OUR DOGS.
We have sometimes been accused of disliking dogs. This at first sight
does not seem to be a very grave charge, still, we feel bound to justify
ourselves, since the accusation carries with it a certain amount of
disgrace. People who prefer cats to dogs, pass in the eyes of most
persons as necessarily false, voluptuous and cruel; while dog-lovers are
supposed to be invariably pure, loyal, open characters, gifted, in
short, with all the attributes which are popularly ascribed to the
canine race. We could in no wise detract from the merits of Medor, Turc,
Merot, and other equally amiable beasts, and we are quite ready to agree
with the maxim formulated by Charlet: “The best thing which a man
possesses is his dog.” We have owned many, we still own some; and if our
calumniators will kindly call at our residence they will be greeted by
the shrill and furious barking of a small Cuban lap-dog, and by a large
greyhound who will take much pleasure in biting their ankles.
[Illustration: OUR DOGS.]
Still, we will not deny that our liking for dogs has a strong admixture
of fear. These animals, excellent, faithful, devoted as they are, may at
any moment run mad, and in that condition they are as dangerous and
deadly as the viper, the asp, the bell-serpent, or the cobra di capello.
This thought somewhat moderates our raptures over them. But, apart from
this, dogs somehow produce a disquieting effect upon us. Their eyes are
so deep, so intense; they place themselves before us with such an
interrogative air that it is almost embarrassing. Goethe did not like,
any more than ourselves, this gaze which seems to assimilate a man’s
most secret thoughts. He would drive the poor animals away, and say to
them “You have done your best: you shall not devour my identity.”
The Pharamond of our canine dynasty was named Luther. He was a large
white pointer with red spots, and handsome brown ears, who, having lost
his master, and searched after him vainly for a long time, domesticated
himself in the house of our parents, who then lived at Passy. Having no
partridges to hunt he gave himself up to the pursuit of rats, in which
pursuit he became as proficient as a Scotch terrier. At that time we
were living in a room in that blind alley of Doyenné, no longer in
existence, where Gérard de Nerval, Arsène Houssaye, and Camille Rogier
had established themselves as the centres of a picturesque little
Bohemian circle of artists and literary men, whose freaks and
eccentricities have been too often described elsewhere to need further
mention now. There, in the very midst of the Carrousel, we lived a life
as free and as lonely as if in some desert isle of the ocean,—among
nettles and blocks of stone, under the shadow of the Louvre, and close
to the ruins of an old church, whose crumbling arches presented the most
picturesque effects by moonlight. Luther, with whom we had always been
on friendly terms, seeing us thus take our final flight from the family
nest, assumed the task of making us a daily visit. He left Passy each
morning at some time unknown, and, following the Quai de Billy and the
Cours-la-Reine, arrived about eight o’clock, just as we were waking up.
Scratching at the door, which was always opened for him, he threw
himself upon us with a joyous yelping, put his fore-paws on our knees,
received with great simplicity and modesty the caresses which his good
conduct had earned, made a rapid inspection of the room, and then set
out on his homeward journey. Arrived at Passy, he would at once run to
our mother, wagging his tail and uttering little barks which said as
plainly as words, “Do not be anxious, I have seen the young master, and
he is well.” Having thus given a report of his self-imposed mission he
would lap a bowl full of water, eat his porridge, and, stretching
himself near the easy chair of mamma, for whom he had a particular
affection, would refresh himself by an hour or two of sleep after the
long journey that he had taken.
Those who hold that animals do not think and are incapable of putting
two ideas together, may explain as best they can this daily visit which
kept up the family relations, and gave to the old birds in the nest
regular news of their recently escaped fledgling.
Poor Luther! he had a melancholy end. He gradually became silent and
morose, and one day fled from the house, apparently because he felt
himself attacked by hydrophobia and feared that he might be led to bite
his master. We have every reason to suppose that he was killed as a mad
dog. At all events we never saw him again.
