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Title: Sirius. A Fantasy of Love and Discord.
Author: Stapledon, Olaf [William Olaf] (1886-1950)
Date of first publication: January 1944
Edition used as base for this ebook:
   London: Secker & Warburg, January 1944
   [first edition]
Date first posted: 25 April 2019
Date last updated: 25 April 2019
Project Gutenberg Canada ebook #1605

This ebook was produced by
Al Haines, Cindy Beyer, Mark Akrigg
& the Online Distributed Proofreading Canada Team
at http://www.pgdpcanada.net


PUBLISHER'S NOTE

Italics in the original printed edition are indicated _thus_.

As part of the conversion of the book to its new digital
format, we have made certain minor adjustments in its layout.

Obvious typographical errors have been silently corrected.






SIRIUS
A Fantasy of Love and Discord


by Olaf Stapledon




TABLE OF CONTENTS

  I. First Meeting
  II. The Making of Sirius
  III. Infancy
  IV. Youth
  V. Sheep-dog Apprentice
  VI. Birth Pangs of a Personality
  VII. Wolf Sirius
  VIII. Sirius at Cambridge
  IX. Sirius and Religion
  X. Experiences in London
  XI. Man as Tyrant
  XII. Farmer Sirius
  XIII. Effects of War
  XIV. Tan-y-Voel
  XV. Strange Triangle
  XVI. Plaxy Conscripted
  XVII. Outlaw




    I should like to acknowledge my debt to Mr. J. Herries
    McCulloch's delightful study, _Sheep Dogs and Their Masters_. He
    must not, however, be held in any way responsible for my sheer
    fantasies.




SIRIUS




CHAPTER I
FIRST MEETING


Plaxy and I had been lovers; rather uneasy lovers, for she would never
speak freely about her past, and sometimes she withdrew into a cloud of
reserve and despond. But often we were very happy together, and I
believed that our happiness was striking deeper roots.

Then came her mother's last illness, and Plaxy vanished. Once or twice I
received a letter from her, giving no address, but suggesting that I
might reply to her "care of the Post Office" in a village in North
Wales, sometimes one, sometimes another. In temper these letters ranged
from a perfunctory amiability to genuine longing to have me again. They
contained mysterious references to "a strange duty," which, she said,
was connected with her father's work. The great physiologist, I knew,
had been engaged on very sensational experiments on the brains of the
higher mammals. He had produced some marvellously intelligent
sheep-dogs, and at the time of his death it was said that he was
concerned with even more ambitious research. One of the colder of
Plaxy's letters spoke of an "unexpectedly sweet reward" in connection
with her new duty, but in a more passionate one she cried out against
"this exacting, fascinating, dehumanizing life." Sometimes she seemed to
be in a state of conflict and torture about something which she must not
explain. One of these letters was so distraught that I feared for her
sanity. I determined therefore to devote my approaching leave to walking
in North Wales in the hope of finding her.

I spent ten days wandering from pub to pub in the region indicated by
the addresses, asking everywhere if a Miss Trelone was known in the
neighbourhood. At last, in Llan Ffestiniog, I heard of her. There was a
young lady of that name living in a shepherd's cottage on the fringe of
the moor somewhere above Trawsfynydd. The local shopkeeper who gave me
this information said with an air of mystery, "She is a strange young
lady, indeed. She has friends, and I am one of them; but she has
enemies."

Following his directions, I walked for some miles along the winding
Trawsfynydd road and then turned to the left up a lane. After another
mile or so, right on the edge of the open moor, I came upon a minute
cottage built of rough slabs of shale, and surrounded by a little garden
and stunted trees. The door was shut, but smoke rose from a chimney. I
knocked. The door remained shut. Peering through a window, I saw a
typical cottage kitchen, but on the table was a pile of books. I sat
down on a rickety seat in the garden and noted the neat rows of cabbages
and peas. Away to my right, across the deep Cynfal gorge, was
Ffestiniog, a pack of slate-grey elephants following their leader, the
unsteepled church, down a spur of hill towards the valley. Behind and
above stood the Moelwyn range.

I was smoking my second cigarette when I heard Plaxy's voice in the
distance. It was her voice that had first attracted me to her. Sitting
in a caf I had been enthralled by that sensitive human sound coming
from some unknown person behind me. And now once more I heard but did
not see her. For a moment I listened with delight to her speech, which,
as I had often said, was like the cool sparkling talk of small waves on
the pebbly shore of a tarn on a hot day.

I rose to meet her, but something strange arrested me. Interspersed with
Plaxy's remarks was no other human voice but a quite different sound,
articulate but inhuman. Just before she came round the corner of the
house she said, "But, my dear, don't _dwell_ on your handlessness so!
You have triumphed over it superbly." There followed a strange trickle
of speech from her companion; then through the gate into the garden came
Plaxy and a large dog.

She halted, her eyes wide with surprise, and (I hoped) with joy; but her
brows soon puckered. Laying a hand on the dog's head, she stood silent
for a moment. I had time to observe that a change had come over her. She
was wearing rather muddy corduroy trousers and a blue shirt. The same
grey eyes, the same ample but decisive mouth, which had recently seemed
to me to belie her character, the same shock of auburn, faintly carroty
hair. But instead of a rather pale face, a ruddy brown one, and a
complete absence of make-up. No lip-stick, even. The appearance of rude
health was oddly contradicted by a darkness under the eyes and a
tautness round the mouth. Strange how much one can notice in a couple of
seconds, when one is in love!

Her hand deserted the dog's head, and was stretched out to me in
welcome. "Oh well," she said smiling, "since you have nosed us out, we
had better take you into our confidence." There was some embarrassment
in her tone, but also perhaps a ring of relief. "Hadn't we, Sirius," she
added, looking down at the great dog.

Then for the first time I took note of this remarkable creature. He was
certainly no ordinary dog. In the main he was an Alsatian, perhaps with
a dash of Great Dane or Mastiff, for he was a huge beast. His general
build was wolf-like, but he was slimmer than a wolf, because of his
height. His coat, though the hair was short, was superbly thick and
silky, particularly round the neck, where it was a close turbulent ruff.
Its silkiness missed effeminacy by a hint of stubborn harshness. Silk
wire, Plaxy once called it. On back and crown it was black, but on
flanks and legs and the under surface of his body it paled to an austere
greyish fawn. There were also two large patches of fawn above the eyes,
giving his face a strangely mask-like look, or the appearance of a Greek
statue with blank-eyed helmet pushed back from the face. What
distinguished Sirius from all other dogs was his huge cranium. It was
not, as a matter of fact, quite as large as one would have expected in a
creature of human intelligence, since, as I shall explain later,
Trelone's technique not only increased the brain's bulk but also
produced a refinement of the nerve-fibres themselves. Nevertheless,
Sirius's head was far loftier than any normal dog's. His high brow
combined with the silkiness of his coat to give him a look of the famous
Border Collie, the outstanding type of sheep-dog. I learned later that
this brilliant race had, indeed, contributed to his make-up. But his
cranium was far bigger than the Border Collie's. The dome reached almost
up to the tips of his large, pointed Alsatian ears. To hold up this
weight of head, the muscles of his neck and shoulders were strongly
developed. At the moment of our encounter he was positively leonine,
because the hair was bristling along his spine. Suspicion of me had
brushed it up the wrong way. His grey eyes might have been wolf's eyes,
had not the pupils been round like any dog's, not slits like the wolf's.
Altogether he was certainly a formidable beast, lean and sinewy as a
creature of the jungle.

Without taking his gaze off me, he opened his mouth, displaying sierras
of ivory, and made a queer noise, ending with an upward inflection like
a question. Plaxy replied, "Yes, it's Robert. He's true as steel,
remember." She smiled at me deprecatingly, and added, "And he may be
useful."

Sirius politely waved his amply feathered tail, but kept his cold eyes
fixed on mine.

Another awkward pause settled upon us, till Plaxy said, "We have been
working on the sheep out on the moor all day. We missed our dinner and
I'm hungry as hell. Come in and I'll make tea for us all." She added as
we entered the little flagged kitchen, "Sirius will understand
everything you say. You won't be able to understand him at first, but I
shall, and I'll interpret."

While Plaxy prepared a meal, passing in and out of the little larder, I
sat talking to her. Sirius squatted opposite me, eyeing me with obvious
anxiety. Seeing him, she said with a certain sharpness fading into
gentleness, "Sirius! I tell you he's all right. Don't be so suspicious!"
The dog rose, saying something in his strange lingo, and went out into
the garden. "He's gone to fetch some firewood," she said; then in a
lowered voice, "Oh, Robert, it's good to see you, though I didn't want
you to find me." I rose to take her in my arms, but she whispered
emphatically, "No, no, not now." Sirius returned with a log between his
jaws. With a sidelong glance at the two of us, and a perceptible
drooping of the tail, he put the log on the fire and went out again.
"Why not now?" I cried, and she whispered, "Because of Sirius. Oh,
you'll understand soon." After a pause she added, "Robert, you mustn't
expect me to be wholly yours ever, not fully and single-heartedly yours.
I'm too much involved in--in this work of my father's." I expostulated,
and seized her. "Nice human Robert," she sighed, putting her head on my
shoulder. But immediately she broke away, and said with emphasis, "No,
_I_ didn't say that. It was just the female human animal that said it.
What _I_ say is, I can't play the game you want me to play, not
wholeheartedly."

