Letters of Note: Cats Read online

  I am, Gentlemen,

  Your most obedient humble Servant.

  M. MIDNIGHT

  LETTER 15

  A PILE OF 5,000 CATS AND KITTENS

  Frederick Law Olmsted to his son

  13 May 1875

  Born in 1822 in Connecticut, Frederick Law Olmsted is considered by many in his profession to be the ‘Father of American Landscape Architecture’ – a title that seems, even to the least qualified of observers, to be fully justified, for Olmsted had at least a hand in designing some of the most famous urban parks in the US, including, most notably, New York’s Central Park. Other commissions consisted of major parkways, reservations, college campuses and government buildings too numerous to list. To his four-year-old son in May of 1875, however, these achievements meant nothing: Henry was miles away from home with his mother and just wanted to see the family dog, Quiz, so he wrote to his father and asked for Quiz to be sent to him. This was his father’s inventive reply.

  THE LETTER

  13th May, 1875

  Dear Henry:

  The cats keep coming into the yard, six of them every day, and Quiz drives them out. If I should send Quiz to you to drive the cows away from your rhubarb he would not be here to drive the cats out of the yard. If six cats should keep coming into the yard every day and not go out, in a week there would be 42 of them and in a month 180 and before you came back next November 1260. Then if there should be 1260 cats in the yard before next November half of them at least would have kittens and if half of them should have 6 kittens apiece, there would be more than 5000 cats and kittens in the yard. There would not be any place for Rosanna to spread the clothes unless she drove them all off the grass plot, and if she did they would have to crowd at the end of the yard nearest the house, and if they did that they would make a great pile as high as the top of my windows. A pile of 5000 cats and kittens, some of them black ones, in front of my window would make my office so dark I should not be able to write in it. Besides that those underneath, particularly the kittens, would be hurt by those standing on top of them and I expect they would make such a great squalling all the time that I should not be able to sleep, and if I was not able to sleep, I should not be able to work, and if I did not work I should not have any money, and if I had not any money, I could not send any to Plymouth to pay your fare back on the Fall River boat, and I could not pay my fare to go to Plymouth and so you and I would not ever see each other any more. No, Sir. I can’t spare Quiz and you will have to watch for the cows and drive them off yourself or you will raise no rhubarb.

  Your affectionate father.

  LETTER 16

  THE ZOMBI

  Robert Southey to Grosvenor Bedford

  3 April 1821

  For thirty years, beginning in 1813, Robert Southey, friend to Samuel Taylor Coleridge and William Wordsworth, was Poet Laureate of England until his death in 1843. He was also a celebrated biographer of Horatio Nelson, Oliver Cromwell and others, and a tireless writer of criticism, political essays, translations, journalism and letters. He even, in 1837, wrote what is considered to be the first published iteration of the Goldilocks and the Three Bears fairy tale, titled The Story of the Three Bears and included in an initially anonymously authored volume of his work. Long before that, in November of 1820, Othello, a cat taken in by the Southeys, died, leaving the household both bereft and infinitely more attractive to a local gang of rats. A few months later, Southey wrote to his friend Grosvenor Bedford, with news of Othello’s replacement, Zombi.

  THE LETTER

  April 3, 1821

  MY DEAR G.,

  You were duly apprised towards the end of the year of Othello’s death. Since that lamented event this house was cat-less, till on Saturday, March 24. Mrs. Calvert, knowing how grievously we were annoyed by rats, offered me what she described as a fine full-grown black cat, who was moreover a tom. She gave him an excellent character in all points but one, which was that he was a most expert pigeon-catcher; and as they had a pigeon house, this propensity rendered it necessary to pass sentence upon him either of transportation or of death. Moved by compassion (his colour and his tomship also being taken into consideration), I consented to give him an asylum, and on the evening of that day here he came in a sack.

