{"collection":"philosophy-ethics","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_18214/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_18214","id":"gutenberg_18214","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/18214","summary":null,"tags":["Animals-Domestic","Category: Nature/Gardening/Animals","Category: Philosophy & Ethics","Dogs","Nobel Prizes in Literature"],"text":"Produced by Roger Frank and the Online Distributed\nProofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net\n\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\nOUR FRIEND THE DOG\n\nBY\nMAURICE MAETERLINCK\n\nAUTHOR OF \"THE LIFE OF THE BEE,\" ETC.\n\nTRANSLATED BY\nALEXANDER TEIXEIRA DE MATTOS\n\nILLUSTRATED BY\nCECIL ALDEN\n\n\nNEW YORK\nDODD, MEAD & COMPANY\n\n1913\n\nCOPYRIGHT, 1903, BY THE CENTURY CO.\nCOPYRIGHT, 1904, BY DODD, MEAD & COMPANY\n\nPublished, October, 1913\n\n\n\n\nOUR FRIEND THE DOG\n\nI\n\n\nI have lost, within these last few days, a little bull-dog. He had just\ncompleted the sixth month of his brief existence. He had no history. His\nintelligent eyes opened to look out upon the world, to love mankind,\nthen closed again on the cruel secrets of death.\n\nThe friend who presented me with him had given him, perhaps by\nantiphrasis, the startling name of Pelleas. Why rechristen him? For how\ncan a poor dog, loving, devoted, faithful, disgrace the name of a man or\nan imaginary hero?\n\nPelleas had a great bulging, powerful forehead, like that of Socrates or\nVerlaine; and, under a little black nose, blunt as a churlish assent, a\npair of large hanging and symmetrical chops, which made his head a sort\nof massive, obstinate, pensive and three-cornered menace. He was\nbeautiful after the manner of a beautiful, natural monster that has\ncomplied strictly with the laws of its species. And what a smile of\nattentive obligingness, of incorruptible innocence, of affectionate\nsubmission, of boundless gratitude and total self-abandonment lit up, at\nthe least caress, that adorable mask of ugliness! Whence exactly did\nthat smile emanate? From the ingenuous and melting eyes? From the ears\npricked up to catch the words of man? From the forehead that unwrinkled\nto appreciate and love, or from the stump of a tail that wriggled at the\nother end to testify to the intimate and impassioned joy that filled his\nsmall being, happy once more to encounter the hand or the glance of the\ngod to whom he surrendered himself?\n\n[Illustration]\n\nPelleas was born in Paris, and I had taken him to the country. His bonny\nfat paws, shapeless and not yet stiffened, carried slackly through the\nunexplored pathways of his new existence his huge and serious head,\nflat-nosed and, as it were, rendered heavy with thought.\n\nFor this thankless and rather sad head, like that of an overworked\nchild, was beginning the overwhelming work that oppresses every brain at\nthe start of life. He had, in less than five or six weeks, to get into\nhis mind, taking shape within it, an image and a satisfactory\nconception of the universe. Man, aided by all the knowledge of his own\nelders and his brothers, takes thirty or forty years to outline that\nconception, but the humble dog has to unravel it for himself in a few\ndays: and yet, in the eyes of a god, who should know all things, would\nit not have the same weight and the same value as our own?\n\nIt was a question, then, of studying the ground, which can be scratched\nand dug up and which sometimes reveals surprising things; of casting at\nthe sky, which is uninteresting, for there is nothing there to eat, one\nglance that does away with it for good and all; of discovering the\ngrass, the admirable and green grass, the springy and cool grass, a\nfield for races and sports, a friendly and boundless bed, in which lies\nhidden the good and wholesome couch-grass. It was a question, also, of\ntaking promiscuously a thousand urgent and curious observations. It was\nnecessary, for instance, with no other guide than pain, to learn to\ncalculate the height of objects from the top of which you can jump into\nspace; to convince yourself that it is vain to pursue birds who fly away\nand that you are unable to clamber up trees after the cats who defy you\nthere; to distinguish between the sunny spots where it is delicious to\nsleep and the patches of shade in which you shiver; to remark with\nstupefaction that the rain does not fall inside the houses, that water\nis cold, uninhabitable and dangerous, while fire is beneficent at a\ndistance, but terrible when you come too near; to observe that the\nmeadows, the farm-yards and sometimes the roads are haunted by giant\ncreatures with threatening horns, creatures good-natured, perhaps, and,\nat any rate, silent, creatures who allow you to sniff at them a little\ncuriously without taking offence, but who keep their real thoughts to\nthemselves. It was necessary to learn, as the result of painful and\nhumiliating experiment, that you are not