by Felix Salten
But after they met Bettina they took a fresh interest in life. That occurred one day when Renni was lying perfectly still on the ground as he had been ordered, and George had gone off some distance. He was just on the point of raising his hand to call the dog to him, when he saw a girl stop beside the dog, bend over, and start talking to him. George walked slowly up and heard her say, “Fine fellow! Good pup! And you’re handsome, too. I’d like to pet you, you dear, but I don’t quite dare.”
Renni lay still, blinking at the girl without even raising his head, and only permitted himself the slightest wag of his tail.
“Please go on and pet him,” George smiled. “He won’t bite.”
The girl raised startled eyes. “Oh, I beg your pardon. I saw the dog lying there, and . . . ” she broke off in confusion.
George gave the sign which released Renni from his motionless waiting. He sprang to his feet and joyfully whirled around his master, and with the same exuberance around the new acquaintance, and she petted him to her heart’s content.
George looked at the girl with interest. She was not pretty, but young and sweet. She was very simply dressed, without a hat. Her heavy russet hair was wound about her head in thick braids.
“Why does the—” she interrupted herself. “What is the beautiful thing’s name?” And when she learned his name she resumed, “Why must he lie there all by himself?”
“It’s an experiment. I’m getting ready to train him for war service.”
“Oh dear! The poor thing’s in for a lot of whipping.” She petted Renni, who looked up at her almost laughing. “Renni, good boy,” she went on; “you poor, good dog!”
George would have liked to ask, “Do I look cruel?” but what he said was, “Does he look to you like a whipped dog?”
She shrugged her shoulders. “No, not at all. But dogs are so goodhearted and forgiving—how can you tell?”
“Well, you’ll just have to take my word for it, Miss. This Renni of mine has never yet had a blow, not a single one in his whole life.”
“Really?” she cried. “I declare. That’s wonderful.” She knelt down and held Renni’s head against her breast. “Do you really have such a good master?”
“You see, Miss, I’m trying an experiment in training the dog. I want to accomplish without punishment what others can only do with the whip or the stick.”
She beamed. “Oh, you’ll do it. I know you will. The dog is so smart, so willing and so gifted . . . . Please don’t call me ‘Miss,’ ” she said with a gesture of sincerity. Her small face turned a dark red. “My name is Bettina Holman. My friends call me Bettina.”
She felt at ease with this young man. He gave her his name in return and insisted she call him George. Bettina told him her father had been a railroad man and was now on a pension. She had no mother. Her three grown brothers were employed as electricians or machinists. She herself, the youngest, was starting out to find a place as a servant girl. “It’s very hard,” she said, sighing. Being only eighteen, she had never worked.
While she petted Renni she listened to what George told her of himself, of his mother, of the dog fancier, Vogg; she heard his theories about animals in general and dogs in particular.
When they separated, they were already friends. George went home in a state of suppressed excitement. For the present he said nothing to his mother of this meeting, nor anything about his experiment with Renni.
The next day he met Bettina by appointment at the same place. From then on they met regularly at various places in the open country.
“What I want Renni to do is to learn to hunt for wounded men. He must find his man; then run quickly back to his master; then lead him to the spot. It’s a hard, an awfully hard job.”
Bettina was full of confidence. “Hard? Maybe—but Renni will get it all right, won’t you, Renni? It won’t take you long.”
“Well, it won’t be as simple as all that, Bettina. It calls for practice, pains, patience. Any amount of patience.”
“You have patience.” The girl smiled without coquetry. “See how kind you are with me.”
“What do you mean? As if I needed patience with you! You’re a dear.”
She changed the subject. “We’ll need help—someone to play wounded.”
George caught her hand. “Thank you, Bettina.”
She withdrew her hand which he let go reluctantly. “Thank me? Why?”
