A Billiards Cat

By Riso Levi, Author of “Billiards: The Strokes of the Game”

He was just an ordinary black cat, but he was about the biggest torn I have ever seen. When he walked into our house one cold winter evening and sat himself down on the hearth-rug in front of the kitchen fire, he was a miserably thin, starved-looking little kitten. His new home, however, suited him down to the ground, and he grew so fast that you could almost notice daily how rapidly he was coming on. In a very few months, of course, he ceased to be a kitten and had become a cat, and he continued to grow until there was no feline like him for miles around.

And he was as gentle and tame as he was huge. He would walk up to any stranger that came to the house and rub himself against his legs and purr continuously. Children could play with him and pull his tail as hard as they liked with absolute safety, for he was one of those cats that never put out their claws in play, and his paws were like velvet. But when the occasion warranted it he could use them to some purpose, and our neighbours’ dogs always gave him a wide berth.

As he grew from kittenhood and attained cathood, this cat of ours began to evince a decided liking for the dining-room in the day-time, and for the billiards-room in the evening, but he was never known to go into the billiards-room except when play was in progress. As he got bigger and bigger he seemed to grow tamer and tamer, until it became impossible to “shoo” him out of a room. More than once I have seen one of the maids attempt to chase him out of the dining-room or through the Hall into the kitchen, but he could never be induced to break into a run. It was often a case of pushing him along with your foot, and, when I wanted to put him out of the billiards-room, I found that the easiest way was to lift him up and carry him out.

In the course of time, however, we found that Tom was a most honourable cat and never showed the slightest predilection for stealing. As in all other respects, too, he was very well-behaved, he was allowed to come and go between the kitchen and dining-room just as he liked, and when we played in the evening he was a regular and welcome visitor to the billiards-room.

On each side of the firegrate in my billiards-room, which is at the spot end of the table, there is a recess. In each of these recesses there stands an armchair on a raised platform from which one overlooks the table and has a capital view of the play—especially of any top-of-the-table break that may be in progress. Whenever this cat of ours came in to watch the game he went straight to the armchair near the right top pocket, and ensconced himself at the very end of the arm nearest the table, being thus only a few feet from the table. He never sat anywhere else, and it made no difference to him whether his own particular chair was vacant or occupied. The arm was his seat and the remainder of the chair did not interest him. If he found the billiards-room door shut, he would sit by it and, waiting for someone to come in or go out, would squeeze in at the same time. When, however, he became tired of waiting he would cry to make his presence known and be let in. And he never cried in vain.

As a rule, he used to remain in the room until we left off playing for the night, and he would watch a good game as closely as any other interested spectator. On those rare occasions when the game did not interest him, when for instance two friends of mine, both very poor players, had a fifty-up together, he would close his eyes for the time being. Occasionally he would even jump down from his chair and walk out of the room, as a silent protest against their feeble display. In the ordinary way, however, it was quite exceptional for him to leave the room of his own accord whilst play was in progress.

The extraordinary thing about this strange cat of ours was the great interest which he seemed to take in top-of-the-table, and in closed-cannon play. When two or three successive strokes were made at the spot end of the table his interest would quicken and he would frequently stand up, or even take a light spring from the armchair on to the wide cushion-rail, in order the better to survey the play from his coign of vantage. Indeed, even this did not always satisfy him, and occasionally he would walk right on to the bed of the table itself and sit down near the spot, in order, as it were, to watch the game still more closely.

I have a friend who is particularly good at top-of-the-table play—that is, of course, for an amateur. One evening when he was playing me, he was in his very best form and made several quite respectable breaks at the top end of the table, including two or three nice little runs of nursery cannons. During these breaks the cat walked on to the table so often that he became a nuisance, and finally, after lifting him bodily off the table for, perhaps, the tenth time, I had to carry him out and shut him up in the dining-room.

My friends and I often discussed this strange cat, and one evening one of them exclaimed in his most serious voice; “Metempsychosis? Yes, I fully believe in it, and what better proof of its truth could one have than that afforded by that black cat? Transmigration of Souls is no fairy tale or myth. That cat walked into your house one night whilst he was still a kitten. Why did he walk into your house in preference to any other house round about here? Is it not patent to anyone who knows anything of billiards, and who has watched the behaviour of that cat, particularly this evening, that the soul of some good player—very likely some dead professional—has found a new home, and is now part and parcel of that great docile cat?”

