Djibi

by Felix Salten

  “Beautiful Snowwhite,” called the teacher. “Come, please come!”

  The Angora cat had pulled herself up, and leaped toward him, landing rather painfully on his stomach.

  The teacher helped her to climb up to his shoulder. “Come on! Your claws are sharp enough!”

  But the cat remained suspended on his chest, wagging her bushy tail. Then she suddenly jumped up to the teacher’s neck, and, nestling against his cheek, started her melodious purring.

  “I think I’d better go now, or I might become jealous!” said the farmer, with a forced smile.

  Bertha’s eyes twinkled as he went. “He is annoyed, and jealous in earnest!”

  Dusk was falling.

  Glancing around him, the teacher said: “Pussy is out again!”

  “What’s surprising, about it?” retorted Bertha. “She is like all cats, and sneaks out at night for prey or love.”

  “Often for both,” agreed the teacher.

  “Anyhow, Tasso is with her, so you may be quite at ease.”

  “I’m not worried,” the teacher assured her, “but the white lady never seems to show any desire to prowl at night.”

  “Yes, she is an exception,” said Bertha praisingly.

  At that moment—the teacher was just covering Hansi’s cage for the night—they could hear Tasso’s sudden howl of pain, as though under a blow.

  The teacher started. “What was that?”

  Bertha, also frightened, stammered: “It seemed to come from the farmer’s place!”

  So it did.

  The farmer, while standing guard over his rabbits, had caught Djibi in the act of killing one of them. He fell furiously over her and hit her cruelly, until she lost consciousness. When Tasso came to Djibi’s rescue he received a violent and vicious kick.

  All this happened in the course of a few seconds.

  Before the teacher and his wife realized the full implication of what they had heard, Tasso appeared in a state of obvious intimidation, carrying the bleeding cat in his mouth, and laid her cautiously in front of the teacher, his eyes full of sadness.

  Djibi was a pitiful and horrible sight. Her chest seemed battered in. Her nose and mouth were streaming with blood. Her eyes were shut. She was weakly gasping for breath.

  She appeared to be dying.

  “Pussy, my dear pussy,” called the teacher, bending low over her, but not daring to touch her.

  Mrs. Bertha, moved but helpful, applied a cold compress, which revived Djibi a little.

  “Who could have reduced you to such a state?” The teacher was completely at a loss.

  At that moment the farmer stormed in. He was triumphant.

  “At last I’ve laid my hands on the rabbit thieves! Your cat, my dear fellow, and your fine dog! But they know better now!”

  “Indeed!” said the teacher.

  The farmer was unabashed. “Yes!” he replied grandly. “They’ll remember me, and their punishment!”

  “You call that a punishment?” The teacher’s voice was cold and stony. “And what right have you to punish?”

  The farmer began to shout: “And what right have these beasts to eat my rabbits?”

  The teacher stared at him, motionless, without answering.

  “You have nothing to say now, have you?”

  Bertha pulled the farmer’s sleeve. “Get away, quickly,” she whispered to him. “When he flies into a temper, he rages like the devil.”

  “I’m not afraid!” bragged the farmer. “I’m in my right!”

  “So, you’re in your right!” The teacher spoke very softly as he approached the farmer. “We shall see about that!”

  The farmer had no time to avoid the blow which sent him reeling back.

  “Why didn’t you sue me for damages?”

  The farmer stood there, wide-eyed and open-mouthed. “Damages?”

  “Yes! You would have been in your right then! But only then!” The teacher was calmer now.

  “But would you have paid?” stammered the farmer.

  “I am telling you what your rights are,” repeated the teacher. “I always obey the law. But you have behaved like an enemy!”

  “No! No!” protested the farmer. “I’m not your enemy!”

  “No! And yet, look how you have ill-treated the poor creature! Dare you maintain that you are not an enemy?”

  The farmer bent over Djibi, remaining silent for a while. Then he whispered: “I’ve had my deserved punishment. Forgive me! . . .”