After rather a long interval, a new dog was installed at the house—a dog
called Zamore. He was half mongrel, half spaniel, small in size, and
with a black coat, excepting for a few spots of flame color beneath his
eyebrows and some tones of fawn color on the belly. He was, in short,
insignificant in appearance and rather ugly than pretty, but so far as
moral qualities are concerned he was really a remarkable dog. For women
he had an absolute contempt; he would neither follow nor obey them, and
our mother and our sisters tried in vain to win from him the least
evidence of friendship or respect. He would loftily accept their
attentions and their tit-bits, but he never deigned to give them a word
of thanks in return. No barking for them, no drumming of his tail
against the floor, none of those endearments of which dogs are so
prodigal. Toward these he maintained always an attitude impassive and
impassible, crouching in the position of a sphinx, like some serious and
dignified personage who disdains to mix in a frivolous conversation.
The master he elected to serve was our father whom he recognized in the
head of the family and a man of weight and character. Zamore’s
tenderness, even for him, was of an austere and stoical sort, and never
expressed by merriment, or antics, or lickings of the tongue. But his
eyes were forever fixed on his master, his head turned to watch each
slightest movement, and everywhere he followed him, his nose close to
his master’s heel, never permitting himself to play the smallest prank,
or paying the least attention to any dog whom they met. This dear and
lamented father of ours was a great fisher before the Lord. The barbels
caught by him must have out-numbered the antelopes caught by Nimrod. It
could never be said of his fishing-rod that it was an instrument with a
hook at one end and a fool at the other, for he was a man full of wit
and intelligence, which, however, did not hinder his filling his
fish-basket every day. Zamore always accompanied him on these
excursions, and during those long nocturnal watchings, which are
necessary for the capture of such fish as only bite when the line
touches bottom, he would place himself close to the water’s edge and
seem to explore the darksome depths with his eyes, as if searching for
the prey. Though he now and then pricked up his ears at those numberless
vague and distant sounds which are audible even in the deepest silence
of the night, he never uttered a bark, for he perfectly understood that
it is indispensable for a fisherman’s dog to be dumb. Diana might lift
her alabaster brow above the horizon and the river give back the
reflection; it was all in vain; not even at the moon would Zamore bark,
though such midnight bayings are among the chief pleasures of animals of
his species. Only when the bell on the fishing-line tinkled did he
indulge in a yelp, for then he knew that the prey was secured, and he
took intense interest in those after manœuvres which are requisite for
landing a barbel of three or four pounds weight.
Who could have guessed that under this calm and self-contained exterior,
so philosophical, so far removed from all frivolity, lurked one
imperious and extravagant passion, in utter contradiction to the
apparent character, moral and physical, of this animal so serious and so
thoughtful that one would have almost called him sad?
What, you say, has this admirable Zamore then some hidden vice? No. Was
he a thief, a libertine? No. Had he a taste for brandy-cherries? No. Did
he bite? Ten thousand times, no! Zamore’s passion was for dancing. In
him, a true Terpsichorean artist was lost to the world.
This vocation was discovered in the following manner. One day there
appeared in the public square at Passy a grayish ass, one of those
luckless donkeys belonging to a juggler, which Decamps and Fouquet have
so successfully painted. Two panniers, balanced across his galled back,
held a troop of trained dogs, costumed according to sex as marquises,
troubadours, Turks, Swiss shepherds, and queens of Golconda. The
show-man lifted out the dogs, cracked his whip, and instantly all the
actors exchanged the horizontal position for the perpendicular, and
transformed themselves from quadrupeds into bipeds. A fife and a
tambourine sounded, and the ballet began.
Zamore, who was strolling gravely past, stopped short, astonished at the
spectacle. These gayly caparisoned dogs, with laced seams and clinking
ornaments, plumed hats and turbans on their heads, and such an odd
resemblance to men and women, seemed to him supernatural beings. Their
measured steps, their courtesies, their _pirouettes_ enchanted but did
not discourage him. Like Correggio before the pictures of Raphael, he
cried in the canine language, “Anch’io son pittore,” “I also am a
painter,” and, seized with noble emulation as the troop defiled before
him in a ladies’ chain, he raised himself on his hind legs which visibly
shook, and, to the vociferous delight of the bystanders, made a movement
to join them. But the show-man was not so much charmed as the
bystanders. He gave Zamore a sharp cut of his whip and drove him from
the circle, just as one might expel from the door of a theatre a
spectator who, during the progress of the play, took it into his head to
climb on to the stage and join in the ballet.
