I have never, even before the young writers of my century, been ashamed
of my admiration for Buffon; but to-day it is not the spirit of that
painter of lofty nature that I would call to my assistance. No.
Much more willingly I call to Sterne, and I say to him: "Descend from
heaven, or climb to me from the Elysian Fields, to inspire me in behalf
of good dogs, of poor dogs, with a song worthy of thee, sentimental
farceur, farceur incomparable. Come back astraddle that famous ass
which will always accompany you in the memory of the future; and
especially do not let that ass forget to carry, delicately hung between
his lips, his immortal macaroons."
Away with the academic muse! I have no business with that old prude. I
invoke the familiar muse, the citizen, the boon companion, to aid me to
sing the good dogs, the poor dogs, the dirty dogs, those whom every one
drives away, pestiferous and lousy, except the poor, whose associates
they are, and the poet, who sees them with fraternal eye.
Fie upon the foppish dog, upon the coxcomb quadruped, Dane, King
Charles, pugdog or lapdog, so enamoured of himself that he darts
inconsiderately between the legs or on the knees of the visitor, as
if he were certain of pleasing, wild as a youngster, foolish as a
flirt, often surly and insolent as a servant! Fie especially upon those
four-pawed serpents, idle and shivering, that are called greyhounds,
and that do not harbor in their pointed muzzle enough scent to follow
the track of a friend, nor in their flattened head enough intelligence
to play at dominoes!
To the kennel with all these plaguy parasites!
Let them slink to the kennel stuffed and sulky! I sing the dirty dog,
the poor dog, the homeless dog, the stroller dog; the dog buffoon,
the dog whose instinct, like that of the poor, the gypsy and the
mountebank, is marvellously sharpened by necessity, that excellent
mother, that true patron of intelligence!
I sing the distressful dogs, be they those that wander, alone, in the
winding gullies of the great cities or those who have said to the
forsaken man, with blinking spiritual eyes: "Take me with you, and of
two miseries we shall make a sort of joy!"
"Whither go the dogs?" Nestor Roquepelan once said in an immortal
leaflet which he has doubtless forgotten, and which I alone, and
perhaps Saint-Beuve, recall today.
Where do the dogs go, you ask, heedless men? They go about their
business.
Business engagements, affairs of love. Through the fog, through the
snow, through the mire, under the biting dogstar, under the streaming
rain, they come, they go, they hurry, they move along under carriages,
excited by fleas, by passion, by duty or by need. Like us, they have
risen bright and early, and they seek their livelihood or run to their
pleasure.
There are some who sleep in a ruin in the suburbs and who come every
day at a stated hour, to beg alms at the door of a Palais-Royal cook;
others who run in troops, for more than five leagues, to partake of
the repast which has been prepared for them through the charity of
certain sexagenarian maids, whose unoccupied hearts are given over to
beasts, since imbecile man wants them no more; others who, like runaway
negroes, frantic with love, leave their province on certain days, to
come to the city and romp for an hour with a handsome bitch, a little
careless in her toilet, but proud and thankful.
And they are all very precise, without notebooks, without memoranda,
without portfolios.
Do you know slothful Belgium, and have you, like me, admired all those
vigorous dogs hitched to the cart of the butcher, of the milkmaid, of
the baker, who give evidence in their triumphant barks, of the proud
pleasure they feel in rivalling the horse?
And here are two that belong to a still more civilized order! Permit
me to introduce you into the room of an absent mountebank. A bed, of
painted wood, without curtains, with dragging covers stained with bugs;
two cane chairs, a cast-iron stove, one or two disordered musical
instruments. Oh, what sad furniture! But look, I pray you, at these two
intelligent personages, clad in garments at once sumptuous and frayed,
hooded like troubadours' or soldiers, who are guarding, with the close
watch of a sorcerer, _the nameless something_ which simmers on the
lighted stove, and from the center of which a long spoon stands forth,
planted as one of those aerial masts which announce that the masonry is
complete.
Is it not just that such zealous comedians should not set out without
having well lined their stomachs with a strong, sound soup? And will
you not forgive a little sensuality in these poor devils who all day
have to face the indifference of the public and the injustice of a
director who deems himself the whole show and who alone eats more soup
than four actors?
How often have I contemplated, touched and smiling, all these
four-footed philosophers, compliant, submissive or devoted slaves,
whom the republican dictionary might well call "fellows,"[1] if the
republic, too busied with the _happiness_ of men, had time to respect
the _honor_ of dogs!
And how many times have I thought that perhaps there is somewhere (who
knows, after all?), to reward so much courage, so much of patience and
of labor, a special paradise for good dogs, for poor dogs, for dirty
and afflicted dogs. Swedenborg affirms that there is one for the Turks
and one for the Dutchmen!
The shepherds of Virgil and of Theocritus expected, as prize for their
alternate songs, a good cheese, a flute from the best maker, or a
she-goat with swelling udders. The poet who has sung the good dogs has
received for reward a fine vest, of a color both faded and rich, which
brings thoughts of the autumn suns, of the beauty of matured women and
of the summers of Saint-Martin.
None of those who were present in the tavern of Rue Villa-Hermosa will
forget with what petulance the painter was despoiled of his vest for
the poet, so well had he understood that it is good and seemly to sing
of poor dogs.
Thus a magnificent Italian tyrant, in the good old days, offered
the divine Aretine a dagger rich with jewels, or a courtly gown, in
exchange for a precious sonnet or a rare satiric poem.
And whenever the poet dons the painter's vest, he is forced to think of
the good dogs, of the dog philosophers, of the summers of Saint-Martin
and of the beauty of full-blown women.
[Footnote 1: "Officieux" was the term adopted by the Republic, to
replace "domestique" and "valet," and to indicate the equality of
all--even master and man.]