The Life and Opinions of the Tomcat Murr

by E. T. A. Hoffmann

My friend is dead – but she is found!

  Oh rapture! Joy! Oh bitter pain!

  My daughter – wife – I feel the wound!

  Poor heart, are you to break again?

  Yet can a wake, a merry dance

  So utterly beguile the mind?

  No! ’Tis delusion, not romance.

  Strength to withstand it I must find.

  Begone, thou vain deceiving vision:

  Make way for loftier endeavour!

  I’ll hold the female in derision.

  She loves, she hates, she’s constant never.

  No melting looks, pray – thine eyes sink!

  Oh Mina, Kitty, save your presence –

  This fatal poison I’ll not drink.

  I flee. Let Muzius have his vengeance.

  Transfigured tom! Whene’er I eat

  A tasty fish I’ll think of you;

  At every slice of good roast meat

  I’ll vow to emulate you too.

  Could vile, base Poms, my noble friend,

  Bring you to ruin? Theirs the shame!

  Plot as they might your grievous end,

  I’ll glorify your noble name.

  I felt so sad, like one who chooses

  To weep and wail from morn to night.

  But thanks be to the gracious Muses,

  Thanks to the phantasy’s bold flight –

  I feel considerably fitter;

  My appetite is much improved.

  My genius like my friend’s shall glitter.

  A gourmet is to poesy moved!

  Child of the high celestial sphere!

  Art! comforter in times like these,

  Let me write verses, year by year,

  With brilliant and consummate ease.

  And ‘Murr,’ cries many a lovely queen

  And noble youth, ‘Poetic Murr!

  What trust and confidence, I ween,

  Are roused in me by thy sweet purr!’

  The effect of composing these little verses did me so much good that I couldn’t be content with this one poem, but produced several more, one after another, with the same ease and felicity. I would communicate the most successful of them to my gentle reader at this point, were it not my intention to publish them, along with several witticisms and impromptus which I have composed in my hours of leisure and which almost make me burst out laughing myself, under the general title of Fruits of my Hours of Inspiration.

  I must say, not a little to my own credit, that even in my youthful period, before the storm of passion had yet blown itself out, a clear understanding and a fine sense of decorum ruled me, getting the upper hand of any excessive intoxication of the senses. I thus succeeded in suppressing entirely the love that had suddenly bloomed within me for the lovely Mina. For one thing, in the circumstances and on calm reflection I could not but see it as a somewhat foolish passion; for another, I discovered that in spite of her outward appearance of childlike innocence, Mina was a pert, self-willed little thing who would dart at the bright eyes of the most unassuming young toms on occasion. To protect myself from any relapse, however, I carefully avoided seeing Mina, and as I was even more reluctant to face Kitty’s alleged claims and her strange, excitable character, I stayed indoors on my own so as not to meet either of them, visiting neither cellar, attic or roof. My master seemed to approve of this, and if he was studying at his desk, he would let me sit behind him on his chair, craning my neck so that I could look through the crook of his arm at the book he was reading.

  My master and I studied some very nice books3 together in this manner: for instance, Arpe’s De prodigiosis naturae et artis operibus, Talismanes et Amuleta dictis, Becker’s Enchanted World, Francisco Petrarch’s book of memoranda, and many more. Reading these works was uncommonly diverting, and gave my mind new stimulus.

  My master had gone out; the sun was shining so pleasantly, the scents of spring wafted in through the window so delightfully, that I forgot my resolutions and strolled up to the roof. No sooner was I on the roof-top, however, than I caught sight of Muzius’s widow coming round the chimney. I stood still, rooted to the spot with alarm; I could already hear myself being assailed with reproaches and protestations.

  I was wide of the mark! Young Hinzmann was following close behind the lovely widow, whispering sweet nothings. She stopped, welcomed him with loving words, the two of them greeted each other with decided expressions of heartfelt affection, and then they swiftly passed me by without a greeting, taking no further notice of me at all. No doubt young Hinzmann was ashamed to face me, for he lowered his head and cast down his eyes, although the light-minded, flirtatious widow gave me a scornful look.

