I
I have lost, within these last few days, a little bull-dog. He had just
completed the sixth month of his brief existence. He had no history. His
intelligent eyes opened to look out upon the world, to love mankind,
then closed again on the cruel secrets of death.
The friend who presented me with him had given him, perhaps by
antiphrasis, the startling name of Pelléas. Why rechristen him? For how
can a poor dog, loving, devoted, faithful, disgrace the name of a man or
an imaginary hero?
Pelléas had a great bulging, powerful forehead, like that of Socrates
or Verlaine; and, under a little black nose, blunt as a churlish assent,
a pair of large hanging and symmetrical chops, which made his head a
sort of massive, obstinate, pensive and three-cornered menace. He was
beautiful after the manner of a beautiful, natural monster that has
complied strictly with the laws of its species. And what a smile of
attentive obligingness, of incorruptible innocence, of affectionate
submission, of boundless gratitude and total self-abandonment lit up, at
the least caress, that adorable mask of ugliness! Whence exactly did
that smile emanate? From the ingenuous and melting eyes? From the ears
pricked up to catch the words of man? From the forehead that unwrinkled
to appreciate and love, or from the stump of a tail that wriggled at the
other end to testify to the intimate and impassioned joy that filled his
small being, happy once more to encounter the hand or the glance of the
god to whom he surrendered himself?
Pelléas was born in Paris, and I had taken him to the country. His bonny
fat paws, shapeless and not yet stiffened, carried slackly through the
unexplored pathways of his new existence his huge and serious head,
flat-nosed and, as it were, rendered heavy with thought.
For this thankless and rather sad head, like that of an overworked
child, was beginning the overwhelming work that oppresses every brain at
the start of life. He had, in less than five or six weeks, to get into
his mind, taking shape within it, an image and a satisfactory conception
of the universe. Man, aided by all the knowledge of his own elders and
his brothers, takes thirty or forty years to outline that conception,
but the humble dog has to unravel it for himself in a few days: and yet,
in the eyes of a god, who should know all things, would it not have the
same weight and the same value as our own?
It was a question, then, of studying the ground, which can be scratched
and dug up and which sometimes reveals surprising things; of casting at
the sky, which is uninteresting, for there is nothing there to eat, one
glance that does away with it for good and all; of discovering the
grass, the admirable and green grass, the springy and cool grass, a
field for races and sports, a friendly and boundless bed, in which lies
hidden the good and wholesome couch-grass. It was a question, also, of
taking promiscuously a thousand urgent and curious observations. It was
necessary, for instance, with no other guide than pain, to learn to
calculate the height of objects from the top of which you can jump into
space; to convince yourself that it is vain to pursue birds who fly away
and that you are unable to clamber up trees after the cats who defy you
there; to distinguish between the sunny spots where it is delicious to
sleep and the patches of shade in which you shiver; to remark with
stupefaction that the rain does not fall inside the houses, that water
is cold, uninhabitable and dangerous, while fire is beneficent at a
distance, but terrible when you come too near; to observe that the
meadows, the farm-yards and sometimes the roads are haunted by giant
creatures with threatening horns, creatures good-natured, perhaps, and,
at any rate, silent, creatures who allow you to sniff at them a little
curiously without taking offence, but who keep their real thoughts to
themselves. It was necessary to learn, as the result of painful and
humiliating experiment, that you are not at liberty to obey all nature's
laws without distinction in the dwelling of the gods; to recognize that
the kitchen is the privileged and most agreeable spot in that divine
dwelling, although you are hardly allowed to abide in it because of the
cook, who is a considerable, but jealous power; to learn that doors are
important and capricious volitions, which sometimes lead to felicity,
but which most often, hermetically closed, mute and stern, haughty and
heartless, remain deaf to all entreaties; to admit, once and for all,
that the essential good things of life, the indisputable blessings,
generally imprisoned in pots and stew-pans, are almost always
inaccessible; to know how to look at them with laboriously-acquired
indifference and to practise to take no notice of them, saying to
yourself that here are objects which are probably sacred, since merely
to skim them with the tip of a respectful tongue is enough to let loose
the unanimous anger of all the gods of the house.
And then, what is one to think of the table on which so many things
happen that cannot be guessed; of the derisive chairs on which one is
forbidden to sleep; of the plates and dishes that are empty by the time
that one can get at them; of the lamp that drives away the dark?... How
many orders, dangers, prohibitions, problems, enigmas has one not to
classify in one's overburdened memory!... And how to reconcile all this
with other laws, other enigmas, wider and more imperious, which one
bears within one's self, within one's instinct, which spring up and
develop from one hour to the other, which come from the depths of time
and the race, invade the blood, the muscles and the nerves and suddenly
assert themselves more irresistibly and more powerfully than pain, the
word of the master himself, or the fear of death?
