Part 22

PUSSY IN PRIVATE LIFE.

No animal has known greater vicissitudes than our pleasant little house-familiar, Pussy. He had his day of glory in the far past, when armies retreated before him; his day of divinity, too, as the mighty basalt cat-headed goddesses in many a museum still testify. And then, having had in his life-time all that heart of cat could wish, after death he became a mummy and received funeral honors.

Just how it happened, no one knows, but a few thousand years later we find Pussy no longer reverenced. Instead of a divinity he was regarded as the accomplice of witches, and burned in holocaust on St. John’s Day, or tormented for the amusement of such evil kings as Philip II. of Spain. Later still, and final stage of his decadence, he was valued in direct proportion to his usefulness--becoming now a mere drudge, and now a joyless plaything for children. Could Egyptian heart have dreamed it?

But Pussy’s fortunes are again rising. He is no longer a stale divinity, but he is becoming--what is far better in this age of progress--a social power! Even in his worst estate he had always warm friends and admirers; now, he has a party. For, “you either love cats, or you do not love them,” says a witty author; and statistics go to prove that those who love cats are the majority to-day.

CAT-HEADED EGYPTIAN GODDESS, BAST OR BUBASTIS.

(From a bronze in the British Museum.)]

Pussy has also been fortunate in having two strings to his bow--personal beauty and utility. No other creature so dainty, so artistically delightful; a thing of beauty, and--to the appreciative--a joy forever; no other creature so dexterous in pursuit of mice, so self-supporting, so acute! Throughout the ages, therefore, through prosperity and adversity, Pussy, like the Jews, has flourished. The honors of divinity did not turn his handsome head, and persecution has failed to uproot his race from the soil.

What a small bit of life he is; yet when absent, how we miss him! Only think of Wales, in good King Howel’s time; when rats were rampagious, when a kitten, even before it could see, was worth a penny, and heavy fines were imposed on whoever should hurt or kill a cat. Think of Varbach, that little German town where mice ran riot, until at last a cat was obtained. Think of Whittington; how with a cat in his arms he sailed to a country where cats were not, and made his fortune--through the cat! There are skeptics, of course, who call this pretty story a myth; and very possibly, like some other good old stories, it has put on with time some of the colors of a fairy tale; but that little Dick had a cat, and a valued one--so much, at least, may well be true. The queer bas-relief at Guildhall Museum in London has an appearance of verity; and as it was found in a house which once belonged to the Whittington family, and had been occupied in the famous Lord Mayor’s life-time by his nephew, it not improbably commemorates some actual fact in the great man’s history.

One of the earliest pet cats on record is that of Prince Hana, an Egyptian notability who lived several thousand years ago, and between the stone feet of whose statue was placed the statuette of his cat, Bouhaki. The latter may still be seen in the Louvre, sitting erect in a dignified attitude, squarely confronting posterity, so to say, with a gold collar around its neck, and ear-rings in its ears!

(At the Guildhall Museum, London.)]

Early in history, also, and more famous than Bouhaki is Muezza, the cat of Mahomet. Every one knows how the Prophet sat reading one day, with the favorite curled up in peaceful slumber on the wide sleeve of his robe; and how, rather than disturb her, when obliged to go, he gently cut off the sleeve. No wonder, with such an example before them, that Mahommedans still honor cats.

From Mahomet to Petrarch is quite a step--not only in point of time, but of character. Nevertheless, these great men had one thing in common--their affection for cats. Laura was not enough for the poet; he must also have his little white “micino,” holding it second only to the lady of his heart, and so mourning its death as to have it embalmed. This veritable cat may be seen to-day in Petrarch’s house at Arquà--at least the guide assures us it is the same. For my own part, I have no more doubt of its identity than of the blood-spot in Holyrood. I take the one to be Rizzio’s blood; I take the other to be the immortal poet’s equally immortal cat--and thank my stars I am not so skeptical as some people!

Lovers of Petrarch all visit Arquà, and, if literary, are very apt to commemorate the visit with their pen. Such an one was Tassoni, whose charming verse may be roughly rendered as follows:

“Now rises the lovely hill of Arquà Which pleases, seen from mountain or from plain, Where lies he in whose writings The soul expands like a plant in the sun; And where his embalmed cat just as when alive Still guards the illustrious threshold against mice.

“To this cat Apollo granted the privilege Of remaining intact in spite of time, And of having its manifold honors Made eternal in a thousand songs;-- So that the sepulcher of mighty kings Is surpassed in glory by an unburied cat!”

