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<p class="caption">“AND FROM THAT HOUR THEY WERE FAST FRIENDS”</p>
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<div class="titlepage">
<h1>LIVES OF<br/> TWO CATS</h1>
<p><span class="large"><i>From the French of Pierre Loti</i></span></p>
<p>TRANSLATION BY M. B. RICHARDS</p>
<p>ILLUSTRATIONS BY C. E. ALLEN</p>
<div class="figcenter"><ANTIMG src="images/titlepagelogo.jpg" alt="" /></div>
<p>BOSTON 1900</p>
</div>
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<p class="center">COPYRIGHT, 1900, BY M. B. RICHARDS<br/>
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<span class="antiqua">The Riverside Press</span><br/>
<i>Electrotyped and Printed by H. O. Houghton & Co.<br/>
Cambridge, Mass., U. S. A.</i></p>
</div>
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<h2 class="nobreak">LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS</h2></div>
<table border="0" cellpadding="2" cellspacing="2" summary="table">
<tr><td> </td><td class="tdr"><small>PAGE</small></td></tr>
<tr><td>“And from that hour they were fast friends” (page <SPAN href="#Page_50">50</SPAN>) </td><td class="tdr"><SPAN href="#Page_0"> <i>Frontispiece</i></SPAN></td></tr>
<tr><td>“Rolling on the crimson rug”</td><td class="tdr"><SPAN href="#Page_10"> 10</SPAN></td></tr>
<tr><td>“Advancing, ... her clear eyes fixed on mine”</td><td class="tdr"><SPAN href="#Page_16"> 16</SPAN></td></tr>
<tr><td>“And still looked directly in my eyes”</td><td class="tdr"><SPAN href="#Page_22"> 22</SPAN></td></tr>
<tr><td>“She passed deliciously dreamy days”</td><td class="tdr"><SPAN href="#Page_48"> 48</SPAN></td></tr>
<tr><td>“There was a useless battle”</td><td class="tdr"><SPAN href="#Page_70"> 70</SPAN></td></tr>
<tr><td>“In company of the everlasting tortoise”</td><td class="tdr"><SPAN href="#Page_76"> 76</SPAN></td></tr>
<tr><td>“I was glad ... that she had not died elsewhere”</td><td class="tdr"><SPAN href="#Page_90"> 90</SPAN></td></tr>
</table>
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<p class="ph2">LIVES OF<br/>
TWO CATS</p>
</div>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" />
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_3">[3]</span>
<p class="ph2">Lives of Two Cats</p>
<h2 class="nobreak"> <ANTIMG src="images/leafleft.jpg" alt="" />(I)<ANTIMG src="images/leafright.jpg" alt="" /> </h2></div>
<p class="drop-cap">I HAVE often seen, with a questioning
restlessness infinitely sad, the soul of
animals meet mine from the depths of their
eyes: the soul of a cat, the soul of a dog,
the soul of a monkey, as pathetically, for
an instant, as a human soul, revealing itself
suddenly in a glance and seeking my own
soul with tenderness, supplication, or terror;
and I have felt perhaps more pity for these
souls of animals than for those of my own
brethren, because they are speechless, incapable
of emerging from their semi-intelligence;
above all, because they are more
humble and despised.</p>
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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_4">[4]</span>
<h2 class="nobreak"> <ANTIMG src="images/leafleft.jpg" alt="" />(II)<ANTIMG src="images/leafright.jpg" alt="" /> </h2></div>
<p class="drop-cap">THE two cats whose histories I am
about to write are associated in memory
with comparatively happy years of my
life,—years scarce past by the dates they
bear, but years already seeming in the remote
past, borne away by the frightfully
accelerating speed of time, and which,
placed beside the gray to-day, bear tints of
early dawn or last rosy light of morning.
So fast our days hasten to the twilight, so
fast our fall to the night.</p>
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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_5">[5]</span>
<h2 class="nobreak"> <ANTIMG src="images/leafleft.jpg" alt="" />(III)<ANTIMG src="images/leafright.jpg" alt="" /> </h2></div>
<p class="drop-cap">PARDON me that I call each of my
cats Pussy. At first I had no idea
of giving names to my pets. A cat was
“Pussy,” a kitten “Kitty;” and surely no
names could be more expressive and tender
than these. I shall call the poor little personages
of my story by the names they bore
in their real lives, Pussy White and Pussy
Gray; the latter often known as Pussy
Chinese.</p>
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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_6">[6]</span>
<h2 class="nobreak"> <ANTIMG src="images/leafleft.jpg" alt="" />(IV)<ANTIMG src="images/leafright.jpg" alt="" /> </h2></div>
<p class="drop-cap2">AS the oldest, allow me first to present
the Angora, Pussy White. Her
visiting card, by her desire, was thus inscribed—</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="bbox">
<p class="center">
MADAME MOUMOUTTE BLANCHE<br/>
<span class="smcap">Première chatte</span><br/>
Chez M. Pierre Loti.</p>
</div>
</div></div>
<p>On a memorable evening nearly twelve
years ago, I saw her for the first time. It
was a winter’s evening, on one of my returns
home at the close of some Eastern
campaign. I had been in the house but
a few moments, and was warming myself<span class="pagenum" id="Page_7">[7]</span>
before a blazing wood fire, seated between
my mother and my aunt Clara. Suddenly
something appeared on the scene, bounding
like a panther, and then rolling itself wildly
on the hearth rug like a live snowball on
its crimson ground. “Ah!” said aunt
Clara, “you don’t know her; I will introduce
her; this is our new inmate, Pussy
White! We thought we would have another
cat, for a mouse had found our closet
in the saloon below.”</p>
<p>The house had been catless for a long
time; succeeding the mourning for a certain
African cat that I had brought home
from my first voyage and worshiped for
two years, but who one fine morning, after
a short illness, breathed out her little foreign
soul, giving me her last conscious
glance, and whom I had afterward buried
beneath a tree in the garden.</p>
<p>I lifted for a closer view the roll of fur
which lay so white on the crimson mat.
I held her carefully with both hands, in a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_8">[8]</span>
position cats immediately comprehend, and
say to themselves, “Here is a man who
understands us; his caresses we can gratefully
condescend to receive.”</p>
<p>The face of the new cat was very prepossessing.
The young, brilliant eyes, the
tip of a pink nose, and all else lost in a
mass of silken Angora fur; white, warm,
clean, exquisite to fondle and caress. Besides,
she was marked nearly like her predecessor
from Senegal, which fact probably
decided the selection of my mother and
aunt Clara,—to the end that I might
finally regard the two as one, in my somewhat
fickle affections. Above the cat’s
ears, a capote shaped spot, jet black in
color, was set straight, forming a band over
the bright eyes; another and larger spot,
shaped like a cape, lay over her shoulders;
a plumy black tail, moving like a superb
train or an animated fly-brush, completed
the costume. Her breast, belly, and paws
were white as the down of a swan; her<span class="pagenum" id="Page_9">[9]</span>
“total” gave me the impression of a ball
of animated fur; light, soft, and moved
by some capricious hidden spring. After
making my acquaintance, Pussy White left
my arms to recommence her play. And in
these first moments of arrival, inevitably
melancholy, because they marked another
epoch in my life, the new black and white
cat obliged me to busy my thoughts with
her, jumping on my knee to reiterate my
welcome, or stretching herself with feigned
weariness on the floor, that I might better
admire the silken whiteness of her belly
and neck. So she gambolled, the new cat,
while my eyes rested with tender remembrances
on the two dear faces which smiled
on me, somewhat aged and framed in
grayer curls; upon the family portraits
which preserved their expression and age
in their frames upon the walls; upon the
thousand objects seen in their accustomed
places; upon the well known furniture of
this hereditary dwelling immovably fixed<span class="pagenum" id="Page_10">[10]</span>
there, while my unquiet, restless, changing
being had roamed over a changing world.</p>
<p>And this is the persistent, distinct image
of our Pussy White, with me still, long
after her death: an embodied frolic in fur,
snowy white and bounding or rolling on
the crimson rug between the sombre black
robes of my mother and aunt Clara, in the
evening of one of my great returns.</p>
<div class="figcenter"><ANTIMG src="images/facing010.jpg" alt="" /></div>
<p class="caption">“ROLLING ON THE CRIMSON RUG”</p>
<p>Poor Pussy! During the first winter
of her life she was usually the familiar
demon, the hearthstone imp, who enlivened
the loneliness of the blessed guardians of
my home, my mother and aunt Clara.
