Seven (1/3)

by Natsume Sōseki

Recently, I started exercising. Some might think it's strange for a cat to exercise, but those people themselves probably didn't know anything about exercise until recently and thought that their job was simply to eat and sleep. They must remember the importance of being safe and how they didn't move their decaying behinds just to protect their husband's honor while sitting on a cushion.

The ridiculous orders to exercise, drink milk, take cold showers, jump into the sea, and seclude oneself in the mountains to eat mist when summer comes are like a recent epidemic that has been transmitted from the West to Japan. You can think of it as being on par with plagues, tuberculosis, and the family of nervous breakdowns. However, I was just born last year and am only one year old this year, so I have no memory of when humans began to suffer from such diseases, and the world back then must have been completely different from now.

It is said that a cat's one year is equivalent to ten years of a human, but our lifespan is two to three times shorter than that of humans. Still, considering the growth of a single cat, it is a big mistake to calculate human years and cat time in the same way. You can tell from the fact that I have this much insight even though I am not yet one year old. The master's third daughter is said to be three years old by counting years, but in terms of knowledge development, she is quite dull. She knows nothing except for crying, wetting herself, and drinking milk. Compared to me, who worries about the world and gets angry at time, she is truly an innocent being.

Therefore, if there are people who are surprised that I have stuffed the history of exercise, swimming, and sanatoriums into my head, it is limited to those two-legged creatures called humans. Humans have always been that way. That is why they have started to loudly speak about the benefits of exercise recently and consider the advantages of swimming as if they were great inventions. I have known about such things since before I was born.

In the first place, it's easy to understand why seawater can be medicinal if you just go to the beach. While it's impossible to know how many fish are in that vast ocean, none of those fish have ever fallen ill and sought a doctor. They all swim around healthily. If they become sick, their bodies stop moving, and if they die, they will definitely float. That is why the death of a fish is called "oujou," the death of a bird is called "koukyo," and the death of a human is referred to as "jakumetsu."

If you ask someone who has traveled and crossed the Indian Ocean, "Have you ever seen a fish die?" they would likely answer "no." And that's only natural. No matter how many times they go back and forth, they have never seen a single fish take its last breath on the waves. Even after searching that vast ocean day and night, throughout history and across the world, no one has ever seen a fish floating. Considering this, it is immediately concluded that fish are remarkably resilient creatures.

So, why are fish so resilient? This has been clear even before humans understood it. In short, it is because they are constantly bathed in seawater. The benefits of seawater bathing are evident for fish. Since it is evident for fish, it must also be evident for humans.

In 1750, Dr. Richard Russell jumped into the seawater of Brighton and boldly advertised that 400 types of diseases were instantly cured, which might be laughed at as too late. Even cats, when the right time comes, plan to head out around Kamakura. However, that time is not now. Everything has its timing. Just as the Japanese people before the Meiji Restoration died without experiencing the benefits of seawater bathing, today's cats have yet to be blessed with the opportunity to jump into the sea.

Hurrying leads to mistakes. Until the cat that went out to Tsukiji today returns safely, one cannot recklessly jump in. According to the laws of evolution, until our feline functions develop an appropriate resistance to the fierce waves — in other words, until the phrase "the cat has died" is replaced with "the cat has risen" in common usage — one cannot easily enjoy a swim in the sea.

Putting off swimming, I decided to exercise first. It seems that in the twentieth century today, not exercising is perceived as being poor, and I am conscious of the eyes around me. It's not that I don't exercise; it's that I can't exercise. I am evaluated by others as having no time and no leisure. In the past, exercising was a source of laughter, but now those who do not exercise are regarded as inferior. Human evaluation changes depending on time and circumstance, and it does not simply grow larger or smaller like my eyes. Human dignity can, conversely, be turned upside down. Even if it turns upside down, there is no problem. Things have two sides and two ends. Striking both ends to create a black-and-white change on the same thing is the flexibility of humans. When viewed upside down, there is a new charm. Peering at Amanohashidate from between my legs offers a unique perspective. Shakespeare is also not interesting if it is always the same. Occasionally, someone needs to look at Hamlet from between their legs and say, "You know, this isn't right," or the literary world will not progress. Therefore, it is not surprising that those who previously spoke ill of exercise suddenly want to exercise, and even women walk the streets with rackets. I just hope there is no laughter at the sight of a cat exercising.

