and on each occasion my performanceimproved.Naturally,everyimprovementaddstothefun.

Iwas justabouthalfwayhomeonmy fourth timearoundwhen threecrows,glidingdown

fromthenext-door roof,settledon the fence-top,side-by-side,somesixshort feetaheadofme.Cheekybastards!Quiteapartfromthefactthatthey’reinterruptingmyexercise,suchlow-born, ill-bred, rain-guttersnipes have no right whatsoever to come trespassing, indeedseeminglytostartsquatting,onmyfence-property.SoItoldthem,intermsofhissingclarity,toget lost.Thenearestcrow, turning itshead towardme,appears tobegrinning likeahalf-wit.The next one unconcernedly studiesmymaster’s garden. And the third continues wiping hisfilthybeakonaprojectingsplinterof the fencebamboo.Hehadall tooevidently just finishedeatingsomethingrathernasty.Istoodtherebalancedonthefence,givingthemacivilizedthreeminutesgracetoshoveoff.I’veheardthatthesebirdsarecommonlycalledCrowmagnons,andtheycertainlylookasdaftandprimitivelybarbarousastheiruncouthnicknamewouldsuggest.Despite my courteous waiting, they neither greeted me nor flew away. Becoming at lastinpatient,Ibeganslowlytoadvance;whereuponthenearestCrowmagnontentativelystirredhiswings.I thoughthewasat lastbackingoff infaceofmypower,butallhedidwastoshifthisposturesoastopresenthisarse,ratherthanhishead,towardme.Outrightinsolence!Conductunbecoming even a Crowmagnon. Were we on the ground, I would call him to immediateaccount,but,alas,beingasIamengageduponapassagebothstrenuousandperilous,Ireallycan’tbebothered tobediverted frommypurposebysuchaboriginalnaiseries.On theotherhand,Idonotgreatlycarefortheideaofbeingstuckherewhileatreyofbrainlessbirdswaitsforwhatever impulsewill lift themintotheair.Foronething,there’smypoortiredfeet.Thosefeathered lightweights are used to standing around in such precarious places so that, if myfence-top happens to please them, theymight perch here forever. I, on the other hand, amalreadyexhausted.Thisismyfourthtimearoundtoday,andthisparticularexerciseisanywaynolesstrickythantightrope-walking.

At thebest of times, each teetering step I take could throwmecleanoff-balance,whichmakesitallthemoreunpardonablethatthesethreeblackamoorsshouldloafhereblockingtheway.Ifitcomestotheworst,Ishalljusthavetoabandontoday’sexercisesandhopdownfromthefence.It’sabore,ofcourse,butperhapsImightaswellhopdownnow.

Afterall,Iamheavilyoutnumberedbytheenemy.Besides,thepoorsimplethingsdoseemtobestrangersintheseparts.Theirbeaks,Inotice,arealmostaffectedlypointed,thesortofsavage,stabbingsnoutthat,foundamongsthissons,wouldmakeitsfoulpossessorthemostsharplyfavoredmemberofalong-nosedgoblin’sbrood.ThesignsareunmistakablethattheseCrowmagnonloutswillbeequallyill-natured.

IfIstartafightandthen,bysheermischance,happentolosemyfoot-ing,thelossoffacewill bemuchgreater than if I just chose todisengage.Consequently, thinking that itmightbeprudenttoavoidashowdown,Ihadjustdecidedtohopdownwhenthearse-presentingsavageofferedmea rudery. “Arseholes,”heobserved.His immediateneighbor repeated this coarseremark,whilethelastoneofthetriotookthetroubletosayittwice.Isimplycouldnotoverlookbehaviorsooffensive.

Firstandforemost,toallowmyselftobegrosslyinsultedinmyowngardenbythesemerecrowswouldreflectadverselyuponmygoodname.

Should you object that I do not have a name to be reflected upon, I will amend thatsentencetorefertoreflectionsuponmyhonor.Whenmyhonorisinvolved,costwhatitmay,Icannot retreat.At thispoint itoccurred tomethatadisorderly rabble isoftendescribedasa“flock of crows;” so it is just possible that, though they outnumberme three to one, when itcomes to the crunch they’ll prove more weak than they look. Thus comforted, thus grimly

resolute,Ibeganslowlytoadvance.The crows, oblivious to my action, seem to be talking among themselves. They are

exasperating!Ifonlythefencewerewiderbyfiveorsixinches,I’dreallygivethemhell.Butasthingsare,howevervehementlyvexedImayfeel,Icanonlytiptoeslowlyforwardtoavengemyinjuredhonor.Eventually,Ireachedapointabarehalf-footawayfromthenearestbirdandwasurging myself onward to one last final effort when, all together and as though byprearrangement, the three brutes suddenly flapped their wings and lumbered up to hang acouple of feet above me in the air. The down-draught gusted into my face. Unsportinglysurprised,Ilostmybalanceandfelloffsidewaysintothegarden.

Kickingmyselfforpermittingsuchashamefulmishaptooccur,Ilookedupfromthegroundto find all three marauders safely landed back again where they had perched before. Theirthreesharpbeaksinparallelalignment,theypeerdownsuperciliouslyintomyangryeyes.

The bloody nerve of them! I responded with a glowering scowl. Which left them quiteunmoved. So next I snarled and archedmy back. Equally ineffective. Just as the subtlety ofsymbolicpoetryislostonamaterial-ist,sowerethesymbolsofmyangerquitemeaninglesstothecrows.

Which,nowthatIreflectuponthematter,isperfectlyunderstandable.Hitherto,andwrongly, I havebeenseeking tocopewithcrowsas if theyhadbeencats.

Had that been the case, they would by now, most certainly, have reacted. But crows arecrows, andwhat but crowbehavior cananyoneexpect of them?Myefforts have, in fact, allbeen as pointless as the increasingly short-tempered arguments of a businessman trying tobudgemymaster;aspointlessasYoritomo’sgiftofasolidsilvercat totheunworldlySaigyo;aspointlessasthebirdshitthatthesefoolsandtheirfoolcousinsflyovertoUenotodepositonthestatueofpoorSai-oTakamori.OnceIhaveconceivedathought,IwastenotimebeforeIactuponit.Itwerebettertogiveupthantopersistinadialoguewithdunces,soIabandonedmyendeavorsandwithdrewtotheveranda.

Itwastimefordinneranyway.Exercisehasmerits,butonemustn’toverdoit.Mywholebodyfeltlimpandalmostslovenly.

What’smoreIfeelhorriblyhot.Wearenowatthebeginningofautumn,andduringmyexercisemyfurseemstohavebecomesaturatedwithafternoonsunshine.Thesweatwhichoozesfromtheporesinmyskinrefusestodropaway,butclingsingreasyclotsaroundtherootsofeveryseparate hair. My back itches. One can clearly distinguish between itches caused byperspirationand itchescausedbycreeping fleas. If thesiteof the itch lieswithinreachofmymouth,Icanbitethecause,andifwithinreachofmyfeet,Iknowpreciselyhowtoscratchit.But if the irritation isat themidpointofmyspine, Isimplycan’tgetat it. Insuchacase,onemusteitherfrotoneselfonthefirstavailablehumanbeingorscrapeone’sbackagainstapinetree’sbark.

Sincemenarebothvainandstupid,Iapproachtheminasuitablyingratiatingmannerusing,astheywouldsay,“tonesthatwouldwheedleacat.”Sucharethetonesmensometimesuseto me, but, seen from my position, the phrase should be “tones by which a cat may bewheedled.”

Not that it matters. Anyway, human beings being the nitwits that they are, a purringapproachtoanyofthem,eithermaleorfemale,isusuallyinterpretedasproofthatIlovethem,andtheyconsequently letmedoasI like,andonoccasions,poordumbcreatures, theyevenstrokemy head.Of late, however, just because some kind of parasitic insect, fleas, in fact,

havetakentobreedinginmyfur,evenmymosttentativeapproachestoahumanbeingevokeagrossresponse. Iamgrabbedby thescruffof theneckandpitchedcleanoutof theroom. Itseemsthatthissuddenaversionstemsfromhumandisgustwiththosebarelyvisibleandtotallyinsignificant insects which I harbor. A heartless and most callous attitude! How can suchinconsideratebehaviorpossiblybejustifiedbythepresenceinmycoatofoneortwothousandfootling fleas?Theanswer is,ofcourse, thatArticleOneof thoseLawsofLove(bywhichallhumancreatures regulate their lives)specificallyenjoins that “yeshall loveoneanother forsolongasitservesthineindividualinterest.”

Now that the human attitude towards me has so completely changed, I cannot exploitmanpowertoeasemyitching,howevervirulentitmaybecome.Ithereforehavenochoicebuttoresorttothealternativemethodoffindingreliefinscrapingmyselfonpinebark.TothatendIwasjustgoingdowntheverandastepswhenIrealizedthateventhisalternativesolutionwasasilly ideaandwouldnotwork.Thepoint is thatpinessecreteanextremelystickyresinwhich,onceithasgummedtheendsofmyfurtogether,cannotbeloosenedevenifstruckbylightning,or fired upon by the whole Russian Baltic Fleet. What’s more, as soon as five hairs sticktogether, then ten, then thirty hairs get inextri-cably stuck. I am a dainty cat of candidtemperament,andanycreatureasclinging,poisonous,andvindictiveasthistenaciousresinisananath-ematome.Icannotstandpersonsofthatkind,andevenifonesuchparticularpersonwere themost beautiful cat in theworld, let alone a creature loathsomeas resin, still I’d berevolted. It is outrageous that my charmingly pale gray coat can be ruined by a substancewhosesocialandevolutionarystatusisnohigherthanthatofthegummymuckwhichstreamsin thecoldnorthwind fromthecornersofRickshawBlacky’seyes.Resinought to realize theimpropriety of its nature, but will, of course, do no such thing. Indeed, the verymomentmybackmakescontactwithapinetree,greatclotsofresingatheronmyfur.Tohaveanythingtodo with so insensitive, so inconsiderate a creature would not only be beneath my personaldignity,butwouldbeadefilement toanyone inmycoatand lineage. Iconcludethat,howeverfleasome I may feel, I have no choice but to grin and bear it. Nonetheless, it is extremelydisheartening to find that the two standard means of alleviating my discomfort are bothunavailable. Unless I can quickly find some other solution, the irritation in my skin, and thethoughtofgumminessinmymind,willbringmetoanervousbreakdown.

Sinkingdownuponmyhind-legsintoathinkingposture,Ihadscarcelybegunmysearchforbright ideaswhenan illuminatingmemory flasheduponme.Everysooftenmyscruffymastersauntersoff out of thehousewitha cakeof soapandahand towel.Whenhe returns somethirty or forty minutes later, his normally dull complexion, while not exactly glowing, hasnevertheless acquired a certainmodest liveliness. If such expeditions can confer a sheen ofvitalityupon thatshabbysloven,whatwonders theymightworkuponmyself. It is,ofcourse,true that I am already so extremely handsome that improvements, if possible, are hardlynecessary,but ifbysomemisfortune Iwere to fall sickandperishat thisvery tenderageofoneyearandafewoddmonths,Icouldneverforgivemyselfforallowingsoirremediablealosstobeinflicteduponthepopulaceoftheworld.Ibelievethattheobjectofmymaster’ssortiesisoneof thosedevices inventedbymankindasameansof easing the tediumof its existence.Inasmuchas thepublicbath isan inventionofmankind, it canhardlybemuchuse toanyonebut,clutchingasIamatstraws,Imightaswell investigatethematter. If it’saspointlessasIanticipate, nothingwould be simpler than to dropmy enquiries; but I remain unsurewhetherhumanbeingsaresufficientlybroadmindedtogiveacat,amemberofanotherspecies,evena

chancetoinvestigatetheefficacyofaninstitutiondevisedforhumanpurposes.I cannot imagine that I could be refused entry when nobody dreams of questioning the

casual comingsandgoings ofmymaster, but itwould be sociallymost embarrassing to findmyselfturnedfromthedoor.

Prudencesuggeststhewisdomofreconnaissanceand,ifIlikethelookoftheplace,thenIcanhopinwithahandtowelinmymouth.Myplanofactionformed,Isetoffforthepublicbathataproperlyleisurelypace.

Asoneturnsleftaroundthecornerfromoursidestreet,onemayobservealittlefurtheruptheroadanobjectlikeanupendedbamboowaterpipepuffingthinsmoke-fumesstraightupintothesky.That fum-ing fingermarks thesiteof thepublicbathhouse. Istole in through itsbackentrance. That style of entry is usually looked down upon asmean-spirited or cowardly, butsuch criticisms aremerely the tedious grumbles spicedwith jealousywhich onemust expectfrom persons only capable of gaining access by front doors. It is abundantly clear from therecordsofhistorythatpersonsofhighintelligenceinvariably launchattacksbothsuddenlyandfromtherear.Furthermore,InotefrommystudyofTheMakingofaGentleman(volumetwo,chapter one, pages five and six) that a backdoor, like a gentleman’s lastwill and testament,provides themeanswherebyan individualestablisheshis truemoralexcellence.Beinga trulytwentieth-centurycat,Ihavehadincludedinmyeducation,morethansufficientofsuchweightylearning, tomake it inappropriate foranyonetosneeratmyselectedmodeofentry.Anyway,onceIwasinside,Ifoundonmyimmediateleftapositivemountainofpinelogscutintoeight-inchlengthsand,nexttoit,aheaped-uphillofcoal.Someofmyreadersmaywonderwhatthesubtlesignificanceofmycarefuldistinctionbetweenamountainoflogsandamerehillofcoalis.

Thereis,infact,nosubtlesignificancewhatsoever.Isimplyusedthetwowords,“hill”and“mountain,” as they should correctly be used. Far from having time to think about literaryniceties,Iamoverwhelmedwithpityforthehumanracewhich,havingregularlydietedonsuchrevoltingobjectsasrice,birds,fish,andevenanimals,isnowapparentlyreducedtomunchinglumpsofcoal.RightinfrontofmeIseeanopenentranceaboutsixfeetwide.Ipeepthroughand find everything dead quiet but, from somewhere beyond, there comes a lively buzz ofhumanvoicesandIdeducethatthebathmustbewherethesoundoriginates.Imoveforwardbetweenthewoodpileandthecoalheap,turnleftandfindaglazedwindowtomyright.Ontheledgebelow,aconsiderablenumberof small round tubs ispiledup intoapyramid.Myheartgoesout to them, for itmust bepainfully contrary to a round thing’s concept of reality to beconstrictedwithina triangularworld.To thesouthof thesepiles thesill jutsout fora fewfeetwith,asiftowelcomeme,woodenboardingonit.Sincetheboardisroughlythreefeetupfromtheground, it is,frommypointofview,atanidealhoppingheight.“Allright,”Isaidtomyself,and, as I flew up nimbly to the board, the public bath, like something dangled, suddenlyappearedbeneathmyverynose.

Thereisnothingintheworldmorepleasantthantoeatsomethingonehasneveryeteaten,ortoseesomethingonehasneverseenbefore.

Ifmyreaders,likemymaster,spendthirtyorfortyminutesonthreedaysofeverypassingweekintheworldofthepublicbath,thenofcoursethatworldcanofferthemfewsurprises:butif,likeme,theyhaveneverseenthatspectacle,theyshouldmakeimmediatearrangementstodoso.Don’tworryaboutthedeathbedofyourparents,butatallcostsdonotmissthegrandshowof the public bath. Theworld iswide, but inmyopinion it has no sightmore startlingly

remarkabletooffer.Wherein,youask,residesitscrassspectacularity?Well,itissovariouslyspectacularthatI

hesitatetoparticularize.Firstofall,thehumanbeingsvociferouslyswarmingaboutbeyondthewindow-glass are all stark naked. As totally unclothed as Formosan aborigines. PrimevalAdamsstillprancingabout inthistwentiethcentury. Iammovedbysomuchnuditytoprefacemycommentswithahistoryofclothing,but itwouldtakeso longthat Iwillsparemyreadersany rehash of the learned observations of Herr Doktor Diogenes Teufelsdrockh in hismonumentalstudyonthissubject(DieKleider,WerdenundWizken)andsimplyreferthemtoa slightly less learned commentary on thatwork,Mr.ThomasCarlyle’sSartorResartus. Theessentialfactremainsthattheclothesaretheman,thattheungarbedmanisnothing.Skippingcenturiesofsartorialcivilization, indeeda tautologicalphrase, Iwould remindmyreaders thatBeau Nash, in the heyday of his social regulation of eighteenth-century Bath, a royallypatronizedhotspringsspa in thewestofEngland,established the inflexible rule thatmenandwomensubmergingthemselvesinthosesalutarywatersshould,nevertheless,beclothedfromtheirshouldersdowntotheirfeet.Afurtherrelevantincidentoccurred,againinacertainEnglishcity,justafterthemidpointofthenineteenthcentury.ItsohappenedthatthiscitythenfoundedaSchoolofArtand,quitenaturally, theschool’s function involvedthepresenceanddisplayofvarious studies, drawings, paintings,models, and statuesof thenakedhuman figure.But theinauguration of this school placed both its own staff and the city fathers in a deeplyembarrassingsituation.Therecouldbenoquestionbutthattheleadingladiesofthecitymustbe invited to the opening ceremony. Unfortunately, all civilized females of that era wereunshakablysure thathumanbeingsareclothes-animalshavingno relationshipwhatsoever, letaloneblood-kinship,withtheskin-cladapes.

Amanwithouthisclothes,theyknewitforafact,waslikeanelephantshornofitstrunk,aschoolwithoutitsstudents,soldiersdevoidofcourage.Anyonewithouttheotherofthesepairswouldbesototallydecharacterizedastobecome,ifnotacompletenonentity,atleastanentityof a basely transubstantiated nature, and a man so transubstanti-ated would be, at best, abeast. The ladies, as the saying is, laid it on the line. “For us to consort with such beast-humans,eventhoughthosebestialitieswereonlypresentintheformofdrawingsandstatues,wouldcompromiseourhonor.Iftheyaretobepresentattheceremony,wewillnotattend.”Theschoolauthoritiesthoughttheladieswereallbeingalittlesillybut, intheWestasintheEast,women,howeverphysicallyunfit for thehardslogofpoundingriceorofslashingaboutonthebattlefield,areindispensablyornamentalfeaturesofanyopeningceremony.

What,then,couldbedone?Theschoolauthoritiestookthemselvesofftoadraper’sshop,bought thirty-five and seven-eighths rolls of suitable black material and clothed their beastlyprints, their less-than-human statues, in a hundred yards of humanizing huckaback. Lest anylady’smodestymightbeoutragedaccidentally,theyevenmaskedthefacesoftheirstatuesinswathes of sable stuffs. European marble and Hellenic plaster thus yashmaked out of theanimalkingdom,Iamhappytorecordthattheceremonywentofftothecompletesatisfactionofallconcerned.

From those remarkableaccounts the importanceof clothes tomankindmaybededuced.But, very recently, there hasbeena swing in theopposite directionandpeoplemaynowbefoundwhogoaboutincessantlyadvocatingnudity,praisingnudepicturesandgenerallymakinganakedmenaceofthemselves.Ithinktheyareinerror.Indeed,sinceIhaveremaineddecentlyclothed from the moment of my birth, how could I think otherwise? The craze for the nude

beganwhen, at theRenaissance, the traditional customsof theancientGreeksandRomanswere repopularized, for their own lewd ends, by the Italianate promot-ers of that culturalrebirth.TheancientGreeksandRomanswereculturallyaccustomedtonudity,and it ishighlyunlikely that they recognized any connection between nakedness and public morality. But innorthernEuropetheprevailingclimateiscold.EveninJapanthereisasayingthat“onecannottravelnaked,”sothat,bynaturallaw,inGermanyorEngland,anakedmanisverysoonadeadone.Sincedying isdaft,northernerswearclothes.Andwheneveryonewearsclothes,humanbeingsbecomeclothes-animals.Andhavingoncebecomeclothes-animals, theyareunable toconceive thatanynakedanimalwhom theymayhappen to runacrosscouldpossiblyalsobehuman. Its absence of clobber immediately identifies its brutish nature. Consequently, it isunderstandablethatEuropeans,especiallynorthernEuropeans,mightregardnudepicturesandnude statues as essentially bestial. In otherwords,Europeans and Japanese have the goodsensetorecognizenudesandrepresentationsofnudityaslife-formsinferiortocats.Butnudesare beautiful, you say?What of it? Beasts, though beautiful, are beasts. Some ofmymoreknowledgeablereaders,seekingtocatchmeinaninconsistency,maypossiblyaskwhetherI’veeverseenaEuropean lady ineveningdress? Inevitably,beingonlyacat, I’veneverhad thathonor.But Iamreliablyadvised thatWestern ladies in formaleveningweardo in factexposetheir shoulders,arms,andevenbreasts,which is, of course,disgusting.BeforeRenaissancetimes, women’s dress styles did not sink to such scandalous levels, to such ridiculousdecolletages.Instead,atall timeswomenworetheclothesonewouldnormallyexpectonanyhuman being. Why, then, have they transformed themselves to look like vulgar acrobats? Itwouldbefartoowearisometosetdownallthedrearyhistoryofthatdecadence.Letitsufficethatthosewhoknowthereasons,knowthem,andthatthosewhodon’t,don’tneedto.Inanyevent, whatever the historical background, the fact remains that modern women, each andeverynight,trickthemselvesoutinvirtualundressandevincethedeepestself-satisfactionwiththeirbizarreappearances.

However, itwouldseemthatsomewhereunderthatbeastlybrazenness, theyretainsomespark of human feeling, because, as soon as the sun comes up, they cover their shoulders,sleevetheirarms,andtuckawaytheirbreasts. It isall themoreodd in that,notonlydotheysheathe themselves by day to the point of near invisibility, but they carry their lunacy to theextremeofconsideringitextremelydisgracefultoexposesomuchasasingleday-littoenailtothe public view. Such inane contra-riety surely proves thatwomen’s evening dresses are thebrainchildofsomegibberingconferenceofbrain-damaged freaks. Ifwomenresent that logic,whydon’ttheytrywalkingaboutinthedaytimewithbaredshoulders,arms,andbreasts?Thesame type of enquiry should also be addressed to nudists. If they are so besottedwith thenude,whydon’ttheystriptheirdaughters?Andwhy,whilethey’reaboutit,don’ttheyandtheirfamiliesstrollaroundUenoParkinnomorethanthatnakednesstheysoaffecttolove?Itcan’tbe done, they say? But of course it can. The only reason why they hesitate is not, I bet,becauseitcan’tbedone,butsimplybecauseEuropeansdon’tdoit.Theproofofmypointisintheir dusk behavior. There they are, swaggering down to the lmpe-rial Hotel, all dolled-up inthose crazy evening dresses. What origin and history do such cockeyed costumes have?Nothing indigenous. Our bird-brained ladies flaunt themselves in goose-skinned flesh andfeatherssolelybecausethatisthemodeinEurope.Europeansarepowerful,soitmattersnothowridiculousordafttheirgoingson,everyonemustimitateeventheirdaftestdesigns.Yieldtothelong,andbetrimmeddown;yieldtothepowerful,andbehumbled;yieldtotheweighty,and

be squashed. Prudence demands a due degree of yielding, but surely only dullards yield allalongtheline,surelyonlychimpanzeesapeeverythingtheysee.Ifmyreadersanswerthattheycan’thelpbeingdullards,can’thelpbeingbornwithoutabilitytodiscriminateinimitation,thenofcourseIpardonthem.Butinthatcase,theymustabandonallpretensethattheJapaneseareagreatnation. Imightaddthatallmyforegoingcommentsapplywithequal force in thefieldofacademicstudies,but,sinceIamhereonlyconcernedwithquestionsofclothing,Iwillnotnowpressthescholasticparallels.

I think I have established the importance of their clothes to human beings. Indeed, theirclothing is so demonstrably all-important to them that one may reasonably wonder whetherhumanbeingsare clothes,or clothesare thecurrentacmeof theevolutionaryprocess. I amtempted to suggest that human history is not the history of flesh and bone and blood, but amerechronicleofcostumes.Thingshave indeedcometoaprettypasswhenanakedman isseen, not as a man, but as a monster. If by mutual agreement all men were to becomemonsters,obviouslynonewouldseeanythingmonstrousintheothers.Whichwouldbeahappysituation,wereitnotthatmenwouldbeunhappywithit.Whenmankindfirstappearedupontheearth, a benign naturemanufactured them to standard specifications, and all, equally naked,were pitched forth into theworld.Hadmankind been createdwith an inborn readiness to becontentwithequality, I cannotseewhy,bornnaked, theyshouldhavebeendiscontent to liveand die unclothed. However, one of these primeval nudists seems to have communed withhimselfalongthefollowinglines.“SinceIandallmyfellowmanareindistinguishablyalike,whatisthepointofeffort?HoweverhardIstrive, Icannotofmyselfclimbbeyondthecommonrut.So, since I yearn to be conspicuous, I think I’ll drapemyself in something thatwill draw theeyes and blow theminds of all these clones aroundme.” Iwould guess that he thought andthought forat least tenyearsbeforehecameupwithastupendous idea, thatgloryofman’sinventiveness, pants. He put them on at once and, puffed up with pride and all primordialpompousness, paraded about among his startled fellows. From him descend today’squaintclouted rickshawmen. It seemsa little strange tohave taken ten longyears to thinkupsomething as simple, and as brief, as shorts, but the strangeness is only a kind of opticalillusioncreatedbytime’simmenselylongperspective.Inthedaysofman’sremoteantiquity,nosuchbreathtakinginventionaspantshadeverbeenachieved.I’veheardthatittookDescartes,no intellectualslouch,afull tenyearstoarriveathis famousconclusion,obvioussurelytoanythree-year-old, that I think and therefore I am. Since original thought is thus demonstrablydifficult,perhapsoneshouldconcede that itwasan intellectual feat,even if it took tenyears,forthewitsofproto-rickshawmantoformulatethenotionofknickers.Inanyevent,ennobledbytheirknickers,thebreedofrickshawmenbecamelordsofcreationandstalkedthehighwaysofthe world with such overweening pride that some of the more spirited among the cloutlessmonsterswereprovokedintocompetition.Judgingbyitsuselessness,Iwouldguessthattheyspentameresixyears inplanning theirparticular invention, thegood-for-nothingsurcoat.Theknickers’ glory faded and the golden age of surcoats shone upon theworld, and from thoseinnovatorsaredescendedallthegreen-grocers,chemists,drapers,andhaberdashersoftoday.When twilight fell, first upon knickers and then upon surcoats, there came the dawn ofJapanese skirted-trousers. Thesewere designed bymonsters peeved by the surcoat boom,and the descendants of their inventors include both the warriors of medieval times and allcontemporarygovernmentofficials.Theplain, ifregrettable,fact isthatall theoriginallynakedmonstersstrovevaingloriously tooutdoeachother in thenoveltyandweirdnessof theirgear.

The ultimate grotesquerie has only recently appeared in swallow-tailed jackets. Yet if onepondersthehistoryofthesequaintmanifestations,onerecognizesthatthereisnothingrandomintheiroccurrence.

Thedevelopmentwasneitherhaphazardnoraimless.Onthecontrary,itisman’sdeathlesseagerness to compete, the driving stretch of his intrepid spirit, his resolute determination tooutdoallothermembersofhisspecies,whichhasguidedtheproductionofsuccessivestylesofclothing.Amemberofthisspeciesdoesnotgoaroundshoutingaloudthatheorshediffersinhimself(orherself)fromothersofthespecies: insteadeachonegoesaboutwearingdifferentclothes. From this observed behavior a major psychological truth about this race of forkeddestroyersmaybededuced:that,justasnatureabhorsavacuum,

“mankindabhorsequality.”Beingthuspsychologicallydetermined,theynowhavenochoicewhatsoever but to continue enveloping themselves in clothes andwould regard a deprivationthereofwithasmuchalarmastheywouldfaceacuttingoffoffleshortheremovalofabone.To them it would be absolute madness to cast their various clouts, a ripping away of theiressentialhumansubstance,andasunthinkabletoattemptareturntotheiroriginalconditionofequality.Eveniftheycouldbeartheshameofbeingaccountedlunatics,itwouldnotbefeasibleto return to a state of nature in which, by all civilized standards, they would automaticallybecome notmerely lunatics butmonsters. Even if all the billions of human inhabitants of thisglobe could be rehabilitated as monsters, even if they were purged of their shame by totalreassurance that,sinceallweremonsters,noneweremonsters,believeyoume, itstillwoulddo no good. The very next day after the reign of equality among monsters had been re-established,themonsterswouldbeatitonceagain.Iftheycan’tcompetewiththeirclotheson,thentheywillcompeteasmonsters.Witheveryman-jackstark-staringnaked,theywouldbegintodifferentiatebetweendegreesofstaringstarkness.Forwhichreasonalone,itwould,Ithink,bebestifclotheswerenotabandoned.

It is consequently incredible that theassortedhumancreaturesnowdisplayedbeforemyveryeyesshouldhavetakenofftheirclothes.

Surcoats,skirtedtrousers,eventheirsmallestsmalls,thingsfromwhichtheirownerswouldas soon be parted as from their guts and bladders, are all stacked up on shelveswhile therecreatedmonstersare,withcompletecomposure,evenchatting,scandalouslyexposingtheirarchetypal nudity to the public view. Are you surprised then, gentle readers, that some timebackIdescribedthissceneasgenuinelyspectacular?ShockedasIwas,andam,itwillbemyhonor to record for the benefit of all truly civilized gentlemen as much as I can of thisextraordinarysight.

Imust start by confessing that, facedbysuchmind-bogglingchaos, I don’t knowhow tostart describing it. The monsters show no method in their madness, and it consequently isdifficulttosystematizeanalysisthereof.Ofcourse,Ican’tbesurethatitactuallyisabath,butImake thewildsurmise that it can’tbeanythingelse. It isabout three feetwideandnine feetlong,andisdividedbyanuprightboardintotwosections.

One section contains white-colored bathwater. I understand that this is what they call amedicatedbath: ithasa turbid look,as though limehadbeendissolved in it.Actually, it looksnot only turbid with lime, but also heavily charged and scummed with grease. It’s hardly awonder that it lookssowhitelystale, for I’m told that thewater ischangedbutonceaweek.Theothersectioncomprisestheordinarybath,but,hereagain,bynostretchoftheimaginationcoulditswaterbedescribedascrystalclearorpellucid.Ithasthepeculiarlyrepulsivecolorof

stirred rainwaterwhich, against the danger of fire, has stood formonths in a rain tank on apublicstreet.Next,thoughtheeffortkillsme,Iwilldescribethemonstersthemselves.Iseetwoyoungsters standing beside that tank of dirty water. They stand facing each other and arepouring pail after pail of hot water over each other’s bellies. Which certainly seems aworthwhile occupation. The two men are faultlessly developed, so far as the sun-burntblackness of their skin is concerned. As I watch them, thinking that these monsters haveremarkablysturdyfigures,oneofthem,pawingathischestwithahandtowel,suddenlyspeakstotheother.

“Kin,oldman,I’vegotapainrighthere.Iwonderwhatitis.”“That’syourstomach.Stomachpainscankillyou.You’dbetterwatch itcarefully,” isKin’s

mostearnestadvice.“Butit’shere,onmyleft,”saysthefirstone,pointingathisleftlung.“Sure,thatthere’syourstomach.Ontheleft,thestomach,andontheright,thelung.”“Really?Ithoughtthestomachwasabouthere,”andthistimehetapshimselflightlyonthe

hip.“Don’tbesilly,that’sthelumbago,”Kinmockinglyreplies.At this point, a man of about twenty-five or twenty-six and sporting a thin moustache

jumpedintothebathwithaplop.Nextminute,thesoapandlooseneddirtuponhisbodyrosetothesurface,andthewaterglintedrichlyasifitmightbeminedformineralwealth.Rightbesidehimabald-headedoldmanistalkingtosomeclose-croppedcrony.Onlytheirheadsarevisibleabovethewater.

“Nothing’smuchfunanymorewhenyougettobeoldlikeme.Onceonegetsdecrepit,onecan’tkeepupwiththeyoungsters.Butwhenitcomestoahotbath,eventhoughtheysaythatonly lads can take real heat, that, for me, must still be really hot. Otherwise,” the old manboastfullyobserved,“Idon’tfeelright.”

“Butyou,sir,areinspankinghealth.Notbadatalltobeasenergeticasyouare.”“I’mnotallthatenergetic,youknow.Ionlymanagetokeepfreefromillness.Aman,they

say,shouldlivetobeahundredandtwentyprovidedhedoesnothingbad.”“What!Doesoneliveaslongasthat?”“Ofcourse.Iguaranteeituptoahundredandtwenty. InthedaysbeforetheRestoration

therewasafamilycalledMagaribuchi-theywerepersonalretainersoftheShogun—theyusedto liveuphere inTokyoatUshigome—andoneof theirmaleservants lived toahundredandthirty.”

“That’saremarkableage.”“Yes,indeed.Hewasinfactsooldthathe’dcleanforgottenhisage.He toldme he could remember it until he turned a hundred, but then he just lost count.

Anyway, when I knew him he was a hundred and thirty and still going strong. I don’t knowwhat’s become of him. For all I know, he may be out there still, still alive and kicking.” Sosaying, he emerged from the bath. His whiskered friend remained in the water, grinning tohimselfandscatteringallaroundhimsudsthatglitteredlikesmallflecksofmica.Themanwhothereupon got into the bath was certainly no ordinary monster; for all across his back wasspread a vast tattoo. It seemed to represent that legendary hero, lwami Jutaro-, about todecapitateapythonwithahugehigh-brandishedsword.Forsomesadreason, thetattoohasnot yet been completed and the pythonmust be guessed at. The great Jutaro-looks amitediscomfited.Asthisillustratedmanjumpedintothewater,“Muchtootepid,”heremarked.The

man entering immediately behind him seems disposed to agree. “Oh dear,” he says, “theyought toheat itupabit.”Just thesamehis featurescrack intoastrainedgrimace,asthoughthewaterwereinfacttoohotforhim.

Findinghimselfrightnexttothetattooedmonster,“Hello,chief,”hegreetshim.Thetattooedmonsternoddedand,afterawhile,enquired“AndhowisMr.Tami?”“Couldn’tsay.He’sgonesopottyaboutgambling...”“Notjustgambling...”“So?There’ssomethingwrongwiththatone.He’salwaysbloody-minded.Idon’tknow,but

noonereallylikeshim.Can’tquiteputafingeronit.Somehowonecan’tquitetrusthim.Amanwithatradejustshouldn’tbelikethat.”

“Exactly.Mr. Tami is rather too pleasedwith himself. Too damn stuck up, I’d say. That’swhyfolkdon’ttrusthim.Wouldn’tyousay?”

“You’reright.Hethinkshe’sinaclassbyhimself.Whichneverpays.”“All theoldcraftsmenaroundherearedyingoff.Theonlyonesleftareyou,Mr.Motothe

cooper,themasterbrickmaker,andthat’saboutit.Ofcourse,asyouknow,Itoowasbornintheseparts.ButjusttakeMr.Tami.Nobodyknowswherehesprangfrom.”

“True.It’sawonderthathe’scomeasfarashehas.”“Indeeditis.Somehownobodylikeshim.Nobodyevenwantstopassthetimeofdaywith

suchanawkwardbastard.”PooroldMr.Tamiisgettingitintheneckfromallandsundry.Shiftingmygazeawayfromthesectionfilledwithfilthyrainwater, Inowconcentrateupon

thesectionfilledwithlimeygoo.Itprovestobepackedwithpeople.Indeed,itwouldbemoreexact todescribe itascontaininghotwaterbetweenmenrather thanascontainingmen in itshotwater.Allthecreatureshereare,moreover,quiteremarkablylethargic.

For quite some timenow,menhavebeen climbing in but nonehas yet climbedout.Onecannot wonder that the water gets fouled when so many people use it and a whole weektrundles by before the water’s changed. Duly impressed by the turmoil in that tub, I peeredmore deeply among its tight-squeezed monsters and there I found my wretched mastercoweringintheleft-handcorner,squashedandpar-boiledpoppy-red.Pooroldthing!Someoneoughttomakeagapandlethimscrambleout.Butnooneseemswillingtobudgeaninch,andindeedmymasterhimselfappearsperfectlyhappytostaywhereheis.

Hesimplystands theremotionlessashisskinclimbs through thegradu-ationsof red toavile vermilion. What a ghastly ordeal! I guess his readiness to suffer such dire reddeningreflectsadetermination toextracthis full two farthingsworth in return for thebathhouse fee.But,devotedasIamtothatdimmonsterofmine,Icannotsitherecomfyonmyledgewithoutworrying lest, dizzied by steam andmedicating chemicals, he drown if he dallies longer. Asthesethoughtsdriftedthroughmymind,thefellowfloatingnext tomymasterfrownsandthenremarks,“Allthesame,thisisabittoostrong.It’sboilingup,reallyscorching,fromsomewhereherebehindme.”Ideducethat,reluctanttocomeoutwithaflatcomplaintwhichmightimpugnhismanliness,heistryingindirectlytorousethesympathyofhisboilingfellow-monsters.

“Ohno,this is justaboutright.Anycooler,andamedicinalbathhasnoeffectatall.BackwhereIcomefromwetakethemtwiceashotasthis.”Somebraggartspeaksfromthedepthsofswirlingsteam.

“Anyway,what thehell kindofgoodcan thesebathsdo?”enquiresanothermonsterwhohascoveredhisknobblyheadwithaneatlyfoldedhandtowel.

“It’s good for all sorts of things. They say it’s good for everything. In fact, it’s terrific,”

repliesamanwithafaceonecouldmistake,asmuchbyreasonofitscolorasofitsshape,fora haggard cucumber. I thought tomyself that if these limeywaves are truly so effective, heoughttoatleastlookalittlemoreplump,alittlemorefirmonthevine.

“Ialwayssay that the firstday,whentheyput themedicine in, isnot thebest for results.One needs to wait until the third day, even the fourth. Today, for instance, everything’s justabout right.” This knowing comment, accompanied by an equally knowing look, came from afat-tish man. Perhaps his chubbiness is really no more than layers of dirt deposited by thewater.

“Would it, d’you think, be good to drink?” asks a high-pitched queru-lous voice whichquaversupfromsomewhereunidentifiable.

“Ifyoufeelacoldcomingon,downamugful justbeforegoingtobed. Ifyoudothat,youwon’tneedtowakeupinthenighttogoforapee.It’squiteextraordinary.Yououghttotryit.”Again,Icannottellfromwhichofthesteam-wreathedfacesthiswisdombubbledout.

Turningmygaze from the baths, I stare downat the duckboards on the bathhouse floorwhererowsofnakedmenaresittingandsprawling inuglydisarray.Eachadopts theposturethat best suits him for scrub-bing away at whichsoever portion of his body occupies hisattention.

Amongtheseseriouslycontortednudists, twoattractmymostastonishedstare.One, flaton his back gawping up at the skylight; the other, flat on his stomach, is peering down thedrainhole in the floor. Their utter self-abandonment, the totality of their idleness, is somehowdeeplyimpressive.Inanotherpartoftheforest,asShakespearepleasantlyputit,amanwithashavenheadsquatsdownwithhisfacetothestoneofthewallwhileayounger,smallerman,also shaven-pated, stands behind him pounding away at his shoulders. They seem to havesomekindofmaster-pupilrelationship,andthepupil-typeisbusyplayingthepartofanunpaidbathattendant.Thereis,ofcourse,agenuinebathattendantalsosomewhereonthescene.Heis, in fact, notgivinganyoneamassagebutmerely tiltingheatedwateroutofanoblongpailover the shoulders of a seated patron. He looks as though he must have caught a coldbecause, despite the fearful hotness of the place, he’swearing a sort of padded sleevelessvest.Inoticethat,byacrookingofhisrightbigtoe,hisfootisgrippedonacamletrag.

My glance drifts away to light upon a selfishmonster hoarding no less than three washpails for himself. Oddly enough, he keeps pressing his neighbor to make use of his soap;perhapsinordertoinflictuponthatdefenselesscreaturealongandslightlyloonyflowoftalk.Istrainmyearstocatchtheconversation,whichis,intruth,amonologue.“Agunisanimportedthing.Somethingforeign,notsomethingJapanese. Inthegoodolddays itwasallamatterofswordagainstsword.Butforeignersarecowards,sotheydreamtupsomethingdastardlylikeguns.Theydon’tcomefromChina,though.Long-rangefightingwithgunsiswhatyou’dexpectfromoneofthoseWesterncountries.Thereweren’tanygunsinthedaysofCoxingawho,forall his Chinese name, was descended from the Emperor Seiwa through the Minamoto line.Yoshitsune, the best of the Minamotos, was not killed when they say he was. No, indeed.InsteadhefledfromHokkaidotoManchuria,takingwithhimaHokkaidomanespeciallygoodatgiving advice. Then Yoshitsune’s son, calling himself aManchurian, attacked the Emperor ofChinaandtheGreatMingwasflatflummoxed.Sowhatdidhedo?HesentamessengertothethirdTokugawaShogunbegging for the loanof three thousandsoldiers.But theShogunkeptthemessengerwaitinginJapanfortwowholeyears.Ican’trememberthemessenger’sname,buthehadsomenameorother. In theend theShogunsenthimdowntoNagasakiwherehe

gotmixedupwithaprostitute.Shethenhadason.AndthatsonwasCoxinga.Ofcourse,whenthemessenger at last got home toChina, he found that the Emperor of theMing had beendestroyedbytraitors...”

Ican’tmakeheadsortailsofthisamazingrigmarole.Itsoundssototallybarmy,socrazedamixtureofgarbledlegendsandhistoricaluntruths,thatmyattentionagaindriftsawaytofocuson a gloomy looking fellow, maybe twenty-five or twenty-six years old, who appears to besteaminghis crotch in themedicatedwater.Hewearsa vacantexpressionandseems tobesufferingfromaswellingorsomething.Theveryyoungmanofseventeenoreighteenwhositsbeside him, talking in an affected manner, is presumably some houseboy from theneighborhood.NexttothismincingyouthIseeanoddlookingback.Eachjointinitsspinesticksjaggedly out as though a knotted, bamboo rod had been rammed up under the skin fromsomewheredownbetweenthebuttocks.Oneithersideofthespine,perfectlyaligned,arefourblack marks like peg holes on a piquet board. All eight places are inflamed, some of themoozingpus.

ThoughI’vetriedtodescribeeachthingasitappearedbeforemyeyes,Inowrealizethatthere’sstillsomuchtowriteaboutthat,withmylimitedskill,Icanneversetdownmorethanafractionofthetotality.Iwasquietlyflinchingfromtheconsequencesofmyownrashundertak-ing to describe in every detail the more spectacular features of a bathhouse when a bald-skulledoldster,maybeseventyyearsoldanddressed ina light-blue,cottonkimono,suddenlyappeared at the entrance. This hairless apparition bowed reverentially to his drove of nakedmonstersandthenaddressedthemwiththegreatestfluency.“Goodsirs,”hesays,

“I thank you for your regular and daily visits to my humble establishment. Today it is,beyond these friendlywalls,more thana little chilly; soplease, I begof you, takeyour time,bothwithinandwithoutmyspotlessbaths,towarmyourselvesatcomfortableleisure.Hey,youthereyouinchargeofthebaths,makequitesurethatthewateriskeptatpreciselythepropertemperature.”

Towhichthebathattendantbrieflyanswers,“Right.”“Now there’s an amiable fellow,” says the cracked historian of the doings of Coxinga,

speakingadmiringlyof theagedproprietor.“Torunthiskindofbusiness,youhavetohavehisknackforit.”

I was so struck by the sudden appearance of this strange old man that I decided todiscontinuemyoverall surveillanceof thebathhousescenewhile I concentrateduponamoreparticularizedscanningofsorumanindividual.AsIwatchedhim,theoldman,catchingsightofachildsomefouryearsoldwhohasjust finishedbathing,extendsamottledhandand, inthatwheedlingvoicewithwhichtheoldpresenttheirfalseadvancestotheyoung,callsout,“Comeoverhere,mymaster.”Thechild,frightenedbythattrampledpuddingofafacewhichthegafferbentuponhim,promptlybegantoscream.Theoldmanlookedsurprised.“Why!you’recrying!What’s thematter?Frightenedof theoldman?Well, Inever!”Hisvoiceshowed thathewasgenuinely astonished but, soon giving up this coaxing as a bad job, he quickly switched hisattentionsto thechild’s father. “Hello,Gen-san!Howareyou?Abitcold today,eh?Andwhataboutthatburglarwhobrokeintothebigshoproundthecorner?Musthavebeenafathead.Hecutasquareholeinthewoodenside-gatebutthen,canyoubelieveit,tookoffwithoutnickingathing.Musthaveseenacopperorawatchman,Isuppose.Butwhatawasteofeffort,eh!”Stillgrinning at the idea of the burglar’s rash stupidity, he turns to someone else. “Isn’t it cold,though!Perhaps,beingyoung,youdon’tyetfeelhowitbites.”Itseemstomethat,uniqueinhis

antiquity,he’stheonlypersoninthebuildingwhofeelsthecoldatall.Having been thus absorbed for several minutes in studying the old man’s antics, I had

virtuallyforgottenaboutall theothermonsters, includingmyownmasterwhowaspresumablystillwedgedinhisboilingcorner.Iwasjerkedfrommyabsorptionbyasuddenloudshoutinginthemiddleoftheroom.AndwhoshouldbethesourceofitbutMr.

Sneazehimself.Thatmymaster’svoiceshouldbeoverloudanddis-agreeably indistinct isnothingnew,butIwasalittlesurprisedtohearitraisedinthisparticularplace.Iguessedinaflash that his raucous yaw-ping had been caused by a rush of blood to his noddle inconsequenceofhisunwiselyprotractedimmersioninwaterheateduptocureallills.

Naturally, no one would object to such a hullaballoo, however raspingly unpleasant, if itwerebroughtonbyphysicaldistress:but,asgrewobvioussoonenough,mybelovedmaster,far frombeinggeyser-dizziedoutofhisnormal senses,was in factbeingverymuchhisowntrueselfwhenhestartedbawlinginthatthicklyviolentvoice.Forthecauseofthenastyuproarwasachildishly idiotic squabblewhichhehadstartedwithsomeconceitedpup, some totallyinsignificanthouseboy.

“Getawayfromhere!Goon,furtheroff!You’resplashingwaterintomypail.”Hisshoutingscrapedone’seardrums.One’sattitudetosuchoutburstsdepends,ofcourse,uponone’spointofview.Onecould,forinstance,asIhaddone,concludehehadjustgonepottywiththeheat.

Another, perhapsonegenerous-mindedperson in ten thousand,might seeaparallelwiththatcourageoustonguelashingwhichTakayamaHikokurodaredtoinflictuponabandit.ForallI know, that may have been precisely howmymaster saw himself. But since the houseboyclearly does not see himself in the bandit’s role, we are unlikely to witness a successfulrepetitionofthathistoricencounter.

“I was sitting here long before you came and plumped yourself down.” The boy’s reply,calmlydeliveredoverhisshoulder,wasnotunreasonable.But,sincethatanswermadeitclearthattheladwasnotpreparedtobudge, itdidnotpleasemymaster.Mymaster,eventhoughhisbloodwasup,musthaverealizedthatneitherthewordsnorthestyleoftheirdeliverycouldreallybepickeduponasthoseofabandit,buthishowlingoutburstwasnotinfactoccasionedby theboy’spropinquityoranysplashingofwater.The truthwas that, forsomeconsiderabletime, the boy and his equally young companion had been swapping remarks in a pertlyunpleasingmannerutterlyinappropriatetotheirage.Mymasterhadenduredtheirprattleforaslong as he could but,more andmore exasperated, had finally blown up.Consequently, eventhoughhehadbeenperfectlycivillyanswered, the realcauseofhis fury remainedunsoothedand he could not bring himself to leave the place without a last explosion of his heart.“Hobbledehoys,” he shouted. “Damned young idiots. Splashing your dirty water in otherpeople’spails.”

InmyownheartofheartsIfeltconsiderablesympathyformymaster,becauseI,too,hadfoundtheboys’behavioractivelydistasteful.

Nevertheless, Iwasbound to regardmymaster’sbehaviorduring the incidentasconductunbecominginateacher.Thetroubleisthatheis,bynature,somethingofadry,oldstick.Fartoostrictandfartoorigid.

Notonly isheas roughanddessicatedasa lumpofcoke,buthe’salsocinder-hard. I’mtold that years ago when Hannibal was crossing the Alps, the advance of his army wasimpededbyagiganticrockinconvenientlyblockingthemountainpath.Hannibal issaidtohavesoused the stone with vinegar and then to have lit a bonfire underneath it. The rock thus

softened, he sawed it into segments, like someone slicing fish-paste, and so passed all hisarmysafelyon itsway.Amanlikemymaster,onwhomnoeffectwhatsoever isproducedbyhoursofsteadyboilinginamedicatedbath,oughtperhapstobesousedwithvinegarandthengrilledonanopenfire.Failingsomesuchtreatment,hisgraniticobstinacywillnotbesoftenedthough hordes of houseboys niggle away at the igneous rock of his nature for a hundredthousandyears.

Theobjects floating in thebathand lazingaboutonthebathroom’s floorareallmonsters,teratoids dehumanized by the husking of their clothes; as such, they cannot be judged bynormal civilized standards. In their teraticalworld anyone can dowhat he likes, anything canhappen.

Astomachcanresiteitselfinapulmonarylocation;Coxingacanbeblood-kintotheSeiwaMinamotos;and thatMr.Tami,muchmaligned,maywellbeunreliable.Butassoonas thosenaked objects emerge from their bathhouse into the normal world, they garb themselves inobedience to the requirements of civilization and, once robed, they resume the nature andbehavior patternsof humanbeings.Mymaster standson the thresholdbetween twoworlds.Standingashedoesbetweenthebathroomandthechangingroom,heispoisedatthevergeofhisreturntoworldliness,tothesadmundanitiesofman,tothesuavitiesofcompromise,thespeciouswords,andtheaccommodatingpracticesofhisspeciesinsociety.If,onthevergeofreturning to that world, he yet maintains so brute an obstinacy, surely his mokelikestubbornnessmustbeadeep-rooteddisease;adisease,indeed,soveryfirmlyrootedastobevirtuallyineradicable.

Inmyhumbleopinion,thereisonlyonecureforhiscondition,andthatwouldbetogettheprincipalofhis school togivehim thesack.Mymaster,beingunable toadapthimself toanychange of circumstances, would, if sacked, undoubtedly end up on the streets, and, if thusturnedadrift,wouldequallycertainlydieinthegutter.Inshort,tosackhimwouldbetokillhim.Mymaster lovesbeing ill,buthewouldverymuchhate todie.Hewelters inhypochondriacalorgies of self-pity, but lacks the strength of soul to seriously look on death.Consequently, ifanyone scares him with the news that some continued illness must Iead to his demise, mycravenmasterwillimmediatelybebothterrifiedoutofhiswitsand,asIseeit,terrifiedalsointothe best of health. Only the terror of death by dismissal can shrivel the roots of his almostineradicable stubbornness.And if dismissal doesn’t do the trick,well then, that, I’mafraid, isthat,and thepooroldperisherwill perish.Still, inall, that foolish, fondoldman,sickorwell,remainsmymaster.Itwashewhoinmykittenhoodtookmeinandfedme.Irecallthetaleofthe Chinese poet who, given a meal when starving, later repaid that debt by saving hisbenefactor’slife,andIconsideritshouldnotbeimpossibleforacatatleasttobemovedbyhismaster’sfate.

MysoulbrimsfullwithpityandIbecomesopreoccupiedwiththeinternalspectacleofthegenerousworkingsofmyowndeep-feelingheartthat,onceagain,myattentionwanderedfromthescenesprawledoutbelowme.Iwassharplybroughtbacktorealitybyahubbubofabusecoming fromthemedicinalbath.Thinking thatmaybeanothersquabblehasbrokenout, Ishiftmygazeto findthethrongofmonstersallshovingandshoutingastheystruggletogetoutofthe narrow cleft of the adit to the bath. Horribly hairy legs and horrible hairless things arejuxtaposedandtangledinahorriblesquirmtoescape.Itistheearlyeveningofanautumnday,andared-gold flattish lightburnshereand thereupon theboilingsteamwhichrisesup to theceiling.Throughthehot, foggyveilswhoseswirlingsfill theroomIcatchappallingglimpsesof

wildstampedingmonsters.Theirshrieksandbellowspiercemyears,and fromallsides theiragonizedshoutingthatthebloodywater’sboiling,mixinmyskullasoneloudhowlofanguish.The shouts weremul-ticolored: some yellow with sheer fear, some a despairing blue, somefuriously scarlet, some a revengeful black. They spilt across each other, filling the bathroomwithcrashingcolumnsofindescribablenoise,thedinofpandemonium,suchsoundsashavenocontextbutHellandthepublicbathhouse.Fascinatedbythistrulyawfulsight,Ijuststoodthereasthoughrivetedtomy ledge.Thehideousroarclimbedtoasortofblubberingclimaxwherethe pressure of mindless sound seemed just about to burst the walls apart when, from theswayingmass of turnbling naked bodies, a veritable giant lifted into view.He stands a goodthree inches taller than the tallest of his fellows.Not only that, but his radish-colored face isthicklybearded.Theeffect isso remarkable thatonedaren’taffirm that thebeard isactuallygrowingonthatface.Itmightbethatthefacehassomehowgotentangledinthatbeard.Thisapparitionemitsaboomingsound likea large,crackedtemplebellstruck in theheatofnoon.“Pour in cold water. Quick,” he thundered. “This bath is on the boil.” Both voice and facetoweredabovethesquawkingrabblearoundhim,andforamomentasortofsilencereigned.The giant had become the only person in the room. A superman; a living embodiment ofNietzsche’s vision ofUebermensch; theDemonKing among his swarmof devils; themaster-monster;TyrannosaurusRex.AsIstoodgogglingathim,someonebeyondthebathansweredthroughthesuddencalmwithagruntingcryof,“Yah.”Assent?Derision?Ishallneverknow.

All I can say is that when I peered through the dark haze to identify the source of thatambiguousresponse,Icouldjustmakeoutthefigureofthebathhouseattendant,paddedstillinhis sleeveless vest, using all his strength to heave a whacking great lump of coal into theopened lid of the furnace. The coalmade cracking sounds, and the attendant’s profile cameradiantlyalight.Behindhisbodythebrickwallgleamedwithfireandthereflectedglareburnedatmethroughthedarkness.

Thoroughlyalarmed, I rearedback fromthewindowand,withone turningspring,hoppeddownandranoffhome.ButasIranIponderedwhatI’dseenandtheconclusionswereclear.Although the human creatures in that bathhouse had been seeking a monstrous equality bystripping off their clothes, even from that leveling stark-nakedness a hero had emerged totowerabovehis fellows. I didnot knowwhathadhappened to that hero, but Iwascertainlysurethatequalityisunachievable,howeverstarkthingsmaybecome.

Onreachinghome,Ifindthatallispeaceful.Mymaster,hisfacestillglowingfromthebath,isquietlyeatingsupper:but,catchingsightofmeasIjumpupontotheveranda,hebreakshissilence to remark, “Whatahappy-go-luckycat! Iwonderwhathe’sbeenup to,cominghomeaslateasthis.”

Mymasterhaslittlemoney,butInotethatonthetabletonightthereareladendishesforathree-coursemeal.Grilled fishwill beoneof them. Idon’t knowwhat the fish is called,but Iguess it was probably caught in the sea off Shinagawa sometime yesterday. I have alreadyexpatiatedat lengthupon thenaturalhealthinessof fishas fosteredby theirsaltenvironment;however, once a fish has been caught and boiled or, like this one, grilled, questions ofenvironmentaladvantagearejustnolongerrelevant.Thisfishwouldhavedonemuchbettertostayaliveinthesea,evenif,inthecourseoftime,ithadeventuallytosuffersuchillsasallfish-fleshisheirto.Sothinking,Isatmyselfdownbesidethetable.

Ipretendednotto lookwhile looking; looking, inparticular, forachancetosnatchapieceofanythingedible.Thosewhodonotknowhowtolookwhilenotlookingmustgiveupanyhope

of ever eating good fish. My master pecked in silence at the fish, but soon put down hischopsticksasiftosaythathedidn’tmuchlikethetaste.Hiswife,seateddirectlyoppositehiminmatchingsilence, isanxiouslywatchinghowhischopsticksmoveupanddownandwhethermymaster’sjawsareopeningandclosing.

“Isay,”hesuddenlyaskedher,“givethatcatawhackonthehead.”“WhathappensifIwhackit?”“Neveryoumindwhathappens:justwhackit.”“Likethis?”askshiswife,tappingmyheadwiththepalmofherhand.Itdidn’thurtatall.“Well,lookatthat!Itdidn’tgivetheleastmiaow.”“No,”shesays,“itdidn’t.”“Thenwhackitagain.”“It’llbejustthesame,howeveroftenItry.”Shegavemeanothertaponthehead.SinceIstillfeltnothing,Inaturallykeptquiet.Butwhatcouldbethepointofthesepeculiar

orders?Asaprudentand intelligentcat, I findmymaster’sbehaviorutterly incomprehensible.Anypersonwhocouldunderstandwhathe’sdrivingat,wouldthenknowhowtoreact,but it’snot thateasy.Hiswife issimply told to“whack it,”butshe, thewhack-er, isself-statedlyatalosstoknowwhysheshouldwhack;I,theunfortunatewhackee,amnolesslosttounderstandwhat it’s all about. My master is becoming a little edgily impatient, for twice already hisinstructionshavefailedtoproducetheresultwhichheonlyknowsthathedesires.Itisthereforealmostsharplythathesays,“Whackitsothatitmiaows.”

Hiswifeassumedaresignedsortofexpressionandwearilyasking,“Whyonearthshouldyouwanttomakethewretchedthingmiaow?”gaveme another, slightly harder, slap. Now that I knowwhat he wants, it’s all absurdly

easy. Icansatisfymymasterwithameremiaow,but it’s really ratherdepressing,not just towitnessbutactuallytoparticipatein,yetanotherdemonstrationofhisaddlepatedconduct.Ifhewantedme tomiaow,heshouldhavesaidso.Hiswifewouldhavebeenspared twoor threetotallyunnecessaryefforts,andIwouldnothaveneededtoenduremorethanasinglewhack.Anorder towhackshouldonlybegivenwhenonlyawhack iswanted,but in this casewhatwas wanted was simply a miaow. Now whacking may indeed fall within his sphere ofresponsibility, but miaowing lies in mine. It’s a damned impertinence that he should dare toassume that an instruction towhack includes, or implies, an instruction tomiaow,which is amattertotallywithinmydiscretion.Ifheistakingmymiaowsforgranted,indeedhepresumestoo far.Such failure to respectanotherperson’spersonality,adeadly insult toanycat, is thesortofcrudeinsensitivitywhichonemustexpectfromcreatureslikemymaster’sownparticularpetaversion,thenauseousMr.

Goldfield.Butthesamebehavioronthepartofmymaster,amansoconfidentofhisopen-heartedness that he struts about stark-naked, can only be seen as an act of unwontedweakness.Yet,as Iknow,mymaster isnotmean.Fromwhich it followsthathisventure intowhacking was not motivated by any deviousness or malice. In my opinion, his orders werehatchedinabrainasguilelessanddimasthatofamosquitolarva.

Ifonegobblesrice,one’sstomachbecomesfull.Ifoneiscut,onebleeds.If one is killed, one dies. Therefore, such reasoning runs, if one is whacked, one must

perforcemiaow.ThoughIhavedonemybesttojustifymymaster’swaystowardme,Iregrettobeboundtopointouttheclottishabsurdityofsuchastyleoflogic.Forifoneweretoconcur

inthatlogic,itwouldfollowthatifonefallsinariver,oneisrequiredtodrown;thatifoneeatsfriedfish,onemustthengetthesquatters;thatifonegetsasalary,onemustturnupforwork;andthatifonestudiesbooks,onecannotfailtomakeoneselfagreatnameintheworld.Ifthatwerethewaythingsworked,there’dbesomeabitembarrassed.I, for instance,wouldfinditannoyingtobeobligedtomiaowwhenwhacked.

What, Iask,wouldbe thepointofbeingbornacat if, like thebell-clockatMejiro,one isexpectedtogiveoffsoundseverytimeone’sstruck?

Having thusmentally reprimandedmypresumptuousmaster, thenand thenonly I obligedhimwithamew.

AssoonasImiaowed,mymasterturnedtohiswife.“Hearthat?”hesaid.“Nowtellme,isamiaowaninterjectionoranadverb?”

The question was so abrupt that Mrs. Sneaze said nothing. To tell the truth, my ownimmediatereactionwastothinkthat,afterall,hereallyhadbeendrivenoutofhismindbyhisexperiences in the bathhouse. He is, of course, well-known in the neighborhood for hiseccentricities.I’veevenheardhimcalledaclearcaseofneurosis.However,mymaster’sself-conceit is so unshakable that he insists that, far from being a neurotic himself, it is hisdetractors inwhomneurotic tendenciesareclear.Whenhisneighborscallhimadog,hecallsthem, inmere fairness,soheputs it, filthypigs.Heseems, indeed,besottedwithmaintaininghisideasoffairness:tothepointofbeingapositivepublicnuisance.Hereallyseesnothingoddinaskingquestionsas ludicrousas that lastenquiry tohiswifeabout theproperparsingofacat’smiaow,but to thegeneral runofhis listenershisquestionsdosuggestacertainmentalinstability. Inanyevent,hiswife,understandablymystified,makesnoattempt toanswerhim.Forobviousreasons,Itoocanoffernothinginreply.

Mymasterwaitedforamomentandthen,inaloudvoice,suddenlyshoutedout,“Hey!”Hiswifelookedupinsurpriseandanswered,“Yes?”“Isthat‘yes’aninterjectionoranadverb?Tellmenow,whichisit?”“Whicheveritis,itsurelydoesn’tmatter.Whatasillythingtoask!”“On the contrary, it matters a very great deal. That grammatical problem is an issue

currentlypreoccupyingthebestbrainsamongleadingauthoritiesonlinguisticsinJapan.”“Gracious me! Youmean that our leading authorities are bending their brains to a cat’s

miaow? What a dreadful state of affairs. Anyway, cats don’t speak in Japanese. Surely, amiaowisawordfromthelanguageofcats.”

“That’s precisely the point. The problem is a hard one in the very difficult field ofcomparativelinguistics.”

“Is that indeedso?” It isclear thatshe issufficiently intelligent tobedisinterested insuchsillymatters.“Andhavetheseleadingauthoritiesyetdiscoveredwhatpartofspeechcompareswithacat’smiaow?”

“It’ssoseriousaproblemthatitcan’timmediatelyberesolved.”Hemunchesawayatthatfish,andthenproceedstotuckintothenextcourseofstewedporkandpotatoes.

“Thiswillbepork,won’tit?”“Yes,it’spork.”“Huh,” he grunted in tones of deep disdain. “Huh,” and then guzzled it down. Thereafter,

holdingoutasakécup,“I’llhaveanothercup.”“You’redrinkingratheralottoday.Alreadyyoulookquitered.”“CertainlyI’mdrinking,”hebegan,butbrokeofftoveerawayonanewmadtack.“Doyou

know,”hedemanded,“thelongestwordintheworld?”“IthinkI’vehearditsomewhere.Letmethinknow.Yes.Isn’tit‘Hoshoji-no-Nyudo-Saki-no-

Kampaku-dajodaijin?’”“No,Idon’tmeanatitlelikethat‘FormerChiefAdvisertotheEmperorandPrimeMinister.’

Imeanatrue,longword.”“Doyoumeanoneofthosecrab-writtensidewayswordsfromtheWest?”“Yes.”“Well then, no. That I wouldn’t know. But I do know that you’ve had quite enough saké.

You’llhavesomericenow,won’tyou?Right?”“Wrong.FirstI’lldrinksomemore.Wouldyouliketoknowthatlongestword?”“Allright.Butafter,you’llhavesomerice?”“Thewordis‘Archaiomelesidonophrunicherata.’”“Youmadeitup.”“OfcourseIdidn’t.It’sGreek.”“WhatdoesitmeaninJapanese?”“Idon’tknowwhat itmeans. Ionlyknow itsspelling.Even ifwrittensparingly itwillcover

aboutsixandaquarterinches.”It ismymaster’ssingularity thathemakes thissortofstatement,whichmostmenwould

vouchsafeintheircups,indeadcoldsobriety.Allthesame,it’scertainlytruethathe’sdrinkingfartoomuchtonight.He normally limits himself to no more than a couple of cups of saké, and he’s already

tossed back four. His normal dosage turns his face quite red, so the double dosage hasinevitablyflushedhisfeaturestothecolorofred-hottongs.Helookstobeinsomedistress,buthekeepsonknockingthemback.Heextendsthecupagain.“Onemore,”hesays.

His wife, finding this really too much, makes a wry face. “Don’t you think you’ve hadenough?You’llonlygetapain.”

“Nevermindthepain.Fromnowon,I’mgoingtotrainmyselfintoasteadydrinker.OinachiKeigetsuhasrecommendedthatIdevotemyselftodrink.”

“And who may this Keigetsu be?” Great and famous though he is, in the eyes of Mrs.Sneazeheisn’tworthaha’penny.

“Keigetsu isa literarycolleague,a first-ratecriticof thesepresent times.Hehasadvisedmetospendlesstimeathomecommuningwithacat,togetoutandabout,andtodrinkonalloccasions.Sincehe’salmostadoctor,albeitoneofliterature,itwouldseemallrighttodrinkondoctor’sorders.”

“Don’tbesoridiculous!Idon’tcarewhathe’scalledorwhoheis.It’s none of his business to urge other people to drink; especially peoplewho happen to

haveweakstomachs.”“Hedidn’t just recommenddrinking.Healsosaid Iought tobemoresociableand takea

flingatthefastlife:wine,women,song,eventravel.”“Areyouactually trying to tellme thata so-called first-classcritichasbeenmakingsuch

outrageous suggestions? What kind of a man can he be? Truly, I’m shocked to learn thatpresumablyresponsibleliteraryfigureswouldrecommendthatamarriedmanshouldgooutontheloose.”

“There’s nothing wrong with living it up. If I had the money, I wouldn’t need Keigetsu’sencouragementbeforegivingitatry.”

“Well then, I’mveryglad thatyoudon’thave themoney. Itwouldbequiteawful ifamanyouragestartedgallivantingaboutwithwantongirlsanddrunkenhalf-witcritics.”

“Since the idea seems to shock you, I’ll scrap my plans for kicking over the traces.However,inconsiderationofthatconnubialself-sacrifice,you’llhavetotakebettercareofyourhusbandand,inparticular,servehimbetterdinners.”

“I’malreadydoingthebestIcanonwhatyougiveme.”“Really?Well inthatcase,I’llpostponemyinvestigationofthefastlifeuntilIcanaffordit,

and,fortonight,Iwon’ttakeanymoresaké.”Withwhatmight justpassforasmile,heheldouthisricebowlforhiswifetofill fromthe

container.As I remember it,he thereupongot through threegreatbowlfulsofmixed riceandtea.

Mymeal thatnightconsistedof threeslicesofporkandthegrilledheadof thatnamelessfish.

VOLUMEIII

W

I

HEN I WAS describing my fence trotting exercises,I must have mentioned thatbamboofencewhichenclosesmymaster’sgarden.Beyondthatfencetothesouthofus there is anotherdwelling, but itwouldbeanerror toassume that ourneighborsare just anybody. Admittedly, it is a low-rent area, but Mr. Sneaze is a person of

some standing, and certainly not the sort of man to establish chatty relationships across abackyardfencewithanyoldTom,Dick,orHarry.Ontheothersideofourparticularfencethereisanopenspaceaboutthirtyfeetdeepatthefarend,inwhichstandsadarkgreenrowoffiveorsixheavilyfoliagedcypresses.Ifonelooksatthisscenefromourveranda,theimpressionitcreates isofadeepandthicklywoodedforest,andonefeelsthathere isa lonelyhouseinagladewheresomelearnedsage,indifferenttofame,andwealth,leadsouthissolitarylifewithonlyanamelesscatforhiscompanion.However, thecypressesdonot, infact,growquiteasthicklyasI’dliketomakeout,forthroughtheirgreeneryonecan,withhurtfulclarity,descrytheundistinguishedroofofacheapboardinghouseofwhichtheonlyredeemingfeatureisitssoul-astounding name: Crane Flock Manor. You will appreciate that it consequently takes a realeffortoftheimaginationtofitmymasterasI’vehithertodescribedhimintosuchahigh-falutin’background. Yet, if that crumby boarding house can bear so grand a name, then surelymymaster’s home deserves at least to be known as the Cave of the Sleeping Dragon. Sincethere’s no tax on house names, onemight as well select a name which sounds impressive.Anyway,thisopenspacetothesouthofus,ofanorth-southdepthofsomethirtyfeet,extendson an east-west axis for about sixty feet along our bamboo fence, and then turns at a rightanglenorthwardtorunalongtheeasternsideoftheCaveoftheSleepingDragon.Nowitisinthisnorthernareathattroublehasarisen.

