My Aunt's Cat.

Evening Post, Volume L, Issue 48, 24 August 1895, Page 1 (Supplement)

My Aunt's Cat.

* Notwithstanding the title of this story, I cannot disguise the fact that my aunt never had a cat ; and for the reason that I never had an aunt. My n other was an only child, and my father had no sister> and only one brother, who lived and died a bachelor. " Why, then, in the name of all that's deceitful, is this paper headed, 'My Aunt's Cat?'" you ask. For several reasons: One of which is that there really is a oat in the case — a oat which has played as important a part in my life as was played by a grimalkin in "Puss in Boots," or "Dick Whittington," as yon shall, if you like, shortly hear. Although, as I have already intimated, I never had an aunt, yet I once had an uncle who was possessed of considerable property, of which I was the chosen heir. He had probably selected me for this distinction because I was his godson and bore the same name as himself — Frederiok Framer; but my position, in spite, of my expectations, was not a pleasant one, for my only income was derived from a wretched clerkship of £90 a year ; and, rich as my nnde was, he never allowed me a farthing during- his lifetime. He was a man with one idea, and with a mania— the mania being an unappeasable appetite for periodical literature ; and the idea, that had he turned his attention to tale- writing when young, he would have astonished the world oy the power and daring of his genius. "Ah, my boy," he would say to me, in his confidential moments, "if I were a young fellow like yon, I'd been a wellknown writer in a month or two, bnt I'm too old to try my hand at it now, Freddy, and you haven't a spark of your old uncle's genius "—which statements, particularly the last one, I did not feel called on to discuss. In all other xespeots, however, I was the most dutiful of nephews. I listened patiently to his discourses about his undeveloped literary talent. I allowed him, nnreproved, to speak of me to his friends and acquaintances as tt brainless idiot who hadn't an atom of the Framer brilliancy about him ; and, although I lived in the south of London and he in the north, I journeyed northwards two nights in each week to read stories to him out of his favourite periodical, the Talc-Teller. When, nowever, I fell in love with my present wife, and he refused to consent to the engagement on the ground that she was unimaginative and had no taste for literature, I began to get desperate. "Hasn't your uncle any weak point, Fredf" insinuated the daughter of Eve in question one day. "I can always get round pa when I want to, and so I can round yon, you darling old goose, and I don't believe there's the man living that a -woman with her wits about her couldn't creep the blind side of if she chose to try.* "If you could only write a story and get it published- in the Tale-Teller," I said, ruefully, "I believe the unole would not only agree to an immediate marriage, but -would allow us a little yearly something to start on." MJ write a tale!" ejaculated she; "why, my dear Fred, I haven't a grain of brain ! I don't see why you should not write one, though. You're awfully clever, and your letters are more interesting than any story. I suppose it would do as well if you wrote . one as if I did, wouldn't tt ?" "Ten, it would do as well," I said, dubiously; "but I don't think I could. The idea never entered my head before, but something must be done, and— yes, I'll try, I'll try. I don't see why I shouldn't. Good-bye, darling. I'm off at once to make a start. I? I could only show the uncle a story by Fred Framer in the TaleTeller, I believe he'd let me marry a Chootaw Indian." I lost no time in castle-building, but tore pff as fast as I could, and bolted myself in my room to make up a plot right off. But it wasn't suoh easy work as I had anticipated. I sat down to the desk, and nibbled the end of my pen until there wasn't much pen left to nibble, and then I wriggled about on the chair until J was tired of wriggling, and then I walked up and down the room till I was tired of walking. After that, it occurred to me that perhaps I could work the story out better in the garden, but I found a lot of horrid clothes flapping about on a drying-line, and that . distracted me so that I went jndoors again and up to my room to nibble the pen and wriggle in the chair once more. And then I sat on my bed, and then I lay on it, and then I walked up and down again, and yet that tale wouldn't come. Once I had an idea,' but before I was "ready to write it down it had vanished; and another time a plot occurred to me, only it occurred backward — that is to say, -with the end first, and while I was thinking jiow I could make a beginning, I forgot aomehow how{the end was to have been, end lost the idea altogether. And then I began to think I didn't like tale-writing, and I was sure I didn't like the unole, and -wasn't positive that I oared so very much for Nell, after all. After that, I wishad I'd never been born, and that the uncle had never been