# The Cat and the Painter

Extracted from Scribner's Magazine, vol 35 1904, pp. 241–249. Accompanying illustrations by E. M. Ashe may be omitted.
THE CAT AND THE PAINTER
By Eleanor H. Porter
Illustrations by E. M. Ashe
"ME-OW—W!"
It was a plaintive wail that came from behind the ash barrel in the alley-way.
A small boy across the street turned his head and looked over inquiringly. The forlorn little furry heap by the ash barrel crouched lower and slunk back into the shadows. The kitten's knowledge of small boys was just two hours old—but it was sufficient.
A chill wind whistled around the corner, and she tucked her tiny paws beneath her—a little shivering bunch of misery out in the fast-gathering twilight.
It had been so delightful to scurry out the hall door when Miss Dorothy was not looking—out into the bright sunshine, where the red and yellow leaves were chasing each other down the smooth walk in front of the house. She had rolled and tumbled among those leaves in a delirious whirl of freedom, and had given frantic chase to one particularly tantalizing bit of scarlet that had sailed along just ahead of her nose.
Then there came a time when the sunshine fled and the leaves lay quiet, refusing to play, even when she poked them with her little insistent paw. She had run far down the street, and everything was new and strange to her. A big dog bounced around the corner, and she was obliged to scramble up a tree to escape his horrid gaping jaws.
She had but just accomplished her fearsome descent from this disquieting elevation when a group of small boys hailed her appearance with yells of delight. Then to her tail—her beautiful fluffy tail, of which Miss Dorothy was so plainly proud—they had tied a cruel cord with a jangling tin can at the end. Down the street she had wildly fled, around corners, through back alleys, followed always by that deafening rattle, dangling at the tip of her tail.
The shouts of the boys grew fainter and fainter, and finally ceased altogether. It was then that she had stopped, and tugged and bit at the knotted cord until at last she could switch her tail from side to side—free from its hated burden.
She had been trembling and shivering in that alley-way now for many a long minute. There was no soft basket-bed, no warm milk, no Miss Dorothy's white hand to pat and stroke her fur. The small boy across the street stayed quietly listening for a time, then he turned and walked off whistling. A minute later the kitten rose to her feet and stealthily slipped out into the open.
"Me-ow—w!"
"Whew! little cat, is it so bad as all that?"
He was tall, wore a soft black hat, and carried a cane, which he playfully twirled over the kitten's head as he spoke. A moment more, and he had passed along.
The kitten's tail came upright instantly, waving an appreciative welcome to the kindly tones. She looked wistfully after the retreating figure, hesitated, then fell into a brisk trot, her softly cushioned feet giving no sign of her presence even when close at his heels.
Two blocks down the street, the man turned the corner and ran up the steps of a substantial-looking house bearing the unmistakable hall-mark of old-time gentility. His latchkey was in his hand before he spied the kitten. She had sprung lightly to the topmost step, and was now facing him, her agitated little body and upraised tail plainly expressing her assurance of a welcome.
"Why—pussy!"
"Meow!"
The plaintiveness was gone; the cry told only her eagerness to enter the house.
Mechanically the man obeyed the obvious command, unlocked the door, and pushed it open. The kitten was inside the hall with a bound, beginning at once, after the fashion of her kind, a tour of inspection. The man was gazing helplessly at the restless little creature when his landlady came out of the parlor^
"Oh, what a beauty, Mr. Heywood! Where did you get it?"
"That's just the trouble, Mrs. Merriam; I didn't get it at all—it came!" Heywood's forehead was crossed with perplexed lines, and he followed the cat's motions with dubious eyes.
"Came to you? How perfectly lovely! The very best sign of good luck that you could possibly have!" And Mrs. Merriam clapped her plump hands together softly. "There's not a bit of doubt now, Mr. Heywood—your picture will be a certain success. It's almost an Angora,too—just look at that tail!" she continued ecstatically, mixing pictures and cats with serene indiscrimination. "Here, pussy, pretty pussy—come here!"