Onemightdareboastthatthisopenspace,stretchingasitdoesaroundtwowholesidesofour dwelling, is big enough to please anyone, but in point of fact not only themaster of thehousebutevenI,thedragon’sresidentsacredcat,areoftenatourwits’endtoknowwhattodowithsomuchemptiness.Justasthecypresstrees lord it to thesouth,soto thenorth thescene is dominatedby somesevenor eight paulownias standing in a row.Since those treeshaveeachnowgrowntobeagoodtwelveinchesaround,onecouldmakeaprettypacketbyselling their highly fancied wood to the first clog-maker whom one pared to call in.Unfortunately, even ifmy unworldly dragon could rise to such an idea, being nomore than atenant of his cavern, he couldn’t put it into practice.My heart bleeds formy half-witmaster.EspeciallysowhenIrecallthatonlytheotherdaysomelowlydrudgeofaporterathisschoolcamearoundandcalmlycutalargebranchfromonetree.Onhisnextvisithewassportinganexceedingly fancypairofpaulownia-woodclogsandwasboasting toeveryonewithinearshotthathisclogsweremadefromthebranchhe’dstolen.Suchcunningvillainsflourish;butformeand for the rest ofmymaster’s household, though those valuable paulownias are within ourdailygrasp,theyprofitusnothing.There’sanoldadagethattoholdageminvitesmisfortune,whichisgenerallyinterpretedtomeanthatitisopportunitywhichcreatesathief.Butinoursad

case theplain fact is thatgrowingpaulowniasearnnomoney.There theyare,aspointlesslyvaluable as gold left in the ground, but the numbskull in thismatter is neithermyself normymaster. It’s the landlord, Dembei, a man so dense, so deaf that even when his trees arepositivelyshoutingforaclog-maker,beggingaloudtobecut,hetakesnottheslightestnotice,but justcomesandcollectshisrent.However,sinceIbearnogrudgeagainstour landlord, I’llsaynomoreabouthiscrazyconductandrevert tomymain theme, that is tosay, to theoddseries of events whereby that open space came to be the cause of so much strife andtribulation.ButifItellyoutheinwardnessofitall,youmustn’t,ever,letontomymaster.Thesewordsofmine,remember,arebetweenyouandmeandthegatepost.

The immediately obvious snag about that open space is that it is indeed entirely open:unenclosed,nokindof fencearound it. It isabreezy,easy,go-as-you-pleasysortof right-of-way: it is, inshort,agood,honestopenspace. Imust,however,confess thatmyuseof thepresent tense ismisleading, for,moreprecisely, Ishouldhavesaid that itwasagoodhonestopen space. As always, one cannot understand the present situation without tracing itsdevelopmentback tocauses rooted in theancientpast.Sinceevendoctorscannotprescribecures unless they first have diagnosed the causes of disorder, I will take my time and,beginningmystoryfromitstruebeginning,gobacktothosedayswhenmymasterfirstmovedintohispresenthome.

It’salwayspleasantinthehumiddaysofsummertohaveplentyofairyspacearoundone’shouse.Ofcoursesuchopensitesoffer toburglars theadvantageofeasyaccess,but there’slittle risk of burglarywhere there’s nothingworth the thieving.Hencemymaster’s house hasnever stood in need of any kind of outer wall, thorn-hedge, stockade, or even the flimsiestfence.However,itseemstomethattheneedforsuchdefensivestructuresisreallydeterminedbythenatureofwhatevercreatures,humanoranimal,whichhappentoliveontheothersideofany such open space. From which it follows that I must clarify the nature of the gentlemendwellingtothenorthofus.ItmayseemratherrashtocallthemgentlemenbeforeIhaveclearlyestablished whether those beings are human or animal, but it’s usually safer to start byassumingthateveryone’sagentleman.Afterall,wehavetheauthorityoftheChineseclassicsfor calling a sneak-thief hiding in the rafters a “gentleman on the beam.” However, thegentlemen in our particular case are not, at least individually, criminal characters such astrouble the police. Instead, the criminality of these neighbors seems to be a function of theirenormousnumber.For thereareswarmsof them.Swarmsandswarmsofpupilsataprivatemiddleschoolwhich,rejoicinginthenameoftheHalloftheDescendingCloud,collectstwoyenamonthfromeachofeighthundredyounggentlemeninreturnfortrainingthemtobecomeevenyetmoregentlemanly.Butyou’dbemakingaseriousmistakeifyoudeducedfromtheelegantname of their school that all its studentswere gentlemen of elegance and taste. Just as nocraneever flocks to theseedyroosts inCraneFlockManor, justas theCaveof theSleepingDragon in fact containsacat, so the tastefulnameofourneighboringschool isanunreliableindicatorofthetruedegreeof itsoccu-pants’refinement.Sinceyouhavealreadylearntthatamadmanlikemymastercanbeheldtobeincludedwithintheranksofuniversitymen,evenoflecturers,youshouldhavenodifficultyingraspingwhatloutsmaywellbenumberedamongtheinferentiallypolishedgentlemenintheHalloftheDescendingCloud.Ifmypointisstillnotclear,athree-dayvisittomymaster’shousewillcertainlydriveithome.

AsI’vealreadymentioned,whenmymasterfirstmovedintohishousetherewasnofencearound the empty space; consequently, the gentlemen of theHall, just likeRickshawBlacky,

usedtosaunteraboutamongthepaulownias,chatting,eatingfromtheirlunchboxes,lyingdownontheclumpsofbamboo-grass,doing,infact,whatevertheyfancied.Afterawhiletheybeganusing the paulownia grove for dumping their discardable rubbish—first the corpses of theirlunchboxes(thatistosay,thebamboowrapping-sheathsandoddsheetsofoldnewspaper)—but soon they took to dumpingworn-out sandals, broken clogs, anything in fact that neededpitchingout.Mymaster,typicallyindifferent,showednoconcernaboutthesedevelopmentsanddidnotevenbothertolodgeaprotest.Idon’tknowwhetherhefailedtonoticewhatwasgoingonorwhether,noticing,hedecidednottomakeafuss.Inanyevent,thosegentlemenfromtheHallseemtohavegrownevermorelikegentlemenastheyadvancedintheireducation,fortheygraduallyextendedtheirdisgustingactivitiesonthenorthernsideoftheopenspacetoencroachuponitssouthernarea.Ifyouobjectthatawordlike“encroach”shouldbeusedinreferencetogentlemen, Iamwillingtoabandonit;however, there is in truthnootherwordtodescribetheprocesswherebythesegentlemen,likesomanydesertnomads,emergedfromtheirpaulowniawastes toadvanceupon thecypresses. Inasmuchas thecypress treesstand right in frontofour livingroom, itwasat firstonly themostdaringof theseelegantyoungmenwhodared toventure so far, but, within a matter of days, such daring had grown general, and the moresturdyof theventurershadmovedontogreater things.There isnothingquiteso terrifyingastheresultsofeducation.

Havingthussuccessfullyadvancedtotheactualsideof thehouse, theseeducatedyouthsthen launcheduponusanassaultofsong. Ihaveforgottenthenameof theirsong,but itwascertainlynotaclassicalcomposition,beingdistinctlylivelyinthecatchystyleofcertainpopularditties. My master was not the only person who was surprised, for I, too, was so muchimpressed by the range of talents displayed by these young gentlemen that I found myselflistening to their singing in spite ofmyself. However, asmy readersmay already know, it isperfectly possible to be both impressed and seriously disturbed by the same occurrences.Indeed, upon reflection, it strikes me as regrettable that, as in the present case, the tworeactionsshouldsooftenbesimultaneouslyevoked;Ihavenodoubtthatmymastersharedmysenseofregret.Nevertheless,hehadnorealchoicebut,ontwoor threeoccasions, tocomerushingoutofhisstudyanddrivethemoffhispropertywithsuchsternrebukesas,“Thisisnottheplaceforyou”and“I’dbeobligedifyou’dgo.”

Of course, since the offenders are educated gentlemen, they show no disposition tomeekly obeymymaster’s exhortations; no sooner have they been turned out but back theycome again. And once they’re back they start again on their less than seemly singinginterspersed with loud-voiced chat and banter.What’s more, and of course because they’regentlemen, their languagediffers from that in commonuse.Theyusesuchwordsas “youse”and “dunno.” Such words, I understand, were, until the Restoration, part of the professionalvocabularyof footmen,palanquin-carriers,andbathhouseattendants;however, in thepresentcentury, they have become the only style of language deserving study by an educatedgentleman.I’vehearditsaidthatasimilarsocialclimbcanbeobservedinthematteroftakingphysical exercise, for physical jerks, oncegenerally scornedasanactivityproperonly to thelowerclasses,arenowmostwarmlysmileduponatthehighestlevelsofsociety.However,onthe occasion when one of mymaster’s frantic sallies from his study actually resulted in thecaptureofastudentskilledinthisnewlanguageofthegentry,theprisoner,nodoubtfrightenedinto forgetting the subtleties of modern educated speech, offered an explanation for hisintrusion in suchextremely vulgar termsas, “Pleaseacceptmymost sincereapologies, but I

had,Sir,themistakenimpressionthatthisareawastheschool’sbotanicalgarden.”Havingsubjectedhisvictimtoacautionarylecture,mymasterturnedhimloose.Whichisa

silly sounding formofwords,more suited to the liberationof newlyhatchedbaby turtles, butneverthelessappropriateinthatmymasterkeptafirmgriponhisprisoner’ssleevethroughoutthe process of his reprehension. Naturally enough, my master confidently expected that theforceofhiswingedwordswouldbesufficienttohaltthenomadicinroads,but,ashasbeenwellknownsincetheearliestdaysofrecordedChinesehistory, there isavastdifferencebetweenexpectationandreality.Inanyevent,mymaster’sexpectationswerequicklyprovedmisplaced.Theyounggentlemennowbegantoentertheopenspacefromtheirnorthernside,walkboldlystraightacrossit,thenacrossourgarden,andcompletetheirshortcutintotheroadbeyondbyuse of our front gate. The sound of its opening naturally led us to expect the pleasure ofvisitors, so it was all themore infuriating to, in fact, receive nothingmore than the noise ofvulgar laughter from the direction of the paulownias. Things were clearly going from bad toworse.Theeffectsofeducationgrewdailymoreapparentuntil, recognizing that thesituationhadgonebeyondhisownpowersofcontrol,mymastershuthimselfupinhisstudyandtherecomposed a politely worded letter to the headmaster of the Hall asking that a little closercontrolbeexercisedoverthehighspiritsofhisstudents.Theheadmaster,insimilarlycourteousterms, replied with an expression of regret for past intrusions and a plea for a little morepatiencependingtheconstruction,forwhichhehadalreadyarranged,ofafencebetweenthetwoproperties.Shortly thereafter, a fewworkmen turnedupand, ina scanthalf day, set upalongtheborderlineaso-calledfour-eyefenceofopen-workbambooapproximatelythreefeethigh.Mymaster,pooroldduffer,wasdelighted.Daftasever,heglowedinthefalseconvictionthat the nomadic raids had now been walled away, but what man in his right mind couldpossiblybelievethatarealchange in thebehaviorofgentlemencanbewroughtby the flimsymagicofadwarfishbamboofence?

Onemust,ofcourse,recognizethatthereisavastfundofpleasuretobedrawnfromtheprovocation of human beings. Even a cat like myself sometimes derives amusement fromteasingmymaster’sotherwiseuninterestingdaughters.SoitisentirelyunderstandablethatthebrightyounggentlemenattheHallshouldhavefounditrewardingtoteasesuchadimwitasmymaster.Theonlypersonwhoobjects to teasing is,ofcourse, theperson teased.Analysisofthepsychologyofteasingrevealstwomajoraspectsofitssuccessfulpursuit.First,thepersonor persons teasedmust never be allowed to remain calm. Secondly, the person or personsteasingmustbestrongerthantheteasee(s)bothinsheerpowerandinmerenumber.Onlytheother day my master, who had gone off to gawp in some zoo, came home to recount anincident therewhichhadparticularly impressedhim.Hehad, apparently, taken time towatchsomeidioticrumpusbetweenasmalldogandacamel.

The small dog, barking likemad, had scampered like awhirlwindaroundandaround thecamel, while the camel, paying no whit of attention, had simply stood there, stolidly patientundertheburdenofitshump.Unabletoprovoketheslighteststirofinterestfromthecamel,thelittledoghadeventuallybarked itself intoadisgustedsilence.Mymaster, toodull to see therelevanceofthatexperiencetohisowncircumstances,hadseenthecamel’sdullinsensitivityasnothingmorethancomic;andhelaughedalotashetoldhistale.However,thatincidentdoesclearly illustrateonemajor facetof thebusinessof teasing.Nomatterhowskilled the teaser,hiseffortswillbewastediftheteaseehappenstobeasdull(orasintelligent)asacamel.Ofcourse,shouldthevictimhappentobeasinordinatelystrongasalionoratiger,theteaserwill

quicklyfindhimselfinvolvedintheyetmoretotaldisappointmentofbeingrippedtoshreds.Butwhentheteaserhasaccuratelydeterminedthathisvictim,howeverdeeplyangered,stillcandonothing in effective retaliation, then indeed the joys of provocation can be drawn froma bot-tomlesswell.

Why,onemayask,doesteasingoffersuchendlesspleasure?Thereareseveralreasons.First and foremost, it is the most marvelous way for killing time, better for the bored thancountingone’swhiskers.Ofall the tribulations in thisworld,boredom is theonemosthard tobear. I’veevenheard that, longago, therewasaprisoner so crazedby solitary confinementthathepassedhisdaysindrawingtriangles,oneuponanother,alloverthewallsofhiscell.Forunless one does something, indeed anything, to incite a sense of purpose in one’s life, onecannotgoonliving.

Thus,theamusementinteasingderivesinnosmallpartfromthestir,thestimulus,whichitgives to the teaser. But it is, of course, obvious that it’s worthless as a stimulant unless itsuccessfullyprovokesinothersasufficientdegreeofthatirritation,anger,evendistress,whichmakestheteaser’slifeworthliving.

Studyof theannalsofhistorydisclosesthattherearetwomaintypesofpeopledisposedtoindulgeinteasing:thoseofanutterlyboredorwitlessmindandthosewhoneedtoprovetothemselves theirsuperiority toothers.The firstgroup includessuchcreaturesas thoseboredfeudallordswhoneitherunderstoodnorcaredaboutthefellingsofotherpeople,agroupwhichisnowadaysbest representedbyboysso infantile,somentallystunted, that,whilehavingnotimeto thinkofanythingbut theirown foolpleasures, theyhave insufficient intelligence toseehow,eveninthatsub-puerilepursuit,besttoemploytheirvitality.

Thesecondmaingroupofteasersrealizesthatonecandemonstratesuperioritybykilling,hurting,or imprisoningotherpeople,but thatsuchaproofonlyoccursasasortofby-productfromsituationswheretherealobjectiveistohurt,kill,orjail.Consequently,shouldonewishtodemonstrate superiority without going to the lengths (or running the risks) of inflicting majordamage; the idealmethod isby teasing. Inpractice it is impossible toproveone’ssuperioritywithout inflicting some degree of injury, and the proof has to be practical because no onederivesadequateorpleasurableconfidenceinhisprowessfrommereconvictionthereofwithintheprivacyofhisownmind.Itisofcoursetruethatthehumancreaturecharacteristicallypridesitselfonitsself-reliance.

However,itwouldbemoreexacttosaythatthecreature,knowingitcan’trelyuponitself,wouldverymuchliketobelievethatitcouldandisconsequentlyneverateasewithitselfuntilitcangiveapracticaldemonstration tosomeothersuchcreatureofhowmuch itcan relyuponitself. What’s more, those endowed with the least intelligence and those least sure ofthemselvesareprecisely thosewhoseizeupon the slightest opportunity todemonstrate theirentitlementtosomesortofcertificateofprowess.Onecanobservethesamephenomenonintheworldof judo,whosedevotees,everysooften, feel theneed toheavesomeoneorotherover their buttocks and smack them down on the ground. The least proficient of thesededicated cross-buttockerswander about their neighborhoods looking for someone, even forsomeonenotof theirquaint fraternity,uponwhoseweakerperson theycandemonstrate theirsuperiorityinusingtheirbottomstoslingtheuprightflatontheirbacks.

Therearemanyotherconsiderationswhichmaketeasingapopularandadmirableactivity,but,sinceitwouldtakealongtimetosetthemalldownhere,Iwillsaynomoreuponthetopic.However,anyoneinterestedindeepeninghisunderstandingofthisfascinatingsubjectisalways

welcometocalluponme,bearingaproperfeeindriedbonito,forfurtherinstruction.Perhaps Imight usefully offer the following succinct conclusion baseduponmy foregoing

remarks,namely,thatinmyopiniontheidealsubjectsforteasingarezoomonkeysandschoolteachers.ItwouldbedisrespectfultocompareaschoolteacherwithamonkeyintheAsakusaZoo,disrespectful,thatis,nottomonkeysbuttoteachers.Buttruthswillalwayscomeout,andno one can deny how close the resemblance is. As you know, the Asakusa monkeys arerestricted by link-chain leash-es so that, though theymay snarl and screech to their hearts’content,theycannotscratchasoul.Now,thoughteachersarenotactuallykeptonchains,theyareveryeffectivelyshackledbytheirsalaries.Theycanbeteasedinperfectsafety.Theywon’tresign or use their teeth on their pupils. Had they sufficient spunk to resign, they would notoriginallyhaveallowedthemselvestosinkintotheslaveryofteaching.Mymasterisateacher.Though he does not teach at the Hall, still he is a teacher and just the man for the job:inoffensive, salary-shackled, a man designed by nature for schoolboys to torment in totalsafety.ThepupilsattheHallaregentlemanlyyouthswhonotonlyconsideritpropertopracticeteasingasapartoftheirriteofpassageintothesuperiorityofmanhood,butwhoalsobelievethat theyareby rightentitled tobe tormentorsasadue fruitby theireducation.Moreover,asizable proportion of these lively lads would not know how to occupy their limbs and brainsthroughthelongtenminutesofthemorningbreakifakindlynaturefailedtoprovidethemwithatargetforpersecution.InsuchcircumstancesitisasinevitablethatmywretchedmastershouldbeteasedasitisthattheyobbosfromtheHallshoulddotheteasing.Giventhatinevitability,itseemstomequiteludicrous,anewhighpointinhislongascenttothethin-airedpeaksofpurefatuity, that my master should have allowed himself to be provoked into so much pointlessanger.Nonetheless, I shall now recount in detail how those pupils teased himandwithwhatboorishfollyheresponded.

I assumemy readers neednodescription of a four-eye fence. I, for instance, canmovebackandforththroughitslatticeswithsuchcompletefreedomthatitmightaswellnotbethere.However,theheadmasteroftheHalldidnothavecatsinmindwhenhearrangedforthefencetobeerected.Hisonlyconcernwastoprovideafencethroughwhichtheyounggentlemenofhis school could not pass; I must confess that, freely as the winds may move between itsbamboo laths, I see no way in which a man or boy could do the same. Even for such anaccomplished contortionist as Chang Shih-tsun, that Chinese magician who flourished in thedaysoftheCh’ing,itwouldbehardtoweaselawaythroughawallofapertureseachnomorethanatightfourinchessquare.Beingthusimpenetrablebyhumanbeings,it isunderstandablethat the fencewhen first erected leftmymaster happywith the thought that hewas safe atlast. However, there’s a hole in the logic ofmymaster’s thinking, a hole far bigger than thesquaresinthefour-eyefence.

Indeed, thehole’s sovast that it couldeasily let througheven thatmonster fishwhich, inChinese legend, once swallowed awhole ship. The point is this.Mymaster assumes that afence is something not to be crossed, from which follows his second assumption that noschoolboyworthyofthatnamewouldforcehiswaypastanyfencewhich,howeverhumble,canberecognizedasindeedafenceand,assuch,aclearidentifierofaboundary-line.Evenifmymasterwereable to temporarilysetaside those twoassumptions,hewouldneverthelessstillcalculate that the smallness of the open-work squares provided genuine protec-tion evenagainstanysuchimprobableyouthasmightdaretocontemplateforcinghiswaythroughthem.He all too hastily concluded he was safe simply because it was obvious that not even the

smallest andmost determined boy, unless he happened to be a cat, could possibly squeezethroughthefence.Butthemassiveflawinhisanalysislayinthefactthatnothingismoreeasythan to climb or jump a fence but three feet high.Which, quite apart from the fun of it, alsooffersexcellentphysicalexercise.

Fromthedayfollowingtheerectionofthefence,theyounggentlemenfromtheHallbeganjumping into the northern portion of the open space with the same regularity as they hadpreviouslyjustwalkedacross.

Buttheynolongeradvancetotheirearlierforwardpositionsrightinfrontofourlivingroombecause, if theyarenowchased, itwill take thema little longer toreach thesafetyofschoollandbyreasonofthenewneedtogetbackoverthefour-eyefence.Sotheyloafaboutinthemiddledistancewheretheyrunnoriskwhateverofbeingcaught.Fromhisdetachedroomontheeastsideofourhousemymastercannotseewhat theboysaredoing.For thatpurposeonemusteithergoouttothegardengateandtherelookatarightangleintotheopenspaceorelseonemustgotothe inside lavatoryandpeerout through its littlewindow.Fromthat latterpositionmymastercanveryclearlyseewhatisgoingon,but,howevermanytheintrudersuponhisproperty,nothingcanbedonetocatchthem.Allhecandoistoshoutunheededscoldingsthrough the window grille. If he tries a sally through the garden gate into enemy-occupiedterritory,thesoundofhisapproachingfootstepsgivesthemampletimetoscootaway,nimblyclearthefence,andcontinuetheirhootingfromthesafetyofschool land.Mymaster’stacticsof creep-and-rush aremuch like those adopted by sea-poachers trying to surprise seals astheybask in thesun.Naturally,mymastercannotspendhiswhole lifeeitherpeeringfromtheloo or dashing out through the garden gate in response to every stimulus of sound from theopenspace.

He would have to give up teaching and concentrate on full-time self-employment as ayobbo-hunter.Theweaknessofhispositionisthatfromhisstudyhecanhear,butnotseehisenemies,while from the lavatoryhehas them inplainviewbutcandonothingmoreeffectivethanyellhissillyheadoff.Hisenemies,fullawareofhisdilemma,haveshapedtheirstrategytoexploithisdifficulties.

Whentheyounggentlemenaresurethatmymasterisinhisstudy,theysetuparacketoftalksodeliberatelyloudthatmymastercannotavoidhearingthecrackstheymakeabouthim.Tosalthismortification,theyvarythevolumeoftheircommentssothathecanneverbecertainwhether theirbabbleoriginates fromhisor their sideof the four-eye fence.Whenmymastermakes oneof his forays, they either scuttle off or, if they happenalready to be in their ownterritory,theystareathimwithinsolentindifference.Whenmymasterislurkinginhislavatory—

Iregret, indeedIwouldnormallydisparage, thisconstantuseof thatsomewhat indelicateword, but in battle reports one is duty-bound to be topographically accurate—his tormentorsloaf about under the paulownias and take pains to draw his attention to their unwelcomepresence.Then,assoonashestarts ravingat them through thewindow-grille, they, coolaslittle cucumbers, let the roar of his abuse flow over their heads to disturb the wholeneighborhood with its ugly echos while, utterly unconcerned, they drift away into the homegroundoftheirHall.Thesetacticsarereducingmymastertoagibberingidiot.

Sometimes, sure that the little louts are on his property, he dashes out with his walkingstick at the ready, only to find the open space deserted. At other times, confident of theirabsence,heneverthelesstakesaquickpeepfromhis lavatorywindow,andtheretheyare,aloathly gaggle of them, loitering on his land. So he nips around to his garden gate and he

squinniesfromthejohn.Hesquinniesfromthejohnandhenipsaroundtohisgardengate.Overand over and over again. If you find my account repetitive, the simple reason is that I amcommittedtorecountingendlessrepetitionsofthesameinaneandequallypointlessalternativebehaviors.Mymaster,worntoafrazzle,isclearlyapproachingthepointofnervousbreakdown.Hehasbecomesofrenziedlyobsessedwithhisproblemthatonehardlyknowswhetherhe isstillaprofessionalteacherornowregardsthiscrazyoscillationbetweenpeepandsallyashissoletruecalling.Andthen,asthetidesofhisfrenzyroseeverclosertotheneapofmadness,thefollowingincidentoccurred.

Some kind of incident almost always does occur when frenzy, brain-storm, wrong-way-upness,arushofbloodtothehead—calltheconditionwhatyouwill—impairsthehumanpowertoreasonclearly.All theauthorities,Galen,Paracelsus,evensuchancientChinesequacksasPien Ch’üeh, are at one in this prognosis. There does, of course, remain some scope fordebateas towhere the “inverseup-rush”actuallystartsandas towhat it is that rushes.Thelong outmoded lore of European medicine men held that there are four different liquids, orhumors,washingaroundinthehumanbody.Thefirstsuchliquidwasthatofcholerwhich,whenitroseinversely,producedfury.Thesecondliquid,thatofdullness,ifinverselyrisen,broughtonlethargy.Thethird,thefluidofmelancholy,produced,asonemighthaveexpected,melancholia.While the fourth, blood, was responsible for the activity of arms and legs. The progress ofcivilization appears, for no discernible reason, to have drained away the fluids of choler,dullness,andmelancholia, so that,as Iunderstand it,nothingnow remains tocirculate inourbodiesbutresidualblood.Consequently,ifanyinverserisingdoesindeedtakeplace,itmustbea wrong-way-up-ness of the blood. There is, of course, a limit to the amount of bloodcontainable in the human body and the precise volume varies slightly as between individualspecimens,but,onaverage,everyhumanbeingcontainssome9.9litersofthestuff.Nowwhenthat literage rises inversely, the head, beyond which it cannot rise, becomes heated andinordinately active, whilst the rest of the body, drained of blood, numbswith cold. OnemayreasonablycomparethisprocesstothehappeningsinSeptember1905whenthepopulaceofTokyo,dissatisfiedwiththetermsoftheTreatyofPortsmouth,tooktoburningpoliceboxes.Onthatoccasionallthepoliceconglomeratedatheadquarters,leavingnosingleofficeroutonthestreets or even to defend their various police boxes. That rush to headquarters could well,medically,bediagnosedasarushofbloodtothehead.Andinbothcasesthepropercureistore-establish thenormalbalanceddistributionofblood(orofbloodycops) throughout thebody(orbodypolitic).Toachievethatbalancetheblood,inverselyrisen,mustbedrawnbackdownfromthehead,andtherearevarioustreatmentsavailable.

Forinstance,Iunderstandthatmymaster’sdeceasedfatherwasinthehabitofwrappingacold,wettowelaroundhisheadandthentoastinghisfeetonacharcoalfoot-warmer;practiceswhoseefficacywouldseem tobewellwarrantedby thosepassages in thatChinesemedicalclassic,SomeThoughts onTyphoidFever,which states that keeping the head cold and thefeet warm ensures good health and guarantees longevity. A towel a day keeps the doctoraway.Anothermuch-favoredmethodoftreatmentisthatincommonuseamongthepriesthood.Indeed,itappearsthat,whenonpilgrimage,wanderingZenpriestswouldinvariablypickoutaplacetorestorsleepwheretherewas“atreeaboveandastonebeneath.”Thatsloganrefersneither to any aesthetic ideal nor to the self-mortifications of penitents but to a particulartechniqueforreversingrushesofbloodtothehead,whichwasfirstworkedout,nodoubtinhisearly days as a rice-pounding, kitchen scullion, by the Sixth Patriarch of the Zen sect, His

IneffableHolinessHuiNeng.Test themethodforyourself.Sitonastoneand, in thenatureofthings,yourbottomwillgrowcold.Asthebuttockschill,anyheadysensationsassociatedwithrisenbloodwillsinkawaytonothing.Thattoo,beyondallshadowofdoubt,isalsointhenatureofthings.Onemarvels,doesonenot,atthepercipienceoftheSixthPatriarch.

Thus,whileanumberofmethodshavebeendevised forcoolingdownrushesofblood tothehead,Iregrettoreportthat,asofthepresenttime,nosatisfactorywaytoincitethemhasyet been invented. It is, perhaps, natural that people should generally assume that there’snothingtobegainedfromrushesofbloodto thehead,but there’sat leastonecontextwhereanysuchsweepingjudgementislikelytoproveundulyhasty.Indeed,manyofthoseengagedintheactivityIhaveinmindwouldswearblindthatwithoutsuchrushestheycouldnotevenbeginto pursue their profession. I am speaking of poets. Just as coal is indispensable to asteamship,sotopoetsarerushesofbloodtothehead.

Bereftofthatenergysourceforsolittleasoneday,poetswoulddebateintomediocritiescapableofnothingbuteatinganddrinkinginalifelonghazeofidleness.Insobertruth,arushofbloodtotheheadissimplyanattackof lunacy,butsincenoprofessionalwouldcaretoadmitthat he cannot pursue his profession except when in a state ofmental derangement, poets,even amongst themselves, do not call their madnessmadness. By an arrangement privatelyarrivedat,asortof literaryconspiracy, theyallseektodazzlethefoolishpublicbydescribingtheirderangementasinspiration.Thefactremainsthatwearespeakingofmadness.

Nevertheless, poets do have Plato on their side, for he called their ailment a sacredmadness, a divine afflatus. Even so, and no matter what degree of divinity may really beinvolved,peoplewould refuse to regardpoetrywithanymeasureof respect if itwereopenlyidentifiedwith lunacy,and I thereforeconclude thatpoetsarewise tocling to their inspirationbecause, though “inspiration” sounds to me like the name of some newly invented patentmedicine,itremainsanall impressiveword,onebehindwhichthepottinessofpoetscanmostsplendidlybesheltered.Whenexotic-soundingdelicaciesinfactconsistofnothingmoreunusualthan yams, when images of the Goddess of Mercy consist of nothing more than two briefinchesofrottenwood,whengamesoupspecialitiesarecookedfromcommoncrow,whenthebeststewedbeef inboardinghouses ishorseflesh inhotwater,whyshouldonequestiontherealityof inspiration?If itsreality is,asitmustbe,madness,at least itquicklyspendsitself—lunacybyfits(especiallyfits)andstarts.IndeeditisonlybecausetheirmanicpossessionissosignallyshortlivedthatpoetsarenotallshutawayintheloonybinatColneyHatch.

I think it fair to add that these short-term maniacs, these inspired idiots, appear to beextraordinarilydifficult toproduce. It ispainfullyeasy tomanufacture lifelong loonies,buteventhemostartfulGodseemstohavetroublefashioningbeingswhosemanicspellsarelimitedtothoseperiodsduringwhichthelunaticisholdingameanstowriteandisconfrontedwithblankpaper. In any event, God seldom creates such specimens. Consequently, they have to bemanufacturedwithoutdivineassistance,andalldowntheages,scholarshavebeenobligedtodevoteasmuch timeandeffort to finding thebestway togenerate the flowof inspirationasthey have to the problems of preventing rushes of blood to the head. One seeker afterinspiration,convincedthatthesecretofitsattainmentlayinconstipation,assiduouslystroveforthatpriorconditionbyeatingadozenunripepersimmonseverydayforfruitlessyearsonend.Anotheraspiranttoinspirationbelievedhecouldachievehisobjectivebyliteralhotheadednessand accordingly spent his days in an iron bathtub, heated from below, consuming enormousquantitiesofhotsaké.Failingtoachieve immediatesuccess,heconcludedthat theflaw inhis

schememustliewiththebathwater,butunfortunately,hediedbeforehecouldgathersufficientmoney toafford theexpenseofbathing inboilingport.Yetanotherwould-bepoetplacedhishopes for an inspiring rush of blood to the head in the long-received concept of acquisitionthrough imitation. It is an ancient idea that imitation of the conduct of some acknowledgedmasterwillproduceintheapethesamementalstateasgracedthemodel.According,tothistheoryamanwhobehaves likeadrunkardwill eventually feelwhatadrunkard feels,whileamanwhosquatssufficiently long in theattitudesofaZenmaster,enduring theagonywhileajossstickburnsitselftonothing,will,somehoworother,experiencethemaster’sexperienceofenlightenment.Theadoptionof that theoryof imitation to thesearch for inspiration led to theconclusion that, if one imitated the conduct of some literary giant, onewould experience thesame rushes of blood to the head as had inspired his literary achievements. I am reliablyadvised thatVictorHugoused to thinkuphis finestproseeffectswhile lyingonhisback inasailing boat, fromwhich it would follow that if one can board a yacht, lie on one’s back andstare at the blue of sky, one may confidently expect an upflow of stupendous prose. SinceRobertLouisStevenson issaidtohavewrittenhisnovelswhile lyingflatonhisbelly, itshouldbepossiblebywormingaroundonthefloortohaveone’sbrushconstructwholearchipelagoesoftreasuredislands.

You can deduce, even from themodest number of exampleswhich I’ve cited, thatmanypersons have devised methods for generating inspiration, but none has so far provedsuccessful, and current opinion holds that its artificial generation is impossible. Which is, ofcourse,sad,butnothingcanbedoneaboutit.However,Iamquitecertainthat,soonerorlater,someone will find a way to produce the divine afflatus on demand and, for the sake of dullhumanity,Isincerelyhopethatthatdesirablediscoveryisnottoolongdelayed.

I feel that Ihavespokenatmorethansufficient lengthaboutrushesofbloodtothehead,and Iwill thereforenowrevert tomyaccountof thecrisismountingwithinmymaster. Imust,however, first observe that any major event is invariably preceded by a series of minorhappenings, tremors and smoke puffs clearly indicative of the coming explosion, and thatthroughout the ages, the admirable efforts of a long succession of historians have all beenflawed by their concentration upon major events to the near total disregard of the minorforewarningsinanydevelopingsituation.Thus,inmymaster’scase,thevehemenceoftherushofbloodtohisheadincreasedwitheveryminorbrushwithhistormentors,andthatsteadyriseinpressuremadetheeventualeruptionentirelypre-dictable.IfIamtoproperlyconveytherealextent of my wretched master’s sufferings, if I am to avoid the possibility that my readersshouldlookdownuponhisrushesofbloodtotheheadastriflingbubblespoppinginhisveins,iftheworldatlargeisnottosneerathisconductasanexaggeratedreactiontopettypin-pricks,surelyImustnotscamptheordereddetailsofthedevelopmentofhisfrenzy.Indeed,whenoneconsiderswhatagonyisinvolvedinthegenerationofthemostmodestinspiration,itwouldbeadiscouragementtomanyabuddingtalent ifanymanifestationofwrong-way-upnessshouldbedisparaged.However, Imustconfess that thechainof incidents,minorandmajor,which Iamabout to relate reflects no honor upon Mr. Sneaze. Nonetheless, though the incidentsthemselvesare,byand large,disgraceful, Imustmake itclear that the frenzy isnowhit lessgenuine, lesspure,thantheflowof inspirationintheverygreatestofthemadmenofthearts.Sincemyownoldmasterhasnothingelseremarkableabouthim,wereInottolaudhisfrenzy,I,hislife’srecorder,wouldhavenothingmuchtorecord.

OurenemieswhoswarmallovertheHalloftheDescendingCloudhaverecentlyinventeda

newsortofdumdumbulletwhichtheymercilesslyfireintothenorthernpartoftheopenspacenotonlyduringtheirten-minutebreaksbetweenclasses,butalsoaftertheirschoolhoursend.Thisnewdumdumisapparentlycalledaballanditisdischargedatthefoebybeingstruckwithanobjectresemblingabloatedpestleorrollingpin.However,powerfulasthatweaponmaybe,therangefromitspointofdischargeintheHall’splaygroundtothestudywheremymaster isnormally entrenched is too far for him to be in any personal danger. Our enemies are, ofcourse, fully aware of the range problem and have accordingly developed a tactic whichexploitsthelimitationsoftheirweapon.IunderstandthattheJapanesetriumphatthebattleofPortArthurwasdueinnosmallparttotheindirectgunfireofourNavy.

Correspondingly, even a dumdumstruck no further than into the open spacemust surelycontribute something to the discomforture ofmymaster; especially when, presumably as anexpressionofthesolidarityoftheswarm,everymissileisaccompaniedbyaloudandmenacingcryof“Wow”utteredinunisonfromeveryhostilethroat.Youcanimaginewithwhatterrormymaster is overwhelmed, howpitifully contractedare theblood conduits to his armsand legs,and how inevitably, under the pressures of agony, all the blood at largewithin him begins toflowinthewrongdirectionupwardstohishead.OnemustconcedetheartfulingenuityofthoseyoungschemersintheHall.

Long ago in Greece there lived a writer named Aeschylus whose head was of the kindcommontoallscholarsandwriters—thatistosay,itwasbald.Ifyoushouldwonderwhysuchpersonsshouldalllackheadhair,thereasonisthatscholarsandwritersareusuallypoor(andtherefore ill nourished) and that their work is all in the head (so that what little nourishmentreaches their heads is all so rapidly there consumed that only a very small proportion of itsurvivestonourishthehairrootsintheirscalps).Writersandscholarsareallcharacteristicallyboth under-nourished and bald. It follows that Aeschylus, being a writer, had no hair on hishead.Indeed,hewasrenownedforhismagnificentlysmoothpate,hairlessasakumquat.Oneday,withhisusualhead (Idonotmean to imply thatonecanchangeheadsasonechangeshats,wearingatwillapartyheadoraneverydayheadoraSunday-go-to-meetinghead,butsimply that on this occasion the headofAeschyluswas as bald as ever), this famouswriterwentoutwalkinginthestreets,whereheallowedthebrilliantGreciansunshinetobereflectedfromhisscalp.Whichwasaverybadmistake.Bright lightreflectedfromasmoothbaldheadcanbeseenfromanenormousdistance.Itisthetopofthetallesttreewhichtakesthewind’sworstforce,sothetopofearth’smostshiningmanmaywellexpectattentionsnolessfierce.Inany event, it then so happened that an eagle with a captured tortoise clutched in its talonscamecruisingthroughtheskiesdirectlyabovethescintillatingAeschylus.Tortoisesandturtlesmakedeliciouseating,buteveninthedaysoftheearlyGreekstheyhadalreadysofarevolvedastobeveryhard-shelledcreatures;shellssohard,howeverdeliciousthemeatwithin,makeitequallyhardformealstobemadeoftortoisesorturtles.Itisperfectlytruethatlobstersgrilledin the shell are a popular dish today, but no one’s ever heard of tortoise stewed in thecarapace, and I doubt if they ever will. Certainly no such item appeared on the menus ofancientGreece, and that cruisingeaglewasbeginning, somewhat embarrassedly, towonderwhat on earth he should dowith his pendant tortoisewhen his eyewas caught by a brilliantglitteringfromthedistantearthbelowhim.

“I’vegotit,”thoughttheeagle.“IfIdropthistortoiseonthatshinything,itsshellmustsurelybreak,and,oncetheshell isbroken,Icanplummetdownandgorgetomyheart’scontentontheso-unshieldedmeat.

Nothing more simple. Here we go!” And, aiming skillfully for the efful-gent center of theAeschyleanskull,hestraightwaydroppedthetortoise.Unfortunately,bothforAeschylusandforthe disappointed eagle, the skulls ofwriters are softer than the carapaceof a tortoise; so itwas that,withhisbrightheadsmashed insmithereens, that luminaryof literaturecame tohispitifuldeath.

Myreadersmaybewonderinghowthis longdigression intodeathfromtheskyrelatestomymaster’s troubles, but I have reasonable hope that all in good time the connections willdeclarethemselves.First,however,IfeelboundtocommentthatIfindithardtodeterminethetrueintentofthateagle.Didhedropthetortoiseinfullawarenessthattheshinyobjectwastheheadofawriter,ordidhegenuinelybelievehistargetwasbarerock?Dependingonthewayinwhich one interprets the bird’s intention, one either can or cannot draw a useful parallelbetween theeagleand thoseboy-facedharpies from theHall.Moreover,anyattempt fully tounderstandtheproblemmusttakedueaccountofavarietyofconflictingfactors.Forinstance,it is amatter of fact thatmymaster is not bald, and consequently, his head, unlike those ofAeschylusandotherdistinguishedwritersandscholars,emitsnobrilliantlight.

However,hedoespossess(thoughitisapitiablysmallexample)thatsinequanonofanywriterorscholar,astudy.Inaddition,thoughheisnormallytobefoundasleepinfrontofit,hedoesactuallyspendmuchofhistimewithsomedifficultbookproppedupbeforehisnose.Onemustaccordinglyregardhimasapersonofatleastthescholarlytype.Thefactthathisheadisnotofascholarlybaldnessdoesnotnecessarilymeanthathe isunqualifiedforsuchnudity: itcouldsimplybethatheisnotyetfullyunfledged.However,athispresentrateoflosinghiswig,hecanconfidentlyexpecttosoonbeasbaldasanycootofaprofessor.IfhisdepilationisthebattleobjectiveofthosehooligansattheHall,onemustacknowledgethattheywouldbeactingshrewdly if they concentrated their dumdum fire on my master’s head. Two weeks of suchbombardmentwould so terrify theman that his contracted veinswould cease to nourish himproperlyandhisheadwouldquicklycometoresembleakumquatorakettleorabright,round,copper pot. Two further weeks of bombardment and the kumquat would be squashed, thekettle spring a leak, and the copper pot crack open.Facedwith sucha battle plan, the onlypersonwhocould fail topredict its inevitablesuccess, theonly fatheadwhowouldsoldieronregardless,wouldbe,ofcourse,mymadmanofamaster.

Therecameanafternoonwhen,takingmyusualsnoozeontheveranda,IdreamtIwasatiger. “Bring me,” I growl at my master, “buckets brimming with chicken meat,” which he,crawling toward me in a pleasing tremble of terror, immediately supplied. Waverhouse thenappearedandIpromptlysnarl, “Getyourselfdownto theWildGooseRestaurant, for Iwant,andyoushallfetch,goosefleshofthebest.”

“Pickledturnipandrice-crackers,”comestheexpectableblatherofWaverhouseresponse,“haveasavorstrikinglysimilartothatofthewildgoose.”

Notdeigningeven tocommentonhispresumptuousprevarication, Isimplyopenwidemycavernofamouthandshakehimsillywithasingleshatteringroar.

Waverhouse turns pale and placatingly continues, “The Wild Goose Restaurant onYamashitaStreethas,Imuchregrettoreport,justgoneoutofbusiness.Whatotherfare,mosthonoredsir,wouldyouallowmetoprocureforyou?”

“Shut, is it?Well, in that case I’ll let you off with beef. Don’t just stand there. Be off toWestbrooksandhurrybackherewithapoundofthefinestroastingbeef.Hurry,”Isaid,“orI’llgulpyouwhereyoustand.”Waverhouseshootsoutofthehouseatthedouble,thebackofhis

gown tucked up into his girdle to free his legs for a truly astonishing turn of speed. Myenormousbodysprawledateasealongtheveranda, Iamlyingtherewaitingfor thereturnofWaverhousewhen,allofasudden,ahideousshoutingfillsthehouse,and,withoutsomuchasanibbleofbeef,Iwasjerkedawakefrommyflesh-deliciousdream.Formymaster,whoonlyamoment back had been prostrating himself before me in a cringe of juddering terror, camerocketingoutofthelavatory,kickedmeasidewithasavagetoeintheribsand,beforeIevenrecovered from thatshock,hadslippedonhisoutdoorclogs,whizzedout through thegardengate and was off at his ungainliest gallop toward the Hall of the Descending Cloud. It isdistinctlydisconcertingtofindoneselfsoquicklyshrunkenfromatigertoacat,butIconfessIwas also somewhat tickled by this latestweird development. Indeed, the combination of thesightofmymaster’s ferociouscountenancewith thepainofhisviciouskicksoonwiped frommymindallmemoryoftiger-time.

My lightheartednessderives from the likelihood that, ifmymaster is, at last, really goingintoaction,there’llbesomefunwhenthesparksstartflying.Sodisregardingmyachingribs,Ilimpalonginhiswakeand,asIcometothebackyardgate,Ihearhimbarking,“Thief!”

Upahead,justscramblingoverthefour-eyefencewithhisHallschoolcapstillstuckonhishead, there’sasturdy ladagedabouteighteenornineteen.As the intruderdrops intosafetyandscampersofftohisbasecampintheplayground,Isighthathe’sgotaway,butmymaster,encouragedbythesuccessofhisshoutof“Thief,”shoutsitonceagainandthundersoninhotpursuit.Whichbringshimtothefence. Ifhekeepsongoing,hetoowill trespass intothieveryand,inhispresenttransportoffrenzy,itlooksasthoughthepassionofthechaseandhisownDutchcouragemayactuallycarryhimupandoverthebarricades.

Certainlyheshowsnosignofwaveringashisspindlylegsbringhimtothepointwherethebamboostakesstandplantedontheborder.Onemoreclimbingstepandmynormallycravenmaster will have graduated into villainy. At that moment one of the enemy generals, somescurvyusherwithadroopythinmoustache,moveduptothefrontier,whereheandmymaster,eachonhisownsideofthefence,engagedinthefollowingutterlyfatuousparlay.

“Yes,heisastudentoftheHall.”“Then,likeallgoodstudents,heshouldconducthimselfcorrectly.Howdoeshecometobetrespassingonsomeoneelse’spremises?”“Hewascollectingaballthathadrolledontoyourland.”“Why,then,didhenotsimplycomeandaskmypermissiontoretrieveit?”“Iwillensurethattheboyisreproved.”“Well,inthatcase,allright.”ThenegotiationswhichIhadhappilyanticipateddevelopingintooutrightbattlethusquickly

peteredout inadullexchangeof theprosiestkindofchickenchat.Mymaster’sfire-breathingthreatsaremerebravado.When it comes toaction,nothingeverhappens. It’snotunlikemyown reversion from a dream tiger to an actual cat. In any event, the foregoing happeningsconstitutethat“minorincident”ofwhichIwishedtotellyou,andIwillnowproceedtothetaleofthemajorincidentwhichfollowed.

Mymaster is lying flatonhisbelly in the living roomwith theslidingdoor leftopen.He isdeep in thought,probablydevisingways todefendhimselfagainst thosehooligansat theHallwhere, it would seem, classesmust be in progress because no noisewhatsoever is comingfrom the playground. Instead, through the unwonted quiet comes a voice, which by itsresonance I immediately recognize as the voice of the enemy general at yesterday’s

conference,deliveringaclearandcloselyreasonedlectureuponethics.“Thus,publicmoralityissoimportantthatyouwillfinditpracticedeverywhere:inEurope,in

France,inGermany,inEngland,everywhere.Furthermore, everyone in Europe, even themost humble persons, pays deep respect to

thispublicmorality.Itisallthemoreregrettablethatwe,inJapan,arestillunabletomatchthecivilizations of foreign countries in this matter. Some of you may perhaps think that publicmoralityisanunimportantconceptnewlyimportedfromabroad,butifyoudosothink,youaremistaken.OurownforebearswereproudtobeguidedbytheteachingsofConfucius,whichinevery context emphasize the importancenot only of faithfulness, but of trueunderstandingofthe needs of other beings; it is upon precisely such an understanding that public morality isfounded.SinceIamhuman,therearetimeswhenIfeellikesinginginaloudvoice.ButifIwerestudying, and someone in the next room started singing loudly, I’d find it impossible toconcentrateonmyreading.Therefore,eventhoughIwouldliketorefreshmymindbyquotingaloudfromsomeanthologyofclassicalChinesepoetry,IrestrainmyselffromdoingsobecauseI knowhow infuriating Iwould find sucha disturbanceofmyown studies. In brief, your ownnational traditionof publicmoralitymust alwaysbeobservedand you should never do thingswhichmightbeanuisancetoothers...”

Atthatpointmymaster,whohadbeenlisteningcarefullytothelecture,brokeintosobroada grin that I feel I must explain the inwardness of his reaction. A cynical reader might wellsuspectsomeelementofsarcasm inmymaster’sgrinning,but thereality is thathisnature istoosimple,eventoosweet,toaccommodatethesoursubtletiesofdoubt.Hesimplydoesnothave thebrainpower tobebad.Hegrinned fornomorecomplicatedreasonthan thathewaspleased bywhat he’d heard, and, in his pitiful simplicity, he genuinely believed that since theethics teacher had given such a poignant exhortation to the students, the hail of dumdumswouldnowceaseandhecouldsnoozealong forever in the recoveredsafetyofhisstudy.Heneednotyet,hereasoned, losehishair.Hisfrenziesmaynot instantlybecured,but,withthepassing of the days, their violence will abate. He can dispense with wet towels around hisbrowsandacharcoal-burnerforhisfeet.Andheneednotsleepwithatreeforhisonlyshelterandastonebeneathhisbum.Cozyinsuchdelusions,ofcoursethefatheadgrinned.Itisinthenot unworthy nature of the man that my master should have taken that lecture seriously.Indeed,thoughhelivesinthetwentiethcentury,hestillquitehonestlybelieveseventhatdebtsshouldberepaid.

Induetimetheschool’sclasshoursmusthaveended,forthelectureonethicscametoasuddenstop.Iassumealltheotherclassesfinishedatthesametime,forquitesuddenly,withhideouswhoops and shouts, some eight hundred young gentlemen came tumbling out of thebuilding.Buzzingandwhirring likeaswarmofbeeswhosehivehasbeenknockedover, theypoured from the windows, doorways, and indeed from every least gap in the fabric of theschool.Anditwaswiththateruptionthatthemajorincidentbegan.

Letmebeginwithanaccountofthebattleformationofthesehumanbees;shouldyouthinkit overblown to use specialized military terms to describe such a piffling business as mymaster’s scufflingswithmere schoolboys, well, you’d be quitewrong.When ordinary peoplethink of warfare, their idea of battle is of such bitter encounters as those which took placeduringour recentwarwithRussiaatShaka,MukdenandPortArthur.Lessordinarypersons,notably those barbarians who have some feel for poetry, associate warfare with particularcolorful incidents or feats of derring-do: with Achilles in his chariot dragging the corpse of

Hector around thewalls of Troy, orwithChangFei ofYen standing alonewith his four-yard,snake-shapedhalberdon theCh’ang-panBridgeandglaringdown themillinghordesofTs’aoTs’ao’sarmy.

However,thougheverymanisperfectlyentitledtofashionhisindividualnotionofthenatureofwarfare,itwouldbeoutrageoustolaydownthattheonlyrealwarsarethoseofthekindstowhichI’vejustreferred.

Onewouldliketothinkthattotallyfoolishwarsonlytookplaceinantiquityandthattoday,inthe capital city of Imperial Japanandduringaperiodof peace, suchbarbaric behaviorwereinconceivable.Even though riotsdooccasionallyoccur, there’sno realdangerof thedisordergoingbeyondtheburningofafewpoliceboxes.AgainstthatbackgroundtherecanbenodoubtthatthebattlebetweenMr.Sneaze,CaptainGeneraloftheCaveoftheSleepingDragon,andtheeighthundredstalwartyouthsfromtheHalloftheDescendingCloudmustberecognizedasoneofthemostimportantconflictsfoughtoutinTokyosincethefoundationofthatcity.

TsoShih’saccountofthebattleofYenLingopenswithadescriptionoftheenemy’sforcesandtheirdisposition;sinceallsubsequenthistoriansofanyreputehavefollowedhisexample,Iseeno reasonnot tobeginwithadescriptionof thebattle formationof theBees. In thevan,disposedinlinecloseagainsttheirownsideofthefour-eyefence,thereisanadvanceguardofstudentswhoseprobablefunctionistoluremymasterforwardintoartilleryrange.“D’youthinktheoldnutknowswhenhe’sbeaten?” “Toomuchofa fool.” “Hasn’t theguts tocomeagainstus.”

“Where’s he skulking now?” “You’d think he had enough of his stinking loo.” “Not him.”“Maybe he’s stuck there.” “Silly old twerp.” “Let’s try barking.” “Bow-wow-wow.” “Yap-yap-yap.” “Bow-wow-wow.”These educated observations culminated in a long yowlingwar cry ofderision from the whole detachment. Stationed slightly apart to the right and rear of theadvanceunit in the general direction of the playground, a bat-tery of artillery has takenup acommandingpositiononabumpofhigherground.Thechiefgunner,armedwithanenormousrollingpin,stands facing toward theDragon’sden;asecondofficer,withhisback to theden,faceshiscolleagueatadistanceatsomeforty feet;anddirectlybehind thebludgeon-bearer,similarlyfacingtowardboththedenandthesecondofficer,athirdartillerymancroucheslikeafrog.IhavebeentoldthatpersonssoalignedarenotnecessarilypreparingforbattleandareprobablypracticingagamenewlyimportedfromAmericawhichiscalledbaseball.Beingmyselfanignorantcreature,Iknownothingwhatsoeveraboutthatgame,butitissaidtohavebecomethemostpopularofallsportingactivitiesinthemiddleschools,highschoolsanduniversitiesofmodernJapan.AmericahasapeculiarbentfortheinventionoffantasticthingsandIsupposeitwasonly inkindnessofheart thatshe taughtJapanagamewhichcansoeasilybemistakenfor gunnery andwhich causes somuch annoyance in an otherwise peaceful neighborhood. IimaginetheAmericanshonestlythinktheirgameisnomorethanthat;however,eventhemostgamesome game, if it is able to disrupt an entire neighborhood, can hardly avoid beingregarded as bombardment. In my view the lads at the Hall schemed for the results ofbombardment under the guise of good clean fun. The truth is that by the infinite flexibility ofinterpretationonecangetawaywithanything.

Somepeopleperpetratefraudinthenameofcharity,othersjustifytheirobviouslunacybycalling it inspiration. Could it not be that others practice warfare in the guise of baseball?Baseballas I’vehithertodescribed it is thenormal formof thegame,but thevarietywhich I’llnowdescribeisnothinglessthanthegunneryaspectsofsiegewarfare.Ishallcommencewith

anaccountofthegunnerydrillforfiringdumdums.Thesecondofficerinthethree-mancrewthatI’vealreadydescribedtakesadumduminhis

right hand and slings it straight at the bludgeoneer. None but the initiated know the precisecontentsofthedumdum,so,asanon-professional,Icanonlysaythatthemissileisroundandhard like a stony dumpling and that its contents are extremely carefully sewn tight within aleather casing. As I was saying, this dumdum comes whistling through the wind toward thebludgeoneerwho,brandishinghisrollingpin,slamsthemissileback.Everysooftenthere isamisfirewhenbludgeonanddumdumfailtoconnectandthefrog-likefigureisthensupposedtostoptheballandtossitbackforthefirstofficeragaintostartthefiringprocedure.However,inmost cases the connection is achieved, and, with a savage cracking sound, the dumdum isdischarged. The force thus generated is truly enormous and the kinetic energy stored in themissilecouldeasilysmashthethinskullofaneuroticdyspeticlikemymaster.Themainthree-manguncrew isall that is fundamentallynecessary for theweapon togo intoaction,but themastergunnersaresupportedbydrovesofreinforcementswhostandaroundthegunsiteand,wheneverthecrackofpestleonsturdydumplingreportsasuccessfulfiring,burstintoachorusofraucousshoutsandarapidfireofhandclaps.

“Strike,”theybellow.“Arealhome-slam.”“Hadenoughyet?”“We’vegotyoulicked.”“Go,go,go!”“Getonback,youfool!”Sucha tempestof insults tomymasterwouldbebadenough,but injury isadded to that

offensivenessby the fact that,outofevery threestruckdumdums,at leastone rollsonto thedragon’sland.Andthatpenetrationisnotaccidental.Onthecontrary,itistheentirereasonfortheuseofthebaseballweapon.Theweapon’sbulletsarenowadaysmanufacturedallovertheworld, but they still remain extremely expensive, so that even in times ofwar, their supply islimited.Normallyeachartilleryunit isprovisionedwithnomorethanoneortwodumdums,andtheycannotaffordtolosetheirpreciousmissileeverytimeit’sfired.

These units consequently always include a platoon of ball pickers,whose sole duty is toretrievefallenballs.Thatdutyisrelativelyeasywhenthedumdumshappentofall inplainviewonaccessibleground,butwhenthey land in longgrassoronhostile territory, theplatoonhasanunen-viabletaskdemandingspeed,ingenuity,andoftenawillingnesstofacerealdanger.Itis thus thegunners’ normal tactic to aim theweapon in suchaway that its projectile canbereadilyrecovered,but,inthepresentcontext,theirusualpracticeisdeliberatelyreversed.Theyarenolongerplayingagame:theyareengagedinwarfare.Theyaimtofiretheirdumdumintomymaster’spropertysoastoprovideanexcuse,theneedtoretrieveit,forcrossingthefour-eye fence. The constant irritation of dumdums landing in his property, immediately to befollowedby hordesof howling schoolboys, leavesmymasterwith a hideous choice betweenunventable anger and that resignation to fate which is surrender. Under such strain hisbaldness,surely,canonlybeamatteroftime.

Thenitwasthataparticularlywell-struckdumdumcamewhistlingoverthefour-eyefence,slashedoffafewleavesfromthelowerbranchesofapaulownia,and,withtremendousnoise,landedfull-tossagainstour innercastlewall; that istosay,againstthatbamboofencearoundourgardenwhich Iuse formyexercises.WeknowfromNewton’sFirstLawofMotion thata

bodyremainsinitsstateofrestorofuniformmotionunlessacteduponbysomeexternalforce.Ifthemovementofmatterweregovernedonlybythatlaw,mymaster’sskullwouldatthisverymomentbesharingthefateofAeschylus,sohewasfortunatethatNewtonwaskindenoughtosavehimfromsuchashatteringexperiencebytheestablishmentofaSecondLawtotheeffectthatchange inmotion isproportional to,and in thesamedirectionas, theapplied force.This,I’mafraid, is all a bit too difficult to follow, but the fact that the dumdum failed to pierce ourgardenfence,failedtoriponthroughourpaper-window,andfailedtosmashmymaster’sskullmust,withourdeepestgratitude,beattributedtoNewton.Innexttonotime,aswasonlytobeexpected, the intrepid ball pickers were in action on our property. One could hear themthrashing about with sticks in the clumps of bamboo grass to the accompaniment of suchscreeched comment as, “it landed about here” and “rather more to the left.” All enemypenetrationsofthefrontierinhotpursuitoftheirdumdumsareconductedwithmaximumnoise,since to sneak in for a secret retrievalwould be to fail in their realmission. It is, of course,important to recover a costlymissile, but it is evenmore important to teasemymaster intofrenzy.Thus,on thisparticularoccasion theballpickersknewperfectlywellwhere to look fortheirball.They’dseenitsoriginallineofflight,they’dhearditsmackagainstourgardenfence,and, therefore knowing the point of impact, they also knew precisely where it must havedroppedtotheground;soitneedhavebeennotroubleatalltopickitupquietlyandtodepartinpeace.WeareindebtedtoLeibuizfortheobservationthatanyformofcoexistencedependsuponthemainte-nanceofformalorder.Thus,thelettersofthealphabet, likethesymbolsofasyllabary,must always, in accordancewith his Law of SystematicOrder, occur in the samesequential relationship. Similarly, the relationships established by convention, proverb andreceivedwisdom should not be disturbed: good luck demands that under awillow tree thereshouldalwaysbealoach,whileabatandtheeveningmoonarenecessarilylinked.Thereisnosuch obvious connection between a ball and a fence, but persons who have accustomedthemselvesbydailybaseballpracticetoregularinroadsintoourpropertydoacquireasenseoforderinsucharelationship,fromwhichitfollowsthattheyalwaysknowexactlywheretospottheir fallen dumdums. It further follows that, since Leibuiz has told themwhere to look, theirunwillingnesstodosoclearlyshowsthatthefusstheymakeisdirectednottowardfindingtheirballbuttoprovokingmymasterintowarfare.

Things have now gone so far that even a man as mild and as naturally sluggish as mymaster cannot fail to respond to the challenge. Can it only have been yesterday that thissuddenlyberserkmanofactionwasgrinningsoamiably tohimselfasheeavesdroppeduponethics?Swept to his feet by pure rage, he ran out roaring from the house, and so savagelysuddenwashiscounter-attackthatheactuallytookaprisoner.Onecannotdenythebrilliance,formymaster,ofthisfeat,butabeardlesslittleladoffourteen,maybefifteen,summersmakesacaptiveunbecomingtoafullywhiskeredman.Unbecomingornot,itwasgoodenoughformymasteras, despite itspitiful pleas formercyand forgiveness,hedragged thewretchedchildintohisverydenandontotheveranda.

At thispoint Ishouldperhapsoffersome furtherclarificationof theenemy’s tactics.Theyhadinfactdeducedfrommymaster’sferociousbehavioronthepreviousdaythathewasnowclose to the breaking point and that it was a near certainty that today he could easily beneedled intoanother lunaticcharge. If suchasally led to thecaptureofsome laggardseniorboy, there would obviously be trouble. But they calculated that the risk of trouble would beminimized to virtually nothing if they used as ball pickers only the smallest of their first-and

second-yearjuniors.Ifmymastersucceededincatchingsuchaminnowandthenkickedupawhaleofafuss,

he would merely succeed in disgracing himself for childish behavior, and no reflectionwhatsoeverwouldbecastuponthehonoroftheHall.Suchwerethecalculationsoftheenemyandsuchwouldbethecalculationsofanynormalperson;howevertheirplanningfailedtotakeaccountof the fact that theywerenotdealingwithanordinaryhumanbeing,and theyshouldhaverealizedfromhisextraordinaryperformanceyesterdaythatmymasterlacksthecommonsense to see anything ludicrous in a full grownman pitting himself against some squitty littleschoolboy.A rushofblood to theheadwill liftanormalperson into flightsofabnormalityandtransmute level headed creatures into raving loonies; so long as a victim of frenzy remainscapable of distinguishing between women, children, packhorse drivers and rickshawmen, hisfrenzyremainsapaltrypossession.Truefrenzy,thedivineafflatus,demandsthatitspossessedpossessor should, like my frenzied master, be capable of capturing alive some snotty, littleschoolchildandofkeepinghimcloseasaprisonerofrealwar.Thecapturehasbeenmade.

The trembling captive had been ordered forth to pick up balls like a common soldierordered intobattle byhis senior officers, only to be corneredby the inspiredbattlecraft of amadopposinggeneral.Cutofffromescapehomeacrossthefrontier,heiscaughtandheldindurancevileonthegardenverandaofhiscaptor.Insuchcircumstances,mymaster’senemiescannot justsitbackandwatch their friend’sdisgrace.Oneafteranother, theycomestormingbackoverthefour-eyefenceandthroughthegardengateuntilsomedozendoughtiesarelinedupinfrontofmymaster.Mostofthemarewearingneitherjacketnorvest.One,standingwithhiswhiteshirt-sleevesrolledupabovehiselbows,foldsdefiantarms.Anothercarriesaworn-outcotton-flannelshirtslungacrossoneshoulder.Instrikingcontrast,yetanother,arightyoungdandy, wears a spotless shirt of whitest linen hem-piped in black with its owner’s initials intasteful matching black embroidered as large capital letters above his heaving chest. Everymemberofthedetachmentholdshimself likeasoldier,and,fromthetanneddarknessoftheirsturdybulgeofmuscle,onemightguessthemtohavearrivednolaterthanlastnightfromtherough,warrior-breedinguplandsoftheSasayamamountains.Itseemsashametowastesuchsplendidmaterialonamiddleschooleducation.Whatanasset to thenation theycouldbeasfishermenorboatmen.Theywereallbarefootedwiththeirtrouserendstuckedhigh,asthoughinterruptedontheirwaytofightsomefireintheneighborhood.Linedupinfrontofmymaster,they glared at him in silence, and he, equally silent, glared belligerently back. Through whatseemed hours of steadily increasing tension their eyes remained locked and the atmospherebuiltuptowardapressureonlytoberelievedbythelettingofblood.

“Are you,” suddenly snarledmymaster with truly draconian violence, “also thieves?” Hisfury, likeablastofflame,venteditselffromnostrilsflaredbackfromthesearofpassion.Thenoseof the lionmask used in lion dancesmust havebeenmodeled fromanangered humanface,forIcanthinkofnowhereelsewhereonecouldfindsoviciousanimageofthemindlesssavageryofanger.

“No,wearenotthieves.WearestudentsoftheHalloftheDescendingCloud.”“Not just thieves but liars too!How could students of that school youmention break into

someoneelse’sgardenwithoutpermission?”“Butyoucanseetheschoolbadgeonthecapswe’rewearing.”“Thosecouldbestolen,too.Ifyouarewhatyouclaimtobe,explainhowpupilsatsucha

respectableschoolcouldbesuchthieves,suchliars,suchdisgustingtrespassers?”

“Weonlycametogetourball.”“Whydidyouallowtheballtocomeuponmyproperty?”“Itjustdid.”“Whatadisgracefullotyouare.”“Weshallbemorecarefulinfuture.Pleaseforgiveusthistime.”“Why on earth should I forgive a gang of young hooligans, all complete strangers, who

comerampagingoverfencestomuckaboutonmyproperty?”“ButwereallyarestudentsoftheHall.”“Ifyouareindeedstudents,inwhatgradeareyou?”“Thethirdyear.”“Areyoucertainofthat?”“Yes.”My master turned his head toward the house and shouted for the maid, and almost

immediately,withaquestioning,“Yes?”thatidiotOsanstuckherheadoutofthedoor.“GoovertotheHalloftheDescendingCloudandfetchsomeone.”“WhomshallIfetch?”“Anyone,butgethimhere.”ThoughO-sanacknowledged these instructions, thescene in thegardenwassoodd, the

meaningofmymaster’sorderssoinsufficientlyclear,andthegeneralconductofthemattersoinherently silly that, instead of setting off for the school, she simply stood there with a half-bakedgrinonherface.

Wemustremember,however,thatmymasterthinksheisdirectingamajorwaroperationinwhichhisinspiredgeniusisinfullestflower.Henaturallyexpectsthathisownstaffshouldbeflat out in his support and is far from pleased when some menial orderly not only seemsblissfully unaware of the seriousness ofwarfare but, infinitelyworse, reacts to action orderswithavacuousgrin.Inevitablyhisfrenzymounts.

“I’m telling you to fetch someone from the Hall, anyone, no matter who. Can’t youunderstand?Oneoftheteachers,theschoolsecretary,theheadmaster,anybody.”

“Youmeantheschoolmaster?”InrespectofschoolmattersthatoafO-sanknowsnothingofhierarchyandnoschooltitlesaveschoolmaster.

“Yes, any of the schoolmasters, or the secretary, or the head. Can’t you hear what I’msaying?”

“Ifnoneofthosearethere,howabouttheporter?”“Don’tbesuchafool.Howcouldaportercopewithseriousmatters?”Atthispoint,O-san,probablythinkingtherewasnothingmoreshecouldusefullydoonthe

veranda, just said, “Right,” and withdrew. Quite plainly she hadn’t the foggiest idea of thepurpose of her mission, and, while I was pondering the likelihood of her returning with theporter, Iwas surprised to see the lecturer on ethics comemarching in by the front-gate. Assoon as the new arrival had composedly seated himself, my master launched out upon hispettifoggingimpeachment.

“Theclepsyderahasbarelydrippedtwoshiningdropssincethesebrutefellowsherebrokeinuponmyland...”Mymasteropenedhisindictmentinsucharchaicphraseologyasonehearsatkabukiplaysabouttheforty-sevenmasterlesssamuraiwhoattractedsomuchattentionbytheircarryings-onintheearlydaysoftheeighteenthcentury,andwoundhiswailingsupwithamodest touchof sarcasm: “. . .as if indeed suchpersons could possibly be students of your

school.”Theethicsinstructorevincednoobvioussignsofsurprise.Heglancedoverhisshoulderat

the bravos in the garden and then, returning his eyes to focus on my master, indifferentlyanswered,“Yes,theyareallstudentsfromtheHall.Wehaverepeatedlyinstructedthemnottobehaveinthemannerofwhichyoucomplain.Ideeplyregretthisoccurrence...Now,boys,forwhatconceivablereasondoyouevenwanttogobeyondtheschoolfence?”

Well,studentsarestudents,everywherethesame.Confrontedwiththeirlectureronethics,theyseemtohavenothingtosay.Silentandhuddledtogether inacornerof thegarden, theystandasthoughfrozen,likeflockofsheeptrappedbysnowfall.

Self-defeatingly,mymasterprovedunabletoholdhistongue.“Sincethishousestandsnexttotheschool, I realize it’s inevitablethatballs fromtheplaygroundwillsometimesroll inhere.But,theboysarereallytoorowdy.Iftheymustcomeoverthefence,iftheyonlycollectedtheirballs indecentsilenceandleftwithoutdisturbingus, thenImightbecontentnot topursuethematter,but...”

“Quite so. Iwillmost certainly caution themyet again.But you’ll appreciate thereare somanyofthemscullingaboutallovertheplacethatit’sdifficultforusteachersto...Listen,youlot:youmusttakefarmorecaretobehaveproperly.Ifaball flies intothisproperty,youmustgorightaroundtothefrontdoorandseekthemaster’spermissiontoretrieveit.Understand?”Heturnedagain tomymaster. “It is,goodsir,abigschoolandournumbersgiveusendless,endlesstrouble.Sincephysicalexercise isnowan integralpartof theeducationalsystem,wecanhardlyforbidthemplayingbaseballeventhoughwerealizethattheparticulargamecansoeasily prove a nuisance to your good self. We can thus only entreat you to overlook theirintrusions inabenignawareness thathighspiritsdosometimesoverflow intomisconduct.Forourpart,wewillensurethattheyalwayspresentthemselvesatyourfrontentranceandrequestyourgenerouspermissiontoenteruponyourlandandretrievetheirballs.”

