CHAPTER XII. THE WOOING OF MASTER FOX.9
You are aware, my dear Nymphalin, that in the time of which I am about to speak there was no particular enmity between the various species of brutes; the dog and the hare chatted very agreeably together, and all the world knows that the wolf, unacquainted with mutton, had a particular affection for the lamb. In these happy days, two most respectable cats, of very old family, had an only daughter. Never was kitten more amiable or more seducing; as she grew up she manifested so many charms, that in a little while she became noted as the greatest beauty in the neighbourhood. Need I to you, dearest Nymphalin, describe her perfection? Suffice it to say that her skin was of the most delicate tortoiseshell, that her paws were smoother than velvet, that her whiskers were twelve inches long at the least, and that her eyes had a gentleness altogether astonishing in a cat. But if the young beauty had suitors in plenty during the lives of monsieur and madame, you may suppose the number was not diminished when, at the age of two years and a half, she was left an orphan, and sole heiress to all the hereditary property. In fine, she was the richest marriage in the whole country. Without troubling you, dearest queen, with the adventures of the rest of her lovers, with their suit and their rejection, I come at once to the two rivals most sanguine of success,—the dog and the fox.
Now the dog was a handsome, honest, straightforward, affectionate fellow. “For my part,” said he, “I don’t wonder at my cousin’s refusing Bruin the bear, and Gauntgrim the wolf: to be sure they give themselves great airs, and call themselves ‘noble,’ but what then? Bruin is always in the sulks, and Gauntgrim always in a passion; a cat of any sensibility would lead a miserable life with them. As for me, I am very good-tempered when I’m not put out, and I have no fault except that of being angry if disturbed at my meals. I am young and good-looking, fond of play and amusement, and altogether as agreeable a husband as a cat could find in a summer’s day. If she marries me, well and good; she may have her property settled on herself: if not, I shall bear her no malice; and I hope I sha’n’t be too much in love to forget that there are other cats in the world.”
With that the dog threw his tail over his back, and set off to his mistress with a gay face on the matter.
Now the fox heard the dog talking thus to himself, for the fox was always peeping about, in holes and corners, and he burst out a laughing when the dog was out of sight.
“Ho, ho, my fine fellow!” said he; “not so fast, if you please: you’ve got the fox for a rival, let me tell you.”
The fox, as you very well know, is a beast that can never do anything without a manoeuvre; and as, from his cunning, he was generally very lucky in anything he undertook, he did not doubt for a moment that he should put the dog’s nose out of joint. Reynard was aware that in love one should always, if possible, be the first in the field; and he therefore resolved to get the start of the dog and arrive before him at the cat’s residence. But this was no easy matter; for though Reynard could run faster than the dog for a little way, he was no match for him in a journey of some distance. “However,” said Reynard, “those good-natured creatures are never very wise; and I think I know already what will make him bait on his way.”
With that, the fox trotted pretty fast by a short cut in the woods, and getting before the dog, laid himself down by a hole in the earth, and began to howl most piteously.
The dog, hearing the noise, was very much alarmed. “See now,” said he, “if the poor fox has not got himself into some scrape! Those cunning creatures are always in mischief; thank Heaven, it never comes into my head to be cunning!” And the good-natured animal ran off as hard as he could to see what was the matter with the fox.
“Oh, dear!” cried Reynard; “what shall I do? What shall I do? My poor little sister has fallen into this hole, and I can’t get her out; she’ll certainly be smothered.” And the fox burst out a howling more piteously than before.
“But, my dear Reynard,” quoth the dog, very simply, “why don’t you go in after your sister?”
“Ah, you may well ask that,” said the fox; “but, in trying to get in, don’t you perceive that I have sprained my back and can’t stir? Oh, dear! what shall I do if my poor little sister is smothered!”
“Pray don’t vex yourself,” said the dog; “I’ll get her out in an instant.” And with that he forced himself with great difficulty into the hole.
Now, no sooner did the fox see that the dog was fairly in, than he rolled a great stone to the mouth of the hole and fitted it so tight, that the dog, not being able to turn round and scratch against it with his forepaws, was made a close prisoner.
“Ha, ha!” cried Reynard, laughing outside; “amuse yourself with my poor little sister, while I go and make your compliments to Mademoiselle the Cat.”
