POODLE
I
I hate to confess it, but truth forces me—Hamlet was a snob. With other
dogs. Not with humans. With humans you never could tell—he would cling
to the one and cleave from the other without any apparent just reason.
He loved the lamplighter of Orange Street, although he was a dirty,
dishevelled rabbit of a man; he hated Aunt Amy, who was as decent and
cleanly a spinster as England could provide. But with dogs he was a
terrible snob. This, of course, he had no possible right to be, himself
an absolute mongrel with at least five different breeds peeping now
here, now there out of his peculiar body—nevertheless he did like a dog
to be a gentleman, and openly said so. It may have been that there was
in it more of the snobbery of the artist than of the social striver.
What he wanted was to spend his time with dogs of intelligence, dogs
with _savoir faire_, dogs of enterprise and ambition. What he could not
abide was your mealy-mouthed, lick-spittle, creeping and crawling kind
of dog. And he made his opinion very clear indeed.
Since his master’s return for the holidays and his own subsequent
restoration to the upper part of the house, I am sorry to say that his
conceit, already sufficiently large, was considerably swollen. His
master was the most magnificent, stupendous, successful, all-knowing
human to be found anywhere, and he was the favourite, best-beloved, most
warmly-cherished object of that master’s affections. It followed then
that he was a dog beyond all other dogs.
When he had been a kitchen dog he had affected a superiority that the
other kitchen dogs of the neighbourhood had found quite intolerable.
He would talk to none of them, but would strut up and down inside the
garden railings, looking with his melancholy, contemptuous eyes at those
who invited him without, suffering himself to be lured neither by lust
of food nor invitation to battle nor tender suggestions of love. When he
became an upstairs dog again, the other upstairs dogs did not, of
course, allow him to forget his recent status.
But Hamlet was not like other dogs; he had a humour and sarcasm, a gift
of phrase, an enchanting cynicism which very few dogs were able to
resist. He was out of doors now so frequently with Jeremy that he met
dogs from quite distant parts of the town, and a little while before
Christmas made friends with a fine, aristocratic fox-terrier who lived
in one of the villas beyond the high school. This fox-terrier found
Hamlet exactly the companion he desired, having himself a very pretty
wit, but being lazy withal and liking others to make his jokes for him.
His name was Pompey, which, as he confided to Hamlet, was a silly name;
but then his mistress was a silly woman, her only merit being that she
adored him to madness. He had as fine a contempt for most of the other
dogs of the world as Hamlet himself. It passed his comprehension that
humans should wish to feed and pet such animals as he found on every
side of him.
He saw, of course, at once, that Hamlet was a mongrel, but he had, I
fancy, an idea that he should play Sancho Panza to his own Quixote. He
often told himself that it was absurdly beneath his dignity to go about
with such a fellow, but for pretty play of wit, agility in snatching
another dog’s bone and remaining dignified as he did so, for a handsome
melancholy and gentle contempt, he had never known Hamlet’s equal.
Hamlet counted it as one of his most successful days when he brought
Pompey into the Orange Street circle. There was not a dog there but
recognized that Pompey was a cut above them all, a dog who had won
prizes and might win prizes yet again (although, between you and me,
self-indulgence was already thickening him). All the sycophants in
Orange Street (and there, as elsewhere, there were plenty of these
creatures) made up at once to Pompey and approached Hamlet with
disgusting flatteries. A pug, known as Flossie, slobbered at Hamlet’s
feet, telling him that she had long been intending to call on him, but
that her mistress was so exacting that it was very difficult to find
time “for all one’s social duties.” Hamlet regarded the revolting object
(glistening with grease and fat) with high contempt, his beard assuming
its most ironical point.
“I had a very nice bone waiting for you in the kitchen,” he said.
Flossie shivered. “A bone with you anywhere would be a delight,” she
wheezed.
Hamlet was, of course, in no way deceived by these flatteries. He knew
his world. He watched even his friend Pompey with a good deal of irony.
He would have supposed that his friend was too well-bred to care what
these poor creatures should say to him; nevertheless Pompey was more
pleased than he should have been. He sat there, round the corner, just
by the monument, and received the homage with a pleasure that was most
certainly not forced. He was himself a little conscious of this. “Awful
bore,” he explained afterwards to Hamlet, “having to listen to all they
had to say. But what’s one to do? One can’t be rude, you know. One
doesn’t want to be impolite. And I must say they were very kind.”
