Djibi

by Felix Salten

“I’ll be curious to know,” called the farmer after the teacher, “how your dog will take to this cat!”

  Without answering, the teacher went into his house.

  “Look what I’ve got!” he said as he put Djibi down. Tasso, the Airedale dog, rushed at him.

  Djibi arched her back and spat. But she soon gained confidence, because the large dog sniffed at her in a friendly manner. He had brown and steel-gray fur, a round head with tousled hair, and his jaws were full of sharp teeth which could bite with lightning speed and disastrous consequences. Any dog, however vicious, who attacked him, would roll in his blood after a brief fight and be compelled to run away. But Tasso pursued no one. He was always peaceable, knew no vengeance, no hatred.

  Djibi now went round and round this dangerous giant, her tail standing up rigidly.

  Tasso only had a stump, which he wagged slightly.

  “The enmity between dogs and cats,” said the teacher to his wife, “is partly due to jealousy, and partly to human incitement which for generations has been driving these animals against each other.”

  “Maybe,” replied Bertha, his wife, “perhaps you’re right, but that is of very little interest to me at the moment. The cat is more than half-starved!” She placed a bowl of milk on the floor. Djibi drank, delighted and greedy. She had not tasted anything like it for a long time.

  Tasso looked on pleasantly, as though he were the host.

  Then Djibi glanced round the room. She saw a mat lying by the stove; it was Tasso’s place. She made straight for it, lay down and immediately sank into the deep sleep of exhaustion.

  Now Djibi had a home again as before. No longer any need to worry over food, to fear the hand of fire.

  Her relations with Tasso were excellent; she domineered him, and he even suffered her to tyrannize him.

  The farmer, with whom the teacher had been talking when he carried Djibi home in his arms, called one day.

  He saw the way Djibi carried on with Tasso and was indignant.

  “Why do you dislike cats so much?” asked the teacher.

  “I’ve told you before,” replied the farmer, “I dislike them because they are false and vicious.”

  “You’re mistaken! You must not misunderstand them.”

  “How do you mean, ‘misunderstand them’? I know the creatures far better than you do!”

  “I should doubt it very much.”

  “Well, prove to me that this cat obeys you! Then you’ll convince me that I’m wrong.”

  “Do you require every animal to be obedient?”

  “Naturally it must obey, if it is to live under my roof!”

  “That’s it, my friend. I never demand obedience. My Tasso obeys me voluntarily. It is a quality his race has had for thousands of years. Pussy knows no obedience, and therein precisely lies her charm—to me, at least.”

  “A strange charm!”

  “You see, the cat is a free being! If you like, it is a wild beast, untamed and untamable. She has noble relations, the lions, tigers, leopards . . .”

  “Yes! and these are wisely kept behind bars, in strong cages!”

  “Men are cruel enough to do this to them.”

  “What else do you suggest should be done with them?”

  “They should either be left at liberty, or shot.”

  “You’re funny, Teacher!”

  “Perhaps! I’m funny enough to be opposed to the so-called taming of wild animals.”

  “Why do you say ‘so-called’?”

  “Because I don’t believe there is such a thing as real taming! I can only believe in the fear and the torments endured by the unfortunate captive lions and tigers. I am foolish enough to disbelieve those enthusiastic tamers who pretend that a tiger is happiest in captivity. These beasts adapt themselves and are grateful if one is kind to them, just like the domestic cat.”

  “Give me one good reason for this strange love of yours.”

  “One? As many as you like!”

  “One will do, but it must be a good one.”

  “The cat is free, she is independent, and stays with human beings only for her own convenience.”

  “I said a good reason, Teacher!”

  “Her precious sincerity!”

  “But cats are false, Teacher, false and vicious!”

  “Be reasonable, Farmer! Be nice to a cat, and you will win her friendship.”

  “Do you mean that I, a man, should be on my best behavior to be honored by a cat’s friendship?”

  “That’s what I do mean.”

  “You’re not quite right in the head, Teacher!”