This public humiliation, however, did not deter Zamore from following
his vocation. He ran back to the house with his tail between his legs
and an air of deep thought. All that day he was more silent,
pre-occupied and morose than usual. That night our two little sisters
were roused from their sleep by a low, mysterious noise which seemed to
come from an unoccupied chamber next to their own, where Zamore was in
the habit of passing the night on an old arm-chair. The sound was a sort
of rhythmic stamping, which in the quiet of the night sounded louder
than it really was. At first the children thought that it must be the
mice giving a ball, but the steps and the jumps were too loud and heavy
for mice. At last the bravest of the two crept out of bed, half opened
the door, and peeped in. What did she see by the light of a struggling
moonbeam but Zamore, erect on his hind legs, beating time with his
fore-paws, and practising as in a dancing class the steps which he had
so much admired that morning in the street. Monsieur was studying his
lesson!
[Illustration: MONSIEUR WAS STUDYING HIS LESSON.]
This was not, as might be supposed, a random fancy, pursued for one
night only. Zamore persisted in his Terpsichorean aspirations, and in
time became an admirable dancer. Every day, as soon as the fife and the
tambourine began to sound, he ran to the square, glided between the legs
of the spectators, and with the deepest attention watched the trained
dogs going through with their exercises. Mindful, however, of that cut
of the whip, he never again tried to join in the dance, but, noting
carefully each step, each movement, each graceful attitude, rehearsed it
at night in the privacy of his own room,—while by day he maintained his
usual austerity of demeanor. After a time, to imitate no longer sufficed
him; he began to invent, to compose new steps, and we are bound to say
that few dogs have ever surpassed him in this noble accomplishment.
We ourselves, concealed behind the half-open door, have often watched
him at his practice. He put so much energy and fire into his exercise
that, morning after morning, the huge bowl of water set for his
refreshment in the corner of the room the night before would be found
drained of every drop.
At length the day came when, all his difficulties conquered, he felt
himself the equal of any four-legged dancer in creation, and now it
seemed only proper to remove the bushel which had hitherto obscured his
candle, and give the world the benefit of his talents.
[Illustration: WHEN PAYING LITTLE ATTENTIONS TO HIS LADY-LOVES HE STOOD
ALWAYS ON HIS HIND LEGS.]
The courtyard of the house was closed on one side by a grating which
had openings wide enough to allow of the passage of dogs of an
ordinary size. One morning fifteen or twenty such friends of
Zamore’s—connoisseurs, without doubt, to whom he had sent cards of
invitation for his debut in the choregraphic art—were noticed
assembling round a level square of earth (which the artist seemed to
have swept clean with his tail), and the performances commenced. The
audience was enthusiastic, and manifested its approbation with
bow-wows which sounded extremely like the “Bravos!” of opera-goers.
With the exception of one old water-spaniel of a muddy and degraded
appearance, who seemed an adverse critic, and yelped out something
about “sound traditions ignored and forgotten,” all united in
pronouncing Zamore the Vestris of dogs and the true genius of the
dance. A minuet, a jig, and a waltz _à deux temps_ were included in
the programme. Quite a number of two-legged spectators joined the
four-legged ones before the entertainment was concluded, and Zamore
had the honor and satisfaction of being applauded by the clapping of
human hands.
After this his habits became so entirely those of the dancer that, when
paying casual attentions to his lady-loves, he stood always on his hind
legs, making courteous little bows and turning out his toes like a
gallant marquis of the _ancien régime_; nothing was lacking but the
plumed opera-hat under the arm.
Except for these occasional interludes Zamore’s character was as
splenetic as that of other comic actors, and he took no share whatever
in the ordinary life of the house. He never stirred except when he saw
his master take his hat and cane, and he died finally of brain fever,
caused, as we supposed, by the over-exertion and excitement of learning
the _Schottische_, which just then came into fashion. From his grave
Zamore might say, like the Greek dancer in the epitaph, “Lie on me
lightly, earth, for I have very lightly weighed on thee.”
