Lang Andrew
The Animal Story Book
VI
The next winter, certain circumstances, with which I need not trouble my readers, led to my making a journey to Algiers. I seldom make any long journey without bringing home some animal to add to my collection, and accordingly I returned from Africa accompanied by a vulture, which I bought from a little boy who called himself a Beni-Mouffetard. I paid ten francs for the vulture, and made the Beni-Mouffetard a present of two more, in return for which he warned me that my vulture was excessively savage, and had already bitten off the thumb of an Arab and the tail of a dog. I promised to be very careful, and the next day I became the possessor of a magnificent vulture, whose only fault consisted in a strong desire to tear in pieces everybody who came near him. I bestowed on him the name of his compatriot, Jugurtha. He had a chain fastened to his leg, and had for further security been placed in a large cage made of spars. In this cage he travelled quite safely as far as Philippeville, without any other accident than that he nearly bit off the finger of a passenger who had tried to make friends with him. At Philippeville a difficulty arose. It was three miles from Stora, the port where we were to embark, and the diligence did not go on so far. I and several other gentlemen thought that we would like to walk to Stora, the scenery being beautiful and the distance not very great; but what was I to do about Jugurtha? I could not ask a porter to carry the cage; Jugurtha would certainly have eaten him through the spars. I thought of a plan: it was to lengthen his chain eight or ten feet by means of a cord; and then to drive him in front of me with a long pole. But the first difficulty was to induce Jugurtha to come out of his cage; none of us dared put our hands within reach of his beak. However, I managed to fasten the cord to his chain, then I made two men armed with pickaxes break away the spars. Jugurtha finding himself free, spread out his wings to fly away, but he could of course only fly as far as his cord would permit.
Now Jugurtha was a very intelligent creature; he saw that there was an obstacle in the way of his liberty, and that I was that obstacle; he therefore turned upon me with fury, in the hope of putting me to flight, or devouring me in case of resistance. I, however, was no less sagacious than Jugurtha; I had foreseen the attack, and provided myself with a good switch made of dogwood, as thick as one’s forefinger, and eight feet long. With this switch I parried Jugurtha’s attack, which astonished but did not stop him; however, a second blow, given with all my force, made him stop short, and a third caused him to fly in the opposite direction, that is, towards Stora. Once launched upon this road, I had only to use my switch adroitly to make Jugurtha proceed at about the same pace as we did ourselves, to the great admiration of my fellow-travellers, and of all the people whom we met on the road. On our arrival at Stora Jugurtha made no difficulty about getting on board the steamer, and when tied to the mast, waited calmly while a new cage was made for him. He went into it of his own accord, received with gratitude the pieces of meat which the ship’s cook gave him, and three days after his embarkation he became so tame that he used to present me with his head to scratch, as a parrot does. I brought Jugurtha home without further adventure, and committed him to the charge of Michel.
It was not until my return from Algiers on this occasion that I went to live at Monte Cristo, the building of which had been finished during my absence. Up to this time I had lived in a smaller house called the Villa Medicis, and while the other was building, Michel made arrangements for the proper lodging of all my animals, for he was much more occupied about their comfort than he was about mine or even his own. They had all plenty of room, particularly the dogs, who were not confined by any sort of enclosure, and Pritchard, who was naturally generous, kept open house with a truly Scottish hospitality. It was his custom to sit in the middle of the road and salute every dog that passed with a little not unfriendly growl; smelling him, and permitting himself to be smelt in a ceremonious manner. When a mutual sympathy had been produced by this means, a conversation something like this would begin:
‘Have you a good master?’ asked the strange dog.
‘Not bad,’ Pritchard would reply.
‘Does your master feed you well?’
‘Well, one has porridge twice a day, bones at breakfast and dinner, and anything one can pick up in the kitchen besides.’
The stranger licked his lips.
‘You are not badly off,’ said he.
‘I do not complain,’ replied Pritchard. Then, seeing the strange dog look pensive, he added, ‘Would you like to dine with us?’
The invitation was accepted at once, for dogs do not wait to be pressed, like some foolish human beings.
At dinner-time Pritchard came in, followed by an unknown dog, who, like Pritchard, placed himself beside my chair, and scratched my knee with his paw in such a confiding way that I felt sure that Pritchard must have been commending my benevolence. The dog, after spending a pleasant evening, found that it was rather too late to return home, so slept comfortably on the grass after his good supper. Next morning he took two or three steps as if to go away, then changing his mind, he inquired of Pritchard, ‘Should I be much in the way if I stayed on here?’
