LIFE AND PHILOSOPHICAL OPINIONS OF A CAT - HYPPOLYTE TAINE (1858)

I was born in a barrel at the foot of a hayloft; the light fell on my closed eyelids, so that for the first eight days everything seemed rose-coloured to me. The eighth day was even better; I opened my eyes and saw a great shaft of light upon the dark shadow, in which dust and insects danced. The hay was warm and fragrant; spiders slept hanging from the tiles; midges buzzed; everyone looked happy; this emboldened me, I wanted to touch the white patch where those little diamonds swirled and which met the roof in a column of gold. I rolled like jelly, my eyes burned, my ribs were bruised, and I coughed and choked until evening.

II

My legs having become strong, I went out and soon made friends with a goose, an estimable animal, for it had a warm stomach; I huddled under it, and during this time her philosophical speeches shaped me. She said the barnyard was a republic of allies; that the most industrious, the man, had been chosen as leader, and that the dogs, though rambunctious, were our guardians. I was moved to tears under my good friend's belly.

One morning the cook approached in a good-natured way, showing a handful of barley. The goose stretched out her neck, which the cook grabbed, drawing a large knife. My uncle, an alert philosopher, came running up and began to exhort the goose, which was uttering unseemly cries: "Dear sister,” he said, “the farmer, having eaten your flesh, will have clearer intelligence and will better watch over our well-being; the dogs, having fed on your bones, will be better able to defend you." Thereupon the goose fell silent, her head having been cut off leaving a kind of red pipe protruding from the bleeding neck. My uncle ran to the head and quickly carried it off. As for me, somewhat scared, I approached the pool of blood and, without thinking, I dipped my tongue into it. This blood was very good, and I went to the kitchen to see if I could have more.

III

My uncle, a very experienced and very old animal, taught me universal history. In the beginning, when he was born, the master being dead, the children being at the funeral, and the valets at the dance, all the animals found themselves free. There was a terrible uproar; a turkey whose feathers were too beautiful was stripped bare by his colleagues. In the evening, a ferret, having insinuated itself among them, sucked the neck veins of three-quarters of the combatants who, naturally, cried no more. There was a fine spectacle in the barnyard; here and there the dogs consumed a duck; the horses, out of gaiety, broke the dogs’ backs; my uncle himself crunched on half a dozen little chickens. Those were the good times, he said.

In the evening, when the people returned, the whippings began. My uncle received one which took away a strip of hair. The dogs, flogged and tethered, howled in repentance and licked their new master's hands. The horses resumed their stride with administrative zeal. The protected fowls clucked blissfully; but, at the end of six months, when the egg season had passed, fifty of them were bled all of a sudden. The geese, among whom was my good departed friend, flapped their wings, saying that all was in order, and praising the farmer, the benefactor of the public.

IV

My uncle, though morose, admits that things are better than before. He says that at first our race was savage, and that in the woods there are still cats similar to our first ancestors, who from time to time catch a field mouse or a dormouse, or more often get shot. Others, short-haired and skinny, trot on the roof gutters where they find mice are very rare. For us, brought up in the height of earthly bliss, we wave our tails flatteringly in the kitchen, we sigh tenderly, we lick the empty dishes, and we get no more than a dozen slaps a day.

V

Music is a celestial art; it is certain that our race has the privilege of it; it comes from the depths of our gut; men know this so well that they borrow our guts when they want to imitate us with their violins.

Two things inspire us to our celestial songs: the sight of the stars, and love. Men, such clumsy copyists, ridiculously crowd together in a room below, and skip around, thinking they are equal to us. It is on the rooftops, in the radiance of the night, which sets one’s hair a-shiver, that we exhale our divine melodies. Men curse us out of jealousy and throw stones at us. Let them burst with rage; their insipid voices will never equal our grave growls, our piercing notes, our crazy arabesques, the inspired and unforeseen fantasies which soften the soul of the most rebellious she-cat, and deliver her quivering to us, while the voluptuous stars tremble on high, and the moon turns wan with love.

How happy youth is, and how hard it is to lose holy illusions! And I enjoyed it too, running on the roofs while modulating bass rumbles. One of my cousins was touched by it, and two months later gave birth to six little white and pink kittens. I ran up and wanted to eat them: it was my right, since I was their father. But who would guess it? My cousin, my wife, to whom I wanted to give a share of the feast, leapt at my eyes. Her brutality made me indignant and I throttled her on the spot; after which I gulped down the entire litter. But the unfortunate little fellows were good for nothing, not even to feed their father: their flaccid flesh weighed on my stomach for three days. Disgusted with great passions, I gave up music and returned to the kitchen.

VI

I have thought a lot about ideal happiness, and think I have made notable discoveries on this subject.

