Cat Lit

from The Story of my Cats




by JH Fabre 

translated by Alexander Teixeira De Mattos




One day—it was at Avignon—there appeared upon the
garden-wall a wretched-looking Cat, with matted coat and protruding ribs, so
thin that his back was a mere jagged ridge. He was mewing with hunger. My
children, at that time very young, took pity on his misery. Bread soaked in
milk was offered him at the end of a reed. He took it. And the mouthfuls
succeeded one another to such good purpose that he was sated and went off,
heedless of the 'Puss! Puss!' of his compassionate friends. Hunger returned;
and the starveling reappeared in his wall-top refectory. He received the same
fare of bread soaked in milk, the same soft words. He allowed himself to be
tempted. He came down from the wall. The children were able to stroke his back.
Goodness, how thin he was!




It was the great topic of conversation. We discussed it at
table: we would tame the vagabond, we would keep him, we would make him a bed
of hay. It was a most important matter: I can see to this day, I shall always
see the council of rattleheads deliberating on the Cat's fate. They were not
satisfied until the savage animal remained. Soon he grew into a magnificent
Tom. His large round head, his muscular legs, his reddish fur, flecked with
darker patches, reminded one of a little jaguar. He was christened Ginger
because of his tawny hue. A mate joined him later, picked up in almost similar
circumstances. Such was the origin of my series of Gingers, which I have
retained for little short of twenty years through the vicissitudes of my
various removals.




The first of these removals took place in 1870. A little
earlier, a minister who has left a lasting memory in the University, that fine
man, Victor Duruy, had instituted classes for the secondary education of girls.
This was the beginning, as far as was then possible, of the burning question of
to-day. I very gladly lent my humble aid to this labour of light. I was put to
teach physical and natural science. I had faith and was not sparing of work,
with the result that I rarely faced a more attentive or interested audience.
The days on which the lessons fell were red-letter days, especially when the
lesson was botany and the table disappeared from view under the treasures of
the neighbouring conservatories.




That was going too far. In fact, you can see how heinous my
crime was: I taught those young persons what air and water are; whence the
lightning comes and the thunder; by what device our thoughts are transmitted
across the seas and continents by means of a metal wire; why fire burns and why
we breathe; how a seed puts forth shoots and how a flower blossoms: all
eminently hateful things in the eyes of some people, whose feeble eyes are
dazzled by the light of day.




The little lamp must be put out as quickly as possible and
measures taken to get rid of the officious person who strove to keep it alight.
The scheme was darkly plotted with the old maids who owned my house and who saw
the abomination of desolation in these new educational methods. I had no
written agreement to protect me. The bailiff appeared with a notice on stamped
paper. It baldly informed that I must move out within four weeks from date,
failing which the law would turn my goods and chattels into the street. I had
hurriedly to provide myself with a dwelling. The first house which we found
happened to be at Orange. Thus was my exodus from Avignon effected.




We were somewhat anxious about the moving of the Cats. We
were all of us attached to them and should have thought it nothing short of
criminal to abandon the poor creatures, whom we had so often petted, to distress
and probably to thoughtless persecution. The shes and the kittens would travel
without any trouble: all you have to do is to put them in a basket; they will
keep quiet on the journey. But the old Tom-cats were a serious problem. I had
two: the head of the family, the patriarch; and one of his descendants, quite
as strong as himself. We decided to take the grandsire, if he consented to
come, and to leave the grandson behind, after finding him a home.




My friend Dr. Loriol offered to take charge of the forsaken
one. The animal was carried to him at nightfall in a closed hamper. Hardly were
we seated at the evening-meal, talking of the good fortune of our Tom-cat, when
we saw a dripping mass jump through the window. The shapeless bundle came and
rubbed itself against our legs, purring with happiness. It was the Cat.




I learnt his story next day. On arriving at Dr. Loriol's, he
was locked up in a bedroom. The moment he saw himself a prisoner in the
unfamiliar room, he began to jump about wildly on the furniture, against the
window-panes, among the ornaments on the mantelpiece, threatening to make short
work of everything. Mme. Loriol was frightened by the little lunatic; she
hastened to open the window; and the Cat leapt out among the passers-by. A few
minutes later, he was back at home. And it was no easy matter: he had to cross
the town almost from end to end; he had to make his way through a long
labyrinth of crowded streets, amid a thousand dangers, including first boys and
next dogs; lastly—and this perhaps was an even more serious obstacle—he had to
pass over the Sorgue, a river running through Avignon. There were bridges at
hand, many, in fact; but the animal, taking the shortest cut, had used none of
them, bravely jumping into the water, as its streaming fur showed. I had pity
on the poor Cat, so faithful to his home. We agreed to do our utmost to take
him with us. We were spared the worry: a few days later, he was found lying
stiff and stark under a shrub in the garden. The plucky animal had fallen a victim
to some stupid act of spite. Some one had poisoned him for me. Who? It is not
likely that it was a friend!




