Birds and Beasts 4

Birds and Beasts 4

Murph had never budged from his corner; he was quite insensible as yet

to the din that had once had such power to excite him. His head resting

on his outstretched paws, he lay asleep, stolid and stupid, callous to

all external things. Round his neck, buried in the dirty, matted fleece,

now long untouched by the curry-comb, were wound Jack’s arms; for Jack

never left his side.

 

Esmeralda made her exit, and then suddenly bombarding the audience with

a tornado of sound, the big drum rolled again, as if to announce some

special and extraordinary turn.

 

Murph knew this furious, frantic prelude well; this was always the way

Mazeppa’s headlong ride began. Yes, next moment, fifes, drums, bells,

tom-toms struck up together in a mad concert of all the instruments

combined, whereby the bandsmen strove to depict poor Mazeppa’s terrors

as his galloping steed bore him off to be the prey of all the fiends of

hell!

 

 

XV

 

Then something stirred in the old dog’s brain. Did he recall his former

triumphs, the shouts of excited audiences, the encores, all the

intoxicating successes of his life on the boards? Did some vision of an

applauding multitude, of arms outstretched, and voices raised in

gratitude, amid the crash of trumpet and drum, in the hot air thick with

men’s breath and the fumes of powder—did some vision of all this pass

before the poodle’s dying eyes?

 

It was a strange awakening, at any rate. Murph sprang suddenly to his

feet, took a leap, and bounded on the stage, tail proudly swinging, and

head erect, Jack hanging on to his woolly coat. Delighted, entranced,

amazed, the poor little beast kept craning over to peer into his

comrade’s face, to see if it was really true, and watch the light of

life dawning and brightening in his deep-set eyes.

 

So his friend was himself again at last! So they were to begin the old

merry life again, to gallop and leap, and risk their necks as in the

dear, daredevil days of yore! Jack danced and pranced on the poodle’s

back, as if drunk with the delight of this miraculous transformation.

 

At sight of this great, hollow-flanked, unkempt beast, with his dirty,

greasy, tangled fleece, standing there stark and stiff, his legs

tottering under him, his body shaken from head to foot by a nervous

tremor, paws sprawling, back bending, a few scanty hairs bristling in

his tail—when the crowd beheld this pitiful ruin, to which Jack, alert

and debonair, Jack and his grimaces and contortions, Jack and his

caresses, the tender eyes he made, and the close, loving embrace he cast

about his comrade’s neck, all added a touch of comedy, at once sad and

irresistibly ludicrous, a mighty shout of laughter arose.

 

It burst like a rocket, then spread from row to row of the spectators,

till it ended in a tempest of merriment that from the audience extended

to the stage, and burst on the dying comedian who stood there.

 

Suddenly the dog’s legs gave way beneath him, and Murph fell over on his

side. His supreme effort had killed him; he had succumbed, as great men

sometimes will, at the very moment of their greatness.

 

He lay there, the death-rattle in his throat, the death-agony shaking

his poor body in a last, dreadful spasm. He opened his eyes wide,

unnaturally wide, in a stony, sightless stare, as empty as the heads of

the thoughtless crowd in front.

 

Then they came and dragged him off the scene.

 

 

XVI

 

Jack was farther from understanding things than ever; his wonder had

only increased.

 

Why had his friend stopped short when so well under way? He could not

tell; he could only gaze at him with questioning eyes, his eyelids

winking very fast in a startled way.

 

He pressed closer and closer to Murph, and felt a shock as of something

snapping, a shudder, the quiver of a breaking chain. A deeper darkness

still crept over poor Murph’s senses; he was dying!

 

Jack crouched over him, gazing down at his friend.

 

Just then Murph made a supreme effort, half turned his head and peered

up in his friend’s face, while a look of tender affection passed over

his glazing eyeballs, mingled with the reflection of the objects he had

known all his life.

 

The tip of a white, dry tongue came out between his teeth, and

lengthening out like a slender riband, licked Jack’s paw. It was not

drawn back again; Murph was dead.

 

Close by in the slips the fifes were shrilling, the drums beating, the

audience in front clapping hands and stamping.

 

Jack watched beside his friend all night. At first he had crept in

between his paws, as he had always done; but the chill of the cold,

rigid limbs had forced him to abandon his position.