Some may ask why, with such remarkable talents, Zamore was not engaged
as one of the troupe of M. Corvi. Even then we had sufficient influence
as a critic to negotiate such an arrangement had it been desirable. But
Zamore would not leave his master; he sacrificed his self-love to his
love,—a devotion which one cannot hope very often to find among men.
Our dancer was replaced by a singer named Kobold,—a King Charles spaniel
of the purest breed, brought from the famous kennels of Lord Lauder.
Nothing earthly was ever so like a chimera as this droll little
creature, with his enormous, bulging forehead, his prominent eyes, his
nose which seemed broken off at the base, and his long ears which swept
the ground. Carried over to France, Kobold, who spoke only English,
seemed at first to be half-stupefied. The orders given were perfectly
unintelligible to him. Trained to obey “Go on,” “Come here,” he stood
motionless and perplexed at the sound of “Va” and “Va-t’en.”
It took him a year to learn the language of his new country well enough
to be able to join in conversation. Kobold was very sensitive to music,
and sang several little songs himself, though with a strong English
accent. The key-note was given him on the piano, he caught the exact
tone, and in a flute-like and sighing voice warbled passages which were
really musical, and bore no relation whatever to barkings or yelpings.
When we wanted him to begin again it was only necessary to say, “Sing a
little more,” and he at once recommenced the cadence. For a creature
brought up in the most delicate luxury, and with all the care which one
would naturally give to a tenor and a gentleman of distinction, Kobold
had the most singular tastes. He devoured earth like a Digger Indian;
and this habit, of which he could not be cured, brought on a disease of
which he died. He had a strong turn for grooms, horses, and stables in
general, and our ponies had no comrade more devoted than he. In fact, he
may be said to have divided his time between the box-stalls and the
piano.
From Kobold, the King Charles, we pass to Myrza, a small Cuban lap-dog,
who at one time had the honor to belong to Giula Grisi, from whom we
received her as a present. She is white as snow, especially when freshly
washed, and before she has had time to roll in the dust,—a mania which
some dogs share with a certain kind of dusty-winged birds. She is the
gentlest of animals, very demonstrative, and guileless as a dove.
Nothing can be droller than her shaggy head, her face composed of two
eyes as glittering as furniture nails, and a little nose which might
easily be mistaken for a Piedmont truffle. Long locks of hair, as curly
as Astrakan wool, fly about this nose in picturesque confusion,
sometimes getting into one eye, sometimes into the other,—the whole
making up the most whimsical countenance imaginable, as odd and as
unreal as the face of a chameleon.
In Myrza’s case nature has imitated art with such perfection that any
one would be ready to swear that she came straight from the show-case of
a toy-shop. With her blue collar, silver bell, and her hair of the
regulation frizz, she looks exactly like a pasteboard dog; and when she
barks, one instinctively examines her feet to see if there is not a tiny
squeaking-machine fastened under the paws.
Myrza, who spends three quarters of the day in sleep, so that life would
seem pretty much the same to her if she were in reality stuffed, and who
under ordinary circumstances is anything but bright, nevertheless gave
one day a proof of intelligence such as we have never known in any other
dog. Bonnegrace, who painted those portraits of Tchoumakoff and of M. E.
H.,—which were so much talked about when exhibited, had brought a
portrait for us to look at, painted after the style of Pagnest, which is
so full of vivid color and lifelike light and shadow. Although we have
always lived in such intimate relations with animals, and could cite
hundreds of instances in which cats, dogs, and birds have proved
themselves wise, philosophical, and ingenious, we are forced to admit
that the taste for art is totally lacking among them. We have never seen
an animal who took the slightest notice of a picture, and the story of
the birds who pecked at the grapes painted by Apelles has always
appeared to us a pure invention. The one essential distinction between
man and beast seems to be just this sense of art and feeling for
decoration. A dog would be as likely to put on earrings, as to waste
time over pictures.
