The Rabbit and the Cat

The Rabbit and the Cat

The Third Wife, who lived in the back courtyard of our compound, bought a pair of white rabbits during the summer for her children to enjoy.

This pair of white rabbits had apparently not long been weaned from their mother. Although they were a different species, one could still discern their innocent and carefree nature. But they pricked up their little long red ears, twitched their noses, and showed a somewhat frightened and suspicious look in their eyes—probably feeling, after all, that the people and the place were unfamiliar, and not as at ease as they had been back in their old home. Such creatures, if one went to buy them oneself at a temple fair, would cost at most two strings of cash each; but the Third Wife had spent a whole yuan, because she had sent a servant boy to buy them at a shop.

The children were, of course, overjoyed and gathered around them with clamours; the grown-ups also came to look. Even a little dog named S ran up, pushed forward and gave a sniff, then sneezed and retreated a few steps. The Second Wife shouted: "S, you hear me—don't you dare bite him!" And she gave him a slap on the head. S then withdrew and never tried to bite them after that.

This pair of rabbits spent most of their time shut up in the small courtyard behind the back window. It was said that they were kept there because they liked to tear wallpaper and often gnawed at the legs of furniture. In this small courtyard there grew a wild mulberry tree; when the mulberries fell to the ground, the rabbits loved to eat them and would not even touch the spinach they were fed. When crows or magpies tried to come down, the rabbits would arch their bodies and spring up from the ground with a powerful kick of their hind legs, making a sharp whooshing sound, leaping up like a ball of flying snow. The crows and magpies, thoroughly frightened, would hurry away. After several such encounters, they never dared to come near again. The Third Wife said that the crows and magpies were not so serious—at worst they would only snatch a bit of food—but what was hateful was a big black cat, which often glared viciously from the low wall. That was what one had to watch out for. Fortunately, S and the cat were enemies, so perhaps nothing would come of it after all.

The children often caught the rabbits to play with them. The rabbits were very docile—they pricked up their ears, twitched their noses, and stood tamely within the circle of small hands; but given any chance, they would slip away. At night their bed was a small wooden box lined with straw, placed under the eaves by the back window.

After several months of this, they suddenly began to dig. They dug very fast—one scrape with the front paws, one kick with the hind legs—and in less than half a day they had dug a deep hole. Everyone was puzzled, but upon closer inspection it turned out that one of them had a belly much larger than the other's. The next day they began carrying dry grass and leaves into the hole, busying themselves for the better part of the day.

Everyone was delighted and said there would be little rabbits to look at. The Third Wife then imposed martial law on the children, forbidding them from catching the rabbits any more. My mother also took pleasure in the prosperity of their family and said that when the newborns were weaned, she too would ask for a couple to keep outside her own window.

From then on they lived in their self-made burrow. Sometimes they came out to eat a bit, but later they were not seen. It was not known whether they had stored food in advance or simply did not eat. After more than ten days, the Third Wife told me that the two had come out again—probably the little rabbits had all been born and died, for the female had very much milk but there was no sign of her ever going in to nurse any young. She spoke with some indignation, but there was nothing to be done.

One day, when the sun was warm and there was no wind and the leaves were all still, I suddenly heard many people laughing. Following the sound, I found a crowd leaning against the Third Wife's back window to look: a little rabbit was hopping about in the courtyard. It was far smaller than its parents had been when they were first bought, but it could already leap up with a kick of its hind legs. The children vied in telling me that they had also seen another little rabbit come to the mouth of the hole and poke its head out, only to pull back at once—that must have been its younger brother.

The little one picked at some grass and leaves to eat, but the big one seemed to forbid it, often snatching the food from its mouth, though not eating it itself. The children laughed loudly. The little one, thoroughly frightened, finally hopped into the hole. The big one followed to the mouth of the hole and pushed the little one's back with its front paws; after pushing it in, it crawled back over the earth to seal the hole.

From then on the small courtyard became even livelier, and people kept peeking through the window.

But then both the little one and the big one disappeared entirely. By this time it had been cloudy for days on end, and the Third Wife began to worry that they had fallen victim to the big black cat. I said it was not so—the weather was cold, of course they were all hiding; once the sun came out, they would surely appear.

