Birds and Beasts 3

Birds and Beasts 3

And bing! bang! bang! as his steed dashed by, with all the flash and

dazzle of red saddle braided with gold, scarlet bridle, and red, green,

blue spangles, shaking the boards, rattling the lustres, rustling the

curtain, to reiterated cries of “Hi! hip! hurrah, hurrah!” and the crack

of the whip going off like pistol-shots behind, Jack would fire off his

gun over and over again, till he was shrouded in a cloud of smoke,

through which he could be discerned still tireless, still indefatigable,

bestriding Murph in every possible position, now perched on the neck,

now on the crupper. He seemed made of iron, the frail little being!

Murph might prance and jib and shy, buck-jump and leap fences—nothing

could unseat Jack. The performance over, the latter would shake his

little head under its jockey-cap two or three times, by way of bow, and

so exit, as his friend the poodle gave one last tremendous bound that

carried him and his rider out of sight.

 

The enthusiasm of the spectators followed him behind the scenes, and the

floor trembled and shook under the drumming of heavy boots. The applause

grew deafening, and suddenly Jack and Murph made a final whirlwind dash

across the stage, executed a last frantic _fantasia_—and retired for

good and all.

 

 

X

 

But, alas! Murph was getting old. His exertions tired him dreadfully;

after each performance he had to be rubbed down and attended to, or he

would have lain moaning and groaning for an hour.

 

His master was sorry for him, and with deep regret—for he saw no glimpse

among his troupe of any talent to take the place of the “falling

star”—he set him to do his more quiet tricks—playing dominoes, finding

handkerchiefs, walking on bottles.

 

At the same time he resolved to try a young poodle to fill the hole in

the receipts his good, faithful Murph’s retirement was bound to make. He

trained the animal to run in circles, to leap through hoops, to clear

obstacles, and one fine day clapped Jack on his back.

 

Banco—that was the poodle’s name—had not gone three steps before he was

bitten, beaten, garrotted, and left blinded and bleeding. The master

punished Jack severely, and presently made a fresh attempt. But, no—Jack

_would_ not obey; he tore Banco’s ear in two, and then sprang from the

saddle and hid himself in a dark corner.

 

Much the same thing happened at every new trial. The whip was no sort of

use; Jack was not to be moved. At last, wearied out, the showman gave

in, and Jack and Murph remained inseparable, living and working together

as before.

 

One night Murph came in from his performance utterly worn out, his

tongue hanging out of his mouth and his strength exhausted; his midday

meal had proved indigestible, and, to cap all, the applause to-night had

been faint and feeble.

 

Ah! few of us know how actors live on that elusive thing, the favour of

the public, and what renewed force, when they are grown old and have one

foot in the grave already, what fresh vigour the smiles of a delighted

audience instil in their veins, when the blood is beginning to run

feeble!

 

No, the thankless audience did not for once acknowledge Murph as their

old favourite, the veteran of the boards, the good and gallant beast

that had so often been their darling and their delight. Under his

outward show of indifference Murph hid a vast fund of sensibility, and

the coldness of his audience cut him to the quick, coming so soon after

his late successes. He thought the dark night of public neglect was

beginning for him; he realised his loss of vigour, his waning energies,

and, like other old players, he saw himself superannuated, out of date,

unknown, and misunderstood by a new public, become a mere shadow on the

scene of his former triumphs. Add to this his master’s evident

ill-humour, as he foresaw the inevitable moment when his old servant

would be a mere pensioner on his bounty.

 

Murph staggered off, and fell panting on the rug that formed his bed.

 

Then Jack came to help him; but, alas! even Jack could not console him

just at first. Murph rejected his friend’s ministrations, so bitter was

his rancour against mankind. But his pique was soon over, and his

wounded heart found healing under the gentle hand of his lifelong

companion.

 

 

XI

 

But the fatal hour had struck; old age was upon him. Murph had grown

infirm; he would take a dozen steps, crawling from one corner to

another, and then sink down helplessly. His legs, once so prodigiously

strong and active, tottered and stumbled from sheer weakness. In vain

his master’s voice called him to show his tricks; he would struggle to

his feet, for an instant his head would recover its proud carriage of

old days; then suddenly, his momentary strength exhausted, his limbs

tingling with rheumatic pains that cut like whip-lashes, he would slink

away to fall back again into the lifeless attitude of an aged invalid.

