SHE is sitting now on my desk, and I glance at her with deference,
mutely begging permission to begin. But her back is turned to me, and
expresses in every curve such fine and delicate disdain that I falter
and lose courage at the very threshold of my task. I have long known
that cats are the most contemptuous of creatures, and that Agrippina is
the most contemptuous of cats. The spirit of Bouhaki, the proud Theban
beast that sat erect, with gold earrings in his ears, at the feet of his
master, King Hana; the spirit of Muezza, whose slumbers Mahomet himself
was not bold enough to disturb; the spirit of Micetto, Chateaubriand’s
ecclesiastical pet, dignified as a cardinal, and conscious ever that he
was the gift of a sovereign pontiff,—the spirits of all arrogant cats
that have played scornful parts in the world’s great comedy look out
from Agrippina’s yellow eyes, and hold me in subjection. I should like
to explain to her, if I dared, that my desk is small, littered with many
papers, and sadly overcrowded with the useful inutilities which
affectionate friends delight in giving me at Christmas time.
Sainte-Beuve’s cat, I am aware, sat on his desk, and roamed at will
among those precious manuscripts which no intrusive hand was ever
permitted to touch; but Sainte-Beuve probably had sufficient space
reserved for his own comfort and convenience. I have not; and
Agrippina’s beautifully ringed tail flapping across my copy distracts my
attention, and imperils the neatness of my penmanship. Even when she is
disposed to be affable, turns the light of her countenance upon me,
watches with attentive curiosity every stroke I make, and softly, with
curved paw, pats my pen as it travels over the paper,—even in these
halcyon moments, though my self-love is flattered by her condescension,
I am aware that I should work better and more rapidly if I denied myself
this charming companionship.
But in truth it is impossible for a lover of cats to banish these alert,
gentle, and discriminating little friends, who give us just enough of
their regard and complaisance to make us hunger for more. M. Fée, the
naturalist, who has written so admirably about animals, and who
understands, as only a Frenchman can understand, the delicate and subtle
organization of a cat, frankly admits that the keynote of its character
is independence. It dwells under our roof, sleeps by our fire, endures
our blandishments, and apparently enjoys our society, without for one
moment forfeiting its sense of absolute freedom, without acknowledging
any servile relation to the human creature who shelters it. “The cat,”
says M. Fée, “will never part with its liberty; it will neither be our
servant, like the horse, nor our friend, like the dog. It consents to
live as our guest; it accepts the home we offer and the food we give; it
even goes so far as to solicit our caresses, but capriciously, and when
it suits its humor to receive them.”
Rude and masterful souls resent this fine self-sufficiency in a domestic
animal, and require that it should have no will but theirs, no pleasure
that does not emanate from them. They are forever prating of the love
and fidelity of the dog, of the beast that obeys their slightest word,
crouches contentedly for hours at their feet, is exuberantly grateful
for the smallest attention, and so affectionate that its demonstrations
require to be curbed rather than encouraged. All this homage is pleasing
to their vanity; yet there are people, less magisterial perhaps, or less
exacting, who believe that true friendship, even with an animal, may be
built upon mutual esteem and independence; that to demand gratitude is
to be unworthy of it; and that obedience is not essential to agreeable
and healthy intercourse. A man who owns a dog is, in every sense of the
word, its master; the term expresses accurately their mutual relations.
But it is ridiculous when applied to the limited possession of a cat. I
am certainly not Agrippina’s mistress, and the assumption of authority
on my part would be a mere empty dignity, like those swelling titles
which afford such innocent delight to the Freemasons of our severe
republic. If I call Agrippina, she does not come; if I tell her to go
away, she remains where she is; if I try to persuade her to show off her
one or two little accomplishments, she refuses, with courteous but
unswerving decision. She has frolicsome moods, in which a thimble, a
shoe-buttoner, a scrap of paper, or a piece of string will drive her
wild with delight; she has moods of inflexible gravity, in which she
stares solemnly at her favorite ball rolling over the carpet, without
stirring one lazy limb to reach it. “Have I seen this foolish toy
before?” she seems to be asking herself with musing austerity; “and can
it be possible that there are cats who run after such frivolous trifles?
