Lu Xun Complete Works/en/Gou mao shu
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Dogs, Cats and Mice
狗·猫·鼠 (Dogs, Cats and Mice)
von Lu Xun (鲁迅, 1881-1936)
Uebersetzt aus dem Chinesischen.
Section 1
Since last year, I seem to have heard people saying that I am a cat-hater. The evidence for this is naturally my essay "Rabbits and Cats" — a self-drawn confession, about which there is nothing to be said — but I did not mind in the least. This year, however, I have become rather worried. I am one who cannot help dabbling with the pen from time to time; I write things down and send them off to be printed, and for certain people it seems I scratch where it itches less often than I hit where it hurts. Should I, through the slightest carelessness, happen to offend some famous personage or distinguished professor, or worse still, one of those "elders charged with the responsibility of guiding the youth," then I would be in extreme danger. Why? Because such grand figures are "not to be trifled with." How "not to be trifled with"? I fear that after getting heated all over, they would write a letter and publish it in the newspaper, proclaiming: "Look here! Is not the dog the enemy of the cat? Yet Mr. Lu Xun himself admits to being a cat-hater, and he still talks about beating 'dogs in the water'!" The subtle meaning of this "logic" lies in using my own words to prove that I am in fact a dog, whereby all my utterances are fundamentally overturned — even if I say two times two is four or three times three is nine, not a single word would be correct. Since all of these are wrong, then the gentleman's pronouncements that two times two is seven or three times three is a thousand, and so forth, would naturally be correct.
I therefore began from time to time to investigate the "motives" behind their enmity. This was not an attempt to presumptuously imitate the current fashion among scholars of judging works by their motives; I merely wished to clear my own name in advance. As I see it, this would require no great effort from an animal psychologist, but unfortunately I do not possess such learning. Later, in Dr. O. Dahnhardt's *Natural History in Folk Tales*, I finally discovered the reason. It goes like this: the animals, having important matters to discuss, convened a meeting. Birds, fish, and beasts all assembled — only the elephant was absent. They decided to send a messenger to welcome it, and the lot fell upon the dog. "How shall I find the elephant? I have never seen it, nor do I know it," the dog asked. "That is easy," everyone said. "It has a hunched back." Off the dog went, and encountering a cat that had just arched its back, the dog escorted it along and introduced the arch-backed cat to the assembly: "Here is the elephant!" But everyone burst out laughing at it. From that day on, dogs and cats became enemies.
Although the Germanic peoples have not been out of their forests very long, their scholarship and literature are already quite impressive, and even the bindings of their books and the craftsmanship of their toys are all delightful. Only this particular tale is really not very attractive; the grudge is formed in a rather pointless way. The cat arches its back not from any pretension or deliberate posturing — the fault lies entirely in the dog's own lack of discernment. Nevertheless, a reason can still count as a reason, I suppose. My hatred of cats, however, is of a very different sort.
In truth, one need not draw such a sharp line between humans and animals. In the animal kingdom, though things are not as comfortable and free as the ancients imagined, there is certainly less fuss and pretense than in the world of men. Animals follow their natures and act on their feelings: right is right and wrong is wrong, and they never utter a word of self-justification. Maggots may be unclean, but they never proclaim their own purity; birds of prey and fierce beasts take weaker animals for food — one might call them cruel — but they have never once raised the banner of "justice" or "righteousness," causing their victims to admire and praise them right up until the moment of being devoured. Humans, now — the ability to stand upright was certainly a great advance; the ability to speak was certainly another great advance; the ability to write essays was certainly yet another great advance. But with these came decline, for that was also when the uttering of empty words began. Uttering empty words might still be forgivable, but when one does not even realize one is speaking against one's own convictions, then compared to animals who can only howl, one truly cannot help but feel "thick-skinned and ashamed." If there really were an impartial Creator on high, He would perhaps regard these petty human cleverness as meddlesome — just as we, watching monkeys turn somersaults and elephants curtsy at the zoo, may break into a smile but at the same time feel uncomfortable, or even sad, thinking it would be better if they did not possess such superfluous cleverness. However, since one has already become human, one might as well "attack those who differ and ally with one's own kind," learn to speak as people do, and follow custom to have a chat — or a debate.
