by Harriet Hahn
Mrs. March and Mr. Wolf did come to terms, so next morning I bundled James into the carrying bag, got into a taxi, and at last arrived at the studios of Illusions Limited.
We were welcomed. The carrying bag was examined and commented on, and at last James and I were ushered into a darkened studio where we sat and watched the brightly lighted scene where half a cottage and part of a landscape were being photographed by two cameras.
A young woman came up to us and said brusquely, “I’ll take the cat now.”
She picked up James as though he were a lump of laundry.
James submitted, his eyes nearly closed, his expression grim.
“Animals again, ugh,” said the assistant director, who was placing one of the cameras. In one corner of the studio the young woman was dressing James in a cape, a feathered hat with a wide brim, and a pair of boots with flared tops. Once she had him costumed, she returned him to me. James made no gesture, but hissed softly.
“Keep him under control,” she said firmly. “We don’t want him running around the studio. Perhaps you had better put him in that case thing you have.”
I nodded and she left.
A young man with artificially yellow hair, dressed as a poor boy from sometime in the seventeenth century, appeared on the set, had his face powdered, and rehearsed, sitting disconsolately in the half-cottage.
“You are at your wits’ end,” said the assistant director. The young man sat on a stool, hung his arms between his legs, and looked depressed.
“Good,” said the director. “Now we’ll try to get the cat to run in and sit in front of you while we do the voice-over. Camera one will get a close up of the cat. Then you look a bit hopeful and we’ll get the cat to run out.”
The assistant director approached me.
“We want the cat to come into the cottage, look at Bret here, and then turn around and walk out. Can he do that?” he asked.
I looked at James. I had never given him a direction before, except for the afternoon two days ago.
James got off my lap and trotted clumsily onto the set in his costume. He sat down in the spotlight and shook his head.
“Come on, kitty,” said the assistant director.
James glowered.
“Stupid cat,” said the cameraman.
“Come on, what’s-your-name,” coaxed the assistant director.
James sat.
The yellow-haired boy came over and patted James.
James flared up and showed his teeth.
No one moved.
Mr. Wolf appeared out of the gloom.
“This cat is a total loss,” said the assistant director. “He just sits there hissing, and his trainer is useless. I told you not to use animals. Animation is the way to go with this!”
“All right,” said Mr. Wolf in his booming voice. “I’ll take over.”
“James,” he said, “show us what you can do.”
James looked around. Slowly he got up, then rose on his hind legs and walked across the set from one end to the other, holding his cape around him, his hat hobbling from side to side. Then he left the lighted set and found the actor who was reading the story while the actors pantomimed it. He patted the actor sharply on the leg.
“He wants you to read aloud,” I interpreted. James nodded enthusiastically and his hat fell off.
The efficient costume girl rushed up and adjusted the hat.
“All right,” boomed Mr. Wolf. “Bret, take your place, cameras in position, we’ll run through it and see what happens.”
Bret sat on his stool and put on his discouraged face.
A voice in the darkness read the narration, which said the poor boy had not eaten his cat, but let it go off into the world, where the cat had conned the local peasantry into thinking our hero was the son of a rich nobleman.
The scene opened. James, on his hind legs, his hat on one side, a grin of conspiracy on his face, strode into the cottage, where he patted the sad boy on the arm.
Bret lifted his head and, looking at the leering face of an energized cat, let out a gasp of horror.
“Cut!” cried Mr. Wolf.
James sat on his haunches in disgust.
“This cat is your salvation,” said Mr. Wolf to Bret. “You love him. He is your last hope, not a snake.”
“He scares me to death,” Bret said sulkily. “Why do I have to be in this, anyway?”
“Money,” said Mr. Wolf shortly. “Now act, if you can.”
Mr. Wolf turned to the cameraman. “Take all the footage you can of the cat this time,” he said. “I’ve no idea how often he’ll do this fine act.”
The reader read, James repeated his act with some additions, and Bret behaved adequately. Mr. Wolf beamed. The cameraman took pictures, saying nothing, and the assistant director sat in the corner and muttered “Animals!” to himself from time to time.