Well, Myrza, catching sight of Bonnegrace’s portrait set up against the
wall, jumped from the stool where she was lying rolled up like a ball,
rushed to the canvas, and began to bark furiously, trying to bite the
intrusive stranger who had entered the room. Her surprise was extreme
when she recognized the fact that she had a flat surface to deal with,
on which her teeth made no impression, and which was only a deceitful
show. She smelt the picture, tried in vain to get behind the frame,
looked at us both with a questioning expression in her eyes, and then
went back to the stool and resumed her nap, taking no further trouble
about the gentleman in oil-colors. Her own countenance, meanwhile, will
not be lost to posterity, for a beautiful portrait of her is in
existence, painted by M. Victor Madarasz, an Hungarian artist.
We will conclude our chapter on dogs with the history of Dash. One day a
rag-and-bottle man stopped at our door in search of scraps of broken
glass and old bottles. In his cart was a puppy some three or four months
old, which he had been told to drown,—an order which troubled the honest
fellow, at whom the puppy was casting tender and supplicating looks, as
if he understood the situation of affairs. The reason of the severe
sentence passed on the poor brute was that one of his fore-paws was
broken.
Pity stirred in our heart, and we adopted the condemned victim on the
spot. A veterinary surgeon was sent for, who set the leg and put it in
splints; but Dash persisted in gnawing off the bandages, so that the
bones did not unite, and the paw remained dangling uselessly, like the
sleeve of a man who has lost his arm. This infirmity, however, did not
hinder Dash from being one of the gayest, liveliest, and most alert of
dogs; and he ran on three legs quite as fast as was desirable.
He was the commonest of street dogs, a veritable mongrel, on whose breed
Buffon himself would have been embarrassed to decide. He was ugliness
personified, but possessed an expressive face, which sparkled with
intelligence. Everything that was said to him he understood,—his
expression changing according as the words, spoken in the same tone of
voice, were flattering or abusive. He rolled his eyes, turned up his
chops, abandoned himself to unrestrained, nervous wriggles, or laughed,
showing a row of white teeth; and, in short, produced the most comical
effect, of which he was quite conscious. Very often he tried to speak.
With paws placed upon our knee, he would eye us with an intense look,
and begin a series of murmurs, sighs, and growls, so varied in
intonation that it was easy to see that they were parts of a regular
language. Now and then, in the midst of this conversation, Dash would
interject a sudden and noisy yelp. Then we would look severely at him,
and say: “That is barking, not talking. Can it be that after all you are
only an animal?” Whereupon Dash, much humiliated by the insinuation,
would recommence his vocalization, throwing into it a still more
pathetic expression. No one could doubt that at these times he was
giving an account of his misfortunes.
Dash adored sugar. He always came in with the coffee after dessert, and
went round the table begging a lump of sugar from each person with an
urgency which seldom failed of success. In the end he grew to consider
these benevolent gifts in the light of a regular tax, which he
rigorously exacted. This cur, in the body of a Thersites, carried the
soul of an Achilles. Disabled as he was, he constantly attacked, with
the frenzy of an heroic courage, dogs ten times as big as himself, and
was frightfully beaten. Like Don Quixote, the brave knight of La Mancha,
he set out in triumph, and came back in most piteous plight. Alas, he
fell a victim to this mistaken courage. He was brought home, a few
months since, torn to pieces by an amiable brute of a Newfoundland, who
the very next day broke the backbone of a greyhound.
The death of Dash was followed by all sorts of catastrophes. The
mistress of the house in which he had received his deathblow was burned
to death in her bed a few days after; and her husband, in trying to save
her, met with the same fate. It was not an expiation, it was only a
fatal coincidence,—for they were the best people in the world, loving
animals like Brahmins, and not in the least to blame for the sad fate of
our poor Dash.
We have now another dog, who is called Nero, but he is too recent an
acquisition to have a history.
In the next chapter we propose to give a chronicle of the different
chameleons, lizards, magpies, and other small creatures who have made
part of our household of pets.
N. B. Alas, Nero is dead! He was poisoned a day or two since as
thoroughly as if he had supped with the Borgias, and the first chapter
of his life begins and ends with an epitaph.