Two (1/4)

by Natsume Sōseki · 2026-07-04

I seem to have become a little famous with the arrival of the New Year, and I can feel my nose getting a bit higher despite being a cat. I am grateful for that.

On the early morning of New Year's Day, a postcard arrived at my owner's place. This is a New Year's greeting card from a painter who is his friend. The top is painted red, the bottom is a deep green, and in the middle, there is a pastel drawing of an animal crouching. My owner is admiring the colors, saying, "What a nice color," as he looks at the painting from the side and from above in his usual study. Having already been impressed once, he thinks about stopping, but he continues to look at it from the side and from above again. He twists his body, stretches his hand as if an old man is looking at a three-dimensional image, and brings it close to his nose facing the window. If he doesn't stop soon, my knees are shaking and I can't settle down. Just when I thought my agitation had calmed down a bit, I murmured in a small voice, "What on earth is depicted?" My owner is impressed by the colors of the postcard, but he seems to be troubled by not knowing the identity of the animal depicted. While thinking that it is a postcard with an unclear image, I elegantly open my sleepy eyes halfway and look calmly, and it is unmistakably my own portrait. Although I haven't mastered Andrea del Sarto like my owner, as a painter, the shape and colors are properly arranged. There is no doubt that it is a cat to anyone who sees it. For someone with a discerning eye, it is clearly depicted that I am not just any cat, but I am the one and only. It is a bit pitiful for humans to struggle this much without realizing something so clear. If possible, I want to let them know that the painting is of me. Even if they can't recognize me, I at least want them to understand that I am a cat. However, humans are animals that have not received the divine blessing to understand our cat language, so unfortunately, I will leave it as it is.It couldn't be helped.

I would like to make a note to the readers that it is truly unfortunate that humans have a tendency to evaluate me with a tone of disdain, as if I were just a mere cat. The idea that cows and horses are born from human excrement, and that cats come from the excrement of cows and horses, is something that often occurs to teachers who, without realizing their own ignorance, wear a proud expression. However, from an outsider's perspective, it is quite an unsightly sight. No matter how much one may consider a cat to be trivial, it cannot possibly be created so crudely. While they may appear to be a uniform group, equal and indiscriminate on the surface, entering the society of cats reveals a complexity that perfectly mirrors the human world’s saying of "to each their own." In terms of gaze, nose shape, fur texture, and leg form, each one is different. From the stiffness of their whiskers to the position of their ears and the droop of their tails, there is not a single one that is the same. When it comes to appearance, preferences, elegance, and clumsiness, it is no exaggeration to say that there is an infinite variety. Despite the clear distinctions that exist, it is unfortunate that the human eye, always looking up and talking about progress or something similar, cannot even recognize my nature, let alone the features of my face. There is a saying that birds of a feather flock together, and it is true; a rice cake maker knows about rice cakes, and a cat knows about cats, so only a cat can truly understand matters related to cats. No matter how advanced humans become, this is something that cannot be helped. Moreover, since they are not nearly as great as they believe themselves to be, it becomes even more difficult. Additionally, it is understandable that a man like my unsympathetic master, who lacks empathy, does not even realize that mutual understanding is the first principle of love. He sticks to his study like a bad oyster and has never opened his mouth to the outside world. It is somewhat amusing that he wears a face as if he is exceptionally enlightened. As proof of his lack of enlightenment, even though my portrait is right in front of him, he shows no signs of understanding at all.It is clear that he is merely saying something nonsensical like, "This must be a painting of a bear since this is the second year of the campaign against Russia," without any insight.

As I closed my eyes while thinking on my master's lap, the maid eventually brought the second postcard. Looking at it, I saw several foreign cats drawn in letterpress, lined up, holding pens and opening books as if studying. One of them left its seat and was dancing a Western cat dance at the corner of the desk. Above it, in Japanese ink, was written boldly, "I am a cat," and on the right side, there was even a haiku that read, "Whether reading or dancing, it’s a cat's spring day." This had come from my master's former pupil, and although anyone could understand its meaning at a glance, my oblivious master seemed not to notice, tilting his head in wonder and muttering to himself, "Hmm, is this the year of the cat?" It seemed he still hadn’t realized how famous I had become.

