Do not tell me dogs cannot talk. I know better. I saw it all myself. It
was at Sterzing, that most picturesque of all the Tyrolean villages on the
Italian slope of the Brenner, with its long, single street, zigzagged like
a straggling path in the snow,--perhaps it was laid out in that way,--and
its little open square, with shrine and rude stone fountain, surrounded by
women in short skirts and hobnailed shoes, dipping their buckets. On both
sides of this street ran queer arcades sheltering shops, their doorways
piled with cheap stuffs, fruit, farm implements, and the like, and at the
far end, it was almost the last house in the town, stood the old inn,
where you breakfast. Such an old, old inn! with swinging sign framed by
fantastic iron work, and decorated with overflows of foaming ale in green
mugs, crossed clay pipes, and little round dabs of yellow-brown cakes.
There was a great archway, too, wide and high, with enormous, barn-like
doors fronting on this straggling, zigzag, sabot-trodden street. Under
this a cobble-stone pavement led to the door of the coffee-room and out to
the stable beyond. These barn-like doors keep out the driving snows and
the whirls of sleet and rain, and are slammed to behind horse, sleigh, and
all, if not in the face, certainly in the very teeth of the winter gale,
while the traveler disentangles his half-frozen legs at his leisure,
almost within sight of the blazing fire of the coffee-room within.
Under this great archway, then, against one of these doors, his big paws
just inside the shadow line,--for it was not winter, but a brilliant
summer morning, the grass all dusted with powdered diamonds, the sky a
turquoise, the air a joy,--under this archway, I say, sat a big St.
Bernard dog, squat on his haunches, his head well up, like a grenadier on
guard. His eyes commanded the approaches down the road, up the road, and
across the street; taking in the passing peddler with the tinware, and the
girl with a basket strapped to her back, her fingers knitting for dear
life, not to mention so unimportant an object as myself swinging down the
road, my iron-shod alpenstock hammering the cobbles.
He made no objection to my entering, neither did he receive me with any
show of welcome. There was no bounding forward, no wagging of the tail, no
aimless walking around for a moment, and settling down in another spot;
nor was there any sudden growl or forbidding look in the eye. None of
these things occurred to him, for none of these things was part of his
duty. The landlord would do the welcoming, the blue-shirted porter take my
knapsack and show me the way to the coffee-room. His business was to sit
still and guard that archway. Paying guests, and those known to the
family,--yes! But stray mountain goats, chickens, inquisitive, pushing
peddlers, pigs, and wandering dogs,--well, he would look out for these.
While the cutlets and coffee were being fried and boiled, I dragged a
chair across the road and tilted it back out of the sun against the wall
of a house. I, too, commanded a view down past the blacksmith shop, where
they were heating a huge iron tire to clap on the hind wheel of a
diligence, and up the street as far as the little square where the women
were still clattering about on the cobbles, their buckets on their
shoulders. This is how I happened to be watching the dog.
The more I looked at him, the more strongly did his personality impress
me. The exceeding gravity of his demeanor! The dignified attitude! The
quiet, silent reserve! The way he looked at you from under his eyebrows,
not eagerly, nor furtively, but with a self-possessed, competent air,
quite like a captain of a Cunarder scanning a horizon from the bridge, or
a French gendarme, watching the shifting crowds from one of the little
stone circles anchored out in the rush of the boulevards,--a look of
authority backed by a sense of unlimited power. Then, too, there was such
a dignified cut to his hairy chops as they drooped over his teeth beneath
his black, stubby nose. His ears rose and fell easily, without undue haste
or excitement when the sound of horses' hoofs put him on his guard, or a
goat wandered too near. Yet one could see that he was not a meddlesome
dog, nor a snarler, no running out and giving tongue at each passing
object, not that kind of a dog at all! He was just a plain, substantial,
well-mannered, dignified, self-respecting St. Bernard dog, who knew his
place and kept it, who knew his duty and did it, and who would no more
chase a cat than he would bite your legs in the dark. Put a cap with a
gold band on his head and he would really have made an ideal concierge.