Pritchard replied, ‘You could quite well, with management, make them believe you are the neighbour’s dog, and after two or three days, nobody would know you did not belong to the house. You might live here just as well as those idle useless monkeys, who do nothing but amuse themselves, or that greedy vulture, who eats tripe all day long, or that idiot of a macaw, who is always screaming about nothing.’
Pritchard replied, ‘You could quite well, with management, make them believe you are the neighbour’s dog, and after two or three days, nobody would know you did not belong to the house. You might live here just as well as those idle useless monkeys, who do nothing but amuse themselves, or that greedy vulture, who eats tripe all day long, or that idiot of a macaw, who is always screaming about nothing.’
The dog stayed, keeping in the background at first, but in a day or two he jumped up upon me and followed me everywhere, and there was another guest to feed, that was all. Michel asked me one day if I knew how many dogs there were about the place. I answered that I did not.
‘Sir,’ said Michel, ‘there are thirteen.’
‘That is an unlucky number, Michel; you must see that they do not all dine together, else one of them is sure to die first.’
‘It is not that, though,’ said Michel, ‘it is the expense I am thinking of. Why, they would eat an ox a day, all those dogs; and if you will allow me, sir, I will just take a whip and put the whole pack to the door, to-morrow morning.’
‘But, Michel, let us do it handsomely. These dogs, after all, do honour to the house by staying here. So give them a grand dinner to-morrow; tell them that it is the farewell banquet, and then, at dessert, put them all to the door.’
‘But after all, sir, I cannot put them to the door, because there isn’t a door.’
‘Michel,’ said I, ‘there are certain things in this world that one must just put up with, to keep up one’s character and position. Since all these dogs have come to me, let them stay with me. I don’t think they will ruin me, Michel. Only, on their own account, you should be careful that there are not thirteen.’
‘I will drive away one,’ suggested Michel, ‘and then there will only be twelve.’
‘On the contrary, let another come, and then there will be fourteen.’
Michel sighed.
‘It’s a regular kennel,’ he murmured.
It was, in fact, a pack of hounds, though rather a mixed one. There was a Russian wolfhound, there was a poodle, a water spaniel, a spitz, a dachshund with crooked legs, a mongrel terrier, a mongrel King Charles, and a Turkish dog which had no hair on its body, only a tuft upon its head and a tassel at the end of its tail. Our next recruit was a little Maltese terrier, named Lisette, which raised the number to fourteen. After all, the expense of these fourteen amounted to rather over two pounds a month. A single dinner given to five or six of my own species would have cost me three times as much, and they would have gone away dissatisfied; for, even if they had liked my wine, they would certainly have found fault with my books. Out of this pack of hounds, one became Pritchard’s particular friend and Michel’s favourite. This was a dachshund with short crooked legs, a long body, and, as Michel said, the finest voice in the department of Seine-et-Oise. Portugo – that was his name – had in truth a most magnificent bass voice. I used to hear it sometimes in the night when I was writing, and think how that deep-toned majestic bark would please St. Hubert if he heard it in his grave. But what was Portugo doing at that hour, and why was he awake while the other dogs slumbered? This mystery was revealed one day, when a stewed rabbit was brought me for dinner. I inquired where the rabbit came from.
‘You thought it good, sir?’ Michel asked me with a pleased face.
‘Excellent.’
‘Well, then, you can have one just the same every day, sir, if you like.’
Every day, Michel? Surely that is almost too much to promise. Besides, I should like, before consuming so many rabbits, to know where they come from.’
‘Every day, Michel? Surely that is almost too much to promise. Besides, I should like, before consuming so many rabbits, to know where they come from.’
‘You shall know that this very night, if you don’t mind coming out with me.’
‘Ah! Michel, I have told you before that you are a poacher!’
‘Oh, sir, as to that, I am as innocent as a baby – and, as I was saying, if you will only come out with me to-night – ’
‘Must I go far, Michel?’
‘Not a hundred yards, sir.’
‘At what o’clock?’
‘Just at the moment when you hear Portugo’s first bark.’
‘Very well, Michel, I will be with you.’
I had nearly forgotten this promise, and was writing as usual, when Michel came into my study. It was about eleven o’clock, and a fine moonlight night.