at liberty to obey all nature's\nlaws without distinction in the dwelling of the gods; to recognize that\nthe kitchen is the privileged and most agreeable spot in that divine\ndwelling, although you are hardly allowed to abide in it because of the\ncook, who is a considerable, but jealous power; to learn that doors are\nimportant and capricious volitions, which sometimes lead to felicity,\nbut which most often, hermetically closed, mute and stern, haughty and\nheartless, remain deaf to all entreaties; to admit, once and for all,\nthat the essential good things of life, the indisputable blessings,\ngenerally imprisoned in pots and stewpans, are almost always\ninaccessible; to know how to look at them with laboriously-acquired\nindifference and to practise to take no notice of them, saying to\nyourself that here are objects which are probably sacred, since merely\nto skim them with the tip of a respectful tongue is enough to let loose\nthe unanimous anger of all the gods of the house.\n\n[Illustration]\n\nAnd then, what is one to think of the table on which so many things\nhappen that cannot be guessed; of the derisive chairs on which one is\nforbidden to sleep; of the plates and dishes that are empty by the\ntime that one can get at them; of the lamp that drives away the dark?...\nHow many orders, dangers, prohibitions, problems, enigmas has one not to\nclassify in one's overburdened memory!... And how to reconcile all this\nwith other laws, other enigmas, wider and more imperious, which one\nbears within one's self, within one's instinct, which spring up and\ndevelop from one hour to the other, which come from the depths of time\nand the race, invade the blood, the muscles and the nerves and suddenly\nassert themselves more irresistibly and more powerfully than pain, the\nword of the master himself, or the fear of death?\n\nThus, for instance, to quote only one example, when the hour of sleep\nhas struck for men, you have retired to your hole, surrounded by the\ndarkness, the silence and the formidable solitude of the night. All is\nsleep in the master's house. You feel yourself very small and weak in\nthe presence of the mystery. You know that the gloom is peopled with\nfoes who hover and lie in wait. You suspect the trees, the passing wind\nand the moonbeams. You would like to hide, to suppress yourself by\nholding your breath. But still the watch must be kept; you must, at the\nleast sound, issue from your retreat, face the invisible and bluntly\ndisturb the imposing silence of the earth, at the risk of bringing down\nthe whispering evil or crime upon yourself alone. Whoever the enemy be,\neven if he be man, that is to say, the very brother of the god whom it\nis your business to defend, you must attack him blindly, fly at his\nthroat, fasten your perhaps sacrilegious teeth into human flesh,\ndisregard the spell of a hand and voice similar to those of your master,\nnever be silent, never attempt to escape, never allow yourself to be\ntempted or bribed and, lost in the night without help, prolong the\nheroic alarm to your last breath.\n\nThere is the great ancestral duty, the essential duty, stronger than\ndeath, which not even man's will and anger are able to check. All our\nhumble history, linked with that of the dog in our first struggles\nagainst every breathing thing, tends to prevent his forgetting it. And\nwhen, in our safer dwelling-places of to-day, we happen to punish him\nfor his untimely zeal, he throws us a glance of astonished reproach, as\nthough to point out to us that we are in the wrong and that, if we lose\nsight of the main clause in the treaty of alliance which he made with us\nat the time when we lived in caves, forests and fens, he continues\nfaithful to it in spite of us and remains nearer to the eternal truth of\nlife, which is full of snares and hostile forces.\n\nBut how much care and study are needed to succeed in fulfilling this\nduty! And how complicated it has become since the days of the silent\ncaverns and the great deserted lakes! It was all so simple, then, so\neasy and so clear. The lonely hollow opened upon the side of the hill,\nand all that approached, all that moved on the horizon of the plains or\nwoods, was the unmistakable enemy.... But to-day you can no longer\ntell.... You have to acquaint yourself with a civilization of which you\ndisapprove, to appear to understand a thousand incomprehensible\nthings.... Thus, it seems evident that henceforth the whole world no\nlonger belongs to the master, that his property conforms to\nunintelligible limits.... It becomes necessary, therefore, first of all\nto know exactly where the sacred domain begins and ends. Whom are you to\nsuffer, whom to stop?... There is the road by which every one, even the\npoor, has the right to pass. Why? You do not know; it is a fact which\nyou deplore, but which you are bound to accept. Fortunately, on the\nother hand, here is the fair path which none may tread. This path is\nfaithful to the sound traditions; it is not to be lost sight of; for by\nit enter into your daily existence the difficult problems of life.