The kitten stopped and eyed the coaxing hand with a calmly critical gaze. She was warm—she was comfortable—the outstretched hand contained no tempting dainty;—she could see no reason for immediate capitulation. Very slowly she settled back on her tiny haunches, winking and blinking solemnly.
"Provoking thing—cats are so independent!" murmured Mrs. Merriam, drawing back her hand.
"But what am I going to do with it?" asked Heywood.
"Do with it? Why, you're going to keep it, of course—if you can," she added, after a pause. "You probably won't have any such luck, though—some one will claim it."
"Well, if it was a dog, now; but a cat—!" He dropped into the chair just behind him, and meditatively stroked his chin.
At his sudden move, the kitten turned. With a run and a spring she was in his lap, purring and rubbing against his hands and coat; in another moment she was on his shoulders, curled around his neck like a boa—a position Miss Dorothy had taught her with much labor and pains.
"Wonderful! Just see how she takes to you!" exclaimed Mrs. Merriam with a shade of envy in her voice. "If signs count for anything, Mr. Heywood, you're a lucky man."
"Yes, I suppose so," he acquiesced with a short laugh, playfully tweaking a silky ear that brushed against his cheek. And the kitten purred content.
In two day's time, a yellow ball of fur, set with two bead-like eyes of turquoise blue, frisked and frolicked from cellar to garret of number thirty-four Union Avenue. But although the entire house was hers for the asking, the one spot most dear to her heart was the studio up one flight. Here her capers were the merriest, her songs the loudest, her slumbers the soundest.
On that first morning after her arrival, she had settled herself in the artist's favorite seat, and at his gentle poke of mild protest, she had but opened a sleepy eye, stretched with a sigh of content, and sung the louder.
"Well, by Jove!" murmured the man, the old helplessness coming into his face. Then he sheepishly crossed the room and took another chair—a proceeding that was repeated for exactly three mornings. After that, the small tyrant was left in possession of the coveted seat without so much as an instant's protest.
The kitten had arrived with a bedraggled ribbon of what had once been lustrous white satin around her neck. This forlorn bit of finery Heywood at once consigned to the wastebasket, substituting a band of blue cut from a roll of ribbon which he had promptly bought, after a careful scrutiny of his guest's eyes to obtain just the proper shade.
He surveyed with much satisfaction the result of his artistic combination of colors; but the roll of ribbon soon began to show signs of a rapid disappearance, so frequently was the necklet renewed. This was owing to the fact that the kitten's usual companions, during her waking hours, were Heywood's tubes of paint.
The first time she had jumped upon his low stand and poked her inquisitive nose into his paint box, he had looked on in dumb dismay. A skirmish, a sweep of a yellow paw—and a tube of Rose Madder leaped from the box and scurried across the floor with the kitten in full pursuit.
It was then that Heywood had caught up his crayon and drawn hurried lines on the canvas before him; and it was that rough sketch that became the first study for his famous picture "The Kitten's Playground."
After that he used every device in his power to interest the kitten in that paint box—and successfully, too, for she never rested until she had emptied the box and batted and rolled the last tube to some obscure corner under table or chair. Then, while his model slept, the artist gathered the spoils and patiently worked at his easel, so that in time his walls were hung with yellow kittens portrayed in every conceivable position.
From the very first the little stranger had not lacked for a name. She was always referred to as "Her Majesty," and right royally she ruled the household. Once only did her independent wilfulness receive a check. It was when, from her position on Heywood's shoulder, she had struck with her far-reaching paw the end of Heywood's brush as he painted.
There was an ominous silence while the artist's eyes were fixed on the splash of emerald green straight in the middle of his carefully blended sunset sky. Very quietly he laid down his palette and brush, and with determined hands reached for the cat on his shoulder. Without a word he crossed the room with the culprit, dropped her on the hall floor, and shut the door hard—that door which never before was closed to Her Majesty.
An hour later, in passing through the hall, Hey wood came upon a disconsolate ball of yellow fur crouching in the farthermost corner.
