FOREWORD

    “You've gone off your head, Feef,” said the Lama.  “Who

will believe that YOU wrote a book?”  He smiled down at

me and rubbed under my chin in just the way I liked best

before he left the room on some business.

    I sat and pondered.  “Why should I not write a book?”

I thought.  True that I am a Cat, but not an ordinary cat.

Oh dear!  No!  I am a Siamese Cat who has traveled far and

seen much.  “Seen?” Well, of course, I am quite blind now,

and have to rely on the Lama and the Lady Ku'ei to tell me

of the present scene, but I have my memories!

    Of course I am old, very old indeed, and not a little infirm,

but is that not good reason why I should put on paper the

events of my life, while I am able?  Here, then, is my version

of Living with the Lama, and the happiest days of my life;

days of sunshine after a lifetime of shadows.

                                                           (Mrs.) Fifi Greywhiskers.

.                            :

                               CHAPTER ONE

    Mother-to-Be was shrieking her head off.  “I want a

Tom,” she yelled, “A nice STRONG Tom!”  The noise, the

People said, was TERRIBLE.  But then, Mother was re-

nowned for her loud calling voice.  At her insistent demand,

all the best catteries in Paris were combed for a suitable

Siamese Tom with the necessary pedigree.  Shriller and

louder grew Mother-to-Be's voice.  More and more dis-

traught grew the People as they turned with renewed

strength to the search.

    At last a very presentable candidate was found and he and

Mother-to-Be were formally introduced.  From that meeting,

in course of time, I appeared, and I alone was allowed to

live, my brothers and sisters were drowned.

    Mother and I lived with an old French family who had a

spacious estate on the outskirts of Paris.  The Man was a

diplomat of high rank who journeyed to the City most days

of the week.  Often he would not return at night but would

stay in The City with his Mistress.  The woman who lived

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with us, Mme. Diplomat, was a very hard woman, shallow    

and dissatisfied.  We cats were not “Persons” to her (as we  

are to the Lama) but just things to be shown off at tea parties.   

    Mother had a glorious figure, with the blackest of black         

faces and a tail that stood straight up.  She had won many         

many prizes. One day, before I was properly weaned, she           

sang a song rather more loudly than usual.  Mme. Diplomat          

flew into a tantrum and called the gardener.  “Pierre,” she       

shouted, “Take her to the pond instantly, I cannot bear the      

noise.”  Pierre, an undersized, sallow faced little Frenchman       

who hated us because we sometimes helped him with the             

gardening by inspecting plant roots to see if they were grow-     

ing, scooped up my beautiful Mother and put her into a dirty      

old potato sack and marched off into the distance.  That           

night, lonely and afraid, I cried myself to sleep in a cold out-  

house where Mme. Diplomat would not be disturbed by my            

lamentations.                                                      

    I tossed restlessly, feverishly, on my cold bed of old Paris     

newspapers thrown on the concrete floor.  Pangs of hunger          

wracked my small frame and I wondered how I would                 

manage.                                                            

    As the first streaks of dawn reluctantly struggled through       

the cobweb-covered windows of the outhouse, I started with         

apprehension as heavy footsteps clattered up the path, hesi-      

tated at the door, then pushed it open and entered.  “Ah!”  I      

thought in relief, “It is only Madame Albertine, the house-       

keeper.”  Creaking and gasping she lowered her massive             

frame to the floor, dipped a gigantic finger into a bowl of         

warm milk and gently persuaded me to drink.                        

    For days I walked in the shadow of sorrow, grieving for my       

murdered Mother, murdered solely because of her glorious          

singing voice.  For days I felt not the warmth of the sun, nor     

thrilled to the sound of a well-loved voice.  I hungered and       

thirsted, and depended wholly upon the good offices of               

Madame Albertine.  Without her I should have starved to            

death, for I was then too young to eat unaided.                    

    The days dragged on, and became weeks.  I learned to fend         

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for myself, but the hardships of my early life left me with an

impaired constitution.  The estate was huge, and I often wan-

dered about, keeping away from People, and their clumsy,

unguided feet.  The trees were my favorites, I climbed them

and stretched at length along a friendly bough, basking in

the sun.  The trees whispered to me, telling me of the happier

days to come in the evening of my life.  Then I understood

them not, but trusted, and kept the words of the trees ever

before me, even in the darkest moments.