  The tomcat is a very foolish creature in respect of his psychic nature. Could I not, ought I not to have felt glad that Muzius’s widow was provided with another lover? Yet I could not help feeling a certain inner vexation which seemed almost like jealousy. I swore never again to visit that roof, where I thought I had suffered great wrong. I took to sedulously jumping up on the window-sill instead, basking in the sun and looking down at the street to amuse myself; I indulged in all manner of profound meditations, thus combining pleasure with profit.

  One subject of my reflections was as follows: why had it never occurred to me to go outside the door of the building of my own free will, or to take a stroll along the street, as I saw many of my kind do without any fear or alarm? I imagined such a promenade as an extremely agreeable thing, and felt sure that now I had come to months of greater maturity, and had acquired sufficient experience of life, I could no longer be risking any of those dangers into which I fell when Fate flung me into the world as a youth of tender years. For a start, I therefore walked confidently downstairs and sat down on the doorstep in the brightest of the sunshine. It goes without saying that I assumed a position calculated to show anyone, at first glance, that I was an educated, well-bred cat. I liked it outside the door of the building very much indeed. While the warm rays of the sun warmed my fur pleasantly, I delicately crooked my paw to wash my face and whiskers, whereupon a couple of young girls passing by on their way home from school, to judge from the large briefcases with clasps which they carried, not only expressed their high delight but also gave me a piece of white bread, which, with my usual gallantry, I gratefully accepted.

  I was playing with their gift rather than actually preparing to eat it, but what was my alarm when a loud growling close beside me suddenly interrupted my game, and I saw before me that powerful old dog Scaramouche the poodle, Ponto’s uncle! I was about to vacate the doorway with one bound, but Scaramouche called out: ‘Don’t be such a coward! Stay where you are! Do you think I’m going to eat you?’

  I inquired, with the humblest courtesy, in what way I might be able to serve Herr Scaramouche to the best of my poor powers, but he replied brusquely, ‘You can’t serve me in any way at all, Master Murr. How could you, anyway? I was going to ask whether you happen to know where my young wastrel of a nephew Ponto is. He used to go around with you, and the two of you seemed to be bosom friends, not a little to my annoyance. Well? Just tell me if you know where the lad’s hanging about. It’s several days since I set eyes on him.’

  Cast into confusion by the old fellow’s arrogant, slighting manner, I told him coldly that there was no question of any close friendship between me and young Ponto, and never had been. Of late, in particular, Ponto had dissociated himself from me entirely, and in any case I’d never sought him out.

  ‘Well,’ growled the old fellow, ‘well, glad to hear it; it shows the lad still has a sense of honour and isn’t ready to go about with all kinds of rag, tag and bobtail.’

  This was not to be endured! I was overcome by fury, the spirit of the feline fraternity stirred within me, and forgetting all fear I hissed a heartfelt ‘You old ruffian!’ into the face of the vile Scaramouche, meanwhile raising my right paw with claws extended towards the poodle’s left eye.

  The old dog retreated a couple of steps, and said, less brusquely than before, ‘Th
ere, there, Murr, don’t take it ill! You’re a good cat otherwise, so I advise you to beware of young Ponto, for he’s a devil of a fellow! Well, you may believe me, he’s an honest soul, but light-minded, light-minded! Ready for all kinds of crazy pranks, never takes life seriously, no morals! So beware, I say, or he’ll soon be luring you into company where you don’t belong at all, where you’ll have to go to extraordinary pains to force yourself into a kind of social intercourse abhorrent to your disposition and apt to ruin your character and your simple, unfeigned morality, as you showed it to me just now. Well now, my dear Murr, as I was saying, you’re not a bad cat as cats go, and you’re ready to lend an ear to good advice! You see, however many crazy, disgraceful and indeed dubious pranks a youth may indulge in, if he displays only occasionally that yielding, often mawkish good humour peculiar to persons of a sanguine temperament, folk will say, “He’s a good sort after all, au fond!”,4 using the French expression, and that’s supposed to excuse his acting in defiance of all morality and order. But the fond where the kernel of virtue is hidden lies so deep, and so much of the debris of a dissolute life has accumulated on top of it, that it’s bound to be nipped in the bud. However, that silly amiability is often held up to one as a true sense of what’s good – though devil take such amiability if it can’t recognize the spirit of evil beneath a glittering mask! Trust me, tomcat, trust the experience of an old poodle who knows his way about the world, don’t let anyone fool you with that infernal “He’s a good sort au fond!” And if you happen to see my dissolute nephew, you’re welcome to tell him to his face everything I’ve been saying to you, and decline any further friendship with him. God bless you! You weren’t going to eat that, were you, my dear Murr?’