Then she called through the open door, "Sirius, tea!" He replied with a
bark, then strode in, carefully not looking at me.

She put a bowl of tea for him on a little table-cloth on the floor,
remarking, "He has two meals generally, dinner at noon and supper in the
evening. But to-day is different." Then she put down a large crust of
bread, a hunk of cheese, and a saucer with a little lump of jam. "Will
that keep you going?" she asked. A grunt signified approval.

Plaxy and I sat at the table to eat our bread and rationed butter and
war-time cake. She set about telling me the history of Sirius. Sometimes
I put in an occasional question, or Sirius interrupted with his queer
speech of whimper and growl.

The matter of this and many other conversations about the past I shall
set down in the following chapters. Meanwhile I must say this. Without
the actual presence of Sirius I should not have believed the story; but
his interruptions, though canine and unintelligible, expressed human
intelligence by their modulation, and stimulated intelligible answers
from Plaxy. Obviously he was following the conversation, commenting and
watching my reaction. And so it was not with incredulity, though of
course with amazement, that I learned of the origin and career of
Sirius. I listened at first with grave anxiety, so deeply involved was
Plaxy. I began to understand why it was that our love had always been
uneasy, and why when her mother died she did not come back to me. I
began to debate with myself the best way of freeing her from this
"inhuman bondage". But as the conversation proceeded I could not but
recognize that this strange relationship of girl and dog was
fundamentally beautiful, in a way sacred. (That was the word I used to
myself.) Thus my problem became far more difficult.

At one point, when Plaxy had been saying that she often longed to see me
again, Sirius made a more sustained little speech. And in the middle of
it he went over to her, put his fore-paws oh the arm of her chair, and
with great gentleness and delicacy kissed her cheek. She took the caress
demurely, not shrinking away, as human beings generally do when dogs try
to kiss them. But the healthy glow of her face deepened, and there was
moisture in her eyes as she stroked the shaggy softness under his neck,
and said to me, while still looking at him, "I am to tell you, Robert,
that Sirius and Plaxy grew up together like the thumb and forefinger of
a hand, that he loves me in the way that only dogs can love, and much
more now that I have come to him, but that I must not feel bound to stay
with him, because by now he can fend for himself. Whatever happens to
him ever, I--how did you say it, Sirius, you foolish dear?" He put in a
quick sentence, and she continued, "Oh, yes, I am the scent that he will
follow always, hunting for God."

She turned her face towards me with a smile that I shall not forget. Nor
shall I forget the bewildering effect of the dog's earnest and almost
formal little declaration. Later I was to realize that a rather stilted
diction was very characteristic of him, in moments of deep feeling.

Then Sirius made another remark with a sly look and a tremor of the
tail. She turned back to him laughing, and softly smacked his face.
"Beast," she said, "I shall not tell Robert that."

When Sirius kissed her I was startled into a sudden spasm of jealousy.
(A man jealous of a dog!) But Plaxy's translation of his little speech
roused more generous feelings. I now began to make plans by which Plaxy
and I together might give Sirius a permanent home and help him to fulfil
his destiny, whatever that might be. But, as I shall tell, a different
fate lay in store for us.

During that strange meal Plaxy told me that, as I had guessed, Sirius
was her father's crowning achievement, that he had been brought up as a
member of the Trelone family, that he was now helping to run a sheep
farm, that she herself was keeping house for him, and also working on
the farm, compensating for his lack of hands.

After tea I helped her to wash up, while Sirius hovered about, jealous,
I think, of my handiness. When we had finished, she said they must go
over to the farm to complete a job of work before dark. I decided to
walk back to Ffestiniog, collect my baggage and return by the evening
train to Trawsfynedd, where I could find accommodation in the local pub.
I noticed Sirius's tail droop as I said this. It drooped still further
when I announced that I proposed to spend a week in the neighbourhood in
the hope of seeing more of Plaxy. She said, "I shall be busy, but there
are the evenings."

Before I left she handed over a collection of documents for me to take
away and read at leisure. There were scientific papers by her father,
including his journal of Sirius's growth and education. These documents,
together with a diary of her own and brief fragmentary records by Sirius
himself, all of which I was given at a much later date, form the main
"sources" of the following narrative; these, and many long talks with
Plaxy, and with Sirius when I had learnt to understand his speech.

I propose to use my imagination freely to fill out with detail many
incidents about which my sources afford only the barest outline. After
all, though a civil servant (until the Air Force absorbed me) I am also
a novelist; and I am convinced that with imagination and self-criticism
one can often penetrate into the essential spirit of events even when
the data are superficial. I shall, therefore, tell the amazing story of
Sirius in my own way.




CHAPTER II
THE MAKING OF SIRIUS


Plaxy's father, Thomas Trelone, was too great a scientist to escape all
publicity, but his work on the stimulation of cortical growth in the
brains of mammals was begun while he was merely a brilliant young
research worker, and it was subsequently carried on in strict secrecy.
He had an exaggerated, a morbid loathing of limelight. This obsession he
justified by explaining that he dreaded the exploitation of his
technique by quacks and profit-mongers. Thus it was that for many years
his experiments were known only to a few of his most intimate
professional colleagues in Cambridge, and to his wife, who had a part to
play in them.

Though I have seen his records and read his papers, I can give only a
layman's account of his work, for I am without scientific training. By
introducing a certain hormone into the blood-stream of the mother he
could affect the growth of the brain in the unborn young. The hormone
apparently had a double effect. It increased the actual bulk of the
cerebral cortices, and also it made the nerve-fibres themselves much
finer than they normally are, so that a far greater number of them, and
a far greater number of connections between them, occurred in any given
volume of brain. Somewhat similar experiments, I believe, were carried
out in America by Zamenhof; but there was an important difference
between the two techniques. Zamenhof simply fed the young animal with
his hormone; Trelone, as I have said, introduced his hormone into the
foetus through the mother's blood-stream. This in itself was a notable
achievement, because the circulatory systems of mother and foetus are
fairly well insulated from each other by a filtering membrane. One of
Trelone's difficulties was that the hormone caused growth in the
maternal as well as the foetal brain, and since the mother's skull was
adult and rigid there must inevitably be very serious congestion, which
would lead to death unless some means were found to insulate her brain
from the stimulating drug. This difficulty was eventually overcome. At
last it became possible to assure the unborn animal a healthy maternal
environment. After its birth Trelone periodically added doses of the
hormone to its food, gradually reducing the dose as the growing brain
approached what he considered a safe maximum size. He had also devised a
technique for delaying the closing of the sutures between the bones of
the skull, so that the skull might continue to expand as required.

A large population of rats and mice was sacrificed in the attempt to
perfect Trelone's technique. At last he was able to produce a number of
remarkable creatures. His big-headed rats, mice, guinea-pigs, rabbits,
though their health was generally bad, and their lives were nearly
always cut short by disease of one kind or another, were certainly
geniuses of their humble order. They were remarkably quick at finding
their way through mazes, and so on. In fact they far excelled their
species in all the common tests of animal intelligence, and had the
mentality rather of dogs and apes than of rodents.

But this was for Trelone only the beginning. While he was improving his
technique so that he could ensure a rather more healthy animal, he at
the same time undertook research into methods of altering the tempo of
its life so that it should mature very slowly and live much longer than
was normal to its kind. Obviously this was very important. A bigger
brain needs a longer life-time to fulfil its greater potentiality for
amassing and assimilating experience. Not until he had made satisfactory
progress in both these enterprises did he begin to experiment on animals
of greater size and higher type. This was a much more formidable
undertaking, and promised no quick results. After a few years he had
produced a number of clever but seedy cats, a bright monkey that died
during its protracted adolescence, and a dog with so big a brain that
its crushed and useless eyes were pushed forward along its nose. This
creature suffered so much that its producer reluctantly destroyed it in
infancy.

Not till several more years had elapsed, had Trelone perfected his
technique to such an extent that he was able to pay less attention to
the physiological and more to the psychological aspect of his problem.
Contrary to his original plan, he worked henceforth mainly on dogs
rather than apes. Of course apes offered the hope of more spectacular
success. They were by nature better equipped than dogs. Their brains
were bigger, their sight was more developed, and they had hands.
Nevertheless from Trelone's point of view dogs had one overwhelming
advantage. They were capable of a much greater freedom of movement in
our society. Trelone confessed that he would have preferred to work on
cats, because of their more independent mentality; but their small size
made them unsuitable. A certain absolute bulk of brain was necessary, no
matter what the size of the animal, so as to afford a wealth of
associative neural paths. Of course a small animal did not need as large
a brain as a large animal of the same mental rank. A large body needed a
correspondingly large brain merely to work its machinery. A lion's brain
had to be bigger than a cat's. An elephant's brain was even larger than
a much more intelligent but smaller man's. On the other hand, each rank
of intelligence, no matter what the size of the animal, required a
certain degree of complexity of neural organization, and so of brain
bulk. In proportion to the size of the human body a man's brain was far
_bigger_ than an elephant's. Some animals were large enough to
accommodate the absolute bulk of brain needed for the human order of
intelligence; some were not. A large dog could easily do so, but a cat's
organization would be very gravely upset by so great an addition. For a
mouse anything of the sort would be impossible.

