CHAPTER VI.
HORSES.
Do not be in a hurry to accuse us of coxcombry on seeing the heading of this chapter. Horses!—a glorious word indeed for the pen of a literary man. _Musa pedestris_ (the muse goes on foot), says Horace, and all Parnassus together had but a single horse in its stable,—the well known Pegasus; and he, if we may believe Schiller’s ballad, was a beast with wings, and not at all easy to harness. We are no sportsman, alas, and we deeply regret the fact, for we are as fond of horses as though we had an income of five hundred thousand francs a year, and entirely agree with the Arabs in their contempt for people who are forced to walk. A horse is the natural pedestal for a man, and the perfect existence is that of the Centaur,—that ingenious mythological invention.
However, notwithstanding that we are a simple man of letters, we once had horses. About the year 1843 or 1844, when engaged in sifting the sands of journalism through the sieve of the daily newspapers, enough golden particles appeared, to allow of the hope that, in addition to dogs, cats, and magpies, we might be able to find food for a couple of pets of larger size. At first it was a pair of Shetland ponies, about the size of a large dog, and shaggy as bears, who looked at us through their long, black manes with such friendly faces that we felt much more inclined to take them with us into the parlor than to send them to their stable. They helped themselves to sugar out of our pockets, just like trained horses. For use, however, they were entirely too small. They would have answered very well to carry an English child eight years old, or as coach horses to Tom Thumb; but, even at that date, we were blessed with the same athletic frame as now, and crowned with the same plenteous flesh which still characterizes us, and which we have been enabled to support, without giving way under its weight, for forty consecutive years. The difference in size between master and beasts was quite too apparent to the eye, though it must be said for the ponies that they made no difficulty at all about drawing their light phaeton, to which they were fastened by a tiny harness of pale fawn-colored leather, which looked as though it might have been purchased at a toy-shop.
At that time illustrated comic journals were not so plentiful as to-day, but there were plenty in existence to caricature us and our equipage. Of course, with the exaggeration permissible in such cases, we were invested with elephantine proportions, like those of Ganesa, the Indian god of wisdom, while the ponies dwindled to the size of puppies,—or, even less, to that of rats and mice. It is true that, without great difficulty, we might have carried the little creatures, one under each arm, and the phaeton to boot upon our back. For a moment we debated the possibility of harnessing four, but this Liliputian four-in-hand would have been still more conspicuous. With great regret therefore (for we had already grown fond of the gentle creatures) we exchanged them for a pair of dappled-gray ponies of a larger size, with strong necks, wide chests, and massive shoulders, which, though far enough from being Mecklenburgers, at least looked capable of drawing grown people about. They were mares,—one named Jane and the other Betsey.
In appearance they were as much alike as two drops of water. Never was a better match so far as looks went; but in proportion as Jane was mettlesome, Betsey was indolent. While the former pulled at the collar, the other trotted by her side contentedly, shirking work, and giving herself no sort of trouble. These two animals, of the same breed, the same age, fated to live in stalls side by side, felt for each other the strongest antipathy. They could not endure each other, fought in the stable, and snapped and bit when prancing in the traces. Nothing could reconcile them. It was a pity too, for with their brush-like manes cut like those of the horses of the Parthenon, their snorting nostrils and eyes dilated with fury, they presented rather a triumphant appearance when going up and down the Champs Elysées.
We were obliged to look for a substitute for Betsey, and found one in a small mare with skin of a somewhat lighter color,—for the shade we wanted could not be exactly matched. Jane approved at once of this new-comer, with whom she seemed charmed, and did the honors of the stable in the most graceful way. The tenderest friendship was soon established between them; Jane would rest her head on the shoulder of Blanche,—thus named because her shade of gray bordered on white,—and when let loose in the courtyard for an airing, they would play together like dogs or children. If one was driven out in single harness, the other, left behind, seemed sad, gave signs of feeling lonely, and, when far away she heard the hoofs of her comrade sounding on the pavement, she raised a joyful neighing like the blast of a trumpet, to which her approaching friend never failed to respond.
They came to be harnessed with remarkable docility, and would go of their own accord to their proper places on either side of the pole. Like all animals who are loved and kindly treated, Jane and Blanche soon acquired the most perfect confidence and familiarity. They would follow us about on their hind legs like dogs, and when we stood still, put their heads on our shoulders to be petted. Jane loved bread, Blanche sugar. Both of them adored watermelon rind, and there was nothing that they would not do to obtain these dainties.
