I was uncommonly pleased with my master’s praise. With private satisfaction, I felt my superiority to the rest of my entire race – to a whole army of lost tomcats with no sense of direction, and was quite surprised that I myself had not sufficiently appreciated the extraordinary nature of my understanding! It did indeed cross my mind that young Ponto was really the one who set me on the right road, while the chimney-sweep’s brush brought me to the right roof, but I didn’t think I need entertain the least doubt of my sagacity and the validity of the praise bestowed on me by the Master. As I was saying, I felt my intellectual strength, and that feeling was the guarantee of the aforesaid validity. I once read or heard that undeserved praise is far more welcome and puffs its recipient up far more than praise well earned, but that can be true only of human beings. Clever tomcats are free of such folly, and I firmly believe that I might well have found my way home without Ponto or the chimney-sweep, in fact I even think the two of them just confused my proper train of thought. No doubt I would have acquired that trifling amount of worldly wisdom which young Ponto was so proud of in some other way, although the many and varied experiences I had with my dear friend the poodle, that aimable roué, provided me with good material for the Letters to a Friend in which I couched my travel writings. Those letters would look very well printed in the various morning and evening papers, in all the elegant and liberal journals,37 since their wit and understanding display the most brilliant aspects of my mind, a subject that must surely be of the utmost interest to every reader! But I know full well that those gentlemen, the editors and publishers, would ask, ‘Who is this Murr?’ and upon discovering me to be a tomcat, albeit the finest tomcat on earth, say contemptuously, ‘A cat who thinks he can write!’ Why, even if I had the humour of Lichtenberg and the profundity of Hamann38 – I have heard much good of both men, and it seems they didn’t write badly, for humans, but they have died the death, which is a very risky enterprise for every poet and writer who wants to live – well, I repeat, even if I had the humour of Lichtenberg and the profundity of Hamann, I’d have my manuscript sent back, just because they might think I couldn’t write amusingly on account of my claws. It really is most annoying! O prejudice, prejudice that cries out to Heaven, what a hold you have on humanity, and in particular on those specimens of humanity known as publishers!
The Professor and his companions now put on a terrific show around me, and one which I did not think at all necessary, at least in the matter of packing nightcaps and grey coats.
All of a sudden a deep voice outside called, ‘The building’s afire!’
‘Oho!’ said Master Abraham, ‘I must see this for myself. Pray keep calm, gentlemen! I’ll be back once danger is upon us, and then we’ll set to work!’
And so saying, he hurried out of the room.
Shut up in my basket, I became really alarmed. The wild roar – the smoke that now began to make its way into the room – all increased my fears! Dismal ideas of every sort came to my mind. Suppose the Master forgot me; suppose I must perish miserably in the flames? I felt a particularly nasty, griping pain in my belly, which may have been due to my terrible fear. ‘Alas!’ thought I, ‘suppose the Master has shut me up in this basket because at heart he is false and envies me my knowledge – suppose he wants to be rid of me and relieved of every care? What if this innocent white drink – what if it be a poison which my master subtly hath ministered to have me dead? – O glorious Murr, even in mortal fear you think in iambic pentameters, paying heed to what you once read in Shakespeare and Schlegel!39
Master Abraham now put his head round the door and said, ‘The danger’s over, gentlemen! Just sit down at that table and drink the couple of bottles of wine you found in the cupboard. For my part, I’m going back up to the roof for a while to give it a good spraying! But wait – I must see how my good car’s doing first.’
My master then came right into the room, took the lid off the basket containing me, spoke to me kindly, asked how I was and whether I fancied some nice roast fowl, to all of which I replied with several dulcet miaows, stretching myself very comfortably, which my master correctly took for an eloquent indication that I had eaten enough and would like to stay in the basket. He put the lid back on.