born, nor the man who brought out the Tale-Teller; bnt I was interrupted at that point by my sister knocking at the floor and saying supper was ready. I don't know how it was, but it suddenly occurred to me that it was all her fault that the tale wouldn't come, so I tore the door open in what I felt was righteous indignation, and rushed madly out upon the landing, demanding to know what in heaven she meant by making suoh a hideous, howling, yelling hullabaloo outside one's door when one wasn't well and had a headache. The little 'simpleton went away crying, which made me feel all the madder, go I rushed downstairs and abused the -whole family, declaring that " I wouldn't stand it any longer, bnt would go right off and enlißt or go into lodgings." What it was that I would stand any longer, I wasn't qnite clear about, but I had a vague sense of injury against the world in general, and, didn't feel called on to particularise. By this time I really had worked myself up to a headache, so I retired to bed with an air of insulted dignity, and without wishing anybody good night. Next morning, however, I didn't feel quite suoh a burning desire to enlist or go into lodgings, so I bought the sister a certain pink scarf that I knew she'd long been coveting, and after a general reconciliation I retired to my room to have another try at the tale, for I suddenly recollected an old legend about a ceitain cat which had belonged to an aunt of my father's, and which was always referred to among us as " Aunt's Cat." The pussy in question, stuffed and neatly arranged in a glass case, was, at the time of which J write, still in my unole's possession ; and I recollect that when we used to visit his house in our childish days a view of this remarkable quadruped, with an account of her still more remarkable adventures, was considered a very great treat indeed, and only to be expected under circumstances of unusual "goodness" on our part and unusual condescension on his. Well, it occurred to me that there was {he plot for a very good story in this feline family legend, and it also struck me that "My Aunt's Cat " wouldn't be half a bad title ; so I settled down to work accordingly, .and sent the narrative, when finished, to the Talc-Teller. Six months went by and I never heard a word about it, although I had enclosed an insinuatingly polite note to the editor, with a. stamped cover for return. I had in the meantime written several other stones, but I felt so despondent about the failure of my first attempt that I hadn't the heart to send them anyftrhere. One day I received a telegram from my uncle : " Come over to-night ; I have a surprise for you.' 1 I had never known him plunge into such extravagance as telegrams before, and was not a little ourious. Arrived At the house, what was my astonishment to find the room full of people. Every relative of the family, I should think, was present. They were sitting in a circle round my nnde, who was standing at a table with a paper before him. " Ha, Frederick," he said, pompously, when I entered, " we are waiting for you to begin ; be seated. I was just telling oui friends here that I have repeatedly striven to arouse gome literary taste in you, have urged you frequently to try to write a tale, po that you might be a credit to yourseli and to your family ; but, as you wttl yourself admit, my advice, my "wishes, mj entreaties have been habitually disregarded. X determined, therefore, to see what! coulc Ho myself in that way, andlhavesummonec you here to-night to share in the honoui whioh my success will, I trust, cast arounc the name of Framer." My uncle stopped and looked round witl the air of one who accepts what he feela t< be well-earned homage, as my sycophantii relatives (who were evidently of an opinioi that I was about to bo disinherited, an( that there was likely to be a vacancy for i successor) broke into a buzz of applapse. "I hold in my baud," continued m; uncle, looking at me as if I were a pnsone In a dook, and the paper in his hetadadeath warrant, "a copy of this week's Tale-teller in which I find printed a story which I ten some time ago to the editor." I was thunderstruok, for I knew that, ev< 1 if one of my own tales shouldnowbe accepted he publication of my unole's story wouli ' ill whatever interest he would otherwis have taken in mine. X "You write a tale!" I gasped; "you ' x unole ?" ( "Yes, sir," he responded, fiercely. "Wh; \ not? Am I to infer, air, and are thca / ladies and gentlemen to infer, that you d < not think your undo competent to do so / Am I, or are they, to infer that ?' ' > ft There was another murmur of applaua ( {com mv reptile-relatives, several even yen ) turing upon suoh expressions as "There' ( gratitude!" "Such insolence !" "Didyo \ over?" and the like. <