‘Hallo!’ said I, ‘Portugo hasn’t barked yet, has he?’
‘No, but I was just thinking that if you waited for that, you would miss seeing something curious.’
‘What should I miss, Michel?’
‘The council of war which is held between Pritchard and Portugo.’
I followed Michel, and sure enough, among the fourteen dogs, which were mostly sleeping in different attitudes, Portugo and Pritchard were sitting up, and seemed to be gravely debating some important question. When the debate was ended, they separated; Portugo went out at the gate to the high road, turned the corner, and disappeared, while Pritchard began deliberately, as if he had plenty of time before him, to follow the little path which led up to a stone quarry. We followed Pritchard, who took no notice of us, though he evidently knew we were there. He went up to the top of the quarry, examined and smelt about over the ground with great care, and when he had found a scent and assured himself that it was fresh, he lay down flat and waited. Almost at the same moment, Portugo’s first bark was heard some two hundred yards off. Now the plan the two dogs had laid was clear to us. The rabbits came out of their holes in the quarry every evening to go to their feeding ground; Pritchard found the scent of one; Portugo then made a wide circuit, found and chased the rabbit, and, as a rabbit or a hare always comes back upon its former track, Pritchard, lying in ambush, awaited its return. Accordingly, as the sound of Portugo’s barking came closer, we saw Pritchard’s yellow eyes light up and flame like a topaz; then all of a sudden he made a spring, and we heard a cry of fright and distress.
‘They’ve done it!’ said Michel, and he went to Pritchard, took out of his mouth a nice plump rabbit, gave it a blow behind the ears to finish it, and, opening it on the spot, gave the inside to the two dogs, who shared their portion contentedly, although they probably regretted Michel’s interference. As Michel told me, I could have eaten a stewed rabbit every day for dinner, if such had been my desire.
But after this, events of a different kind were taking place, which obliged me to leave my country pursuits, and I spent about two months in Paris. The day before I returned to St. – Germains I wrote and told Michel to expect me, and found him waiting for me on the road half way from the station.
‘I must tell you, sir,’ he said, as soon as I was within hearing, ‘that two important events have happened at Monte Cristo since you went away.’
‘Well, Michel, let me hear.’
‘In the first place, Pritchard got his hind foot into a snare and instead of staying where he was as any other dog would have done, he bit off his foot with his teeth, and so he came home upon three legs.’
‘But,’ said I, much shocked, ‘is the poor beast dead after such an accident?’
‘Dead, sir? Was not I there to doctor him?’
‘And what did you do to him then?’
‘I cut off the foot properly at the joint with a pruning knife. I then sewed the skin neatly over it, and now you would never know it was off! Look there, the rascal has smelt you and is coming to meet you.’
And at that moment Pritchard appeared, coming at full gallop, so that, as Michel had said, one would hardly have noticed that he had only three feet. My meeting with Pritchard was, as may be supposed, full of deep emotion on both sides. I was sorry for the poor animal. When I had recovered a little, I asked Michel what his other piece of news was.
And at that moment Pritchard appeared, coming at full gallop, so that, as Michel had said, one would hardly have noticed that he had only three feet. My meeting with Pritchard was, as may be supposed, full of deep emotion on both sides. I was sorry for the poor animal. When I had recovered a little, I asked Michel what his other piece of news was.
‘The latest news, sir, is that Jugurtha’s name is no longer Jugurtha.’
‘What is it then?’
‘It is Diogenes.’
‘And why?’
‘Look, sir!’
We had now reached the little avenue of ash-trees which formed the entrance to the villa. To the left of the avenue the vulture was seen walking proudly to and fro in an immense tub, which Michel had made into a house for him.
‘Ah! now I understand,’ said I. ‘Of course, directly he lives in a tub – ’
‘That’s it!’ said Michel. ‘Directly he lives in a tub, he cannot be Jugurtha any more; he must be Diogenes.’
I admired Michel’s historical learning no less than I did his surgical skill, just as the year before, I had bowed before his superior knowledge of natural history.