Hamlet was now restored into the best Orange Street society—all
received him back—all with one very important exception. This was a
white poodle, the pride and joy of a retired military colonel who lived
at 41 Orange Street, and his name was Mephistopheles—Mephisto for
short. Ever since Hamlet’s first introduction to the Cole family he and
this dog had been at war. Mephisto was not a dog of the very highest
breed, but his family was quite good enough. And then, being French, he
could say a good deal about his origins and nobody could contradict him.
He did not, as a fact, say very much. He was too haughty to be
talkative, too superior to be familiar. He had no friends. There _was_ a
miserable Dachs, Fritz by name, who claimed to be a friend, but everyone
knew how Mephisto laughed at Fritz when he was not there, calling him
opprobrious names and commenting on his German love of food.
From the very first Mephisto had seemed to Hamlet an indecent dog. The
way that he was here naked and there over-hairy had nothing to be said
for it. His naked part was quite pink.
Then Mephisto had the French weakness of parsimony. Never was there a
meaner dog. He stored bones as no dog had a right to do, and had never
been known to give anything to anybody. Then he had the other French
weakness of an incapacity for friendship. The domestic life might
perhaps appeal to him strongly (no one knew whether he were married or
not), but friendship meant nothing to him.
He was as are all the French, practical, unsentimental, seeing life as
it really is and allowing no nonsense. If he had those French defects he
had also the great French virtue of courage. He was afraid of nothing
and of no one. No dog was too big for him, and he once had a fight with
a St. Bernard who happened to stroll down his way that was historic.
He was no coward, as Hamlet very well knew—but how Hamlet hated him!
All his fur bristled if Mephisto was within half a mile. Mephisto’s
superior smile, his contempt at the rather sentimental enthusiasms to
which Hamlet occasionally gave vent (that went, as they often do, with
his cynicism), these made a conflict inevitable.
II
The actual cause of the conflict was Pompey. We all know how very trying
it is to make a fine friend, to introduce him into our own circle, and
then to discover him, when he is nicely settled, making more of others
than of ourselves—neglecting us, in fact.
This was exactly what Pompey did. He grew a little weary of Hamlet’s
humour (he became very quickly tired of experiences), and he was not at
all sure that Hamlet was not laughing at himself. He was flattered by
Mephisto’s attitude that at last he had found a dog in the town worthy
to be his companion. He did not care very much for Mephisto—he found
his French conceit very trying—but it _was_ true that Hamlet was a
mongrel of the mongrels, and that it was absurd that he, a dog who had
taken prizes, should be with him so continually in public.
Obviously, it was impossible that he should be friends _both_ with
Mephisto and Hamlet, so quite simply he chose Mephisto.
Hamlet was most deeply hurt. He was hurt not only for himself (he had a
sensitive and affectionate nature), but also that so well-bred a dog as
Pompey should take up with a French animal who had all the faults of his
race and very little of its intelligence. He had one short, sharp
altercation with Pompey, told him one or two home truths, and left him.
For a week or two he avoided the company of his kind and devoted himself
to his master. All this occurred at Christmas-time, when Jeremy was in
disgrace for the buying of Christmas presents with money not really his
own. Jeremy thought, of course, that Hamlet had noticed his misfortunes,
and was trying in his own way to express his sympathy for them. Master
and dog were very close together during those weeks. While Hamlet sat at
his master’s feet, pressing his thick body close up against his master’s
leg, staring in front of him, half asleep, half awake, seeing bones and
cats and rabbits, and near these Mephisto with his naked patches and the
treacherous Pompey, Jeremy thought that he was considering only his
master’s unhappiness. He was thinking a little of that, but for the most
part he was meditating revenge.
He must fight Mephisto. For a long time now it had been coming to that.
He was compelled to confess that at the first positive thought of the
definite fact he shivered with apprehension. After all, no one is truly
brave who has not known fear, and Hamlet, sitting staring into the
schoolroom fire, knew fear in no half measure. Then the thoughts of the
insults he had received stirred him—let him only be angry enough and he
would forget his fear—and the very thought of Mephisto made him angry.