Not that Trelone had at this stage any expectation of raising any animal
so far in mental stature that it would approach human mentality. His aim
was merely to produce, as he put it, "a rather super-sub-human
intelligence, a missing-link mind." For this purpose the dog was
admirably suited. Human society afforded for dogs many vocations
requiring intelligence at the upper limit of the sub-human range.
Trelone chose as the best vocation of all for his purpose that of the
sheep-dog. His acknowledged ambition was to produce a "super-sheep-dog."

One other consideration inclined him to choose the dog; and the fact
that he took this point into account at all in the early stage of his
work shows that he was even then toying with the idea of producing
something more than a missing-link mind. He regarded the dog's
temperament as on the whole more capable of development to the human
level. If cats excelled in independence, dogs excelled in social
awareness; and Trelone argued that only the social animal could make
full use of its intelligence. The independence of the cat was not, after
all, the independence of the socially aware creature asserting its
individuality; it was merely the blind individualism that resulted from
social obtuseness. On the other hand he admitted that the dog's
sociality involved it, in relation to man, in abject servility. But he
hoped that with increased intelligence it might gain a measure of
self-respect, and of critical detachment from humanity.

In due course Trelone succeeded in producing a litter of big-brained
puppies. Most of them died before reaching maturity, but two survived,
and became exceptionally bright dogs. This result was on the whole less
gratifying than disappointing to Trelone. He carried out further
experiments, and at last, from an Old English Sheep-dog bitch, produced
a big-brained family, three of which survived, and reached a definitely
super-canine level of mentality.

The research continued for some years. Trelone found it necessary to
take more trouble about the "raw material" to which his technique was to
be applied. He could not afford to neglect the fact that the most
capable of all the canine races is the Border Collie, bred through a
couple of centuries for intelligence and responsibility. All modern
champions are of this breed, and all are descendants of a certain
brilliant animal, named Old Hemp, who was born in Northumberland in
1893. The Border Collie of to-day is hardy, but rather small. Trelone,
therefore, decided that the best raw material would be a cross between
some outstanding champion of the International Sheep-Dog Trials and
another intelligent but much heavier animal. The Alsatian was the
obvious choice. After a good deal of negotiation with owners of champion
sheep-dogs and enthusiasts for Alsatians, he produced several strains,
which blended the two types in various proportions. He then applied his
improved technique to various expectant mothers of these types, and in
due season he was able to provide several of his friends with animals of
"almost missing-link intelligence" as house-dogs. But there was nothing
spectacular about these creatures; and unfortunately all were delicate,
and all died before their somewhat protracted adolescence was completed.

But at last further improvements in his technique brought him real
success. He achieved several very bright animals with normally strong
constitutions, predominantly Alsatian in appearance.

He had persuaded his wife Elizabeth that, if ever he succeeded to this
extent, they should take a house in a sheep district in Wales. There she
and the three children and the forthcoming baby would live, and he
himself would spend the vacations and week-ends. After much exploration
they found a suitable old farm-house not far from Trawsfynedd. Its name
was "Garth." A good deal of work had to be done to turn it into a
comfortable family home. Water-closets and a bathroom had to be
installed. Some of the windows were enlarged. Electricity was laid on
from the village. An outhouse was converted into a palatial kennel.

Some time after the fourth baby had been born, the family moved. They
were accompanied by Kate, the long-established servant, who had somehow
become practically a member of the family. A village girl was engaged as
her assistant. There was also a nursemaid, Mildred; and, of course, the
children, Thomasina, Maurice, Giles, and the baby Plaxy. Thomas took
with him two canine families. One consisted of a bitch and four hardy
little animals that he intended to train as "super-sheep-dogs." The
other family of four were orphans, the mother having died in giving
birth to them. They had therefore to be hand-nursed. The brains of these
animals were very much bigger than the brains of the other family, but
unfortunately three of them were much less healthy. Two died shortly
after the removal to Wales. Another was subject to such violent fits
that it had to be destroyed. The fourth, Sirius, was a healthy and
cheerful little creature that remained a helpless infant long after the
other litter were active adolescents. For months it could not even
stand. It merely lay on its stomach with its bulgy head on the ground,
squeaking for sheer joy of life; for its tail was constantly wagging.

Even the other litter matured very slowly for dogs, though far more
rapidly than human children. When they were nearly adult all but one of
them were disposed of to neighbouring farms. The one was kept as the
family dog. Most of the local farmers had proved very reluctant to take
on these big-headed animals even as gifts. But a neighbour, Mr. Llewelyn
Pugh of Caer Blai, had entered into the spirit of the venture, and he
subsequently bought a second pup as a colleague for the first.

The production of these super-sheep-dogs and others which followed
formed a camouflage for Thomas's more exciting venture, of which Sirius
was at present the only outcome. The public would be led to believe that
super-sheep-dogs and other animals of missing-link mentality were his
whole concern. If the little Alsatian really developed to human mental
stature, few people would suspect it. Thomas was always morbidly anxious
that it should not be exploited. It must grow up in decent obscurity,
and mature as naturally as possible.

The super-sheep-dogs, on the other hand, were allowed to gain notoriety.
The farmers who had accepted them mostly with great reluctance soon
found that fate had given them pearls of great price. The animals
learned their technique surprisingly quickly, and carried out their
orders with unfailing precision. Commands had seldom to be repeated.
Sheep were never hustled, and yet never allowed to break away. Not only
so, but Trelone's dogs had an uncanny way of understanding instructions
and carrying them out with no human supervision. They attached the right
meanings to the names of particular pastures, hillsides, valleys, moors.
Told to "fetch sheep from Cefn" or from Moel Fach or what not, they
succeeded in doing so while their master awaited them at home. They
could also be sent on errands to neighbouring farms or villages. They
would take a basket and a note to a particular shop and bring back the
required meat or haberdashery.

All this was very useful to the farmers, and extremely interesting to
Trelone, who was of course allowed every chance of studying the animals.
He found in them a startlingly high degree of practical inventiveness,
and a rudimentary but remarkable understanding of language. Being after
all sub-human, they could not understand speech as we do, but they were
incomparably more sensitive than ordinary dogs to familiar words and
phrases. "Fetch wood from shed," "Take basket to butcher and baker," and
all such simple familiar orders could be distinguished and obeyed, as a
rule without distraction. Thomas wrote a monograph on his
super-sheep-dogs, and consequently scientists from all over the world
used to turn up at Garth to be shown the animals at work. Throughout the
district their fame was fully established among farmers, and there were
many demands for puppies. Very few could be supplied. Some farmers
refused to believe that the offspring of these bright animals would not
inherit their parents' powers. Naturally, all attempts to breed
super-sheep-dogs from super-sheep-dogs without the introduction of the
hormone into the mother were a complete failure.

But it is time to return to the little Alsatian, in fact, to Sirius.
Trelone was from the first very excited about this animal. The longer it
remained a helpless infant, the more excited he became. He saw in it the
possibility of the fulfilment of his almost wildest hopes. Discussing it
with Elizabeth, he fired her imagination with the prospects of this
canine infant, and unfolded his plan before her. This animal must have
as far as possible the same kind of psychological environment as their
own baby. He told her of an American animal-psychologist and his wife
who had brought up a baby chimpanzee in precisely the same conditions as
their own little girl. It was fed, clothed, cared for, exactly as the
child; and with very interesting results. This, Thomas said, was not
quite what he wanted for little Sirius, because one could not treat a
puppy precisely as a baby without violating its nature. Its bodily
organization was too different from the baby's. But what he did want was
that Sirius should be brought up to feel himself the social equal of
little Plaxy. Differences of treatment must never suggest differences of
biological or social rank. Elizabeth had already, he said, proved
herself an ideal mother, giving the children that precious feeling of
being devotedly loved by a divinely wise and generous being, yet
fostering their independence and making no greedy emotional claims on
them. This was the atmosphere that Thomas demanded for Sirius; this and
the family environment. And their family, he told her, had taught him a
very important truth. Unfortunate experiences in his own childhood had
led him to regard family as a hopelessly bad institution, and one which
ought to be abolished. She would remember his wild ideas of
experimenting with their own children. She had tactfully and
triumphantly resisted every attempt to remove her own first two children
from her; and before the third was born Thomas was already convinced
that a really good family environment was the right influence for a
growing child. No doubt she had made mistakes. Certainly he had made
many. No doubt they had to some extent unwittingly damaged their
children. There was Tamsy's occasional mulishness and Maurice's
diffidence. But on the whole--well it would be false modesty and unfair
to the children not to recognize that they were all three fine
specimens, friendly, responsible, yet independent and critical. This was
the ideal social tradition in which to perform the great experiment with
baby Sirius. Dogs, Thomas reminded Elizabeth, were prone to servility;
but this vice was probably not due to something servile in their nature;
it sprang from the fact that their great social sensitivity was forced
to take a servile turn by the tyranny of the more developed species
which controlled them. A dog with human intelligence, brought up to
respect itself, would probably not be servile at all, and might quite
well develop a superhuman gift for true social relationship.

