Authors: Natsume Soseki
The policeman had only asked his potty question as a matter of form, and he is in fact totally indifferent as to the precise time at which the burglar broke in. All he wants is that my master and his wife should give some kind of an answer: any answer, never mind whether true or not, would do. But the victims engage in such pointless and protracted dialogue that the policeman shows signs of irritation. Eventually he snaps at them.
“Right then. So the time of the burglary is not known. Is that correct?”
“I suppose it does come down to that,” my master answers in his usual drily pedagogic manner.
The policeman was not amused. He plodded stolidly on in accordance with his own routine of police procedure.
“In that case you should send in a written statement of complaint to the effect that on such and such a date in this the thirty-eighth year of the Meiji Era, you, having fastened the entrances to your dwelling, retired to bed, and that subsequently a burglar, having removed such and such a sliding wooden shutter, sneaked into such and such a room or rooms and there stole such and such items of property. Remember, this paper is not just a statement of lost goods but constitutes a formal complaint which may later be used as an accusation. You’d be advised not to address it to anyone in particular.”
“Do we have to identify every single item that’s been stolen?”
“Yes. Set it all out in a detailed list. Coats, for instance, set down how many have gone, and the value of each one taken. No,” he went on in answer to my master’s next suggestion, “I don’t think it would help much if I stepped inside. The burglary has already taken place.” With which unhelpful comment he took himself off.
My master, having planted himself with his writing brush and ink-stone in the very center of the room, calls his wife to come and sit beside him. Then, almost in belligerence, he announces, “I shall now compose a written statement of complaint. Tell me what’s been stolen. Item by item. Sharp, if you please.”
“What cheek! Who d’you think you are to tell me to look sharp? If you talk to me in that dictatorial manner, I shall tell you nothing.” Her toilet incomplete, she plonks herself down sulkily beside him.
“Just look at yourself! You might be some cheap tart at a post-town inn. Why aren’t you wearing an
obi
?”
“If you don’t like how I look, buy me decent clothes. A post-town tart, indeed! How can I dress correctly when half my stuff’s been stolen?”
“He took your
obi?
What a despicable thing to do! All right then, we’ll start with that. What kind of
obi
was it?”
“What d’you mean? What kind? How many
obi
do you think I’ve got?
It was my black satin with the crêpe lining.”
“One
obi
of black satin lined with crêpe. . . And what would you say it cost?”
“About six yen, I think.”
“Six yen! That’s far too expensive. You know we can’t afford to fling our money about on fripperies. Don’t spend more than one yen fifty sen on the replacement.”
“And where do you think you’d find a decent
obi
at that price? As I always say, you’re totally heartless. You couldn’t care less how wretchedly your wife may be dressed, so long as you yourself look reasonably turned out.”
“All right. We’ll drop the matter. Now, what’s next?”
“A surcoat woven with thrown silk. It was given to me as a keepsake of Aunt Kōno. You won’t find surcoats these days of that quality.”
“I didn’t ask for a lecture on the decline of textiles. What would it cost?”
“Not less than fifteen yen.”
“You mean you’ve been going around in a surcoat worth not less than fifteen yen? That’s real extravagance. A standard of living miles beyond our means.”
“Oh, what does it matter? You didn’t even buy it.”
“What’s the next item?”
“One pair of black foot-gloves.”
“Yours?”
“Don’t be silly. Whoever heard of a woman wearing black ones?
They’re yours, of course. And the price, twenty-seven sen.”
“Next?”
“One box of yams.”
“Did he even filch the yams? I wonder how he’ll eat them. Stewed, d’you think? Or in some kind of soup?”
“How the devil should I know? You’d better run along and ask him.”
“What were they worth?”
“I wouldn’t know the price of yams.”
“In that case, let’s say twelve yen fifty sen.”
“That’s ridiculous. How could a box of yams, even ones grown down in Kyushu and then transported here, cost as much as that?”
“You said you didn’t know what they would cost.”
“I did, and I don’t. But twelve yen fifty sen would be plain absurd.
Far, far too much.”
“How can you say in one and the same breath that you don’t know their price but that twelve yen fifty sen is absurd? It makes no sense at all. Except to prove that you’re an Otanchin Palaeologus.”
“That I’m a what?”
“That you’re an Otanchin Palaeologus.”
“What’s that?”
One can hardly blame the lady. Though long experience has given me a certain facility in decoding my master’s thoughts as expressed in vile puns and twisted references to Japanese provincial slang and the mustier tracts of Western scholarship, this particular demonstration of his skills is both sillier and more obscure than usual. I’m still not sure that I understand his full intention, but I suspect he meant no more than that he thought his wife a blockhead. Why then didn’t he just leave it at “Otanchin?” Because, despite his temerarious attack on her balding pate, he lacks the guts to risk a head-on clash, and he’s not entirely certain that she’s never heard that slang-term for a fool. So what does he do? He sees a similarity of sound between “Otanchin” and “Konstantin,” the name of the last Palaeologue Emperor of Byzantium. Not that the sounds are sufficiently similar to justify a pun. Not that Constantine the Eleventh has any remote connection with the price of yams. Not that such truths would sway my master. He simply wants to call his wife a blockhead without having to cope with the consequences of doing so. No wonder Mrs. Sneaze is foxed and no wonder she presses for an explanation.
“Never mind about that. What’s next on the list? You haven’t yet mentioned my own kimono.”
“Never mind about what’s next. Just tell me what ‘Otanchin Palaeologus’ means.”
“It hasn’t got any meaning.”
“You’re so excessively clever that I’m sure you could explain what it means if you wanted to. What kind of a fool do you take me for? I bet you’ve just been calling me names by taking advantage of the fact that I can’t speak English.”