“That will be perfectly satisfactory. Theymay throw in asmany balls as theywish. If infuturetheboyswillpresentthemselvesproperlyatthefrontdoorandproperlyaskpermission,everything will be fine. Perhaps I may now hand these particular miscreants back into yourchargeforsupervisedconductbacktoschool.Iamonlysorrythatithasprovednecessarytoput you personally to the inconvenience of coming over here to copewith this business.” Asalways,mymaster,thoughhewentupwiththedashandsizzleofarocket,camedownlikeadulloldstick.

Theteacherofethicsledoffhismountaintroopersthroughthefrontgate,andsothismajorincidentdroopedtoitstameconclusion.

Ifyoulaughatmeforcallingitamajorevent,well,youarefreetolaugh.Shouldit,foryou,seem trivial, thenso indeed it is,but Ihavebeendescribingwhatseemed tomymaster,notperhapstoanyoneelse,eventsofenormousmagnitude.Anyonewhosneersathimas,atbest,anarrowshotfromapossiblyoncestrongbowbutnowsofargoneastobespentandfeeble,shouldberemindedthatsuchspent-arrownessistheessenceoftheman,and,moreover,thathispeculiar characterhasmadehim thestar figure inapopular comicnovel.Thosewhocallhimafoolforwastinghisdaysincrazyquarrelswiththeyoungerkindsofteenageschoolboyscommandmyimmediateassent,forheisundoubtedlyafool.Which,ofcourse, iswhycertaincriticshavesaidthatmymasterhasnotyetgrownoutofhisbabyhood.

Havingnowdescribedtheminorandmajoreventsinmymaster’swarwiththeHall,Ishallclose that history with an account of their aftermath. Some of my readers may choose to

believethatI’mhavingthemonwithahistoryofpurebalderdashbut,Idoassureyou,nocat,and leastofallmyself,wouldbeso irresponsible.Everysingle letter,everysingleword that Isetdownimpliesandreflectsacosmicphiloso-phyand,astheselettersandwordscohereintosentences and paragraphs, they become a coordinated whole, clear and consistent, withbeginningsandendsskillfullydesignedtocorrespondand,bythatcorrespondence,toprovideanoverallworldviewoftheconditionofallcreation.Thus,theseclosewrittenpages,whichthemoresuperficialmindsamongstyouhaveseenasnothingbetterthanatiresomespateoftrivialchit-chat, shall suddenly reveal themselves as containing weighty wisdom, edifying homilies,guidance for you all. I would therefore be obliged if you would have the courtesy to sit upstraight,stoplollingaboutlikesomanysloppysacks,and,insteadofskimmingthroughmytext,studyitwithcloseattention.MayIremindyouthatLiuTsung-yüanthoughtitpropertoactuallylavehishandswithrose-waterbeforetouchingthepaperluckyenoughtocarrytheproseofhisfellow poet and fellow scholar, Han T’ni-chih. The prose which I have written deserves atreatmentno lesspunctiliously respectful.Youshouldnotdisgraceyourselvesby reading it insomeolddog-earedcopyofamagazine filchedorborrowed froma friend.Haveat least thegracetobuyacopyof themagazinewithyourownmoney.AsI indicatedat thebeginningofthiswell-constructedparagraph,Iamabouttodescribeanaftermath.

Ifyouthinkanaftermathcouldnotpossiblybeinterestingandconsequentlyproposetoskipreadingit,youwillmostbitterlyregretyourdecision.Yousimplymustreadontotheend.

OnthedayfollowingthemajorshowdownItookmyselfoffforawalk.Ihadbarelysetoutwhen,onthecorneracrossfrommymaster’shousewhereasidestreetjoinstheroad,whomshouldIseebutGoldfieldandhistoadySuzukiengagedinearnestconversation.

Lickspittle Suzuki had in fact just left the Goldfield mansion after some obsequious visitthere, when its ‘flat-faced’ owner, homebound in his rickshaw, stopped to speak with him.Though I have lately come to find old Goldfield’s household something of a bore and havethereforediscontinuedcallingthere,thesightoftheoldroguehimselfstirredinmyheartanoddwarmth toward him. I even feel sufficient interest inSuzuki,whom I haven’t seen for severalweeks,tosidleacrossforacloserlook;itwasthusnaturalthat,asIdriftedtowardthem,theirconversationshouldfalluponmyears.It’snotmyfault,buttheirs,if inapublicplaceIhappentoheartheirtalk.Goldfield,amanwhosebroadconceptofdecencypermitshimtohiremarkstospyuponmymaster,would, I feelquitesure,extendhissympatheticunderstanding toanychancecoincidenceofpresencewhichnarrowermindsmightconsidercommoneavesdropping.I’d be disappointed if he displayed such lack of balance as to cut up rough. In any event, Iheardtheirconversation—

not, I repeat, ofmy ownwill or bymy own scheming, simply because their talking wasrammedintomyears.

“I’vejustbeentoyourhouse.Howfortunatetohavemetyouhere.”Suzukiperformshisusualseriesofoverhumblebows.“Fortunateindeed.Asamatteroffact,I’vebeenwantingtoseeyou.”“Haveyou,Sir?Howluckythen.IsthereanythingIcandoforyou?”“Well,nothingserious.Quiteunimportantreally.Butit’ssomethingonlyyoucoulddo.”“YoumaybeassuredthatanythingIcando,mosthappilyIwill.Whathaveyouinmind?”“Wellnow...”gruntedGoldfieldashesearchedfortherightwords.“Ifyouprefer,Icouldcomebackanytimewhichhappenstosuityou.Wouldyoucaretosuggestatime?”

“No,no,it’snotallthatimportant.Indeed,Imightaswelltellyounow.”“Pleasedon’thesitate.”“Thatcrazyfellow,thatfriendofyours...what’shisnamenow...SneazeIthinkitwas...”“Oh,him.What’sSneazebeenuptonow?”“Nothingreally,butI’venotentirelygottenoverthatlastannoyingbusiness.It’sleftanasty

tasteinmymouth.”“Iquiteunderstand.Vainglorysuchashisispositivelysickening.Heshouldseehimselfand

his social status realistically; but no, stupid and stuck-up, he carries on like the lord of allcreation.”

“That’sjustit.Hisinsolentdisparagementofthebusinesscommunitygetsmygoat.Allthatrantaboutneverbowingtothemightofmoney.

SoIthoughtI’dlethimseewhatabusinessmancando.ForquitesometimenowI’vebeenputtingspokesinhiswagon,modestirritationsinvolvingnomorethanmodestexpenditure,buttheman’s incredibly stubborn and I findmyself stumped by his sheer block-headedness. Hecan’t,apparently,graspthathe’sbeinggotat.”

“Thetroubleisthathehasnorealunderstandingofprofitandloss.Heis incapableofappreciating, letaloneweighing, thebalanceofhisownadvantageand

disadvantage. So he goes his own mad road, feeble but persistent in resisting redirection,totallyoblivioustohisownbestinterest.He’salwaysbeenlikethat.Ahopelesscase.”

Goldfield burst into genuine laughter at the portrait drawn by Suzuki of a character soludicroustothemboththatcachinnationwastheironlypossiblereaction.“You’vehitthenailonthehead.I’vetriedallsortsoftrickstoshakehimup.Knowingthelevelofhisintelligence,I’veevenhiredschoolkidstoplayhimupwithpranks.”

“Thatwasabrightidea!Diditwork?”“Ithinkit’sworking.Certainlyit’sputhimunderstrain,andIfancyit’snowonlyamatterof

timebeforehecracksunderthepressure.”“Undersheerweightofnumbers!Howcleveryouare.”“Yes,Ithinkthathe’sbeginningtofeeltheeffectsofhissingularity.Anyway,he’sprettyweakenedandIwantyoutogoalongandseehowheis.”“Gladly.I’llcallonhimrightawayandletyouhaveareportonmywayback.Thisshouldbe

interesting.Itmustbequiteasighttoseethatbull-headedfellowdowninthedumps.”“Verywell,then.Seeyoulater.I’llbeexpectingyou.”“Allright,Sir.”Well,well!Sohereweareagainwithanotherprettyplot.Thepowerofabusinessmanis

indeed formidable. By its frightening force my clink-er of a master has been set afire withfrenzy;histhatchofhairiswellonitsagonizedwaytobecomingaskatingrinkforflies,andhisskullcansoonexpectanAeschyleanbashing.Consideringhowmuchhasbeenachievedbythepowerofasinglebusinessman, Iamobliged toconclude that, though I’llneverknowwhy theearth spinsaroundon itsaxis, it’s certainly cash thatmotivates thisworld.Noneknowbetterthanbusinessmenwhatpowermoneybuys.Itisbytheirnodthatthesuncomesupintheeastand,bytheirdecision,goesdowninthewest.Ihavebeenveryslowtolearnthedivinerightofbusinessmen,and Iattributemybackwardness to theatmosphere, theculturaleffluvia fromapoor pigheaded schoolie, in which I have been reared. The time has clearly comewhenmydimwittedbigotofamastersimplymustwakeuptotherealitiesofthisworld.Toperseverein

his present attitudes could well prove dangerous; dangerous, even, to that dreary, dull,dyspepticlifewhichhesodesperatelytreasures.How,Iwonder,willmymastercopewiththecomingvisitationofSuzuki?Believing that the style inwhich that visitor is receivedwill beanaccurate indicator of the degree towhichmymaster has learnt to recognize and accept thepowerofbusinessmen,IknowImustnotloiter.Thoughmerelyacat,Iaccepttheimperativesofloyaltyandamworriedformymaster’ssafety.IslinkaroundthenauseatingSuzukiand,atascamper,gotbackhomebeforehim.

Suzukiprovesassmoothandslipperyasever.NomentionoftheGoldfieldssoilshissubtlelips,buthechatsaway,amusedandevenamusing,onmattersofnoimportance.

“Youdon’tlooktoowell.Isanythingwrong?”“No,I’mquitewell.”“But you’re pale. Must take care of yourself. The weather’s not been good. Are you

sleepingallright?”“Yes.”“Perhapsyouhavesomeworry.Ifthere’sanythingIcando,justtellme.”“Worry?Whatworry?”“Oh, if you’re so luckyas tobequiteworry-free, that’s fine. I only spokeofworry in the

hopethat Imighthelp.Worry,youknow, is theworstofpoisons. It’smuchmoreprofitable toliveone’slifewithgaietyandlaughter.Youseemtomeabitdepressed,gloomyeven.”

“Laughter’snojoke,sometimespositivelyharmful.Menhavediedfromtoomuchlaughter.”“Nonsense.Rememberthesayingthatluckarrivesthroughamerrygate.”“Itsoundstomeasthoughyou’veneverheardofChrysippus.Haveyou?AnancientGreek

philosopher?”“Neverheardofhim.Whatdidhedo?”“Hediedoflaughter.”“Really?Howextraordinary!Butthatwaslongago.”“Whatdifferencedoesthatmake?Chrysippussawadonkeyeatingfigsfromasilverbowl

andthoughtthesightsofunnyhelaughedandlaughedandcouldn’tstoplaughing.Eventuallyhelaughedhimselftodeath.”

“Well, that’scertainlyavery funnystory,but I’mnotsuggestingyoushould laughyour lifeaway. But laugh a little, moderately, a little more than you do, and you’ll find you feelwonderful.”

Suzukiwaswatchingmymasterthroughintentlynarrowedeyes,buthisconcentrationwasbroken by the noise of the front gate opening. I thought, with pleased relief that one of mymaster’sfriendshadchosenthishappymomenttodropin.ButIwaswrong.

“Ourball’scomein.MayIgoandgetit?”O-sanansweredfromthekitchen,“Yes,youmay,”andtheschoolboypadsaroundto the

backgarden.Suzukidistinctlypuzzled,asks,“Whatwasallthatabout?”“Theboysfromtheschoolnextdoorhavebattedoneoftheirballsintomygarden.”“Schoolboysnextdoor?Doyouhaveschoolboysforneighbors?”“There’saschooloutback,theHalloftheDescendingCloud.”“Oh,Isee.Aschool.Itmustbeverynoisy.”“You’veno ideahownoisy it is. Ican’tevenstudy. If Iwere theMinisterofEducation, I’d

orderitclosedforthwith.”

Suzuki permitted himself a burst of laughter sufficiently long to increase my master’sirritation.“Mygoodness,”heobservedwhenhiscacklingceased,“youreallyareworkedup.Dotheschoolboysbotheryouallthatmuch?”

“Botherme!Theycertainlydo!Theybothermefrommorninguntilnight.”“Ifyoufinditallsoirritating,whydon’tyoumoveaway?”“YoudaresuggestthatIshouldmoveaway!Whatimpertinence!”“Steadyon,now.There’snopointingettingangrywithme.Anyway,they’reonlylittleboys.

IfIwereyou,I’dsimplydisregardthem.”“Yes, Iexpectyouwould;but Iwouldn’t.OnlyyesterdayIsummonedoneof theteachers

hereandlodgedaformalcomplaint.”“Whatalark!Hemusthavebeenashamed.”“Hewas.”Just then, we heard again a voice and the sound of the front door opening. “Our ball’s

rolledin.MayIpleasegoandfetchit.”“Golly,”saidSuzuki,“notanotherwithanotherlostball.”“Yes,I’veagreedthattheyshouldcomebythefrontgate.”“Isee,Isee.Theydokeepcoming,don’tthey?Oneaftertheother!I’vegotit.Yes,Isee.”“Whatisitthatyousee?”“Oh,ImeantIseethereasonforthisstreamofschoolboyscomingtocollectlostballs,”“That’sthesixteenthtimetoday.”“Don’tyoufinditanuisance?Whydon’tyoukeepthemout?”“Keepthemout?HowcanIkeepthemoutwhentheirballkeepsflyingin?They’dcomein

anyway.”“Well, if you say you can’t help it, I suppose you can’t. But why get so tense and stiff-

necked about it? A man with jagged edges is permanently handicapped: he can never rollsmoothlyalonginthisroughworld.Anythingroundedandeasygoingcaneasilygoanywhere,butangularthingsnotonlyfindithardtorollbut,whentheydoroll,gettheircornerssnaggedand chipped and blunted, which hurts. You see, old chap, the world’s not made simply andsolelyforyou.Youcan’talwayshavethingsyourway. Inanutshell, itdoesn’tpaytodefythewealthy.Allyou’llachievearestrainednerves,damagedhealth,andanillnamefromeveryone.Whateveryoudoandhowevermuchyousuffer,thosewithmoneywon’tcareadamn.Alltheyhave todo is tositbackandhireothers towork for them, includingwhateverdirtywork theyhappen to want done. It’s obvious that you can’t stand up to people like that. Doggedadherence tohighmoralprinciple isallverywell in itsway,but itseems tome that thepriceyoumighthavetopay,indeedthepriceyouareapparentlypaying,isatotaldisruptionofbothyourprivatestudiesandyourdailyemployment.You’llfinishupcompletelywornoutfornogainwhatsoever.”

“Excuseme,butanotherball’scomein.MayIgoaroundtothebackandgetit?”“Look,”saidSuzukiwithaknowinglaugh,“heretheyareagain.”“Theimpudentbrats,”mymastershoutedfromafacestungredwithrage.Thepurposeofhismissionnowachieved,Suzukimadepoliteexcusesand,ashe left the

house,invitedmymastertocalluponhimsometime.NosoonerhadSuzukigonebutwehadanothervisitor,thefamilyphysician,Dr.Amaki.The

recordofhistorysincethemostancient timesshowsvery fewpersonsdescribingthemselves

as frenzied, and it’s obvious that when they can recognize themselves as a bit odd, they’vepassed the peak of their derangement. My master reached and passed that peak duringyesterday’smajor incident,and, thoughhestartedoffall flameandfuryonlytosettledownindustandashes, the fact remains thathedidachieveasettlement.Yesterdayevening,asheruminated over the business of that busy day, he recognized there had been something oddabout it.Whether theoddness laywithhimselforwith the inmatesof theHall—that,naturally,remainedindoubt.Buttherewasnodoubtatallthatsomethingveryoddwasgoingon.Inthecourseofhisrumina-tions,heevenrealizedthat,despitetheconstantprovocationthathavingamiddleschoolforaneighbormustinevitablygenerate,itwasneverthelessabitpeculiartohavelosthistemper,tohavebeendispossessedofhisself-possession,dayindayout,forweeksonend. If the oddity lay in himself something must be done about it. But what, he wondered,what? In the end he concluded he had no choice but to seek some drug ormedicine whichwouldsuppressor tranquilizehis irritationat its internalsource.Having reasoned thus far,mymaster decided that he’d call in Dr. Amaki and ask for a physical checkup. We need notconcernourselveswith thewisdomor follyof thatdecision,butmymaster’sdetermination tocopewithhisfrenzyoncehe’dnoticeditcommands,unquestionably,respectandpraise.

Dr.Amaki is his usual smiling self ashe serenelyasks, “Andhowarewe today?”Mostphysiciansaskthatcuriousquestionintheplural,andIwouldn’ttrustadoctorwhodidn’t.

“Doctor,I’msuremyendisnear.”“What?Nonsense.That’simpossible.”“Tellmefrankly,dodoctors’medicineseverdoonegood?”Dr. Amaki was naturally taken aback by the form of that question but, being a man of

courteousdisposition,heansweredgentlywithoutshowinganyannoyance:“Medicinesusuallydosomegood.”

“Take my stomach trouble for instance. No amount of medicine produces the leastimprovement.”

“That’snotquitetrue.”“No?Doyouthinkmymedicineismakingmefeelbetter?”He’soffagainabouthisblessed

stomach, inviting external opinions on an internal condition about which his nervous systemsendshimregularon-sitereports.

“Well,”saysthedoctor,“nocurecomesinthetwinklingofaneye.Thesethingstaketime.Butyou’realreadybetternowthanyouusedtobe.”

“Really?Doyouthinkso?”“Areyoustilleasilyirritated?”“OfcourseIam.Iflyoffthehandleeveninmydreams.”“Perhapsyou’dbettertakemoreexercise.”“IfIdothat,I’lllosemytemperyetmorequickly.”Dr.Amakimusthave feltexasperated, forhesaid, “Let’s takea lookatyou,”andbegan

examiningmymaster.Assoonas theexaminationwasover,mymastersuddenlyasked inavery loudvoice, “Doctor, theotherday Iwas readingabookabouthypnotismwhichclaimedthat all sorts of ailments, including kleptomania and other strange disorders, respondwell tohypnotictreatment.Doyonthinkit’strue?”

“Yes,thattreatmenthasbeenknowntoeffectcures.”“Isitstillpracticedtoday?”“Yes.”

“Isitdifficulttohypnotizeaperson?”“No,quiteeasy.Ioftendoit.”“What?Youdoit?”“Yes,shallItryitonyou?Anyonecanbehypnotized,atleastintheory.Wouldyoulikeme

totry?”“Very interesting!Yes,pleasedo try. I’vealwayswanted tobehypnotized,but Iwouldn’t

caretoremaininapermanenttrance,nevertowakeup.”“Youneedn’tworryaboutthat.Rightthen,shallwestart?”Knowing my master, I was surprised at the speed with which he had agreed to this

somewhatunusual formof treatment. I’veneverseenahypnotist inaction,so, thrilledby thisexcitingchancetowitnessawonderformyself, Isettledtowatchfromacornerof theroom.Dr.Amakibeganbystrokingmymaster’suppereyelidsinadownwarddirection.

Thoughmymasterkepthiseyesshuttight,thedoctorcontinuedhisdownwardstrokingasthoughendeavoring toclose the lids.Afterawhile, thedoctorasks, “As Istrokeyoureyelidsdown,likethis,youfeeltheeyesaregettingheavy,don’tyou?”

“True,theyarebecomingheavy,”answersmymaster.Thedoctorcontinuesstrokingandstroking,andeventuallysays,“Heavier and heavier, your eyes feel heavier and heavier, you feel that heaviness, don’t

you?”Mymaster,nodoubt feeling justas thedoctorsuggests, issilent.Thestrokingcontinues

for a further three or fourminutes, and then the doctormurmurs, “Now you can’t open youreyes.”

Mywretchedmaster!Blindedbyhisownphysician!“Youmeanmyeyeswon’topen.”“That’sright.Youcan’topenthem.”My master, his eyes closed, makes no reply. And I watch this fearful scene in the

compassionateconvictionthathehasnowbecomeblind.Afterawhilethedoctorsays,“Justtrytoopenthem—Ibetyoucan’t.”“No,”repliesmymaster.Nosoonerhadhespokenthanbothhiseyespopopen,and,with

ahappysmirk,hecomments,“Youdidn’tdome,didyou?”“No,” says Dr. Amaki, laughing in reply, “it seems I couldn’t.” So the experiment with

hypnotichealingprovedaflop,andDr.Amakileftonsomeothermissionofmedicalmercy.Soonanothervisitorarrived.Sincemymasterhasveryfewfriends,it’salmostunbelievable

that so many of those he has should choose to call today: indeed, I’ve never known suchnumbers visit in the space of a single day. Still, there it is. The visitors did come, and thisparticularvisitorwasaveryrarespecimen.IhastentoclarifythatIshallbewritingabouthimatsome length not because of his rarity but because he has a significant part to play in thatpromisedaftermathwhichIamstillinprocessofdescribing.Idonotknowtheman’sname,buthelooksaboutfortyandsportsasmartgoateeonhislongface.JustasIthinkofWaverhouseasanaesthete,Iseethisnewarrivalasaphilosopher.It’snotthathe’slaidanykindofclaimtophilosophic status or blown his own trumpet in theWaverhouse style, but simply that, as hetalks tomymaster, he looks tome as a philosopher should look. I deduce that hemust beanotherofmymaster’s schoolmates, for theyspeak toeachother in the familiarmannerofverycloseoldfriends.

“You mentioned Waverhouse. Now there’s an extraordinary man, as light and flossy as

goldfishfoodfloatingaroundonapond.Don’tyouagree?Someonewastellingmethatonlytheother dayhewent outwalkingwith a friendand, as theypassed thegatesof somepeer orother,nooneofcoursewhomWaverhousehadevermet,hedraggedhiscompanionrightintothehouseonthegroundsthatitwouldbepleasanttocallontheownerandtakeadishoftea.Hereallyisthegiddylimit!”

“Andwhathappened?”“Ididn’tbothertofindout.Somethingeccentric,I’venodoubt.Themanwasbornthatway,

not a thought in his head; unadulteratedgoldfish food.AndSuzuki?You seehimhere?Well,well.Thatone’scleverall right,butnotamanof themind,not thekindI’dhavethoughtyou’dcare to have around. He’s the type to whom money and a gold watch seem to gravitate.Worldlywisebutultimatelyworthless.Ashallowman,andrestless.He’salways talkingabouttheimportanceofsmooth-ness,ofdoingthingssmoothly,smoothingone’swaythroughlife.Butheunderstandsnothing.Nothingatall.Noteventhemeaningofsmooth-ness.IfWaverhouseisgoldfish food, Suzuki’s common jelly paste: a thing unpleasantly smooth which shakes andtrembles,athingfitonlytobestrungonstraw,availableforsaletoanypasserby.”

Mymaster seems to bemuch impressed by this flow of denigrating simile for, which herarelydoes,hebroke intohearty laughterandenquires,“That’sWaverhouseandSuzuki.Nowwhataboutyou?”

“Me?Well,maybeI’mayam—longinshapeandburiedinmud.”“At least you seem carefree, always so self-controlled and self-composed. How I envy

you.”“ButI’mmuchthesameasanyoneelse.There’snothingaboutmeparticularlytobeenvied.

Still,Ihavethelucknottoenvyanyone.Whichisjustabouttheonlygoodthingaboutme.”“Financially,areyounowwelloff?”“No, thesameasever.Littleenough,but justsufficient toeat,sothere’snothingtoworry

about.”“Myself, I feel so deeply discontented that I’m always losing my temper. I grouse and

grumbleandhardlyanythingelse.”“There’s nothing wrong with grumbling. When you feel like grumbling, grumble away. At

leastitbringsoneinterimrelief.Yousee,everyoneisdifferent.Youcan’trefashionotherstobelike you.Consider chopsticks and bread: you’ve got to hold chopsticks as everyone does oryou’ll find it hard toeat rice; however, breadcanbecut, and isbest cut, inaccordancewithyourownparticularliking.Asuitmadebyagoodtailorfitslikeaglovefromthemomentyouputiton,butsomething runupbyashoddycraftsman takesyearsof tiresomewearingbefore itadjusts itself toyourownparticularbonestructure. Ifcompetentparentsproducedchildrenallneatlyshapedtofitthewaysofourpresentworld,allwouldbehappilywell.Butifyouhavethemisfortune to be born bungled, your only choice is either to suffer as amisfit or to hang ongrimlyuntiltheworldsochangesitsshapeastosuityours.”

“IseenoprospectthatIshalleverfitin.It’sadepressingprospect.”“If one forces one’s way into a suit too small for one’s body, of course one tears the

stitchings,bywhichImeanthatpersonsviolentlyillsuitedtotheworldtheyseektoinhabitarethosewhopickquarrels,commitsuicide,eveninciterealriots.Butyou,tobefrank,aremerelydiscontented.You’renotgoingtodoyourselfinandyou’renotanaturalbrawler.Youcouldbealotworseoffthanyouare.”

“Onthecontrary,IfindI’mpickingquarrelsmorning,noon,andnight.WhenIlackasubjecton whom to vent my spleen, I live in a constant fume of anger. Even such undirected ireamountstobrawling,doesn’tit?”

“Isee,youbrawlwithyourself.Interesting.Butwhat’swrongwiththat?Brawlawaytoyourheart’scontent.”

“ButI’vegrownboredwithbrawling.”“Thenjuststopit.”“Iunderstandwhatyou’redrivingat,butwhateveryoumaysay,onecannotdowhatone

likeswithone’sownmind.”“Mypointisthatonecan.Butleavingthataside,whatdoyouthinkistherootcauseofyour

self-woundingdiscontent?”Inresponsetothatsympatheticinvitation,mymasterpouredoutbeforehisfriendthelong

sadcatalogueofhiswoesandgrievances.Beginningwith anaccount of hiswarwith the schoolboys, heproceeded to list, inmanic

detailandaneatlyordered,reversechronology,everysinglefretfulness,rightbacktothedaysof the terracotta badger,SavageTea, and his petty provocations by conniving colleagues onthestaffofhisownschool.

The visiting philosopher listened in complete silence, but, allowinga longpauseafterMr.Sneaze had finished his jeremiad to add its weight to his response, offered the followingsagacities. “Youshouldpaynoregardwhatsoever to the thingssaidbyyourstaffcolleagues,which were anyway all complete rubbish. The schoolkids from the Hall are not to be takenseriously,grubbylittlevermin,existencesnotworthyeventobenoticedbyamanatyourlevelofintellectualattainment.What?

Youinsistthattheydisturbyou?Tellmethen,haveyourdemeaningcounter-activities,evenyour formal complaint, even that so-called settlement of the matter led to any lessening ofdisturbance? Inallsuchmatters Ibelieve that thewaysofourancestorsarewiserandmuchmoreeffectivethanthewaysofEurope,thatso-calledpositivismwhichhaslatelyattractedsomuch faddish attention. The main snag with positivism is that it acknowledges no limits.However long youmaypersist in positive action, the craving for ultimate satisfaction remainsunsatisfied, thequest for the idealeternallyunrealized.Yousee thosecypressesover there?Letussupposeyoudecidethat theyobstructyourviewandyouclear themaway.Thenyou’llfindtheboardinghousebehindthemhasbecomeanewinterruptionofyourview.Whenyou’veeliminatedtheboardinghouse,thenextbuildingbeyondbeginstoniggleyou.There’snoendtoyour search for a perfect view, and your ultimate dissatisfaction is the fate implicit in theEuropeanhankering for incessantprogress towardan imagined ideal.Nobodyatall,notevenAlexander the Great or Napoleon, has ever felt satisfied with his con-quests. Take a morehomespuncase.Youmeetaman,youtakeascunnertohim,yougetintoaquarrel,youfailtosquashhim,youtakehimtocourt,youwinyourcase:but ifyou imaginethat that’sanendtothe matter, you’re most lamentably mistaken. For the real issue, the problem in your mind,remains unsettled, however hard youwrestle it around, until your dying day. The same truthappliesineverycontextyoumaycaretoposit.Youhappen,perhaps,toliveunderanoligarchicgovernmentwhichyoudislikesomuchthatyoureplaceitwithaparlia-mentarydemocracy,but,findingyou’veonlyhoppedoutofa fryingpan intoa fire, you run the risksof civil commotionmerelytofindanother,nolesssearing,formofgovernment.Oryoufindarivertroublesome,soyoubridgeit;youareblockedbyamountain,soyoutunnelthrough;it’saboretowalkorride,

so you build a railway. On and on it goes, with no solution solving the real problem of apositivist’sdissatisfaction.

Surely it’sobvious thatnohuman individualcaneverhave thewholeofhisheart’sdesire.TheprogressivepositivismofWesterncivilizationhascertainlyproducedsomenotableresults,but, in the end, it is no more than a civilization of the inherently dissatisfied, a culture forunhappy peoples. The traditional civilization of Japan does not look for satisfaction by somechangeintheconditionofothersbutinthatoftheself.ThemaindifferencebetweentheWestand Japan is that the latter civilization has developed on the basic assumption that one’sexternal environment cannot be significantly changed. If father and son cannot get alongtogether,Westernersseektoestablishdomesticpeaceandquietbychangingtheparent-childrelationship,whereasweinJapanacceptthatrelationshipasimmutableandstrive,withinthatfixedrelationship,tofindaworkablepatternfortherestorationofdomesticharmony.Wetakethe same attitude toward any difficulties that may arise in such other fixed relationships asthosebetweenhusbandandwife,betweenmasterandservant,betweenthemerchantandthewarriorclasses.Weholdourattitudetobeconsonantwith,indeedareflectionof,natureitself.Ifsomemountain rangeblocksour freepassage toaneighboringcountry,wedonotseek toflatten themountain, to restructure thenaturalorder. Insteadweworkoutsomearrangementunderwhichtheneedtovisitthatneighboringcountrynolongerarises.

“Thismethodof fosteringhappiness,whereunderamanbecomesperfectlycontentnot tocrossmountains,isperhapsbestunderstoodbyConfucianistsandBuddhistsoftheZensects.Nobody,howevermighty,candoashelikeswiththeworld.Nonecanstopthesunfromsetting,nonereversetheflowofrivers.Butanymanisabletodoashelikeswithhisownmind.Thus,ifyou are prepared to undergo the disciplines that lead to control of the mind, indeed to itsultimateliberation,youwouldneverevenheartheracketkickedupbythosegracelessimpsattheHall; youwould care nowhit to be called a terracotta badger; and, knowing your fellowteachers for mere fools, you would smile your disconcern upon their pitiful pavinities. As anexampleoftheefficacyofthecourseofconductIsuggest,mayIremindyouofthestoryoftheZenpriestSoganwho, in the turbulent timesof thirteenth-centuryChina,was threatenedwithdecapitationbysomeberserkMongolswordsman.

Sittingunmovedinthepostureofmeditation,Soganspoke,extempore,thisversewhich,inmyopinion,canneverbetoooftenquoted.

Though,likealightningflash,someswordMaylopmyhead,itwereasthoughSpringwindswereslashed.OneisnotawedBythreatsofsuchablowlessblow.

“As you will recall, the Mongol swordsman was so discountenanced by that calmasservationof thepowerofMind,of the lifenokillingswordcankill, thathesimplyranaway.Perhaps, after years of the hard-est training of themind, we, too,might reach that ultimatepassivitywhere,with thesameempowereddisconcernsospiritedlyshownbySogan,we toomightunderstandhow,likeaflashoflightning,theswordcutsthroughthebreezeofspring.Idonotpretendyettounderstandanythingsodifficult,butofthisI’mcertain:thatit isdangerously

mistaken to place your entire trust in Western positivism. Your own case proves my point.Howeverpositivelyyoustruggle,youcan’tstop theschoolboys teasingyou.Ofcourse, ifyouhad the power to close the school or could prove such serious wrong doing as wouldmeritpolice attention, things might be different. But things are not that different and, as thingsactually are, youhaveno chance, however positivist your actions, of comingout on top.Anypositivist approach to your problem involves the question, and the power, of money; it alsoinvolvesthefactthatyouareinaminorityofoneagainstheavyodds.Inbrief,ifyoucontinuetobehaveasaWesternerwould,you’llbeforcedtoknuckleundertotherichmanand,bysheerweightof theirnumbers, tobehumiliatedby the littleboys.Thebasic reason foryourbalefuldiscontentliesinthefactthatyouareamanofnowealthseeking,allonyourown,topursueaquarrel on positivist lines. There,” he concluded his lengthy dissertation, “you have it in anutshell.DoyouunderstandwhatI’vebeensaying?”

Mymaster,whohad listened inattentivesilence,saidneither thatheunderstoodnor thathedidn’t.Butafterthisextraordinaryvisitorhadtakenhisleave,mymasterretiredtosit inhisstudy where, without even opening a book, he seemed to be lost in thought. Suzuki hadpreachedthatthewisemangoeswiththetideandalwaystrucklestothewealthy.

Dr. Amaki had given his professional opinion that jangled nerves may be steadied byhypnotism.Andour last visitorhadmade it veryclear that inhis remarkableview thatamancanonlyattaintopeaceofmindbytraininghimselftobepassive.Itremainsformymastertodecidewhichcourseofactionorinactionhewishestofollow.Butonething’scertain:hecannotgoonasheis,andsomethingmustbedone.

M

II

YMASTERispockmarked.ThoughIhearthatpockmarkedfaceswerewellregardedin the days before the restoration of theEmperor, in these enlightened times of theAnglo-Japanese Alliance, such cratered features look distinctly out of date. Thedeclineof thepockmarkbeganpreciselywhen thebirthrate started to climb, soone

may confidently expect that it will soon become extinct. This conclusion is an inescapablededuction from medical statistics; these, being thus scientifically established, even a cat, acreatureaspenetratingcriticalasmyself,wouldnotdarecastdoubtuponit.Icannot,offhand,quotestatisticsofthecurrentincidenceofpockmarksamongthepopulationoftheworld,butinmyowndistrictandamongmymanyassociates,nosinglecatandonlyonehumanbeingissogrievouslyafflicted.Thathumanoddityis,Iamdeeplysorrytosay,mypoor,old,pittedmaster.

EverytimeIcatchsightofit,Iammovedbythatpot-holedvisagetoreflectuponthedireillluckwhichbroughtmymastertoliveandbreathetheairofthistwentiethcenturythroughafaceso anachronistic. Once upon a long time back, hemight havemade a brave showing of hisdisastrousdimples.Butinthesepresenttimeswhen,byvirtueofthevaccinationlawsof1870,allpockmarkshavebeenorderedintoreservationsontheupperarms,thedeterminedsquattingofsuchsunken-nessesonthewanwastesofhischeeksandontheverytipofhisnose,whileperhapsadmirablefortheirresistancetothedriftsofchange,isinfactasluruponthehonorofallpockmarks.Ithinkitwouldbebestifmymasterjustgotridofthemasquicklyashecan.Itseemstomethatthosepockmarksmustfeellonely.Orcoulditbethattheycrowdtogetherinaclutteronhisfaceasforsomefinalgatheringofdoomedclansstilldrivenbyamadambitiontorestoretheirfallenfortunestoaformerstateofglory?Ifthatshouldbethecase,oneshouldnotslight thesepockmarks.There theyare,a rallyingofeternaldents, last-ditch indentationsentrenchedtoblockthemarchoftimeandrapidchange.Suchdeepredoubtsdeserveourdeeprespect.Theonlysnagisthattheyarealsosodeeplydirty.

Now, there flourished in the days of mymaster’s childhood a certain noted physician ofChinesemedicine,AsadaSo-haku,who lived inUshigome.When thatoldmanwentoutuponhis rounds,he invariably traveled,very,veryslowly, inapalanquin.Assoonashewasdead,and his adopted son had taken over the practice, the palanquin was put away in favor of arickshaw. No doubt in time’s due course the adopted son’s adopted son will put away theinvariableherbteaofhispredecessorsandstartprescribingaspirin;however,eveninthefirstSo-haku’sheyday,itwasregardedasshabbilyold-fashionedtobetroudledthroughthestreetsofTokyoinapalanquin.Onlylongestablishedghosts,deadpigsontheirwaytofreightyards,and, of course, So-haku’s doddering self saw nothing unpresentable about it. I tell you thisbecausemymaster’s pockmarks are as datedly unseemly as So-haku’s palanquin. Personswhoclapeyesuponmyblightedpatronnaturallyfeelalittlesorryforhim.

Buteverydaymymaster,no lessobstinateand insensitivethanthat trundledquackofanherbalist, serenely saunters off to school, his lone and helpless pockmarks bared to a dumbstruckworld, thereto instructhisdullardstudents in themysteriesof theEnglishReader.And

preciselybecauseheistheirteacher,thelessonstobelearntfromanowdepartedera,deeplygravenonhishaplessface,are, inadditiontohis intended instruction,usefully impartedtohispupils.Againandagain,readingfromhistreasuredtexts,hismouthtransmitstheprecioustruththat “monkeys have hands,” but all the time his silent skin gives out its clear and frighteninganswertounaskedquestionsabouttheeffectofsmallpoxontheface.Weremenaswarninglydisfigured as my master to abandon the teaching profession, students concerned with thesmallpox problemwould be obliged to hie themselves off to libraries andmuseums, there toexpend asmuchmental energy on visualizing pockmarks aswe are forced to expend in ourattempts tovisualize themenofancientEgyptbystaringat theirmummies.Considered fromthisangle,mymaster’sblemishes,albeitunintentionally,arevirtuousinperformance.

However,itwasnotasanactofvirtuousperformancethatmymasterplowedhisfaceandscattered thereupon the tiny seeds of smallpox. It’s barely credible, but the fact is that mymasterwasactuallyoncevaccinated.Unfortunately,thevaccineplantedinhisarmcontrived,Iknownothow,toevadetheintendedlocalizationand,instead,burstforthinuglyfloweralloverhisface.Sincethisapparentlyhappenedwhen,beingachild,hehadneithertheleastromanticinclination nor any consciousness of our present high evaluation of a clear complexion, heconsequentlyscratchedawayathis facewherever it felt itchy.Likevolcanoeshismanyboilseruptedand,astheiryellowlavatrickleddownalloverhisface,theoriginalappearancegivenhimbyhisparentswasirremediablywrecked.Everynowandagainmymasterstillassureshiswifethat,beforethatbusinessofthesmallpox,hewasastrikingboy.Attimesheevenboaststhat hewas indeed so remarkably beautiful that Europeanswerewont to turn around in thestreet simply to take a second look at him. It is, of course, quite possible. But, sad to say,there’snoonewhocanvouchforit.

Nevertheless,nomatterhowvirtuousorhowpregnantwithadmon-itorytruthsathingmaybe,ifitisadirtythingitstillremainsdisgusting.Consequently,fromasfarbackashismemorycanreach,mymasterhasbeenniggledbyhispockmarksandhasexaminedeveryconceivablemethod by which his tangerine appearance might be chamfered down to a texture lessoffensive.However,hispockmarkscannotjustbegaragedoutofsightlikeSo-haku’spalanquin.Theymanifestthemselves,andtheirblatantself-exposuresoweighsuponhismindthat,everytimehewalksalongastreet,hecarefullycounts thenumberofpockmarkedpersonshemaybe so lucky as to see. His diary logs the details. Howmany pockmarked persons, male orfemale,met thatday, theplaceof theencounter,perhaps thegeneral storeatOgawamachi,perhaps inUenoPark.Sometimeshe cheatswith a specific count of pockmarks, but usuallycontents himself with a slight exaggeration of the general intensity of the pocking. Wherepockmarks are concerned, he reckons himself an authority second to none. The subject soobsesseshimthattheotherday,whenoneofhisfriends,justbackfromforeigntravels,calledaroundtoseehim,heopenedtheirconversationwiththequestion,“AretherepockmarkstobeseeninEurope?”

His friend first answered, “Well,” and then, tilting his head, gave himself up to longconsiderationbeforereplying,“Theyareveryseldomseen.”

“Very seldom,” repeated my master in despondent tones, “but,” and a note of hopestrengthenedhisvoicingofthequestion,“thereare,aren’tthere,justafew?”

“Ifthereare,theirownerswillbeeitherbeggarsortramps.Idoubtwhetheranypockmarkscanbefoundonmembersoftheeducatedclasses,”cametheindifferentreply.

“Really?”saidmymaster.“ThenitmustbeverydifferentfromhowthingsareinJapan.”

Acceptingthephilosopher’sadvice,mymasterhasgivenupquarrelingwiththoselittleloutsfromCloudDescendingHalland,sincethatactofabrogation,hassecludedhimselfinhisstudytobroodaboutsomethingelse.Hemayindeedbefollowingthephilosopher’srecommenda-tionthat he should sit in silence and by negative activity advance themental training of his soul;whateverhe’supto,I’msurenogoodcancomeofencouragingacabbage,thatcreaturebornto craven passive-ness, to indulge himself in loafing gloomy idleness. I have come to theconclusion that he’d be far better off if he pawnedhisEnglish booksand took upwith somegeishawhomight at least teach him how far it is to Tipperary. But bigots such as hewouldnever listen to a cat’s advice; so I decided to let him stew in his own dull juice and haveaccordinglynotbeennearthemanforthelastsixdays.

Today’stheseventhdaysinceIlefthimstewing.SinceZenpracticeincludesthedisciplineof sitting in cross-legged meditation for a week long stretch, a discipline designed to bringdivineenlightenmentbysheerdetermination,Ithoughtitpossiblethat,bynow,mymaster,deador alive,might havemeditated to some real effect.Accordingly, I slouchedmyway from theverandaand,peering inthroughtheentrancetohisstudy, lookedforanysignofmovement intheroom.Thestudy,amodestareaofsomehundredsquarefeet,facessouthwithabigdeskplantedinitssunniestspot.“Big”isanunderstatement,forthedeskistrulyvast.Sixfeetlongandnearly four feetwide, it stands proportionately high.Naturally, thismammoth objectwasnot ready made but, the bespoke handiwork of a neighboring cabinet maker, it was mostcuriously required to servebothasadeskandasabed.Neverhavingdiscussed thematterwithmymaster, Icannotpossiblytellyouhowhecametoordersuchanacreageofwoodorwhyheever contemplatedsleepingon it. Itmayhavebeensomepassingwhimwhich led tothis enormity, the product of that process whereby certain types of lunatic associate twounassociable ideas.Certainly the association of the concept of a deskwith the concept of abed is genuinely remarkable. The trouble is that, for all its striking remarkability, the thing isvirtually useless. Some time ago I happened to be watching whilemymaster lay at snoozeuponthisludicrouscontraption.AsIwatched,heturnedinhissleep,tumbledoffandrolledoutontotheveranda.Sincethatdayheseemsonlytohaveuseditasadesk.

In front of thedesk liesa skimpy cushionwhose cover of purewoolmuslin is decoratedwiththreeorfoursmallholes,allinonearea,burnttherebyhiscigarettes.Thecottonstuffingleaking through these holes looks distinctly grimed. Theman so ceremoniously sitting on thiscushion,withhisbackand footsoles turned towardus, is,ofcourse,mymaster.Hissash isknotted just above his bottom, and the two sash ends of some grubby graymaterial dangledownlimplyagainsthisstaringsoles.

Only the other day he gaveme a savage smack just because I tried to playwith thosedanglingends.Thoseendsareendsstrictlynottobetouched.

He seemed still to be lost inmeditation, and, as Imoved to look beyond his shoulder, Irecalledthesayingthatpointlesspondering isawasteof time.Iwasaccordinglysurprisedtosee something gleaming strangely on his desk. In spite of myself I blinked and blinkedagain.Verystrange itwas, indeeda thing toblinkat.Withstanding theglareasbest Icould, IstudiedthisglitteringobjectandsuddenlyrealizedthatIwasbeingdazzledbyhismanipulationofamirroronhisdesk.Whatonearth,Inaturallywondered,ismymasterdoingwithamirrorinthestudy?

Mirrorsbelonginthebathroom.Indeed,itwasonlythismorningthat,visitingthebathroom,Isawthismirror there.Mypowersofrecognitionare,ofcourse,remarkable; Ihardlyneeded

toexercisethem,forthebathroommirroristheonlyoneinthehouse.Mymasterusesiteverymorningwhen,havingwashedhisface,heproceedstocombapartingintohishair.Myreadersmaywellwonderthatamanofmymaster’scharactershouldbothertoparthishairbut,thoughheisindeedbone-idleaboutallotheraspectsofpersonalgrooming,hereallydoestaketroublewithhishair.NeversinceIjoinedthishousehold,noteveninthebroilingbeatofsummer,haveIseenmymaster’shaircroppedcloseagainsthisskull. Invariably,hishair is long,threeincheslong,carefullypartedon the leftwithan inappropriatelycockyquiff turnedup inaducktailontherightsideofhisscalp.Thishairstylemay,ofcourse,benothingmorethananothersymptomofmentaldisease.However,thoughthisflashcoiffurehardlyaccordswiththeantiquedignityofhisdesk,itharmsnobodyandnooneevercarpsaboutit.Leavingasideallfurtherdiscussionoftheweirdmodernityofhisparting,onemaymoreusefully turn toconsider the reason forhisbizarrebehavior.Thefactisthathispockmarksdonotmerelypithisopenfacebut,eversinceearlychildhood,haveextendedtheirerosionsrightupoverhisscalp.

Consequently, ifhecuthishair likeanormalmantoamerehalf inchor less,dozensanddozensofpockmarkswouldthenbevisibleamongtherootsofhiscrop.Nomatterhowhardhebrushed or smoothed a close-cut head of hair, the spotty dots of his pockmarks would stillshinewhitely through.Theeffectcouldwellbequitepoetic, likeaswarmofglowworms inastubble field,but certainlyhiswifewouldnotappreciate thespectacle.Withhishair long,hisscalp could be inalveolate. Why then should he go out of his way to expose his pitiabledeformity?Indeed,hewould,ifhecould,growwhiskersalloverhisface.Woulditnotthenbecrazytospendgoodmoneyonhaircutsthatcanonlyexposehispittedpatetogeneralderision,whenhairthatgrowscost-freewillhidewhatbestwerehid?That,then,isthereasonwhymymaster keeps his hair long. Because it’s long, hemust part it. Because he parts it, hemustpeer inamirrorandkeepthatmirror in thebathroom.Hencealsowhythebathroommirror istheonlypierglassinthehouse.Howthencomesthatsoleexistingmirror,thatcharacteristicallybathroom feature, to be glint-ing about in the study? Unless the glass has sickened intosomnabulism,mymastermusthavebroughtitthere.Andifso,why?Coulditbethatheneedsamirrorasanadjuncttohisspiritualtraininginnegativeactivity?Iamledtorecalltheancientstory of the scholar who visited a Buddhist priest, far famed for his great virtue andenlightenment,onlytofindhimsweatingawayatpolishingatile.“Whatareyoudoing?”askedthescholar.“I’mdoingmybesttomakeamirror.”Insomesurprisethescholarpointedoutthat,thoughthepriestwasamanofmarvelousparts,nomanintheworldcouldeverpolishatiletobe a mirror. “In that case,” said the priest, “I’ll stop the polishing. But,” and he burst outlaughing,“theparallelwouldseemtobethatnomanlearnsenlightenmentbyscholarlyperusalof whole libraries of books.” It may be that mymaster has heard some version of this taleabout the uselessness of scholarship and, armed with the bathroom mirror, now seekstriumphantlytodemonstratethatnothingnessisall. Iwatchhimcautiously,suddenlyconsciousthathismentalinstabilitymaywellbetakingadangerousturn.

Mymaster,obliviousofmypresenceandmythinking,continues tostare, transfixedlyandwithanairofwildenthusiasm,intoouroneandonlymirror.Actually,amirrorisasinisterthing.I’mtoldittakesrealcourage,aloneatnight,inalargeroomlitbyasinglecandle,tostareintoamirror.Indeedthefirsttimethatmymaster’seldestdaughtershovedamirror infrontofmyface, I was so simultaneously startled and alarmed that I ran around the house three timeswithout stopping. Even in broad daylight, anyone who stares into a mirror with the fixedabsorptionnowbeingdisplayedbymymasterwillendupterrifiedofhisownreflectedface; I

am bound to observe that my master’s face, even at first glance, is not exactly lacking inimmediate sinisterity. I sat and watched. After a while my master began talking to himself.“Yes,” he said, “I can see that it’s adirty face.” Imust sayhis acknowledgementof hisownrepulsivenessmerits praise. Judging by appearances, his behavior is that of amadman, butwhathesaysringstrue.Itstruckmethatifhegoesonestepfurtherdownthisthornypath,hewill behorrifiedbyhisownugliness.Unless inhisheartofheartsamanknowshimself forablackguard,hewillneverbewiseinthewaysofthisworld;amanwholacksthatwisdomwillneversufficientlyridhimselfofpassionastoattainenlightenment.Mymaster,havingcomethusfar toward recognizing his intrinsic blackguardism, should now be shuddering back from themirrorwithsomecryfromtheheartsuchas,“Ah,howterrifying.”

Hehas,asyouknow,saidnothingofthesort.Instead,havinggottensofarastoadmitoutloudthenastinessofhisface,hedoesnomorethantostartpuffingouthischeeks.Icannottellwhy he so ballooned himself. Next, with the palms of both hands, two or three times, heslappedhisbloatedchops.Perhaps, I thought,someritualactofsorcery.Andat themomentofso thinking Ihad the feeling that, somewhere Ihadseen thatpursy facebefore.Frommyransackedmemorythesuddentruthemerged.HisisthefaceofO-san.

It would, I think, be proper if I here devoted a few lines to describing the face of mymaster’sfemaleservant.It isatumidface,afacelikethatbulbouslanternmadefromadriedand gutted blowfish which someone bought while visiting a fox god’s shrine, and then, whenvisitingthishouse,unloadedonmymaster.Herfaceissomalignlypuffythatbothhereyesaresunken out of sight. Of course the puffiness of a blowfish is evenly distributed all over itsglobularbody;inthecaseofO-san’smug,theunderlyingbone-structureisangularlyfashionedsothatitsoverlyingpuffinesscreatestheeffectofanhexagonalclockfargoneinsomedreaddropsy. IfO-sanwere to hear these comments, she’d be so actively angered that I deem itprudenttoresumemyinterruptedaccountofmyseeminglysorcerousmaster.

As Ihavealreadymentioned, firstheblewhischeeksout, thenhestartedslapping them.That done, he began oncemore to babble to himself. “When the skin is stretched,” he said,“onehardlysees thepockmarks.”Next, turningsideways topresenthisprofile to the light,heporeduponhisimageintheglass.“Thisway,verybad.Thesidelightshowsthemup.Itseemsthat,afterall, theylookleasttherewhenthelight’sfromdeadinfront.Buteventhen,”andhespokeasifquitegenuinelyimpressed,“they’restillextremelynasty.”Hethenstretchedouthisrighthandholdingthemirrorasfarasitwouldgo.Hescrutinizedtheglass.“Atadistance,notsobad.AsIthought,it’stheclose-upviewthat’sawful.Still,that’strueofmostthings.Not,”hismumblingscameoutclearlyasthoughhe’dlighteduponsomemarvelous,longhidtruth,

“just of pockmarked faces.” Next, he suddenly laid themirror, glass upward, flat on thedeskandbegancontractinghis facialmusclesso thathisbrows,hiseyebrows,evenhisveryeyes,allseemeddrawninonewildwhorlofwrinklesaroundthecreasewherehisnosespringsoutfromhisskull.Howhideous,Ithought.Mymaster,too,seemedshakenbythesight,forhemuttered,“Thatwon’tdo,”andceasedhisvilecontractions.“Iwonder,”hewenton, lifting themirror up to a point but three short inches from his pot-holed skin, “why my face is soextraordinarilyrepulsive.”Hesoundedasthoughhonestlyperplexed.Withhisright indexfingerhebeginstostrokethewingsofhisnose.Breakingoff,hepresseshisfingertipharddownonhis blotting pad. The grease appeared as a round blob on the blotter. He has indeed somecharming little ways. Next he raises his nose-greased fingertip and hauls down on his rightlower eyelid daringly to produce a red-fleshed goblin look, an ugly trick which, very

understandably,iscommonlydescribedasmakingahare’sface.Itisnotentirelyclearwhetherheisstudyinghispockmarksormerelytryingtostarehismirrordown.

Letus,however,begenerous.He isaquirkyman,butat least it seems that inhis casesuchstaringatabathroommirrordoesinduceoriginal ideas,evenoriginalactions.Nor is thatall.Suchquaint behavior couldbe seen, bywell-disposedanddrolly naturedpersons, as themeans by which my master moves, madly gesticulating and with a mirror for companion,towarda revelationofhis inmostnature—toward, inZen terms,hisOriginalFace.All studiesundertakenbyhumanbeingsarealwaysstudiesofthemselves.Theproperstudyofmankindisself.

Theheavens,earth,themountainsandtherivers,sunandmoonandstars—theyareallnomorethanothernamesfortheself.Thereisnothingamancanstudywhichisnot,intheend,the study of the self. If a man could jump out of his self that self would disappear at themomentofhisjumping.Noristhatall.Onlyoneselfcanstudyone’sselfIt istotallyimpossiblefor anyone else to do it. Totally impossible, nomatter howearnestly onemaywish either tostudyanotherortobestudiedbyanother.Whichexplainswhyallgreatmeninvariablyachievegreatnesssolelybytheirownefforts.Ifitweretruethatyoucouldlearntounderstandyourselfbyvirtueofsomeoneelse’shelpingeffort, thenyoucould,for instance,declarewhethersomehunkofmeatweretoughortenderbygettingsomeoneelsetoeatitforyou.Buthearingtruthspreached in the morning, listening all evening to learned expositions of the Way, readingscholarly tomes the night long in your study—all these worthy activities are nothing butdisciplines designed to facilitate your perception of your own true self. Yet that true self ofyours cannot conceivably exist in the truth preached at you by some other person, or in theWaysomeothermanexpounds,orinancientbookshoweverheapeduponyou.Ifyourownselfexists, it isyourpersonalphantom,akindofdoppelganger. Indeed, it’soften thecase thataphantomhasmoresubstance thanasoullessperson.For if youdogashadow,one finedayyou may well find its substance. Indeed, as a general rule, shadows adhere to theirsubstances.If it isasareflectionofsuchconceptsthatmymaster’stoyingwiththebathroommirror should be seen, thenhemaybe someone to be reckonedwith. For surely thosewhoseekthetruthinthemselvesarewiser,bettermenthansuchfoolscholarswhoseonlyclaimtowisdomisthattheyhavegulpeddownallthatEpictetusscribbledonthatsubject.

Amirror isavat forbrewingself-conceit,yet,at thesametime,ameans toneutralizeallvanity. Nothing shows up the absurd pretensions of a show-offmore incitingly than amirror.Since time began, the pretentious and the vainglorious have gone about the world inflictingdamage both upon themselves and upon others, and the first cause of at least two-thirds ofthat injury undoubtedly lay in mirrors. Like that wretched Dr. Guillotin, who unintentionallycausedhimself,quiteapartfrommanyothers,somuchpainfulinconvenienceduringtheFrenchRevolutionby inventingan improvedmethodofdecapitation, themanwho invented themirrormustalmostcertainlyhavelivedtoregretit.Ontheotherhand,forpersonsbeginningtosickeninto self-disgust and for persons already feeling spiritually shriveled, there’s nothing quite sotonic as a good long look in a mirror. For any such observer cannot fail to realize as astaggeringfact theeffronteryofhishavingdaredtogoaboutforyearswithsuchanappallingface.Themomentof that realization is themostpreciousmoment inanyman’s life,andnonelooksmoreexaltedlytransfiguredthanafoolgrownself-enlightenedtohisownintrinsicfolly.

Before this self-enlightened fool all theworld’s vaingloriousninnies should, in thedeepestawe,abasethemselves.Suchninniesmayindeedsneerincontemptattheenlightenedone,but

inrealitytheirtriumphingcontemptisanexpression,howeverunwitting,ofanawedsubmission.Idoubtwhethermymasterhasthedepthtorealizehisfoolishnessbystaringintoamirror,butheisatleastcapableofacknowledgingtheuglytruthpox-gravenonhisphiz.Recognitionoftheloathliness of one’s face often proves a first step forward toward realizing the depravity ofone’ssoul.Mymastershowspromise.Butthisglintofwisdommay,ofcourse,benothingmorethanafleetingconsequenceofhishavingbeenputdowninhisrecentencounterwiththatZen-bentchumofhis.

Musingidlyalongtheselines,Iwentonwatchingmymaster.Unawareofmysurveillance,hecontinuedhappilytuggingathiseyelidstoproduceaseries

of increasingly horrible caricatures of his naturally nasty features. “They seem,” he suddenlysaid,“distinctlybloodshot.

Chronicconjunctivitis.”Heclosedhiseyesandthereuponbegantofrot theirreddenedlidswiththeflankofhisindexfinger.Iimaginetheymustbeitching,buteyesalreadysoirksomelyinflamedarehardlylikelytobesoothedbysuchvigorousabrasion.Ifhekeepsitup,itwon’tbelongbeforehiseyesjustdecomposelikethoseofasaltedbream.Afterabithereopenedhislidsandpeeredbackintothemirror.JustasI’dfeared,hiseyeshavealltheglassyleadennessofthewinterskyofsomenortherncountry.Asamatteroffact,whatevertheseason,hiseyesareneverexactlybrightorevenclear.Theyare,tocoinaterm,nubeculoid:somuzzilyinchoatethatnothingdifferentiatestheirpupilsandtheirwhites.Justashismindisdimandvaporous,sotoohiseyes,cloudilyunfocused,driftpointlesslyaround.Somesaythiseyedefectwascausedby infectioncontractedwhenstill in thewomb,others that it isanaftereffectofhischildhoodsmallpox. Inanyevent,hewasthoroughlydosedasa totwithdecoctionsof red frogsandofthose insects found on willow trees. Perhaps because such cures are properly intended toeradicate peevishness in children, the doubtless loving care of his doubtless loving motherseemstohavebeenwasteduponhim,for,tothisday,hiseyeshaveremainedasswimminglyvacuousasonthedayhewasborn.Mypersonalconvictionisthatneitherantenatalpoisoningnor infantile smallpox are in anyway responsible for his inner blear of eye. That lamentablecondition, thepersistentdriftingofhisgaze, thedark turbidityofhiseyeballs,areallnomorethanexternalsignsofthedarklyturbidcontentofhismind.Indeed,sinceheisresponsibleforthe long, gray drizzle of his own dismal thoughts, he should be chided for their outwardmanifestations which occasioned so much needless worry to his innocent mother. Wherethere’sadriftofsmoke,thereyouwill findafire.Wheretherearedriftingeyes,thereyouwillfind a half-wit. Since his eyes reflect hismind,which is about asmuch use as a hole in thehead, Icanunderstandwhyhisgoggleeyes, theshapeandsizeof thoseold-timecoinswithholesrightthroughthem,areastotallyvacuousastheyareunsuitedtothesetimes.

My master next began to twirl his moustache. It is, by nature, an unruly growth, eachindividual hair sticking out in whatever direction happens to take its surly fancy. Thoughindividualism is currently very much the fashion, if every moustache hair behaved thusegotistically, gentlemen so adorned would be sadly inconvenienced. Having given the matterconsiderable thought,mymasterhas recentlybegun trying to trainhisvarious tufts intosomesortofgeneralorderand,tobefair,he’shadamodestmeasureofsuccess,forhiswhiskershaveof lateshownsignsofacquiringacertainsenseofcooperativediscipline.Originally, thegrowthwasamerehaphazardextensionofhair throughtheskinofhisupper lip,butnowit ispossible for him to claim with pride that he keeps a moustache. All determination isstrengthenedbysuccess.Andmymaster,consciousthathismoustachehasapromisingfuture,

gives it everyencouragement,not just in themorningsandatbedtime,butoneverypossibleoccasion.His dearest ambition is to sport twin upturned spikes like those onKaiser Bill, so,disregardingtherandominclinationsofhispores,somepointedsideways,somestraightdown,hehaulshistuftgrowthshideouslyheavenward.Whichmustbeverypainfulforthosewretchedhairs. Indeed, it’sclear thatevenmymastersometimes finds itpainful.But that,ofcourse, isthe essence of training.Willing or not, in pain or not, the tufts are being disciplined to stickstraightup.Toanyobjectiveobserverthisdrillmustseemasillysortofoccupation,buttomymasteritmakesgoodsense;onecanhardlyreproachhimwhenthewholeeducationalsystemofthiscountryissimilarlydesignedsothatteachersmaygoaboutbraggingthattheycantwisttheirstudent’srealcharactersintoupwardaspirationsasdaftasawaxedmoustache.

MymasterwasthusbrutallydrillinghiswhiskerswhenthehexagonalO-sanadvancedfromthekitchenand,stickinga raw redhand into thestudywithhercustomary lackofceremony,abruptlystated,“Themail,master.”Mymaster,stillholdinghismoustacheuptwistedinhisrighthandandthemirrorinhisleft,turnedroundtowardtheentrance.

As soon asO-san, who knows that growth for the ragged flop it is, clapped eyes uponwhatlookedliketwofishsnuggledundermymaster’snosewiththeirtailsfriskeduponeithersideof it,shethrewdownsomelettersandscuttledoffbackto thekitchenwhere,herwholefatbodybentacrossthelidoftherice-cooker,shelayconvulsedwithlaughter.

My master, nowise perturbed by her performance, put down the mirror with the utmostcomposureandgatheredupthescatteredpost.

ThefirstletterisaprintedcommunicationimposinglyheavywithformalChinesecharacters.Itreadsasfollows:

DearSir,Maywe offer you the compliments of the season. Please permit us to congratulate

you upon your present prosperity, and longmay it continue. As we are all aware, theRusso-JapaneseWarhasended inourcompleteand totalvictory,andpeacehasbeenrestored. Most of our officers and men, loyal, brave, and gallant, are singing victory-songsamidstthatincessantcheeringwhichsignifiestheheart-feltjoyofallourpeople.Atthecall toarms, theseofficersandmen,selflesslysacrificing themselves for thepublicgood, went forth to endure the broiling heat and the piercing cold in foreign partsthousandsofmilesfromhome.There,unstintingly, theyriskedtheir lives, fightingonourbehalf.Such faithful devotion todutymustneverbe forgotten.Weshould carrya livingconsciousnessthereofalways,closetoourhearts.

By the end of this month the last of our triumphant troops will have returned.Accordingly,ourassociation,whichrepresentsthisdistrict,proposestohold,onthe25thinstant, a major victory celebration honoring the thousand or so officers,noncommissionedofficers,pettyofficers,andprivatesoldierswhohail fromourdistrict.Wewouldalsowishtowelcometothisoccasionallthosebereavedfamilieswhosedearones fell on the field of battle. We desire thus to express with human warmth oursympathy with them in their loss and our sincere gratitude to them for their menfolk’ssacrificeandvalor.

Itwouldgiveourassociationthegreatestpleasure,indeeditwoulddouscredit,ifwe

couldcarryouttheproposedceremonyintheknowledgeofyourapproval.Wethereforesincerelyhopeyouwillsignifyyourapprovalofourproposalbyageneroussubscriptiontothisworthycause.

The letter issignedbyapeer.Mymaster,having read it through insilence, replaces it in theenvelope. He looks quite unconcerned and shows no sign whatsoever of any readiness tocough up cash. The other day he did actually contribute a few pence for the relief of thosewhomthepoorcropsinthenortheasthadexposedtofamine.Buteversincehemadethatgifthehasbombardedeveryonehemeetswithcomplaints that thesubscriptionwasarobbery. Ifhevoluntarilysubscribed,hecan’tpossiblycallitrobbery.Itis,indeed,mostimpropertouseawordwithsuchcriminal implications.However,mymaster reallydoesseem to thinkhe reallywas robbed. I consequently think itmost unlikely that hewill partwith his preciousmoney inresponse toamereprinted letter,certainlynot toa lettersocivillywrittenandunperemptory,even though the cause is as noble as a victory celebration, and its canvasser as noble as anobleman can be. Asmymaster sees it, before honoring the army, he’d like to be honoredhimself.Afterhehasbeensufficientlyhonored,hewellmighthonoralmostanything;solongashecontinueshavingtoscrapealonginpenny-pinchedobscurity,heseemscontenttoleavethehonoringofarmiestopeerswhocanaffordit.

“Ohdear,”hesaidashepickedupthesecondenvelope,“anotherprinted letter.”Hethenbegan,withsteadilygrowinginterest,toreadwhatitsaid.

We offer our congratulations that you and your family should be enjoying goodprosperityatthisseasonofchillyautumn.

As you are aware, over the past three years the operation of our school has beengreatlyhinderedbyafewoveracquisitivemen.Indeedatonestage, things lookedveryserious.However,havingrealizedthatall thosedifficulties originated in certain of my own fail-ings, I, your humble servant Shinsaku,communed and expostulated most deeply with myself in respect of those regrettabledeficienciesand,havingenduredunspeakableself-criticism,hardships,andpriva-tions, Ihave at long last found a way unaided to obtain sufficient funds to construct the newschoolbuilding inastylecompatiblewithmyown ideals.The fact is that Iamabout topublishabookentitledTheEssentialsoftheSecretArtofSewing:ASeparateVolume.Thisbook,whichI,yourhumbleservantShinsaku,havecomposedatimmensetrouble,iswritten in strict accordancewith that theoryand thoseprinciplesof industrial artwhich,formanyyears,Ihavesopainfullybeenstudying.Ihopethateveryhouseholdwillbuyacopyofthisbook,thepriceofwhichisnomorethantheactualcostofproducingitwithlittleornothingaddedasprofit.For Iamconvincedthat thisbookwillservetoadvancetheartofsewing.At thesametime, themodestprofits Ianticipate fromitssaleshouldbesufficienttofinancetheneededextensionstotheschoolbuildings.

Therefore, I shouldbemost grateful andhonored if youwould, bywayofmakingadonation toward the construction expenses of the school house, be so kind as topurchaseacopyof theaforementionedEssentialsof theSecretArtofSewing,abook

whichyoucould,forinstance,advantageouslyputinthehandsofyourmaidservant.Idomosthumblyandsincerelyhopeyouwillgrantmeyoursupportinthismatter.

Withtheutmostrespectandgoodwill,andwithninerespectfulbows,

NuidaShinsaku

PrincipalGreatJapanWomen’sHigh

GraduateSchoolofSewing

Mymaster indifferently crumpled this courteous letter intoaball andpitched it lightly into thewaste-paperbasket.IamsorrytosaythatMr.

Shinsaku’sninerespectfulbowsandhismanyunspeakablehardshipsallcametonothing.Mymasterthentookuphisthirdletter.Thisonegleamswithquiteextraordinaryluster.Its

envelope is brightly colored with red and white stripes and looks as gay as a signboardadvertisingboiledsweets.Rightinthecenterofthesedazzlingslatsthereiswritteninathickly,flowery calligraphic style, “ORareDr.Sneaze!WithDeepRespect.”Whatever this envelopemaycontain,itsexternalitiesareextremelygrand.

Sir,If Iamtodominatetheuniverse, thenIwould, inoneswiftgo,swallowupthewhole

world.Butiftheuniverseistoruleoverme,thenIwouldbecomenomorethanamoteofdust.Tellme,Ientreatyou,whatisthecorrectrelationbetweenmyselfandtheuniverse.

Thepersonwhofirstateseaslugsdeservesrespectforhisdaring.Themanwhofirstate blowfish should be honored for his bravery. He who added sea slugs to our dietperformed a service for the nation comparable to Shinran’s founding of the Pure Landsect, and the con-tributor of blowfishmay be fairly comparedwith such a courageousreligious innovator as the great Priest Nichiren. But you, dear Dr. Sneaze, yourgastronomic genius stretches no further than to dried gourd shavings dressed withvinegaredbean-paste.Ihaveyettomeetamanofpartswhoseprowesswasadvancedbyeatingdriedgourdshavingsdressedwithvinegaredbean-paste.

Your closest friendmight betray you.Your very parentsmight turn cold toward you.Evenyourowntruelovemightcastyouoff.Noman,naturally,canputhistrustinwealthor worldly honors. Lands and peerages can vanish in the twinkling of an eye. Even alifetime’sscholarshiptreasured inone’sheadgoesmoldy intheend.Onwhat, then,Dr.Sneaze,doyou intend to rely?What is there in thewhole,wideuniverseonwhichyoudaredepend?God?Godisamereclayfigurefabricatedinthedepthsoftheirdespairbydreggy persons, by beings themselves so terrified as to be nothingmore than stinkinglumps of shit. Could it be that you claim nevertheless to find some ease of mind byputtingyourtrustinobjectsthatyouknowtobeuntrustworthy?Ah,whatadepthoffolly!A staggering drunkard, babbling senseless words, totters, however weavingly, straighttowardhisgrave.Theoilisallusedup.Asthewickguttersintodarkness,soevenone’spassionsdiedownandaregone.Whenyourdestinedcourseisrun,whatflickerofyourselfwillremainorberemembered?Respectedsir,hadyounotbettertakeasipoftea?