VII
In order to lead to more incidents in the life of Pritchard I must now tell my readers that I had a friend called Charpillon, who had a passion for poultry, and kept the finest hens in the whole department of Yonne. These hens were chiefly Cochins and Brahmapootras; they laid the most beautiful brown eggs, and Charpillon surrounded them with every luxury and never would allow them to be killed. He had the inside of his hen-house painted green, in order that the hens, even when shut up, might fancy themselves in a meadow. In fact, the illusion was so complete, that when the hen-house was first painted, the hens refused to go in at night, fearing to catch cold; but after a short time even the least intelligent among them understood that she had the good fortune to belong to a master who knew how to combine the useful with the beautiful. Whenever these hens ventured out upon the road, strangers would exclaim with delight, ‘Oh! what beautiful hens!’ to which some one better acquainted with the wonders of this fortunate village would reply, ‘I should think so! These are M. Charpillon’s hens.’ Or, if the speaker were of an envious disposition, he might add, ‘Yes indeed! hens that nothing is thought too good for!’
When my friend Charpillon heard that I had returned from Paris, he invited me to come and stay with him to shoot, adding as a further inducement that he would give me the best and freshest eggs I had ever eaten in my life. Though I did not share Charpillon’s great love of poultry, I am very fond of fresh eggs, and the nankeen-coloured eggs laid by his Brahma hens had an especially delicate flavour. But all earthly pleasures are uncertain. The next morning Charpillon’s hens were found to have only laid three eggs instead of eight. Such a thing had never happened before, and Charpillon did not know whom to suspect; however he suspected every one rather than his hens, and a sort of cloud began to obscure the confidence he had hitherto placed in the security of his enclosures. While these gloomy doubts were occupying us, I observed Michel hovering about as if he had something on his mind, and asked him if he wanted to speak to me.
‘I should be glad to have a few words with you, sir.’
‘In private?’
‘It would be better so, for the honour of Pritchard.’
‘Ah, indeed? What has the rascal been doing now?’
‘You remember, sir, what your solicitor said to you one day when I was in the room?’
‘What did he say, Michel? My solicitor is a clever man, and says many sensible things; still it is difficult for me to remember them all.’
‘Well, sir,’ he said, ‘find out whom the crime benefits, and you will find the criminal.’
‘I remember that axiom perfectly, Michel. Well?’
‘Well, sir, whom can this crime of stolen eggs benefit more than Pritchard?’
‘Pritchard? You think it is he who steals the eggs? Pritchard, who brings home eggs without breaking them!’
‘You mean who used to bring them. Pritchard is an animal who has vicious instincts, sir, and if he does not come to a bad end some day, I shall be surprised, that’s all.’
‘Does Pritchard eat eggs, then?’
‘He does; and it is only right to say, sir, that that is your fault.’
‘What! my fault? My fault that Pritchard eats eggs?’
Michel shook his head sadly, but nothing could shake his opinion.
‘Now really, Michel, this is too much! Is it not enough that critics tell me that I pervert everybody’s mind with my corrupt literature, but you must join my detractors and say that my bad example corrupts Pritchard?’
‘I beg pardon, sir, but do you remember how one day, at the Villa Medicis, while you were eating an egg, M. Rusconi who was there said something so ridiculous that you let the egg fall upon the floor?’
‘I remember that quite well.’
‘And do you remember calling in Pritchard, who was scraping up a bed of fuchsias in the garden, and making him lick up the egg?’
‘I do not remember him scraping up a bed of fuchsias, but I do recollect that he licked up my egg.’
‘Well, sir, it is that and nothing else that has been his ruin. Oh! he is quick enough to learn what is wrong; there is no need to show it him twice.’
‘Michel, you are really extremely tedious. How have I shown Pritchard what is wrong?’
‘By making him eat an egg. You see, sir, before that he was as innocent as a new-born babe; he didn’t know what an egg was – he thought it was a badly made golf ball. But as soon as you make him eat an egg, he learns what it is. Three days afterwards, M. Alexandre came home, and was complaining to me of his dog – that he was rough and tore things with his teeth in carrying them. “Ah! look at Pritchard,” I said to him, “how gentle he is! you shall see the way he carries an egg.” So I fetched an egg from the kitchen, placed it on the ground, and said, “Fetch, Pritchard!” Pritchard didn’t need to be told twice, but what do you think the cunning rascal did? You remember, some days before, Monsieur – the gentleman who had such a bad toothache, you know. You recollect his coming to see you?’
‘Yes, of course I remember.’