While I sailed over distant seas, when the
house resumed its grand emptiness, in sombre
twilights and interminable December
nights, she was their constant attendant,
though often their tormentor; leaving upon
their immaculate black gowns, precisely
alike, tufts of her white fur. With reckless
indiscretion she took forcible possession
of a place on their laps, their work<span class="pagenum" id="Page_11">[11]</span>
table, or in the centre of their workbaskets,
tangling beyond rearrangement their skeins
of wool, their reels of silk. Then they
would say with great pretense of anger,
meanwhile longing to laugh, “Oh! that
cat, that bad cat, she will never learn how
to behave herself! Get out, miss! Get
out! Were there ever such actions as
these!” They busied themselves inventing
methods for her amusement, even to
keeping a jumping-jack, a ludicrous wooden
toy, for her special edification.</p>
<p>She loved them cattishly, with indocility,
but added thereto a touching constancy, for
which alone her little incomplete and fantastic
existence merits my lasting remembrance.</p>
<p>In springtime, when the March sun began
to brighten our courtyard, she experienced
new and endless surprises in seeing,
awake and crawling from his winter retreat,
our tortoise Suleïma, her fellow resident
and friend.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_12">[12]</span>During the beautiful month of May she
seemed seized by yearnings for space and
freedom; then she made excursions on the
walls, the roof, through the lanes, in the
neighboring gardens, and even nocturnal absences,
which I should here state were unaccountable
in the austere circle where fate
had placed her.</p>
<p>In summer she was languid as a creole.
For entire days she lay lazily in the
sunshine on the old wall top among the
honeysuckles and roses, or, extended on
the tiled walks, turned her white belly to
the sun amidst the pots of red or golden
cacti.</p>
<p>Extremely careful of her little person,
always neat, correct, aristocratic, even to
the ends of her toes, she was haughtily disdainful
of other cats, and conducted herself
as if ill bred if any neighbor cat called on
her. In this courtyard, which she considered
her own domain, she conceded no
right of entry. If, above the adjoining<span class="pagenum" id="Page_13">[13]</span>
garden wall, two ear tips, a cat’s nose, rose
timidly, or if something stirred in the vines
or moss, she upsprang like a young fury,
bristling angrily to the tip of her tail, impossible
to restrain, quite beside herself!
Cries in harsh tones and bad taste followed,
struggles, blows, and savage clawings.</p>
<p>In fact, our pet was ferociously independent.
She was also extremely affectionate
when so inclined, caressing, cajoling,
uttering so gentle a cry of joy, a tremulous
“miaou” every time she returned
from one of her vagabond tramps in the
vicinity.</p>
<p>She was then five years old, in the mature
beauty of an Angora, with superb attitudes
of dignity and the graces of a queen.
I had become much attached to her in the
course of my absences and returns, considering
her one of our home treasures,
when there appeared on the scene—three
thousand miles afar in the Gulf of Pekin,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_14">[14]</span>
and of a far less distinguished family
than the Angoras—the kitten destined to
become her inseparable friend, the most
unique little personage I have yet known,
“Pussy Gray” or “Pussy Chinese.”</p>
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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_15">[15]</span>
<h2 class="nobreak"> <ANTIMG src="images/leafleft.jpg" alt="" />(V)<ANTIMG src="images/leafright.jpg" alt="" /> </h2></div>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="bbox">
<p class="center">
MADAME MOUMOUTTE CHINOISE<br/>
<span class="smcap">Deuxième chatte</span><br/>
Chez M. Pierre Loti.</p>
</div>
</div></div>
<p class="drop-cap">MOST singular was the destiny which
united to me this cat of the yellow
race, progeny of obscure parentage and
destitute of all beauty.</p>
<p>It was at the close of our last foreign
war, one of those evenings of revelry which
often occurred at that time. I know not
how the little distraught creature, driven
from some wrecked junk or sampan, came
on board our warship, in great terror, seeking<span class="pagenum" id="Page_16">[16]</span>
a refuge in my cabin beneath my berth.
She was young, not half grown, thin and
melancholy, having doubtless, like her relatives
and masters, subsisted meanly on
fishes’ heads with a bit of cooked rice. I
pitied her much and bade my servant give
her food and drink.</p>
<p>With an unmistakable air of humility
and gratitude she accepted my kindness,—and
I can see her now, creeping slowly
toward the unhoped-for repast, advancing
first one foot, then another, her clear eyes
fixed on mine to assure herself that she
was not deceived, that it was really intended
for her.</p>
<p>In the morning I wished to turn her
away. After giving her a farewell breakfast,
I clapped my hands loudly, and stamping
both feet together by way of emphasis,
I said in a harsh tone, “Get out, go away,
little Kitty!”</p>
<div class="figcenter"><ANTIMG src="images/facing016.jpg" alt="" /></div>
<p class="caption">“ADVANCING ... HER CLEAR EYES FIXED ON MINE”</p>
<p>But no, she did not go, the little pagan.
Evidently she felt no fear of me, intuitively<span class="pagenum" id="Page_17">[17]</span>
certain that all this angry noise was a pretense.
With an air that seemed to say,
“I know very well that you will not harm
me,” she crouched silently in the corner,
lying close to the floor in a supplicating
attitude, fixing upon me two dilated eyes,
alight with a human look that I have never
seen except in hers.</p>
<p>What could I do? Impossible to domicile
a cat in the contracted cabin of a warship.
Besides, she was such a distressingly
homely little creature, what an encumbrance
by and by!</p>
<p>Then I lifted her carefully to my neck,
saying to her, “I am very sorry, Kitty;”
but I carried her resolutely the length of
the deck, to the further end of the battery,
to the sailors’ quarters, who usually are
both fond of and kind to cats of whatever
age or pedigree.</p>
<p>Flattened close to the deck, her head imploringly
turned towards me, she gave me
one beseeching look; then rose and fled<span class="pagenum" id="Page_18">[18]</span>
with a queer and swift gait in the direction
of my cabin, where she arrived first in the
race between us; when I entered I found
her crouched obstinately in the corner
from which I had taken her, with an expression,
a remonstrance in her golden
eyes, that deprived me of all courage to
again take her away. And this is the way
by which Pussy Chinese chose me for her
owner and protector.</p>
<p>My servant, evidently on her side from
the début of the contest, completed immediate
preparations for her installment
in my cabin, by placing beneath my bed a
lined basket for her bed, and one of my
large Chinese bowls, very practically filled
with sand; an arrangement which froze
me with fright.</p>
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<span class="pagenum" id="Page_19">[19]</span>
<h2 class="nobreak"> <ANTIMG src="images/leafleft.jpg" alt="" />(VI)<ANTIMG src="images/leafright.jpg" alt="" /> </h2></div>
<p class="drop-cap">DAY and night she lived for seven
months in the dim light and unceasing
movement of my cabin, and gradually
an intimacy was established between
us, simultaneously with a faculty of mutual
comprehension very rare between man and
animal.</p>
<p>I recall the first day when our relations
became truly affectionate. We were far
out in the Yellow Sea, in gloomy September
weather. The first autumnal fogs had
gathered over the suddenly cooled and restless
waters. In these latitudes cold and
cloud come suddenly, bringing to us European<span class="pagenum" id="Page_20">[20]</span>
voyagers a sadness whose intensity is
proportioned to our distance from home.