Elizabeth took some time to consider her husband's suggestion, for the
responsibility would be mainly hers. Moreover, she was naturally anxious
about the effects of the experiment on her own baby. Would her little
Plaxy suffer in any way? Thomas persuaded her that no harm would be
done, and indeed that the companionship of child and super-canine dog
must be beneficial to both. With fervour he insisted that the most
valuable social relationships were those between minds as different from
one another as possible yet capable of mutual sympathy. It is perhaps
remarkable that Thomas, who was not himself gifted with outstanding
personal insight or sympathy, should have seen intellectually the
essential nature of community. It would be very interesting, he said, to
watch the growth of this difficult but pregnant companionship. Of course
it might never develop. There might be mere antagonism. Certainly
Elizabeth would have to exercise great tact to prevent the child from
overpowering the dog with its many human advantages. In particular the
little girl's hands and more subtle eyesight would be assets which the
puppy could never attain. And the whole human environment, which was
inevitably alien and awkward for the dog, might well breed neurosis in a
mind that was not human but humanly sensitive. Everything possible must
be done to prevent Sirius from becoming either unduly submissive or
defiantly arrogant in the manner so familiar in human beings suffering
from a sense of inferiority.

One other principle Thomas wanted Elizabeth to bear in mind. It was, of
course, impossible to know beforehand how the dog's nature would
develop. Sirius might, after all, never reach anything like human mental
stature. But everything must be done on the assumption that he would do
so. Hence it was very important to bring him up not as a pet but as a
person, as an individual who would in due season live an active and
independent life. This being so, his special powers must be fostered.
While he was still, as Thomas put it, a "schoolboy," his interests
would, of course, be "schoolboy" interests, physical, primitive,
barbarian; but being a dog, his expression of them would necessarily be
very different from a real schoolboy's. He would have to exercise them
in normal canine occupations, such as desultory roaming and hunting and
fighting. But later, as his intelligence opened up the human world to
him, he would want some kind of persistent "human" activity; and
obviously sheep could provide him with a career, even if he far excelled
the typical super-sheep-dog mentality. With this in view, and whatever
his destiny, he must be brought up "as hard as nails and fit as hell."
This had always been Elizabeth's policy with her own children; but
Sirius would some time need to face up to conditions far more Spartan
than those of the most Spartan human family. It would not do simply to
force him into such conditions. Somehow she must wile him into wanting
them, for sheer pride in his own nature, and later for the sake of his
work. This, of course, would not apply to his childhood, but in
adolescence he must begin of his own free will to seek hardness. Later
still, when his mind was no longer juvenile, he would perhaps drop the
sheep-dog career entirely and give his mind to more adult pursuits. Even
so, the hard practical life of his youth would not have been in vain. It
would endow him with permanent grit and self-reliance.

Elizabeth was a good deal more sceptical than her husband about the
future of Sirius. She expressed a fear, which did not trouble Thomas,
that such a disunited being as Sirius might be doomed to a life of
mental torture. Nevertheless, she finally made up her mind to enter into
the spirit of the experiment, and she planned accordingly.




CHAPTER III.
INFANCY


While he was still unable to walk, Sirius showed the same sort of
brightness as Plaxy in her cot. But even at this early stage his lack of
hands was a grave disadvantage. While Plaxy was playing with her rattle,
he too played with his; but his baby jaws could not compete with Plaxy's
baby hands in dexterity. His interest even in his earliest toys was much
more like a child's than like the ordinary puppy's monomania for
destruction. Worrying his rattle, he was attentive to the sound that it
made, alternately shaking it and holding it still to relish the contrast
between sound and silence. At about the time when Plaxy began to crawl,
Sirius achieved a staggering walk. His pride in this new art and his joy
in the increased scope that it gave him were obvious. He now had the
advantage over Plaxy, for his method of locomotion was far better suited
to his quadruped structure than her crawl to her biped form. Before she
had begun to walk he was already lurching erratically over the whole
ground, floor and garden. When at last she did achieve the upright gait,
he was greatly impressed, and insisted on being helped to imitate her.
He soon discovered that this was no game for him.

Plaxy and Sirius were already forming that companionship which was to
have so great an effect on both their minds throughout their lives. They
played together, fed together, were washed together, and were generally
good or naughty together. When one was sick, the other was bored and
abject. When one was hurt, the other howled with sympathy. Whatever one
of them did, the other had to attempt. When Plaxy learned to tie a knot,
Sirius was very distressed at his inability to do likewise. When Sirius
acquired by observation of the family's super-sheep-dog, Gelert, the
habit of lifting a leg at gate-posts to leave his visiting card, Plaxy
found it hard to agree that this custom, though suitable for dogs, was
not at all appropriate to little girls. She was deterred only by the
difficulty of the operation. Similarly, though she was soon convinced
that to go smelling at gate-posts was futile because her nose was not as
clever as Sirius's, she did not see why the practice should outrage the
family's notions of propriety. Plaxy's inability to share in Sirius's
developing experience of social smelling, if I may so name it, was
balanced by his clumsiness in construction. Plaxy was the first to
discover the joy of building with bricks; but there soon came a day when
Sirius, after watching her intently, himself brought a brick and set it
clumsily on the top of the rough wall that Plaxy was building. His
effort wrecked the wall. This was not Sirius's first achievement in
construction, for he had once been seen to lay three sticks together to
form a triangle, an achievement which caused him great satisfaction. He
had to learn to "handle" bricks and dolls in such a way that neither his
saliva nor his pin-point teeth would harm them. He was already enviously
impressed by Plaxy's hands and their versatility. The normal puppy shows
considerable inquisitiveness, but no impulse to construct; Sirius was
more persistently inquisitive and at times passionately constructive.
His behaviour was in many ways more simian than canine. The lack of
hands was a handicap against which he reacted with a dogged will to
triumph over disability.

Thomas judged that his weakness in construction was due not only to
handlessness but to a crudity of vision which is normal in dogs. Long
after infancy he was unable to distinguish between visual forms which
Plaxy would never confuse. For instance, it took him far longer than
Plaxy to distinguish between string neatly tied up in little bundles and
the obscure tangle which, at Garth as in so many homes, composed the
general content of the string-bag. Again, for Sirius, rather fat ovals
were no different from circles, podgy oblongs were the same as squares,
pentagons were mistaken for hexagons, angles of sixty degrees were much
the same as right angles. Consequently in building with toy bricks he
was apt to make mistakes which called forth derision from Plaxy. Later
in life he corrected this disability to some extent by careful training,
but his perception of form remained to the end very sketchy.

In early days he did not suspect his inferiority in vision. All his
failures in construction were put down to lack of hands. There was
indeed a grave danger that his handlessness would so obsess him that his
mind would be warped, particularly during a phase when the infant Plaxy
was apt to laugh at his helplessness. A little later she was brought to
realize that poor Sirius should not be ragged for his misfortune, but
helped whenever possible. Then began a remarkable relationship in which
Plaxy's hands were held almost as common property, like the toys. Sirius
was always running to ask Plaxy to do things he could not manage
himself, such as opening boxes and winding up clock-work toys. Sirius
himself began to develop a surprising "manual" dexterity, combining the
use of fore-paws and teeth; but many operations were for ever beyond
him. Throughout his life he was unable to tie a knot in a piece of
cotton, though there came a time when he could manage to do so in a rope
or stout cord.

Plaxy was the first to show signs of understanding speech, but Sirius
was not far behind. When she began to talk, he often made peculiar
little noises which, it seemed, were meant to be imitations of human
words. His failure to make himself understood often caused him bitter
distress. He would stand with his tail between his legs miserably
whining. Plaxy was the first to interpret his desperate efforts at
communication, but Elizabeth in time found herself understanding; and
little by little she grew able to equate each of the puppy's grunts and
whines with some particular elementary sound of human speech. Like
Plaxy, Sirius began with a very simple baby-language of monosyllables.
Little by little this grew into a canine, or super-canine, equivalent of
educated English. So alien were his vocal organs to speech, that even
when he had perfected the art no outsider would suspect his strange
noises of being any human language at all. Yet he had his own equivalent
of every vocal sound. Some of his consonants were difficult to
distinguish from one another, but Elizabeth and Plaxy and the rest of
the family came to understand him as easily as they understood each
other. I described his speech as composed of whimpers and grunts and
growls. This perhaps maligns it, though essentially true. He spoke with
a notable gentleness and precision, and there was a fluid, musical
quality in his voice.

Thomas was, of course, immensely elated by the dog's development of true
speech, for this was a sure sign of the fully human degree of
intelligence. The baby chimpanzee that was brought up with a human baby
kept level with its foster-sister until the little girl began to talk,
but then dropped behind; for the ape never showed any sign of using
words.

Thomas determined to have a permanent record of the dog's speech. He
bought the necessary apparatus for making gramophone discs, and
reproduced conversations between Sirius and Plaxy. He allowed no one to
hear these records except the family and his two most intimate
colleagues, Professor McAlister and Dr. Billing, who were influential in
procuring funds for the research, and knew that Thomas's secret ambition
soared far above the production of super-sheep-dogs. On several
occasions Thomas brought the distinguished biologists to see Sirius.

