The Hound of Florence

by Felix Salten

  The Archduke had resumed his cold and haughty expression. “How can we tell what goes on in a dog’s mind?” he repeated slowly, and looked across at Cambyses lying on the ground, intently watching every one of the old man’s movements, and beating the grass madly with his tail.

  “I’ll have the brute shot!” he said sternly, turning round and going back to his place. “Either today or tomorrow.”

  Pointner followed him. “Oh, Your Imperial Highness, pray don’t do that!” he begged. “That would be a great pity! Perhaps you might give him away. After all, he does run away every other minute, and there’s no holding him. A strange brute, but such a beautiful dog! Shoot him? . . . Surely there’s no need for that! It would be such a pity! It would be no use—such a fine beast too!”

  The Archduke did not seem to be listening.

  The old man pretended to be busy with his knapsack, but he kept a sharp eye on all that was taking place around him, and when the gentlemen had sat down to table again, he strolled carelessly on step by step along the edge of the wood, skirted a coppice that abutted into the field, and, concealed from the Archduke’s party, descended the grassy slope.

  The dog came creeping up behind him, with a short, low, impatient whine.

  “I know . . . yes, I know . . .” said the old man in kind soothing tones. “I know. . . . I know all about it. Even if you could speak, I could not understand you better. Yes, yes . . . just be quiet . . . I understand all about you . . . I understand everything.”

  The dog lashed his hindquarters with his tail, yawned impatiently, sighed and gazed into the old man’s face.

  They were both silent for a moment. Presently the old man laughed light-heartedly. “Nice of you, old doggie, to have been so pleased to see me,” he said. “Nice of you that was! I am pleased to see you too. . . .” Then with a jerk of his head to the rear, he added: “They would have given their ears to know what was up between us two.” And he laughed merrily again, his little eyes sparkling. “But what do they know about friends like us—eh?”

  The dog sat quite still, with his ears pricked up.

  “Down there lies your beloved Florence,” he went on almost reverently, stretching out his hand and pointing to the glowing plain below.

  The dog made a short sharp sound like a sob.

  “But . . . let it be!” And the old man made a quick defensive movement with his arm. “Let it be! You can do nothing to make things different now. . . . It would be no use at all.” He shook his head and added softly. “I don’t know how this happened to you . . . and you say you don’t know either. Well then. . . . But I fancy things won’t be very different for you from what they are for anybody else who has nothing in the world. Who knows what you may have wished for yourself . . . who knows how you wished yourself into your present plight. . . . Yes, that’s probably how it came about. . . . You did not dare to ask for too much . . . eh? Yes, yes . . . people like us always imagine one has to pay forevery bit of luck . . . and so we always pay much more than we need . . . no courage . . . no daring . . . one is only a poor wretch of a dog, you see!”

  And so the old man went on in low animated tones, as though he were replying to all kinds of objections.

  “But how’s that then? . . . How is one to make one’s way . . . ? Absurd. One isn’t even asked, one is simply given one’s lot. . . . That’s how it is. One man gets everything, another nothing at all, and everyone has to make the best of things as long as he is on earth. Ha! it would be much better if everybody were asked what they would like their lot on earth to be . . . that would be much better! But then the muddle on earth would be even greater than it is already. . . . No need to argue about that. . . . One can see with one’s own eyes how matters stand when a man is allowed to have his wish in such matters. It is always the same. . . . Mark my words . . . always the same! And then a poor devil of a man complains that he has such a wretched lot, such a miserably wretched lot. . . .”

  The old man heaved a comic sigh. “Oh God, oh God!” he exclaimed, with a low laugh. “Well, and then a fairy comes along, a perfidious fairy, or some other artful dodger of a spirit . . . how can one describe such a creature? . . . And it says the poor devil of a man can have a wish . . . three wishes . . . !” He whistled merrily. “And lo and behold! the poor devil wishes himself something . . . and then he is a much poorer devil than he was before. . . .