At that moment, the maid brought the third postcard. This time it was not a picture postcard. It read, "Happy New Year," and beside it was written, "Though I am humbled, please convey my regards to the cat." Even my rather obtuse master seemed to understand, given how clearly it was written, and he finally appeared to notice, saying "Hmph" while looking at my face. His gaze was different from before, seeming to contain a hint of respect. I thought that it was only natural for him to look at me this way, considering that he had suddenly gained a new aspect, thanks entirely to me, after having his existence unacknowledged by the world until now.

Chirin, chirin, chiririririn, the gate's lattice rang. It was probably a visitor. If it were a visitor, the maid should go to attend to them. I had decided not to leave unless Ume-kō from the fish shop came, so I sat comfortably on my master's lap.

Then, my master stared at the entrance with an anxious expression, as if he had jumped into a moneylender's den. It seemed he disliked the idea of welcoming New Year guests and drinking with them. If humans could be this stubborn, it would be fine, but then he should just go out quickly; he didn’t even have that much courage. He was finally revealing a cowardice akin to that of an oyster.

After a while, the maid came in and announced, "Mr. Kanketsu has arrived." This man named Kanketsu is said to be a former student of the master, but now he has graduated from school and is rumored to be more accomplished than the master in every way. For some reason, he often comes to visit the master. When he comes, he talks about the world as if there are women who adore him, weaving tales that seem interesting, dull, amazing, and seductive, and then he leaves. I cannot understand why he comes all this way to share such stories with someone as withered as the master, but it is even more amusing that the master, who is like an oyster, occasionally responds to such conversations.

“It’s been a while since I last visited. Actually, I have been quite active since last year, so even though I thought about coming out, I just couldn’t seem to head this way,” Kanketsu said while fiddling with the strings of his haori. “Which direction were you heading then?” the master asked with a serious face, pulling at the cuffs of his black cotton patterned haori. This haori is made of cotton, has short sleeves, and the undergarment is sticking out about five inches on both sides. “Hehehe, in a slightly different direction,” Kanketsu laughed. I noticed that today he was missing one of his front teeth.

“Did you have a problem with your teeth?” the master asked. “Yes, actually I ate some shiitake mushrooms somewhere,” Kanketsu replied. “What did you eat?” “Well, I ate a bit of shiitake. When I tried to bite off the cap with my front teeth, one of my teeth broke off,” he explained. “To break a front tooth on shiitake, that sounds rather old-fashioned. It might make for a haiku, but it doesn’t sound romantic,” the master lightly tapped my head. “Ah, is that cat the one you mentioned? It looks quite plump, doesn’t it? In that case, it wouldn’t lose to the black one from the carriage shop; it’s quite impressive,” Kanketsu praised me greatly. “It has grown quite a bit lately,” I said proudly as my head was patted. I was happy to be praised, but my head was a bit sore.

"The night before last, we had a concert," said Kangu. "Where?" "Anywhere, really, you don't need to know that. There were three violins and a piano accompaniment, and it was quite interesting. When there are about three violins, even if they're not played well, they can still be listened to. There were two women, and I mixed in with them, and I thought I played quite well myself." "Hmm, and who were those women?" the master asked enviously. The master usually has a face like a withered tree in a cold ravine, but in reality, he is not at all indifferent to women. When he once read a certain Western novel, he was impressed by the portrayal of a character who inevitably falls a little in love with most women, and he thought this was the truth. I can never understand why such a fickle man leads an oyster-like life. Some say it's due to a broken heart, others say it's because of a weak stomach, and yet another claims it's because he is timid due to a lack of money. In any case, he is not a person significant enough to be related to the history of the Meiji era, so it doesn't matter. However, it is a fact that Kangu asked about the women with a hint of envy."