  “Possibly not. But you see, I have no pretentions. Most people imagine that animals exist for the sole purpose of serving them.”

  “That’s as it should be!”

  “Not at all! If nature had her way, even hens and doves would grow wild!”

  “That is quite possible.”

  “There you are! The cat is as nature meant her to be. She does not have to grow wild first. She is and remains a wild animal!”

  “And that is what you respect?”

  “Very much so! Leave her alone, and she will be gentle. Be kind to her—I’ll say it again—and she will grow to like you. Once you have gotten that far you may well be proud!”

  “You are determined to stick to your madness, Teacher?”

  “If kindness, trust, and gentleness are madness in your eyes, I am!”

  “Tell me what reward you get for your kindness and confidence?”

  “Remember, kindness and trust always earn us a good reward from our dumb friends.”

  “From the cat as well?”

  “Certainly! From her in particular! The sight of her free and easy grace alone delights me. I love my dog very much, but in a different manner. I never beat my dog, but I punish him sometimes in various ways, and he understands every time that he is being punished. He shows his repentance and begs forgiveness.”

  “How do you punish him if you don’t beat him?”

  “Very simply. I do not caress him. I talk to him coldly and reproachfully. He grieves over it very much, and begs until I am friendly again. Then he performs a real joy dance. As far as the cat is concerned, I am powerless.”

  “And this impotence pleases you?”

  “Think what you will, Farmer. Yes, it does please me.”

  “Don’t you go teaching the children such nonsense!”

  “The children? I forbid them to incite dogs against cats.”

  “That is all right. I agree with you there.”

  “It is really awful that one should always have to defend cats! They are far nobler than dogs.”

  “Indeed! What next?”

  “It’s true! Far nobler than dogs. What is the dog’s kinship? Yes, you may produce as many breeds of dogs as you like, but try to breed cats—that is much more difficult, almost impossible. Cats are not suitable because they are too noble. Whom can the dog claim as relations? The wolf, the fox—that is almost all.”

  “Well, and is the cat’s family anything to write home about?”

  “Of course it is! She is of royal descent!”

  “ ‘Royal’? You’re a fine democrat!”

  “I am! As a man among men. But in nature, among free creatures, democracy is quite helpless. Think of the bull and the rabbit, the cock and the eagle, the deer and the weasel . . .”

  “I am curious to hear about the royal associations of the cat!”

  “With pleasure! The lion and the tiger, the kings of the animal world! I cannot see pussy walk, behold her elegant, graceful, brave gait, so effortless, springy and light, without thinking of the lion, the tiger and the panther, who have the very same attitude, the same commanding air. This association is forever present in my mind. It inspires me and gives me new vigor. It lends nobility to my humdrum existence, purifies the air I breathe . . .”

  “It is impossible to talk to you, Teacher. You are too highly strung.”

  “I’m afraid you’re right. We sh
all never see eye-to-eye.”

  “Thank heavens for that. I have no wish to see eye-to-eye with you!”

  “I feel the same, thank heavens! So don’t let us waste any more words. Good-bye!”

  The farmer went away, muttering crossly.

  “Ah!” the teacher breathed deeply, looked out into the dusky plain, listened to the melodious rustling of the trees, and then turned and entered his room. Djibi was fast asleep in a corner of the settee. Her sleep had the complete abandon, trust and carefreeness of an animal who is conscious of man’s protection against all evils. Very softly the teacher stroked her silky fur and felt how thin her body still was. He was strangely touched by it.

  Djibi woke up, looked round drowsily, saw the teacher who was bending over her and began to purr loudly. The teacher smiled. “Will you feel at home with us, little puss?”

  Djibi purred even louder, as if in reply.

  “You shall have a good time,” he continued. “You’ll get sweet milk and anything else you are fond of.”

  Djibi had not changed her position. But now she turned slowly and languidly rolled on her back, with her legs in the air, and stretched comfortably.