  You, Grosvenor, who are a philogalist, and therefore understand more of cat nature than has been ever attained by the most profound naturalists, know how difficult it is to reconcile a cat to a new domicile. When the sack was opened, the kitchen door, which leads into the passage, was open also, and the cat disappeared; not indeed like a flash of lightning, but as fast as one,— that is to say, for all purposes of a simile. There was no chance of his making his way back to the pigeon house. He might have done this had he been carried thrice the distance in any other direction; but in this there was either a river to cross, or a part of the town to pass, both of which were such obstacles to his travels that we were quite sure all on this side of them was to him terra incognita. Food, therefore, was placed where he would be likely to find it in the night; and at the unanimous desire of the children, I took upon myself the charge of providing him with a name, for it is not proper that a cat should remain without one. Taking into consideration his complexion, as well as his sex, my first thought was to call him Henrique Diaz, a name which poor Koster would have approved, had he been living to have heard it; but it presently occurred to me that the Zombi would be an appellation equally appropriate and more dignified. The Zombi, therefore, he was named.

  It was soon ascertained that the Zombi had taken possession of poor Wilsey’s cellar, which being filled with pea-sticks afforded him a secure hiding-place; the kitchen also of that part of the house being forsaken, he was in perfect quiet. Food was laid for him every day, and the children waited impatiently for the time when the Zombi would become acquainted with the house, and suffer them to become acquainted with him. Once or twice in the evening he was seen out of doors, and it was known that he reconnoitred the premises in the night; but in obstinate retirement he continued from Saturday till Saturday, seven days and nights, notwithstanding all kind words were used to bring him out, as if he had been determined to live and die a hermit.

  But between four and five o’clock on the Sunday morning, all who had ears to hear were awakened by such screams as if the Zombi had been caught in a rat-trap, or had met with some other excruciating accident. You, Mr. Bedford, understand cats, and know very well that a cat-solo is a very different thing from a duet; and that no person versed in their tongue can mistake their expression of pain for anything else. The creature seemed to be in agonies. A light was procured, that it might be relieved if that were possible. Upon searching the house, the Zombi was seen at the top of Wilsey’s stairs, from whence he disappeared, retreating to his stronghold in the cellar; nor could any traces be discovered of any hurt that could have befallen him, nor has it since appeared that he had received any, so that the cause of this nocturnal disturbance remains an impenetrable mystery.

  Various have been our attempts to explain it. Some of the women who measure the power of rats by their own fears, would have it that he was bitten by a rat, or by an association of rats; but to this I indignantly replied that in that case the ground would have been strewn with their bodies, and that it would have been the rats’ cry, not the Zombi’s, that would have been heard. Dismissing, therefore, that impossible supposition, I submit to your consideration, in the form of queries, the various possibilities which have occurred to me,— all unsatisfactory, I confess,— requesting you to assist me in my endeavour to find out the mystery of this wonderful history, as it may truly be called. You will be pleased to bear in mind that the Zombi was the only cat concerned in the transaction: of that I am perfectly certain.

  Now then, Grosvenor,—

  1. Had he seen the devil?

  2. Was he making love to himself?

  3. Was he engaged in single combat with himself?

  4. Was he attempting to raise the devil by invocation?
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br />   5. Had he heard me sing, and was he attempting (vainly) to imitate it?

  These queries, you will perceive, all proceed upon the supposition that it was the Zombi who made the noise.

  But I have further to ask,—

  6. Was it the devil?

  7. Was it Jeffery?

  8. Were either of these personages tormenting the Zombi?

  I have only to add that from that time to this he continues in the same obstinate retirement, and to assure you that

  I remain,

  Mr. Bedford,

  With the highest consideration,

  Yours as ever,

  ROBERT SOUTHEY

  PS. One further query occurs while I am writing, Sunday having been the first of the month—

  9. Was he making April fools of us?

  R. S.

  LETTER 17

  BRACE UP HONEY

  Gabrielle-Ange Lévesque (his mother) to Jack Kerouac

  20 July 1960

  In the summer of 1960, a few years after publication of his opus On the Road, Beat novelist and poet Jack Kerouac left his mother at home in Northport, New York, and headed west to spend a peaceful few months at a cabin in Big Sur that was owned by his friend and fellow poet, Lawrence Ferlinghetti. It was to be a time of relaxation and reflection. When he eventually arrived, however, Kerouac was handed a letter from his mother, sent hurriedly to Ferlinghetti to pass on, containing news of the death of his treasured cat, Tyke. Kerouac later compared this event to the death of his nine-year-old brother in 1926, when Jack was just four years of age.