"Well, madam!"
There was a rush of cushioned feet, a frantic waving of a yellow tail, and the kitten was rubbing in abject adoration against his trousers.
The corners of his mouth twitched, then he laughed outright.
"I'll accept your apology," he said, as he stooped to bestow forgiveness; "but I'll see that you don't have a chance to offer me another one, young lady," he added, grimly.
It was two weeks before Her Majesty's new surroundings palled upon her and she longed for other worlds to conquer. Coincident with this longing came the open back-yard gate. A wild scamper, and she was free—out in the wide, wide world!
Through the alley and across the lot another open gate tempted her. A strangely familiar something came to her nostrils, a half-forgotten sound, to her ears. Two maids were in the yard, their backs turned toward her. Up the steps, through the kitchen door and on into the dining-room pattered the little yellow feet.
"Why, Queenie!—you darling!" and she was in Miss Dorothy's arms.
"Where have you been?" the girl demanded, after the first ecstasy of welcome was over. "You little dear—you're as plump as a partridge, anyway! Some one has appreciated you," she added, with another hug. "But they've taken off your pretty white ribbon and put on a horrid blue one. We'll go and change it right away, sweetheart. I never did like blue!" And Miss Dorothy, with her restored treasure in her arms, went up-stairs to the parlor.
Meanwhile, on the other side of the square at thirty-four Union Avenue something very like consternation reigned.
"Where's Her Majesty?"—Heywood was the most patient of men save only where his art was concerned. Just now the curve of an ear, or the shade of a bit of fur was baffling him. He wanted his model, and his voice was sharp with command.
"I don't know, but I'll hunt her up," responded Mrs. Merriam with the alacrity she always showed when Heywood spoke that way.
Five minutes later she came back with a troubled face.
"She's gone, Mr. Heywood. Bridget says she saw her run out the back-yard gate."
"Saw her run?—why in the dickens didn't she stop her then? My picture isn't half done—I tell you I must have that cat!"
"Well, I'll look again," murmured Mrs. Merriam, hurriedly—she had never seen Heywood quite like this before. "Maybe the little thing's in the lot—I'll see," and the woman backed toward the door.
Heywood climbed the stairs with a wrathful emphasis on each step. In his studio his face brightened, and he looked around eagerly—perhaps she was there asleep. How quiet everything was! Even the clock had ceased to tick; he had forgotten to wind it the night before. The tubes of paint in his box were pathetic in their quiet order. He poked them gently with his finger, then shook himself with a frown. His favorite chair was conveniently empty now, but he walked all around the room before he finally marched up to it with resolute step and sat down determinedly.
"Such a fool—and over a cat, too!" he muttered between his teeth.
Perhaps the kitten missed her box of pigment playthings, or perhaps she longed for the masculine homage she did not find at home; at any rate, three days later, when she heard a familiar call from across the open lot, she slipped through the back-yard gate, and hurried in the direction of Mrs. Merriam's voice.
It had been one of Mrs. Merriam's self-imposed duties during all those days to stand often at her gate and call for the lost kitten; and it was with a heart swelling with triumphant pleasure that she carried the visible reward of her faithful search up to Heywood's studio.
"I've got her," she announced breathlessly, "but I guess she's found her home, Mr. Heywood. I don't know's we ought to keep her—you see her ribbon's changed."
"Yes; I see it is," the man acknowledged with a grim smile. "But that's easily remedied. I shan't paint her in a white one," he concluded, fumbling at the knot.
"But—shall we keep her?" asked Mrs. Merriam, timidly.
Heywood pulled at the ribbon impatiently.
"We'll try to—until the picture is done, anyway," he said with decision, reaching for the roll of blue ribbon.
Mrs. Merriam noticed that he wrote something on a scrap of paper, and tied it in with the knot as he fastened the ribbon about the yellow throat.
"What ever in the world are you doing?" she demanded, with the freedom of a privileged character.
