PUSS GEIKO and HER TRAVELS

PUSS GEIKO AND HER TRAVELS

How the cat first got into Belgium is not known, but of the puss that was first seen in Japan, the record is full and clear. There are, however, two stories, for there are two kinds, wild and tame.

Japanese house cats have no tails. These they never had, or lost them long ago; and now, most of them have hardly enough to set up a rabbit in business. Even if, in a litter of bob-tailed pussies, a long-tailed kitten is born, out comes the carving knife and off goes the caudal extension. Cats in Japan must all be in fashion, to be allowed to live in a house with human beings.

So long as the Japanese puss stays at home, licks its feet, and cleans its face with its forepaws, using these for both wash-rag and towel, the creature is considered respectable, and there is no trouble in either the cat or the human family.

There was a certain puss named Geiko (gay-ko), which is the Kyoto pronunciation of Geisha (gay-shah); because she was so accomplished and so pretty, and made so much music at night. Except those Japanese cats that, long ago, traveled to the Isle of Man, she was the first modern member of the family that wished to reside abroad. Then—according to what her mother said, who told the story of her adventures in Belgium—her troubles began.

Now this is the way it came to pass.

It happened that a grandmother puss, named Guitar, because she also was so musical, that lived in Persimmon Street, in Kyoto, was inquired of, by an inquisitive kitten, as to when, and how, and why, cats first came to Japan. Her mistress, a little girl, named Taka (tah-kah), or Falcon, who went every day to school, had come home and told her that, once upon a time, Japan, being an island and the country made up of islands, there were no tame cats, but only wild ones. Now, would Grandma Guitar tell all about her ancestors, and about her Aunt Geiko, who had gone to Europe?

So that evening, after the six kittens had had their supper, Grandma gathered them all around her, and told how pet cats were first brought from China, into Japan, and to the Emperor’s court, about A.D. 1000. They were at first very great curiosities. Yet when they multiplied, they were even then kept in the house, and tied up at night. Some people thought cats were dangerous brutes.

“Why, grandma, dear?” asked one of the kittens. “Did they eat up all the birds?”

“No, I am inclined to think,” said Grandma, “that they were kept in at nights, for fear that they might be stolen, for they were still considered very valuable animals.”

Here Grandma Guitar paused, that is, she stopped in her story, long enough to wipe her mouth and face, with what serves pussies instead of a towel, napkin or handkerchief—her two fore feet.

Then continuing, she called on Kichibei (kee-chee-bay), a Tom, that lived next door. He was the lawyer among the cats of Persimmon Street, in which they lived. She requested him to read from the Government Book on Cat Law (Neko no Soshi). He made his bow, cocked his eye properly, and read the following regulation, of the year 1602.

“First, the cords on the cats in Kyoto shall be untied, and the cats shall be let loose.

“Secondly, it is no longer allowed to buy or sell cats. Whoever transgresses this ordinance, shall be punished with a heavy fine.”

The kittens were almost sorry, that their grandma had called in this lawyer; for he instantly began a long dissertation on the cats of China, Korea and Japan, quoting from the historians and law books. He told how, gradually, the cats, when they multiplied to millions, in the islands of Japan, got a bad reputation. In fact, all sorts of evil stories were told, and proverbs coined, and uncomplimentary expressions used concerning them. To tell the full truth, however, out of so many, some cats were really bad. It had even, of late years, become common to use cat skins to make banjos and guitars. That is the reason why the singing and dancing girls, or geishas (gay-shas in Tokyo, and gei-ko in Kyoto) were usually called “cats” in fun.

Then he went on to explain why there was a cat on every Japanese boat, or ship, as one could usually see—for in port, puss poked her head out of the windows to note what was going on. Of course, the seamen preferred a cat of three colors. For, although, as we say, a cat has nine lives, the Japanese sailors think Puss has at least three. He even went on to explain why ancient poetry referred so often to the flowers of the valerian plant, but so rarely mentioned them, in modern days. It was all because there were no cats in Japan in those early times, though so numerous now.

Kichibei, the lawyer, was going to tell more, but Grandma said “ippai” (ip-pi) and “mo yoroshi” (mo yo-ro-shee)—intimating that he had said enough, and thanked him. For the long talk of Kichibei had got to be so tiresome, that several of the kittens had fallen asleep, before he was more than half through.

Finally, when he ended and went off, Grandma thought it was time to go to bed. For these kitties were too young to go outdoors at night, like grown-up cats.

“Oh, but you promised to tell us about our Aunt Geiko.”

Now the way all those kittens woke up at once, to listen, showed that they would soon make the liveliest kind of roof scramblers, night prowlers, and street warblers; or be otherwise fitted for nocturnal accomplishments, just like their ancestors; and, all this, without being taught.

The lights having been put out, and all sitting in a ring, Grandma Guitar began. At once, it seemed as if fourteen little round balls of fire were glowing in the room; for each one of the cat’s eyes had widened from a slit, or long crack, to a circular window. In fact, they could all plainly see each other, even in the dark.