Now, some may wonder what kind of exercise I engage in, so let me explain. As you know, unfortunately, I do not have any equipment. Therefore, I struggle with handling balls and bats. Next, since I have no money, I cannot buy any. For these two reasons, I believe the exercise I have chosen should be called "no cost, no equipment." This might lead one to think that I either walk slowly or start running with a piece of tuna in my mouth, but simply using four legs to traverse the earth under the influence of gravity is far too simple and lacks interest. No matter how it is called exercise, I think that the kind of activity my owner occasionally performs, which is as it reads, tarnishes the sanctity of exercise. Of course, I would not refuse to engage in mere exercise if it were stimulating. Competitions like bonito flakes races or salmon hunts are quite good, but this is contingent on having the essential objects. Without this stimulation, it becomes tasteless and dry. Without a prize-like stimulant, I want to try some artistic exercise. I have thought about various things.

Jumping from the kitchen eaves to the roof of the house, standing on all fours on the plum blossom-shaped tile at the top of the roof, crossing the laundry pole—this is utterly impossible. The bamboo slips, and my claws cannot grip. Suddenly pouncing on a child from behind—this is one of the very interesting exercises, but since it rarely ends well, I only attempt it about three times a month at most. Being covered with a paper bag on my head—this is just painful and a very uninteresting method. Especially since it cannot succeed without a human counterpart, it is no good. Next, scratching the cover of a book with my claws—this not only carries the risk of being scolded by my owner if discovered, but even with dexterous paws, the muscles of my whole body do not work. These are what I call my so-called old-fashioned exercises.

There are quite interesting new activities. First of all, mantis hunting. Mantis hunting is not as grand an activity as mouse hunting, but it is not particularly dangerous either. As a game to be played from the middle of summer to the beginning of autumn, it is one of the finest. To explain the method, first, you go out to the garden and search for a mantis. If the weather is nice, it is easy to find one or two. Now, when you approach the found mantis, it immediately gets into a defensive stance and raises its forearms. The mantis is quite brave, as it intends to resist until it knows the strength of its opponent, which is amusing. When you lightly touch the raised forearm with your right front leg, the soft neck bends sideways. The expression of the mantis at this moment is very intriguing. There is a sufficient sense of wonder. Then, you leap around to its back and lightly scratch its wings from behind. Those wings are usually carefully folded, but if the scratching is vigorous, they become disheveled, revealing light-colored undergarments like Yoshino paper from within. Even in summer, you struggle with two layers, presenting a truly elegant appearance. At this time, your long neck will surely turn back. Sometimes it comes towards you, but in most cases, it just raises its neck and waits for your move. If the opponent remains in this attitude for too long, it will not become a proper activity, so if it drags on, I will give it a little poke. If I poke it this much, a mantis with eyes will definitely escape. If it comes towards me, it is a very uneducated, barbaric mantis. If the opponent behaves so barbarically, I will aim for it as it comes towards me and stick it down as much as I want. Usually, it gets thrown two or three feet away. However, if the enemy quietly advances from behind, I feel sorry for it, so I will fly around the garden's standing trees two or three times. The mantis has only escaped about five or six inches. AlreadySince I know my own capabilities, I have no courage to resist. I can only flee in confusion. However, as I chase you in this confusion, you may eventually struggle and attempt a grand performance by flapping your wings. Originally, the mantis's wings are harmonized with its neck and are very long and slender, but it seems that they are purely decorative, much like human languages such as English, French, and German, and are not practical at all. Therefore, when attempting a grand performance using something useless, it does not serve much function against me. Although it is called a performance, in reality, it is merely dragging itself along the ground. This situation evokes a bit of pity, but it cannot be helped as it is for exercise. Excuse me, I will dash forward immediately. Since you cannot make a sharp turn out of inertia, you inevitably advance. You slam that nose down. At this moment, the mantis must fall with its wings spread. It then holds itself down with its front legs and takes a short rest. After that, it releases again. It lets go and then holds down again. It attacks with the military strategy of Zhuge Liang, capturing and releasing repeatedly. After about thirty minutes of this sequence, when it can no longer move, I take it in my mouth and give it a little shake. Then I spit it out again. This time, it lies on the ground and does not move, so I poke it with my hand, and as it tries to jump up, I hold it down again. After getting tired of this, as a last resort, I munch on it. By the way, for those who have never eaten a mantis, I should mention that it is not very tasty. Moreover, it seems to have surprisingly little nutritional value.