Thus began a profitable venture and a great friendship.
Certain revisions were made in the text, and each day the reader read, James acted, and when he was not on the set acting, he was sitting on a canvas chair provided for him with his name on the back, next to the one Mr. Wolf occasionally sat in.
James invented business for the cat, and when there was no place for the cat, James watched the pantomime of the rest of the story. When he felt it necessary, he tapped Mr. Wolf on the arm or ankle and shook his head.
Then Wolf would ask, “What should we do?” And James would demonstrate. Often his ideas were adopted, but not always. Sometimes James sat on Mr. Wolf’s lap and purred. So did Mr. Wolf. A most unusual TV production was in the making.
When the shooting was over, James leaped into his bag, and he and I hurried back to Baron’s Chambers. By the close of a working day, James was tired, and so he sat peacefully with us, drank tea or whiskey, and gave us all the benevolent smiles of one who lives in a rarefied world.
At last the day came when Mr. Wolf announced that the film was finished. James would be needed no more. There was some editing to do, music to be added where necessary, and general shaping up, but the filming was complete.
At the end of the last shoot, when Mr. Wolf cried, “Wrap it up!” Bret, who had never ceased to be afraid of James, hugged all the rest of the cast: the heroine, a yellow-haired girl with enormous blue eyes and a bony body that looked almost fat on film; the villain, an aging actor laced into a corset; and assorted townsfolk and farmers. The cameramen congratulated everyone, the assistant director said, “Thank God that’s over,” and Mr. Wolf invited everyone to a party at the Café Royal Grill Room that evening, where we would meet Mr. Totter, the financier who had helped raise the money to make the film.
“Could James come?” I asked.
Mr. Wolf laughed his great booming laugh, hoisted James to his shoulder, and marched around the set.
“Not only shall he come, but you and Mrs. March and Helena and Lord Henry and Peter Hightower must all come too! After all, James is our star.”
I had hoped that James would smile modestly, but he raised his paws over his head in a prize fighter’s winning gesture and fell off Mr. Wolf’s shoulder.
I got him into the carrying bag and both of us into a taxi, where James made so much racket in the bag that the driver accused me of being a Regent’s Park Zoo employee, stealing a large ape.
Lord Henry and Helena were pleased to accept. Mrs. March had to decline, as she had three tenants arriving.
“Won’t you need James?” I asked, remembering Mr. Bummell and Mr. Wilberforce.
“No indeed,” said Mrs. March. “These people have stayed here for years because it’s so quiet. Now go and have a good time.” She patted James indulgently.
Peter Hightower had gone off to Plymouth to look at a collection, so at the appointed time, James, Lord Henry and Helena and I arrived at the Café Royal to find a party in full swing in the grill room.
The grill room of the Café Royal is a triumph of overblown Victorian rococo. The walls are covered from floor to high ceilin
g in mirrors encased in frames encrusted with cupids, flowers, fruits, and perhaps even vegetables, all sculptured in high relief and painted in vivid colors that are reflected back and forth into infinity, together with the guests, waiters, and silver serving pieces.
For a moment James was bowled over, even intimidated, by the scene of all the joyful cast and crew sopping up champagne and chomping down the extensive buffet, but one ride around the room on my shoulder showed him the infinite possibilities for seeing himself repeated countless times in any number of poses, as many as he could invent. So he climbed the walls, waved from a cupid’s fat behind, descended through grapes, roses, and wings to get a sip of champers, then up a swag of plaster ribbon to the top of the mirror, where he waved his front paws and beamed on us all. At last, growing slightly tipsy, he struggled down to the floor, climbed on the buffet, and went to sleep amid the little cheese pieces.
Mr. Wolf entertained Helena with funny stories about filmmaking, and Mr. Totter, a small, severe man with a monocle and gray spats, talked about money with Lord Henry, who drank quite a bit of champagne in self-defense.
