Ten (1/4)

by Natsume Sōseki

"It's already seven o'clock," my wife called through the sliding door. Whether the master was awake or still asleep, he simply turned away without responding. Not responding is his habit. When he finally has to say something, he will eventually say "uh-huh," but even that "uh-huh" does not come easily. When a person becomes so lazy that they don't even respond, there is a certain charm to it, but such men have never been liked by women. Even the wife who is with him now seems not to think very highly of him, so there is no way other women would like him. It is unthinkable that he would be cherished by a charming woman who is a complete stranger, having been abandoned by his own family. Considering this, it is clear that a master who is not even loved by his wife cannot be liked by women in society. There is no need to expose the unpopular master among the opposite sex at this point, but he surprisingly seems to believe that "it's because of my age that my wife doesn't like me." That is the source of his troubles, and I only mentioned it a little out of kindness to prompt his self-awareness.

At the promised time, even when informed that the time has come, since the other party ignores that attention and does not even say "yes," the wife thinks, "This is my husband's problem, not my responsibility," and with a nonchalant attitude, she takes a broom and a duster and heads towards the study. Soon, the sound of her starting to clean in the study can be heard. It is irrelevant to me, who does not have the role of cleaning, whether the purpose of cleaning is for exercise or for play, but I cannot help but say that her way of cleaning is meaningless. The reason it is meaningless is that she is cleaning just for the sake of cleaning. She dusts the shoji with the duster and slides the broom over the tatami. She interprets that as the cleaning being finished. She feels no responsibility regarding the cause or result of the cleaning. Therefore, while clean places are clean every day, areas with trash or dust accumulate trash and dust at any time. There is also the saying of the sheep of the first day of the month, so it may be better than not cleaning at all. However, cleaning does not benefit the master. In that sense, the sight of my wife struggling to clean every day is one of her wonderful traits. The relationship between my wife and cleaning has been a long-standing habit, mechanically intertwined, yet the reality of cleaning has not changed at all, just like before my wife was born, or before the invention of dusters and brooms. I think that this relationship between the two is likely connected, regardless of its content, like the terms in a proposition of formal logic.

I am an early riser, so I am already starting to feel hungry. Since the family members have not yet prepared breakfast, there is no way for me, a cat, to get breakfast, but thinking about that makes it impossible for me to stay still. I can't help but hope that the delicious aroma rising from that pot is calling me.

Even though I know it's a futile expectation, once I start imagining that expectation in my heart, I can't help but want to try it out. Even though it's clear that I will be disappointed if I try, I can't be convinced until I see the final disappointment with my own eyes. Unable to resist, I crawled out to the kitchen.

First, when I peeked into the pot under the stove, as expected, the leftovers from last night were still there, quietly reflecting the light. Gosan had already transferred the freshly cooked rice to the rice container and was stirring the pot on the shichirin. Around the pot, the bubbling rice broth was overflowing and sticking to the sides. Since both the rice and the broth were ready, I thought it should be okay to eat.

It's boring to hold back at a time like this. Even if things don't go as I wish, there's no loss in trying to boldly urge for breakfast. My status as a freeloader doesn't change the fact that I'm hungry. Thinking this, I tried to cry out in a way that was sweet, or perhaps pleading, or even resentful. However, Gosan completely ignored me.

Since she is naturally insensitive, I understand that she is not good at empathy, but it's my chance to show off my skills in crying effectively to elicit sympathy. This time, I tried crying in a more pitiful manner. I believed my voice had a tragic resonance, but Gosan showed no reaction at all. Perhaps she might have a problem with her hearing. If she had a hearing problem, she wouldn't be able to work as a maid, but she seems to be insensitive to the sound of cats.

There are people in the world who are colorblind, and even though they think they have perfect vision, doctors say they see only in shades. Gosan seems to be voice-blind. If she is voice-blind, she must be lacking in that regard. Despite being lacking, she is quite arrogant. Even when I ask her to open the door in the middle of the night, she never does. When she occasionally does open it, she won't let me in afterward. The summer night dew is poisonous, and waiting under the eaves for light during the frost season is unimaginably painful.

Recently, when I was locked out, I was almost attacked by a stray dog and barely managed to escape onto the roof of the shed, shivering all night long. All of these inconveniences arose from Gosan's coldness. Even if I cry in front of such a person, there would probably be no reaction, but like praying to God when hungry, I feel compelled to try something. On the third attempt, I deliberately made a complex crying sound to attract attention. I thought it was a beautiful sound that rivaled Beethoven's symphonies, but it seemed to have no resonance with Gosan.