With that Reynard set off at an easy pace, never troubling his head what became of the poor dog. When he arrived in the neighbourhood of the beautiful cat’s mansion, he resolved to pay a visit to a friend of his, an old magpie that lived in a tree and was well acquainted with all the news of the place. “For,” thought Reynard, “I may as well know the blind side of my mistress that is to be, and get round it at once.”
The magpie received the fox with great cordiality, and inquired what brought him so great a distance from home.
“Upon my word,” said the fox, “nothing so much as the pleasure of seeing your ladyship and hearing those agreeable anecdotes you tell with so charming a grace; but to let you into a secret—be sure it don’t go further—”
“On the word of a magpie,” interrupted the bird.
“Pardon me for doubting you,” continued the fox; “I should have recollected that a pie was a proverb for discretion. But, as I was saying, you know her Majesty the lioness?”
“Surely,” said the magpie, bridling.
“Well; she was pleased to fall in—that is to say—to—to—take a caprice to your humble servant, and the lion grew so jealous that I thought it prudent to decamp. A jealous lion is no joke, let me assure your ladyship. But mum’s the word.”
So great a piece of news delighted the magpie. She could not but repay it in kind, by all the news in her budget. She told the fox all the scandal about Bruin and Gauntgrim, and she then fell to work on the poor young cat. She did not spare her foibles, you may be quite sure. The fox listened with great attention, and he learned enough to convince him that however much the magpie might exaggerate, the cat was very susceptible to flattery, and had a great deal of imagination.
When the magpie had finished she said, “But it must be very unfortunate for you to be banished from so magnificent a court as that of the lion?”
“As to that,” answered the fox, “I console myself for my exile with a present his Majesty made me on parting, as a reward for my anxiety for his honour and domestic tranquillity; namely, three hairs from the fifth leg of the amoronthologosphorus. Only think of that, ma’am!”
“The what?” cried the pie, cocking down her left ear.
“The amoronthologosphorus.”
“La!” said the magpie; “and what is that very long word, my dear Reynard?”
“The amoronthologosphorus is a beast that lives on the other side of the river Cylinx; it has five legs, and on the fifth leg there are three hairs, and whoever has those three hairs can be young and beautiful forever.”
“Bless me! I wish you would let me see them,” said the pie, holding out her claw.
“Would that I could oblige you, ma’am; but it’s as much as my life’s worth to show them to any but the lady I marry. In fact, they only have an effect on the fair sex, as you may see by myself, whose poor person they utterly fail to improve: they are, therefore, intended for a marriage present, and his Majesty the lion thus generously atoned to me for relinquishing the tenderness of his queen. One must confess that there was a great deal of delicacy in the gift. But you’ll be sure not to mention it.”
“A magpie gossip indeed!” quoth the old blab.
The fox then wished the magpie good night, and retired to a hole to sleep off the fatigues of the day, before he presented himself to the beautiful young cat.
The next morning, Heaven knows how! it was all over the place that Reynard the fox had been banished from court for the favour shown him by her Majesty, and that the lion had bribed his departure with three hairs that would make any lady whom the fox married young and beautiful forever.
The cat was the first to learn the news, and she became all curiosity to see so interesting a stranger, possessed of “qualifications” which, in the language of the day, “would render any animal happy!” She was not long without obtaining her wish. As she was taking a walk in the wood the fox contrived to encounter her. You may be sure that he made her his best bow; and he flattered the poor cat with so courtly an air that she saw nothing surprising in the love of the lioness.
Meanwhile let us see what became of his rival, the dog.
“Ah, the poor creature!” said Nymphalin; “it is easy to guess that he need not be buried alive to lose all chance of marrying the heiress.”
“Wait till the end,” answered Fayzenheim.
When the dog found that he was thus entrapped, he gave himself up for lost. In vain he kicked with his hind-legs against the stone,—he only succeeded in bruising his paws; and at length he was forced to lie down, with his tongue out of his mouth, and quite exhausted. “However,” said he, after he had taken breath, “it won’t do to be starved here, without doing my best to escape; and if I can’t get out one way, let me see if there is not a hole at the other end.” Thus saying, his courage, which stood him in lieu of cunning, returned, and he proceeded on in the same straightforward way in which he always conducted himself. At first the path was exceedingly narrow, and he hurt his sides very much against the rough stones that projected from the earth; but by degrees the way became broader, and he now went on with considerable ease to himself, till he arrived in a large cavern, where he saw an immense griffin sitting on his tail, and smoking a huge pipe.