We were steaming eastward against a long
swell which had arisen, and rocked in dismal
monotony to the plaintive groans and
creakings of the ship. It had become
necessary to close my port, and the cabin
received its sole light through the thick
bull’s-eye, past which the crests of the waves
swept in green translucency, making intermittent
obscurity. I had seated myself to
write at the little sliding table, the same in
all our cabins on board,—during one of
those rare moments, when our service allows
a complete freedom and peace, and
when the longing comes to be alone as in
a cloister.</p>
<p>Pussy Gray had lived under my berth for
nearly two weeks. She had behaved with
great circumspection; melancholy, showing
herself seldom, keeping in darkest corners as
if suffering from homesickness and pining
for the land to which there was no return.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_21">[21]</span>Suddenly she came forth from the shadows,
stretched herself leisurely, as if giving
time for farther reflection, then moved
towards me, still hesitating with abrupt
stops; at times affecting a peculiarly Chinese
gesture, she raised a fore paw, holding
it in the air some seconds before deciding
to make another advancing step; and all
this time her eyes were fixed on mine with
infinite solicitude.</p>
<p>What did she want of me? She was
evidently not hungry: suitable food was
given her by my servant twice daily. What
then could it be?</p>
<p>When she was sufficiently near to touch
my leg, she sat down, curled her tail about
her, and uttered a very low mew; and
still looked directly in my eyes, as if
they could communicate with hers, which
showed a world of intelligent conception in
her little brain. She must first have learned,
like other superior animals, that I was not
a thing, but a thinking being, capable of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_22">[22]</span>
pity and influenced by the mute appeal of
a look; besides, she felt that my eyes were
for her eyes, that they were mirrors, where
her little soul sought anxiously to seize a
reflection of mine. Truly they are startlingly
near us, when we reflect upon it,
animals capable of such inferences.</p>
<div class="figcenter"><ANTIMG src="images/facing022.jpg" alt="" /></div>
<p class="caption">“AND STILL LOOKED DIRECTLY IN MY EYES”</p>
<p>As to myself, I studied for the first time
the little visitor who for two weeks had
shared my lodging: she was fawn-colored
like a wild rabbit, mottled with darker
spots like a tiger, her nose and neck were
white; homely in effect, mainly consequent
on her extremely thin and sickly
condition, and really more odd looking than
homely to a man freed like myself from all
conventional ideas of beauty. Besides, she
was quite unlike our French cats: low on
the legs, very long bodied, a tail of unusual
length, large upright ears, and a triangular
face; all her charm was in the eyes, raised
at the outer corners like all eyes of the
extreme Orient, of a fine golden yellow<span class="pagenum" id="Page_23">[23]</span>
instead of green, and ever changing, astonishingly
expressive.</p>
<p>While examining her, I laid my hand
gently upon her queer little head, stroking
the brown fur in a first caress.</p>
<p>Whatever she experienced was an emotion
beyond mere physical pleasure; she felt
the sentiment of a protection, a pity for her
condition of an abandoned foundling. This,
then, was why she came out of her retreat,
poor Pussy Gray; this was why she resolved,
after so much hesitation, to beg from me
not food or drink, but, for the solace of her
lonely cat soul, a little friendly company
and interest.</p>
<p>Where had she learned to know that,
this miserable outcast, never stroked by a
kind hand, never loved by any one,—if not
perhaps in the paternal junk, by some poor
Chinese child without playthings, and without
caresses, thrown by chance like a useless
weed in the immense yellow swarm,
miserable and hungry as herself, and whose<span class="pagenum" id="Page_24">[24]</span>
incomplete soul in departing, left behind
no more trace than her own?</p>
<p>Then a frail paw was laid timidly upon
me—oh! with so much delicacy, so much
discretion!—and after looking at me a
long time beseechingly, she decided to venture
upon my knee. Jumping there lightly
she curled herself in a light, small mass,
making herself small as possible and almost
without weight, never taking her eyes from
me. She lay a long time thus, much in my
way, but I had not the heart to dislodge
her, which I should doubtless have done
had she been a gay pretty kitten in the
bloom of kittenhood. As if in fear at my
least movement, she watched me incessantly,
not fearing that I should harm her—she
was too intelligent to think me capable of
that—but with an air that seemed to ask:
“Is it true that I do not weary you, that I
do not trouble you?” and then, her eyes
growing still more tender and expressive,
saying to mine very plainly: “On this<span class="pagenum" id="Page_25">[25]</span>
dismal autumn day, so depressing to the
soul of cats, since we two are here so lonely,
in this abode so strange, so unquiet, shaken
and lost amid I know not what dangerous
and endless space, can we not give to each
other a little of that sweet thing, immaterial
and beyond the power of death, which is
called affection and which sometimes shows
itself in a caress?”</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" />
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_26">[26]</span>
<h2 class="nobreak"> <ANTIMG src="images/leafleft.jpg" alt="" />(VII)<ANTIMG src="images/leafright.jpg" alt="" /> </h2></div>
<p class="drop-cap2">AS soon as the treaty of friendship was
signed between this cat and myself,
anxieties arose within me concerning
her future. What could I do with her?
Carry her to France over so many thousand
miles and difficulties innumerable?
To be sure, my home would be for her the
unhoped-for asylum where the short mysterious
dream of her little life would pass
with least suffering and most peace. But
I could not see, without forebodings, this
sickly, illy-robed foreigner the fellow resident
of our superb Pussy White, so jealous,
who would certainly drive her from the<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_27">[27]</span>
premises as soon as she appeared. No, that
was impossible.</p>
<p>On the other side, to abandon her at
our next port of call, among chance new
friends—that was equally impossible; I
could have done so had she been vigorous
and beautiful, but this melancholy little
creature, with her human eyes, held me to
her by a profound pity.</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" />
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_28">[28]</span>
<h2 class="nobreak"> <ANTIMG src="images/leafleft.jpg" alt="" />(VIII)<ANTIMG src="images/leafright.jpg" alt="" /> </h2></div>
<p class="drop-cap">OUR intimacy, founded on mutual
loneliness, constantly increased.
Weeks and months passed, on the never
resting seas, while all remained the same in
the obscure corner of the ship where Pussy
had chosen her abode. For us men who
sail the seas there are always the strong
winds that buffet us, the starry nights on
deck, and the goings on shore in foreign
ports—always some event to break the
monotony of sea life. She, on the contrary,
knew nothing of the vast world over
which her prison moved, nothing of her
kindred, or of the sun, or of verdure, or of<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_29">[29]</span>
shade. And, never going outside, she lived
in the solitude of my narrow cabin; it was
a glacial place at times when the door
swung open to the fierce wind sweeping
the decks; oftener it was a hot and stifling
furnace, where Chinese incense burned before
the expatriated idols as if in a Buddhist
temple. For companions in her musings
she had monsters in wood or bronze,
fixed to the walls, and grinning with malicious
laughter; in the midst of a mass of
relics of things sacred in her country, pillaged
from dwellings and temples, she
wasted away, without air, among the silken
hangings that she loved to tear with her
restless little claws.</p>
<p>As soon as I entered my cabin she
would come forward with her soft welcoming
cry of joy, springing like a jack in the
box from behind some curtain, desk, or
chest. If by chance I seated myself to
write, she very slyly, very tenderly, seeking
protection and caresses, would softly<span class="pagenum" id="Page_30">[30]</span>
take her place on my knees and follow the
comings and goings of my pen,—sometimes
effacing, with an unintentional stroke
of her paw, lines of whose tenor she disapproved.</p>
<p>The shocks, the pitchings of the ship in
rough weather, the noise of our cannon,
gave her great terror: at these times, she
threw herself against the walls, spun around
like a mad creature, after which she would
stop breathless, and hide herself in the darkest
corner, with a terrified and sad expression.</p>
<p>Her cloistered youth resulted in an unnatural
state of invalidism, becoming daily
more and more pronounced. Her appetite
continued normal, but she was emaciated,
her face grew, if possible, more triangular,
her ears pointed sharply and batlike,
her large golden eyes sought mine with
an air of distress, uncomfortably humanlike,
or with questionings on the problem of life,
perhaps equally troubling and far more<span class="pagenum" id="Page_31">[31]</span>
unanswerable to her little intelligence than
to my own.</p>
<p>She was very curious about outside matters,
despite her unaccountable determination
never to cross the threshold of my
door, and never failed to examine with extreme
attention any new object brought to
our common lodging, probably giving her
confused impressions of the foreign ports
where our ship called. In India, for example,
I remember she was once deeply
interested, even to the total neglect of her
breakfast, in a bouquet of fragrant orchids,—so
extraordinary for her who had never
known garden or forest, never seen other
than the withered or dead flowers in my
bronze vases. As an offset to her rough
and discolored fur, which at first sight gave
her a gutter-cat air, she was finely formed,
and the least movement of her delicate
paws was of patrician grace. While watching
her, I sometimes fancied her some little
enchanted princess, condemned by wicked<span class="pagenum" id="Page_32">[32]</span>
fairies to share my solitude in this lowly
guise; and I called to mind a story of
the mother of the great Tchengiz-Khan,
which an old Armenian priest of Constantinople,
my teacher of the Turkish language,
had given me to translate:</p>
<p>“The young princess Ulemalik-Kurekli,
doomed before her birth to die if she beheld
the light of day, lived shut up in an
obscure dungeon. And she asked her servants:
‘Is this what they call the world?
Tell me, is there anything else outside these
walls? is this tower in something?’</p>
<p>“‘No, princess, this is not the world:
that is outside and very much larger. And
there are also things they call stars, that
they call sun and they call moon.’</p>
<p>“‘Oh!’ replied Ulemalik, ‘let me die,
but let me see them!’”</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" />
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_33">[33]</span>
<h2 class="nobreak"> <ANTIMG src="images/leafleft.jpg" alt="" />(IX)<ANTIMG src="images/leafright.jpg" alt="" /> </h2></div>
<p class="drop-cap">IT was at the close of winter, one of the
first warm days of March, that Pussy
Chinese made her début at my home in
France. Pussy White still wore at that
season her royal winter robe, and I had
never seen her more imposing. The contrast
would be the more overwhelming for
my poor favorite, lean, lank, with her
faded fawn-colored fur looking as if moth-eaten.