He had one staunch, unfaltering little friend among the dogs of the
neighbourhood. This was an unimportant nondescript little fox-terrier,
the property of the hairdresser at the bottom of Orange Street. His name
was Bobby. There was nothing at all to distinguish Bobby from all the
dogs in the world—he was one of those ill-bred, colourless fox-terriers
who are known to their masters only by sterling character. He had
suffered every sort of indignity in his time: stones had been thrown at
him, kettles had been tied to his tail, cats had scratched his eyes, his
master (who often drank too much) kicked and abused him; but he had an
indomitable spirit, an essential gaiety of heart that no troubles could
quench. He was not admitted into the hierarchy of Orange Street
dogs—even Flossie did not permit herself to be aware of his
existence—but he hung about always in a good humour, always ready to do
anyone a good turn, and often just rolling over and over in the road at
the sheer joy of life. At the first glimpse of Hamlet he had lost his
heart to him. Hamlet had not been so kind to him as he should have been,
but he had not rebuffed him as the other dogs had done, and had gone
with him once all the way down to the hairdresser’s to see the
hairdresser’s baby, of whose strength and appearance Bobby was
inordinately proud. Now, in these days of Hamlet’s trouble Bobby showed
the true mettle of his pasture. He longed that Pompey might speak to him
so that he might show him what he thought of him.
“You mustn’t let this worry you too much,” he said to Hamlet. “I’ve been
through far worse things than this. It simply shows that Pompey, in
spite of his high breeding, is worth nothing at all.”
“I’m going to fight Mephisto,” said Hamlet.
Bobby’s eyes opened wide at that and he looked up from the old and very
dirty bone that he was investigating.
“Fight Mephisto!” he repeated. “That’s a tall order.”
“Never mind,” said Hamlet firmly. “It’s got to be done, and you’ve got
to help me.”
III
When Fate intends something to occur she very quickly provides the
opportunity. The opportunity in this instance was Bobby.
His was a most sociable soul. We all know dogs whose whole interest in
life is social; they are not as a rule very popular with their masters,
it being said of them that they care for one as much as another, and
will leap with friendly gestures upon the hostile burglar as eagerly as
they will upon the most important person in the household.
Bobby was not that kind of dog; he really did care for his hairdresser
and his hairdresser’s wife and baby and for Hamlet more than any other
humans or any other dog in the world. But he was miserable when he was
alone; he must have company. His only family was a very busy and
preoccupied one, and he did not wish to bore Hamlet with too much of his
own society.
The Orange Street dogs had their most accustomed meeting-place at a
piece of deserted garden just behind the monument at the top of the
hill. Here it was shady in hot weather and comfortable and cosy in
chill; they were secure from rude boys and tiresome officials, and there
was no large house near enough to them for servants to come out and
chase them away. It was, it was true, on the whole the second-class dogs
who gathered there; Mephisto but seldom put in an appearance, and
therefore those sycophants, Flossie and Fritz, hinted that it was a
commonplace crowd and beneath them. Moreover, it was never very easy for
Mephisto to escape far from his own home, as his master, the colonel,
was so proud of him and so nervous of losing him that he could not bear
to let him out of his sight.
It happened, however, one fine morning, a few days after Christmas, that
the colonel was in bed with a catarrh (he was a very hypochondriacal
gentleman), and Mephisto, meeting Pompey in the street, they wandered
amicably together in the direction of the monument. Mephisto was very
ready to show himself in public, having been to the barber’s only the
day before. He was inordinately proud of the second tuft at the end of
his tail, at the gleaming white circle of hair round his neck, and the
more the pink skin showed through in his naked parts the happier he was.
He really thought there was not such another dog in the world as himself
this fine morning, being a provincial and narrow-minded dog in spite of
his French origin.
Mephisto and Pompey trotted up Orange Street together, and Flossie, who
was always on the look-out from behind her garden railing for the
passing of Mephisto, was graciously allowed to join them. She wheezed
along with them, puffing herself up and swelling with self-importance.
The conversation chanced to turn upon Hamlet. Mephisto said that now
that he and Pompey were friends, he would really like to ask him a
question that had been often in his mind, and that was how it came about
that Pompey could ever have allowed himself such a common, vulgar friend
as Hamlet. Pompey replied that he felt that that was a just and fair
question for his friend to ask him, and he could only reply that the
fellow had seemed at first to have a coarse sort of humour that was
diverting for the moment. One tired naturally of the thing very quickly,
and the trouble was with these coarse-grained creatures that when you
tired of them, having given them a little encouragement at first out of
sheer kindness, it was exceedingly difficult to shake them off again.
The fellow had seemed lonely, and Pompey had taken pity upon him; he
would see to it that it should be a long time before he did such a thing
again. Mephisto said that he was glad to hear this. For himself, he had
never been able to abide the creature, and he could only trust that he
would soon be ridden over by a cart or poisoned by a burglar or thrown
into the river by a couple of boys.