The dog was by no means pleased at meeting so suddenly a creature that had only to open his mouth to swallow him up at a morsel; however, he put a bold face on the danger, and walking respectfully up to the griffin, said, “Sir, I should be very much obliged to you if you would inform me the way out of these holes into the upper world.”
The griffin took the pipe out of his mouth, and looked at the dog very sternly.
“Ho, wretch!” said he, “how comest thou hither? I suppose thou wantest to steal my treasure; but I know how to treat such vagabonds as you, and I shall certainly eat you up.
“You can do that if you choose,” said the dog; “but it would be very unhandsome conduct in an animal so much bigger than myself. For my own part, I never attack any dog that is not of equal size,—I should be ashamed of myself if I did. And as to your treasure, the character I bear for honesty is too well known to merit such a suspicion.”
“Upon my word,” said the griffin, who could not help smiling for the life of him, “you have a singularly free mode of expressing yourself. And how, I say, came you hither?”
Then the dog, who did not know what a lie was, told the griffin his whole history,—how he had set off to pay his court to the cat, and how Reynard the fox had entrapped him into the hole.
When he had finished, the griffin said to him, “I see, my friend, that you know how to speak the truth; I am in want of just such a servant as you will make me, therefore stay with me and keep watch over my treasure when I sleep.”
“Two words to that,” said the dog. “You have hurt my feelings very much by suspecting my honesty, and I would much sooner go back into the wood and be avenged on that scoundrel the fox, than serve a master who has so ill an opinion of me. I pray you, therefore, to dismiss me, and to put me in the right way to my cousin the cat.”
“I am not a griffin of many words,” answered the master of the cavern, “and I give you your choice,—be my servant or be my breakfast; it is just the same to me. I give you time to decide till I have smoked out my pipe.”
The poor dog did not take so long to consider. “It is true,” thought he, “that it is a great misfortune to live in a cave with a griffin of so unpleasant a countenance; but, probably, if I serve him well and faithfully, he’ll take pity on me some day, and let me go back to earth, and prove to my cousin what a rogue the fox is; and as to the rest, though I would sell my life as dear as I could, it is impossible to fight a griffin with a mouth of so monstrous a size.” In short, he decided to stay with the griffin.
“Shake a paw on it,” quoth the grim smoker; and the dog shook paws.
“And now,” said the griffin, “I will tell you what you are to do. Look here,” and moving his tail, he showed the dog a great heap of gold and silver, in a hole in the ground, that he had covered with the folds of his tail; and also, what the dog thought more valuable, a great heap of bones of very tempting appearance. “Now,” said the griffin, “during the day I can take very good care of these myself; but at night it is very necessary that I should go to sleep, so when I sleep you must watch over them instead of me.”
“Very well,” said the dog. “As to the gold and silver, I have no objection; but I would much rather that you would lock up the bones, for I’m often hungry of a night, and—”
“Hold your tongue,” said the griffin.
“But, sir,” said the dog, after a short silence, “surely nobody ever comes into so retired a situation! Who are the thieves, if I may make bold to ask?”
“Know,” answered the griffin, “that there are a great many serpents in this neighbourhood. They are always trying to steal my treasure; and if they catch me napping, they, not contented with theft, would do their best to sting me to death. So that I am almost worn out for want of sleep.”
“Ah,” quoth the dog, who was fond of a good night’s rest, “I don’t envy you your treasure, sir.”
At night, the griffin, who had a great deal of penetration, and saw that he might depend on the dog, lay down to sleep in another corner of the cave; and the dog, shaking himself well, so as to be quite awake, took watch over the treasure. His mouth watered exceedingly at the bones, and he could not help smelling them now and then; but he said to himself, “A bargain’s a bargain, and since I have promised to serve the griffin, I must serve him as an honest dog ought to serve.”
In the middle of the night he saw a great snake creeping in by the side of the cave; but the dog set up so loud a bark that the griffin awoke, and the snake crept away as fast as he could. Then the griffin was very much pleased, and he gave the dog one of the bones to amuse himself with; and every night the dog watched the treasure, and acquitted himself so well that not a snake, at last, dared to make its appearance,—so the griffin enjoyed an excellent night’s rest.
