The Life and Opinions of the Tomcat Murr

by E. T. A. Hoffmann

  Prince Hector was now throwing bits of bread too, but the swan disdained to eat them and uttered a loud, harsh cry. At this the Prince put his arm around Julia and threw bread from that position, as if to make the swan think Julia was feeding it. As he did so, his cheek nearly touched hers.

  ‘That’s it,’ said Kreisler, ‘that’s it, your rascally Highness, clutch your victim, my bird of prey, but there’s a man lying here in the bushes aiming at you, ready to shoot until your shining wings droop, and then it will go hard with you and your hunting!’

  Now Prince Hector took Julia’s arm, and they both walked towards the fisherman’s cottage. Just as they reached it, however, Kreisler emerged from the bushes, approached the couple and said, bowing low to the Prince: ‘A lovely evening, uncommonly brisk air with a refreshing aroma to it. Your Highness must feel yourself in the beautiful state of Naples here.’

  ‘And who are you, sir?’ Prince Hector asked brusquely. But at that moment Julia shook off his arm, went up to Kreisler in a friendly manner, gave him her hand and said, ‘How delightful that you are here again, dear Kreisler! Do you know how heartily I have wished to see you? Indeed, Mother says crossly that I act like a tearful, ill-bred child if you are absent only for a day. I could fall quite ill with vexation when I think that you forget me and my singing.’

  ‘Oh,’ cried the Prince, shooting venomous glances at Julia and Kreisler, ‘oh, so you are Monsieur de Krösel, are you? Prince Irenaeus spoke very highly of you!’

  ‘Bless him,’ said Kreisler, while his whole countenance quivered oddly in a hundred folds and little wrinkles, ‘bless the good Prince for that! It means I may perhaps get what I wanted to ask, Highness, to wit, your gracious protection. I am bold enough to entertain the notion that you gave me your goodwill at first glance, that you deigned to call me fool in passing, entirely of your very own accord, and as fools are apt to do anything you please, then –’

  ‘You are jocular,’ the Prince interrupted him, ‘you are a jocular man.’

  ‘Oh, not at all,’ continued Kreisler. ‘I like a joke, it’s true, but only a bad one, and that in its turn isn’t very comical. Just at present I fancy going to Naples to bawl a few good ditties as sung by fishermen and bandits on the quay there, ad usum delphini.97 Now you, my dear Prince, you’re a kindly, art-loving gentleman, and if you were perhaps to give me a few introductions –’

  ‘You are a jocular man, Monsieur de Krösel,’ Prince Hector interrupted him again. ‘I like that, I really do, but now I wouldn’t wish to keep you from your walk, so goodbye!’

  ‘No, no, your Highness,’ cried Kreisler, ‘I can’t let this opportunity pass without revealing myself to you in all my glory! You were about to go into the fisherman’s cottage, where there is a little pianoforte, and I’m sure Fräulein Julia will be kind enough to sing a duet with me!’

  ‘With the utmost pleasure,’ cried Julia, taking Kreisler’s arm. Prince Hector gritted his teeth and stalked haughtily ahead. As they walked on, Julia whispered into Kreisler’s ear, ‘Kreisler, what a strange mood you are in!’

  ‘Oh God,’ replied Kreisler, in just as quiet a voice, ‘oh God, do you lie lulled in beguiling dreams as the serpent approaches to kill you with its poisonous bite?’

  Julia looked at him in the greatest astonishment. Only once before, at a moment of intense musical enthusiasm, had Kreisler addressed her by the familiar form of the pronoun ‘you’.

  When the duet was over the Prince, who had been crying ‘Brava, bravissima’ at frequent intervals during the song, broke into enthusiastic applause. He covered Julia’s hands with burning kisses, he swore that no song had ever gone so straight to his heart, and he asked her to let him print a kiss on the heavenly lips from which those paradisal sounds had flowed like a river of nectar.

  Julia timidly recoiled. Kreisler went up to the Prince and said, ‘Your Highness, as you don’t wish to give me a word of praise too – one I think that I’ve deserved as much as Fräulein Julia, as composer and bold singer – I see my poor musical knowledge doesn’t make much of an effect. However, I also know something about painting, and will do myself the honour of showing you a little portrait of someone whose remarkable life and strange end are so well known to me that I can tell the whole tale to anyone who cares to listen.’

