The Life and Opinions of the Tomcat Murr

by E. T. A. Hoffmann

  ‘Oho,’ replied Kreisler, ‘oho! A wasp he was trying to drive off with fire and smoke!’

  The brothers entered the colonnade, and –

  M. cont. – a wicked enemy seeking to snap up the choice morsel right under an honest, harmless tomcat’s nose? For before long our pleasant roof-top society received a blow which shook and entirely ruined it. Our wicked enemy, destroyer of all feline comfort,60 appeared in the shape of a mighty raging Philistine known as Achilles. There were few respects in which he might be compared with his Homeric namesake, unless one were to suppose that the latter’s heroism too consisted chiefly in a certain clumsy awkwardness and the making of coarse, boastful remarks. Achilles was really an ordinary mastiff, but he worked as a watchdog, and the gentleman whose service he had entered kept him chained up, to strengthen his attachment to the house, so that he could go about freely only by night. Many of us were very sorry for him, despite his insufferable nature, but he did not take his loss of liberty to heart, being foolish enough to suppose the heavy weight of the chain was bestowed on him as an honour and ornament. Not a little to his vexation, Achilles found that our nocturnal merry-making disturbed his sleep when he was supposed to be on duty protecting the house from all mischief, and he threatened us with death and destruction as disturbers of the peace. However, since his clumsiness prevented him from climbing even to the attic, let alone on to the roof, we took no notice at all of his threats, but went on in just the same way as before.

  Achilles resorted to other measures: he began his campaign against us as a good general begins many a battle, with furtive attacks and then with open skirmishing. He sometimes condescended to play with various Pomeranians, applying his clumsy paws to them, and the moment we struck up our music he made these Poms bark so horribly at his command that we couldn’t hear a note we were singing! There was more to come! Some of those Philistine hangers-on made their way up to the attic and although they wouldn’t venture into any kind of open, honourable fight when we showed them our claws, they struck up such a terrible racket, yowling and barking, that whereas only the watchdog’s sleep had been disturbed at first, the master of the house himself couldn’t get a wink now, and when the fearsome noise went on and on he snatched up his hunting-crop to drive the riotous folk overhead away.

  O tomcat, you who read this, have you ever heard, if you have true manly feeling in your breast, a clear understanding in your head, and an ear for music, have you ever heard, I say, of anything more horrible, unpleasant, loathsome and at the same time pitiful than the shrill, dissonant yapping of Poms in a rage, howling in every key? Tomcat, beware those tail-wagging little creatures, smacking their lips and acting so sweetly! Don’t trust them! Believe me, the friendliness of a Pom is more dangerous than the tiger’s unsheathed claw! Let us say nothing of our own bitter experiences in that respect – alas, all too frequent! – but return to the further course of our story.

  As mentioned above, then, the dog’s master picked up his hunting-crop to drive the rioters from the attic. And what happened? Why, the Poms ran up to the irate gentleman wagging their tails, licked his feet, and pretended they had been making such a racket only for the sake of his peace and quiet, even though their noise itself was what had wrecked his comfort. They pretended they were barking only to drive away us cats, who got up to all manner of intolerable mischief on the roof, they said, singing songs in excessively high keys and so on. Sad to relate, the gentleman let the fluent loquacity of those Poms persuade him to believe it all, particularly because the watchdog, whom he did not neglect to question, confirmed it in the bitter hatred he bore us. Persecution was now our lot! We were driven away wherever we went – errand boys went for us with broomsticks, tiles were thrown at us, snares and fox-traps set everywhere to catch us, and alas, they did catch some of us too. Even my dear friend Muzius fell into misfortune, that is, into a fox-trap which crushed his right hind paw badly.

  So there was an end of our happy life together, and I went back to my place under my master’s stove, bewailing the fate of my unfortunate friends in sad seclusion.

  One day Herr Lothario the Professor of Aesthetics entered my master’s room, and behind him – ran Ponto.