\n\nWould you have an example? You are sleeping peacefully in a ray of the\nsun that covers the threshold of the kitchen with pearls. The\nearthenware pots are amusing themselves by elbowing and nudging one\nanother on the edge of the shelves trimmed with paper lace-work. The\ncopper stewpans play at scattering spots of light over the smooth white\nwalls. The motherly stove hums a soft tune and dandles three saucepans\nblissfully dancing; and, from the little hole that lights up its inside,\ndefies the good dog who cannot approach, by constantly putting out at\nhim its fiery tongue. The clock, bored in its oak case, before striking\nthe august hour of meal time, swings its great gilt navel to and fro;\nand the cunning flies tease your ears. On the glittering table lie a\nchicken, a hare, three partridges, besides other things which are called\nfruits--peaches, melons, grapes--and which are all good for nothing. The\ncook guts a big silver fish and throws the entrails (instead of giving\nthem to you!) into the dust-bin. Ah, the dust-bin! Inexhaustible\ntreasury, receptacle of windfalls, the jewel of the house! You shall\nhave your share of it, an exquisite and surreptitious share; but it does\nnot do to seem to know where it is. You are strictly forbidden to\nrummage in it. Man in this way prohibits many pleasant things, and life\nwould be dull indeed and your days empty if you had to obey all the\norders of the pantry, the cellar and the dining-room. Luckily, he is\nabsent-minded and does not long remember the instructions which he\nlavishes. He is easily deceived. You achieve your ends and do as you\nplease, provided you have the patience to await the hour. You are\nsubject to man, and he is the one god; but you none the less have your\nown personal, exact and imperturbable morality, which proclaims aloud\nthat illicit acts become most lawful through the very fact that they\nare performed without the master's knowledge. Therefore, let us close\nthe watchful eye that has seen. Let us pretend to sleep and to dream of\nthe moon....\n\nHark! A gentle tapping at the blue window that looks out on the garden!\nWhat is it? Nothing; a bough of hawthorn that has come to see what we\nare doing in the cool kitchen. Trees are inquisitive and often excited;\nbut they do not count, one has nothing to say to them, they are\nirresponsible, they obey the wind, which has no principles.... But what\nis that? I hear steps!... Up, ears open; nose on the alert!... It is the\nbaker coming up to the rails, while the postman is opening a little gate\nin the hedge of lime-trees. They are friends; it is well; they bring\nsomething: you can greet them and wag your tail discreetly twice or\nthrice, with a patronizing smile....\n\nAnother alarm! What is it now? A carriage pulls up in front of the\nsteps. The problem is a complex one. Before all, it is of consequence to\nheap copious insults on the horses, great, proud beasts, who make no\nreply. Meantime, you examine out of the corner of your eye the persons\nalighting. They are well-clad and seem full of confidence. They are\nprobably going to sit at the table of the gods. The proper thing is to\nbark without acrimony, with a shade of respect, so as to show that you\nare doing your duty, but that you are doing it with intelligence.\nNevertheless, you cherish a lurking suspicion and, behind the guests'\nbacks, stealthily, you sniff the air persistently and in a knowing way,\nin order to discern any hidden intentions.\n\nBut halting footsteps resound outside the kitchen. This time it is the\npoor man dragging his crutch, the unmistakable enemy, the hereditary\nenemy, the direct descendant of him who roamed outside the bone-cramped\ncave which you suddenly see again in your racial memory. Drunk with\nindignation, your bark broken, your teeth multiplied with hatred and\nrage, you are about to seize their reconcilable adversary by the\nbreeches, when the cook, armed with her broom, the ancillary and\nforsworn sceptre, comes to protect the traitor, and you are obliged to\ngo back to your hole, where, with eyes filled with impotent and\nslanting flames, you growl out frightful, but futile curses, thinking\nwithin yourself that this is the end of all things, and that the human\nspecies has lost its notion of justice and injustice....\n\nIs that all? Not yet; for the smallest life is made up of innumerous\nduties, and it is a long work to organize a happy existence upon the\nborderland of two such different worlds as the world of beasts and the\nworld of men. How should we fare if we had to serve, while remaining\nwithin our own sphere, a divinity, not an imaginary one, like to\nourselves, because the offspring of our own brain, but a god actually\nvisible, ever present, ever active and as foreign, as superior to our\nbeing as we are to the dog?