There was a time when it seemed that these gramophone records would be
the sole lasting and tangible evidence of Thomas's triumph. In spite of
inoculation, Sirius developed distemper and almost succumbed. Day after
day, night after night, Elizabeth nursed the wretched little animal
through this peculiarly noisome disease, leaving her own child mainly to
Mildred, the nursemaid. Had it not been for Elizabeth's skill and
devotion, Sirius would not have come through with his powers unimpaired.
Probably he would have died. This incident had two important results. It
created in Sirius a passionate and exacting affection for his
foster-mother, so that for weeks he would scarcely let her out of his
sight without making an uproar; and it bred in Plaxy a dreadful sense
that her mother's love was being given wholly to Sirius. In fact Plaxy
became lonely and jealous. This trouble was soon put right when Sirius
had recovered, and Elizabeth was able to give more attention to her
child; but then it was the dog's turn to be jealous. The climax came
when Sirius, seeing Elizabeth comforting Plaxy after a tumble, rushed
savagely at her and actually nipped her little bare leg. There was then
a terrible scene. Plaxy screamed and screamed. Elizabeth was for once
really angry. Sirius howled with remorse for what he had done; and
actually, out of a sense that retribution was needed, made a
half-hearted attempt to bite his own leg. Then matters were made much
worse by the family's super-sheep-dog, Gelert, who rushed to the scene
of uproar. Seeing Plaxy's bleeding leg, and Elizabeth being very angry
with the puppy, Gelert assumed that this was a case for severe
punishment, and set upon the abject culprit. Sirius was bowled over and
none too gently mauled by the furiously growling Gelert. The puppy's
remorse gave place to fright, and his whimpers to screams of terror, to
which the weeping Plaxy added screams of fear for her beloved friend.
The other children rushed upon the scene, followed by Kate and Mildred
with brooms and a rolling pin. Even the infant Plaxy seized Gelert by
the tail and tried to drag him off. But it was Elizabeth herself who
snatched Sirius from the jaws of death (as it seemed to him) and roundly
cursed the officious Gelert.

This incident seems to have had several important results. It made both
Sirius and Plaxy realize how much, after all, they cared for one
another. It persuaded Plaxy that her mother had not discarded her for
Sirius. And it proved to Sirius that Elizabeth loved him even when he
had been very wicked. The unfortunate Gelert alone gained no comfort.

The only further punishment inflicted on Sirius was deep disgrace.
Elizabeth withdrew her kindness. Plaxy, in spite of her secret knowledge
that Sirius was very dear, was filled with self-pity once more when he
had been rescued, and treated him with cold self-righteousness. To
punish Sirius, Plaxy showed a violent affection for the kitten, Tommy,
who had recently been imported from a neighbouring farm. Sirius, of
course, was tortured with jealousy, and was afforded good practice in
self-control. He succeeded all the better because on the one occasion
when he did attack Tommy, he discovered that the kitten had claws.
Sirius was very sensitive to neglect and censure. When his human friends
were displeased with him he lost interest in everything but his misery.
He would not play, he would not eat. On this occasion he set himself to
win Plaxy over by many little attentions. He brought her a beautiful
feather, then a lovely white pebble, and each time he timidly kissed her
hand. Suddenly she gave him a hearty hug, and both broke into a romp.
Towards Elizabeth, Sirius was less bold. He merely eyed her askance, his
tail timorously vibrating when he caught her glance. So comic was this
spectacle that she could not help laughing. Sirius was forgiven.

At a stage in his puppyhood shortly after this incident Sirius conceived
a respectful admiration for Gelert. The slightly older and biologically
quite adult super-sub-human animal treated him with careless contempt.
Sirius followed Gelert about and mimicked all his actions. One day
Gelert by great good fortune caught a rabbit and devoured it, growling
savagely when Sirius approached. The puppy watched him with mingled
admiration and horror. The spectacle of that swift pursuit and capture
roused in him the hunting impulses of the normal dog. The scream of the
rabbit, its struggle, sudden limpness and hideous dismemberment, shocked
him deeply; for he had a sympathetic and imaginative nature, and
Elizabeth had brought up her family in a tradition of tenderness towards
all living things. But now a conflict arose which was to distress him
throughout his life, the conflict between what he later called his
"wolf-nature" and his compassionate civilized mentality.

The immediate result was a strong and guilty lust for the chase and an
intensified, awed passion for Gelert. He became obsessed by the
rabbit-warren. He was for ever sniffing at the entrances to the burrows,
whimpering with excitement. For a while Plaxy was almost forgotten.
Vainly she tried to win him back into partnership in her games. Vainly
she hung about the burrows with him, bored and cross. In her presence he
once caught a frog and disgustingly mangled it in an attempt to eat it.
She burst into tears. His hunting impulse was suddenly quenched, and
horror supervened. He rushed whimpering to his darling and covered her
face with bloody kisses.

Many times henceforth he was to suffer the torturing conflict between
his normal canine impulses and his more developed nature.

His admiration of Gelert was gradually damped down by the discovery that
the older dog had no interest in anything but hunting and eating. Once
more there was a conflict. Hunting now gripped Sirius as the main joy of
life; but it was a guilty joy. He felt its call almost as a religious
claim upon him, the claim of the dark blood-god for sacrifice; but he
was also disgusted with the sacrifice, and deeply disturbed by Plaxy's
horror. Moreover, after his first obsession he began to recover interest
in the many activities which he shared with Plaxy. These were of no
interest to Gelert.

The final disillusionment came when Sirius began to realize that Gelert
not merely would not but could not talk. This suspicion had long haunted
Sirius, but he had believed that Gelert's unresponsiveness was merely
due to his haughty disposition. There came a day, however, when this
theory ceased to be possible. Young Sirius, whose four-foot locomotion
was far more developed than Plaxy's running, had been trying to keep up
with Gelert at the outset of a hunting expedition. They came upon a
sheep with a broken leg. Though Gelert was not in the sheep-tending
profession, he knew very well that sheep were things to be cherished. He
knew also that Mr. Pugh of Caer Blai was in this case the responsible
man. He therefore hurried off to Caer Blai, far outstripping the
loose-limbed puppy. When at last Sirius arrived in the farmyard, he
found Gelert making an inarticulate fuss around Pugh, vainly trying to
persuade him to come up the hill. Sirius knew that he himself could not
make Pugh understand, but he knew also that he could explain to any
member of his own family. He therefore set off to find one of them and
encountered Giles on his way home from school. He pantingly told Giles
the story, and the two hurried to Caer Blai. Giles momentarily forgot
the great family taboo about "not telling people about Sirius," and said
to Pugh, "Sirius says there's a sheep with a broken leg in Nant
Twll-y-cwm, and it may get drowned." Pugh looked at him with
incredulity, but was impressed by the boy's earnestness and the antics
of the dogs. He accompanied them up the valley, and there was the sheep.
After this incident Sirius regarded Gelert as a nit-wit, and the farmer
suspected Sirius of being an altogether "super" super-sheep-dog.

The discovery that Gelert could not speak, and was in other respects,
also a half-wit, was a shock to Sirius. Gelert excelled him in all those
ways in which he outshone his human friends, in speed, in endurance, in
scent and in hearing. For some time he had taken Gelert as his model.
Mimicking Gelert's taciturnity, he had even tried not to talk. So
successful had he been that Elizabeth in one of her letters to Thomas
said that Sirius's human mentality seemed to be waning. The realization
that the older dog simply could not talk changed the puppy's attitude.
Suddenly he became garrulous, and showed an increased desire to keep
pace with Plaxy in acquiring all sorts of human skills. Also he devised
an amusing way of ridiculing Gelert. He would hold imaginary
conversations with the super-sheep-dog, pretending that Gelert's silence
was due to deliberate taciturnity. The older animal would at first
ignore the garrulous puppy; but presently, particularly if the
spectators laughed, his super-canine though sub-human mind would begin
to suspect that Sirius was making a fool of him. He would look very
self-conscious and perplexed, and sooner or later drive the insolent
youngster away, or seize him and chastise him.

Plaxy was by now being taught to read and write. Her mother devoted an
hour a day to this task. Sirius had at first shown a mild curiosity
about the queer business, but under the influence of Gelert he had
thrown it over for the sake of hunting. Elizabeth made no effort to
compel him to carry on his studies. Either his distaste was a passing
phase, soon to be outgrown, or his mind was after all not sufficiently
super-canine to persist in this alien occupation, in which case
compulsion would be disastrous. However, when his idol had fallen, he
reverted to the game of reading and writing. He had missed a good deal,
so Elizabeth undertook to coach him up to Plaxy's standard. Of course
his handlessness made it impossible for him ever to write save with some
special apparatus. It was also discovered that, apart from his obvious
disability for writing, his reading also was doomed to be very seriously
hampered, so crude was his perception of visual form. Plaxy used to
spell out simple words with her box of letters, but Sirius found it very
difficult to distinguish between C, G, D, O and Q, and also between B,
P, R, and K. He was also greatly confused by E and F, by S and Z, by A
and H, by H and K. At a later stage, when Plaxy was mastering the
lower-case letters, and these in small type, Sirius was still more
handicapped. Sometimes it almost seemed that his intelligence was after
all sub-human. Elizabeth, who, in spite of her triumphant impartiality
towards her child and her foster-child, had always a secret desire for
Plaxy to excel, now wrote to Thomas that after all Sirius was not much
better than a moron. But Thomas, whose secret desire was the reverse of
his wife's, replied with a dissertation on the poor vision of dogs, and
urged her to encourage Sirius by telling him of this canine disability,
to praise his enterprise in learning to read and write at all, and to
remind him that he had great advantages over human beings in other
spheres. Encouragement tapped a surprising fund of doggedness in Sirius,
for he spent hours every day by himself practising reading. Great
progress was made, but after a week or so Elizabeth felt bound to
intervene because of symptoms of mental breakdown. She praised him and
petted him, and persuaded him that he would learn more quickly and
permanently if he tried a bit less hard.

