The Life and Opinions of the Tomcat Murr

by E. T. A. Hoffmann

  Fritz, the gardener’s ten-year-old son, had found the Prince a pretty, bright-coloured linnet, and was given a crown for it, as usual. The Prince immediately went off to the gunroom when the huntsmen were not there, found a bag of shot and a powder-horn easily enough, and helped himself to the ammunition he needed. He was about to begin the execution, which seemed to call for some haste, since the brightly-coloured, twittering rebel was trying its hardest to escape, when it struck him that as Princess Hedwiga was behaving so nicely these days, he couldn’t deny her the pleasure of witnessing the little traitor’s execution too. He therefore put the box containing his army under one arm, the cannon under the other, took the bird in the hollow of his hand, and stole very quietly (for his father had forbidden him to see Princess Hedwiga) to her bedchamber, where he found her lying clothed on the day-bed, still in her cataleptic state. It was unfortunate that her waiting woman had just left the Princess, and yet as we shall soon see it was fortunate too.

  Without more ado Prince Ignatius tied the bird to a candlestick, drew up his army in military order, and loaded the cannon. Then he raised the Princess from her day-bed, made her go over to the table and explained that she was now acting as general in command, while he was the reigning Prince and would fire off the artillery to kill the rebel. The abundance of ammunition had tempted the Prince, and he had not only overloaded his cannon but had scattered gunpowder around the table. As soon as he unlimbered the gun, not only was there an unusually loud bang, but the gunpowder lying around exploded too, burning his hand so badly that he screamed out loud, and never even noticed that at the moment of the explosion Princess Hedwiga had fallen heavily to the floor. The shot rang through the corridors, everyone came running up fearing some misfortune, and even Prince Irenaeus and Princess Maria pushed their way in through the door with the servants, forgetting all about etiquette in their lively alarm. The waiting women picked the Princess up from the floor and laid her on her day-bed, while people ran for the court physician and the surgeon. From the items on the table, Prince Irenaeus very soon saw what had happened and, eyes flashing with anger, told Prince Ignatius, who was screaming and howling terribly, ‘Look here, Ignatius! This is what comes of your silly childish tricks. Get some salve for your burns and stop howling like a street urchin. You – the birch – your posterior – ought to –’

  The Prince’s lips were trembling so hard that he could not speak clearly; he became incomprehensible, and left the room with dignity. Deep horror had seized the servants, for this was only the third time Prince Irenaeus had ever addressed his son so brusquely, and merely as Ignatius. Whenever he did so, it showed that he was feeling the most violent anger and would be hard to pacify.

  When the court physician announced that the crisis had begun, and he hoped Princess Hedwiga would soon be out of danger and fully cured, her mother said with less interest than might have been expected: ‘Dieu soit loué;41 pray send me any further news.’ However, she took the weeping Princess Hedwiga tenderly in her arms, comforted her kindly, and then followed her husband.

  Meanwhile Madame Benzon, intending to visit the unfortunate Hedwiga with Julia, had arrived at the castle. As soon as she heard what had happened she hurried up to the Princess’s bedroom, hastened to the day-bed, knelt down, took Hedwiga’s hand and stared into her eyes, while Julia shed hot tears, imagining that her bosom friend would soon fall into the sleep of death.

  Then Hedwiga took a deep breath and said, in a low, barely audible voice, ‘Is he dead?’

  Prince Ignatius immediately stopped crying, despite his pain, and replied, laughing and chuckling with delight at the success of his execution, ‘Yes, yes, Princess Sister, dead as a doornail, shot right through the heart.’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ continued Princess Hedwiga, closing her eyes again, ‘yes, I know. I saw the drop of blood gushing from his heart, but it fell on my breast and I froze to crystal, and it alone lived on in my corpse!’

  ‘Hedwiga,’ began Madame Benzon, quietly and tenderly, ‘Hedwiga, wake from your dreadful, unhappy dreams. Hedwiga, do you know me?’

  The Princess made a small gesture of her hand, as if she wished to be left alone.

  ‘Hedwiga,’ continued Madame Benzon, ‘Julia is here.’

  A smile lit up Hedwiga’s face. Julia leaned over her and pressed a soft kiss to her friend’s pale lips. Then Hedwiga whispered, barely audibly, ‘It’s all over now. My strength will be entirely gone in a few minutes; I can feel it.’