I was now persuaded of the kind and friendly feelings Master Abraham entertained for me! I would have been ashamed of my base suspicions, if it were right for a person of understanding to be ashamed of anything. After all, I thought, the terrible anxiety, all my ominous mistrust, amounted to nothing but such poetic raptures as suit brilliant young enthusiasts, who often positively require them as intoxicating opium. This reflection soothed my mind entirely.
No sooner had my master left the room than the Professor looked round at the basket with a suspicious expression – I could see him through a little crack in it – and then beckoned to the others as if he had something of significance to impact to them. Then he spoke so quietly that I couldn’t have caught a word had not Heaven bestowed incredibly keen hearing upon my pointed ears.
‘Do you know what I’d like to do now? I’d like to go over to that basket, open it, and plunge this sharp knife into the throat of that curst tomcat inside it, who may be mocking us all at this very moment in his impertinent self-satisfaction!’
‘What can you be thinking of?’ cried one of the others. ‘What can you be thinking of, Lothario? Kill that pretty cat, the good Master’s pet? And why do you keep your voice so low?’
In as muted a voice as before, the Professor went on to explain that I could understand everything, I could read and write, that Master Abraham had somehow educated me, admittedly in a mysterious and inexplicable way, so that now, as the Professor’s poodle Ponto had shown him, I was writing and composing poetry, and all this served my humorous master no purpose but to mock the most distinguished of scholars and poets.
‘Oh yes,’ said Lothario, with suppressed fury, ‘oh yes, I can see it coming! Master Abraham has the Grand Duke’s full confidence anyway, and he’ll carry all before him with this wretched tomcat. The brute will become a lecturer, receive a doctorate, will end up as a professor of aesthetics lecturing to students on Aeschylus – on Comeille! – on Shakespeare! – oh, I am quite beside myself! – that cat will root about in my own entrails, and he has the most horrible claws!’
These remarks of Lothario the Professor of Aesthetics greatly astonished everyone. One of his friends said it was perfectly impossible for a cat to learn to read and write, since these rudiments of all knowledge, along with the skill of which only mankind is capable, required a certain amount of deliberation, or it might be called reason, not always to be found even in mankind itself, that crown of all creation, and far less in animals of the common sort!
‘My dear fellow,’ said someone else – a man of very grave demeanour, as it seemed to me in my basket – ‘my dear fellow, what do you call animals of the common sort? There’s no such thing as a common animal! When I am plunged in quiet self-contemplation, I often feel the deepest respect for donkeys and other useful creatures. I don’t see why an agreeable domestic pet with a happy natural disposition shouldn’t be taught to read and write, or indeed why such a little creature couldn’t rise to become a scholar and poet. Is that so unprecedented a thing? I won’t go so far as to quote the Thousand and One Nights40 as the best historical source, and a source full of pragmatic authenticity; I will just remind you, my dear fellow, of Puss in Boots, a tomcat of great magnanimity, penetrating reason and deep knowledge.’
Delighted by this praise of a cat who, an internal voice clearly told me, must be my worthy ancestor, I could not refrain from sneezing rather violently two or three times. The speaker paused, and they all looked round at my basket, quite intimidated.
At last the grave man who had been speaking said, ‘Contentetnent,41 moncher!’ and then continued. ‘If I remember righdy, my aesthetic friend, you were mentioning a poodle called Ponto who had betrayed the cat’s poetic and academic activities to you. This brings me to the s
ubject of Cervantes’ excellent Berganza42 of whose latest fate we hear news in a certain recent and very fantastic book. The dog Berganza is another notable example of animal nature, and of the ability of animals to become educated.’
