By EUIL J12'RGEKSEX

This 'is.tue's short slo/'!/ takes llS to Denmar/... 'I'he Dunes ure k"own fo·rthe-ir hUl1wr a7ul thlJir chee'rf"l phil080phy of l'fe. a, philowphy tfua corresponds I.)a 1lCltwn which, 8mall i,~ nllmber,' (/.lui ",ifho'ut any "",!lition" in world pol'ities. hasmade of iuJ ocean-!1irded coullfry a11 onlerly a1l.1 1JTOSperol/<I garden.

ThlJ allfhor i8 cOllneded wilh the "Illusfreret FCll1lilie Jourllal," a leadingJ)"nwh magazine. mui ;.1; one of Ihe most successful y01I11.g Danish writers of 8hortsiMi&!. 'l'hia story was tra1ls[aJ,ed by Cris Norlund. the aullwr of the aTtwle"fo'l/rope'8 North" 'in our illsue of October 1942.-K..1f.

STRANGE that things should havehappened to Per Drosselkvist theway they did. That he of all people,

a man who throughout his life had beenso sensible and well balanced, should bedestined to battle with circumstances tosuch an extent, was something most peoplehad not expected. And yet, on secondthoughts, one realizes that most happen­ings have quite a natural explanation.

Originally, Per Drosselkvist had beena painter. Not an artist, no, just asensible, earth-bouud artisan who paintedrailings and house fronts and whitewashedceilings.

So far so good; he would undoubtecUyhave been able to live in comfort andseourity with his wife and children tillthe end of his days and would haveobtained a posthumous reputation in noway different from that of all other in­offensive people. True, he and his wifeare reconciled, but nevertheless . .Well, I'd better tell the story.

As I said, Per Drosselkvist was allright. But there was, I'm sorry to say,a "but." He had a vein. Xot a savage,

tmbulent vein of the kind that producesmen of genius or lunatics, but an honestand modest little vein which enabledhim to write short stories such as peopleusually like to read.

At fU'st, only small and unimportantnewspapers accepted his harmless prod­ucts, and he didn't make a fortune byhis writing-oh no! But things im­proved, he acquired routine, and even­tually things went so well that he putaway his paint pots, bought himself acanary-yellow pullover, let his beardgrow, and became what is called a writerof short stories. Not among the electwas he. but one of the honest and un­pretentious ones who, through industryand perseverance and an effectively eco­nomical mode of living, can maintain atolerable e~;stenoe even if the coat is abit wom and the Sunday dinner consistsof hamburgers.

This was his position when he gavebirth to the short story "Miaow, Miaow,Pussycat."

Wife and children thri vad, the rentwas paid when due, taxes were in order,

mAOW. YL<\OW. PUSSYCAT 237

no pawn tickets in his wallet. He him­self sat at his desk composing shortst.ories to his and his readel'S' hearts'content.

"~liaow, Miaow, Pussycat '-which, asa matter of fact, was only a whimsicalimpulse resulting from an evening whenPer Drosselkvist had been to a· birthdaypa.rty at his brother-in-Iaw's aud which,w a mental product, ranked far abovetil level of his usual output-always re­turned from the newspapers he used toupply with short stories. When the

postman rang the bell in the morningwllile the whole family was sitting aroundth well-spread breakfast table, PapaDr0886lkvist would jestingly exclaim:

"There is that cat again! Miaow,Miaow! '

"They haveaccepted it!" hecried. "They'veaccepted 'Miaow,Miaow, Pussy­cat'! Here, havea look at whatthey write! It'snnbelievable!"

the other ingredients of daily life in thoselatitudes.

One day as the wandering cat-youknow, Per Drosselkvist's iU-omened shortstory-had returned on<.'6 more to itsbirthplace, Per said to his wife :

''Now the cat is going on an importantvisit, Mary." She looked at him a littlesourly:

''You and your pussycat! You hadbetter stop all that waste of stamps.Mter all, it's plain that nobody wantsit." But he didn't let himself be talkedout of it.

"This time it's going to the mostdistinguished magazine in the country!"And Per Drosselkvist mentioned the pre­tentious name with a slightly tremblingvoice.

"But you never sent them anythingbefore," Mrs. Drosselkvist objected, shak­ing her head.

''No, I've never dared climb that highbefore," answered Per modestly. "Butnow, upon my word, they are going tohave 'Miaow, Miaow, Pussycat'!"