    One morning I awakened with strange, ill-defined long-

ings.  I uttered a yelp of interrogation which, unfortunately,

Mme. Diplomat heard.  “Pierre!” she called, “Fetch a tom-

cat, any tomcat will do to break her in.”  Later in the day I

was seized and thrown roughly into a wooden box.  Almost

before I was aware of anyone being present, a disreputable

old tomcat leaped upon my back.  Mother had had no oppor-

tunity to tell me much about the ‘facts of life’, so I was not

prepared for what followed.  The battered old tomcat leaped

upon me, and I felt a shocking blow.  For a moment I thought

that one of the People had kicked me.  There was a blinding

flash of pain, and I felt something tear.  I shrieked in agony

and terror and raked fiercely at the old tom ; blood spattered

from one of his ears and his yelling voice added to mine.  Like

a flash of lightning the box top was ripped off and startled

eyes peered in.  I leaped out; as I escaped I saw the old tom,

spitting and snarling, jump straight at Pierre who tumbled

over backwards at the feet of Mme. Diplomat.

    Streaking across a lawn I made for the shelter of a friendly

apple tree.  Scrambling up the welcoming trunk, I reached a

well-loved limb and lay at full length, panting.  The leaves

rustled in the breeze and gently caressed me.  Branches

swayed and creaked and slowly lulled me into the sleep of

exhaustion.

    For the rest of the day and the whole of the night I lay upon

the branch; hungry, afraid and sick, wondering why humans

were so savage, so uncaring of the feelings of little animals

who were utterly dependent upon them.  The night was cold,

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and a light drizzle blew over from the City of Paris.  I was  

soaked, and shivering, yet was terrified to descend and seek  

shelter.                                                        

    The cold light of early morning slowly gave way to the dull    

grayness of an overcast day.  Leaden clouds scudded across       

the lowering sky.  Occasionally there was a spatter of rain.     

About mid-morning a familiar figure hove in sight from the     

direction of the House.   Madame Albertine, waddling            

heavily, and clucking sympathetically, approached the tree,    

peering short-sightedly.  I called weakly to her and she        

reached her hand towards me.   “Ah!  My poor little Fifi,    

come to me quickly for I have your food.”  I slid backwards     

along the branch and climbed slowly down the trunk.  She        

knelt in the grass beside me, stroking me as I drank the milk  

and ate the meat which she had brought.  With my meal           

finished, I rubbed gratefully against her knowing that she did  

not speak my language, and I did not speak French (although       

I fully understood it).  Lifting me to her broad shoulder, she   

carried me to the House and took me to her room.                 

    I looked about me in wide-eyed amazement and interest.          

This was a new room to me and I thought how very suitable       

the furnishings would be for stretching one's claws.  With me    

still upon her shoulder, Madame Albertine moved heavily         

to a wide window seat, and looked out.  “Ah!” she exclaimed,   

exhaling gustily, “The pity of it, amid all this beauty there is  

so much cruelty.”  She lifted me to her very ample lap and         

gazed into my face as she said, “My poor, beautiful little Fifi,  

Mme. Diplomat is a hard and cruel woman.  A social climber          

if ever there was one.  To her you are just a toy to be shown       

off.  To me you are one of the Good God's own creatures.  But         

you will not understand what I am saying, little cat!”  I           

purred to show that I did, and licked her hands.  She patted        

me and said, “Oh!  Such love and affection going to waste.         

You will make a good mother, little Fifi.”                         

    As I curled more comfortably on her lap I glanced out of          

the window.  The view was so interesting that I had to get up       

and press my nose to the glass in order to obtain a better view.   

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Madame Albertine smiled fondly at me as she playfully

pulled my tail, but the view engaged my whole attention.  She

turned and rolled to her knees with a thud.  Together we

looked out of the window, cheek to cheek.

    Below us the well-kept lawns looked like a smooth green

carpet fringed by an avenue of stately poplar trees.  Curving

gently towards the left the smooth grayness of the Drive

stretched away to the distant road from whence came the

muted roar of traffic surging to and from the great Metro-

polis.  My old friend the Apple Tree stood lonely and erect by

the side of a small artificial lake, the surface of which, reflect-

ing the dull grayness of the sky, took upon itself the sheen of

old lead.  Around the water's edge a sparse fringe of reeds

grew, reminding me of the fringe of hair on the head of the

old Curé who came to see “le Duc” — Mme. Diplomat's

husband.

