Aunt Cynthia's Persian Cat

"Aunt Cynthia's Persian Cat" is a charming short story by Lucy Maud Montgomery, centering around a young girl named Valancy Stirling and her fondness for her Aunt Cynthia's beloved cat. The tale explores themes of love, family, and the bittersweet nature of companionship, as Valancy navigates her feelings towards the passing of time and the relationships that shape her life. Montgomery’s signature lyrical prose and keen observations of human emotion shine through, making this story a delightful read for fans of her work.

• Short story

								
Max always blesses the animal when it is referred to; and I don't
deny that things have worked together for good after all.  But
when I think of the anguish of mind which Ismay and I underwent
on account of that abominable cat, it is not a blessing that
arises uppermost in my thoughts.

I never was fond of cats, although I admit they are well enough
in their place, and I can worry along comfortably with a nice,
matronly old tabby who can take care of herself and be of some
use in the world.  As for Ismay, she hates cats and always did.

But Aunt Cynthia, who adored them, never could bring herself to
understand that any one could possibly dislike them.  She firmly
believed that Ismay and I really liked cats deep down in our
hearts, but that, owing to some perverse twist in our moral
natures, we would not own up to it, but willfully persisted in
declaring we didn't.

Of all cats I loathed that white Persian cat of Aunt Cynthia's.
And, indeed, as we always suspected and finally proved, Aunt
herself looked upon the creature with more pride than affection.
She would have taken ten times the comfort in a good, common puss
that she did in that spoiled beauty.  But a Persian cat with a
recorded pedigree and a market value of one hundred dollars
tickled Aunt Cynthia's pride of possession to such an extent that
she deluded herself into believing that the animal was really the
apple of her eye.

It had been presented to her when a kitten by a missionary nephew
who had brought it all the way home from Persia; and for the next
three years Aunt Cynthia's household existed to wait on that cat,
hand and foot.  It was snow-white, with a bluish-gray spot on the
tip of its tail; and it was blue-eyed and deaf and delicate.
Aunt Cynthia was always worrying lest it should take cold and
die.  Ismay and I used to wish that it would--we were so tired of
hearing about it and its whims.  But we did not say so to Aunt
Cynthia.  She would probably never have spoken to us again and
there was no wisdom in offending Aunt Cynthia.  When you have an
unencumbered aunt, with a fat bank account, it is just as well to
keep on good terms with her, if you can.  Besides, we really
liked Aunt Cynthia very much--at times.  Aunt Cynthia was one of
those rather exasperating people who nag at and find fault with
you until you think you are justified in hating them, and who
then turn round and do something so really nice and kind for you
that you feel as if you were compelled to love them dutifully
instead.

So we listened meekly when she discoursed on Fatima--the cat's
name was Fatima--and, if it was wicked of us to wish for the
latter's decease, we were well punished for it later on.

One day, in November, Aunt Cynthia came sailing out to
Spencervale.  She really came in a phaeton, drawn by a fat gray
pony, but somehow Aunt Cynthia always gave you the impression of
a full rigged ship coming gallantly on before a favorable wind.

That was a Jonah day for us all through.  Everything had gone
wrong.  Ismay had spilled grease on her velvet coat, and the fit
of the new blouse I was making was hopelessly askew, and the
kitchen stove smoked and the bread was sour.  Moreover, Huldah
Jane Keyson, our tried and trusty old family nurse and cook and
general "boss," had what she called the "realagy" in her
shoulder; and, though Huldah Jane is as good an old creature as
ever lived, when she has the "realagy" other people who are in
the house want to get out of it and, if they can't, feel about as
comfortable as St. Lawrence on his gridiron.

And on top of this came Aunt Cynthia's call and request.

"Dear me," said Aunt Cynthia, sniffing, "don't I smell smoke?
You girls must manage your range very badly.  Mine never smokes.
But it is no more than one might expect when two girls try to
keep house without a man about the place."

"We get along very well without a man about the place," I said
loftily.  Max hadn't been in for four whole days and, though
nobody wanted to see him particularly, I couldn't help wondering
why.  "Men are nuisances."

"I dare say you would like to pretend you think so," said Aunt
Cynthia, aggravatingly.  "But no woman ever does really think so,
you know.  I imagine that pretty Anne Shirley, who is visiting
Ella Kimball, doesn't.  I saw her and Dr. Irving out walking this
afternoon, looking very well satisfied with themselves.  If you
dilly-dally much longer, Sue, you will let Max slip through your
fingers yet."

That was a tactful thing to say to ME, who had refused Max Irving
so often that I had lost count.  I was furious, and so I smiled
most sweetly on my maddening aunt.

"Dear Aunt, how amusing of you," I said, smoothly.  "You talk as
if I wanted Max."

"So you do," said Aunt Cynthia.

"If so, why should I have refused him time and again?" I asked,
smilingly. Right well Aunt Cynthia knew I had.  Max always told
her.

"Goodness alone knows why," said Aunt Cynthia, "but you may do it
once too often and find yourself taken at your word.  There is
something very fascinating about this Anne Shirley."

"Indeed there is," I assented.  "She has the loveliest eyes I
ever saw.  She would be just the wife for Max, and I hope he will
marry her."

"Humph," said Aunt Cynthia.  "Well, I won't entice you into
telling any more fibs.  And I didn't drive out here to-day in all
this wind to talk sense into you concerning Max.  I'm going to
Halifax for two months and I want you to take charge of Fatima
for me, while I am away."

"Fatima!" I exclaimed.

"Yes.  I don't dare to trust her with the servants.  Mind you
always warm her milk before you give it to her, and don't on any
account let her run out of doors."

I looked at Ismay and Ismay looked at me.  We knew we were in for
it.  To refuse would mortally offend Aunt Cynthia.  Besides, if I
betrayed any unwillingness, Aunt Cynthia would be sure to put it
down to grumpiness over what she had said about Max, and rub it
in for years.  But I ventured to ask, "What if anything happens
to her while you are away?"

"It is to prevent that, I'm leaving her with you," said Aunt
Cynthia.  "You simply must not let anything happen to her.  It
will do you good to have a little responsibility.  And you will
have a chance to find out what an adorable creature Fatima really
is.  Well, that is all settled.  I'll send Fatima out to-morrow."

"You can take care of that horrid Fatima beast yourself," said
Ismay, when the door closed behind Aunt Cynthia.  "I won't touch
her with a yard-stick.  You had no business to say we'd take
her."

"Did I say we would take her?" I demanded, crossly.  "Aunt
Cynthia took our consent for granted.  And you know, as well as I
do, we couldn't have refused.  So what is the use of being
grouchy?"

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