back, and a sense of what he had done filled his mind and made him
happy. He felt a dull ache in his left arm, and found that it was so
tightly bandaged he could not move it; so he lay quite still, while
Gregor sat and watched him with sparkling eyes. After a time the door
opened, and a strange gentleman came in; it was the physician. The old
man rose and conversed with him in whispers. Then Sasha found that a
spoon was held to his lips; he mechanically swallowed something that had
a strange, pleasant taste, and almost immediately fell asleep.
In a day or two he was strong enough to sit up in bed, and was allowed
to talk. Then the Baron and Baroness came, with the lady who was their
guest, to see him. They were all eager to learn the particulars of the
occurrence, especially how Sasha had discovered the plot of the robbers.
He began at the beginning, and had got as far as the latter’s change of
language on seeing him, when he stopped in great confusion and looked at
his grandfather.
Gregor neither spoke nor moved, but his eyes seemed to say plainly,
“Tell everything.”
Sasha then related the whole story to the end. The Baroness came to the
bedside, stooped down, kissed him, and said, “You have saved your lord!”
But the other lady, who had been watching him very curiously, suddenly
exclaimed: “Why, it’s the same nice-looking little serf I saw before;
and when I spoke of him in French he blushed. I’m sure he understood me!
Don’t you understand me now, my boy?”
She asked the question in French, and Sasha answered in the same
language, “Yes, madam.”
The lady clapped her hands in delight; but the Baron asked very sternly,
“Where did you learn so many languages?”
“From me!” Gregor answered. “The boy likes to know things, and I’ve
always thought—saving your opinion, my good lord—that when God gives any
one a strong wish for knowledge He means it to be answered. So I opened
to him all there is in this foolish old head of mine, while we were
together in the forest; and it was such a pleasure for him to take that
it came to be a pleasure for me to give. You understand, my lady?”
“Yes,” said the Baroness, “I understand that without Sasha’s knowledge
of German, my husband would probably have been murdered.”
“That’s not so certain,” the Baron replied. “But some celebrated man has
said ‘All’s well that ends well,’ The fellow did his duty like a
full-grown man, and I’ll take care of him.”
Therewith they went out of the room, and Sasha immediately asked, in
some anxiety, “Grandfather, you meant I should tell?”
“Yes,” Gregor answered; “for the youngest robber has already confessed
that they spoke in German, and thought themselves safe, while you were
passing. They are vagabonds from the borders of Poland, and knew a
little of three or four tongues. It is all right, my boy; the Baron is
satisfied, and means to help you. Your chance has come sooner than I
expected. I must have a little time to think about it; my head is like a
stiff joint, hard to bend when I want to use it. It’s good luck to me
that you can’t get out of bed for a week to come!”
He laughed as he left the bedside, and took his seat on the broad stone
bench beside the stove. Sasha kept silent, for he knew that the old
man’s brain was hard at work. He tried to do a little thinking himself,
but it made him feel weak and giddy; in fact, the blow upon his head
would have killed a more delicate boy.
His strength came back so rapidly, however, that in a week he was able
to walk out, with his arm in a sling. He was still pale, and looked so
strange in his short hair that on his first visit home his mother burst
into tears on seeing him. Then Minka, Peter, Sergius, and Waska lifted
up their voices and cried; and Ivan, who was at first angry with them,
finally cried also, without knowing why he did it. All this made Sasha
feel very uncomfortable, and he was on the point of saying “I won’t do
it again!” when old Gregor made silence in the house. He had looked
through the window and seen some of the neighbors coming; so the whole
family became cheerful again as rapidly as they could.
By this time, Gregor had made up his mind. Sasha knew that he could not
change it if he would, and he was therefore very glad to find how well
his grandfather’s notions agreed with his own. While he was waiting for
the Baron to speak again, he was not losing time; for the strange lady
who was visiting at the castle took quite a friendly interest in
teaching him French and German, and giving him Russian books which were
not too difficult to read. He was so eager to satisfy her, that he
really made astonishing progress.