"No, uncle," I said, apologetically. " I didn't mean that ; but you never told me about it, and you can't wonder that I'm surprised." "Well, now that we're all here," went on my unole, evidently only half appeased, "I'll read you my story, and you oan all of you judge of it for yourselves. It reads far better in print than I ever thought it would. In fact, I hardly recognised it, and had no idea I could write so well; but here goes: — ' Original stories, written expressly for the Tale-teller. All rights reserved.' %r "All rights reserved," repeated my uncle, emphatically, as though it gave him peculiar satisfaction to know that any production of his wa£ considered worth " reserving." "No. 987, 'My Aunt's Cat,' by Frederiok Framer." "My Aunt's Cat," I gasped; but my unole received the fresh interruption with so fierce a frown that I Bank baok into my chair in silence. "Yes, 'My Aunt's Cat,'" he said. "Why not P Have you any objection to the name, sir F Have you any objeotion f" I waa too upset to refer to the remarkable f aot that I, too, had written a tale with this title, so I sat perfectly still while my unole began to '■cad aloud, word for word, the very tale which I had sent to the editor of the Tale-teller six months before. " Why, unole," I interrupted, when he had got through about six pages, " that's myatory. I wrote it and sent it to the Taleteller, and never heard a word in reply. I thought that family legend about the oat wouldmake a goodplot, and that 'My Aunt's Oat ' was rather a taking title. Of oourse thetale'ssigned 'Frederick Framer,' because my name's Fred as well as yours." I cannot say that my uncle was hoarse with rage and wounded vanity when he heard my statement, for when his voice did come (and at first his breath seemed taken away) it was more like a scream than a voice. " Tour tale !" he shrieked ; "your tale ! and yon can sit there and tell suoh unblushing lies as that! Why, you miserable, brainless dotard, you infernal puppy and our, yon oonldn't write a tale like that if your very life depended on it !" My unole fell baok in his chair exhausted, and a silence like death fell upon all assembled, from which we were startled by aloud double-knock at the door. In another moment the servant entered, bearing a large blue envelope with "From the Tale-teller" printed in big letters across it. My uncle took the paokage from her hand mechanioally, opened it, and stood staring at the manuscript with eyes that seemed starting out of his head. As he turned the leaves a small printed form fell out, and fluttered to the floor. I could not help reading it, for it lay almost at my feet, and this is what was on it:— "The Editor of the Tale-teller returns the enclosed story, and regrets that it is not suitable for the magazine." It was, perhaps, an ungenerous way of vindicating myself ; but I seized this paper, and, starting to my feet, read it aloud to the assembled company. I wished I had not done so the next minute, for my uncle rose from his chair, and, with lips that were positively white with passion, shrieked out — "Tou see what he is, gentlemen! Tou see what he is ! He comes here and euoks my -brains, robs me of iiiy best and most original ideas, and then sneaks away, like the cur chat he is, and sends them away as his own. Get out of my house, you low, marauding, pickpocketihg thief ! GU out of my house, you skulking villain, you " What else my affectionate relative would have said I didn't wait to hear, for, as he was advancing with his fist up-raised, I deemed it best to beat a retreat; and did so accordingly, feeling that I had about as nicely ■polled all my expectations as if I had been taking lessons for months how best to do so. Of course, my uncle disinherited me. I had expected that. But I did not expect that that unfortunate, or rather fortunate, tale would make the sensation it did . That, however, is now a matter of literary history, so I need not enlarge upon it here. All I need say is that I sent off to other periodicals some of the other tales I had written, stating that they were by the author of "My Aunt's Cat," and to my surprise all were accepted and duly paid for. Within a year I was able to give up the olerkship, and in a very short time after I found that my tales were bringing in suoh a nice little sum that I oould afford to take to myself a wife, which I should never have been able to do otherwise, for my unole lived to be eighty-nine. Nothing succeeds like success, however, for when the old gentleman found that I had become a credit to the family, he made a new will, outting off all the relatives who had crept into favour after my downfall, and leaving ever y halfpenny of his fortune to me. And to the day of his death he would tell people that his clever nephew Fred owed all his success to him. " Why, when he used to come and read aloud to me of an evening," he would say, " I used to tell him : 'Fred, my boy, you've got your old uncle's genius, and, mark my words, Fred, if you ever take to writing you'll make your fortune.' Tes, sir, it was I who first found out that boy's literary talent, and it was at my suggestion and by my advice that he wrote his first big success, 'My Aunt's Oat.' Isn't that so, Fred f " And, of course, I always smiled in reply, and said, " Quite true, uncle ; quite true."