Vanity of vanities, and all is vanity, save only to lie upon the hearth
rug, and be warm, and ‘think grave thoughts to feed a serious soul.’” In
such moments of rejection and humiliation, I comfort myself by recalling
the words of one too wise for arrogance. “When I play with my cat,” says
Montaigne, “how do I know whether she does not make a jest of me? We
entertain each other with mutual antics; and if I have my own time for
beginning or refusing, she too has hers.”
This is the spirit in which we should approach a creature so reserved
and so utterly self-sufficing; this is the only key we have to that
natural distinction of character which repels careless and unobservant
natures. When I am told that Agrippina is disobedient, ungrateful,
cold-hearted, perverse, stupid, treacherous, and cruel, I no longer
strive to check the torrent of abuse. I know that Buffon said all this,
and much more, about cats, and that people have gone on repeating it
ever since, principally because these spirited little beasts have
remained just what it pleased Providence to make them, have preserved
their primitive freedom through centuries of effete and demoralizing
civilization. Why, I wonder, should a great many good men and women
cherish an unreasonable grudge against one animal because it does not
chance to possess the precise qualities of another? “My dog fetches my
slippers for me every night,” said a friend triumphantly, not long ago.
“He puts them first to warm by the fire, and then brings them over to my
chair, wagging his tail, and as proud as Punch. Would your cat do as
much for you, I’d like to know?” Assuredly not! If I waited for
Agrippina to fetch me shoes or slippers, I should have no other resource
save to join as speedily as possible one of the barefooted religious
orders of Italy. But, after all, fetching slippers is not the whole duty
of domestic pets. As La Fontaine gently reminds us:—
“Tout animal n’a pas toutes propriétés.”
We pick no quarrel with a canary because it does not talk like a parrot,
nor with a parrot because it does not sing like a canary. We find no
fault with a King Charles spaniel for not flying at the throat of a
burglar, nor with a St. Bernard because we cannot put it in our pocket.
Agrippina will never make herself serviceable, yet nevertheless is she
of inestimable service. How many times have I rested tired eyes on her
graceful little body, curled up in a ball and wrapped round with her
tail like a parcel; or stretched out luxuriously on my bed, one paw
coyly covering her face, the other curved gently inwards, as though
clasping an invisible treasure! Asleep or awake, in rest or in motion,
grave or gay, Agrippina is always beautiful; and it is better to be
beautiful than to fetch and carry from the rising to the setting of the
sun. She is droll, too, with an unconscious humor, even in her most
serious and sentimental moods. She has quite the longest ears that ever
were seen on so small a cat, eyes more solemn than Athene’s owl blinking
in the sunlight, and an air of supercilious disdain that would have made
Diogenes seem young and ardent by her side. Sitting on the library
table, under the evening lamp, with her head held high in air, her tall
ears as erect as chimneys, and her inscrutable gaze fixed on the darkest
corner of the room, Agrippina inspires in the family sentiments of
mingled mirthfulness and awe. To laugh at her in such moments, however,
is to incur her supreme displeasure. I have known her to jump down from
the table, and walk haughtily out of the room, because of a single
half-suppressed but wholly indecorous giggle.
