Well, I should think he did. He eats it twice a day.
Up to that time he had never talked even cat language. He had never
meowed since the day he presented himself at Amélie's and asked
for sanctuary.
But we have had, from the beginning, a few collisions of will-power.
The first few weeks that he was a guest in my house, I was terribly
flattered because he never wanted to sleep anywhere but on my
knees. He did not squirm round as Amélie said kittens usually did. He
never climbed on my shoulders and rubbed against my face. He
simply jumped up in my lap, turned round once, lay down, and lay
perfectly still. If I got up, I had to put him in my chair, soothe him
a bit, as you would a baby, if I expected him to stay, but, even then,
nine times out of ten, as soon as I was settled in another chair,
he followed, and climbed into my lap.
Now things that are flattering finally pall. I began to guess that it was
his comfort, not his love for me, that controlled him. Well--it is the old
story.
But the night question was the hardest. He had a basket. He had a
cushion. I have the country habit of going to bed with the chickens.
The cat came near changing all that. I used to let him go to sleep in
my lap. I used to put him in his basket by the table with all the care
that you would put a baby. Then I made a dash for upstairs and
closed the doors. Ha! ha! In two minutes he was scratching at the
door. I let him scratch. "He must be disciplined," I said. There was a
cushion at the door, and finally he would settle' down and in the
morning he was there when I woke. "He will learn," I said. H'm!
One night, while I was in my dressing-room, I neglected to latch the
bedroom door. When I was ready to get into bed, lo! there was Khaki
on the foot of the bed, close against the footboard, fast asleep. Not
only was he asleep, but he was lying on his back, with his two white
paws folded over his eyes as if to keep the lamplight out of them.
Well--I had not the heart to drive him away. He had won. He slept
there. He never budged until I was dressed in the morning, when he
got up, as if it were the usual thing, and followed, in his most dignified
manner, down to breakfast.
Well, that was struggle number one. Khaki had scored.
But, no sooner had I got myself reconciled--I felt pretty shamefaced--
when he changed his plans. The very moment I was ready for bed he
wanted to go out. He never meowed. He just tapped at the door, and
if that did not succeed, he scratched on the window, and he was so
one-idea-ed that nothing turned him from his purpose until he was let
out.
For a time I used to sit up for him to come in. I was ashamed to let
Amélie know. But, one night, after I had been out in the garden with a
lantern hunting for him at midnight, I heard a gentle purring sound,
and, after looking in every direction, I finally located him on the roof of
the kitchen. Being a bit dull, I imagined that he could not get down. I
stood up on a bench under the kitchen window, and called him. He
came to the eaves, and I could just reach him, but, as I was about to
take him by a leg and haul him down, he retreated just out of my
reach, and said what I imagined to be a pathetic "meow." I talked to
him. I tried to coax him to come within reach again, but he only went
up the roof to the ridgepole and looked down the other side and said
"meow." I was in despair, when it occurred to me to get the step-
ladder. You may think me impossibly silly, but I never supposed that
he could get down.
I went for the key to the grange, pulled out the ladder, and hauled it
along the terrace, and was just putting it up, when the little devil
leaped from the roof into the lilac bush, swayed there a minute, ran
down, scampered across the garden, and dashed up a pear tree,
and--well, I think he laughed at me.
Anyway, I was mad. I went in and told him that he might stop out all
night for all I cared. Still, I could not sleep for thinking of him--used
to comfort--out in the night, and it was chilly. But he had to be
disciplined.
I had to laugh in the morning, for he was playing on the terrace when
I opened the door, and he had a line of three first-class mice laid out
for me. I said: "Why, good morning, Khaki, did mother make him stay
out all night? Well, you know he was a naughty cat!"
He gave me a look--I fancied it was quizzical--rolled over, and
showed his pretty white belly, then jumped up, gave one look up at
the bedroom window, scampered up the salon shutter, crouched on
the top, and, with one leap, was through the bedroom window. When
I rushed upstairs--to see if he had hurt himself, I suppose,--he was
sitting on the foot of the bed, and I think he was grinning.
So much for disciplining a cat.
However, I had learned something--and, evidently, he had also. I had
learned that a cat can take care of himself, and has a right to live a
cat's life, and he learned that I was dull. We treat each other
accordingly. The truth is--he owns me, and the house, and he knows
it.
Since then he asks for the door, and gets it when he asks. He goes
and comes at his own sweet will. When he wants to come in, in the
daytime, he looks in at all the windows until he finds me. Then he
stands on his hind legs and beats the window with his paws until I
open it for him. In the night, he climbs to the bedroom window, and
taps until he wakens me. You see, it is his house, not mine, and he
knows it. What is the drollest of all--he is never one minute late to his
meals.