Sirius recognized, of course, that in writing he could not possibly
reach Plaxy's standard, but he was determined not to be entirely without
this valuable art. It was he himself that invented a way out of his
disability. He persuaded Elizabeth to make him a tight leather mitten
for his right paw. On the back of the mitten was a socket into which a
pen or pencil could be inserted. When this article was completed, he
made his first experiment in writing. He was very excited. Lying in the
"couchant" position with his left foreleg on the paper to hold it in
place, he kept his right elbow on the ground, and was able to scrawl out
DOG, CAT, PLAXY, SIRIUS, and so on. The neural organization of his leg
and the motor-centres of his brain were probably not at all well adapted
to this activity; but once more his doggedness triumphed. Long practice
brought him after some years the skill to write a letter in large,
irregular but legible characters. In later life, as I shall tell, he
even ventured on the task of writing books.

Thomas was more impressed than Elizabeth by Sirius's achievement,
because he probably appreciated more fully the difficulties that the
puppy had overcome.

So far as possible, Sirius took part in all the simple lessons that
Elizabeth gave to Plaxy. He was never very good at arithmetic, perhaps
because of his poor visual powers; but he managed to avoid being
outclassed by Plaxy, who was none too good herself. His spelling, too,
was very bad, probably for the same reason. But at an early age he
showed a great interest in language and the art of precise expression.
Poetry had sometimes a deep effect on him. In spite of his visual
weakness he read a good deal, and he often begged members of the family
to read aloud to him. This they did very frequently, knowing how great a
boon it was for him.

But to return to his puppyhood. There came a time when it seemed
desirable for Plaxy to attend the village school. Sirius, of course,
could not do so. It was sometimes with thankfulness for his freedom, but
sometimes with envy, that he watched his little foster-sister set off
with her books in the morning. He was now of an age to do a great deal
of free roaming, and the passion for the scents and adventures of the
countryside was now strong in him. But the thought that Plaxy was
outstripping him in knowledge of the great world of men worried him
sorely. In the afternoons, when she returned from school, she often
assured him that lessons were a bore; but he could tell from her tone
that she felt important and proud, and that a good deal that happened at
school was great fun. He made a habit of gleaning from her the most
useful bits of information that she had acquired during the day. It
became a regular custom with her to do her homework with him, to the
profit of them both. Meanwhile Elizabeth continued Sirius's education in
a desultory but stimulating way. Often he was able to pay his debt to
Plaxy by passing on to her the fruits of his own lessons, though she
generally adopted a superior attitude to his tit-bits. Sometimes he told
her about conversations with Thomas, who had made a habit of taking
Sirius for walks on the hills and telling him all sorts of significant
scraps of science or world-history. Plaxy herself, of course, was
sometimes present on these walks. But generally Thomas needed vigorous
exercise at the week-ends, and his little daughter could not keep up
with him as well as Sirius. During his puppyhood Sirius often came home
tired after long expeditions with Thomas, but when he reached
mid-adolescence he used to look forward with pleasure to the almost
weekly trek over Arenig, the Rhinogs or Moelwyn, listening to the
far-ranging flow of Thomas's thought, or probing him with questions.
These the great physiologist answered with all the patience and care
which he was accustomed to give to his students. This was Sirius's main
intellectual education, this frequent contact with a mature and
brilliant mind. Often the two would discuss Sirius's future, Thomas
encouraging him to believe that a great work lay before him. But of this
later. I have let myself pass beyond the dog's puppyhood, and now I must
return to it.

Not only in reading and writing but in another way also Sirius was
inevitably inferior to Plaxy, and indeed to nearly all human beings. He
was entirely colour-blind. I understand that there is still doubt about
colour-sensitivity in dogs. Dissection, I believe, has revealed that
they have approximately the same equipment of "rods and cones" in their
retinae as that of human beings. But psychological experiments have not
yet proved that dogs are in fact sensitive to colour. Possibly the truth
is that, though some dogs are aware of colour, the incidence of
colour-blindness in the canine species is much greater than in man.
However that may be, it is certain that Sirius was completely
colour-blind. Until quite late in his puppyhood, long after he had
learned to talk, he himself had no suspicion that his seeing lacked any
qualities possessed by Plaxy's. Thomas had told Elizabeth that dogs were
almost certainly colour-blind, but she refused to believe it of Sirius,
insisting that he could distinguish between her differently coloured
dresses. "No," said Thomas, "he probably does it by scent or the touch
of his sensitive tongue. Besides, haven't you noticed that he goes badly
adrift in his use of the names of colours? Anyhow, let's test him." For
this purpose Thomas bought a child's box of wooden picture-blocks, and
covered the faces of the cubes with paper of different colours very
carefully selected so that their tone values and tactual and olfactory
qualities should be identical. Any differences of odour that might be
due to differences of pigment he blotted out by drenching the blocks in
eau-de-Cologne. He then presented the "box of bricks" to Plaxy and
Sirius. Plaxy at once produced a chequer of pink and blue squares.
Sirius was obviously uninterested in the blocks, but he was persuaded to
copy Plaxy's chequer. He put the pieces together quite at random. It was
soon obvious even to Sirius himself that Plaxy saw something which he
missed. He at once set about the same kind of self-education which he
had undertaken in order to read. With Plaxy's aid he must discover the
thing that had escaped him in the bricks, and then strengthen his powers
of seeing it. Plaxy displayed coloured objects to him one after another,
naming their colours. She showed him a coloured print and a monochrome
photograph. Giles produced a flash-light with red and green glasses. But
all was in vain. Sirius was quite unable to discover what colour was.

He was at first greatly distressed, but Thomas comforted him by assuring
him that all dogs were colour-blind, and probably all mammals but apes
and men. And he reminded Sirius that dogs were at any rate far superior
in hearing and smelling. Sirius had long known that human noses were
very poor instruments. He had often been contemptuous because Plaxy
could not smell out her mother's track in the garden, or tell with her
nose whether a certain footprint was Gelert's or another dog's. Moreover
at an early age he was surprised and disappointed at her obtuseness to
all the mysterious and exciting smells of the countryside after rain.
While she mildly enjoyed an indiscriminate freshness and fragrance, he
would analyse the messages of the breeze with quivering nostrils,
gasping out words between the sniffs. "Horse," he would say; then after
another sniff, "And not a horse I have smelt before." Or, "Postman! Must
be coming up the lane." Or perhaps, "Sea-smell to-day," though the sea
was several miles away behind the Rhinogs. A slight veering of the wind
might bring him whiffs of a distant waterfall, or more fragrant odours
of the moor, or peat or heather or bracken. Sometimes, gripped by some
strange enticing scent, he would rush off to trace it. Once he came
trotting back after a few minutes of exploration and said, "Strange
bird, but I couldn't see him properly." On another occasion he suddenly
rushed out of the house, sniffed the breeze, raced off up the moor, cast
about till he picked up a trail, and then streamed along it round the
hill shoulder. After an hour or so he returned in great excitement, made
Plaxy fetch out the animal book and turn the pages till she came to The
Fox. "That's him!" he cried, "Gosh, what a smell!" Once in the middle of
a romping game in the garden he came to a sudden halt, sniffing. His
hair bristled, his tail curled under his belly. "Let's go inside," he
said, "there's some dreadful thing up wind." Plaxy laughed, but he
seemed so disturbed that she consented. Twenty minutes later Giles
arrived from school, full of the news that he had seen a menagerie pass
along the road to Ffestiniog.

Giles was so tickled by Sirius's reaction that he clamoured for Sirius
to be taken to see the wild beasts with the rest of the family, arguing
that the little coward had better learn that bad smells were not really
dangerous. After much persuasion Sirius consented to go. The experience
had a lasting effect on him. As he entered the enclosure the appalling
confusion of odours, some enticing, some formidable, tore his nerves as
though (as he said long afterwards) all the instruments of an orchestra
were tuning up together at full blast. With tucked-in tail and scared
eyes he kept close to Elizabeth as the party moved from cage to cage.
Many of the animals roused his hunting impulse; but the great carnivora,
the abject and mangy lion, tiger, and bear, forlornly pacing their
narrow cages, tortured him, partly by their terrifying natural smell,
partly by their acquired odour of ill-health and misery. The slit-eyed
wolf, too, greatly affected him with its similarity to himself. While he
was gazing with fascination at this distant cousin, the lion suddenly
roared, and Sirius, shivering with fright, shrank up against Elizabeth's
legs. Stimulated by the lion, the rest of the animals started to give
tongue. When the elephant rent the air with a blast of his trumpet,
Sirius took to his heels and vanished.

The world of odour was one in which Plaxy had only slight experience. In
the world of sound she was not so completely outclassed, but she was far
behind Sirius. He could hear approaching footsteps long before Plaxy or
any other human being could detect them, and he could unfailingly tell
who it was that was coming. The cry of a bat, entirely beyond the range
of most human ears, was described by Sirius as a sharp needle of sound.
Both Elizabeth and Plaxy soon discovered that he was incredibly
sensitive to their tone of voice. He could distinguish unerringly
between spontaneous praise and mere kindly encouragement, between real
condemnation and censure with an undertone of amusement or approval. Not
only so, but he seemed able to detect changes of temper in them before
they themselves had noticed them. "Elizabeth," he would suddenly ask,
"why are you sad?" She would reply, laughing, "But I'm _not!_ I'm rather
pleased because the bread has risen nicely." "Oh, but you _are_ sad,
underneath," he would answer. "I can hear it quite well. You are only
pleased on top." And after a pause she would have to say, "Oh, well,
perhaps I am. I wonder why."