Several hundred years after Tassoni, an American pilgrim went to Arquà, and added his own pleasant tribute to the thousand songs; protesting that--

“we cannot well figure to ourselves Petrarch, sitting before that wide-mouthed fire-place, without beholding also the gifted cat that purrs softly at his feet, and nestles on his knees; or with thickened back and lifted tail, parades loftily around his chair, in the haughty and disdainful manner of cats.”

Tasso also had his pet; sad, hapless poet that he was, there was need of all the comfort he could get. Doubt not but that often his tears fell warm on Pussy’s fur; and that in her companionship he found solace when other solace there was none. To this little friend he addressed a sonnet, begging her, since lamps were denied in his prison, to light him with her eyes.

Other famous Italians have shared the taste of these poets; among whom, probably, may be included Andrea Doria. Some writers assure us that he detested cats, and kept one only to remind him of the conquered Fieschi, whose badge it was. Be this as it may, the animal who sits beside him in the ancient portrait at Genoa has an undeniable air of well-being. If an enemy, it has been treated with respect; if a friend, it is also an equal, and returns the old admiral’s gaze with proud directness.

St. Dominic’s hatred of cats is more than offset by the affection which various popes have shown them. Gregory the Great had a much-indulged favorite, and Leo XII. had a number. One big cat of grayish-red called Micetto he presented to another friend of the feline race, the famous Chateaubriand, as a mark of his esteem.

Pius IX. also had his pet--a superb “gato soriano,” which was always present at his frugal meals, sitting beside him, and claiming its full share both of food and attention. A very pleasant sight it must have been, to see this benign old pontiff taking his passegiata in the gardens of the Vatican, with Pussy sedately pacing at his side. When, after a while, the link of companionship was broken, and Pussy paced from this world to another, no pet succeeded him. “I am too old for new friendships,” said his master; “moreover, death may come to me next, for my cat and I have both grown old in the Vatican.”

A still more ardent cat-lover in Italy was the aged Archbishop of Taranto, who died about the beginning of this century. His pets had their regular meals corresponding with his own; and a guest was once much amused by hearing him ask a servant during dinner whether the cats had been served. “Yes, monsignore,” the man gravely answered, “but Desdemona prefers waiting for the roasts.” Desdemona was a white Persian, both in color and disposition a complete contrast to her huge black mate, Othello.

When the archbishop was eighty-six years old, a friend called upon him rather earlier than usual one morning, and was rewarded by this pretty scene: the venerable, white-haired old man in dressing gown and slippers, seated at the breakfast-table, with two great tortoise-shell cats on chairs beside him, alertly watching his hand for bits of bread, and purring in the most affectionate manner between mouthfuls.

Cardinal Richelieu was devoted to kittens, rather than cats, finding in their companionship the relaxation he needed after toil. They lived in his room, in handsomely lined and cushioned baskets, so that he might see them whenever he chose. But no sooner were they three months old, than he had them removed and a new supply brought in. One white Angora passed the fatal period and retained her place as favorite-in-chief so long as she lived. Her usual lounging-place was His Eminence’s table, among his books and papers. In the picture painted by Champaigne, there are three different views of the famous cardinal, and one can easily fancy the delicate, sarcastic countenance bent towards his pets, and occasionally relaxing into a smile at some extra kittenish gambol.

(From the painting by Philippe de Champaigne.)]

Our English Cardinal Wolsey also had a fondness for cats, and more than once was found by some great dignitary amusing himself with a kitten. One favorite was sometimes seen with him in the Council Chamber; and it may well have entered into the final sum of his offenses that he preferred the society of intelligent cats to that of empty-headed bigwigs!

In the last century there was a Mlle. Dupuy living in France, of whom few people now know anything; but who, nevertheless, in her own day had a reputation as an exquisite performer on the harp. Furthermore, she possessed a cat who had also some claim to be called an authority in harpistry. Before a performance in public, Mlle. Dupuy would rehearse privately before him. He always listened with critical attention, and if any notes displeased, would growl. Such notes she always amended, trying them over until he ceased growling. The lady never married, and when in course of time she died, her will was found to provide, among other bequests, for the maintenance of this little friend and critic. Sad to relate, however, the will was set aside by grasping relatives, and Pussy’s fate is unknown.

Fourier had a magnificent cat--a great pet--in his house at Lyons; and it is recorded of this rather grim philosopher, that he could never see a pretty cat or kitten on the street without stopping to caress it.