by Shaun Usher
Letters of Note was born in 2009 with the launch of lettersofnote.com, a website celebrating old-fashioned correspondence that has since been visited over 100 million times. The first Letters of Note volume was published in October 2013, followed later that year by the first Letters Live, an event at which world-class performers delivered remarkable letters to a live audience.
Since then, these two siblings have grown side by side, with Letters of Note becoming an international phenomenon, and Letters Live shows being staged at iconic venues around the world, from London’s Royal Albert Hall to the theatre at the Ace Hotel in Los Angeles.
You can find out more at lettersofnote.com and letterslive.com. And now you can also listen to the audio editions of the new series of Letters of Note, read by an extraordinary cast drawn from the wealth of talent that regularly takes part in the acclaimed Letters Live shows.
First published in Great Britain in 2020 by Canongate Books Ltd,
14 High Street, Edinburgh EH1 1TE
canongate.co.uk
This digital edition first published in 2020 by Canongate Books
Copyright © Shaun Usher, 2020
The right of Shaun Usher to be identified as the
author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance
with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
For permission credits please see p. 128
British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data
A catalogue record for this book is available on
request from the British Library
ISBN 978 1 78689 554 7
eISBN 978 1 78689 555 4
CONTENTS
INTRODUCTION
01 IS NATURE A GIGANTIC CAT?
Nikola Tesla to Pola Fotić
02 MY PRECIOUS LITTLE COMPANION IS GONE
Rachel Carson to Dorothy Freeman
03 THE CAT RANCH
Jack Lemmon to Walter Matthau
04 MY FLUTTERING HEART
Persian Snow (Erasmus Darwin) and Miss Po Felina (Anna Seward)
05 A HUMAN CARESS FROM A CAT
Sylvia Townsend Warner and David Garnett
06 YOU KILLED MY CAT
Guy Davenport to the drivers of Lexington
07 LONG TAILS DANCING AT NIGHT
Lafcadio Hearn to Basil Hall Chamberlain
08 POOR MOUSCHI!
Anne Frank to Kitty
09 IT IS LIKE LIVING IN A STATE OF SIEGE
Charles Dickens to John Forster
10 TO ALL POLLICLE DOGS & JELLICLE CATS
T.S. Eliot to Thomas Faber
11 I SEE YOU, MY BEAUTY BOY
Elizabeth Taylor to her missing cat
12 THE CAT IS NOT A SIMPLE EQUATION
Henry Harland to The Yellow Book
13 CAT VERSUS BIRD
Adlai Stevenson II to the Members of the Senate of the 66th General Assembly
14 THE CAT ORGAN
‘Mary Midnight’ to the Royal Society
15 A PILE OF 5,000 CATS AND KITTENS
Frederick Law Olmsted to his son
16 THE ZOMBI
Robert Southey to Grosvenor Bedford
17 BRACE UP HONEY
Gabrielle-Ange Lévesque to Jack Kerouac
18 ODE ON THE DEATH OF A FAVOURITE CAT DROWNED IN A TUB OF GOLDFISHES
Thomas Gray to Horace Walpole
19 FOSS IS DEAD
Edward Lear to Lord Aberdare
20 CAT FANCY
Ayn Rand to Cat Fancy magazine
21 A PITY SUCH FINE CATS SHOULD BE DEAF
William Darwin Fox to Charles Darwin
22 AM I REALLY WRITING IT AT ALL?
Raymond Chandler to Charles Morton
23 CATS, CATS, CATS OF MINE
Ester Krumbachová to her cats
24 A HOME THAT NEVER CHANGETH
Katherine Mansfield to Ida Baker
25 HE EATS LIKE A GENTLEMAN
Florence Nightingale to Mrs Frost
26 A TALE OF HORROR
Jane Welsh Carlyle to Kate Stanley
27 HE IS NOT A FORGIVING CAT
John Cheever to Josephine Herbst
PERMISSION CREDITS
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
For Kala, Dodi, Gavin, Stacey, Silvie, Polo and Chico
A letter is a time bomb, a message in a bottle, a spell, a cry for help, a story, an expression of concern, a ladle of love, a way to connect through words. This simple and brilliantly democratic art form remains a potent means of communication and, regardless of whatever technological revolution we are in the middle of, the letter lives and, like literature, it always will.
INTRODUCTION
For many thousands of years, since human beings first began domesticating cats and dogs – for reasons of pest control and hunting respectively – there has been one particular question consistently on the lips of the population that has never failed to divide its audience straight down the middle:
Cats or dogs?
As the proud owner of multiple iterations of both since childhood, some more appealing than others, admittedly, it is plainly obvious to me that the correct answer, and in fact the only logical answer, is yes, because to choose between cats and dogs is to choose between food and drink: pointless, and likely to change depending on the time of day and current mood. For now, though, let us focus on our feline friends of this world, hundreds of millions of which are currently members of human families across the globe, slinking around the ankles of their two-legged housemates, purring loudly as they wait for breakfast, kneading soft furnishings with a look of such ecstasy that one cannot help but wish to swap roles if only for a minute, gracefully leaping through the air across impossible distances to escape the clumsy child with no boundaries to speak of, casually bopping the nose of the overexcited and intellectually inferior dog who shares the kitchen, somehow opening that cupboard door that leads to the treats, elegantly sauntering through the home with an air of arrogance that makes one wonder who has domesticated whom and, actually, hang on a moment, have we all been stitched up?