  “I’ll forgive you when the cat is able to walk across the room again. Not a minute sooner!”

  The farmer turned to Bertha. “Help her! Make her well again!”

  “I can’t do miracles,” she replied curtly.

  The farmer lingered dejectedly for a few minutes, as though waiting for something. But the teacher ignored him, and he crept meekly out of the door.

  Mrs. Bertha prepared a comfortable resting place for Djibi, a real convalescent bed, on the top of the chest. Then she gave the cat a few drops of brandy, which restored some of her strength.

  The cold water applications also did her a great deal of good; they reduced the swellings, which went down slowly.

  A few drops of brandy from time to time were very effective in reviving Djibi’s spirits. Milk had to be forced upon her.

  One day, when Djibi raised her little head to drink by herself, the battle against death was won.

  The teacher hardly moved from her side, fondled and stroked her gently. At first Djibi made no response to these caresses.

  The farmer inquired daily after Djibi’s condition.

  For a time Bertha had to reply: “No change!”

  Then she could say: “A little better!”

  This answer gave the farmer courage: he could beg for forgiveness.

  “That’s a great step forward!” said Bertha one day, as Djibi tried to get up and escape on hearing the farmer’s voice. “A great step forward!” she repeated, while the farmer scratched his head and sighed: “Oh, Lord!”

  The Angora cat began to welcome his advances now.

  One day she even leaped at his chest, which at first gave him a considerable shock. Then he ventured to stroke her, clumsily, while she sat on his shoulder.

  Her soft purring delighted him.

  He did not move, but only whispered softly: “That’s nice! That’s lovely!”

  At last, he summoned up sufficient courage to approach the teacher: “Don’t be angry with me any longer!”

  But the teacher turned his back on him.

  The farmer asked, bewildered: “Will things never be the same between us again?”

  Bertha consoled him: “When pussy can walk across the room . . . You know what my husband said . . . He is always true to his word. Have patience, it will not be long now.”

  “Does the teacher live here?” an elegant lady inquired at the door one day.

  Before anyone had time to answer, the Angora cat, purring, leaped off the settee and out through the window at the sound of the voice.

  “There you are, Mira! I thought so!” exclaimed the lady.

  Mira paraded to and fro in front of the lady, traced large circles with her bushy tail, and her purring sounded again almost like a song.

  “I am Mrs. Lauber. My husband is a solicitor in town. You have, no doubt, heard of him.”

  “No.” The teacher made a gesture of regret. “We don’t have the honor.”

  “But I know you,” said the lady vivaciously. “At least, I know you by repute.”

  The teacher bowed slightly but remained silent. Mrs. Bertha said nothing either.

  The lady continued: “That’s why I came straight to you. I knew I would find Mira here!”

  “Do you want to take the cat back?” asked Bertha.

  The lady laughed: “It isn’t as simple as all that!” She stepped into the room, followed by Mira, and continued gaily: “Take her away? You can hardly be serious! People like you are certainly aware of the fact that we don’t o
wn the animals, but are really owned by them.”

  “Quite true,” nodded the teacher.

  Mrs. Lauber carried on: “Actually we depend on the animals and are entirely at the mercy of their whims.”

  “But those who understand animals know they have no whims,” said the teacher.

  In the meantime, the Angora cat climbed up and down the settee, tracing large circles with her tail, but said nothing . . .

  Mrs. Lauber turned to Mira and addressed her at some length: “When did I hurt your feelings, Mira? Was it my fault that we had to go away for my health, on doctor’s orders? Couldn’t you wait for our return? Did the cook ill-treat you, or anyone else? Believe me, I’m innocent. You shouldn’t have run away. Anyhow, you’re an intelligent creature, you know what is good for you!”

  She turned round and smiled at the teacher and his wife. “As though she had sensed that this was the best place she could choose! Did she give you a lot of trouble?”

  “Oh, not at all,” Bertha assured her eagerly. “We are very fond of her.”

  “We shall find it hard to part from her,” murmured the teacher.

