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Only A Dog
It was not even his own dog. He said it barked, and had the mange. Most dogs bark; and if it had a tenth of the diseases he had, it would have been kindliness to kill it. But what business was it of his? It was her brother's dog; it was her mother's pet.
Anna had come up to my room in the hotel. I had explained the truth (God's truth, not man's) to the clerk, so there was no difficulty. Besides, you can get away with anything in America, if you have an English accent. She had her mother's letter in her hand when she came in. I had never heard of Jock before—Jock was the dog's name—I only knew there had been some trouble about a dog. Now the whole story came out. He—that's her husband, only he was never that, more than twice her age, and a permanent invalid—hates everything and everybody and himself into the bargain. A little like Count Genesi, without the nobility of the passion. A little like Guido Franceschini—and to tell you the truth, that's what I'm afraid of. Well, his hatred concentrated on this dog. He's a liar and a coward; he kept off enquiries for weeks, saying he had sent it away to be looked after, or given it away, or—oh! any lie that sounded plausible. And now the truth was out; he had confessed to Anna: he had had it murdered. So she had come straight round to me. Poor little Jock! If it did bark, what affair was that of his? A few days, and he would be going away, West perhaps—probably—I pray God—never to return.
Of course he is mad. I have suspected softening of the brain for some time. His brother's death last year shook him heavily. He hears his brother's voice calling him—that's insanity without doubt. And he bursts into violent rages or violent tears on no provocation.
He is an utterly vile old man. He has even tried to make Anna's sisters his mistresses. (And he threatens me with the Blue Laws!) However, this is the main point: he is mad. The neighbours are all ready to testify; if he makes one more step against us, we shall assume the offensive and send him to Matteawan or wherever it is. Then Anna will have no further scruple in divorcing him. Only her sense of duty has stood in the way so far. Her heart's so beautiful! She will suffer anything herself rather than give her pain to her worst enemy. So there she is, tied to this monster, and I honour her so for her pure heart that I won't urge her to do otherwise. But I'm not bound in any such way myself: I'll free her somehow. (Oh God! God! I pray God for her freedom!) Yet I would not hurt him. I would only put an end to his unhappiness. For he is utterly wretched, as are all who hate. And when she met me, and loved me (that very first minute), and went back to his house, he saw it in her face that she was happy, and for that he hated her the more. What I am so afraid of is that his madness may break out into violence, that he may murder her as he murdered the poor little dog.
I don't know which of us began it. I was sitting in the big armchair; Anna was standing against the wall with her hands behind her, resting against them, and swaying on their lovely elasticity. She told me all the story so simply and so sadly. Yes, I think I began it, because she came over when she saw me fighting with the tears, and knelt beside me, and took me in her arms, and petted me, and hushed me—but it was no good. I was so ashamed of myself; it was so silly to cry over a dog I didn't even know. But it was so cruel and so senseless that it seemed a very parable of the universe itself. There was Weltschmerz[1] in those tears, be sure.
Then it was time for me to play the man, to console her—as God gave me grace and power to do. Amor vincit omnia.[2] But I am still moved by the crime; months later, as it is, I cannot think of it without something pulling at my heart. If there be a soul of good in all things evil, it may here be this, that Anna knew then without possibility of doubt how utterly tender I am of heart, and childlike. I am not really ashamed that I cried; I would be ashamed if I had not. For another thing, the incident may help to steel her when the crisis comes.
For he is coming East in a week or so, and her sister and I have agreed to strike home, if there's half a chance of it. Even Jock, who was only a dog, and barked, and had the mange, may find avengers.
But what strange creatures women are! Anna's mother had written a letter full of tears, so simple, so pathetic: "Where is my little dog? I want my little dog." All the while is was lying dead. Anna wrote back and told what the monster had at last confessed—and the next time her mother wrote, it was to minimise the tragedy; after all, Jock was 'only a dog.'
My own heart's of different stuff; I'll not forget Jock—whom I never knew—so long as I live; and if God put not forth a hand to avenge him, I will. Only a dog!
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