“Stop talking nonsense and get on with the rest of the list. If we aren’t quick in lodging this complaint, we’ll never get our property returned.”
“It’s already too late to make an effective complaint. I’d rather you told me something more about Otanchin Palaeologus.”
“You really are making a nuisance of yourself. As I said before, it has no meaning whatsoever. There’s nothing more to be said.”
“Well, if that’s how you feel, I’ve nothing more to say about the list.”
“What pigheadedness! Have it your own way. I won’t then write out this complaint for you.”
“Suit yourself. But don’t come bothering me for details of what’s missing. It’s you, not me, who’s lodging the complaint. I just don’t care two hoots whether you write it or you don’t.”
“Then let’s forget it,” snaps my master. In his usual abrupt manner he gets up and stalks off into his study. Mrs. Sneaze retires to the living room and dumps herself down in front of her sewing-box. For some ten minutes, this precious pair sit glaring in silence at the paper-door between them.
That was the situation when Mr. Tatara Sampei, donor of yams, came bustling gaily in through the front door. This Tatara was once the Sneazes’ houseboy, but nowadays, having received his degree in law, he works in the mining department of some big company or other. Like, but junior to, the slippery Suzuki, he’s another budding businessman.
Nevertheless, because of his former connection with the family, he still occasionally visits the humble dwelling of his erstwhile benefactor. Indeed, having once been almost one of that family, he sometimes spends whole Sundays in the house.
“What wonderful weather, Mrs. Sneaze.” He sits on the floor in front of her, with his trousered knees drawn up, and speaks as ever in his own Karatsu dialect.
“Why, hello, Mr. Tatara.”
“Is the master out?”
“No, he’s in the study.”
“It’s bad for the health to study as hard as he does. Today’s a Sunday, and Sundays don’t come every day of the week. Now do they?”
“There’s no point in telling me. Go and say it to my husband.”
“Yes, but. . .” He looks around the room and then half-asks his hostess, “The girls, now, they’re not in?” But the words are hardly out of his mouth when Tonko and Sunko both run in from the next room.
“Mr. Tatara, have you brought the goodies?” Tonko, the elder daughter, wastes no time in reminding him of a recent promise.
Tatara scratches his head. “What a memory you’ve got! I’m sorry I forgot them, but really, next time, I promise to remember.”
“What a shame,” says Tonko, and her younger sister immediately echoes “What a shame.” Mrs. Sneaze, in a modest revival of her natural good humor, smiles slightly.
“I confess I forgot the raw fish goodies, but I did bring around some yams. Have you two girls yet tried them?”
“What’s a yam?” asks Tonko, and little Miss Echo pipes up with,
“What’s a yam?”
“Ah, so you’ve not yet eaten them. Ask your mother to cook you some at once. Karatsu yams are especially delicious, quite different from those you get in Tokyo.” As Tatara tootles away on his provincial trumpet, Mrs. Sneaze remembers to thank him again for his kindness.
“It really was kind of you, Mr. Tatara, to bring us yams the other day.
And so many of them. Such a generous thought.”
“Well, have you eaten them? I had the box I made specially so that they wouldn’t get broken. I hope you found them undamaged and in their full length.”
“I’m sure we would have. But I’m sorry to say that, only last night, the whole lot were stolen by a burglar.”
“You’ve been burgled for yams? What a peculiar criminal. I’d never have dreamt that the passion for yams, even Karatsu yams, could be carried so far.”Tatara is enormously impressed.
“Mother,” says Tonko, “Was there a burglar here last night?”
“Yes,” Mrs. Sneaze answers lightly.
“A burglar? Here? A real, real burglar?” Sunko voices wonderment, but immediately goes on to ask, “What sort of face did he have?”
Mrs. Sneaze, stumped by this curious question, finds something suitable to say, “He had,” she says, looking over at Tatara for sympathetic understanding, “a most fear-some face.”
“Do you mean,” asks the tactless Tonko, “that he looked like Mr. Tatara?”
“Really,Tonko, that’s very rude of you.”
“Dear, oh dear,” laughs the visitor, “is my face as fearsome as all that?”
He once more scratches his head. There’s a bald patch, about an inch across, on the back of his head. It began to appear not much more than a month ago and, though he’s taken it round to the quack, it shows no sign of improvement. It is, of course,Tonko who draws attention to the patch.
“Why look,” she says, “Mr. Tatara’s head is shiny just like mother’s.”
“Tonko, behave yourself. I told you to be quiet.”
“Was the thief’s head shiny, too?” Sunko innocently asks. In spite of themselves, the adults burst out laughing. Still, the children’s chatter so interrupts all conversation that Mrs. Sneaze decides to pack them off.
“Run along now and play in the garden. Be good girls and later on I’ll find you both some sweeties.”
After the girls had gone, Mrs. Sneaze turned to Tatara and with all the gravity of a fellow-sufferer enquired, “Mr. Tatara, what has happened to your head?”
“Some kind of skin-infection. Not exactly moth, but a bug of some sort which takes ages to clear up. Are you having the same trouble?”
“Ugh! don’t talk about bugs. In my case the trouble’s the usual female problem of the hair thinning because it’s drawn so tight in the married woman’s hairstyle.”
“All baldness is caused by bacteria.”
“Well, mine’s not.”
“Come, come, Mrs. Sneaze, you’re being obstinate. One cannot fly in the face of the Scientific facts.”
“Say what you like, it’s not bacteria. But tell me, what’s the English word for baldness?”
Tatara said he wasn’t sure, but he answered her correctly.
“No, no,” she said, “Not that, it’s a very much longer word.”
“Why not ask your husband? He could tell you straight off.”
“I’m asking you precisely because he refuses to help.”
“Well, all I know is ‘baldness.’ You say the word you want’s much longer. Can you give me an idea of its sound?”