Schopenhauer has said that the reason domestic pets are so lovable and
so helpful to us is because they enjoy, quietly and placidly, the
present moment. Life holds no future for them, and consequently no care;
if they are content, their contentment is absolute; and our jaded and
wearied spirits find a natural relief in the sight of creatures whose
little cups of happiness can so easily be filled to the brim. Walt
Whitman expresses the same thought more coarsely when he acknowledges
that he loves the society of animals because they do not sweat and whine
over their condition, nor lie awake in the dark and weep for their sins,
nor sicken him with discussions of their duty. In truth, that admirable
counsel of Sydney Smith’s, “Take short views of life,” can be obeyed
only by the brutes; for the thought that travels even to the morrow is
long enough to destroy our peace of mind, inasmuch as we know not what
the morrow may bring forth. But when Agrippina has breakfasted, and
washed, and sits in the sunlight blinking at me with affectionate
contempt, I feel soothed by her absolute and unqualified enjoyment. I
know how full my day will be of things that I don’t want particularly to
do, and that are not particularly worth doing; but for her, time and the
world hold only this brief moment of contentment. Slowly the eyes close,
gently the little body is relaxed. Oh, you who strive to relieve your
overwrought nerves, and cultivate power through repose, watch the
exquisite languor of a drowsy cat, and despair of imitating such perfect
and restful grace! There is a gradual yielding of every muscle to the
soft persuasiveness of slumber; the flexible frame is curved into tender
lines, the head nestles lower, the paws are tucked out of sight; no
convulsive throb or start betrays a rebellious alertness; only a faint
quiver of unconscious satisfaction, a faint heaving of the tawny sides,
a faint gleam of the half-shut yellow eyes, and Agrippina is asleep. I
look at her for one wistful moment, and then turn resolutely to my work.
It were ignoble to wish myself in her place, and yet how charming to be
able to settle down to a nap, _sans peur et sans reproche_, at ten
o’clock in the morning!
These, then, are a few of the pleasures to be derived from the society
of an amiable cat; and by an amiable cat I mean one that, while
maintaining its own dignity and delicate reserve, is nevertheless
affable and condescending in the company of human beings. There is
nothing I dislike more than newspaper and magazine stories about
priggish pussies—like the children in Sunday-school books—that share
their food with hungry beasts from the back alleys, and show touching
fidelity to old blind masters, and hunt partridges, in a spirit of noble
self-sacrifice, for consumptive mistresses, and scorn to help themselves
to delicacies from the kitchen tables, and arouse their households so
often in cases of fire that I should suspect them of starting the
conflagrations in order to win applause by giving the alarm. Whatever a
real cat may or may not be, it is never a prig, and all true lovers of
the race have been quick to recognize and appreciate this fact.
“I value in the cat,” says Chateaubriand, “that independent and almost
ungrateful temper which prevents it from attaching itself to any one;
the indifference with which it passes from the salon to the housetop.
When you caress it, it stretches itself out and arches its back
responsively; but that is caused by physical pleasure, and not, as in
the case of the dog, by a silly satisfaction in loving and being
faithful to a master who returns thanks in kicks. The cat lives alone,
has no need of society, does not obey except when it likes, pretends to
sleep that it may see the more clearly, and scratches everything that it
can scratch.”
Here is a sketch spirited enough, and of good outline, but hardly
correct in detail. A cat seldom manifests affection, yet is often
distinctly social, and likes to see itself the petted minion of a family
group. Agrippina, in fact, so far from living alone, will not, if she
can help it, remain for a moment in a room by herself. She is content to
have me as a companion, perhaps in default of better; but if I go
upstairs or downstairs in search of a book, or my eyeglasses, or any one
of the countless things that are never where they ought to be, Agrippina
follows closely at my heels. Sometimes, when she is fast asleep, I steal
softly out of the door, thinking to escape her vigilance; but before I
have taken a dozen steps she is under my feet, mewing a gentle reproach,
and putting on all the injured airs of a deserted Ariadne. I should like
to think such behavior prompted by affection rather than by curiosity;
but in my candid moments I find this “pathetic fallacy” a difficult
sentiment to cherish. There are people, I am aware, who trustfully
assert that their pets love them; and one such sanguine creature has
recently assured the world that “no man who boasts the real intimacy and
confidence of a cat would dream of calling his four-footed friend
‘puss.’” But is not such a boast rather ill-timed at best? How dare any
man venture to assert that he possesses the intimacy and confidence of
an animal so exclusive and so reserved? I doubt if Cardinal Wolsey, in
the zenith of his pride and power, claimed the intimacy and confidence
of the superb cat who sat in a cushioned armchair by his side, and
reflected with mimic dignity the full-blown honors of the Lord High
Chancellor of England. Agrippina, I am humbly aware, grants me neither
her intimacy nor her confidence, but only her companionship, which I
endeavor to receive modestly, and without flaunting my favors to the
world. She is displeased and even downcast when I go out, and she greets
my return with delight, thrusting her little gray head between the
banisters the instant I open the house door, and waving a welcome in
mid-air with one ridiculously small paw. Being but mortal, I am
naturally pleased with these tokens of esteem, but I do not, on that
account, go about with arrogant brow, and boast of my intimacy with
Agrippina. I should be laughed at, if I did, by everybody who is
privileged to possess and appreciate a cat.