If you disdain others, you have nothing to fear. Why is it, then, that you, who dodisdainallothers,arenonethelessenragedattheworldwhichdisdainsyou?High-rankinganddistinguishedpersonsseemtobepuffedupbytheirdisdainforpeople.However,assoonas they feel themselves disdained, they flare up in real anger. Let them flare up.Theyareallidiots!

Whendueregard isgiventootherpeoplebut thoseotherpeopledonotreciprocate,then, instead of just complaining, the discontented are liable, every now and again, to

seekredressoftheirgrievancebysomepositiveaction.Suchspasmodicactioniscalledrevolution.Revolutionsarenottheworkofmeregrumblers,butarethehappyhandiworkofhigh-rankinganddistinguishedpersonswhoenjoypromotingthem.

Honoredsir, there is agreat deal of ginseng inKorea.Why,dearDr.Sneaze, don’tyougiveitatry?

WrittenfromColneyHatchanddispatchedwithtworespectfulbowsbyProvidenceFair

Theneedle-plyingShinsakuhadofferedninesuchbows,butProvidenceFairproducesonly

ameaslybrace,and,sincehis letterdoesnotaskformoney,hemust, totheextentofsevenrespectful bobbings, be that much the more arrogant. Still, even though the letter does notscrounge for cash, its vile construction and indigestible contents make it equally painful toreceive.Wereitsubmittedtoamagazine,eventhescurviest,itwouldundoubtedlyberejected,andIfeltconsequentlysurethatmymaster,whoneverlikestoputtheleaststrainonhisgraymatter,wouldjusttearitup.Tomyimmensesurprisehereadsitoverandoveragain.Perhapshe cannot credit that a posted letter might actually have no meaning and is determined todiscoverwhat thisoneseeks toconvey.Theworld iscrammedwithconundrums,butnoneofthem are totally meaningless. No matter how incomprehensible a phrase may be, a willinglistenercanalwayswringsomekindofmessageoutofit.Youcansaymankindisstupidorthatmankind is astute: either way, the statementmakes some sense. Indeed, one can gomuchfurther.Itisnotincomprehensibleifonesaysthathumanbeingsaredogsorpigs.Norwoulditoccasionanysurpriseifonestatedthatamountainwaslow;orthattheuniverseissmall.Onecouldwellgetawaywithclaimingthatcrowsarewhite,thatlivingdollsaredeadugly,eventhatmymaster isamanofworth. It followsthatevena letterasweirdasMr.Fair’scould, ifonereallybentone’smindtotheeffort,betwistedtomakesense.Andamanlikemymaster,whohas spent his whole life explaining the meanings of English words which he does notunderstand, naturally has small difficulty in wrenching meaning out of mumbo-jumbo totallyuninterpretable by anyone else. He is, after all, the very fellow who, when one of his pupilsaskedwhy people still say “Goodmorning”when theweather happens to be bad, ponderedthatknottyproblemforsevendaysatastretch. I remember, too, thatheoncedevoted threewholedaysandthreelongnightstoanattemptatestablishingthecorrectwayforaJapaneseto pronounce the name of Columbus. Such a man finds no trouble at all in making freeinterpretationsofanythinghecomesacross:hecould, for instance, interpretahabitofeatingdriedgourdshavingsdressedwithvinegaredbean-pasteasasure indicatorof inherentabilitytoachieveworldfame,andwithsimilareasehecouldidentifyginseng-eatersastheinstigatorsofrevolutions.Inanyevent,itsoonbecameclearthatmymaster,demonstratingyetagainthatperspicacity anddepthofmindwhichheoncebought to bear on the knottymatter of saying“Goodmorning”at timesofnastyweather,haspenetrated to the innermeaningsof thecrazylettersenthimwithtworespectfulbows.

“This letter,” he breathed in tones of the deepest admiration, “is fraught with profoundsignificance.Whoeverwrote thesewords isanadeptofphilosophies.Thesweep, the range,thegraspofthemindbehindthisletteraretrulystupendous.”Whichonlygoestoshowhowdaftmymasteris.But,onsecondthought,perhapsheisn’tquitesostupidatall.

Habituallyhevalueswhateverhedoesnotunderstand,butheisbynomeansaloneinthatbehavior. Something unignorable lurks in whatever passes our understanding, and there issomethinginherentlynobleinthatwhichwecannotmeasure.Forwhichreasonlaymenareloudintheirpraisesofmatterstheydonotunderstandandscholarslectureunintelligiblyonpointsasclear as day. This lesson is daily demonstrated in our universities, where incomprehensiblelectures are both deeply respected and popular, while those whose words are easily

understoodareshunnedasshallowthinkers.Mymasteradmiredhisthirdletter,notbecauseitsmeaningwasclear,butpreciselybecause large tractsof itwereutterly incomprehensible.Hewas touched, Iwouldsay,by the total lackof reason for the letter’ssudden irrelevantsalliesintosuchmattersasthefirstconsumptionofseaslugsanditsdescriptionofthe-istsasterror-franticshit.Thus,asTaoistsaremostdeeplyravishedbythemostgnomicsayingsofLao-tzu,asfollowersofConfuciuslaudtheBookofChanges,andasZenpriestsdoteontheCollectedThoughtsofLinChi,somymasteradmiresthatletterbecausehehasn’tthefaintestideawhatit means. Of course, it wouldn’t do not to understand it at all; so, reading its nonsense inaccordance with his gift for free interpretation, he manages to convince himself that he’sgrasped its real intent.Well, it’salwayspleasant toadmiresomething incomprehensiblewhenyouthinkyouunderstandit.Soitwaswithunderstandablereverencethatmymasterrefoldedthefloridcalligraphyofthatpreciousletterandplaceditgentlydownuponthedeskbeforehim.Hesitsthere,lostinmeditation,headbowedandhishandssunkdeepwithinhisclothing.

Suddenly,therecamealoudvoicefromtheentrance.“Hellothere!Can Icome in?” Itsounds like thatofWaverhouse,butmostuncharacteristically, itkeeps

onaskingforadmission.Mymasterobviouslyhearstheconstantcalling,but,keepinghishandsburied inhis clothes,makesnomovewhatsoever.Perhapsheholds it asaprinciple that themasterofahouseshouldnotansweracaller, for inmyexperiencehehasnever,at leastnotfromhisstudy,evercried,“Comein.”ThemaidservanthasjustgoneouttobuysomesoapandMrs.Sneazeisbusyinthelavatory,sothat leavesonlymetoanswerthedoor.But, frankly,Idonotcareto.

Thematterwas,however, settledwhen thevisitor,grown impatient, steppeduponto theverandabythedoor,walkedinuninvitedandleftthedoorwideopen.Inthematterofcivilities,mymasterandhisvisitorseemaperfectmatch.Thevisitorfirstwent intothelivingroombut,havingfruitlesslyopenedandshutvariousofitsslidingdoors,thenmarchedintothestudy.

“Well,really!Whatonearthareyoudoing?Don’tyouknowyou’vegotavisitor?”“Ah,soit’syou.”“Isthatallyouhavetosay?Youshould’veansweredifyouwerein.Thehouseseemedpositivelydeserted.”“Well,asithappens,I’vegotsomethingonmymind.”“Evenso,youcouldatleasthavesaid,‘Comein.’”“Icouldhave.”“Thesameoldironnerves.”“ThefactisthatlatelyI’vebeenconcentratingontrainingmymind.”“Fantastic!Andwhatwillbecomeofyourvisitorsifyourtrainedmindmakesyouincapable

ofanswering thedoor? Iwishyouwouldn’tsit there lookingsosmuglycool.Thepoint is thatI’mnotalonetoday.

I’vebroughtalongsomeoneveryunusual.Won’tyoucomeoutandmeethim?”“Whomhaveyoubrought?”“Nevermindthat.Justcomeoutandmeethim.He’smostanxioustomeetyou.”“Whoisit?”“Nevermindwho.Justgetup...There’sagoodfellow.”Mymasterstoodupwithoutremovinghishandsfromhisclothing.“I’llbetyou’repullingmylegagain,”hegrumbledas,passingalongtheveranda,hewalked

intothedrawingroomwiththeclearexpectationoffindingitempty.Butthere,politelyfacingthe

alcove in the wall, sat an old man whose stiffly upright posture expressed both a naturalcourtesyandacertainsolemnityofmind. Involuntarily,mymaster firstbroughthishands intoviewand then immediatelysatdownwithhisbottompushedhardupagainst thesliding-door.Bythisprecipitateactionmymasterfinishedupfacinginthesamewesterlydirectionastheoldman,sothat itwasnowimpossiblefor themtobowtoeachother informalgreeting.Andtheoldergenerationremainsextremelyrigidinmattersofetiquette.

“Pleasebeseatedthere,”saidtheoldmanurgingmymastertotakehisproperplacewithhisbacktothealcove.

Up until a few years ago,mymaster assumed that it did notmatterwhere one sat in aroom;butsincethedaywhensomeonetoldhimthatanalcoveisamodifiedformofthatupperroomwhereenvoysoftheShogunwereaccustomedtoseatthemselves,heavoidsthatplacelike theplague.Consequently,andespeciallynowthatanunfamiliarelderlyperson ispresent,nothingwill induce him to sit down in the place of honor. Indeed, he cannot evenmanage apropergreeting.He justbowedonceandthenexactlyrepeatedthewordsusedbyhisvisitor.“Pleasebeseatedthere.”

“Ibegofyou.Iamatalosstogreetyouproperlyunlessyousitoverthere.”“Ohno,Ibegofyou.Please,yousitoverthere.”Mymasterseemsunabletodoanything

butparrothisguest.“Sir,yourmodestyoverwhelmsme. Iamunworthy.Pleasedon’tstandonceremony.And

pleasedositthere.”“Sir, your modesty. . . overwhelms you. . . please,” came the jumbled answer frommy

scarlet faced master. His mental training does not seem to have had much useful effect.Waverhouse,whohasbeendelightedlywatchingthisridiculousperformancefromapositionjustoutsidethedoor,evidentlythoughtithadgoneonlongenough.

“Moveover.Ifyouplantyourselfsoclosetothedoor,Ishan’tbeabletofindaplacetositdown.Getalongwithyou,don’tbeshy.”Heproddedmymasterwithhisfootandthen,bendingdown,unceremoniouslyshovedatmymaster’sbottom frombehinduntilhewasable to forcehimselfbetweenthetwoseatedfiguresfacingthealcove.Mymasterreluctantlyslidforward.

“Sneaze,thisismyunclefromShizuokaofwhomyou’veoftenheardmespeak.Uncle,thisisMr.Sneaze.”

“Howdoyoudo?Waverhouse tellsme thatyouhavebeenverykindand thatyou lethimcomeonfrequentvisits.I’vebeenmeaningmyselftocallonyouforalongtimeandtoday,asIhappenedtobeintheneighborhood,Idecidedtocomeandthankyou.Ibegtobefavoredwithyour acquaintance.”The old man delivers his old-fashioned speech of greeting with greatfluency.

Notonlyismymastertaciturnbynatureandpossessedoffewacquaintances,buthehasrarely, ifever,metanyoneof thisantiquated type.Hewas thus illatease fromthestart,andbecame increasingly scared as the old man’s flood of language washed about his ears. AllthoughtsofKoreanginseng,of theshiningstripesof that redandwhiteenvelope,orofotheraids to mental discipline have slipped from his mind, and his incoherent stutter of responsebetrayshisdesperation.“I,too...yes,Ialso...justmeanttocallonyou...pleased...yes,indeed. . . most glad to make your acquaintance.”This babble was delivered with his headboweddownto thefloor.Whenhefellsilent,hehalf-liftedhisnutonly to findtheoldmanstillbent politely flat. Jittering with embarrassment, he promptly lowered his head back onto thefloor.

Theoldman,timingitbeautifully,liftshishead.“Intheolddays,”heremarked,“I,too,hada place up here in Tokyo and formany years used to live close to the Shogun’s residence.However, when the shogunate collapsed, I left for the country and have, since then, onlyseldomvisited thecapital. Indeed, I find that thingshavechangedsomuch thatnow Icannotevenfindmywayaround.IfWaverhouseisnottheretohelp,I’masgoodaslost.Great,greatchanges.”Heshookhisheadandsighed.

“Theshogunate,youknow,hadbeenestablishedinthecastlehereforoverthreehundredyears...”

Waverhouseseems to feel that theoldman’sobservationsare takinga tiresome turn,sohequicklyinterupts.“Uncle,thoughtheshogunatewasnodoubtaveryexcellentinstitution,thepresentgovernmentisalsotobepraised.Intheolddays,forinstance,therewasnosuchthingastheRedCross,wasthere?”

“No,therewasn’t.SuchthingsastheRedCrossdidn’texistatall.There are other welcome innovations. Only in this present time has it become possible

actuallytolayone’seyesonmembersoftheimperialfamily.I’mluckytohavelivedsolongandI’mespeciallyfortunatetohaveattendedtoday’sgeneralmeetingoftheRedCrosswhere,withmyown twoears, I heard thevoiceof theCrownPrince. If I die tonight, I shall dieahappyman.”

“It’sgoodthat,onceagain,youcanseethesightsofTokyo.D’youknow,Sneaze,myunclecameup fromShizuokaspecially for today’sgeneralmeetingof theRedCross inUeno, fromwhichweareinfactnowonthewayhome.It’sbecauseofthemeetingthathe’swearingthatsplendidfrockcoatthatIrecentlyorderedforhimatShirokiya’s.”

Heiswearingafrockcoatallright.Notthatitfitshimanywhere.Thesleevesaretoolong,the lapels are strained back too far, there’s a dent in the back as big as a pond, and thearmpitsare too tight. If one tried forayear tomakean ill-cut coat,onecouldnotmatch themis-shapenmarvel onWaverhouse’s uncle. I should add that the oldman’swhitewing-collarhascomeadriftfromthefrontstudinhisspotlessshirtsothat,wheneverheliftshishead,hisAdam’sapplebobblesoutbetween theshirt topand the levitatingcollar.At first I couldn’tbesurewhetherhisblackbow tiewas fastenedaroundhiscollarorhis flesh.Moreover,even ifone somehow could contrive to overlook the enormities of his coat, his topknot ofwhite hairremains a spectacle of staggering singularity. I notice, too, that his famous iron fan, morepreciselyhisfamousiron-ribbedfan,islyingclosebesidehim.

Mymasterhasnow,at last,managedtopullhimself together,andIobservedthat,asheapplied the resultsofhis recentmental training tohisstudyof theoldman’sgarb,he lookeddistinctlyshaken.HehadnaturallytakenWaverhouse’sstorieswithseveralpinchesofsaltbutnow,with theoldmandumpeddownbeforehisveryeyes,herecognizes that the truthof theman is stronger thananyofWaverhouse’s fictions. I could seemymaster’s thoughtsmovingbehind his cloudy eyes. If my wretched pockmarks, he was thinking, constitute valuablematerialforhistoricalresearch,thenthisoldman’sget-up,histopknotandhisironfan,mustbeof yetmore striking value.Mymaster was obviously yearning to pose a thousand questionsaboutthehistoryoftheironfan,butequallyobviouslybelieveditwouldberudetomakeabluntenquiry. He also thought it would be impolite to say nothing, so he asked a question of theuttermostbanality.“Theremust,”hesaid,“havebeenalotofpeoplethere?”

“Oh, an awful lot of people, and all of them just staring atme. It seems thatmen havegrown too greatly and far too blantantly inquisitive. In the old days of the shogunate, things

wereverydifferent.”“Quite so. In theolddays thingswerenot like thatatall,” saysmymasteras if he, too,

werevenerablewithyears.Tobefair,however, Imustassert that, inspeakingashedid,mymaster was not trying to show off. It’s just that thewords came out like that, random fumedriftsfromthedingycloud-wastesofhisbrain.

“What’smore,youknow,allthosepeoplekeptgawpingatthishelmetcracker.”“Yourironfan?Itmustbeveryheavy,”saysmymaster.“Sneaze,youtryit.Itisindeedquiteheavy.Uncle,dolethimholdit.”Slowlytheoldmanliftsitupand,withacourteous“Please,”handsittomymaster.He,like

someworshiperat theKurodaniTemplewhohasbeenallowedbriefly tohold the longswordtreasured there, holds the iron fan for several minutes and finally says, “Indeed.” Then,reverently,hepassedtheancientweaponbacktoitsancientowner.

“Peoplecall itan ironfanbutactually it’sahelmetcracker.Athingquitedifferent fromanironfan.”

“Ahyes?Andwhatwasitusedfor?”“Forcrackinghelmets.Andwhileyourenemyisstilldazed,youjustfinishhimoff.Ibelieve

thisparticularfanwasinuseaslongagoastheearlyfourteenthcentury,possiblyevenbythegreatGeneralMasashigehimself.”

“Really,Uncle?Masashige’shelmetcracker?”“It is not known for certain to whom this beauty belonged. But it’s certainly an old one.

Probablyfangledin1335.”“It may be quite as ancient as you say, but it surely had that bright young Coldmoon

worried. You know, Sneaze, since we happened today to be passing through the universitygroundsonourwaybackfromUeno,IthoughtitwouldbepleasantandconvenienttodropinattheScienceDepartment.Weasked tobeshownaround thephysics laboratoryand,becausethis helmet cracker happens to be made of iron, every magnetic device in the place wentcompletelycrazy.Wecausedamostalmightystir.”

“Itcouldn’thavebeenthefan.It’spureironoftheKemmuperiod.Ironofsuperiorquality.Absolutelysafe.”“It’s not a question of the quality of the iron. Any iron would have the same effect.

Coldmoontoldmesohimself.Solet’snotquibbleaboutthat.”“Coldmoon?Isthatthefellowwefoundpolishingaglassbead?Asadcase,that.Forheis

veryyoung.Surelytheremustbesomethingbetterhecoulddo.”“Well,”saidWaverhouse,“Isupposeitisprettyheart-rending,butthat’shisspecialityand,

oncehe’sgothispolishingright,hecanlookforwardtoafinefutureasascholar.”“How very extraordinary. If one can become a fine scholar by rubbing away at a glass

bead,theroadtointellectualeminencemustbeopentousall.Eventome.Indeedtheownersoftoyshopsthatsellglassmarblestoschoolboyswouldbeparticularlywelladvantagedinthequest for professorships. You know,” he went on, turning to my master as if seeking theconcurrence of that noted academic, “in old Cathay such polishers of stony baubles wereknownaslapidariesand,Ifancyrightly,theirstandinginthesocialscalewasreallyratherlow.”

Mymaster letshisheaddroopslowlydownward inagestureof respectfulassent. “Quiteso,”hesaid.

“Nowadaysall learningseems tobeconcentratedon thephysicalscienceswhich, thoughthere’ssuperficiallynothingwrongwiththem,are,whenitcomestothecrunch,totallyuseless.

In theolddays itwasdifferent.One trained for theprofessionofarmsat literal riskofone’slife,andoneconsequentlydisciplinedone’smind toensure that inmomentsofsupremeeffortor danger one did not lose one’s head. I imagine you would agree that such a training wasnoticeablymorerigorousthanbuffingupbeadsorwindingwiresaroundanarmature.”

“Quiteso,”mymasteronceagainobserveswiththesameairofrespect.“Tellme,uncle, thatdisciplineof themindwhichyoumentioned,wasn’t itamatter, totally

different of course frombuffing upbeads, of sitting arounddead stillwith your hands tuckedintoyourbosom?”

“Thereyougoagain!No,thediscipliningofthemindwasnotjustasimplematterofsittingstillandsayingnothing.MorethantwothousandyearsagoMenciusissaidtohaveimpressedupon his pupils that a freedmindmust then be returned to examine its liberator’s self. Thiswisdomwasreiterated,atleastinpart,byShaoK’ang-chieh,thateminentscholaroftheSungdynasty,whoinsistedthatthehighestachievementofhumanaspirationwastheliberatedmind.He,ofcourse,wasaConfucian,butevenamongtheChineseBuddhistsyouwillfindthatsuchworthiesas theZenmasterChungFenghavealways taught thatasteadyanddevotedmindwas all important. Such teachings, as I’m sure you will agree, are by no means easy tounderstand.”

“If you’re askingme,” saidWaverhouse, “I’d say theywere absolutely incomprehensible.Whataretherecipientsofsuchteachingssupposedtodowithit?”

“HaveyoueverreadPriestTakuan’sdiscoursesuponZendoctrines?”“No,I’veneverevenheardofhim,letalonehisbook.”“Takuan, who also wrote importantly upon the seasoning of turnips, was basically

concernedwiththefocusingofmind.If,hesays,onefocusesone’sminduponthemovementsofanenemy,thenthemindwillbeentrammeledbyandsubjecttosuchmovements.Ifuponafoeman’ssword,thenmindwillbesubjectedtothatsword.

Correspondingly,ifone’smindisconcentrateduponthethoughtofwishingtokillanenemy,that thoughtwilldominateallelse. Ifconcentrateduponone’sownsword, then itwillbecomeeffectivelypossessedbyone’sownsword. Ifone’smindcentersuponthe ideathatonedoesnotwishtobekilled,thenitbecomespossessedbythatidea.Ifone’smindisbentsolelyuponsomeone’s posture, then one’s mind will be absorbed to be that posture. In brief there isnowherethatamindcanbedirectedwithoutceasingtobeitself.Thus,whereverthemindis,itbecomes,bydefinition,non-existent.”

“Quite remarkable. Uncle, you must have astonishing powers of memory to be able toquote suchcomplicatedstuff at such impressive length.Now, tellme,Sneaze,did you followthereasoningofthatturnippicklingpriest?”

“Quiteso,”repliedmymaster,employinghisstockanswertogooddefensiveeffect.“But don’t you agree with its truth?Where indeed should one place one’s mind? If one

focusesone’smindupon themovementsofanenemy, then themindwill beentrammeledbyandsubjecttosuchmovements.

Ifuponafoeman’ssword...”“Comenow,uncle.Mr.Sneazeisalreadydeeplyversedinsuchconcepts.Infact,he’sonly

justemerged fromhisstudywherehewasbusy traininghismind.Asyoumayyourselfhavenoticed,he’sgettingsoregularlytoabandonhismindthathewouldn’tevenanswerthedoortoavisitor.Sodon’tworryaboutSneaze.He’sperfectlyallright.”

“I’mrelievedtohearwhatyousay.It’shighlycommendablethatheshouldsooftengoout

ofhismind.You’ddowelltodoashedoes.”Waverhousegiggled,half inhorror, half inembarrassment, but then,asever, rose to the

occasion. “Alas,” he said, “I haven’t got the time. Just because you, uncle, live in a leisurelystyle,youshouldn’tassumethatotherscanaffordtofrittertheirhoursaway.”

“Butareyounot,intruth,idlingyourlifeaway?”“Onthecontrary.Imanagetocrambusymomentsintomyleisuredlife.”“Thereyougoagain.You’reascallywagandascatterbrain.That’swhyIkeeptellingyouto

disciplineyourmind.Oneoftenhearsitsaidthatsomeonemanagestosecureoddmomentsofleisureinabusylife,butI’veneverheardanyonebragofhisabilitytocrambusymomentsintohisleisuredlife.Haveyou,Mr.Sneaze,everheardsuchathingbefore?”

“Idon’tbelieveIhave.”Waverhouse laughed again, this time in genuine amusement. “I’d hoped that wouldn’t

happen,youtwoganginguponme.Bytheway,uncle,”heimmediatelycontinued,“howabouthavingsomeTokyoeels?

It’sa long timesinceyou tried them. I’ll standyouamealat theChikuyo. Ifwe take thetram,wecanbethereinnexttonotime.”

“Eels would be delightful, and that eel restaurant is undoubtedly the best. Unfortunately,however,IhaveanappointmentwithSuihara,andindeedImustbeoffimmediately.”

“Soyou’reseeingMr.Sugihara?Isthatoldfellowkeepingwell?”“Not Sugihara—Suihara. Once again, I catch you in an error, and it’s especially rude to

makeerrorsaboutaperson’sname.Youshouldbemorecareful.”“Butit’swrittenSugihara.”“ItisindeedwrittenSugiharabutitispronouncedSuihara.”“That’sodd.”“Not odd at all. It’s technically known as a nominal reading. The common stonechat for

instance, iscalledawheatear,but itsnamehasnothing todowitheitherwheatorears.Thebird is reallya kindof sparrowwithparticularlypallid featherson its rump. Itsname, in fact,meanswhitearse.”

“Howextraordinary!”“Similarly, themagpiewasoriginallyamaggotpie,notbecause ithadanything todowith

eithermaggotsormeatpies,butbecausethispied,thisblack-and-whitecrow,wasstillearliernamedaMargaretpie;justasthesparrowwasdubbedPhillip,theredbreastRobin,andsometitsTom.Margaretand itsassociatednicknamesseemtohavebeenparticularly fruitful in thisfieldoflinguistics,foritwasalsofromthatnamethattheowlcametobecalledamadge.Sotogo around referring to Suihara as Sugiharamarks you as a provincial, asmuch a laughableyokelassomeonefromthebackwoodswhostillclumpsroundcountingmaggotpiesforluck.”

“Allright,allright.Idefertoyoursuperiorknowledgeofpatavinities.Butifyou’regoingofftoseeyouroldfriend,howshallwearrangethings?”

“Ifyoudon’twanttocome,youneedn’t.I’llgobymyself”“Canyoumanagealone?”“Idoubt that Icouldwalkso far.But ifyouwouldbesokindas tocalla rickshaw, I’llgo

directlyfromhere.”Mymasterbowed respectfullyandquicklyarranged forO-san togoand finda rickshaw.

When it arrived, the oldman delivered the expectedly long-winded speech of departure and,havingsettledhisbowlerhatcomfortablyoverhistopknot,left.Waverhousestayedbehind.

“Sothat’syourfamousuncle.”“Theveryone.”“Quite so,” said my master who, reseating himself on a cushion, then sank back into

thoughtwithhishandstuckedbackinhisbosom.“Isn’theanastonishingoldfellow?I’mluckytohavesuchanuncle.He carries on like that wherever he goes. You must have been a bit surprised, eh?”

Waverhouseevidentlylikestheideathatmymastershouldhavebeentakenaback.“No,notatallsurprised.”“If that old uncle of mine didn’t at least startle you, you must have uncommonly steady

nerves.”“Itseemstomethatthere’ssomethingmagnificentaboutyouruncle.For instance, one could but admire, admire and deeply respect, his insistence on the

necessityoftrainingthemind.”“Youthinkthatadmirable?Maybewhenyou’rewellintoyoursixties,likemyuncle,youwill

beabletoaffordtobeold-fashioned.Butforthetimebeingyou’ddobettertokeepyourwitsabout you. You’ll do yourself no good if you get yourself known as devoted to old-fashionednotions.”

“Youworrytoomuchaboutbeingconsideredold-fashioned.Sometimes,inparticularcases,beingold-fashionedisfarmoreadmirablethanbeingup-to-

date.Moderneducation,for instance,attemptstoomuch,andpeople,evergraspingformoreandmore,neveroncequestionthewisdomofitslimitlessspread.Bycomparison,atraditional,even an old-fashioned, Oriental education is less aggressive and, by its very passivity,producesamorediscriminatingtaste.Forthetraditionaleducationtrainstheminditself.”Gliblyexact,mymaster trotsoutashisownviews the twaddle thathehasonly recentlypickedupfromhisphilosophizingfriend.

“This,”saidWaverhouse ingenuineconcern, “isgettingserious.Yousound likeSinglemanKidd.”

Atmentionof thatnamea lookof realshockcameovermymaster’s face.For thesagephilosopher who so recently visited the Cave of the Sleeping Dragon and who, having thereconvertedmymastertonewstylesofthinking,thenserenelywentuponhisway,borethatveryname. And Waverhouse had been dead right in his comparison, for my master’s words,solemnly spoken as his own original conclusions, were in fact all straight cribs from Kidd’sunhinginghomily.SincemymasterhadnotrealizedthatWaverhouseknewKidd,thespeedwithwhich Waverhouse attributed such ideas to their true source reflected unflatteringly on thesuperficialityofmymaster’sgraspofthem.Indeed,mymasteractuallyseemsbrightenoughtoregardWaverhouse’s comment as a slight upon himself. To establish howmuchWaverhousereallyknew,mymasterpointblankaskedhim,“Haveyoueverheardhimexplaininghisideas?”

“Have Ieverheardhim!Thatman’s ideashaven’tchangedonewhit in the long tenyearssincefirstIheardtheminourownundergraduatedays.”

“Sincetruthdoesnotchange,perhapsthatvery lackofvarianceatwhichyousneer is, infact,apointinfavorofhistheories.”

“Ohdear,ohdear.Look, it’sbecausemen likeyou lendasympatheticear tohis ravingsthathekeepson ravingaway.But justconsider theman.His familynamesuggests thathe’sdescendedfromgoats,andthatstragglybeard,abilly’sgoateeevenincollegedays,confirmshis blood-stock. And his own name too, is singular beyond the point of simple idiosyncrasy.

Now let me tell you a story. One day some years ago he came to visit me and, as usual,lectured me at length on the marvels of his mental training and his consequent passivediscipline.Hewentonandon.Allthesameoldtripeandhesimplywouldn’tstoptalking.

EventuallyIsuggesteditwasgettinglate,buthewouldn’ttakethehint.Hesaidhedidn’tfeelatallsleepyand,tomyintenseannoyance,rattledeveronabouthis

crankynotions.HebecamesomuchofanuisancethatIfinallytoldhimthat,howeverwakefulhemightfeel,Iwasdeadtired.

Ibeggedandcoaxedhimtogotobed,andatlonglasthewent.Sofar,sogood.Butinthemiddleofthenighttherewasamajordisturbance.

Arat,I’malmostsorrytosay,cameandbithimonthenose.Now,althoughhe’dwornmyearsoffwithhis repetitiveaccountsof his spiritual enlightenment, of thewayhis traininghadliftedhimaboveall concernwithmerelymundanematters,assoonas the rathadnippedhisnosehedisplayeda tremendous interest inworldly realities.Hewasevenworried lesthis lifeshould be in danger. What, he demanded, if the rat’s teeth were infected? The poison, hewhimpered, would be spreading through his system while we wasted time in idle talk. Dosomething,hepesteredme,dosomethinganddoitquickly.Well,Ididn’tknowwhattodo.But,afterrackingmybrains,Istaggeredoffintothekitchenandpressedsomegrainsofboiledriceontoapieceofpaper,andthatdidthetrick.”

“Howcanboiledricegrainscurearatbite?”“I toldhim that thegooeymashwasan importedointment recently inventedbya famous

German doctor and that it had proved an immediate and sovereign cure when applied, in, Ithink,theStateofHyderabad,topersonsfangedbyvenomousserpents.Providedyouclapthison,yourlife,Itoldhimfromthebottomofmyheart,willbeentirelysafe.”

“Soeveninthoseearlydaysyouhadaknackforbamboozlement.”“Well, it set Kidd’s precious mind at rest. The simpleton believed me and dropped off,

smiling, into sleepy-byland.When I woke nextmorning, I was particularly delighted to noticethatatricklefrommyointmenthaddriedintoathreadandsolidifiedamongthedarkerthreadsofhisdaftgoatee.”

“Iseeyourpoint.Buthewasyoungerthen.Itseemstomethathehasmaturedintoamanofseriousworth.”

“Haveyouseenhimlately?”“Hewashereaboutaweekago,andspokeforsomelongtime.”“Ah, that explainswhy you’ve been so actively brandishing the childish negativities of the

KiddSchool.”“It so happens that I wasmuch impressed by his ideas, and I am currently considering

whetherImyselfshouldmaketheeffortdemandedbyhismentaldiscipline.”“Making an effort is always a good thing. But you’ll only make a fool of yourself if you

persist in swallowingevery tinseled tale that’s flashed in frontof you.The troublewithyou isthat you believe anything and everything that anyone says. Though Kidd talks loftily aboutfreeinghimselffromcoarserealitiesbythedisciplinedpowerofhismind,thetruthisthat, inarealcrisis,he’dbenodifferent from the restofus.You remember thatbigearthquakeaboutnine yearsago?Theonlypersonwho jumped fromanupstairswindowandsobrokehis legwasyourimperturbableKidd.”

“But,asIrecallit,hehashisownexplanationofthatincident.”“Of course he has. And a wonderful explanation naturally it is! Kidd’s version of that

scaredy-catrealityisthattheworkingoftheZen-trainedmindissosharpthat,whenfacedwithan emergency, it reacts with the terrifying speed of a bullet fired from a rifle. While all theothers,hesays,were fleeinghelter-skelterduring theearthquake,hesimply leaptdown fromanupstairswindow.Thispleasedhimverymuch,foritwasaproofthathistraininghadresultedin a truly fantastic immediacy of reaction. Kidd was thus pleased but limping. He refuses toadmitdefeat.

Asamatteroffact,youmayhavenoticedthatthosewhomakethegreatestfussabouttheunworldliness bestowed upon them by Zen practices and even by ordinary Buddhism arealwaystheleastreliableofmen.”

“Doyoureallythinkso?”asksmymasterwhoispatentlybeginningtowobble.“When Kidd was here the other day I’ll bet he said all sorts of things which you’d only

expectfromaZenpriestbabblinginhissleep.Well,didn’the?”“In a way, yes. He emphasized the particular significance of a phrase which went

somethinglike,‘AsaBashoflightning,theswordcutsthroughthespringwind.’”“That same old flash of lightning. It’s pitiful to think upon, but that’s been his pet stock

phrase throughout the last ten years. Not his own phrase, of course. He lifted it from thesayingsofWuHsüeh,who thought it up inChinamore thana thousandyearsago.Weevennicknamed Kidd with an appropriate pun on the sound in Japanese of Wu Hsüeh’s Chinesename; and I do assure you that the Reverend No-perception left scarcely one of his fellowlodgers inourstudentboardinghouseunstruckbyhis tedious lightning.Weusedtoteasehimintoafrenzybecausehethengothispattersoproperlymixedupthathebecamequitefunny.‘Asaflashofspring,’hewouldshoutatus,‘theswordcutsthroughthelightning.’Tryitonhimthenext timehecallsaround.Whenhesits therecalmlypropoundingnonsense, interruptandcontradicthim.Keepitupuntilhegetsrattledandinnotimeatallhe’llstartspoutingthemostamazingbalderdashyou’veeverheard.”

“Nobody’ssafewithatrickyrascallikeyouaround.”“Iwonderwho,really,isthetrickster.Asarationalman,IverymuchdislikeZenpriestsand

allthatriff-raffwiththeirpreposterousclaimstointuitiveenlightenment.Livinginatemplenearmyhousethere’sanoldretiredpriest,maybeeighty-years-old.Theotherdaywhenwehadaheavyshower, a thunderbolt fell in the temple yard,where it splinteredapine tree in theoldman’s garden. People were at pains to tell me how calm, how unperturbed throughout thatfrightful happening the good, old man had been, how in his spiritual strength he had shownhimselfserenely indifferenttoaterrifyingactofnature,whichhadscaredeveryoneelsecleanout of their wits. But I found out later that this spiritual colossus was in fact stone deaf.Naturally,hewasn’tshakenbythefallofathunderboltofwhichhewastotallyunaware.Andalltoooften that’show it really is. I’dhavenoquarrelwithKidd if hedidnomore thanderangehimselfinhiseffortstofindenlightenment,butthetroubleisthathegoesaroundinvolvingotherpeople.Iknowofatleasttwopersonswho,thankstoKidd,arenowstarkravingmad.”

“Who,forinstance?”“Who?OnewasRinoTōzen.ThankstoKidd,hebecameafanaticZenbeliever,andwent

totheZencenteratKamakuraandtherebecamealunatic.Asyoumayknow,there’sarailwaycrossinginKamakurarightinfrontoftheEngakuTemple.Well,onedaypooroldRinowentandsatdownthere todohismeditation.Hemadea thoroughnuisanceofhimself tellingeveryonenot toworry because, suchwere his spiritual powers, he could bring to a halt any train thatdaredtoapproachhim.Intheevent,sincethetrainstoppedofitself,hisstupidlifewasspared,

but he then went around saying that he had a holy body of immortal strength which couldneitherbeburntwithfirenordrownedinwater.Heactuallywentsofarastosubmergehimselfinthetemple’slotuspondwherehebubbledaboutbelowthewaterforquitesometime.”

“Didhedrown?”“Againhewaslucky.Hewashauledoutbyastudentpriestwhohappenedtobepassing.

AfterthathereturnedtoTokyoandeventuallydiedofperitonitis.Itistrue,asI’vejustsaid,thathediedofperitonitis,but thecauseofhissicknesswas thatheatenothingbutboiledbarleyand pickles throughout his time at the temple. Thus, though at several removes, it wasKiddwhokilledhim.”

“Overenthusiasm is not, it seems, an unmixed blessing,” saidmymaster looking as if hesuddenlyfeltabitcreepy.

“Yes, indeed. And there is yet another of my classmates whom Kidd’s meddlesomeministrationsbroughttoanunhappyend.”

“Howterrible!Whowasthat?”“PooroldPelhamFlap.He,too,waseggedonintointemperateenthusiasmsbythatcranky

Kidd,andusedtocomeoutwithpronouncementssuchas‘TheeelsaregoinguptoHeaven’;inasense,theyeventuallydid.”

“Whatd’youmeanbythat?”“Well, he was obsessed by food, the most gluttonous man I’ve ever met. So when his

gluttonybecame linkedwith theZenperversitieshe learnt fromKidd, therewasn’tmuchhopefor him so far as this world is concerned. At first, we didn’t notice anything, but, now that Icome to think back upon it, he was, even from the beginning, given to saying the strangestthings. For instance, on one occasion when he was visiting me at home, he warned mesomewhatponderously thatbeef cutletsmight soonbecoming to roost inmypine trees.Onanother occasion hementioned that in the country district where his people lived it was notuncommonforboiledfish-pastetocomefloatingdowntheriveronlittlewoodenboards.Itwasstillallrightwhenhecontentedhimselfwithmerebizarreremarks,butwhenonedayheurgedmetojoinhimindiggingforsugaredchestnutsandmashedpotatoesinaditchthatraninfrontofthehouse,thenIreckonedthingshadgonetoofar.Afewdayslatertheycartedhimoff totheloonybinatColneyHatchandhe’sbeenthereeversince.Totellthetruth,anearth-bound,greedypiglikeFlapwasn’tentitledtorisesohighinthespiritualhierarchyaseventoqualifytobecome a lunatic, so l suppose he ought to thank Kidd for that ludicrous measure ofadvancement.Yes,indeed,theinfluenceofSinglemanKiddisquitesomething.”

“Well,well.SoFlapisstillconfinedinanasylum?”“Ohyes;he’sverymuchathomeinthere.He’snowbecomeamegalomaniac,andfindsfull

scope in that institution for theexerciseofhis latestbent.Herecentlycameto theconclusionthatPelhamFlapwasanunimpressivename;so, in theconviction thathe isan incarnationofDivineProvidence,he’snowdecidedtocallhimselfMr.ProvidenceFair.He’sreallyputtingonaterrificperformance.Yououghttogoandseehimoneofthesedays.”

“Didyousay‘ProvidenceFair?’”“Yes, that’s his latest moniker. I must say that, considering he’s a certified lunatic, he’s

picked on a clever name.Anyway, his fancy is thatwe are all living in darkness, a conditionfromwhichheyearnstorescueus.

Accordingly,hefiresoffenlighteningletterstohisfriendsor,infact,tojustanyone.Imyselfhave several of his demented encyclicals. Some are extremely long, so long that I’ve even

foundmyselfobligedtopaypostagedue.”“ThentheletterI’vejustreceivedmusthavecomefromthisunbalancedFlap!”“Ah,soyou’veheardfromhim,too.That’sodd.Ibetitcameinascarletenvelope.”“Redinthecenterandwhiteonbothsides,aratherunusuallookingenvelope.”“D’youknow,I’mtoldhehasthemspeciallyimportedfromChina.Thecolorschemeissupposedtosymbolizeoneofhispottiermaxims:thatHeaven’swayis

white,Earth’swayiswhite,andthatthehumanwayturnsredbetweenthem.”“Isee.Eventheenvelopeispregnantwithtranscendentalmeaning.”“Being thatofa lunatic,hissymbolism is incrediblyelaborate.But thequaint thing is that,

even thoughhe’sgonecompletelyoutofhismind,his stomachseems tohavemaintained itsgluttonousappetites.Allhisletterssomewherementionfood.Didherefertofoodinhislettertoyou?”

“Well,yes,hedidsaysomethingaboutseaslugs.”“Quite.Hewasverypartial toseaslugs. It’sonlynaturalhestill should thinkabout them.

Anythingelse?”“TheletterdidcontainsomepassingreferencestoblowfishandKoreanginseng.”“Thatcombination is ratherclever.Perhaps inhis lunaticwayhe’s trying toadviseyou to

takeinfusionsofginsengwhenyoupoisonyourselfbyeatingblowfish.”“Idon’tthinkthatwasquitewhathemeant.”“Nevermindifhedidn’t.He’salunaticanyway.Nothingmore?”“Onethingmore.Therewasabittowardtheendofhisletterwhereheadvisedme,most

respectfully,todrinktea.”“That’s amusing. Advising you to drink tea, eh? Pretty tough talk, that, at least when it

comes from Flap. I imagine he sees himself as having snubbed you.Well done, ProvidenceFair!!”GoodnessknowswhatWaverhousefindssofunny,butitcertainlymakeshimlaugh.

Mymaster,havingnowrealizedthatthewriterofthatletterwhichhehadreadandre-readwithsuchimmenserespectisanotoriousmaniacfeelsdistinctlyannoyedwithhimselfnotleastbecausehisrecententhusiasmandhisspiritualendeavouringshaveallbeenawasteoftime.

Heisalsosomewhatashamedofhimselfforhaving,afterassiduousstudyofthematerial,sostronglyadmiredthescribblingsofaninsaneperson.

Andtotopoffhisdiscomforture,heharborsasneakingsuspicionthatanyonesoimpressedbyamadman’sworkishimselflikelytobenotaltogetherrightinthehead.Heconsequentlysitstherelookingdecidedlyupsetinamixedconditionofanger,humiliationandworry.

Justatthatmomentweheardasoundoftheentrancedoorbeingroughlyopenedandthesoundofheavybootscrunchingonthestepstone.

Thenaloudvoiceshouted,“Hello!Excuseme.Isthereanyoneathome?”Unlikemysluggishmaster,Waverhouse isabuoyantperson.Withoutwaiting forO-san to

answer thecaller,hecallsout, “Who is it?”Uponhis feet ina flash,hesweeps through theneighboringanteroominacoupleofstridesanddisappearsintotheentrancehall.Thewayhecomesbargingrightintosomeoneelse’shousewithoutbeingannouncedorinvitedis,ofcourse,annoying, but, once inside, he generally makes himself useful by performing such houseboyfunctionsasansweringthedoor.

Still, thoughWaverhouse does in truth make himself useful, the fact remains that in thishousehe’saguest;itisnotproperthat,whenaguestflitsouttotheentrancehall,themasterof thehouseshould just stay sitting, disturbinglyundisturbed, on thedrawing room floor.Any

normalpersonwouldatleastgetupandfollowaguest,anyguest,outtotheentrancehall.ButMr.Sneazeisandalwayswillbehisownobdurateself.

Seemingly totally unconcerned, he sits there with his bottom planted on a cushion, butthoughsuchsteadinessofbottommightbethoughttoimplysomesteadinessofnerve,hewasinsideasimmerofemotions.

Waverhouse can be heard conducting an animated conversation at the entrance, buteventuallyheturnstoshoutbackintothedrawingroom.

“Sneaze,”heyells, “you’rewanted.You’llhave tocomeouthere.Onlyyoucancopewiththis.”

Mymastersighsinresignationand,hishandsstilltuckedinsidehisrobe,slowlyshuffleshisway to the entrance. There he finds Waverhouse, holding the visitor’s card in his hand,croucheddown in thepoliteposture for receivingvisitors.Seen from theback,however, thatposturelooksextremelyundignified.ThevisitingcardinformsmymasterthathislatestvisitorisPoliceDetectiveYoshidaTorazo-fromtheMetropolitanPoliceOffice.StandingbesideTorazo-isa tall young man in his mid-twenties, smartly dressed in a kimono ensemble of fine stripedcotton.

Quaintlyenough, thispersonableyoungfellow is likemymaster in that,similarlysilent,healsostandswithhishandskepttuckedinsidehisrobe.

Thefacestrikesmeasvaguelyfamiliarand,lookingathimalittlemoreclosely,Isuddenlyrealizewhy.Ofcourse!It’sthemanwhoburgledusashortwhilebackandmadeoffwiththatboxofyams.Andherehe isagain,bybroaddaylight,standing thereascalmasyouplease,thistime,too,atthefrontentrance.

“Sneaze,”saysWaverhouse, “thisperson isapolicedetective.Hehascalledspecially totellyouthatthemanwhoburgledyoutheothernighthasnowbeencaught.Sohewantsyoutocometothepolicestation.”

My master seems at last to understand why he is being raided by the police, andaccordingly, turning to face the burglar, bows politely. An understandablemistake, since theburglarlooksdecidedlymorepresentablethanthedetective.Theburglarmusthavebeenverysurprisedbut,sincehecanhardlybeexpected to identifyhimselfasaburglar,he juststandstherecalmly.Hestillkeepshishandsburiedinthefoldofhiskimonobut,beinghandcuffed,hecannottakehishandsoutevenifhewantsto.Anysensiblepersoncouldcorrectlyinterpretthesituation by the appearances of the individuals concerned but my master, out of touch withmoderntrends,stillmakesmuchtoomuchofofficialsandthepolice.Hethinksthepoweroftheauthoritiesisreallyterrifying.

Though he is just capable of grasping that, in theory at least, policemen and other suchcreaturesarenomorethanwatchmenemployedbyusandpaidbyus,inactualpracticeheisready todroponhishandsandkneesat the first sightofauniform.Mymaster’s father, theheadmanofadistrictontheoutskirtsofsomeminortown,quicklydevelopedtheuglyhabitofcreeping to his superiors. Perhaps as an act of divine justice, his son was born with thatcringingstreakwhichonecanbutnoticeinmymaster’scharacter.Ifindthisverypitiful.

Thepolicedetectivemusthavehadasenseofhumor, forhewasgrinningwhenhesaid,“PleasebeattheNihonzatsumipolicesubstationtomorrowmorningatnineo’clock.Wouldyoualsopleasetellmepreciselywhatgoodswerestolenfromyou?”

“Thestolengoods,”mymasterpromptlyresponded,“consistedof...”buthavingforgottenmostof them,hisvoicepeteredout.Allhecouldrememberwasthat

ridiculousboxofyams.Hedidn’treallycareabouttheyams,buthethoughthewouldlooksillyandundignifiedifhavingstartedtoidentifythepropertystolen,hesuddenlyhadtostopdead.

Afterall,itwashewhohadbeenburgled,andhewasconsciousofacertainresponsibilityderiving from his burgled status. If he could not give a precise answer to the policeman’squestion, he would feel himself to be somehow less than a man. Accordingly, with sturdyresolution, he completed his sentence. “The stolen goods,” he said, “consisted of a box ofyams.”

Theburglarseemedtothinkthisanswerwasterriblyfunny,forhelookeddownandburiedhischininhiskimonocollar.Waverhousewaslessrestrainedandburstintohootsoflaughter.“Isee,”hesquawked,“theyamswerereallyprecious,eh?”

Only the policeman looked at all serious. “I don’t think you’ll recover the yams,” he said,“butmostoftheotherthingswillbereturned.

Anyway,youcanfindoutaboutallthatatthestationtomorrow.Ofcourse,weshallneedareceipt for everything you repossess, so don’t forget to bring your personal seal. Youmustarriveno later thannine in themorningat theaforementionedsubstation,which lieswithin thejurisdictionoftheAsakusaPoliceOffice.Well,goodbye.”Hismissioncompleted,thepolicemanwalkedoutofthefrontdoor.Theburglarfollowedhim.Sincehecouldn’ttakehishandsoutofhis kimono, the burglar couldn’t close the door behind him, so after he’d gone, it just stoodopen. Though my master had conducted himself throughout the incident with awe-filleddiffidence towards the police, he seemed annoyed by that parting rudeness: for, lookingunpleasantlysullen,heclosedthedoorwithaviciousslidingslam.

“Well,well,”saidWaverhouse,“youdoseemawedbydetectives.Ionlywishyou’dalwaysbehavewithsuch remarkablediffidence.You’dbeamarvelofgoodmanners.But the troublewithyouisthatyou’recivilonlytocoppers.”

“Buthe’dcomealongwayoutofhiswaytobringmethatgoodnews.”“It’shis job tocomeand tellyou.Therewasnoneedwhatsoever to treathimasanyone

special.”“Buthisisnotjustanyordinaryjob.”“Of course it’s not an ordinary job. It’s a disgusting job called ‘being a detective.’ An

occupationloweranddirtierthananyordinaryjob.”“Ifyoutalklikethat,you’lllandyourselfintrouble.”Waverhousesnorteddisrespectfully.“Verywellthen,”hegrunted,“I’lllayoffslanderingdetectives.But,youknow,it’snotreallyamatterofrespectingornot

respecting those insufferable sneakers. What really is shocking is this business of beingrespectfultoburglars.”

“Whoshowedrespecttoaburglar?”“Youdid.”“HowcouldIconceivablynumberaburglaramongmyfriends?Quiteimpossible!”“Impossible,isit?Butyouactuallybowedtoaburglar.”“When?”“Justnow,youboweddownlikeahoopbeforehim.”“Don’tbesilly.Thatwasthedetective.”“Detectivesdon’twearclotheslikethat.”“But can’t you see, it’s precisely because he is a detective that he disguises himself in

clotheslikethat.”

“You’rebeingverypig-headed.”“It’syouwho’sbeingverypig-headed.”“Nowdojustthink.Tostartwith,whenadetectivevisitssomeone,doyouhonestlyimagine

hewilljuststandtherewithhishandsinhisrobes?”“Areyousuggestingdetectivesareincapableofkeepingtheirhandsintheirrobes?”“If youget so fierce, I’ll simplyhave tobreak this conversationoff.But think,man.While

youwerebowingtohim,didn’thejuststandthere?”“Notsurprisingifhedid.Afterall,heisadetective.”“Whatgloriousself-assurance!You’retotallydeaftoreason,aren’tyou?”“No, I’m not. You keep saying that fellowwas a burglar, but you didn’t actually see him

committingburglary.Youjustimaginehedidso,andyou’rebeingextraordinaryobstinateaboutit.”

It was at this point thatWaverhouse abandoned hope and accepted mymaster as dimbeyond redemption. He fell unwontedly silent. My master, interpreting that silence as anadmissionofdefeat, looksuncommonlypleasedwithhimself.Butinproportiontomymaster’sself-elation, Waverhouse’s assessment of the wretched man has dropped. In Waverhouse’sviewmymaster’sfat-headedobstinacyhasconsiderablyloweredhisvalueasaman.Butinmymaster’sviewhisfirmnessofmindhas,byacorrespondingamount, liftedhimabovethe levelofsuchpifflersaspoorWaverhouse.Suchtopsy-turveydomsarenotunusual in this imperfectworld. A man who sees himself as magnified by his display of determination is, in fact,dimnished in thepublic estimation by that demonstrationof his crasswillfulness.The strangething is that, to his dying day, the mulish bigot regards his dull opiniatrety as somehowmeritorious,acharacteristicworthytobehonored.Heneverrealizesthathehasmadehimselfadespisedlaughingstock,andthatsensiblepeoplewantnothingmoretodowithhim.Hehas,infact,achievedhappiness.

Iunderstandthatsuch joy, thewallowingwell-beingofapig in itssty, isevencalledpig’shappiness.

“Anyway,”saidWaverhouse,“doyouintendtogotothecoppershoptomorrow?”“Ofcourse.I’vebeenaskedtobetherebynineo’clock,soI’llleavethehouseateight.”“Whataboutschool?”“I’ll take a day off. That school—who cares!” retorts my master with almost venomous

vigor.“My,my!Whataroaringboywehavebecome,andallofasuddentoo!Butwillitreallybe

allrighttotakethedayoff?”“Of course it’ll be all right.My salary’s paid on amonthly basis, so there’s no danger of

themdeductingaday’swages.It’squitesafe.”Thereis,ofcourse,somethingunpleasantlyslyin these remarks, but the very frankness of his comments reveals that my master is moresimplethandishonest.Thoughheis,alas,both.

“Fine.Butdoyouknowhowtogetthere?”“Whyshould Iknowtheway toapolicestation?”Mymaster isclearlynarked. “But itwill

presumablybequiteeasytogettherebyrickshaw.”“YourknowledgeofTokyoseemsnobetterthanthatofmyunclefromtheprovinces.Igive

up.”“You’rewelcome.”Waverhouserespondedtothispettyspitefulnesswithanotherburstoflaughter.“Don’tyou

realize that the police station you’ll be visiting is not in any ordinary district. It’s down inYoshiwara.”

“Where?”“InYoshiwara.”“Youmeanintheredlightdistrict?”“That’s right. There’s only one Yoshiwara in Tokyo. Well, now do you still want to

go?”Waverhousestartsteasinghimagain.On realizing that Yoshiwara meant the Yoshiwara, my master flinched and seemed to

hesitate, but, quickly thinking it over, he decided to put on a quite unnecessarily bold front.“Whereveritmaybe,redlightdistrictornot,I’vesaidI’llgo,sogoIwill.”Incircumstancesofthiskindanyfoolisliketoprovepig-headed.

Waverhouse,unimpressed,coollyremarked,“Itmayprove interesting.Youreallyought toseethatplace.”

The ructions caused by the detective incident died away, and, in the subsequentconversation,Waverhousedisplayedhisinexhaustiblegiftforamusingbanter.Whenitbegantogrowdark,hegotupand,explaining thathisunclewouldbeannoyed ifhestayedoutundulylate,tookhisdeparture.Afterhe’dgone,mymasterdownedahurrieddinnerandwithdrewtothestudy.There,againwithhisarmsclose-folded,hestartedtomusealoud.

“According toWaverhouse, SinglemanKidd, whom I admired andwhose example I verymuchwantedtofollow,isnotintruthapersonworthyofimitation.Onthecontrary,thetheoryhe advocates seems sadly lacking in common sense and, as Waverhouse insists, containsfeatures that strongly suggest lunacy, a suggestionwhich appears all themorewell foundedwhenone remembers that twoofKidd’smostenthusiastic disciplesare incontrovertiblymad.Anextremelydangeroussituation.IfIbecometoomuchinvolvedwithhim,Imyselfamliabletobe regarded as unbalanced.What’smore, that Providence Fair fellow, whosewritings reallyimpressed me so much that I believed him to be a great man with enormous depths ofknowledgeandinsight,hasturnedouttobeanunadulteratedcertifiedmaniac,confined,underhisrealnameofPelhamFlap,inawell-knownlunaticasylum.EvenallowingfortheprobabilitythatWaverhouse’sportraitoftheunfortunatefellowisadistortedcaricature,itstillseemslikelythathe’shavingahigh,oldtimeinthat loonybinundertheimpressionthathe’ssuperintendingHeaven.

AmI,perhaps,myselfalittlepotty?Theysaythatbirdsofafeatherflocktogetherandthatlikeattractslike.Ifthoseoldsayingsaretrue,myadmirationofaloony’sthinking,well,let’ssaymy generous sympathy for his writings, suggest that I myself must be a borderline case atleast.

Even if I’m not yet clearly certifiable, if I freely choose to live next door to a madman,there’s an obvious risk that one fine day I might, perhaps unwittingly, topple across into hisdementedterritoryandendup,likemyneighbor,completelyaroundthebend.Whataterrifyingprospect!

Now that I come to thinkof it, I confess that I’vebeenmore thana littlesurprisedat theverypeculiarway inwhichmybrainhas recentlybeen functioning.Perhapssomespoonfulofmybraincellshassufferedachemicalchange.Evenifnothinglikethathashappened, it’sstilltrue that,ofmyown freewill, I’vebeendoingandsaying immoderate things, things that lackbalance. I don’t feel, yet, anything queer onmy tongue or undermy armpits, butwhat’s thismaddeningsmellattherootsofmyteeth,thesecrazymusculartics?Thisisnolongerajoke.

PerhapsI’vealreadygonestarkstaringmad,andit’sonlybecauseI’vebeenluckyenoughnotto have hurt anybody or to have become an obvious public nuisance that I’m still allowed toquietlyliveoninthisdistrictasaprivatecitizen.Thisisindeednotimetobefoolingaboutwithnegativesandpositives,passiveoractivetrainingofthemind.Firstofall,let’scheckmyheartrate.Mypulseseemsnormal. Ismybrow fevered?No, temperaturenormal;nosign thereofanyrushofbloodtothebrain.

Evenso,I’mstillnotsatisfiedthere’snothingwrong.”Foralittlewhilemymastersatinworriedsilence,straininghiswitsaboutwhatstrainshis

witscouldbear.Then,afterafewanxiousminutes,hismumblingsstartedupagain.“I’vebeencomparingmyselfsolelywith lunatics,concentratingon thesimilaritiesbetween

derangedpersonsandmyself.Thatway Ishallneverescape fromtheatmosphereof lunacy.Obviously,I’vetackledtheprobleminthewrongway.I’vebeenacceptinglunacyasthenorm,andI’vebeenmeasuringmyselfbythewonkystandardsofinsanity.

Inevitably,I’vebeencomingtolunaticconclusions.Ifinstead,Inowstartmeasuringmyselfbythenormalstandardsofahealthyperson,perhapsI’llcometohappierresults.Letmethenstart by comparingmyself to those close tome, thosewhom I knowbest. First,what aboutthatolduncle ina frockcoatwhocamevisiting today?Butwasn’t it hewhokeptdemandingwhereoneshouldplaceone’smind?Idoubtifhecouldreallybecountedasnormal.Secondlythen, what about Coldmoon? He’s somad on polishing glass beads that, for fear lest lunchshoulddeprivehimofonemoment’sfriction,hehoiksalunchboxdowntothelaboratory.

Hardlynormaleither.Thirdly,Waverhouse?Thatmanthinkshisonlyfunctioninlifeistogoaround rollicking everywhere. Such a madcap must be a completely positive kind of lunatic.Fourthly, thewifeof thatmanGoldfield.Herdisposition isso totallypoisonousas to leavenonookforcommonsense.Iconcludethatshealsomustbestarkstaringmad.Fifthly,Goldfieldhimself.Though I haven’t had thepleasureofmeetinghim, it isobvious thathemustbe lessthan normal because he has achieved conjugal harmony by conforming with the warpedcharacteristics of so abnormal a woman. Such a degree of conformity with the abnormalamounts to lunacy, so he’s as bad as she.Who else?Well, there are those charming littlegentlemenfromCloudDescendingHall.

Thoughtheyarestillmeresprouts,theirravingmadnesscouldveryeasilydisrupttheentireuniverse.They’remadasyoungMarchhares, thewholeboiling lotof them.Thus,asI reviewthelistofmyfriendsandacquaintances,mostofthememergeasstainedwithmaniacstigmataof one sort or another. l begin to feel considerably reassured. The truthmay simply be thathumansocietyisnomorethanamassingoflunatics.

Perhaps our vaunted social organization ismerely a kind of bear-garden, where lunaticsgather together, grapple desperately, bicker and tusslewith eachother, call eachother filthynames, tumble and sprawl all over each other inmindlessmuckiness. This agglomeration oflunaticsthusbecomesalivingorganismwhich,likecells,disintegratesandcoalesces,crumblesagain tonothingandagain reintegrates. Is thatnot theactualnatureofourmarveloushumansociety?Andwithinthatorganism,suchfewcellsasareslightlysensibleandexhibitsymptomsof discretion inevitably prove a nuisance to the rest. So they find themselves confined inspeciallyconstructedlunaticasylums.Itwouldfollowthat,objectivelyspeaking,thoselockedupinmental homesare sane,while those careeringaroundoutside thewalls areall asmadashatters. An individual lunatic, so long as he’s kept isolated, can be treated as a lunatic, butwhen lunatics get together and, so massed, acquire the strength of numbers, they also

automatically acquire the sanity of numbers. Many lunatics are, by their maniness, healthypersons.Itisnotuncommonthatapowerfullunatic,abusingtheauthorityofhiswealthandwithmyriad minor madmen in his pay, behaves outrageously, but is nevertheless honored andpraisedbyall andsundryasaparagonof humanvirtue. I just don’t understandanythinganymore.”

Ihavenotalteredawordofmymaster’ssadsoliloquiesashesatthere,all thatevening,deep in twitchless meditation, under the forlorn light of his solitary lamp. If further evidencewere needed, his drooling words confirm the dullness of his brain. Though he sports a finemoustachelikeKaiserBill,heissopreternaturallystupidthathecan’tevendistinguishbetweenamadmanandanormalperson.Notonlythat,butafterhehasgivenhimselftheheartacheandexcruciatingmental tormentofconsidering lunacyasan intellectualproblem,he finishesupbydropping thematterwithout reachinganyconclusionwhatsoever.He lacks thebrainpower tothink through a problem. Any problem. In any field. He’s a poor old blitheringmutt. The onlythingworthnotingabout thewholeof hisevening’sperformance is that, characteristically, hisconclusions are as vague and as elusive as the grayish cigarette smoke leaking from hisnostrils.

Iamacat.Someofyoumaywonderhowamerecatcananalyzehismaster’s thoughtswiththedetailedacumenwhichIhavejustdisplayed.

Suchafeat isamerenothingforacat.Quiteapart fromtheprecisionofmyhearingandthecomplexityofmymind,Icanalsoreadthoughts.

Don’taskmehowIlearnedthatskill.Mymethodsarenoneofyourbusiness.Theplainfactremainsthatwhen,apparentlysleepingonahumanlap,Igentlyrubmyfuragainsthistummy,abeamofelectricityistherebygenerated,anddownthatbeamintomymind’seyeeverydetailof his innermost reflections is reflected. Only the other day, for instance, my master, whilegentlystrokingmyhead,suddenlypermittedhimselftoentertaintheatrociousnotionthat,ifheskinned this snoozing moggy and had its pelt made up into a waistcoat, how warm, howwonderfullywarm,thatKittishWarmwouldbe.Iatoncesensedwhathewasthinking,andfeltan icychillcreepoverme. Itwasquitehorrible.Anyway, it is thisextrasensorygiftwhichhasenabledmetotellyounotonlywhatmymastersaidbutevenwhathethoughtthroughoutthisdrearyevening.

But,asyounowmustknow,he’saprettyfeeblespecimenofhisunperceptivekind.Whenhe’dgotasfarastellinghimselfthathejustdoesn’tunderstandanythinganymore,hisenergieswere exhausted and he dropped off into sleep. Sure as eggs are eggs, when he wakestomorrowhe’llhave forgotteneverythinghe’s justbeen thinking,evenwhyhe thought it. If thematteroflunacyeveragainoccurstohim,he’llhavetostartanew,rightfromscratch.Butifthatever does happen, I cannot guarantee that his thinkingwill follow the same lines in order toarriveattheconclusionthathejustdoesn’tunderstandanythinganymore.

However, nomatter howoftenheponders theseproblems,nomatter howmany linesofthoughthedevelops,one thing I canguaranteewithabsoluteassurance. Igiveyoumy felinewordthathewillinvariablyconclude,justbeforedroppingasleep,withanadmissionthathejustdoesn’tunderstandanythinganymore.

M

III

YDEAR,it’ssevenalready,”hiswifecalledoutfromtheothersideoftheslidingdoor.It isdifficult tosaywhethermymaster isawakeorasleep:he lies facingaway fromme andmakes no answer. It is, of course, his habit not to give answers.When heabsolutelyhastoopenhismouth,hesays,“Hmm.”Eventhisnon-committalnoisedoes

noteasilyemerge.Whenamanbecomesso lazy thathe finds it anuisanceeven togiveananswer, he often acquires a certain curiously individual tanginess; a certain personal spicewhich,however,isneverappreciatedbywomen.Evenhislifepartner,theless-than-fussyMrs.Sneaze,seemstosetlowstoreuponherhusband;soonecanreadilyimaginewhattherestoftheworldthinksabouthim.There’sapopularsongwhichasks,“Howcanafellowshunnedbyboth his parents and his brothers possibly be loved by some tartwho’s a perfect stranger?”How,then,canamanfoundunattractiveevenbyhisownwifeexpecttobefavoredbyladiesingeneral?There is,ofcourse,nocalluponmetogooutofmywaygratuitously toexposemymaster as a creature repulsive to females of his own kind. But I cannot just sit by while hecultivatesillusions,blurringrealitywithsuchnitwittednotionsasthehappythoughtthatitisonlysome unlucky disposition of their stars which pre-ordains his wife’s dislike of him. It is thuspurelymykind-heartedanxietytohelpmymastertoseetheworldasitreallyis,torealizehisownreality,whichhasinducedmetoprovidetheforegoingaccountofhissexualrepulsiveness.

Mrs.Sneaze isunderstrict instructionstorousehimataset time.Accordingly,whenthattimearrives,shetellshimso.Ifhechoosestodisregardhercall,offeringnotevenhisnormalsubhuman“Hmm”ofanacknowledgement, that,sheconcludes, ishisaffair.Lethim lump theconsequences.Withaneloquentgesturedisclaimingallresponsibilityifherhusbandproveslatefor his appointment, shegoesoff into the studywithher broom inherhandandadust clothslung lightly over her shoulder. Soon I heard sounds of the duster flap-flapping all over thestudy.

Thedailyhouseworkhasbegun.Now,sinceit isnotmyjobtocleanrooms,Inaturallydonot know if doing a room is a form of fun or a means of taking exercise. It’s certainly noconcern of mine, but I cannot forbear to comment that this woman’s method of cleaning istotally pointless—unless, that is, she goes through the motions of cleaning for their ownritualisticsake.Herideaofdoingaroomistoflipthedustercurtlyoverthepapersurfacesoftheslidingdoorsand let thebroomglideoncealong the floor.With respect to theseactivitiessheshowsnointerestwhatsoeverinanypossiblerelationofcauseandeffect.Asaresult,thecleanplacesarealwaysclean,whiledustyspotsandgrimycornersremaineternallydustyandbegrimed. However, as Confucius pointed out when rebuking a disciple who proposedabandonmentof thewastefulandsenselesspracticeofsacrificingasheepon the firstdayofeverymonth,ameaninglessgestureofcourtesyisbetterthannocourtesyatall.ItmaybethatMrs. Sneaze’s style of cleaning a room should be recognized asminimally better than doingnothingatall. Inanyevent,heractivitiesbringmymasternobenefit.Nevertheless,dayafterday, she takes the trouble to perform her pointless rite.Which is, alas, the sole redeeming

feature.Mrs.Sneazeand roomcleaningare,by thecustomofmanyyears, firmly linked inamechanical association; however, their combination has in practice achieved no more actualcleaning than in those old days before she was born and in those even older days beforebroomsanddustershadbeen invented.Onemight indeedsay that the relationbetweenMrs.Sneazeandthecleaningofroomsresemblesthatofcertaintermsinformallogicwhich,totallyunrelatedintheirnature,areneverthelessformallylinked.

Unlike my master, I am an early riser, so by this time I was already feeling distinctlypeckish.Thereis,ofcourse,noquestionofamerecatexpectingtogetitsbreakfastbeforethehumanmembersof thehouseholdhadsat themselvesdownat the table.Yet I remainacat,with all a cat’s pure appetites and instincts. And once I had begun to wonder if there couldpossibly be a delicious smell of soup drifting out of that abalone shell, which serves as myfeedingplatter, Iwas simplyunable to remain still.When, knowing its hopelessness, one yethopesonagainsthope, it isalwayswisest toconcentrateon thinkingabout thathopeand todisciplineoneselfintosilentimmobility.Butit’seasiersaidthandone.