  So saying, Scaramouche the old poodle snapped up the piece of white bread from in front of me and then walked away at a leisurely pace, head down so that his long, hairy ears swept the ground, wagging his tail slightly.

  I thoughtfully watched the old poodle go as I took in the worldly wisdom of his remarks.

  ‘Has he gone? Has he gone?’ whispered a voice just behind me. I was not a little surprised to see young Ponto, who had been hiding behind the door, waiting for the old dog to leave me. Ponto’s sudden appearance cast me into some confusion, since although I really ought to have carried out his old uncle’s instructions now, it seemed rather a risky undertaking. I remembered those alarming words Ponto had once barked at me: ‘Were it to cross your mind to express hostile feelings towards me, then I’m your superior in strength and agility. One leap, one good bite from my sharp teeth would soon send you packing!’ I thought it highly advisable to say nothing.

  This inward hesitation may have made my outward behaviour seem cold and forced. Ponto gave me a sharp look. Then he burst out laughing and cried, ‘I see what it is, friend Murr! My old uncle’s been telling you all manner of terrible things about my doings; he’s described me as dissolute and addicted to every kind of foolish prank and debauchery. Don’t you be silly enough to believe a word of it! Now then: take a good look at me and tell me what you think of my outward appearance.’

  Looking young Ponto up and down, I thought he had never seemed so fit and well-fed, his attire had never been so neat and elegant, never had there been such agreeable harmony about him in general, and I told him so frankly.

  ‘Well now,’ said Ponto, ‘well now, my dear Murr, do you think a poodle who frequents bad company, who’s given over to low debauchery, who makes a point of being dissolute without taking any real pleasure in it, merely out of boredom, as indeed many poodles do – do you think such a poodle can look as you see me look? You praise, first and foremost, the harmony of my appearance. That in itself should show you how much my cross old uncle is mistaken! Remember – since you are a literary cat – remember the wise man5 who, when someone reproached a profligate chiefly with the lack of harmony in his nature, replied, “Is it possible for there to be unity in profligacy?” My dear Murr, do not for a moment be surprised by my old uncle’s black slanders! Surly and stingy as all uncles are, he was furious with me because he had to pay a few little gaming debts of mine, debts of honour I ran up with a sausage-seller who allowed illicit gambling at his shop, and would often advance considerable quantities of saveloys, groats and liver to the gamblers (made into sausages, of course). And then again, the old fellow’s still thinking of a certain period when my way of life wasn’t exactly creditable, but that’s all over long ago, and has given way to the utmost decorum.’

  Just then an impertinent pinscher came down the street, peered at me as if he’d never seen anyone like me before, shouted some very coarse insults at me and then snapped at my tail, which I had stretched out full length and which he didn’t seem to care for. However, by the time I rose to defend myself Ponto too had made for the ill-bred roisterer, kicked him to the ground and jumped on him two or three times, sending him shooting away like an arrow from the bow, tail firmly clamped between his legs, and uttering the most miserable lamentations.

  This proof of Ponto’s goodwill and active friendship moved me uncommonly, and I thought that in his case the saying ‘He’s a good sort au fond!’, against which Uncle Scaramouche had tried to warn me, could be understood in a better sense, and for various reasons could excuse him more than many another. Anyway, I had an idea the old fellow saw things in too dark a light, and although Ponto might be light-minded he could never play wicked pranks. I told my friend all this without concealment, thanking him, in the most heartfelt terms, for coming to my defence.

