THE BLACK CAT
THE BLACK CAT
Ithas been raining for already two days,—a soft, leisurely drizzle, but an endless one. Often it increases in vehemence. It begins to patter upon my roof with rapid fury. Then it seems that at last it is over. Now the dense grey clouds will empty themselves and the downpour will cease. The great fury abates, the racket upon the roof becomes gradually quiet, yet the rain continues to fall, softly and leisurely. Often so softly that it seems to have stopped. Then I look out of the window with just a ray of hope that I shall see a clear sky. But by the wheels that roll incessantly across the pavement I recognise the eternal rain. The eternal rain. The eternal....
I lower the shades and turn on the electric light. Let it be night. I’ll seat myself upon the armchair before my desk and pursue my thoughts, and think and think of——
Of my fortune—or of my misfortune?
It has come upon me so suddenly that I don’t know how to take it. The day before yesterday I was so happy, and to-day my heart is so heavy, so heavy.... I know that this is the effect of the ceaseless rain,—of the weeping, lamenting, grey, dark-grey outdoors. Still, I am so restless. My feeling comes from within,—comes over me from the depths of my heart and my soul. It seems to me that Imustbe moody, and I cannot understand how I could have been so high-spirited the day before yesterday. I am vexed that I can no longer be so merry.
So suddenly. So suddenly....
Can it have happened only ten days ago?
Only ten days ago.
Shebrought me a manuscript, which I was to read and appraise for her.
Young—perhaps twenty, and maybe only eighteen.
And beautiful—beautiful? Yes, even strikinglybeautiful. Scarcely had I opened the door and beheld her, when a strange sensation clutched at my heart.
Her eyes! Those deep, black eyes under the long black lashes! They pierced me at once. I could not tear myself away from them. And thus overwhelmed, only half conscious, I received the impression that those eyes were set in a rather long, dark-complexioned, youthful countenance, and that around a low, alluring forehead played several black curls mischievously, and that her whole figure was very svelte and supple,—almost that of a child.
And her voice! Like her eyes. Deep, and of a dark quality, and so warm. No sooner had she asked, “Does Mr. So-and-so live here, and are you not he?” than my eyes and my ears were so completely filled with her that I forgot I must not keep her standing at the door, and that I must invite her in.
She invited herself, however. She entered my room, far beyond the threshold, and I closed the door slowly, without removing my glancefrom her. And remained standing as if hypnotised, without knowing whether to make inquiry or to wait until she would tell me who she was and what she wished of me.
She laughed. Deep, warm, ringing laughter. Why did I not ask her to be seated?
Oh, yes. Pardon. And I, the father of a daughter almost as old as she, turned red with embarrassment, it seems. I hastened to fetch her a chair, but she had already chosen one and sat down.
She continues to speak, while I take my place in my armchair before the desk and gaze, gaze upon her, my ears thirstily and enchantedly drinking in the sound of her voice.
She tells me that she pictured me exactly as I am. She has read everything I have written. She knows all my writings well and has imagined a picture of me. And the picture is correct. But she did not think I possessed so many grey hairs. That makes no difference, however. For I am young. She is certain ofthat. But she still has no idea of how my voice sounds. She thus hints that I have said nothing as yet. And she laughs.
I join the laughter and am at a loss for words. I feel that I must say somethingsignificant,—that the maidenly vision with the beautiful childlike figure, who knows all my writings and has formed a perfect image of me, is now waiting for deep and notable words to issue from my lips. Nor do I desire to be insignificant. I don’t care to utter plain, ordinary, pedestrian words. So I smile and wait for her to speak further.
She looks about the room, resting her glance for a moment upon the paintings that hang upon my walls. And soon she transfers her eyes once more to me. Sharp, penetrating glances, with a great question in them. And now there rises in her eyes a smile of subtle irony.
Because I do not inquire, she explains in her deep voice, she is compelled to speak for herself. Why does one come to a famous author?Naturally, she has for a long time desired to know me, but without a special reason she would never have dared to come. Now, however, she comes as to a doctor or a lawyer, on a professional visit, for an opinion and for counsel. She has written something and wishes to enjoy the criticism of an authority. Will I not take the trouble?
I reply politely, very politely: “Certainly, with the greatest of pleasure.”
She laughs. Oh, she does not believe that her piece will afford me much pleasure. The very handwriting is impossible. Should I prefer, perhaps, to have her read it to me?
I desire to hear the sound of her voice. But if she reads she will look at the manuscript during the entire reading, and I’ll be unable to see her eyes.
Then she adds, “But I read very badly. My reading is even worse than my handwriting.” She laughs: she does not care to read, either. For if she reads it now, I’ll express my opinion at once, and she will have to arise, say “Goodday,” and never call again. She would rather leave the manuscript with me, and then she will come,—yes, she will reallycomeand hear the answer. She does not wish it by mail. She will certainly have a number of questions to ask. She would prefer to come,—and since, naturally, I shall not have read her manuscript through, she will have to call again and again....