When it is hot, it obviously it consists of dozing near the pond. A delicious smell comes from the fermenting stable litter; the lustrous wisps of straw glisten in the sun. The turkeys roll their eyes lovingly and let their plume of red flesh fall on their beaks. The hens dig in the straw and press their large bellies into it to absorb the rising heat. The pond shimmers, teeming with insects that swarm and raise bubbles on its surface. The harsh whiteness of the walls deepens the bluish recesses where midges whirr. Eyes half-closed, one dreams, and since one no longer thinks much, we no longer wish for anything.

In winter, bliss is sitting by the kitchen fire. Tiny tongues of flame lick the log and dart amid crackles, vine-shoots crack and twist, and coiled smoke rises in the black flue to the sky. Nevertheless, the spit turns, with a harmonious and caressing tick-tock. The skewered poultry scorches, browns, becomes glorious; the grease that moistens it softens its tints; a pleasant aroma tingles the sense of smell; one involuntarily licks one’s lips; breathing in the divine emanations of bacon; eyes raised heavenwards in serious ecstasy, we wait for the cook to take the beast off the spit and offer us our share.

He who eats is happy; he who digests is happier; he who sleeps while digesting is happier still. Everything else is vanity and impatience of spirit. The fortunate mortal is he who, warmly rolled up in a ball and with a full stomach, feels his stomach operating and his skin blooming. An exquisite tickle gently penetrates and stirs the fibres. Both the outside and inside rejoice with all their nerves. Certainly, if the world is a great blessed God, as our sages say, the earth must be an immense belly occupied from all eternity in digesting creatures and heating its round skin in the sun.

VII

My mind has greatly expanded through reflection. By a sure method, solid conjectures and sustained attention, I have penetrated several secrets of nature.

The dog is such a deformed animal, of such a disorderly character, that it has always been considered a monster, born and trained in defiance of all laws. Indeed, when rest is the natural state, how can we explain an animal that is always restless and busy though without goal or need, and even when sated and not scared? When beauty consists universally in suppleness, grace and prudence, how can an animal always be brutal, howling, mad, throwing itself in people's faces, chasing kicks and rebuffs? When the favourite and the masterpiece of creation is the cat, how can we understand an animal could hate us, chase us without having received a single scratch, and break our backs without wanting to eat our flesh?

These annoyances prove that dogs are damned; most certainly the guilty and punished souls have entered their bodies. The souls suffer there, that is why they fret and are incessantly agitated. They have lost their reason, that is why they spoil everything, get beaten, and must be chained for three quarters of the day. They hate the beautiful and the good - that is why they try to throttle us.

VIII

Gradually the mind frees itself from the prejudices which have nourished it; there is illumination; it thinks for itself: this is how I have reached the true explanation of things.

Our early ancestors (and the alley cats retain this belief) said that the sky is an extremely high attic, well covered, where the sun never hurts the eyes. In this attic, my aunt used to say, there is a horde of rats so fat they can hardly walk, and the more of them you eat, the more they come back. It is obvious that this was the notion of poor wretches who, having eaten nothing but rat, could not imagine a better cuisine. Besides, attics are the colour of wood, or grey, and the sky is blue, which completes their confusion.

In truth, they supported their opinion with a rather shrewd remark. "It is clear,” they said, “that the sky is a straw or flour attic, a granary, because very often clouds come out of it, blonde as when wheat is winnowed, or white as when flour is sprinkled in the bin." But I answer them that clouds are not formed by the grain husks or flour dust because, when the clouds shed, we receive water.

Others, more polite, claimed that the turnspit was God, saying that it is the source of all good things, that it always turns, that it goes onto the fire without getting burned, and that it is sufficient to look upon it to fall into ecstasy. In my opinion, they have erred thus because they only saw her through the window, from afar, amidst poetic smoke, coloured, sparkling, as beautiful as the evening sun. But I, who have sat beside the turnspit for whole hours, know that one sponges it, that one mends it, that one wipes it clean, and by acquiring this science I have lost the naive illusions of stomach and heart.

You have to open your mind to larger ideas, and reason in more certain ways. Nature imitates herself everywhere and offers in small things a reflection of great things. What do all animals come from? From an egg - the earth is therefore a very large broken egg. We will be convinced of this if we examine the form and limits of this valley which is the visible world. It is concave like an egg, and the sharp edges where it joins the sky are jagged, sharp, and white like those of a broken eggshell.

The white and the yellow, having come together in lumps, made blocks of stone, houses and all the solid earth. Several parts remain soft, and form the layer that men plough; the rest flows in water, and forms ponds, rivers; flowing anew every spring.

As for the sun, no-one can doubt its purpose: it is a large red firebrand that is held above the egg to cook it gently; we broke the egg on purpose, so that it soaks up the heat better, as the cook always does. The world is one big scrambled egg.

Having arrived at this degree of wisdom, I have nothing more to ask of nature, nor of men, nor of anyone, except perhaps a few small feasts from the roasting pan. I have only to fall asleep in my wisdom; for my perfection is sublime, and no thinking cat has penetrated into the secret of things as I have.