Had we not known our friend very well, we should have taken seriously all he said; as it was, we knew that he was only pretending earnestness, and one of the company even went as far as to tell him to “shut up” and not to “talk rot.”

But if this friend of mine was only trying to hoax us, I was, about a year later, to receive very convincing proof that there are people who have a thorough and very sincere belief in the Transmigration of Souls.

My table had just been done up—new cushions by Burroughes & Watts and a superfine cloth with a silky sheen—and I was very desirous of having a really big break made on it. A very well-known professional happened to be in Manchester on some private business at the time, and I asked him up to dinner, suggesting a game afterwards, if he cared to play.

Two days later the cat greeted him, by rubbing himself against his legs, as he entered the house.

“What a beautiful cat,” exclaimed the professional, “and how very friendly.”

“Yes,” I replied, “and later on you will find that he is the most extraordinary eat you have ever set eyes on.” He looked at me enquiringly, and so I continued “I will tell you all about him at dinner. Come into the billiards-room and see what you think of the table.”

When we entered the room his practised eye took in the table at a glance, and when I rolled a ball up and down it without much speed, and he saw the manner in which it rebounded from the cushions, he exclaimed:

“Splendid. I could make some big breaks on this table, if I played on it a few times.”

“I hope you will make a big break on it to-night,” I replied. And as I spoke the gong sounded and we went in to dinner.

During the next ten minutes or so I related the history of our cat, and I recounted its extraordinary behaviour, night after night, in the billiards-room. I could see, however, that my guest was not taking me seriously, and had made up his mind that I was spinning a yarn.

“You believe that I’m exaggerating matters,” I said, “but you’ll think differently when we begin to play.”

An hour later we were in the billiards-room again, and, as the professional had brought no ivories with him and told me that he did not mind in the least playing with bonzolines, I spotted the red ball which was lying on the table, whilst he took one of his cues out of his leather case.

“How shall we play?” said he.

“Oh, we might as well play level,” I replied. “The cushions and the cloth are, I know, exactly to your liking; if you happen to be in anything like decent form it is almost impossible adequately to handicap you against an amateur, even if he were a much better player than I am. I want to see you make a big break and create a new record for this room. This would give me far greater pleasure than beating you by the aid of a great start.”

“Very well,” said he, “I will do my best. Only don’t be too disappointed if I fail to make a break much over a hundred. I need not remind you that the best player in the world cannot make big breaks to order. Indeed, as you are aware, a professional often fails to make a big break when he wishes most keenly to do so.”

And so we arranged to play a 750 up level. I broke off. Instead of giving the miss in baulk which was customary in those days, I played at the red for the screw in-off. I was not afraid of the good opening I might present my opponent with if I failed to score, for it was my intention to go out for everything, and if, in so doing, I frequently left the balls well placed for him, my desire for a new room-record stood a good chance of being gratified. As luck would have it, I not only got the stroke all right, but also placed the red in good position for a centre-pocket in-off. By correct red-ball play I made the break into 87 before I missed a top-pocket in-off. In this stroke the red ball caught the angles of the other top pocket and, running down the table, came to rest in baulk. The leave was a bad one and my opponent did not succeed in scoring from it. Favoured with a good leave myself I added a fifty odd before I failed at a none-too-easy pot at the top of the table, thereby letting the professional in.

In those days the door of my billiards-room, unless it had been very carefully closed, had a habit of springing just slightly ajar after it had been shut. On this occasion I had not played more than half a dozen strokes when it was pushed open and the cat entered.

“There’s the cat,” said my opponent, and as he spoke this billiards cat walked straight up to the armchair on which my friend had just sat down (my table, having ball-returners fitted to it, no fielding is necessary during a red-ball break) jumped on to his knee, and then stepped on to the arm of the chair, whereon he took his accustomed seat as near to the table as possible.