  “That’s right, pussy! Enjoy yourself. You quite deserve it.”

  But as his caressing hand touched her injured thigh, where the bullet was still lodged, she winced and jumped up, whimpering—her wail seemed to accuse him.

  “I see,” he said, softly, “you want me to leave it until we are better acquainted. Now you shall have some more milk.”

  He got the jug, filled an earthenware saucer, and put it down on the floor. Djibi watched him attentively.

  “Go on, pussy, drink,” he coaxed.

  Djibi jumped down on the floor, emitted a short purr, sat down in front of the saucer and drank.

  “Now, my little one,” whispered the teacher. “We shall be good friends. I’ll do all I can to achieve this end.”

  Djibi did not allow herself to be disturbed.

  She went on drinking.

  The friendship was firmly established within a fortnight, and looked like growing stronger every day. Bertha, the teacher’s wife, was also nice to Djibi.

  The teacher was very pleased at the good relations.

  He cared for Djibi’s well-being, but left her to her own devices, and caressed her only when she purred to show her willingness.

  He was pleased to see her catch mice, and equally pleased that she seemed to pay no attention to the chickens.

  She has certainly lived among people, he thought. She knows exactly how to behave. What may have happened to her? Has she been ill-treated? Perhaps even driven away? Men are so heartless, especially with regard to cats.

  Then happened the incident with the pigeon. The teacher’s pigeons were walking about among the chickens in the yard, unsuspecting, preening themselves coquettishly and cooing lovingly to each other.

  On a previous occasion the teacher had observed Djibi lurking suspiciously in the vicinity of the peaceful birds.

  He was now standing in his room looking into the yard through his window.

  Djibi’s lurking manner, the way in which she stalked up to the pigeons, suddenly revealed to him the beast of prey with terrifying clarity.

  He rushed out as quickly as he could. But he came too late.

  Djibi had already seized a pigeon which was weakly fluttering its wings.

  Now the situation became critical.

  On no account must he let her have her prey. But to snatch it away from her without further ado might jeopardize their young friendship.

  He approached Djibi and talked to her coaxingly. She remained sitting quietly and did not run away with the bleeding bird in her grasp. This he already regarded as a success.

  Now he bent toward her, stroked her and gently tried to withdraw the dead bird.

  It was not easy, because Djibi held it tightly in her teeth.

  “Pussy,” he said. “Pussy, be good. Give me the pigeon! Come, give it to me! You mustn’t do it, it’s nasty! My dear pussy will do no such thing. She is good, isn’t she? She will leave the pigeons in peace!”

  At last he held the dead pigeon in his hands.

  He coaxed Djibi lovingly to compensate her for her loss. “There is no need for you to eat pigeons, is there, darling? You can have any tasty bits you like! You can catch mice, or even rats, but you must leave the pigeons alone! You will, won’t you?”

  He thought: “If I succeed in weaning her from this habit, I will have achieved a great deal. As it is, she checks her wild instincts. She does not touch the chickens. The pigeons . . . well, it is a relapse, it must not happen again.”

  He took a spade, dug a little hole in the ground and buried the pigeon. Djibi watched him closely all the time. When the pigeon had disappeared in the earth, she looked at him in great surprise.

  “Yes, my dear,” he said softly, “isn’t it a pity to see the little thing go?”

  With one graceful leap, Djibi sat on his shoulder, purring loudly and rubbing her head against his chin, and submitted to his caresses.

  Does she want the pigeon back? he wondered. Or has she forgiven me for taking it away? He could not quite make her out, but continued to stroke her. Patience is needed, he thought. A great deal of patience.

  In the coming weeks his patience was rewarded, because Djibi never touched the pigeons again; she passed them by as indifferently as the chickens.

  One day one of the schoolboys brought a canary, imprisoned in a tiny cage. “There, Teacher,” he said. “Mother sent him for you, he can sing beautifully.”

  Now, a caged bird was just what the teacher did not like.