\n\n[Illustration]\n\nWe now, to return to Pelleas, know pretty well what to do and how to\nbehave on the master's premises. But the world does not end at the\nhouse-door, and, beyond the walls and beyond the hedge, there is a\nuniverse of which one has not the custody, where one is no longer at\nhome, where relations are changed. How are we to stand in the street, in\nthe fields, in the market-place, in the shops? In consequence of\ndifficult and delicate observations, we understand that we must take no\nnotice of passers-by; obey no calls but the master's; be polite, with\nindifference, to strangers who pet us. Next, we must conscientiously\nfulfil certain obligations of mysterious courtesy toward our brothers\nthe other dogs; respect chickens and ducks; not appear to remark the\ncakes at the pastry-cook's, which spread themselves insolently within\nreach of the tongue; show to the cats, who, on the steps of the houses,\nprovoke us by hideous grimaces, a silent contempt, but one that will not\nforget; and remember that it is lawful and even commendable to chase and\nstrangle mice, rats, wild rabbits and, generally speaking, all animals\n(we learn to know them by secret marks) that have not yet made their\npeace with mankind.\n\nAll this and so much more!... Was it surprising that Pelleas often\nappeared pensive in the face of those numberless problems, and that his\nhumble and gentle look was often so profound and grave, laden with cares\nand full of unreadable questions?\n\n[Illustration]\n\nAlas, he did not have time to finish the long and heavy task which\nnature lays upon the instinct that rises in order to approach a brighter\nregion.... An ill of a mysterious character, which seems specially to\npunish the only animal that succeeds in leaving the circle in which it\nis born; an indefinite ill that carries off hundreds of intelligent\nlittle dogs, came to put an end to the destiny and the happy education\nof Pelleas. And now all those efforts to achieve a little more light;\nall that ardour in loving, that courage in understanding; all that\naffectionate gaiety and innocent fawning; all those kind and devoted\nlooks, which turned to man to ask for his assistance against unjust\ndeath; all those flickering gleams which came from the profound abyss of\na world that is no longer ours; all those nearly human little habits lie\nsadly in the cold ground, under a flowering elder-tree, in a corner of\nthe garden.\n\n\n\n\nII\n\n\nMan loves the dog, but how much more ought he to love it if he\nconsidered, in the inflexible harmony of the laws of nature, the sole\nexception, which is that love of a being that succeeds in piercing, in\norder to draw closer to us, the partitions, every elsewhere impermeable,\nthat separate the species! We are alone, absolutely alone on this chance\nplanet; and amid all the forms of life that surround us, not one,\nexcepting the dog, has made an alliance with us. A few creatures fear\nus, most are unaware of us, and not one loves us. In the world of\nplants, we have dumb and motionless slaves; but they serve us in spite\nof themselves. They simply endure our laws and our yoke. They are\nimpotent prisoners, victims incapable of escaping, but silently\nrebellious; and, so soon as we lose sight of them, they hasten to betray\nus and return to their former wild and mischievous liberty. The rose\nand the corn, had they wings, would fly at our approach like the birds.\n\nAmong the animals, we number a few servants who have submitted only\nthrough indifference, cowardice or stupidity: the uncertain and craven\nhorse, who responds only to pain and is attached to nothing; the passive\nand dejected ass, who stays with us only because he knows not what to do\nnor where to go, but who nevertheless, under the cudgel and the\npack-saddle, retains the idea that lurks behind his ears; the cow and\nthe ox, happy so long as they are eating, and docile because, for\ncenturies, they have not had a thought of their own; the affrighted\nsheep, who knows no other master than terror; the hen, who is faithful\nto the poultry-yard because she finds more maize and wheat there than in\nthe neighbouring forest. I do not speak of the cat, to whom we are\nnothing more than a too large and uneatable prey: the ferocious cat,\nwhose sidelong contempt tolerates us only as encumbering parasites in\nour own homes. She, at least, curses us in her mysterious heart; but all\nthe others live beside us as they might live beside a rock or a tree.\nThey do not love us, do not know us, scarcely notice us. They are\nunaware of our life, our death, our departure, our return, our sadness,\nour joy, our smile. They do not even hear the sound of our voice, so\nsoon as it no longer threatens them; and, when they look at us, it is\nwith the distrustful bewilderment of the horse, in whose eye still\nhovers the infatuation of the elk or gazelle that sees us for the first\ntime, or with the dull stupor of the ruminants, who look upon us as a\nmomentary and useless accident of the pasture.