  ‘I’m glad,’ replied Ponto, glancing around him with a bold, roguish look in his eyes, as was his wont, ‘I’m glad my old fogey of an uncle hasn’t misled you, my dear Murr, and you recognize my good heart. Didn’t I see that boisterous young fellow off well, Murr? He won’t forget it in a hurry. In fact I’ve been watching him all day; the oaf stole a sausage from me yesterday, and deserved chastisement. And I’m not at all sorry your own injury was avenged in the process, so that I was able to prove my friendship to you. I was killing two birds with one stone, as the saying goes. But now, to return to what we were just discussing. Take another good close look at me, my dear cat, and tell me whether you don’t notice anything in particular different about my outward appearance.’

  I looked attentively at my young friend, and – good heavens! Only now did I notice the prettily worked silver collar he was wearing, engraved with the words Baron Alcibiades von Wipp. Marschallstrasse No. 46.

  ‘What?’ I cried in amazement. ‘What, Ponto, have you left your master the Professor of Aesthetics and gone to live with a baron?’

  ‘I didn’t actually leave the Professor,’ replied Ponto. ‘He drove me away with kicks and blows.’

  ‘How could that be?’ I asked. ‘Surely your master used to show you every possible sign of affection and kindness?’

  ‘Ah, well,’ replied Ponto, ‘it’s a silly, vexatious story which turned out to my advantage only by the strange play of capricious chance. My stupid good nature alone was to blame for the whole thing – along with just a little vainglory, to be sure. I was always trying to pay my master attentions, thus showing off my skill and education. Consequently, I was in the habit of carrying any little thing I found on the floor straight to him without waiting to be asked. Well, you may perhaps know that Professor Lothario has a wife, very young and pretty as a picture, a wife who loves him most tenderly, as he cannot doubt at all, since she assures him of it all the time, heaping caresses on him at the very moment when he is deep in his books and preparing for the lecture he must give. She is domestic bliss personified, since she never leaves home before twelve noon, having risen at ten-thirty; being a woman of simple ways, she doesn’t think it beneath her to consult the cook and the housemaid on every detail of domestic affairs, and borrow from them if the housekeeping money has run out early because certain expenditure exceeding the budget has been incurred, and the Professor can’t be approached. She pays interest on such a loan in clothes that have hardly be
en worn, and these clothes, besides the feathered hats in which the astonished world of maidservants sees the housemaid decked out of a Sunday, might be considered the reward for certain secret errands and other favours. With so many perfections, a charming woman can scarcely be blamed for the small folly (if folly it may be called) of bending her most earnest endeavour, all her thoughts and aims, to being always dressed in the latest fashion – for thinking the most elegant and expensive garment not elegant or expensive enough for her, while if she has worn a dress three times or a hat four, or has draped a Turkish shawl around her for a full month, she feels a dislike for it and will let the costliest outfit go again for almost nothing or, as I said, will let the maids preen in it. It is hardly surprising for the wife of a professor of aesthetics to have a sense of a handsome appearance, and it can only please her spouse if she manifests that sense by letting the gaze of her bright, sparkling eyes rest on handsome youths, even running after them a little from time to time.

  ‘I sometimes noticed that some attractive young man or other who attended the Professor’s lectures missed the door of the lecture hall, and quietly opened the door to the Professor’s wife’s room instead, entering it equally quietly. I could almost have believed that this confusion was not entirely accidental, or at least that no one minded it, for none of the young men was in any hurry to correct his mistake. If he went in it was quite some time before he came out again, and then with a smiling, satisfied look which suggested that his visit to the Professor’s wife had been as pleasing and profitable as the Professor’s lecture on aesthetics. The lovely Letitia (for such was the name of the Professor’s wife) did not particularly like me. She wouldn’t have me in her room, and she may have been right, since it’s true that even the most refined poodle doesn’t belong in a place where he risks tearing silk lace and soiling the clothes lying scattered on all the chairs at every step he takes. Yet the evil genius of the Professor’s wife ordained that I should once get into her boudoir.