“How very extraordinary,” exclaimed the professional, when he noticed the cat watching the red ball as it travelled up and down the table near its central line.

“Oh, this is nothing,” I replied, “he does not look with much favour upon red-ball play. Wait till your turn comes at the top of the table, and note how much more he will appreciate your play than he does mine. One might almost think that he had been a top-of-the-table expert in a previous existence.”

And then, a few strokes later, this critical sable spectator half closed his eyes and appeared to take no interest in the remainder of my well-played break.

No sooner had my opponent played his first two or three strokes, however, than the cat opened his eyes and on the instant was very wide awake again. A few more strokes, and he was standing up, with his tail in the air.

“Look at him now,” I said, “a few more strokes and he will spring on to the cushion.”

A minute or two later the red was stabbed into the pocket, and as I picked the ball off the rail below in order to place it on the spot, he jumped lightly on to the broad woodwork of the cushion.

“How very extraordinary,” said the professional, for the second time.

“Oh, this is nothing,” I replied. “Wait till you see developments.”

Just at this time my gifted opponent was playing the very highest class of top-of-the-table play, in that instead of each pot being followed by a cannon, he was more often than not putting the red down twice to each cannon. Rapidly the break grew, and the century was reached before an in-off had to be played. A perfectly-played drop cannon gave him once more ideal position for the top-of-the-table game, and, with the exception of another in-off and drop-cannon a little later on, he continued right up to 200 by pots and cannons of the most orthodox kind.

All this time the cat had never taken his eyes off the balls, but at this point his interest in the play became still more marked. The stroke which made the break into 200 had bunched the balls together about a foot from the left top pocket, and the player at once commenced the series of close cannons which was destined to be his record, and which has never been equalled by any other English professional.

As he played these delicate touchy little strokes he ran the balls along the cushion from left to right, but he had scarce made half a dozen of them before the cat deliberately stepped off the cushion rail and stalked across the table to within a few inches of the balls. I quickly went up to him and was about to lift him off the table when the player exclaimed:

“For heaven’s sake, don’t touch him! That cat is going to be my mascot and help me to make a big break. Look at his green eyes. What eyes! And see how he is gazing at the balls. Do you know that cat reminds me strangely of,” he named a well-known professional who had died a few years previously. “I can’t tell you why, but there it is.”

“How old is he?” he continued as he looked up from the cat to me.

“About four years,” I replied.

“Well it’s just about four years since poor—died, and I feel absolutely certain that his soul must have gone straight from him into this cat.”

I could tell from his earnest voice and the look on his face that he was not joking, so I made no comment as he bent down to his stroke again. Keeping the balls under perfect control he rapidly ran them along the cushion to the pocket, and as they travelled forward the cat slowly retreated proportionately. But his eyes were always on the balls, and when they were only a few inches from the pocket he stepped on to the cushion and waited until the corner had been turned by a clever stroke. And then, as soon as he saw that the balls were well set for the run down the table, there he was again on the table, in front of the balls with his head low down and his tail erect.

Excellent as had been the manipulation of the balls along the top cushion, it was, if possible, still nearer perfect as the player ran them down the table to the centre pocket. I have seen and admired the cannon play of all our best professionals during the last 30 years or more. I remember the thin cannons which Cook used to play, in which the contact with the first ball was often so fine that the referee had to stand quite close to the player in order to be able to notice the ball’s slight tremor, and I can call to mind some of Bateman’s delightful funs of lusty double-kiss cannons in which the object balls travelled forward quite a little distance with each stroke. I have marvelled at Reece’s crisp yet gossamer-like touch, and at the artistry of Falkiner’s dainty little strokes. I have marvelled, too, at the manner in which these players recover nursery-cannon position, when, in the course of a run along the cushion, it seems to be slipping away from them. But that night my opponent’s play excelled anything that I have ever seen before or since. It was a combination of all that is best in all nursery-cannon play. And not only was he never in danger of losing close-cannon position, but no stroke had even so much as the semblance of a push. Nor was there ever any question as to whether the cue ball remained in contact with one of the other balls; the “click, click” which denotes the hitting of each individual ball was always quite clear and distinct.

