Explore Chapter 11 of 'Cat Country' with the original Chinese text, English translation, detailed Chinese vocabulary explanations, and audio of the Chinese original. Listen and improve your reading skills.
The very first sight of Felicity planted a thought in my mind, inexplicably formed: This civilization is on the brink of extinction! I knew nothing of Cat-people civilization as a whole. The scant experience gleaned among the groves of intoxicating leaves had only whetted my curiosity; I had to see the matter through to the end. In my vision, their civilization was no mere tragic interlude or stage setting. I wished to see clearly the foundations of a civilization, hoping thereby to glean more insight into life itself. Civilizations and peoples can indeed perish; the annals of human history on our own Earth are not all rose-tinted. If reading history can move us to tears, how truly heartbreaking it is to witness a civilization gasping its last before our very eyes!
A dying man may yet have a final flicker of life; a civilization breathing its last need not be devoid of noise and bustle. A civilization's extinction is even less self-aware than an individual's death. It is as if the finger of destruction had been laid upon its brow at the moment of creation itself. The good-for surely even a dying land must have a few good souls?-and the bad alike are doomed to perish together. Those few good people may feel their breath grow short; they may even have their last testaments prepared. But their laments, compared to the death-march the civilization plays for itself, are like the feeble protest of a few last cicadas against a violent autumn gale.
Ah! The bustle of Felicity! In all my experience, the city's layout was the simplest in the world. There were no proper streets to speak of; apart from a single, seemingly endless row of houses, the rest was all thoroughfare-or rather, open ground. One could picture Felicity by imagining a military barracks: a vast open space, with a drab, colorless row of buildings in the middle, and swarming outside them, people. That was Felicity. The crowds were immense. It was impossible to tell what they were all about. Not a soul walked straight; not a soul failed to obstruct another's path. Fortunately, the 'streets' were wide. Everyone began by walking straight, then gradually shifted to moving sideways, surging in waves. If you took that row of houses for a dike, the human tide was like a turbulent sea. I didn't yet know if their houses bore numbers. If they did, a man wishing to go from Number Five to Number Ten would have to walk sideways-for at least three miles, I reckon. Stepping out, he'd be jostled into a sideways stance by the throng and carried along by the current. If luck had it that the tide turned, he'd be squeezed back by the masses. With fortune on his side, he might just reach Number Ten. Of course, he couldn't be lucky forever. Sometimes, after being shoved back and forth, not only was Number Ten a distant prospect, but he might not even find his way home that day.
There was a logic to the city having only one row of buildings. I supposed that originally there must have been many rows, forming many narrower streets. In such confined spaces, the jostling would not only waste time but likely claim lives. To yield was, in a felinoid's eyes, the basest shame. Keeping to one side ran contrary to their cherished 'freedom'. Thus, if a street were lined with houses on both sides, people would be jammed in perpetually. The only solution was to knock down one whole row. Therefore, the houses were built in one continuous, elongated line, transforming the streets into boundless width. Though this did not prevent crowding, it at least averted further fatalities. Being shoved ten miles out and ten miles back merely meant a longer walk, with no mortal peril. The felinoid perspective could be oddly humane; besides, being jostled along wasn't necessarily unpleasant-having your feet lifted clear off the ground by the crowd was plainly like riding gratis. Whether my theory held water, I dared not say. Later, I would have to seek traces of old streets to test it.
Crowding alone, however, would not suffice as a distinctive feature. This human tide did not merely surge left and right; it also swelled and dipped. Should a small pebble appear on the road, suddenly a whole group would squat down, creating a whirlpool in the crowd. A pebble! Look, a pebble! They simply had to look! Those squatting would shift to sitting, and others from all around would add to the ring of squatters. The whirlpool grew. Those behind, seeing nothing, pressed forward, forcing a few of the seated in front to their feet. The pressure mounted, lifting them higher and higher, until they were raised above the heads of the crowd. Suddenly, everyone forgot the pebble and craned their necks to look up. The whirlpool filled in once more.