When they arrived at the monument they found several dogs among the
trees flattering and amusing an elegant creature called Trixie, who was
young and handsome and liked flirtations. Bobby also was there, rolling
about on the grass, performing some of his simple tricks, like snapping
at three imaginary flies at once, tossing into the air a phantom bone,
and lying stiff on his back with his four legs stiffly in the air. He
had been happy until the two aristocrats arrived; now he knew that his
good time was over. He should have gone away, but something kept him—he
did so hate to be alone—and so he sat on, a silly grin on his rather
foolish face, listening to the conversation.
While several of the dogs continued to wander about after the idiotic
Trixie, who was as arch and self-conscious as a dog could very well be,
the conversation of the rest belaboured poor Hamlet. It is well for us
that we do not hear the criticism that goes on behind our backs; one and
all of us, we are in the same box. Did we hear we should watch the
gradual creation of so strange and unreal a figure that we should rub
our eyes in amazement, crying, “Surely, surely this cannot be us!”
Not the tiniest shred of character was soon left to Hamlet. He was a
thief, a drunkard, a wanton and upstart, a coward and a mongrel. Bobby
listened to all of this, growing with every word of it more
uncomfortable. He hated them all, but it would need immense pluck to
speak up for his friend, and he did not know whether by so venturing he
might not effect more harm than good.
The sight, however, of Mephisto’s contemptuous supercilious face, his
tufted tail, his shining patches drove him on. He burst out, barking
that Hamlet was the bravest, the finest of all the dogs in the town,
that he was honourable to a fault, loyal and true, that he was worth all
the dogs there together.
When he had finished there was an explosion of derisive barks; as he
heard them internally he trembled. For a large fortune of bones he would
have wished to sink his pride and run. He stood his ground, however.
With one directing bark from Mephisto they set upon him. They rolled him
over. Their teeth were in his ears, his eyes, his belly. He gave himself
up for lost. At that very instant Hamlet appeared upon the scene.
IV
He had not intended to go that way, but finding that his master was
occupied with those two supremely unattractive and uninteresting humans,
his sisters, he thought that he would pursue an interesting smell that
he had noticed in the direction of the High School during the last two
days. Far behind him were his childish times when he had supposed that
rabbit lurked round every corner, and he had succeeded now in analysing
almost every smell in his consciousness. As we are raised to the heights
of our poor imagination by great poetry, great music and great pictures,
so is the dog aroused to his divine ecstasy by smell. With him a dead
mouse behind the wainscot may take the place that Shelley’s “Skylark”
assumes with us, and Bach’s fugues are to us what grilled haddock was to
Hamlet—_Tot homines tot_. . . .
He had not, however, gone far towards the High School when he recognized
Bobby’s bark, and Bobby’s bark appealing for help. When he turned the
corner he saw that his fate was upon him. Mephisto was a little apart,
watching the barking and struggling heap of dogs, himself uttering no
sound, but every once and again pretending to search for a fly in the
tuft of his tail that he might show to all the world that he was above
and beyond vulgar street rows.
And at sight of him Hamlet knew that what he had hoped would be was. The
sight of Mephisto’s contempt, combined with the urgency of poor Bobby’s
appeals, roused all the latent devil in him. Twitching his beard,
feeling no fear, knowing nothing but a hatred and loathing for his
enemy, he walked across the grass and approached Mephisto. The poodle
paused for a moment from his search for the fly, looked round, saw whom
it was (he had, of course, known from the first) and resumed his search.
Hamlet went up to him, sniffed him deliberately and with scorn, then bit
his tail in its tenderest and most naked part. The other dogs, even in
the most dramatic moment of their own scuffle, were at once aware that
something terrible had occurred. They allowed Bobby to rise, and turned
towards the new scene. Mephisto was indeed a fearful sight; every hair
on his head seemed to be erect, the naked patches burned with a curious
light, his legs were stiff as though made of iron, and from his throat
proceeded the strangest, most threatening growl ever uttered by dog.
And now Hamlet, pray to the gods of your forefathers, if indeed you know
who any of them were! Gather to your aid every principle of courage and
fortitude you have ever collected, and, better than they, summon to
yourself all the tricks and delicacies of warfare that during your short
life you have gained by your experience, for indeed to-day you will need
them all! Think not of the meal that only an hour ago you have, in the
event, most unwisely eaten, pray that your enemy also may have been
consuming food; remember that you are fighting for the weak and the
undertrodden, for the defenceless and humble-hearted, and better still
than that, you are fighting for yourself because you have been insulted
and the honour of your very nondescript family called in question!
