The Life and Opinions of the Tomcat Murr

by E. T. A. Hoffmann

  ‘One day the Professor had drunk more wine than was really good for him at luncheon in the middle of the day, and consequently he was in great good humour. On coming home he went straight to his wife’s room, quite contrary to his usual custom, and I slipped through the door with him, impelled by what special desire I myself don’t know. The Professor’s wife was wearing a negligée so white it might have been compared to new-fallen snow; her whole attire showed not just a certain carefulness but the most profound art of the toilette, which conceals itself behind simplicity and, like an enemy in ambush, is all the more sure of a conquest. She was indeed full of charms, and the half-intoxicated Professor felt their force more strongly than usual. Full of love and delight, he called his beautiful wife the sweetest names, lavished the most affectionate caresses on her, and thus failed to notice a certain absence of mind, a certain uneasy discomfort which his wife’s whole demeanour betrayed all too clearly. I found the enthusiastic aesthetician’s growing tenderness displeasing and annoying, and turned to my old way of passing the time, sniffing around on the floor. Just as I heard the Professor crying out loud, in the utmost ecstasy, “Divine, noble, heavenly woman, let us –” I came prancing up to him on my hind legs, wagging my short tail slightly, as usual, and daintily presenting him with the man’s glove of fine quality and orange hue which I had found under his wife’s sofa.

  ‘The Professor stared at the glove, and cried, as if abruptly woken from a sweet dream, “What’s this? Whose is this glove? How did it get into the room?” So saying, he removed the glove from my mouth, examined it, held it up to his nose and shouted again, “Where did this glove come from? Letitia, tell me who’s been with you!”

  ‘ “Oh, dear me!” replied the fair and faithful Letitia, in tones of uncertainty and confusion which she tried in vain to suppress, “oh, dear me, how oddly you’re behaving, dear Lothario! Whose is the glove – whose would it be? Why, the Major’s wife came to call, and when she left she couldn’t find her glove. She thought she must have dropped it on the stairs.”

  ‘ “The Major’s wife!” shouted the Professor, quite beside himself. “The Major’s wife, that delicately-built little woman whose whole hand would fit into the thumb of this glove? Hell and the devil, what pretty boy’s been here? For this curst thing stinks of scented soap! Who’s been here, unhappy woman? What criminal, infernal imposture has been destroying my peace and happiness? Oh, vile and infamous woman!”

  ‘The Professor’s wife was just preparing to fall down in a faint when the chambermaid came in and I, happy to be released from the fateful scene of marital life I had set in motion, made haste to run away.

  ‘Next day the Professor was very quiet and occupied with his thoughts: one notion alone seemed to fill his mind, and he seemed to be brooding on nothing but that idea. “Can it be he?” Such were the words that involuntarily escaped his silenced lips from time to time. Towards evening he picked up his hat and stick. I jumped to my feet, barking happily. He looked at me for a long time, bright tears sprang to his eyes, and he said, in tones of the deepest, most heartfelt melancholy, “My good Ponto! Faithful, honest soul!” Then he hurried out of doors, and so did I, close on his heels, determined to cheer the poor man up with all the arts at my command. Just outside the gate we encountered Baron Alcibiades von Wipp, one of the most elegant gentlemen in town, mounted on a fine English horse. As soon as the Baron caught sight of the Professor he curvetted gracefully up to him and asked after his (the Professor’s) health and then the health of his lady wife.

  ‘The Professor stammered a few indistinct words in his confusion.

  ‘ “Yes, to be sure, very hot weather!” said the Baron, pulling a silk handkerchief out of his coat pocket, but with the same movement he also flung out a glove which, in my usual way, I carried to my master.

  ‘The Professor swiftly snatched the glove from me and cried, “Is this your glove, Baron?”

  ‘ “Why, yes,” replied he, surprised by the Professor’s vehemence, “why, yes, I believe I pulled it out of my coat pocket just now and your helpful poodle retrieved it.”

  ‘ “In that case,” said the Professor in cutting tones, handing the Baron the glove I had fetched out from under his wife’s sofa, “in that case I have the pleasure of being able to return you the twin brother of your glove, the one you lost yesterday.”

  ‘And without waiting for the obviously embarrassed Baron to answer, the Professor hurried wildly away.