I felt myself much embarrassed
when our man Sylvester, returning with my
pet from the ship, lifted, with a half disdainful
air, the cover of the basket where
he had placed her, and I saw, in the midst<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_34">[34]</span>
of the assembled family, my little Chinese
friend creep tremblingly forth.</p>
<p>Most deplorable was her first appearance.
I felt the impression of the group in Aunt
Clara’s simple exclamation: “Oh! my
friend, how homely she is!”</p>
<p>Homely indeed! And in what way,
under what pretense could I present her
to the magnificent Pussy White? In utter
helplessness I had her carried, for the time
being, to an isolated granary,—that I might
gain time to reflect on the situation.</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" />
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_35">[35]</span>
<h2 class="nobreak"> <ANTIMG src="images/leafleft.jpg" alt="" />(X)<ANTIMG src="images/leafright.jpg" alt="" /> </h2></div>
<p class="drop-cap">THEIR first interview was certainly
terrible. It was unpremeditated, a
few days after, in the kitchen (a locality
of irresistible attractions, where the cats of
the same household, do what one can to
prevent, will some day meet). The servants
summoned me hastily and I ran to the
battlefield, where, uttering unearthly yells,
a shapeless package of fur and claws formed
of their closely clinched little bodies, rolled
and bounded,—shattering glasses, plates,
and dishes, while tufts of white fur, gray
fur, black fur, and fawn fur flew and floated
everywhere. It was necessary to interfere<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_36">[36]</span>
energetically and instantly: to separate them
I threw upon them a whole carafe of water.
I was at my wits’ end.</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" />
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_37">[37]</span>
<h2 class="nobreak"> <ANTIMG src="images/leafleft.jpg" alt="" />(XI)<ANTIMG src="images/leafright.jpg" alt="" /> </h2></div>
<p class="drop-cap">BREATHLESS, scratched, and bleeding,
her heart beating as if it must
break, Pussy Gray was gathered to my
breast, where she clung closely, growing
more quiet in the consciousness of sweet
security; then she became less and less
rigid and as limp and inert as if dying,
which is a way cats have of showing entire
confidence in one who holds them. Pussy
White, seated thoughtful and gloomy in a
corner, looked at us with surprised eyes,
and a deduction from the view was formed
in her little jealous brain; that she, who
from one year’s end to the other had driven<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_38">[38]</span>
from the neighboring walls all other cats,
unwilling even to endure their presence,
must acknowledge this ugly pagan as mine,
since I held her so tenderly, so closely;
then it became necessary that she, Pussy
White, should tolerate her presence in the
mansion and trouble her no more.</p>
<p>My surprise and admiration were great
to see these two, an instant after, pass by
each other, not merely with indifference
but calmly, civilly,—and all was ended.
During their lives they never quarreled
again.</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" />
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_39">[39]</span>
<h2 class="nobreak"> <ANTIMG src="images/leafleft.jpg" alt="" />(XII)<ANTIMG src="images/leafright.jpg" alt="" /> </h2></div>
<p class="drop-cap">THE springtime of the following year!
How pleasant my reminiscences of
its sunny days.</p>
<p>Very short as all seasons now seem, it
was the last which held a charm for me,
like the mysterious enchantment of childhood’s
days, passed in the same environment
of verdure and bloom, in the midst
of flowers blooming anew in their annual
ranks, the same jasmines, the same roses.
After my campaigns I joyfully returned
there, to forget other continents and the
immense seas; again, as in my infancy,
I limited the exterior world to the old<span class="pagenum" id="Page_40">[40]</span>
walls hung with vines and mosses, which
bounded my rambles; the distant lands
where I have since lived seeming unreal
as those of which I dreamed, having never
seen. The far horizons fade; they vanish
imperceptibly and nothing is real to me save
our mossy stones, our trees, our trellises,
and our beloved white roses!</p>
<p>At that time, I had built in a corner of
my mansion a Buddhist pagoda, the collected
débris of original temples. From
the large cases opened daily in the courtyard
in the warm sunshine there arose
that indefinable and mingled odor of China,
from pedestals of columns, bas-reliefs of
ceilings, carved altars, and mouldy old idols
and vases. It was interesting and unique,
this unpacking; to watch these grotesque
objects reappearing one by one, arranging
themselves, as it were, on the grass or the
mossy pavement,—all this assembly of
monsters of far Asia, bearing on their faces
the same frowns and grimaces they had<span class="pagenum" id="Page_41">[41]</span>
borne for ages. Occasionally my mother
and Aunt Clara would come out to look
at them, astonished at their overwhelming
ugliness. Pussy Gray was the most
interested spectator of these unpackings;
recognizing her ocean surroundings, she
sniffed all with confused memories of her
native land; afterward, habituated to dwelling
so long in semi-darkness, she would
crawl into the boxes and hide herself in
the empty spaces, under the exotic straw
still smelling of sandal-wood and musk.</p>
<p>It was an exhilarating and beautiful
springtime, bird songs filling the air; and
Pussy Gray thought it marvelous. Poor
little recluse, grown up in the stifling obscurity
of my rolling home! Bright sunlight,
balmy air, the vicinity of feline
friends alike astonished and charmed her.
She now made long and exhaustive explorations
of the courtyard and garden,
smelling every blade of grass, every new
plant; in fact everything that sprang fresh<span class="pagenum" id="Page_42">[42]</span>
and odorous from the awakened earth.
These forms, these colors, old as the world,
which plants unconsciously produce every
succeeding spring, these immutable laws,
perfectly and silently obeyed by unfolding
leaf and bursting bud, were phenomena
for her who had never known springtime
or verdure. And Pussy White, formerly
absolute and intolerant queen of the place,
had deigned to share her domain with the
forlorn stranger, leaving her to roam at will
among the evergreens, the potted flowers,
or along the promenade on the gray wall top
under the pendent boughs. Pussy
Chinese was especially impressed by a miniature
lake, so closely interwoven with
my infantile memories, which fascinated
her for a long time. There, in the grass
each day higher and more luxuriant, she
crouched close to the earth, like a panther
intent on his prey (doubtless inheriting this
movement from her ancestors, Mongolian
cats with uncultivated manners). She hid<span class="pagenum" id="Page_43">[43]</span>
behind the lilliputian rocks, buried herself
beneath the vines like a little tiger in a
miniature virgin forest.</p>
<p>I found great pleasure in watching her
goings and comings, her sudden haltings,
her surprises; when she realized that I was
watching her, she in turn watched me, posing
in an attitude peculiarly her own;—very
graceful, but very like a Chinese belle,
with a paw extended as if holding a fan,
just as I have seen one holding an article
raise coquettishly the little finger; and her
droll golden eyes grew infinitely expressive,
“speaking” to mine. “Please permit
me to amuse myself? Does it incommode
you in the least? Look! I walk with
lightness, I play with extreme carefulness,
I go about with discretion among these
beautiful green things that smell so sweetly,
and this good air is so refreshing in this
wide, free space! And these other strange
objects that I see in turn high over us,
‘Things they call stars, that they call sun,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_44">[44]</span>
and they call moon!’ Oh! how different
from our trembling lodging on the ship
and how delightful to be here together in
this happy place!”</p>
<p>This home, so new to her, was equally
for me the oldest, the most familiar of all
places on the earth; whose least details,
whose feeblest blade of grass were known
to me since the earliest and most impressible
days of my existence. So dear to me
that I am bound to it with all my being,
so dear that I love with a love akin to idolatry
the old vines and shrubs which are there,
the jasmine, the honeysuckles, and a certain
dielytra rose, which every returning March
unfolds its precocious leaves, gives the
same April roses, fades in the June sun, then
burns in August heat and seems to perish.</p>
<p>And while Pussy Gray abandons herself
to the joy of youth and springtime, I, on
the contrary, knowing that all this will
pass away, feel for the first time in my life,
shadows like those of evening stealing over<span class="pagenum" id="Page_45">[45]</span>
