The friend who presented me with him had given him, perhaps[Pg 4] by antiphrasis, the startling name of Pelléas. Why rechristen him? For how can a poor dog, loving, devoted1, faithful, disgrace the name of a man or an imaginary hero?
Pelléas had a great bulging2, powerful forehead, like that of Socrates or Verlaine; and, under a little black nose, blunt as a churlish assent3, a pair of large hanging and symmetrical chops, which made his head a sort of massive, obstinate4, pensive5 and[Pg 5] three-cornered menace. He was beautiful after the manner of a beautiful, natural monster that has complied strictly6 with the laws of its species. And what a smile of attentive7 obligingness, of incorruptible innocence8, of affectionate submission9, of boundless10 gratitude11 and total self-abandonment lit up, at the least caress12, that adorable mask of ugliness! Whence exactly did that smile emanate13? From the ingenuous14 and melting eyes? From the[Pg 6] ears pricked15 up to catch the words of man? From the forehead that unwrinkled to appreciate and love, or from the stump16 of a tail that wriggled17 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 [Pg 7]and not yet stiffened18, 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[Pg 8] 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 humble19 dog has to unravel20 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[Pg 9] 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 wholesome21 couch-grass. It was a question, also, of taking promiscuously[Pg 10] 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[Pg 11] 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 sniff22 at them[Pg 12] a little curiously23 without taking offence, 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 dwelling24 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 abide25 in it because of the cook, who is a considerable,[Pg 13] 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, haughty26 and heartless, remain deaf to all entreaties27; to admit, once and for all, that the essential good things of life, the indisputable blessings28, generally imprisoned29 in pots and stewpans, are almost always inaccessible30; to know how to look at them with laboriously-acquired indifference31[Pg 14] and to practise 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 derisive32 chairs on which one is forbidden to sleep; of the plates and dishes [Pg 15]that are empty by the time that one can get at them; of the lamp that drives away the dark?... How many orders, dangers, prohibitions33, problems, enigmas34 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[Pg 16] time and the race, invade the blood, the muscles and the nerves and suddenly assert themselves more irresistibly35 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 retired36 to your hole, surrounded by the darkness, the silence and the formidable solitude37 of the night. All is sleep[Pg 17] 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 foes38 who hover39 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 imposing40 silence of the[Pg 18] 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[Pg 19] allow yourself to be tempted41 or bribed42 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,[Pg 20] we happen to punish him for his untimely zeal43, 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 fens44, he continues faithful to it in spite of us and remains45 nearer to the eternal truth of life, which is full of snares46 and hostile forces.[Pg 21]
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 caverns47 and the great deserted48 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....[Pg 22] You have to acquaint yourself with a civilization of which you disapprove
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