At last, at about one in the morning, I put an inert James in his bag and said good-bye and thanks to the party, and invited Mr. Wolf to join us all for tea, drinks, or what you will. He agreed to come in a day or so with the news of the date when “Puss in Boots” would appear on TV. He also insisted on driving James and me to Baron’s.
Instead of letting us out, Mr. Wolf came into the entrance himself, and James, now wide awake, jumped out of the bag and flung himself into the arms of Mr. Wolf with a penetrating yelp.
“Good old boy!” boomed Mr. Wolf, echoing through the six silent floors.
“Meow …” cried James.
“See you in a few days, you fine fellow!” said Mr. Wolf.
“Wonderful party,” I whispered, hoping he would get the idea.
“Glorious actor,” bellowed Mr. Wolf.
Doors began to open. I grabbed James under one arm and stuffed Mr. Wolf out the door.
Silence reigned.
James and I ascended in the elevator to six, where I surrendered him to a thoroughly awakened Mrs. March and descended to my own floor. Doors closed and peace returned.
The next morning found a phlegmatic James at his post, supervising arrivals with only half his usual concentration. In fact, most of the day he slept on the job.
Slowly things returned to normal, though I could see that James yearned for the excitement of filming.
Peter Hightower was still away, and Thwaite’s did not need his expertise, so life was humdrum. Then, one afternoon, Mr. Wolf called to say he had news, and I corralled Lord Henry and Helena for cocktails that same day.
We were all assembled: Lord Henry, looking very fit in a new tweed jacket, and Helena, glowing with her golden hair in a fat braid down her back and wearing a simple dark blue dress that set off her golden skin. James ignored us and sat on the windowsill, watching the street for the arrival of his current hero, Mr. Wolf.
Suddenly he leaped off the sill and ran for the door of the flat. I followed and opened it in time to hear the front door of Baron’s open as James streaked into the hall.
“James!” bellowed Mr. Wolf from the ground floor, his rich voice filling the elevator shaft and reverberating through the six floors.
“Meowww,” cried James in response.
Mr. Wolf ignored the elevator and raced up the four flights, two steps at a time.
As he arrived at the door, James threw himself into Mr. Wolf’s arms with delight. A flurry of excitement accompanied the entrance of man and cat.
That afternoon we all drank tea and ate scones and Devonshire cream and, for a change, gooseberry jam. I had opened a can of anchovies for James, but he wasn’t interested.
He curled himself up on the arm of the chair in which Shep Wolf lounged. (His full name is Marion Shepard Wolf, but he prefers “Shep.”)
“You see,” he said once, “my mother’s name was Ruth Shepherd. She was an heiress, and there were countless jokes about how the wolf courted the shepherd to get at the sheep, and I kind of fancy ‘Shep’ Wolf.”
So there he lounged, grinning at us.
“The film is finished, and by a stroke of incredibly good luck, it is to appear next week.”
He stroked James familiarly. James made his vacuum-cleaner noise. Helena beamed.
“Details,” demanded Lord Henry. I detected a certain asperity in his voice. I suspected he was not all that pleased to see Helena beaming at this tall, handsome, ebullient man.
“It seems that BBC 2 had scheduled some show for seven P.M. on Thursday next—a week from today, to be exact—and two of the participants, an acrobat and an animal trainer, both coming from Turkey, have been held up somewhere, so a friend of mine put in the right word to the right man, and we were seen, approved, and scheduled just like that! There’ll not be much chance for publicity, but the time is absolutely marvelous, of course.”
“Let’s all meet at Frank’s for early dinner next Thursday, and come up here to watch,” I suggested. Frank’s is right around the corner, and James likes it.
“Wonderful idea,” Shep cried, and rolled James over on his back and scratched his tummy. James snorted with pleasure.
Helena began to assemble her handbag, notebook, and drawing pen; she had been sketching Wolf as he sat, and she was now to leave. Lord Henry rose at the same time and moved to get her coat from the bedroom, but Shep leaped to his feet, dumping James on the floor, and got to the coat first.