His nose, too, gave him a lot of information about people's emotional
states. He sometimes spoke of a "cross smell," a "friendly smell," a
"frightened smell," a "tired smell."

So sensitive was he to odour and to sound, that he found human speech
quite inadequate to express the richness of these two universes. He once
said of a certain odour in the house, "It's rather like the trail of a
hare where a spaniel has followed it, and some time ago a donkey crossed
it too." Both scent and sound had for him rich emotional meaning, innate
and acquired. It was obvious that many odours that he encountered for
the first time roused a strong impulse of pursuit, while others he
sought to avoid. It was obvious, too, that many odours acquired an added
emotional meaning through their associations. One day when he was out on
the moor by himself one of his paws was badly cut on a broken bottle. It
happened that while he limped home there was a terrifying thunderstorm.
When at last he staggered in at the front door, Elizabeth mothered him
and cleaned up his foot with a certain well-known disinfectant. The
smell of it was repugnant to him, but it now acquired a flavour of
security and kindliness which was to last him all his life.

Many sounds stirred him violently. Thunder and other great noises
terrified him. The tearing of calico made him leap with a purely
physiological fright, and set him barking in merry protest. Human
laughter he found very infectious. It roused in him a queer yelping
laughter which was all his own. The tones of the human voice not only
told him of the emotional state of the speaker but also stimulated
strong emotional responses in himself. The odours of emotion had a
similar effect.

Like many dogs, young Sirius found human music quite excruciating. An
isolated vocal or instrumental theme was torture enough to him; but when
several voices or instruments combined, he seemed to lose control of
himself completely. His fine auditory discrimination made even
well-executed solos seem to him badly out of tune. Harmony and the
combination of several themes resulted for him in hideous cacophany.
Elizabeth and the children would sometimes sing rounds, for instance
when they were coming down the moor after a picnic. Sirius invariably
had to give up his usual far-ranging course and draw into the party to
howl. The indignant children would chase him away, but as soon as the
singing began again he would return and once more give tongue. On one
occasion Tamsy, who was the most seriously musical member of the family,
cried imploringly, "Sirius, _do_ either keep quiet or keep _away_! Why
can't you let us enjoy ourselves?" He replied, "But how can you _like_
such a horrible jarring muddle of sweet noises? I have to come to you
because they're so sweet, and I have to howl because it's a mess, and
because--oh because it _might_ be so lovely." Once he said, "If I were
to paint a picture could you just keep away? Wouldn't you go crazy
because of the all-wrongness of the colour? Well, sounds are far more
exciting to me than your queer colour is to you."

The family refused to admit that their singing was a mess. Instead, they
determined to "teach Sirius music." He accepted his fate with dog-like
docility and fortitude. After all, painful as the process must be, it
would help him to find out more about human beings; and even at a very
early age he had begun to be curious about the difference between
himself and his friends.

The whole family gathered in the sitting-room to "teach Sirius music."
Elizabeth produced her cherished but now neglected violin. On the few
earlier occasions when she had played on it within earshot of Sirius, he
always came hurrying to her, howling. If the door was shut, he gave
tongue outside. Otherwise he rushed into the room and leapt up at her
till she had to stop. On this occasion he at first made some effort to
keep a hold on himself during the painful operation that his family were
determined to perform on him. But excitement soon overcame him. Tamsy
was at the piano. Maurice and Giles were ready, if wanted, with their
recorders. Plaxy sat on the floor with her arms around the resigned but
rather mischievous Sirius, "to keep him from going mad on us." For it
was clear that Sirius was going to be difficult. When Plaxy let him
escape, he bounded from instrument to instrument, making mock attacks on
each. His tail thrashed from side to side in a conflict of agony and
delight, knocking the bow from Elizabeth's hand, and sending a recorder
flying across the room. Even when Plaxy held him, he turned the
experiment to chaos by giving tongue with such vigour and virtuosity
that the simple tones of the instrument were drowned. When at last he
was persuaded to co-operate seriously, it was soon found that he had at
any rate a far better ear for pitch than any of the family. When
Elizabeth moved her finger so slightly on the string that none of the
children could hear any difference, Sirius detected a change. Elizabeth
was amazed to find that he could also sing accurately in tune. Once when
she played a single tone and he could not restrain himself from giving
tongue, the main element in his wail was obviously in tune with the
violin. With a little encouragement he produced the pure note without
any trimmings. When Maurice played a scale on his recorder, Sirius sang
in unison with it, keeping perfectly in tune even with the inaccurate
tones produced by the young musician on an imperfect instrument.

With his usual doggedness Sirius set about conquering this excruciating
thing, music. He showed surprising aptitude for singing, soon
outstripping Plaxy in reproducing the family songs. Sometimes he sang
without words; sometimes he used his own canine equivalent of the
English words of the song. (His lingo, being simply mispronounced
English, rhymed and scanned appropriately.)

With practice he became less tortured by human music. In fact he
actually came to like it, so long as it was not too badly out of tune.
He would often join in singing the rounds that had formerly tormented
him. Sometimes when Elizabeth played her violin he would come to listen.
In certain moods he would retire to a favourite point of vantage on the
moor and spend hours singing to himself. He would go over and over the
songs that Elizabeth had so often sung about the house.

It was a tune-loving family. Under Elizabeth's influence it had
developed an amusing system of musical calls which served the function
of bugle-calls. A certain little tune meant "Time to get up," another
"Breakfast is ready," another "All is now prepared for starting on the
expedition," and so on. Plaxy and Sirius, the two youngest members of
the family, invented a number of private calls of their own. One of
these, for instance, meant "Come and help me!" Another said, "Something
interesting here. Come and investigate;" another "Come and play with
me!" One little trickle of sound meant, "I am going to pee." To this
there were two possible musical answers. One said, "Right oh! So am I,"
and the other "Nothing doing by me." It was curious, by the way, that if
one of them made water the other had always to follow suit on the same
spot, in the approved canine manner. Always? No! Plaxy soon found that
she could not keep pace with Sirius in this etiquette of leaving tokens.

When Thomas heard of Sirius's habit of retiring on to the moor to
practise singing, he feared lest his precious animal should become
notorious as "the singing dog," and be exploited. It was indeed
startling for the natives to hear the sweet, accurate, but inarticulate
and inhuman voice, and to come upon a large dog squatting on his
haunches melodiously giving tongue. Thomas, it was rumoured, had
sinister powers. He could put demons into dogs. Fortunately the farther
these rumours spread, the less they were believed. No craze equivalent
to the case of the talking mongoose or the Loch Ness monster developed
over the singing dog.

In his puppyhood Sirius sang only human music. Throughout his life he
was deeply interested in the great classical achievements of man's
musical genius, but as he had always found the fundamental structure of
human music crude, and inadequate to his interest in sound-form and the
emotions which sought musical expression, he began to experiment with
new scales, intervals, and rhythms, suited to his more sensitive
hearing. He made use of the quarter-tone and even the eighth-of-a-tone.
Sometimes, in his purely canine mood, his melodies divided the octave in
quite a different manner from any human musical mode. Thus to the human
listener his most distinctive music became less recognizably musical and
more like the baying of a dog, though a strangely varied and disturbing
baying.

A supple and mellow voice was Sirius's only medium of expression. He
often longed to play some instrument, so as to be able to introduce
harmony into his experiments, but his tragic lack of hands prevented
him. Sometimes he sat at the piano trying to finger out a two-note
accompaniment to his singing, but his paws were far too clumsy to do
even this properly. For long spells he would give up music entirely
because his handlessness prevented him from doing what he wanted with
it. At these times he would wander about with tail and head low,
refusing comfort. The mingled sense of helplessness and talent tormented
him. But presently his buoyant spirits would revive, and he would
resolve that, if instrumental music must remain for ever impossible to
him, he would do new and marvellous things with his voice. Throughout
his life Sirius alternated between self-pity on account of his
disabilities and a surprisingly detached and humorous acceptance of his
nature and his environment, issuing in a zestful will to triumph in
spite of everything.




CHAPTER IV
YOUTH


In the foregoing chapter I should have written only about Sirius as a
puppy, but in dealing with his disabilities and powers I was inevitably
led on to speak of his later life. His serious musical adventures, for
instance, did not begin till puppyhood was well over. I must now
concentrate more definitely on his adolescence and early maturity,
preparing the way for an account of that part of his life with which my
own life became for a while closely entangled.