When the robbers were tried before the judge, he was called upon to give
testimony against them. One of the three having been killed, the
youngest one was not afraid to confess, and his story and Sasha’s agreed
perfectly. The boy described the unwillingness of the former to
undertake the crime; even the Baron said a word in his favor; and the
judge, at last, sentenced him to be banished to Siberia for only ten
years, while the older robber was sent there for life.
That evening, the Baron asked Sasha, “Would you like to be one of my
house-servants, boy?”
Just as his grandfather had advised him, Sasha answered: “It is not for
me to choose my lord; but I think I can serve you much more to your
profit if you will let me try to become a merchant.”
“A merchant!” the Baron exclaimed.
“Not all at once,” said Sasha; “I could be of use now, as a boy to help
carry and sell things, because I can count and speak a little in other
tongues. I should make myself so useful to some merchant that he would
give me a chance to learn the whole business in time. Then I should earn
money, and could pay you for the privilege.”
The Baron had often envied noblemen of his acquaintance, some of whose
serfs were rich manufacturers or merchants, and paid them large annual
sums for the privilege of living for themselves. Here seemed to be a
chance for him to gain something in the same way. The boy spoke so
confidently, and looked in his face with such straightforward eyes, that
he felt obliged to consider the proposition seriously.
“How will you get to St. Petersburg?” he asked.
“When you go, my lord,” said Sasha, “I could sit on the box at the
coachman’s feet. I will help him with the horses, and it shall cost you
nothing. When I get there, I know I shall find a place.”
The Baron then said, “You may go.”
V
Here, as a boy not yet fifteen, Sasha begins his career as a man. The
task he has undertaken demands the industry, the patience, and the
devotion of his life, but he has been prepared for it by a sound, if a
somewhat hard, experience. I hope the boys who read this feel satisfied
already that he is going to succeed; yet I know, also, that they like to
be certain, and to have some little information as to how it came about.
So I will let fifteen years pass, and we will now look upon Sasha, for
the last time, as a man of thirty.
He has a store and warehouse on the great main street of St. Petersburg,
which is called the _Nevsky Prospekt_,—that is the Perspective of the
Neva, because when you look down it you see the blue waters of the Neva
at the end. Over the door there is a large sign, with the name,
“Alexander Ivanovitch.” (_Ivanovitch_ means “the son of Ivan”; Russian
family names are formed in this manner, and therefore the son has a
different name from the father, unless their baptismal names are the
same.) He employs a number of clerks and salesmen, and has a servant who
would go through fire and water to help him. I must relate how he found
this man, and why the latter is so faithful.
On one of his journeys of business, five years before, Sasha visited the
town of Perm, on the western side of the Ural Mountains. It is on the
main highway to Siberia, and criminals are continually passing, either
on the way thither in chains, or returning in rags when their time of
banishment has expired. One evening Sasha found by the roadside, in the
outskirts of the town, a miserable-looking wretch who seemed to be at
the point of death. He felt the man’s pulse, lifted up his head, and
looked in his face, and was startled at recognizing the younger of the
three robbers. He had him taken to the inn, tended and restored, and,
after being convinced of his earnest desire to lead a better life, gave
him employment. The robber was not naturally a bad man, but very
ignorant and superstitious. It seemed to him both a miracle and a
warning that he should have been saved by Sasha, and he fully believed
that his soul would be lost if he should ever act dishonestly towards
him.
Keeping his heart steadily upon the great purpose of his life, Sasha
rose from one step to another until he became an independent and wealthy
merchant,—far wealthier, indeed, than the Baron supposed. He paid the
latter a handsome annual sum for his time, and sent only small presents
of money to his parents, for he knew how few and simple their needs
were. He felt a thousand times more keenly than old Gregor what it was
to be a serf. The old man was still living, but very feeble and
helpless, and Sasha often grew wild at the thought that he might die
before knowing freedom.
His plan of action had long been fixed, and now the hour had come when
he determined to try it. He had for years kept a strict watch over the
Baron’s life in St. Petersburg, knew the amount of his increasing debts
and the embarrassment they occasioned him, and could very nearly
calculate the moment when ruin would come. He was not disappointed
therefore, at receiving an urgent summons from his master.
“Sasha,” said the latter, laying his hand upon the serf’s shoulder with
a familiarity he had never displayed before, “you are an honest,
faithful fellow. I need a few thousand roubles for a month or two; can
you get the money for me?”