As for curiosity, that vice which the Abbé Galiani held to be unknown to
animals, but which the more astute Voltaire detected in every little dog
that he saw peering out of the window of its master’s coach, it is the
riding passion of the feline breast. A closet door left ajar, a box with
half-closed lid, an open bureau drawer,—these are the objects that fill
a cat with the liveliest interest and delight. Agrippina watches
breathlessly the unfastening of a parcel, and tries to hasten matters by
clutching actively at the string. When its contents are shown her, she
examines them gravely, and then, with a sigh of relief, settles down to
repose. The slightest noise disturbs and irritates her until she
discovers its cause. If she hears a footstep in the hall, she runs out
to see whose it is, and, like certain troublesome little people I have
known, she dearly loves to go to the front door every time the bell is
rung. From my window she surveys the street with tranquil scrutiny, and,
if boys are playing below, she follows their games with a steady,
scornful stare, very different from the wistful eagerness of a friendly
dog, quivering to join in the sport. Sometimes the boys catch sight of
her, and shout up rudely at her window; and I can never sufficiently
admire Agrippina’s conduct upon these trying occasions, the well-bred
composure with which she affects neither to see nor to hear them, nor to
be aware that there are such objectionable creatures as children in the
world. Sometimes, too, the terrier that lives next door comes out to sun
himself in the street, and, beholding my cat sitting well out of reach,
he dances madly up and down the pavement, barking with all his might,
and rearing himself on his short hind legs, in a futile attempt to
dislodge her. Then the spirit of evil enters Agrippina’s little heart.
The window is open, and she creeps to the extreme edge of the stone
sill, stretches herself at full length, peers down smilingly at the
frenzied dog, dangles one paw enticingly in the air, and exerts herself
with quiet malice to drive him to desperation. Her sense of humor is
awakened by his frantic efforts, and by her own absolute security; and
not until he is spent with exertion, and lies panting and exhausted on
the bricks, does she arch her graceful back, stretch her limbs lazily in
the sun, and with one light bound spring from the window to my desk.
Wisely has Moncrif observed that a cat is not merely diverted by
everything that moves, but is convinced that all nature is occupied
exclusively with catering to her diversion.
There is a charming story told by M. Champfleury, who has written so
much and so admirably about cats, of a poor hermit whose piety and
asceticism were so great that in a vision he was permitted to behold his
place in heaven, next to that of St. Gregory, the sovereign pontiff of
Christendom. The hermit, who possessed nothing upon earth but a female
cat, was abashed by the thought that in the next world he was destined
to rank with so powerful a prince of the Church; and perhaps—for who
knows the secret springs of spiritual pride?—he fancied that his
self-inflicted poverty would win for him an even higher reward.
Whereupon a second revelation made known to him that his detachment from
the world was by no means so complete as he imagined, for that he loved
and valued his cat, the sole companion of his solitude, more than St.
Gregory loved and valued all his earthly possessions. The Pope on his
throne was the truer ascetic of the two.