my own life,—presages of the inexorable
night, the morningless night of the final
autumn,—never to be succeeded by spring.</p>
<p>And with profound sadness in this courtyard
bright with sunshine, I gaze upon the
two dear ones, their silvery hair, their
mourning robes—my mother and Aunt
Clara, going and coming, stooping down as
has been their wont for many springs, to
discover what flower seeds had come up, or
raising their heads to see the buds of honeysuckles
and rose-trees. And when their
sombre robes vanished from my view, at
the end of the green avenue, which is the
vestibule of our family residence, I am
forced to notice that their steps are slower
and less firm. Oh, time, perhaps near,
when in the unchanging green avenue I
shall behold them no more. Can it be
possible that time may arrive? If ever they
shall be gone I have the illusion that it will
not be an entire departure, so long as I remain
there recalling their presence;—that<span class="pagenum" id="Page_46">[46]</span>
in the quiet summer evenings I shall sometimes
see their spirits glide beneath the jasmine;
that something of their existence
will still live in the plants they have tended,
and breathe from the falling honeysuckle,
the old dielytra rose.</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" />
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_47">[47]</span>
<h2 class="nobreak"> <ANTIMG src="images/leafleft.jpg" alt="" />(XIII)<ANTIMG src="images/leafright.jpg" alt="" /> </h2></div>
<p class="drop-cap">SINCE her life in open air, my favorite
flourished visibly. The bare and
unsightly spots in her rabbit-colored coat
were covered with new glossy fur; she was
less thin, more careful of her little person,
and bore no longer the appearance of a
witch’s cat. My mother and Aunt Clara
often stopped to speak to her, interested
in her odd ways, her expressive eyes, and
her soft responsive “Trr! trr! trr!” that
she never failed to utter when addressed.</p>
<p>“Certainly,” they said, “this Chinese
pussy seems very happy with us; no cat’s
face could show greater content.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_48">[48]</span>A happy look, in fact; even a look of
gratitude to me, who had brought her to
her new home. And the happiness of
young animals is perfect, perhaps because
they have not, like us, forebodings of the
inevitable future.</p>
<p>She passed deliciously dreamy days in
most luxuriant idleness, extended on the
warm tiles or the soft moss, enjoying the
silence—somewhat depressing to me—of
this abode where neither the contention
of wind and wave or the terrible shock
of cannon troubled her repose. She had
reached the distant peaceful haven, the last
port in her short life’s voyage, and rested
happily unconscious of the end.</p>
<div class="figcenter"><ANTIMG src="images/facing048.jpg" alt="" /></div>
<p class="caption">“SHE PASSED DELICIOUSLY DREAMY DAYS”</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" />
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_49">[49]</span>
<h2 class="nobreak"> <ANTIMG src="images/leafleft.jpg" alt="" />(XIV)<ANTIMG src="images/leafright.jpg" alt="" /> </h2></div>
<p class="drop-cap">ONE fine day, without intervention,
seized by some sudden whim, the
indifference of Pussy White changed to a
tender friendship. She came deliberately
to Pussy Gray and rubbed her nose against
her own affectionately, which is with her
race the equivalent of a kiss. Sylvester,
who was present at the performance, showed
himself skeptical regarding its good intent.
“Did you see,” said I, “the kiss of peace?”
“Oh no, sir!” he replied, in that tone of
accomplished connoisseur, assumed whenever
any question arises concerning my
cats, dogs, horses, or any other animals;<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_50">[50]</span>
“Oh no, sir! it is simply that Pussy White
wishes to ascertain if Pussy Gray has been
stealing her meat.”</p>
<p>He was mistaken for once nevertheless,—and
from that hour they were fast friends.
They could be seen sitting in the same
chair, eating the same food, even from the
same plate, and every morning running to
exchange salutations, rubbing together the
tips of their soft noses, one yellow, the
other pink.</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" />
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_51">[51]</span>
<h2 class="nobreak"> <ANTIMG src="images/leafleft.jpg" alt="" />(XV)<ANTIMG src="images/leafright.jpg" alt="" /> </h2></div>
<p class="drop-cap2">AFTER this we said, “The cats did
this or that.” They were an intimate
and inseparable pair, taking counsel
together, following each other in the least
and most trivial actions of their lives; and
making their toilets together, licking each
other with mutual interest.</p>
<p>Pussy White maintained her position as
the special cat of Aunt Clara, while the
Chinese continued my faithful little friend,
holding fast to her old habits of following
me with her speaking eyes, and replying in
her expressive “Trr-trr-trr,” whenever I
spoke to her. Scarcely would I be seated<span class="pagenum" id="Page_52">[52]</span>
before a light paw rested on me, as in the
old evenings on the ship; two questioning
eyes sought mine, then a bound and she was
on my knees,—slowly making her preparations
for a nap; plying her fore paws
alternately, turning herself round to the
right, then to the left, and usually finding
the right position by the time I was ready
to depart.</p>
<p>What a mystery! A soul’s mystery perhaps,
this constant affection of an animal
and its unchanging gratitude.</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" />
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_53">[53]</span>
<h2 class="nobreak"> <ANTIMG src="images/leafleft.jpg" alt="" />(XVI)<ANTIMG src="images/leafright.jpg" alt="" /> </h2></div>
<p class="drop-cap">THEY were much spoiled, the two
cats; admitted to the dining-room at
meal times; often seated one on my right
and the other on my left; recalling to me,
occasionally, their presence by a light stroke
of the paw on my napkin, and watching
for tit-bits that I fed them surreptitiously,
like a guilty schoolboy, from the tip of my
fork.</p>
<p>In recording this, I still farther darken
my reputation, which, it seems, is already
reputed incorrect and eccentric. I can
however criticise a certain member of the
Academy, who, having done me the honor<span class="pagenum" id="Page_54">[54]</span>
of dining at my table, did not refrain from
offering to our pussies, even in his own
spoon, a little Chantilly cream.</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" />
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_55">[55]</span>
<h2 class="nobreak"> <ANTIMG src="images/leafleft.jpg" alt="" />(XVII)<ANTIMG src="images/leafright.jpg" alt="" /> </h2></div>
<p class="drop-cap">THE following summer was for Pussy
Gray a period of absolutely delicious
life. With her originality and her foreign
air, she had grown almost beautiful, so
finely reclad in glossy fawn color. All
around, in the cat world, in the gardens
and on the roofs, the news had circulated
of the presence of this piquant stranger;
and candidates for her smiles were numerous;
they smirked and serenaded beneath
her windows in the balmy nights filled with
perfume of honeysuckle and rose.</p>
<p>During September, the two cats experienced,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_56">[56]</span>
at almost the same time, the joy of
motherhood.</p>
<p>Pussy White, it is needless to relate, was
already a well known matron. As to
Pussy Gray, when her first moments of
surprise had passed, she tenderly licked the
precious tiny gray kitten, spotted and mottled
like a tiger,—her only son.</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" />
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_57">[57]</span>
<h2 class="nobreak"> <ANTIMG src="images/leafleft.jpg" alt="" />(XVIII)<ANTIMG src="images/leafright.jpg" alt="" /> </h2></div>
<p class="drop-cap">THE reciprocal attachment of the two
families was touching; the comical
little Chinese and the little Angora, round
as a powder puff, frolicking together, and
nourished, washed, and watched by one or
the other mother with an almost equal
solicitude.</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" />
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_58">[58]</span>
<h2 class="nobreak"> <ANTIMG src="images/leafleft.jpg" alt="" />(XIX)<ANTIMG src="images/leafright.jpg" alt="" /> </h2></div>
<p class="drop-cap">IN the winter season pussy becomes peculiarly
the hearthstone guest, constant
companion of the fireside, sharing with
us, before the flickering flames, vague melancholies
and endless reveries of the long
twilights.</p>
<p>Since the first frost Pussy Gray had lost
all roughness of her mottled coat, and
Pussy White had donned a most imposing
cravat, a boa of snowy whiteness that
framed her face like a Medici ruff. It is
well known that in winter the cat attains
its fullest perfection of flesh and fur.