  ‘Tedious fellow!’ muttered the Prince.

  Kreisler took a little box out of his pocket, removed a small portrait from the box, and held it out to Prince Hector. The Prince looked at it; all the blood drained from his face, his eyes stared, his lips quivered, and muttering ‘Maledetto!’98 through his teeth he strode away.

  ‘What is it?’ cried Julia, terrified. ‘For the sake of all the saints, what is it, Kreisler? Tell me everything!’

  ‘Oh, it’s amazing stuff!’ replied Kreisler. ‘Comical pranks, the exorcism of demons! See, my dear young lady, see the good Prince running over the bridge as fast as his gracious legs will carry him. Good God! he’s going right against his sweet, idyllic nature; he doesn’t even look down at the lake, he doesn’t want to feed the swan any more, the dear, good – devil!’

  ‘Kreisler,’ said Julia, ‘your voice goes to my heart, cold as ice; I fear some mischief! What are you about with the Prince?’

  The Kapellmeister moved away from the window where he had been standing, and looked with deep emotion at Julia, who stood there before him, hands clasped as if to pray the spirit of good to relieve her of the fear that brought tears to her eyes.

  ‘No,’ said Kreisler, ‘no harsh or hostile note shall destroy the heavenly harmony that dwells in your mind, devout child! The spirits of Hell walk the world in dissembling disguise, but they have no power over you, and you shall not know them by their dark deeds! Be calm, Julia! Let me keep silent. It is all over now!’

  At this moment Madame Benzon entered in great agitation. ‘What has happened?’ she cried. ‘What has happened? The Prince rushes right past me without seeing me, like a madman! Close to the castle his adjutant comes to meet him – they talk vehemently together, then the Prince sends the adjutant on some important errand, or so it seemed to me, for while the Prince strides into the castle the adjutant turns in great haste to the pavilion where he is staying. The gardener told me you had been standing on the bridge with the Prince, and upon hearing that I was overcome, I don’t know why, by a dreadful premonition of something terrible about to occur – and I hurried here. Tell me, what has happened?’

  Julia told her everything.

  ‘Secrets?’ inquired Madame Benzon sharply, casting a penetrating glance at Kreisler.

  ‘My dear madam,’ replied Kreisler, ‘there are moments – circumstances – situations, rather, in which I think a man must keep his mouth shut, for if he opens it he will utter nothing but confused stuff likely to irritate reasonable people!’

  And they left it at that, although Madame Benzon seemed to be hurt by Kreisler’s silence.

  The Kapellmeister accompanied her and Julia to the castle, and then set off on his way back to Sieghartsweiler. Once he had gone down the leafy avenues of the park and was out of sight, the Prince’s adjutant emerged from the pavilion and followed the same path that Kreisler had taken. Soon afterwards, deep in the forest, a shot rang out!

  That very night Prince Hector left Sieghartsweiler. He had taken leave of Prince Irenaeus in writing, promising to return soon. When the gardener searched the park next day with his men, he found Kreisler’s hat, with bloodstains on it. Kreisler himself had disappeared, and did not appear again. One –

  VOLUME TWO

  PART III

  MY APPRENTICE MONTHS

  The Whimsical Play of Chance

  M. cont. Your breast is filled with yearning, ardent longing, yet when you have finally got what you strove for with a thousand pains and cares, that longing instantly freezes to icy indifference, and you cast away what you have won like a worn-out toy. And no sooner have you done so than bitter remorse follows your swift act, you strive again, and so life haste
ns away in longing and loathing. Even such is Cat! This term is the correct description for all of my kind, including the proud lion, whom the famous Hornvilla in Tieck’s Oktavian1 consequently calls a big cat. Yes, I repeat, such and no other is Cat, and the feline heart is a very inconstant thing.

  It is the first duty of an honest biographer to be scrupulous and not on any account to spare himself. In all honesty, therefore, paw on heart, I will confess that despite the inexpressible zeal with which I devoted myself to the arts and sciences, yet the thought of lovely Kitty would often rise suddenly before my mind’s eye, wholly interrupting my studies.