The dog now found himself much more comfortable than he expected. The griffin regularly gave him one of the bones for supper; and, pleased with his fidelity, made himself as agreeable a master as a griffin could be. Still, however, the dog was secretly very anxious to return to earth; for having nothing to do during the day but to doze on the ground, he dreamed perpetually of his cousin the cat’s charms, and, in fancy, he gave the rascal Reynard as hearty a worry as a fox may well have the honour of receiving from a dog’s paws. He awoke panting; alas! he could not realize his dreams.
One night, as he was watching as usual over the treasure, he was greatly surprised to see a beautiful little black and white dog enter the cave; and it came fawning to our honest friend, wagging its tail with pleasure.
“Ah, little one,” said our dog, whom, to distinguish, I will call the watch-dog, “you had better make the best of your way back again. See, there is a great griffin asleep in the other corner of the cave, and if he wakes, he will either eat you up or make you his servant, as he has made me.”
“I know what you would tell me,” says the little dog; “and I have come down here to deliver you. The stone is now gone from the mouth of the cave, and you have nothing to do but to go back with me. Come, brother, come.”
The dog was very much excited by this address. “Don’t ask me, my dear little friend,” said he; “you must be aware that I should be too happy to escape out of this cold cave, and roll on the soft turf once more: but if I leave my master, the griffin, those cursed serpents, who are always on the watch, will come in and steal his treasure,—nay, perhaps, sting him to death.” Then the little dog came up to the watch-dog, and remonstrated with him greatly, and licked him caressingly on both sides of his face; and, taking him by the ear, endeavoured to draw him from the treasure: but the dog would not stir a step, though his heart sorely pressed him. At length the little dog, finding it all in vain, said, “Well, then, if I must leave, good-by; but I have become so hungry in coming down all this way after you, that I wish you would give me one of those bones; they smell very pleasantly, and one out of so many could never be missed.”
“Alas!” said the watchdog, with tears in his eyes, “how unlucky I am to have eaten up the bone my master gave me, otherwise you should have had it and welcome. But I can’t give you one of these, because my master has made me promise to watch over them all, and I have given him my paw on it. I am sure a dog of your respectable appearance will say nothing further on the subject.”
Then the little dog answered pettishly, “Pooh, what nonsense you talk! surely a great griffin can’t miss a little bone fit for me?” and nestling his nose under the watch-dog, he tried forthwith to bring up one of the bones.
On this the watch-dog grew angry, and, though with much reluctance, he seized the little dog by the nape of the neck and threw him off, but without hurting him. Suddenly the little dog changed into a monstrous serpent, bigger even than the griffin himself, and the watch-dog barked with all his might. The griffin rose in a great hurry, and the serpent sprang upon him ere he was well awake. I wish, dearest Nymphalin, you could have seen the battle between the griffin and the serpent,—how they coiled and twisted, and bit and darted their fiery tongues at each other. At length the serpent got uppermost, and was about to plunge his tongue into that part of the griffin which is unprotected by his scales, when the dog, seizing him by the tail, bit him so sharply that he could not help turning round to kill his new assailant, and the griffin, taking advantage of the opportunity, caught the serpent by the throat with both claws, and fairly strangled him. As soon as the griffin had recovered from the nervousness of the conflict, he heaped all manner of caresses on the dog for saving his life. The dog told him the whole story, and the griffin then explained that the dead snake was the king of the serpents, who had the power to change himself into any shape he pleased. “If he had tempted you,” said he, “to leave the treasure but for one moment, or to have given him any part of it, ay, but a single bone, he would have crushed you in an instant, and stung me to death ere I could have waked; but none, no, not the most venomous thing in creation, has power to hurt the honest!”
“That has always been my belief,” answered the dog; “and now, sir, you had better go to sleep again and leave the rest to me.”
“Nay,” answered the griffin, “I have no longer need of a servant; for now that the king of the serpents is dead, the rest will never molest me. It was only to satisfy his avarice that his subjects dared to brave the den of the griffin.”
Upon hearing this the dog was exceedingly delighted; and raising himself on his hind paws, he begged the griffin most movingly to let him return to earth, to visit his mistress the cat, and worry his rival the fox.