“Well, my grandchildren,” began the old lady cat, “you know that my daughter, your aunt Geiko, though born in the Blossom Capital, was the pet of a Belgian lady; and that both of them lived in Kobé, when they were in our country. They sailed away, a year ago, and, after a six weeks’ voyage, arrived safely at her home at the little village of Gingelhom in Limburg.”

“But, alas,” and here Grandma Guitar pulled out a Japanese paper handkerchief, from under her collar, and wept real cat tears. On seeing this, all the kittens cried in sympathy, and some meouwed pitifully.

Grandma Guitar was so overcome by her feelings, that she could proceed no further. So, from this point on, we shall tell, in our way, the story of what happened to Miss Puss Geiko, in Belgium, from what Grandma Guitar related to the kittens the next evening.

For, in order to make Japanese kittens understand and enjoy the whole story, it was necessary to go into so much detail, that it would be tiresome, especially to us human beings, who have traveled in Belgium.

For in old Japan, men with whiskers, or women with bonnets; or leather shoes, or chairs, or cheese, were unknown. Even cow’s milk, except for calves, or very old persons, was unheard of, as an article of drink or food. Grown up human beings thought it was wicked to take milk from the cow! And no wonder! for two strong men, working for an hour, could only get a quart or so, from the miserable little cows of the sort they then had.

So here is the story, as cut short, after being translated from Japanese cat talk.

When your Aunt Geiko arrived at Gingelhom, in Limburg, it took her some time to get accustomed to the strange human folks, and their ways; and, almost as much, to the cats of the neighborhood. Everything looked, smelled, and tasted so strangely.

The language bothered her a good deal, for she could not understand Flemish, even when dear little children, in wooden shoes, put out their hands and tried with gentle voices to coax Puss Geiko to come to them. Even when they wanted to smooth her back, or rub her head, she was frightened at their talk and ran away. Yet they were only saying, “Come pussy, come here”! When they brought Geiko a saucer full of something white, she would not go near it. It was cow’s milk, but she had known only mother milk, and had never seen what cows give us every day. If the Limburgers had only known it, dried fish would have tempted Geiko any time.

One day the lady, her mistress, set a saucer of cow’s milk before Geiko, and, when her own mistress called to her, in Japanese, she ran up gladly and purred as if very happy. But she did not go near the lunch prepared for her. Then the Belgian lady dipped her finger in the milk and rubbed it on pussy’s lips, and at once out came a little red tongue to lick it off. The eyes of your Aunt Geiko sparkled. This showed that she had discovered something good and liked it. She lapped up the cow’s milk, emptied the saucer, and always, after that, was glad to get more of what the lady said was “chichi” (chee-chee), which is Japanese for what we call “milk” and the Flemish “melk.”

But the story-teller is sorry to say, that, on the subject of tails, Pussy Geiko did not show either good manners, or a sweet disposition. If cats have a commandment, “Thou shalt not covet,” Pussy Geiko was an awful sinner.

Every time a cat of the country came near, Geiko would look enviously on its lovely, long tail. Then her eyes would turn green with jealousy. She would leap forward at the Belgian cat, and bite at, claw with both paws, tread upon, or scratch at its tail.

Geiko behaved just like a covetous human being, or a person who is jealous of another’s good looks, or fine clothes, or general prosperity. So she was never popular with the cats of Limburg, and some always growled, when they saw her.

Now it was not Geiko’s fault, that nature had not provided her with a handsome, long tail. For, while a Japanese cat has all the bones in that part, which a well-born kitten ought to possess, yet, for some reason, that which we call its “caudal extension” is not developed, and does not grow out.

On the other hand, it is sad to relate, that the Belgian cats were not so polite, as they might have been. They looked with suspicion on any animal from a strange country. The worst and most ill mannered among them, every time they saw Geiko, called out “Hello, Stumpy, where did you leave your tail?” This made the Japanese Puss, already in a state of nervous prostration, so lonely, that she nearly died; for she had no society. Sometimes, at night, she would go up on the roof and look up at the moon, and think of her mother and feel too sad to live.

A short life had Geiko, in Belgic Land, and one morning she was found dead. It was rumored in Japan, that the poor creature had died of homesickness. Malignant cats, that envied Geiko her trip abroad, declared, in their gossip, that it was pride and conceit, that killed her; but, anybody who knew cats was sure that these chatterers were only jealous of Geiko. The truth was, that Geiko went into a decline, when she found how the other cats treated her. Indeed, she was so miserable, and became finally so weak and frail, that a cat doctor was heard to declare that the least excitement would kill her.

The real truth finally leaked out. Her kind mistress, the lady, hoping to cheer Geiko up, strengthen her nerves, and, possibly restore her to health, tried to tempt her appetite with the local delicacy. Sad to tell, it was all mistaken kindness, for it went first to poor Pussy’s nose, and then to her brain. The lady had served up for the cat’s lunch, some Limburger cheese!

But alas, the odor, before she tasted it, even if she could have put it in her mouth, gave the final shock. So overpowered was the poor homesick puss, that she fell over and never recovered from the paralysis of her nostrils.

So, in the corner of a Belgian garden, one sees a little mound, and a memorial stone above it, with only the words:

GEIKO

HIC JACET.…

R. I. P.