Oh the verbs of the untouched. And then, in spite of everything, because
of everything, a Dalmatian once more invaded my life--the life that I
had so resolutely determined never again to expose to any dog. What is
invulnerability but a pis-aller? Which of us, given the choice between
perfect peace and imperfect love would hesitate for one moment?
When Providence gave me Ponto I accepted him with hungry passion, with
nervous propitiatory prayers to the Gods.
He was a stray dog, masterless and collarless, an erring emigré of
civilisation and he came to me. At first I did not dare look--my heart
was beating so fast. I was frightened of being radiant. I was frightened
of being miserable.
And then I turned to him. He was bigger than Fido, with longer, stronger
legs. His ears were not quite black, there were two little white spots
on them, his eyes were not set in pencilled rims. But he was beautiful,
as beautiful as a Greek athlete--to see him run was to see the Olympic
games, and in the house he would curl and stretch and tangle up his
paws, and put his head on my lap and reassure me with his eyes.
Once more I lived with motion made concrete, with beauty made
absolute--once more a wagging tail brought the inexhaustible dot of
gaiety.
Ponto had finer manners than Fido. He was maturer, with a deeper sense
of noblesse oblige. He never forgot that even if he had been born a
Dalmatian, privilege entails certain obligations.
Perhaps he lacked something of Fido's moody charm, of his frivolous
pathos, of his absurd joyousness, of his enchanting vanity.
Perhaps it was just Fido's youth that he lacked, and his
irresponsibility. There was a certain gravity about Ponto--a perfect
dignity. His fastidiousness had gone beyond the stage of selections, and
had reached the stage of exclusions. But he never lost his manners, or
his manner.
Always he said "Good-morning," and "Good-night." If I was embarrassed,
or worried, he would pretend not to notice it, but if I was happy, or
sad, he would show his sympathy in a hundred ways--putting his head on
my lap, or cutting absurd capers to distract my mind.
And then one day I went away.
I told Ponto when I said good-bye to him that it would be some time
before I saw him again.
How was I to explain partings to him? The monstrous rôle that geography
plays in our lives? I just told him that I loved him, that his image was
in my heart, that our separation was only the preparation of a glorious
meeting when old-remembered delights would merge into newly discovered
ones.
He listened to me while I stroked his heavy charmeuse ears. He licked my
hand, knowing that with my whispering words, I was trying to console
myself as well as him.
Then I left him quickly.
They wrote to me that he had disappeared.
They wrote to me that his master had reclaimed him.
But I know that he is mine.
For I have made a great discovery.
What I love belongs to me. Not the chairs and tables in my house, but
the masterpieces of the world.
It is only a question of loving them enough.