Their attachment grew as they warmed<span class="pagenum" id="Page_59">[59]</span>
themselves together by the fireside; they
slept entire days in each other’s arms, on
the cushions in the armchairs, rolled in a
single ball where heads and tails were alike
indistinguishable.</p>
<p>Pussy Gray could never get sufficiently
close to her friend. Returning from some
scamper in open air, if she perceived the
Angora sleeping before the fire, she softly,
very softly approached her, as if about to
spring upon a mouse; the other, always
nervous, whimsical, irritated at being disturbed,
sometimes gave her a light cuff of
disapproval. She never retaliated, the Chinese,
but merely raising her little paw, as
if quite ready to laugh, then saying to me
from a corner of her eyes, “You must
allow that she is rather cross! But I don’t
mind it at all, you may be sure!” Then,
with redoubled precaution, she always attained
her desired purpose, which was to
lay herself completely upon the other, her
head sunk in the silky snow,—and before<span class="pagenum" id="Page_60">[60]</span>
sleeping she said to me, from half-closed
eyes: “This is all I wanted! Here
I am!”</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" />
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_61">[61]</span>
<h2 class="nobreak"> <ANTIMG src="images/leafleft.jpg" alt="" />(XX)<ANTIMG src="images/leafright.jpg" alt="" /> </h2></div>
<p class="drop-cap">OH! our winter’s evenings of that
time! In the most sheltered corner
of the mansion, elsewhere closed and left
silent and dark, was a small and warm parlor
facing the sun, the courtyard, and the
gardens, where my mother and Aunt Clara
sat beneath their hanging lamp, in their
usual places where so many past and similar
winters had found them. And, usually,
I was there also, that I might not lose an
hour of their presence on earth and of my
days at home near them. On the other
side of the mansion, far from us, I abandoned
my study, leaving it dark and fireless<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_62">[62]</span>
that I might simply pass my evenings in
their dear company, within the cosy room,
innermost sanctuary of our family life, the
home dearest to us all. (No other spot
has given me a fuller, a sweeter impression
of a nest; nowhere have I warmed
myself with more tranquil melancholy than
before the blaze in its small fireplace.)
The windows, whose blinds were never
closed, so confident were we in our security,
the glass door, almost too summer-like,
opened upon the desolation of naked trees
and vines, brown leaves, and despoiled trellises
often silvered by pale moonlight.
Not a sound reached us from the street,
which was some rods distant,—and besides
a very quiet one, its silence rarely
broken save by the songs of sailors celebrating,
at long intervals, their safe returns.
No, we had rather the sounds of the country,
whose nearness was felt beyond the
gardens and old ramparts of the city;—in
summer, immense concerts of frogs in<span class="pagenum2" id="Page_63">[63]</span>
the marshes which surrounded us smooth
as steppes, and the intermittent flutelike
note of the owl; in the winter evenings of
which I write, the shrill cry of the marsh
bird, and above all, the long wail of the
west wind coming from the sea.</p>
<p>Upon the round table, covered with a
gayly flowered cloth, which I have known
all my life, my mother and aunt Clara
placed their workbaskets, containing articles
that I would fain designate “fondamentales,”
if I dared employ that word which,
in the present instance, will signify nothing
save to myself; those trifles, now
sacred relics, which hold in my eyes, in
my memory, in my life, a supreme importance:
embroidery scissors, heirlooms in
the family, lent me rarely when a child,
with manifold charges to carefulness, that
I might amuse myself with paper cutting;
winders for thread, in rare colonial woods,
brought long years ago from over the oceans
by sailors, and giving material for deep<span class="pagenum" id="Page_64">[64]</span>
reveries; needlecases, thimbles, spectacles,
and pocketbooks. How well I know and
love every one of them, the trifles so precious,
spread out every evening for so
many years on the gay old tablecloth, by
the hands of my mother and Aunt Clara;
after each distant voyage with what tenderness
I see them again and bid them my
good-day of return! In writing of them I
have used the word “fondamentale,” so
inappropriate I confess, but can only explain
it thus: if they were destroyed, if
they ceased to appear in their unchanged
positions, I should feel as if I had taken a
long step nearer the annihilation of my being,
towards dust and oblivion.</p>
<p>And when they shall be gone, my mother
and Aunt Clara, it seems to me that
these precious little objects, religiously
treasured after their departure, will recall
their presence, will perhaps prolong their
stay in our midst.</p>
<p>The cats, naturally, remained usually in<span class="pagenum" id="Page_65">[65]</span>
our common room,—sleeping together, a
warm, soft ball, upon some taboret or cushioned
chair, the nearest to the fire. And
their sudden awakenings, their musings,
their droll ways, cheered our somewhat
monotonous evenings.</p>
<p>Once it was Pussy White who, seized
by a desire to be in our closer company,
leaped upon the table and sat gravely down
upon the sewing work of Aunt Clara, turning
her back upon her mistress, after unceremoniously
sweeping her plumy tail over
her face; afterwards remaining there, obstinately
indiscreet, and gazing abstractedly at
the flame of the lamp. Once in a night of
tingling frost, so excitable to a cat’s nerves,
we heard, in a near garden, an animated discussion:
“Miaou! Miaraouraou!” Then
from the mute fur ball, which slumbered
so soundly, upsprang two heads, two pair
of shining eyes. Again: “Miaraou! Miaraou!”
The quarrel goes on! The Angora
rose up resolutely, her fur bristling in<span class="pagenum" id="Page_66">[66]</span>
anger, and ran from door to door, seeking
an exit as if called outside by some imperative
duty of great importance: “No, no,
Pussy,” said Aunt Clara, “believe me, there
is no necessity for your interference; they
will settle their quarrel without your help!”
And the Chinese, on the contrary, always
calm and averse to perilous adventure, contented
herself by glancing at me with a
knowing air, evidently regarding her friend’s
movements as ridiculous, and asking me,
“Am I not right in keeping away from
this fracas?”</p>
<p>A certain beatitude, profound and almost
infantile, pervaded the silent little parlor
where my mother and Aunt Clara sat at
work. And if by turns I remembered, with
a dull heart-throb, having possessed an oriental
soul, an African soul, and a number
of other souls, of having indulged, under
divers suns, in numberless fantasies and
dreams, all that appeared to me as far distant
and forever finished. And this roving<span class="pagenum" id="Page_67">[67]</span>
past led me more thoroughly to enjoy the
present hour, the side-scene in this interlude
of my life, which is so unknown, so
unsuspected, which would astonish many
people, and perhaps make them smile. In
all sincerity of purpose, I said to myself
that nothing could again take me from my
home, that nothing could be so precious as
the peace of dwelling there, and finding
again part of my first soul; to feel around
me, in this nest of my infancy, I know not
what benignant protection against worthlessness
and death; to picture to myself
through the window, in all the obscurity
of dying foliage, beneath the winter moon,
this courtyard which once held my entire
world, which has remained the same all
these years past, with its vines, its mimic
rocks, its old walls, and which may perhaps
resume its importance in my eyes, its former
greatness, and repeople itself with the same
dreams. Above all, I resolved that nothing
in the wide world was worth the gentle bliss<span class="pagenum" id="Page_68">[68]</span>
of watching mother and Aunt Clara sewing
at the round table, bending toward the
bright flowered cloth their caps of black
lace, their coils of silvery hair.</p>
<p>Oh! one evening I will recall. There
was a scene, a drama among the cats!
Even now I cannot recall it without laughter.</p>
<p>It was a frosty night about Christmas
time. In the deep silence we had heard
passing above the roofs, through cold and
cloudless skies, a flock of wild geese, emigrating
to other climates: a sound of harsh
voices, very numerous, wailing not too harmoniously
together and soon lost in the
infinite regions of the sky. “Do you hear?
Do you hear?” said Aunt Clara with a
slight smile and an anxious look to banter
me; recalling the fact that in my childhood
I was greatly alarmed by these nocturnal
flights of birds. To hear their voices one
should have a keen ear and listen in an
otherwise silent place.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_69">[69]</span>Our room then resumed its calm,—a
calm so profound that I heard the complaint
of the blazing wood on the hearth, and the
regular breathing of our cats seated in the
chimney corner.</p>
<p>Suddenly, a certain large yellow gentleman
cat, held in horror by Pussy White,
but persistently pursuing her with his declarations,
appeared behind a window pane,
showing in full relief against the background
of dark foliage, looking at her with an impertinent
and excited air and uttering a
formidable “Miaou” of provocation. Then
she sprang up at the window like a panther,
or a ball deftly thrown, and there, nose to
nose, on each side of the pane, there was a
useless battle, a volley of unpardonable insults
poured out in shrill, coarse tones;
blows of unsheathed claws given with emphasis,
vain scratchings across the glass,
which made great noise and did nothing.