  ‘I took care not to follow the Professor into his dear wife’s room, since I could anticipate the storm that was soon to be heard raging, audible even in the corridor. But I waited in a corner outside, listening, and saw the Professor, his burning red countenance alight with rage, push the chambermaid to the door of the room and then, as she began saying something pert, throw her right out of the house. At last, late that night, the Professor came up to his bedroom absolutely exhausted. I expressed my heartfelt sympathy for his sad misfortune by whining softly. At that he embraced me and pressed me to his breast, as if I were his best, his closest friend. “My good, honest Ponto,” said he in a very doleful tone, “faithful heart, you, you alone have woken me from the beguiling dream that would not let me see my shame, you have brought me to throw off the yoke to which a false woman had harnessed me, so that now I can be a free, clear-minded man again! Ponto, how shall I thank you? You must never, never leave me; I will cherish and care for you as my best, most faithful friend, you alone will comfort me when I am near despair at the thought of my harsh misfortune.”

  ‘These moving expressions of a noble, grateful mind were interrupted by the cook, who rushed in, her face pale and distorted, and told the Professor the terrible news that his wife was lying in the most frightful convulsions, about to give up the ghost. The Professor flew downstairs!

  ‘For several days on end I hardly saw the Professor at all. The task of feeding me, which in the usual way my master lovingly performed himself, fell to the cook, but she was a cross, nasty creature and grudgingly gave me only the most miserable scraps, barely edible, instead of my usual good fare. Sometimes she even forgot me entirely, so that I was obliged to sponge on good friends, and even go hunting prey just to satisfy my hunger.

  ‘Finally, as I was moping around the house one day weak and hungry, my ears drooping, the Professor paid me a little attention. “Ponto,” said he, smiling, and indeed his whole face was bright and sunny, “Ponto, my good old dog, where have you been hiding? Is it so long since I saw you? I do believe they’ve neglected you, which wasn’t what I wanted at all, and they haven’t fed you properly! Come along, come along, and I’ll feed you myself again today.”

  ‘I followed my kind master into the dining-room. The Professor’s wife, blooming like a rose, came to meet him, her countenance all sunshine, just like her husband’s. They were more affectionate than ever in their behaviour to each other; she called him “angel husband”, he called her “Mousie”, and they kissed and toyed like a pair of turtle-doves. It was a pleasure to watch them. The Professor’s lovely wife was friendlier to me, too, than she had ever been before, and you may well imagine, my good Murr, that my native gallantry taught me how to behave well and prettily. Who could have guessed what fate hung over me? It would be difficult, even for me, to describe in detail all the malicious tricks to which my enemies resorted to ruin me, and it would weary you into the bargain. I will confine myself to mentioning just a few things which will give you a faithful picture of my unhappy situation.

  ‘My master was in the habit of giving me my usual portions of soup, vegetables and meat in a corner by the dining-room stove, while he had his own meal. I ate with such delicacy and cleanliness that not even the smallest speck of fat could be seen on the wooden floor. Imagine my horror, therefore, when at dinner-time one day the bowl broke into a hundred pieces when I had scarcely come near it, spilling greasy broth all over the beautiful floor. The Professor shouted angrily at me, uttering dreadful insults, and although his wife sought to excuse
me, her pale face showed bitter annoyance. She said that even if the nasty stain wouldn’t come out, the wood could be planed down, or a new board fitted. The Professor had a great dislike of such repairs; he could already hear the carpenter’s lads planing and hammering, so it was his wife’s kind excuses which really brought my supposed clumsiness home to him, earning me a couple of cuffs about the head as well as those insults. I stood there conscious of my innocence, very much surprised, with no idea what to think or what to say.