The cold moon playfully pinched the kamaboko with chopsticks and bit it in half with her front teeth. I was worried it might chip again, but this time it was fine. "Well, both of you are young ladies from a respectable family, aren't you? I don't know you," she replied somewhat distantly. "Naru," the master pulled her, but he was thinking about skipping the details. The cold moon seemed to think it was about time, so she suggested, "What lovely weather we're having. If you're free, shall we take a walk together? The city is bustling since Port Arthur has fallen." The master, looking as if he wanted to know more about the women rather than the fall of Port Arthur, pondered for a while but seemed to have made up his mind and stood up decisively, saying, "Then let's go." He was still wearing the black cotton formal haori and a padded Yuuki tsumugi that his brother had worn for twenty years as a keepsake. No matter how durable the Yuuki tsumugi is, it can't be worn continuously like this. In some places, it had become thin, and when viewed in the sunlight, the needle marks from patches on the reverse side were visible. The master's attire showed no signs of December or New Year's. There was no casual wear or formal wear. When he went out, he would casually put his hands in his pockets and stroll out. I couldn't tell if it was because he had nothing else to wear or if it was just too much trouble to change. However, this much seemed unrelated to his heartbreak.

After the two of them left, I decided to take the liberty of eating the leftover kamaboko that Cold Moon had left behind. Recently, I have become a being that cannot be called an ordinary cat. I believe I have enough qualifications to be considered a cat like the one after Momokawa Nyōen or the one that stole the gray goldfish. The black cat from the carriage shop is no longer in my sights. Even if I were to take a piece of kamaboko, no one would say anything to me. Moreover, the habit of sneaking snacks is not exclusive to us cats. My family members often sneak and eat rice cakes while their wife is away, taking them again and again. Not just my family, but even the small children who are said to have received refined education from their mother exhibit this tendency.

It was a few days ago that two small children woke up early and sat at the dining table while the master and his wife were still asleep. Every morning, they usually eat the bread that the master eats with sugar, but on this day, the sugar bowl was placed on the table, along with a spoon. Since there was no one to share the sugar with them as usual, the older child eventually scooped a spoonful of sugar from the bowl and poured it onto their plate. Then the younger one, imitating her sister, poured the same amount of sugar onto her plate. For a while, the two stared at each other, but the older child took the spoon again and added another scoop to her plate. The younger child immediately followed suit and added the same amount to her plate. When the older sister scooped another spoonful, the younger sister, not wanting to be outdone, added another scoop. The older sister reached for the bowl again, and the younger sister also took the spoon. Before long, the sugar piled up, and eventually, both of their plates were heaped with sugar, leaving not a single spoonful of sugar in the bowl. At that moment, the master came out of the bedroom, rubbing his sleepy eyes, and returned the piled sugar back to the original bowl. Seeing such a scene, it seemed that while humans might have a sense of fairness born from selfishness that is superior to that of cats, their wisdom appeared to be inferior to that of cats. I thought they should just eat quickly before it piled up so high, but since my words wouldn’t reach them, I could only silently watch from above the rice container with pity.

The master, who went out with K寒月君, returned late that night and sat down at the dining table around nine the next day. As usual, watching from above the rice box, the master silently ate his zoni. He took turns eating, and although the pieces of mochi were small, he ate about six or seven pieces, leaving the last piece in the bowl and setting down his chopsticks as he was done. When others act so selfishly, they are usually not tolerated, but the master flaunted his authority and remained unfazed even when he saw the charred remains of mochi in the murky broth. When his wife brought out the Takajiya Starze from the back of the cupboard and placed it on the table, the master said, "That doesn't work, so I won't drink it." "But you know, it seems to be very effective for starchy foods, so you should have some," she insisted. "It doesn't matter if it's starch or whatever, it's no good," he stubbornly insisted. "You really are fickle," his wife muttered to herself. "I'm not fickle; the medicine just doesn't work." "But you said the other day that it worked very well, and you were drinking it every day," she replied. "It worked then, but it doesn't work recently," he responded in a parallel manner. "If you keep drinking and stopping like that, no matter how effective the medicine is, it won't show any results. You need to be a little more patient; stomach weakness is different from other illnesses and won't just go away," she said, turning to Gosan, who was holding the tray. "That's true. If you don't eat a little more, you won't know if it's good medicine or bad medicine," Gosan supported his wife without hesitation. "It doesn't matter; I won't drink it, so I won't drink it. What do women know about anything? Just be quiet," the master said. "After all, I'm just a woman," his wife said as she brought out the Takajiya Starze.She thrust the sake cup in front of her master, trying to make him drink it. The master stood up without saying anything and went into his study. The lady and the three others exchanged glances and chuckled. At such a time, if I were to follow him and sit on his lap, I would be in big trouble, so I quietly went around the garden and climbed up to the porch of the study. Peeking through the gap in the shoji, I saw the master opening a book by a man named Epictetus. If he could understand it as usual, that would show some level of greatness. After about five or six minutes, he slammed the book down on the desk. While thinking that this was probably the case, I continued to pay attention, and this time he took out his diary and wrote the following.