No matter how much Per Drosselkvistmiaowed whE'1l the postman rang thebell during the next few days-Pussydidn't come back. The kids stoppedbeing amused at Papa playing cat, andMrs. Drosselkvist fretted in annoyance.

"Now that about the cat isn't funnyany more, Per!"

But one morning he came rushing intothe living room oompletely out of his mind.

The hair bristled

III on his head, and

his eyes glared8S if he wereseeing ghosts.

••

And t,he kids would ronr with laughter,while "Mother smiled gently and serenely;for she knew that, even if that cat storyWati a mistake, Papa's writings were not... 0 ball on the whole. Thank Heaven,there wa. no need to worry . . . .

"Miaow, Miaow! Yes, indeed, it wasthe dear little cat coming back to usagain," joked Per DroB.-'l6lkvist when heentered the room with a big yellow en­velope in his hand, and they laughed againaU arolmd the table.

Then the children went off to schoolwith their books and sandwiches, Mrs.Hrossclkvist set about washing dishes,and Per duew himself into a brand-new

hort tory,something a.bO~ltthe Arctic, whichpromised to turnout a thrill, forPer had readseveral descrip­tions of the coun­tries up there inthe north andknew a lot aboutcold, hunger,polar bears,forestry, arcticswmls, and all

238 THE XXtb CENTURY

The biggest newspapers made himoilers, but Per decided to remain loyalto the magazine which had given bUn hisgreat chance as well as the renown which,by the way, he bore very modestly.

As if inadvertent­Iy, the Editor forgot

to pay for Per's next story, and a fewdays later the postman brought a largeenvelope containing the manuscript anda letter from the Editor saying that hewouldn't mind if Per Drosselkvist soldthis short story-which was perfectlygood, only quite different in style fromthe "Miaow Miaow" story-to anothermagazine. It would be best for bothparties if the same style were maintained,etc., etc.

"Well, well, I must say," thought PerDrosselkvist, in pained surprise. "Butthat's all right, we'll pick out anotherpaper;"

The outcome of this next approachsoon manifested itself.

It had heen a pleasure to read hisstory, but unfortu~ately the Editor had80 many short stories of the same type

He had already sent in his next shortstory and immediately, without even theEditor's penlsaI, been paid an a,mpIecheck.

When one day---quite casually over aglass of port wine a,nd a good cigar-hewrested a confidential critique of his newopus from the Editor, the latter said:

"Excellent! Really excellent! Of course!But . . . if you really want to know myinnermost, personal opinion, Mr. Drossel­kvist ... well, then I'll have to admitthat it isn't quite up to the standa.rd of'Miaow, Miaow, Pussycat.' "

Unfortunately, the readers seemed tobe of the same opinion. The storysank int{) the empty spaces of oblivion

without leaving asingle trace. Nobodytalked about it. Butthen the jokes about"Miaow, Miaow,PuSsycat" were stillgoing around, grad­ually becoming justa8 annoying as revuesongs which you can'tkill off.

•**The story proved

a colossal, yes, quiteincredible Sllccess.The very day after ithad been published,it conquered thewhole country. Itfairly created a psy­chosis.

"Have you read 'Miaow, Miaow, Pussy­catT' people asked each other, and thenthey laughed until they were on theverge of swooning. Really, Per Drossel­kvist was the hero of the day.

Incidentally, it wasn't just a fame ofa few days and then finis. "The Pussy­cat" had nine times nine lives: it soonbecame quite a popular saying amongjolly people. Variations of the theme ofthe swry were made, and when PerDrosselkvist sauntered down the street,people would turn around and say:"Look, there's the man who wrote'Miaow, Miaow. Pussycat,' the new MarkTwain!"

And with trembling hands he placed atypewritten sheet before his wife and thechildren crowding around her. It read :

Mr. Per Drosselk:vis",

Dear Sir,Apologizing for not ha'ving replied earlier

concerning your 8hort 8tory "Miaow,Miaow, P1188ycat," we hereby have plea8urein informing you that we 8hall be delightedto accept your excellent work for publication.We 8hould appreciate it if you could aparethe time to pa,y U8 a fJ-iait at you,r earliestco,wenience, in order that we may discu88the po88ibiWie~ for a clo8er collaboration.

