Part 21

Glen is well remembered at Mont-Saint-Michel, for besides this performance, and besides leaping from the battlements when in his hurry he could not find the stairway--he showed what seems to be his only ambition--that of whipping a dog of twice his own size. After several days’ premeditation, he attacked a big fellow brought from Newfoundland by one of the fishermen, and--as usual--was unsuccessful, although he evidently thought he might have succeeded if he had not been pulled off.

Glen is as fond of the water as any spaniel, and will bathe in the breakers, leaping clear of the surf on the crest of the waves, and has been very useful in shipwrecks of toy boats--rescuing and bringing them safe to land to the great joy of their youthful owners.

Born in Aberdeenshire

Oct. 29 1879]

Every evening before he and his master retire for the night, they take a walk. It often happens that his master has a friend spending the evening with him, who, in Glen’s opinion, stays later than he should stay. In this case, when the clock has struck the half-hour after ten, Glen becomes uneasy, rises from his rug before the fire, stretches himself, looks around, and, creeping up to the visitor, gives him a gentle poke under the elbow. Of course he is ordered to lie down by his master; but if the visitor is not acquainted with the ways of the household, he is charmed with the dog’s attention, gives him a friendly pat, and declares that Glen does not bother him. Shortly afterwards, the guest is surprised to find the dog again beside him, sitting up on his haunches, and gently scratching his sleeve with his paw; and he does not discontinue his impolite hints so long as the visitor stays. If the visitor is an habitué, when Glen begins his caresses he looks at his watch, and in spite of his host’s apologies, promises Glen that he will go in a few minutes. Often, when alone, the master will be occupied in the evening with book or pen until, feeling a gentle nudge at his elbow, he looks up to find the large brown eyes of his dog fixed upon him. This is a friendly hint as to the hour, and one which certainly prevents unduly late hours for both master and dog.

A well-known artist in New York, Mr. F. S. Church, makes frequent and delightful studies of animals and birds--although not so much for their own sake, perhaps, as for that of some thought to which they are the fit accessories. Now it is a maiden wandering in desert places, alone, save for the savage beasts her innocence has tamed. Now it is an Alpine shrine where rain and snow have beaten against the patient Christ upon the cross. But still the pent-roof of the shrine affords some shelter; and beneath it, along the outstretched arms, or nestling close to the thorn-crowned head, is a flock of birds. The storm-beaten little wanderers have found refuge where many a one has come before--with the Christ, at the cross.

Here a group of feathered mourners singing a dirge for the last rose of summer; there a witch’s daughter in mystic converse with an owl.

Decidedly more realistic is the sketch called “At Rest,” of a monkey extended in that hopeless rigidity which can never be mistaken for life. There is something curiously touching in the stiffened form--a look of almost human protest against fate--as though death had arrested him at the very moment when he was about to become a man.

Another sketch represents a stray cat which thrust its head into the studio one day, and stared for a moment at its occupant, with great, astonished, yellow eyes. From mingled motives of humanity and art he tried to detain her, but in vain. As silently as she had come she vanished, although--like the grin of the cat in Wonderland--her stare remained after her head had disappeared, thus enabling the artist to transfer it to paper.

It will be guessed from all these possible pets that Mr. Church had no actual ones. Such is the case, and a great pity it is that this petless master and a few masterless pets cannot meet! His loss, however, is somewhat balanced by the gain in a neighboring studio, which belongs to Mr. William M. Chase. It is rich in artistic bric-à-brac and paintings, but the special decoration when I saw it, was a Russian deer-hound named Kat-te. The magnificent, snow-white fellow lay upon a Turkish rug, whose rich tints set off to perfection his own Northern fairness. He rose, at his master’s request, to shake hands and exhibit his beautiful form in its height and length. He even condescended to lay upon my palm for a moment his clean-cut, delicate muzzle, but soon wearied of exhibition, and went back to his dolce far niente on the rug.

Kat-te was found by Mr. Chase in Harlaem, and, at that time, spoke Dutch, as a dog may. It required some time to teach him English; nevertheless, he now understands that language also. And yet more, when he met a party of Russians on the street one day, and was addressed by them in their own language, he showed the greatest delight and emotion. He tried to follow them home, he was restless, he was excited, and thus evinced in canine fashion, not only his philological attainments, but also his faithful Russian heart. Some idea of his noble proportions may be gained from the accompanying picture.

The caricaturist Cham had a dog called Azor, as well-known as himself; and Du Maurier’s Chang, a very beautiful, sagacious dog, figured, while living, in many of his master’s sketches, and by his death grieved all who knew him.

George Cruikshank’s Lilla was a docile, affectionate little creature, and, like most studio pets, figures occasionally in his master’s work. The drawing given here is from the original in Madame Tussaud’s exhibition. It is well stuffed and mounted, and purports to be the veritable Lilla; but although its history was inquired into both by the artist who sketched it, and myself, we failed to get even the smallest crumb of information. Its identity, therefore, must be left an open question.