  Up to this point no one had taken any notice of the little traitor lying on the table with his mangled breast. Julia now caught sight of him, and only then did she realize that Prince Ignatius had been playing the horrible game she hated so much once again. ‘Prince,’ she said, her cheeks flushing rosy red, ‘Prince, what did that poor bird ever do to you, that you should kill him without mercy here in this room? It’s such a stupid, cruel game – you promised me not to play it long ago, and you haven’t kept your word. If you play it once more, I’ll never arrange your cups or teach your dolls to talk again, or tell you the story of the King of the Water!’

  ‘Don’t be angry!’ whimpered the Prince. ‘Don’t be angry, Fräulein Julia! He was such a wicked villain. He cut off all the soldiers’ coat-tails on the sly, and he led a rebellion too. Oh, it hurts, it hurts!’

  Madame Benzon glanced at the Prince and then at Julia with a curious smile, and then said, ‘What a fuss to make over a couple of burnt fingers! But it’s true, the surgeon is taking a long time to bring that salve. However, there’s an ordinary household remedy which will help even persons of extraordinary rank. Fetch some raw potatoes!’

  She went to the door, but then stopped, as if suddenly struck by some idea, turned, took Julia in her arms, kissed her forehead and said, ‘You are my dear good child, and will always be entirely what you should be! Just be careful of extravagant, crazy fools, and close your mind to the evil magic of their enticing words!’

  So saying, she cast another inquiring glance at the Princess, who seemed to be sleeping quietly and sweetly, and left the room.

  The surgeon arrived carrying a mighty plaster, assuring them with many protestations that he had been waiting for quite some time in his Highness Prince Ignatius’s apartments, for how could he suppose that he would be in those of her Highness instead? He was going to approach the Prince with the plaster, but the waiting woman, who had brought a couple of fine potatoes in a silver basin, barred his way and told him peeled potatoes were the best remedy for injuries caused by burning. ‘And,’ said Julia, interrupting the waiting woman as she took the silver basin from her, ‘and I will make your plaster very nicely for you myself, my little prince.’

  ‘Your Highness,’ said the surgeon in alarm, ‘think what you are about! A household remedy, for the burnt fingers of a high and princely lord! My art – my art shall – must be the only remedy here!’

  And he again approached the Prince who, recoiling, cried out, ‘Go away, go away! I want Fräulein Julia to make my plaster. Your art can take itself away, out of this room!’

  The art of medicine took its leave, along with its well-prepared plaster, casting venomous glances at the waiting woman.

  Julia could hear the Princess breathing more and more strongly, but imagine her surprise when –

  M. cont. – fall asleep. I tossed and turned on my couch; I tried every possible position. Now I stretched full length, now I curled up in a ball, resting my head on my soft paws and wrapping my tail gracefully round me so as to cover my eyes, now I turned on my side and stuck my paws out, hanging my tail down from my bed in lifeless apathy. All, all in vain! My thoughts, my imaginings became more and more confused, until at last I fell into that delirium which may be called not sleep but a conflict between sleeping and waking, as is correctly asserted by Moritz, Davidson, Nudow, Tiedemann, Wienholt, Reil, Schubert, Kluge and other physiological authors42 who have written on sleep and dreaming and whom I haven’t read.

  The sun was shining brightly into my ma
ster’s room when I woke properly to clear consciousness from this delirium, this struggle between sleep and wakefulness. O youthful tomcat reading this, prick up your ears and pay attention lest the moral escape you! Take to heart what I say of a condition whose inexpressible wretchedness I can describe to you only in faint colours. I repeat, take to heart what I say of this condition, and observe the utmost caution when you first taste cat-punch in a feline fraternity. Lap with moderation, and if anyone objects refer to me and my experience: say you have it from Murr the cat, and I trust all will recognize and allow the validity of that authority.

  Very well: first of all as regarding my physical state, not only did I feel dull and miserable, but I was particularly tormented by a certain insistent and abnormal demand of the stomach, which could not be met because of that very abnormality and merely caused a useless rumbling inside me, one in which even the affected ganglions participated, trembling and quivering morbidly in unceasing physical desire and powerlessness. It was a dreadful condition!