  Ms. Lauber went up to the settee, took Mira in her arms and said, “Come, Mira, we two belong together, don’t we?”

  But Mira was of a different opinion. She slipped away from the lady, back to the settee.

  The teacher approached her: “Go, Mira,” he said softly. “Go back nicely with your mistress.”

  As he spoke, Mira jumped onto his shoulder, pressed herself against his neck and cheek and broke into her loud, melodious purring. The teacher stood there, embarrassed: “What shall I do?” He was a comic sight in his confusion at the advances of the purring cat. Mrs. Lauber could not help laughing. But she immediately grew serious again. “Mira has expressed her opinion very clearly,” she said, “though unfortunately not in my favor. Clever Mira! She does not wish to be disappointed by me a second time. Isn’t the independence of her mind delightful?”

  The teacher nodded, smiling, and stroked the Angora cat’s fur.

  “I could almost be angry with Mira for showing me so little attachment,” continued Mrs. Lauber, “but that would be mean of me. How about it? Do you want to keep Mira?”

  Mrs. Bertha, who had been watching the scene anxiously, beamed.

  “Are you serious?”

  “Certainly,” Mrs. Lauber assured him. “I respect Mira’s decision.”

  “In that case . . . Oh, in that case . . . ,” stammered the teacher, “I thank you!”

  “On the contrary, it’s for me to thank you.” Mrs. Lauber threw Mira a last glance, turned quickly away, murmured a farewell greeting and hurried out of the room.

  “Poor lady,” said the teacher. “The parting was hard for her.”

  So Mira stayed of her own free will, and the teacher and his wife could keep her with an easy conscience.

  After a while, however, Mira became moody and quite unpredictable. She could be extremely friendly one minute, and really vicious the next.

  Tasso suffered most from her changing moods. When he came into the kitchen, Mira adopted the hostile attitude of a cat used to expecting attacks from strange dogs, arched her back and spat wildly.

  Tasso was taken aback, but still thought it was only a game.

  But when sharp claws dug deep into his bleeding snout, he growled and tried to seize Mira.

  “Mira,” intervened the teacher. “How can you plague your good comrade so?”

  Mira pressed herself coyly against the teacher’s caressing hands.

  He smiled: “So you’re friends again!”

  But Mira still persisted in her aggressiveness.

  This happened day after day.

  At last the peaceable, gentle dog lost his patience.

  When Mira had scratched his face again one day, he caught her in his powerful jaws, swung the screaming cat in the air, shook her violently and threw her down on the floor.

  Mira’s fur was tousled, but she was unhurt. She remained stretched out, pretending to be unconscious.

  “What is the matter with you two?” called the teacher who had come in on hearing the cat scream.

  Tasso wagged his tail eagerly, showing his readiness for peace.

  “Leave them alone!” said Bertha. “They’re only playing.”

  “No,” replied the teacher. “That is not a game. The dog is bleeding.”

  It was, indeed, not a game, but earnest warfare.

  Quick as lightning, Mira leap to her feet, trying to jump at Tasso’s neck.

  But the embittered dog caught her by the breast, and this time really bit her. She sank to the floor, streaming with blood.

  “Tasso!” cried the teacher. “Tasso!”

  But Tasso paid no heed.

  Growling, he searched for his enemy’s throat, found it, and bit again.

  The cat’s deep groans and her death rattle were clearly audible.

  The teacher tried to pull the dog away, but in vain.

  “He is killing her!” cried Bertha, appalled.

  Tasso, the good Tasso, was no longer meek and gentle; he really killed the treacherous Mira.

  In his rage he was insensible to the teacher’s shaking and pulling; his fangs held on to Mira’s snow-white breast, which was now red with blood, and he only let go of the cat when she was in a coma, though still breathing feebly.

  He stood over her, watchful of her slightest movement, ready to pounce upon her again at a moment’s notice.

  But before long Mira had given up her last breath.

  The teacher wrung his hands in despair. “That such a thing should happen in my house! That a dog like Tasso should commit such a foul murder!”