One cannot help wanting to check whether one’s hope has, or has not, been fulfilled inreality.Evenwhen it isabsolutelycertain thatacheckmustbringdisappointment,one’smindwill not stop fidgeting until it has been fully and finally disappointed. I could no longer holdmyself in check and accordingly crept out to investigate the kitchen. First, I peep into myabaloneshellinitsusualplacebehindthekitchenfurnace.Sureenough,theshellisempty,justas itwas last night after I’d licked it clean.Thismorning, that shell looks singularlydesolate,chillilyreflectingtheweirdglowoftheautumnsunlightfilteringdownthroughtheskylight.O-sanhasalreadytransferredtheboiledriceintotheservingcontainerandisnowstirringsoupinthesaucepanon the stove.Rice-rich liquid that hadboiled over in the cooking-pot has dried intohardstreaks,someofthemlookinglikestuck-onstripsofhigh-classpaper,downthesidesofthepot.Sincebothriceandsouparenowready,Ithoughtmyownbreakfastshouldbeservedatonce. It’s silly tobebackwardat such timesand,even if Idon’t succeed ingettingwhat Iwant,Ishan’tloseanythingbytrying.Afterall,evenahanger-onisasmuchentitledasanyoneelse to feel thepangsofhunger; sowhyshouldn’t I call out formybreakfast?First I triedacoaxingkindofmew;anappealing,evenamildlyreproachful,noise.O-sandoesnot taketheslightestnotice.Sinceshewasbornpolygonal, Iamperfectlywellaware thatherheart isascoldasaclock,but Iamcountingonmymewingskills tomoveher rustysympathies.Next Itriedmymost pitiablemiaowing. I believe this voice of entreaty has a tone so pathetic in itsloneliness that itshouldmakeawanderer inastrange land feel thathisheart isbeing torn inpieces.O-san ignores it completely.Can thiswomanactuallybedeaf?Hardly.Forwereshedeaf,she’dnotbeabletoholddownherjobasamaidservant.Perhapssheisdeafonlytocatvoices.Iunderstandthattherearepersonswhoarecolorblind.Thoughsuchpersonsmaythinktheir eyesight perfect, from themedical point of view they are in fact deformed. ThisO-sancreaturecouldbevoiceblind,andpersonssodeformedarenolessfreaksthantheircolorblindhomologues.Forameremonstrosity,she’sajollysighttoolordly.Takethenights,forinstance,howeverhardIpleadwithherthatIneedtogooutside,neveroncehassheopenedthedoor.Ifbysomeperversionofhercharactersheshouldonceletmeout,there’snotawaxcat’schanceinhell thatshe’dever letme inagain.Even insummer, thenightdew isbad forone’shealth,andwinterfrost isnaturallymuchworse.Youcan’t imaginetheagonyofstayingawakeundertheeavesandwaitingforthesuntorise.

Theothereveningwhen I chanced tobe shutout, some foul straydogattackedmeand

onlyby theskinofmy teethdid Imanage toescapeonto the roofof the tool shed, there toshiverthewholelongnightaway.

All such evil hours are brought uponme by the endlesswintriness of that hardwoman’sheart. I knowwell enough that from such a personmymiaowing performancewill evoke nokindness,but justas in theproverbahungrymanwill turn toGod,aman inwantwill turn torobberyandalovelornloonwilltaketowritingsongs,soinmyextremitywillItryanythingonce.Accordingly, ina lastattempttocatchherattention,mythirdeffortwasanespecially intricateinterweavingofmewsandmutedyowling,which,though,atleastinmyunshakablejudgement,a music no less moving than that of Beethoven, produces no effect whatsoever within thatimplacablecreature’sunsociablysavagebreast.

Suddenly,O-sansinksdowntoherkneesand,slidingoutaremovablefloorboard,extractsfromthecavitybelowastickofcharcoalroughlyfour incheslong.Rappedsharplyagainstthecornerofthestove,thelengthbrokeintosomethreemainpiecesandthesurroundingareawasliberallyshoweredwithblackdust.Aplentifulpowderingofcharcoalseemstohavebeenaddedto the soup, butO-san is not the kind ofwoman to be bothered by such trifles. She quicklyshoved the threemainpiecesunder thebottomof thesaucepanandso into thestove. I seelittleprospectofherinterruptinghersullenchorestogiveeartomysymphony.Well,that’sthewayitis.

Dejected,Isetoffbacktothelivingroomand,asIpassedbythebathroomdoor,Inoticedthat my master’s three small daughters were there busily engaged in washing their faces.Though I say theywerewashing their faces, the two older girls are still at the kindergartenstage,while the youngest is so tiny that she cannot even trail alongwith her sisters to theirplace of schooling. It follows that not one of them can yet properly wash her face ormakeherself presentable. The baby, having hauled a tangle of damp floor rags out of the mopbucket, ishappilyusing it tostrokeherface. Iwouldhavethought itmostunpleasanttowashone’s face with floor rags, but one cannot be surprised at any oddness in this child whoregularly responds to earthquakes with outcries of pure joy. Which may, of course, onlydemonstrate that she is a more enlightened being than Singleman Kidd. Now the eldest girltakestheresponsibilitiesofhersenioritywithexpectedlyofficiousseriousness.

Accordingly,shedropshergarglingcupandstarts trying topartherbabysister from thelatter’spreciousfloorrags.“Baby-dear,”shetellsher,“that’sforwipingfloors.”

ButBaby-dear,aself-opinionatedtot,isnotsoeasilypersuadedand,withapiercingshoutof“No,babu,”shetugsatthefloor-clothwhichhersisterhasjustgrabbed.Nobodyknowswhat“babu”meansorhowitsuseoriginated,butBaby-dear lets flywith itwhenevershe loseshertemper.

Asthechildrentugattheendsofthatsoddenrag,watersqueezedfromitscenterportionstartspitilesslydrippingdownonBaby-dear’stweetooters.Wereitonlyamatterofwetfeet,thatwouldbenogreatshakes,butsoonherkneesarealsosoppingwet.Baby-deariswearingabackhammon.I’vebeentryingtofindoutthemeaningofthatword,anditwouldseemthattothe children it signifiesany kindof pattern, in this casepatterned clothing, of amediumsize.Wheretheygotthisinformation,alas,Icouldnotsay.

“Baby-dear,” theeldest girl is saying, “your backhammon’sgettingwet.Beagoodbaby,Baby-dear,and letgoof thiscloth.”This is remarkably intelligentadvice,especially fromagirlwhoherselfuntiljustrecentlythoughtbackhammonwasakindofgame.Whichremindsmethatthiseldestgirl isconstantlymisusingwordsandthathermalapropismsnot infrequentlyamuse

heradultlisteners.Theotherdaysheremarkedthatcornflakesweresparkingupfromthefireandagain,whenbeingdosedwithcastoroil,askedwhetherthemedicinehadbeensqueezedfrom the brother of bollocks. She once haughtily announced that she was no common plumchild,anditwasseveraldaysbeforeIdiscoveredthatshewasinfactbraggingthatshe’dnotbeen born in some back slum.Mymaster sniggers whenever he hears such errors, but I’mprepared tobet thatwhenhe’s teachingEnglish inhisschool,hemakes insoberearnest farsilliermistakesthanhisdaughtereverdoes.

Baby-dear,whoincidentallyalwaysreferstoherselfasBaby-beer,at lastnoticesthatherbackhammonisnowsoakingwetand,bawlingoutthat“Baby-beer’sbackhammonisgotcold,”beginstohowlherheadoff.

Of course,a coldbackhammon isapretty seriousmatter, sohere comesO-san runningfromthekitchen.Quicklyshedispossessesthesquabblingchildrenoftheirtreasuredfloorragandcleansthebabyup.

Throughout thehullaballoo, theseconddaughter,Sunko,has remainedsuspiciouslyquiet.Standingwith her back toward us, she has got hold of a small jar of hermother’s cosmeticwhichhastumbledoffitsshelfandisnowbusyplasteringwhitepasteonherface.First,havingpokedherfingerintothejar,shedragsabroadwhitelinedownthelengthofhernose.Whichat leastmakesiteasiertoseewherehernoseis.Next,withherfinger liberallyreloaded,shedaubsthickblobsonhercheeksandrubsthestuffarounduntiltwowhitelumpsarestickingoutfromher face.Herbeautifyingself-adornmenthad reached this interestingstagewhenO-sanbustleduptodealwithBaby-dear.OnceBaby-dearwasset torights,Sunko,too,waswipedbackintohumansemblance.Sheemergedfromthewhitepastelookingdistinctlypeeved.

Leaving this distressing scene behindme, Imoved through the living room to inspectmymaster’sbedroomandsotoascertainwhetherornothehasatlastgotup.StealthilyIsquinnyintotheroom,butmymaster’sheadisnowheretobeseen.Instead,onelargeandhigh-archedsole is stickingout from thebottomendof theold-fashioned sleevedbedquilt.He seems tohaveburroweddowntoavoid theunpleasantnessofbeingwokenup.He looks, in fact, likeanottooclevertortoise.AtthispointMrs.Sneaze,whohadfinishedcleaningthestudy,returnedtothebedroomwithherbroomanddustershouldered.Haltingat theentrance,shecalledoutasbefore,“Haven’tyougotupyet?”thenstoodthereforawhile,gazingindisgustatthelumpofheadlessbedding.Asbefore,herquestionbroughtnoanswer.

Mrs.Sneazeadvancedashortwayintotheroom.Plantingherbroomuprightwithaslightlymenacingplunk,shepressedagainforananswer.

“Notyetwokenup,dear?”Thistime,mymasterisawakeallright.Indeed,itispreciselybecauseheisawakethathe

is now, head and body tucked well down, entrenched within the bedclothes against theexpectedonslaughtfromhiswife.Heseemstoberelyingonsomesillynotionthat,solongashekeepshisheadconcealed,hiswifemay fail tonotice thathe’s still snuggeddown inbed.Sheshowsnodispositiontolethimoffsoslightly.Herfirstcall,reckonedmymaster,hadcomefromthethreshold,sothereshouldstillbeareasonablysafedistance,perhapsasmuchassixfeet,betweenhimselfandher.Hewasconsequently shakenwhen theplunkofhergroundedbroom-haftcame from less than three feetoff.Worsestill,hersolicitous, “Notyetwokenup,dear?”sounded,evenunderthebedclothes,twicemoremenacingthanbefore.Seeingnohopeforit,mymasterthereuponsurrendered,andhissmallvoiceanswered,“Hmm.”

“Yousaidyou’dbetherebynineo’clock.Hurryup,oryou’llbelate.”

“Youdon’t have to tellme. I’mgettingup,” repliedmymasterwith his face spectacularlyvisiblethroughthecuffofonesleeveofthebedclothes.Hiswifeisusedtothisoldtrick.Oncehe hasmanaged to convince her that he’s going to get up, he usually goes straight back tosleepagain.Soshe’slearnttokeepasharpeyeonhismorninggambitsandthereforeanswershismumbled promises with a curt, “Well, get up now.” It’s annoying, when one’s said one’sgetting up, to be told then to get up. For a selfishman likemymaster, it is evenmore thanannoying.

Inonewild,angrygesture,he thrustsaside thepileofbedclothes thathe’sbeenkeepingoverhishead,andInotethathiseyesarestaringlywide-open.

“Don’tmakeallthatfuss.IfIsayI’mgettingup,thenI’mgettingup.”“Butyoualwayssayyou’regettingup,andthenyouneverdo.”“Nonsense!WhenhaveIevertoldaridiculouslielikethat?”“Why,always.”“Don’tbesosilly.”“Who are you calling silly? Answer me that.” She looks quite dashingly militant as she

stands there beside the bedwith her broomstick planted like a spear shaft. But at this verymoment,Yatchan,thechildoftherickshawmanwholivesinthestreetbehindus,suddenlyburstout cryingwith amost tremendous, “Waa!” That Yatchan should start crying as soon asmymastergetsangryistheresponsibilityofhisghastlymother.Forthewifeoftherickshawmanispaid tomake her baby scream every timemymaster gets into a fury.Which is fine for themoneygrubbingmother,butprettyhardonYatchan.Withamotherlikethat,achildcouldwellhavecausetocryaroundtheclock.Ifmymasterrealizedthewaythingshavebeenriggedandmadethelittleeffortneededtocontrolhimself,thenYatchanmightlivelongerthanseemslikely.Even though the victim’s mother is being handsomely rewarded by the Goldfields for hertorturingofherchild,onlyapersonfarmoredangerouslymadthanProvidenceFairwoulddosuchalunaticthing.WereYatchanonlymadetocryontheoccasionsofmymaster’sanger,hecouldprobably survive, but every time thatGoldfield’shirelinghooligans comeshouting roundthehouse,thentoothewretchedinfantishurtuntilhescreams.Itistakenforgrantedthatthehooligancatcallswill infuriatemymaster;so,whetherornotmymasterdoesflareup,Yatchancatcheshellinexpectationofmymaster’sanger.Everyvulgaryellassertingthatmymasterisaterracottabadgeristhusinvariablymatchedbyaheart-feltyellfromYatchan.Indeed,ithasbecomedifficulttodistinguishbetweenYatchanandmymaster.Itissimpletostartmymasteroff by indirect approaches.One only needs to torment Yatchan briefly to produce the sameeffectonmymasterasslappinghimdirectlyintheface.IunderstandthatyearsagoinEuropewheneveracondemnedcriminalescapedtoaforeignlandandcouldnotberecaptured,itwasthe custom to fashiona simulacrumof the fugitivewhichwas thenburnt in his stead.AmongthesehooligansofGoldfield’s thereseemstobea tacticianwellacquaintedwithsuchancientEuropeanpractices,andImustconfesshe’scertainlyworkedoutsomeverycleverploys.Boththe little louts fromCloudDescendingHall andYatchan’smother represent real problems formymasterwho,whenall issaidanddone, isamanof limitedabilities.Therearemanyotherequallyawkwardcustomerstobecopedwith.Onemightevensaythat,frommymaster’spointof view, the entire district is populated with awkward customers; since these others are notimmediately relevant to this story, I’ll introduce them later as developments require. For themoment,Iwillreturnyoutomymasterquarrelinginthebedroomwithhiswife.

OnhearingYatchancryandatsuchanearlyhour,mymastermusthavefeltreallyangry.

Hejerkedsharplyupintoasittingpositionamongthebedclothes,forattimesofsuchstressnoyearsofmental training,noteven thepresenceofSinglemanKiddhimself,couldexercise theleast restraint.Thenwithbothhandshebegan toscratchhisscalpwithsuchviciousviolencethat nearly every square inch of its skin was clawed away. Amonth’s accumulated dandruffcame floating down to settle nastily on his neck and pajama collar. It is a sight not easilyforgotten. Yet another shock greeted my wondering eyes when they fell upon his bristlingmoustache.Perhapsthatraggedgrowthfelt itwouldbelessthanseemlytobecalmwhenitsowner was so savagely distraught but, whatever the reason, each individual hair has gonecompletely berserkand, forgettingall senseof co-operation in the frightful vigor of their self-expression, the various hairs are jutting out like the bayonets of ill-trained conscripts inwhicheverwilddirectiontakestheirfranticfancy.

This, too, constitutes a sight not easily forgotten. Only yesterday, out of regard for thebathroommirrorandindeferencetotheGermanEmperor,thesehairshadobedientlymusteredthemselves into disciplined formation, but after no more than a single night’s repose all thebenefits of their training havebeen scattered to thewinds.Each separate conscript hair hasreverted to its aboriginal nature and has resumed that individuality which reduces themoustachetotheconditionofarabble.

Thesamesadprocessofrapiddegenerationmaybeobservedinmymaster.Inthespaceofasinglenighthismental training losesalleffect,andhis inbornboorishnesscomesbristlingback intoview througheverypore inhisskin.Whenonepauses towonderhowsuchawildlywhiskeredtuskerhasmanagedtokeephisjobasateacher,thenforthefirsttimeonegraspsthe varied vastness of Japan. Indeed, only a land of such true enormity could find room forGoldfield and his pack of snooping curs and rabid bitches to pass themselves off as humanbeings.

Mymasterseemstobelieve that inasocietywhere thosemonstrositiescan indeedpassforhuman,thereisnoconceivablereasonwhyhisownmodesteccentricitiesshouldleadtohisdismissal.Inthelastanalysisonecouldalwaysobtainanenlighteningexplanationofthewholecrazyset-upbysendingapostcardofenquirytothatnoblepilewhichsheltersProvidenceFair.

At this point my master opened his ancient eyes, whose drifting cloudiness I havepreviouslydescribedindetail,aswideastheycanstretchand,withanunaccustomedlysharpdance, stared at the cupboard in thewall that faced him. This cupboard is about six feet inheight,dividedhorizontallyintotopandbottomhalves,eachhalfhavingtwoslidingpaper-doors.Thebottomendofmymaster’sbedclothesreachedalmost to the lowerpartof thecupboardso that, having just sat up, he cannot help but focus, as soon as his lids are lifted, on thepicture-paintedpaperofthecupboard’sslidingdoors.Hereandtherethepaperskinhaspeeledor been torn away, and the curious underlayers, the flattened intestines of the panels, aredistinctly visible.These innardsareofmanydifferent sorts.Someareprintedpapers, othersare handwritten; some have been pasted face-side in, others upside-down. The sight of thisdisplayed anatomy of paper stirred in my master a sudden urge to read what was writtenthere.The fact thatmymaster,whountilbutamomentagowasso frenetically incensedthathecouldhappilyhavegrabbedthewifeoftherickshawmanandgroundhernoseagainstapinetree,nowsuddenlywishestoreadoldscrapsofpapermayseemalittlestrange,butactuallysuchconductisnotallthatunusualinanextrovertsoeasilyentered.Itisanotherversionofthesquallingbabywhostartstocooassoonasheisgivensweets.Yearsagoinhisstudentdays,whenmymaster lodged ina temple, therewere fiveorsixnuns living in the roomnext tohis

withnothingbuttheslidingpaper-doorsbetweenthem.Now,nunsarebynaturethecattiestofallcat-naturedwomen.

Thesenunsseemquicklytohaveperceivedthetrueandinmostcharacterofmymaster,fortheymadeittheirpracticetochant,tappingouttherhythmontherimoftheircooking-pot,thatjingleparentsusetoteaseachildaboutitschangeablemoods:

ThelittlecrowthatcriedandcriedHasgrownagrinsixincheswide.

Mymaster,I’vebeentold,hasloathednunseversince.Theymaywellbedetestable,buttheirchantingtoldatruth.For,thoughnoneofhismoodsislasting,mymastercontrivestoweep,tolaugh, to rollick, and be downcast more frequently than anyone else in the world. Putting itkindly,onemightsayheshowsacertainlackoftenacityandisinclinedtochangehismindforinsufficient reason. Translated into simple everyday language, that merely means that mymaster isashallow,stubborn,spoiledbrat.Now,beingaspoiledbrat, it’snotatallsurprisingthat,fulloffightingspirit,heshouldjerkhistorsofiercelyupfromthebedandthen,balancedonhisbottom,suddenlychangehismindandbegintoreadtheflattenedintestinesofadamagedcupboarddoor.

The first thing he noticed was a photograph of Itō Hirobumi standing on his head. Bytwistinghisnecktostudythedateassociatedwith this irreverentlypastedpicture,mymasterfoundit tobeSeptember28,1878.So,evenaslongastwenty-sevenyearsago,thepresentResident-General in Korea was already doing somersaults. Wondering how the Resident-General might have occupied himself before Korea was available to reside in, my mastercrooks himself sufficiently to decipher “FinanceMinister.” This certainly is a greatman.Evenwhenhe’sstandingonhishead,he’saFinanceMinister.Abittotheleftofthatinformation,theMinister again appears. This time he is lying down, having a siesta. Which is veryunderstandable. One cannot be expected to stand on one’s head for any protracted period.Near thebottomof theexposedarea, the twowords “Youare” canbe seenwritten in largeideographs. My master naturally wanted to read the rest of such an aggressively sizedsentence but, alas, nothingmore was visible. Of the next line down, all that can be read is“quickly”and,onceagain,there’snocluetotherestofthetext.IfmymasterwereadetectiveoftheMetropolitanPoliceBoard,hemighthavesatisfiedhiscuriositybyrippingofftherestofthetoplayerofpapereventhoughthecupboarddoor,itsskinanditsintestines,allbelongedtosomebodyelse.Sincenodetectivehasbeenproperlyeducated,suchbarbarouspersonswilldoanythingtosatetheirlustforfacts.Whichisalamentablestateofaffairs.

Iwishtheywouldbehavewithalittlemorecivilizedreserve.Matterswouldbeimprovedifarule were established that all facts should be withheld from detectives whose conduct lacksreserve.Iunderstandthatthesedisreputableservantsofthepublicsometimesarrestinnocentcitizensonthebasisoffalseaccusationsandmanufacturedevidence.

Thatpublicservants,employedandpaid forbyhonestcitizens,shouldbegivenscope topincrimesonthosewhopayandemploythemisyetanotherexampleofthelunaticconditionofhumansociety.

My master next studies the center part of the exposed paper where a map of OitaPrefecturehasbeenpastedupside-down.SincetheResident-General inKoreaisstandingonhis head, it’s not surprising thatOitaPrefecture should join him in his somersaults.Whenmymaster’seyeshadtaken in theoverthrowofOita,heclenchedbothhandsandthrusthis fistsonhightowardtheceiling.Thesemanticgesturesforetellacomingyawn.Hisyawning,too,issignallyabnormal:lessahumanyawnthantheyowlingofawhale.Thatperformanceover,mymasterpulledsomeclothesonandlurchedoffintothebathroomforawash.Hiswife,whohadbeen impatiently waiting for thismoment, quickly gathered up the quilt, folded it and put thebedclothesinthecupboard.Then,asusual,shebegantocleantheroom.JustasMrs.

Sneaze’scleaningsystemhasbecomeastylizeddrill,so tooover theyearsherhusbandhasestablishedaroutinepatternforwashinghisface.

I think I earlier mentioned his noisy morning gargling, its variations of bass and treblebubblement,and todayhe’sdoing itasusual.Finally,havingmade theusualcarefulparting inhishair,heappearedinthelivingroomwithahandtoweldrapedacrossoneshoulder.There,withalordlyair,hesathimselfdownbesidetheoblongbrazier.

Mentionofthatobjectmayleadsomeofyoutoimagineanoblongbraziermadefromfinezelkovawood.Someperhapsmaypictureabrazierofblackpersimmonwood, its innersidesentirely copper plated, against the lip of which a sexy-looking charmer with long and freshlywashedtresses,sittingwithonekneeraised,seductively tapsouther longslimtobaccopipe.ButpooroldSneaze’sbrazierissadlylessthanpicturesque.Itis,infact,soancientthatnonebut an expert could guess what wood was used to make it. The fine point about any suchoblongbrazier is thequalityandbrillianceof theglossacquiredbyyearsofpatientpolishing,but this brazier is not only undeterminedas to itsmaterial,which could aswell be cherry aszelkova and paulownia as cherry, but has never once been polished. It is consequently agloomyandmostrepellentobject.Where,Iwonder,couldhehavegottenit?Hewouldcertainlynothaveboughtit.Couldit,then,havebeenapresent?

Not that I’ve ever heard.Which leaves uswith the possibility that he stole it, and at thispointallhistoriesofthebrazierbecomealittlevague.

Manyyearsago,amongmymaster’srelativestherewasanold,oldman.Whenthatancientdied,mymasterwasaskedtoliveinthedeadman’shouseandjustlook

afterit.Someyearslaterwhenmymastermovedouttooccupyhisown,newhouse,hesimplytookalongwithhim,possiblyunthinkingly,theoblongbrazierwhichhehadusedsooftenthathehad come to regard it as his personal property. Usufruct decaying into usucaption, whichsounds a little wicked. Indeed, when one considers thematter, his act was certainly wrong.However,suchhappeningsarecommonenough.Forinstance,Iunderstandthatbankersgrowso accustomed to handling other people’s money that they come to regard it as their own.Similarly, public officials are the servants of the people and can reasonably be regarded asagents to whom the people have entrusted certain powers to be exercised on the people’sbehalf in the running of public affairs. But as these officials grow accustomed to their dailycontrolofaffairs,theybegintoacquiredelusionsofgrandeur,actasthoughtheauthoritytheyexercisewas in fact their own and treat the people as though the people had no say in thematter.Sincetheworldisthusdemonstrablyfullofsuchusurpers,onecannotbrandmymasterasa thief justbecauseof thisbusinesswith theoblongbrazier.However, ifyou insist thathehasathievishdisposition,anevidencedinclinationtotheft,thentheplainfactisthathesharesthatcriminalcantwitheveryoneelseintheworld.

Ihadgotas farassayingthatmymastersatdownbesidetheoblongbrazier,but Ihavenot yetexplained that, indoingso,hewas in fact seatinghimself at thedining table.Seatedaround the other three sides and already tucking into their breakfasts were Baby-dear, whocleansherfacewithfloorrags;Tonko,whoselearningincludesthestarryphenomenaofCastorandBollocks;andsweet littleSunko,whopokesabout intomake-upjars.Mymaster looksathisthreedaughterswithimpartialdistaste.Tonko’sfaceisflatandroundlikethesteelguardonsome old-fashioned sword. Sunko takes after her elder sister so far as face shape isconcerned, but its color immediately putsme inmind of those round red lacquer trays fromOkinawa. Baby-dear’s face is the odd one out, and very odd it is: long and square at thecorners,with the long sidesof theoblong stretching sideways.Of themselves, oblongheadsarenotuncommonbut insuchcases thegreater length isvertical.Anoblonghead likeBaby-dear’s,horizontallylong,is,Ithink,unheardof.

Howeververtiginousthevarianceoffashion,Icannotbelievethatasquarefacesquashedoutsidewayswilleverprovetherage.Mymastersuffersrandomspasmsofconcernabouthisgrowingdaughters.Theirgrowth isunpreventable,and theyarecertainlyall growing. Indeed,thespeedoftheirgrowthremindsoneofthesheerblueforceofabambooshootacceleratingintosaplingsizeinthegardenofsomeZen-purveyingtemple.Everytimemymasternoticesanincreaseinhischildren’ssize,hebecomesasnervousasifaninexorablepursuerwerecatchingupbehindhim.Thoughan inordinatelyvagueperson,mymasterdoesrealize that these threedaughtersareall females.Healsounderstands that,being females,properarrangements fortheirdispositionmustbemade.

He understands, yes, but that is all, for he further realizes that he is quite incapable ofgetting themmarried off. Therefore, though they are indeed his very own offspring, he findsthemmore thanhecares for. If he’s thekindof fatherwho findshis childrenabit toomuch,then he should never have produced them.But such behavior is all too typically human. It ispainfullyeasytodefinehumanbeings.Theyarebeingswho,fornogoodreasonatall,createtheirownunnecessarysuffering.

Butchildrenareterrific.Notevendreamingthattheirfatheristhusworriedstiffaboutwhattodowith them, theygooneatinghappily.Theonlyunmanageableone isBaby-dear.Baby-dear is now nearly three-years-old, so hermother, seeking to be kind, has provided for hermealtimeuseapairofchopsticksandaricebowl,allofsizeappropriatetoherage.ButBaby-dear will have none of it. First she grabs her eldest sister’s chopsticks, then her rice bowl.Though theyare too large for her, she struggles to control thesequiteunmanageable things.Onefinds inthissadworldthatamongmean-spiritedpersons, thegreater their incompetenceandinefficiency,thesharpertheirsenseofself-importanceandthemorevirulenttheirambitiontooccupyunsuitablyhighofficialposts.

ThisstyleofcharacteralwaysbeginstodevelopatthestagenowreachedbyBaby-dear;and, since the roots of these defects of character run down so deeply into babyhood, wisepersons quickly resign themselves to the wretched truth that no subsequent discipline oreducationcaneradicatesuchflaws.Baby-dearpositivelywallowsinhertinytyrannies,refusingtosurrendertheenormousricebowlandtheheftychopsticksthatshe’slootedfromhersister.Perhaps,sincesheisseekingbysheerviolencetocontrolobjectsfartoobigforhertohandle,shehasnochoicebuttoplaythetyrant.Inanyevent,shebeginsbyclampingbothchopstickstight together ina firmgripapplied too fardown toward their lowerends.She then rams thiswoodenwedgeintothebottomofthericebowl,whichisaboutfour-fifthsfullofricetoppedup

toitsbrimwithbean-pastesoup.Thericebowlhadmanaged,somewhatprecariously,toretainitsbalancethroughoutBaby-dear’s initial raidbut,assoonas it felt theforceofherchopstickbatteringram, it tiltedsomethirtydegreesoutof thetrueandpouredasluiceofstill-hotsoupalldownthefrontofitsassailant.ButBaby-dearisnottobedauntedbysuchapettysetback.For Baby-dear’s a tyrant. Accordingly, she yanks the chopsticks savagely out of the bowl,shoves her rosebudmouth right up against the rice bowl’s lip, and then proceeds to shovelmassesof soggy rice intoher slurpingmaw.Grains thatescapeherwild styleof engulfmentjoined thesoup in itsbid for freedomand,withahappyshout,alightedvariouslyonhernosetip,onhercheeks,andonherchin.

Those,andtheyweremany,thatmissedtheirhumantargetfinishedupondifferentpartsofthefloor.Thisisamostrecklessmannerinwhichtoeatrice.Irespectfullyadviseallpersonsinpositionsofpower,includingthatinfamousGoldfieldfellow,thatiftheypersistintreatingpeoplewiththesamecrudeviolencethatBaby-dearappliestothericebowlandthechopsticks,theytoowillfinishupwithonlyaspatteringofricegrainsintheirmouths.Theonlygrainsthatwill,infact, landup in theirgulletswillnotbe thoseonwhompressurehasbeenapplied,butmerelythosethathavelostallsenseofdirection.Idomostearnestlyentreatallpersonsofinfluencetoreflectdeeplyuponthismatter.Menwhoaretrulywiseinthisworldneveractsostupidly.

Theeldestgirl,herbowlandchopstickssnitchedbythebaby,hasbeenobligedtomakedowith Baby-dear’s dwarf versions, but the baby’s bowl can hold so little rice that three quickmouthfuls empty it. Forced into frequent replenishments, she has already downed her fourthhelpingandisapparentlygoingtotakeafifth.Sheliftsthelidoftherice-containerand,holdingthebroad ricescoopmomentarilypoised,staresat thebunkeredgrainsas thoughundecidedwhetherornottohelpherselftomore.Intheendsheplumpsforanotherbowlfulandcarefullyscoopsoutadollopof rice that looksunburnt.So far,sogood.However,asshebrought theladenscoopuptowardtherimofherbowl,sheaccidentallybangedthetwotogether,withtheresult that a largish lump of rice fell down onto the floor. Looking not the least put out, shebegantopickitupagainwithalmostfinickingcare.Naturally,Iwonderedwhatshewasgoingtodowithit.Sheputitall,everysinglegrain,backintothecontainer.Whichseemsadirtythingtodo.Theconclusionof thisuglybusinesscameat thesamemomentas theclimaxofBaby-dear’sperformancewiththeshovelingchopsticks.AndaneldestsistercanhardlybeexpectedtooverlookafaceasfoullyspatteredwithriceasBaby-dear’s.

“Baby-dear,youlookterriblewithyourfaceallcoveredinrice.”Shebeginstocleanupthemess.First,shedisengagedthericegrainstickingonthebaby’snosebut,insteadofthrowingit away, popped it,much tomy surprised disgust, into her ownmouth. Next she tackles thecheeks.

Herethegrains,sometwentyaltogether,areclottedinscatteredgroups.Onebyone,hereldestsisterpickedthekernelsoffthebaby’scheeks,andonebyonesheatethem.

At this point, the middle sister, Sunko, who hitherto has demurely busied herself withcrunchingpickled radish,suddenlyscooped fromherbrimmingsoupbowlabrokengobbetofsweet potato and slung that wretched object straight into her widely opened mouth. As myreaders are no doubt aware, nothing can sear the mouth more painfully than sweet potatocookedinbean-pastesoup.Unlessverycareful,evenahardenedadultcangivehimselfatrulynasty burn. It is thus understandable that a mere beginner in the art of eating such sweetpotatoes should feel scorched, as certainly did Sunko, out of her tiny mind. With a fearfulsquawking,“Waa,”shespattheburninggobbetoutuponthetable.Thisslightlymangledobject

skiddedacrossthetablesurface,comingatlasttorestwithinconvenientgrabbingdistanceofBaby-dear.NowBaby-dear,as tough-mouthedasacarthorse, justdotesonsweetpotatoes.Seeingher favoritegoodyskid toasteaminghaltonlyahand’sstretch fromher rice-strippedface,shepitchedawayherchopsticks,snatchedthesweetpotatoandgobbleditgladlydown.

My master, a fully conscious witness of all these ghastly happenings, watches them asdispassionatelyasiftheywereoccurringonsomeotherplanet.Withoutsayingaword,hehasquietlygotonwitheatinghisownriceandsoup,andisnowengagedinprobinghisjawswithatoothpick.

Heseemstobefollowingapolicyofcompletenon-intervention,evenofmasterlyinactivity,in the rearing of his daughters. One fine day in the not too distant future this trio of brightcollegegirlsmaybe fated to find themselveswild loverswithwhom, for thesakeofpassion,they’llrunawayfromhome.Ifthatinfactshouldhappen,Iexpectthat,calmlycontinuingtoeathisriceandsoup,mymasterwilljustwatchthemastheygoupontheirways.Heiscertainlyaman of little resource, but I’ve noticed that those who are nowadays regarded as mostadmirablyresourcefulknownothing, in fact,excepthowtodeceivetheir fellowswith lies,howtosneakupupontheunwary,howtojumpqueues,howtocreateasensationbybluffing,andbywhat tricks toensnare thesimple-minded.Evenboysat themiddleschool level, influencedbysuchconduct,gettheideathatonlybysuchmeanscantheyexpecttomaketheirwayintheworld. Indeedtheyseemto think that theycanonlybecomefinegentlemenby thesuccessfulperpetrationofactsofwhichtheyought, intruth,tobethoroughlyashamed.Ofcourse,theseimitative loutlings do not display resource, and are in fact no more than hooligans. Being aJapanese cat, I have a certain amount of patriotic sentiment and, every time I see theseallegedlyresourcefulcreaturesIwishIhadthechancetogivethemaright,goodhiding.Eachnewcreatureofthattypeweakensthenationtothedegreeofhispresence.Suchstudentsareadisgracetotheirschool,andsuchadultsadisgracetotheircountry.Nonetheless,disgracefulas they are, there are lots of them about.Which is really inexplicable. The human beings inJapan, shamefully enough, seem less mettlesome than the cats. One must admit that,compared with hooligans, mymaster is a very superior model of humankind. He is superiorbecausehe isweak-minded.Hisveryuselessnessmakeshim their superior.He is their clearsuperiorbecauseheisnotsmart.

Havingthusuneventfully,andwithashowofnoresourcewhatever, finishedhisbreakfast,mymaster put on his suit, climbed into a rickshawand left to keephis appointmentwith thepolice.As he climbedaboard, he’d asked the rickshawman if he knew the location ofNihon-zutsumi.

The rickshawman just grinned. I thought it rather silly of my master to make a point ofremindingtherickshawmanthathisdestinationlayinthebrothelquarter.

Aftermymaster’sunusualdeparture—unusual,thatis,becauseheleftinarickshaw—Mrs.Sneazehadherownbreakfastandthenstartednaggingatthechildren.“Hurryup,”shesays,“oryou’llbelateforschool.”

Butthechildrenpaynoheed.“Thereisn’t,”theyanswerback,“anyschooltoday,”andtheymakenoefforttogetthemselvesready.

“Ofcoursethereis,”shesnapsinalecturingtoneofvoice.“Hurryandgetready.”“Butyesterdaytheteachersaid,‘Wehavenoschooltomorrow,’”theeldestgirlpersists.ItwasprobablyatthispointthatMrs.Sneazebegantosuspectthatthechildrenmightbe

right.Shewenttothecupboard,liftedoutacalendarandcheckedthedate.Todayismarkedin

red, thesignofanationalholiday. I fancy thatmymasterwasunawareof this factwhenhesentanotetohisschooladvisingthemofhisabsence.Ifancy,too,thatMrs.

Sneaze was similarly unaware when she put his note in the post. As forWaverhouse, Ican’tmakeupmymindwhetherhe,too,wasunawareorwhetherhesimplyfounditdivertingtokeepquiet.

Mrs.Sneaze,surprisedandsoftenedbythisdiscovery,toldthechildrentogooutandplay.“Butplease,”shebadethem,“justbehaveyourselves.”

Shethensettleddown,asshedailydoes,togetonwithhersewing.Forthenexthalfhourpeacereignedthroughoutthehouse,andnothinghappenedworthmy

bother to record. Then, out of the blue, an unexpected visitor arrived: a young girl, studentaged,Iwouldguess,perhapsseventeenoreighteen.Theheelsofhershoeshadworncrookedand her long, purple skirt trailed along the ground. Her hair was quaintly dressed in two bigbulgesabovetheears,sothatherheadresembledanabacusbead.Unannounced,shewalkedinthroughthekitchenentrance.Thisapparitionismymaster’sniece.Theysaysheisastudent.She’salwaysliabletodropinonaSunday,andsheusuallycontrivestohavesomekindofrowwithheruncle.Thisyoung ladypossesses theunusuallybeautifulnameofYukiebut, far fromreminding itsviewersofasnowyriver,her ruddy featuresareof thatdullnormalitywhichyoucanseeinanystreetifyoutakethetroubletowalkahundredyards.

“Hullo, Auntie!” she casually remarked as, marching straight into the living room, sheplonkedherselfdownbesidethesewingbox.

“Mydear,howearlyyouare...”“Becausetoday’sanationalholiday.IthoughtI’dcomeandseeyouinthemorning,soIleft

homeinahurryabouthalfpasteight.”“Oh?Foranythingspecial?”“No,butIhaven’tseenyouforsuchalongtime,andIjustwantedtosayhullo.”“Wellthen,don’tjustsayhullobutstayforabit.Yourunclewillsoonbeback.”“HasUnclegoneoutalready?That’sunusual!”“Yes,andtodayhe’sgonetoratheranunusualplace.Infact,toapolicestation.Isn’tthat

odd?”“Whateverfor?”“They’vecaughtthemanwhoburgleduslastspring.”“AndUncle’sgottogiveevidence?Whatabore.”“Notaltogether.We’regoingtogetourthingsback.Thestolenarticleshaveturnedupand

we’vebeenaskedtogoandcollectthem.Apolicemancamearoundyesterdayespeciallytotellus.”

“Isee.OtherwiseUnclewouldn’thavegoneoutasearlyasthis.Normallyhe’dstillbesnoring.”“There’s no one quite such a lie-abed as your uncle, and if one wakes him up he gets

extremelycross.Thismorning,forinstance,becausehe’daskedmetowakehimupatseven,that’swhenIwokehimup.Andd’youknow,hepromptlycreptinsidethebedclothesanddidn’tevenanswer.

Naturally,Iwasworriedabouthisappointmentwiththepolice,butwhenItriedtowakehimup for thesecond time,hesaidsomething ratherunkind throughasleeveof thepaddedbedclothes.Really,he’sthelimit.”

“Iwonderwhyhe’salwayssosleepy.Perhaps,”saidhisniece inalmostpleasuredtones,

“hisnervesareshottopieces.”“Idon’tknow,I’msure.”“Hedoeslosehistemperfartooeasily.Itsurprisesmethattheykeephimonasateacher

atthatschool.”“Well,I’mtoldhe’sawfullygentleattheschool.”“Whichonlymakesthingsworse.Ablow-hardinthehouseandallthistledownatschool.”“Whatd’youmean,dear?”asksmymistress.“Well,don’tyouthinkit’sbadthatheshouldactaroundhereliketheKingofHellandthen

appearatschoollikesomequakingjelly?”“And of course it’s not just that he’s so terribly bad tempered.He’s also an orneryman.

When one says right, he immediately says left; if one says left, then he says right. And henever,butnever,doesanythingthathe’sbeenaskedtodo.He’sasstubbornandcrank-mindedasamule.”

“Cantankerous,Icallit.Beingplaincontraryishiswhole-timehobby.Formyself if I everwant him to do something, I just ask him to do the opposite. And it

alwaysworks.Forinstance,theotherdayIwantedhimtobuymeanumbrella.SoIpurposelykepton tellinghim that I didn’twantone. ‘Of courseyouwantanumbrella,’ heexplodedandpromptlywentandboughtmeone.”

Mrs.Sneazebrokeoutinawomanlyseriesofgigglesandtitters.“Oh,howcleveryouare,”shesaid,“I’lldothesameinfuture.”

“Youcertainlyshould.You’llnevergetanythingoutofthatoldskin-flintifyoudon’t.”“Theotherdayaninsurancemancalledaroundandhetriedhardtopersuadeyouruncleto

takeoutan insurancepolicy.Hepointedout thisand thatadvantageanddidhisverybest foraboutanhourtotalkyourunclearound.Butyourobstinate,oldunclewasnottobepersuaded,even thoughwehave threechildrenandnosavings. If onlyhewould takeouteven themostmodest insurance, we’d naturally all feel verymuchmore secure. But a fat lot he cares forthingslikethat.”

“Quite so. If anything should happen, you could be very awkwardly placed.” This girldoesn’t sound like a teenager at all, but more, and most unbecomingly, like an experience-hardenedhousewife.

“Itwasreallyratheramusingtohearyourunclearguingwiththatwretchedsalesman.Yourunclesaid,‘Allright,perhapsIcanconcedethenecessityofinsurance.Indeed,Ideducethatitis by reason of that necessity that insurance companies exist.’Nevertheless he persisted inmaintainingthat‘nobodyneedstogetinsuredunlesshe’sgoingtodie.’”

“Didheactuallysaythat?”“Hedidindeed.Inevitably,thesalesmananswered,‘Ofcourse,ifnobodyeverdied,there’d

benoneedforinsurancecompanies.Buthumanlife,howeverdurableitmaysometimesseem,is in facta fragileandprecarious thing.Nomancaneverknowwhathiddendangersmenacehistenuousexistence.’Towhichyouruncleretorted,‘I’vedecidednottodie,sohavenoworryonmyaccount.’Canyouimagineanyoneactuallysayingsuchanidioticthing?”

“Howextremely silly!Onedies even if onedecides not to.Why, Imyselfwasabsolutelydeterminedtopassmyexams,but,infact,Ifailed.”

“Theinsurancemansaidthesamething.‘Life,’hesaid,‘can’tbecontrolled.Ifpeoplecouldprolongtheirlivesbystrengthofresolution,nobodyanywherewouldeverleavethisearth.’”

“Theinsurancemanmakessensetome.”

“I certainly agree. But your uncle cannot see it. He swears he’ll never die. ‘I’vemade avow,’hetoldthatsalesmanwithalltheprideofanincompoop,‘never,nevertodie.’”

“Howveryodd.”“Ofcoursehe’sodd,veryoddindeed.Helooksentirelyunconcernedasheannouncesthat,

ratherthanpayingpremiumsforinsurance,hepreferstoholdhissavingsinabank.”“Hashegotanysavings?”“Ofcoursenot.Hejustdoesn’tgiveadamnwhathappensafterhisdeath.”“That’sveryworrisomeforyou.Iwonderwhatmakeshimsopeculiar.There’snoonelike

himamonghisfriendswhocomehere,isthere?”“Ofcoursethere’snot.He’sunique.”“Youshouldasksomeone likeSuzuki togivehima talking-to. Ifonlyhewereasmildand

manageableasSuzuki,hewouldbesomucheasiertocopewith.”“Iunderstandwhatyoumean,butMr.Suzukiisnotwellthoughtofinthishouse.”“Everythinghereseemsupside-down.Well,ifthat’snogood,whataboutthatotherperson,

thatpersonofsuchsingularself-possession?”“SinglemanKidd?”“Yes,him.”“Your uncle recognizes Singleman’s superiority, but only yesterday we had Waverhouse

around herewith somedreadful tales to tell of Singleman’s behavior and past history. In thecircumstances,Idon’tthinkSinglemancouldbemuchhelp.”

“Butsurelyhecoulddo it.He’ssogenerouslyself-possessed,suchawinningpersonality.Theotherdayhegavealectureatmyschool.”

“Singlemandid?”“Yes.”“Doesheteachatyourschool?”“No, he’s not one of our teachers, but we invited him to give a lecture to ourWomen’s

SocietyfortheProtectionofFemaleVirtue.”“Wasitinteresting?”“Well, not all that interesting.But hehas sucha long faceandhe sports sucha spiritual

goatee,soeveryonewhohearshimisnaturallymuchimpressed.”“Whatsortofthingsdidhetalkabout?”Mrs.Sneazehadbarelyfinishedhersentencewhen

the three children, presumably drawn by the sound of Yukie’s voice, came bursting noisilyacrosstheverandaandintothelivingroom.Iimaginetheyhadbeenplayingoutsideintheopenspacejustbeyondthebamboofence.

“Hurray,it’sYukie,”shoutedthetwoeldergirlswithboisterouspleasure.“Don’t get so excited, children,” saidMrs. Sneaze. “Come and sit down quietly. Yukie is

going to tell us an interesting story.” So saying, she shoved her sewing things away into acorneroftheroom.

“AstoryfromYukie?”saystheeldest.“Oh,Idolovestories.”“WillyoubetellingusagainthattaleofClick-ClackMountain?”askstheseconddaughter.“Baby-dearastory!”shoutsthebabyassheramsherkneeforwardbetweenhersquatting

sisters.Thisdoesnotmeanthatshewantsto listentoastory.Onthecontrary, itmeansshewantstotellone.

“What!Baby-dear’sstoryyetagain!”screamherlaughingsisters.“Baby-dear, you shall tell us your story afterward,” says Mrs. Sneaze cajolingly, “after

Yukiehasfinished.”ButBaby-dear is innomood forsopsorcompromises. “No,”shebellows, “now!”And to

establish thatshe’s totally inearnest,sheaddshergnomicwarningofa tantrum. “Babu,”shethundered.

“Allright,allright.Baby-dearshallstart,”saysYukieplacatingly.“What’syourstorycalled?”“‘Bo-tan,Bo-tan,whereyougoing?’”“Verygood,andwhatnext?”“Igoricefield,Icutrice”“Aren’tyouacleverone!”“Ifyoutumthere,ricegorotten”“Hey,it’snot‘tumthere,’it’s‘ifyoucomethere.’”Oneofthegirlsbuttsinwithacorrection.

Thebabyrespondswithherthreateningroarof“Babu,”andherinterruptingsisterimmediatelysubsides.But the interruption has broken the baby’s train of remembrance so that, stuck forwords,shesitsthereinagloweringsilence.

“Baby-dear,isthatall?”asksYukieathersweetest.Thebabyponderedforamomentandthenexclaimed,“Don’twantfart-fart,thatnotnice.”Therewasa burst of unseemly laughter. “What a dreadful thing to say!Whoever’s been

teachingyouthat?”“O-san,”saysthetreacherousbratwithanundisarmingsmirk.“HownaughtyofO-santosaysuchthings,”saysMrs.Sneazewithaforcedsmile.Quickly

endingthematter,sheturnedtoherniece.“Now,it’stimeforYukie’sstory.You’ll listentoher,won’tyou,Baby-dear?Yes?”

Tyrantthoughsheis,thebabynowseemstobesatisfied,forsheremainedquiet.“ProfessorSingleman’slecturewentlikethis,”Yukiebeganatlast.“Onceupona timeabigstone imageof theguardiangodofchildrenstoodsmack in the

middleoftheplacewheretworoadscrossed.Unfortunately, it was a very busy place with lots of carts and horses moving along the

roads.So thisbigstoneJizō, interferingwith the flowof traffic,wasreallyanawfulnuisance.Thepeoplewholivedinthatdistrictthereforegottogetheranddecidedthatthebestthingtodowouldbetomovethebigstoneimagetoonecornerofthecrossroads.”

“Isthisastoryofsomethingthatactuallyhappened?”asksMrs.Sneaze.“Idon’tknow.TheProfessordidnotmentionwhether the talewasrealornot.Anyway, it

seems that the people then began to discuss how the statue could in fact be moved. Thestrongestmanamongst themtold themnot toworry, forhecouldeasilydothe job.Sooffhewent to thecrossroads,strippedhimself to thewaistandpushedandpulledat thebigstoneimageuntilthesweatpoureddownhisbody.ButtheJizōdidnotmove.”

“Itmusthavebeenmadeofterriblyheavystone.”“Indeeditwas.Soterriblyheavythatintheendthatstrongestmanofthemallwastotally

exhaustedand trudgedbackhome tosleep.So thepeoplehadanothermeetingand talked itoveragain.Thistimeitwasthesmartestmanamongstthemwhosaid,‘Letmehaveagoatit,’sotheylethimhaveago.HefilledaboxwithsweetdumplingsandputitdownonthegroundalittlewayinfrontoftheJizō.‘Jizō,’hesaid,pointingtothedumplingbox,‘comealonghere.’Forhereckonedthatthebigstonefellowwouldbegreedyenoughtobeluredforwardinorderto

getat thegoodies.ButtheJizōdidnotmove.Thoughtheclevermancouldseenoflawinhisstyleofapproach,hecalculatedthathemusthavemisjudgedtheappetitesofJizō.Sohewentawayand filledagourdwithsakéand thencameback to thecrossroadswith thedrink-filledgourdinonehandandasakécupintheother.ForaboutthreehourshetriedtoteasetheJizōintomoving.‘Don’tyouwantthislovelysaké?’hekeptshouting.

‘If you want it, come and get it! Come and drink this lovely saké. Just a step and thegourd’sallyours.’ButtheJizōdidnotmove.”

“Yukie,”askstheeldestdaughter,“doesn’tMr.Jizōevergethungry?”“I’ddoalmostanything,”observedheryoungersister,“foraboxfulofsweetdumplings.”“For the second time the clever man got nowhere. So he went away again and made

hundreds and hundreds of imitation banknotes. Standing in front of the big stone god, heflashedhisfancymoneyinandoutofhispocket.‘I’llbetyou’dlikeafistfulofthesebanknotes,’heremarked,

‘sowhynotcomeandgetthem?’Buteventheflashingofbanknotesdidnogood.TheJizōdidnotmove.Hemust,Ithink,havebeenquiteanobstinateJizō.”

“Ratherlikeyouruncle,”saidMrs.Sneazewithasniff.“Indeedso, the very imageofmyuncle.Well, in theend the clevermanalsogaveup in

disgust.Atwhichpointalongcameabraggartwhoassuredthepeoplethattheirproblemwasthesimplestthingintheworldandthathewouldcertainlysettleitforthem.”

“Sowhatdidthebraggartdo?”“Well, itwasallveryamusing.First,he riggedhimselfout inapoliceman’suniformanda

falsemoustache.Thenhemarchedup to thebigstone imageandaddressed it ina loudandpompousvoice. ‘You there,’hebellowed,‘movealongnow,quietly. Ifyoudon’tmoveon,you’llfindyourself in trouble.Theauthoritieswillcertainlypurpose thematterwith theutmost rigor.’Thismustall havehappened longago,” saidYukiebywayof comment, “for I doubtwhethernowadaysyoucouldimpressanyonebypretendingtobeapoliceman.”

“Quite.Butdidthatold-timeJizōmove?”“Ofcourseitdidn’t.ItwasjustlikeUncle.”“Butyourunclestandsverymuchinaweofthepolice.”“Really?Well, if theJizōwasn’tscaredby thebraggart’s threatenings, theycouldn’thave

beenparticularlyfrightening.Anyway,theJizōwasunimpressedandstayedwhereitwas.Thebraggart then grew deucedly angry. He stormed off home, took off his copper’s uniform,pitchedhisfalsemoustacheintoarubbishbinandreappearedatthecrossroadsgotuptolooklikeanextremelywealthyman.Indeed,hecontortedhisfacetoresemblethefeaturesofBaronIwasaki.Canyouimagineanythingquitesopotty?”

“WhatsortoffaceisBaronIwasaki’s?”“Well, probably very proud. Toffee-nosed, you know. Anyway, saying nothing more, but

puffingavastcigar,thebraggarttooknofurtheractionbuttowalkaroundandaroundtheJizō.”“Whateverfor?”“TheideawastomaketheJizōdizzywithtobaccosmoke.”“Itallsoundslikesomestoryteller’sjoke!DidhesucceedindizzyingtheJizō?”“No,theideadidn’twork.Afterall,hewaspuffingagainststone.Then,insteadofjustabandoninghispantomimes,henextappeareddisguisedasaprince.

Whataboutthat?”“Asaprince?Didtheyhaveprinceseveninthosedays?”

“Theymust have, for Professor Kidd said so. He said that, blasphemous as it was, thisbraggart actually appeared in the trappings of a prince. I really think such conduct mostirreverent.Andthemannothingbutaboastfultwerp!”

“Yousayheappearedasaprince,butaswhichprince?”“Idon’tknow.Whicheverprinceitwas,theactremainsirreverent.”“Howrightyouare.”“Well, even princely power proved useless. So, finally stumped, the braggart threw his

handinandadmittedhecoulddonothingwiththeJizō.”“Servedhimright!”“Yes indeed,and,what’smore,heought tohavebeen jailed forhis impudence.Anyway,

thepeopleinthetownwerenowreallyworried,butthoughtheygottogetherforafurtherpow-wow,noonecouldbepersuadedtotakeanothercrackattheproblem.”

“Isthathowitallfinished?”“No, there’smore tocome. In theend, theypaidwholegangsof rickshawmenandother

riff-raff to mill around the Jizō with asmuch hullaballoo as possible. The idea was to makethings so unbearably unpleasant that the Jizō would move on. So, taking it in turns, theymanagedtokeepupanincredibledinbydayandnight.”

“Whatapainfulbusiness!”“Butevensuchdesperatemeasuresbroughtnojoy,fortheJizō,too,wasstubborn.”“Sowhathappened?”asksTonkoeagerly.“Well, by now everyonewas getting pretty fed up because, though they kept the racket

goingfordaysandnightsonend,thedinhadnoeffect.Onlytheriff-raffandtherickshawmenenjoyedtherowtheymade,andtheyofcoursewerehappybecausetheyweregettingwagesformakingthemselvesanuisance.”

“What,”askedSunko,“arewages?”“Wagesaremoney.”“Whatwouldtheydowithmoney?”Yukiewasflummoxed.“Well,whentheyhavemoney. . .”shebeganandthendodgedthe

questionfirstbyaloudfalselaughandthenbytellingSunkohownaughtyshewas.“Anyway,”she continued, “the people just went on making their silly noises all through the day and allthrough the night.Now it so happened that at that time therewas an idiot boy in the districtwhomtheyallcalledDaftBamboo.Hewas,asthesayinggoes,simple.Heknewnothing,andnobodyhadanythingtodowithhim.Eventually,eventhissimpletonnoticedtheterribleracket.‘Why,’heasked‘areyoumakingallthatnoise?’Whensomeoneexplainedthesituation,theidiotboy remarked, ‘What idiots youare, trying for all these years to shift a single Jizōwith suchidiotictricks.’”

“Aremarkablespeechfromanidiot.’”“Hewasindeedaratherremarkablefool.Ofcoursenobodythoughthecoulddoanygood

but,sincenooneelsehaddonebetter,whynot,theysaid,whynotlethimhaveagoatit?SoDaftBamboowasaskedtohelp.Heimmediatelyagreed.‘Stopthathorriblenoise,’hesaid,‘andjustkeepquiet.’Theriff-raffandtherickshawmenwerepackedoffsomewhereoutofsight,andDaftBamboo,asvacuousasever,thenwalkeduptotheJizōwithutteraimlessness.”

“WasUtterAimlessnessaspecialfriendofDaftBamboo?”Mrs.SneazeandYukieburstintolaughteratTonko’scuriousquestion.“No,notafriend.”

“Then,what?”“Well,utteraimlessnessis...impossibletodescribe.”“‘Utteraimlessness’means‘impossibletodescribe’?”“No,that’snotit.Utteraimlessnessmeans...”“Yes?”“YouknowMr.Sampei,don’tyou?”“Yes,he’stheonewhogaveusyams.”“Well,utteraimlessnessmeanssomeonelikeMr.Sampei.”“IsMr.Sampeianutteraimlessness?”“Yes, more or less. . . Now, Daft Bamboo ambled up to the Jizō with his hands in his

pocketsandsaid, ‘Mr.Jizō, thepeople in this townwould likeyou tomove.Wouldyoubesokindastodoso?’AndtheJizōpromptlyreplied,‘OfcourseI’lldoso.Whyeverdidn’ttheycomeandaskbefore?’Withthatheslowlymovedawaytoacornerofthecrossroads.”

“Whatapeculiarstatue!”“Thenthelecturestarted.”“Oh!Istheremoretocome?”“Most certainly. Professor Kidd went on to say that he had opened his address to the

women’smeetingwiththatparticularstorybecauseitillustratedapointhehadinmind.‘IfImaytakethelibertyofsayingso,’

hesaid, ‘wheneverwomendosomething, theyareprone to tackle it ina roundaboutwayinsteadofcomingstraight to thepoint.Admittedly, it isnotsolelywomenwhobeatabout thebush. In these so-called enlightened days, debilitated by the poisons ofWestern civilization,evenmenhavebecomesomewhateffeminate.Thereare,alas,alltoomanynowdevotingtheirtimeandeffort toanimitationofWesterncustomsinthetotallymistakenconvictionthatapingforeigners is the proper occupation of a gentleman.Such persons are, of course, deformed,for, by their efforts to conform with alien ways, they deform themselves. They deserve nofurthercomment.However, Iwouldwishyou ladies to reflectupon the tale I’ve told todaysothat, as occasionmay arise, you, too, will act with the same clear-hearted honesty as wasshownbyDaftBamboo.Forifallladiesdidsoact,therecanbenodoubtthatone-thirdoftheabominablediscordsbetweenhusbandsandwivesandbetweenwivesandtheirmothers-in-lawwouldsimplydisappear.Humanbeingsare,alas,somadethatthemoretheyindulgeinsecretschemes, schemeswhosevery secrecybreedsevil, thedeeper theydrive thewellspringsoftheir ownunhappiness.And thespecific reasonwhysomany ladiesare somuch lesshappythantheaveragemanispreciselybecause ladiesover indulgethemselves insecretschemes.Please,’hebeggedusashislectureended,‘turnyourselvesintoDaftBamboos.’”

“Didhe,indeed!Well,Yukie,areyouplanningtofollowhisadvice?”“Nofear!TurnmyselfintoaDaftBamboo!That’sthelastthingIwoulddo.MissGoldfield,

too,shewasveryangry.Shesaidthelecturewasdamnedrude.”“MissGoldfield?Thegirlwholivesjustroundthecorner?”“Yes.LittleMissPopinjayinperson.”“Doesshegotothesameschoolasyou,Yukie?”“No, she just came to hear the lecture because itwasaWomen’sSocietymeeting.She

certainlydressesuptothenines.Reallyastonishing.”“Theysayshe’sverygoodlooking.Isittrue?”“She’snothingspecial, inmyopinion.Certainlynot theknock-out thatshe fanciesherself.

Almostanygirlwouldlookgoodunderthatmuchmake-up.”“So if you,Yukie, daubedon thesameamountofmake-up, you’d look twiceasprettyas

shedoes?Right?”“Whatathingtosay!Buttruly,Auntie,sheputsonfartoomuch.Richshemaybe,butreallysheoverdoesit.”“Well,it’spleasanttoberich,evenifonedoesconsequentlyoverdothepaintsandpowder.

Wouldn’tyouagree?”“Yes, perhaps you’re right. But if anyone needs to take lessons fromDaft Bamboo, that

Goldfieldgirl’stheone.Sheissoterriblystuck-up.Onlytheotherdayshewasswankingtoalltheothergirlsthatsomepoetorotherhadjust

dedicatedtoheracollectionofhisnew-stylepoetry.”“ThatwasprobablyMr.Beauchamp.”“Really?Hemustbeabitflighty.”“Ohno,Mr.Beauchampisverysober-mindedman.Hewouldthinksuchagesturethemost

naturalthingintheworld.”“A man like that shouldn’t be allowed to. . . Actually there is another amusing thing. It

seemsthatsomebodyrecentlysentheraloveletter.”“Howdisgusting!Whoeverdidsuchathing?”“Apparentlynobodyknowswhosentit.”“Wasn’tthereaname?”“Itwassigned,butwithanamethatnoone’severheardof.And itwasavery,very long

letter,aboutayardlong,fulloftheweirdestthings.For instance, it said, ‘I love you in the sameway that a saintlyman lovesGod.’ It said,

‘Gladly for your sake would I die like a lamb sacrificed on the altar; for me, so to beslaughteredwouldbe thegreatestofallhonors.’ Itsaid, ‘Myheart isshaped likea triangle inthecenterofwhich,likeabull’seyepiercedbyablowgundart,isCupid’sarrowstuck!’”

“Isallthatmeanttobeserious?”“Itwouldseemtobe.Threeofmyownfriendshaveactuallyseentheletter.”“Idothinkshe’sawfultogoaroundshowingpeoplesuchaletter.Since she intends tomarryMr.Coldmoon, she could get into trouble if that sort of story

beginstogetaround.”“Onthecontrary,she’dbeterriblypleasedifeveryoneshouldknowaboutit.I’msureshe’d

sayyou’dbewelcometopassthenewstoMr.Coldmoonwhennext hepaysa visit. I don’t supposehe’s heardabout it yet.Or do you

thinkhehas?”“Probablynot,sincehespendshisentiretimepolishinglittleglassbeadsattheuniversity.”“IwonderifMr.Coldmoonreallyintendstomarrythatgirl.Poorman!”“Why?Withallhermoneyshe’llbeofrealhelptohimonsomerainydayinthefuture.So

whyshouldyouthinkhe’sdoingbadly?”“Auntie,youaresovulgar,alwaystalkingaboutmoney,money,money.Surelyloveismore

importantthanmoney.Withoutlovenorealrelationbetweenhusbandandwifeispossible.”“Indeed?Thentellme,Yukie,whatsortofmandoyouintendtomarry?”“HowshouldIknow?I’venooneinmind.”Though she had hardly understood a word of what was being said, mymaster’s eldest

daughter had listened attentively while hermother andCousin Yukie launched out upon their

earnest discussion of the question of marriage. But suddenly, out of the blue, the little girlopenedhermouth.“I,”sheannounced,“wouldalsoliketogetmarried.”ThoughYukieisherselfso brimmingwith youthful ardor that she could well be expected to sympathize with Tonko’sfeelings,shewasinfactstruckdumbbysuchrecklesslust.Mrs.Sneaze,however,tookitallinherstrideand,smilingatherdaughter,simplyasked,“Towhom?”

“Well, shall I tell you? I want to marry Yasukuni Shrine. But I don’t like crossing Suido-Bridge,soI’mwonderingwhattodo.”

BothMrs.SneazeandYukieweredistinctlytakenabackbythisunexpecteddeclarationofanambition tomarry theshrinededicated to thedepartedspiritsof thosewho’d fallen inwarfor the sake of the father-land. Words failed them, and all they could do was shake withlaughter.

Theywerestill laughingwhentheseconddaughtersaidtohereldestsister.“Soyou’dliketomarryYasukuniShrine?Well,sowouldI.I’dloveit.Let’sbothdojustthat.Comeon.No?Allrightthen,ifyouwon’tjoinme,I’lltakearickshawandgogetmarriedbymyself”

“Babugo,too,”pipedupthesmallestofmymaster’sdaughters.Indeed,suchatriplemarrying-offwouldsuithimverywell.Atthatmomenttherecamethesoundofarickshawstoppinginfrontofthehouse,followed

bythelivelyvoiceofarickshawmanannouncingthearrivalofmymaster.Itwouldseemhehasgotbacksafelyfromthepolicestation.Leavingtherickshawmantohandoveralargeparceltothemaid,mymastercame into the livingroomwithanairofperfectcomposure.Greetinghisniecewitha friendly,“Ah,sothereyouare,”heflungdownbesidethefamily’s famousoblongbraziersomebottleshapedobjecthe’dbroughtback.Anobjectofthatshapeisnotnecessarilya bottle, and it certainly doesn’t look much like a vase. Being so odd a specimen ofearthenware,forthetimebeingI’llcontentmyselfwithcallingitabottleshapedobject.

“Whatapeculiarbottle!Didyoubringitbackfromthepolicestation?”asksYukie,asshestandsituponitsbase.

Glancingathisniece,mymasterproudlycomments,“Isn’titabeautifulshape?”“Abeautiful shape?That thing? I don’t think it beautiful at all.What evermadeyoubring

homesuchanawfuloiljar?”“Howcouldthistreasurepossiblybeanoiljar!Whatavulgarcomment!You’rehopeless.”“Whatisitthen?”“Avase.”“Foravase,itsmouthistoosmallanditsbodyfartoowide.”“That’sexactlywhyit’ssoremarkable.Youhaveabsolutelynoartistictaste.Almostasbad

asyouraunt.”Holdingtheoiljaruptowardthepaper-window,hestandsandgazesatit.“So, Ihavenoartistic sense. I see. I certainlywouldn’t comehome fromapolicestation

bearinganoiljarasapresent.Auntie,whatdoyouthink?”Her aunt is far too engrossed to be bothered. She has opened the parcel and is now

franticallycheckingthegoods.“Graciousme!Burglarsseem tobemakingprogress.All these thingshavebeenwashed

andironed.Justlook,dear,”shesays.“WhosaidIwasgivenanoil jarat thepolicestation?Thefact is that Igotsoboredwith

waitingthatIwentoutforawalkand,whileIwaswalking,Isawthissplendidvesselinashopandpickeditupforasong.

You,ofcourse,wouldn’tseeit,butit’sarareobject.”

“It’stoorare.Andtellme,wherewasitthatyouwalkedabout?”“Where?AroundNihon-zutsumi,ofcourse.IalsovisitedYoshiwara.It’squitealivelyplace,that.Haveyoueverseentheirongate?Ibetyouhaven’t.”“Nothingwouldever induceme togoand lookat it. I havenocause to traipsearounda

brothel area like Yoshiwara. How could you, a teacher, go to such a place? I am deeplyshocked.Whatd’yousay,Auntie?Auntie!”

“Yes,dear.Iratherthinkthere’ssomethingmissing.Isthisthelot?”“Theonlyitemmissingistheyams.Theyinstructedmetobetherebynineo’clockandthen

theykeptmewaitinguntileleven. It’soutrageous.TheJapanesepoliceareplainlynogoodatall.”

“The Japanesepolicemaybe no good, but trotting about inYoshiwara is very decidedlyworse.Ifyou’refoundout,you’llgetthesack.Won’the,Auntie?”

“Yes,probably.Mydear,”shewentonturningtoherhusband,“theliningofmyobiisgone.Iknewtherewassomethingmissing.”

“What’ssoseriousaboutanobilining?Justforgetit.Thinkaboutme.Forthreelonghourstheykeptmewaiting.Awholehalf-dayofmyprecioustimecompletely

wasted.”Mymasterhasnowchanged intoJapaneseclothesand, leaningagainst thebrazier,sits and gawps entrancedly at his ghastly oil jar. His wife, recovering rapidly from her loss,replacesthereturnedarticlesinacupboardandcomesbacktoherseat.

“Auntie,”saysthepersistentYukie,“hesaysthisoiljarisarareobject.Don’tyouthinkitdirty?”“YouboughtthatthinginYoshiwara?Really!”“Whatdoyoumeanby‘Really!’?Asifyouunderstandanything!”“Butsurely,ajarlikethat!YoucouldfindoneanywherewithoutcavortingofftoYoshiwara.”“That’sjustwhereyou’rewrong.Thisisn’tanobjectyoucouldfindanywhere.”“UncledoestakeafterthatstoneJizō,doesn’the?”“None of your cheek, now. The trouble with college girls today is their far too saucy

tongues.You’ddobettertospendtimereadingtheProperConductofaWoman.”“Uncle, it’sa fact, isn’t it, thatyoudon’t like insurancepolicies?But tellme,whichdoyou

dislikemore,collegegirlsorinsurancepolicies?”“Idonotdislikeinsurancepolicies.Insuranceisanecessarything.Anyone who gives even half a thought to the future is bound to take out a policy. But

collegegirlsaregood-for-nothings.”“Idon’tcareifIamagood-for-nothing.Butyoucantalk!Youaren’teveninsured!”“Asofnextmonth,Ishallbe.”“Areyousure?”“OfcourseI’msure.”“Oh,youshouldn’t. It’ssilly toget insured. Itwouldbemuchbetter tospendthepremium

moneyonsomethingelse.Don’tyouagree,Auntie?”Mrs. Sneaze grins, but my master, looking serious, retorts, “You only say such

irresponsible things because you imagine you’re going to go on living until you’re a hundredyearsold.Eventwohundred.Butwhenyou’vegrownalittlemoremature,you’llcometorealizethenecessityofinsurance.Fromnextmonth,Ishalldefinitelyinsuremyself.”

“Oh, well. Can’t be helped then. Actually, if you can afford to throw away cash on anumbrellaas youdid theotherday, youmight aswellwaste yourwealthon insuring yourself.

YouboughtitformeeventhoughIkeptsayingIdidn’twantit.”“Youreallydidn’twantit?”“No.Imostcertainlydidnotwantanyumbrella.”“Thenyoucangive itback tome.Tonkoneedsonebadly, so I’ll give it toher.Haveyou

broughtitwithyoutoday?”“But that’s reallymean.Howcould you! It’s terrible tomakemegive it backafter you’ve

boughtitforme.”“I asked you to return it only because you clearly stated that you didn’t want it. There’s

nothingterribleaboutthat.”“It’strueIdon’tneedit.Butyou’restillterrible.”“What nonsense you do talk. You say you don’t want it, so I ask you to return it. Why

shouldthatbeterrible?”“But...”“Butwhat?”“Butthat’sterrible.”“You’remakingnosenseatall,justrepeatingthesameirrationalassertion.”“Uncle,youtooarerepeatingthesamething.”“Ican’thelpthatifyouinitiatetherepetitions.Youdiddefinitelysayyoudidn’twantit.”“Yes,Ididsaythat.Andit’struethatIdon’tneedit.ButIdon’tliketoreturnit.”“Well,Iamsurprised.You’renotonlyirrationalandunreasonablebutdownrightobstinate.A

trulyhopelesscase.Don’ttheyteachyoulogicatyourschool?”“Oh,Idon’tcare.Iamuneducatedanyway.Sayanythingyoulikeaboutme!Buttoaskme

toreturnmyownthing...Evenastrangerwouldn’tmakesuchaheartlessrequest.YoucouldlearnathingortwofrompooroldDaftBamboo.’