This little tale conveys to us, in addition to its excellent
moral,—never more needed than at present,—a pleasing truth concerning
the lovability of cats. While they have never attained, and never
deserve to attain, the widespread and somewhat commonplace popularity of
dogs, their fascination is a more potent and irresistible charm. He who
yields himself to the sweet seductiveness of a cat is beguiled forever
from the simple, honorable friendship of the more generous and
open-hearted beast. The small domestic sphinx whose inscrutable eyes
never soften with affection; the fetich animal that comes down to us
from the far past, adored, hated, and feared,—a god in wise and silent
Egypt, a plaything in old Rome, a hunted and unholy creature, suffering
one long martyrdom throughout the half-seen, dimly-fathomed Middle
Ages,—even now this lovely, uncanny pet is capable of inspiring mingled
sentiments of horror and devotion. Those who are under its spell rejoice
in their thralldom, and, like M. Champfleury’s hermit, grow strangely
wedded to this mute, unsympathetic comradeship. Those who have inherited
the old, half-fearful aversion render a still finer tribute to the cat’s
native witchery and power. I have seen middle-aged women, of dignified
and tranquil aspect, draw back with unfeigned dismay at the sight of
Agrippina, a little ball of gray and yellow fur, curled up in peaceful
slumber on the hearth rug. And this instinctive shrinking has nothing in
common with the perfectly reasonable fear we entertain for a terrier
snapping and snarling at our heels, or for a mastiff the size of a calf,
which our friend assures us is as gentle as a baby, but which looks able
and ready to tear us limb from limb. It may be ignominious to be afraid
of dogs, but the emotion is one which will bear analysis and
explanation; we know exactly what it is we fear; while the uneasiness
with which many people behold a harmless and perfectly indifferent cat
is a faint reflection of that superstitious terror which the nineteenth
century still borrows occasionally from the ninth. We call it by a
different name, and account for it on purely natural principles, in
deference to progress; but the Mediæval peasant who beheld his cat steal
out, like a gray shadow, on St. John’s Eve, to join in unholy rites,
felt the same shuddering abhorrence which we witness and wonder at
to-day. He simplified matters somewhat, and eased his troubled mind by
killing the beast; for cats that ventured forth on the feast of St.
John, or on Halloween, or on the second Wednesday in Lent, did so at
their peril. Fires blazed for them in every village, and even quiet
stay-at-homes were too often hunted from their chimney-corners to a
cruel death. There is a receipt signed in 1575 by one Lucas
Pommoreux,—abhorred forever be his name!—to whom has been paid the sum
of a hundred _sols parisis_ “for having supplied for three years all the
cats required for the fire on St. John’s Day;” and be it remembered that
the gracious child, afterwards Louis XIII., interceded with Henry IV.
for the lives of these poor animals, sacrificed to wicked sport and an
unreasoning terror.
Girt around with fear, and mystery, and subtle associations of evil, the
cat comes down to us through the centuries; and from every land fresh
traditions of sorcery claim it for their own. In Brittany is still
whispered the dreadful tale of the cats that danced with sacrilegious
glee around the crucifix until their king was slain; and in Sicily men
know that if a black cat serves seven masters in turn he carries the
soul of the seventh into hell. In Russia black cats become devils at the
end of seven years, and in southern Europe they are merely serving their
apprenticeship as witches. Norwegian folk-lore is rich in ghastly
stories like that of the wealthy miller whose mill has been twice burned
down on Whitsun night, and for whom a traveling tailor offers to keep
watch. The tailor chalks a circle on the floor, writes the Lord’s prayer
around it, and waits until midnight, when a troop of cats rush in, and
hang a great pot of pitch over the fireplace. Again and again they try
to overturn this pitch, but every time the tailor frightens them away;
and when their leader endeavors stealthily to draw him outside of his
magic circle, he cuts off her paw with his knife. Then they all fly
howling into the night, and the next morning the miller sees with joy
his mill standing whole and unharmed. But the miller’s wife cowers under
the bedclothes, offering her left hand to the tailor, and hiding as best
she can her right arm’s bleeding stump.
Finer even than this tale is the well-known story which “Monk” Lewis
told to Shelley of a gentleman who, late one night, went to visit a
friend living on the outskirts of a forest in east Germany. He lost his
path, and, after wandering aimlessly for some time, beheld at last a
light streaming from the windows of an old and ruined abbey. Looking in,
he saw a procession of cats lowering into the grave a small coffin with
a crown upon it. The sight filled him with horror, and, spurring his
horse, he rode away as fast as he could, never stopping until he reached
his destination, long after midnight. His friend was still awaiting him,
and at once he recounted what had happened; whereupon a cat that lay
sleeping by the fire sprang to its feet, cried out, “Then I am the King
of the Cats!” and disappeared like a flash up the chimney.