Following the mantis hunting, I engage in the activity of catching cicadas. Even though they are simply called cicadas, they are not all the same. Just as there are various types of people, such as oil guys, min-min guys, and oshiitsukutsuku guys, there are also oil cicadas, min-min, and oshiitsukutsuku among cicadas. Oil cicadas are persistent and hard to catch. Min-min cicadas are troublesome in crosswinds. The most interesting to catch is the oshiitsukutsuku. They only appear at the end of summer. When the autumn wind brushes against the skin through the cracks of the eight mouths, and when I catch a cold with a "hakku-shon," they vigorously shake their tails and sing. They are quite vocal, to the point where I think they have no other calling besides singing and getting caught by cats. I catch these at the beginning of autumn. This is referred to as the cicada-catching activity. I should mention to everyone that, as long as they are called cicadas, they are not rolling on the ground. Anything that falls to the ground is always accompanied by ants. What I catch are not the ones lying in the territory of these ants. I catch those that are perched on high branches, singing oshiitsukutsuku. Since this is also a side note, I would like to ask knowledgeable people whether they sing oshiitsukutsuku or tsukutsukuoshi, as the interpretation could have a significant relationship in cicada research. The superiority of humans over cats lies in such aspects, and since this is also a point of pride for humans, it would be wise to think carefully if you cannot answer immediately. However, in terms of cicada-catching activities, it does not matter which it is. You just rely on their voices to climb the tree and catch them while they are engrossed in singing. This may seem like the simplest activity, but it is quite a strenuous one. I have four legs, so when it comes to traversing the earth, I dare not...I do not think I am inferior to other animals. At least judging from the mathematical knowledge of two legs and four, I intend to not lose to humans. However, when it comes to climbing trees, there are quite a few who are more skilled than I am. Setting aside professional monkeys, there are also humans, descendants of monkeys, who should not be underestimated. Since it is originally an unreasonable endeavor to defy gravity, I do not consider it a particular shame if I cannot do it, but it does cause some inconvenience in the cicada-catching movement. Fortunately, I have claws as useful tools, so I can somehow climb, but it is not as easy as it looks from the outside. Moreover, cicadas can fly. Unlike the mantis, once they take off, there are times when my hard-earned tree climbing leads to the misfortune of having no choice but to not climb at all. Lastly, there is the danger of occasionally being splashed with urine from cicadas. That urine seems to aim for the eyes at times. Since escaping is unavoidable, I sincerely hope they do not urinate. What kind of psychological state influences the physiological mechanism to excrete just before flying? It may indeed be due to overwhelming sadness. Or it could be a trick to create a little room to escape unexpectedly from an enemy. If that is the case, it becomes a matter that should be included in the same category as spitting ink like a squid, showing sashimi of a big shot, and the master playing with the Radian language. This is also a problem in cicada studies that cannot be ignored. If thoroughly researched, this alone would certainly have the value of a doctoral dissertation. That is a side issue, so let’s leave it at that and return to the main topic.