"Merely giving a bit of advice over against the time it may be needed," retorted Heywood with a short laugh, going back to his easel.
Answered, but not enlightened, Mrs. Merriam left him to his work.
When the kitten had first come to the house, Heywood had been engaged upon an elaborate landscape, which he had intended to finish and present to the judges of a forthcoming Art Exhibition wherein he hoped to win honor and fame. But since the first study of "Her Majesty," his interest in the landscape had waned. Abandoning his original plan, he was now hard at work on "The Kittens' Playground," determined to exhibit that or nothing.
The Art Exhibition was now but a month distant, and the frequent presence of Her Majesty in the artist's studio was most necessary. For a week she was closely guarded and the picture grew apace; then one day she disappeared. High and low they searched, but all in vain. Her Majesty was gone.
Across the square Miss Dorothy was tenderly caressing an animated ball of yellow fur.
"Queenie, Queenie, what does this mean? What am I to think when you run away from me so? Who are your new friends that insist on tying these odious blue ribbons around your neck?"
The kitten rolled over on her back and winked her blue eyes wickedly.
"Here, just let me take off the horrid thing and—why, what is this!" she exclaimed, interrupting herself in amazement as a tiny crumpled paper dropped into her hand.
"Kindly leave the blue ribbon on. I like it better—it's more artistic," she read.
"Well, really—impertinent creature!" she commented aloud, with reddening cheeks and an ominous flash in her eyes. Then she laughed, caught up a pencil, and wrote on the back of the paper:
"So sorry—but I prefer white!"
This she deftly tied in with the big white bow at the top, and let the kitten go. Strange to say, she did not guard the gates and doors so closely now, nor did she seem disturbed when, before the day was gone, Queenie was not to be found.
When the small yellow cat and the big white bow appeared before Heywood that night, he laughed outright at the aggressiveness expressed in each loop and end of that bow. With careful fingers he undid the knot, and then he laughed again.
"As I expected," he murmured, critically examining the writing—"graceful, in spite of disadvantages."
When the blue again adorned the kitten's neck, it bore with it this message:
"I regret to be obliged a second time to call your attention to the fact that blue is the only possible ribbon for this cat. Look at her eyes!"
The picture was nearly done now. Her Majesty came and went much at her own sweet will, and it was not two days before another huge white bow appeared on her neck to mock Heywood's gaze. His fingers shook a little as he untied the knot and freed the tiny crumpled paper.
Drawn by E. M. Ashe.
The kitten's usual companions were tubes of paints.—Page 242.
"I regret to be obliged a second time to call your attention to the fact that I prefer white. Look at her—whiskers!" he read.
Hey wood chuckled. For an irresolute moment he drew the bit of white satin meditatively through his fingers, his longing eyes fixed on the roll of blue across the room; then a shame-faced smile curved his lips and a faint red showed on his forehead. Very slowly he tied the white ribbon again about the kitten's neck, and stuffed the tiny note into his pocket.
Her Majesty did not leave the house that night, nor the next day, nor yet the next. She stayed on and on, with every indication of making that her permanent abiding place.
The time of the Exhibition arrived and Heywood had thoughts for but one thing. At last his picture was hung, and so attractive did it prove to be that it bid fair to realize his dearest hopes.
It represented the interior of an artist's studio, and the rich hangings, statuary, and old armor had given Heywood an opportunity for a particularly fine bit of work. The whole was but the setting for four yellow kittens—the cleverest, most fascinating yellow kittens in the world, peeping from behind curtains, tumbling among the rugs, rolling over tubes of paint—life-like, bewitching, and altogether perfection.
It was on the third day of the Exhibition that a tall girl in drooping feathers and rich furs stopped before the picture with an exclamation of delight.
"It's Queenie!—why, it's Queenie to the very life! 'C. R. Heywood. Not for sale,' she read disappointedly from her catalogue; then she sought the manager at his desk.
"This 'Kittens' Playground'—it is not for sale?" she asked.
"No, madam."