For my part, I consider this the best cat story in all literature, full
of suggestiveness and terror, yet picturesque withal, and leaving ample
room in the mind for speculation. Why was not the heir apparent bidden
to the royal funeral? Was there a disputed succession, and how are such
points settled in the mysterious domain of cat-land? The notion that
these animals gather in ghost-haunted churches and castles for their
nocturnal revels is one common to all parts of Europe. We remember how
the little maiden of the “Mountain Idyl” confides to Heine that the
innocent-looking cat in the chimney-corner is really a witch, and that
at midnight, when the storm is high, she steals away to the ruined keep,
where the spirits of the dead wait spellbound for the word that shall
waken them. In all scenes of impish revelry cats play a prominent part,
although occasionally, by virtue of their dual natures, they serve as
barriers against the powers of evil. There is the old story of the
witch’s cat that was grateful to the good girl who gave it some ham to
eat,—I may observe here, parenthetically, that I have never known a cat
that would touch ham,—and there is the fine bit of Italian folk-lore
about the servant maid who, with no other protector than a black cat,
ventures to disturb a procession of ghosts on the dreadful Night of the
Dead. “It is well for you that the cat lies in your arms,” the angry
spirit says to her; “otherwise what I am, you also would be.” The last
pale reflex of a universal tradition I found three years ago in London,
where the bad behavior of the Westminster cats—proverbially the most
dissolute and profligate specimens of their race—has given rise to the
pleasant legend of a country house whither these rakish animals retire
for nights of gay festivity, and whence they return in the early
morning, jaded, repentant, and forlorn.
Of late years there has been a rapid and promising growth of what
disaffected and alliterative critics call the “cat cult,” and poets and
painters vie with one another in celebrating the charms of this
long-neglected pet. Mr. M. H. Spielmann’s beautiful volume in praise of
Madame Henriette Ronner and her pictures is a treasure upon which many
an ardent lover of cats will cast wandering and wistful glances. It is
impossible for even the most disciplined spirit not to yearn over these
little furry darlings, these gentle, mischievous, lazy, irresistible
things. As for Banjo, that dear and sentimental kitten, with his head on
one side like Lydia Languish, and a decorous melancholy suffusing his
splendid eyes, let any obdurate scorner of the race look at his
loveliness and be converted. Mrs. Graham R. Tomson’s pretty anthology,
“Concerning Cats,” is another step in the right direction; a dainty
volume of selections from French and English verse, where we may find
old favorites like Cowper’s “Retired Cat” and Calverly’s “Sad Memories,”
graceful epitaphs on departed pussies, some delightful poems from
Baudelaire, and three, no less delightful, from the pen of Mrs. Tomson
herself, whose preface, or “foreword,” is enough to win for her at once
the friendship and sympathy of the elect. The book, while it contains a
good deal that might well have been omitted, is necessarily a small one;
for poets, English poets especially, have just begun to sing the praises
of the cat, as they have for generations sung the praises of the horse
and dog. Nevertheless, all English literature, and all the literatures
of every land, are full of charming allusions to this friendly
animal,—allusions the brevity of which only enhances their value. Those
two delicious lines of Herrick’s, for example,—
“And the brisk mouse may feast herself with crumbs,
Till that the green-eyed kitling comes,”—
are worth the whole of Wordsworth’s solemn poem, “The Kitten and the
Falling Leaves.” What did Wordsworth know of the innate vanity, the
affectation and coquetry, of kittenhood? He saw the little beast
gamboling on the wall, and he fancied her as innocent as she looked,—as
though any living creature _could_ be as innocent as a kitten looks!
With touching simplicity, he believed her all unconscious of the
admiration she was exciting:—
“What would little Tabby care
For the plaudits of the crowd?
Over happy to be proud,
Over wealthy in the treasure
Of her own exceeding pleasure!”
Ah, the arrant knavery of that kitten! The tiny impostor, showing off
her best tricks, and feigning to be occupied exclusively with her own
infantile diversion! We can see her now, prancing and paddling after the
leaves, and all the while peeping out of “the tail o’ her ee” at the
serene poet and philosopher, and waving her naughty tail in glee over
his confidence and condescension.