The place where cicadas gather the most—though it’s strange to say gather, as gathering is trite, they do indeed gather—the place where cicadas gather the most is the Paulownia tree. It is said to be called Wutong in Chinese. However, this Paulownia has an abundance of leaves, and those leaves are all about the size of fans, so when they overlap, the branches are nearly invisible due to the dense foliage. This greatly hinders the cicada-catching endeavor. The saying "You can hear them, but you cannot see them" seems to have been created especially for me. With no other choice, I rely solely on their voices to guide me. About a span below, the Paulownia branches fork as ordered, so I take a break here and search for the cicadas from beneath the leaves. However, on my way here, there are some eager ones that rustle and fly out. Once one flies away, it’s all over. In terms of mimicry, cicadas are as foolish as humans. One after another, they start to fly out. By the time I finally reach the fork, there are times when the trees are completely silent, and not a single voice can be heard. I once climbed up to this point, and no matter how I looked around or tilted my ears, there were no cicadas to be found, so I thought it would be a hassle to go back down and decided to rest for a while, waiting for a second opportunity atop the fork, when before I knew it, I became sleepy and ended up playing in the dark sweet village. When I woke up, I found myself having fallen from the fork to the stone pavement of the garden. However, generally, I manage to catch at least one each time I climb up. The only thing that lacks interest is that I have to hold it in my mouth while up in the tree. So when I bring it down and spit it out, most of the time it’s already dead. No matter how much I tease or scratch, there’s no solid response. The true pleasure of cicada catching lies in stealthily approaching and then suddenly pinning down the precious one as it desperately stretches and contracts its tail.There is. At this moment, Tsukutsuku-kun lets out a scream and flaps its thin, transparent wings in all directions. The speed and beauty of it are beyond words; it is truly a magnificent sight in the world of cicadas. Every time I try to hold Tsukutsuku-kun down, I always ask it to show me this artistic performance. When I get tired of it, I apologize and end up stuffing it into my mouth. According to the cicada, there are some that continue their performance even after entering the mouth.

The next activity after catching cicadas is sliding down the pine tree. There is no need for a long explanation, so I will briefly mention it. When you think of sliding down a pine tree, you might imagine sliding on the pine itself, but that is not the case; it is still a type of climbing. The difference is that catching cicadas involves climbing to catch them, while sliding down the pine tree is climbing with the purpose of climbing. This is the distinction between the two. Originally, since the pine has been serving as a feast at the Tokiwagi Shrine until today, it has become quite rugged. Therefore, nothing is as slippery as the trunk of a pine tree. There are no good handholds. There are no good footholds. — In other words, there are no good claw holds. You rush up to the trunk with good claw holds in one go. After climbing up, you come down. There are two methods to come down. One is to turn upside down and come down with your head facing the ground. The other is to come down with your tail facing down while maintaining the same posture as when you climbed up. I ask humans, do you know which one is more difficult? From a shallow human perspective, they might think that since they are coming down anyway, it is easier to run down facing downwards. That is a mistake. You only understand that Yoshitsune fell from Hiyodorigoe, and since even Yoshitsune looks down when coming down, you might think that cats can easily come down facing downwards. It is not something to be looked down upon. Do you think the claws of a cat grow in any direction? They all bend backward. Therefore, while they can hook onto things like a crowbar and pull them closer, they do not have the strength to push things away.

Now, let’s say I vigorously climb a pine tree. Since I am originally a creature of the ground, it is natural to assume that, according to the laws of nature, I cannot remain at the top of the pine tree for long. If left alone, I will surely fall. However, if I fall without any control, it will be too soon. Therefore, I must find some means to somewhat ease this natural tendency. This is what it means to descend. Although falling and descending seem to be vastly different, in reality, it is not as significant as one might think. If I slow down my fall, I am descending, and if I speed up my descent, I will fall. The difference between falling and descending is quite slight. I do not want to fall from the top of the pine tree, so I must ease my fall and descend. In other words, I must resist the speed of my fall with something. As I mentioned earlier, my claws are all facing backward, so if I position my head upwards and dig in my claws, the power of these claws can be used entirely to counteract the force of falling. Thus, falling transforms into descending. It is indeed a very clear principle.

However, if you turn your body upside down and try to cross the pine tree in the style of Yoshitsune, even though you have claws, they will be of no use. You will slide down and will not be able to hold your body weight anywhere. Here, a person who had intended to descend will end up falling instead. Indeed, crossing the hiyodorigoe is difficult. Among cats, I am probably the only one who can perform this technique. That is why I call this movement "pine sliding."

