Diogenes of London (collection)/A Colloquy on the Hearth

T lay upon the hearth, basking in the comfortable heat, and looked at me distressfully. Such a melancholy inspired its brown eyes as seemed to question me of our common plight in this world. I could not but fancy it had endured its disappointments, had found life something of a failure, and was yet resigned to the act of living. So much the implicit silence of those eyes revealed to me.

'A thing,' said I, 'of such emotions should have a tale to tell. I cannot believe you to be the placid vehicle of a few rude instincts. You have emotions; the tears have trickled down your muzzle. Those eyes have wept; that heart has burned. Your soul has feasted on good things; you have had your moments of aspiration, your doubts, your fears, your incredulities, your pangs, your sense of loss. I, here, that address you, can claim no more. We have referred you to a lower class, but you have even the superiority of wisdom. For I sit by and bicker with these thoughts, while you are content to scrutinise me with your calm, indifferent gaze. We fret and fume; yours is the peace of knowledge.'

The creature put its nose into my hand.

'And with your doubts,' I said, 'you have also an extreme faith. Do you question, I wonder, your tedious service? Have you ever taken a disgust for your calling? Was there never a whimsey in your head, that you should quit your servitude and go yourself set up for a gentleman of leisure? You have your wits—they are of the sharpest—and yet you will live in an humble obedience, pleased with your master's pleasure, sad in his sorrow, hungry when he is anhungered [sic], mad with him, too; with him, too, wicked and perverse. It has not been an easy bondage, and you have ever discovered a sensitive spirit, cowed by his frown, humble in his disfavour. And yet you have never relinquished him; if all else have fallen away, you only have remained. Is it of your great heart alone you keep this fidelity? or is it also that you lack desire—that as you are resigned to life, so also are you to friendship? You are our great Exemplar of constancy; it is you, and you only, death finds watching.'

It blinked its eyes and yawned at the fire.

'I wonder at your patience,' I said. 'I know your ways; your fluent vitality is familiar to me. You come of a brave, sound stock, no whit below my own, and have retained the primal vigour. I have never seen you tire at your work; your tongue lolls from your mouth, you slobber at the jaws—but these are merely superficial signs of a pleasant excitement. You are upon your legs all day; you revel in action; to be up and about is your one delight. But you will sit for hours at the pinch of duty; you will keep guard as no human sentinel is able. No restlessness irks you. You will look into the fire and be still, if it be your master's wish. You may be bored an hundredfold, and will never declare it. You are a miracle of courteous tolerance.'

The creature wagged its tail.

'Whence,' I asked, 'have you that sweet cheerfulness which seems to sit so at ease upon you? Your wistful eyes proclaim you an inheritor of evil; you have been upon the rack of this tough world with all of us. Bitter have been your sorrows, doubtless; sharp your pains. And you can have few ambitions, but a meagre prospect—the satisfaction of an instant appetite, the hope of a caress. From day to day there is no great change in your life; your round is surely as dull and immemorable as ours. Never a pleasure presses itself upon you uninvited; evils make their board with you. You have the fear of death, and yet you are merry withal. In a twinkling you have thrown off your troubles, and put on your dancing humour. Fun sparkles in your face. You watch my mood and fall in with it. Am I pleased to laugh, you too will wag your tail. There is no distress you cannot forget in order to sport with me. There is no gaiety like yours, no joyous abandonment in Nature so precipitate, so notable. The world is your prison. How have you beautified and adorned it with contentment!'

The creature stretched its nose upon its paws, and slept.

'And your philosophy,' I said, 'how marvellous! I could swear none other has so mastered the secrets of conduct. You live opportunely with your environment, and have adapted yourself to this archaic muddle we call the world. For there is none that can obliterate as you do. You can pass out of the present and be still on the moment. Whatever trials surround you, by whatsoever menaces you are begirt, however sad your temper, you have but to stick your muzzle to the floor and are at once in oblivion. Sweet is this happy refuge of sleep and quietude. You have the keys of peace; for hourly in this still abstraction are you soothed and renewed. Here—here is your lesson to mankind. For, howsoever great the tribulation, a little space will prevail against it. All things swing into balance again; Nature disturbed resumes her equipoise. And if we shall be content to tarry a little in forgetfulness, as an animal hibernates through the severities of an unruly season, we shall return to the norm of our lives. By what divine guidance have you put in practice a truth as yet but partly revealed to us?'

The creature growled in its dreams.

'It is so,' said I: 'you have also your passions. Derived from a savage and honourable blood, your hot instincts have been refined and chastened by the years; but they are still lively within you. Yours is no craven heart, nor have you given yourself over to undue sentiment. Pity you can feel, and affection, but yet upon occasion you can be fierce and passionate. Your smooth benevolence comes from no lack of spirit. Ay, you have the fire of the prime, as you have the energy. And your muscles are not flabby with inaction. There is, in truth, no decadence in you; you have preserved your vital faculties unbroken, but only tempered. You can fly out in rage when it is needful; and there is no wrath more merciless than yours, as there is no judgment more discreet. You can define the evil, and will visit upon it your justest indignation.'

The creature woke and watched me.

'You are of iron nerve,' I said, 'of resolute will, of a strong and enduring frame; you have a full knowledge of life, and have composed yourself to its accidents. You are a boon companion; yours is the most soothing fellowship. You have the finest sympathies, the largest affections. These qualities are of the essence of our earthly desires. How have you contrived them? What be your thoughts? What passes in your mind as you regard me now with steadfast and searching eyes? Were you put in communion with me here, what voice would you find, to what secret would you admit me?'

The creature rose and looked at me; in its eyes it strove hard with its thoughts; it whined, and licked my hand.