Gosan suddenly knelt down, kicked aside a piece of the board, and took out a piece of hard charcoal from inside. When he struck it against the corner of the shichirin, the charcoal shattered, and everything around turned pitch black. It seemed to have gotten into the broth a little, but Gosan didn't pay any attention to that. He immediately shoved the crushed charcoal into the pot. There was no sign that he was inclined to listen to my symphony. With no other choice, I turned back towards the tea room, feeling dejected, and as I passed by the bathroom, I saw three girls in the middle of washing their faces.

Even though they were washing their faces, the top two were kindergarten students, and the third was so small that she couldn't keep up with her older sister, so they couldn't possibly be washing their faces properly. The smallest child was dragging a wet rag out of a bucket and rubbing it all over her face. Washing one's face with a rag must feel unpleasant, but since she finds it amusing every time an earthquake occurs, this is not surprising at all. Perhaps she is even more enlightened than Yagi Dokusen-kun.

As expected, the eldest daughter is aware of her role as an older sister, so she throws the gargling cup aside and says, "Little boy, that's a rag," as she goes to grab the rag. The little boy, being confident, doesn't easily listen to his sister. He pulls the rag back while saying, "No way, bab." No one knows what this word "bab" means. It's just something this little boy uses when he throws a tantrum. The rag is being tugged back and forth between the sister and the little boy, and droplets of water are falling from the soaked middle, mercilessly splashing onto the boy's feet. While he can tolerate just getting his feet wet, having his knees wet is unbearable. The boy is wearing a Genroku outfit.

When I asked what Genroku is, I was told that any medium-sized pattern is considered Genroku. I have no idea who taught him that. "Little boy, stop it, your Genroku is getting wet," the sister says, trying to be clever. On the other hand, this sister was just recently confusing Genroku with sugoroku, showing her lack of knowledge.

While reminiscing about the Genroku era, I unintentionally start talking, but this child's verbal mistakes are truly numerous. Occasionally, he makes mistakes that seem to mock others. For example, he might say that mushrooms flew in during a fire, or that he took tea miso to a girls' school, or that he lined up Ebisu and the kitchen. At one point, he said, "I'm not a child from the straw shop," and upon listening closely, I realized he was confusing the back shop with the straw shop. The master laughs every time he hears such mistakes, but I wonder if he seriously shares even more ridiculous errors with his students when teaching English at school.

The boy, who does not refer to himself as a boy, is always called "Boba." When he saw that Genroku was wet, he cried out, "Where is Gen wet?" Since it was a big deal that Genroku was cold, the third lady rushed out from the kitchen, grabbed a cloth, and wiped the kimono. Among all this commotion, the relatively quiet one was the second daughter, Sunko. Sunko turned away, opened a jar of face powder that had rolled off the shelf, and was diligently applying makeup. With the first finger she poked in, she stroked the tip of her nose, leaving a white line there, making the shape of her nose a bit clearer. Next, she moved the finger she had applied to her cheek and rubbed it, creating a white lump there as well. Just as she had finished this decoration, a maid came in and, while wiping Boba's kimono, wiped Sunko's face as well. Sunko looked somewhat dissatisfied.

While I was watching this scene out of the corner of my eye, I came from the tea room to the master's bedroom, secretly checking if he was already awake. The master's head was nowhere to be seen. Instead, a high-footed leg, worth ten mon and a half, was sticking out from under the bedding. He must have crawled in like this, thinking it would be a hassle to be woken up if his head was visible. He was like a turtle. Just then, my wife, who had finished cleaning the study, came in with a broom and a dustpan. Just like before, she entered through the sliding door.

“Aren't you awake yet?” I called out, standing for a while and staring at the bedding that concealed my neck. There was no response again. My wife took two steps forward from the entrance, tapping the broom lightly as she asked again, “Are you not awake yet?” At this moment, I was already awake. Since I was awake, I had hidden my neck under the bedding in advance to prepare for my wife's attack. I thought that if I just kept my neck hidden, she might overlook me, and I had been sleeping relying on this trivial hope, but it seemed I would not be forgiven easily. However, the first voice was at the threshold, at least a room's distance away, so I thought I was safe, but then the broom tapped at a distance of about three feet, which surprised me a little. Furthermore, the second “Are you not awake yet?” was heard from even closer and louder than before, reaching inside the bedding, so I braced myself for the worst and replied in a small voice.

“You will be here by nine o'clock, right? If you don't hurry, you won't make it.”

It was strange that I answered from the sleeve of my nightgown, “I will get up now, even if you say so.” My wife always tries to wake me up this way, but if I feel at ease, I end up falling back asleep, so I cannot let my guard down. “Come on, get up,” she pressed. Even though I said I would get up, being urged to get up again was displeasing. It was even more displeasing for a selfish person like me. So, I shook off the nightgown that I had been wearing over my head all at once. When I looked, both of my large eyes were wide open.