“You do not serve an ungrateful master,” answered the griffin. “You shall return, and I will teach you all the craft of our race, which is much craftier than the race of that pettifogger the fox, so that you may be able to cope with your rival.”
“Ah, excuse me,” said the dog, hastily, “I am equally obliged to you; but I fancy honesty is a match for cunning any day, and I think myself a great deal safer in being a dog of honour than if I knew all the tricks in the world.”
“Well,” said the griffin, a little piqued at the dog’s bluntness, “do as you please; I wish you all possible success.”
Then the griffin opened a secret door in the side of the cabin, and the dog saw a broad path that led at once into the wood. He thanked the griffin with all his heart, and ran wagging his tail into the open moonlight. “Ah, ah, master fox,” said he, “there’s no trap for an honest dog that has not two doors to it, cunning as you think yourself.”
With that he curled his tail gallantly over his left leg, and set off on a long trot to the cat’s house. When he was within sight of it, he stopped to refresh himself by a pool of water, and who should be there but our friend the magpie.
“And what do you want, friend?” said she, rather disdainfully, for the dog looked somewhat out of case after his journey.
“I am going to see my cousin the cat,” answered he.
“Your cousin! marry come up,” said the magpie; “don’t you know she is going to be married to Reynard the fox? This is not a time for her to receive the visits of a brute like you.”
These words put the dog in such a passion that he very nearly bit the magpie for her uncivil mode of communicating such bad news. However, he curbed his temper, and, without answering her, went at once to the cat’s residence.
The cat was sitting at the window, and no sooner did the dog see her than he fairly lost his heart; never had he seen so charming a cat before. He advanced, wagging his tail, and with his most insinuating air, when the cat, getting up, clapped the window in his face, and lo! Reynard the fox appeared in her stead.
“Come out, thou rascal!” said the dog, showing his teeth; “come out, I challenge thee to single combat; I have not forgiven thy malice, and thou seest that I am no longer shut up in the cave, and unable to punish thee for thy wickedness.”
“Go home, silly one!” answered the fox, sneering; “thou hast no business here, and as for fighting thee—bah!” Then the fox left the window and disappeared. But the dog, thoroughly enraged, scratched lustily at the door, and made such a noise, that presently the cat herself came to the window.
“How now!” said she, angrily; “what means all this rudeness? Who are you, and what do you want at my house?”
“Oh, my dear cousin,” said the dog, “do not speak so severely. Know that I have come here on purpose to pay you a visit; and, whatever you do, let me beseech you not to listen to that villain Reynard,—you have no conception what a rogue he is!”
“What!” said the cat, blushing; “do you dare to abuse your betters in this fashion? I see you have a design on me. Go, this instant, or—”
“Enough, madam,” said the dog, proudly; “you need not speak twice to me,—farewell.”
And he turned away very slowly, and went under a tree, where he took up his lodgings for the night. But the next morning there was an amazing commotion in the neighbourhood; a stranger, of a very different style of travelling from that of the dog, had arrived at the dead of the night, and fixed his abode in a large cavern hollowed out of a steep rock. The noise he had made in flying through the air was so great that it had awakened every bird and beast in the parish; and Reynard, whose bad conscience never suffered him to sleep very soundly, putting his head out of the window, perceived, to his great alarm, that the stranger was nothing less than a monstrous griffin.
Now the griffins are the richest beasts in the world; and that’s the reason they keep so close under ground. Whenever it does happen that they pay a visit above, it is not a thing to be easily forgotten.
The magpie was all agitation. What could the griffin possibly want there? She resolved to take a peep at the cavern, and accordingly she hopped timorously up the rock, and pretended to be picking up sticks for her nest.
“Holla, ma’am!” cried a very rough voice, and she saw the griffin putting his head out of the cavern. “Holla! you are the very lady I want to see; you know all the people about here, eh?”
“All the best company, your lordship, I certainly do,” answered the magpie, dropping a courtesy.
Upon this the griffin walked out; and smoking his pipe leisurely in the open air, in order to set the pie at her ease, continued,—
“Are there any respectable beasts of good families settled in this neighbourhood?”
“Oh, most elegant society, I assure your lordship,” cried the pie. “I have lived here myself these ten years, and the great heiress, the cat yonder, attracts a vast number of strangers.”