“Fromwhom?”“Imeanyoushouldbemorehonestandfrank.”“You’re a very stupid girl and uncommonly obstinate. That’s why you fail to pass your

exams.”“Even if I do fail, I shan’t ask you to paymy school fees. So there!” At this point Yukie

appearedtobeshakenbyuncontrollableemotions.Tearsgushedoutofhereyesand,pouringdownhercheeks,felltostainherpurpledress.

Mymaster sat there stupefied.As thoughhe believed itmight help himunderstandwhatmentalprocessescouldproducesuchcopioustears,hesatandblanklystared,sometimesatthe top of her skirt, sometimes, at her down-turned face. Just then,O-san appeared at thedoorwhere, squattingwithherhandsspreadouton thematting, sheannounced, “There isavisitor,Sir.”

“Whoisit?”asksmymaster.“Astudent fromyour school,” answersO-san, castingasharpsidelongglanceatYukie’s

tear-stainedface.Mymastertookhimselfofftothedrawingroom.Inpursuitoffurthermaterialforthisbook,

inparticularas itmightbearuponmystudyof thehumananimal, I sneakedoutafterhimbywayof theveranda. Ifone is tomakeaworthwhilestudyofmankind, it isvital toseizeuponeventful moments. At ordinary times, most human beings are wearisomely ordinary;depressinglybanal inappearanceanddeadlyboring in theirconversation.However,atcertainmoments, by some peculiar, almost supernatural, process their normal triviality can be

transformed intosomethingsoweirdandwonderful thatno felinescholarof theirspeciescanafford to miss any occasion when that transformation seems likely to take place. Yukie’ssudden deluge of tears was a very good example of this phenomenon. Though Yukiepossesses an incomprehensible and unfathomable mind, she gave no evidence of it in herchatteringwithMrs.Sneaze.However,assoonasmymasterappearedandflunghisfilthyoiljarintothesituation,Yukiewasinstantlytransfigured.

Likesomesleepingdragonstartled into itsdraconian realityby torrentsofwaterpumpedupon it by some idiotic fire engine, unbelievably Yukie suddenly revealed the depths of herwonderfully devious, wonderfully beautiful, wonderfully wondrous character in all its exquisitesubtlety.

Suchwonderful characteristicsare, in fact, commonamongwomen throughout theworld,and it is regrettable that women so seldom make them manifest. On reflection, it wouldperhaps be more accurate to say that, while these characteristics do continuously manifestthemselves,theyrarelyappearinsuchuninhibitedform,sopurely,openlyandunconstrainedly,as theydid inYukie’soutburst.Nodoubt Iowe it tomymaster—thatcommendablycrotchetycrank who harbors no ill-heartedness when he strokesmy fur in the wrong direction—that Ihavebeenprivilegedtowitnesssucharevelationofthefemalesoul.AsItagalongthroughlifebehindhim,whereverwegoheprovokesmoredramathananyoftheprotagonistseverrealize.Iamfortunatetobethecatofsuchaman, for, thankstohim,myshortcat’s life iscrammedwithincident.

Now,who,Iwonder,isthevisitorawaitingus?ItprovedtobeaschoolboyofaboutthesameageasYukie,perhapssixteenorseventeen.

Hishair is croppedsoshort that the skinof his skull, a trulymassiveskull, shines through it.With adumpynose in themiddleof his face, he sits despondentlywaiting in a corner of theroom.

Apartfromhisenormousskull, thereisnothingremarkableinhisfeatures.However,sincethatheadlookshugeinitsvirtuallyhairlessstate,itwillcertainlycatchtheeyewhenheletshishairgrowlongasdoesmymaster.Itisoneofmymaster’sprivatetheoriesthatheadssovastarealwaysaddled.Hemay,ofcourse,beright,butheadsofsuchNapoleonicgrandeurremainindeed impressive.The lad’skimono, like thatofanyhouseboy, ismadeoutofcommon,darkbluecottonwithpatternssplashed inwhite. Icannot identify thestyleof thepattern,possiblySatsuma, possibly Kurume, even perhaps plain Iyo, but he is undoubtedly wearing a linedkimono of dark blue cotton patterned with splotches of white. Its sleeves seem somewhatshort,andhewouldappeartobewearingneitherashirtnoranyunderwear.Iunderstandthatitiscurrentlyconsideredverystylish,positivelydandified, togoabout ina linedkimonowithoutunderwear and even without socks, but this particular young man, far from seeming stylish,givesastrongimpressionofextremeshabbiness.InparticularInoticethat,barefootedlikeourrecentburglar,hehasmarkedthemattingwiththreedirtyfootprintsandnow,doinghisbesttolookrespectfulandcertainlylookingillatease,sitsuncomfortablyuponthefourthofthem.Itisinnowayextraordinarytoseerespectablepersonsbehavingrespectfully,butwhensomewild,younghooliganwithhisskinheadhairstyleandhistoo-smallclothingseatshimselfinareverentposture, the effect is distinctly incongruous. Creatures who have the effrontery even to beproudoftheirinsolentrefusaltobowtotheirteacherswhentheymeettheminthestreetmustfind it very painful to sit up properly like anyone else, even for so little as half an hour.Moreover,sincethisparticularyahooisactuallytryingtobehaveasifhewereagentlemanby

birth, a man of natural modesty and of cultivated virtue, the comic incompetence of hisperformancemustsurelyaddtohissufferings.Imarvelattheagonizingself-controlbywhichaloutsoboisterousbothintheclassroomandontheplaygroundcanbringhimselftoenduresucha laughable charade. It is pitiful but, at the same time, funny. In confrontations of this sort,however stupid my master may be, he still seems to carry rather more weight than anyindividualpupil.Indeed,mymastermustbefeelingprettypleasedwithhimself.

Thesayinggoesthatevenmotesofdust,ifenoughofthempileup,willmakeamountain.One solitary schoolboy may well be insignificant, but schoolboys ganged together can be aformidable force, capableofagitating for theexpulsionofa teacher, evenofgoingonstrike.Just as cowards grow aggressive under the spur of grog, somay students emboldened bymere numbers into stirring up a riot be regarded as having lost their senses by becomingintoxicatedwith people.Howelse can one explain howmymaster,who, however antiquatedand decrepit hemay be, is nevertheless a teacher, could in his own schoolroom have beenreduced to anobject of derision by this scruffy little runt nowmakinghimself small, dejectedperhapsratherthantrulyhumbled,inacornerofourroom?Evenso,lfindithardtocreditthatsomiserableasnivelardcouldeverhavedaredtoragormockmymaster.

Thatnoblefigure,shovingacushiontowardthedroopingcrophead,badehimsitonit,butthe latter, though he managed to mumble a nervous “thank you,” made no move at all. It’squaint to see a living being, even this bighead, sitting blankly with a partly faded cushionrammedupagainsthisknees.Thecushion,ofcourse,saysnothing,noteven,“Sitonme.”Butcushions are for sitting on. Mrs. Sneaze didn’t go to a market stall and buy this particularcushioninorderthatitshouldbelookedat.

It follows thatanyonewhodeclines tositon thecushion is, ineffect,castingasluron itscushionlygoodname. Indeed,whenmymasterhasspecificallyoffered thecushion forsittingupon, a refusal to do so extends the insult to the cushion into a slight uponmymaster. Thiscropheadglaringatthecushionandtherebyslightingmymasterdoesnot,ofcourse,haveanypersonal dislike for the cushion itself. As amatter of fact, the only other occasion in his lifewhen he sat in a civilized manner was during the memorial rites for his grandfather, so hispresentsallyintodecorumisbringingonpinsandneedlesinhisfeetwhilehistoes,excruciatedby the pressures of propriety, have long been signaling blue murder. Nevertheless, the clotwon’t sit on the cushion. He will not do so, though the cushion, clearly embarrassed by thesituation,yearnstobesaton.Eventhoughmymasterrequestsheusethecushion,stillthisoafdeclines it.He is a verywearisome youngman. If he can be so overweeninglymodest on avisit,heought to trotouta littlemoreofhispreciousmodestywhenroisteringaroundwithhiscroniesintheschoolroomandathislodgings.Hepositivelyreeksofdecorousreservewhenit’stotallyuncalled for;yet,when justa touchofself-depreciationwouldhardlycomeamiss,he’sraucous,coarse,andcocky.Whatanirksome,cross-grained,cropheadthisyoungrascalis.

AtthatmomenttheslidingdoorbehindhimquietlyslidopenandYukiecameinformallytoplaceacupofteabeforethesilentyouth.Innormalcircumstances,hewouldhavegreetedtheappearanceof such refreshmentwith jeeringcatcallsaboutpoor,oldSavageTea,but today,alreadywiltingundermymaster’s immediatepresence,hesuffers furtheragonyasaprissilyconductedyoungladyserveshimteawithallthataffectedceremonialitywhichhasonlyrecentlybeendrilledintoheratschool.AsYukieclosedtheslidingdoorsheallowedherself,safebehindtheyoungman’sback, tobreak intoabroadgrain.Whichshows thata female is remarkablymoreself-possessed thanamaleof thesameage. Indeed,Yukieveryevidentlyhas farmore

spirittoherthanthiscushionshunningtwit.Herbare-facedgrinisallthemoreremarkablewhenone remembers that, only a few minutes ago, tears of resentment were pouring down hercheeks.

AfterYukiehadleft,alongsilencefell.Eventuallymymaster,feelingthattheinterviewwasindangerofbecomingsomekindofdour religiousexercise, took the initiativeandopenedhismouth.

“Yourname...whatdidyousayitwas?”“Yore.”“Yore?Yoreandwhatelse?What’syourfirstname?”“Lancelot.”“LancelotYore...Isee.Quitearesoundingname.Certainlynotmodern,asomewhatold-

fashionedname.Youareinyourfourthyear,aren’tyou?”“No.”“Yourthirdyear?”“No,mysecondyear.”“AndinClassA?”“InClassB.”“InB?Then,you’reinmyclass.Isee.”Mymasterappearedimpressed.Hehadtakennote

ofthisparticularlymonstrousheadsinceitsbearerfirstjoinedtheschool,andhadrecognizeditimmediately.Infact,thatheadhassolongandsodeeplyimpressedmymasterthat,everysooften,heactuallydreamsaboutit.However,beingofatotallyimpracticalnature,hehadneverconnectedthatextraordinaryheadwiththatoddold-fashionedname,andhadsomehowfailedtoconnecteitherwithhisownsecond-yearClassB.Consequently,whenhe realized that theimpressivehead thathauntedhisdreamsactuallybelonged tooneofhisownpupils, hewasgenuinely startled. All the more so since he cannot imagine why this big headed and oddlynamedmemberofhisownclassshouldnowhavecome toseehim.Mymaster isunpopular,andhardlyasingleschoolboyevercomesnearhim,evenattheNewYear.Asamatteroffact,thisLancelotYoreistheveryfirstsuchvisitor,andmymasterisunderstandablypuzzledbyhiscall.It is inconceivablethatthevisitcouldbepurelysocial,forhowcouldmymasterbeofthefaintestinteresttoanyofhispupils?Itseemsequallyinconceivablethataboyofthiskindcouldneedadviceabouthispersonalaffairs.Ofcourse,itisjustconceivablethatLancelotYoremightcomearoundtourgemymasterintoresigning,butinsuchacaseonewouldexpecthimtobe,if not blatantly aggressive, at least defiant.Mymaster, unable tomake heads or tails of thesituation, isatacomplete lossand, to judgebyhisappearance, itwouldseem thatLancelotYore is himself by nomeans certain why he hasmade his visit. In the endmymaster wasdriventoaskingpoint-blankquestions.

“Haveyoucomehereforachat?”“No,notforthat.”“Thenyouhavesomethingtotellme?”“Yes.”“Aboutschool?”“Yes,Iwantedtotellyousomethingabout...”“Whatisit?Tellme.”“Right,then.”Lancelotlowershiseyesandsaysnothing.Normally,consideredasasecond-yearstudent

atmiddleschool,Lancelot is talkative.Thoughhisbrain isundeveloped incomparisonwithhisskull,heexpresseshimselfrathermoreeffectivelythanmostofhisfellowstudentsinClassB.In fact, it was he who recently made my master look rather a fool by asking him how totranslate “Columbus” into Japanese. That such a tricky questioner should be as reluctant tostart speaking as some stammering princess suggests that something very weird must beinvolved.

Hesitation so prolonged and so entirely out of character cannot possibly be due tomodesty.Evenmysimplemasterthoughtthematterreallyratherodd.

“Ifyouhavesomethingtosay,goaheadandsayit.Whydoyouhesitate?”“It’sabitdifficulttoexplain...”“Difficult?”saysmymasterpeeringacrosstostudyLancelot’sface.But his visitor still sits with his eyes lowered, andmymaster finds it impossible to read

anything from their expression. Changing his tone of voice, he added, “Don’t worry. Tell meanythingyoulike.Nobodyelseislistening,andIwon’tpassonasinglewordtoanyone.”

“CouldIreallytellyou?”Lancelotisstillwavering.“Whynot?”saysmymaster,takingasortofplunge.“Allright,I’lltellyou.”Abruptlyliftinguphisclose-croppedheadtheboyglanceddiffidentlyat

mymaster.Hiseyesaretriangularinshape.Mymasterpuffedouthischeekswithcigarettesmokeand,slowlyexpellingit,lookedathis

visitorsideways.“Well,actually...thingshavebecomeawkward...”“Whatthings?”“Well,it’sallterriblyawkward,andthat’swhyI’vecome.”“Yes,butwhatisitthatyoufindsoawkward?”“Ireallydidn’tmeantodosuchathing,butasHamadaurgedandbeggedmetolendit...”“WhenyousayHamada,doyoumeanHamadaHeisuke?”“Yes.”“Didyoulendhimmoneyforboardandlodging?”“Oh,no,Ididn’tlendhimthat.”“Then,whatdidyoulendhim?”“Ilenthimmyname.”“Whateverwashedoingborrowingyourname?”“Hesentaloveletter.”“Hesentwhat?”“IexplainedI’dratherdothepostingthanthelendingofmyname.”“You’renotmakingmuchsense.Whodidwhatanyway?”“Aloveletterwassent.”“Aloveletter?Towhom?”“AsIsaid,it’ssodifficulttotellyou.”“Youmeanyou’vesentalovelettertosomewoman?Isthatit?”“No,itwasn’tme.”“Hamadasentit?”“Itwasn’tHamadaeither.”“Thenwhodidsendit?”“That’snotknown.”

“Noneofthismakessense.Didnoonesendit?”“Onlythenameismine.”“Only the name is yours? I still don’t understand. You’ll have to explainwhat’s happened

clearlyandlogically.Inthefirstplace,whoactuallyreceivedtheloveletter?”“AgirlnamedGoldfieldwholivesjustroundthecorner.”“Goldfield?Thebusinessman?”“Yes,hisdaughter.”“Andwhatdoyoumeanwhenyousayyoulentonlyyourname?”“Because that girl is such a dolled-up and conceited pinhead,we decided to send her a

love letter.Hamadasaid ithadtobesigned.ButwhenI toldhimtosign ithimself,hearguedthat his name wasn’t sufficiently interesting, that Lancelot Yore would be very much moreimpressive.SoIendedupbylendingmyname.”

“Anddoyouknowthegirl?Areyoufriends?”“Friends?Ofcoursenot.I’veneverseteyesonher.”“How very imprudent! Fancy sending a love letter to someone you’ve never even seen!

Whatmadeyoudosuchathing?”“Well,everyonesaidshewasstuck-upandpompous,sowethoughtwe’dmakea foolof

her.”“That’sevenmorerash!Soyousenttheletterclearlysignedwithyourname?”“Yes.The letter itselfwaswrittenbyHamada. I lentmyname,andEndo took it round to

herhouseatnightandstuckitintheletterbox.”“Thenallthreeofyouarejointlyresponsible?”“Yes, but afterward, when I thought about being found out and possibly expelled from

school,IgotsoworriedthatIhaven’tbeenabletosleepforthelasttwoorthreenights.That’swhyI’mnotmyusualself.”

“It’saquiteunbelievablystupidthingyou’vedone.Tellme,whenyousignedthat letterdidyougivetheschool’saddress?”

“No,ofcourseImadenomentionoftheschool.”“Well, that’s something. If you had and it ever came out, the good name of our school

wouldbedisgraced.”“DoyouthinkI’llbeexpelled?”“Well,Idon’tknow...”“Myfatherisverystrictandmymotherisonlyastepmother,soifanythinghappenedsuch

asbeingexpelled,I’dreallybeinthesoup.DoyoureckonI’llgetexpelled?”“Youmustunderstand,youshouldn’thavedoneathinglikethat.”“Ididn’tmeantoreally,butsomehowIjustdid.Couldn’tyousavemefrombeingexpelled?”

Withthetearsrunningdownhisface,thepatheticLancelotimploresmymaster’shelp.For quite some time behind the sliding door Mrs. Sneaze and her niece have been

convulsedwithsilentgiggles.Mymaster,doggedlymaintaininganairof importance,keepsonrepeatinghis,“Well,Idon’tknow.”Altogetherafacinatingexperience.

It ispossible that someof youhumanbeingsmight,andvery reasonably,askmewhat Ifindso fascinatingabout it.Forevery livingbeing,manoranimal, themost important thing inthisworldistoknowone’sownself.Otherthingsbeingequal,ahumanbeingthattrulyknowshimself is more to be respected than a similarly enlightened cat. Should the humans of myacquaintanceeverachievesuchself-awareness,Iwould immediatelyabandon,asunjustifiedly

heartless,thissomewhatsnideaccountoftheirspeciesasIknowthem.However,justasfewhumanbeingsactuallyknow thesizeof theirownnoses,even fewerknow thenatureof theirownselves, for if theydid, theywouldnotneedtoposesuchaquestiontoamerecatwhomtheynormally regard, evendisregard,with contempt.Thus, thoughhumanbeingsarealwaysenormously pleasedwith themselves, they usually lack that self-perception which, andwhichalone,might justify their seeing themselves,and theirboastingof itwherever theygo,as thelordsofallcreation.Totopthingsoff,theydisplayabrazenlycalmconvictionintheirrolewhichis positively laughable. For there they are,making a great nuisance of themselveswith theirfussing entreaties to be taught where to find their own fool noses, while at the same timestruttingaroundwithplacardsontheirbacksdeclaringtheirclaimtobelordsofcreation.Wouldcommon logicorevencommonsense leadanysuchpatently loonyhumanbeing to resignhisclaim to universal lordship? Not on your life! Every idiot specimen would sooner die thansurrenderhisshare in the fantasyofhuman importance.Anycreature thatbehaveswithsuchblatant inconsistencyandyetcontrivesnever torecognizethe leastminimofself-contradictionin itsbehavior is,ofcourse, funny.Butsince thehumananimal is indeed funny, it follows thatthecreatureisafool.

TheforegoingeventsoccurredpreciselyasIhaverecordedthemand,asexternalrealities,they left theirquaint, little rippleson thestreamof time.But in thisparticularcase itwasnottheirmanifestedconductwhichmademymaster,Yukie,andYorestrikemeasamusing.Whattickledmewasthedifferingqualityof reaction in their inmosthearts,which thesameexternaleventsevoked in theseseveralpersons.Firstofall,mymaster’sheart is rathercold,andsowashisreaction to thesehappenings.HoweverstrictlyYore’sharshfathermaytreat theboy,howeverhurtfullyhisstepmothermaypickonhim,mymaster’sheartwouldnotbemoved.Howcoulditbe?Yore’spossibleexpulsionfromschooldoesnotraiseanyoftheissuesthatwouldbeinvolvedifmymasterweredismissed.Ofcourse,ifallthepupils,nearlyathousandofthem,weresimultaneouslyexpelled,thentheteachersmightfindithardtoearnaliving:butwhateverfatebefalls thiswretchedsinglepupil, thedaily courseofmymaster’sown lifewill be totallyunaffected.Obviously,wherethereisnoself-interestthereisnotgoingtobemuchsympathy.

Itisjustnotnaturaltoknitone’sbrows,toblowone’snose,ortodrawgreatsighsoverthemisfortunes of complete strangers. I simply do not believe the human animal is capable ofshowingsuchunderstandingandcompassion.People sometimessqueezeout a few tearsortry lookingsorryasakindofsocialobligation,asortoftax-paymentdueinacknowledgementofhavingbeenbornintoacommunity.Butsuchgesturesareneverheartfelt,andtheireffectiveperformance, like any other act of chicanery, does in fact demand a high degree of skill.Persons who perform these trickeries most artfully are regarded as men of strong artisticfeelingsandearnthedeepestrespectoftheirless-giftedfellows.

It follows, of course, that those who are most highly esteemed are those most morallydubious, an axiom which can easily be proved by putting it to the test. My master, beingextremelyham-handedinmattersofthiskind,commandsnottheleastrespectand,havingnohope of winning respect by crafty misrepresentation of his true feelings, is quite open inexpressing his inner cold-heartedness. The sincerity of his indifference emerges very clearlyfromthewayinwhichhefobsoffpooryoungYore’srepeatedpleasforhelpwithrepetitionsofthesameold formulae:“Well, Idon’tknow”and“Hmm,Iwonder.” Ihastentocomment that Itrustmyreaderswillnotbegintodislikesogoodamanasmymasterjustbecausehehappenstobecold-hearted.Coldness is the inbornnatural conditionof thehumanheart, and theman

whodoesnothidethatfactishonest.IfincircumstancessuchasI’vedescribed,youreallyareexpecting something more than cold-heartedness, then I can only say that you have sadlyoverestimatedtheworthofhumankind.

When even mere honesty is in notably short supply, it would be absolutely ridiculous toexpect displays of magnanimity. Or do you seriously believe that the Eight GoodMen havestepped out of the pages of Bakin’s silly novel in order to take up residence in ourneighborhood?

Somuchformymaster.Letusnowconsiderhiswomenfolk titteringawaytogether in theliving room.They, in fact,havegoneastagebeyond thepure indifferenceofmymasterand,naturally adapted as they are to the comic and the grotesque, are thoroughly enjoyingthemselves. These females regard the matter of the love letter, a matter of excruciatingconcern to that miserable crophead, as a gift from a kindly heaven. There is no particularreason why they regard it as a blessing. It just seems like one to them. However, if oneanalyzestheirmirth,thesimplefactisthattheyaregladthatYore’sintrouble.Askanyfemalewhether she finds it amusing, even a cause for outright laughter, when other people are introuble, and she will either call you mad or affect to have been deliberately insulted by aquestionsodemeaningtothedignityofhersex.Itmaywellbetruethatshefeelsshe’sbeeninsulted, but it is also true that she laughs at people in trouble. The reality of this ladylikepositionisthat,inasmuchastheladyintendstodosomethingthatwouldimpugnhercharacter,nodecentpersonshoulddrawattentiontothefact.

Correspondingly,thegentleman’spositionistoacknowledgethathestealsbuttoinsistthatnobodyshouldcallhim immoralbecauseanaccusationof immoralitywould involveastainonhischaracter,an insult tohisgoodname.Womenarequiteclever: they think logically. Ifonehas the ill luck tobebornahumanbeing,onemustprepareoneselfnot tobedistressedthatotherpeoplewillnotsomuchasturntolookwhenyouarebeingkickedandbeatenup.Andnotjustthat.Onemustlearntothinkitapleasuretobespatupon,shatupon,andthenhelduptobe laughed at. If one cannot learn these simple lessons, there is no chance of becoming afriend of such clever creatures as women. By an understandable error of judgement theluckless Lancelot Yore has made a sad mistake and is now greatly humiliated. He mightpossibly feel that it isuncivilized tosniggerathimbehindhisbackwhenhe is thushumiliated,but any such feeling on his part would simply be a demonstration of pure childishness. Iunderstandthatwomencallitnarrow-mindednessifonegetsangrywithpersonswhocommitabreachofetiquette.So,unlessyoungYoreispreparedtoacquirethatfurtherhumiliation,he’dbestbeltup.

Finally,IwillofferabriefanalysisofYore’sowninwardfeelings.Thatinfantilesuppliantisalivinglumpofquiveringanxiety.JustasNapoleon’smassiveheadwasbulgywithambitions,soYore’sgurtskull isburstingwithanxiety.Theoccasionalpuppylikequiveringofhispudgynosebetrays that this inner distress has forceda connectionwith his nasal nerves so that, by thenastiestofreflexactions,hetwitcheswithoutknowingit.Nowforseveraldayshehasbeenatthe end of his tether, going around with a lump in his stomach as though he’d swallowed acannon ball. Finally, at hiswits’ end and in the extremity of his desperation, he has come tohumble his head before a teacher he most cordially dislikes. I imagine the addled thinkingbehind this desperate act was that, since teachers are supposed to look after their pupils,perhaps even the loathed Sneazemight somehow help him. Lost in themiasma of his inneragonyisanyrecollectionofhishabitualraggingofmymaster;forgotten,too,isthefactthathe

spenthiswitlessdaysineggingonhisfellowhooliganstohootandmockoldSavageTea.Heseemstobelievethat,howevermuchhe’smadeanuisanceofhimselfhe’sactuallyentitledtohisteacher’shelpforthesinglereasonthathehappenstobeamemberofthatteacher’sclass.He is indeed a very simple soul. My master did not choose the class he teaches: he wasdirected to that work by order of the headmaster. I am reminded of that bowler hat ofWaverhouse’suncle. Itwasnomore thanabowlerhat inname.The ideaofmymasterasateacher who is also the mentor of his pupils is equally unreal. Teacher, sneacher. A namemeansnothing. If it did, anymarriagebrokerwouldbynowhavebeenable to interest someaspiring bachelor in a girl with a name as beautiful as that snow river name of Yukie’s. ThedismalYore isnotonlydaftlyegocentricbut,daftlyoverestimatinghumankindliness,assumesthathis fellowcreaturesareundersomeformofobligation tobenice tohim. I’msurehehasnever dreamt that hemight be laughedat, soat least he’s learning someuseful home truthsabout his species from his visit to the home of the “person in charge.” As a result, he willhimself become more truly human. His heart, benignly chilled, will grow indifferent to otherpeople’stroublesand,intime,he’llevenlearntojeeratthedistressed.TheworldwillcometoswarmwithlittleYores,alldoingtheirbesttostretchthemselvesintofull-blownGoldfields.Forthelad’ssake,Idohopehelearnshislessonquicklyandgrowsupsoonintohisfullhumanity.Otherwise,nomatterhowhardheworries,nomatterhowbitterlyherepents,nomatterhowfervently his heartmay yearn to be reformed, he can never somuch as hope to be able toachievethespectacularsuccessofthatmodelofhumanity,thehighlyrespectedGoldfield.Onthecontrary,hewillbebanishedfromhumansociety.Comparedwiththat,expulsionfromsomepiddlingmiddleschoolwouldbeasnothing.

Iwas idly amusingmyselfwith these reflectionswhen the sliding door from the hallwasroughly jerked aside and half a face suddenly appeared at the opening. My master wasmumbling, “Well, I really don’t know,” when this half-face called his name. He wrenched hisheadaroundtofindashiningsegmentofAvalonColdmoonbeamingdownuponhim.

“Why,hello,”saysmymastermakingnomovetogetup,“comealongin.”“Aren’tyoubusywithavisitor?”thevisiblehalfofColdmoonaskspolitely.“Nevermindaboutthat.Comeonin.”“Actually,I’vecalledtoaskyoutocomeoutwithme.”“Where to?Akasakaonceagain? I’vehadenoughof thatdistrict.Youmademewalkso

muchtheotherdaythatmylegsarestillquitestiff.”“Itwillbeallrighttoday.Comeonoutandgivethoselegsastretch.”“Wherewouldwego?Look,don’tjuststandthere.Comealongin.”“Myideaisthatweshouldgotothezooandheartheirtigerroar.”“Howdreary.Isay,oldman,docomeinifonlyforafewminutes.”Coldmoonevidentlycametotheconclusionthathewouldnotsucceedbynegotiatingfrom

a distance so, reluctantly removing his shoes, he slouched into the room. As usual, he iswearinggraytrouserswithpatchesontheseat.Thesepatches,heisalwaystellingus,arenotthereeitherbecause the trousersareoldor becausehisbottom is tooheavy.The reason isthathehasjuststartedtolearnhowtorideabicycle,andthepatchesareneededtoresisttheextrafrictioninvolved.GreetingYorewithanodandabriefhello,hesitsdownontheverandasideoftheroom.Hehas,ofcourse,noideathatheisnowsittingdownwithadirectrivalinthelistsoflove,withtheverypersonwhohassentalovelettertothatdamselnowregardedbyallandsundryasthefutureMrs.Coldmoon.

“There’snothingparticularlyinterestingaboutatiger’sroar,”observedmymaster.“Well,notjustatthisexactmoment.Butmyideaisthatweshouldwalkaboutforabitand

thengoontothezooaroundeleven.”“So?”“Bythen,theoldtreesintheparkwillbedarklyfrighteninglikeasilentforest.”“Well,possibly.Certainly,itwillbealittlemoredesertedthanbydaytime.”“We’llfollowapathasthicklywoodedaspossible,onewhereevenindaytimefewpeople

pass.Then,beforeyouknowit,we’llfindourselvesthinkingwe’refarawayfromthedustycityand a feeling, I’m sure, will growwithin us that we’ve somehowwandered away into far-offmountains.”

“Whatdoesonedowithafeelinglikethat?”“Feeling like that, we’ll just stand there, silent and motionless for a little while. Then,

suddenly,theroarofatigerwillburstuponus.”“Isthetigertrainedtoroarpreciselyatthatmoment?”“I guaranteehe’ll roar.Even inbroadday that fearsomesoundcanbeheardall theway

overattheScienceUniversity.So,afterdark,intheverydeadofnight,whennotasoul’saboutin thedeep-hushed loneliness,whendeathcanbe felt in theairandonebreathes thereekofevilmountainspirits...”

“Breathingthereekofevilmountainspirits?Whateverdoesthatmean?”“Iunderstandit’sanexpressionusedtosignifyaconditionofextremeterror.”“Is it indeed.Not anexpression in commonuse. I don’t believe I’veever heard it before.

Anyway,whatthen?”“Thenthetigerroars.Asavageshatteringroarthatseemstostripeachshakingleaffrom

theancientcedartrees.Really,it’sterrifying.”“Icanwellbelieveitis.”“Well then, how about joining me for such an adventure? I’m sure we’ll enjoy it. An

experience to be treasured. Everyone, sometime, that’s how I see it, really ought to hear atigerroarfromthedepthsofnight.”

“Well,”saysmymaster,“Idon’tknow...”HedropsonColdmoon’senthusiasticproposalfor an expedition the same wet blanket of indifference with which he has muzzled Yore’sagonizedentreaties.

Upuntil thismoment thatdimnincompoophasbeen listening,enviouslyand in silence, tothetalkaboutthetiger,butasahypnotist’skeyphrasewillbringhissubjecttohissenses,mymaster’srepetitionofhisindifferencesnappedYoresmartlybackintoremembranceofhisowndilemma. “Revered teacher,” he muttered from his broken trance, “I’m worried sick. What,what,shallIdo?”

Coldmoon,puzzled,staresatthatenormoushead.Asforme,Ifeelsuddenlymoved,fornoparticularreasonbut the feeling, to leavethis trio to themselves.Accordingly, Iexcusemyselffromtheircompanyandsidlearoundtothelivingroom.

ThereIfindMrs.Sneazewiththegiggles.Shehaspouredteaintoacheapchinacupand,placingthatcuponanastyantimonysaucer,saystoherniece,“Wouldyoupleasetakethistoourguest?”

“I’drathernot.”“Whynot?”Themistresssoundssurprisedandhergigglingstopsabruptly.“I’d just rathernot,”saysYukie.Shesuddenlyadoptsapeculiarlysuperciliousexpression

and,firmlyseatingherselfonthematting,bendsforwardandlowtostudysomeragofadailynewspaper.

Mrs.Sneazeimmediatelyresumesnegotiations.“Whatafunnypersonyouare.It’sonlyMr.Coldmoon.There’snoreasontoactup.”

“It’ssimplythatIreallywouldprefernotto.”Thegirl’seyesremainfixedonthenewspaper,but it’sobvious thatshe’s toohetup tobeable to readawordof it.What’smore, ifanyonepointsoutthatsheisn’treading,there’llbeanotherfloodofmaidenlytears.

“Whyareyoubeingsoshy?”Thistime,laughing,Mrs.Sneazedeliberatelypushesthecupandsaucerrightontothenewspaperasitliesthereflatonthefloor.

“What a nasty thing to do!” Yukie tries to yank the paper out fromunder the tea things,knocksthemflyingandthespilledteashootsalloverthepaperandthelivingroommatting.

“There,now!”saysthemistress.With a cry expressing a curious mixture of anger, shock, and embarrassment, Yukie

scramblestoherfeetandrunsoutintothekitchen.Iimagineshe’sgonetofetchamop.Ifindthislittledramaratheramusing.

Mr.Coldmoon,totallyunawareofthefemaleflurrywhichhisvisitappearstohavestirredupinthelivingroom,continues,somewhatoddly,hisconversationwithmymaster.

“I notice,” hesays, “that you’vehadnewpaper fixedon that slidingdoor.Whodid it, if Imayask?”

“Thewomen.Quiteagoodjobtheymadeofit,don’tyouthink?”“Yes, very professional. You say ‘the women.’ Does that include that college girl who

sometimescomesherevisiting?”“Yes,shelentahand.Infactshewasboastingthat,sinceshecanmakesuchanobviously

splendidjobofpaperingaslidingdoor,sheisalsoobviouslywellqualifiedtogetmarried.”“I see,” saysColdmoon still studying the door. “Down the left side, there,” he eventually

continued, “the paper has been fixed on taut and smooth, but along the right-hand edge itseemstohavebeeninadequatelystretched.Hencethosewrinkles.”

“Thatwaswheretheystartedthejob,beforethey’dreallygotthehangofit.”“I see. lt’s certainly lesswell done.Thesurface formsanexponential curve irrelatable to

any ordinary function.” From the abyss of his scientific training Coldmoon dredges upmonstrosities.

“Idaresay,”saysmymaster,indifferentasever.Thatdispassionatecomment,itwouldseem,atlastbringshometoourhooliganscribethe

complete hopelessness of hoping that even themost searing of his supplications could evermeltmymaster’schillydisconcern.Suddenlyloweringhishugeskulltothematting,Yoreintotalsilencemadehisfarewellsalutation.

“Ah,”saidmymaster,“you’releaving?”Yore’screstfallenappearanceprovidedhisonlyanswer.Weheardhimdragginghisheavy

cedarclogsevenafterhe’dgoneoutthroughthegate.A pitiable case. If someone doesn’t come to his rescue, he could well compose one of

thoserock-topsuicidepoemsandthenflinghisstupidbodyoverthelipofKegonFalls.Comewhatmay,theroot-causeofallthistroubleistheflibbertigibbetself-conceitofthatinsufferableMissGoldfield. IfYoredoesdohimself in, it is tobehopedthathisghostwill find thetimetoscarethatgirltodeath.Nomanneedregretitifagirllikethat,evenabraceormoreofthem,were removed from this already sufficiently troubled world. It seems to me that Coldmoon

wouldbewelladvisedtomarrysomemoreladylikeyoungperson.“Wasthat,then,oneofyourpupils?”“Yes.”“Whatanenormoushead.Ishegoodathiswork?”“Ratherpoorforthatsizeofhead.Buteverynowandagainheasksoriginalquestions.The

otherdayhecaughtmeoffbalancebyaskingforatranslationofthemeaningofColumbus.”“Maybe the improbable size of his braincase leads him to pose such an improbable

question.Whateverdidyouanswer?”“Oh,somethingorotheroffthecuff.”“Soyouactuallydidtranslateit.That’sremarkable.”“Children lose faith in a language teacher who fails to provide them, on demand, with a

translationofanythingtheymayask.”“You’vebecomequiteapolitician.But to judgeby that lad’s look,hemustbe terribly run

down.Heseemedashamedtobebotheringyou.”“He’sjustmanagedtogethimselfintosomethingofamess.Sillyyoungass!”“What’sitallabout?Themeresightofhimmovesone’ssympathy.What’shedone?”“Ratherastupidthing.He’ssentalovelettertoGoldfield’sdaughter.”“What? That great numbskull? Students nowadays seem to stop at nothing. Quite

astonishing!Really,Iamsurprised.”“Ihopethisnewshasnotupsetyou?”“Notintheveryleast.Onthecontrary,Ifinditmostdiverting.Idoassureyou,it’squiteall

rightbyme,however,manylovelettersmaycomepouringinuponher.”“Ifyoufeelthatself-assuredperhapsitdoesn’tmatter...”“Ofcourseitdoesn’tmatter.Ireallydon’tmindatall.Butisn’titratherremarkablethatthat

greatmuttonheadshouldtaketowritingloveletters?”“Well, actually, it all started as a kind of joke. Because that girl was so stuck-up and

conceited,myprecioustriogottogetherand...”“Youmean that three boys sent one love letter to Miss Goldfield? This business grows

morewhackybytheminute.SuchajointlettersoundsratherlikethreepeoplesettlingdowntoshareoneportionofaWestern-styledinner.Don’tyouagree?”

“Well,theydiddividethefunctionsupbetweenthem.Onewrotetheletter,anotherpostedit, and the third loanedhis name for its signature.That youngblockheadwhomyou saw justnow,quitethesilliestof themall,he’stheonewholenthisname.Yetheactually toldmethathe’s never even set eyes on the girl. I simply can’t imagine how anyone could do such aludicrousthing.”

“Well, I think it’s spectacular, a wonder of our times, a real masterpiece of themodernspirit!That thatoafshouldhave it inhim to fireoffa love letter tosomeunknownwoman. . .Really,it’smostamusing!”

“Itcouldleadtosomeveryawkwardmisunderstandings.”“Whatwoulditmatterifitdid?Itwouldbeskinoffnobody’snosebuttheGoldfields’.”“Butthisdaughteroftheirsistheverygirlyoumaybemarrying.”“True,butIonlymaybemarryingher.Don’tbesoconcerned.Really,IdonotmindintheleastabouttheGoldfields.”“Youmaynotmindbut...”

“Oh,I’mquitesuretheGoldfieldswouldn’tmind.Honest!”“All right, then, if yousay so.Anyway,after thedeedwasdoneand the letter delivered,

that boy suddenlybegan toget qualmsof conscience.Moreprecisely, hebecamescaredofbeingfoundoutandthereforecamesheepishlyaroundheretoaskmeforadvice.”

“Really?Wasthatwhyhelookedsoverydowninthemouth?Hemust,atheart,beaverytimidboy.Yougavehimsomeadvice,Isuppose?”

“He’sscaredsillyofbeingexpelledfromschool.That’shischiefworry.”“Whyshouldhebeexpelledfromschool?”“Becausehehasdonesuchawickedandimmoralthing.”“Youcan’tcallsendingaloveletter,eveninjoke,eitherwickedorimmoral.It’sjustnotthat

important. In fact, I’dexpect theGoldfields to take it asanhonorand togoaroundboastingaboutit.”

“Oh,surelynot!”“Anyway,evenifitwaswrongtodosuchathing,it’shardlyfairtoletthatpoorboyworry

himselfsickaboutit.Youcouldbesendinghimtohisdeath.Thoughhisheadisgrotesque,hisfeaturesarenotevil.Hewastwitchinghisnose,youknow.Rathersweet,really.”

“You’rebecomingasirresponsibleasWaverhouseinthebreezythingsyousay.”“Well, that’snomorethanthecurrentstyle. It’sabitold-fashionedto takethingsquiteas

seriouslyasyoudo.”“It’shardlyaquestionofbeingup-to-dateorout-of-fashion.Surely,atanytime,anywhere,

onlyacomplete foolcould think it funny tosenda love letter toanunknownperson. It flies inthefaceofcommonsense.”

“Come now. The vastmajority of all jokes depends on the reversal of ordinary commonsense.Easeuponthelad.Ifonlyincommoncharity,dowhatyoucantohelphim.FromwhatIsawhewasalreadyonhiswaytoKegonFalls.”

“PerhapsIshould.”“Indeed you should. After all, the world is stiff with full-grownmen, men with older and

presumably wiser heads, who nevertheless spend all their lives in practical jokes which riskdisasterfortheirfellowmen.Wouldyoupunishanidiotschoolboyforsigningaloveletterwhenmenwhose jokescouldwreck theworldgo totallyunpenalized?Ifyouexpelhimfromschool,youcandonolessthanbanishthemfromcivilizedsociety.”

“Well,perhapsyou’reright.”“Good.Thenthat’ssettled.Now,howaboutgoingoutandlisteningtoatiger?”“Ah,thetiger.”“Yes.Docomeout.Asamatteroffact,I’vegottoleaveTokyoinafewdays’timeandgo

backhometoattendtosomebusiness.Sinceitwillbequiteawhilebeforewe’llbeableagainto go out anywhere together, I called today in the express hope we couldmake some littleexpeditionthisevening.”

“Soyou’regoinghome.Andonbusiness?”“Yes,somethingImyselfmustcopewith.Anyway,let’sgoout.”“Allright,I’llcome.”“Splendid.Today,dinner’sonme.If,afterthat,wewalkacrosstothezoo,weshouldarrive

atexactlytherighttime.”Coldmoon’senthusiasmisinfectiousand,bythetimetheybustledouttogether,mymasterhimselfwasscarcelylessexcited.

Mrs.SneazeandYukie,ever,eternally feminine, justwentonwiththeirchit-chatandtheir

sniggering.

I

IV

NFRONTOFthealcove,WaverhouseandSinglemansitfacingeachotherwithaboardforplayinggosetdownbetween them. “Damned if I’mplaying fornothing,”saysWaverhouseforcefully.“Theloserstandsadinner.Right?”

Singlemantugsathisdaftgoatee.“Inmyexperience,”hemurmurs,“toplayforgain,forfoodorfilthylucre,cheapensthisnoblepastime.Itmaimsthemindto

burdenitscellswiththoughtsoflossorprofit.Betting’s a scruffy business. I feel, don’t you, that the true valueof a gameencounter is

onlyreallyappreciatedinanatmosphereofleisurelycalmwhere,allconsiderationsofsuccessor failuresetaside,one lets things run theirownsweet,naturalcourse.Then,andonly then,canthefinerpointsofthegamebeproperlysavoredbyitsconnoisseurs.”

“There you go again.Harping away on the sameoldmetaphysical drivel. It’s really quiteimpossible to have any sort of sensible gamewith amanwho carries on as if he’d steppedfrom the pages of some ancient Chinese tome recording the maunderings of the scholar-hermitsofremoteantiquity.”

“If Iharpatall,”saysSinglemanwithquitesurprisingspirit, “it is,asYüanMingsoneatlyputit,thatIplayonaharpthathasnostrings.”

“Ah,”saysWaverhousedryly,“likewiringmessagesonwirelesssets,Isuppose.”“Nowthen,Waverhouse,youcandobetterthanthat.Butpleasedon’ttry.Let’sgetonwith

thegame.”“Willyoubeblackorwhite?”“Suityourself.Either.”“Asonemightexpectofahermit,youaretranscendentallygenerous.Ifyou’lltakewhite,I’mnecessarilyblack.Right.Let’sgetcracking.Nowthen,offyougo.Placeyourfirstpieceanywhereyoulike.”“Theruleisthatblackstarts.”“Really?Isthatso?Verywell,beingamodestfellow,myopeninggambitshallbeablack

piecesomewherearoundhere.”“Youcan’tdothat.”“Whynot?”“It’sagainsttherules.”“Nevermindthem.It’sabrandnewopeninggambit,oneI’vejustinvented.”Since I knowso littleof theworldoutsidemymaster’shouse, itwasonly recently that I

firstclappedeyesonagoboard.It’saweirdcontraption,somethingnosensiblecatwouldeverthinkup.It’sasmallishsquaredividedintomyriadsmallersquaresonwhichtheplayerspositionblackandwhitestones insohiggledy-piggledyahuman fashion thatone’seyesgoaskew towatch them. Thereafter, the devotees of this strange cult work themselves up into a muck-sweat,excitedlyshoutingthatthisorthatridiculouslittleobject is indanger,hasescaped,hasbeen captured, killed, rescued, or whatever. And all this over a bare square foot of board

where themildest tapwithmy right, frontpawwouldwreak irreparablehavoc.AsSinglemanmightquote fromhiscompendiumofZensermons,onegathersgrassesandwith their thatchcreatesahermitageonlytofindthesameoldfieldwhenthethatchisblownaway.

Yousetthepiecesoutandthenyoutakethemoff.Asillyoccupation.Whydon’ttheplayerskeeptheirhandsinthefoldsoftheirkimonosandsimplystareatan

emptyboard? In theearlier stagesof thegame,withonly thirtyor fortypieces inplace,onecould not honestly describe the effect as an eyesore, but as things move to a climax, thescrimmageofblackandwhitebecomesanoffense to thecivilizedmind.Theblackandwhitepiecesaresocrammedtogetherthattheysqueakandgrateinajostleofstones.Theonesatthe edges seembound to be pushed clean off the board.No piece can get its neighbors tomakeroom.Nonehastherighttoorderthoseinfronttooffergangwaytothecrushbehind.

Alltheycandoistocrouchdownwheretheyareand,withoutstirring,resignthemselvestotheirfate.Goisaproductofthemindofmanand,justashumantasteisaccuratelymirroredinthisever-more-restrictivegame,soonemayseeinthecrampingofthepiecesanimageofthehumanurge tobe jammedup tight together. In thatugly crowdingonemay fairly readman’smeanantipathy to openness, his deliberate squeezing anddiminishment of the very universe,hispassionforterritoriallimitationwithinsuchdwarfishboundariesthatherarelystepsbeyondhisownimmediateshadow.Hewallowsintherigorsofconstriction,inthepainful inhibitionsofhischoice.Heis,inshort,amasochist.

Heaven knows why the flippant minded Waverhouse and his Zen besotted friend havechosentodayfortheirgame,butchosenittheyhave.Theydugtheboardoutfromsomedustycupboard,foundthenecessaryplayingstonesandeventuallysettleddowntothecrassfatuityofgo.Asmight beexpectedof them, theybeganbyplayingalmost skittishly, plonkingdowntheirblacksandwhites ina randomscatteracross theboard.But theboardhasonly justsomany squares and it wasn’t long before flippancy and otherworldliness found themselves inconflict.Asthepressureincreased,sodidtheverbalexchanges,spiced,asistheirwont,withscarcelyrelevantquotationsfromtheminorChineseclassics.

“Waverhouse,yourplayissimplyawful.Can’tyouseeit’scrazytoplaceyourpiecethere?Takeitawayandtryitsomewhereelse.”

“AmereZenzealotmaychoosetothink itcrazy,but I learnedthatployfromstudyingthepracticeofthegreatgomasterHon’imbō.Youmustlearntolivewithgreatness.”

“Butthepiecewillbeslaughtered.”“DidnotthenobleHankaiacceptnotonlydeathforthesakeofhislordbutevenporkona

poignard?Considermenolesssporting.Fairenough?Rightthen,that’smymove.”“Sothat’syourdecision.Allright.Itsoothesmytroubledbrow.Asthepoetsaid, ‘Abalmy

breeze has blown in from the south and the palace grows a shade more cool.’ Now,” saysSingleman,“ifIlinkmychainofpieceswithanotherpiece,justhere,loandbehold,I’msafe.”

“Aha,soyou’velinkedthem.My,whatacleveroldthingyouare.Ineverthoughtyou’dseethat one. But there you go, quick as a flash, bang, bang, and you think I’m dead. I’d hopedyou’dbeguidedbythegoodoldfolksong‘Don’tBangBellsattheHachimanShrine.’SowhatdoIdonow?”Waverhousesoughttolookcrafty.“I’lltellyouwhatI’lldo.I’llputonehere.Andwhatwillpoorpussydonext?”

“Poorpussywillnextdosomethingbothsimpleanddaring,likethis.Whichblocksyourlinelike‘aswordthatpointsupsharplyatthesky.’”“Steadyon,oldman.Ifyoudothat,I’vehadit.Hangonamoment,now.Really,that’snot

funny.”“Iwarnedyonnottomakethatmove.”“Ioffermyabjectapologies.Youwerequiteright,andI’lltakethatmoveback.So,whileI

ponder,takeyourwhiteoff,willyou?”“What!Isthisanotherofyoursorry-I-wasn’t-really-readygambits?”“Andwhileyou’reatit,youmightremovethepiecerightnexttoit,too.”“You’vegotadamnnerve.”“Youcouldn’tbesuggestingthatI’mcheating,eh?Oh,comeon,Singleman,what’sastone

ortwobetweenfriends?Don’tactsostuffy.Justbeagoodchapandtakethedamnthingsoff.Itcouldhardlymattertoaloftysoullike

you, but tome it’s amatter of life and death. Like thatmoment of supreme crisis in Kabukiplayswhensomecharactercomesboundingonstagewithshoutsof‘Hangon,holdit.’”

“Ifailtoseethesimilarity.”“Nevermindwhatyouseeordon’tsee.Justbeadecentfellowandtakethosepiecesoff

theboard.”“Thisisthesixthtimeyou’veaskedtohaveyourmoveback.”“What a remarkable memory you have.When we play next, I’ll double it up to a good,

round dozen. Anyway, all I’m asking now is that yon should remove a couple of miserablestones,andImustsayyou’rebeingprettystubbornaboutit.Iwouldhavethoughtthat,withallyouryearsofcontemplatingyournavel,you’dhavelearntbynowtoshowabitmoregive.”

“ButifIletyouoff,thatdaringriskItookjustnowwillstacktheoddsagainstme.”“I thought I heard you prating that you pay no heed to suchmundane considerations as

winningorlosing.”“Icertainlydon’tmindlosing,butIdon’twantyoutowin.”“Singleman, you dazzle me with the sophistication of your spiritual enlightenment. I

positivelygawpatthisfurthermanifestationofyourgiftforcuttingthroughlightningby‘dashingyourswordatthewindsofspring.’”

“You’ve got that wrong. It should be the other way around—cutting through the springwindswithaswordflashsharpaslightning.”

“Indeed,indeed,alaughablemistake.OnlyIsomehowfeelmyversionsoundsthebetterofthetwo.Iseemyselfasthelastofthegreatdiaskenasts.Butletthatpass.‘Thatpassed,’thepoet said, ‘somay this too.’ Since I see you’ve still got all your wits about you, it looks asthoughI’mdoneforonthispartoftheboard,soI’dbestgiveuptheghost.”

“Wehaveitfromthepatriarchsthat,sharplydifferentastheyare,inultimaterealitythere’slittletodifferentiatethequickfromthedead.Ithinkyou’redead,andyou’dbewisetobequicktoacceptit.”

“Amen,”saysWaverhouse,slappingdownwithasavageclack thepiece inhishandonadifferentpartoftheboard.

WhileWaverhouseandSinglemanarethussluggingitout infrontofthealcove,ColdmoonandBeauchampare sitting side-by-sidenear theentrance to the room.Mywretchedmasterwithhisyellow facesitswith them.Neatly linedupon themattingof the floor, just in frontofColdmoonandeyeinghim fishily, threedriedbonitospresentanextraordinaryspectacle.He’dbrought them around in the breast of his kimono and, though now exposed in all theirnakedness,theystilllookwarmfromtheirwalk.BeauchampandmymasterweresittingstaringatthemwithafinelybalancedmixtureofrepulsionandcuriositywhenColdmoonfinallyopened

hismouth.“Asamatterof fact, IgotbacktoTokyofrommyvisithomeabout fourdaysago,butI’vebeensorushedoffmyfeetwiththisandthatthatIcouldn’tcallaroundsooner.”

“Therewasnoneed tohurryhere,”observesmymasterwithhisusual lackofanysocialgrace.

“Iwouldn’thavehurried,butformyanxietytogiveyouthesefishasquicklyaspossible.”“But,they’reproperlydried,aren’tthey?”“Oh,yesindeed!Driedbonitosarethespecialityofmyhometown.”“Aspeciality?”saysmymaster.“ButIfancyonemayfindexcellentdriedbonitorightherein

Tokyo.”Heliftsthelargestfishand,bendingslightly,sniffsit.“Onecannotjudgethequalityofadriedbonitobysmellingit.”“Aretheyspecialbecausethey’rethatmuchbigger?”“Eatoneandsee.”“CertainlyIshalleatone.Butthisonehereseemstohaveanedgechippedoff.”“That’spreciselywhyIwasinahurrytogetthemtoyou.”“Idon’tunderstand.”“Well,actuallyitwasslightlygnawedbyrats.”“Butthat’sdangerous!Anyoneeatingthatcouldblackenwiththeplague.”“Not at all, it’s perfectly safe. Suchmodest gnawings,mere nips and nibbles, never hurt

anyone.”“Howonearthdidtheratsgetatit?”“Onboardship.”“Ship?Whatship?How?”“Itookpassageherefromhomeand,havingnothinginwhichtocarryyourdriedbonitos,I

poppedthemintomyviolin’sclothcarrier-bag.And itwasthere, thatnight, that thedamagewasdone.Frankly, I’dnothavecared if the

ratshadkept to the fishbutunfortunately,perhapsmistaking it foranotherdriedbonito, theyalsognawedawayattheframeofmypreciousinstrument.”

“Whatidioticcreatures!Perhapsthelifeatseabluntstheirsenseoftaste.Allthatsalt,youknow:thecoarsenessofthesea-gonesoul.”

Havingdeliveredhimself of theseodd remarks,mymaster satandstared, fish-eyedandictrine,atColdmoon’swrinkledgift.

“It’sinthenatureofrats,wherevertheymayhappentobeliving,nottodiscriminateintheirrapacity.Hence,evenwhen I’dgotten thedried fish tomyTokyo lodgings, Iworried for theirsafety.Itkeptmeawakeatnight.SointheendItookthemintomybedandsleptwiththem.”

“Howrevolting.Surelyadangertohealth?”“Yes,Iagree.You’dbetterwashthemthoroughlybeforeyoueatthem.”“Idoubtifjustwashingwilldo.”“Perhapsyoushouldsoaktheminlyeandthen,forgoodmeasureandtorestorethecolor,

polishthemupabit.”“Asidefromsleepingwithrattyfish,didyoualsotakeyourviolintobed?”“Theviolin’stoobulkytosleepwithinone’sarmsand...”Atthispointtheconversationwasinterruptedfromtheothersideoftheroombydelighted

shoutsfromWaverhouse.“Doyoumeanyou’vebeentobedwithaviolin?Howtrulyromantic!Irecallalittlepoemfromthepast:

Thespringispassing.Armscanfeel

TheweightoftheluteBecomingreal.

“That,ofcourse,isjustanold-fashionedhaiku.Ifhewantstooutdotheancients,thebrightyoungmanof todayhasnochoicebut tosleepwithaviolin inhisarms.Beauchamp, lendmeyourears.Howaboutthisforamodernvariationonthetheme?

Beneaththisquiltedcoverlet,Warmtoone’sskin,Night-longheldsafe,fretsfreefromfret:Mytreasuredviolin.

Ofcourseviolinsdon’thavefrets,butwhatofthat?Onecan’texpectanitpickingaccuracyofdetailinsuchasplendidexampleofnew-stylepoetry.”

Beauchamp,poorfellow,isaliteral-mindedyouthandhisseriousmoldofcharactercannotaccommodate itself to the verve and shimmers of frivolity. “I’m afraid,” he says, “that, unlikehaiku, new-style poems cannot be constructed off the cuff. They need deep thought, deepfeeling, arduous fabrication. But once they’re properly composed, their exquisite tonation,workingontheinmostsoul,cancallupspiritsfromthevastydeep.”

“Cantheyreally?Well,Inever,”saysWaverhouseathisfalselyingenuousbest.“I’dalwaysthought thatonly thesmokeofhempstalks,correctlyburntat theFeastof theHungryDead,could lure souls back to earth. Do you mean to say that new-style poetry is equallyefficacious?”

Lettinghisgamegohang,heconcentratesonteasingBeauchamp.“You’llgettrouncedagainifyoukeeponbabblingrubbish,”mymasterwarnshim.ButWaverhouse takesnonotice. “Imyselfamquite indifferent towinningor losing,but it

justsohappens thatmyopponent isnow immobilized,squashedup tight likeanoctopus inasaucepan.Andit’sonlytowhileawaythetediumofwaitingforhimtodecideuponhisnextweewriggleofamovethatIamforcedtojoinyouinyourconcourseofviolins.”

Singlemansnortsinhisexasperation.“Forgoodnesssake,Waverhouse,it’syourmovenow.I’mtheonewho’sbeingkeptwaiting.”

“Ah?Soyou’vemadeamove?”“OfcourseIhave—agesago.”“Where?”“I’veextendedthisdiagonalofwhites.”“Soyouhave...

Diagonalandwhite

HishandextendsThelinethatindisasterends.

“Well,inthatcasemyresponseshallbe...shallbe...Iknownotwhat,butitshallbetheterrorofthisearth.

AsIwassaying,‘Iplan,Iplan,’

DaylightdarkenedAndthenightbegan.

“I tellyouwhat.Outof theextremekindnessofmyheart Ishallgrantyouanextramove.Placeastoneanywhereyoulike.”

“Youcan’tplaygolikethat.”“Yourefusemygenerosity?Thenyouleavemenochoicebutto...what?SupposeIseta

piece down here, over in this relatively unsettled territory, right in the corner. Incidentally,Coldmoon,yourfiddlecan’tbeuptomuchifeventheratsdon’tlikeit.Whydon’tyousplashoutonabetterone?ShallIgetoneofthoseantiquemodels,atleastthreehundredyearsold,fromItaly?”

“Icouldneverthankyouenough—especiallyifyouwerealsosokindastofootthebill.”“Howcouldanythingasoldasthatbeanyusewhatever?”Hisignorancedoesnotstopmy

masterfromspeakinghismind.“I think, Sneaze, you’re comparing antique fiddles with antiquated men. They’re not the

same, you know. Yet even amongmen, some of the oldermodels—Goldfield for example—becomemorevaluablewithage.Andwhenitcomestoviolinsit’sinvariablyacaseoftheolderthebetter...Now,Singleman,willyoupleasegetamoveon.Beingmyselfnowindbag,indeedamansuccinctifnotactuallyterseinspeech,IwillnotwastetimeonafullquotationfromtherelevantKabukiplay,buthavewenotbeenwarnedbyKeimasathatautumndaysdrawswiftlytotheirclose?”

“It’s pureagonyplayinggowith a feckless galloper like you.There’s never time to think.Well,ifyouinsistonheadlongplay,that’sthewayofit.Ishallplaceonehere.”

“Whatapity!You’veescapedmyclutchesafterall.Ihadsohopedyouwouldn’tmakethatmove,andI’vebeenrackingmybrainstothinkupenoughrubbishtodistractyou.All,Ifear,invain.”

“Naturally.Someofusconcentrateonthegame,notontryingtocheat.”“Sir,Inevercheat.Imaypaylessregardtothegamethantogames-manship,butthat is

preciselytheteachingoftheschoolofHon’imbō,oftheGoldfieldSchool,andoftheSchoolofModern Gentlemen. I say, Sneaze, you remember those sharpish pickles that SinglemangobbleddownatKamakura?Theyseem,afterall, tohavedonehimgood.He’snotmuchuseat go, but nothing now seems able to perturb him. I take my hat off to his pickled nerves.They’resteadyassteel.”

“Then why,” says my master with his back still turned toward Waverhouse, “doesn’t aninconsequentialfidgetlikeyourselfmaketheefforttoimitatehissteadinessandsense?”

Waverhouse,unusually,saidnothingbutjuststuckoutalarge,redtongue.Singleman, seemingly unconcerned by these exchanges, tries once again to interest

Waverhouseintheirgame.“It’syoutogo,”hesays.AsWaverhouse takesbackhis tongueand looksdownat theboard,Beauchampturns to

Coldmoon.“Tellme,whendidyoustartplayingtheviolin?I’dverymuchliketo learn,but theysayit’sterriblydifficult.”

“Anyonecanlearntoplayalittle.”“It’salwaysbeenmysneakinghopethat,given thesimilarnatureofallarts,personswith

anaptitudeforpoetryoughttobequickatmasteringmusic.Doyouthinkthere’sanythinginit?”“Perhaps.I’msureyou’ddoallright:indeed,verywell.”“Whendidyoustartyourownstudyoftheart?”“In high school. Have I ever told you,” said Coldmoon turning tomymaster, “how I first

cametolearntheviolin?”“No,notyet.”“Was it perhaps,” asks Beauchamp, “that you had some high schoolmusic teacher who

encouragedyoutolearn?”“No,noteacher;infactnohumanencouragementatall.Isimplytaughtmyself.”“Quiteagenius.”“Being self-taught doesn’t necessarilymean that one’s a genius,” saysColdmoon looking

sour.Heis,Ithink,theonlybeingwho’dresentbeingcalledagenius.“Thepoint’sirrelevant.Justtellushowyoutaughtyourself.Itwouldheusefultoknow.”“AndI’dbehappytotellyou.Sir,”headdressesmymaster,“haveIyourpermissiontodo

so?”“Ofcourse.Pleasecarryon.”“Thestreetsthesedaysarechock-a-blockwithbright,youngmenwalkingalongwithviolin

casesintheirhands.ButwhenIwasahighschoollad,veryfewofuscouldplayanyWesterninstrumentwhatsoever.My own particular schoolwasway out in the stickswhere, since lifewaslivedinaccordancewithastrongtraditionofextremesimplicity,naryastudentplayedtheviolin.”

“An interesting story seems to have started over there, Singleman, so let’s pack up thisgamerightnow.”

“Therearestillafewpointsleftundecided.”“Forgetthemall.I’monlytoohappytomakeyouapresentofthelot.”“ButIcan’tacceptthat.”“What ameticulousman you are, totally insensitive to that broad approach one expects

fromascholarofZen.Allrightthen,we’llfinishitoff indoublequicktime.Coldmoon,mydearfellow,I’mfascinatedbyyouraccountof thathighschool.AmIright inthinkingyoursmustbethatonewhereallthestudentswentbarefoot?”

“It’strue,Iattendedtheschoolaboutwhichsomanysuchlyingyarnshavebeentold.”“ButI’veheardyoudrilledwithoutshoesandthat,fromathousandabout-turns,thesolesof

yourfeetgrewinchesthick.”“Absolutenonsense!Whoeverstuffedyouupwithsuchaludicrouscanard?”“Nevermindwho.Buttheyalsosaidthateverystudentbringsinforhislunchanenormous

rice-ball,asbigasasummerorange,hangingfromhishiponastring.Isthatacanardtoo?It’sfurthersaidthat thestudentsgobbletherice likemad,unsaltedthoughit is, inorder togetatthepickledplumallegedlyburiedinside.Theycertainlysoundanextremelyvigorousandhardygroupofyoungsters.Areyoulistening,Singleman?Thisisexactlythesortofstorythatappealstoyou.”

“I’m not at all sure that I get the story’s point, but I do indeed approve of simplicity andsturdiness.”

“As to simplicity, there’s yet another characteristic of that area which should earn yourpraise. It is, in fact, so simple that they’ve not yet heard of making ashtrays by sectioningbamboo.AfriendofminewhowasonceonthestaffofColdmoon’sschooltriedtobuysuchan

ashtray,evenoneoftheroughesthew,andtheshopkeepersimplytoldhimthat,sinceanyonecouldgoandcuthimselfanashtrayintheforest,therewasnopointintryingtomakethemasobjectsforsale.Nowthat’swhatIcall truesimplicity.Truesturdinessaswell.Singleman,youagree?”

“Yes, yes, of course I do. But if you’re going to secure your position,Waverhouse, youmustimmediatelyputdownareinforcingpiece.”

“Right. I’ll make assurance doubly, doubly sure. A stone placed there should finish thegame.Youknow,Coldmoon,when Iheardyouraccountofyourearlystruggles Iwas franklyamazed.It’squiteastonishingthat insuchabackwardplaceyoushould,unaided,havetaughtyourselftoplaytheviolin.Morethantwothousandyearsago,inthehighdaysoftheHan,thatmarvelous man Ch’ü Yüan was writing poems, still unmatched, about the wonders of a lifewithdrawnfromthemaddingcrowd.Itcouldbe,Coldmoon,youwereborntobeournewCh’üYüan.”

“ThatIshouldverymuchdislike.”“Well than,howaboutbeingtheWertherofourtimes?What’sthat,Singleman?Youwant

metopickupmystonesandcountthem?Whatapernicketyboreyouare!There’snoneedforcounting.It’sperfectlyobviousthatI’velost.”

“Butonecannotleavethingshangingintheair.Onewantstoknowthescore.”“All right, then.Be so goodas to domy counting forme. I really can’t be botheredwith

suchadullaccountant’schorewhenitismysolemnaestheticdutytolearnhowthemostgiftedWerther of our day started learning to play the violin. Would you have me shunned by myancestors? Therefore,” says Waverhouse, “you must excuse me.” Sliding his cushion awayfrom the gameboard,Waverhousemoved to sit nearColdmoon.Singleman stayedwhere hewas, methodically gathering stones and marshaling them in little armies to be counted.Coldmoonresumesthetellingofhisstory.

“Itwasnotonly that the landwasrugged, its inhabitantswerephilistineandcoarse.Theyconsideredthatanystudentwitheventhemildestinterestintheartswouldgetthemalllaughedatforeffeminacybythestudentsofotherprefectures,sotheirpersecutionofanyoneguiltyofrefinementwasunremittinglymerciless.”

“It’s a sad fact,” saysWaverhouse, “but the students in Coldmoon’s part of the countryreally are uncouth. Why, for instance, are they always dressed in those dark blue, skirtedtrousers? The color itself is odd enough, but it looks unpleasantly worse against their near-blackskinwhich is,presumably,occasionedbythehighdegreeofseasalt in the localair.Ofcourse, it doesn’t greatly matter how dark the men become, but, if their women-folk aresimilarlyblighted,itmustaffecttheirmarriageprospects.”Asusual,whenWaverhousejoinsinaconversation,itsoriginaldriftissoondivertedintonewandunlikelychannels.

“Thewomentherearenolessblackthanthemen.”“Dothemenshowanywishtomarrythem?”“Sincethey’reallasblackaseachother,nooneseemstonotice.”“Whataghastlystateofaffairs.One’sheartbleeds,doesn’tit,Sneaze,forallthosemuddy

women.”“Well, ifyou’reaskingme,myopinionofwomen is that theblacker theyare thebetter.A

lightskinnedfemaletendstogrowmoreandmoreconceitedeverytimesheseesherself inamirror.Andallwomen,allthetime,areincorrigible,soanything,”saysmymasterwithaheavysigh,

“thatmakesthemlessdelightedwiththemselvesisverymuchtobewishedfor.”“Butiftheentirepopulationisdarkskinned,won’tblackbecomebeautifulandtheblackest

mostfair?”BeauchampputshisFingeronatrickypoint.“Theworldwouldbeabetterplaceifwewereonlyridofthemall.”Mymasterputshisviewinanutshell.“Ifyougoaroundsayingthingslikethat,”laughsWaverhouse,“yourwifewillgiveyouwhat-

forlateron.”“Nodangerofthat.”“She’sout?”“Yes,shewentoutquitesomewhileagowiththechildren.”“Nowonderit’sbeenquiet.Where’sshegone?”“Ihaven’tthefaintestidea.Shegoesoutwhereandwhenshelikes.”“Andshecomeshomeasshelikes?”“Moreorless.Youtwodon’tknowhowluckyyouaretobesingle.Ienvyyoubothfromthe

bottomofmyheart.”Beauchamplooksslightlyuncomfortable,butColdmoonkeepsongrinning.“Allmarriedmengrow to feel like that,” saysWaverhouse. “Whataboutyou,Singleman?

Doesyourwifedriveyoucrazy?”“Eh?Hangona tick.Six foursare twenty-four,plusoneandoneandonemakes twenty-

seven.Waverhouse,youmanagedtodobetterthanitlookedfromthelayoutontheboard.Themargin inmy favor is nomore thanameaslyeighteen stones.Now then,whatwas that youasked?”

“Iaskedifyou,too,weredrivencrazybyatroublesomewife.”“Youmustbejokingagain.But,toansweryourquestion,I’mnotparticularlytroubledbymy

wife,perhapsbecauseshelovesme.”“Oh,Idobegyourpardon.HowtypicalofSinglemantohavealovingwife.”“Singleman’snosingleton.Theworldisfulloflovingwives.”Coldmoon,asomewhatunlikelychampionoftheladies,pipesupsturdilyintheirdefense.“Coldmoon’sright,”saysBeauchamp.“AsIseeit,thereareonlytworoadsbywhichaman

maycometoperfectbliss:bytheroadoflove,andbytheroadofart.Ofalltheformsoflove,married love isperhaps thenoblest. It therefore seems tome that to remainunmarried is toflout thewillofHeaven.Andwhat,”asksBeauchamp,bendinguponWaverhousehissadandseriousgaze,“doyou,sir,thinkofthat?”

“Ithinkyouhavestatedanunanswerablecase.Ifearthatthisoldbachelorwillneverenterthesphereofperfectbliss.”

“Ifyougetyourselfawife,you’llhavemadeitdoublysurethatblisswillnotbeyours.”Mymastercroaksfromthebottomofthegrimwellofexperience.