“I took a walk around Kangu, Nezu, Ueno, Ikebana, and Kanda. In front of the waiting area at Ikebana, a geisha was wearing a spring kimono with a hem pattern and was fluttering her fan. The outfit was beautiful, but her face was quite unattractive. Somehow, she resembled my cat.”

There was no need to specifically mention me as an example of an unattractive face. If I were to go to Kitadoko and just get my face shaved, I wouldn’t be so different from a human. It’s troublesome because humans are so conceited.

As I turned the corner at Hodan, another geisha approached. She was a tall, slender woman with a graceful appearance, and the light purple clothing she wore was elegantly styled. Showing her white teeth while smiling, she said, “Gen-chan, I was busy last evening—” However, her voice was as hoarse as a traveling crow, and it felt like her once fine appearance had greatly diminished, so I lost interest in seeing what this so-called Gen-chan was like and stepped out onto Onarimichi with my hands in my pockets. Kangu seemed to be somewhat restless.

There is nothing as difficult to understand as the human heart. I have no idea whether my current master is angry, elated, or seeking comfort in the philosopher's will. I cannot tell if he is mocking the world or if he wants to blend in with it, if he is angry over trivial matters, or if he is viewing things with detachment; it is completely unclear. As for cats, they are truly simple. They eat when they want to eat and sleep when they want to sleep. They get angry with all their might and cry with all their heart when they do. In the first place, they never keep a useless diary. There is no need to. A person like my master, who has two sides, may feel the need to write a diary to showcase his hidden self in a dark room, but for us cats, our daily actions are the true diary, so I think there is no need to go through the trouble of preserving our seriousness. If there is time to keep a diary, it is much better to sleep on the porch.

I had dinner at a certain restaurant in Kanda. After drinking two or three cups of Masamune for the first time in a while, my stomach feels very good this morning. For someone with a weak stomach like me, evening drinks are the best. Of course, Takajiya Starase is out of the question. No matter what anyone says, if it doesn't work, it doesn't work.

I am attacking Takajiya Starase for no reason. It feels as if I am fighting alone. The irritation from this morning is lingering a bit here. The essence of a human diary may lie in such things.

Recently, a friend told me that skipping breakfast would improve my stomach, so I tried not eating breakfast for two or three days, but all that happened was my stomach growled, and there was absolutely no effect. Another friend advised me to definitely stop eating pickles. According to his theory, all stomach ailments are caused by pickles. He argued that if I could just stop eating pickles, I could eliminate the root cause of my stomach problems. I refrained from pickles for about a week, but since I didn’t see any particular effect, I started eating them again recently. When I asked another friend, he said that this only applies to abdominal massage therapy. However, the usual method wouldn’t work. He claimed that if I tried the ancient technique called Minagawa-ryu just once or twice, most stomach ailments would be cured. It is said that Yasui Ikken was very fond of this massage technique. Even a hero like Sakamoto Ryoma sometimes received treatment, so I promptly went to Kamikengishi to get massaged. However, I was told that unless the bones were massaged, it wouldn’t heal, and that it would be difficult to cure unless the positions of the organs were flipped once, which resulted in a very brutal massage. Afterwards, my body felt like cotton, and I felt as if I had fallen into a coma, so I decided to stop after just one session. A-kun insisted that I should not eat solid food at all. Then I spent a day only drinking milk, but during that time, I felt like there was a loud gurgling sound in my intestines, and it seemed like I had released a lot of water, making it impossible for me to sleep all night. Mr. B said that if I breathed with my diaphragm and moved my organs, my stomach would naturally work better, so he suggested I give it a try. I did this a little, but it made me feel uneasy in my stomach. Sometimes I would remember to do it with complete focus, but after five or six minutes, I would forget. When I tried not to forget, I became conscious of my diaphragm, making it impossible to read or write. The aesthetician Meitei looked at this body and said, "A man in laborIt was teased that it would be better to stop, so I recently quit this. Teacher C said I should eat soba, so I promptly alternated between kake soba and mori soba, but this only made my stomach upset and had no effect at all. I have tried every possible method to cure my long-standing stomach weakness, but nothing worked. However, last night, the three cups of Masamune I had while leaning against the cold moon certainly had an effect. From now on, I will drink two or three cups every night.

