18 The Young Cats’ Club for Poetry-Music
The philharmonic young cats’ club
Upon the roof was collected
To-night, but not for sensual joys,
No wrong could there be detected.
No summer night’s wedding dream there was dreamt,
No song of love did they utter
In the winter season, in frost and snow,
For frozen was every gutter.
A newborn spirit hath recently
Come over the whole cat-nation,
But chiefly the young, and the young cat feels
More earnest with inspiration.
The frivolous generation of old
Is extinct, and a newborn yearning,
A pussy-springtime of poetry
In art and in life they’re learning.
The philharmonic young cats’ club
Is now returning to artless
And primitive music, and naïveté,
From modern fashions all heartless.
It seeks in music for poetry,
Roulades with the quavers omitted
It seeks for poetry, music-void,
For voice and instrument fitted.
It seeks for genius’s sovereign sway,
Which often bungles truly,
Yet oft in art unconsciously
Attains the highest stage duly.
It honours the genius which prefers
Dame Nature to keep at a distance,
And will not show off its learning,—in fact
Its learning not having existence.
This is the programme of our cat club,
And with these intentions elated,
It holds its first winter concert to-night
On the roof, as before I have stated.
Yet sad was the execution, alas!
Of this great idea so splendid;
I’m sorry, my dear friend Berlioz,
That by thee it wasn’t attended.
It was a charivari, as though
With brandy elated greatly,
Three dozen pipers struck up the tune
That the poor cow died of lately.
It was an utter medley, as though
In Noah’s ark were beginning
The whole of the beasts in unison
The Deluge to tell of in singing,
O what a croaking, snarling, and noise!
O what a mewing and yelling!
And even the chimneys all join’d in,
The wonderful chorus swelling.
And loudest of all was heard a voice
Which sounded languid and shrieking
As Sontag’s voice became at the last,
When utterly broken and squeaking.
The whimsical concert! Methinks that they
A grand Te Deum were chanting,
To honour the triumph o’er reason obtain’d
By commonest frenzy and canting.
Perchance moreover the young cats’ club
The opera grand were essaying
That the greatest pianist of Hungary89
Composed for Charenton’s playing.
It was not till the break of day
That an end was put to the party;
A cook was in consequence brought to bed
Who before had seem’d well and hearty.
The lying-in woman lost her wits,
Her memory, too, was affected,
And who was the father of her child
No longer she recollected.
Say, was it Peter? Say, was it Paul?
Say who is the father, Eliza!
“O Liszt, thou heavenly cat!” she said,
And simper’d and look’d the wiser.