In a very well-composed speech, Muzius told the assembled fraternity about the case of myself and the tabby. They all agreed with the speaker, and consequently I sent word to the tabby by Muzius to say I accepted his challenge, but in view of the severity of the insult offered me I would fight only by biting. The tabby tried to object, on the pretext that his teeth were blunt, etc., but when Muzius explained in his grave, serious manner that we couldn’t contemplate anything but a more decisive duel by biting, and if he wouldn’t agree he must suffer himself to be called a base villain, he decided he would fight with that weapon.
The night of the duel came. At the appointed hour I positioned myself with Muzius on the roof of the house which lay on the border of our range. My opponent soon appeared with a fine tomcat brindled almost more colourfully than himself; the features of his countenance were even bolder and more defiant. This, we could presume, was my enemy’s second; the two of them had been comrades on various campaigns, and were also both at the conquest of the larder which had won the tabby tom the Order of the Burnt Bacon. At the request of the cautious and provident Muzius, as I learned later, a small, pale grey cat was present too. This cat was supposed to know a great deal about surgery, and was here to give appropriate treatment to the worst, most dangerous wounds so that they would heal quickly.
It was also agreed that the duel was to consist of three jumps, and if there was no clear winner by the end of the third round it would then be decided whether the duel was to proceed or the matter to be regarded as settled. Our seconds paced out the ground, and we took up our positions opposite each other. As custom demanded, the seconds set up a terrible caterwauling, and we jumped at one another.
In a moment, as I tried to seize my adversary, he had sunk his teeth in my right ear, and bitten it so hard that I couldn’t help uttering a loud screech. ‘Fall apart!’ cried Muzius. The tabby let go, and we got back into position.
More caterwauling from our seconds, another leap. This time I thought I had a better hold on my opponent, but the deceitful tabby ducked and bit my left paw, making great drops of blood gush out of it.
‘Fall apart!’ cried Muzius again.
‘Well now,’ said my opponent’s second, turning to me, ‘the matter’s really settled, since the severe injury to your paw means you’re hors de combat, my good fellow.’
But anger and profound wrath kept me from feeling any pain, and I said the third jump would show whether I lacked strength and if the matter was to be taken as settled.
‘Oh, well,’ said the tabby’s second, with a scornful laugh, ‘well, if you’re absolutely determined to fall by the paw of your stronger adversary, have it your own way!’
However, Muzius tapped me on the shoulder and cried, ‘Well done, brother Murr, well done! A good fraternity member takes no notice of such a scratch! Bear yourself bravely!’
There was a third screech from our seconds, a third jump! Despite my fury, I had noticed the trick my opponent used: he always jumped slightly to one side, which was why I missed him but he was sure to get hold of me. This time I took great care, jumped to one side myself, and by the time he thought he would seize me, I had bitten his neck so hard that he couldn’t cry out but only groan.
It was the turn of my adversary’s second to cry, ‘Fall apart!’ I leaped back at once, but the tabby sank to the ground unconscious as blood flowed freely from his deep wound. The pale grey cat immediately hurried over to him, and to help staunch the blood before bandaging the wound employed a household remedy which, Muzius assured me, was always ready to hand, since it went about with its owner. This meant that the medical cat instantly poured a liquid into the wound, and then sprayed the unconscious patient all over with it. It had so sharp and acrid an aroma, I felt sure it would have a strong, drastic effect. It wasn’t exactly Theden’s Arquebusade,48 nor yet Eau de Cologne.
Muzius pressed me ardently to his breast, saying, ‘Brother Murr, you have defended your honourable cause like a tomcat with his heart in the right place! Murr, you will rise to the heights of the fraternity, you will suffer no slurs, and will be ever ready to maintain our honour.’
My adversary’s second, who up to this point had been standing beside the pale grey surgeon, now marched defiantly over and said that I hadn’t fought by the rules in the third jump. At this, however, brother Muzius got into fighting position himself and declared, his eyes flashing, his claws outstretched, that anyone who said such a thing would have him to deal with, and they could settle it on the spot. The tabby’s second thought it better to make no further reply to this, but in silence took his wounded friend on his back – the tabby had now come round a little – and went off with him through the attic window.