  I cannot tell you how strange and uneasy I felt at the sight of Ponto. If he wasn’t exactly either a watchdog or a Pom himself, yet he belonged to that species whose nasty hostile nature had spoilt my life in the merry society of the feline fraternity, and therefore, in spite of the friendship he had shown me, I was in two minds about him. Moreover, I thought I saw something cocky and scornful about Ponto’s glance, about the dog himself, and I consequently decided I would rather not speak to him at all. Very quietly, I slipped off my cushion, and with one bound I was inside the stove, the door of which happened to be open. I pulled it shut behind me.

  Herr Lothario was now talking to my master, discussing various matters of no interest to me, particularly as all my attention was bent on young Ponto. After foolishly babbling a song, he had gone dancing round the room and jumped up on the window sill, where he was nodding the whole time to acquaintances passing by, as conceited persons commonly will. He also yelped a little, no doubt to attract the glances of passing fair ones of his own kind. The giddy fellow seemed not to think of me at all and although, as I was saying, I didn’t in the least want to speak to him, I did not like his failing to ask after me, his ignoring me entirely.

  Of quite another mind – and as I thought, a much better, more reasonable one – was the Professor of Aesthetics Herr Lothario, who, having looked all round the room for me, asked my master, ‘But where’s your excellent Monsieur Murr?’

  For an honourable feline fraternity member, there can be no worse appellation than the fateful word Monsieur.61 However, one must suffer a great deal in this world from aestheticians, so I forgave the Professor his insult.

  Master Abraham told him I had been going my own way for some time and was seldom home, especially at night, which made me look tired and exhausted. But I had been lying on my cushion just now, he said, and he really didn’t know where I’d disappeared to so suddenly.

  ‘I suspect,’ continued the Professor, ‘I’m inclined to suspect, Master Abraham, that your Murr – but is he hiding somewhere here, listening? Let’s just take a look.’

  I quietly withdrew to the back of the stove, but you can imagine how I pricked up my ears when the talk turned to me. The Professor had searched every corner in vain, not a little to my master’s surprise. ‘Really, Professor, you do my Murr extraordinary honour!’ said he, laughing.

  ‘Aha!’ replied the Professor. ‘Master, I can’t rid my mind of that suspicion I have of you and the educational experiment whereby a tomcat may became a poet and an author. Don’t you remember the sonnet and the gloss my Ponto snatched from your Murr’s paws? Well, be that as it may, I’ll take advantage of Murr’s absence to tell you of a nasty conjecture I entertain, and recommend you most urgently to keep an eye on his behaviour. Little as I generally concern myself with cats, it has not escaped my notice that many previously good, well-behaved tomcats have suddenly adopted a course of conduct which is a gross offence against all decorum and order. They don’t wind their way about our legs humbly as they used to, but strut defiantly about, they don’t hesitate to show their original wild nature with flashing glances and angry growling, they even unsheathe their claws. Thinking so little of sober, quiet conduct, they’re equally disinclined to appear decorous and urbane in their outward appearance. They never think of washing their whiskers, licking their fur till it shines, nibbling their claws when they grow too long; they run about all dishevelled and shaggy with unkempt tails, to the horror and dismay of all cultivated cats. But particularly blameworthy, indeed insufferable, is their habit of holding secret meetings by night, rumbustiously engaged in what they call singing, although there’s nothing to be heard but a horrible howling utterly without proper time, correct melody and harmony. I am afraid, Master Abraham, I am afraid your Murr has gone to the bad and
is participating in those vulgar diversions, which can earn him nothing but a good thrashing. It would grieve me if all the care you’ve lavished on your little grey friend were in vain, and for all his education he descends to the usual wild behaviour of common dissolute tomcats.’ When I heard myself, my good friend Muzius and my stout-hearted brothers so shockingly undervalued, a sound of pain involuntarily escaped me.

  ‘What was that?’ cried the Professor. ‘I do believe Murr is hiding somewhere in the room after all! Ponto! Allons! Seek, seek!’

  With one bound, Ponto was down from the window-sill and snuffling around the room. He stopped outside the door of the stove, growled, barked, and jumped up in the air.