She deposits upon my desk a small manuscript. For the first time I see her hand. A wee little hand,—white, tender skin, through which the lines of the joints are visible.
I take the manuscript, glance at the title-page, peep at the beginning and at the middle, and feel her deep black eyes upon me. And as I raise my head I encounter her glances with the great question in them, and also the subtle irony.
Something taps at my window. And now it miaows. I know that a cat has taken refuge upon my window-sill from the endless downpour. I am certain of it, yet I arise from mychair and walk over to take a look. This furnishes some distraction from my thoughts. And an excuse for moving. My feet are like ice.
I raise the shade and shudder with fright. A large black cat is looking up at me from the outer darkness, with her burning, phosphorescent eyes. I hate a black cat. Not that I am superstitious, yet in my memory and my nerves there is a residue of everything that superstition has created concerning black cats. I rap at the window to drive her away. But she pays little heed to my rapping. She turns around, selects a comfortable spot and lies down. I am on the point of opening the window and thrusting her into the street below, but I don’t care to touch her. I take pity on her, too. Outside the rain is still falling, falling. Let her lie and rest on a dry spot. Who cares?
I lower the shade and return to my writing table.
Just a moment to banish the black cat from my mind, and I’ll pursue my thoughts anew.
Now then—of my fortune and misfortune. But did I not previously think:ormy misfortune?
I answered her, Yes. She could leave the manuscript with me. I would read it over,—read it over very carefully, and tell her my opinion.
The whole truth?
Of course.
When would she come for the answer?
I’d tell her a few days later.
Why a few days later? Why not to-morrow? She would come to-morrow. The piece was such a short one. One could read it in less than half an hour.
So I yield to her. Very well. Let her come to-morrow.
My wife has meanwhile entered the room. I introduce her. My wife is affable and smiles, butsheis sullen, curt and unbending.
She arises from her place. Now she will leave.
My wife laughs. “Am I driving you away?”
She, somewhat aloof, replies, No. She has simply been sitting long enough.
And on the threshold she asks, insinuatingly, “You will read my manuscript personally?”
For a second I am strongly impelled to return her manuscript, thus wreaking vengeance upon her for my wife.
But she has already closed the door and is gone, without having waited for a reply. Perhaps she had noticed the spark of displeasure that shone in my eyes.
“What sort of impudent cat is that?” asks my wife.
I burst into laughter.
The next day she did not come. Nor the day after. But on both days Ithoughtthat she had not come. I did not wish to give the matter thought, but it haunted me, made me uneasy. If she had promised to come, she should have kept her word.
I read her manuscript. A very wretched tale. It was supposed to depict the yearningof a solitary woman for an unknown man. But the words were weak and the colours false. And I could not get away from the idea that perhaps she had written them just to have a pretext for coming to me. “The impudent cat!”
On the third day she came. From the door she laughed to me with her deep, staccato laughter. “Kept you waiting?”
“Catch me telling you, you cat!”
I bid her enter the room. She advances to the centre, looks about, gazes toward the door by which my wife entered three days before, directs her deep look upon me, taking a chair, and speaks with her deep, velvety voice. “Have you read through my manuscript?”
I am about to tell her the truth, but I feel that I cannot dismiss her from me forever,—that I desire her to come to me again,—so I reply, “I’ve read it, but not read it through. You will have to forgive me.”
“Where did you leave off?”
Yes, where am I to tell her I left off?
“Perhaps you haven’t even started to read ityet?” she suggests, seeing that no answer to her previous question is forthcoming.
I assure her that I really have read her tale, commencing to relate the contents, and betraying myself by disclosing a knowledge of the end.
“Then you’ve read it all!” she laughs.
“Yes,” I confess. “But only superficially,—I merely thumbed the pages.”
And she, with her deep voice, declares, “Oh, my little story isn’t so deep that it requires a second reading. You may tell me your opinion. I will not cry if my little piece is valueless. I know myself that its worth is very small. And as to my coming to you again, you needn’t worry. I have brought another manuscript that I wrote in the past two days.”
Heavens, what is that? Fie! What a scare I got!
The black cat has sprung into the room.
I look at her in terror. And only gradually does my astonishment master my fear. Howdid she jump in? For the window is closed!
I go over to the window. The cat presses close to the wall underneath and gazes up at me, as if entreating me not to cast her out. I raise the shade. I examine the window. It is shut and fastened. I examine the panes. Ah, yes, down in the left-hand corner a small opening has been broken through. A small opening, forming together with the frame a triangle. And the glass bordering the hole glitters with many sharp, uneven, jagged edges.
When was the pane broken? How have I failed to notice it sooner? Why has nobody in the house noticed it?