The ash-grey surgeon asked whether I would like to have my own wounds treated with the same remedy. However, much as my ear and paw hurt me, I declined this offer and instead set off for home, elated by the victory I had won and by my revenge for the seduction of Kitty and the thrashing I had received.
I have deliberately recorded the story of my first duel in every particular for you, O youthful tomcat! Not only will you find this remarkable tale of the point of honour most instructive, you may also derive from it many a moral which will prove most necessary and useful in your life. As for instance, that courage and boldness are powerless to counter stratagems, and consequently a close study of stratagems is essential if you don’t want to be knocked to the ground but keep a sound footing instead. ‘Chi no se ajuta, se nega,’ says Brighella in Gozzi’s Fortunate Beggars,49 and the man’s right, perfectly right. Remember that, young tom, and don’t despise stratagems, for the true wisdom of life lies concealed in them, as in a rich vein of ore.
When I got downstairs I found my master’s door closed, and consequently had to make do with the straw mat outside it as my bed for the night. My wounds had caused me to lose a great deal of blood, and I did feel rather faint. Then I felt myself being gently carried away by someone. It was my kind master, who had heard me outside the door (I may have whimpered a little without knowing it), opened it, and seen my wounds. ‘Poor Murr,’ he cried, ‘what on earth have they done to you? Those are nasty bites – well, I hope you did your opponents no favours!’
‘Oh, Master,’ I thought, ‘if only you knew!’ And once again I felt greatly elated by the thought of the duel I had fought to the end and the honour I had won.
My good master laid me on my bed, took out a little tin of ointment from the cupboard, prepared two plasters and put them on my ear and my paw. I let him do all this calmly and patiently, only letting out a little ‘Mrrr!’ when the first plaster hurt me slightly.
‘You’re a clever cat, Murr!’ said my master. ‘Unlike other cross, bad-tempered specimens of your kind, you don’t fail to recognize your master’s good intentions. Keep quiet now, and when it’s time for you to lick your wounded paw better you’ll get the plaster off yourself. As for your injured ear, though, there’s nothing you can do about that, my poor friend; you’ll just have to put up with the plaster.’
I promised my master I would, offering him my sound paw in token of my satisfaction and my gratitude for his aid. As usual, he took it and shook it slightly without applying the least pressure. My master knew how to associate with cats of culture and education!
I soon felt the beneficial effect of the plasters, and was glad I had turned down the little pale grey surgeon’s dreadful household remedy. Muzius, who came to visit me, found me well and cheerful. Before long I was able to go to the fraternity’s drinking party with him. You may imagine with what indescribable rejoicing they received me there! Everyone thought twice as much of me as before.
From this time on I led a merry life in the fraternity, and didn’t at all mind losing the best of the fur from my coat in the process. But is there any lasting happiness here below? Behind every pleasure we enjoy, does there not lurk –
W.P. – situated on a steep, high hill which would have been considered a mountain in low-lying country. A bro
ad, pleasant path led up past aromatic bushes, and the stone benches and arbours set at frequent intervals on both sides of this path showed a hospitable concern for pilgrims travelling it. On reaching the top, the first thing you noticed was the size and splendour of the building which might have been taken, from a distance, for nothing but an isolated church. The coats of arms, the bishop’s mitre, crozier and cross carved in stone above the gate, all showed that this had once been a bishop’s residence, and the inscription Benedictus qui venit in nomine domini50 invited pious guests in through the entrance. But all who did come in were sure to stop involuntarily, surprised and enthralled by the sight of the church at the centre of the complex, in the main building, with its magnificent façade built in the Palladian style51 and its two tall, airy towers. Wings adjoined it on both sides. The main building also contained the Abbot’s apartments, while the wings accommodated the monks’ cells, the refectory and other common rooms, as well as guest-rooms for visitors. Not far from the monastery lay its farm buildings, dairy and steward’s house, and further down the valley the pretty village of Kanzheim wound its way like a luxuriant, colourful garland round the hill where the Abbey stood.