He is familiarly known to all my neighbors as "the Grand Duc de
Huiry" and he looks the part. Still, from my point of view, he is not an
ideal cat. He is not a bit caressing. He never fails to purr politely when
he comes in. But he is no longer playful. He never climbs up to my
shoulder and rubs against my face as some of Amélie's commoner
cats will do. He is intelligent and handsome--just a miniature tiger,
and growls like a new arrival from the jungle when he is displeased--
and he is a great ratter. Moreover Amélie has decided that he is an
"intellectuel."
One morning, when he had been out all night, and did not return until
almost breakfast-time, he was sitting on my knee, making his toilette,
while I argued the matter with him. Amélie was dusting. I reproached
him with becoming a rôdeur, and I told him that I should be happier
about him if I knew where he was every night, and what he did.
He yawned as if bored, jumped off my knees and began walking
round the library, and examining the books.
"Well," remarked Amélie, "I can tell you where he goes. He has a
class in Maria's grange, where the wheat is stored--a class of mice.
He goes every evening to give conferences on history and the war,
and he eats up all the stupid pupils."
I had to laugh, but before I could ask her how she knew, Khaki
jumped up on top of the lowest line of books, and disappeared
behind.
Amélie shrugged her shoulders, and said: "Voila! He has gone to
prepare his next conference." And he really had chosen a line of
books on history.
You see Amélie knows beasties better than I do. There really is a sort
of freemasonry between certain people and dumb animals. I have not
a bit of it, though I love them. You would adore to see Amélie play
with cats. She knows how. And as for her conversation with them, it is
wonderful. I remarked the fact to her one day, when her morning
salutations with the cats had been unusual. She replied, with her
customary shrug: "Eh bien, Madame, toujours, entre eux, les bêtes
se comprennent."
So much in brief for cat number one. Number two is a different
matter.
In the spring, four kittens were born at Amélie's. They were all sorts of
mongrels. There was a dear little fluffy, half angora, which I named
Garibaldi, and Amélie, as usual, vulgarized it at once into "Didine."
There was a long-legged blue kitten which I dubbed Roi Albert. There
was a short-legged, sturdy little energetic striped one which I called
General Joffre, and a yellow and black fellow, who was, of course,
Nicolas. I regretted there weren't two more, or three.
Garibaldi was about the dearest kitten I ever saw. He attached
himself to me at once. When he was only a round fluffy ball he would
try to climb into my lap whenever I went to see the kittens. The result
was that when he was still very young, he came to live with me, and I
never saw so altogether loveable an animal. He has all the cat
qualities I ever dreamed of. As Amélie says: "II a tout pour lui, et il ne
manque que la parole." And it is true. He crawls up my back. He will
lie for hours on my shoulder purring his little soft song into my ear. He
will sit beside me on my desk, looking at me with his pretty yellow
eyes, as if he and I were the whole of his world. If I walk in the
garden, he is under my feet. If I go up to Amélie's he goes too.
His attachment has its drawbacks. He tries to sit on my book when I
am reading, and longs to lie on the keyboard of my machine when I
am writing. If I try to read a paper when he is on my lap he
immediately crawls under it, and gets between my eyes and the print.
I am terribly flattered, but his affection has its inconveniences.
Needless to say, Khaki hates him, and never passes him without
growling. Luckily Didine is not a bit afraid of him. Up to date they have
never fought. Didine has a great admiration for Khaki, and will tag
him. The difference in their characters is too funny. For example, if
Didine brings a mouse into the garden Khaki never attempts to touch
it. He will sit apart, indulgently watching Didine play with his prey,
torment it, and finally kill it, and never offer to join in the sport. On
the contrary, if Khaki brings in a mouse, Didine wants to join in the fun
at once. Result--Khaki gives one fierce growl, abandons his catch
and goes out of the garden. Difference, I suppose, between a
thoroughbred sport and, well, a common cat.
I could fill a volume with stories about these cats. Don't worry. I shall
not.
You ask me if I have a dog. Yes, a big black Caniche named Dick, a
good watch-dog, but too fond of playing. I call him an "india-rubber
dog," because when he is demanding' a frolic, or asking to have a
stone thrown for him--his idea of happiness--he jumps up and down
on his four stiff legs exactly like a toy woolly dog on an elastic.
He is a good dog to walk with, and loves to "go." He is very obedient
on the road for that reason--knows if he is naughty he can't go next
time.
So now you have the household complete. I'll warrant you won't be
content. If you are not, there is no satisfying you. When I pour all my
political dreams on paper, and shout on to my machine all my
disappointments over the attitude of Washington, you take offence.
So what can I do? I cannot send you letters full of stirring adventures.
I don't have any. I can't write you dramatic things about the war. It is
not dramatic here, and that is as strange to me as it seems to be to
you.