On the matter of cats and Catherines
Whenever I travel and I have a terrace, a tiny garden or a balcony, I find a shallow bowl — a carefully washed ashtray works marvellously for my purposes — and, having filled it with fresh water, place it there.
(Archive of Lady Catherine de Turnips, entry 4663-3-12)
My dear friend,
Whenever I travel and I have a terrace, a tiny garden or a balcony (and I do everything in my power to have at least one of them), I find a shallow bowl among those provided by my host — a carefully washed ashtray works marvellously for my purposes — and, having filled it with fresh water, place it there. This, habitually, brings new friends into my life.
Say, I remember caravans of cats flowing to my doors in Egypt — and there, the fertile soil of the Nile itself bears memory of centuries when feline neighbours were held even in higher regard than they are now.
It is worth mentioning that from Egypt, from Mediterranean Alexandria, also comes another Catherine worth your acquaintance. You can normally recognise her by either the instrument of her execution, a wheel (which, surprisingly, inspired a particular kind of fireworks) — or her magnificent hair, that, presumably, did not participate in any death.
(Thankfully, she is not Samson.)
It is perhaps unnecessary to explain why another Catherine should naturally accompany me through life: my patron saint, whose domain is scholars and intellectual endeavours, a lady who is famous for debating learned men. I, however, rarely discriminate due to gender, with my most common target of arguing being my humble self.
[Editor's note. Four pages are absent from the surviving manuscript.]
collection already includes signed copies of Pushkin’s fairytales, Shakespeare’s comedies, the Cerne Abbas Giant, the Rosetta Stone, and the Bible. The provenance of some of them, it has to be said, is more complicated than that of others.
Rest assured: I shall keep you informed of any further developments in this matter.
Please do be so kind and say hello to your cat from me.
Yours truly,
Lady Catherine
P.S. I have once been entrusted with skulls that have outlived, if it is the right word to put it, several political formations, generations of scholars, and, presumably, a certain number of indubitably well-meaning people who should not have been allowed near them with a cup of tea (and a sugar bowl).
Not all of the skulls were human: one was that of a medieval cat. I have no evidence to suggest which breed it was. Anecdotally, all the cats in that area were tabby, so, possibly, but not necessarily, it was their ancestor with a similar coat pattern.
The matters of feline lineage have meant a lot to me since my younger days. When I was a child, I knew perfectly well the genealogical tree of my own cat, Matisse (needless to say, he was a spotted tabby). Partially, it was so because all the “roots” and “branches” of the said tree sometimes were present on the trees, in the shrubs, and, not once, among the cucumbers they for no particular reason devoured. Matisse’s mother, Dina, was quite fond of singing; his father, Basil, was orange. I still think that putting some catnip in one’s shoes might be very practical for one’s travels, but I also believe that the attraction needs to be based on personality — or, at least, on the merits of one’s offerings.