There remained the old Cat. He was not indoors when we
started; he was prowling round the hay-lofts of the neighbourhood. The carrier
was promised an extra ten francs if he brought the Cat to Orange with one of
the loads which he had still to convey. On his last journey he brought him
stowed away under the driver's seat. I scarcely knew my old Tom when we opened
the moving prison in which he had been confined since the day before. He came
out looking a most alarming beast, scratching and spitting, with bristling
hair, bloodshot eyes, lips white with foam. I thought him mad and watched him
closely for a time. I was wrong: it was merely the fright of a bewildered
animal. Had there been trouble with the carrier when he was caught? Did he have
a bad time on the journey? History is silent on both points. What I do know is
that the very nature of the Cat seemed changed: there was no more friendly
purring, no more rubbing against our legs; nothing but a wild expression and
the deepest gloom. Kind treatment could not soothe him. For a few weeks longer,
he dragged his wretched existence from corner to corner; then, one day, I found
him lying dead in the ashes on the hearth. Grief, with the help of old age, had
killed him. Would he have gone back to Avignon, had he had the strength? I
would not venture to affirm it. But, at least, I think it very remarkable that
an animal should let itself die of home-sickness because the infirmities of age
prevent it from returning to its old haunts.




What the patriarch could not attempt, we shall see another
do, over a much shorter distance, I admit. A fresh move is resolved upon, that
I may have, at length, the peace and quiet essential to my work. This time, I
hope that it will be the last. I leave Orange for Serignan.




The family of Gingers has been renewed: the old ones have
passed away, new ones have come, including a full-grown Tom, worthy in all
respects of his ancestors. He alone will give us some difficulty; the others,
the babies and the mothers, can be removed without trouble. We put them into
baskets. The Tom has one to himself, so that the peace may be kept. The journey
is made by carriage, in company with my family. Nothing striking happens before
our arrival. Released from their hampers, the females inspect the new home,
explore the rooms one by one; with their pink noses they recognize the
furniture: they find their own seats, their own tables, their own arm-chairs; but
the surroundings are different. They give little surprised miaows and
questioning glances. A few caresses and a saucer of milk allay all their
apprehensions; and, by the next day, the mother Cats are acclimatised.




It is a different matter with the Tom. We house him in the
attics, where he will find ample room for his capers; we keep him company, to
relieve the weariness of captivity; we take him a double portion of plates to
lick; from time to time, we place him in touch with some of his family, to show
him that he is not alone in the house; we pay him a host of attentions, in the
hope of making him forget Orange. He appears, in fact, to forget it: he is
gentle under the hand that pets him, he comes when called, purrs, arches his
back. It is well: a week of seclusion and kindly treatment have banished all
notions of returning. Let us give him his liberty. He goes down to the kitchen,
stands by the table like the others, goes out into the garden, under the
watchful eye of Aglae, who does not lose sight of him; he prowls all around
with the most innocent air. He comes back. Victory! The Tom-cat will not run
away.




Next morning:




'Puss! Puss!'




Not a sign of him! We hunt, we call. Nothing. Oh, the
hypocrite, the hypocrite! How he has tricked us! He has gone, he is at Orange.
None of those about me can believe in this venturesome pilgrimage. I declare
that the deserter is at this moment at Orange mewing outside the empty house.




Aglae and Claire went to Orange. They found the Cat, as I
said they would, and brought him back in a hamper. His paws and belly were
covered with red clay; and yet the weather was dry, there was no mud. The Cat,
therefore, must have got wet crossing the Aygues torrent; and the moist fur had
kept the red earth of the fields through which he passed. The distance from
Serignan to Orange, in a straight line, is four and a half miles. There are two
bridges over the Aygues, one above and one below that line, some distance away.
The Cat took neither the one nor the other: his instinct told him the shortest
road and he followed that road, as his belly, covered with red mud, proved. He
crossed the torrent in May, at a time when the rivers run high; he overcame his
repugnance to water in order to return to his beloved home. The Avignon Tom did
the same when crossing the Sorgue.




The deserter was reinstated in his attic at Serignan. He
stayed there for a fortnight; and at last we let him out. Twenty-four hours had
not elapsed before he was back at Orange. We had to abandon him to his unhappy
fate. A neighbour living out in the country, near my former house, told me that
he saw him one day hiding behind a hedge with a rabbit in his mouth. Once no
longer provided with food, he, accustomed to all the sweets of a Cat's existence,
turned poacher, taking toll of the farm-yards round about my old home. I heard
no more of him. He came to a bad end, no doubt: he had become a robber and must
have met with a robber's fate.














Snow in the Suburbs




by Thomas Hardy




        Every branch big with it,
        Bent every twig with it;
    Every fork like a white web-foot;
    Every street and pavement mute:
Some flakes have lost their way, and grope back upward when
Meeting those meandering down they turn and descend again.
    The palings are glued together like a wall,
    And there is no waft of wind with the fleecy fall.


        A sparrow enters the tree,
        Whereon immediately
    A snow-lump thrice his own slight size
    Descends on him and showers his head and eye
        And overturns him,
        And near inurns him,
    And lights on a nether twig, when its brush
Starts off a volley of other lodging lumps with a rush.



        The steps are a blanched slope,
        Up which, with feeble hope,
    A black cat comes, wide-eyed and thin;
        And we take him in.




*




For by stroking of him I have found out electricity.
For I perceived God's light about him both wax and fire.

--Christopher Smart