“Well, because you said ‘we.’ ”
She blushed a little, hesitated. “Perhaps my brothers . . . ”
* * *
When George came home in high spirits, his mother said, “A girl . . . ? Don’t answer, son. You know I’d be very happy if . . . ”
But George answered. He answered and answered! Her few words had lifted the lid of shyness. He suddenly began emptying his heart. A little embarrassed but more relieved, he told her about Bettina—and at the same time he explained in detail his plans for Renni.
Mother Marie showed not the least surprise. She knew the sweetness and strength of George’s character. She could trust him. She had taken his silence and reserve exactly as she now took his full confidence—as a matter of course. She petted Renni. All she said was, “He’s so clever. If you keep on being patient, you two will manage it together.”
Nothing more was said then of Bettina. But a few evenings later just before they went to bed, Mother Marie suddenly remarked, “I’d like to know her.” George knew whom she meant.
He consulted Bettina. Then he reported to his mother. “She can’t get up the courage to come.”
Mother Marie said nothing. She thought she understood this gentle girl.
Chapter VIII
THE SWEET IDYLLIC LIFE GEORGE was leading curved toward exciting and even stormy events.
There was the scene with Karl. There was the meeting with the man who had been cheated. But it was the arrival of the Russian family that stirred things up most.
Once again George went to visit old Vogg. He was witness to a violent scene between the dog-breeder and Karl.
As George went in, Vogg was saying, “You shall never have Pasha again. Here’s your money. We’re through with each other.” He spoke quietly but with suppressed, angry power. Pasha was lying abjectly on the floor. Karl began yelling at the top of his voice.
“We are not through, not by a long shot, not by a very long shot. I bought the dog and paid for him. Do you understand? He’s my property.”
Vogg replied, still quite calm. “Bought? Yes. On condition that you treat him properly.”
“I do. Of course I do,” Karl stormed.
“No,” insisted Vogg, and now his voice was trembling. “No, the whip in your hand is witness against you. The use you make of it, the all-too-frequent use . . . ”
“You can’t be the judge of that. Not you!” Karl was scornful.
The breeder smiled grimly. “That’s precisely what I can judge. I’m just the man to judge it. I can judge it a great deal better than you. That timid way of Pasha’s is full proof how right I am.”
“So,” mocked Karl, “I suppose I’m to learn from you how to treat a dog. You’ve certainly got the big head.”
“It’s of the utmost indifference to me whether you want to learn or not.” Vogg was quite calm on the surface. “As a matter of fact, I suppose no one learns to be humane. It’s something you have by nature—like this man here.” He pointed to George. “Either a man has a heart—as he has—or he’s a brute like you!”
“So, you call me a brute?” spat out Karl. “You shall be a witness,” he growled at George.
“I’m not calling you anything,” was the answer. “I’m simply making a statement about your character.”
“You’ll answer for this insult in court.” Karl was shouting again.
“Very willingly,” agreed Vogg. “I’ll answer for anything I say. In any case, you’ve not fulfilled the conditions I laid down, and so I declare the sale off. Here’s your money. If you don’t take it I’ll deposit
it with the proper authorities.”
Karl roared in his rage. “You foreign hound! Who are you to make the laws? You’ll find out who’s master here!”
Now the breeder was getting enraged. “Don’t scream,” he commanded, gritting his teeth. “You’re making a fool of yourself. I’d like to remind you that you’re in my house.”
Karl stopped. Vogg went on talking louder and louder. “A foreigner, am I? Perhaps. But I’m no foreigner to justice and humanity. You call me a foreigner? Get out! At once. Or . . . ” He walked up to his opponent and raised his fist.
George was ready to throw himself between them, but Karl, suppressing his anger, turned to the door. “Come, Pasha,” he muttered.
The dog leaped as though on a spring.
“Stop!” thundered Vogg. He caught Pasha by the collar and pulled him over to the desk. “The dog stays here!”
Karl ran out, slamming the door behind him so that it cracked like a pistol shot.
“Well, old boy,” laughed Vogg, petting Pasha, who hardly dared wag his tail, “well, you’re free from your torturer.” He turned to George. “That fellow’s a rascal, isn’t he?”
“How did it all start?” asked George.
