Rolly Rembrandt
“This is our Portrait Gallery,” Marmie meows with pride, “and these are paintings of company members produced by springer spaniel Rolly Rembrandt, formerly employed as a most reluctant and highly sensitive gun dog at our neighbouring, and notoriously evil, Black Treacle Farm – a place you definitely don’t want to get stuck in. Rolly ‘did a bunk’ during a particularly noisy and unpleasantly bloodthirsty duck shoot. Here with the Pusska Moggyinsky Ballet Company she found the peace and comfort she so desperately needed to soothe her shattered nerves, and the encouragement to follow her artistic dreams. As a talented canine artist, Rolly was given the position of costume and scenic designer. The paintings are all done with dog-hair brushes plucked from her own tail. Not bad are they, for a dog?”
Marmie points to a picture of a grey, pussy ballerina in a feathery white tutu.
“This is our founder now dancing with the stars along the Milky Way. She is my great, great, oh, ever so many greats, grandmother, Pusska Moggyinsky, or to give the old queen her correct title, Dame Pusska Moggyinsky. She was awarded the title of ‘Dame’ for services to the Feline Ballet and for her charitable work with the Little Pussies of the Paw, an organisation she helped set up to feed and care for hungry, homeless and misplaced moggies.
“Of the Russian Blue variety of cat,” Marmie proudly continues, “Dame Pusska was greatly acclaimed for her silvery beauty and dainty paw work, performing twinkling buerrées at great speed and whisking her tail round forty fouettés on the trot, something never since achieved by a member of the Feline Ballet. In the picture she wears her famous swan costume.
Dame Pusska Moggyinsky
“The Dance of the Flying Swan was written especially for my great gran. Was it like The Dance of the Dying Swan performed by Anna Pavlova? No, that was too sad. The Dance of the Flying Swan is a story of hope. The ballerina portrays an injured swan attempting to take off from a frozen lake. Awkward and ungainly, again and again the swan tries to rise from the ice until, in a series of grand jetés and one final triumphant bound, she leaps upwards, soaring gracefully into the air. Of course the end bit was all done with wires and pulleys, but apparently it was most effective.
“Next we have Pusskarina Pavlova as Swanhilda in Coppélia. Pretty isn’t she?” Marmie purrs. “Pusskarina is our prima ballerina and my own dear daughter. She’s as lovely in temperament as she is in the fur. However, with her pure white coat and beautiful blue eyes, she is quite deaf, a condition commonly found in cats of her colouring. But don’t worry. My little Pusskarina is an expert lip reader; and in her dancing has overcome her disability by counting the beats and picking up vibrations from the piano while at practice, and from the Moggyinsky Musical Ensemble when performing on stage. This young pussycat is so clever at disguising her lack of hearing that those watching would never guess she has a problem. It goes without saying I am very proud of my little Pusskarina P.
Pusskarina Pavlova and Felino Ferralino
“Partnering Pusskarina in the picture,” Marmie continues, “is Felino Ferralino as Franz. Felino is our principal male dancer and his story is truly one of survival, though a bit on the soggy side. Eh-Brrr!” Marmie shivers. “Not good for a cat. Me-wow! No, not good at all. Street fighting among the dustbins and back alleys of Naples was not the best start for a young feline but things were to get a lot worse.
“One day, while hunting warehouse rats around the docks, he was suddenly grabbed, pressganged by a huge pair of hairy, furless folk hands and stuffed into a dirty, foul smelling rubbish sack. After what seemed like many hours, he was released coughing and spluttering, and discovered to his horror that he was now a ship’s cat on board a greasy old cargo boat bound for England.
“It was bad sailing weather; the seas in the Bay of Biscay and English Channel were mountainous and poor Felino was as sick as a dog. When leaning over the side, the boat suddenly lurched, his paws slipped and he tumbled, slithering and sliding down the rusty hull to the churning waves below.
“Me-wow!Was it fish bait for Felino? No! Miracle of miracles, his fall was broken by the broad back of an astonished dolphin that happened to be surfacing at the time. The dolphin caught and held Felino by the scruff of the neck. Dizzy and reeling from his fall, the poor cat, shocked, waterlogged and weak, gave a great gasp, rolled his eyes and passed out. When our hero woke up, the dolphin was gone; Felino was all alone on a strange shingle shore.” Green eyes drawn to slits, Marmie pauses, imagining with a shudder the tragic scene.
“A tall white lighthouse stood some distance away. Felino crawled towards it. The door was locked and barred. ‘Me-yooo! Me-yooo!’ But there was no one to hear his pitiable cries and so the poor cat crawled on.
“Having lost track of where or who he was, it seems Felino had wandered the country lanes for days before finally arriving at our gates. The pathetic pussy was soaking wet, his bedraggled fur clung to his bony ribs, his eyes streamed and with each hacking cough we were sure he had breathed his last.