The sun came out, but they were not to be seen. And so everyone forgot about them.

Only the Third Wife, who always fed them spinach there, still thought of her. One day she went into the small courtyard behind the window and suddenly discovered another hole in the corner of the wall. Looking again at the old hole, she could faintly make out many claw marks. If these claw marks were the big rabbit's, the claws could not have been so large. She began to suspect the big black cat that was always on the wall. And so she could not but make up her mind to dig. She finally came out, took a hoe, and dug her way down, full of suspicion yet hoping unexpectedly to see the white little rabbit. But when she reached the bottom, she found only a heap of rotting grass mixed with rabbit fur—probably what had been laid down at the time of birthing. Beyond that, all was cold and desolate; there was no trace at all of snow-white little rabbits, or of that younger brother who had poked his head out but never emerged from the hole.

Anger, disappointment, and desolation made her dig through the new hole in the wall corner once more. As soon as she set to work, the two larger ones darted out of the tunnel first. She thought they had moved away and was delighted, but she kept digging. When she reached the bottom, the space was lined with grass leaves and rabbit fur, and lying on top were seven tiny rabbits, their bodies all a fleshy red. On closer inspection, their eyes were all still closed.

Everything was now clear—the third madam's earlier prediction had been correct. To prevent any danger, she placed all seven little ones in a wooden box and moved it into her own room. She then pressed the mother rabbit into the box as well, forcing her to nurse them.

From then on, the third madam not only hated the black cat even more deeply but also took a dim view of the mother rabbit. It was said that before the two were killed, there must have been others that died, for whenever they gave birth, it was never to just two. But because the nursing was uneven, those unable to compete for milk died first. This was probably true—among the seven now, two were already quite thin and weak. So whenever the third madam had a free moment, she would catch the mother rabbit and place the little ones one by one on her belly to feed in turn, not allowing any to have more or less than their share.

My mother told me that such a troublesome method of raising rabbits was something she had never even heard of in all her life and probably deserved to be recorded in the *Book of Peerless Figures*.

The white rabbits' family grew more flourishing, and everyone was happy again.

But from then on, I could not help feeling desolate. Sitting alone by lamplight in the dead of night, I reflected: those two small lives had been lost so quietly, without anyone—man or ghost—knowing, at some unknown hour, leaving no trace whatsoever in the annals of natural history, not even letting out a cry as they perished. I then recalled old matters. Previously, when I lived in the lodging house, I would rise early in the morning to find a scattering of pigeon feathers beneath the large locust tree—these had clearly been the hawk's doing. When the long-term servant came to sweep in the morning, nothing remained. Who would know that a life had been snuffed out here? I had also passed by the Xisi memorial archway and seen a small dog crushed nearly to death by a carriage. When I returned later, nothing was gone—it had been cleared away, perhaps. The passersby hurried along in a bustling stream. Who would know that a life had been snuffed out here? On summer nights, outside the window, one often heard the long, drawn-out buzzing of a fly—this must surely mean it had been caught by a spider. But I had never given it a thought, and besides, no others heard it either…

If the Creator could be reproached, then I would say he has indeed made life too abundantly and destroyed it too abundantly.

With a yowl, two cats were fighting outside the window again.

"Xun'er! Are you beating the cats again over there?"

"No, they're biting each other. Why would they let me beat them?"

My mother had always disapproved of my cruelty toward cats. Now she suspected that I might want to avenge the little rabbits and do something drastic, so she got up to inquire. And indeed, in the general estimation of the whole family, I counted as an enemy of cats. I had killed cats before and often beat them as well, especially when they were mating. But the reason I beat them was not because they were mating—it was because they yowled, yowled so loudly that I couldn't sleep. I thought that mating need not involve such tremendous yowling.

Moreover, the black cat had killed the little rabbits—I had "just cause for war" now. I thought my mother was being far too charitable, and so I couldn't help giving an equivocal answer that bordered on disapproval.

The Creator is too wanton. I cannot but resist him, though perhaps I am actually doing him a favor…

The black cat could no longer strut about with lofty airs on the low wall. That was my firm resolve. And so, involuntarily, my gaze fell again upon the bottle of cyanide of potassium hidden in the book chest.

(October 1922.)