This too will likely not last long. My husband's heart changes constantly, like my eyes. He is a man who cannot stick with anything for long. Moreover, it is strange that he is so worried about his stomach illness in his diary, yet outwardly he is putting up a great facade. The other day, a scholar friend visited and discussed from a certain perspective that all diseases are nothing but the result of ancestral sins or one's own sins. He seemed to have researched quite a bit, and his theory was clear, orderly, and a splendid argument. Unfortunately, my husband does not have the intellect or scholarship to refute this. However, perhaps because he wanted to justify himself and maintain his dignity while suffering from his stomach illness, he said, "Your theory is interesting, but that Carlyle also had a weak stomach," as if Carlyle's weak stomach made his own weak stomach honorable, giving a completely off-base response. Then the friend retorted, "Just because Carlyle had a weak stomach doesn't mean that a person with a weak stomach can necessarily become Carlyle," and my husband fell silent. It seems a bit ridiculous that, despite being so full of vanity, he thinks it is better not to have a weak stomach, yet he plans to start drinking tonight. When I think about it, the reason I ate so much zoni this morning might be the influence of drinking with Kangetsu-kun last night. I also started to feel like having some zoni myself.

I am a cat, but I eat almost anything. Unlike the black cat at the car dealership, I don't have the energy to venture all the way to the tavern in the alley, nor am I in a position to be picky like the calico cat at the two-stringed instrument master's place on the new road. Therefore, surprisingly, I have fewer dislikes. I eat the bread that children drop, and I lick rice cakes. Pickles are really terrible, but I have eaten a couple of pieces of takuan for the sake of experience. When I try them, it's strange, and I can eat most things. Saying I dislike this or that is a luxury and a selfishness that a cat living in a teacher's house should not express.

According to my master, there was a novelist named Balzac in France. This man was a great lover of luxury—not in terms of food, but as a novelist, he indulged in the luxury of words. One day, Balzac was trying to think of a name for a character in the novel he was writing, and he tried various options, but none of them pleased him. At that time, a friend came to visit, and they went out for a walk together. The friend was taken out without knowing anything, but Balzac, thinking about the name he was struggling with, walked through the streets, looking only at the signs in front of the shops without doing anything else.

However, he still couldn't find a name he liked. He wandered around aimlessly with his friend. The friend just followed along, not understanding what was going on. They explored Paris from morning until night. On their way back, Balzac's eyes suddenly caught a sewing shop's sign. Looking closely, he saw that the sign had the name "Marcus" written on it. Balzac clapped his hands and exclaimed, "This is it, this is it, this is the one. Marcus is a good name, isn't it? If I add the initial Z above Marcus, it will create a perfect name. It has to be Z. Z. Marcus is truly wonderful. Even though I thought I had come up with a good name myself, it somehow felt intentional and wasn't interesting. Finally, I have come up with a name I like," he said, completely forgetting about his friend's inconvenience and rejoicing by himself.

To have to explore Paris for a whole day just to come up with names for characters in a novel is quite a hassle. It would be nice if one could indulge in such luxuries, but as someone with a poor master like me, I can't afford to feel that way. It's probably due to my circumstances that I feel like anything will do, as long as I can eat. So now, the reason I suddenly want to eat zoni is not out of luxury, but because I remembered that I should eat while I can, wondering if there is any zoni left in the kitchen that my master didn't finish.

...I will go check the kitchen.