“What he wanted here I really don’t know. Evidently I was supposed to admire his kind of training. No, thank you. Not in my line. He ordered the dog to lie down, in that harsh way of his. That was the first thing I didn’t like. I wanted to encourage the poor creature; I spoke to him in a friendly way. Pasha made only the slightest motion to come to me. And then that swine struck him such a blow with his whip that the poor dog howled. It riled me through and through, but I pulled myself together and calmly counted out the money he had paid me. At first he couldn’t understand what I was driving at. When I patiently explained, he began to rave. You know the rest.”
“It’s perfectly clear to me, Mr. Vogg, that you’re in the right—according to the way we look at things. Whether you can defend it in court if he brings an action for the recovery of the dog, I’m very doubtful.”
The old man turned pale. “That’s the fault of the laws—they’re so easy on people who abuse animals,” he broke out. He was now much angrier than he had been before. He walked up and down, waving his arms. “The law! The law!” he cried. “Blast the law! It doesn’t afford near enough protection for harmless creatures. Not near enough.”
He drew a deep breath, passed both hands over his face, bent down, petted Pasha gently on the back. The dog accepted the caress without a sign.
Then Vogg greeted Renni. “Well, sir, you are getting along all right, aren’t you?” Renni, who had been a little frightened at the tumult, became happy instantly. He leaped on his master and then on Vogg. Vogg took him by the paws, looked into his serious eyes. “Yes, yes, old man, we’re fighting for your kind. We won’t let anything bad happen to you.” Turning Renni loose, he asked George, “What brings you to my house?”
“Nothing special,” answered George. He had to stop and collect his thoughts. He had just wanted to visit Vogg again, and he had something to tell him about the progress of his training.
“Without any punishment at all?” the old man asked.
“Without the least punishment,” George assured him.
“Well now, a little lick once in a while—that might do some good and it could hardly harm the dog. I could trust you for that.”
“No,” insisted George. “I don’t dare. You see, I’ve got Renni used to one kind of treatment. If I tried ‘a little lick or two,’ the effect might possibly be too violent, too far-reaching.” As Vogg smiled he grew more earnest. “There have been a few times when I’ve been very much tempted to give Renni one or two. I admit that.” Vogg’s smile grew broader and Renni looked questioningly from one to the other. “But,” said George, “I made up my mind to complete the training entirely without punishment, without any violence whatever, or else give it up altogether.”
“I’ll have to be shown,” remarked the old man sceptically. “It would be a most unusual case, and so might prove nothing at all.”
“It would be an object lesson for men in their dealing with animals,” said George triumphantly.
Vogg persisted, smiling good-naturedly. “Most unusual I’d call it.”
• • •
Downstairs in front of the house George, to his surprise, found Karl walking up and down, snorting with rage. “I was waiting for you,” he cried. “We haven’t seen each other for a long time. Where have you been keeping yourself, anyway?”
He did not wait for George’s stammered excuses. “Naturally you’re on the side of that old fool,” he spluttered, and thundered on without heeding George’s attempted reply. “Don’t say a word. I know exactly what a sentimental weakling you are. I know too that you’ve been avoiding me. It makes no difference to me. Do you imagine you have a monopoly on loving animals? You’re crazy! As if I didn’t love my Pasha! My Pasha, I said. Yes, mine. He belongs to me!”
He snorted again. “Now that Pasha is an almost perfectly trained police dog, now that I’ve accomplished all I have with him, the old idiot has to interfere with his fool show-off. But I’ll make an example of him. The old thief! He wants to steal my dog, but I’ll give him something to remember me by!”
Before George could think of anything to say in Vogg’s defence, there came an interruption. Pasha suddenly burst out of the door in a headlong run, caught sight of Karl, circled around him once, swinging his tail for joy, and, with his body arched in pleasure, went through the elaborate ceremony of finding his master.