Finally, I would like to say a word about the fence circuit. The master's garden is surrounded by a bamboo fence in a square shape. One side parallel to the eaves is about eight or nine ken long. The left and right sides are only four ken each. Now, the exercise I mentioned, the fence circuit, is to make a complete round without falling off this fence. It can sometimes be difficult to do, but when it goes well, it is delightful. Especially since there are logs with burned roots standing here and there, it is convenient for a little rest. Today, it went well, so I tried it three times from morning to noon, and I improved each time. The more I improve, the more interesting it becomes. I ended up repeating it four times, but when I was about halfway through the fourth round, three crows flew in from the neighboring roof and lined up about one ken away. What a troublesome bunch. I thought, "What right do they have to disturb a person's exercise, especially since they have no affiliation and are just sitting on someone else's fence?" So I called out, "Move along, hey, get out of the way." The first crow looked at me and grinned. The second one was gazing at the master's garden. The third was wiping its beak on the bamboo of the fence. It must have eaten something. I stood on the fence, giving them three minutes of grace to respond. It seems that crows are commonly called Kanzaemon, and indeed, they are Kanzaemon. No matter how long I waited, they neither greeted me nor flew away. Having no choice, I started to walk again. Then the foremost Kanzaemon slightly spread its wings. I thought it was finally scared of my presence and was about to flee, but it merely changed its posture from facing right to facing left. This rascal! If it were on the ground, I would have left it there, but I simply do not have the luxury to deal with Kanzaemon on a journey that is already exhausting. That said, I also dislike stopping again and waiting for the three crows to retreat. First of all, thatWaiting won't last long. The other party has a status with wings, so they are stopping in a place like this. Therefore, if they like it, they will probably stay indefinitely. This is my fourth time here. I'm already quite tired as it is. Not to mention, I'm doing a feat and exercise that is no less than tightrope walking. I can't guarantee that I won't fall even without any obstacles, so having three of these black-clad figures blocking my path is quite a troublesome inconvenience. If it comes to that, I have no choice but to stop my movements and climb down the fence myself. It's a hassle, so maybe I should just do that; after all, the enemy is numerous, and this situation involves a body that is not very familiar around here. Their beaks are sharp, and they look somewhat like the offspring of a tengu. They are certainly not of good quality. Retreat would be safer; if I get too deeply involved and happen to fall, it would be even more humiliating. Just as I was thinking this, a crow that turned left said, "Fool." The next one imitated and said, "Fool." The last one, quite politely, shouted "Fool, Fool" twice. Even I, who am usually mild-mannered, cannot overlook this. First of all, if I am insulted by crows within my own estate, it concerns my name. If you say it doesn't matter because I don't have a name yet, then it concerns my reputation. I absolutely cannot retreat. As the proverb goes, "A crowd of crows," so even three might surprisingly be weak. I gather my courage and start to walk forward as much as I can. The crows seem to be talking to each other, pretending not to notice me. This is really getting on my nerves. If the width of the fence were five or six inches more, I would make them suffer terribly, but unfortunately, no matter how angry I get, I can only move slowly. Finally, having left the vanguard, I come to a distance of about five or six inches, thinking I'm almost there, when Kanzaemon suddenly flaps his wings and jumps one or two feet.It rose. When the wind suddenly blew against my face, I realized it and accidentally lost my footing, falling down with a thud. Thinking that I had messed up, I looked up from beneath the hedge, and all three were perched back where they originally were, looking down at my face with their beaks aligned. What a brazen bunch. I glared at them, but it had no effect at all. I hunched my back and let out a slight groan, but it only made things worse. Just as an ordinary person cannot comprehend the profound symbolism of poetry, the signs of anger I directed at them elicited no response. Upon reflection, it was not surprising. Until now, I had treated them as cats. That was my mistake. If they were cats, they would certainly respond to this much, but unfortunately, they were crows. Given that they are crows, it was inevitable. Just as a businessman might rush to overwhelm Master Kusami, I presented myself in silver to Saigo Takamori's statue, much like how a crow would defecate on it. Being sensitive to the situation, I quickly