“Humph! heiress, indeed! much you know about heiresses!” said the griffin. “There is only one heiress in the world, and that’s my daughter.”
“Bless me! has your lordship a family? I beg you a thousand pardons; but I only saw your lordship’s own equipage last night, and did not know you brought any one with you.”
“My daughter went first, and was safely lodged before I arrived. She did not disturb you, I dare say, as I did; for she sails along like a swan: but I have got the gout in my left claw, and that’s the reason I puff and groan so in taking a journey.”
“Shall I drop in upon Miss Griffin, and see how she is after her journey?” said the pie, advancing.
“I thank you, no. I don’t intend her to be seen while I stay here,—it unsettles her; and I’m afraid of the young beasts running away with her if they once heard how handsome she was: she’s the living picture of me, but she’s monstrous giddy! Not that I should care much if she did go off with a beast of degree, were I not obliged to pay her portion, which is prodigious; and I don’t like parting with money, ma’am, when I’ve once got it. Ho, ho, ho!”
“You are too witty, my lord. But if you refused your consent?” said the pie, anxious to know the whole family history of so grand a seigneur.
“I should have to pay the dowry all the same. It was left her by her uncle the dragon. But don’t let this go any further.”
“Your lordship may depend on my secrecy. I wish your lordship a very good morning.”
Away flew the pie, and she did not stop till she got to the cat’s house. The cat and the fox were at breakfast, and the fox had his paw on his heart. “Beautiful scene!” cried the pie; the cat coloured, and bade the pie take a seat.
Then off went the pie’s tongue, glib, glib, glib, chatter, chatter, chatter. She related to them the whole story of the griffin and his daughter, and a great deal more besides, that the griffin had never told her.
The cat listened attentively. Another young heiress in the neighbourhood might be a formidable rival. “But is this griffiness handsome?” said she.
“Handsome!” cried the pie; “oh, if you could have seen the father!—such a mouth, such eyes, such a complexion; and he declares she’s the living picture of himself! But what do you say, Mr. Reynard,—you, who have been so much in the world, have, perhaps, seen the young lady?”
“Why, I can’t say I have,” answered the fox, waking from a revery; “but she must be wonderfully rich. I dare say that fool the dog will be making up to her.”
“Ah, by the way,” said the pie, “what a fuss he made at your door yesterday; why would you not admit him, my dear?”
“Oh,” said the cat, demurely, “Mr. Reynard says that he is a dog of very bad character, quite a fortune-hunter; and hiding the most dangerous disposition to bite under an appearance of good nature. I hope he won’t be quarrelsome with you, dear Reynard!”
“With me? Oh, the poor wretch, no!—he might bluster a little; but he knows that if I’m once angry I’m a devil at biting;—one should not boast of oneself.”
In the evening Reynard felt a strange desire to go and see the griffin smoking his pipe; but what could he do? There was the dog under the opposite tree evidently watching for him, and Reynard had no wish to prove himself that devil at biting which he declared he was. At last he resolved to have recourse to stratagem to get rid of the dog.
A young buck of a rabbit, a sort of provincial fop, had looked in upon his cousin the cat, to pay her his respects, and Reynard, taking him aside, said, “You see that shabby-looking dog under the tree? He has behaved very ill to your cousin the cat, and you certainly ought to challenge him. Forgive my boldness, nothing but respect for your character induces me to take so great a liberty; you know I would chastise the rascal myself, but what a scandal it would make! If I were already married to your cousin, it would be a different thing. But you know what a story that cursed magpie would hatch out of it!”
The rabbit looked very foolish; he assured the fox he was no match for the dog; that he was very fond of his cousin, to be sure! but he saw no necessity to interfere with her domestic affairs; and, in short, he tried all he possibly could to get out of the scrape; but the fox so artfully played on his vanity, so earnestly assured him that the dog was the biggest coward in the world and would make a humble apology, and so eloquently represented to him the glory he would obtain for manifesting so much spirit, that at length the rabbit was persuaded to go out and deliver the challenge.
“I’ll be your second,” said the fox; “and the great field on the other side the wood, two miles hence, shall be the place of battle: there we shall be out of observation. You go first, I’ll follow in half an hour; and I say, hark!—in case he does accept the challenge, and you feel the least afraid, I’ll be in the field, and take it off your paws with the utmost pleasure; rely on me, my dear sir!”