The other dogs recognized at once that this was no ordinary contest, and
it was difficult for them to control their excitement. This they showed
with little snappy barks and quiverings of the body, but they realized
that too much noise would summon humans on to the scene and stop the
fight. Of them all Bobby was the most deeply concerned. Bleeding though
he was in one ear, he jumped from foot to foot, snivelling with terror
and desire, yapping hysterically to encourage his friend and hero,
watching every movement with an interest so active that he almost died
of unnatural repression.
To Hamlet, after the first moment of contact, impressions were confused.
It was, unfortunately, the first important fight of his life, and he had
not, alas, very much experience to guide him. But somewhere in his mixed
and misty past there had been a bulldog ancestor, and his main feeling
from the beginning to the end was that he must catch on with his teeth
somewhere and then hold and never let go again. This principle at first
he found difficult to follow. Tufts of white hair disgustingly choked
him, his teeth slipped on the bare places, and it seemed strangely
difficult to stand on his own feet. The poodle pursued a policy of snap,
retreat, and come again. He was always on the stir, catching Hamlet’s
ear, wrenching it, then slipping away and suddenly seizing a hind leg.
He was a master of this art, and it seemed to him that his victory was
going to be very easy. First he had one of his enemy’s ears, then the
other, now a foot, now the hair of his head, now one of his eyes. . . .
His danger was, as he knew, that he was not in good condition, being
over-fed by his master the colonel, and loving a soft and lazy life. He
recognized that he had been in a far better state two years before when
he had fought the St. Bernard.
But poor Hamlet’s case was soon very bad indeed. He was out of breath
and panting; the world was swinging round him, the grass seeming to meet
the sky, and the audience of dogs to float in mid-air. All his attacks
missed; he could no longer see; blood was flowing from one eye and one
ear; he suddenly realized that the poodle meant to kill and it did not
seem at all impossible but that he should achieve that. The love of life
was strong upon him. Behind his fighting there was his dear master and
his love for him, the world with its hunts and smells and soft slumbers
and delicious food, the place where he slept, the rooms of the house
where he lived, the lights and the darks, the mists and the flashing
stars—all these things ranged through his sub-conscious mind, only
consciously forming behind his determination not to die and, in any
case, to hold on to the last, if only, yes, if only he could find
something on to which he might hold.
The poodle’s teeth were terribly sharp, and Hamlet seemed to be bitten
in a thousand places. Worst of all, something had happened to one of his
hind-legs so that it trembled under him, and he was afraid lest soon he
should not be able to stand. Once down, he knew that it would be all
over with him. His throat was dry, his head a burning fire, his heart a
recording hammer, and the world was now, in very truth, reeling round
and round like a flying star. He knew that Mephisto was now certain of
victory; he could feel the hot breath of that hated triumph upon his
face. Worst of all there was creeping upon him a terrible lassitude, so
that he felt as though nothing mattered if only he might lay him down
and sleep. Sleep . . . sleep. . . . His teeth snapped feebly. His body
was one vast pain. . . . Now he was falling. . . . His legs were
trembling. He was done, finished, beaten.
At that last moment he heard, as though from an infinite distance,
Bobby’s encouraging bark.
“Go on! Go on!” the bark cried. “You’re not finished yet. He’s done too.
One more effort and you’ll bring it off.”
He made one more effort, something colossal, worthy of all the heroes,
bracing the whole of his body together, beating down his weakness,
urging all the flame and fire of his spirit. He launched out with his
body, snapped with his teeth, and at last, at last they fastened upon
something, upon something wiry and skinny, but also soft and yielding.
If this time his teeth had slipped it would indeed have been the end,
but they held. They held, they held, _they held_—and it was the
poodle’s tail that they were holding.
He felt Mephisto’s body swing round—so weak was he that he swung round
with it. His teeth clenched, clenched and clenched. Mephisto screamed, a
curious, undoglike, almost human scream. Hamlet’s teeth clenched and
clenched and clenched; tighter and tighter they held. They met.
Something was bitten through.
Mephisto’s whole body seemed to collapse. His fund of resistance was
gone. Something white was on the ground. The end of the tail, with its
famous, magnificent, glorious, superb, white tuft was no longer attached
to Mephisto’s body.
The poodle gave one cry, a dreadful, unearthly, ghostly cry of terror,
shame and abandonment, then, his tail between his legs, ran for his very
life.
V
Ten minutes later Jeremy, looking out of the schoolroom window, beheld,
tottering up the garden, a battered, dishevelled dog. A little trail of
blood followed his wavering course.
Hamlet looked up at the window, saw his master, feebly wagged his tail
and collapsed.
But as he collapsed he grinned.