“Taken straight to Doc Doberman at our Company Clinic, the diagnosis was not good.
Felino Ferralino, full of the highly contagious cat flu, was whisked into isolation. For days his life hung in the balance, but with tender nursing, large bowls of Willamena Wallaby’s tasty fishtail soup, together with the heavenly purring of many prayers from the Little Pussies of the Paw, his recovery was complete.
“Our ballet master, Maestro Erico Poochetti, recognised in the now fit Felino Ferralino a real feeling for the ballet, and the young fellow was given an intensive course of training. At first, Felino had small parts in our productions: peasants, spear carriers and the like. Now he is one of our biggest stars.
“After his many adventures both on land and at sea, Felino has found his home; he is settled and happy. Life at Pluckerslea Hall suits him and it is quite obvious, with his charming manners and Latin good looks, that my daughter Pusskarina Pavlova, with dreams of romance in the air, is a smitten kitten! Oh dear, these Italians!”
Furball Coff
With a twirl, Marmie glissades to the next picture.
“Me-wow! Now, we have Furball Coff as the Crusader Doll in Coppélia. Ah! Give me patience! To be absolutely honest, this fine feline fellow is slowly driving me to chewing the carpet and clawing up the wall! Hot-blooded and under-handed; that’s him. When casting a ballet, the Maestro gives our Furball the showy, dynamic parts and the young tearaway responds with the full brilliance of his wild and sulky temper. Mind you, his temperament is understandable though not forgivable, when you know he originally came from Black Treacle Farm, where Bruiser Bumfluff and his gang of thieving crows, sewer rats and cut-throat cats have their hideout.
The Black Treacle Farm Gang
“As a wild and wandering kitten he was captured, for his own good mind you, and dragged spitting and swearing, to be firmly but lovingly cared for by the Little Pussies of the Paw. In spite of their dedication and gentle attempts to smooth his rough edges, Furball has never lost his wild streak. His moods are quite unpredictable, and to avoid an explosion that young fireball needs handling with very soft paws indeed.
“Now fully grown, he’s a real menace, keeping his claws long, refusing point blank to have them trimmed just so as to hear the ballerinas squeal. The poor little pussycats are forever complaining of puncture marks around their middles.
“For all that,” Marmie sighs, “I must admit he is an asset to the company. He wows audiences with his remarkable talent as a dancer… and his caprioles – well! The heights he reaches with his grand jetés are beyond imagination and must be seen to be believed.
“But be warned! Furball Coff is a great practical joker and with his little band of fellow jokers, Oliver Crumble and Ratchett Rat, he is always up to mischief of some kind. He is a real pain in the derriére – but we love him (I think).”
With a dismissive swish of his tail and a quick pas de bourrée, Marmie continues.
“As you may have guessed from the pictures so far, the ballet Coppélia was our most recent production. Katarina Katawall played the doll Coppélia and I the part of her creator, mad doctor Coppélius; an evil old toy maker not quite right between the ears, or anywhere else by the look of his clothes!
Katarina Katawall and Marmie Moggyinsky
“Katarina is small, pretty, plump, an embarrassing flirt with the tomcats and has a scary ability to twist her head back to front like an owl. That’s great when executing a series of pirouettes but should she ever get stuck like that …me-wow!
“Like Furball Coff, Katarina was an orphan from the notorious Black Treacle Farm Gang. Thankfully that’s where any likeness to the young rogue ends. Scooped up by the Little Pussies of the Paw, she was tenderly nurtured. At first Katarina thought she too might take the veil, joining them in their caring work, but the good pussies in their wisdom knew the enclosed way of life was not a future path for their little charge.
“Given a surprise ticket for Swan Lake at our Crypt Theatre, built beneath the ruins of St. Bee’s Abbey on the shore of Pluckerslea Lake, young Katarina’s fate was sealed. By the way, in that particular performance, I was at my most evil as Von Rothbart, the nasty spirit who casts a spell on Odette and her friends, turning them into swans.
“Well, the colours, the lights, the costumes, the dancing, the music, all exploded before young Katarina’s eyes. Whiskers a-tremble, she was lost forever in dreams of graceful pussycats in shimmering tutus, dancing upon a painted lake.
Little Pussies of the Paw
“With grateful thanks for their kindness, she bid a tearful farewell to the dear Pussies of the Paw, eagerly taking her place among other young hopefuls at Madam Marina Beaupoint’s Ballet School. There, despite her youth, Katarina quickly advanced through her grades to the back row of the Corps de Ballet. Maestro Erico Poochetti, our ballet master, never doubted the talent and ability of this new young protégée, and promoted her speedily through the ranks to that of solo artist.
“Next we have Lilith de Lythe as The Spanish Doll, again in Coppélia. A gracefully mature pussycat she claims to be of gypsy origin. Actually she fell off the back of a passing fairground fortune teller’s trailer. Filled with the fiery spirit of her travelling ancestors, Lilith de Lythe is strong and demanding of herself, and in her dancing stands no nonsense from the moody Furball Coff who often partners her.