I had called out the break, stroke by stroke, from the beginning, but, after the corner pocket had been turned in the cannon play, I continued the count silently, in order that the player’s concentration on his strokes might nowise be disturbed. More and more rapt became the look on his face as he ran the balls along the cushion. And step by step, an inch or two at a time, that black cat, head low, tail up, crept softly and silently backwards.

It has been my privilege to see many a great break by most of our great professionals during the last thirty years or so, and I know well the ever-increasing tension of the spectators’ feelings as a player goes on adding hundred after hundred to an already big break, but never have spectators watched a great compilation more keenly and tensely than this one, which had for audience only myself and this uncanny black cat. Certainly no billiards scene is graven so indelibly on my mind as is the one enacted that night in the quiet of my billiards-room. Even as the film of a kinema play may recall to an actor, years afterwards, the things that passed through his mind when he acted in it, so does the recounting of this scene recall vividly to me every incident of it. I hear again the gentle click of the gleaming balls as they trickled forward, ever and ever, over that softly-illuminated green cloth standing out so clearly and sharply in the surrounding gloom. I see again that great professional playing stroke after stroke with, apparently, equal ease and facility whether his cue, with its butt well raised, was stretched more than half way across the table as he leaned over it, or whether the cue ball could be got at quite easily as he ran the three balls down the right side cushion. And, more vividly than aught else, do I see again that monstrous black cat with stiff, outstretched legs, tail rigidly erect, and lowered head, retreating slowly, almost reluctantly, before the gently-advancing balls.

And then there occurred that which appealed to me, to whom Transmigration of Souls has never seemed anything but a myth, most strongly. The balls had been taken down the cushion to within a few inches of the centre pocket when the cat very deliberately, and for no apparent reason, turned round and walked to the centre of the table, sat down on the centre spot, and watched the next few strokes from there!

I am aware that it is possible for a great player, by surpassing excellence of play, to take the balls past this pocket during a run of nursery cannons. I had read of its having been accomplished once or twice in exhibition games, but I had never yet had the good fortune to see it done in actual play. Did my opponent intend, now, to work the balls past the opening, in order thereafter to run them down the next cushion? Or would he, when quite close to the pocket, break up the position and play an in-off, as had been done invariably whenever I had seen a great nursery-cannon player retain close-cannon position-right down to the centre pocket! I was, of course, devoutly hoping to see the balls taken past the pocket, but unless the action of the cat was no more than merely a remarkable coincidence, two or three strokes more would bring about the end of close-cannon play.

The player, however, never hesitated at all. A few more strokes played with the most extraordinary precision and exactitude, and the balls had safely crossed the Rubicon of the centre pocket and the run down the cushion to the baulk pocket had begun. And no sooner had it begun than the cat got up and walked back to its self-appointed place right in front of the balls. It certainly was most uncanny, but the player seemed hardly to notice what had occurred. At any rate, he gave no sign of having done so. He continued to play with that look of rapt concentration which had been in evidence throughout, and though he chalked his cue lightly now and then, the action appeared quite mechanical and subconscious. I uttered no word lest I break the spell which seemed to have fallen over him.

“Click, click,” said the balls, “click, click”—right up to the baulk pocket. It would be a simple matter, thought I, to turn this corner, and, then why not the other baulk-pocket corner, too? If he could thereafter also manoeuvre the balls past the centre pocket again, there was no reason why he should not carry them right round the table to the very spot at which he had first brought the balls into nursery-cannon position. Whilst I was speculating on this, the corner had been, in fact, successfully turned, and the balls were being manipulated in orthodox manner along the baulk cushion. And still the black cat crept backwards, apparently luring the balls onward, ever onwards, towards him.

“Click, click” said the balls, and slowly but surely they clicked their way right along the cushion to within a few inches of the pocket. A few more strokes, and this pocket also would be turned, and then would begin the long run up the table. But it was not to be. A carelessly-played stroke, or, more likely, an imperfectly-played one, due probably to the long-continued strain, and nursery-cannon position was irretrievably lost. The object white got between the cue ball and the red, and there remained only a difficult masse shot as the next stroke.