  ‘Only when the same thing had happened to me two or three times did I see the malice of it! I had been given half-broken bowls which were bound to fall to pieces at the slightest touch. I wasn’t allowed in the dining-room any more. The cook fed me outside, but so grudgingly that, driven by the pangs of hunger, I was forced to try stealing many a crust of bread and many a bone. There was always a great deal of fuss over this, and I had to put up with hearing myself berated for selfish theft, when I had only been satisfying the most urgent natural needs. And there was worse to come! The cook complained at the top of her voice that a fine leg of mutton had gone from the kitchen, and I must have stolen it. As a domestic affair of some importance, the matter was brought before the Professor. He said he’d never noticed any inclination to theft in me, and thought my organ of larceny was not at all well developed; what was more, I couldn’t conceivably devour a whole leg of mutton leaving not a trace behind. They searched – and found the remains of the mutton in my bed! Murr, I swear to you – look, paw on heart! – that I was entirely innocent, that it had never entered my mind to steal that joint of meat, but what was the use of protesting my innocence when the evidence was against me? The Professor was all the angrier because he had taken my part, and found himself mistaken in his good opinion of me. I got a good thrashing. But if the Professor made his dislike for me clear after that, his wife was all the friendlier; she patted my back, which she never used to do before, and would even give me something nice to eat now and then. How could I guess that this was all hypocrisy and deceit, no more? Yet such was about to prove the case.

  ‘The door of the dining-room stood open. I looked in longingly, my stomach empty, thinking sadly of those happy days when the air was full of the aroma of roast meat and it wasn’t in vain that I looked beseechingly at the Professor, sniffling just a little. Then the Professor’s wife called, “Ponto, Ponto!”, dexterously holding up a nice slice of meat between her tender thumb and her pretty forefinger. It may be that in the enthusiasm of my excited appetite I snapped at it a little more vigorously than was actually necessary, but you may believe me, Murr, I never bit that soft, lily-white hand! Yet the Professor’s wife screamed out loud, “Oh, the wicked dog!”, fell back in her armchair as if fainting, and indeed, to my horror, I really did see a couple of drops of blood on her thumb. The Professor fell into a rage; he beat me, kicked me, and used me so mercilessly that I dare say I wouldn’t be sitting here outside the door with you, my good cat, enjoying the pleasant sunshine, if I hadn’t saved myself by prompt flight from the house. There could be no thought of return. I saw that there was nothing to be done about the black conspiracy the Professor’s wife had contrived against me, out of sheer revenge for the incident of the baronial glove, and decided to seek another master at once. In the usual way this would have been easy, on account of the great gifts bestowed on me by kindly Mother Nature, but hunger and grief had brought me so low that what with my wretched appearance I must really fear universal rejection. Sadly, tormented by urgent worries about nourishment, I slunk out of the gate. I caught sight of Baron Alcibiades von Wipp walking ahead of me, and I don’t know why, but the idea of offering him my services occurred to me. Perhaps it was a dim feeling that I would thus have an opportunity of avenging myself on the ungrateful Professor, and so indeed it turned out later.

  ‘I pranced over to the Baron, made up to him, and when he looked at me with some favour I simply followed him back to his lodgings. “Look at this,” said he to a young fellow he called his personal manservant, although he kept no other servants at all, “look at this, Friedrich, see this poodle who’s come my way. If only he were better-looking!” But Friedrich praised the expression of my face and my elegant figure, saying he thought I must have been maltreated by my master, and had probably left him for that reason. As he added, further, that poodles who attached themselves to a person of their own accord like that were usually good, faithful animals, the Baron had no choice but to keep me.

  ‘Despite the fact that I now acquired a really attractive appearance, thanks to Friedrich’s good offices, the Baron didn’t seem to think very much of me, and would only let me go for walks with him if absolutely necessary. All that was to change. When we were out walking one day, we met the Professor’s wife. You will recognize, my good Murr, the genial congeniality – if I may put it that way – of an honest poodle when I tell you that, although the woman had done me great injury, I felt unfeigned joy in seeing her again. I danced about in front of her, barked cheerfully, and showed her my pleasure in every possible way. ‘Why, it’s Ponto!” she cried, patting me and looking meaningly at Baron von Wipp, who had stopped. I ran back to my master, who caressed me. He seemed to be occupied with thoughts of a very particular nature, and muttered to himself, several times running, “Ponto! Ponto – can it be possible?”