This valley reached to the foot of the distant mountain range. Many herds and flocks grazed the meadows through which clear, bright streams of water flowed; the country folk from the villages scattered throughout the district passed merrily through the rich cornfields; joyful bird-song rose from the charming bushes; the wistful call of a horn echoed from the dark and distant forest; heavily laden boats with pretty white sails glided along the broad river that ran fast through the valley, and the cheerful greetings of the boatmen could be heard. Everywhere there was luxuriant growth, Nature’s blessings richly bestowed; everywhere flourishing life pursued its eternal course. The view of this smiling landscape seen downhill from the Abbey windows raised the spirits and simultaneously filled the mind with deep pleasure.
If, despite the grand and noble plan of the church building, the interior decoration with its wealth of painted, gilded carving and its ornate pictorial detail could perhaps be accused of excess and monastic lack of taste, that made the purity of style in which the Abbot’s apartments were built and decorated all the more striking. You stepped straight from the choir of the church into a roomy hall which served as both a common-room for the brethren and a place to store instruments and sheet music. From this hall a long corridor, displaying a row of Ionic columns, led to the Abbot’s rooms. Silken hangings, excellent paintings by the best masters of various schools, busts, statues of great churchmen, carpets, well-laid floorboards and fine furniture – everything bore witness to the wealth of this well-endowed monastery. Although that wealth dominated the whole, it was not the brilliant magnificence which dazzles without pleasing the eye, and arouses wonder rather than enjoyment. Everything here was in its right place; nothing ostentatiously obtruded itself alone on your attention to the detriment of the rest, so you did not think of the value of this or that individual ornament but felt pleasingly stimulated by the whole effect. It was the general seemliness of the arrangement which gave this pleasing impression, and that just sense of what is seemly might well be what is usually called good taste. The pleasant comfort of these rooms of the Abbot’s verged on luxury without being actually luxurious, so the fact that a man of God had collected and arranged everything himself could give no offence. When Abbot Chrysostom came to Kanzheim a few years earlier, he had caused the Abbot’s apartments to be furnished as they now were, and those furnishings vividly expressed his whole character and nature even before you saw the man himself, when you quickly became aware of his intellectual stature. Still in his forties, tall, well built, his handsome, manly countenance wearing a spiritual expression, dignity and grace in his whole bearing, the Abbot inspired the respect due to his rank in all who met him. A zealous soldier of the Church, a never-resting champion of the rights of his order and his monastery, he none the less appeared indulgent and patient. But this apparent indulgence was itself a weapon he was well able to wield, thus overcoming all opposition, even from the highest authorities. Though you might guess that those simple words of salvation which seemed to spring from the most faithful of hearts hid monastic cunning, yet all you perceived was the skill of an eminent mind versed in the deeper business of the Church. The Abbot was a pupil of the Propaganda in Rome.52 Personally disinclined to deny the claims of this world, in so far as they can be reconciled with spiritual decorum and order, he gave the many brethren under him all the freedom they could require in their station in life. Thus it was that while some devoted themselves to one branch of scholarship or another, pursuing their studies in secluded cells, others walked happily in the Abbey grounds, indulging in cheerful conversation; while those with a leaning to fervent piety fasted and spent their time in constant prayer, others enjoyed the pleasures of the Abbey’s richly furnished table and confined their religious observances to the Rule of the Order; while some never wished to leave the Abbey, others took long journeys and even, in due season, exchanged their long religious robes for short hunting coats and went abroad as bold woodsmen.
However, if the brothers were of different casts of mind, and each could follow his own inclinations, they were all united in an enthusiastic love of music. Almost to a man they were trained musicians, and there were virtuosi among them who would have done credit to the finest of court orchestras. An extensive collection of sheet music and a selection of the finest instruments enabled each of them to pursue his art as he chose, and frequent performances of fine works kept everyone up to the mark in practice.