  But almost worse was the psychic effect. Together with bitter remorse and regret for a yesterday which none the less I could not really deplore, a bleak indifference to all earthly good entered into my soul! I despised all the delights of this world, all gifts of nature, wisdom, understanding, wit, etc. The greatest philosophers, the most brilliant poets seemed to me no more than rag dolls, or those toys called Jumping Jacks, and worst of all, this contempt extended to my own person, and I thought I saw that I was only an ordinary, miserable mouser! There can be nothing more depressing! The idea that I was in the utmost wretchedness, and all this earthly world was nothing but a vale of woe, crushed me with inexpressible pain. I closed my eyes and wept bitterly!

  ‘So you’ve been out on the tiles, have you, Murr, and now you feel terrible? That’s how it is! Sleep it off, old fellow, and then you’ll be better!’ Such were my master’s words when I couldn’t eat my breakfast, but uttered a few sounds of pain. My master! Dear God, he didn’t know, he had no idea of my suffering! He couldn’t guess the effect of feline fraternities and cat-punch on a sensitive mind!

  It might have been noon, and I still had not stirred from my bed when I suddenly saw brother Muzius standing before me. Heaven knows how he’d managed to slip in. I bewailed my wretched condition to him, but instead of feeling sorry for me as I had hoped, instead of comforting me, he laughed immoderately and cried, ‘Ha, ha, brother Murr, it’s nothing but the crisis of your transition from worthless Philistine boyhood to the membership of a worthy fraternity which makes you think yourself sick and miserable. You aren’t used to our heroic drinking bouts yet! But do me the favour of holding your tongue; don’t complain of your suffering to your master, for instance, don’t give him a chance of saying you look like something the cat brought in,43 or wondering who’s used you as a cat’s-paw. Human beings, who delight in abusing others, have plenty of derogatory remarks to make about our kind, so wait until you feel like the cat’s whiskers again. Now then, up you get, pull yourself together and come with me; the fresh air will do you good, and what you need most is the hair of the dog. Come along; you’ll soon find out what that means in practice.’

  Brother Muzius had exercised absolute authority over me since saving me from Philistinism; I must do as he demanded. I therefore rose from my couch with difficulty, stretched my lax limbs as best I could, and followed my faithful brother up to the roof. We paced up and down a few times, and I did feel rather better, and a little refreshed. Then brother Muzius led me behind the chimney, and here, reluctant as I felt to do so, I was obliged to take two or three nips of neat soused herring. This was what Muzius called the hair of the dog! Ah, how much more miraculous than any miracle was the drastic effect of this remedy! What can I say? The abnormal demands of my stomach fell silent, the rumbling died down, my nervous system was soothed, life felt good again, I valued earthly well-being, knowledge, wisdom, understanding, wit, etc., I was restored to myself, once more I was that splendid, that most excellent tomcat Murr! Oh, Nature, Nature! Is it possible that a few drinks taken by a reckless tomcat in his ungovernable independence of will can incite rebellion against you, against the benevolent principle you have implanted in his breast with maternal care, which must convince him that the world with its pleasures, for example fried fish, chicken bones, milky porridge, etc., is the best of possible worlds,44 and he the very best creature in that world, since its pleasures are created solely for and on account of him? However – and a philosophical cat will recognize the deep wisdom of this – such desolate, monstrous distress is only the counterweight producing the reaction necessary for persistence in the condition of Being, and so that same distress is rooted in the idea of the eternal universe! So take a hair of the dog, young toms! and console yourself with this philosophical doctrine drawn from the experience of your learned and sharp-witted colleague.

  Let it suffice to say that for some time I continued to lead a cheerful, merry life on the roof-tops of the neighbourhood as a feline fraternity member, in the company of Muzius and other excellent, honest, trustworthy young fellows, white, ginger and tabby. I now come to a more important event in my life, and one which was not without consequences.