Thus, for instance, to quote only one example, when the hour of sleep
has struck for men, you have retired to your hole, surrounded by the
darkness, the silence and the formidable solitude of the night. All is
asleep in the master's house. You feel yourself very small and weak in
the presence of the mystery. You know that the gloom is peopled with
foes who hover and lie in wait. You suspect the trees, the passing wind
and the moonbeams. You would like to hide, to suppress yourself by
holding your breath. But still the watch must be kept; you must, at the
least sound, issue from your retreat, face the invisible and bluntly
disturb the imposing silence of the earth, at the risk of bringing down
the whispering evil or crime upon yourself alone. Whoever the enemy be,
even if he be man, that is to say, the very brother of the god whom it
is your business to defend, you must attack him blindly, fly at his
throat, fasten your perhaps sacrilegious teeth into human flesh,
disregard the spell of a hand and voice similar to those of your master,
never be silent, never attempt to escape, never allow yourself to be
tempted or bribed and, lost in the night without help, prolong the
heroic alarm to your last breath.
There is the great ancestral duty, the essential duty, stronger than
death, which not even man's will and anger are able to check. All our
humble history, linked with that of the dog in our first struggles
against every breathing thing, tends to prevent his forgetting it. And
when, in our safer dwelling-places of to-day, we happen to punish him
for his untimely zeal, he throws us a glance of astonished reproach, as
though to point out to us that we are in the wrong and that, if we lose
sight of the main clause in the treaty of alliance which he made with us
at the time when we lived in caves, forests and fens, he continues
faithful to it in spite of us and remains nearer to the eternal truth of
life, which is full of snares and hostile forces.
But how much care and study are needed to succeed in fulfilling this
duty! And how complicated it has become since the days of the silent
caverns and the great deserted lakes! It was all so simple, then, so
easy and so clear. The lonely hollow opened upon the side of the hill,
and all that approached, all that moved on the horizon of the plains or
woods, was the unmistakable enemy.... But to-day you can no longer
tell.... You have to acquaint yourself with a civilization of which you
disapprove, to appear to understand a thousand incomprehensible
things.... Thus, it seems evident that henceforth the whole world no
longer belongs to the master, that his property conforms to
unintelligible limits.... It becomes necessary, therefore, first of all
to know exactly where the sacred domain begins and ends. Whom are you to
suffer, whom to stop?... There is the road by which every one, even the
poor, has the right to pass. Why? You do not know; it is a fact which
you deplore, but which you are bound to accept. Fortunately, on the
other hand, here is the fair path which none may tread. This path is
faithful to the sound traditions; it is not to be lost sight of; for by
it enter into your daily existence the difficult problems of life.
Would you have an example? You are sleeping peacefully in a ray of the
sun that covers the threshold of the kitchen with pearls. The
earthenware pots are amusing themselves by elbowing and nudging one
another on the edge of the shelves trimmed with paper lace-work. The
copper stew-pans play at scattering spots of light over the smooth white
walls. The motherly stove hums a soft tune and dandles three saucepans
blissfully dancing; and, from the little hole that lights up its inside,
defies the good dog who cannot approach, by constantly putting out at
him its fiery tongue. The clock, bored in its oak case, before striking
the august hour of meal-time, swings its great gilt navel to and fro;
and the cunning flies tease your ears. On the glittering table lie a
chicken, a hare, three partridges, besides other things which are called
fruits--peaches, melons, grapes--and which are all good for nothing. The
cook guts a big silver fish and throws the entrails (instead of giving
them to you!) into the dust-bin. Ah, the dust-bin! Inexhaustible
treasury, receptacle of windfalls, the jewel of the house! You shall
have your share of it, an exquisite and surreptitious share; but it does
not do to seem to know where it is. You are strictly forbidden to
rummage in it. Man in this way prohibits many pleasant things, and life
would be dull indeed and your days empty if you had to obey all the
orders of the pantry, the cellar and the dining-room. Luckily, he is
absent-minded and does not long remember the instructions which he
lavishes. He is easily deceived. You achieve your ends and do as you
please, provided you have the patience to await the hour. You are
subject to man, and he is the one god; but you none the less have your
own personal, exact and imperturbable morality, which proclaims aloud
that illicit acts become most lawful through the very fact that they are
performed without the master's knowledge. Therefore, let us close the
watchful eye that has seen. Let us pretend to sleep and to dream of the
moon....