Oh! the fright of my mother and Aunt
Clara, starting from their chairs at the first<span class="pagenum" id="Page_70">[70]</span>
alarm,—then their hearty laugh afterward,
the ridiculousness of all this impetuous
racket breaking in upon the intense silence,—and
above all the visage of the visitor,
the yellow cat, discomfited and breathless,
whose eyes blazed so drolly behind the
glass!</p>
<p>“Putting the pussies to bed” was in those
evenings, one of the important events,—“primordiales”
shall I call it?—of our
daily existence. They were never allowed,
as are many other cats, to roam all night
among the vines and flowers, beneath the
stars, or contemplating the moon; we held
opinions upon that subject from which we
never departed and made no compromises.</p>
<div class="figcenter"><ANTIMG src="images/facing070.jpg" alt="" /></div>
<p class="caption">“THERE WAS A USELESS BATTLE”</p>
<p>The going to bed was merely shutting
them up in an old granary at the end of the
courtyard, almost hidden under a growth
of vines and honeysuckles; it was really in
Sylvester’s quarters, beside his chamber; so
that every evening they said good-night together,
the cats and he. When each one<span class="pagenum" id="Page_71">[71]</span>
of these days—these unappreciated days
now wept for—was ended, fallen in the
abyss of time, Sylvester was called and my
mother would say in a half solemn tone, as
if fulfilling a religious duty, “Sylvester, it
is time for the cats to go to bed.”</p>
<p>At the first words of this phrase, uttered
in ever so low a voice, Pussy White pricked
up her ears; then knowing there was no
mistake about it, jumped down from her
cushion with an important though disturbed
air, and ran to the door, that she might
make her exit first, and on her own feet,
unwilling to be carried, and determined to
go of her own free will or not at all. The
Chinese, on the contrary, endeavored to
delay the inevitable change; reluctant to
quit the warm room, she got down slyly,
crouching very low on the carpet to be less
in view, and glancing around to ascertain
if any one had seen her, would hide under
some article of furniture. The big Sylvester,
accustomed to these subterfuges,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_72">[72]</span>
called with his childlike tone and smile:
“Where are you, Pussy Gray? I know
you are not far off.” Tenderly she responded
“Trr! Trr! Trr!” knowing
further pretense useless, and allowing herself
to be lifted to the broad shoulder of
her friend. The procession finally took up
the line of march: at the head, Pussy
White, independent and superb; behind
followed Sylvester who said “Good-night,”
and who in one hand carried his lantern,
and with the other grasped the long tail
of Pussy Gray which hung pendent on his
breast. The Angora usually proceeded
resignedly to her proper sleeping place.
Sometimes it happened, at certain phases
of the moon, that vagabond fancies seized
her, aspirations to play the truant and sleep
at the angle of some roof, or at the summit
of a solitary pear tree, in the bracing air of
December, after having passed the entire
day in an armchair by the fireside. On
these occasions Sylvester soon reappeared<span class="pagenum" id="Page_73">[73]</span>
with a drolly despondent face, still holding
the tail of Pussy Gray who clung close to
his neck: saying “Again that Pussy White
will not go to bed!”—“Again! Ah!
what actions!” replied Aunt Clara indignantly.
And she stepped outside, herself,
to try the effect of her authority, calling
“Pussy, Pussy” in her dear, feeble voice
which I can hear now, as it echoed then in
the courtyard through the sonorous depth
of the winter night. But no, Pussy obeyed
not; from the height of a tree, from the
top of a wall she gazed about her with a
nonchalant air, seated at her ease on her
chosen throne, her furry robe making a
white spot in the darkness and her eyes emitting
tiny phosphorescent gleams. “Pussy,
Pussy! Oh you naughty creature! It is
shameful, miss, such conduct, shameful!”</p>
<p>Then out in her turn came my mother,
shivering in the cold, and trying to make
Aunt Clara come in. An instant after, I
follow to bring both indoors. And then to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_74">[74]</span>
see ourselves gathered in the courtyard, in
a freezing night, Sylvester also of the
group and still holding his cat by the tail,
and all this united authority set at defiance
by a little cat perched high above us, gave
an irresistible desire to laugh at ourselves,
beginning with Aunt Clara, and in which
we all joined. I have never believed there
existed in the entire world two such blessed
old ladies,—Oh! how old, alas!—capable
of such hearty laughter with the young;
knowing so well how to be amiable, how to
be gay. Truly I have been happier with
them than with any or all others; they
always discovered in seemingly insignificant
trifles an amusing or comical aspect. Pussy
White decidedly had the best of the discussion!
We reëntered, crestfallen and chilled,
the little room too much cooled by the
opened door, to gain our respective chambers
by a series of stairways and sombre
passages. And Aunt Clara, with a relapse<span class="pagenum" id="Page_75">[75]</span>
of anger, when reaching her threshold, said
to me, “Good-night; but, on the whole,
what is your opinion of that cat?”</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" />
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_76">[76]</span>
<h2 class="nobreak"> <ANTIMG src="images/leafleft.jpg" alt="" />(XXI)<ANTIMG src="images/leafright.jpg" alt="" /> </h2></div>
<p class="drop-cap">THE life of a cat may extend over a
period of twelve to fifteen years, if
no accident occurs.</p>
<div class="figcenter"><ANTIMG src="images/facing076.jpg" alt="" /></div>
<p class="caption">“IN COMPANY OF THE EVERLASTING TORTOISE”</p>
<p>Our two pets lived to enjoy together the
light and warmth of another delicious summer;
they found again their days of blissful
idleness, in company of the everlasting tortoise,
Suleïma, whom the years forgot, between
the blooming cacti, on the sun-heated
pavements,—or stretched on the old wall
amidst the profusion of jasmines and roses.
They had many kittens, raised with tender
care and afterward advantageously domiciled
in the neighborhood; those of the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_77">[77]</span>
Chinese were in great demand, being of a
peculiar color and bearing distinctive race
marks.</p>
<p>They lived another winter and recommenced
their long naps in the chimney
corner, their meditations before the changing
aspect of the flame or embers of our
wood fire.</p>
<p>But this was their last season of health
and joy, and soon after, their decline began.
In the succeeding spring some mysterious
malady attacked their little bodies, which
should have endured vigorous and sound
for still some years.</p>
<p>Pussy Chinese, first attacked, seemed
stricken by some mental trouble, a sombre
melancholy,—regrets perhaps for her
native Mongolia. Refusing both food and
drink, she made long retreats to the wall
top, lying there motionless for entire days;
replying only to our appeals by a sorrowful
glance and plaintive “Meaou.”</p>
<p>The Angora also, from the first warm<span class="pagenum" id="Page_78">[78]</span>
days, began to languish, and by April both
were really ill.</p>
<p>Doctors, called in consultation, gravely
prescribed absurd medicines and impossible
treatments. For one, pills morning and
evening and poultices applied to the belly!
For the other, a hydropathic course, close
shaving of the body, and a cold plunge bath
twice daily! Sylvester himself, who adored
the pussies, who obeyed him as they would
no one else, declared all this impossible.
We then tried the efficacy of domestic
remedies; the mothers Michel were summoned,
but their simple prescriptions were
of no avail.</p>
<p>They were going from us, our beloved
and cherished pets, filling our hearts with
great compassion,—and neither the loveliness
of spring nor its glory of returning
sunshine could rouse them from the torpor
of approaching death.</p>
<p>One morning as I arrived from a trip to
Paris, Sylvester, while receiving my valise,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_79">[79]</span>
said to me sadly, “Sir, the Chinese is
dead.”</p>
<p>She had disappeared for three days, she
so orderly, so domestic, who never left our
premises. Doubtless, feeling her end near,
she had fled, obedient to an impulse or
sentiment of extreme modesty which leads
some animals to hide themselves to die.
“She remained all the week,” said Sylvester,
“up on the high wall lying on the red
jasmine vine, and would not come down
to eat or drink; but she always answered
when we spoke to her, in such a little
feeble voice!”</p>
<p>Where then had she gone, poor Pussy
Gray, to meet the terrible hour? Perhaps,
in her ignorance of the world, to some
strange house, where she was not allowed
to die in peace, but was tormented, driven
out,—and afterwards cast on the dunghill.
Truly, I would have chosen that she might
die at her home; my heart swelled a little
at the remembrance of her strange human<span class="pagenum" id="Page_80">[80]</span>
glances, so beseeching, so indicative of that
need of affection which she could not otherwise
express, seeking my own eyes with
mute interrogation forever unutterable.—Who
knows what mysterious agonies rend
the little, disturbed souls of the lower animals
in their dying hours?</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" />
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_81">[81]</span>
<h2 class="nobreak"> <ANTIMG src="images/leafleft.jpg" alt="" />(XXII)<ANTIMG src="images/leafright.jpg" alt="" /> </h2></div>
<p class="drop-cap2">AS if a fatal spell had been cast upon
our cats, Pussy White, also, seemed
near her end.</p>
<p>By fantasy of the dying, she had selected
her last lodging in my dressing-room,—upon
a certain lounge whose rose color
doubtless pleased her.</p>
<p>There we carried to her a little food, a
little milk, which were alike untasted; she
looked at us whenever we entered, with
kind eyes, glad to see us, and still purred
feebly when caressed.</p>
<p>Then, one pleasant morning, she also
disappeared, and we thought she would return
no more.</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" />
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_82">[82]</span>
<h2 class="nobreak"> <ANTIMG src="images/leafleft.jpg" alt="" />(XXIII)<ANTIMG src="images/leafright.jpg" alt="" /> </h2></div>
<p class="drop-cap">SHE did return, however, and I recall
nothing more sad than her reappearance.
