bashan puts in his appearance

when spring, which all men agree is the fairest season of the year, comes round again and happens to do honour to its name, i love to go for half an hour’s stroll in the open air before breakfast. i take this stroll whenever the early chorus of the birds has succeeded in rousing me betimes—because i had been wise enough to terminate the preceding day at a seemly hour. and then i go walking—hatless—in the spacious avenue in front of my house, and sometimes in the parks which are more distant. before i capitulate to the day’s work, i long to draw a few draughts of young morning air and to taste the joy of the pure early freshness of things. standing on the steps which lead down from my front door, i give a whistle. this whistle consists of two tones, a base tone and a deeper quarter-tone—as though i were beginning the first notes of the second phrase of schubert’s unfinished symphony, a signal which may be regarded as equal in tonal value to a name of two syllables.

the very next moment, as i go on towards the garden gate, a sound is heard in the distance, a sound at first almost inaudible, then growing rapidly nearer and clearer—a sound such as might ensue if a metal tag were to be set clinking against the brass trimmings of a leather collar. then, as i turn round, i see bashan curving in swift career around the corner of the house and heading for me full tilt as though he intended to knock me over. his efforts cause him to shorten his underlip a bit, so that two or three of his lower front teeth are laid bare. how splendidly they gleam in the early sun!

bashan comes straight from his kennel. this is situated behind the house under the floor of the veranda, which is supported on pillars. it is probable that, after a night of divers and unknown adventures, he had been enjoying a short morning doze in this kennel, until my two-syllabic whistle roused him to swift activity. this kennel or miniature hut is equipped with curtains made of coarse material, and is lined with straw. thus it chances that a stray straw or two may be clinging to bashan’s coat—already rather ruffled up from his lying and stretching—or that one of these refractory straws may even be left sticking between his toes. this is a vision which always reminds me of the old count moor in schiller’s robbers—as i once saw him in a most vivid and imaginative production, coming out of the hunger tower, with a straw between two of his toes.

involuntarily i take up a flank position to the charging bashan as he comes storming onward—an attitude of defence—for his apparent intention of lunging himself between my feet and laying me low is most amazingly deceptive. but always at the last moment and just before the collision, he manages to put on the brakes and to bring himself to—something which testifies to his physical as well as his mental self-control. and now—without uttering a sound—for bashan makes but scant use of his sonorous and expressive voice—he begins to carry out a confused dance of welcome and salutation all about me, a dance consisting of rapid tramplings, of prodigious waggings—waggings which are not limited to that member which is intended for their proper expression—but which demand tribute of his entire hindquarters up to his very ribs, furthermore an annular contraction of his body, as well as darting, far-flung leaps into the air, also rotations about his own axis—performances which, strange to say, he endeavours to hide from my gaze, for whenever i turn towards him, he transfers them to the other side. the very moment, however, i bend down and stretch out my hand, he is brought suddenly with a single leap to my side. there he stands, like a statue, with his shoulder-blade pressing against my shinbone. he stands aslant, with his strong paws braced against the ground, his face uplifted towards mine, so that he peers into my eyes from below and in a reversed direction. his stillness whilst i pat his shoulder and mutter friendly words, breathes forth the same concentration and emotion as the preceding delirium.

he is a short-haired setter—if you will not take this designation too sternly and strictly, but with a grain of salt. for bashan cannot really claim to be a setter such as are described in books—a setter in accordance with the most meticulous laws and decrees. he is perhaps a trifle too small for this—for he is somewhat under the size of a full-fledged setter. and then his legs are not quite straight, but somewhat disposed to bend outward, a condition of things which would also be scarcely in accordance with the ideal of a simon-pure breed.

the slight disposition to dewlaps or “wattles,” that is, to those folds of skin about the neck which are capable of lending a dog such a dignified expression, becomes him admirably, though it is certain that this feature would also be objected to as a flaw by implacable experts on breeding, for i am told that in this species of dog the skin should lie close and firm about the throat.

bashan’s colouring is very beautiful. his coat is a rusty brown in the ground colour, striped with black. but there are also considerable mixtures of white. these predominate on the chest, the paws, and the belly. his entire nose, which is very short, seems to be painted black. this black and rusty brown makes a pretty velvety pattern on his broad skull as well as on his cool ear-laps. one of his most edifying external features is the whorl, tuft or tassel into which the white hair on his chest twists itself and which sticks out like the spike on certain ancient armour. to be sure, one of his rather arbitrary glories—the colour of his hair—might also appear a dubious point to those who rate racial laws higher than the values of personality. it is possible that the classic setter should be monochrome or decorated with shaded or toned spots, and not, like bashan, with tiger-like stripes. but the most emphatic warning against classifying bashan in any rigid or iron-clad category, is a certain drooping manner of the hirsute appendages about the corners of his mouth and the underside of his jaws, features which might not incorrectly be designated as a kind of bristling moustache and goatee—features which, if you will rivet your eye upon them from near or far, will remind you of a griffon or an airedale terrier!