“Bethatasitmay,”saysBeauchamp,“weyoungbachelorswillnevergraspthemeaningoflifeunlessweopenourheartsandmindstotheelevatingspiritualityofthearts.Thatiswhy,inthe hope that I might learn to improve myself by playing the violin, I am so particularlyinterestedtohearmoreofColdmoon’sinterruptedaccountofhisactualexperience.”

“Ah,yes,”saysWaverhouse,“weweregoingtohearthetaleofourownyoungWerther’sfiddling. Please tell us now. I promise, no more interruptions.” With this belatedacknowledgementofhishabitualfailing,Waverhouseatlastshutup.

ButthespiritofWaverhouse,likethemonstrousHydraitself,isnoteasilysuppressed.Cut

offonehead,andinitsplacegrowtwo.SilenceWaverhouse,andSinglemangivestongue.“Nomanever,”hewaffled,

“becamea bettermanby virtue of a violin. Itwould be intolerable if universal truthwereaccessiblethroughself-abandonmenttomerefun.

Trulytolosetheselfandthustoachievetheultimaterealityoftheidentityofselfandnon-self,amanmustbewillingtohangbyhisnailsfromacliff,toletgo,andtofalltothatdeathinwhich his spirit may be reborn.” With these pomposities Singleman sought to reproveBeauchamp’s frivolous materialism; however, he might as well have saved his breath, forBeauchampknowsnothingofZenand,ashisnextdrywordsrevealed,hasnodesiretodoso.

“Really?”hecomments. “Youmayberight,but I remainconvinced thatart is theclearestexpressionofthehighesthumanaspirations,andIamnottobeshakeninthatconviction.”

“Good foryou,”saysColdmoon. “Ishallbeglad tospeakofmyartisticexperience tosocongenialasoul.Well,as Iwassaying, Ihadgreatdifficulties tocontendwithbefore Icouldevenstart learning the violin.Canyou imagine,Mr.Sneaze, theagonies I sufferedmerely tobuyaviolin?”

“Well,IassumethatinaplacesogenerallyGodforsakenasnottohaveevenhempsoledsandalsforsale,itcan’thavebeeneasytofindashopthatofferedviolins.”

“Oh,therewasshop,alright.AndI’dsavedupcashenoughforapurchase.Butitwasn’tassimpleasthat.”

“Whynot?”“Because if I bought a fiddle in a dorp that small, everyone would know, and its brute

inhabitantswouldimmediatelyhavemademylifeunbearable.Believeyoume,anyoneouttherewhowasthoughttobetheleastbitartyhadaverythintime.”

“Geniusisalwayspersecuted,”sighedBeauchampwithdeepsympathy.“There you go again. I do wish you’d stop calling me a genius. It’s an embarrassment.

Anyway,everydayasIpassedthatshopwherethefiddlesweredisplayed,I’dsaytomyself,‘Ah,howwonderful itwouldbe just toholdone inmyarms, tobe theownerofa fiddle.Oh,howIwishandwishthatoneofthemweremine.’”

“Quiteunderstandable,”commentedWaverhouse.“Butit’sdistinctlyodd,”mymastermusedinavoicewherehisusualbiliousperversitywas

overlaid with genuine wonder, “that some otherwise sensible lad should wander about abackwoodshamletdroolingoveraviolin.”

“ItsimplyproveswhatI’vejustbeensaying.Drooling’sasignofgenius.”OnlySinglemanheldaloof,vouchsafingnothingandtwistinghisfoolishbeard.“Perhaps you’re wondering how there came to be violins available in such a graceless

place, but the explanation’s quite simple. There was, you see, a ladies academy in theneighborhood, and, since the curriculum included daily violin-practice, the local shopkeeperswerequicktoexploitsuchacaptivemarket.Ofcourse, theviolinswereofpoorquality;morerusticguesthangenuineviolins.Andtheshop-folktreatedthemveryroughly,hangingthemupattheshopentranceinbunchesoftwoorthree,likesomanyvegetables.Yet,asonepassedtheshop,onecouldhearthemhumminginthewindor, inresponsetosomeshopboy’scasualfinger,quiveringintosound.Theirsingulartimbre,everytimeIheardit,thrilledmyhearttosuchapitchofexcitementthatIfeltitcouldbutburst.”

“That sounds dangerous. There are, of course, many varieties of epilepsy, such as thatbroughtonbythesightofwaterandthatprovokedbythepresenceofcrowds.Butouryoung

Werther,”saysWaverhouse—neveronetomissanopportunitytowallowintheabsurd—seemsuniqueinsufferingseizuresatthethrummingoffiddlestrings.”

ButtheploddingBeauchamp,prosaiceveninhispassionforthepoetic,wouldn’trecognizeaflightoffancyifitlandedonhisnose.“It’snotamatterformockery,”hesnaps.“NomancantrulybeanartistunlesshehassensitivitiesaskeenasColdmoon’s.Isayagain,Coldmoonisagenius.”

Coldmoonstilllooksrestlesstohavesuchgreatnessthrustuponhim.“No,no,”hesays, “maybe it really issomeepilepticvariant;but the fact remains that the

timbreofthosesoundsmovedmetothecore.I’veplayedandheardtheviolintimeandagainsincethen,butnothingeverhasmatchedthebeautyofthatrandommusic.Therearenowordstoconveythefaintestechoofitsmagic...”

NobodypaidtheslightestattentiontoSinglemanwhen,ratheraptlyasitseemedtome,hequoted fromanobscureTaoist text: “Only fromgems, the jewels in itshilt, couldsuchsweetsounds have issued from the sword.” I felt sorry, not only for Singleman but forChuang-tzu,too,thatthewordswerelefttodie.

“Dayafterdayformanymonths,Iwalkedpastthatshop,butIheardthatmarvelousmusiconlythrice.OnthethirdoccasionIdecidedthat,comewhatmight,Iwouldhavetobuyaviolin.Reproof fromthepeopleofmyowndistrict,sneersfromtheslobs inneighboringprefectures,thumpingsorganizedbymy fellowstudents, fist-lynchers toaman,noteven formalexpulsionfrom the school could budge me from my resolution. I had no choice but to satisfy my all-consumingneed.Iwouldbuyaviolin.”

“Howcharacteristicofgenius.Thatdrive,thattotalconcentrationuponfulfillmentofaninnerneed. Ah, Coldmoon, how I envy you! How I have longed, lifelong and always in vain, toexperiencefeelingsofsuchvehemence.IgotoconcertsandIstrainmyearsuntiltheyacheinanefforttobecarriedaway,butforallmyfull-heartedstriving,nothingseemstohappen.Howyou must pity,” said Beauchamp in tones that mixed black sadness and green envy, “usearthboundclods.”

“Count yourself lucky,” Coldmoon answers. “I can speak of my enthrallment now withrelativecalm.Butthenitwaspureagony.

Excruciatingagony.Anyway,mymasters,intheendItooktheplungeandboughtaviolin.”“Sayon.”“ItwastheeveoftheEmperor’sbirthday,inNovember.Everyoneinmylodgingshadgone

off tosomehotspringfor thenight,andtheplacewasempty. I’dreportedsick thatdayand,absenting myself from school, had stayed in bed, where, all day long, I nursed the singlethought:thiseveningI’llgooutandgetthatviolin.”

“Youmeanyouplayedtruantbyshammingillness?”“That’sright.”“Talentindeed,”saysWaverhouselostinwonder.“Perhapshereallyisagenius.”“AsI laywithmyheadstickingoutof thebedclothes,Igrewimpatientforthenightfall.To

break the tension, I ducked beneath the covers and, with my eyes closed tight, entreatedsleep;whichdidnotcome.SoIpulledmyheadbackout,onlytofindthefierceautumnsunstillfullyablazeonthepaper-windowsixfeetlong.Whichniggledme.Ithennoticed,highuponthepaper-window,alongstringyshadowwhich,everysooften,waveredintheautumnwind.”

“Whatwasthatlong,stringyshadow?”“Peeled, astringent persimmons strung like beads on raffia cords suspended from the

eaves.”“Hmm.Whathappenednext?”“Next,havingnothingelsetodo,Igotupfrombed,openedthepaper-windowandwentout

onto theveranda.There Idetachedoneof thepersimmons thathaddried tosweetness,andateit.”

“Didittastegood?”Mymastercanbetrusted,whateverthesubject,tofindsomechildishquestiontobeasked.

“Excellent.Persimmonsdowntherereallyaresuperb.YouwillnottastetheirlikeanywhereinTokyo.”

“Nevermind the persimmons.What did you do next?” This time it was Beauchampwhowaspressingforclarification.

“Next,Iduckedbackintobedagain,closedmyeyesandbreathedasilentprayertoallthegods and Buddhas for nightfall to come soon. It then seemed that three, perhaps four, longhourshadpassed;sothinkingtheeveningmusthavecome,Ibroughtmyheadoutfromunderthe bed clothes. To my surprise, the fierce autumn sun was still fully ablaze on the six-footpaper-window,and,onitsupperpart,thoselongandstringyshadowswerestillswaying.”

“We’veheardallthat.”“Thesamesequencehappenedagainandagain. Inanyevent, Igotupfrombed,opened

the paper-window, ate one persimmon that had dried to sweetness, went back to bed, andbreathedasilentprayertoallthegodsandBuddhasfornightfalltocomesoon.”

“We don’t seem to bemakingmuch progresswith that promised story about learning toplaytheviolin.”

“Don’t rushme. Just listen,please.Well, havingendured thenext three,orperhaps four,hoursinmybeduntil,Ithought,surelyitmustnowbeevening,Ipoppedmyheadupoutofthecovers only to find the fierce, autumn sun still fully ablaze on the paperwindowwhile, on itsupperpart,thelongstringyshadowswereasway.”

“You’regettingusnowhere.’“Then, Igotup frombed,opened thepaper-window,wentoutonto theveranda,ateone

persimmondriedtosweetnessand...”“So you ate another one? Is there no end to your dreary guzzle of persimmons dried to

sweetness?”“Well,myimpatiencegrewworse.”“Yourimpatience!Whataboutours?”“YouwanteverythingsorushedalongthatIfindithardtocontinuemystory.”IfColdmoonfindsithard,sodoeshisaudience;eventhedevotedBeauchampmakeslittle

whimpersofcomplaint.“Ifyouallfindlisteningtoohard,Ihavenochoicebuttobringmystoryabruptlytoitsend.

Inshort,Irepeatedthisoscillationbetweeneatingpersimmonsandduckingintobeduntilallthefruitweregone.”

“Bythetimeyou’dguzzledthatlotthesunmustsurelyhavegonedown.”“Asamatterof fact, ithadn’t.After I’deaten the lastpersimmonIduckedback intobed,

and induecoursepoppedmyheadoutyetagain,only to find the fierceautumnsunstill fullyablazeuponthatsix-footpaper-window...”

“I’vehadenoughofthis.Itjustgoesonandon.”“Metoo.I’mboredstiffwiththewayyoutellyourtiresomestory.”

“Butitisn’teasyonme,youknow.”“With the degree of perseverance you have already proven you possess, no enterprise

whatsoever could be too difficult. If we had sat here uncomplaining, your autumn sun wouldhavegoneonblazinguntiltomorrowmorning.Tellmethis:doyou,andifsowhen,intendtobuythat violin?” Even the indefatiguableWaverhouse is showing signs of wear. Singleman aloneseemsunaffectedbytheslowunrolling(orrathertheslowunrollingandrerolling)ofColdmoon’squaint account. For all he cared,Coldmoon’s autumn sun could go on blazing all through thenight;even,perhaps,untiltheday,ordays,beyondtomorrow.

Coldmoon,too,showsnosignofstrain.Calmandcomposed,hedronesonwithhisstory.“SomeonehasaskedmewhenI intendtobuymyviolin.Theanswer is that I intendtogooutandbuyit justassoonasthesunhasset.It ishardlymyfaultthat,wheneverIpeeroutfromthebedclothes, theautumnsun isstill sobrilliantlyablaze.Oh,how Isuffered! Itwas far, farworse,thatdeepimpatienceinmysoul,thanthissuperficialirritationwhichseems,sopettily,toirk you all. After I’d eaten the last of the hanging persimmons and saw the day still bright, Icould not help but perish into tears.Beauchamp,mydear fellow, I felt so reft of hope that Iwept,Iwept.”

“I’mnotatallsurprised.Yourweepingdoesyoucredit.Allartistsareessentiallyemotionaland their tearsaredistillationsof the truthof things.Nevertheless,onedoes ratherwish thatyoucouldspeedthingsupabit.”Beauchamp’sadecent-heartedcreatureand,evenwhenhe’skneedeepinabsurdities,maintainshisearnestmanner.

“Much as I’d like to speed it up, that laggard sunwon’t set. Its hang-up ismost hard tobear.”

“Your endlessly unsetting sun is no lesshardonus, your tannedand sweatingaudience.So, let’s forgetthewhole interminabletalebefore its lentorkillsus.Scrubit,Coldmoon,”saysmymasterwhoisnowquiteclearlynearingtheendofhistether.

“You’d find itharderstill ifwestoppedat thispoint.Forwearenowcoming to the reallyinterestingpartofthestory.”

“Allrightthen.We’repreparedtolisten,butonlyonconditionthatthesungoesdown.”“That’saprettytallorder,butallthingsyieldtomyreveredteacher,andlothesunhasset.”“How extraordinarily convenient.” Singleman uttered his toneless comment with so much

nonchalancethateveryonebrokeintolaughter.“Sonight,atlast,hadfallen.Youcanperhapsimaginemyrelief.WithgreatstealthIslipped

outofmy lodgings into thequietnessofSaddletree, for so thathuddleofpoordwellingshadbeennamed.Mynatureshrinksfromnoisyplacessothat,despitetheobviousconveniencesofacitylife,Ihadatthattimechosentowithdrawfromthewhirloftheworldandtolivesecludedinasnailshellofadwelling,a farmhousemiles fromanywhere inacornerof thecountrysidescarcetroddenbythefootofman.”

“That‘scarcetroddenbythefootofman’seemstobepilingitonabit,”objectsmymaster.“And that touch about the ‘snail shell dwelling,’” adds Waverhouse, “is insufferably

bombastic.Whydon’t yousay, ‘ina tiny room, toosmalleven tohaveanalcove?’Thatwouldsoundmuchbetter,ifonlybecauseagreatdeallessaffected.”

But Beauchamp, as he immediately makes clear, finds the description praiseworthy.“Whatever the facts of the room’s dimensions, Coldmoon’s phrasing is poetic. I find it verypleasing.”

ThemeticulousSinglemanchipsinwithaseriousenquiry.“Itmusthavebeenanexhausting

business trudging there and back to school from such a remote shack. How many miles,roughly,wouldyousay?”

“Perhapsfivehundredyards.Yousee,theschoolitselfwasintheremotevillage...”“In that case,many of its studentswould have been boarded in nearby lodgings. Is that

correct?”asksSinglemaninrelentlesstoneswhichsuggestthefar-offbayingofbloodhounds.“Yes.Mostofthefarmdwellingshadoneortwostudentlodgers.”“Yet,didyounotdescribe theplaceasscarcely troddenby the footofman?”Singleman

movesinforthekill.“Idid indeed.But for theschool theplacewouldhavebeenvirtuallyuninhabited.Now, let

metellyouhowIwasdressedasIslippedout into lonelySaddletree in thatdeepeningdusk.Over a padded handwoven cotton kimono, Iwore the brass-buttoned overcoat ofmy schooluniform. With the overcoat’s hood pulled well down over my head to make sure I’d not berecognized,Idriftedalongtheroadinsuchawayasnottoattractattention.BeingNovember,the road frommy lodgings to theSouthernHighwaywas thickwith fallen persimmon leaves.EverystepItooksetthedeadleavesscurrying,andtheirrustlebehindmeseemedproofthatIwas being followed.When I turned and looked back, the dense mass of the Tōrei Temple,blackereven than its surrounding forest, loomedupblackaboveme.As youmayknow, thattempleisthefamilyshrineoftheMatsudairaClan.Anextremelyquietandlittle-visitedbuilding,itliesatthefootofMountKōshinnotmorethanahundredyardsfromwhereIwasthenliving.Above the forest trees thesky’svasthollowglitteredwithmoonlitstars,while theMilkyWay,slicingacross theRiverofLongRapids,stretchedeastandevereast toward. . .now letmesee,toward...wellyes,Hawaii.”

“Hawaii?That’squitestartling,”saidastartledWaverhouse.“IwalkedsometwohundredyardsalongtheSouthernHighway,enteredthetownshipfrom

Eagle Lane, turned into Old Castle Street, up Great Bushel Road and so past First Street,Second Street, and Third Street, all running off Main Street which itself runs parallel to theRoadof theCostofFood.Fromthere I tookOwariStreet,NagoyaStreet,and theStreetoftheMagicDolphinintoFishballLaneandthence...”

“Youcanspareusthetopography.Whatwewanttoknow,”mymasterrudelyinterrupts,“iswhetherornotyouboughtaviolin.”

“ThemanwhosellsmusicalinstrumentsisKanekoZenbeiso,usingpartsofhisownname,hecallshisshopKane-zen.Buttoreachtheshop,sir,we’vestillsomewaytogo.”

“Forgetthedistance.Justgoandbuyaviolin.Anddoitquickly.”“Yourwish,sir, is,asalways,mycommand.Well,when Igot toKane-zen, theshopwas

ablazewithlanternlightand...”“Ablaze?Ohno.Not that again.Howoften this timeare yougoing to scorchuswith the

blazingrepetition?”OnthisoccasionitwasWaverhousewhoraisedthefirealarm.“Friends,havenofear.It’sonlyapassingkindofblazethatlightsyourimmediatehorizon.It

will,Idoassureyou,flickeranddiedown.Well,asIpeerthroughthelightblazefromtheshop,I can see a faint reflection of that glare shining from the polished body of a violin while theroundness of its pinched-in waist gleams almost coldly. So falls the lantern’s light across itstightly drawn strings that only a section of the fiddle’s stringing flings out atme its glisteningdartsofsilver.”

“Now that,” says Beauchamp almost moaning in his pleasure at the words, “is a trulymasterlypieceofdescription.”

“That’stheone,Ithought,that’stheoneforme.Thebloodbeganpoundinginmyheadandmylegssoweakenedtheycouldbarelyholdmeup.”

Behindascornfulsmile,Singlemangrunted.“Instinctively, and with no further thought, I rushed into the shop, yanked out my purse,

pulledfromitacoupleoffive-yennotesand...”“Sointheendyouboughtit?”askedmymaster.“Iwascertainlygoing todoso,but then I thought tomyself,‘Wait.This is themomentof

crisis. If IactrashlyImaybunglethings.ShouldInotpausefordeeperreflection?’So,attheeleventhhour,Ireinedmyselfin.”

“Sweet heaven,” groaned my master, “d’you mean to say that even now, after we’vesloggedalongbehindyouacrosssuchveritableAustraliasofbalderdash,you’vestillnotboughtyourfiddle.Youreallydodragthingsout.Andallforsomepiddlingcontraptionofcheapwoodandcatgut.”

“Itisnot,sir,myintentiontodragthingsout.Ican’thelpbeingunabletobuyit.”“Whycan’tyou?”“Whycan’t I?Because it’sstill tooearly in theevening.Therewerestill toomanypeople

passingby.”“What does it matter if there are two or even three hundred people in the streets?

Coldmoon, you really are an extraordinary man,” my master shouted in his anger andfrustration.

“Iftheywerejustpeople,”saysColdmoon,“evenathousand,eventwothousandofthem,ofcourseitwouldn’tmatter.Butmanyofthemwereinfactmyfellowstudents;prowlingaboutwith their sleeves rolledupandwithbludgeons in theirhands.There’saparticulargroup, theDregs, who pride themselves on being permanently at the bottom of the class. I had to becarefulbecause loutsof thatkindare invariablygoodat judo,andIdarednot taketheriskofanykindof tanglewith them.Forwhoknowswhereeven themost trivial brushwith violencemayend?

Of course, I yearned to have that violin, but I was also fairly anxious to remain alive. Ipreferredtogoonbreathingwithoutplayingaviolintolyingdeadforhavingplayedit.”

“ThenamIrightinthinkingthatyoudidn’tbuyafiddle?”Mymasterstrugglesoninsearchofcertainties.

“Oh,butIdidmakeapurchase.”“Coldmoon,you’redrivingmemad.Ifyou’regoingtobuyafiddle,buyit; ifyoudon’twant

tobuyone,don’t.Butforthesakeofmysanity,pleasesettlethematteronewayortheother.”Coldmoongrinned. “Thingssettle themselves,”hesaid, “andall too rarely in thewayone

hadmosthoped.”Withcarelesscarehelitacigaretteandblewoutsmokeattheceiling.Ithinkitwasthesmokewhichfinallysnappedmymaster’spatience.Inanyevent, itwasat thispoint thatheabruptly rose tohis feet,wentoff intohis study

and, returningwithamusty-looking, foreignbook, laydown flatonhisstomachandbegan toread.Singlemanhadearlierslippedawayunremarked,andisnowsittinginfrontofthealcoveplayinggobyhimself.TheplainfactisthatColdmoon’sstoryhasprovedsoboringlylongthat,one by one, his listeners have abandoned him. Only two of them are still sticking it out:Beauchamp with his unquenchable faith in art and Waverhouse to whom longeur is secondnature.

Coldmoonsomewhatcrudelyblewoutalastlongstreamofsmokeandresumedtellinghis

storyatthesameleisurelypace.“Havingdecidedthatan immediatepurchaseof thatviolinwouldbe ill timed, Inowhadto

decide upon a suitable timing. The early part of the evening had already been found toodangerousand the shopwouldof coursebe closed if I came too late.Clearly the ideal timewouldbesomewherebeforeclosingtimebutaftertheprowlingstudentshadallretiredtotheirlairs. Yet to identify the precise best moment of purchase was not, as I’m sure you,Beauchamp,willappreciate,atalleasy.”

“Icanseeitwouldbedifficult.”“Eventually, I fixedupon teno’clockas thebest time foraction.Butwhatshould Idountil

then? I didn’tmuch like the ideaof goingback tomy lodgingsonly to sneakoutagain;whilevisitingsome friend fora time-wastingchatstruckmeas tooselfish. Iaccordinglydecided topass the waiting period in a simple stroll around town: two or three hours, I thought, couldalwaysbequickly and congenially consumed in sucha leisured ramble.But on this particulareveningsoleadenlythetimedraggedbythatIunderstoodasdeeplyinmyheartasifImyselfhad coined that ancient line which says, ‘A single day seems long as a thousand autumns.’”Coldmoontwistedhisfeaturesintoapatternwhichhepresumablyconsideredexpressiveoftheagonies ofwaiting and, confident of some suitable reaction fromWaverhouse, turned the fullglareofhisfakeddistressuponthatsubtleaesthete.

Norwashedisappointed.Waverhousewouldinterrupttheannouncementofhisowndeathsentence for the sakeof hearinghimself babble, andColdmoon’s lookof open invitationwasutterlyirresistible.

“AsIrecall,”heimmediatelyresponded,“theoldsongtellsusnotonlythatitispainfultobekeptwaitingbythebelovedbutalso,asonemightofcourseexpect,thatthewaiterfeelsmorepain than the awaited. So perhaps that eaves-strung violin actually experienced more bitterpainsofwaitingthandidyouonyouraimlessanddispiritedwanderingaroundtown likesomecluelessdetective.‘Dispirited’isasplendidword.Isn’tittheChinesewhosay,‘dispiritedasanunfeddog inahouseofmourning?’ Indeed, there’snothingmoredismal than thewhiningofahomelessdog.”

“Adog?That’scruel.I’veneverbeforebeenlikenedtoadog.”“As I listen to your story I feel as though Iwere reading thebiographyof someancient,

master artist, and my heart brims with sympathy for your sufferings. Our tame comedianWaverhousewasonlytryingtobefunnywhenhecomparedyouwithadog.Takenonoticeofhis nonsense but pray continuewith your story.” Beauchamppours oil on potentially troubledwaters,butColdmoonintruthneedsneitherencouragementnorconsolation.Comewhatmay,he’sgoing to tell his story “Well,” hecontinues, “Iwanderedup InfantryRoadand,along theStreetofaHundredHousesandthence,throughMoney-changers’

Alley,intotheStreetoftheFalconers.ThereIcountedfirstthewitheredwillowsinfrontoftheprefecturaloffice,and then the lightedwindows in theside-wall of thehospital. I smokedtwocigarettesonDyer’sBridgeandthenIlookedatmywatch...”

“Wasityetteno’clock?”“Notyet, I’msorry tosay. IdriftedacrossDyer’sBridgeandas Iwalkedeastwardalong

the river path I passed a home bound group of threemasseurs. Somewhere in the distancedogswerehowlingatthemoon.”

“Tohear,onanautumnnightbytheriverside, thedistantbarkingofdogs. . .Thatsoundslikesomescene-settingspeechfromaKabukiplay.

You,Coldmoon,arecastasthefugitivehero.”“HaveIdoneanythingwrong?”“Youareabouttodosomethingfrightful.”“That’sabitmuch.AllI’mgoingtodoistobuyaviolin.Ifthat’stobeconsideredcriminal,

everystudentateveryschoolofmusicmustbeguiltyofcrime.”“Criminality is not determined by any absolute standard of good or evil. The acts of a

criminalmayactuallybegood inabsolute termsbut, since theyhavenotbeen recognizedasgood by the consensus of public opinion enshrined in the law, they will be treated, andpunished,ascrimes.Itisextremelydifficulttoestablishwhat,intruth,isacrime.

For what is truth? Christ himself in the context of his society was a criminal and waspunishedasacriminal.OfthebloodlinefromKingDavid,hewasaccusedbyhisfellowJewsofwishing to be a king. He did not deny the charge, which naturally was very serious to theRoman governor of that conquered province, and the plaque on his crucifix, ‘TheKing of theJews,’identifiedhiscrime.Now,doesourhandsomeColdmoondenybeinganartistinasocietywhereartistsareregardedasoffensive?Oflustingafteraviolininacommunitywheresuchafilthyemotionisvirtuallycriminal?”

“All right,”saysColdmoon. “Iacknowledgemyguilt.Butwhatworriesme ishow topassthetimeuntilteno’clockfinallydeignstoarrive.”

“Nonsense,” replies Waverhouse. “You can run through, yet again, that time consumingnamingofthenamesofstreets.Ifthatdoesn’twork,youcanhaulupyourdear,oldautumnsunfora fewmoreboutsofblazing.Andwhatabout thosepersimmons, sun-dried,of course, tosweetness?I’msureyoucouldeatatleastanotherthreedozen.Thatsortofstuffwillkeepyougoinguntilten,andI’mpreparedtolistenforaslongasyoulike.”

Coldmoon had the grace to break into a broad grin. “Since you’ve taken the verywordsfrommymouth,Iwon’tinsistonusingthemmyself.So,byanartisticdistortionofthetruth,allofasudden it’s teno’clock.Righton thatappointedhour I returned toKane-zen.Thestreetswere deserted, and the sound of my wooden clogs was desperately lonely. The big outershuttershadalreadybeenhoisted intoplaceacross the frontof theshopandonly thepaperslidingdoorofitssmallsideentrancewasstillavailableforuse.AsIslidthatlightdooropen,Iwasagainassailedbyavaguelyuneasy feeling thatsomesneakydogwasstillslinkingalongbehindme.”

At this point,mymaster glanced up fromhis grubby-looking book and asked, “Have youboughtthatviolinyet?”

“He’sjustgoingtobuyitnow,”saidBeauchamp.“What! He still hasn’t bought it after all this time? Buying fiddles must be an arduous

business,”mymastermutterstohimselfandturnsbacktohisreading.Singleman,whohasbynow practically covered the whole board with black and white pieces, maintains hisdisinterestedsilence.

“Summoningupmycourage, I dived into theshopand,withmyheadburied inmyhood,saidthatIwantedaviolin.Severalshopboysandyoungassistantswhoweresittingchatteringaroundabrazierlookedupinsurpriseandstaredatmyhalfhiddenface.Automatically,withmyrighthand, I tugged thehoodstill lower.When Ihadasked forasecond time tobeshownaviolin,theboysittingnearestme,who’dbeentryingtopeerupundermyhood,gottohisfeetand,withahalf-hearted‘Certainly,sir,’slouchedofftothefrontoftheshopandcamebackwithatiedclusterofsomefourorfive.Inresponsetomyquestion,hesaidaviolincostfiveyenand

twentysen.“‘Ascheapasthat?Thesemustbeonlytoys.Aretheyallthesameprice?’“‘Yes,’heanswered,‘allthesameprice.Allexactlythesameandallstronglyandcarefully

constructed.’“I tookoutmypurseandextractedfromitonefive-yennoteandatwenty-sensilvercoin.

ThenIwrappedtheviolininabigclothI’dspeciallybroughtforthatpurpose.Apartfrommyselfandtheinquisitiveshopboy,nooneintheshophadspokenawordsinceIentered.Theyjustsat therewatchingme.Sincemyfacewaswellconcealed, Iknewtherewasnoriskofbeingrecognized, but I still felt nervous and anxious to get back out to the street as quickly aspossible. At long last, with my cloth wrapped treasure tucked insidemy overcoat, I left theshop.

‘Thankyou,sir,’theychorusedasIdidso,andmybloodrancold.Outside, Iglancedquicklyupanddown thestreet. Itwasprettywellempty;except that,

perhapsahundredyardsaway,IcouldhearsometwoorthreevoicesquotingChinesepoemsateachotherinaccentssoloudastowakenthewholetown.Edgyaseverandfearinglesttheloudness of the voices forewarned of a troublesome incident with argumentative drunks, Islipped awaywestward around the corner of the shop, hurried along beside themoat until Icameout on toDrugKing’sTempleRoad.Then, passing throughAlderVillage to the foot ofMountKōshin,Iatlastgotbacktomylodgings.Andthetimewastentotwo.”

“Thenyou’vebeenwalkingpracticallythewholenightlong,”exclaimedBeauchampwithhisusualadmiringsympathy.

“So!Atlong,longlastit’sover,”saysWaverhousewithimpolitelyobviousrelief.“Thewayitwentonandon,itwasliketraveler’sbackgammon.”

“Butit’sonlynow,”protestsColdmoon,“thatwecometothereallyinterestingpart.Sofarit’sonlyprelude.”

“More tocome?But that’s terrible.Youcan’texpect thepatienceofyouraudienceto lastoutthroughafullrecitalaftersuchanexhaustingprelude.”

“Ionlyhopethat,fortheirownsakes,myaudiencewillbearwithme.Tobreakoffnowwouldbe,asthesayinghasit,tohaveplowedafieldandthentoforget

tosowtheseed.Ishallthereforepresson.”“Mydearchap,”saysWaverhouse, “whatyoudecide tosay isentirelyup toyou.Formy

part,IshallsimplysitandhearwhateveritisI’llhear.”“Whataboutyou,myreveredmaster?Willyouconsenttobesograciousastohearkento

mystumblingtale?MayImention,sir,thatIhavealreadyboughtaviolin.”“Sowhat are you nowproposing?To sell it? I see no reason to listen to an odyssey of

sale.”“Iamfarfromsellingit.”“Inthatcasethere’sevenlessneedtolisten.”“Yourdecisiongrievesme.Wellthen,Beauchamp,itseemsthatonlyyouhavethekindness

anddiscriminatingtastetohearmeout.Iconfessit’sallabitdiscouraging.Butnevermind.I’lldomybesttobebrief.”

“Youneedn’tbebrief.Takeyourtime.IFindyourstoryfascinating.”“Wellnow,wherewasI?Ahyes,backsafelyinmylodgings,theproudpossesserafterso

many vicissitudes of my precious violin. But my troubles were not over. First, I didn’t knowwheretokeepit.Allsortsofvisitorswereaccustomedtodroppinginonme,soIcouldn’t just

leave itabout theplacewhere theywould immediatelyspot it. If Idugaholeandburied it, itwouldhavebeentiresometodigitupwheneverIwantedtoplay.”

“Quiteso.Couldyouperhapshideitupintheceiling?”“Iwaslodgedinafarmhouse,sotheceilingshadnoboards.”“Thatwashard.Wheredidyouputitthen?”“WheredoyouthinkIputit?”“I’venoidea.Inthespacewherethestormboardsforthewindowscanbeslidaway?”“No.”“Wrappedupinyourbedclothesandtuckedawayinthebeddingcupboard?”“No.”While Beauchamp and Coldmoon continue with their guessing game, my master and

Waverhouse become engrossed in a totally separate conversation. “How do you read theselines?”mymasterasked.

“Whichlines?”“Thesetwolineshere.”“What’sthisthen?Quidaliudestmuliernisiamicitieinimica...Butit’sLatin.”“Iknowit’sLatin.Buthowdoyoureadit?”“Come off it, Sneaze,” saysWaverhouse evasively as his sensitive nose scents danger,

“you’realwaysbraggingaboutyourknowledgeofdeadlanguages.Can’tyoureadityourself?”“OfcourseIcan.Quiteeasily.ButI’maskingyouforyourreadingofthisparticulartext.”“Youknowhowtoreadit,andyetyouaskmewhatitmeans.That’sabitthick,youknow.”“Nevermindifit’sthickorthin.JusttranslatetheLatinintoEnglish.”“Tut-tut. Such giving of orders, such military ways. D’you take me for your batman or

something?”“Don’tslideawayfromthequestionbehindamilitarysmokescreen.Justbesogoodastoletmehearyourversionofthesetwolines.”“Let’s leaveyourLatinproblems for themoment. I’mkeen—aren’tyou?—tokeepupwith

developments inColdmoon’s extraordinary story.He’s just coming to a crisis point, tremblingbetweendiscoveryandthesuccessfulcachingofhistreasure.AmInotright,Coldmoon?

Well, how then did you cope with your dilemma?” Waverhouse evinces a sudden newenthusiasm forColdmoon’s fantasy ona violin andmovesover to rejoin the fiddle group.Mywretchedmaster,Iregrettosay,isleftalonewithhistext.

Encouraged by this unexpected attention, Coldmoon proceeded to explain where he’dhiddenhisviolin.“Iendedup,”hesaid,“bysmugglingitawayintotheold,varnished,wickerboxthat my grandmother had given me for storing clothes when I’d first left home. It was herpartinggifttome,andsheherselfIseemtoremember,broughtitintothefamilyaspartofherownbridalgear.”

“Suchanantiquewouldhardlyseemtosortwithabrand-newviolin.Whatdoyouthink,Beauchamp?”“Iagreetheysoundapoormatch.”“Butyouyourselfsuggestedtheceiling,andthat,”saidColdmoon,squashingBeauchamp,

“ishardlyagoodmatcheither.”“Despite the oddity ofColdmoon’s hideyhole, his decision strikesmeas the very stuff of

haiku.Solet’snotstartasquabble.Howaboutthis?

Inanancient,wickerboxahiddenviolin:

AfeelingofutterlonesomenessAstheautumnclosesin.”

“Todayyou’refairlyoozingwithlittlesquibs.”“Not just today.Day in, dayout, theywell up inmymind.Myknowledgeof theart is so

profoundthateventhelate,greatMasaokaShikiwasstruckdumbbyitsdepth.”“Goodness,didyouknowShiki?”askedthehonest-heartedBeauchamp.Hisvoicerose in

serious enquiry and he sounded thrilled actually to know someone who had known the late,great,masterpoet.

“Wewereneverphysicallyclose,”saidWaverhouse,“butwewerealwaysdirectlyinwarmcontact by a kind of spiritual telepathy.” Shocked, even disgusted, by this ridiculous answer,Beauchampfellsilent.

Coldmoonmerely smiledandwentonwithhisown improbablestory. “Havingdecidedonhowtohideit,mynextproblemwashowtomakeuseofit.Iforesawnotroubleabouttakingitoutfromitswickerboxandlookingatit,butsuchmeregloatingwouldhardlysuffice.Ineededtobeableactually toplay it.But theresultingsoundswouldscarcelypassunnoticed.Thereinlay a particular danger because the leading bully-boy of those damnableDregs happened tolodge in the boarding house immediately south of mine: the two buildings were, in fact,separatedonlybyascrawnyhedgeconsistingofasinglerowofRosesofSharon.”

“Thatwasstinkingluck,”Beauchampchimesinsympathetically.“Stinking luck indeed. For one cannot mask a telltale sound. As we all well know, the

whereaboutsof the lucklessLadyKogōwerebetrayed to thevengefulTairaby thesoundofherharp.If,”saysWaverhouse,“youweremerelyguzzlingstolenfoodorfakingpapermoney,thatcouldbemanaged,butonecannotscrapeafiddleandkeepone’spresencehidden.”

“Ifonlymyfiddlemadenosound,Icouldhavegottenawaywithit...”“Youspeakasthoughsoundweretheonlybetrayer,buttherearesoundlessthingswhich

still can not be hidden. I remember that years ago, when we were self-catering studentslodginginatempleoverinKoishikawa,oneofourgang,acertainSuzukiTō,waspassionatelyfondofsweetened,cookingsaké.Heusedtokeep it inabeerbottle,neveroffered itaroundbutswigged itallbyhimself.Oneday,whenSuzukiwasout forawalk, theotherwisedecentSneaze,veryunwisely,nickedSuzuki’sbottle,tookacoupleofgulpsandthen...”

“That’s a flat lie. I never touchedSuzuki’s stuff. Itwasalways youwhowere knocking itback,”exclaimedmymastersuddenlyandinaloudvoice.

“Oh,soyou’restillwithus,areyou?I’dthoughtyouweresobusyinyourbookthatIcouldsafelytelltheseterribletruthswithoutfearofinterruptionbytheguiltyparty.Butallthetimeyouwerelistening.

Whichjustshowswhatasneaky,sakésneakingsortoffellowyouare.Onetalksofpeoplewhoareequallyskilledinthoughtandaction.Thoughtandfactionaremoreyourstyle.Idon’tdenythat,nowandagain,Itookamodest

nipfromSuzuki’sbottle.Butyouwerethevillainwhogotfoundout.Andhowdidyoucometobe caught? Just listen to this, you two. We all know, don’t we, that our miserable host isanyway incapable of serious drinking. Alcohol! He just can’t take it. But just because thatcookingsakébelongedtosomeoneelse,hesluggeditdownasthoughhislifedependedonit.

Imaginewhat inevitablyfollowed.Hisfaceswelledupandturnedaghastlyred.Itwasamostfearsomesight.”

“Pipedown,Waverhouse!Youcan’tevenreadLatin.”“That’s a laugh!Youwant a laugh?Then listen to the sequel.WhenSuzuki got back, he

madeabeelineforhisgrog,liftedthebottle,shookit,andimmediatelydiscovereditwasmorethan half empty. Sneaze had really given it a hammering. Of course Suzuki realized thatsomeonehadbeenatitand,whenhelookedaround,therewasSneazeflatoutinacorner,asstiffanddullyscarletassomecrude,claydoll.”

Remembering that ludicrous incident,Waverhouseexploded into raucous laughterand theothers joinedin.Evenmymasterchuckledintohisbook.OnlySinglemanseemsproofagainstlowcomedy.He’sprobablyoverstrainedhisZen-besottedmindwithall thosebitsofstone. Inanyevent,slumpeddownacrosstheboard,he’sfallenfastasleep.

When his guffaws had ended,Waverhouse began again, “I remember another occasionwhenanoiselessactionneverthelessbetrayeditself.I’dgone,”hesaid,“toahotspringinnatUbakowhere I foundmyselfsharinga roomwithsomeoldmanwhowas, Ibelieve,a retireddraperfromTokyo.Sincehewasnomoretomethanatemporaryroommate,ithardlymatterswhetherhewasaretireddraperorapracticingsecond-handclothesdealer,butIthoughtyou’dlikeabitofbackgrounddetail.

Inanyevent,hegotmeintotrouble.Thatistosay,aftersomethreedaysattheinnIranoutofcigarettes.Ubakoisanout-of-the-wayplace,milesupinthemountainswithonlyasingleinnandabsolutelynothingelse.

Onecaneatandonecanbatheinthehotsprings.Butthat’sall.Imaginewhatit’sliketorunoutoffagsinUbako.Itputmeunderstrain.Whenoneisdeprivedofsomething,onebeginstocraveforitasneverbefore.

Though I’mnotmuchof a smoker, themoment I realized Iwasout of cigarettes I foundmyselfachingforapuff.Whatmadeitworsewasthattheoldmanhadbroughtwithhimabigstock of cigarettes carefully bundled up in a carrying cloth, from which he would take outseveralata time,squatdown right in frontofme,andchain-smoke likeasootedchimney. Ifhe’d smoked in an ordinary decently human sort of way, I would not have hated him sopassionately, but he flaunted his tobaccowealth.Hemade smoke rings, blew the fumes outforward, sideways, straight up at the ceiling, in and out of his nostrils, and almost out of hisearsuntilIcouldhavekilledhim.Somemenarebornshow-offs.Thismanwasasmoke-off.”

“Whatd’youmean,asmoke-off?”“If you flaunt your clothes or jewelry, you’re a show-off; if you flaunt your fags, you’re a

smoke-off.”“Ifitputyouthroughsuchagony,whydidn’tyousimplyaskhimtoletyouhaveafewofhis

cigarettes?”“Therearethingsamancan’tdo.Tobeg,Iamashamed.”“Soit’swrongtoaskforacigarette?”“Perhapsnotactuallysinful,butIcouldneverbeg.”“Thenwhatdidyoudo?”“Asamatteroffact,Istole.”“Oh,dear!”“Whentheoldman,clutchinghispersonalhandtowel, totteredoff forahotspringbath, I

knewmychancehadcome.IlootedhishoardandIsmokedandsmokedandsmokedasfast

asIcouldgo.JustasIwassmirkingtomyself,partlywiththepleasureofsmoking,partlywiththe even greater self-satisfaction of the successful thief the door opened and there he wasagain.”

“Whathappenedtohisbath?”“Oh,hewascertainlyplanningtotakeit,butwhenhe’dgonesomewaydownthecorridor

hesuddenlyrememberedhe’dlefthispursebehindsohecamebacktogetit.Damncheek!AsifI’dstealsomeone’spurse...”

“Well,wouldn’tyou?Youseemtohavebeenprettyquickwithhiscigarettes.”“Youmustbejoking.That’snotthesameatall.Anyway,apartfromhisdisgracefulbehavior

in thatmatterof thepurse, theoldmanprovedapersonof real feeling.Whenheopenedthedoor,theroomwasthickwithatleasttwodaysworthofcigarettesmoke.Illnewstravelsfast,theysay.Itdidn’ttakehimlongtoreadthesituation.”

“Didhesayanything?”“Hehadn’tlivedallthoseyearswithoutgrowingmoreshrewdthanthat.Sayingnothing,he

wrappedsomefiftyorsixtycigarettesinapieceofpaper;then,turningtome,hecourteouslyobserved,‘Dopleaseforgivetheirmiserablequality,butifthesecigarettescouldbeofanyusetoyou,I’dbehonoredifyou’dacceptthem.’Thenhewentoffdowntothebath.”

“Perhapsthat’swhat’smeantby‘theTokyostyle.’”“Idon’tknow if it’sTokyostyleordraper’sstyle;anyway,after that incident, theoldman

andIbecamefirmfriendsandwespentamostenjoyabletwoweekstogether.”“Withfreefagsforafortnight?”“Sinceyouaskme,yes.”My master finds it difficult to give in gracefully, but he sometimes tries. He accordingly

closed his book, rolled off his stomach and said, as he sat up, “Have you finishedwith thatviolin?”

“Notyet.We’re justcomingtothe interestingpart,sodoplease listen.Asfor thatpersonflaked out on the go board—what was his name?—What? Singleman? Well, I’d like him tolisten,too.It’sbadforhimtosleepsomuch.Surelyit’stimewewokehimup.”

“Hey,Singleman,wakeup.Wakeup.Thisisaninterestingstory.Dowakeup.Theysayit’sbadforyoutosleepsomuch.Yourwifeisgettinganxious.”

“Eh?”Singleman lifteduphis face.Slobberhaddribbleddownhisgoatee to leavea longshining lineas ifaslughad trailed itsslimeacrosshim. “Iwassleeping,”hemanaged togetout,“likeawhitecloudonthemountaintop.I’vehadadelightfulnap.”

“We’veallseenhowdelightfullyyousleep.Supposeyouwakeupnow.”“Iexpectit’stimeIwoke.Hasanyonehadanythingtosayworthhearing?”“Coldmoon’sbeentellingusabouthisviolin.He’sjustaboutto...Whatwasithewasgoingtodo?Comeon,Sneaze.Whatwasit?”“Ihaven’tthefoggiestidea.”Coldmoonintervened.“Iam,”hesaid,‘justabouttoplayit.”“He’sgoingtoplayhisviolinatlast.Comeoverhereandjoinusaswelisten.”“Stillthatviolin?Bother.”“You’ve no cause to be bothered because you’re one of those people who only play on

stringlessharps;Coldmoonherehaseveryreasontobebotheredoutofhistinyskullbecausehisscreechingsquawksareheardallovertheneighborhood.”

“Ah,yes?Coldmoon,don’tyouyetknowhowtoplayaviolinwithoutbeingheardbyyour

neighbors?”“No,Idon’t.Ifthereissuchaway,I’dverymuchliketolearnaboutit.”“There’s really nothing to learn. Just concentrate, as all the Zenmasters advise, on the

pure,whitecowwhichstandsthereinthealley.Desirewilldropawayfromyouand,asenlightenmentoccurs,you’llfindyoualreadyknow

howsoundlessmusiccanbeplayed.Andbecauseyou’llalreadyknow,you’llhavenoneedtolearn.”Singleman’sdistortedmessagesfromtheGatelessGate,evenwhenhe’swideawake,areusuallyincomprehensible.

ButColdmoonsimplyassumedthatthemanbabbledlikethatbecausehisbrainswerestillfloatingaboutsomewhereinthelandofNod.Sohedeliberatelyignoredhimandcontinuedwithhisstory.“AfterlongthoughtIdevisedaplan.Thenextday,beingtheEmperor’sBirthday,wasanationalholidayandIproposedtospendit inbed.But I felt restlessallday longandIkeptgettingup, first to liftand then to replace the lidofmywickerbox.When, induecourse, thedaylightfadedandthecricketsinthebottomofmygrandmother’spartinggiftbegantochirrup,Itookmycourageinbothhandsandliftedtheviolinanditsbowfromtheirbidingplace.”

“Atwonderfullast,”chirrupedBeauchamp,“Coldmoon’sgoingtoplay.”“Takeiteasy,now,”warnsWaverhouse.“Gently,gently,Coldmoon.Don’tdoanythinghasty.Letcautionruleyourtwilight.”“FirstItookoutthebowandexamineditfromitstiptoitsguard...”“Yousoundlikesomehalf-wittedsellerofswords,”chaffedWaverhouse.“Ifyoucan takeabow inyourhandsand feel that it isyourownsoul thatyou’reholding,

thenyouwillhaveachieved thatsamespiritualconditionwhich transfusesasamuraiwhenheunsheatheshiswhite-honedbladeanddotesupon it in the failing lightofautumn.Holding thatbowinmyhandsItrembledlikealeaf.”

“Ah,whatagenius!”sighsBeauchamp.“Ah,whatanepileptic,”addsWaverhousetartly.“Please,”saidmymaster,“pleasegetonwithplayingit.Andrightaway.Now.”Singlemanmakesawryfaceasthoughacknowledgingthepointless-nessoftryingtobring

lighttotheinvinciblyignorant.“Happily the bow proved in perfect condition. Next I took the violin and, holding it close

under the lamp, examined its front and back. All these preparations had taken about fiveminutes. Please now try to picture the scene. Tirelessly, from the bottom of their box, thecricketsarestillchirruping...”

“We’ll imagine anything you like.Set yourmind at rest, take up your precious instrumentandplay.”

“No, not yet. Now I have checked it over and, like its bow, the violin is flawless. All iswonderfullywell.Ispringtomyfeet...”

“Areyougoingout?”“Oh,dokeepquietand listen. I cannot tell thisstory if youkeep interruptingeverysingle

phrase...”“Gentlemen!Wearetobesilent.Hush!”callsWaverhousecommandingly.“It’syouyourselfwhodotheinterrupting.”“Oh,Isee.Ibegyourpardon.Praycarryon.”“With the violin beneath my arm, soft-soled sandals on my feet, I had taken some few

stepsbeyondtheouterglassdoorofmylodgingswhen...”

“I knew it. I knew it. I knew inmybones therewasgoing tobeabreakdown.Coldmooncannotwalktwostepsorbreathetwominuteswithoutahitchorhang-up.”

“Isupposeyoudorealize,”saidmymasterathismostsarcastic,“thattherearenomoredriedpersimmonshanging from theeaves.Even if you’renowveryhungry there’snopoint inturninghomeforthem.”

“It is highly regrettable that two such scholars as you and you”—Coldmoon nodded atWaverhouse andSneaze— “should persist in behaving like common hecklers. I shall have toaddressmyfurtherremarkstoMr.Beauchamponly.Now,Beauchamp,asIwassaying,thoughI had left my lodgings, I was obliged to turn back for something I should need. Thereafter,havingdrapedaroundmyheadascarletblanket(forwhichI’dpaidthreeyenandtwentyseninmy own hometown before I left it years before), I blew out the lamp. Unfortunately, in theconsequentpitchdarknessIcouldnotfindmysandals.”

“Butwhydidyouwanttogoout?Wherewereyouoffto?”“Patience, patience. I shall come to that. At long last, outside inmy scarlet blanket,my

violin beneath my coat, I again found myself as on the previous night, ankle deep in fallenleavesunderastar litsky.I turnedawaytotherightand,asIcametothefootofMountKo-shin, the boomof the temple bell onEasternPeak struck throughmyblanket shroudedearsandpenetratedtomyinmosthead.Beauchamp,canyouguesswhattimeitwas?”

“Thisisyourstory,Coldmoon.I’venoideawhatthetimewas.”“Beauchamp, it is nine; nine and the evening chill. I am now climbing through the early

autumn darkness along a mountain path which rises nearly three thousand feet to a sort ofterraceplateauwhich the localscallBigFlat.Timidas Iam,atanyother time I’dhavebeenscared cleanout ofmywits, but it’s oneof those strange things that,when themind is trulyconcentrated upon one specific aim, all sense of being frightened or not frightened is wipedfrom one’s heart. Odd as it must sound, I had become a lion-heart by virtue of my single-mindedlusttoplayafiddle.Thisplace,BigFlat,isafamousbeautyspotonthesouthflankofMountKo-shin.Lookingdownfromthereonafineday,onecanseethroughtheredpinesthewholelayoutofthecastletownbelow.I’dguessthelevelareamustcoversomefourhundredsquareyardsand,smackinthemiddleof it,a large,flatrockprotrudestoformalowfifteen-square-yardplatform.OnthenorthsideofBigFlatthere’saswampypondcalledCormorant’sMarsh,andaroundthepondthere’snothingbutathickstandofquiteenormouscamphortrees,eachonenolessthanthreearm-spansaround.Theplaceisdeepinthemountainsandtheonlysignofmanisasmallhutusedbythecamphorgatherers.

Evenbydaythepondoppressesthevisitorwithitsairofsoddengloom.Remoteasitis,BigFlatisnottoohardtovisitbecause,onsomelong-agomaneuvres,the

CorpsofEngineerscutapathwayupthemountain-side.WhenIfinallyreachedtheflatrock,Ispreadoutmyscarletblanketandsatdownonit. I’dneverclimbedupherebeforeonanightsocoldand,asmypulsesteadied,Ibegantofeelthesurroundinglonelinessencroachuponmeasakindofcrampcreepingeverdeeperintomybelly.Whenoneisthusaloneinthemountainsthesheer intensityof that lonelinesscanfill themindwitha feelingof terror;but if that feelingcanbeemptiedaway,all that remains in themind isanextraordinarysenseof icycrystallineclarity.ForsometwentyminutesIsatthereonmyscarletrugcompletelyabstractedfrommynormal self and feeling as though I were totally alone in a palace of pure crystal. It was asthougheverybitofme,mybody,evenmysoul,hadbecometransparent,asifmadeofsomekind of quartz, and I could no longer tell whether I was inside that palace of crystal or that

freezingpalacewaswithinmybelly.”NotquitesurehowtoreacttoColdmoon’sstrangeaccount,Waverhousecontentedhimself

withastyleofteasingmoredemurethanhismockingwont.“Howterrible,”hesaid.Singleman,however,wasgenuinelyimpressedbyColdmoon’spersonalreportofastateofconsciousnessnotunknowntomanymeditationsects.“Quiteextraordinary,”heobserved.“Mostinteresting.”

“Hadmyconditionofcold translucencypersisted, Imightwellhavestayed frozenon thatrockuntilImeltedinthemorningsun.ThenIshouldneverhaveplayedmyviolin.”

“Have therebeenanyearlier reports,”Beauchampasked, “tosuggest thatBigFlatmightbehaunted?Youknow,byfoxes,badgers,oranyothersuchshape-changingcreatures?”

“AsIwassaying,Icouldn’teventellwhetherIwasmyownselfornot,andIscarcelyknewifIwerealiveordeadwhensuddenlyIheardaharshscreamingcryfromthefarendoftheoldmarsh.”

“Aha,”saysWaverhouse,“thingsarehappening.”“Thisawfulcry,likeablastofautumnwindtossingthetreetops,echoedawayfaranddeep

acrosstheentiremountain;atitssound,Icametomyselfwithajerk.”“Whatarelief!”sighedWaverhouse,heavingagrotesquelysimulatedsigh.“Asthemasterssay,‘Onemustperishintolife.’Isn’tthatso,Coldmoon?”EvenSingleman,

whowinkedas he offered his observation, now seemsdisposed to treat his friend’s spiritualexperience in the spirit of light farce. However, his Zen reference was completely lost onColdmoon.

“Having been thus startled back intomy usual self, I looked aroundme. Thewhole vastmountainwasnowdeadquiet:nothing,noteven thedripofaraindrop,couldbeheard.Whatthenwas that ghastly cry? Too piercing to have been human, too loud for any bird. Could ithavebeenamonkey?Butaroundtheretherearen’tanymonkeys.Whatonearthcouldithavebeen?OncethatquestionhadenteredmyheadandIbegantosearcharoundfor itsanswer,all thedemonsofmisgivingwhohadhitherto lainquiet inthecranniesofmyminderuptedintopandemonium.You remember how the city crowdswentwild, people running here and thereandevenallovereachotherinalunacyofwelcome,whenPrinceArthurofConnaughtcametoTokyoinFebruary1906?Well,insidemyheaditwasworsethanthat.Andthenthingssuddenlycame toa crisis. I feltmyveryporesgapeopenand through their yawnmybody’s flightiestvisitors—Courage, Pluck, Prudence, and Composure departed from me. Like cheap alcoholblown inasprayonhairyshins tocool them,myvisitorsevaporated.Undermyribsmyheartbegan to hammer. It leapt and danced like a red frog. My legs trembled like the hummingstringsofakite.Andmynervebroke. Inmindlesspanic Igrabbedmyscarletblanketaroundmyheadand,withtheviolinclutchedbeneathonearm,Iscrambleddownfromthelowflatrockand helter-skelter fled away down the rough mountain path. When, scampering like a ratthrough the layers of dead leaves, I came at last to my lodgings, I crept in quietly and hidmyselfinmybed.IhadbeensoexhaustedbyterrorthatIfellimmediatelyasleep.D’youknow,Beauchamp,thatwasthemostterrifyingexperienceofmywholelife.”

“Andthen?”“That’sit.Thereisn’tanymore.”“Noplayingoftheviolin?”“Howcould Ipossiblyhaveplayed? Ifyouhadheard thateldritchcry, Ibetmyboots the

lastthingyou’dhavethoughtaboutwouldbeplayingaviolin.”“Ifindyourstorylessthansatisfactory.”

“Perhaps so, but it was the truth.” Coldmoon, vastly pleased with himself, surveyed hisaudience.“Well,”hesaid,“andwhatdidyouthinkofit?”

“Excellent.Apointwell taken,” laughedWaverhouse. “You reallymust havegone throughgreattravail tobringyourstorytothatremarkableconclusion.Infact,I’vebeenfollowingyouraccountwiththeclosestattention,foritseemedincreasinglycleartomethat,inthepersonofyourself, these Eastern climes have perhaps been visited by amale reincarnation of SandraBelloni.”Waverhousepausedin theobvioushopethatsomeonewouldgivehimanopportunitytoairhisknowledgeofMeredith’sheroinebyaskingforclarificationofthisobscurereference.Butallthemembersofhisaudience,havingbeencaughtthatwaybefore,heldtheirpeace;soWaverhouse,regrettablyuncued,simplyrattledon. “JustasSandraBelloni’sharpplayingandItaliansonginamoonlitforestcalleddownthegoddessofthatsilverorb,soColdmoon’snearperformancewith a violin upon the ledgesofMountKo-shin calledup somephantombadgerfromafen.Thereis,ofcourse,adifferenceofdegreebuttheprinciple’sthesame.WhatIfindpeculiarly interesting is that such a slight difference in degree should produce so vast adifference in result: in Sandra’s case a manifestation of ethereal beauty, but in Coldmoon’snothingbutcrudeandearthyfarce.Thatmusthavebeenapainfuldisappointmenttoyou.”

“Nodisappointmentatall,”saidColdmoonwhoseemedgenuinelyuninterested,perhapsnotinhisownweirdexperience,butcertainlyinWaverhouse’squestion.

“Tryingtoplayaviolinonamountaintop!Whateffetebehavior!Itservesyourightthatyougot scared silly.” My master’s scathing comment showed his usual lack of sympathy withanythingbeyondtheworldofhisownwizenedimagination.

Singlemanpipedin:

“HowmorethanpitifulitistofindThatonemustliveone’shumanlifeconfinedWithinaworldofaninhumankind.”

None of Singleman’s mangled quotations from the works of deluded medievalmetaphysiciansevermakestheleastsensetoColdmoon.Ortoanyoneelse.PerhapsnoteventoSingleman.Hiswordswerelefttofloatawayintothenothingnessofalongsilence.

Afterawhile,Waverhousechangedthesubjectbyasking,“Incidentally,Coldmoon,areyoustillhauntingtheuniversityinordertopolishyourlittle,glassballs?”

“No.Myvisithomerather interruptedthings. Indeed, Idoubt if I’lleverresumethat lineofresearch. It was always, if you’ll pardon the joke, something of a grind, and lately I’ve beenfindingitarealbore.”

“Butwithoutyourpolishedbeads,youwon’tgetyourdoctorate,”saysmymaster, lookingslightlyworried.

Coldmoon seemsnomore concernedabout his doctorate thanhewaswith his failure tobecomeaJapaneseversionofSandraBelloni. “Oh that,”hesayswithacareless laugh. “I’venolongeranyneedforadegree.”

“Butthenthemarriagewillbecanceledandbothsideswillbeupset.”“Marriage?Whosemarriage?”“Yours.”

“TowhomamIsupposedtobegettingmarried?”“TotheGoldfieldgirl.”“Really?”“Butsurelyyou’vealreadyplightedyourtroth?”“I’veneverplightedanything.Ihadnopartinthespreadofthatparticularrumor.”“That’sabitthick,”saysmymaster.“Isay,Waverhouse,you,too,rememberthatincident,

don’tyou?”“Incident?YoumeanthatbusinesswhentheNosecameshovingherselfinhere?Ifso,it’s

not just youand Iwho’veheardabout theengagement,but theworldandhiswifehave longbeen in on the secret. As a matter of fact, I’m constantly being pestered by some quiterespectable newspapers who want me to let them know when they may have the honor ofprinting photographs of Coldmoon and his blushing Opula in their Happy Couples column.What’smore,Beauchampthere finishedhisepicepithalamium, ‘ASongofLovebirds,’at leastthreemonthsagoandhassincebeenwaitinganxiouslytolearntherightdateforitspublication.You don’t want your masterpiece to rot in the ground like buried treasure just becauseColdmoon’sgrownboredwithbuffinguphislittle,glassbeads,doyou,Beauchamp,eh?”

“There’s no question of pushing for early publication.Of course,my very heart and soulhavegoneintothatpoem,butIamhappilyconvincedthatitwillremainsuitableforpublicationatanyappropriatetime.”

“There, you see: the question of whether or not you take your degree has wide andpotentiallypainfulrepercussions.So,pullyourselftogether.Getthosebeadsrubbedspherical.Polishthewholethingoff.”

“Ilikethejokeinyourphrasing,andI’mtrulysorryifI’vegivenanyofyoucausetoworry.ButIreallydonotanylongerneedadoctorate.”

“Whynot?”“BecauseIhavealreadygotmyownwife.”“I say, that’s grand! When did this secret marriage take place? Life is certainly full of

surprises.Well,Sneaze, as you’ve just heard,Coldmoonhasapparently acquiredawifeandchildren.”

“No children yet. It would be terrible if a child were born after less than a month ofmarriage.”

“Butwhenandwheredidyouevergetmarried?”demandedmymasterasthoughhewerethepresidingjudgeatsomeofficialcourtofinquiry.

“As amatter of fact, duringmy recent trip home. Shewas there waiting forme. Thosedriedbonitoswereoneoftheweddingpresentsfromherrelatives.”

“Threemiserabledriedbonitos!Thatwasratherastingygift.”“No,no.Therewerescadsofthem.Ionlybroughtyouthree.”“Soyourbride is fromyourownhomedistrict?Does it then follow thatshe’son thedark

skinnedside?”“Yes,she’sdarkcomplexioned.Exactlyrightforme.”“AndwhatareyougoingtodoabouttheGoldfields?”“Nothing.”“Butyoucan’tjustleavethings,pooflikethat,”mymasterbleated.“Whatdoyouthink,Waverhouse?”“Ithinkhecan.Thegirlwillmarrysomeoneelse.Afterall,marriageislittlemorethantwo

peoplebumpingagainsteachotherinthedark.If they cannot manage such bumping by themselves, other people contrive their blind

collision. It doesn’tmuchmatterwhobumpswhom. Inmyopinion, theonly persondeservingourtearsandpityistheunfortunateauthorof‘ASongofLovebirds.’”

“Thankyou,butpleasedon’tworry.Myepithalamium,asitstands,isperfectlysuitablefordedication toColdmoon on the already achieved occasion of hismarriage. I can easilywriteanotherwhenOpulagetswed.”

“Ah, that marvelous, heartless professionalism of the true poet,” sighed Waverhouse,“whippingoutamasterpieceatthedropofahat.

Easyasawinkofaneye.One’sheartiscrampedwithjealousy.”“Have you notified the Goldfields?” My master is still touchingly concerned about the

feelingsofthatgraniteclan.“No, andwhy should I? I never proposed to the girl or asked her father for her hand in

marriage. Ihavenoreasonwhatsoever tosayasingleword toeitherof them.Moreover, I’msurethey’vealreadylearnedthelastleastdetailfromthosedozensofdetectivestheyemploy.”

My master’s face, as the word “detectives” entered his ear, immediately turned sour.“You’re right, Coldmoon, tell such people nothing,” and he proceeded to offer the followingcomments on detectives as though they were all weighty arguments against observing theproprietiesinhandlingabrokenengagement.“Personswhosnatchpropertyfromtheunwaryinthe streets are called pickpockets; those who snitch the thoughts of the unwary are calleddetectives.Thosewhojimmyopenyourdoorsandwindowsarecalledthieves;thosewhouseleading questions to lever out one’s private thoughts are called detectives. Those whothreateningly jab their swords into one’s floor matting as a way of forcing the surrender ofmoneyarecalledarmedburglars; thosewhoby the jabbingmenaceof theirwords forceoneinto admissions against one’s will are called detectives. Tomy way of thinking, it inexorablyfollows that pickpockets, thieves, armed burglars, and detectives are all spawn of the samesubhumanorigin,thingsunfittobetreatedevenasmen.

Theireveryendeavorshouldbethwartedandtheythemselvesquitemercilesslyputdown.”“Don’tworkyourself intosucha lather. I’mnot frightenedbydetectives,even though they

shouldappearbythebattalion.Letallbewarnedwithwhomtheywillbedealing.AmInottheKingoftheGlassBallPolishers,AvalonColdmoonB.Sc.?”

“Bravo!Wellspoken!That’sthestufftogive’em!Justthespiritedwordsonewouldexpectfromanewlymarriedbachelor of science.However,Sneaze,”Waverhousecontinued, “if youcategorizedetectiveswithsuchgrubsaspickpockets,thieves,andcommonrobbers,wheredoyouplaceacreaturesuchasGoldfieldwhogivesemploymenttosuchvermin?”

“Perhapsamodernversionofthatlongdepartedvillain,KumasakaCho-han.”“Oh yes, I like that.Cho-han, as I recall it,was said to have disappearedwhen hewas

sliced in half. But ourmodern version over the way, squatting on a fortunemade by blatantusury, isso intenselyalive inhismeannessandsharpgreediness that,cut inamillionpieces,he’d reappear as amillionCho-han clones. It would be a lifelong source of trouble if such ablood-sucking creature ever came to believe he had a bone to pickwith you.So be careful,Coldmoon.”

“Tohellwiththat!IshallfacehimdownwiththesortofspeechyouhearfromherosoftheHo-sho-styleofNohplay.YouknowwhatImean.

‘Pretentiousthiefthoughwellawareofmyfearsomereputation,youyetdarebreakintomy

house.’Thatshouldstophimshort.”Coldmoon,unwiselycarelessoftherealdangershemighthavetocopewithfromavengefulGoldfield,strikesaseriesofdramaticposes.

“Talkingofdetectives, Iwonderwhy it is thatnearlyeveryonenowadays tends tobehaveasdetectivesdo.” Instrictaccordancewithhisusualstyle,Singlemanbeginshisobservationsbyreferencetothemattersunderdiscussionandthenveersoffintocompleteirrelevance.

“Perhaps,”saysColdmoonkindly,“it’sbecauseofthehighcostofliving.”Beauchampmountshishobbyhorse.“Imyselfbelieveit’sbecausewehavelostourfeeling

forart.”“It’sbecause thehornsofmoderncivilizationaresprouting from thehumanheadand the

irritations of that growth, like nettles in one’s underwear, are driving usmad.” It’s a pity thatWaverhouse,whoisbothwell-readandintelligent,stillshouldstrivetobemerelyclever.

Whenitcametomymaster’sturn,heopenedthefollowinglecturewithanairofenormousself-importance. “I have, of late, devoted considerable thought to this topic and I haveconcludedthatthecurrentmarkedtrendtowarddetective-mindednessisentirelycausedbytheindividual permitting himself too strong a realization of the self. By that I do not mean self-realization of the spiritual nature which Singleman pursues in his Zen search for his ‘unbornface,’ thatselfhewasbeforehecontrived tobeborn.Nordo Imean thatother formofZenself-realizationwhere, byeither gradual or suddenenlightenment, themindperceives its ownidentitywithheavenandearth...”

“Dear,dear, this isbecoming ratherheavygoing.But ifSneaze,you reallydopropose tomake an exhaustive and scholarly analysis of the psychologicalmaladies of our times, I feelthat I,Waverhouse inperson,mustbegrantedanopportunity to lodgea fullcomplaintagainstthecivilizationIseektograce.”

“Youarealways free tosaywhatyou like.Butgenerallyyoudon’tsayanything.You justtalk.”

“On the contrary, I havea verygreat deal to say. Itwas you,Sneaze,who, onlyabriefweekback, fell downandworshipedapolicedetective.Yethereyouare today,makinguglycomparisons between detectives and pickpockets. You are an incarnation of the principle ofcontradiction.Whereas Iamamanwho, througheveryearlier life right to thispresentdayofmypresentincarnation,hasneverwaveredinthecerti-tudesofmyopinions.”

“Policedetectivesarepolicedetectives.Theotherdayistheotherday.Andtoday’stoday.Nevertochangeone’sopinionsistodemonstrateapetrifactionofmindthatprevents its leastdevelopment. To be, asConfucius put it in theAnalects, willfully ignorant beyond all hope ofeducation,is,mydearWaverhouse,tobeyou.”

“That’sreallyratherrude.Still,evenadetectivewhenhetriestospeakhishonestmindcanberathersweet.”

“Areyoucallingmeadetective?”“Isimplymeanttosaythat,sinceyouarenotadetective,you’reanhonestman,andthat

that’s good. There, there. No more quarrels. Let’s listen to the rest of your formidableargument.”

“The heightened self-awareness of our contemporaries means that they realize only toowell thewidegapbetween their own interestsand thoseof otherpeople; as theadvanceofcivilizationdailywidens thatgap,so thisso-calledself-awareness intensifies toapointwhereeveryone becomes incapable of natural or unaffected behavior. William Henley, the Englishpoet, once said that his friendRobert Louis Stevensonwas so continuously unable to forget

himselfthat,ifhehappenedtobeinaroomwithamirroronthewall,hecouldnotpassinfrontof theglasswithoutstoppingtostudyhisreflection.Stevenson’scondition isa tellingexampleofthegeneralmoderntrend.Becausethisoverweeningconsciousnessofselfneverletsup,notevenwhenonesleeps,itisinevitablethatourspeechandbehaviorshouldhavebecomeforcedandartificial.Weimposeconstrictionsonourselvesand,inthatprocess,inhibitionsonsociety.Inshort,weconductourwholelivesasifweweretwoyoungpeopleattheirfirstmeetinginthecontextofamarriagenegotiation.Wordssuchasserenityandself-composurehavebecomenomorethansomanymeaninglessstrokesofawritingbrush.