Lilith de Lythe
“Off stage she is gracious and proud, and can be a bit daunting. By crossing her paw with a silver sardine or two, she uses the skills learned while employed as assistant to the fortune teller, Gypsy Mysteryengo. By solving problems and giving hope to many with her reading of the cat mint leaves and consultations through the powers of her crystal-eyed, pink sugar mouse, she has earned the nickname of Mystic Mog.”
With a sweep of his arms and a neat entrechat, Marmie moves to the next picture.
“Here we have Oliver Crumble as the Chinese Doll in Coppélia. Now what can I tell you about our Oliver, or Crumble Bum as he’s known to his friends? The phrase ‘a lovable rogue’ comes to mind. His fluffy ginger coat, soulful eyes and sugary sweet smile can be deceiving; it’s all a big cover.
Oliver Crumble
“That cat could wheedle his way into anything: the best food, the best bed, the warmest corner. In fact, once when Lord Perry and Lady Catherine Pluckers were attending the Buckingham Palace Garden Party, Oliver, secreting himself in the boot of their Rolls Royce, went along for the ride. Would you believe it? He wheedled an invitation to take tea with the royal corgis and came out unscathed, clutching a doggy bag filled with cream buns for the journey home.
“Oliver Crumble, like his mates Furball Coff and Ratchett Rat, revels in a practical joke. But Oliver isn’t known as Crumble Bum for nothing; the poor fellow has a rather delicate problem: a bit of a weakness at the rear end. Pulled along by Ratchett, a sly and surly rat from the local sewage farm, Oliver has his own luxury litter box on wheels. In an emergency he will cry: ‘Ratchett, my commode,’ and Ratchett Rat, mumbling and grumbling, trundles out the litter box, discretely holding fast the curtains for his master’s modesty and convenience.”
Ratchett Rat and Oliver Crumble
With a shake of his ears and a purring chuckle, Marmie points a paw to the next picture.
“This is Tamara Tumkins as the Scottish Doll in Coppelia; a sweet little thing recently promoted from the Corps de Ballet to soloist. At that awkward stage of not kitten but not yet cat, she can’t bear criticism, taking the teasing and jokes of the other dancers, especially the young tomcats, far too seriously. At the slightest purr or prrp-prrp in her direction, she bursts into floods of tears. I sincerely hope she soon dries up as, much to Maestro Poochetti’s annoyance, she does tend to disrupt rehearsals.
“In her dancing, when not in a soggy mood, little Tamara learns quickly. She is as light as a feather and as graceful as a pussy willow in the breeze. Given time she should do well.”
Tamara Tumkins
With a little swagger and a proud “Prrrrr!” Marmie moves on.
“Well, what do you think of this picture? It’s me, Marmie Moggyinsky and I’m all togged up as Widow Simone doing the Clog Dance from the ballet La Fille Mal Gardée – that’s French for something like The Badly Guarded Daughter.
“It’s a tricky little number, the clog dance; clogs aren’t the easiest things for a cat to manage on his paws when dancing. I’ve more or less mastered walking on the toes, but the slides, well that’s another story. Once during a performance I slid so hard that both hind paws went right from under me. I landed bang on my derriére, my legs went up and the clogs shot off, flying through the air straight at the ears of two pussycats of the Corps de Ballet, who were sitting posed and beautiful at the side of the stage.
Marmie Moggyinsky
“Those poor young pussies were laid quite flat and the dance was brought to an abrupt end with the closing of the curtains. Maestro Erico Poochetti, our ballet master, came out full of apologies and that wonderful old comic, theatrical saying: ‘Is there a doctor in the house?’ Only this time it was for real – but then that’s showbiz! Surprisingly, I found the clogs so comfortable to wear that when I’m at Company H.Q. I have them on all the time. By the way, the two little pussycats were fine, just suffering from a few squashed flowers in their bonnets and a bruise or two to their vanity.
“Until recently, I performed most leading male parts in our productions: Franz in Coppélia, Prince Siegfried in Swan Lake, Romeo in Romeo and Juliet etc. But age creeps up eventually and my joints are not as supple as they used to be. Leaving the romantic leads with all those leaps and bounds to the younger fellows, Felino Ferralino and that rogue Furball Coff, I now concentrate my own efforts on character parts. To tell you the truth, I love them. The costumes are great, the characters far more exciting, and I can really bring out the tears and smiles and even a few boos from my audience. I like that.” Marmie leans back with a satisfied purr.
“So that’s the leading artists of the company,” he concludes, “the ones who perform together with the Corps de Ballet at the Crypt Theatre. Now we’ll meet some very important personages behind the scenes, the ones who keep the whole kitty-caboodle in motion.”