 

A cloud floated before his eyes, he could no longer see things clearly,

and a growing deafness filled his head with a buzz-buzzing that never

stopped. Life was slowly dying down in the old body. He would lie torpid

for hours and doze away the time in dark corners, under tables, where

nothing would wake him, neither the yapping of the other dogs nor the

chattering of the monkeys, neither the noise of footsteps coming and

going nor the shrill trumpetings of the clown’s cornet-à-piston playing

“Malbrouck s’en va-t-en guerre!”

 

It was a deep, dreamless sleep. Jack did not like it, and would crouch

down beside him, watching him with sad eyes, like a friend at a sick

man’s bedside. Poor beast, he could make nothing of this new state of

affairs. Some change he could not comprehend had come over his chum and

laid him low. He seemed to be mutely questioning him, asking him why he

never nowadays trotted about behind the scenes. But it was all Murph

could do to see his little anxious, sorrowful face; he could only view

him as if through a fog, an indistinct shape of sympathy hardly

distinguishable from surrounding objects.

 

Nevertheless, he still tried hard to make out in the dusk of his

blindness his kindly comrade of yore; he would raise his palsied head,

and from the depths of his dim eyes, veiled by a milky film, dart a pale

look of infinite gentleness.

 

Sometimes the two bushy tufts on his forehead dropped right over his

eyes and further confused his vision. But Jack would put them back

lightly with the tips of his delicate fingers. Indeed he never left his

side, tickling his ears to amuse him, tapping and stroking him, ever on

the watch, a tender-hearted nurse of inexhaustible care and foresight.

 

This lowly being had learnt to love like a mother; his little dim soul

had emerged from its darkness to answer his dying comrade’s need, and

now, shining bright in the light of day, was working deeds of charity.

 

 

XII

 

One evening the show pitched on the outskirts of a big town. The booth

was raised, the trestles fixed, the boards laid, and the costume-chests

emptied of their miscellaneous finery.

 

Murph lay curled up by himself behind the stove; all round him reigned a

deafening uproar, a rush and scurry of feet, a perfect hurricane of

noise. The master was shouting and scolding; the Jack-pudding with his

hoarse voice was yelping like a dog, mewing like a cat, crowing like a

cock, getting into trim for the patter-speech with which to tickle the

ears of the groundlings, while the general hands were bustling about,

nailing and hammering, stimulated by copious libations of wine.

 

The monkeys, too, bore their part; hearing all this uproar, they joined

in with a will. Their shrill scolding rose above the hammering, and they

chattered incessantly and shook the bars of their cages. The dogs

barked, a solemn-faced parrot repeated a bad word over and over again,

while the musicians hired for the evening performance drew lugubrious

notes from their instruments by way of keeping their hand in.

 

Hurrah! the stage was set up at last.

 

Then the dogs were dressed, the seats given a last wipe-down—and

suddenly boom! boom! the big drum, furiously beaten, rolled out its

deep-toned summons. Instantly a perfect hurricane of discordant,

ear-splitting noises was let loose in front of the show-tent. Answering

the deafening rumble of the big drum, the fifes and ophicleide awoke,

the kettledrum began its rub-a-dub, the cymbals clashed, and the whole

booth shivered and shook from floor to roof-tree.

 

Shouts, yells, bursts of ribald laughter, combined in one deep-toned,

incessant roar to form the bass, while cat-calls, cries of vituperation

and repartee, the trampling of many feet marking time before the doors,

the clown’s voice rising and falling amid a tempest of scuffling and

kicking, all met and mingled in the air above the red glow of the

pitch-pine torches flaring in the wind, and punctuating the general din

one never-ceasing refrain—

 

“First seats one franc; second seats half a franc; third places twenty

centimes—_only_ twenty centimes. Walk up, ladies and gentlemen; just

about to begin! Citizens and soldiers, walk up, walk up!”

 

 

XIII

 

A torrent of humanity surged up the steps, pushing, shoving, shouting;

then, suddenly released, poured tumultuously over the seats of the

auditorium. Then the big drum redoubled its efforts, the fife blew its

shrillest, the ophicleide lost all control of its keys, tom-toms and

hand-bells, frantically beaten, added their quota to the din, the

kettledrums made a terrific rub-a-dub, and the whole force of the

company, a mad whirl of startling colours and flashing spangles, danced

a fandango on the platform.