I
He belonged to no one, he had no name of his own, and none could say
where he spent the long, frosty winter, or how he was fed. The house
dogs hungry as himself, but proud and strong from the consciousness of
belonging to a house, would chase him away from the warm cottages. When
driven by hunger or an instinctive need of company, he showed himself
in the street, the boys pelted him with stones and sticks, while the
grown-ups gave a merry whoop, or a terribly piercing whistle.
Distraught with fear he would dart about from side to side, and
stumbling against the fences and people’s legs, would run as as fast as
he could to the end of the village, and hide himself in the depths of a
large garden in a place known only to himself. There he would lick his
bruises and wounds, and in solitude heap up terror and malice.
Once only had he been pitied and petted. This was by a peasant, a
drunkard, who was returning from the public house. Just then he loved
all things, and pitied all, and said something in his beard about kind
people, and the trust he himself put in kind people. He pitied even the
dirty, unlovely dog, on which by chance his drunken, aimless glance had
fallen.
“Doggie,” said he, calling it by a name common to all dogs; “Doggie,
come here, don’t be afraid.”
Doggie wanted very much to come. He wagged his tail, but could not make
up his mind. The peasant patted his knee with his hand, and repeated
reassuringly:
“Come along, then, silly. I swear I won’t hurt you.”
But while the dog was hesitating, wagging its tail more and more
energetically, and advancing with short steps, the humour of the
drunkard changed. He recalled all the insults that had been heaped on
him by kind people, and felt angry and dully malicious, so that when
Doggie lay on his back before him, he gave him a vicious kick in the
side with the toe of his heavy boot.
“Garn! Dirty! Where are you coming to!”
The dog began to whimper, more from surprise and the insult, than from
pain, and the peasant staggered home, where he gave his wife a savage
beating, and tore to pieces a new kerchief which he had bought for her
as a present the week before.
From this time forth the dog ceased to trust people who wished to pet
it, and either put his tail between his legs and ran away, or sometimes
would fly at them angrily and try to bite them, until they succeeded in
driving him away with stones or a stick. For one winter he had taken up
his abode under the verandah of an unoccupied bungalow which was
without a caretaker, and took care of it for nothing. By night he ran
about the streets and barked till he was hoarse, and long after he had
lain himself down in his place, he would keep up an angry growl, but
beneath the anger there was apparent a certain amount of content, and
even pride, in himself.
The winter nights dragged themselves out slowly, and the black windows
of the empty bungalow gazed grimly on the motionless, icy garden.
Sometimes blue lights seemed to kindle in them, at others a falling
star would be reflected in the panes, or again the sharp-horned moon
would throw on them its timid ray.