Hark! A gentle tapping at the blue window that looks out on the garden!
What is it? Nothing; a bough of hawthorn that has come to see what we
are doing in the cool kitchen. Trees are inquisitive and often excited;
but they do not count, one has nothing to say to them, they are
irresponsible, they obey the wind, which has no principles.... But what
is that? I hear steps!... Up, ears open; nose on the alert!... It is the
baker coming up to the rails, while the postman is opening a little gate
in the hedge of lime-trees. They are friends; it is well; they bring
something: you can greet them and wag your tail discreetly twice or
thrice, with a patronizing smile....
Another alarm! What is it now? A carriage pulls up in front of the
steps. The problem is a complex one. Before all, it is of consequence to
heap copious insults on the horses, great, proud beasts, who make no
reply. Meantime, you examine out of the corner of your eye the persons
alighting. They are well-clad and seem full of confidence. They are
probably going to sit at the table of the gods. The proper thing is to
bark without acrimony, with a shade of respect, so as to show that you
are doing your duty, but that you are doing it with intelligence.
Nevertheless, you cherish a lurking suspicion and, behind the guests'
backs, stealthily, you sniff the air persistently and in a knowing way,
in order to discern any hidden intentions.
But halting footsteps resound outside the kitchen. This time it is the
poor man dragging his crutch, the unmistakable enemy, the hereditary
enemy, the direct descendant of him who roamed outside the bone-crammed
cave which you suddenly see again in your racial memory. Drunk with
indignation, your bark broken, your teeth multiplied with hatred and
rage, you are about to seize the irreconcilable adversary by the
breeches, when the cook, armed with her broom, the ancillary and
forsworn sceptre, comes to protect the traitor, and you are obliged to
go back to your hole, where, with eyes filled with impotent and slanting
flames, you growl out frightful, but futile curses, thinking within
yourself that this is the end of all things, and that the human species
has lost its notion of justice and injustice....
Is that all? Not yet; for the smallest life is made up of innumerous
duties, and it is a long work to organize a happy existence upon the
borderland of two such different worlds as the world of beasts and the
world of men. How should we fare if we had to serve, while remaining
within our own sphere, a divinity, not an imaginary one, like to
ourselves, because the offspring of our own brain, but a god actually
visible, ever present, ever active and as foreign, as superior to our
being as we are to the dog?
We now, to return to Pelléas, know pretty well what to do and how to
behave on the master's premises. But the world does not end at the
house-door, and, beyond the walls and beyond the hedge, there is a
universe of which one has not the custody, where one is no longer at
home, where relations are changed. How are we to stand in the street, in
the fields, in the market-place, in the shops? In consequence of
difficult and delicate observations, we understand that we must take no
notice of passers-by; obey no calls but the master's; be polite, with
indifference, to strangers who pet us. Next, we must conscientiously
fulfil certain obligations of mysterious courtesy toward our brothers
the other dogs; respect chickens and ducks; not appear to remark the
cakes at the pastry-cooks, which spread themselves insolently within
reach of the tongue; show to the cats, who, on the steps of the houses,
provoke us by hideous grimaces, a silent contempt, but one that will not
forget; and remember that it is lawful and even commendable to chase and
strangle mice, rats, wild rabbits and, generally speaking, all animals
(we learn to know them by secret marks) that have not yet made their
peace with mankind.
All this and so much more!... Was it surprising that Pelléas often
appeared pensive in the face of those numberless problems, and that his
humble and gentle look was often so profound and grave, laden with cares
and full of unreadable questions?
Alas, he did not have time to finish the long and heavy task which
nature lays upon the instinct that rises in order to approach a brighter
region.... An ill of a mysterious character, which seems specially to
punish the only animal that succeeds in leaving the circle in which it
is born; an indefinite ill that carries off hundreds of intelligent
little dogs, came to put an end to the destiny and the happy education
of Pelléas. And now all those efforts to achieve a little more light;
all that ardour in loving, that courage in understanding; all that
affectionate gaiety and innocent fawning; all those kind and devoted
looks, which turned to man to ask for his assistance against unjust
death; all those flickering gleams which came from the profound abyss of
a world that is no longer ours; all those nearly human little habits lie
sadly in the cold ground, under a flowering elder-tree, in a corner of
the garden.