    I gazed again at the Pond; and thought of my poor Mother

who had been done to death there.  “And how many others?”

I wondered.  Madame Albertine looked suddenly at me and

said, “Why, my little Fifi, you are crying I think—yes, you

have shed a tear.  It is a cruel, cruel world, little Fifi, cruel for

all of us.”  Suddenly, in the distance, little black specks which

I knew to be cars turned into the Drive and came speeding

up to the house to halt in a flurry of dust and a squeal of tires.

A bell jangled furiously, causing my fur to stand up and my

tail to fluff.  Madame picked up a black thing which I knew

was called a telephone, and I heard Mme. Diplomat's shrill

voice pouring agitatedly from it: “Albertine, Albertine, why

do you not attend to your duties?  Why do I pay you?  I am so

charitable that I keep you.  Come instantly, for we have

visitors.  You must not laze so Albertine!”  The Voice clicked

off, and Madame Albertine sighed with Frustration.  “Ah!

That the war has brought me to this.  Now I work for sixteen

hours a day for a mere pittance.  You rest, little Fifi, and here

is a box of earth.”  Sighing again, she patted me once more

and walked out of the room.  I heard the stairs creaking

beneath her weight, then—silence.

                                             13

    The stone terrace beneath my window was swarming with  

people.  Mme. Diplomat was bowing and being so subservient  

that I knew there were important persons.  Little tables     

appeared as if by magic, were covered with fine white cloths  

(I used newspapers — Le Paris Soir — as MY tablecloth) and   

servants carried out food and drink in ample profusion.  I    

turned away to curl up when a sudden thought made my tail    

fluff in alarm.  I had overlooked the most elementary pre-    

caution; I had forgotten the first thing my Mother taught    

me.  “ALWAYS investigate a strange room, Fifi,” she had        

said.  “Go over everything thoroughly.  Check all escape       

routes.  Be wary of the unusual, the unexpected.  Never        

NEVER rest until you know the room!”                         

    Guiltily I rose to my feet, sniffed the air, and decided how  

to proceed.  I would take the left wall first and work my way   

round.  Dropping to the floor I peered beneath the window       

seat, sniffing for anything unusual.  Getting to know the lay-  

out, the dangers and the advantages.  The wall-paper was        

flowery and faded.  Big yellow flowers on a purple back-         

ground.  Tall chairs, spotlessly clean but with the red velvet  

seating faded.  The undersides of the chairs and tables were    

clean and free from cobwebs.  Cats, you know, see the           

UNDERSIDE of things, not the top, and humans would not          

recognize things from our view-point.                           

    A tallboy stood against one wall and I edged into the center  

of the room so as to decide how to get to the top.   A quick    

calculation showed me that I could leap from a chair to the     

table — Oh!  How slippery it was! — and reach the top of the  

tallboy.  For a time I sat there, washing my face and ears as I  

thought things over.  Casually I glanced behind me and           

almost fell over in startled alarm; a Siamese cat was looking  

at me — evidently I had disturbed her while she was washing.     

“Strange,” I thought, “I did not expect to find a cat here.      

Madame Albertine must be keeping it secret.  I will just say        

‘hello’ ”   I moved towards her, and she, seemingly having       

the same idea, moved to me.  We stopped with some sort of a 

window between us.  “Remarkable!” I mused, “How can              

                                             14  

this be?”  Cautiously, anticipating a trick, I peered around

the back of the window.  There was no one there.  Amazingly,

every move I made she copied.  At last it dawned upon me.

This was a Mirror, a strange device Mother had told me

about.  Certainly it was the first I had seen because this was

my first visit inside the House.  Mme. Diplomat was VERY

particular, and cats were not permitted inside the house

unless she wanted to show us off — I so far had been spared

that indignity.

    “Still,” I muttered to myself, “I must get on with my in-

vestigation.  The Mirror can wait.”  Across the room I saw a

large metal structure with brass knobs at each corner, and

the whole space between the knobs covered in cloth.  Hastily

I leaped from the tallboy to the table — skidding a little on

the high polish — and jumped straight on to the cloth covered

metal structure.  I landed in the middle and to my horror the

thing threw me up into the air!  As I landed again I started to

run while I decided what to do next.

    For a few moments I sat in the center of the carpet, a red

and blue “swirly” design which, although spotlessly clean,

had seen much better days elsewhere.  It appeared to be just

right for stretching claws, so I gave a few tentative tugs at ...