Max always blesses the animal when it is referred
to; and I don’t deny that things have worked
together for good after all. But when I think
of the anguish of mind which Ismay and I underwent
on account of that abominable cat, it is not a blessing
that arises uppermost in my thoughts.
I never was fond of cats, although I admit they are
well enough in their place, and I can worry along
comfortably with a nice, matronly old tabby who can
take care of herself and be of some use in the world.
As for Ismay, she hates cats and always did.
But Aunt Cynthia, who adored them, never could bring
herself to understand that any one could possibly
dislike them. She firmly believed that Ismay
and I really liked cats deep down in our hearts, but
that, owing to some perverse twist in our moral natures,
we would not own up to it, but willfully persisted
in declaring we didn’t.
Of all cats I loathed that white Persian cat of Aunt
Cynthia’s. And, indeed, as we always suspected
and finally proved, Aunt herself looked upon the creature
with more pride than affection. She would have
taken ten times the comfort in a good, common puss
that she did in that spoiled beauty. But a Persian
cat with a recorded pedigree and a market value of
one hundred dollars tickled Aunt Cynthia’s pride
of possession to such an extent that she deluded herself
into believing that the animal was really the apple
of her eye.
It had been presented to her when a kitten by a missionary
nephew who had brought it all the way home from Persia;
and for the next three years Aunt Cynthia’s
household existed to wait on that cat, hand and foot.
It was snow-white, with a bluish-gray spot on the
tip of its tail; and it was blue-eyed and deaf and
delicate. Aunt Cynthia was always worrying lest
it should take cold and die. Ismay and I used
to wish that it would—we were so tired of
hearing about it and its whims. But we did not
say so to Aunt Cynthia. She would probably never
have spoken to us again and there was no wisdom in
offending Aunt Cynthia. When you have an unencumbered
aunt, with a fat bank account, it is just as well to
keep on good terms with her, if you can. Besides,
we really liked Aunt Cynthia very much—at
times. Aunt Cynthia was one of those rather
exasperating people who nag at and find fault with
you until you think you are justified in hating them,
and who then turn round and do something so really
nice and kind for you that you feel as if you were
compelled to love them dutifully instead.
So we listened meekly when she discoursed on Fatima—the
cat’s name was Fatima—and, if it
was wicked of us to wish for the latter’s decease,
we were well punished for it later on.
One day, in November, Aunt Cynthia came sailing out
to Spencervale. She really came in a phaeton,
drawn by a fat gray pony, but somehow Aunt Cynthia
always gave you the impression of a full rigged ship
coming gallantly on before a favorable wind.
