“Come to me, pussy,” cried the signora at last; “come to me, my little pet, I will give you some milk and sugar; come!”
But call and entreat as she would, the cat would not allow herself to be disturbed in her devotions, not even when Goethe walked heavily through the room and stepped up to the wardrobe. She continued to kiss the god’s lips and beard, and to utter her plaintive mews. Signora Abazza, who was standing in the door-way, with folded hands, now protested that the cat sang exactly like Father Ambrose when he officiated at the morning mass, and that her heart, the signora’s, was filled with pious devotion.
“I must, however, bring this cat-mass to an end,” cried Goethe, laughing, “for if the cat continues her devotions much longer, another miracle will take place: the divine locks will dissolve, and the lips, so expressive of wisdom and majesty, will be nothing more than shapeless plaster. Halloo! father cat, away with you! You shall not transform the god into a lump of plaster!” With threatening tones and gestures he frightened the cat down from the wardrobe, and drove her out of the room. Goethe and his friend then returned to the parlor.
“Wonders are the order of the day,” said Moritz, thoughtfully, “and we are surrounded by a mysterious atmosphere of dreams and tokens.”
“Only when we are dreamers,” cried Goethe, laughing. “To the unbiassed there is nothing miraculous, to them all things seem natural.”
“How can you explain the cat’s rapturous devotion?”
“In a very prosaic, pitiful manner,” replied Goethe, smiling. “You know, exalted dreamer, that this bust was moulded but a few days ago, and you also know that grease was used to prevent the plaster from adhering to the form. Some of this grease remained in the cavities of the beard and lips; the cat’s fine sense of smell detected its presence, and she was endeavoring to lick it off.”[37]
Philip Moritz raised his arms, and looked upward with comic pathos: “Hear this mocker, this cold-hearted materialist, ye eternal, ye sublime gods! punish the blasphemer who mocks at his own poetic genius; punish him by filling his cold heart with a lost passionate love! Cast down this proud poet in the dust, in order that he be made aware that he is still a mortal in spite of his poetic renown, and that he dare not attempt to hold himself aloof from human love and human suffering!—Venus Aphrodite, pour out the lava streams of your passion on this presumptuous poet, and—”
“Hold, hold!” cried Goethe, laughing, as he seized his friend’s arms, and forcibly drew them down. “You remind me of Thetis invoking the wrath of the great Zeus upon the head of the son he believed to be guilty, and to whom the god granted his cruel prayer.”
“Signori, signori!” cried Signora Abazza from the outside.