In this volume, you will discover that we owe one particular cat a huge debt of gratitude for inspiring one of history’s most influential scientists to improve our lives immeasurably. You will learn about a musical instrument that was to be powered by cats. You will learn of a legally dubious business plan involving a steady supply of cats, rats and snakes, all for a very healthy profit. You will learn about supernatural double-tailed Japanese cats. You will learn about the cat who brought a much-needed smile to the face of a young girl hiding from the worst of humankind. You will learn about the Illinois governor who with great panache saved the cat community from intense embarrassment. You will learn about a poem written by one of the greats in memory of a cat who fell into a fishbowl. You will learn about the cat who defecated into a tissue box belonging to a famous novelist – a novelist who, at the time, as luck would have it, had a cold.
You will learn all these things, and more, through the time capsule we call the letter – humans’ most precious, enjoyable and endangered form of communication, currently being nudged towards the sorting office in the sky by the many digital, charmless, fugacious alternatives that invade our every waking thought, reducing our relationships to something far less meaningful. Indeed, my hopes for this book are two-fold: to further intensify your love for these magnificent animals, if that is even possible, and to remind you that without letters these stories would likely have died a quick death, never to be retold, and that we owe it to ourselves, and future generations, and all these cats who deserve and, let’s face it, demand recognition, to write more letters.
So please do exactly that. Take ten minutes out of your day. Find a piece of paper, rescue your last remainin
g pen from the cat, and write to someone, if only to let them know that you are thinking of them. There’s a chance, albeit slim, that you may even get a reply.
Shaun Usher
2020
P.S. Please send me a copy.
The Letters
LETTER 01
IS NATURE A GIGANTIC CAT?
Nikola Tesla to Pola Fotić
23 July 1939
Born in 1856 in Smiljan, in Croatia, Nikola Tesla was an inventor whose invaluable impact on the modern world is difficult to comprehend. During the course of his eighty-six years he made numerous breakthroughs in the realm of electrical engineering, particularly around his AC induction motor, and by the time of his death, the ‘Father of Electricity’ had approximately 300 patents to his name. In Washington DC in 1939, aged eighty-three and in failing health, Tesla met Pola Fotić, the daughter of the Yugoslav ambassador to the United States, and they bonded over their shared love of cats. Soon afterwards, from his home in New York City, Tesla wrote to his new friend and revealed the reason behind his lifelong fascination with electricity.
THE LETTER
New York,
July 23, 1939
My Dear Miss Fotić,
I am forwarding to you the “Calendar of Yugoslavia” of 1939 showing the house and community in which I had many sad and joyful adventures, and in which also, by a bizarre coincidence, I was born. As you see from the photograph on the sheet for June, the old-fashioned building is located at the foot of a wooded hill called Bogdanic. Adjoining it is a church and behind it, a little further up, a graveyard. Our nearest neighbors were two miles away. In the winter, when the snow was six or seven feet deep, our isolation was complete.
My mother was indefatigable. She worked regularly from four o’clock in the morning till eleven in the evening. From four to breakfast time – six a.m. – while others slumbered, I never closed my eyes but watched my mother with intense pleasure as she attended quickly – sometimes running – to her many self-imposed duties. She directed the servants to take care of all our domestic animals, she milked the cows, she performed all sorts of labor unassisted, set the table, prepared breakfast for the whole household. Only when it was ready to be served did the rest of the family get up. After breakfast everybody followed my mother’s inspiring example. All did their work diligently, liked it, and so achieved a measure of contentment.
But I was the happiest of all, the fountain of my enjoyment being our magnificent Máčak – the finest of all cats in the world. I wish I could give you an adequate idea of the affection that existed between us. We lived for one another. Wherever I went, Máčak followed, because of our mutual love and the desire to protect me. When such a necessity presented itself he would rise to twice his normal height, buckle his back, and with his tail as rigid as a metal bar and whiskers like steel wires, he would give vent to his rage with explosive puffs: Pfftt! Pfftt! It was a terrifying sight, and whoever had provoked him, human or animal, would beat a hasty retreat.
Every evening we would run from the house along the church wall and he would rush after me and grab me by the trousers. He tried hard to make me believe that he would bite, but the instant his needle-sharp incisors penetrated the clothing, the pressure ceased and their contact with my skin was gentle and tender as a butterfly alighting on a petal. He liked best to roll on the grass with me. While we were doing this he bit and clawed and purred in rapturous pleasure. He fascinated me so completely that I too bit and clawed and purred. We could not stop, but rolled and rolled in a delirium of delight. We indulged in this enchanting sport day by day except in rainy weather.
In respect to water, Máčak was very fastidious. He would jump six feet to avoid wetting his paws. On such days we went into the house and selected a nice cozy place to play. Máčak was scrupulously clean, had no fleas or bugs, shed no hair, and showed no objectionable traits. He was touchingly delicate in signifying his wish to be let out at night, and scratched the door gently for readmittance.
