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BASHAN AND I
This is perhaps the finest study of the mind of a dog ever written.
The author is a famous Austrian novelist, a great stylist, and a
man of extreme delicacy and subtlety of mind. He studies Bashan
with such insight, and describes what he learnt with such art, that
one feels that no one can ever again penetrate more deeply into
that charming, wistful mystery, the mind of a dog, and his feeling
towards mankind.
BASHAN AND I
by
THOMAS MANN
Author of “The Buddenbrooks,” “Death in Venice,” “His Royal Highness,”
“Tonio Kröger,” “Frederick and the Great Coalition,” etc.
_Translated by_
HERMAN GEORGE SCHEFFAUER
LONDON: 48 PALL MALL
W. COLLINS SONS & CO. LTD.
Copyright, 1923
_Manufactured in Great Britain_
FOREWORD
It was during the war that Thomas Mann, one of the great modern
stylists, wrote this simple little idyll as a refuge and relief.
It was a flight from the hideous realities of the world to the
deeper realities of Nature, from the hate and inhumanity of man to
the devotion and lovableness of the brute. This delectable symphony
of human and canine psychology, of love of nature and of pensive
humour, struck the true note of universality, a document packed
with greater potencies in this direction than the deliberate,
idealistic manifestos of the pacifists. It is for these reasons
that the book has acquired a permanent charm, value, and
significance, not only beyond the confines of the war and the
confines of the author’s own land and language, but also beyond
those of the period.
In every land there still exists the same friendly and primitive
relation between man and the dog, brought to its fullest expression
of strength and beauty in the environment of the green world, rural
or suburban.
Simple and unpretentious as a statement by Francis d’Assisi, yet
full of a gentle modern sophistication and humour, this little work
will bring delight and refreshment to all who seek flight from the
heavy-laden hour. It is, moreover, one of the most subtle and
penetrating studies of the psychology of the dog that has ever been
written—tender yet unsentimental, realistic and full of the detail
of masterly observation and description, yet in its final form and
precipitation a work of exquisite literary art.
H. G. S.
CONTENTS
CHAP.
I. BASHAN PUTS IN HIS APPEARANCE
II. HOW WE ACQUIRED BASHAN
III. A FEW ITEMS REGARDING BASHAN’S CHARACTER AND MANNER OF LIFE
IV. THE HUNTING-GROUNDS
V. THE CHASE
BASHAN PUTS IN HIS APPEARANCE
CHAPTER I
BASHAN PUTS IN HIS APPEARANCE
When spring, which all men agree is the fairest season of the year,
comes round again and happens to do honour to its name, I love to
go for half an hour’s stroll in the open air before breakfast. I
take this stroll whenever the early chorus of the birds has
succeeded in rousing me betimes—because I had been wise enough to
terminate the preceding day at a seemly hour. And then I go
walking—hatless—in the spacious avenue in front of my house, and
sometimes in the parks which are more distant. Before I capitulate
to the day’s work, I long to draw a few draughts of young morning
air and to taste the joy of the pure early freshness of things.
Standing on the steps which lead down from my front door, I give
a whistle. This whistle consists of two tones, a base tone and a
deeper quarter-tone—as though I were beginning the first notes of
the second phrase of Schubert’s unfinished symphony, a signal which
may be regarded as equal in tonal value to a name of two syllables.
The very next moment, as I go on towards the garden gate, a sound
is heard in the distance, a sound at first almost inaudible, then
growing rapidly nearer and clearer—a sound such as might ensue if
a metal tag were to be set clinking against the brass trimmings of
a leather collar. Then, as I turn round, I see Bashan curving in
swift career around the corner of the house and heading for me full
tilt as though he intended to knock me over. His efforts cause him
to shorten his underlip a bit, so that two or three of his lower
front teeth are laid bare. How splendidly they gleam in the early
sun!
Bashan comes straight from his kennel. This is situated behind the
house under the floor of the veranda, which is supported on pillars.
It is probable that, after a night of divers and unknown adventures,
he had been enjoying a short morning doze in this kennel, until my
two-syllabic whistle roused him to swift activity. This kennel or
miniature hut is equipped with curtains made of coarse material,
and is lined with straw. Thus it chances that a stray straw or two
may be clinging to Bashan’s coat—already rather ruffled up from
his lying and stretching—or that one of these refractory straws
may even be left sticking between his toes. This is a vision which
always reminds me of the old Count Moor in Schiller’s _Robbers_—as
I once saw him in a most vivid and imaginative production, coming
out of the Hunger Tower, with a straw between two of his toes.