Dante Rossetti had a collection of pets which, in its whimsical variety, can only be likened to that of the naturalist Buckland. Armadillos and wombats were included, but decidedly the most notable was the zebu. One of the artist’s biographers gives an amusing account of the creature. It was an intractable subject for petting, and put an end to all attempts in that direction by one day tearing up by the roots the little tree to which it was tethered, and chasing its owner all round the garden. After this exploit, it was given away; Mr. Knight says that Rossetti, when discussing his pets, past and present, was not much given to talk of the zebu.

Roman studios are as well supplied with live “properties” as American or English ones. Will the visitor who has once seen it ever forget that charming staircase, vine-wreathed, flowery and musical, which, although in the busy Piazza di Termini, still keeps an air of forest seclusion? It is the passage to a studio equally retired, fashioned like a nest in the ruined baths of Diocletian. Paintings, bits of tapestry, etc., form a background for various marble inmates, whose serenity is interfered with neither by cat nor dog. It is the staircase, covered with wire netting, that holds the favorites. Pigeons inhabit the upper part, and keep up a continual flutter at the latticed window, their wings gleaming silver in the sunshine. Lower down are musical blackbirds; I remember especially among the latter one beautiful fellow, who shrank back, mute, at the approach of our party, but answered his master’s call at once, and perched, lightly as thistledown, upon his arm.

This master, the sculptor Ezekiel, like most bird-lovers, does not allow cats in his home. He might possibly train Pussy into tolerance, and so have a happy family--only--he does not like cats! which, to a cat lover, seems queer. However, even if unconsciously, he must have some secret understanding of their nature; for in his studio is a marble Judith with arm raised to strike, who, in her magnificent fierceness, recalls, far from ignobly, the feline race.

Elihu Vedder’s pets might be expected to wear a rather tragic and noble air, appropriate to the illustrations of the Rubaiyat; but on the contrary, they have a commonplace appearance of well-being. The studio pet one year was an asthmatic small dog, who had thrown himself upon the artist’s compassion--a grateful, subdued, unassuming object, which, after each spasm of coughing, would look around with a deprecatory expression, as if to apologize for the disturbance. Some intelligent cats, and another small dog, in this instance possessed of vivacious health and spirits, keep the artist’s home lively, and compete with one another for his favor.

A third studio in Rome is that of the sculptor Story. Many famous statues have here been “born in clay and resurrected in marble”--among them that of George Peabody. The marble is now in London, but a colossal plaster-cast remains in the studio.

The philanthropist is seated--a position which allows various projections, or ledges, within the hollow cast--of which a high-minded cat once took advantage.

Before reading further, look at her picture. Is she not very much like some dainty young lady in ball-dress? See how deftly she has disposed her train, how fastidiously she glances over her shoulder! A cat of distinction--that is evident at the first glance! She came originally from Walton-on-Thames, in England, was a present to Mrs. Story, and, in memory of the donor, named Lady Tankerville. Having an artistic bias, she chose the studio in preference to boudoir life, and was oftenest to be found there.

After a while she was known to be the proud mother of kittens, but where she kept them remained a mystery until several weeks later, when they were found in--of all places!--the head of George Peabody. It was a delightfully retired situation, and probably there never were happier kittens. As an instance of post-mortem philanthropy, it is, I am convinced, unequalled.

A fine pug called Bimbo must be added to the favorites that have gone before. A spoiled but intelligent darling, he sits up for his picture on a velvet chair, with an air of snug contentment quite irresistible. His mistress holds him in loving memory; and, since his death, contents herself with a bisque “puggery,” whose inmates, if liable to breakage, are nevertheless more easily replaced.

One other pet must close this chapter--a pet already old, but likely to live many more years without appearing perceptibly older. It is a tortoise, Babbo by name, which belonged to the sculptor Hiram Powers. I had the honor of frequent interviews with Babbo some summers past; and Mr. Longworth Powers did his best to photograph him. A crumb of moistened biscuit was placed on the broad stone step and Babbo beside it. No use at all; he either got into a bad position or shuffled out of focus. Juicy cabbage leaves were brought, but although usually susceptible to their charm, he now turned from them in scorn. He was gently coaxed, he was thumped down hard, he was entreated, he was scolded--all in vain. A good tortoise ordinarily, the bare idea of a photograph seemed to render him frantic; and after three plates were spoiled, we were compelled to let him go.

“Mr. Powers’ Babbo,” writes Babbo’s mistress, “always came to the inner studio door if hungry or thirsty, and scratched at it to attract attention. Then my husband would take him up, hold him in the water until he had quite satisfied his thirst, when the creature would waddle off, perfectly contented. If hungry, he would give him a bit of bread dipped in wine and water.”

The kind master has gone, but Babbo remains, and still has shelter, drink and sup in the pleasant Florentine garden.

VII.

PUSSY IN PRIVATE LIFE.

VII.