  “I know all about it,” he continued, growing serious. “And I always say this wishing business is no damned good! If a man is poor, wishing won’t make him rich and if he’s unhappy, wishing won’t make him happy!”

  They were sitting close up to each other looking out over the sun-bathed landscape at their feet.

  • • •

  The next day Lucas woke up to find himself on the road to Florence. He danced for joy and when he felt tired and thought he would sit down to rest, he found it quite impossible to keep still. So the only rest he took was to slacken his pace, comforting himself with the reflection that even the slowest crawl took him forward. When he came to cross-roads, he would point straight in front of him and call out to passers-by: “To Florence?” And they would either nod, or show him the proper way. And every answer they vouchsafed him he regarded as a gift, an occasion for rejoicing, for it confirmed him in his belief that he was nearing his goal. As the day slipped by he became exhausted. Hunger gnawed at his entrails like a demon; his mouth and throat were scorched with thirst, and he was covered from head to foot with the fine white dust of Tuscany.

  It occurred to him that his impatient forced march was not in the least necessary; for could he not cover the distance quite comfortably in the Archduke’s coach, and meanwhile stroll about at his leisure in the glorious country? After all, when the hour struck his Fate would snatch him away to Florence willy nilly. But the very idea made him shudder with horror. It was precisely that possibility that he wished at all costs to escape. He must enter Florence as a man! He must be himself on that great day! That had been his one prayer throughout the long and tedious journey. On no account must he enter the land of promise a damned and degraded creature. And the fear with which the thought inspired him whipped on his flagging footsteps.

  From the vine-clad hills of Pistoia he looked down on Florence lying at his feet. The glory of her marble Palaces, her towers, cupolas and spires, blended by the mist in lavish confusion and luxuriant clusters like some exotic tropical creeper, reminded him of a loud chorus of voices filling the air with the strains of a hymen of praise. The sight infused fresh energy into him. But the day was slowly waning, the road sloped gently step by step down into the plain, and the inspiring magnetic picture of the city beckoning to him became shrouded in the veil of twilight.

  Night had fallen, and it was already dark before he stood at last before the city gates. ‘*I have to get to Cesare Bandini,” he said boldly, when the watchman challenged him, and his heart stopped beating at the thought that he might be forbidden to enter.

  “Are you a pupil of Maestro Bandini?” the official inquired in kindly tones.

  Lucas laughed with relief. “Certainly I am his pupil. Please let me pass, I must go to him.”

  “This very night? So late?”

  “It is not as late as all that, either for the Maestro or for me,” he pleaded, but stopped short, overcome by qualms.

  “Bandini is waiting,” he added hurriedly. “I have important news for him.” It was a lie, but it served its purpose.

  “Well then, run along,” said the watchman, slapping him on the shoulder. And Lucas ran.

  Hurrying through a couple of dark narrow courts, he suddenly stopped short, and leaning wearily against a wall, burst into tears. His arms hung limp at his sides; his face was turned slightly upward, so that he might have seen the stars shining in the little streak of sky between the roofs of the houses. But he saw nothing. He sobbed silently to himself, until his heart beat less fiercely
and his breathing grew easier. He brushed the tears away, heaved a little sigh, and continued on his journey. Suddenly he felt comforted. A fierce uncontrollable joy blazed slowly up in his breast and the reverent hope that filled it robbed the weariness from his limbs.

  At first he marveled to see the people he passed going about so calmly, as though it were the most ordinary thing in the world to be in Florence. Undecided whither to turn, he stopped at every street corner and looked round. His heart was bursting with longing to see the city, even at that late hour—to see it all, the cathedral, Brunelleschi’s Baptistry, the Campanile, and above all Michelangelo’s David. His father had always spoken with reverence of this statue of David; Agostino Cassana, the young sculptor of Verona, had referred to it in hushed and solemn tones, and Lucas had dreamed of it on his way. His agitated heart rose up in rebellion against the mantle of darkness which hid the city from his gaze, as if it were grudging him a glimpse of its glories.