“Can I take you home?” he boomed. “Or even better, take you to dinner and then home?”
“Thank you,” Helena said, smiling. “I should like that very much.”
Lord Henry looked taken aback and annoyed.
Shep flung open the door. “Bye-bye,” he called, for all the building to hear.
The elevator doors crashed closed. On the ground floor, Shep called out “See you all Thursday!”
“Meowww,” called James.
The front door banged. There was silence.
James and I returned to the living room. There sat a disconsolate Lord Henry.
James gave his old friend a shrewd look and climbed up on the sofa next to him, giving him a gentle pat.
“You see,” said Lord Henry, almost to himself, as he began to stroke James gently, “Helena says she is very fond of me, and we do have a wonderful time together. She makes me laugh, and believe it or not, I entertain her. We both love the country and hate show, but she won’t marry me because Etheria disapproves.”
“I thought—” I began.
“I know all that stuff about Helena being a princess was a momentary shock to Etheria, but in the cold darkness of February, up in her castle in Scotland, she decided a Swedish princess living in Brixton and earning her own living as an artist would never do. In fact, Helena’s successes have made it even worse. She’s notorious because she’s had some publicity. Well, I figured we’d wait it out, and now here comes Shep Wolf, who is everything I’m not—big and handsome and self-assured—and he sweeps her off her feet. I don’t know what to do.”
For Lord Henry this was a very long speech.
“I’m sure Helena isn’t swept off her feet,” I said. But Lord Henry did not look convinced in any way.
Shortly there was a knock at the door. It was Mrs. March, come for James, but she stopped for a moment.
“That Mr. Wolf!” she said. “He’s a nice man and gave James a very good job for a while, but he’s so noisy! Will he be coming around much? The tenants are all complaining of the banging around when he comes and goes.”
She gave James a critical glance.
James got up and rubbed himself affectionately against his old friend Lord Henry’s leg, and left in a dignified and self-contained manner. He had a lot to think about.
Mrs. March agreed that James could go to dinner, and was even willing to join us to watch the TV program. I agreed to try to quiet Mr. Wolf, and at last
Lord Henry went off for a solitary supper.
The only event of any importance in the next week occurred when Helena took James to visit Miss de la Rue on a particularly brilliant day heralding spring.
Helena reported, when she stopped in after delivering James to Mrs. March, that in response to her own recounting of the behavior of Shep and James—accompanied by a vivid pantomime by an exuberant James—Miss de la Rue recounted in a more serious vein the austere, mannered, and considerate behavior of the most famous prince she had ever known.
“James paid close attention, drank his tea silently, without a single slurp, and bowed good-bye with great restraint,” said Helena, laughing. “I’m sure Miss de la Rue was giving an object lesson, and I think we shall have Prince James for a while, till something else strikes him.”
We laughed together at the thought of our dramatic companion.
“Now I must run,” said Helena, getting her things together. “Shep is waiting. We’ll see you tomorrow at Frank’s at five-thirty.”
Shep again, I said to myself. I was not pleased. I am devoted to Lord Henry.
On the dot of five-twenty-five, James and I left Baron’s to go around the corner and up the street to Frank’s. James was not cavorting; he was moving with great dignity. He bowed courteously to hurrying Londoners, who ignored him.
At Frank’s he greeted Shep with reserve—not a single wild meow escaped him—and he ate his dish of spaghetti and meat sauce with great delicacy.
As Shep cuffed him affectionately, James raised his eyes and sighed a sigh that said, “Children will be rowdy.”
Helena and I winked at each other and encouraged this new mannerliness in James.
Lord Henry, who is always courteous, considerate, and perfectly mannered, was his usual self.
I noted that James was watching him carefully.
A review of “Puss in Boots” had appeared in The Times that morning, and Shep had brought it along to read to us. The review was full of praise for the brilliant animal trainer who had managed to get such a rare and unusual performance from the handsome gray cat who was, without challenge, the star of the show.
James began to expand with pride, but remembered he was a well-mannered prince just in time.