“Hello! There you are again.” Karl let out a peal of triumphant laughter. All his anger had evaporated. “Here, Pasha,” he ordered, and snapped the leash to his collar. A “that will do” put a quick end to any further show of exuberant feeling. Again and again interrupted by his own laughter, he said to George, “The dog broke away from the old man. He knows where he belongs. It’s the smartest thing he’s ever done. I feel like standing on my head. Now let the old scoundrel have me arrested for cruelty to animals! Now let’s see him annul the sale!”
George protested. “Vogg’s not a rascal. He wouldn’t steal your dog or anything else.”
“That’s an open question.” Karl was now in complete good humour, satisfied with his victory, but still he did not want to give up the argument. “Question of how you look at it, old man. You’re a sentimental soul and I’m made of sterner stuff, so let’s not be enemies. Good-bye.” He turned into a side street and strode off.
“Enemies!” thought George. As he looked after the stiffly marching form he could not get rid of a bitter feeling. He stood there uneasy and depressed.
The dog had made the decision. He had remained true to his master. Love for his tyrant had proved stronger than fear of abuse. Whoever tried to help him would only make himself laughing stock. George petted Renni, but this time the happy, trusting response brought no lift to his spirit. And so he went sadly home.
There lay Nemo, wretched and sick in the sun. He came to meet George, crawling painfully, humbly, on his belly, and again George could not decide whether the pitiful wreck of a dog was trying to beg forgiveness for something he had not done, or was once more trying to show gratitude for kindness. Here was another sacrifice to mankind’s cruelty, thought George, stopping over to murmur a few gentle words and look into Nemo’s sorrowful eyes.
“This outcast will go on mourning for the master he once had, and love him still in spite of everything. Oh, big-hearted dogs!” thought George. “Oh, mean-hearted men! Will it be so always?”
Mother Marie, after she had heard the story and realised how sad George was, comforted him. “Just go calmly along as you’ve been doing. Look at Vogg. He thinks as you do, and is working for the same end. Think about me—” she hesitated—“and about Bettina. Probably Nemo’s owner was a drunkard. There are plenty of people in the world who have their hearts in the right place. You’ve happened to see two or three examples of cruelty. You think cruelty is
everywhere. Well, there’s far too much of it, I admit. It’s rampant, here in Europe. We’ll see lots more of it—nations for nations, races for races, men for animals, men against men. But we can be kind. We can do something with kindness. Don’t set out to be a reformer. Don’t make a martyr out of yourself. You weren’t meant to be a martyr. You have a job to do, son. Keep cool.” It was a long speech for Mother Marie.
Bettina, though not so wise in experience, was just as firm in her confidence. “The best thing would be to stop thinking about it. For after all there’s nothing you can do to change some people.”
Renni just put his forepaws on George’s shoulders. There was nothing he could say.
PART II
Chapter IX
RENNI’S TRAINING HAD REACHED the point where it was really necessary to have someone play the part of a wounded soldier. Fortunately, just at this time the eccentric Russian family made their appearance. They had rented a large country house in the neighbourhood and set out to make their “get-acquainted” calls.
They came in two divisions. “If we all came at once it would be too many,” declared Vassili Maximovich Safonoff, running his beautifully manicured hand through his long, full, grey beard. He talked slowly and solemnly as he introduced his wife Ludmilla. Her name was Ludmilla Philipovna, but his pet name for her was Millie. She was the exact opposite of her bear of a husband—short and plump and, where he was slow and solemn, active and gay. At least she was gay in her manner if not often in what she said.
Two beautiful young daughters made their best bows and kept respectful silence in the presence of their parents. All that could be learned of them was their names, Manya and Tanya. The moment Ludmilla caught sight of Renni she cried out eagerly, “That’s the kind of dog I want! Big, strong watch dogs!”
“How many would you like, Millie?” inquired Vassili politely.
“Three or four would be enough.” Ludmilla turned to Mother Marie. “Where can we buy dogs like that?”
The astonished George told her. Ludmilla got sight of Nemo. “Oh, the poor thing! It hurts me to look at him. Why do you let him live? You must kill him.”