Now, as I come to state my reasons for hating cats, I feel they are perfectly sufficient, and entirely aboveboard. First, the cat's temperament differs from that of other predators: whenever it catches a sparrow or a mouse, it is never willing to dispatch it in one bite but must toy with it to its heart's content — letting it go, catching it again, catching it again, letting it go — until it has had enough of the game, and only then does it eat. This is quite similar to the nasty human habit of taking pleasure in others' misfortunes and slowly tormenting the weak. Second, is it not of the same family as the lion and the tiger? Yet what a fawning manner it has! But perhaps this is merely a matter of natural endowment — if its body were ten times its current size, one really does not know what attitude it would assume. These grounds for complaint, however, seem to have been added just now as I take up the pen, though they also seem like reasons that surged up in my mind at the time. To be more reliable, perhaps I should simply say it was because of the caterwauling they make when mating — such elaborate proceedings! — disturbing everyone else, especially when one is trying to read or sleep at night. At such times, I would take a long bamboo pole and attack them. When dogs mate in the street, idlers often beat them with sticks; I once saw a copperplate engraving by Pieter Bruegel the Elder, *Allegorie der Wollust*, that also depicted this, which shows such behavior is universal across time and place. Ever since that obstinate Austrian scholar Sigmund Freud promoted psychoanalysis — which I hear Mr. Zhang Shizhao has translated as "heart-analysis," concise and archaic, but truly difficult to understand — our own famous personages and distinguished professors have also begun to invoke it in a vague sort of way, and such matters inevitably end up being attributed to sexual desire. I do not concern myself with the beating of dogs; as for my attacks on cats, they were solely because of the noise, with no malice whatsoever. I trust that my jealousy has not yet grown so expansive, and in these times when "the slightest move invites censure," this must be stated in advance. For instance, people also have quite elaborate procedures before mating: the modern way is to write love letters, a bundle at least, a bale at most; the old way involved "inquiring the name" and "presenting betrothal gifts," with kowtowing and bowing. Last year, the Jiang family of Haichang held a wedding in Beijing, bowing back and forth for a full three days, and even printed a red-covered volume of *Wedding Ritual Protocol*, whose preface declared at length: "Considered impartially, since it is called a ritual, it must naturally be elaborate. If one aims only for simplicity, what need is there for ritual? ... Thus those in the world who aspire to ritual may rise! Let them not retreat to the rank of commoners, to whom ritual does not extend!" Yet I felt no irritation at all — because I was not required to attend. This also shows that my grudge against cats really has the simplest of reasons: merely because they insist on yowling in my ears. One can ignore other people's various rituals if one is not involved, and I could not care less; but if someone were to come and order me to recite love letters or accompany them in bowing just when I wanted to read or sleep, then in self-defense I would still have to resist with a long bamboo pole. Furthermore, when acquaintances with whom I rarely associate suddenly send me a red invitation card printed with "for my humble sister's wedding" or "for my son's nuptials," "respectfully requesting your attendance" or "the honor of your entire household's presence" — sentences containing "sinister implications" that make me feel guilty if I do not spend money — I am not entirely pleased either.
But all this is recent talk. Thinking further back, my hatred of cats began long before I could articulate these reasons — perhaps when I was around ten years old. I still remember clearly: the reason was extremely simple. It was only because the cat ate mice — ate the adorable little "hidden mouse" I had been keeping.