  He would have liked to follow his first impulse and refuse the gift, but did not have the heart to offend the donor.

  He thanked the boy, with a sigh, and immediately procured himself as large a cage as possible.

  But how to protect the small singer from the cat?

  At his wife’s advice, he hung the new cage high up on the bare wall, filled the bowl with hemp seeds, put water in the beautiful bath, and let the bird, who until now had been fluttering forlornly in its narrow cage, into the new abode. He flew in with a touching gesture and a squeak of delight.

  Mrs. Bertha christened him Hansi. She said: “Every canary is called Hansi.”

  At first Djibi took no notice of him at all.

  As soon as Hansi got used to his new home, he began to warble softly. Then, growing bolder, he sang beautiful tunes, melodious airs. The room seemed to brighten up with his tireless singing.

  The teacher listened spellbound and watched the bird’s throat swell with the joyous effort of his song.

  “I am glad you are feeling so happy up there, my little friend,” he murmured.

  “Look at the cat,” warned Bertha.

  Djibi seemed to listen to the song in surprise, apparently not realising whence the sound came. Then, attracted by the voice, she attempted a high jump, but slipped down the bare wall.

  “Too short!” laughed the man.

  “She’ll soon hit the mark,” observed Bertha. “At any rate, we must watch her.”

  But Djibi did not repeat her attempt; she stole away, as though ashamed at her failure.

  The teacher followed her graceful retreat with amusement, and remembered the lions, of whom it is said that an unsuccessful attempt to seize their prey fills them with shame and causes them to slink away, abashed.

  Hansi sang from dawn till dusk. Even later he would still chirp odd fragments of his song.

  In the evening, the teacher climbed a ladder and covered the cage with a dark cloth, which he removed in the morning, as soon as the bird began to warble softly and shyly.

  It was a homely, charming existence with this refreshing companion.

  The teacher still retained his aversion against such confinement, but Hansi had won his entire affection, and he tried to persuade himself that this canary was a unique exception.

  He was often deeply moved by the trus
t which Hansi showed him.

  One day, about noon, the song broke off suddenly. The teacher, who was in the yard outside, heard Hansi fluttering.

  He walked quietly into the room and stopped at the door.

  He saw the cat crouching on the roof of the cage. After many vain attempts, she had succeeded in jumping up the bare wall.

  Djibi’s paws were pulling at the wire net which separated her from her victim. Hansi sat on the floor of the cage, faint with terror.

  The teacher reflected.

  There was no point in simply driving the cat away: she would only renew her attempt at the next opportunity.

  He suddenly remembered the sling, with which he used to frighten birds of prey away from the poultry yard. It was lying in the kitchen cupboard.

  He got it out quickly.

  The cat must suspect nothing; she must not see him when she was hit.

  He leaned against the doorpost and took an aim at her.

  Djibi did not notice him in her eager chase of the bird. A frightened wail escaped her: she was hit by the little stone.

  Complaining, she escaped, saw the teacher, and ran up to him.

  He received her tenderly. “What is it, pussy? Where does it hurt?”

  “What a hypocrite I am!” he said to himself, but could not help grinning.

  Djibi went round him with her tail in the air, rubbed against his legs and accepted his consolation.

  “I hope this is the end of her attacks on Hansi,” he thought.

  Hansi did not sing any more that day. The teacher wanted to cheer him up and whistled all sorts of tunes. Usually the canary would join in quickly and heartily, but today he merely responded occasionally with a faint chirping. The shock had apparently shaken him badly.

  On the following days the teacher kept Djibi under close observation.

  But she paid no further attention to the cage. Her experience had cured her.

  Very soon Hansi was singing merrily again. Djibi lay on her rug, asleep after her painstaking toilet.

  Peace reigned in the house.

  The storms of autumn raged, then it snowed. A fire crackled in the fireplace and warmed the living room. The kitchen range radiated glowing heat almost without cease.

  Djibi had her favorite cozy places: in the living room by the fireplace and in the kitchen near the stove.