No sooner had this one filled than two acquaintances, as if by divine appointment, happened to meet nearby. Plop! They sat down for a chat. All around them followed suit, sitting to listen. Another whirlpool formed. The listeners, of course, felt compelled to offer their opinions on the friends' conversation, which inevitably led to a fight. The whirlpool abruptly expanded. They fought back and forth until they collided with another vortex-two old men were playing chess right there on the street. The two whirlpools merged into one. Everyone stopped fighting to watch the chess game. Until opinions arose concerning the game itself, this new vortex would remain relatively stable.
Even the undulating human tide was not the strangest sight. It could suddenly cleave open, forming a great fissure, much like the parting of the Red Sea for the ancient Israelites. Without this trick, I truly couldn't fathom how Scorpion's procession of intoxicating leaves could march in formation. Scorpion's house lay at the very heart of Felicity. While still some distance from the city, I saw that sea of humanity. I assumed Scorpion's entourage must skirt its edge. Yet, borne aloft on the shoulders of seven felinoids, Scorpion charged straight into the thick of the crowd. The music struck up. I thought this a signal for the crowd to make way. On the contrary, at the sound of the music, people surged toward the procession, packing themselves as tight as bean cakes ready for transport. I thought to myself: If Scorpion gets through this, it'll be a miracle! Hah! Scorpion, of course, knew better than I. All I heard was *Thwack! Thwack! Thwack!* The soldiers' batons fell on felinoid skulls with the gusto of opera war-drums. The human sea cracked open a path. Strangely, the spectators' zeal did not wane. Though they had cleared the way, they still wore broad grins, watching with smiling faces! The batons did not cease either, continuing their rhythmic *Thwack! Thwack!* I observed closely. The city felinoids differed slightly from their country cousins: each had a bald, iron-hard callus on his head, like the centre of a drumskin. Presumably, being used as drums by soldiers while watching spectacles was a matter of historical tradition. Experience is not gained from a casual glance. I had thought the soldiers' beatings-as-they-walked were solely to clear a path. In fact, they served another purpose. The spectators on either side were never still. Those at the back, unwilling to remain there, pushed, kicked, shoved, even bit, determined to reach the 'forefront'. Simultaneously, those in front pushed back, elbowed, and leaned backward, engaged in a movement to 'hold the rear'. The soldiers didn't just beat those at the very front; they also stretched their long batons to *Thwack!* the cat heads behind. With their heads now genuinely smarting, the pain from mutual shoving lessened somewhat, and thus conflicts diminished. This was a case of curing one pain by administering another.
To be honest, I was so absorbed in watching the people, they exerted a morbid fascination; I seemed unable to look away. I was so fixed on the crowd, I said to myself, that I didn't even notice what that row of houses looked like. My heart already sensed they could not be beautiful, for a foul stench never left my nostrils. If filth and beauty could be reconciled, perhaps my judgment erred. Yet I could not imagine the Epang Palace swathed in black muck and foul water. The people on the road soon made it impossible for me to hold my head up. Whenever I drew near, they would let out a cry, leap back a great distance, and then immediately surge forward again. The city felinoids' fear of foreigners, it seemed to me, was less intense than that of the country folk. Their astonishment was vented in that single cry; then they pressed forward for a closer inspection. Had I stood still on that road, I'm sure I'd never have moved again-they'd have surrounded me until not a drop of water could trickle through. Ten thousand fingers perpetually pointed at me. Felinoids were forthright; seeing something novel, they pointed it out to your face. But I couldn't quite shed that earthly sense of propriety; I felt wretched indeed! Ten thousand fingers, like so many little pistols, were thrust before my nose. Behind every pistol stared two great, round eyes, fixed on me. When the little pistols tilted upward, they all aimed at my face; when they slanted down, they pointed at my nether regions. I grew intensely uneasy. I wished I could sprout wings and find some quiet place to sit. My courage deserted me; I simply dared not look up anymore. Though no poet, I possessed something of a poet's sensitivity. Those fingers and eyes seemed on the verge of pointing and staring me out of existence. I felt I was no longer a being with any distinct personality. Yet one must consider both sides. My reluctance to look up had its merits. Given the road's pits and puddles of stinking mire, walking head held high would have at least turned my lower half into something resembling a crippled pig. The felinoids had probably never repaired a road, despite their long history. I was coming to hold history in the utmost contempt, especially its ancient chapters.