Now I must tell you a strange and unforgettable experience that stayed with me all my life. Our home was about eighteen hundred feet above sea level, and as a rule we had dry weather in the winter. But sometimes a warm wind from the Adriatic would blow persistently for a long time, melting the snow, flooding the land, and causing great loss of property and life. We would witness the terrifying spectacle of a mighty, seething river carrying wreckage and tearing down everything moveable in its way. I often visualize the events of my youth, and when I think of this scene the sound of the waters fills my ears and I see, as vividly as then, the tumultuous flow and the mad dance of the wreckage. But my recollections of winter, with its dry cold and immaculate white snow, are always agreeable.
It happened that one day the cold was drier than ever before. People walking in the snow left a luminous trail behind them, and a snowball thrown against an obstacle gave a flare of light like a loaf of sugar cut with a knife. In the dusk of the evening, as I stroked Máčak’s back, I saw a miracle that made me speechless with amazement. Máčak’s back was a sheet of light and my hand produced a shower of sparks loud enough to be heard all over the house.
My father was a very learned man; he had an answer for every question. But this phenomenon was new even to him. “Well,” he finally remarked, “this is nothing but electricity, the same thing you see through the trees in a storm.”
My mother seemed charmed. “Stop playing with this cat,” she said. “He might start a fire.” But I was thinking abstractedly. Is nature a gigantic cat? If so, who strokes its back? It can only be God, I concluded. Here I was, only three years old and already philosophizing.
However stupefying the first observation, something still more wonderful was to come. It was getting darker, and soon the candles were lighted. Máčak took a few steps through the room. He shook his paws as though he were treading on wet ground. I looked at him attentively. Did I see something or was it an illusion? I strained my eyes and perceived distinctly that his body was surrounded by a halo like the aureola of a saint!
I cannot exaggerate the effect of this marvelous night on my childish imagination. Day after day I have asked myself “what is electricity?” and found no answer. Eighty years have gone by since that time and I still ask the same question, unable to answer it. Some pseudo-scientist, of whom there are only too many, may tell you that he can, but do not believe him. If any of them know what it is, I would also know, and my chances are better than any of them, for my laboratory work and practical experience are more extensive, and my life covers three generations of scientific research.
Nikola Tesla
LETTER 02
MY PRECIOUS LITTLE COMPANION IS GONE
Rachel Carson to Dorothy Freeman
18 December 1963
During Christmas of 1963, as she battled the breast cancer to which she would soon succumb, marine biologist and author Rachel Carson wrote to her dear friend, Dorothy Freeman, with some sad news: her precious cat, Jeffie, was also coming to the end of the road. A year earlier, Carson had risen to prominence with the publication of Silent Spring, a seminal book which helped kick-start the modern environmental movement by shining a light on the damage done by fertilisers and pesticides. That book had taken four long and stressful years to write, and Jeffie had been with her every step of the way. As Carson remarked in an earlier letter to Freeman, shortly after finishing the book:
I took Jeffie into the study and played the Beethoven violin concerto – one of my favorites, you know. And suddenly the tensions of four years were broken and I got down and put my arms around Jeffie and let the tears come. With his little warm, rough tongue he told me that he understood.
Now, she was forced to say goodbye.
THE LETTER
Wednesday night, December 18
Dearest,
Perhaps I shouldn’t write you in a minor key so close to Christmas but my heart is so burdened about Jeffie that I need to talk to you. He is slipping so fast that I feel he will surely ha
ve left us by Christmas – so much weaker each day, and now eating nothing at all but what I give him with a spoon. I was to have taken him down for a shot today but snow kept me in (I skipped my treatment too), and besides I would have hesitated about taking him out in the raw, windy cold. But if driving is possible tomorrow I guess I’ll have to take him, even though I now have very little hope that anything can be done. It reminds me so much of our Tippy’s last days. He was six years older than Jeffie, but I guess calendar age doesn’t mean much.
You will know that deep in my heart I feel I ought to be willing and even thankful to let him go, for it would be so much easier for him to go while I am still here to care for him. You know that his fate has been one of my concerns. But it is so very hard to think of doing without him. His little life has been so intertwined with mine all these ten years. And how strange it would be if the three darling kitties that have meant so much to you and to us should all die within the year!
Now it is Thursday morning and my precious little companion is gone. I imagine I shall have talked to you before this reaches you and you will know. I sat up late with him in the living room, then carried him into the bedroom and closed the door so I could check on him more easily during the night. About 3:30 I was wakened by the sound of his difficult breathing, with little moans, and found him lying at the door. I sat on the floor beside him for some time, stroking him and talking to him. Finally he got up and went under the bed. That is where he died this morning, I think just before Roger left for school. We both heard him cry just as we finished breakfast. We came in and Roger reported he was under the bed. I could not see him well, but after Roger left I got down with a flash light and then I knew. In a few minutes Ida came, and she moved the bed so I could lift him out and hold him in my arms. Then we curled him up in the little battered oval basket he loved so well. I will have Elliott bury him out under the pine trees by the study, a place that I should think would never be disturbed.