\n\nFor thousands of years, they have been living at our side, as foreign\nto our thoughts, our affections, our habits as though the least\nfraternal of the stars had dropped them but yesterday on our globe. In\nthe boundless interval that separates man from all the other creatures,\nwe have succeeded only, by dint of patience, in making them take two or\nthree illusory steps. And if, to-morrow, leaving their feelings toward\nus untouched, nature were to give them the intelligence and the weapons\nwherewith to conquer us, I confess that I should distrust the hasty\nvengeance of the horse, the obstinate reprisals of the ass and the\nmaddened meekness of the sheep. I should shun the cat as I should shun\nthe tiger; and even the good cow, solemn and somnolent, would inspire me\nwith but a wary confidence. As for the hen, with her round, quick eye,\nas when discovering a slug or a worm, I am sure that she would devour me\nwithout a thought.\n\n\n\n\nIII\n\n\nNow, in this indifference and this total want of comprehension in which\neverything that surrounds us lives; in this incommunicable world, where\neverything has its object hermetically contained within itself, where\nevery destiny is self-circumscribed, where there exist among the\ncreatures no other relations than those of executioners and victims,\neaters and eaten, where nothing is able to leave its steel-bound\nsphere, where death alone establishes cruel relations of cause and\neffect between neighbouring lives, where not the smallest sympathy has\never made a conscious leap from one species to another, one animal\nalone, among all that breathes upon the earth, has succeeded in breaking\nthrough the prophetic circle, in escaping from itself to come bounding\ntoward us, definitely to cross the enormous zone of darkness, ice and\nsilence that isolates each category of existence in nature's\nunintelligible plan. This animal, our good familiar dog, simple and\nunsurprising as may to-day appear to us what he has done, in thus\nperceptibly drawing nearer to a world in which he was not born and for\nwhich he was not destined, has nevertheless performed one of the most\nunusual and improbable acts that we can find in the general history of\nlife. When was this recognition of man by beast, this extraordinary\npassage from darkness to light, effected? Did we seek out the poodle,\nthe collie, or the mastiff from among the wolves and the jackals, or did\nhe come spontaneously to us? We cannot tell. So far as our human annals\nstretch, he is at our side, as at present; but what are human annals in\ncomparison with the times of which we have no witness? The fact remains\nthat he is there in our houses, as ancient, as rightly placed, as\nperfectly adapted to our habits as though he had appeared on this\nearth, such as he now is, at the same time as ourselves. We have not to\ngain his confidence or his friendship: he is born our friend; while his\neyes are still closed, already he believes in us: even before his birth,\nhe has given himself to man. But the word \"friend\" does not exactly\ndepict his affectionate worship. He loves us and reveres us as though we\nhad drawn him out of nothing. He is, before all, our creature full of\ngratitude and more devoted than the apple of our eye. He is our intimate\nand impassioned slave, whom nothing discourages, whom nothing repels,\nwhose ardent trust and love nothing can impair. He has solved, in an\nadmirable and touching manner, the terrifying problem which human wisdom\nwould have to solve if a divine race came to occupy our globe. He has\nloyally, religiously, irrevocably recognized man's superiority and has\nsurrendered himself to him body and soul, without after-thought,\nwithout any intention to go back, reserving of his independence, his\ninstinct and his character only the small part indispensable to the\ncontinuation of the life prescribed by nature. With an unquestioning\ncertainty, an unconstraint and a simplicity that surprise us a little,\ndeeming us better and more powerful than all that exists, he betrays,\nfor our benefit, the whole of the animal kingdom to which he belongs\nand, without scruple, denies his race, his kin, his mother and his\nyoung.