It is in this sense that people nowadays have become like detectives and burglars. Adetective’sjobisessentiallytomakeprofitbybeingsneakyandself-effacing;onlybycultivatinganintenseawarenessofhimselfcanheevenbelieveinhisownexistence.Tonolessadegreetherapaciousburglarisobsessedwithme,me,me,becausethethoughtofwhatwillhappentohim if he’s caught is never out of hismind.Modernman, even in his deepest slumber, neverstops thinkingaboutwhatwillbringhimprofitor,evenmoreworrying, loss.Consequently,aswiththeburglarandthedetective,hisself-absorptiongrowsdailymoreabsolute.

Modern man is jittery and sneaky. Morning, noon, and night he sneaks and jitters andknows no peace. Not one single moment’s peace until the cold grave takes him. That’s theconditiontowhichourso-calledcivilizationhasbroughtus.Andwhatamessitis.”

“Most interesting.Apenetratinganalysisofour case,” saysSinglemanwho rarely resistsany opportunity to thicken the clouds when high flown, cloudy matters are discussed. “IconsiderSneaze’sexplanationisverymuchtothepoint. Intheolddays,amanwastaughttoforgethimself.Today it isquitedifferent:he is taughtnot to forgethimselfandheaccordinglyspendshisdaysandnights inendless self-regard.Whocanpossibly knowpeace in suchaneternallyburninghell?Theapparentrealitiesofthisawfulworld,eventhebeastlinessofbeing,areallsymptomsofthatsicknessforwhichtheonlycureliesinlearningtoforgettheself.ThisdiresituationiswellsummarizedinthatancientChinesepoemwhoseauthorwasoneofthose

Whosimplysitand,sittingallnightthroughUnderadriftingmoon,themselveswithdrewThemselvesfromSelfandtherebycametobeFreeoftheworldandfromallBeingfree.

Modernmanlacksnaturalnessevenwhenperformingactsofgenuinekindness.TheEnglish,asiswell-known,arevastlyproudofbeingnice,bothinthesenseoftheirrefinedbehaviorandinthesenseofcommonkindness;however,onemayfairlysuspecttheheartsbehindthenicenessof the English as packed with self-regard. Perhaps I might remind you of the story of thatmemberof theEnglish royal familywho,duringsomevisit to India,was invited toabanquet.Among those present was an Indian prince who, momentarily forgetful of the nature of theoccasionbutperfectlynaturallyintermsofIndiancustom,reachedoutforapotato,pickeditupin his fingers and put it on his plate. Realizing his gaffe, he was terribly ashamed. But theEnglish gentleman, immediately and with apparently equal naturalness, proceeded to helphimselftopotatoeswithhisfingers.Anactofthemostrefinedandkindlypoliteness?Oranact

so-seemingbutultimatelytakeninorderthat itshouldberemembered,asitclearlyhasbeen,totheenhancementofEnglishroyalty?”

“Is it theEnglishcustom,”asksColdmoon,missingthepointof thestory,“toeatpotatoeswiththeirfingers?”

DisregardingColdmoon’squestion,mymasterspoke.“I’veheardanothersuchstoryabouttheEnglish.OnsomeoccasionattheirbarracksinEnglandagroupofregimentalofficersgaveadinnerinhonorofoneoftheirnon-commissionedofficers.Towardtheendofthemeal,whenfingerbowlsfilledwithwaterwereplacedinfrontofeachdiner,thenon-commissionedofficer,amannotused tobanquets, lifted thebowl tohismouthandswallowed thewaterdown inasinglegulp.

Immediately, thecolonelof the regiment raisedhisown fingerbowl ina toast to thenon-commissionedofficer’shealthandgulped itswaterdown.His leadwaspromptly followedbyeveryofficerpresent.”

“Iwonder if you’veheard thisone,” saysWaverhousewhodoesnot like to remainsilent.“WhenCarlylewaspresented to thequeen,he,beinganeccentricandanywayaman totallyunschooledincourtprocedures,suddenlysatdownonachair.Allthechamberlainsandladies-in-waitingstandingrangedbehindthequeenbegantogiggle.Well,notquite.Theywereaboutto start giggling when the queen turned around toward them and signaled them also to beseated.Carlylewasthussavedfromanyembarrassment.IconfessIfindthiscourtlycourtesysomewhatelaborate.”

“Idon’tsuppose,”saidColdmoonrathershortly,“that,beingthemanhewas,Carlylewouldhavebeentheleastembarrassedifonlyheandthequeenwereseatedwhileallthereststayedstanding.”

“To be self-aware when one is actually being kind to other people may be all right,”Singleman started up again, “but being self-aware does make it that much harder to begenuinely kind. It iswidely held that the advance of civilization bringswith it amoderation ofcombative spirit and a general easing of relationships between individuals. But that’s allnonsense. When individual awareness grows so strong, how can mutual gentleness beexpected?It’strueofcoursethatmodernrelationshipsseemsuperficiallycalmandeasy-going,but theyare in factextremely tough; rather like the relationshipbetween twosumowrestlerswho, immobilizedbycross-grips in themiddleof the ring,areneverthelessbuttingeachotherwiththeirvastpotbelliesashardastheycanheave.”

“In former times disputes were settled by the relatively healthy means of brute force,whereasnowadays themeansandmentalityhavebecomesospecialized that the intensityofthe combatant’s self-awareness has inevitably increased,” saysWaverhouse, taking it to benow his turn to talk. “Sir Francis Bacon observed in hisNovumOrganum that one can onlytriumphover naturebyobeying the lawsof nature. Is it not peculiar thatmodernquarrels socloselyfollowthepatternidentifiedbyBaconinthat,asina jūjutsucontest,onedefeatsone’sopponentbyanexploitationofthatopponent’sownstrength.”

“Oragain,itis,Isuppose,somethinglikethegenerationofhydro-electricity.Onemakesnoefforttoopposetheflowofwater,butmerelydivertsitsforceintotheproductionofpower.”

Coldmoon had obviously only just begun to express an interesting idea, but Singlemanbuttedintoadd,“Andtherefore,whenoneispoor,oneistiedbypoverty;whenrich,entrappedinwealth;whenworried,tangledbyanxiety;andwhenhappy,dizziedbyhappiness.Atalentedmanfallsatthehandoftalent,amanofwisdomisdefeatedbywisdom,andaquick-tempered

man like Sneaze is quickly provoked into rashness and goes rushing headlong out into thedeadfallsdugbyhisartfulenemies.”

“Here,here,”criedWaverhouseclappinghishands.Andwhenmymaster,actuallygrinning,said, “Well, you won’t in practice catch me quite as simply as that,” everyone burst outlaughing.

“Bytheway,IwonderwhatsortofthingwouldfinishoffafearfulfellowlikeGoldfield?”“Hiswifewillobviouslybetoppledoverbytheweightofhernose,whilethehardnessofhis

heartwill crush that usurer to death.His henchmenwill be trampled to death by stampedingdetectives.”

“Andthedaughter?”“Well, I’mnotsureabouther,and Ihavenever in factclappedeyesonher.But itseems

likelythatshe’llbesuffocatedbyclothesorfoodorevendrinking.Ican’timaginethatshe’lldieoflove,thoughIsupposeshemightendupasaroadsidebeggarlikethatfabledbeautyO-no-no-Komachi.”

“That’s a bit unkind,” objected Beauchamp who, after all, had written some new-stylepoemsforthegirl.

“Andthereinliestheimportanceofthemoralinjunctionthatonemusthaveamercifulheartandnever loseone’ssubjectivity.Unlessonereachesandsustainsthatconditionofmind,onewillsuffertormentthroughouteternity.”ThatbenightedSinglemanwafflesonasusualasthoughhewerethesoleproprietorofenlightenment.

“Don’tbesuchamoralizingtwerp.Thechancesare,”saidWaverhouse,“thatyouwillmeetyour just deserts upside-down in one of your own oft-quoted flashes of Zen lightning. In thespring,ofcourse.”

“One thing at least is certain,” said my master. “If civilization continues its rapiddevelopmentalongitspresentlines,Iwouldnotwishtoliveandwitnessit.”

“The choice is yours. As Seneca advises, no man should carp at life when the road tofreedomrunsdowneveryvein.Whydon’tyoudoyourselfin?”Waverhousehelpfullyenquired.

“IcareratherlessfordyingthanIdoforliving.”“Nooneseemstopaymuchattentionwhenhe’sbeingborn,buteverybodymakesnoend

ofafussabouthisdeparture.”Coldmoonoffershisowncoolcomment.“It’s the samewithmoney,” saysWaverhouse. “When one borrowsmoney, one does so

lightly,buteveryoneworrieslikecrazywhenitcomestopayingitback.”“Happyare theywhodon’tworryabout repayment;ashappyas thosewhodonotworry

aboutdeath,”intonedSinglemaninhismostloftyandunworldlystyle.“I suppose you’d argue that the bravest in the face of death are those who are most

enlightened?”“Mostcertainly.PerhapsyouknowtheZenphrase‘Theiron-ox-heartofaniron-ox-face:the

ox-iron-heartofanox-iron-face?’”“Andareyouclaimingtobesoox-and-iron-hearted?”Waverhouse,whohappenedtoknow

thatthephrasemeanttohaveaheartsostrongastobeundisturbedbyanything,doubtedthatSinglemanwoulddaremakesuchaclaim.

“Well,no,Iwouldn’tgothatfar.But,”saidSinglemanfornoveryobviousreason,“thefactremains that neurasthenia was an unknown ailment until after people became worried aboutdeath.”

“It’s plain that you must have been born and bred before the invention of nervous

prostration.”ThisweirddialogueheldsolittleinterestforColdmoonandBeauchampthatmymasterhad

no difficulty in retaining them as an audience for a further airing of his grievances againstcivilization.“Thekeyquestion,”heannounced,“ishowtoavoidrepayingborrowedmoney.”

“Butsurelynosuchquestioncanarise.Anythingborrowedmustalwaysberepaid.”“All right, all right.Don’t get so up in the air. This is just a discussion between intelligent

men,solistenanddon’tinterrupt.Iaskhowcanoneborrowwithoutrepayinginordertoleadintotheparallelquestionastohowcanonecontrivetoavoiddying.Thoughitisnolongermuchpursued, thatusedtobethekeyquestion:hencetheancientconcernwithalchemy.However,thealchemistsachievednorealsuccessanditsoonbecamedeadlyclearthatnohumanbeingcouldeverdodgedeath.”

“Itwasdeadlyclearlongbeforethealchemistsconfirmedit.”“Allright,butsincethisisjustanargument,youjustlisten.Right?Now, once it became clear that everyone was bound to die, then the second question

arose.”“Indeed?”“Ifoneiscertaintodie,what’sthebestwaytodoso?Thatisthesecondquestion.Once

thissecondquestionhadbeenformulated,itwasonlyamatteroftimebeforetheSuicideClubwouldbefounded.”

“Isee.”“It ishardtodie,butit ismuchharderifonecannotdie.Victimsofneurastheniafindliving

farmorepainful thananydeath.Yettheyremainobsessedwithdeath;notbecausetheyshunit,butbecausetheyfrettodiscoverthebestmeanstothatmuchdesiredend.Themajoritywilllackthecommonsensetosolvetheproblem.Theywillgiveupandleavenaturetosolveitforthem or society itself will bully them to death. But there will also be a handful of awkwardcustomerswhowillbeunwilling toendure theslowdeathofsuchbullying.Theywillstudy theoptionsintodeathandtheirresearchwillleadtomarvelousnewideas.

Beyondalldoubt,themaincharacteristicofthefuturewillbeasteadyriseinsuicidesand,almostcertainly,everyself-destructorwillbeexpectedtoworkouthisownoriginalmethodofescape.”

“Peoplewillbeputtoagreatdealoftrouble.”“Yes, theymostcertainlywill.HenryArthurJoneshasalreadywrittenaplay inwhich the

leadingfigureisaphilosopherwhostronglyadvocatessuicide.”“Doeshekillhimself?”“Regrettably,no.Butwithinathousandyearseveryonewillbedoingit,andIamprepared

to bet that in ten thousand years time nobody will even think of death except in terms ofsuicide.”

“Butthatwillbeterrible.”“Indeed it will. By that time the study of suicide, on a foundation of years of detailed

research, will have been raised to the level of a highly respected and fully institutionalizedscience.AtmiddleschoolssuchastheHallof theDescendingCloudsthestudyofsuicidewillhavereplacedethicsasacompulsorysubject.”

“Anintriguingprospect.Alecturecourseonthetheoryandpracticeofsuicidemightwellbeworthattending.Hey,Waverhouse,haveyoubeenlisteningtoSneazeonthedestinyofman?”

“YesIhave.BythetimeofwhichhehasjustbeenspeakingtheethicsteacherattheHallof

theDescendingCloudswillbeholdingourcurrentconceptsofpublicmoralityuptoreproofandridicule.Theyoungmenofthatfarworldwillbeinstructedtoabandonthebarbarouscustomsoftheancientsandtorecognizethatsuicideisthefirstdutyofeverydecentperson.Moreover,since it is eternally right to do unto others as one would wish done to oneself the moralobligationtocommitsuicideimpliesanequallymoralobligationtocommitmurder.Consider,theteacherwillsay, thecaseofMr.PekeSneaze, thatwretched,strugglingscholardraggingouthis miserable existence just across from our school. Is he not obviously agonized by hispersistentbreathingyetlackstheordinaryphysicalcouragetofulfillhismoraldutytodoawaywithhimself? Is itnot therefore, incommonhumanity,yourcompassionateduty todohim in?Not,ofcourse,inanyoftheancientcowardlywaysinvolvingsuchcruditiesasspears,halberdsor any kind of firearm. In this day and age we are surely civilized beyond such coarseatrocities.No,heshouldbeharasseduntodeath.Only themost refined techniquesof verbalassassinationshouldbeemployed.Whichwillbenotonlyanactofcharitytowardthatlucklesssuffererbutacredittoyourselvesandtotheschool.”

“Thisextensionlecture,WaverhouseuponSneaze,isdeeplyinteresting.Iamtrulymovedbythehigh-mindednessofourdescendants.”

“Yes,but there’sevenmoreuponwhichto laudourunbornheirs. Inour ill-governedtimesthepoliceareintendedtosafeguardthelivesandpropertyofcitizens.Butinthehappiertimesof our enlightened future, the police will carry cudgels, like dog-catchers, and go aroundclubbingthecitizenstodeath.”

“Whythat?”“Because todaywe value our lives and the police accordingly protect them.When in the

future, living is recognized for the agony it is, then the police will be required to club theagonized toamercifuldeath.Ofcourse,anyone inhis rightmindwillalreadyhavecommittedsuicide; so thenecessaryobjectsof policeattentionwill beonly thegutlessmilk-sops, thosementallyimpairedorderangedandanypersonssopitifullydisabledastobeunabletodestroythemselves. Additionally, anyone in need of help or assistancewill, as today, just stick up anotice to that effect on thegate tohis house.Thepolicewill call aroundat someconvenienttimeandpromptlysupplytothemanorwomanconcernedtheassistancerequested.Thedeadbodies? Collected in hand drawn carts by the police on their regular rounds. The policethemselves?Recruitedfromcriminalsguiltyofactssohideousthey’vebeencondemnedtolife.

Andthat’snotall.Considerthisfurtherinterestingaspectof...”“But is there noend to this joke?” exclaimsBeauchamp from thedazeof his admiration.

Before an answer could be given, Singleman began to speak, very slowly and with greatdeliberation,eventhoughhestillcontinuedworryingawayathisridiculoustuftofbeard.

“Youmaycall ita joke,but itmightwell,andbetter,becalledaprediction.Thosewhosemindsarenotunwaveringlyconcentrateduponthepursuitofultimatetrutharenormallymisledbythemereappearances,howeverunreal,ofthephenomenalworld.Theytendtoacceptwhatthey directly see and feel, not as some empty froth of illusion but as manifestations of aneternal reality.Consequently, if someonesaysanythingevenslightlyoutof theordinary, suchprisonersoftheirsenseshavenochoicebuttotreatthecommunicationasajoke.”

“Do you mean,” says Coldmoon, deeply impressed, “something like that Chinese verseaboutsmallbirdsbeingunabletounderstandthemindsofgreaterbirds?

TheswallowandthesparrowseenouseInthingsthat,totheeagleandthegoose,Areplainlyuseful.ItcouldevenbeThatfromtheirlittlenessthelittleseeNothingwhateverofImmensity.”

AndhesmirkswithdelightwhenSingleman,withanapprovinginclinationofhishead,says,“Somethinglikethat.”

Singleman,theevenploddingofhisspeechunspurredevenbyadulation,slowlycontinues.“Once,yearsago,therewasaplaceinSpaincalledCordoba...”

“Once?It’sstillthere,isn’tit?”“Thatmaybe.Thequestionoftimepastorpresentisimmaterial.Inanyevent,inCordoba

it used to be the custom that at the time of the angelus, the evening striking of the bells ofchurches,allthewomencameoutoftheirhousesandbathedintheriver...”

“Eveninwinter?”“I’mnotsureaboutthat,butinanycase,everyfemaleintheplace—youngorold—jumped

intotheriver,andnomanwasallowedtojointhem.Themensimplylookedonfromadistance,and all they could see in the evening twilight were the women’s whitish forms dimly movingabovetheripplingwaters.”

“That’spoetic. It couldbemade intoanew-stylepoem.Whatdidyousay theplacewascalled?”Beauchampalwaysshowsinterestwheneverfemalenudityismentioned.

“Cordoba. Now, the young men thought it a pity that they could neither swim with thewomennorstudytheirforminabetterlight.So,onefineday,theyplayedalittletrick...”

“Ohreally?Tellmemore,”saysWaverhouseimmediately.Thementionofanykindoftrickhas,uponhim,thesameinvigoratingeffectasnudityworksuponBeauchamp.

“Theybribed thebell-ringer tosound theangelusonehourearly.Thewomen,beingsuchsillies,all troopeddowntotheriverbankassoonastheyheardthebells,andthere,oneafteranother in their variousstatesofundress, they jumpedoff into thewater.And then, too late,theyatlastrealizedthatitwasstillbroadday.”

“Areyousurethattherewasn’tafierceautumnsunablaze?”“Agreatnumberofmenwerestandingwatchingfromthebridge.Thewomendidn’tknowwhattodoandfeltterriblyashamed.”“Andthen?”“Themoral issimplythis:thatoneshouldalwaysbewaryofthecommonhumanfailingof

allowingoneselftobeblindedbyhabittobasicrealities.”“Notabadlittlesermon.Ataleworthremembering.But letmegiveyouanotherexample,

from amagazine story which I recently read, of someone rendered blind by an accustomedhabit. Imagine that I’ve openedan antique shop and that, up at the front, I’ve put on displaysome particularly excellent scrolls andworks of art. No fakes, nothing shabby, only genuine,first-classstuff.Naturallythepricesareveryhigh.

Induecoursealongcomessomeart fancierwhostopsandenquiresabout thepriceofacertainscroll.IpointoutthatthescrollisbyMotonobu,thatsonofMasanobuwhofoundedtheKanoschoolintheearlysixteenthcentury,andIthenquotesomequiteastronomicalsum,say,

sixthousand.Thecustomerrepliesthathelikesthescrollverymuchbut,atsuchaprice,andnotcarryingsuchlargesumsofmoneyonhisperson,he’llhavetoletitgo.”

“Howcanyoupossibly know,” asksmymaster, ever thewet blanket, “that the customerwillanswerlikethat?”

“Don’tworry,hewill.Andanywayit’sonlyastory,soIcanmakemycustomeranswerasIlike.SoIthensaytohim,‘Please,forthoseofuswhoappreciateMotonobu,paymentishardlythe point. If you like it, take itwith you.’The customer can hardly do that. So he hesitates. Iproceed in my friendliest manner to say that, confident that I shall be enjoying his futurepatronage, Iwouldbehappy tosettleanydifficultiesaboutpaymentbyacceptingsmallsumspaid monthly over a long period. ‘Please don’t feel under any obligation. But how about ahundredamonth?Orshallwesayfifty?’Finally,afterafewmorequestionsandanswers,Iendup selling him the Motonobu scroll for six thousand paid in monthly installments of only ahundred.”

“Soundslikethatschemein1898forbuyingthenintheditionoftheEncyclopediaBritannicaThroughtheTimes.”

“The Times is reliable, an honest sort of broker, but my scheme is of a very differentcharacter.As,ifyoulistencarefully,you’llsee.Now,Coldmoon,supposeyoupayahundredamonthformyMotonobu,howlongwillyoubepayinginstallments?”

“Forfiveyears?Ofcourse,isn’tit?”“Fiveyears,of course.Now,Singleman,doyou think fiveyears isa long timeorashort

time?”SinglemanraisedhisheadintoitsbestpositionforthedroneofZenwisdomandintoned:

“AsingleminutemaybefelttobeAssempeternalaseternity,WhiletenmilleniacanattimesgobyInthemereflickerofanadder’seye.

“BywhichImeanyourfiveyearscouldbeeitherlongorshortorsimultaneouslyboth.”“You’re at it again, Singleman. Is there some deepmoral message in that quotation? A

senseofmoralstotallydetachedfromcommonsense,eh?Anyway,ahundredamonthforfiveyearsinvolvessixtyseparatepayments,andthereinliesthedangerofhabit.Ifonerepeatsthesame action sixty times over, month after month, one is likely to become so habituated topayment thatonealsocoughsupon thesixty-firstoccasion.Andon thesixty-second.Andonthesixty-thirdandsoonbecausethebreakingofanestablishedhabitirksthehabitue.Menaresupposedtobeclever,buttheyallhavethesameweakness:theyfollowestablishedpatternswithout questioning the reason for their establishment. My scheme simply exploits thatweaknesstoearnmeahundredamonthuntilmycustomerfinallydropsdead.”

“ThoughI likeyour joke,”titteredColdmoon,“Idoubt ifyou’ll findagreatmanycustomerssoprofitablyforgetful.”

Mymaster,however,didnotseemtofindthestoryfunny.Inaseriousvoicehesaid,“Thatsortofthingdoesactuallyhappen.Iusedtopaybackmyuniversityloan,monthaftermonthon

a regular basis, and I kept no count of the number of payments. In the end I only stoppedbecausetheuniversitytoldmetostop.”Mymasterseemsalmosttobragofhishalf-wittednessasthoughitwerethebenchmarkofhumanity.

“Thereyouare,”criesWaverhouse.“Yousee,therealityofmyimaginedcustomerissittingrighthereinfrontofus.Yetthatverysameperson,aself-confessedslavetohumanhabit,hastheeffrontery to laughatmyprojectionofhisownvisionofour futurecivilization into its likelyandunlaughablereality.InexperiencedyoungfellowslikeBeauchampandColdmoon,iftheyarenot to be defrauded of their human rights, should listen very carefully for the wisdom in ourwords.”

“I hear and shall obey. Never, never shall I commit myself to any installment plan thatinvolvesmorethansixtyrepayments.”

“Iknowyoustill think it’sall justa jokebut Idoassureyou,Coldmoon, that itwasatrulyinstructive story,” said Singleman turning directly to face him. “For instance, suppose thatsomeone as wise and experienced as either Sneaze or Waverhouse told you that you hadactedimproperlyingoingoffandgettingmarriedwithoutadvisinganyoftheinterestedpartiesof your intentions? Should they advise that you ought to go and apologize to that Goldfieldperson,whatwouldyoudo?Wouldyougoandmakeyourapologies?”

“I should beg to be excused. I would not demur if they wished to go and offer anexplanationofmybehavior.Buttogomyself,no.”

“Whatifthepoliceorderedyoutoapologize?”“Ishouldrefuseallthemorestrongly.”“Ifaministerofthegovernmentorapeeroftherealmaskedyoutoapologize?”“Then,yetmorefirmlystill,Iwouldrefuse.”“There,youseehowtimeshavechanged.Notsolongagothepowerofthoseinauthority

was unlimited. Then came a timewhen there were certain things which even they could notdemand.Butnowadays therearestrict limitsupon thepowerofpeersandevenministers tocompel the individual.Toput thematterbluntly,wearewitnessingaperiodwhen, thegreaterthepoweroftheauthorities,thegreatertheresistancethey’llencounter.Ourfatherswouldbeastonishedtoseehowthingswhichtheauthoritiesclearlywantdone,andhaveorderedshouldbedone,nevertheless remainundone.Thisera takes forgrantedanynumberof thingswhichelderly peoplewouldoncehave thought unthinkable. It is quiet extraordinaryhowquickly andhowtotallybothmenand theirconceptofsocietycanchange.So, thoughyoumayofcourselaugh asmuch as you like atWaverhouse’s version of the future, you would be wise not tolaughsohardthatyoufailtoconsiderhowmuchofitmightprovetrue.”

“FlatteredasIamtohavefoundsoappreciativeafriend,Ifeelthatmuchmoreobligedtocontinue with my forecast of the future. First I would emphasize, as Singleman has alreadyindicated, thatanyonenowadayswhoproudly thinkshimselfpowerfulby reasonofdelegatedauthority,orwhoseeks tomaintainanoutdatedpowerbymarchingaroundwitha troopofahundredhenchmenbrandishingbamboospears,canonlybecomparedtothatantiquatedbigotwho imagined thathisspankingpalanquincould travel faster thana railway train. I fancy thatthe best local example of such a fathead might actually be that usurer Goldfield, whom Iconsiderthemasterfatheadofthemall.Soperhapsweshouldsimplyrelaxandleavetimetoslideoverhim.

Anyway,my forecast of the future is not somuch concernedwith suchminor transitionalmattersaswithaparticularsocialphenomenonthatwilldeterminethelong-termdestinyofthe

entirehumanrace.Myfriends,ifyouwilltakealong-termviewofthetrendsalreadyobviousinthedevelopmentofourcivilization,youwillhavenochoicebuttosharemyviewthatmarriagehashad it.Areyousurprised?That thesacred institutionofmarriageshouldbesosummarilywrittenoff?Well,thegroundsformyforecasthavealreadybeenstatedand,Ithink,accepted:thatmodernsocietyiscentered,totheexclusionofallelse,upontheideaofindividuality.Whenthe familywas representedby its head, thedistrict by itsmagistrate and theprovinceby itsfeudal lord, then thosewhowerenot representativespossessednopersonalitieswhatsoever.Even if exceptionally, they actually did have personalities, those characteristics, beinginappropriate to their place in society, were never recognized as such. Suddenly everythingchanged.Wewerealldiscoveredtopossesspersonalities,andeveryindividualbegantoasserthisnewfound individuality.Whenever twopersonschanced tomeet, theirattitudesbetrayedadisposition toquarrel,anunderlyingdetermination to insist that ‘Iam I,andyouareyou,’andthat no humanbeingwasanymore human thananyother.Obviously, each individual grewalittle stronger by reason of this new individuality. But, of course, precisely because everyonehad grown stronger, everyone had also grown proportionately weaker than their fellow-individuals.Because it’s nowharder for people to oppress you, certainly you’re stronger; butbecauseit’snowalotmoredifficultforyoutomeddleinotherfolk’saffairs,you’reclearlythatmuchweaker.Everyone,naturally, likes tobestrong,andnoone,naturally, likes tobeweak.Consequently,we all vigorously defend the strong points in our position in society, scrappinglike fiendsover themerest trifles,andat thesame time, inanunremittingeffort tounderminethe position of our fellows, we lever away at their weakest points at every opportunity. Itfollowsthatmenhavenogenuinelivingspaceleftbetweenthemwhichisnotoccupiedbysiegeenginesandcounterworks.Toocrampedtoliveatease,theconstantpressuretoexpandone’sindividual sphere has broughtmankind to a painful bursting point and, having arrived by theirownmachinationsat suchanunpleasant stateof affairs,men thereupondevisedameans torelieve the unbearable pressure: they developed that system under which parents and theirmarried offspring live separately. In the more backward parts of Japan, among the wildermountains,youcanstill findentire families, including their lessercousinage,all living together,perfectly contentedly, in one single house.That lifestylewasonly viable because, apart fromtheheadofthefamily,nomemberofthegrouppossessedanyindividualitytoassert;whileanymember who, exceptionally, happened to possess it, took good care never to let it show.However, inmoreup-to-dateandcivilized communities the individualmembersof familiesarestrugglingamongstthemselves,nolessfiercelythandootherandtotallyunrelatedmembersofmodern society, both to guard their own positions and to undermine those of their so-callednearestanddearest.

Thereis,therefore,littlerealchoicebuttoliveseparately.“InEurope,where themodernizationofsocietyhasproceededmuch further thanhasyet

happened in Japan, this necessary disintegration of themulti-generation family unit has longbeencommon. If bychanceEuropeanparentsandsonsdo live in thesamehouse, thesonspay,astheywouldelsewhere,forboardandlodging.Similarly,ifsonsborrowmoneyfromtheirfather,theypayitbackwithinterestastheywouldiftheyhadborrowedfromabank.Thissortof laudable arrangement is only possible when fathers recognize and pay proper respect tosons’

individualities.SoonerorlatersuchcustomsmustbeadoptedinJapan.It is many years now since uncles, aunts, and cousins moved out of the family unit to

establishtheirseparatelives:thetimeisnowcomingforfathersandsonstoseparate,butthedevelopmentof individualityandofa feelingof respect toward individualitywillgoongrowingendlessly.

Weshallneverbeatpeaceunlesswemovefartherapartandgiveeachotherroomforthatgrowth. Butwhen parents, sons, brothers, and sisters have all so eased apart, what furthereasement canbe sought?Only the separation of husbandandwife.Somepeople today stillpersistinthemistakenviewthatahusbandandwifeareahusbandandwifebecausetheylivetogether. The point is that they can only live together if their separate individualities aresufficientlyharmonious.Noquestionofdisharmonyaroseintheolddaysbecause,beingintheConfucianphrase‘twobodiesbutonespirit,’husband-and-wifewasasingleperson.Evenafterdeath they remained inseparable,haunting theworldas twobadgers fromasinglesett.Thatbarbarousstateofaffairsisnowallchanged.Ahusbandnowissimplyamanwhohappenstobemarried,awifeawomaninthesamelamentablecondition.Thiswifepersonwenttoagirls’school from which, after an excellent education designed to strengthen her individuality, shecomes marching out in aWestern hairstyle to be a bride. No wonder the man she marriescannotmakeherdowhathe likes. Ifsuchawomandid, in fact,accommodateherself toherhusband’sbeckandcall,peoplewouldsayshe’snotawifebutadoll.Thehardersheworkstobecomean intelligent helpmate, the greater the spacedemandedby her individuality and thelessherhusbandcanabideher.Quarrelingbegins.Thebrighter thewife, themorebitterandincessant are the quarrels, and there’s no sense in boasting of intelligence in a wife if all itproduces is misery for both of you. Now within this marriage a boundary is established, aboundaryasdistinctasthatbetweenoilandwater.Eventhatwouldnotbetooawful ifonly itweresteady,butinpracticethelineofmaritalfrictionbouncesupanddownsothatthewholedomesticsceneis inaconstantconditionofearthquake.Bysuchexperiencesthehumanracehas come to accept that it is unprofitable to both parties that married couples should livetogether.”

“So what do they do?” asks Coldmoon. “Divorce on the scale you imply is a worryingprospect.”

“Yes,theypart.Whatelsecantheydo?It’scleartomethat,eventually,allmarriedcoupleswillgetdivorced.Asthingsstillstand,thosewholivetogetherarehusbandandwife,butinthefuturethosewholivetogetherwillbegenerallyconsideredtohavedisqualifiedthemselvesfrombeinganormalmarriedcouple.”

“Isupposethatamanlikemyselfwillbeoneofthedisqualified...”Coldmoonmissesnochancetoremindusofhisrecentmarriage.“Youare lucky tohavebeenborn in thedaysof theEmperorMeijiwhen traditionalways

arestillobserved.Beingagiftedprophetofthingstocome,Iaminevitablytwoorthreestopsahead of my contemporaries in all matters of any importance; that, of course, is why I amalready a bachelor. I know there are people who go around saying that I remain unmarriedbecause of some early disappointment in love, but one can only pity such persons for theirshallow minds and their inability to see further than the ends of their snooping noses.”Waverhouse paused for breath. “But to return to my farsighted vision of the future. . . Aphilosopherwilldescendfromheaven.Hewillpreachtheunprecedentedtruththatallmembersofmankind, bothmenandwomen, areessentially individuals. Impairment of their individualitycanonlyleadtothedestructionofthehumanrace.Thepurposeofhumanlifeistomaintainanddevelopindividuality,and,toattainthatend,nosacrifice istoogreat. It isthuscontrarytothe

nature and needs of mankind that the ancient, evil, barbarous practice of marriage shouldcontinue. Such primitive rites were, perhaps, understandable before the sacrosanctity ofindividuality was recognized, but to allow the continuation of these dreadful customs into ourowncivilizederaisquiteunthinkable.Thedeplorablehabitofmarriagemustbebroken.Inourdevelopedculturethereisnoreasonwhatsoeverwhytwoindividualsshouldbeboundtoeachotherinthehighlyabnormalintimacyofthetraditionalmarriagerelationship.

Oncetherevelationsoftheheavensentphilosopherhavebeenclearlyunderstood,itwillberegardedasextremely immoralofyounguneducatedmenandwomen toallow themselves tobe so carried away by base and fleeting passions that they even stoop to low indulgence inweddingceremonies.Eventodaywemustdoourbesttogetsuchtribalcustomsdiscontinued.”

“Sir,”saidBeauchampsoveryfirmlythatheevenslappedhiskneecap,“I totally reject your vile prognostication. In my opinion, nothing in this world is more

preciousthanloveandbeauty.Itisentirelythankstothesetwothingsthatwecanbeconsoled,be made perfect, and be happy. Again, it is entirely due to them that our feelings can begracefullyexpressed,ourcharactersmadenoble,andoursympathiesrefined.

Therefore,nomatterwhereorwhenoneisborn,hereorinTimbuktu,noworinthefuture,loveandbeauty remain theeternalguidestarsofmankind.When theymanifest themselves intheactualworld,loveisseenintherelationshipbetweenhusbandandwife,whilebeautyshinesforth either as poetry or music. These are the expressions, at its highest level, of the veryhumanityofthehumanrace;Idonotbelieve,solongasourkindexistsuponthesurfaceofthisplanet,thateithertheartsorourcurrentidealofthemarriedcouplewillperishtherefrom.”

“It would be well, perhaps, if it were so. But, for the reasons which the heaven sentphilosopherhas justgiven forhis forecast,both loveandbeautyareboundtoperish.Youwilljusthavetoaccepttheinevitable.

Youspokeoftheimperishablegloriesofart,buttheywillgothesamewayasthemarriedcouple: into oblivion. The irreversible development of individuality will bring ever greaterdemandsbyindividualsforrecognitionoftheirsingularidentity.InaworldwhereIandyoubothinsist that ‘IamI,andyouareyou,’howcananyartperdure?Surely theartsnowflourishbyreasonofaharmonybetweentheindividualitiesoftheartistandofeachappreciativememberofhispublic.Thatharmonyisalreadybeingcrushedtodeath.Youmayprotestuntil thecowscomehomethatyouareanew-stylepoet,butifnoonesharesyourconvictionoftheworthofyour poems, I’m afraid you’ll never be read. However many epithalamia you compose, yourworkwillbedyingasyouwriteit.

Itisthusespeciallygratifyingthat,writingasyoudoinMeijitimes,thewholeworldmaystillrejoiceinitsexcellence.”

“I’mnotallthatwell-known.”“Ifalreadytodayyoursplendideffortsarenotallthatwell-known,whatdoyouimaginewill

be their fate in the future when civilization has advanced yet further and that heaven sentphilosopherhasknockedthestuffingoutofmarriage?Nooneatallwillreadyourpoems.Notbecausethepoemsareyoursandyouareabadpoet,butbecauseindividualityhasintensifiedtosuchanextentthatanythingwrittenbyotherpeopleholdsnointerestforanyone.ThisstageoftheliteraryfutureisalreadyevidencedinEnglandwheretwooftheirleadingnovelists,HenryJames andGeorgeMeredith, have personalities so strong and so strongly reflected in theirnovelsthatveryfewpeoplecaretoreadthem.

Andnowonder.Onlyreaderswithpersonalitiesofmatchingforcecouldfindsuchworksof

any interest.That trendwillaccelerateand,by the time thatmarriage is finally recognizedasimmoral,allartwillhavedisappeared.Surelyyoucanseethat,whenanythingthateitherofusmightwritehasbecomequitemeaninglesstotheother,thentherewillbenothing,letaloneart,whichwecanshare.Weshallallbeexcommunicatedfromeachother.”

“I suppose you’re right; but somehow, intuitively, I cannot believe the fearful picture youhavepainted.”

“Ifyoucan’tgraspitintuitively,thentryitdiscursively.”“Discursiveor intuitive,”Singlemanblurtsout, “what’s itmatter?Thepoint is that it’s true.

It’s quiteobvious that thegreater the freedomof the individuality permitted tohumanbeings,the less free their interrelationsmustbecome. I consider thatallNietzsche’sglorificationofaSuperman is nothing but a philosophical attempt to talk a way out of the dead-end facingmankind.YoumightatfirstsightthinkthatNietzschewasenunciatingsomecherishedideal,butonreflectionyou’ll recognizethathe’ssimplyvoicinghisbitterdiscontent.Twistingabout inhisbed,niggledbyhisneighbors,worriedbytheirdevelopingindividualities,Nietzschefunkedeventhenineteenthcentury.Pouringoutsuchjeremiads,hemusthavelivedinanagonyofdespair.Reading his works, one does not feel inspired, merely sorry for their wretched author. Thatvoiceofhisisnotthevoiceofintrepidityanddetermination;itisnothingmorethanthewhineofgrievance and the screams of indignation. It was, perhaps, an understandable reaction in arejectedphilosopher.

When in ancient timesa truly greatmanappeared, all thewholeworld flocked to gatherunder his banner.Which was no doubt very gratifying, certainly sufficiently gratifying for thegreatmaninquestiontofeelnoneedtoresorttopenandpaperwithallthatvirulenceonefindsin Nietzsche. The superhuman characters portrayed in Homer’s epics and in the Ballad ofChevyChasearenotdemon-driven.UnlikeNietzsche’sSuperman,theyarealivewithlife,withgaiety and just plain fun. Their timeswere trulymerry and themerriment is recreated in thewriting.

Naturally, in days like that there was no trace of Nietzsche’s atrabilious venom. But inNietzsche’s period thingswere sadly different. No hero shone on his horizons and, even if aherohadappeared,noonewouldhavehonored, respected,orevennoticedhim.When, inamuchearlierperiod,Confuciusmadehisappearance,itwasrelativelyeasyforhimtoasserthisimportancebecausehehadnoequalsascompetitors.Todaythey’retenapennyandpossiblythewholewideworld ispackedwith them.Certainlynoonenowadayswouldbe impressed ifyou claimed to be a new Confucius, and you, because you had failed to impress, wouldbecomewaspish in your discontent, in precisely the sort of discontent which leads to bookswhich brandish Superman about our ears.We sought freedom and now we suffer from theinconveniences that freedomcanbutbring.Does itnot follow that, thoughWesterncivilizationseemssplendidatfirstglance,attheendofthedayitprovesitselfabane?Insharpcontrast,we in the East have always, since long, long, long ago, devoted ourselves not to materialprogressbuttodevelopmentofthemind.ThatWaywastherightway.Nowthatthepressuresof individualityarebringingonallsortsofnervousdisorders,weareat lastable tograsp themeaningoftheancienttagthat‘peoplearecarefreeunderfirmrule.’Anditwon’tbelongbeforeLao Tzu’s doctrine of the activating effect of inactivity grows to seem less of a paradox. Bythen,ofcourse, itwillbetoolatetodoanythingmorethanrecognizeour likenesstoaddictedalcoholicswhowishthey’dnevertouchedthestuff.”

“Allyoufellows,”saidColdmoon,“seemhideouslypessimisticaboutthefuture,butnoneof

yourmoansandgroansdepressmeintheleast.Iwonderwhy.”“That’sbecauseyou’ve justgotmarried,”saidWaverhousehastening toexplainaway the

mildestmanifestationofhope.Then, suddenly,mymaster began to talk. “IfmydearColdmoon, you’re thinking yourself

fortunate tohave foundawife,you’remakingabigmistake.Foryourparticular information, Ishallnowreadoutsomethingofpertinent interest.”Openingthatantiqueofabookwhichhe’dbroughtfromhisstudyashorttimeback,mymasterthencontinued.“Asyoucansee,thisisanoldbookbutitwasperfectlyclear,eveninthoseearlydays,thatwomenwereterrible.”

“Sir,yousurpriseme.ButmayIaskwhenthebookwaswritten?”saidColdmoon.“Inthesixteenthcentury,byamancalledThomasNashe.”“I’mevenmoresurprised.Youmeantosaythateveninthoseearlydayssomeonespokeill

ofmywife?”“Thebookcontainsawidevarietyofcomplaintsaboutwomen,someofwhichwillcertainly

applytoyourwife.Soyou’dbetterlistencarefully.”“Allright.Iamlistening.Veryhonored,too.”“Thebookbeginsbysayingthatallmenmustheedtheviewsofwomanhoodpropounded

downtheagesbyrecognizedsages.Youfollowme?Areyoulistening?”“Wearealllistening.EvenI,abachelor,amlistening.”“Aristotlesays that,sinceallwomenaregood-for-nothingsanyway, it isbest, ifyoumust

getmarried,tochooseasmallbride,becauseasmallgood-for-nothingislessdisastrousthanalargeone.”

“Coldmoon,isthiswifeofyoursheftyorpetite?”“She’soneoftheheftiergood-for-nothings.”They all laughed,more at the suddennesswithwhichColdmoon had rejoined the eternal

conspiracyofmalesthanatanythinginherentlyfunnyinhisanswer.“Well,”saidWaverhouse,“that’saninterestingbook,Imustsay.Readussomemore.”“Amanonceaskedwhatmightbeamiracle,andthesagereplied,‘Achastewoman.’”“Who,sir,isthissage?”“Thebookdoesn’tgivehisname.”“I’llbethewasasagewhohadbeenjilted.”“Next comes Diogenes who, when asked at what age it was best to take a wife,

replied,‘Forayoungman,notyet;fortheoldman,never.’”“Nodoubtthatmiserablefellowthoughtthatupinhisbarrel,”observedWaverhouse.“Pythagorassaysthattherearethreeevilsnottobesuffered:fire,water,andawoman.”“Ididn’tknow,”saidSingleman,“thatanyGreekphilosopherwasresponsibleforsuchanill-

consideredapothegm.Ifyouaskme,noneofthemareevil:onecanenterfireandnotbeburnt,enterwaterandnotbedrowned,enter...”HerehegotstuckuntilWaverhousehelpedhimoutbyadding,“Andentertainawomanwithoutbeingbewitched,eh?”

Payingnoregardtohisfriendsinterjections,mymasterwentonwithhisreading.“Socratessaysthataman’smostdifficulttaskistotrytocontrolwomenandchildren.Demosthenessaysthat the greatest torment a man can invent for his enemy’s vexation is to give him his owndaughterinmarriage‘asadomesticalFurietodisquiethimnightandday’untilhediesofit.TheeminentSenecasays that therebe twoespecial troubles in thisworld:awifeand ignorance.

TheEmperorMarcusAureliuscompareswomentoshipsbecause‘tokeepthemwell inorder,thereisalwayssomewhatwanting.’Plautusclaimsthatwomen‘deckthemselvessogorgeouslyand lace themselves so nicely’ because, and I paraphrase, such amean trick disguises theirnatural ugliness. Valerius Maximus in a letter to one of his friends advises him that almostnothingisimpossibleforawoman,andgoesontoentreatGodAlmightythat‘hissweetfriendbenotentrappedbywoman’streacherie.’ItwasthissameValeriusMaximuswhoansweredhisownquestionaboutthenatureofwomanbysaying,‘Sheisanenemytofriendship,aninevitablepain,anecessaryevil, anatural temptation,adesiredcalamity,ahoney-seemingpoison.’Healso remarked that, if it isasin toputawomanaway, it issurelyamuchgreater torment tokeepherstill.”

“Please, sir,” pleaded Coldmoon, “that’s enough. I cannot bear to hear any more awfulthingsaboutmywife.”

“Therearestillseveralmorepages.Howaboutlisteningtotheend?”“Oh,haveaheart,” saidWaverhouse, “andanyway isn’t it about time for yourowngood

ladytocomehome?”HehadhardlystartedhisusualstyleofteasingwhenfromthedirectionoftheotherroomtherecamethesoundofMrs.Sneazecallingsharplyforthemaid.

“Isay,that’stornit,”Waverhousewhispered.“Hadyourealizedshewasback?”Mymasterpermittedhimselfaspasmofmuffledlaughter.“What’sitmatterifsheis?”ButWaverhousewasnot tobedissuaded. “Oh,Mrs.Sneaze,”hecalled, “how longhave

youbeenhome?”Answer,asthepoetsputit,cametherenone.“Didyouhappentohearwhatyournoblespousewasjusttellingus,Mrs.Sneaze?”Stillnoanswer.“Ihopeyouunderstandhewasn’tspeakinghisownthoughts.Justreadingouttheopinions

ofaMr.Nashefromthesixteenthcentury.Nothingpersonal.Pleasedon’ttakeittoheart.”“Ithardlymatterstome,”camethecurtresponseinavoicesofaintanddistantthatMrs.

Sneazemightwellhavebeenaway in thesixteenthcenturypursuingthe issuewithMr.Nashehimself.Coldmoongigglednervously.

“Well, of course it hardly matters to me, either. I’m sorry to have mentioned it.”Waverhousewas now laughing out loudwhenwe heard the sound of the outside gate beingopened and heavy footsteps entering the house. Next moment, and with no furtherannouncement, theslidingdoorof theroomwasyankedasideandthefaceofTataraSampeipeeredinthroughthegap.

Sampeihardly lookedhimself.Hissnow-whiteshirtandhisspankingnewfrock-coatweresurprises in themselvesbut hewasalso carrying, their necks string-tied together, a clutchofbottlesofbeer.Heset thebottlesdownbesidethedriedbonitos,andhimself,withoutevenanodofgreeting,hunkereddownheavilyonhishamswithall theself-confident resolutionofawarrior.“Mr.Sneaze,sir,”he immediatelybegan,“hasyourstomachtroublegottenanybetterlately?It’sallthisstayingathome,youknow;itdoesyounogood.”

“Ihaven’tsaidwhethermystomachwasbetterorworse,”mymastertartlyobjected.“No, I know you haven’t. But your complexion speaks for itself. It’s not good, yellow like

that.Thisistherighttimeofyeartogofishing.WhynothireaboatatShinagawa?Bracing.IwentoutlastSunday.”“Didyoucatchanything?”

“No,nothing.”“Isitanyfunwhenyoudon’tcatchasausage?”“Theideaistobuckyourselfup,togettheoldjuicesflowingagain.Howaboutallofyou?Haveyoueverbeenoutfishing?It’sterrificfun.Yousee,”hebeganspeaking to themasagroup,somewhat loftilyas though toaringof

children,“yousetoffinthistinyboatacrossthevastblueocean...”“Mypreference,”saidtheirrepressibleWaverhouse,“wouldbetosetoffinavastblueboat

acrossthesmallestpossibleocean.”“Icanseenopoint,”saidColdmooninhismostdetachedvoice,“nofunatallinsettingoff

onafishingexpeditionunlessoneexpectstocatchatleastawhale.Oramermaid.”“Youcan’tcatchwhalesfromcockleshellsandmermaidsdon’texist.Youscribblingmenoflettershavenocommonsensewhatever.”“I’mnotamanofletters.”“No? Thenwhat the devil are you? I’m a businessman, and for us businessmen the one

thing you must have is common sense.” He turned toward my master and addressed himdirectly. “You know, sir, over the last few months I have amassed a very great stock ofcommonsense.Ofcourse,workingas Ido inagreatbusinesscenter, it’sonlynatural that Ishouldbecomelikethis.”

“Likewhat?”“Take, for instance, cigarettes.One can’t expect to get very far in business if one goes

aroundsmokingtrashybrands likeShiki-shimaorAsahi.”At thispoint,heproducedapackofEgyptian cigarettes, selected a gold-tipped tube, lit it ostentatiously and began to puff itsscentedsmoke.

“Can you really afford to chuck yourmoney around like that? Youmust be rolling in thestuff.”

“No. No money yet, but something will turn up. Smoking these cigarettes builds one’simage,confersconsiderableprestige.”

“It’scertainlyaneasierwaytogainprestigethanbypolishingglassballs.Arealshortcuttofame.Farlesstroublesomethanallyourlabors,wouldn’tyousay,Coldmoon?”

Waverhouse had scarcely closed hismouth, and beforeColdmoon could utter a syllable,Sampeiturnedandsaid,“So,youareMr.

Coldmoon.Thechapwho’sgivenuponhisdoctorate.Forwhichreasonit’sbecomeme.”“You’restudyingforadegree?”“No, I’m marrying Miss Goldfield. To tell the truth, I felt rather sorry for you, missing a

chance like that, but theypressedmesohard that I’veagreed tomarryher.Nevertheless, Ican’thelp feeling thatsomehow I’vewrongedMr.Coldmoon.Canyou followmy feelings,Mr.Sneaze?”

“Butplease,mydearsir,”saidColdmoon,“youaremostwelcometothematch.”“Ifshe’swhatyouwant,”mymastermumbledvaguely, “then Isupposeyoumightaswell

marryher.”“Howabsolutely splendid,” burblesWaverhouse. “All’swell that endswell, and all that. It

justgoes toshowthatnobodyneedeverworryaboutgettinghisdaughtersmarried.Wasn’t Isayingonly justnowthatsomeonesuitablewouldquicklycomealongand,sureenough,she’salreadyfoundthisverycoolcustomertobeherunblushingbridegroom.

Thinkofit,Beauchamp,andrejoice.It’sagiftofathemeforoneofyournew-stylepoems.

Wastenotime.Getgoing.”Waverhousewasoffagain.“Andareyou,”askedSampeisomewhatobsequiously,“thepoetMr.Beauchamp?Ishouldbedeeplygrateful ifyouwoulddeigntocomposesomethingforour

wedding. I could have it printed right away and have it sent out to all concerned. I will alsoarrangeforittobeprintedinthedailypress.”

“I’dbehappytooblige.Whenwouldyouliketohaveit?”“Anytime.Andanypiecewhichyoualreadyhaveonhandwoulddo.AndforthatI’ll inviteyoutoourweddingreception.We’llbehavingchampagne.Haveyou

evertriedit?Ittastesdelicious.I’mplanning,Mr.Sneaze, to hire an orchestra, a small one, for the occasion. Perhaps we could get Mr.

Beauchamp’spoemsettomusicandthenitcouldbeplayedwhiletheguestsareeating.Howaboutthat,Mr.Sneaze?Whatdoyouthink?”

“Youdoasyoulike.”“ButMr.Sneaze,couldyouwritethemusicalsettingforme?”“Don’tbesilly.”“Isn’tthereanyoneamongyouwhocouldhandlethemusic?”“Mr.Coldmoon,theunsuccessfulmarriagecandidateandfailedballpolisher,happensalso

to bea fine violinist.Ask him if he’ll oblige.But I doubt if he’ll squander hiswealth of soul inreturnforameresippingofchampagne.”

“Buttherearechampagnesandchampagnes.Ishan’tbeofferinganythingcheapornasty.Nofilthypops.Nothingbutthebest.

Won’tyouhelpmeout?”“Of course,andwithpleasure. I’llwrite themusiceven if your champagne ismerecider.

Indeed,ifyoulike,I’lldothejobfornothing.”“Iwouldn’tdreamofaskingyoutoaidmeunrewarded.If you don’t enjoy champagne, how about this for payment?” Reaching into his jacket

pocket,Sampeipulledoutsomesevenoreightphotographsandscattered themon the floor-matting.Onewas half-length, onewas full-length, one standing, another sitting, one dressedsomewhatcasually,anotherverycorrectlyinalong-sleevedkimonoandyetanotherwearingaformalJapanesehairdo.Allofthemwerephotographsofyounggirls.

“Mr. Sneaze, sir, these were all prospective brides in whom I am, of course, no longerinterested.But ifanyofthesemarriagecandidateshappenedto interestMr.ColdmoonorMr.Beauchamp, I would gladly, in recognition of their assistance tomyself act as their agent ineffecting introductions to any of these fanciable ladies. How about this one here?” he asks,thrustingaphotographunderColdmoon’snose.

“Ohnice,”saysColdmoon,“verynice.Iratherfancythatone.”“Andhowaboutthis?”HeshovesanotherpictureintoColdmoon’shand.“Verynice,too.Quitecharming.Yes,Icertainlyfancyher.”“Butwhichonedoyouwant?”“Idon’tmindwhich.”“Youseemabitfeckless,”Sampeicommenteddryly.Then,turningtomymaster,hewent

onwithhissalespitch.“Thisone,actually,isthenieceofadoctor.”“Isee.”“This next one is extremely good-natured. Young, too. Only seventeen. . . And this one

carriesawhackinggreatdowry...Whilethisonehereisadaughterofaprovincialgovernor.”

Allalonewithhisimaginings,Sampeirattleson.“DoyouthinkIcouldmarrythemall?”“All?That’splaingluttonous.Areyousomekindofpolygamistorsomething?”“No,notapolygamist.Butacarnivore,ofcourse.”“Nevermindwhatyouare.Sampei,putthosesnapsawayatonce.Can’tyousee,”saidmymasterinatoneofsharpscolding,“thathe’sonlyleadingyouon?”“Soyoudon’twantanintroductiontoanyofthem,”saidSampei,halfinquestionandhalfin

statement,as,onebyone,slowly,givingBeauchampandColdmoonalastchancetorelent,heputthepicturesbackintohispocket.

Therewasnoresponse.“Wellnow,whatarethosebottlesfor?”“Apresent.Iboughtthemjustnowatthedramshoponthecornersothatwemightdrinkto

myforthcomingmarriage.Come,let’sstart.”Mymasterclappedhishandsforthemaidandaskedhertoopenthebottles.Thenthefive

ofthem,mymaster,Waverhouse,Singleman,Coldmoon,andBeauchamp,solemnlyliftingtheirglasses, congratulated Sampei on his good fortune in love. Sampei fairly glowed with self-esteemandassured them, “I shall invite youall to the ceremony.Canall of you come? I dohopeso.”

“No,”mymasteransweredpromptly.“Ishan’t.”“Whyevernot?It’llbethegrandestonce-in-a-lifetimedayofmylife.Andyouwon’tattendit?Seemsabitheartless.”“I’mnotheartless.ButIwon’tattend.”“Ah,youhaven’tgotthethingstowear?Isthatthesnag?Icangladlyarrangefortherightkittobemadeavailable.Youreallyoughttogooutmore

andmeetpeople.I’llintroduceyoutosomewell-knownpersons.”“That’stheverylastthingIwouldwish.”“Itmightevencureyourstomachtroubles.”“Idon’tcareiftheynevergetbetter.”“Well,ifyoucan’tbebudged,youcan’t.Buthowaboutyouothers?Willyoubeabletocome?”“Me? I’d love to,” said Waverhouse. “I would even be delighted to play the role of the

honoredgo-between.Averseleapstomylips:

Eveninginspring:

ThemarriageriteAndnuptialbondsmadechampagne-tight.

“What’sthatyousaid?Suzuki’sgoingtobethego-between?Imighthaveknownit.Well,inthatcase,I’msorry,butthereitis.Isupposethatitreallywouldbeabittoomuchtohavetwolotsofgo-betweens.SoI’llattendyourpartyasanordinaryhumanbeing.”

“Andhowaboutyou?Willyoucomewithyourfriends?”“Me?”saidSinglemanapparentlysurprised.

“Havingthisfishingrodtobemyfriend,IliveateaseinnatureandamfreeOfeverycarethered-dustworldmightsendLikesomehookedpromisetoentangleme.”

“And what the hell is that?” askedWaverhouse. “Something from the hallowed guide onhowtowriteapoeminChinese?”

“Ireallycan’trememberwhereIpickeditup.”“Youreallycan’tremember?Howtiresomeforyou.Well,comeifyourfishingrodcanspare

you.Andyou,Mr.Coldmoon,IhopeImaycountonyou.Afterall,youhaveaspecialstatusinthismatter.”

“MostcertainlyI’llbethere.Itwouldbeapitytomissthechanceofhearingmyownmusicplayedbyanorchestra.”

“Ofcourse.Andwhataboutyou,Mr.Beauchamp?”“Well, yes. I’d like to be there to read my new-style poem in front of the couple

themselves.”“That’swonderful.Mr.Sneaze,sir, I’veneverbefore inallmy life feltsopleasedwith the

world.And,tomarkthemoment,I’llhaveanotherglassofthatbeer.”Hefilledatumblertothebrimandsankitatonego.

Slowlyhisfaceturnedshiningred.Theshortautumndayhasgrowndark.Thecharcoal fire inthebrazierhaslongagoburnt

outanditscrustofashisstuddedandstrewnwithanuglymessofcigaretteends.Eventhesehappy-go-lucky men seem to have had enough of their merriment and in the end it wasSinglemanwho,climbingstifflytohisfeet,remarked,“It’sgettinglate.

Timetobeonourway.”Theothersfollowedsuitand,politelyapopemptic,vanishedintothenight.Thedrawingroomgrewdesolate,likeavarietyhallwhentheshowisover.

My master ate his dinner and went off into his study. His wife, feeling the autumn chill,tightenshercollar,settlesoverhersewingbox,andgetsonwithherremodelingofaworn-outkimono.Thechildren,lyinginonerow,arefastasleep.Themaidhasgoneouttoabathhouse.

If one tapped the deep bottom of the hearts of these seemingly lighthearted people, itwould give a somewhat sad sound.ThoughSinglemanbehavesas thoughenlightenment had

madehimafamiliaroftheskies,hisfeetstillshuffle,earthbound,throughthisworld.Theworldof Waverhouse, though it may be easy-going, is not the dreamworld of those paintedlandscapeswhich he loves. ThatwinsomedonzelColdmoon, having at last stoppedpolishinghis little globes of glass, has fetched from his far home province a bride to cheer his days.Which ispleasantandquitenormal,but thesadfact is that long-continued,pleasantnormalitybecomes a bore. Beauchamp too, however golden-hearted he is now,will have come in tenyears’ time to realize the folly of givingaway for nothing thosenew-stylepoems that are theessenceofhisheart.As forSampei, I find itdifficult to judgewhetherhe’ll finishupon topofthepileordownthedrain,butI’dliketothinkhe’llmanagetolivehislifeoutproudandhappyinthe ability to souse his acquaintance in champagne. Suzuki will remain the same eternalgrovelingcreeper.Grovelersgetcoveredinmud,but,evensobe-sharned,he’llmanagebetterthanthosewhocannotcreepatall.

As forme, I am a cat, still nameless though born two years ago, who has lived his lifeamong men. I have always thought myself unique in my knowledge of mankind, but I wasrecently much surprised to meet another cat, some German mog called Kater Murr, whosuddenly turnedupandstartedsoundingoff inaveryhigh-falutin’manneronmyownspecialsubject.Isubsequentlymadeenquiriesanddiscoveredthatmyvisitorwasinfacttheghostofacat who, though he’d been in Hell since dying a century ago, had become so piqued withcuriosityaboutmy reputation thathe rematerialized for theexpresspurposeofupsettingme.Thiscat,I learned,wasamostunfilialcreature.Ononeoccasionwhenhewasgoingtomeethismother,hewascarryingafish inhismouthtogiveherasapresent.Howeverhefailedtocontrolhisanimalappetitesandbrokehisjourneytoguzzlethefish.Hiscombinationoftalentsandgreedwassuchastomakehimvirtuallyhuman,andheevenonceastonishedhismasterbywritingapoem.Ifsuchafelineculture-herowasalreadydemonstratingsuperiorcatskillssolongas a century ago, perhapsa good-for-nothing specimen likemehas already outlived itspurposeandshouldnomoredelayitsretirementintonothingness.

Mymaster,soonerorlater,willdieofhisdyspepsia.OldmanGoldfieldisalreadydoomedbyhisgreed.Theautumn leaveshavemostly fallen.All thathas lifemust lose it.Since thereseemssolittlepointinliving,perhapsthosewhodieyoungaretheonlycreatureswise.Ifoneheedsthesageswhoassembledheretoday,mankindhasalreadysentenceditselftoextinctionbysuicide. Ifwedon’twatchout,evencatsmay find their individualitiesdevelopingalong thelethalcrushingpatternforecastforthesetwo-leggedloons.It’sanappallingprospect.

Depressionweighsuponme.PerhapsasipofSampei’sbeerwouldcheermeup.Igoaroundtothekitchen.Thebackdoorishalf-openandrattlesintheautumnwind.Which

seems tohaveblown the lampout, for the room’sunlit.Still, thereareshadows tilting inwardthroughthewindow.

Moonrise, I suppose. On a tray there are three glasses, two of them half-filled with abrownish liquid.Evenwarmwater, if kept inaglass, lookscold.Naturally this liquid,standingquietlybesidethejarofcharcoalexistinguisher,looks,intheicymoonlight,chillanduninviting.

However,anything forexperience. IfSampei,as I recall, couldafterdrinking itbecomeabright, warm red and start breathing as heavily as amanwho’s run amile, perhaps it’s notimpossibleforacatthatdrinksit tofeel livelier.Anyway,somedayI, too,mustdiesolmightaswelltryeverythingbeforeIdo.OnceI’mdead,Itellmyself,itwillbetoolateinthegravetoregretthatInevertastedbeer.So,takecourageanddrinkup!

Iflickedmytongueintothestuffbut,asIbegantolap,Igotasharpsurprise.Thetipofmy

tongue,asthough ithadbeenprickedwithneedles,stungandtingledpainfully.Whatpossiblepleasure can human beings find in drinking such unpleasant stuff? I’ve heard my masterdescribe revolting foodasnot fit foradog,but thisdarkdrink is trulynot fit foracat.Theremust be some fundamental antipathy between cats and beer.Conscious of danger, I quicklywithdrewmytongue.But then,onreflection, I rememberedthatmenhaveapetsayingaboutgoodmedicinesalwaystastingfilthyandthatthedraftstheydowntocuretheircoldsinvariablymake them grimace with disgust. I’ve never worked out whether they get cured by drinkingmuckorwhetherthey’dgetwellanywaywithouttheface-makingbusiness.Now’smychancetofindout. Ifdrinkingbeerpoisonsmyentire intestines,well, thatwillbe just toobad:but if likeSampei, Igrowsocheerfulas to forgeteverythingaroundme, then I’llaccept theexperienceasanunexpectedjoyandeven,perhaps,I’llteachallthecatsoftheneighborhoodhowsweetitistodrownone’swoesindrink.Anyway,let’stakeachanceandsee.

Thedecisionmade,Idroopedmytongueoutcautiously.ButifIcanactuallyseethebitterliquidIfindithardtodrinkit;soclosingmyeyestightshut,Ibegantolap.

When,bysheerstrengthofwillandtigerlikeperseverance, I’d lappedawaythebeer-leesin the first glass, a strange phenomenon occurred. The initial agony of my needled tonguebegan to ease off and the ghastly feeling in my mouth, a feeling as if some hand weresqueezingmycheekstogetherfromtheoutside,waspleasurablyrelieved.BythetimeI’ddealtwith the first glass, beer swillingwasno longermuchof aproblem. I finishedoff the secondglass so painlessly that, while I was about it, I even lapped up all the spill on the tray andslurpedthewholelotdownintomystomach.

Thatdone, inordertostudymybody’sreactions,Icroucheddownquietlyforawhile.Mybodyisgraduallygrowingwarm.Ifeelhotaroundmyeyesandmyearsareburning.Ifeellikesinging a song. I feel like dancing the Cat’s High Links. I feel like telling my master,Waverhouse,andSinglemanthattheycanallgotohell.IfeellikescratchingoldmanGoldfield.I feel likebitinghiswife’svastnoseoff. I feel likedoinglotsof things.AndintheendI felt I’dliketowobbletomyfeet.AsIstoodup,IfeltI’dliketowalk.HighlypleasedwithmyselfIfeltlikegoingout.AndasIstaggeredout,Ifelt likeshouting,“Moon,oldman,howgoesit?”SoIdid.Oh,butIfeltwonderful!

Sothis,Ithought,ishowitfeelstobegloriouslydrunk.Radiantwithglory,Iperseveredinsettingmyunsteadyfeetone in frontofeachother in thecorrectorder.Which isverydifficultwhenyouhavefourfeet.Imadenoefforttotravelinanyparticulardirectionbutjustkeptgoinginlong,slowwaywardtotter.I’mbeginningtofeelextremelysleepy,andindeedIhardlyknowifI’m still walking or already sunk in sleep. I try to open my eyes, but their lids have grownunliftablyheavy.Ah,well,itcan’tbehelped.Confidentlytellingmyselfthatnothinginthisworld,neitherseasnormountainsnoranythingelse,couldnowimpedemycat-imperialprogress,IputafrontpawforwardwhensuddenlyIhearaloud,sloppysplash...AsIcometomysenses,IknowthatI’mdonefor.

IhadnotimetoworkouthowI’dbeendoneforbecause,intheverymomentthatIrealizedthefactofit,everythingwenthaywire.

WhenIagaincametomyselfIfoundIwasfloatinginwater.BecauseIwasalsoinpainIclawedatwhat seemed its cause, but scratchingwater had no effect except to result inmyimmediatesubmersion.Istruckoutdesperatelyforthesurfacebykickingwithmyhind-legsandscrabblingwithmyfore-paws.Thisactioneventuallyproducedasortofscrapingsoundand,asImanaged to thrustmy head just clear of thewater, I saw that I’d fallen into a big clay jar

againstwhosesidemyclawshadscraped.Allthroughthesummerthisjarhadcontainedathickgrowthofwater-hollyhocks,butinthe

earlyautumnthecrowshaddescendedfirsttoeattheplantsandthentobatheinthewater.Intheend theirsplashingaboutand theheatof thesunhadso lowered thewater level that thecrows found it difficult either tobatheor todrink,and theyhadstoppedcoming. I rememberthatonlytheotherdayIwasthinkingthatthewatermusthavegonedownbecauseI’dseennobirdsabout.LittledidIthendreamthatImyselfwouldbethenexttosplashaboutinthatjar.

Fromthewater’ssurfacetothelipofthejar,itmeasuressomefiveinches.HowevermuchIstretchmypaws Icannot reach the lip.And thewatergivesnopurchase fora jump. If Idonothing,Ijustsink.IfIflounderaround,myclawsscrabbleontheclaysidesbuttheonlyresultisthatscrapingsound.It’struethatwhenIclawatthejarIdoseemtorisealittleinthewaterbut,assoonasmyclawsscrapedowntheclay,Islidebackdeepbelowthesurface.ThisissopainfulthatIimmediatelystartscrabblingagainuntilIbreaksurfaceandcanbreathe.Butit’savery tiringbusiness,andmystrength isgoing. Ibecomeimpatientwithmy illsuccess,butmylegsaregrowingsluggish.IntheendIcanhardlytellwhetherIamscratchingthejarinordertosinkoramsinkingtoinducemorescratching.

While thiswasgoingonanddespite the constant pain, I foundmyself reasoning that I’monlyinagonybecauseIwanttoescapefromthejar.

Now,muchasI’dliketogetout,it’sobviousthatIcan’t:myextendedfrontlegisscarcelythree inches longandeven if I couldhoistmybodywith itsoutstretched fore-pawsupabovethesurface,Istillcouldneverhookmyclawsovertherim.Accordingly,sinceit’sblindinglyclearthat Ican’tgetout, it’sequallyclear that it’ssenseless topersist inmyefforts todoso.Onlymyownsenselesspersistenceiscausingmyghastlysuffering.Howverystupid.Howvery,verystupiddeliberatelytoprolongtheagoniesofthistorture.

“I’dbetterstop. I justdon’tcarewhathappensnext. I’vehadquiteenough, thankyou,ofthisclutching,clawing,scratching,scraping,scrabbling,senselessstruggleagainstnature.”Thedecisionmade, Igiveupand relax: firstmy fore-paws, thenmyhind-legs, thenmyheadandtail.

Gradually I begin to feel at ease. I can no longer tell whether I’m suffering or feelinggrateful.Itisn’tevenclearwhetherI’mdrowninginwaterorlollinginsomecomfyroom.Anditreallydoesn’tmatter.ItdoesnotmatterwhereIamorwhatI’mdoing.Isimplyfeelincreasinglyatease.No,Ican’tactuallysaythatIfeelatease,either.IfeelthatI’vecutawaythesunandmoon,theypullatmenolonger;I’vepulverizedbothHeavenandEarth,andI’mdriftingoffandaway intosomeunknownendlessnessofpeace. Iamdying,Egypt,dying.Throughdeath I’mdriftingslowlyintopeace.Onlybydyingcanthisdivinequiescencebeattained.Mayonerestinpeace!Iamthankful,Iamthankful.Thankful,thankful,thankful.