these two names is more appropriate. So Thomas Henry the cat was called. When we were speaking of him to friends, we generally called him as Thomas Henry, Esquire.
He was quiet. He chose my own favourite chair for himself. What to do? It was his decision. I did not want to get an enemy.
That time a lady was staying with us – she still resides with us, but she is now older, and cleverer. She did not have respect for cats. She was sure that the way to feed a cat was[121] to insert things into its head. I dreaded the first meeting of Thomas Henry with this lady. He will get a false impression of us as a family.
But there was something about Thomas Henry that killed damped familiarity. His attitude towards the lady was friendly but firm. Suddenly she got a respect for cats, she put out her hand[122] timidly towards its tail. He gently put it on the other side, and looked at her. It was not an angry look nor an offended look. It was the expression with which Solomon[123] received the Queen of Sheba.[124]
He was really a gentleman. A friend of mine, who believes in the doctrine of the transmigration of souls,[125] was convinced that he was Lord Chesterfield.[126] He never mewed for food, as other cats do. He was sitting beside me and waiting till he was served.[127] A visitor of ours once offered him a piece of gristle; [128] he said nothing, but quietly left the room, and we did not see him again until our friend had departed.
But every one has his price, and Thomas Henry’s price was roast duck.[129] It showed me at once the lower and more animal side of his nature. In the presence of roast duck Thomas Henry became simply and merely a cat. He clawed for roast duck, he wanted it very much. I am sure he could sell himself to the devil[130] for roast duck.
We accordingly avoided that dish: it was painful to see a cat’s character so completely demoralised. Besides, his manners, when roast duck was on the table, showed a bad example to the children.
Thomas Henry was a shining light among all the cats of our neighbourhood. He made no friends among the other cats. He did not like to fight, I think, he never loved, even in youth; he was absolutely indifferent to female society.
So he lived with us during the whole winter. In the summer we took him into the country. Alas, poor Thomas Henry! The country was his ruin. The first night he did not come till eleven, the second night he did not come home at all, the third night he came home at six o’clock in the morning, without half the fur on the top of his head.[131] Of course, there was a lady in the case.[132] Thomas Henry was certainly a beautiful cat, and this was the explanation. But gentleman cats were demanding explanations, too, which Thomas Henry was always ready to give them.
The village boys loitered round all day to watch the fights, and angry women constantly came into our kitchen to fling dead cats upon the table, and appeal to Heaven and myself for justice.
Our kitchen became a cat’s morgue, and I purchased a new kitchen table. At first, “justice” was generally satisfied with half a crown,[133] but the prices rose.
“Look what your beast has done,” said one irate female, who arrived in the middle of dinner.
I looked. Thomas Henry killed a poor animal, that was happier dead than alive. But some people never know what is better for them.
“I will not take even a five-pound note for that cat,” said the lady.
“But,” I replied, “I don’t want to give you more than a shilling for it.”
“He was more like a Christian than a cat,” said the lady.
“You can consider him as a Christian,” I answered firmly, “or you can consider him as a cat, but he’s not worth more than a shilling in either case.[134]”
Finally, I paid eighteenpence.
The number of cats that Thomas Henry killed surprised me. It was a massacre of cats!
One evening, going into the kitchen, I found, among others, a curiously marked tortoiseshell cat,[135] lying on the table.
“That cat’s worth half a sovereign,” said the owner, who was standing by, drinking beer.
I took up the animal, and examined it.
“Your cat killed him yesterday,” continued the man. “It’s a shame.”
“My cat has killed him three times,” I replied. “He was killed on Saturday as Mrs. Hedger’s cat;[136] on Monday he was killed for Mrs. Myers.[137] Now I recognize him. Take my advice, and bury him. I don’t care how many lives a cat has got; I only pay for one.”
We gave Thomas Henry every chance to reform; but he only went from bad to worse, and added chicken-killing to his other crimes, and I became tired to pay for his vices.