  I felt as if I should not have left her, as if I had scorned a faithful, loving heart merely dazzled momentarily by a false delusion. Ah! how often, when I intended to refresh myself with the great Pythagoras (for I was deep in the study of mathematics at this time), would a dainty black-stockinged little paw suddenly push aside all the catheti2 and hypotenuses, and I saw the fair Kitty herself before me, her dear little velvet cap on her head, the sparkling glance of those charmingly lovely grass-green eyes gazing at me with the tenderest reproaches! What pretty little sideways leaps, what lovely waving and coiling of her tail! I longed to fling my paws around her in transports of newly inflamed love, but then the teasing phantasm would be gone.

  Such reveries from the Arcadian realms of love could not but induce in me a certain melancholy bound to be injurious to my chosen career as poet and scholar, particularly as it soon deteriorated into a lethargy I could not withstand. I tried to wrench myself forcibly from this irksome condition by making a swift decision to seek Kitty out again. Yet once I had my paw on the first step of the stairs, ready to climb to the upper regions where I might hope to find the lovely fair, shame and bashfulness seized upon me, and I removed my paw from the step again and retreated sadly to my place under the stove.

  Despite these afflictions of the mind, however, I enjoyed remarkable physical well-being at this time, and I was conspicuously increasing if not in knowledge, then at least in corporeal strength. When I looked at myself in the mirror I noted with satisfaction that united with the freshness of youth, there began to be something awe-inspiring about my round-cheeked countenance.

  Even my master noticed my changed mood. It is true that I had been accustomed to purr and perform merry leaps and bounds when he fed me something tasty, that I used to roll at his feet, caper about and jump up on his lap when he rose in the morning and called, ‘Good morning, Murr!’ I now ceased to do any of these things, contenting myself with a friendly ‘Miaow!’ and that attractive, proud gesture which will be familiar to the gentle reader as the arching of a cat’s back. Yes, I even scorned the bird-game I had always loved so much. Young gymnasts or athletes of my kind may derive instruction from an account of this game. My master would tie one or more quill pens to a long piece of string and wave them rapidly up and down in the air as if they were really flying. Crouching in the corner, observing the tempo of the game, I would leap for the feathers until I caught them and tore them to bits. This game often quite carried me away; I thought the feathers really were a bird and became all enthusiasm, so that mind and body were both involved in the process, were educated and grew stronger. But now I even despised this game, and however hard my master made his feathers fly I remained sitting placidly on my cushion.

  ‘Tomcat,’ said my master to me one day, when the feathers passed close to my nose and even touched my cushion, but I scarcely so much as blinked and put a paw out to them, ‘tomcat, you’re not the cat you used to be. You’re getting lazier and more indolent every day. I think you’re eating and sleeping too much.’

  At these words from my master, light dawned on me! I had ascribed my listless melancholy solely to the memory of Kitty and the paradise of love I had spurned. Only now did I realize how things of this world had divided me from my aspiring scholarship, asserting the claims of earthly life. Certain natural phenomena clearly show us how the captive mind must sacrifice its freedom to that tyrant the body. First and foremost among these phenomena I count a tasty porridge made of flour, sweet milk and butter, and a big cushion well stuffed with horsehair. My master’s maidservant made that sweet porridge very nicely indeed, and consequently I used to eat two large dishes of it for breakfast with the best of appetites. After making such a hearty breakfast, however, I had no more taste for the sciences, which seemed to me very dry fare, nor was it any use my turning from them to fling myself at once into poetry. The most highly praised works of the latest authors, the most famous tragedies of celebrated poets could not hold my attention; I would fall into a wide-ranging train of thought, my master’s skilful maidservant involuntarily coming into conflict with the author, and it appeared to me that she knew more about the proper gradation and compounding of unctuosity, sweetness and vigour than he did. What an unfortunate dream-like confusion of intellectual and physical pleasure! Aye, I may call this confusion dream-like since I felt dreams coming on, causing me to seek out that second dangerous phenomenon, the big cushion stuffed with horsehair, to slumber softly on it. And then the sweet likeness of fair Kitty appeared to me! Heavens above, it was all of a piece: milk porridge, disdain for the sciences, melancholy, stuffed cushion, unpoetic nature, memories of love! My master was right: I was eating and sleeping too much. With what stoic gravity did I determine to be more moderate! But the nature of the tomcat is weak, and the best, most excellent decisions were routed by the sweet smell of milk porridge and that invitingly plump cushion.