Involuntarily I take up a flank position to the charging Bashan as
he comes storming onward—an attitude of defence—for his apparent
intention of lunging himself between my feet and laying me low is
most amazingly deceptive. But always at the last moment and just
before the collision, he manages to put on the brakes and to bring
himself to—something which testifies to his physical as well as
his mental self-control. And now—without uttering a sound—for
Bashan makes but scant use of his sonorous and expressive voice—he
begins to carry out a confused dance of welcome and salutation all
about me, a dance consisting of rapid tramplings, of prodigious
waggings—waggings which are not limited to that member which is
intended for their proper expression—but which demand tribute of
his entire hindquarters up to his very ribs, furthermore an annular
contraction of his body, as well as darting, far-flung leaps into
the air, also rotations about his own axis—performances which,
strange to say, he endeavours to hide from my gaze, for whenever
I turn towards him, he transfers them to the other side. The very
moment, however, I bend down and stretch out my hand, he is brought
suddenly with a single leap to my side. There he stands, like a
statue, with his shoulder-blade pressing against my shinbone. He
stands aslant, with his strong paws braced against the ground, his
face uplifted towards mine, so that he peers into my eyes from
below and in a reversed direction. His stillness whilst I pat his
shoulder and mutter friendly words, breathes forth the same
concentration and emotion as the preceding delirium.
He is a short-haired setter—if you will not take this designation
too sternly and strictly, but with a grain of salt. For Bashan
cannot really claim to be a setter such as are described in books—a
setter in accordance with the most meticulous laws and decrees. He
is perhaps a trifle too small for this—for he is somewhat under
the size of a full-fledged setter. And then his legs are not quite
straight, but somewhat disposed to bend outward, a condition of
things which would also be scarcely in accordance with the ideal
of a Simon-pure breed.
The slight disposition to dewlaps or “wattles,” that is, to those
folds of skin about the neck which are capable of lending a dog
such a dignified expression, becomes him admirably, though it is
certain that this feature would also be objected to as a flaw by
implacable experts on breeding, for I am told that in this species
of dog the skin should lie close and firm about the throat.
Bashan’s colouring is very beautiful. His coat is a rusty brown in
the ground colour, striped with black. But there are also
considerable mixtures of white. These predominate on the chest,
the paws, and the belly. His entire nose, which is very short,
seems to be painted black. This black and rusty brown makes a
pretty velvety pattern on his broad skull as well as on his cool
ear-laps. One of his most edifying external features is the whorl,
tuft or tassel into which the white hair on his chest twists itself
and which sticks out like the spike on certain ancient armour. To
be sure, one of his rather arbitrary glories—the colour of his
hair—might also appear a dubious point to those who rate racial
laws higher than the values of personality. It is possible that
the classic setter should be monochrome or decorated with shaded
or toned spots, and not, like Bashan, with tiger-like stripes. But
the most emphatic warning against classifying Bashan in any rigid
or iron-clad category, is a certain drooping manner of the hirsute
appendages about the corners of his mouth and the underside of his
jaws, features which might not incorrectly be designated as a kind
of bristling moustache and goatee—features which, if you will rivet
your eye upon them from near or far, will remind you of a _griffon_
or an Airedale terrier!
But what odds?—setter or pointer or terrier—Bashan is a fine and
handsome animal. Look at him as he leans rigidly against my knee
and looks up at me with a profound and concentrated devotion! His
eye, ah, his eye! is beautiful, soft, and wise, even though a
trifle glassy and protuberant. The iris is a rusty brown—of the
same colour as his coat, though it forms only a small ring in
consequence of the tremendous expanse of the black mirrors of the
pupils. On the outer periphery the colour blends into the white of
the eye, swimming in it, as it were. The expression of his face,
an expression of reasonable cheerfulness, proclaims the fine
masculinity of his moral nature, which is reflected physically in
the structure of his body. The vaulted chest, beneath whose smooth,
supple, and clinging skin the ribs show powerfully, the drawn-in
haunches, the nervous, clear-veined legs, the strong and well-shaped
paws—all proclaim a brave heart and much virile virtue—proclaim
peasant blood—hunting blood. Yes, there can be no doubt of it—the
hunter and the tracker dominate prodigiously in Bashan’s education.
He is a bona-fide setter—if you must know—even though he may not
owe his existence to some snobbish bit of blue-blooded inbreeding.