I cannot remember now what the exact position was, but I distinctly recollect that just before the stroke was essayed I realized that even if the cannon were successfully accomplished the red would, in all probability, be kissed into the pocket. And this was exactly what occurred. The player weighed up the position in a second or two, then, making a perfect tripod bridge, he raised his cue nearly to the perpendicular and massed round the object white on to the red. It was a beautiful shot, and although the red fell into the pocket, position was left for a not too difficult in-off from the white. But the spell was broken; the moment the red dropped into the pocket, the cat had walked quickly across the table to the far corner pocket and had sprung lightly on to the arm of its chair. A slow-screw in-off into the baulk pocket placed the object white in the vicinity of the centre spot, but the next stroke—a long in-off into the pocket near which the cat now sat—was badly played. The ball was taken much too full, and the great break was finished.

“My heartiest congratulations on your wonderful break,” I cried, as I went up to him and shook him by the hand. “It is a pity that you cannot get a certificate for it, especially as the break was made on a standard table, and the cannon-play easily ranks as a record.”

“Yes,” he replied with pardonable pride. “It was a very great break, and perfectly played, too. Its a great pity that you left off counting after I turned the first corner. I’m sure it must have been quite 600, if not 700.”

“The break was 757,” I replied. “You scored—.”

“How do you know?” he interrupted. “Did you keep count inaudibly?”

“Yes,” I answered, “and in order to insure against mistakes in regard to the hundreds I transferred a coin from one pocket to the other each time you completed a century. See here,” I continued, as putting my hand in my left trouser pocket I withdrew the contents and placed them on the table—I can even remember the coins to-day: Two sovereigns, two half-crowns, two shillings, and one penny. “You scored exactly 200 before you began close-cannon play, you had made 275 cannons when you had to play the masse which resulted in a five-shot, and the in-off afterwards made the break into 757.”

“Well then that’s game,” said he, “757 in two visits to the table. What an average! nearly 400!”

“You are wrong,” I replied. “Your average works out at 750, because the stroke before the five-shot made you game. You therefore ran out with an unfinished break and, as you went to the table only twice, you scored your points in what, at cricket, would be called ‘one completed innings and one not-out innings.’ “

“That is so,” answered the professional. “I wonder how long the break took to make. You didn’t time it, did you?”

“No, and I’m sorry I didn’t, because you must have beaten all time-records for a 750 break. If we allow as much as ten minutes for the first 200, and an average of four seconds for each close-cannon, the break would have taken only about 28 minutes, but I am inclined to think that the actual time must have been well under 25 minutes.”

“If you don’t mind,” said the professional. “I would prefer not to play any more to-night. Shall we have a chat instead?”

“I was just going to propose this myself” I answered, as I drew a chair to the fire for my guest, and another one for myself. “However well you played you would not come near that break again to-night, so it’s best to leave off now.”

“I shall never make a break like that again,” said the professional, “neither tonight nor any other night. Some day I may score as many points, or even more, in one break, but I shall never again make a sequence of 275 cannons. Have you ever heard of any player taking the balls along four cushions? No, for it has never been done before, and I doubt if it will ever be done again. That cat—look at him, he sees that we have finished playing, and so he is leaving us.” And as he spoke the cat jumped down from his armchair on to the floor, walked to the door and squeezed his way out of the room. “That cat cast a spell over me whilst I was playing. Oh! If I could only have him on the table when I am playing at Soho Square, or at Leicester Square, the championship would be an absolute gift for me.”

“But what about the other competitors? Might he not also make them play as great a game?” I replied laughingly.

“It’s all very well to laugh at me,” he said, “and perhaps what I have said to you about your cat seems very foolish to you, but Shakespeare says something about there being lots of things that we don’t even dream of, and—.”

“There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio,

Than are dreamt of in your philosophy.”

I quoted.

“Yes, that’s it, and may not this be one of them? Look at the strange things that cat has done to-night.”

“Coincidences” I said.