‘My friend,’ said the other man, ‘my dear good friend, what kind of examples are these? It is Cervantes, well known as a writer of fiction, who mentions the dog Berganza, while the story of Puss in Boots is a children’s fairy-tale, though presented to us by Herr Tieck in so lively a manner that one might almost be foolish enough to believe in it. So you cite two poets as if they were serious natural historians and psychologists, whereas in fact poets are nothing but downright romancers who dream up and produce works of pure imagination. Tell me, how can a reasonable man like you cite poets to prove something that runs contrary to sense and reason? Lothario is a professor of aesthetics, so it’s fair enough for him to talk a little wildly now and then, but as for you –’
‘Hush,’ said the grave man, ‘hush, my dear fellow, don’t agitate yourself. Recollect that we may well cite poets in speaking of the wonderful and incredible, for plain historians don’t understand the first thing about it. Oh yes, indeed, when the wonderful is given shape and form, and is to be presented as pure knowledge, any proof of its validity is best taken from famous poets upon whose word we may rely. I will give you – and as a learned doctor of medicine yourself, you will be satisfied with this – I say I will give you the example of a famous doctor whose scientific account of animal magnetism, as undeniably establishing both our rapport with the world spirit and the existence of a wonderful power of premonition, refers to Schiller and his Wallenstein,43 where Wallenstein says: “There are some moments in our human life” and “Such voices do exist, there is no doubt!” – and however it goes on – well, you can read the rest for yourself in the tragedy.’
‘Oho!’ replied the doctor. ‘You avoid my argument – you go on to magnetism, and you’re quite capable of claiming in the end that along with all the other marvels at the magnetist’s command, he could be tutor to impressionable tomcats.’
‘Well,’ said the grave man, ‘who knows how magnetism works on animals? Cats already have the electrical fluid within them, as you may easily convince yourselves –’
Suddenly thinking of Mina, who complained so bitterly of experiments44of that kind which had been carried out on her, I felt so much alarmed that I uttered a loud miaow!
‘By Hades,’ cried the Professor in a fright, ‘by Hades and all its horrors, that infernal cat is listening to us – understands us – but take heart! I’ll throttle him with these very hands.’
‘This is unwise of you,’ said the grave man, ‘this is really unwise of you, Professor. I will never allow you to do the slightest harm to this tomcat, whom I now love dearly without having enjoyed any closer acquaintance with him. Am I to conclude that you’re jealous of him because he writes verses? Our little grey friend can never become a professor of aesthetics, so pray set your mind entirely at rest on that account. Don’t the ancient academic statutes state clearly that asses must not be appointed professors any more, because of widespread abuses, and shouldn’t that decree be extended to animals of every kind and species, including tomcats?’
‘Mayble,’ said the Professor, vexed, ‘maybe that tomcat will never be a lecturer or a professor of aesthetics, but he will set up as a writer some day, the novelty of it will find him publishers and readers, he’ll snap up good fees from under our noses –’
‘Really,’ replied the grave man, ‘really, I see no reason at all why this good tomcat, our master’s amiable pet, should be barred from taking a road upon which so many sport and play, regardless of their powers and turn of mind! The only necessary precaution would be obliging him to have his sharp claws cut, and that might be one thing we could do here and now, to ensure that once he is an author he’ll never wound us.’
They all rose, and the aesthetician picked up a pair of scissors. You may imagine my situation! I resolved to struggle with the courage of a lion against the indignity they meant to inflict on me, and prepared to leap at the first to approach me and mark him for life as soon as the basket was opened.
At that moment Master Abraham came in, and my anxiety, already mounting to desperation, was at an end. He opened the basket, and out I jumped, still quite beside myself. I shot frantically past my master and under the stove.
‘Whatever has happened to that cat?’ cried the Master, looking suspiciously at the others, who stood there in great confusion, tormented by their guilty consciences and wholly unable to reply.
Alarming as my time in captivity had been, yet I felt an inner satisfaction at the Professor’s remarks about my presumptive career, and his clearly voiced envy delighted me. I already felt the doctoral cap upon my brow, I already saw myself at the lecturer’s desk! Would not my lectures be better attended than any others by young people desirous of knowledge? Could any right-minded youth take it ill if his professor forbade him to bring dogs into college? For not all poodles are as well-disposed as my friend Ponto, and those hunting folk the hounds with their long floppy ears are not to be trusted at all, for they are always quarrelling pointlessly with the most cultivated members of my own kind, forcing them to express their anger in the most uncivil ways, such as spitting – scratching – biting, etc., etc.