  ‘He’s in the stove, no doubt about it!’ So said the Master, opening the door. I sat calmly where I was, looking at my master with clear, bright eyes. ‘Yes, indeed,’ cried my master, ‘there he is sitting at the very back of the stove. Well, do you fancy coming out of there? Come along, out!’

  Little as I wished to leave my hiding place, I had to obey my master’s order if I didn’t want to invite violence in which I would come off worst. I therefore slowly crept out. However, no sooner had I emerged into the light of day than both the Professor and my master exclaimed aloud, ‘Oh, Murr! Murr! What do you look like? What have you been up to?’

  I was covered all over with ashes, to be sure; add to that the noticeable deterioration in my outward appearance which had been coming on for quite some time, and I was obliged to see myself in the description the Professor had given of those schismatic tomcats. I could imagine the pitiful figure I cut. When I compared that pitiful figure with the appearance of my friend Ponto, who looked very fine indeed with his nice, handsome, glossy and curly coat, deep shame filled me, and I slunk quietly and sadly into my corner.

  ‘Is that,’ cried the Professor, ‘is that the clever, the well-conducted cat Murr? The elegant writer, the brilliant poet who composes sonnets and glosses? No, he’s a perfectly ordinary cat who haunts kitchen hearths and knows nothing but how to catch mice in cellars and attics! So tell me, you decorously behaved animal, will you be asking to take your degree soon, even applying for a chair of aesthetics? You’ve certainly got yourself a nice academic gown there!’

  And he went on and on mocking me with such remarks. What could I do except what I usually did in such cases, when taken to task, and lay my ears back close to my head?

  Finally both the Professor and my master burst into roars of laughter that cut me to the heart. However, I felt Ponto’s conduct almost more keenly. Not only did he show by expression and gesture that he shared his master’s scorn, he kept jumping aside to display his dislike of coming near me. He was probably afraid of getting his nice clean coat dirty. Being obliged to suffer such contempt from a stupid poodle is no small thing for a tomcat as conscious of his distinguished qualities as I am.

  The Professor now fell into a lengthy conversation with my master, a conversation which seemed to have nothing to do with me and my kind, and I really understood very little of it. But I did gather that they were discussing whether it were better to counter the often confused and unbridled behaviour of excitable youth with open force, or merely to employ clever, inconspicuous ways of keeping it within limits, giving the young people room for self-knowledge, which would soon put an end to such behaviour. The Professor was for open force, saying that conformity to the outer good required everyone, resistance notwithstanding, to be pressed as soon as possible into the mould made by the relationship of all individual parts to the whole, for otherwise a dreadful monstrosity would immediately be created and could cause all manner of mischief. In his discourse, the Professor spoke of the issuing of pereats62 and breaking of windows, but I didn’t understand that at all. My master, on the other hand, said he thought the excitable young were in much the same state as the partly mad, whose madness is always increased by open resistance, whereas recognition of error acquired personally is a radical cure and leaves no room for fear of a relapse.

  ‘Well,’ cried the Professor at last, as he rose and took his hat and stick, ‘well, Master Abraham, as to the use of open force to check over-excited behaviour, you will at least admit me right in thinking it must be applied mercilessly when that behaviour has a detrimental effect on people’s lives, and so we come back to your cat Murr, for I am glad to say I’ve heard that some brave Poms have driven away those curst tomcats who sang so horribly, thinking themselves wonderfully great virtuosi.’

  ‘That depends how you look at it,’ replied my master. ‘If they’d been allowed to sing, perhaps they’d have become what they mistakenly thought themselves already, to wit, good virtuosi in actual fact, whereas they may now doubt that true virtuosity exists.’

  The Professor took his leave, and Ponto ran after him without even granting me the honour of a farewell, the kind of farewell he used to give in a very friendly way.