I hear that in the West they are not very fond of black cats, though I do not know if this is certain; but the black cat in Edgar Allan Poe's story is indeed rather frightening. Japanese cats are skilled at becoming spirits, and the "Cat Hag" of legend, who devours humans, is even more terrifying in her cruelty. In old China there were once "cat ghosts," but recently one seldom hears of cats working mischief — the old arts seem to have been lost, and cats have become honest. But in my childhood, I always felt there was something uncanny about them, and had no fondness for them at all. One summer night when I was small, I lay on a little board table under a large cassia tree to cool off. My grandmother sat beside the table, fanning herself with a palm-leaf fan, posing riddles and telling me stories. Suddenly, from up in the cassia tree came the scratching sound of claws on bark, and a pair of gleaming eyes descended through the darkness with the sound, startling me and interrupting my grandmother's story. She began telling cat stories instead —
"Do you know? The cat was the tiger's teacher," she said. "How would a small child know — the cat was the tiger's master. The tiger originally knew nothing at all and enrolled itself under the cat's tutelage. The cat taught it the method of pouncing, the method of catching, the method of eating — just like its own way of catching mice. When all this had been taught, the tiger thought: I have learned every skill now; no one can surpass me; only my teacher the cat is still stronger than I am. If I kill the cat, I shall be the mightiest of all. Having made up its mind, it lunged at the cat. But the cat had known its intention all along. With one leap, it was up in the tree, and the tiger could only squat below, staring helplessly. The cat had not yet transmitted all its skills — it had not yet taught the tiger to climb trees."
That was fortunate, I thought — lucky that the tiger was so impatient, otherwise a tiger might have climbed down from the cassia tree. But it was still frightening, and I wanted to go inside to sleep. The night grew darker; the cassia leaves rustled as a breeze stirred. I imagined the sleeping mat must have cooled by now, and I would no longer toss and turn restlessly.
In the faint light of the bean-oil lamp in a house centuries old, it was the world of scampering mice — darting about, squeaking — often with an air even more imposing than that of "famous personages and distinguished professors." A cat was kept in the house, but it ate its fill and ignored its duties. Although my grandmother and the others often resented the mice for gnawing through boxes and chests and stealing food, I did not think these offenses amounted to much, nor were they any concern of mine. Besides, such misdeeds were most likely committed by the big mice, and one could not falsely accuse the little mice I loved. These little mice generally scurried about on the ground, were only the size of a thumb, and were not very afraid of people. In our parts they were called "hidden mice," a different species from the great ones that lived exclusively in the rafters. Pasted on the wall beside my bed were two colored prints: one was "Pigsy Takes a Bride," covered with long snouts and big ears, which I found rather inelegant; the other, "The Mouse Wedding," was delightful — from the bridegroom and bride to the groomsmen, guests, and attendants, every one had a pointed face and slender legs, looking exactly like scholars, yet they all wore red jackets and green trousers. I thought that only the hidden mice I loved could put on such a grand ceremony. I have grown coarser now, and when I encounter a wedding procession on the street, I merely regard it as an advertisement for sexual intercourse and pay little attention. But in those days, my longing to witness "The Mouse Wedding" ceremony was intense — even if, like the Jiang family of Haichang, they bowed for three nights running, I doubt I would have grown weary of watching. The night of the fourteenth of the first month was the night I would not willingly go to sleep, waiting for their procession to emerge from under my bed. But all I ever saw were a few naked hidden mice parading across the floor, with no sign of wedding festivities. By the time I could hold out no longer and went sullenly to sleep, it was already dawn when I opened my eyes — the Lantern Festival had arrived. Perhaps the wedding rites of mouse-kind not only dispense with invitation cards and the collection of congratulatory gifts, but even genuine "spectators" are absolutely unwelcome, I thought. This is their age-old custom, against which there is no appeal.
The mouse's greatest enemy is actually not the cat. In spring, when you hear it cry "Zha! Zha-zha-zha-zha!" — what everyone calls "the mouse counting its coins" — you know its dreadful executioner has arrived. That sound expresses the ultimate terror of despair; even upon encountering a cat, the mouse would not cry like that. The cat is frightening, to be sure, but as long as the mouse can scurry into a small hole, the cat can do nothing, and the chances of escape are still many. Only that terrible executioner — the snake — has a body that is long and slender, with roughly the same diameter as the mouse; wherever the mouse can go, it can go too. The chase lasts far longer, and escape is virtually impossible. When the mouse is "counting its coins," there is probably no second recourse left.
