THE WHITE DYNASTY.
Let us now come down to a more modern epoch. From a cat imported by
Mademoiselle Aita de la Penuela, a young Spanish artist whose studies of
white Angoras adorned and still adorn the windows of the print-shops, we
obtained the tiniest possible kitten, which looked like one of those
puffs of swan’s-down which people use in rice-powder boxes. On account
of this immaculate whiteness, he received the name of Pierrot, which, as
he grew larger, was amplified into that of Don Pierrot de Navarre,—a
name infinitely more majestic and having a savor of real grandeur about
it. Don Pierrot, like all animals who are petted and spoiled grew up
charmingly amiable. He shared our family life with that enjoyment which
cats find in being admitted to the intimacies of the fire-side. Seated
in his wonted place beside the fire, he seemed always to understand the
conversation and to be interested in it. He followed the eyes of the
talkers, emitting from time to time a little mew, as if he too had
objections to make, and would like to add his opinion on the literary
topics which were usually the theme of our discourse. He adored books;
and whenever he found one lying open on the table he would seat himself
by it, looking earnestly at the pages, and sometimes gently turning one
with his claw. He usually finished by going to sleep, as soundly as
though he had in reality been reading a modern novel!
When we sat down to write he always jumped upon the writing-table, and
watched with a profound attention the point of the steel pen as it
scattered flies’ legs over the white surface of the paper, making a
little movement of his head at the beginning of each new line. Sometimes
he took a fancy to join in the work, and would try to get the pen away
from us, doubtless with the intention of using it in his turn; for he
was an æsthetic cat, like the cat Murr, described by Hoffman, and we
strongly suspected him of spending nights in some hidden gutter writing
his memoirs by the light of his own phosphoric eyes. Unfortunately these
lucubrations, if they ever existed, are forever lost.
Don Pierrot de Navarre would never settle himself to sleep till we had
come home. He always waited just inside the door, and, the moment we
stepped into the antechamber, rubbed himself against our legs, arching
his back, and purring in a joyous and friendly manner. Then he would
walk in, preceding us like a page, and no doubt with a very little
urging would have consented to carry the candlestick.
Having thus conducted us to our bedroom, he waited till we were
undressed, and then, jumping into bed, embraced our neck with his little
paws, rubbed his nose against ours, and licked us with a small pink
tongue, rough as a file, uttering meanwhile short, inarticulate cries,
which expressed as clearly as possible his joy at our return. Then,
having expressed his affection by these demonstrations, and the hour for
sleep being come, he would mount the head-board of the bed, and slumber
there, poised like a bird on a bough. As soon as we awoke in the morning
he would descend, and, stretching himself out close to us, wait quietly
till it was time to get up.
[Illustration: PIERROT.]
Midnight, in his opinion, was the hour at which it was our duty to
return to the house. Pierrot and the _concierge_ were entirely of one
mind on this point. Just then we had joined with a few friends in
getting up a little club, which we called “The Society of the Four
Candles,” from the fact that the room in which we met was lighted by
four candles in silver candlesticks, which were placed on four corners
of a table. Sometimes the talk became so engrossing that, like
Cinderella, we forgot the hour, at the risk of finding our carriages
changed into pumpkins and our coachmen into rats. Several times Pierrot
waited for our return until two or three o’clock in the morning; then
his feelings were so deeply hurt that he actually went to bed without
us. This dumb protest against our innocent irregularities was so
touching that afterwards we made a point of coming in punctually at
midnight; but Pierrot for a long while retained a grudge against us. He
wanted proof that our penitence was genuine; and not till time had
convinced him of the sincerity of our regret did he again take us into
favor, and resume his old position inside the door of the antechamber.
A cat’s friendship is a hard thing to conquer. Cats are philosophical
animals,—sedate, quiet, fixed in their habits, true believers in decency
and order, and not at all given to the bestowing of a thoughtless
affection. They will be your friends if you prove worthy of friendship;
but they will never be your slaves. Even in moments of tenderness a cat
preserves his freedom of will, and cannot be made to comply with demands
which seem to him unreasonable. But once he surrenders himself to you as
a friend, what absolute confidence he gives! what fidelity of affection!
He constitutes himself the companion of your solitary hours, of your
melancholy, of your work. He will pass whole evenings purring on your
knees, happy in your company, and forsaking that of animals of his own
species. In vain do enticing mews re-echo from the roofs, calling him to
join one of those cat-soirees where juicy red-herrings take the place of
tea: he will not be tempted away, and shares your vigil to the end. If
you put him on the floor, he jumps back to his place with a murmuring
noise which is like a soft reproach. Sometimes, standing near, he looks
at you with eyes so full of melting tenderness, so loving and so human,
that you are half-frightened; for it seems impossible that in such a
regard reason can be lacking.
Don Pierrot de Navarre had a companion of the same race, no less white
than himself. All the comparisons which we have heaped together in “The
symphony in white, major” cannot express the idea of this immaculate
snowiness, which makes even the fur of the ermine look yellow. This
second cat was named Seraphita, in honor of Balzac’s Swedenborgian
romance. Never did the heroine of that marvellous legend radiate a purer
whiteness, not even when, accompanied by Minna, she climbed the icy
peaks of the Falberg. Seraphita was of a contemplative and dreamy
disposition. She would lie for long hours on her cushion, not asleep,
but following, with an intense expression of the eyes, sights which were
invisible to common mortals. She liked to be caressed; but she caressed
in return only a favored few to whom her hard-won esteem was accorded.