Kreisler’s arrival at the Abbey gave new stimulus to these musical activities. The scholars closed their books, the pious cut short their prayers, they all gathered round Kreisler, whom they loved and whose works they valued more highly than any others. The Abbot himself felt deep affection for him, and joined them all in their utmost endeavours to show him their respect and love as best they could. If the surroundings where the Abbey lay might be called a paradise, life in the monastery offered the most delightful of comforts, including an excellent table, and fine wines procured by Father Hilarius, while cheerful good humour, instigated by the Abbot himself, reigned among the brethren. Unceasingly occupied by his art, Kreisler was truly in his element, and inevitably his troubled spirit became calmer than it had been for some time. Even his angry humour was softened; he became mild and gentle as a child. But even more important, he believed in himself. The phantom doppelgänger who had risen from the blood of his wounded heart was gone.
It is said somewhere∗ of Kapellmeister Johannes Kreisler that his friends could not get him to write a composition down, and if he ever did, then whatever pleasure he had expressed at succeeding with it, he would throw the work into the fire immediately afterwards. Such may have been the case at a certain disastrous period which threatened poor Johannes with hopeless ruin, but of which the present biographer does not yet know very much. In Kanzheim Abbey, at any rate, Kreisler was careful not to destroy the compositions written from his heart, and his mood was expressed in the sweet, healing melancholy that marked his works, in contrast with his former only too frequent practice of using mighty magic to conjure up, from the depths of harmony, those powerful spirits that arouse fear, horror and all the torment of hopeless longing in the human breast.
One evening, in the choir of the church, they had been holding the last rehearsal of a High Mass completed by Kreisler, which was to be performed next morning. The brethren had returned to their cells. Kreisler alone lingered in the colonnade, looking out at the countryside lying before him and lit by the last rays of the setting sun. Then he seemed to hear once more, at a great distance, the work that the monks had just performed for him in such a lively fashion. When it came to the Agnus Dei,54 however, he was overcome again, and yet more powerfully, by the ineffable joy of those moments when he had conceived that Agnus. ‘No,’ he cried out, as hot tears filled his eyes, ‘no! It is not I, but you alone, you, my o
ne Idea, my only desire!’
The way in which Kreisler had set this movement, felt by the Abbot and the brethren to express the most ardent piety, divine love itself, was a remarkable one. One night when his mind was entirely occupied by the High Mass he had begun but had not nearly finished writing, he dreamed that it was the feast of All Saints, for which the composition was intended; they had rung the bells for High Mass and he was standing at the conductor’s desk with the completed score before him, while the Abbot, officiating at the Mass in person, intoned the opening of his Kyrie. Movement now followed movement; the performance was good and powerful, surprising him and sweeping him on to the Agnus Dei. Then to his horror he found blank pages in the score, with not a note written down; as he suddenly let his baton fall the brethren stared at him, waiting for him to begin again, waiting for the silence to come to an end at long last. But confusion and anxiety weighed down on him, heavy as lead, and although he had the whole Agnus ready in his mind, he could not get it out and into the score. However, a beautiful angelic figure appeared, approached the desk and sang the Agnus in heavenly tones, and the angelic figure was Julia! In raptures of sublime inspiration, Kreisler woke and wrote down the Agnus that had come to him in his blissful dream. And now he was dreaming that dream again; he heard Julia’s voice, the waves of song beat higher and higher, and when the chorus came in with Dona nobis pacem he was ready to sink in the sea of a thousand blissful joys flowing over him.
A light tap on the shoulder roused Kreisler from the ecstasy into which he had fallen. It was the Abbot, standing before him and looking at him with pleasure.
‘Am I not right,’ began the Abbot, ‘am I not right, my son Johannes, in thinking that what you have felt deep within your heart, what you have magnificently and powerfully succeeded in bringing to life, now rejoices your entire soul? I believe you were thinking of your High Mass, which I count as one of the best works you have ever written.’
The Life and Opinions of the Tomcat Murr Page 32