How very unfortunate it would be if –
W.P. – only be meant for that rosy-cheeked little lady-in-waiting whom Kreisler had seen at Madame Benzom’s. ‘Pray, Nannette,’ said the Princess, ‘pray, Nannette, be so kind as to go down yourself and make sure those pinks are taken into my pavilion; the servants dawdle so much, they may do nothing about it.’
The young lady rose to her feet, bowed ceremoniously, but then flew out of the room as fast as a bird whose cage has been opened.
‘I can’t do anything,’ said the Princess, turning to Kreisher, ‘unless I’m alone with my teacher. He is like the father confessor to whom one can tell all one’s sins without fear. And anyway, my dear Kreisler, you will think our rigid etiquette here strange, you’ll find it a nuisance that I’m surrounded by ladies-in-waiting wherever I go, guarded like the Queen of Spain. Here in delightful Sieghartshof, at least, one ought to enjoy more freedom. If the Prince my father were here in the castle I couldn’t have dismissed Nannette, who is as bored by our musical studies as I am irritated by her presence. Let’s begin again. It will go better this time.’
Kreisler, who was patience itself when teaching, went back to the beginning of the song the Princess had begun to study, but hard as Hedwiga was obviously trying, and however much help Kreisler gave her, she lost time and failed to hit the note, she made one mistake after another until, her whole face burning red, she jumped up, went to the window and looked out into the park. Kreisler believed he saw that the Princess was weeping violendy, and thought this first singing lesson and indeed the whole scene rather awkward. What better could he do than see whether the hostile, unmusical spirit which seemed to be upsetting the Princess might not be banished by music itself? Accordingly he let all kinds of pleasing melodies flow on, improvising on the most familiar of popular songs with contrapuntal variations and melismatic flourishes, until in the end he himself wondered how he was able to play the piano so charmingly, and forgot the Princess, her aria and her reckless importance.
‘How lovely the Geierstein looks in the light of the evening sun,’ said the Princess, without turning round.
Kreisler was in the middle of a dissonance which of course he had to resolve, and so he could not join the Princess in admiring the Geierstein and the evening sunlight.
‘Can there be a lovelier place far and wide than Sieghartshof?’ said Hedwiga, in a louder and stronger voice than before.
Having struck a mighty final chord, Kreisler was now obliged to join the Princess at the window, courteously complying with her invitation to conversation.
‘Indeed,’ said the Kapellmeister, ‘indeed, your Highness, the park is beautiful.
I particularly like the way all the trees have green leaves, a circumstance I greatly admire and respect in all trees, bushes and grasses, thanking the Almighty every spring that they have turned out green again and not red, a fault in any landscape and never to be found in the best landscape-painters, such as Claude Lorrain or Berghem, or even in Hackert,45 who simply dusts over his meadow-lands a little.’
Kreisler would have continued, but on seeing the Princess’s face in the little mirror to one side of the window, deathly white and strangely distraught, he fell silent, feeling a cold shudder pass through him.
At last the Princess broke the silence, saying without turning round, still looking out of the window and in a moving tone of the deepest melancholy: ‘Kreisler, Fate will have it that I must always seem to you plagued by strange fancies – excitable, I might even say silly – that I must always be offering you opportunities to exercise your cutting wit on me. It is time I told you why the sight of you casts me into a state like the nerve-racking attack of a violent fever. You shall hear all. A frank confession will relieve my mind and enable me to bear the sight of you, to bear your presence.
‘When I first met you there in the park, you and your whole deportment filled me with the deepest horror, I myself knew not why! But it was a memory from my earliest childhood that suddenly revived in me, with all its terrors, and did not take clear shape until later, in a strange dream.
The Life and Opinions of the Tomcat Murr Page 19