 

His little brain was sorely exercised, you may take my word for that.

What was this icy chill, like the coldest winter’s frost, that drove him

from his dear comrade’s bosom, generally so warm a refuge? He lay there

by Murph’s side, dozing with one eye open; then, suddenly starting wide

awake in a panic, he would touch his friend with exploring fingers to

see if he was still asleep.

 

Finally, he lost all patience at the other’s prolonged slumbers; he

shook him, he plucked at the tufts of his woolly coat, he tickled his

nose—gently at first, then more roughly. But it was all no use.

 

Then he took Murph’s head in his little arms; it was as heavy as lead

and dragged him down all sideways. But he would not let it go, holding

it hard against his breast, examining it all the while with surprise and

consternation. Presently, recalling what he had seen his master’s wife

do, he began to rock it to and fro, cradling it softly and swaying it

slowly, unceasingly from side to side, his queer little head swaying in

time, like an old man’s crooning over an infant.

 

The dawn filtered in through the shutters of the van, and a sunbeam

trembled for an instant in the dead poodle’s eyes.

 

 

XVII

 

Jack absolutely refused to be parted from Murph. He fell into a fury,

and bit the men who tried to separate them on face and hands. He had to

be dragged away and shut up in a cage. There he lived for three days,

whimpering like an old man fallen into the imbecility of dotage, his

haggard eyes looking out despairingly from between his wrinkled temples,

his little face all shrivelled like a medlar, his lips as pale as wax,

and an __EXPRESSION__ of utter life-weariness in every feature.

 

He would eat nothing, leaving untasted the carrots he was once so fond

of, and refusing to touch either sugar or milk. All day long he cowered

motionless in a corner, moaning, his eyes fixed on something invisible

to others, outside the cage, far away.

 

 

XVIII

 

On the morning of the third day they found him stark and cold, his

angular little skeleton almost piercing through the skin. His long, dry

hands were closed convulsively; the lips were drawn back and showed the

small, white teeth; two deep, moist furrows were visible on either side

his nose, as if, before he died, the ape had been weeping for his

friend.

 

[Illustration: THE CAPTIVE GOLDFINCH]

 

 

 

 

The Captive Goldfinch

 

 

I

 

Once upon a time, far away in the depths of a great orchard, there lived

a goldfinch. He was born in the spring, amid the fragrance of the fresh

leaves, and there was not a prettier, sweeter little fellow to be found

in any of the nests round about. His mother longed to keep him near her

always, she loved him so dearly; but then, there is nothing so tempting

as a pair of wings, and once July was come, the month of daring flights

and dashing enterprises, light and agile as only young birds are, he

left the maternal nest in search of distant adventures.

 

Oh! but it is enough to turn any goldfinch’s head, this flying free over

the blue expanse of the skies! Hardly had he passed the limits of the

orchard where he was born ere he clean forgot all about his fond mother,

her warm breast, and her dark eye so full of tender solicitude.

 

A sort of frenzy seized him. Thinking the leaves were as eternal as the

springtide, he boldly took his flight, and away across the sky; soaring

ever higher and higher, he rose into the heat and glory of the sun, into

the regions where the larks sing and the swallows dart, where all the

wild wings make a sound as of a mighty fan opening and shutting.

 

Wonder of wonders! now the earth below him looked round and shining like

a ball of flowers floating in an enveloping cloud of gold-dust; and

bathed in splendour, he saw the sun rise and set in the glory of

limitless horizons.

 

Oh! what glorious flights he had in the blue depths of the clouds! what

games of hide-and-seek among the flickering leaves, what cries and songs

and dartings after gnats, and all the delights known only to the little

winged souls we call birds!

 

The nightingales lulled him to sleep with the melody of their concerts,

the cock woke him with the shrill clarion-call of his crowing; all the

day long he flitted and flew amid the endless twittering and warbling of

linnets, tomtits, bullfinches, sparrows, and chaffinches, taking _his_

part too in the orchestra, and near bursting his little throat to

produce his finest notes, with that vanity that makes us one, and

believe Nature has implanted in us the soul of an artist—a great,

mysterious, unappreciated artist.