“I have heard, my lord,” Sasha answered, “that you are in difficulty. I
knew why you sent for me; and I come to offer you a way out of all your
troubles. Your debts amount to more than a hundred thousand roubles;
would you like to be relieved of them?”
“Would I not!—but how?” the Baron cried.
“I will pay them, my lord; but you will do one thing for me in return.”
“You?—You?”
“I,” Sasha quietly answered; “I will free you, and you will free me.”
“Ha!” the Baron cried, springing to his feet. His pride was touched. He
was fond of boasting that he also had a serf who was a rich merchant,
and the fact had many a time helped his credit when he wanted to borrow
money. Unconsciously, he shook his head.
“You have not the money,” he said.
Sasha, who understood what was passing through the Baron’s mind,
suffered so much from his cruel uncertainty that he turned deadly pale.
“I am well known,” he answered, “and can procure the money in an hour.
How much is my serfdom worth to you? My annual payment is hardly one
tenth of the usurious interest which your debt wrings from you. I offer
to release you from all trouble and thus add not less than eight
thousand roubles a year to your income. And my freedom, which you can
now sell back to me at such a price, may be mine without buying in a few
years more.”
The Emperor, Alexander II., had at that time just succeeded to the
throne, and his intention to emancipate the serfs was already suspected
by the people. Sasha knew that he was running a great risk in what he
said; but his clasped hands, his trembling voice, his eyes filled with
tears, affected the Baron more powerfully than his words.
There was a long silence. The master turned away to the window, and
weighed the offer rapidly in his mind; the serf waited, in breathless
anxiety, in the centre of the room.
Suddenly the Baron turned and struck his clenched fist on the table.
Then he stretched out his hand, and said: “Alexander Ivanovitch I am
glad to make your acquaintance as a friend. I am no longer your master.”
Sasha took the hand, kissed it, and his tears fell fast. “Dear lord
Baron!” he cried; “give also the freedom of my father and grandfather
and I will add a payment of five thousand roubles a year, for ten years
to come!”
“And your ancestors for five hundred years back,” the Baron answered
laughing. “I don’t know their names, but they can be all thrown into the
deed, in one lump.”
Before another day it was done. Sasha and the living members of his
family were free, and his ancestors would also have been free if they
had not been dead. With the parchment, signed and sealed, in his pocket,
he took a carriage and post-horses and travelled day and night until he
reached his native village. No one knew the stranger in his rich
merchant’s dress; his father and brothers were in the fields at work,
and his mother had stepped out to see a neighbor; old Gregor was alone
in the house. He was leaning back in a rude arm-chair with a sheep-skin
over his knees; his eyes were closed, his mouth slightly open, and his
face so haggard and sunken that Sasha thought him dead.
He kneeled down beside the chair, and placed his hand on the old man’s
heart, to see if it still beat. Presently came a broken voice: “The
black god—the truth, my boy!” and Gregor feebly stretched a hand toward
Sasha’s breast. The latter tore open his dress, and spread the cold,
horny fingers over his own heart, the warmth of which seemed to kindle a
fresh life in the old man. He at last opened his eyes. “Little Sasha,”
he said, “little Sasha will keep his word.”
“I have kept it, grandfather!” Sasha cried.
[Illustration:
“Old Gregor was alone in the house.”
Drawing by F. S. Coburn
]
“It’s a man, a brave-looking man,” said Gregor; “but he has the boy’s
voice—and I know the boy’s hand is on my heart.”
Sasha could no longer restrain himself. “And the boy is a free man,
grandfather!” he exclaimed; “we are all free; here is the Baron’s deed,
which says so, with the seal of the Empire upon it. Look,
grandfather!—do you understand?—you are free!”
Gregor was lifted to his feet, as if by an unseen hand. At that moment
Sasha’s parents and brothers entered the house. The old man did not heed
their cries of astonishment; clasping the parchment to his breast, he
looked upward and exclaimed in a piercing voice: “Free at last,—all
free! I’ll carry the news to God!” Then, with a single gasp, he reeled,
and, before any one could reach him, fell at full length on the floor,
dead.