  THE LETTER

  Sunday 20 July 1960

  Dear Son,

  I’m afraid you wont like my letter because I only have sad news for you right now. I really dont know how to tell you this but Brace up Honey. I’m going through hell myself. Little Tyke is gone. Saturday all day he was fine and seemed to pick up strength, but late at night I was watching TV a late movie. Just about 1:30 A.M. when he started belching and throwing up. I went to him and tried to fix him up but to no availe. He was shivering like he was cold so I rapped him up in a Blanket then he started to throw up all over me. And that was the last of him. Needless to say how I feel and what I went through. I stayed up till “day Break” and did all I could to revive him but it was useless. I realized at 4 A.M. he was gone so at six I wrapped him up good in a clean blanket – and at 7 A.M. went out to dig his grave. I never did anything in my whole life so heart breaking as to bury my beloved little Tyke who was as human as you and I. I buried him under the Honeysuckle vines, the corner, of the fence. I just cant sleep or eat. I keep looking and hoping to see him come through the cellar door calling Ma Wow. I’m just plain sick and the weirdest thing happened when I buried Tyke, all the black Birds I fed all Winter seemed to have known what was going on. Honest Son this is no lies. There was lots and lots of em flying over my head and chirping, and settling on the fence, for a whole hour after Tyke was laid to rest – that’s something I’ll never forget – I wish I had a camera at the time but God and Me knows it and saw it. Now Honey I know this is going to hurt you but I had to tell you somehow . . . I’m so sick not physically but heart sick . . . I just cant believe or realize that my Beautiful little Tyke is no more – and that I wont be seeing him come through his little “Shanty” or Walking through the green grass . . .

  PS. I’ve got to dismantle Tyke’s shanty, I just cant go out there and see it empty – as is. Well Honey, write soon again and be kind to yourself. Pray the real “God” –

  Your old Mom XXXXXX

  ‘I KEEP LOOKING AND HOPING TO SEE HIM COME THROUGH THE CELLAR DOOR CALLING MA WOW.’

  – Gabrielle-Ange Lévesque

  LETTER 18

  ODE ON THE DEATH OF A FAVOURITE CAT DROWNED IN A TUB OF GOLDFISHES

  Thomas Gray to Horace Walpole

  1 March 1747

  One day in February 1747, at the home of noted historian Horace Walpole, one of his cats, Selima, decided to perch, as she was wont to do, on the rim of a Chinese porcelain tub that was filled with goldfish – the perfect spot from which to stare into the water and plot an attack. Sadly for all involved – fish included – Selima lost her footing this time, and despite her best efforts slipped all the way in, unable to escape due to the steep sides of the fish-filled trap. One can only imagine the chaos. Selima didn’t make it out, and when Walpole was informed of her death, he turned to his friend, the poet Thomas Gray, and asked him to write a fitting epitaph. Gray soon responded with something more substantial, the first verse of which Walpole later had engraved on the fishbowl in which his cat had perished.