And how has the cat crawled through? That large black cat through such a small aperture? She must have scratched her entire skin. I turn to look at her and am seized with murderous rage. I am about to kick her, and resolve to throw her back into the rain and the darkness. If only for the sake of the yellow canary that I have in a brass cage in another room. But I myself do not wish to do this. I don’t care totouch the wet cat, and I feel sure that I’ll stain my fingers with blood.
I summon the housemaid and order her to throw out the cat. She does not ask how the cat got in. She is certain that some one let the animal in and would like to know who could have been so careless. Her first thought and chief concern is the yellow songbird of whom the entire household is so fond. She seizes the cat and dashes out with it. She opens the street-door and throws the animal out with a curse. I wish to learn whether her hands are smeared with blood, but she does not reappear. She has gone back to her work. I am content. For a long conversation would have ensued, and I desire to be alone and undisturbed. I’ll find out later.
To resume.
She sat and spoke for a long time. She also arose from her place and approached me, so close that I could feel her breath and an odour of new-mown hay enveloped me; a warmth radiatedfrom her, making me uncomfortably warm. Several times she placed her hand upon my hair,—my hair that was more grey than black—the impudent cat! How dare she! Suppose my wife should happen to come in and surprise us.
She noticed my furtive glances toward the door and laughed. She had seen my wife leave the house, she asserted. With a young girl. Was that my daughter? As she spoke she caressed my grey hair and looked at me with those deep eyes full of endearment and desire. And she added, with her velvety, resonant voice, “I detest authors’ wives!”
And then: “An artist should not be married. He should be free—for all and each....”
I maintained a significant silence. What should I say to her? I must be careful with this woman.
She took my hand and examined my fingers. She held them long and tenderly, fondling them with her own thin, warm fingers.
Then I had to discourse to her about my creativework, and the touch of her fingers was immensely pleasant, and I spoke with increasing warmth and friendliness, so that she might not release my hands.
All at once she leaned forward and kissed me upon the lips, as I was in the middle of a sentence,—in the very middle of a word.
Like a flash she disappeared from the room.
The cat! The cat has again sprung into the room. Naturally, through the same opening in the window-pane. I scold and curse. But this time I’ll not summon the maid. I open the window, seize the cat by the neck and throw her into the street with all my might. I do not see her fall, but I hear her strike the stony pavement far off somewhere. There, now she will hesitate long before she’ll come. That is, if she is able to move at all.
I close the window and sigh with relief. But that hole must be stuffed. If it were not for the inclemency of the weather and the lateness of the hour, I would send for the glazier. Butfor the present it must be stuffed with something. I hunt about, find a newspaper and stop the hole.
Now I may calmly give myself once more over to my thoughts.
A kiss. A bound. Vanished——
She came the following day. With her deep eyes, her deep voice and her singing youth.
I feared her coming; I tried to hope that she would not come. No sooner had I caught sight of her than my heart began to pound excitedly.
She had again arrived just after my wife had left the house. Had she watched for her to leave? How long had she been lurking outside? I asked her and she laughed.
Oh, what was the difference! She had waited much longer before coming to me for the first time. The thought of using the manuscript as a pretext had been slow to suggest itself to her.
But—wouldn’t I prefer to come to her? She had her own room. She might receive any one she pleased; she was perfectly free.
She said all this so simply. So sweetly, so innocently, so naturally,—with that deep velvety voice of hers, and her fathomless eyes and her intense youth.
I wanted to cry out, No! I felt with all my being that I should say No. But at the same time I knew that the struggle was in vain.
She had ignited something within me, and I was all aflame,—burning, burning.
She seized me in an embrace and pressed upon my lips a long, passionate kiss. Within me, my being shouted, sang and exulted.
I was young again! Young again! How we both rejoiced!
To-morrow I am supposed to visit her. Until to-day I longed for to-morrow to arrive. And now I am afraid of it. To-day I do not desire it. I tremble lest I go to her after all. Whither will this lead? Who is she? What is she? Why has she singledmeout? I have grey hairs already and a grown-up daughter almost her age.
Isn’t that the rustle of the paper with which I stuffed the broken pane?
Yes. Somebody’s clawing and tearing at it.
Or perhaps it’s the black cat again! I jump to my feet and run to the window. Yes. The black cat has pulled out the paper and has already thrust her head in through the opening.
No! This time you shall not crawl in! I place my hand upon her head and press, press with all my strength. Oh, surely I’ll crush the feline life out of her!...
Yet.... Yet.... How strong she is!... She plants herself firmly upon her forepaws and gradually thrusts herself backwards through the opening and from under my hand. And now she already has her forepaws on the outer side of the window.... I am seized with terror.... Hot and cold chills pass through me.... I begin to call for help....
Fie, what an evil dream! How my heart throbs! I go to the window. Outside it is still raining; the night is black, and on the windowledge lies the black cat, peacefully coiled into a ball.
I place my hot forehead against the cool window-pane and am consumed by a passionate wish. May theother one, too, be only an evil dream! And I shudder.
Oh! Oh!
To-morrow—to-morrow—to-morrow!...