  Bertha defended the dog. “You mustn’t forget that he has been sorely tried.”

  “I can’t understand it!” cried the teacher indignantly. “Before my own eyes! He did it in spite of my intervention! It is awful! My gentle Tasso!”

  Tasso was lying on the floor, still and sad; at the sound of his name he pricked his ears.

  “The gentlest dog can go wild at times,” said the wife.

  “He always used to be so patient,” complained the teacher.

  “The best patience comes to an end,” excused Bertha.

  She took the dead cat and carried her out.

  “She was so superbly beautiful,” mourned the teacher, when his wife returned.

  “What is the use of beauty?” said Bertha earnestly. “If a creature is false, it is bound to come to a bad end.”

  “All the trouble I have taken with animals, all the affection I have bestowed upon them, has it all been in vain?” sighed the teacher.

  At that moment Tasso laid his paw on the teacher’s arm and looked up into his face.

  “It is good of you to apologize, my dear fellow,” said the teacher. “Perhaps it shows that peaceful cohabitation is still possible . . .”

  Tasso did not cease to paw his master’s arm.

  “What more do you want of me?” the teacher glanced at the dog. His faithful look disarmed him immediately. He could not resist it.

  “Yes, my Tasso,” he said softly. “We are and remain friends . . . in spite of everything!”

  But Tasso was longing for his master’s stroking hand.

  When the teacher caressed his head, Tasso emitted a sound which was in the nature of a jubilant sob. Exultant with joy, he whirled madly about the room. Although the teacher stood with his legs squarely planted on the floor, the big dog nearly threw him over as he affectionately jumped up to embrace him.

  “Everything is all right again, Tasso!”

  The teacher became gay again.

  “Now we shall celebrate our reconciliation!”

  “He has deserved it, the good fellow,” said Bertha, who was kneeling at Djibi’s side. “Steady, there!” she laughed as Tasso raced past her, nearly pushing her over the sick cat.

  The farmer put his head through the door and asked: “How are things?”

  “Looki
ng up! Looking up all the time!” replied Bertha happily.

  He turned anxiously to the teacher. “Well, and you, are you still angry with me?”

  The teacher did not answer and looked away.

  “Upon my word, you have no idea how sorry I am for what happened!” pleaded the farmer. “You might say a kind word to me at last!”

  The teacher remained silent.

  “Heavens!” the farmer scratched his head. “If I had been a beast, you would have made it up with me long ago.”

  “Don’t talk nonsense, man!” said Bertha kindly. “You’re a human being, and that makes all the difference. You’re not innocent, and you are responsible for your actions.”

  Tasso growled menacingly at the farmer.

  “Have I nothing but enemies here?” complained the farmer.

  “Don’t be foolish!” reproached Bertha. “Nobody is your enemy here!”

  “What about this dog? Does he growl at me because he likes me?”

  “Oh, well, he never forgets anything,” replied Bertha. “An animal never forgets a kindness, and certainly never a cruelty!”

  “Come here, Tasso!” coaxed the farmer. “Come, my good fellow, I shall do you no harm, none whatever!”

  He stretched out his hand to stroke the dog, but Tasso snapped at him as though ready to bite, and edged away from him.

  The farmer shook his head and said: “I’m sure that if the teacher talked to me, the dog would no longer be angry with me either.”

  “You know what condition my husband made,” reminded Bertha. “Wait till the cat can walk across the room.”

  “Will she be able to do it?”

  “I hope so,” smiled Bertha. “I even hope it will not be long now.”

  “Will she recover fully?” The farmer stepped nearer.

  Before Bertha could reply, Djibi gathered herself up with a violent hiss and tried to run away.

  “She has given you her answer in person,” said Bertha, holding Djibi down.

  The farmer murmured sadly: “I could hit myself!”

  “It seems to me my husband has seen to that!”

  The farmer struggled with his embarrassment: “I have quite forgiven him for that. I cannot bear him any ill-will.”

  “My husband is, unfortunately, capable of bearing ill-will, and for quite a while, too!”