  ‘We had reached a nearby pleasure garden,6 where the Professor’s wife sat down with her party, which did not, however, include the dear, good Professor himself. Baron Wipp seated himself not far away, so that he could keep his eye constantly on the Professor’s wife without attracting any special attention from the others. I placed myself in front of my master and looked at him, gently wagging my tail as if awaiting his orders. “Ponto!” he repeated. “Ponto – can it be possible! Well,” he added, after a brief silence, “well, let’s put it to the test!” So saying, he took a small strip of paper from his wallet, wrote a few words on it in pencil, rolled it up, tucked it under my collar, pointed to the Professor’s wife and said softly: “Ponto, allons!”

  ‘Even if I hadn’t been the clever, sophisticated poodle I am, I could have guessed immediately what this was all about. Accordingly, I went straight to the table where the Professor’s wife was sitting and pretended to feel a great appetite for the handsome cake standing there. The Professor’s wife was kindness itself; she fed me cake with one hand while petting my neck with the other. I felt her pull out the strip of paper. Soon afterwards she left her party and withdrew into a neighbouring walk. I followed her. I saw her eagerly read the Baron’s words, take a pencil from her netted reticule, write a few words on the same note and then roll it up once more.

  ‘ “Ponto,” she said, looking roguishly at me, “Ponto, you’re a very clever, good poodle when you fetch and carry at the right time!”

  ‘With these words, she stuck the little note under my collar, and I did not omit to hurry back to my master as fast as I could. He guessed at once that I was bringing an answer, for he instantly drew out the note from my collar. The words written by the Professor’s wife must have been very pleasant and cheering, for the Baron’s eyes flashed with sheer joy, and he cried in delight, “Ponto – Ponto, you’re a wonderful poodle! My lucky star sent you to me.”

  ‘You may well imagine, my dear Murr, that I was no less delighted, for from what had just happened, I could tell how to rise high in my master’s favour.

  ‘In my delight, and almost unasked, I did all the tricks I knew: the talking dog trick, the dying and coming back to life trick, refusing the piece of white bread offered by a Jew and devouring the piece offered by a Christian with relish, etc. “An uncommonly clever dog!” cried an old lady sitting near the Professor’s wife. “Uncommonly clever!” replied the Baron. “Uncommonly clever!” the voice of the Professor’s wife came in like an echo. In short, my good Murr, I will tell you that I continued carrying letters in the manner I have described, and do so to this day. I sometimes even take notes to the Professor’s house when he happens to be awa
y. But if Baron Alcibiades von Wipp ever steals in to the fair Letitia as dusk falls, I stay outside the door of the house, and should the Professor be espied, even from afar, I make such an infernal racket with my barking that my master scents the enemy’s proximity as well as I do, and avoids a meeting.’

  I felt I could not quite approve of Ponto’s conduct; I thought of the late Muzius, of my own deep repugnance for wearing any collar, and this in itself showed me very clearly that a good conscience, a conscience such as a right-minded tomcat bears within him, scorns to be a go-between in affairs of the heart. And I told young Ponto so quite frankly. However, he laughed in my face and asked whether feline morality was quite so strict, or hadn’t I kicked over the traces myself now and then – that is, had I never done something which wouldn’t quite fit into the narrow moral mould? I thought of Mina, and said no more.

  ‘For one thing,’ continued Ponto, ‘for one thing, my dear Murr, it’s a rule of thumb, and a very common one, that none can escape his fate, do what he may; and you, being an educated cat, can read more about that in a very instructive book, written in delightful style, entitled Jacques le fataliste.7 If it was determined, by immutable decree, that Herr Lothario the Professor of Aesthetics was to be a – well, you know what I mean, my good cat, and furthermore, the way the Professor behaved over the curious history of the glove – which should gain wider circulation; you could write something about it, Murr – the way the Professor behaved clearly showed that Nature had implanted in him a vocation to enter that great order the insignia of which are worn with such commanding dignity and great elegance by many, many men all unwittingly. Professor Lothario would have fulfilled that vocation even had there been no Baron Alcibiades von Wipp and no Ponto in the case. And anyway, did Professor Lothario deserve anything else, anything better, than for me to throw myself into his enemy’s arms? Then again, the Baron would certainly have found other means of meeting the Professor’s wife, and the Professor would have suffered the same injury without any of the benefit to myself I now genuinely derive from the Baron’s pleasing relationship with the fair Letitia. We poodles are not such excessively stern moralists as to gnaw our own flesh and scorn those good, choice morsels which are hard enough to get in this life anyway.’