Yours faithfully,

"WelH" asked Per Drosselkvist ill

supreme happiness,"perhaps you'll allow ./'~-, 'me to miaow now?" ,-:::--

on band tbat he bad enough material tolast him far into the future. If, bowever,he would write something in keepingwith tbe story "l\fiaow, Miaow, Pussycat,"the Editor would be very pleaBed to ....

become his great defeat. Unawa1'88 hehad had a stroke of genius . . . andone mustn't have that when one is usuallyjust an everyday, inoffensive little PerDrosselkvi8t.

• •

MIAOW, MUOW, PUSSYCAT

• • • •

t39

And so it went on.

The cat punned him. It turned intoa gruesome, bloodthinty beast lurkingfor him everywhere. R-r-r-r-! There itwas again! I'm sorry, Mr. Drosselkvist,but since you have been able to write asbort story like "Miaow, Miaow, Puss­ycat," the peculiar product you've sentus is almost an offense . . . .

"But why on earth don't you write thekind of stuB they wantl" his wife com­plained. "Instead of cooking up some­thing they won't even touch! But yoursuccess with that cat story has gone to~'our hend, that's what's "TOng with you."

"Shut up, Mary!" Per thundered inrage. "You're talking about things youdon't know anything about."

"That's possible," Mrs. Drosselkvistretorted belligerently. "But there's onething I do know, and that is that wecan't live without money, and thingscan't go on like this."

"I must have peace!" Per shoutedfuriously. "Be quiet!"

But Ma.ry 'didn't keep quiet. Therewere bills from the baker's and the butch­('r's, from the grocer's and the dairy,everything deteriorated, and if she didn't!'ee some money in next to no time shewould go to her mother and father andtake tho two children with her and nowife or mother hadever been forced tolive such a life!

Per Drosselkvistmoaned ... and wroteuntil his head ached.It was no use. Thecat followed him likea shadow and wouldn'tlet go of him.

His great victoryhad simultaneously

It would lead too far to depict all themisery called down upon its paternaloriginator by the baleful cat. Quarrelsand disputes and bitter words made theirentry into the home, which soon after­wards dissolved.

Day and night, the terrible cat staredat Per Drosselkvist with its evil, venom­ous, green eyes. He tried to evade themonster by writing under a fiotitiousname, but it was no use. The cat soemedto have devoured all his abilities. FinallyPer Drosselkvist gave up completely. Itwas the only thing to do.

It goes without saying that his hardfate had marked Per Drosselkvist. But itwas characteristic of him that he stillremained cool and kept his mentalbalance.

He found his old paint pots, got somework here and there, sufficient for himto exist, and gradually things went sowell that he could ask his wife to comeback with the kids, which she did.

Yes, things looked quite bright againfor the future, and if he fared so well itwas probably due to the fact that hewas a modest, quiet, and .oomplying soulto whom one couldn't help taking a liking.

Gradually he found for himself aspeciality: he designed posters and sign­boards for the shops in his district. He

hit upon several goodideas for advertisingwhich won the ap­plause of the custom­ers.

At the moment, hewas working on a bigadvertising sign for ashoeshop, and he washeld out the proer-ootof 50 kroner cash ifthe design was deemedsatisfactory•

THE XXth CENTURY

The manager of the store arrived inDroseelkvist's studio. He stood silentfor a long time examining the finishedproduct while Per was awaiting judgment,feeling a bit uncomfortable, for he neededthe money badly, and one could neverknow.

All of a sudden his cU8tomer~burst out:

"IngeniousI Drosselkvistl Man aliveIThat's the best layout ever designedlWe must work togetherI Come to myoffice and let's talk about itt You'regoing to be a famous manl you're ...."

He didn't get any further. Per Drossel­kvist had caught the design by onecorner and tom it to pieces.

"Famous-mel" he cried, as if out ofhis senses. "That's what you think!Not mel Now that I'm doing fine, Ishould let myself be made famous oncemore1 No thanks, :Misterl"

Since that day, Per Drosselkvist hasunder no circumstances consented to doanything but paint railings and housefronts and whitewash ceilings and thingslike that befitting an ordinary skilledartisan.

If nothing better turns up, he paintsperfectly ordinary price labels. It's nota particularly lucrative profession but, onthe other hand, it doesn't carry with itthe slightest danger of fame or its fatalconsequences.

""L=oroo=..:=-= - - - -