And this perhaps is what I would imply by the rather confused and
unrelated words which I address to him whilst patting him on the
shoulder-blade.
He stands and stares, listening intently to the tone of my voice.
He finds that this tone is full of accents which decidedly approve
of his existence, something which I am at pains to emphasise in my
speech. And suddenly, with an upward lunge of the head and a swift
opening and shutting of his jaws, he makes a snap towards my face,
as though he intended to bite off my nose, a bit of pantomime that
is obviously meant to be an answer to my remarks and which
invariably throws me backward in a sudden recoil, laughing—as
Bashan well knows. He intends this to be a kind of air-kiss, half
tenderness, half mischievousness—a manœuvre which has been peculiar
to him from puppyhood on—I had never observed it in the case of
any of his predecessors. Moreover, he at once begs pardon for the
liberty he has taken by waggings, short abrupt bows and an
embarrassed air. And then we pass out of the garden-gate into the
open.
We are now invested with a sound of rushing and roaring as of the
sea. For my house fronts almost directly on the River Isar “rolling
rapidly” as in the famous lines by Campbell, and foaming over flat
terraces in its bed. We are separated from it only by the rows of
poplars, by a strip of fenced-in grass which is planted with young
maples and an elevated road which is fringed by great aspens,
giants which conduct themselves in the same bizarre manner as
willows and snow up the whole region with their white, seed-bearing
fluff at the beginning of June. Up river, towards the city, I see
a detachment of pioneers practising the building of a pontoon
bridge. The thudding of their heavy boots upon the boards and the
shouts of their officers echo across the stream. From the farther
bank there come sounds of industrial activity, for yonder, at some
distance down-stream from the house, there is a locomotive plant
working under increased pressure—in accordance with the times. The
tall windows of this great brick shed glow through the darkness at
all hours of the night. New and beautifully lacquered engines hurry
to and fro on their trial trips, a steam siren occasionally lets
its heady howl be heard, a dull, thunderous pother makes the air
quiver from time to time, and from the throats of several stacks
the smoke creams darkly forth. This, however, is driven away by a
kindly-disposed wind towards the distant tracts of woods, so that
it seldom rolls across the river. Thus in the suburban, semi-rural
solitude of this region, the whisperings of contemplative nature
mingle with those of human activity. Over all lies the blank-eyed
freshness of the morning hour.
According to the daylight-saving law, the time might be half-past
seven when I take my walk; in reality it is half-past six. With
arms crossed behind my back I stroll through the tender sunshine
down the poplar-lined avenue, barred by the long shadows of the
trees. From here I cannot see the river, but its broad and even
flow is audible. There is a soft whispering in the trees, the
penetrating twittering, fluting, chirping, and sob-like trill of
the songbirds fills the air. Under the moist blue heavens an
aeroplane coming from the east, a stark mechanical bird with a
roaring voice, now swelling, and now softly ebbing away, steers
its independent way across land and river, and Bashan delights my
eye with beautiful leaps at full length to and fro across the low
fence of the grass plot to the left.
Bashan is jumping because he actually knows that I take pleasure
in his jumping. Often by means of calls and knockings upon the
fence, have I encouraged him in it and praised him when he had
fulfilled my wishes. And now, too, he comes after almost every jump
so that I may tell him that he is a daring and elegant fence-vaulter,
at which he also ventures a jump or two towards my face and
beslobbers my thrust-out, defensive arm with the slaver of his
mouth. These exercises, however, he likewise intends to be a kind
of gymnastic morning toilet, for he smooths his ruffled coat by
means of these athletic movements and rids himself of the straws
which had disfigured it.
It is good thus to go walking in the morning, the senses rejuvenated,
the spirit purged by the healing bath and long Lethean draught of
the night. You look upon the day that lies before you, regard it
with strong, serene confidence, but you hesitate lazily to begin
it—you are master of an unusually free and unburdened span of time
lying between the dream and the day, your reward for the good use
you have made of your time. The illusion that you are leading a
life that is constant, simple, undissipated and benignly
introspective, the illusion that you belong utterly to yourself,
renders you happy. Man is disposed to regard his case or condition
of the moment, be this glad or troubled, peaceful or passionate,
for the true, essential, and permanent aspect of his life, and
above all is in fancy inclined to elevate every happy _ex tempore_
to a radiant rule and an unbreakable habit, whereas he is really
condemned to live by improvisation, from hand to mouth, so to
speak.
