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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 offense, 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 practice 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 sleep 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 & mdash; peaches, melons, grapes & mdash; 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 cramped 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 their
reconcilable
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 housed, 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
fulfill
certain obligations of mysterious courtesy toward our brothers the
other
dogs; respect chickens and ducks; not appear to remark the cakes at the
pastry cook's, 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.
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