Y. L. Peretz (1851-1915) was one of the most important influences in the emergence of a major secular Jewish literary tradition in the second half of the 19th century. He was born in Zamosc, Poland, and began his literary career by writing poetry and articles in Hebrew. After some years, he also began to write in Yiddish; and in this language he produced poetry, articles, short stories, folk tales, plays, and many educational articles in which he tried to bring contemporary developments in science, economics, and the like to the attention of East European Jews. After some years as a lawyer in Zamosc, he settled in Warsaw in the 1880’s: and here he became the guide and teacher of a whole generation of Yiddish writers (his position in Warsaw is sharply etched in “Peretz at Home,” by J. J. Trunk, in the March 1950 COMMENTARY). When Peretz died in Warsaw in 1915, one hundred thousand Jews came to his funeral.

The parable printed below was first published in 1906, and appears in his collected writings under the title “Di Frume Katz.” At the time it appeared, it is most likely that it was taken as a parable of the relations between the Czarist government of “Holy Mother Russia” and its Jewish population. Like most parables, however, many meanings can be read into it. The translation from the Yiddish is by David Klein.—Ed.

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Three songbirds successively occupied the same cage, and each in turn succumbed to the cat.

It was no ordinary cat. She was a truly, sincerely pious soul. It was not in vain that she wore her white, orthodox gabardine, and owned those little eyes which reflected the light of heaven.

It was a pious, a strictly observant cat. Ten times a day she washed herself, and she ate her food quietly, somewhere out of the way, in a little corner. All day she would pick up odd morsels of a milky nature; and only after the night had set in would she eat flesh—clean, kosher mouse-flesh.

Nor did she hasten to the feast, like a greedy, vulgar thing. She did not snatch and swallow, as gluttons do, but went about it gently, playfully. . . . Let the poor little mouse live another moment; and another moment—let it dance about a bit; let it get over its trembling—give it a chance to repeat the Confession—a pious cat doesn’t grab.

When the first bird was brought into the room she felt compassion for it; her heart was wrung.

“Such a beautiful creature,” she sighs, “such a wee thing, such a joy-inspiring little bird, to be without the hope of paradise!

“And it cannot enter paradise” —the cat is sure of that— “First of all, it washes itself in Gentile fashion—with its whole body in the basin.

“In the next place, the very fact that it has been set in a cage proves that it is an evil being, although so young, so sweet, and such a fine singer—proves that it believes more in dynamite than in the Law. And what about the singing itself: that unrestrained singing, that whistling—and that impudent staring right into the sky—and that tearing to get out of the cage, into the sinful world, to the free air, the open window?

“Has anybody ever seen a cat in a cage, or heard a pious cat whistle so? And what a pity!” weeps the warm heart of the pious cat. “Still it is a living thing, a precious soul, a spark from on high.”

The cat’s eyes fill with tears. “And it’s all because the sinful body is so fair—hence this world is so merry and the Tempter so strong. How can such a tiny, sweet little bird stand up against the great, terrible Tempter? And the longer it lives, the more it sins, and the greater will be the punishment. Ha!”

And a sacred fire flared up in the cat—the fire of Pincus, the son of Eleazar, the son of Aaron the Priest, and she sprang upon the table where the cage with the songbird was standing, and—

Feathers are fluttering about the room.

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The cat was whipped. She accepted the whipping without protest; she piously sobbed and mewed a doleful al het [“I have sinned . . .”]. She would not sin again.

The shrewd cat understands why she was whipped. Never would she earn the lash again. She was whipped (the cat understands) because she sent feathers flying about the room, because she left blood-stains upon the white embroidered tablecloth. Such a deed must be accomplished thoroughly, quietly, and piously—not a feather must flutter; not a drop of blood must fall.

So, when the second songbird was bought and left in the room, she throttled it quietly and neatly, and swallowed it feathers and all.

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The cat was thrashed.

Then first the cat understood that it was not a matter of feathers, nor of bloodstains on the tablecloth. The secret is that we must not kill; that we must love and forgive—that not through the Beth Din’s four modes of execution is the sinful world improved. We must do our best to reform a sinner; we must chide, appeal to the heart. A mere canary, of it is repentant, can rise to an elevation to which even the most pious cat cannot attain.

And the cat feels her heart swelling with joy. No more of the bad, old, unhappy days! No more spilling of blood! Compassion, compassion, and again compassion!

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And with compassion she approached the third canary.

“Don’t get frightened,” she said in the softest voice that ever came from the throat of a cat—“you are indeed sinful, yet I will not hurt you, for I have compassion for you. I will not even open your cage; I will not even touch you.

“You are silent? Very good. Rather than sing insolent songs, it is better to be silent.

“You tremble in anguish? Still better. Tremble, tremble my child; but not before me; before the Almighty tremble; before His loving Name.

“Oh, that you might stay thus—still, pure and trembling. I will help you to tremble. From my pious soul I will breathe upon you serenity, sweetness, and piety. With my breath shall righteousness enter into your body, the fear of the Lord into your little bones, repentance and remorse into your little heart.”

And the cat is beginning to feel how good it is to forgive; what a joy it is with one’s breath to blow piety and uprightness into another. Now swells the most pious heart of the most pious cat.

Only, the canary cannot breathe in the cat’s atmosphere—it is stifled.

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