but what odds?—setter or pointer or terrier—bashan is a fine and handsome animal. look at him as he leans rigidly against my knee and looks up at me with a profound and concentrated devotion! his eye, ah, his eye! is beautiful, soft, and wise, even though a trifle glassy and protuberant. the iris is a rusty brown—of the same colour as his coat, though it forms only a small ring in consequence of the tremendous expanse of the black mirrors of the pupils. on the outer periphery the colour blends into the white of the eye, swimming in it, as it were. the expression of his face, an expression of reasonable cheerfulness, proclaims the fine masculinity of his moral nature, which is reflected physically in the structure of his body. the vaulted chest, beneath whose smooth, supple, and clinging skin the ribs show powerfully, the drawn-in haunches, the nervous, clear-veined legs, the strong and well-shaped paws—all proclaim a brave heart and much virile virtue—proclaim peasant blood—hunting blood. yes, there can be no doubt of it—the hunter and the tracker dominate prodigiously in bashan’s education. he is a bona-fide setter—if you must know—even though he may not owe his existence to some snobbish bit of blue-blooded inbreeding. and this perhaps is what i would imply by the rather confused and unrelated words which i address to him whilst patting him on the shoulder-blade.

he stands and stares, listening intently to the tone of my voice. he finds that this tone is full of accents which decidedly approve of his existence, something which i am at pains to emphasise in my speech. and suddenly, with an upward lunge of the head and a swift opening and shutting of his jaws, he makes a snap towards my face, as though he intended to bite off my nose, a bit of pantomime that is obviously meant to be an answer to my remarks and which invariably throws me backward in a sudden recoil, laughing—as bashan well knows. he intends this to be a kind of air-kiss, half tenderness, half mischievousness—a manœuvre which has been peculiar to him from puppyhood on—i had never observed it in the case of any of his predecessors. moreover, he at once begs pardon for the liberty he has taken by waggings, short abrupt bows and an embarrassed air. and then we pass out of the garden-gate into the open.

we are now invested with a sound of rushing and roaring as of the sea. for my house fronts almost directly on the river isar “rolling rapidly” as in the famous lines by campbell, and foaming over flat terraces in its bed. we are separated from it only by the rows of poplars, by a strip of fenced-in grass which is planted with young maples and an elevated road which is fringed by great aspens, giants which conduct themselves in the same bizarre manner as willows and snow up the whole region with their white, seed-bearing fluff at the beginning of june. up river, towards the city, i see a detachment of pioneers practising the building of a pontoon bridge. the thudding of their heavy boots upon the boards and the shouts of their officers echo across the stream. from the farther bank there come sounds of industrial activity, for yonder, at some distance down-stream from the house, there is a locomotive plant working under increased pressure—in accordance with the times. the tall windows of this great brick shed glow through the darkness at all hours of the night. new and beautifully lacquered engines hurry to and fro on their trial trips, a steam siren occasionally lets its heady howl be heard, a dull, thunderous pother makes the air quiver from time to time, and from the throats of several stacks the smoke creams darkly forth. this, however, is driven away by a kindly-disposed wind towards the distant tracts of woods, so that it seldom rolls across the river. thus in the suburban, semi-rural solitude of this region, the whisperings of contemplative nature mingle with those of human activity. over all lies the blank-eyed freshness of the morning hour.

according to the daylight-saving law, the time might be half-past seven when i take my walk; in reality it is half-past six. with arms crossed behind my back i stroll through the tender sunshine down the poplar-lined avenue, barred by the long shadows of the trees. from here i cannot see the river, but its broad and even flow is audible. there is a soft whispering in the trees, the penetrating twittering, fluting, chirping, and sob-like trill of the songbirds fills the air. under the moist blue heavens an aeroplane coming from the east, a stark mechanical bird with a roaring voice, now swelling, and now softly ebbing away, steers its independent way across land and river, and bashan delights my eye with beautiful leaps at full length to and fro across the low fence of the grass plot to the left.

bashan is jumping because he actually knows that i take pleasure in his jumping. often by means of calls and knockings upon the fence, have i encouraged him in it and praised him when he had fulfilled my wishes. and now, too, he comes after almost every jump so that i may tell him that he is a daring and elegant fence-vaulter, at which he also ventures a jump or two towards my face and beslobbers my thrust-out, defensive arm with the slaver of his mouth. these exercises, however, he likewise intends to be a kind of gymnastic morning toilet, for he smooths his ruffled coat by means of these athletic movements and rids himself of the straws which had disfigured it.