“What’s all the noise? I said I would get up.”

“But you’re not getting up, are you?”

“Who lied about that?”

“Anytime, really.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

"I can't tell which one is the fool," said the wife, pouting as she poked the broom, standing bravely by the bedside. At that moment, the child from the back car shop, Yacchan, suddenly began to cry loudly. Yacchan has been instructed by the car shop's wife to cry whenever the master gets angry. The wife tries to make Yacchan cry every time the master gets angry to use him for pocket money, but for Yacchan, it is a nuisance. Once you have such a mother, you must cry from morning till night. If only the master would hold back his anger a little, considering the circumstances around here, Yacchan's lifespan might be extended a bit, but no matter how much Kaneda-kun asks, it can be considered worse than what Tendou Kouhei-kun does to engage in such foolishness. If he only had to cry every time the master got angry, it would still be manageable, but every time Kaneda-kun hires the neighborhood thugs to carry out a raid, Yacchan has to cry. Even before it is clear whether the master will get angry or not, Yacchan predicts that he definitely will and starts crying in advance. When it comes to this, it becomes unclear whether Yacchan is the master or the master is Yacchan. It doesn't take much effort to provoke the master; just a little jab at Yacchan will easily result in a slap to the master's face. In the past, when criminals were executed in the West, if the person escaped beyond the border and could not be caught, they would create an idol and burn it in place of the human, and it seems there are military strategists among them who are familiar with Western stories, providing clever strategies. The Rokugunkan and Yacchan's mother must surely be a challenge for a master who lacks skill. There are various other challenges as well. It may be that the entire neighborhood is a challenge, but that is not relevant now.So, I will gradually introduce them.

When Hacchan's cries echoed, the master seemed to be in a terrible mood from early morning, suddenly sitting up on the futon. At this point, mental training and the teachings of Yagi Dokusen seemed completely meaningless. As he got up, he scratched his head with both hands, to the point that his skin was peeling. The dandruff that had accumulated over a month scattered without restraint onto his neck and the collar of his pajamas. It was truly a sight to behold. As for his beard, astonishingly, it stood upright. Perhaps thinking that it couldn't remain calm while the master was angry, each hair seemed to throw a tantrum, charging wildly in its own direction. This too was quite a spectacle. Yesterday, it had obediently lined up in front of the mirror, mimicking the great Emperor Dokuitsu, but after a night's sleep, all training seemed to have vanished. It quickly returned to its original state, reverting to its own distinctive appearance. It was as if the master's night of mental training had completely disappeared by the next day, revealing his innate nature like a wild boar. It is remarkable that such a rough man with such a wild beard has been able to continue as a teacher until now. It was the moment I first truly felt the vastness of Japan. It is precisely because of this vastness that Kaneda-kun and his dog can pass as humans. As long as they can pass as humans, the master seems convinced that there is no reason for him to be dismissed. If it comes to that, it would be easy to send a letter to Sugamo and confirm with Tendou Kouhei-kun, and it would be clear immediately.

At that moment, the master was intently watching the chaotic ancient eye introduced yesterday, staring fixedly at the cupboard over there. This was a partitioned space about one ken high, with two sliding doors fitted above and below. The lower cupboard was positioned so close to the edge of the futon that the master's gaze naturally directed towards it as he sat up. Upon looking, he noticed that the patterned paper was torn in several places, revealing strange intestines. There were various items within the intestines. Some were printed with movable type, some were handwritten, some were upside down, and others were reversed. As the master looked at these intestines, he suddenly felt the urge to read what was written. It was strange that the master, who had been so angry that he thought about rubbing the nose of the innkeeper's wife against a pine tree, suddenly wanted to read this scrap paper, but it was not uncommon for someone with such a temperament to act this way. It was like giving a child a toy when they are crying, instantly making them smile.

When the master used to stay at a certain temple, there were five or six nuns separated by a sliding door. Nuns, being particularly mean among already mean women, seemed to have seen through the master's nature; while banging on the cooking pot, one of them sang, "The crow that cried just now has already laughed, the crow that cried just now has already laughed," keeping the rhythm. It is said that the master came to hate the nuns from that time, and indeed, that is true. The master would cry, laugh, feel happy, and feel sad, but none of these emotions lasted long. To put it nicely, he had no attachment, and his emotions changed recklessly; to put it in colloquial terms, he was like a spoiled child with no depth, thin-skinned, and only strong in his stubbornness. Given that he was already a spoiled child, it was only natural for the master, who suddenly got up with the momentum to argue, to change his mind and start reading the intestines of the sliding door.