“Coincidences, you say,” he answered. “When you told me during dinner how your cat behaved in this room I freely confess that I thought you were exaggerating matters; now I know you understated things. Your cat walked into this house, where good billiards is the order of the day, of his own accord. Why? He comes into this room the moment you begin to play, stays here whilst play is in progress, and goes out again immediately it terminates. Why? And you have told me that he never by any chance enters this room except when billiards is being played. Why? He likes the sound of the click as the balls hit one another, you say. Why then should red-ball play have so little interest for him, and why did he jump on to the table immediately I began to play? You saw how he went round the table with me whilst I took the balls along four cushions. Was this a coincidence? Again, when he went and sat down on the centre spot whilst I was taking the balls past the centre pocket, was it not because in his previous existence he had never known this to have been done? Or was that, too, just a coincidence? And finally was it just a mere coincidence that he went back to his chair the very moment the red ball dropped into the baulk pocket, and the close-cannon run ended?”

“All I can say,” I replied, “is that our cat’s behaviour to-night has been truly remarkable.”

“You may think as you like,” was the reply, “but I am firmly convinced that the explanation I have already given you is the correct one.”

From this point our conversation drifted on to other topics, and the subject was not referred to again that night.

Just a year later this professional again spent an evening with me. As he came up quite early this time, we decided to make the game 1,000 up, to play for an hour or so before dinner, and to resume play after it.

“Where’s the cat?” he asked, as soon as a stroke or two had been played.

“Oh, he’ll be here presently,” I replied with a smile. As, however, he did not make his appearance at all I told him that probably he was out, but that he could rely on seeing him after dinner.

When we went in to dinner my opponent had already made nearly 500, and, although he had done nothing out of the common, he had played very well indeed, having made one break of 170 odd, and another of about 120.

When we returned to the billiards-room an hour later a strange sight met our gaze.

I must have forgotten to switch off the lights when we went into dinner, as they were all on, and there, on the table, stretched out at full length right over the billiards spot lay my beautiful cat. We rushed up to the table to examine him, but, although still warm, he was, as I had feared, quite dead.

“Poisoned,” I said. “Some wretched neighbour has put out poisoned food to kill cats indiscriminately in order to keep them off his flower-beds.”

A little later, having lifted the cat tenderly off the table and carried him out of the room, we continued our game. But neither of us could settle down to it. I was so distressed by what had occurred, that, although I had opening after opening, I could not concentrate my mind on the game, and failed to make even a 20 break during the forty minutes that we played. My opponent did little better as he never got anywhere near a 50 break.

“Shall we chuck it,” he said at last, “I’m done for to-night, and I can see that you’re quite off your game, too.”

“Yes, I would much prefer not to play any longer, if you don’t mind,” I replied with relief, as I put away my cue.

“What d’you think now of your cat?” he began, when we were comfortably seated in front of the fire.

“In what way?”

“Did you ever hear of any other dumb animal lying down to die right under a bright light? Any other cat seeks some dark hole or corner in which to die. Not so your cat. He must come into the billiards-room for his last moments, although he never used to come in here except when you were playing. And, when he finds the lights on, does he creep under an armchair, or under the chesterfield, to find as dark a place as possible in which to breathe his last? ” No, he jumps on to the table and lies down right under the bright electric light. Why? Because he wanted to die on the billiards spot, round which, in a previous existence, he had made so many great breaks. You may laugh at what I am going to tell you, but I am firmly convinced that the soul of the player, which had found, for a time, a home in your cat, took up its habitation in the body of some child born at the very moment of the cat’s death.”

I did not laugh at him. He was my guest, and besides his belief in what he said was so obviously sincere that I had not the heart to gainsay him. Instead, I quoted from Shakespeare, as before:

“There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio,

Than are dreamt of in your philosophy.”

Half-an-hour later he said “good-bye” to me, and when he had gone I took a spade and dug a deep hole in the front garden. And there, right under the windows of the room wherein he had so often watched us play, I buried our billiards cat.

And, once or twice a week, when, at about 11 p.m., a very old friend and I having the room to ourselves, fight it out once again in a final 500 up, I gently open a window; if, perchance, that Spirit roams at night on the terrace outside my billiards-room, it will hear, even after midnight, the click of the balls it loved so well.

The Burwat billiards view. May – December 1931