So, drawing in deep breaths of the morning air, you believe in your
freedom and in your worth, though you ought to be aware, and at
heart _are_ aware, that the world is holding its snares ready to
entangle you in them, and that in all probability you will again
be lying in bed until nine to-morrow morning, because you had got
into it at two the night before, heated, befogged, and full of
passionate debate. . . . Well, so be it. To-day you are the man of
sobriety and the dew-clad early hour, the right royal lord of that
mad hunter yonder who is just making another jump across the fence
out of sheer joy that you are apparently content to live this day
with him and not waste it upon the world you have left behind you.
We follow the tree-lined avenue for about five minutes, to that
point where it ceases to be a road and becomes a coarse desert of
gravel parallel to the course of the river. We turn our backs upon
this and strike into a broad, finely-gravelled street which, like
the poplar-lined road, is equipped with a cycle-path, but is still
void of houses. This leads to the right, between low-lying
allotments of wooded land, towards the declivity which bounds our
river-banks—Bashan’s field of action towards the east.
We cross another street of an equally futuristic nature, which runs
openly between the woods and the meadows, and which, farther up in
the direction of the city and the tram-stop, is lined with a
compact mass of flats. A slanting pebble path leads us to a prettily
arranged dingle, almost like a _kurgarten_ to the eye, but void of
all humanity, like the entire district at this hour. There are
benches along the rounded walks—which enlarge themselves here and
there to _rondels_ or to trim playgrounds for the children and to
spacious planes of grass on which are growing old and well-formed
trees with deep pendant crowns, revealing only a short stretch of
trunk above the grass. There are elms, beeches, limes, and silvery
willows in parklike groups. I find great pleasure in this
carefully-groomed park, in which I could not wander more undisturbed,
if it were my own. It is perfect and complete. The gravel paths
which curve down and around the gentle, sloping lawns, are even
equipped with stone gutters. And there are far and pleasing glimpses
between all this greenery, the architecture of a few villas which
peer in from both sides and form the background.
Here for a little while, I stroll to and fro upon the walks, whilst
Bashan, his body inclined in a centrifugal plane, and drunk with
joy of the fetterless unlimited space about him, executes gallopades
criss and cross and head over heels upon the smooth grassy surfaces.
Or else with barkings wherein indignation and pleasure mix and
mingle, he pursues some bird, which, either bewitched by fear or
out of sheer mischief, flutters along always a few inches in front
of his open jaws. But no sooner do I sit down upon a bench than he
comes and takes up a position on my foot. It is one of the immutable
laws of his life that he will run about only when I myself am in
motion, and that as soon as I sit down he too should become
inactive. The necessity for this is not quite obvious, but to
Bashan it is as the laws of the Medes and Persians.
It is quaint, cosy, and amusing to feel him sitting upon my foot
and penetrating it with the feverish glow of his body. A sense of
gaiety and sympathy fills my bosom, as always when I am abandoned
to him and to his idea of things. His manner of sitting is a bit
peasant-like, a bit uncouth—with his shoulder-blades turned outward
and his paws turned in, irregularly. In this position his figure
appears smaller and stockier than it really is, and the white whorl
of hair upon his chest is thrust into comic prominence. But his
head is thrown back in the most dignified manner and redeems his
disregard for a fine pose by virtue of the intense concentrated
attention it displays.
It is so quiet that both of us remain absolutely still. The rushing
of the water reaches us only in a subdued murmur. Under such
conditions the tiny secret activities in our immediate world take
on a particular importance and preoccupy the senses,—the brief
rustling of a lizard, the note of a bird, the burrowing of a mole
in the ground. Bashan’s ears are erected, in so far as the muscular
structure of flapping ears admits of this. He cocks his head in
order to intensify his sense of hearing. And the nostrils of his
moist black nose are in incessant and sensitive motion, responsive
to innumerable subtle reactions.
He then lies down once more, being careful, however, to maintain
his contact with my foot. He is lying in a profile position, in
the ancient, well-proportioned, animalistic, idol-like attitude of
the sphinx, with elevated head and breast, his thighs pressed close
to his body, his paws extended in front of him. He is overheated,
so he opens his jaws, a manœuvre which causes the concentrated
cleverness of his expression to pass into the purely bestial. His
eyes twinkle and narrow to mere slits, and between his white and
strong triangular teeth a long, rose-red tongue lolls forth.
HOW WE ACQUIRED BASHAN