it is good thus to go walking in the morning, the senses rejuvenated, the spirit purged by the healing bath and long lethean draught of the night. you look upon the day that lies before you, regard it with strong, serene confidence, but you hesitate lazily to begin it—you are master of an unusually free and unburdened span of time lying between the dream and the day, your reward for the good use you have made of your time. the illusion that you are leading a life that is constant, simple, undissipated and benignly introspective, the illusion that you belong utterly to yourself, renders you happy. man is disposed to regard his case or condition of the moment, be this glad or troubled, peaceful or passionate, for the true, essential, and permanent aspect of his life, and above all is in fancy inclined to elevate every happy ex tempore to a radiant rule and an unbreakable habit, whereas he is really condemned to live by improvisation, from hand to mouth, so to speak.

so, drawing in deep breaths of the morning air, you believe in your freedom and in your worth, though you ought to be aware, and at heart are aware, that the world is holding its snares ready to entangle you in them, and that in all probability you will again be lying in bed until nine to-morrow morning, because you had got into it at two the night before, heated, befogged, and full of passionate debate. . . . well, so be it. to-day you are the man of sobriety and the dew-clad early hour, the right royal lord of that mad hunter yonder who is just making another jump across the fence out of sheer joy that you are apparently content to live this day with him and not waste it upon the world you have left behind you.

we follow the tree-lined avenue for about five minutes, to that point where it ceases to be a road and becomes a coarse desert of gravel parallel to the course of the river. we turn our backs upon this and strike into a broad, finely-gravelled street which, like the poplar-lined road, is equipped with a cycle-path, but is still void of houses. this leads to the right, between low-lying allotments of wooded land, towards the declivity which bounds our river-banks—bashan’s field of action towards the east.

we cross another street of an equally futuristic nature, which runs openly between the woods and the meadows, and which, farther up in the direction of the city and the tram-stop, is lined with a compact mass of flats. a slanting pebble path leads us to a prettily arranged dingle, almost like a kurgarten to the eye, but void of all humanity, like the entire district at this hour. there are benches along the rounded walks—which enlarge themselves here and there to rondels or to trim playgrounds for the children and to spacious planes of grass on which are growing old and well-formed trees with deep pendant crowns, revealing only a short stretch of trunk above the grass. there are elms, beeches, limes, and silvery willows in parklike groups. i find great pleasure in this carefully-groomed park, in which i could not wander more undisturbed, if it were my own. it is perfect and complete. the gravel paths which curve down and around the gentle, sloping lawns, are even equipped with stone gutters. and there are far and pleasing glimpses between all this greenery, the architecture of a few villas which peer in from both sides and form the background.

here for a little while, i stroll to and fro upon the walks, whilst bashan, his body inclined in a centrifugal plane, and drunk with joy of the fetterless unlimited space about him, executes gallopades criss and cross and head over heels upon the smooth grassy surfaces. or else with barkings wherein indignation and pleasure mix and mingle, he pursues some bird, which, either bewitched by fear or out of sheer mischief, flutters along always a few inches in front of his open jaws. but no sooner do i sit down upon a bench than he comes and takes up a position on my foot. it is one of the immutable laws of his life that he will run about only when i myself am in motion, and that as soon as i sit down he too should become inactive. the necessity for this is not quite obvious, but to bashan it is as the laws of the medes and persians.

it is quaint, cosy, and amusing to feel him sitting upon my foot and penetrating it with the feverish glow of his body. a sense of gaiety and sympathy fills my bosom, as always when i am abandoned to him and to his idea of things. his manner of sitting is a bit peasant-like, a bit uncouth—with his shoulder-blades turned outward and his paws turned in, irregularly. in this position his figure appears smaller and stockier than it really is, and the white whorl of hair upon his chest is thrust into comic prominence. but his head is thrown back in the most dignified manner and redeems his disregard for a fine pose by virtue of the intense concentrated attention it displays.

it is so quiet that both of us remain absolutely still. the rushing of the water reaches us only in a subdued murmur. under such conditions the tiny secret activities in our immediate world take on a particular importance and preoccupy the senses,—the brief rustling of a lizard, the note of a bird, the burrowing of a mole in the ground. bashan’s ears are erected, in so far as the muscular structure of flapping ears admits of this. he cocks his head in order to intensify his sense of hearing. and the nostrils of his moist black nose are in incessant and sensitive motion, responsive to innumerable subtle reactions.

he then lies down once more, being careful, however, to maintain his contact with my foot. he is lying in a profile position, in the ancient, well-proportioned, animalistic, idol-like attitude of the sphinx, with elevated head and breast, his thighs pressed close to his body, his paws extended in front of him. he is overheated, so he opens his jaws, a manœuvre which causes the concentrated cleverness of his expression to pass into the purely bestial. his eyes twinkle and narrow to mere slits, and between his white and strong triangular teeth a long, rose-red tongue lolls forth.

how we acquired bashan