  One evening, as night was falling and I was just off in the bright light of the moon to a tavern, by arrangement with the fraternity, that tabby betrayer who had stolen my Kitty crossed my path. I might well hesitate briefly at the sight of my hated rival – and a rival to whom I had been obliged to submit ignominiously! However, he walked straight by without any greeting, and I felt as if he were smiling at me disdainfully in the awareness of the superiority he had won. I recollected my lost Kitty, the thrashing I had suffered, and the blood boiled in my veins. Muzius observed my rising anger, and when I told him what I thought I’d seen he said, ‘You’re right, brother Murr. The fellow pulled such a face and seemed so bold, I fancy he really meant to insult you. Well, we’ll soon find out. If I’m not much mistaken, that tabby Philistine is in the throes of a new love-affair in the neighbourhood; he slinks around this roof every evening. Let’s wait a little. Perhaps Monsieur will soon be back, and then we can find out more.’

  Sure enough, it wasn’t long before the tabby defiantly returned; even from a distance he was measuring me up with scornful glances. Heart high, I boldly went to meet him, and we passed so close that our tails touched ungently. I immediately stopped, turned and said in a firm voice, ‘Miaow!’ He too stopped, turned, and replied defiantly, ‘Miaow!’ Then we went our separate ways.

  ‘An insult!’ cried Muzius very angrily. ‘I’ll call that defiant tabby to account tomorrow.’

  Next morning Muzius did indeed go to the tabby and asked, on my behalf, whether he had touched my tail. He sent me word: he had indeed touched my tail. I sent him word again: if he had touched my tail, I must take it as an insult. He sent me word: I could take it as I liked. I sent him word: I did take it for an insult. He sent me word again: I was in no position to judge what an insult is. I sent him word: I knew it very well, and better than he. He sent me word: I was not man enough for him to insult. I sent him word again: but I took it for an insult. He sent me word: I was a silly boy. Whereupon, to give myself the advantage,45 I sent him word: if I was a silly boy then he was a base villain! Then came the challenge.

  [Editor’s marginal note: Oh, my dear Murr, either the point of honour hasn’t changed at all since Shakespeare’s time, or I catch you out in an authorial lie! That is to say, a lie intended to give increased glory and brilliance to the event you describe! Isn’t the way in which you came to fight a duel with the tabby veteran an obvious imitation of Touchstone’s lie seven times removed46 in As You Like It? Don’t I detect, in your supposed account of it, the whole course of insults from the Retort Courteous to the Quip Modest, the Reply Churlish, the Reproof Valiant and the Countercheck Quarrelsome, and does it improve matters that you close with a couple of rude remarks instead of the Lie Circumstantial and the Lie Direct? O Murr, my dear cat, the critics will attack
you savagely, but at least you have shown that you’ve read Shakespeare with understanding and to good effect, and that excuses a great deal.]

  To be honest, I did suffer a certain sinking feeling when I received the challenge to a duel by scratching. I remembered how badly the tabby betrayer had beaten me when, impelled by jealousy and a desire for revenge, I attacked him, and I wished at least I didn’t have the advantage to which friend Muzius had helped me. Muzius probably saw me turn pale as I read the challenge requiring blood, and anyway he noticed my attitude of mind. ‘Brother Murr,’ said he, ‘I have an idea you are a little alarmed at the thought of facing your first duel?’ I made no bones about it, but opened my whole heart to my friend and told him what was sapping my courage.

  ‘O my brother,’ said Muzius, ‘o my beloved brother Murr! You forget that when that rough, rude fellow thrashed you so shockingly you were still a young stripling, not the bold, stout fraternity member you are now. Nor could that fight with the tabby tom be called a proper duel according to the rules, no, not even a rencontre,47 only a Philistine kind of a brawl beneath the dignity of any feline fraternity member. Mark my words, brother Murr: mankind, envious of our singular gifts, reproaches us in a shameful, dishonourable fashion with an inclination to brawl, and should any of their own kind do the same they insultingly call it a cat-fight. That is why a tomcat, a tomcat of honour who sets store by right conduct, must and will avoid every low rencontre of that sort, putting to shame men, who are very apt to give and take blows in certain circumstances. So, dear brother, cast away all fear and trepidation, keep up your courage, and be persuaded that you will take sufficient revenge in a proper duel for all the wrong you have suffered. You can scratch that tabby villain so badly that he will leave off his stupid flirtations and silly strutting for quite some time. But wait! It has just struck me that after what has passed between you a duel by scratching cannot give an adequate result: you should fight with more decisive weapons, namely, by biting. Let’s see what the fraternity thinks!’