VI
Studies of Animal Nature
I have always had a great respect for animals, and have endeavored to
treat them with the consideration which I think they deserve. They have
quick perceptions and know when to be confiding or reticent. I have
learned no better way to gain their confidence than to ask myself, “If I
were such or such an animal, how should I wish to be treated by man?”
and to act upon that suggestion. The finest and deepest parts of their
natures can be reached only by an intercourse which is purely kind and
sympathetic.
In the first place, animals have much more capacity to understand human
speech than is generally supposed. The Hindoos invariably talk to their
elephants, and it is amazing how much the latter comprehend. The Arabs
govern their camels with a few cries, and my associates in the African
desert were always amused whenever I addressed a remark to the big
dromedary who was my property for two months; yet, at the end of that
time, the beast evidently knew the meaning of a number of simple
sentences. Some years ago, seeing the hippopotamus in Barnum’s Museum
looking very stolid and dejected, I spoke to him in English, but he did
not even move his eyes. Then I went to the opposite corner of the cage,
and said in Arabic, “I know you; come here to me!” He instantly turned
his head towards me; I repeated the words, and thereupon he came to the
corner where I was standing, pressed his huge, ungainly head against the
bars of the cage, and looked in my face with a touching delight while I
stroked his muzzle. I have two or three times found a lion who
recognized the same language, and the expression of his eyes, for an
instant, seemed positively human.
I know of nothing more moving, indeed, semi-tragic, than the yearning
helplessness in the face of a dog who understands what is said to him
and cannot answer. We often hear it said that no animal can endure the
steady gaze of the human eye; but this is a superstition. An intelligent
dog or horse not only endures, but loves it. The eye of a beast is
restless from natural habit, but hardly more so than that of savage man.
Cats, birds, and many other animals seek, rather than avoid, a friendly
human eye. It is possible that tigers may have been turned away by an
unflinching gaze, but I suspect the secret lay in the surprise of the
beast at so unusual an experience, rather than in direct intimidation.
Thieves are said to have the belief that a dog, for the same reason,
will not attack a naked man, but I do not remember any account of a
burglary where they have tried the experiment. Cattle, however, are
easily surprised. Once, in 1849, on the Salinas Plains in California, I
escaped exactly the same onset of a vast herd of wild cattle as Mr.
Harte describes in his _Gabriel Conroy_, by sitting down upon the
ground. They were so unaccustomed to seeing a man except on horseback,
that the position was an absolute bewilderment to them. The foremost
halted within a hundred feet, formed a line as regular as a file of
soldiers, and stared stupidly, until a team, luckily approaching at the
right time, released me from my hazardous situation.
Few persons are aware of the great effect which quiet speech exercises
upon the most savage dog. A distinguished English poet told me that he
was once walking in the country with Canon Kingsley, when they passed a
lodge where an immense and fierce mastiff, confined by a long chain,
rushed out upon them. They were just beyond his reach, but the chain did
not seem secure; the poet would have hurried past, but Kingsley, laying
a hand upon his arm, said, “Wait a moment, and see me subdue him!”
Thereupon he walked up to the dog, who, erect upon his hind feet, with
open jaws and glaring eyes, was the embodiment of animal fury. Kingsley
lifted his hand, and quietly said, “You are wrong! You have made a
mistake; you must go back to your kennel!” The dog sank down upon his
fore feet, but still growled angrily; the Canon repeated his words in a
firm voice, advancing step by step, as the dog gave way. He continued
speaking grave reproof, as to a human being, until he had forced the
mastiff back into his kennel, where the latter silently, and perhaps
remorsefully, lay down.