First, what caught my eye was the upside-down writing of Ito Hirobumi. Looking up, it says, "Meiji 11th year, September 28th." The Korean governor must have been chasing the tail of the imperial edict since that time. I wondered what the general was doing at that time, and when I forced myself to read what seemed unreadable, it said "Minister of Finance." Indeed, even upside-down writing refers to the Minister of Finance. Looking a little to the left, this time the Minister of Finance is lying down and taking a nap. That makes sense. There isn't much concern that lasts long in upside-down writing. At the bottom, I can see the two characters "Thou art" on a large wooden board. I want to see more, but unfortunately, it is not exposed. The next line only has the two characters "Quickly." I want to read this too, but that's all, and there are no clues. If the master were a detective from the police department, he might tear it off without caring about other people's things. Detectives are not those who have received advanced education, so they will do anything to present the facts. That is something that cannot be dealt with. I wish they would be a little more reserved. If they do not show restraint, it would be better to ensure that the facts are never presented. According to what I hear, they even use fiction to trap good citizens in crime. It is quite mad for a good citizen who pays to hire someone to turn their employer into a criminal.

Next, when I shifted my gaze to the center, Oita Prefecture was doing a somersault. Since even Ito Hirobumi uses upside-down writing, it is only natural for Oita Prefecture to do a somersault. The master read up to this point, clenched his fists, and thrust them high towards the ceiling. He was preparing to yawn.

As the yawn made a sound that resembled a whale's distant call, the master slowly changed his clothes and headed to the bathroom to wash his face. His wife, who had been waiting, rolled up the futon and folded the nightclothes, starting her usual cleaning. The way she cleaned and the way the master washed his face had not changed in ten years. As I introduced the other day, the master was still making loud noises like "gaa gaa" and "gee gee."

Eventually, after finishing his hair, the master draped a Western-style towel over his shoulder and came out to the tea room, sitting next to the long hibachi as if nothing had happened. Speaking of long hibachis, those made of wood like zelkova or copper are common, but the long hibachi of our Kusayama-sensei is so elegant that even an amateur cannot tell what it is made of. A long hibachi is characterized by its polished, shiny surface, but this particular item, whether made of zelkova, cherry, or paulownia, had hardly ever been covered with a cloth, making it dull and lacking luster.

When I asked where he had obtained this long hibachi, the master insisted he had no memory of buying it. When I inquired if he had received it from someone, he said no one had given it to him. When I pressed further, asking if he had stolen it, he remained vague on that point. Long ago, there was a relative who had retired, and when that relative passed away, he had been asked to keep watch. Later, when the relative moved out of the retirement home, he casually took the hibachi that he had been using as if it were his own. It seems a bit questionable, but upon reflection, I think such things happen often in the world. Bankers, for instance, handle other people's money every day, and sometimes it starts to look like their own. Officials are like servants of the people, acting as agents entrusted with authority to manage affairs. However, when they handle delegated power daily, they may unconsciously begin to think of it as their own property. Given that there are many such people in the world, one cannot definitively conclude that the master has a thief's mentality based solely on the long hibachi incident. If the master has a thief's mentality, then it would mean that everyone in the world possesses such a mentality.

Seated by the long hibachi, around the master who was facing the dining table, were the boy who had just washed his face with a cloth, Tonko who was going to the school for tea and miso, and Sunko who had stuck her fingers into a powder jar, all gathered for breakfast. The master looked fairly at the faces of these three. Tonko's face had a contour like the tsuba of a Nanban iron sword. Sunko, being the younger sister, retained a bit of her older sister's features and had a cuteness reminiscent of a Ryukyu lacquered red tray. However, the boy exuded a unique presence, with a long face. Yet, her face was elongated horizontally, and although trends change easily, it is unlikely that a long horizontal face will become fashionable. The master, despite being his own child, found himself deeply contemplating. She still had to grow. Rather than just growing, the speed of that growth was akin to the momentum of bamboo shoots in a Zen temple transforming into young bamboo. Every time the master thought about how much she had grown, he felt a chill as if he were being pursued from behind.

Even the most indifferent master understood that these three daughters were female. Being female, he was aware that something had to be done. However, he was also conscious that he lacked the skill to actually do anything about it. Thus, the current situation was that he was somewhat at a loss with his own children. If he were to be at a loss, he should have never created them in the first place, but that is the nature of humanity. When defining humanity, there is nothing else to say. Simply put, it is those who fabricate their own suffering by not allowing themselves to enter into something, and that is sufficient.