Even without the band, he concentrated in his person all the superiority,
the repose, and exasperating reticence of that necessary concomitant of
Continental hotel life.
Suddenly I noticed a more eager expression on his face. One ear was
unfurled, like a flag, and almost run to the masthead; the head was turned
quickly down the road. A sound of wheels was heard below the shop. His
dogship straightened himself and stood on four legs, his tail wagging
slowly.
Another dog was coming.
A great Danish hound, with white eyes, black-and-tan ears, and tail as
long and smooth as a policeman's night-club;--one of those sleek and
shining dogs with powerful chest and knotted legs, a little bowed in
front, black lips, and dazzling, fang-like teeth. He was spattered with
brown spots, and sported a single white foot. Altogether, he was a dog of
quality, of ancestry, of a certain position in his own land,--one who had
clearly followed his master's mountain wagon to-day as much for love of
adventure as anything else. A dog of parts, too, who could perhaps, hunt
the wild boar, or give chase to the agile deer. He was certainly not an
inn dog. He was rather a palace dog, a chateau, or a shooting-box dog,
who, in his off moments, trotted behind hunting carts filled with guns,
sportsmen in knee-breeches, or in front of landaus when my lady went
an-airing.
And with all this, and quite naturally, he was a dog of breeding, who,
while he insisted on his own rights, respected those of others. I saw this
before he had spoken ten words to the concierge,--the St. Bernard dog, I
mean. For he did talk to him, and the conversation was just as plain to
me, tilted back against the wall, out of the sun, waiting for my cutlets
and coffee, as if I had been a dog myself, and understood each word of it.
First, he walked up sideways, his tail wagging and straight out, like a
patent towel-rack. Then he walked round the concierge, who followed his
movements with becoming interest, wagging his own tail, straightening his
forelegs, and sidling around him kindly, as befitted the stranger's rank
and quality, but with a certain dog-independence of manner, preserving his
own dignities while courteously passing the time of day, and intimating,
by certain twists of his tail, that he felt quite sure his excellency
would like the air and scenery the farther he got up the pass,--all
strange dogs did.
During this interchange of canine civilities, the landlord was helping out
the two men, the companions of the dog. One was round and pudgy, the other
lank and scrawny. Both were in knickerbockers, with green hats decorated
with cock feathers and edelweiss. The blue-shirted porter carried in the
bags and alpenstocks, closing the coffee-room door behind them.
Suddenly the strange dog, who had been beguiled by the courteous manner of
the concierge, realized that his master had disappeared. The man had been
hungry, no doubt, and half blinded by the glare of the sun. After the
manner of his kind, he had dived into this shelter without a word to the
dumb beast who had tramped behind his wheels, swallowing the dust his
horses kicked up.
When the strange dog realized this,--I saw the instant the idea entered
his mind, as I caught the sudden toss of the head,--he glanced quickly
about with that uneasy, anxious look that comes into the face of a dog
when he discovers that he is adrift in a strange place without his master.
What other face is so utterly miserable, and what eyes so pleading, the
tears just under the lids, as the lost dog's?
Then it was beautiful to see the St. Bernard. With a sudden twist of the
head he reassured the strange dog,--telling him, as plainly as could be,
not to worry, the gentlemen were only inside, and would be out after
breakfast. There was no mistaking what he said. It was done with a
peculiar curving of the neck, a reassuring wag of the tail, a glance
toward the coffee-room, and a few frolicsome, kittenish jumps, these last
plainly indicating that as for himself the occasion was one of great
hilarity, with absolutely no cause in it for anxiety. Then, if you could
have seen that anxious look fade away from the face of the strange dog,
the responsive, reciprocal wag of the night-club of a tail. If you could
have caught the sudden peace that came into his eyes, and have seen him as
he followed the concierge to the doorway, dropping his ears, and throwing
himself beside him, looking up into his face, his tongue out, panting
after the habit of his race, the white saliva dropping upon his paws.
Then followed a long talk, conducted in side glances, and punctuated with
the quiet laughs of more slappings of tails on the cobbles, as the
concierge listened to the adventures of the stranger, or matched them with
funny experiences of his own.