  Nevertheless he continued on his way, impatient yet confident, obstinately determined to feast his eyes on as much as the darkness would allow. Suddenly the narrow alley he had been ascending broadened and he found himself in a wide open space, where the Arno flowed past like a dim shimmering belt of silver before his eyes, and he could hear the gentle murmur of its waters. Lights were twinkling in the windows of many of the houses, and at no very great distance away he could see lights and torches in the street. He made his way toward them, thinking that at last he had discovered the heart of the city. Suddenly he stopped.

  Straight across the river he thought he saw a cloud hanging very low.

  Then as he drew nearer he gradually became aware that it was not a cloud. Stranger far, a gray mass of stone consisting of small houses stood suspended over the river—a bridge the like of which he had never seen before. It might have been one of the narrow old courts or alleys lifted bodily and laid across the river to serve as a bridge. And he felt more indignant than ever that the night had dropped a veil before his eyes, to mar his first sight of the city.

  But as the marvellous stone structure loomed mistily before his eyes, his excitement grew tenser, as little by little he knew how many of his wishes were already being fulfilled.

  He turned it all over in his mind. Everything that he had yearned for—nay, more than he had ever hoped for in his wildest dreams, already compassed him about. It was all there, together with a hundred and one surprises that lay hidden from view. He seemed to be surrounded by gifts. Enveloped in a veil of darkness though they were, their lavish profusion could nevertheless be divined; as a child on the eve of its birthday is allowed to take a swift glance at what awaits him, without entirely removing the wrapper from his presents, so Lucas now resolved to savor the sweets of expectation for yet a while longer.

  The sound of singing close by made him turn round, and he ran along the bank in the direction from which it came. He soon found himself in the middle of a crowd which grew thicker and thicker as he advanced. He peered into their faces, and examined their costumes, which were now quite bright and clear and the next moment dim and indistinct, as the light from the torches and the swinging lamps fell upon them or buried them in shadow.

  Exulting, he slipped in among the crowd as it merrily sauntered along, singing and shouting, and was borne away from the riverbank into the maze of narrow streets close by which echoed the festive clamor. He saw that he was approaching nearer and nearer the heart of the city. It mattered not to him where he went, for the hour of his transformation was close at hand, and whatever happened he would be provided with a bed and shelter for the remainder of the night.

  Suddenly one wish alone possessed his heart—to reach the Palace in front of which Michelangelo’s David kept watch and ward. Even if it were only in semi-darkness, or beneath the fitful flare of the torches, he longed to stand before the white marble statue, to pay his respects to it for the first time that day, while he was still himself.

  It occurred to him that he might ask one of the crowd about him. But an extraordinary feeling of shyness prevented him from doing so, and a playful spirit of curiosity prompted him to see whether he could not hit upon the way himself. He saw squares spreading out before him, the sound of music broke on his ear, magnificent doors, crowned and framed by stone figures, turned their proud inscrutable faces toward him. In the middle of one square, a church soared aloft to heaven. The Duomo! Lucas muttered to himself; but he did not slacken his pace, and with a sudden superhuman effort of self-control, did not allow his eyes even to glance up to try to discern the outline of the edifice through the darkness.

  Jostled right and left, he would unexpectedly find himself isolated, and would hurry back to the crowd, until at last he entered the largest square he had hitherto seen. Even then he did not guess how near he was to his goal, until suddenly, above the sea of heads about him, he caught sight of a shining white statue. He gasped for breath, and remained rooted to the spot, his feet refusing to carry him further. His heart beat wildly.

  Further on, the Palace, with its tower and battlements, reared its mighty walls into the darkness. At the corner the gate stretched its somber arch over the crowd, while just in front of it, as though he had just walked out, stood the David, his figure shining out white and luminous in the night. The details were not visible and his face was merely a white patch in the blackness.

  Stiff as stone, Lucas stood gazing across the square. His heart whispered that he had now reached the end of his journey. The fact that he could not behold the David in all its beauty at that late hour suddenly struck him as being a merciful intervention on the part of Fate to spare him. For the moment, it seemed to him sufficient that he had succeeded in obtaining a glimpse of the statue; he had at least satisfied himself that day that it really existed.

