The Pilgrims of the Rhine

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.”