\n\n[Illustration]\n\nBut he loves us not only in his consciousness and his intelligence: the\nvery instinct of his race, the entire unconsciousness of his species, it\nappears, think only of us, dream only of being useful to us. To serve us\nbetter, to adapt himself better to our different needs, he has adopted\nevery shape and been able infinitely to vary the faculties, the\naptitudes which he places at our disposal. Is he to aid us in the\npursuit of game in the plains? His legs lengthen inordinately, his\nmuzzle tapers, his lungs widen, he becomes swifter than the deer. Does\nour prey hide under wood? The docile genius of the species, forestalling\nour desires, presents us with the basset, a sort of almost footless\nserpent, which steals into the closest thickets. Do we ask that he\nshould drive our flocks? The same compliant genius grants him the\nrequisite size, intelligence, energy and vigilance. Do we intend him to\nwatch and defend our house? His head becomes round and monstrous, in\norder that his jaws may be more powerful, more formidable and more\ntenacious. Are we taking him to the south? His hair grows shorter and\nlighter, so that he may faithfully accompany us under the rays of a\nhotter sun. Are we going up to the north? His feet grow larger, the\nbetter to tread the snow; his fur thickens, in order that the cold may\nnot compel him to abandon us. Is he intended only for us to play with,\nto amuse the leisure of our eyes, to adorn or enliven the home? He\nclothes himself in a sovereign grace and elegance, he makes himself\nsmaller than a doll to sleep on our knees by the fireside, or even\nconsents, should our fancy demand it, to appear a little ridiculous to\nplease us.\n\nYou shall not find, in nature's immense crucible, a single living being\nthat has shown a like suppleness, a similar abundance of forms, the\nsame prodigious faculty of accommodation to our wishes. This is because,\nin the world which we know, among the different and primitive geniuses\nthat preside over the evolution of the several species, there exists not\none, excepting that of the dog, that ever gave a thought to the presence\nof man.\n\nIt will, perhaps, be said that we have been able to transform almost as\nprofoundly some of our domestic animals: our hens, our pigeons, our\nducks, our cats, our horses, our rabbits, for instance. Yes, perhaps;\nalthough such transformations are not comparable with those undergone by\nthe dog and although the kind of service which these animals render us\nremains, so to speak, invariable. In any case, whether this impression\nbe purely imaginary or correspond with a reality, it does not appear\nthat we feel in these transformations the same unfailing and preventing\ngood will, the same sagacious and exclusive love. For the rest, it is\nquite possible that the dog, or rather the inaccessible genius of his\nrace, troubles scarcely at all about us and that we have merely known\nhow to make use of various aptitudes offered by the abundant chances of\nlife. It matters not: as we know nothing of the substance of things, we\nmust needs cling to appearances; and it is sweet to establish that, at\nleast in appearance, there is on the planet where, like unacknowledged\nkings, we live in solitary state, a being that loves us.\n\nHowever the case may stand with these appearances, it is none the less\ncertain that, in the aggregate of intelligent creatures that have\nrights, duties, a mission and a destiny, the dog is a really privileged\nanimal. He occupies in this world a pre-eminent position enviable among\nall. He is the only living being that has found and recognizes an\nindubitable, tangible, unexceptionable and definite god. He knows to\nwhat to devote the best part of himself. He knows to whom above him to\ngive himself. He has not to seek for a perfect, superior and infinite\npower in the darkness, amid successive lies, hypotheses and dreams. That\npower is there, before him, and he moves in its light. He knows the\nsupreme duties which we all do not know. He has a morality which\nsurpasses all that he is able to discover in himself and which he can\npractise without scruple and without fear. He possesses truth in its\nfulness. He has a certain and infinite ideal.\n\n\n\n\nIV\n\n\nAnd it was thus that, the other day, before his illness, I saw my little\nPelleas sitting at the foot of my writing-table, his tail carefully\nfolded under his paws, his head a little on one side, the better to\nquestion me, at once attentive and tranquil, as a saint should be in the\npresence of God. He was happy with the happiness which we, perhaps,\nshall never know, since it sprang from the smile and the approval of a\nlife incomparably higher than his own. He was there, studying, drinking\nin all my looks; and he replied to them gravely, as from equal to equal,\nto inform me, no doubt, that, at least through the eyes the most\nimmaterial organ that transformed into affectionate intelligence the\nlight which we enjoyed, he knew that he was saying to me all that love\nshould say. And, when I saw him thus, young, ardent and believing,\nbringing me, in some wise, from the depths of unwearied nature, quite\nfresh news of life and trusting and wonderstruck, as though he had been\nthe first of his race that came to inaugurate the earth and as though we\nwere still in the first days of the world's existence, I envied the\ngladness of his certainty, compared it with the destiny of man, still\nplunging on every side into darkness, and said to myself that the dog\nwho meets with a good master is the happier of the two.","title":"Our Friend the Dog","tradition":"philosophy-ethics","translated_text":null,"word_count":5100}