  ‘I myself,’ said my master, turning to me now, ‘I myself have not been satisfied with your recent conduct, Murr, and it’s time you became a good, sensible cat again if you’re to recover a better reputation than that you seem to enjoy at present. If you could understand me fully, I’d advise you to be always quiet and friendly, and perform all your undertakings without any fuss, for that’s the best way to get a good reputation. In fact I’d give you the example of two men: one of them sits quietly alone in the inglenook every day, drinking bottle after bottle of wine until he is in a wholly intoxicated condition, but long practice enables him to hide that condition so well that no one notices. The other man, however, drinks a glass of wine only occasionally, in the company of cheerful, merry friends; the drink sets his heart and tongue free, as his cheerfulness increases he talks much and eagerly, but without offending propriety and decency, and he is the one whom the world considers a great wine-bibber, while the secret drunkard appears a quiet, moderate man. Oh, my dear Murr, if you knew the way of the world you would see that a Philistine who keeps pulling his horns in is always best off. But how can you know what a Philistine is? Although there may be plenty of them among your own kind too!’

  At these words from the Master I could not prevent myself uttering a loud, cheerful chirrup and then purring, aware as I was of the excellent knowledge of feline nature I had acquired from both the teaching of my good friend Muzius and my own experience.

  ‘Why,’ cried my master, laughing aloud, ‘why, my dear Murr, I do believe you understand me, and the Professor is right to claim he has discerned unusual mental powers in you, and even fears you as his rival in aesthetics!’

  By way of confirming that this was indeed the case, I uttered a very clear and melodious ‘Miaow!’ and without more ado jumped on my master’s lap. I had forgotten, however, that he happened to be wearing his best yellow flowered silk dressing-gown, which I was bound to soil. With an angry ‘Oh, would you?’, my master flung me away so violently that I turned a somersault and cowered on the floor, putting back my ears and closing my eyes in alarm. Thank goodness, however, for my good master’s kindness! ‘There,’ said he in friendly tones, ‘there, there, Murr, I didn’t intend to hurt you! I know you meant well; you wanted to show your fondness for me, but you did it clumsily, and when that happens people seldom care a bit about good intentions! Come here then, little cinder-cat; I must clean you up and make you look like an honest tom again!’

  So saying, my master took off his dressing-gown, picked me up and spared no pains in brushing me clean with a soft brush and then combing my fur with a little comb until it shone.

  When my toilette was completed, and I walked past the mirror, I myself was amazed to see what a different cat I looked all of a sudden. I couldn’t stop purring at myself with satisfaction, so fine did I think I appeared, and I won’t deny that considerable doubts of the propriety and usefulness of the feline fraternity club stirred in me at that moment. I felt it had been quite barbarous of me to get into the stove; I could only put it down to a kind of wildness, and I didn’t even need my master’s warn
ing: ‘And don’t you go clambering into that stove again!’

  Next night, I thought I heard a soft scratching at the door and a timid ‘Miaow!’ which sounded very familiar to me. I stole over and asked who was there. Puff, our good Senior, replied (I knew him at once by his voice). ‘It is I, good brother Murr, and I have very sad news for you!’

  O Heaven, what –

  W.P. – done you great wrong, my dear, sweet friend. No, you are more to me than a friend – my faithful sister! I haven’t loved you enough, I haven’t trusted you enough. Only now does my whole heart open to you, only now that I know –’

  Princess Hedwiga stopped. A flood of tears poured from her eyes, and once again she pressed Julia tenderly to her heart.

  ‘Hedwiga,’ said Julia gently, ‘have you not always loved me with all your soul, have you ever had secrets you would not confide in me? What is it you know, what have you only now learnt? But no, no, no! Not another word until this pulse beats calmly again, until these eyes don’t burn with so sad a light.’

  ‘I really don’t know,’ replied the Princess, suddenly irritated, ‘I don’t know what you all want. They say I’m still ill, and I never felt stronger or better. The strange accident that happened to me alarmed you, and yet it may be that such electric shocks, which bring the whole organism of life to a standstill, are more necessary and useful to me than all the remedies offered by a silly, paltry medical art in its unhappy self-deception. How I dislike that court physician who thinks he can treat human nature like clockwork, to be dusted off and wound up! I hate him, with his drops and his essences! Is my health supposed to depend on such things? If so, then life here below must be a terrible piece of mockery on the part of the world spirit.’