Five (3/3)

by Natsume Sōseki

I have decided to devise a strategy from now on. The place to fight the mice must, of course, be where the mice come out. No matter how advantageous the terrain is for us, if I wait alone, it won't turn into a war. Therefore, first, it is necessary to study the entrance and exit of the mice. I stand in the middle of the kitchen and look around in all directions to see from which direction they come. I feel somewhat like General Togo.

The maid has gone to fetch water and hasn't returned. The child is especially asleep. The master came back after eating dumplings from Imozaka and is still holed up in his study. As for my wife—I'm not sure what she is doing. She is probably dozing off and dreaming of yams. Occasionally, a rickshaw passes by the gate, but after it passes, it becomes even quieter. My determination, enthusiasm, the scene in the kitchen, the loneliness in all directions, and the overall atmosphere are all tragic. I can't help but think of General Togo among the cats.

When one finds oneself in such circumstances, it is common for anyone to feel a kind of pleasure amidst the horror, but I discovered that beneath that pleasure lies a great worry. I am prepared for war against the mice, so I am not afraid of how many come, but it is inconvenient that the direction they will come from is unclear. When I compile the materials obtained from careful observation, it appears that there are three routes for the mice to emerge. If they are sewer rats, they will surely follow the pipes from the sink and go around to the back of the stove. At that time, I will hide behind the fire extinguisher and cut off their way back.

Alternatively, they might unexpectedly jump out by circumventing the bathroom through a plaster hole where the water is drained. If that happens, I will take position on top of the kettle lid and jump down from above when they come underneath, capturing them in one go. Then, as I look around again, I notice that the lower right corner of the cupboard door has been gnawed into a crescent shape, which might be convenient for their entry and exit. When I bring my nose close and sniff, it smells a bit like mice. If they charge out from here, I will use the pillar as a shield to let them pass and then claw at them from the side.

If I look up, thinking that it might come from the ceiling, the pitch-black soot shines in the lamp's light, and it feels as if hell has been turned inside out, making it impossible for me to go up or down with my skills. Since it is unlikely that something would fall from such a high place, I decide to let my guard down in this regard. Nevertheless, there is a concern about being attacked from three directions. I can deal with one with one eye closed. I have confidence that I can manage two somehow. However, when it comes to three, no matter how instinctively I am expected to catch mice, I find myself at a loss. Yet, asking for help from something like the black cat of the carriage shop also concerns my dignity. What should I do?

Even when I think about what to do, if no good ideas come to mind, the best way to find peace of mind is to decide that such things are unlikely to happen. Moreover, one tends to think that things that are not governed by law do not occur. First, take a look at the world around you. Just because the bride I received yesterday might die today does not mean that the groom is worried, as he seems to be listing auspicious things like Tamatsubaki Chiyo and Yachiyo without a worried expression. The lack of concern does not stem from a lack of worth in worrying. No matter how much one worries, the law does not apply. In my case, I have no grounds to assert that a three-pronged attack will definitely not occur, but it is more convenient to assume that it will not happen for the sake of peace of mind. Peace of mind is essential for all things. I also desire peace of mind. Therefore, I decide that a three-pronged attack will not occur.

Even so, I still can't shake my worries, and as I think about what it could be, I finally understand. It is the torment of struggling to find a clear answer for myself regarding which of the three strategies would be the most prudent choice. There is a plan to respond when I come out of the cupboard, there is a strategy for when I appear from the bathroom, and there is also a calculation to welcome this when I crawl up from the sink, but when it comes to having to decide on one of those, I am greatly perplexed. It is said that Admiral Tōgō was very concerned about whether the Baltic Fleet would pass through the Tsushima Strait, head out to the Tsugaru Strait, or take the long route around the Sōya Strait, but now, imagining from my own circumstances, I can truly grasp the difficulty of that situation. I am not only similar to Admiral Tōgō in the overall situation but also someone who is struggling in the same way as him in this special position.

As I was engrossed in devising strategies, suddenly the torn sliding door opened, and the face of Mi-san popped out. Just showing the face does not mean there are no hands or feet. Other parts are not well visible in the night, but the face has a remarkably strong color and stands out clearly to the eye. Mi-san, with her cheeks even redder than usual, has been locking the doors early, perhaps reflecting on last night, after returning from the bath. I hear the master in the study say, "Put my cane by the bedside." I couldn't understand why he would want the cane by the bedside. Surely he isn't indulging in the whim of pretending to be a hero of the Easy Water, listening for the sound of dragons. Yesterday it was mountain yam, today it's a cane, I wonder what it will be tomorrow.

The night is still young, and the mouse seems reluctant to come out. I need a break before the great war.

The master's whims have no sliding windows. In the tatami room, a section about a foot wide has been cut out where the transom would be, serving as a substitute for sliding windows, allowing the wind to blow through in summer and winter. Inviting the cherry blossoms that scatter without reservation, I wake up startled by the wind that blows in briskly, and before I know it, the hazy moonlight has seeped in, casting the shadow of the stove diagonally across the raised floorboards. I shake my ears two or three times to check on the household, worried that I might have overslept, but only the sound of the grandfather clock from last night can be heard in the stillness. It is already the time when the mice come out. Where do they come from?