  One day, when my master had just stepped out of the room, I heard him speaking to someone and saying, ‘Oh, very well, I don’t mind! Perhaps company will cheer him up. But no silly tricks, if you please! Any jumping up on my desk, tipping over the ink-well or knocking things to the floor, and the pair of you will be cast out of the temple.’

  Thereupon my master opened the door a little way and let someone in. This Someone was none other than my friend Muzius. I hardly recognized him. His once smooth and glossy fur was dull and unkempt, his eyes lay deep in their sockets, and his formerly amiable if rather boisterous nature had taken on a touch of swaggering brutality.

  ‘Well, well!’ he spluttered. ‘So here you are at last! We have to run you to ground behind that curst stove of yours, do we? But if you don’t mind…’ And he went over to my dish and gobbled up the fried fish I had been saving for my supper. ‘Tell me,’ said he as he ate, ‘tell me, where on earth have you been? Why don’t we see you on the roof-tops any more? Why do you shun the merry social round?’

  I explained that after abandoning my love for the fair Kitty I had been devoting my mind entirely to the sciences, and consequently could not think of taking any excursions. Nor did I in the least long for society, since I had all my heart could desire here at my master’s: porridge made with milk, meat, fish, a soft bed, and so forth. A quiet life free of care, said I, was the most beneficial thing possible for a tomcat of my inclinations and character, and that made me fear all the more that if I went out this life might be disturbed, since sad to say, I had observed that my fondness for little Kitty was not yet entirely extinguished, and seeing her again could easily lead me to perform rash actions which I might regret bitterly afterwards.

  ‘And you might rustle me up another fried fish afterwards too!’ said Muzius, crooking his paw to wash his face, whiskers and ears in a very perfunctory manner. He then settled down on the cushion beside me.

  ‘You may consider it,’ began Muzius, having purred for a few seconds to show his satisfaction, his voice and bearing gentle, ‘you may consider it your good fortune, brother Murr, that I took it into my head to visit you in your hermitage, and your master didn’t object to letting me in. You are in the greatest danger that can befall an able young tomcat with brains in his head and vigour in his limbs. That’s to say, you’re in danger of becoming a truly dreadful Philistine.3 You say you’ve applied yourself to the sciences too strictly to have any time left over for going round town with other tomcats. Well, forgive
me, brother, but that’s not true. Plump, well fed and glossy as you are, you don’t look at all like a bookworm given to burning the midnight oil. Believe you me, it’s this curst comfortable life makes you lazy and lethargic. You’d feel very different if you had to wear yourself out, the way we do, to lay your paws on a few fish-bones or a little bird.’

  ‘I thought,’ said I, interrupting my friend, ‘you were in a pretty good situation yourself. I mean, comrade, you used to –’

  ‘We’ll talk of that another time,’ snapped Muzius angrily, ‘and not so much of the comrade, I won’t have that, not before we’ve pledged fellowship with a spot of mud in your eye!4 But you’re a Philistine, you wouldn’t understand the expression!’

  When I had tried to make peace with my irate friend he continued, more gently: ‘Well, as I was saying, your way of life is no good, brother Murr. You must get out and about, go out into the world.’

  ‘Heavens above,’ I cried in alarm, ‘what are you saying, brother Muzius? You want me to go out into the world? Have you forgotten what I told you down in the cellar a few months ago – how I once jumped out into the world from an English half-carriage? Have you forgotten what I told you about the dangers that threatened me on every side? Or how my good friend Ponto saved me in the end and brought me back to my master?’

  Muzius laughed nastily. Then he said, ‘Oh yes, that’s just it, that’s the point! Your good friend Ponto! That foppish, know-all, foolish, proud hypocrite who took your part because he had nothing better to do just then and it happened to amuse him, but who wouldn’t acknowledge you at all if you sought him out in his meetings with his cronies, oh no, in fact he’d bite you for not being one of his own kind! Your good friend Ponto who amused you with silly stories of human affairs instead of introducing you to the world of real life! No, my dear Murr, that incident showed you a world very different from the world where you belong! You may believe every word I say: all this solitary study is no use to you at all, in fact it’s doing you harm. It’ll leave you a Philistine still, and there can be nothing more tedious and insipid on earth than a learned Philistine!’