  THE LETTER

  Cambridge, 1 March, 1747

  As one ought to be particularly careful to avoid blunders in a compliment of condolence, it would be a sensible satisfaction to me (before I testify my sorrow, and the sincere part I take in your misfortune) to know for certain, who it is that I lament. I knew Zara and Selima (Selima, was it? or Fatima?) or rather I knew both of them together; for I cannot justly say which was which. Then as to your handsome Cat, the name you distinguished her by, I am no less at a loss, as well knowing one’s handsome cat is always the cat one likes best; or if one be alive and the other dead, it is usually the latter that is the handsomest. Besides, if the point were never so clear, I hope you do not think me so ill-bred or so imprudent as to forfeit all my interest in the survivor: Oh no! I would rather seem to mistake, and to be sure it must be the tabby one that had met with this sad accident. Till this affair is a little better determined, you will excuse me if I do not begin to cry:

  “Tempus inane peto, requiem, spatiumque doloris.”

  Which interval is the more convenient, as it gives time to rejoice with you on your new honours. This is only a beginning; I reckon next week we shall hear you are a free-Mason, or a Gormorgon at least. Heigh ho! I feel (as you to be sure have done long since) that I have very little to say, at least in prose. Somebody will be the better for it; I do not mean you, but your Cat, feue Mademoiselle Selime, whom I am about to immortalize for one week or fortnight, as follows.

  Ode on the Death of a Favourite Cat Drowned

  in a Tub of Goldfishes

  ’Twas on a lofty vase’s side,

  Where China’s gayest art had dyed

  The azure flowers that blow;

  Demurest of the tabby kind,

  The pensive Selima, reclin’d,

  Gazed on the lake below.

  Her conscious tail her joy declar’d:

  The fair round face, the snowy beard,

  The velvet of her paws,

  Her coat, that with the tortoise vies,

  Her ears of jet, and emerald eyes,

  She saw; and purr’d applause.

  Still had she gazed; but ’midst the tide

  Two angel forms were seen to glide,

  The Genii of the stream;

  Their scaly armour’s Tyrian hue

  Through richest purple to the view

  Betray’d a golden gleam.

  The hapless Nymph with wonder saw:

  A whisker first, and then a claw,

  With many an ardent wish

  She stretch’d, in vain, to reach the prize.

  What female heart can gold despise?

  What cat’s averse to fish?

  Presumptuous maid! with looks intent

  Again she stretch’d, again she bent,

  Nor knew the gulf between.

  (Malignant Fate sat by, and smiled)

  The slippery verge her feet beguiled;

  She tumbled headlong in.

  Eight times emerging from the flood

  She mew’d to every watery god

  Some speedy aid to send.

  No Dolphin came, no Nereid stirr’d,

  Nor cruel Tom nor Susan heard–

  A favourite has no friend!

  From hence, ye Beauties! undeceiv’d,

  Know one false step is ne’er retriev’d,

  And be with caution bold:


  Not all that tempts your wandering eyes

  And heedless hearts is lawful prize,

  Nor all that glisters gold!

  There’s a poem for you, it is rather too long for an Epitaph.

  LETTER 19

  FOSS IS DEAD

  Edward Lear to Lord Aberdare

  29 November 1887

  In 1887 British poet and illustrator Edward Lear wrote to his friend, Lord Aberdare, with some tragic news: Lear’s tabby cat, Foss, whom he had owned since kittenhood, was dead. This was not a sad development just for Lear, who was a popular figure during his lifetime, but also for the many fans of Lear who had grown to love Foss through his illustrated appearances in Lear’s work. Two months later, Lear died of heart disease. At the head of this letter to Aberdare, in its recipient’s hand, is written, ‘Last letter from my dear old friend, who died Jan 1888.’

  THE LETTER

  Villa Tennyson

  San Remo

  29 November 1887

  My dear Lord Aberdare,

  I have been wanting to know how your hand is now – if quite recovered, or still giving trouble? But I am little able now a days to write albeit I have a great deal of writing to get through.

  For, whoever has known me for 30 years has known that for all that time my Cat Foss has been part of my solitary life.

  Foss is dead: & I am glad to say did not suffer at all – having become quite paralyzed on all one side of him. So he was placed in a box yesterday, & buried deep below the Figtree at the end of the Orange walk & tomorrow there will be a stone placed giving the date of his death & his age (31 years,) – (of which 30 were passed in my house.)