If only men were not so odiously ferocious and brutal as they too often are, how happily and good-naturedly animals would play about them! This being, who can think, can speak, can do so many things which they cannot understand, fills their dimly understood thoughts, and is for them a perpetual astonishment and mystery. How frequently animals look at us with eyes which are full of questionings—questionings to which we cannot reply, as we have not the key to their language! They have a language, nevertheless, by which, through sounds and intonations which we scarcely notice, they exchange ideas,—confused, perhaps, but still ideas, such as creatures of their sphere of sentiment and action can understand. Less stupid in this one instance than ourselves, they succeed in learning a few words of our idiom, but not enough to enable them to talk with us. These words are mostly answers to our demands upon them, so our intercourse is naturally brief. But that animals talk with each other no one can doubt who has ever lived familiarly with dogs, cats, horses, or any other sort of beasts.
As an example of this, Jane, who by nature was perfectly fearless, shying at no obstacle whatever, and afraid of nothing, changed her character after living for a few months in the same stable with Blanche, and began to exhibit sudden and unaccountable fears. Her more timid companion had, without doubt, told her ghost stories at night. At times, when dashing along in the dusk through the Bois de Boulogne, Blanche would stop short and shy sharply to one side as if to avoid some phantom, which, invisible to us, had appeared to her. Trembling all over, with loud breathings, and body covered with sweat, she would rear straight on end if we tried to make her go on by touching her with the whip. Jane could not force her to follow, however hard she might try. In these cases there was nothing to be done but to get out, cover Blanche’s eyes and lead her along for a few paces till the vision took flight. Jane ended with allowing herself to be conquered by these terrors, which Blanche, when safely back in her stable, doubtless explained to her in full. We must frankly own that when, in the middle of a dusky lane checkered by moonlight into fantastic lights and shadows, Blanche, usually so docile,—Blanche, who, to excite her into a gallop, needed nothing heavier than that whip of Queen Mab’s which was made of cricket’s bone with gossamer lash,—planted herself suddenly on her four feet as though some spectre had seized her bridle, and with unconquerable obstinacy refused to move a step forward, we could not prevent a cold chill from running down our spine. Searching the shadow with unquiet glances, we almost imagined that we could detect therein the ghastly countenance of one of Goya’s “Caprices,” where in reality were only innocent silhouettes of leafy birch-trees or beeches.
It was one of our great pleasures to drive these charming animals ourselves, and an intimate understanding was soon established between us. If we held the reins in our hands, it was mainly for the look of the thing. The least click of the tongue sufficed to guide them to right or to left, to make them go slower or bring them to a stop. In a very short time they learned all our habits. They went of their own accord to the newspaper office, to the printers, to the editors, to the Bois de Boulogne, to the houses where we dined on particular days of the week, all with such exactitude that at last it became absolutely compromising. By consulting Jane or Blanche any one could have procured the address of our most mysterious visiting-places. If, while pursuing some interesting or tender conversation, we forgot the flight of time, they would recall it to our minds by neighing, and stamping with their hoofs under the balcony.
Notwithstanding the pleasantness of going about the city in a phaeton with our little friends to pull it, we could not help sometimes finding the wind sharp and the rain cold, when those months came in so fitly christened in the Republican calendar as “Brumaire, Frimaire, Pluviôse, Ventôse, and Nivôse.” We therefore purchased a blue coupé lined with white reps, so small that people compared it to one belonging to the most famous dwarf of the day, an insult about which we were troubled very little. A brown coupé lined with garnet succeeded the blue, and was replaced at a later date with one of the color of a crow’s eye upholstered with deep blue; for we luxuriated in carriages, in spite of being nothing but a poor scribbler, with no income stated in the big book, and no legacies left us for years back; and our ponies, though nourished on literature, so to speak, with nouns for hay, adjectives in place of oats, and adverbs instead of straw, were none the less fat and glossy because of that. Alas, just then came, no one knew exactly why, the Revolution of February. Paving-stones were being dug up on all sides to serve patriotic ends, and the streets were no longer accessible for wheeled vehicles. We might easily have scaled the barricades with our agile ponies and their light equipage, but unluckily we had no credit left anywhere but at the cook-shop. Horses cannot be fed on roast chicken. The horizon was lowering with heavy black clouds, across which red lightnings flashed. Money took alarm, and made haste to conceal itself. The newspaper for which we wrote suspended publication, and we thought ourselves fortunate when a purchaser turned up and took horses, harnesses, and carriages off our hands at a quarter of their value. It was a bitter grief to us to have them go, and we will not swear that a salt tear or two may not have dropped on the manes of Jane and Blanche as they were led away.
They are driven past their old home occasionally by their new owner; and always the light feet make an instant’s pause under the windows, to testify that they have not forgotten the dwelling where they were once so cared for and so tenderly loved. Then we breathe a bitter and sympathetic sigh, and say in the depths of our heart, “Poor Jane! Poor Blanche! Are they happy?”
In the overwhelming of our tiny fortunes theirs is the only loss which caused us a real regret.
University Press: John Wilson & Son, Cambridge.
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES
1. Silently corrected typographical errors and variations in spelling. 2. Archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings retained as printed. 3. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.