  For the first time in his life, his soul seemed to grasp the fact that this stone in human form was always there, day and night, year in, year out. The colossal indifference of the motionless marble figure stirred him to the depths. As if moved by a spell, he felt impeled to picture the day on which Michelangelo’s warm and vital touch had rested on that stone for the last time, and the night that had followed that day—the first night, which had been as solitary and interminable as all the nights up to that moment. Suddenly he found himself unable to believe that Michelangelo had really lived and breathed, or that he was now dead and buried. It all seemed as strange and incredible as a fairy-tale.

  And thus he stood for a long while gazing across at the shimmering whiteness of the statue.

  • • •

  The following morning Lucas was a dog again. Exhausted by his long tramp on the previous day and worn out by the excitement of his first stroll through the city, he lay curled up fast asleep. As the young stable-boy came in early in the morning, he almost fell over him.

  “Quite right, he’s back in his place again, is old Cambyses,” he said with a laugh as he leaned over the dog, whose sides were rising and falling in heavy sleep.

  And he set to work in the stables. The horses stamped and neighed, and other stable-boys arrived, laughing and singing and shouting to one another, and, calling to the horses at the tops of their voices, they began to groom their charges. But the dog lay there fast asleep, deaf to everything around him.

  The young groom went up to him again and stood over him, shaking his head and calling the attention of the others to him.

  “There’s old Cambyses again. He’s so fast asleep he might be a stone.”

  An old coachman held up a pail of water which he was carrying. “I’ll show you how fast he can move,” he said, coming up to the lad.

  “No, for God’s sake let him be!” cried the young groom, barring the way. “He’s dead beat—dog tired!” he added with a laugh. “Who knows how long he’s been tearing round, wearing himself to the bone!”

  “He’s a mad beast!” replied the old coachman. “Always racing off, the Lord alone knows where t
o, and always back again, God knows where from.”

  Across the white courtyard, now bathed in the bright light of the morning sun, Master Pointner was making his way toward the stable. The young groom immediately crouched down by the dog.

  “Now then, wake up quick, Cambyses,” he said, seizing him by the silky fur on his chest and shoulders and gently shaking him. “You mustn’t sleep any longer now. . . . Pointner’s coming. . . . He’ll only kick you in the belly again. . . . Quick! Quick!”

  The dog began to wag his tail, extending his slender, graceful legs in front of him so stiffly that they quivered, stretching his neck, and rubbing his head in the chaff on the ground. Meanwhile the groom had got up, and, running to the door, called out across the yard: “Master Pointner; Cambyses is back again!”

  “Damn the brute!” cried Pointner irritably as he came up to the stall. “Miserable creature!” he growled, as he peered down at him in the straw.

  In a flash the dog had sprung to his feet. His eyes moved strangely as though still seeing confused visions. His whole body quivered as though he were thrilled by the memory of some piece of good fortune, or had suddenly realised a dream. Enveloped in the pungent smell of horses, the scent of fresh sweet hay, and the penetrating fragrance of the gardens beyond, his heart and all his senses stimulated by the sun, the dog was for the moment well-nigh intoxicated.

  “Miserable creature!” repeated Master Pointner. The dog replied with a short bark that sounded like an exclamation of joy, and began circling round him, in a series of wonderful high springs, as though he were trying to catch his own tail.

  “Don’t hurt him,” pleaded the young groom, laughing. “Look how glad our old Cambyses is to be back again!”

  “Glad!” shouted Master Pointner, “the rascal! See what the brute makes us put up with. . . .” He struck out at the dog, but the blow only cleaved the air.

  “Damn the brute!” He struck out again and again, twisting and turning until he grew quite giddy. But all in vain. Suddenly, in a flash, the dog sprang at his chest. Light as a flock of down blown by the wind, he jumped, and before Master Pointner had time to wink an eyelid, he touched him gently with his paws, nudged him softly with his nose under the chin, and scampered out through the open door.