"But the artist, Heywood—does he live in the city? Can you give me his address?"
"Thirty-four Union Avenue, madam," replied the man, consulting the book on his desk.
"Thank you. The very next street below us!" she added under her breath, as she turned away.
Dorothy Marsh was not a young woman who dallied. Once determined on a course action quickly followed. Her mother, always gentle and pleasantly acquiescent, was hurried into the carriage and the order, "Thirty-four Union Avenue," given to the coachman.
Upon their arrival at the house, the two ladies were shown into the studio, and in a moment Heywood appeared.
The girl was in the middle of the floor, turning round and round in amazement.
"Why, they're all Queenie—every last one of them!" she exclaimed.
The man bowed, and a peculiar smile flickered across his face.
"They are, indeed, all—'Her Majesty.'" He had not time to say more, for at the first tones of the girl's voice, there was the crash of a falling vase and the scampering of little feet from an inner room. Then with a spring and a bound a small yellow kitten landed in Miss Dorothy's outstretched arms.
There was a moment's awkward silence. Mrs. Marsh unconsciously came to the rescue.
"Why, it is our kitten, isn't it? This must be where she goes so often, daughter."
The color deepened in the girl's cheeks and she threw a quick glance at Heywood.
"It evidently is, mother," she laughed, her fingers nervously toying with the white ribbon about the kitten's neck.
Heywood's approving eyes dropped from the girl's face to the kitten, and even the hated white ribbon appeared lovely to him, so glorified was it by the slim gray-gloved fingers slipping in and out of the loops.
Mrs. Marsh turned to the artist.
"My daughter has taken a great fancy to your kitten picture at the Exhibition, Mr. Heywood. We—er—I see that the catalogue states that it is not for sale, but my daughter would not be satisfied until we had learned from you that such was really the case and that you could not be induced to part with it."
Not part with it?—to Heywood it suddenly seemed that there was nothing he would not part with if the slender young woman in the big picture-hat but so much as turned a longing eye upon it; and then there was the kitten—her kitten.
"Indeed, madam, it was my intention to keep the picture," he began, speaking to the mother, though looking at the daughter, "but——"—the kitten jumped from the girl's arms to the floor and began playing with a tube of paint—"Well, there are circumstances," he continued, then paused again.
Drawn by E. M. Ashe.
She had struck with her far-reaching paw the end of Heywond's brush.—Page 243.
Drawn by E. M. Ashe.
"They've taken off your pretty white ribbon and put on a horrid blue one."—Page 243.
"Yes, there are circumstances," repeated the girl softly, her eyes on the kitten.
"Yes, circumstances which—which alter determinations," he suddenly concluded, following her gaze with his eyes.
Dorothy was strangely silent through the rest of the interview, leaving to her mother and Heywood the task of making all necessary arrangements for the purchase of the picture when the Exhibition should be concluded. Perhaps she was seized with a sudden distrust of her own powers of persuasion; or perhaps the fact that the kitten had abandoned her playing and had ensconced her fickle little self on Heywood's shoulder, there to wink and blink her turquoise eyes just beneath Heywood's ear, had something to do with it.
It was when the ladies were leaving that the artist lifted Her Majesty from his shoulder and placed her in Dorothy's arms. His hand rested in a momentary caress on the round yellow head, then his fingers just touched the white bow at the neck.
"The ribbon in the picture, Miss Marsh," he began, closely studying the girl's face, "shall I change it to—er—white?"
"Thank you, no. I—I prefer the blue," she answered, with a sudden flash from her eyes and a dazzling smile.
"No, indeed; certainly not—it is quite satisfactory as it is, sir; no change is necessary," murmured Mrs. Marsh complacently, leading the way to the carriage.
Her Majesty is older now. She is plump, sleek, and of stately dignity, and her eyes—once turquoise—gleam with shifting amber lights. Her present realm is a certain mansion in Belgrave Square. Incidentally, it is also the home of the artist, Heywood, and of his wife, Dorothy.
This work was published before January 1, 1929, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
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