She loved luxury; and it was always upon the softest chair and the piece
of stuff best calculated to show to advantage her swan-like fur that we
were sure to find her. Her toilet took an enormous deal of time; every
particle of her fur was made glossy each morning of her life. She washed
herself with her paws; and every hair of her coat, carefully brushed
with her rosy tongue, glistened like new silver. Whenever any one
stroked her, she instantly removed all trace of the contact: the least
untidiness disturbed her. Her elegance and distinction were truly
aristocratic: in the cat-world she must have ranked as a duchess at the
very least. She doted on perfumes, plunging her head into bouquets of
flowers, and nibbling with little quivers of satisfaction handkerchiefs
steeped in odors. She would walk up and down the dressing-table sniffing
at the essence bottles, and would willingly have allowed herself to be
dipped bodily into the scented rice-powder. Such was Seraphita, and
never did a cat better justify a poetical name.
About this time two of those counterfeit sailors who sell striped
table-covers, handkerchiefs woven of pineapple thread, and other foreign
commodities, chanced to pass through our street at Longchamps. They
carried in a tiny cage two Norway rats, with the prettiest pink eyes in
the world. White animals were a passion with us just then, and we
carried this passion so far that even our poultry-yard was stocked with
white cocks and hens. We bought the white rats, and had a large cage
made for them, with interior staircases which led to different
stories,—to dining-rooms, sleeping-chambers, and gymnasiums fitted up
with trapezes. In this cage they were happier and better lodged than
even the rat of La Fontaine in the middle of his Dutch cheese.
These pretty creatures—of which so many people, for reasons that we
cannot understand, have a silly fear—grew tame to an astonishing degree,
so soon as they became certain that no harm was intended them. They
allowed themselves to be stroked like kittens; and taking our finger
between their tiny pink paws, delicate to an ideal degree, would lick it
in a friendly way. They were usually let loose at the end of our meals,
and climbing on our arms, shoulders, and head, would dart in and out of
the sleeves of our jacket or dressing-gown with singular skill and
agility. The motive of all these exercises, so gracefully performed, was
to win leave to rummage among the remains of the dessert. Placed upon
the table, in the twinkling of an eye the pair would make away with
every walnut or hazel-nut, every dried raisin, every bit of sugar, which
remained. Nothing could be droller than the eager and furtive glances
which they cast about them while doing this, or their look of surprise
when they found themselves on the edge of the table-cloth. When a tiny
board was laid from the cage to the table, they would joyfully run
across it and store their plunder away in their private cupboard.
The couple multiplied rapidly, until whole families of equal whiteness
ascended and descended the staircases of the cage. At last we found
ourselves at the head of thirty rats, all so much at home with us that
when the weather was cold they burrowed in our pockets without the least
ceremony, and lay there, keeping themselves warm. Sometimes leaving open
the door of the Ratopolis, we would go up to the second floor of the
house, and give a whistle well known to our pupils. Then the tiny crew,
who with great difficulty could climb from one step of the stairs to the
other, would swarm upward, clutching the rail, pulling themselves along
by the balusters, following each other in a file with the regularity of
acrobats, up the steep road, down which occasionally one slipped, and
run to find us, uttering little cries and manifesting the liveliest joy.
We must now confess to an act of brutality. We had so often heard it
said that a rat’s tail resembled a pink worm and detracted from the
beauty of the animal, that at last we selected one from our menagerie,
and cut off the much-abused appendage. The little rat bore the operation
well, grew up bravely, and became a master rat, with a fine pair of
moustaches; but in spite of being lightened of the weight of his caudal
extremity, he was always less agile than his companions, was wary in
gymnastic exercises, and frequently experienced a tumble. When the troop
ran up the staircase, he invariably came last; and he always had the air
of an acrobat who is testing his tight-rope and is not quite sure of his
balance. This experiment convinced us of the usefulness of a tail to
rats. It holds them in equilibrium as they run along cornices and narrow
projections. When they swiftly turn to right or left the tail turns too,
serving as a counterpoise; and this is the cause of the perpetual wiggle
which characterizes it. Nature seldom makes a superfluous thing, and for
this reason we should be very cautious in trying to improve her
handiwork.
You will doubtless wonder how our rats and cats, creatures so totally
unsympathetic,—one in fact being the natural prey of the other,—managed
to live together. In the most amicable way imaginable. The cats never
showed their claws to the rats; the rats never exhibited the least fear
or distrust of the cats. This conduct on the part of the cats was
thoroughly sincere, and never once were the rats called upon to mourn
the death of a comrade. Don Pierrot de Navarre showed the tenderest
affection for these tiny neighbors. He would lie down by the cage for
hours together, watching them at play. If by accident the door of the
room was shut, he would scratch and softly mew to have it opened, that
he might rejoin his little white friends, who not infrequently would
come from their cage and go to sleep by his side. Seraphita, of a
loftier nature than he, and not so fond of the musky odor of rats, never
took part in these games; but she did the rats no harm, and suffered
them to pass before her without once extending a claw.
The end of these rats was strange enough. One sultry day in summer when
the thermometer marked the ordinary heat of Senegal, their cage was
placed in the garden, under the shade of a vine-covered arbor; for they
seemed to suffer from the heat. A heavy storm came up, with great gusts
of wind, lightning and rain. The tall poplars on the river’s bank bent
like reeds. Armed with an umbrella, we were on the point of going out to
look for our pets, when a vivid lightning flash, which seemed to split
the very depths of the heavens, stopped us on the first step of the
flight which led from the terrace to the garden. A tremendous
thunder-clap followed, louder than the discharge of a hundred cannon.
The shock was so violent that we were almost thrown down by it.
After this explosion the storm grew a little calmer; and hastening to
the arbor we found the thirty-two rats lying with their paws in the air,
all killed by the same thunderbolt.
The wire of their cage had without doubt attracted the lightning. Thus
perished together, as they had lived together, thirty-two Norway
rats,—an enviable death, and one not often granted by implacable fate!
[Illustration: THE BLACK DYNASTY.]