realized it was futile, so I completely withdrew to the porch. It was already dinner time. While exercise is good, overdoing it can be detrimental, and my whole body felt somewhat devoid of tension, feeling limp. Moreover, the fur that had been exposed to the autumn sun during my exercise seemed to have absorbed the late afternoon sun to the fullest, making it unbearably hot. The sweat seeping from my pores, I wished it would flow, but it clung to the roots of my fur like grease. My back felt itchy. The itchiness from sweat and the itchiness from fleas can be distinctly differentiated. If it were within reach of my mouth, I could bite, and within the range of my feet, I knew how to scratch, but when it comes to the middle of my spine, it was beyond my reach. In such times, when I see a human, I either rub against them indiscriminately or perform sufficient friction against the bark of a pine tree, choosing between the two.If I do not choose a mess, I cannot sleep comfortably and peacefully. Humans are foolish beings, so when they speak to me in a sweet voice—this sweet voice is the voice humans use towards me. If one thinks of me as a standard, it is not a sweet voice, but rather a voice of being petted—very well, anyway, since humans are foolish beings, when they come close to me with a voice of being petted, in most cases, they misunderstand it as loving me, and not only do they leave it to me, but occasionally they even pet my head. However, recently, a type of parasite called "nomi" has multiplied in my fur, so when I rarely snuggle up, I am inevitably thrown away with a neck muscle. It seems I have lost my patience for such a trivial bug that barely enters my sight. When I turn my hand, it rains; when I cover my hand, it clouds—this is what it means. With just a thousand or two thousand, how could they manage such a cash-like act? The first rule of the law of love conducted through the human world seems to say this: "As long as it is beneficial to oneself, one should love everyone." Since the way humans handle me has suddenly changed drastically, I cannot use human power no matter how itchy it gets. Therefore, I have no choice but to resort to the second method, which is the pine bark friction method. So, I thought I might try rubbing a bit, and I was about to get down from the edge again, but no, I realized this was also a foolish plan that did not consider mutual benefit. The reason is simple. Pine has resin. This resin is very sticky, and once it sticks to the tip of my fur, it will never come off, even if thunder strikes or the Baltic fleet is annihilated. Moreover, it sticks to five hairs quickly, and then spreads to ten. By the time I realize that ten have been affected, thirty are already stuck. I am a cat who loves simplicity, like a tea master. I absolutely hate such persistent, toxic, clingy, and obsessive creatures.Even if it is a beautiful cat of the world, I must decline. Let alone with pine resin. With the status of being unable to choose between the eye boogers flowing from the black eyes of the carriage man carried by the north wind, it is outrageous to disregard this pale gray fur coat. I think about it a little, but that fellow doesn't seem to have much consideration. As soon as I go near that area of skin and touch my back, it will surely stick to me. Dealing with such indiscriminate foolishness not only concerns my face but also affects my fur. No matter how much I feel restless, I have no choice but to endure it. However, if these two methods cannot be executed together, it becomes very concerning. If I don't come up with a plan now, in the end, I might suffer from restlessness and stickiness, leading to illness. I pondered with my back legs crossed, wondering if there was any wisdom, and then suddenly remembered something. My master sometimes goes out with a towel and soap. When he returns after thirty or forty minutes, his hazy complexion seems to have a bit more vitality and looks brighter. If a dirty man like my master can have this kind of effect, I must have a bit more benefit. Since I already have this much talent, it seems unnecessary to become a handsome man, but if I were to fall ill and die at a young age, I would feel sorry for the people of the world. When I asked, it seems this is a bathing method devised by humans to pass the time. Since it is something made by humans, it is certainly not going to be anything good, but given the circumstances, it might be worth trying. If it doesn't work out, then I can just stop. But do humans have the luxury to put a different species like a cat into a bath they have set up for themselves? That is a question. Since the master enters with such composure, it is unlikely that he would refuse me, but if by any chance there were to be an unfortunate incident, it would reflect poorly. Therefore, it is best to go and observe the situation first. Once I have seen it and if it seems good, I will grab a towel and jump in. With that thought settled, I sluggishly set out for the bath.