It was about three days after, in
one of those delightful periods at the commencement
of June, which shine and glow
in the unclouded heavens,—deceivers with
promises of eternal duration, woeful to beings
born to die. Our courtyard displayed
all its leaves, all its flowers, all its roses
upon its walls, as in so many past Junes;
the martinets, the swallows, exhilarated
with light and life, darted about with songs
of joy in the blue above us; there was a
universal festival of things without Soul
and gay animals unconscious of death.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_83">[83]</span>Aunt Clara, walking there, watching the
opening blossoms, called to me suddenly,
and her voice showed that something unusual
had occurred.</p>
<p>“Oh! come! look here.—Our poor
Pussy has returned.”</p>
<p>She was there indeed, reappearing as a
wretched little phantom, emaciated, weak,
her fur already discolored with earth;—she
was half dead. Who knows what emotion
led her home: an afterthought, a lack of
courage at the last hour, a longing to see
us once more!</p>
<p>With extreme exertion she had surmounted
the lower wall, so familiar, which
she was wont to cross in two bounds, when
she returned from her beat of police guard,
to cuff some acquaintance, to correct some
neighbor. Breathless from her supreme
effort, she lay extended on the new grass
at the margin of the mimic lake, bending
her poor head to lap a mouthful of fresh
water. And her imploring eyes called for<span class="pagenum" id="Page_84">[84]</span>
aid. “Do you not see that I am dying?
Can you do nothing to help me live a little
longer?”</p>
<p>Presages of death everywhere, this fair
June morning, beneath its resplendent sky:
Aunt Clara, leaning over her suffering favorite,
seemed to me suddenly, so old, feebler
than ever before, ready also to go from us.</p>
<p>We decided to carry Pussy White back
to the dressing-room, and place her on the
rose-colored lounge she herself had chosen
the preceding week, and which had seemed
to please her. I resolved to watch carefully
that she should not depart again, that
at least her bones might rest in the earth of
our courtyard, that she should not be thrown
on some dunghill,—like that of my poor
Chinese companion, whose anxious eyes
still haunted me. I held her to my breast
with careful tenderness, and, contrary to
her habitude, she allowed herself to be carried,
this time, in complete confidence, her
drooping head leaning on my arm.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_85">[85]</span>Upon the rose-colored lounge she struggled
against death for three days, so great
is a cat’s vitality. The sun shone on the
mansion and the gardens around us. We
continued to visit her often, and she always
endeavored to rise to greet us with a grateful
and pathetic air, her eyes telling as
plainly as those of a human being the presence
and the distress of what we call the
soul.</p>
<p>One morning I found her dead, rigid,
her open eyes glassy, expressionless,—a
corpse, a thing to be hidden from view.
Then I bade Sylvester make a grave in a
terrace of the courtyard, at the foot of a
tree. Whither had fled that which I had
seen shine forth from her dying eyes; the
restless Spark within, whither had it gone?</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" />
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_86">[86]</span>
<h2 class="nobreak"> <ANTIMG src="images/leafleft.jpg" alt="" />(XXIV)<ANTIMG src="images/leafright.jpg" alt="" /> </h2></div>
<p class="drop-cap">THE burial of Pussy White, in the
quiet courtyard, under the blue sky
of June, in the full sunlight of two o’clock!</p>
<p>At the chosen place Sylvester dug the
grave,—then stopped, looking at the bottom
of the excavation, and stooping to pick
up something that surprised him. “What
is this,” said he, stirring the small white
bones which he had discovered,—“a rabbit?”</p>
<p>The bones of an animal, indeed; those
of my cat from Senegal, an old pussy, my
companion in Africa, very much beloved
long ago, that I had buried there a dozen<span class="pagenum" id="Page_87">[87]</span>
years before, and then forgotten, in the abyss
where beings and things that disappear forever
accumulate. And while looking at
these bones mingled with the earth, these
tiny legs like white sticks, this collection
still suggesting what was once the back
and tail of an animal,—there arose before
me, with an inclination to smile and a
heavy heart-throb, a scene well-nigh forgotten,
a certain occasion when I had seen
this same posterior of a cat, clothed in agile
muscles and in silky fur, fly before me
comically, tail in air, in the very height of
terror.</p>
<p>It was one day when, with the obstinacy
natural to her race, she had climbed again
on a piece of furniture twenty times forbidden,
and had there broken a vase which
I prized very highly. I had at first given
her a cuff; then my temper rising, I followed
it by a rather brutal kick. She, surprised
only by the blow, realized by the
succeeding kick that war was declared; it<span class="pagenum" id="Page_88">[88]</span>
was then that she swiftly fled, her plumy
tail in the air, and from her refuge beneath
the sofa she turned around to give me a
reproachful and distressed look, believing
herself lost, betrayed, assassinated by him
she loved, and to whose hands she had confided
her fate; and as my eyes still were
angry she uttered finally her cry of surrender,
of hopeless despair, that peculiar
and sinister cry of animals that realize
themselves on the verge of death. All my
anger vanished; I called her, caressed her,
still trembling and panting, upon my knees.
Oh! the last agonized cry of an animal,
be it that of the ox, drawn down to the
abattoir, even that of the miserable rat held
between the teeth of a bull-dog; that hopeless
appeal, addressed to no one, which
seems a protest addressed to nature itself,—an
appeal to an unknown, impersonal
mercy, pervading all space.</p>
<p>Two or three bones sunken at the foot
of a tree is all now remaining of the once<span class="pagenum" id="Page_89">[89]</span>
cherished creature that I recall so living
and so droll. And her flesh, her little person,
her attachment to me, her intense
terror on a certain occasion, her precipitate
flight, her plaintive reproach, all finally
that encompassed these bones,—has become
a little earth. When the hole was
sufficiently deep, I went upstairs where all
that remained of our beautiful Angora lay
rigid on the rose-colored lounge. And in
descending with my light burden, I found,
in the courtyard, my mother and Aunt
Clara seated on a bench in the shade, assuming
to be there by chance, and pretending
to converse unconcernedly: that we
should thus assemble expressly for this burial
would seem rather ridiculous, and we
perhaps should have smiled despite our
grief.</p>
<p>There never glowed a brighter day; never
was balmier silence, unbroken save by the
hum of insects; the garden was in full
bloom, the rose-trees white with their blossoms;<span class="pagenum" id="Page_90">[90]</span>
the peace of the country brooded
over the neighborhood, the martinets and
swallows slept, the everlasting tortoise,
most lively when the sun shone hotly,
trotted aimlessly to and fro on the pavement.
Everything was imbued with the
melancholy of too tranquil skies, of a season
too monotonous, of the oppression of
noonday. Against the fresh green verdure,
the dazzling brightness of color, the two
similar robes of my mother and Aunt Clara
formed two intensely black spots. Their
silvery heads were bowed down as if somewhat
weary of having seen and reseen so
many times, almost eighty times, the deceitful
renewal. Everything around them,
trees, birds, insects, and flowers, seemed
chanting the triumph of their perpetual
resurrection, regardless of the fragile beings
who listened, already agonized by the presage
of their inevitable end.</p>
<div class="figcenter"><ANTIMG src="images/facing090.jpg" alt="" /></div>
<p class="caption">“I WAS GLAD ... THAT SHE HAD NOT DIED ELSEWHERE”</p>
<p>I laid Pussy White in her grave, and
the black and white fur disappeared under<span class="pagenum" id="Page_91">[91]</span>
a falling mass of earth. I was glad that I
had succeeded in keeping her in her last
days with us, that she had not died elsewhere
like the other; at least her body
would decay in our courtyard, where for so
long a period she had laid down the law
for all cats of the neighborhood, where she
had idled away the summer hours on the
vine-covered wall, and where on winter
nights, at her capricious hour for retiring,
her name had resounded so many times in
the silence, called by the failing voice of
Aunt Clara.</p>
<p>It seemed to me that her death was the
beginning of the end of the dwellers in
our home; in my consciousness, this cat
was bound like a long cherished plaything
to the two well-beloved guardians of my
hearthstone, seated there upon the bench,
and to whom she had been a faithful companion
in my absences afar. My sorrow
was less for herself, inexplicable and uncertain
little soul, than for her existence which<span class="pagenum" id="Page_92">[92]</span>
had just finished. It was like ten years of
our own life that we had buried there in
the earth.</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" />
<div class="transnote">
<p class="ph1">TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:</p>
<p>Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.</p>
<p>Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.</p>
</div>
</div>
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