‘Well, Pritchard pretended not to notice, but those yellow eyes of his notice everything. Well, all of a sudden he pretended to have the same toothache that that gentleman had, and crack! goes the egg. Then he pretends to be ashamed of his awkwardness – he swallows it in a hurry, shell and all! I believed him – I thought it was an accident and fetched another egg. Scarcely did he make three steps with the egg in his mouth than the toothache comes on again, and crack! goes the second egg. I began then to suspect something – I went and got a third, but if I hadn’t stopped then he’d have eaten the whole basketful. So then M. Alexandre, who likes his joke, said, “Michel, you may possibly make a good musician of Pritchard, or a good astronomer, but he’ll never be a good incubator!”’
‘How is it that you never told me this before, Michel?’
‘Because I was ashamed, sir; for this is not the worst.’
‘What! not the worst?’
Michel shook his head.
‘He has developed an unnatural craving for eggs; he got into M. Acoyer’s poultry-yard and stole all his. M. Acoyer came to complain to me. How do you suppose he lost his foot?’
‘You told me yourself – in somebody’s grounds where he had forgotten to read the notice about trespassing.’
‘You are joking, sir – but I really believe he can read.’
‘Oh! Michel, Pritchard is accused of enough sins without having that vice laid to his charge! But about his foot?’
‘I think he caught it in some wire getting out of a poultry-yard.’
‘But you know it happened at night, and the hens are shut up at night. How could he get into the hen-house?’
‘He doesn’t need to get into the hen-house after eggs; he can charm the hens. Pritchard is what one may call a charmer.’
‘Michel, you astonish me more and more!’
‘Yes, indeed, sir. I knew that he used to charm the hens at the Villa Medicis; only M. Charpillon has such wonderful hens, I did not think they would have allowed it. But I see now all hens are alike.’
‘Then you think it is Pritchard who – ’
‘I think he charms M. Charpillon’s hens, and that is the reason they don’t lay – at least, that they only lay for Pritchard.’
‘Indeed, Michel, I should much like to know how he does it!’
‘If you are awake very early to-morrow, sir, just look out of your window – you can see the poultry-yard from it, and you will see a sight that you have never seen before!’
‘I have seen many things, Michel, including sixteen changes of governments, and to see something I have never seen before I would gladly sit up the whole night!’
‘There is no need for that – I can wake you at the right time.’
The next day at early dawn, Michel awoke me.
‘I am ready, Michel,’ said I, coming to the window.
‘Wait, wait! let me open it very gently. If Pritchard suspects that he is watched, he won’t stir; you have no idea how deceitful he is.’
Michel opened the window with every possible precaution. From where I stood, I could distinctly see the poultry-yard, and Pritchard lying in his couch, his head innocently resting upon his two fore-paws. At the slight noise which Michel made in opening the window, Pritchard pricked up his ears and half opened his yellow eye, but as the sound was not repeated he did not move. Ten minutes afterwards we heard the newly wakened hens begin to cluck. Pritchard immediately opened both eyes, stretched himself and stood upright upon his three feet. He then cast a glance all round him, and seeing that all was quiet, disappeared into a shed, and the next moment we saw him coming out of a sort of little window on the other side. From this window Pritchard easily got upon the sloping roof which overhung one side of the poultry-yard. He had now only to jump down about six feet, and having got into the inclosure he lay down flat in front of the hen-house, giving a little friendly bark. A hen looked out at Pritchard’s call, and instead of seeming frightened she went to him at once and received his compliments with apparent complacency. Nor did she seem at all embarrassed, but proceeded to lay her egg, and that within such easy reach of Pritchard that we had not time to see the egg – it was swallowed the same instant. She then retired cackling triumphantly, and her place was taken by another hen.
‘Well, now, sir,’ said Michel, when Pritchard had swallowed his fourth egg, ‘you see it is no wonder that Pritchard has such a clear voice. You know great singers always eat raw eggs the first thing in the morning.’
‘I know that, Michel, but what I don’t know is how Pritchard proposes to get out of the poultry-yard.’
‘Just wait and see what the scoundrel will do.’
Pritchard having finished his breakfast, or being a little alarmed at some noise in the house, stood up on his hind leg, and slipping one of his fore-paws through the bars of the gate, he lifted the latch and went out.
‘And when one thinks,’ said Michel, ‘that if anybody asked him why the yard door was left open, he would say it was because Pierre had forgotten to shut it last night!’
You think he would have the wickedness to say that, Michel?’
‘Perhaps not to-day, nor yet to-morrow, because he is not come to his full growth, but some day, mind you, I should not be surprised to hear him speak.