Here a whistle from the coffee-room window startled them. Even so rude a
being as a man is sometimes mindful of his dog. In an instant both
concierge and stranger were on their feet, the concierge ready for
whatever would turn up, the stranger trying to locate the sound and his
master. Another whistle, and he was off, bounding down the road, looking
wistfully at the windows, and rushing back bewildered. Suddenly it came to
him that the short cut to his master lay through the archway.
Just here there was a change in the manner of the concierge. It was not
gruff, nor savage, nor severe,--it was only firm and decided. With his
tail still wagging, showing his kindness and willingness to oblige, but
with spine rigid and hair bristling, he explained clearly and succinctly
to that strange dog how absolutely impossible it would be for him to
permit his crossing the archway. Up went the spine of the stranger, and
out went his tail like a bar of steel, the feet braced, and the whole body
taut as standing rigging. But the concierge kept on wagging his tail,
though his hair still bristled,--saying as plainly as he could:--
"My dear sir, do not blame me. I assure you that nothing in the world
would give me more pleasure than to throw the whole house open to you; but
consider for a moment. My master puts me here to see that nobody enters
the inn but those whom he wishes to see, and that all other live-stock,
especially dogs, shall on no account be admitted." (This with head bent on
one side and neck arched.) "Now, while I have the most distinguished
consideration for your dogship" (tail wagging violently), "and would
gladly oblige you, you must see that my honor is at stake" (spine more
rigid), "and I feel assured that under the circumstances you will not
press a request (low growl) which you must know would be impossible for me
to grant."
And the strange dog, gentleman as he was, expressed himself as entirely
satisfied with the very free and generous explanation. With tail wagging
more violently than ever, he assured the concierge that he understood his
position exactly. Then wheeling suddenly, he bounded down the road. Though
convinced, he was still anxious.
Then the concierge gravely settled himself once more on his haunches in
his customary place, his eyes commanding the view up and down and across
the road, where I sat still tilted back in my chair waiting for my
cutlets, his whole body at rest, his face expressive of that quiet content
which comes from a sense of duties performed and honor untarnished.
But the stranger had duties, too; he must answer the whistle, and find his
master. His search down the road being fruitless, he rushed back to the
concierge, looking up into his face, his eyes restless and anxious.
"If it were inconsistent with his honor to permit him to cross the
threshold, was there any other way he could get into the coffee-room?"
This last with a low whine of uneasiness, and a toss of head.
"Yes, certainly," jumping to his feet, "why had he not mentioned it
before? It would give him very great pleasure to show him the way to the
side entrance." And the St. Bernard, everything wagging now, walked with
the stranger to the corner, stopping stock still to point with his nose to
the closed door.
Then the stranger bounded down with a scurry and plunge, nervously edging
up to the door, wagging his tail, and with a low, anxious whine springing
one side and another, his paws now on the sill, his nose at the crack,
until the door was finally opened, and he dashed inside.
What happened in the coffee-room I do not know, for I could not see. I am
willing, however, to wager that a dog of his loyalty, dignity, and sense
of duty did just what a dog of quality would do. No awkward springing at
his master's chest with his dusty paws leaving marks on his vest front; no
rushing around chairs and tables in mad joy at being let in, alarming
waitresses and children. Only a low whine and gurgle of delight, a rubbing
of his cold nose against his master's hand, a low, earnest look up into
his face, so frank, so trustful, a look that carried no reproach for being
shut out, and only gratitude for being let in.
A moment more, and he was outside again, head in air, looking for his
friend. Then a dash, and he was around by the archway, licking the
concierge in the face, biting his neck, rubbing his nose under his
forelegs, saying over and over again how deeply he thanked him,--how glad
and proud he was of his acquaintance, and how delighted he would be if he
came down to Vienna, or Milan, or wherever he did come from, so that he
might return his courtesies in some way, and make his stay pleasant.
Just here the landlord called out that the cutlets and coffee were ready,
and, man-like, I went in to breakfast.