Once, I heard that very sound of "coin-counting" coming from an empty room. I pushed the door open and went in. A snake lay draped across a beam. On the floor lay a hidden mouse, blood seeping from the corner of its mouth, but its flanks still rising and falling. I took it and placed it in a paper box. After half a day, it actually revived, and gradually became able to eat, drink, and walk about. By the second day, it seemed to have recovered completely, yet it did not run away. Set on the floor, it would constantly run toward people and climb up their legs, all the way to the kneecap. Placed on the dining table, it would pick at scraps of food and lick the rims of bowls; placed on my writing desk, it would stroll about at leisure, and upon seeing the inkstone would lick up the freshly ground ink. This delighted me enormously. I had heard my father speak of a creature in China called the ink-monkey, only the size of a thumb, its entire body of fur jet-black and glossy. It slept in the brush holder, and as soon as it heard the grinding of ink, it would leap out and wait. When the person finished writing and capped the brush, it would lick clean all the remaining ink on the inkstone and hop back into the brush holder. I desperately wanted such an ink-monkey but could not obtain one; when I asked where they could be found or bought, no one knew. "A poor consolation is better than none" — this hidden mouse could surely serve as my ink-monkey, even though it did not necessarily wait until I had finished writing before licking the ink.
I can no longer remember clearly, but this went on for about a month or two. One day, I suddenly felt lonely — truly what is called "as if something were lost." My hidden mouse was always in sight, parading about on the table or the floor. But on this day I had not seen it for most of the morning. Everyone sat down to lunch, and still it did not appear; usually it would certainly have come out. I waited more, another half-day, but still there was no sign of it.
Mama Chang — a serving woman who had always looked after me — perhaps thought I had been waiting too painfully, and came softly to tell me something. This instantly filled me with rage and grief, and I resolved to wage war against all cats. She said: the hidden mouse had been eaten by the cat last night!
When I have lost what I loved and feel emptiness in my heart, I fill it with thoughts of vengeance!
My revenge began with the tabby cat kept in our house and gradually expanded to include all cats I encountered. At first I merely chased and ambushed them; later my methods grew more ingenious — I could hit them on the head with a thrown stone, or lure them into an empty room and beat them until they hung their heads in dejection. This campaign went on for quite some time, and after that the cats seemed to stop coming near me. But no matter how many victories I won over them, I could hardly be called a hero; besides, there are probably not many people in China who spend their entire lives fighting cats, so all strategy and battle records may as well be omitted entirely.
But many days later — perhaps more than half a year had passed — I chanced upon an unexpected piece of news: the hidden mouse had not in fact been killed by the cat; rather, it had climbed up Mama Chang's leg, and she had trampled it to death with one step.
This was something I had certainly not anticipated. I can no longer recall clearly what I felt at the time, but my feelings toward cats never did become reconciled. After I moved to Beijing, because a cat had harmed the baby rabbits, old grudges combined with new grievances, and I employed even harsher measures. The epithet "cat-hater" has been bandied about ever since. But now all this is already a thing of the past. I have changed my attitude and become quite civil toward cats. If absolutely necessary, I merely chase them away and never injure them, much less kill them. This is my progress in recent years. With more experience, one eventually reaches a great enlightenment: cats steal fish and meat, snatch chicks, and yowl loudly in the dead of night — nine out of ten people naturally detest them, and this detestation rests upon the cat. If I were to step forward and drive away this detestation by injuring or killing the cat, it would instantly become an object of pity, and the detestation would shift onto me. Therefore, my current method is: whenever cats create a disturbance and someone expresses annoyance, I step to the doorway and shout loudly: "Shoo! Scram!" After a brief calm, I return to my study. In this way, I permanently maintain my credentials as a defender of hearth and home. In fact, this is exactly what Chinese government troops have always done in practice — they are never willing to clear out the bandits or crush the enemy completely, because once they did, they would cease to be valued, and might even be disbanded for having outlived their usefulness. I think that if this method could be applied more broadly, I might well hope to become one of those so-called "elders" who "guide the youth." But for now I have not yet resolved to put it into practice, and am still studying and deliberating.
February 21, 1926.