I cannot now tell whether I remembered this story, or acted simply from
a sudden instinct, in a very similar case. I was in San Francisco, and
went to call upon a gentleman of my acquaintance who lived upon Rincon
Point. The house stood a little distance back from the street, in a
beautiful garden. I walked up between clumps of myrtle and fuchsia to
the door and rang the bell. Instead of answer, there was a savage bay; a
giant dog sprang around the corner of the house, and rushed at me with
every sign of furious attack. I faced him, stood still, and said, “I am
a friend of Mr. ——, and have come to visit him. You must not suppose
that I mean any harm. I shall wait to see if the bell is answered; you
may stay and watch me. I am not afraid of you.” The animal paused,
listened intently, but was evidently not entirely convinced; he still
growled, and showed his teeth in rather an alarming manner. Then I said,
“I shall ring once more; if there is no answer, I shall go away.” He
followed me up the steps to the door, glared fiercely while I rang, and
would undoubtedly have dashed at my throat had I made a suspicious
gesture. As no one came to the door I finally said, “I see there is
nobody at home, so I shall go, as I told you I would.” His growling
ceased; side by side we went down the walk and when I had closed the
gate he turned away with a single dignified wave of the tail, which I
understood as a combined apology and farewell.
Brehm, the German naturalist, gives a very curious account of a
chimpanzee at the Zoölogical Garden in Hamburg. He satisfied himself
that the animal understood as much human speech as an average child of
two and a half years old. For instance, when he asked, “Do you see the
ducks?” the chimpanzee would look about the garden, passing over the
geese and swans, until he found the birds indicated. At the command, “Go
and sit down!” uttered without any inflection of voice or glance towards
a chair, he would promptly obey; on being told, “You are naughty,” he
would hang his head, with an expression of distress; and he very soon
learned to express his affection by kisses and caresses, like the
children whom he saw.
I presume it is a very common observation of persons who own intelligent
dogs, that if they happen to describe to a visitor some fault for which
the animal has been scolded or punished, in the latter’s presence, he
will exhibit an uneasy consciousness of what is said, even sometimes
quietly slink away. But the extent to which a horse, also, may be taught
to understand speech, is not so generally known. The simple fact that he
likes to be talked to makes him attentive to the sounds, and I am
convinced that in a great many cases he has an impression of the
meaning. I have at present a horse that served his country during the
war, and came to me only after its close. His experience while on
scouting service made him very suspicious of any gray object, as I soon
discovered; he would shy at a fallen log in a thicket, a glimpse of
mossy rock, or a laborer’s coat left in a fence-corner. By stopping him
whenever this happened, and telling him, in an assuring tone, that there
was nothing to fear, he was very soon completely cured of the habit. But
he still lifts up his head, and would, if he could, cry “Ha! ha!” when
he hears the sound of the trumpet.
The affection and fidelity of the horse have always been admitted. My
first acquaintance with these qualities was singular enough to be
related. When a boy of fourteen, I was walking along a lonely country
road with a companion of the same age, and came upon an old gray horse,
standing in the middle of the track, over a man who was lying upon his
back. We hastened up to give assistance, but presently saw that the man,
instead of being injured, was simply dead drunk. He had tumbled off, on
his way home from the tavern, and a full bottle of whiskey, jolted out
of his pocket in falling, lay by his side. The forefeet of the horse
were firmly planted on each side of his neck, and the hind feet on each
side of his legs. This position seeming to us dangerous for the man, we
took the animal by the bridle and attempted to draw him away; but he
resisted with all his strength, snorting, laying back his ears, and
giving every other sign of anger. It was apparent that he had carefully
planted himself so as completely to protect his master against any
passing vehicle. We assisted the faithful creature in the only possible
way,—by pouring the whiskey into the dust,—and left him until help could
be summoned. His act indicated not only affection involving a sense of
duty, but also more than one process of reasoning.
Darwin, as I understand him, is still doubtful whether there is a moral
sense in animals. We can judge only from acts, of course, but our
interpretation of those acts depends upon our sympathetic power of
entering into the feelings of the animal. This is an element which
Science will not accept; hence I doubt whether her deductions may not
fall as far short of the truth as a vivid imagination may go beyond it.
To me, it is very clear that there is at least a rudimentary moral sense
in animals. I have had two marked evidences thereof, which are the more
satisfactory inasmuch as they include a change of conduct which can be
explained only by assuming an ever-present memory of the fault
committed. If this be not a lower form of conscience in its nature, its
practical result is certainly the very same. Were we to judge a strange
man by his actions, his speech being wholly unintelligible to us, we
should give him the credit of a positive conscience in like
circumstances. Why should we withhold it from an animal?