From inside the cupboard, a clattering sound can be heard. It seems that something is rummaging around, pressing down on the edge of a small plate with its foot. Is it planning to come out from here? It is waiting quietly next to the hole. However, there are no signs of it coming out anytime soon. The sound of the plate stops, and now it seems to be bumping into a bowl or something, producing a heavy sound that echoes intermittently. Moreover, that sound is happening just on the other side of the door. It is no more than three inches away from my nose. Occasionally, I hear little footsteps approaching the hole's mouth, but they retreat again. Not a single one shows its face. Even though the enemy is rampaging just one door away, I must wait patiently at the hole's exit. What a test of patience this is. The mice are holding a grand ball inside the traveler's bowl. If only the three mice that I could catch would open this door for me, but they are thoughtless mountain dwellers.

This time, my abalone shell makes a little sound in the shadow of the stove. As I quietly approach on tiptoe, thinking that the enemy has come this way too, I catch a glimpse of a tail between the buckets, but it quickly hides under the sink. After a while, I hear the sound of a gargling cup clinking against the metal basin in the bathroom. Turning around, I see a large one, nearly five inches long, drop a toothbrush bag and dash under the eaves. I jump down after it, determined not to let it escape, but its shadow and figure are already gone. Catching mice is more difficult than I expected. Perhaps I was not born with the ability to catch mice.

When I turned to the bathroom, the enemy jumped out from the cupboard, leaping from the sink while keeping an eye on the cupboard, struggling in the middle of the kitchen. They made a little noise from three directions. Should I call it petty or cowardly? They were not at all the enemies of a gentleman. I ran around, being cautious and worrying about fifteen or sixteen times, but in the end, I never succeeded even once. It's unfortunate, but no general, no matter how great, can devise a strategy against such small-minded people. At first, I had courage and a sense of rivalry, even a noble feeling of tragic beauty, but eventually, it became tedious, seemed foolish, and I grew sleepy. I sat down in the middle of the kitchen and became immobile. However, even if I didn't move, as long as I glared in all directions, the enemy was small-minded, so they couldn't do much. When I realized that the enemy I aimed for was surprisingly a stingy guy, the feeling that war was honorable faded away, leaving only a bad impression. Once I passed through the thought of a bad impression, my motivation drained away, and I became dazed. After becoming dazed, I thought to let it be, since they couldn't do anything clever anyway, and I felt a deep contempt, becoming extremely sleepy. I followed this path and finally became sleepy. I sleep. Rest is necessary even in the midst of the enemy.

From the horizontally opened window with an awning, a flurry of petals was thrown in again, and a fierce wind enveloped me. Then, something that had shot out like a bullet from the cupboard bit my left ear without giving me a chance to dodge. The following black shadow, before I could think it would go around behind me, hung from my tail. It was a matter of a blink. I jumped up mechanically, without any purpose. I concentrated all the strength of my body into my pores, trying to shake off this monster. What was biting my ear was hanging limply from my profile, having lost its center. The soft tip of my tail, like a goma pipe, unexpectedly entered my mouth. As I bit down on the tail, as if to break it, and shook it from side to side, only the tail remained between my front teeth, while the body crashed against the wall covered with old newspapers and bounced back onto the raised board. If I were to get up without any gaps, like kicking a ball, it would graze my nose and stand with its feet shrunk at the edge of the fishing stage. He looked down at me from the top of the shelf, and I looked up at him from between the boards. The distance was five shaku. In that space, the moonlight poured in horizontally, stretching a broad band across the sky. I concentrated my strength into my front legs and finally tried to jump up onto the shelf. My front legs managed to hook onto the edge of the shelf, but my hind legs were flailing in the air. The black thing from earlier was biting my tail, as if it would not let go even if it died. I was in a precarious situation. I tried to make it easier to hook my front legs and deepen my foothold, but every time I made it easier, the weight of the tail made it shallower. If I slid for two or three minutes, I would fall. I was becoming increasingly precarious. The sound of my claws scraping the shelf board could be heard gratingly. Realizing this wouldn't do, I tried to make it easier to pull out my left front leg, but I spectacularly missed hooking my claws, so I was left hanging from the shelf with just one claw from my right. The weight of what was biting me and my tail was heavy.As I turn my body with difficulty, the monster that had been watching silently from the shelf until this moment leaps down, aiming for my forehead, as if to throw a stone from above. My grip loses its hold. Three lumps merge into one, cutting through the moonlight as they fall downwards. The mortar that was placed on the next level, along with the small bucket and the empty jam can inside it, also become one mass, enticing the fire extinguisher below, rolling out half into the water jar and half onto the wooden floor. Everything makes an unusual noise in the dead of night, chilling my frantic soul.

“Thief!” the master shouts in a loud voice as he rushes out from the bedroom. Looking closely, he holds a lamp in one hand and a cane in the other, emitting a sharp light more befitting his status than his sleepy eyes suggest. I crouch quietly by the abalone shell. The two monsters hide their figures inside the cupboard. The master, with nothing to do, asks angrily, “What is it, who made such a loud noise?” even though there is no one to answer. As the moon tilts to the west, the area of white light becomes narrower by about half.