Already in adolescence Sirius was larger than most sheep-dogs. But
though tall, he was at this time very slight and lanky, and it was often
said that he had "overgrown his strength." He was also far from
courageous. His caution in his encounters with other dogs was increased
by his discovery in sundry minor brawls that his large cranium made his
head unwieldy and his seizing of his opponent rather less slick than it
might have been. This weakness was largely overcome when he reached full
maturity, for constant exercise developed the muscles of his neck
sufficiently to cope with his extra weight of head. In youth, however,
he was no match for the smaller but more experienced collies that tended
the sheep. One of these, unfortunately a near neighbour, formed a habit
of persecuting Sirius whenever possible. There came a day when he was
ignominiously chased home by this animal, who bore the appropriate name
Diawl Du, black devil. It was the schoolgirl Plaxy who seized the yard
broom and drove off the black devil with blows and shrill curses. Later
Sirius heard Plaxy telling her mother about the incident. She ended the
story with, "I'm afraid poor Sirius hasn't much spunk." Sirius did not
know the word "spunk," but he detected in Plaxy's voice, which she
intended to be merely amused, a note of deep mortification. He sneaked
off to find a dictionary. With some trouble and much use of his wet
tongue for turning the "India paper" pages he found the word; and he
didn't like the idea that Plaxy thought him lacking in spunk. For
"spunk" according to the Oxford Concise Dictionary meant "courage,
mettle, spirit, anger," and was connected with "spark." Somehow he must
regain Plaxy's respect, but how?

That same day Plaxy seemed to turn her attention away from Sirius
towards the young cat, Trix, successor to Tommy. This impulse to make
much of cats was a common reaction with her when she was at all
alienated from Sirius. She would cuddle Trix in front of him and remark
on her lovely tortoise-shell coat or her dainty nose. Also, Sirius
noted, she would become strangely cat-like herself, sitting about in
lofty silence and indolence, "hugging herself," as he sometimes put it.

Shortly after his defeat by Diawl Du, Sirius got himself into serious
disgrace over Trix. The cat was contemplating a leap into Plaxy's lap
when Sirius lost control of himself and attacked his minute rival with
noisy rage. She arched her back and stood firm, slashing Sirius's face,
so that he retreated, yelping. Plaxy's scream turned into a laugh.
Reviling Sirius for a bully and a coward, she snatched up Trix and
lavished endearments on her. Sirius slunk away in shame and misery.

A fortnight later it was remarked in the family that Sirius had
developed an unexpected craze for worrying an old spade handle which had
been lying in the outhouse. Whenever possible he would persuade some
sturdy human being, preferably Maurice, who was home from boarding
school, to join in the game. Boy and dog would hang on to opposite ends
of the piece of ash and swing hither and thither about the garden, each
trying to shake off his opponent. Towards the end of the holidays
Maurice remarked, "Sirius is getting damned strong. You can't tear the
thing from him; you can't twist it from him." All this time Sirius had
been carefully avoiding Diawl Du, but at last he felt ready. Though he
was confident that his grip was much more powerful than it had been, and
his head movements quicker and more precise, he would not trust to
physical powers alone; cunning must be his mainstay. His strategy was
planned with great care. He studied his chosen battle-ground, and
rehearsed the crucial action which was to give him victory in the very
scene of his former discomfiture, and under the eyes of Plaxy.

One afternoon when Plaxy had returned from school he hurried over to
Glasdo, the farm where Diawl Du lived, and ostentatiously hung about
till his enemy issued like a black avalanche from the farmyard gate.
Sirius at once took to his heels, bolting for home. To reach the front
door of Garth, which was ostensibly his objective, he had to make a
right-angled turn through the yard gate. (Garth, it will be remembered,
was an old farm-house.) As he checked himself to do this and swing
through the gate, he glanced behind to see that Diawl Du was at the
correct distance. Then he raced round the yard in a great curve,
arriving back at the gate, but at right angles to his original course
through it, and hidden from Diawl Du by the wall. At that moment the
collie swerved through the gate in pursuit, and Sirius with great
momentum crashed into him on the left flank. Diawl Du rolled over with
Sirius on top of him. Sirius gripped his throat, his teeth finding a
much firmer hold than on the hard old spade handle. He hung on
desperately, fearing that if he once let go the superior skill of the
other dog would be his undoing. The collie's throttled screams and
Sirius's own continuous muffled growl soon brought out the inmates of
the house. Out of the corner of his eye, as he rolled over and over with
his enemy, Sirius caught sight of Plaxy. The warm blood seeped into his
mouth and threatened to choke him, but he hung on, coughing for breath.
The saltness and odour of Diawl Du's blood, he afterwards said, turned
him mad. Some pent-up energy and fury in him was released for the first
time. At the height of the struggle the thought flashed upon him, "This
is real life, this is what I am for, not all that human twaddle." He
gripped and tugged and worried, while Diawl Du's struggles became
weaker, and the horrified human beings did their best to loosen his
grip. They beat him, they threw pepper in his face so that he sneezed
violently, but he did not let go. They fell upon him in a mass to hold
him quiet while they tried to prise his jaws open with a stick. His own
blood mixed with the collie's in his mouth, and he was surprised at the
different flavour of it. Nothing that the family could do made him
loosen his grip. Plaxy, desperate with horror, did her best to force her
hands into his mouth. Then suddenly beside herself, she screamed. At
last Sirius let go, and Diawl Du lay inert on the ground.

The victor stalked away, licking his blood-slippery lips, his spine
still bristling. After taking a drink at the trough under the yard pump,
he lay down with his chin on his paws to watch the proceedings.
Elizabeth sent the children into the house for warm water,
disinfectants, bandages, while she examined the wound. Presently Plaxy
was holding the unconscious dog's head, while Elizabeth applied a large
cotton-wool pad and wound the bandage round his neck. After a while
Diawl Du showed signs of life, moving his head slightly in Plaxy's
hands. He produced the ghost of a growl, which ended in a whimper. Then
they carried him inside and laid him before the kitchen fire with a
drink of water beside him.

No one took any notice of Sirius, who still lay in the yard, stiff and
sore; triumphant, but also rather bewildered and resentful. If she
wanted him to have spunk, why didn't she come and praise him and pet
him?

Presently Elizabeth came and started up the little car. When she had
backed it into the road, she went in and, with Maurice's help, brought
out Diawl Du in her arms, while the others prepared a place for him on
the back seat of the car. When he was comfortably laid on a rug on the
seat, she drove off to Glasdo.

The children turned towards Sirius. "Gosh!" said Maurice, "you've done
it this time!" And Tamsy, "They'll have you shot as a dangerous animal."
Giles contributed, "It was just murder." Plaxy said nothing but "Oh,
Sirius!" He stared at her in silence, trying to analyse her tone of
voice. Mainly it spoke reproach, and horror. But there was something
else in it, perhaps exultation at his prowess, perhaps mere human
superiority. Anyhow, what did he care? He lay still for a little longer
with chin on paws, staring at Plaxy. At that moment Trix, the cat, came
and rubbed herself against Plaxy's legs. Plaxy picked her up and hugged
her. Sirius rose, his back once more bristling, and with a low noise
between a snort and a growl he stalked with conscious dignity out
through the gate.

The fight with Diawl Du was a turning point in the career of Sirius. He
had tasted victory. He had got his own back. Never again would he be
cowed by half-wit persecutors. But something more had happened than a
calculated triumph. His deeper nature, his unconscious nature, had found
expression. He had discovered something far more satisfying than human
sophistication. These thoughts were not clear in his mind at the time;
but looking back on the incident from a much later period, this was the
form that he gave them.

Elizabeth warned him that, if he attempted murder again, there might be
serious trouble. "Remember," she said, "to outsiders you are only a dog.
You have no legal rights at all. If someone decides that you are a
nuisance and shoots you, he won't be had up for murder; he'll merely get
into trouble for destroying a bit of our property. Besides," she added,
"how _could_ you do it? It was horrible, just animal." Sirius gave no
response to this taunt; but taunt he felt it to be. He could both smell
and hear her contemptuous hostility. Probably some suppressed and
unacknowledged hate for her canine foster-child had found a sudden
outlet. Sirius saw the folly and danger of his action clearly enough,
but her last remark filled him with rage. In his heart he said, "To hell
with them all!" Outwardly he gave no sign that he was even listening. He
was sitting in front of the kitchen fire, and after Elizabeth's taunt he
cocked up a hind leg and carefully, ostentatiously, groomed his private
parts, a habit which he often used with great effect to annoy his women
folk.

As the months piled up into years Sirius's self-confidence in relation
to other dogs was greatly augmented. His increasing weight and strength
combined with superior intelligence to give him not only freedom from
persecution but acknowledged superiority over all the sheep-dogs of the
countryside, who were all much smaller than the young Alsatian. His
combination of size and cunning put him in a class apart. As for
"spunk", the truth seems to be that throughout his life he remained at
heart a timid creature who rose to a display of boldness only in
desperation or when the odds were favourable, or on those rare occasions
when the dark god of his blood took possession of him.

I cannot deal with his relations with animals of his own biological type
without giving some account of his sexual adventures. Long before the
fight with Diawl Du he had begun to be perplexedly interested in any
bitch in heat that he happened to come across. Mostly they would have
nothing to do with him, regarding him, presumably, as an overgrown
puppy. But there was one large and rather elderly black bitch who seemed
to find the callow young giant very attractive. With her he periodically
indulged in a great deal of desultory love-play. Thomas observed the
antics of the couple with keen interest, because it soon became obvious
that Sirius lacked the ordinary dog's intuitive aptitude for making full
use of his opportunities. The two animals would race around, tumbling
over one another in mock battle, obviously relishing the delectable
contact of their bodies. But after a while Sirius would stand about
foolishly wagging his tail, wondering what to do next. This aimlessness
was of course a normal stage in the sexual development of dogs, but
normally it soon led to copulation. Sirius, however, who as it happened
had never observed another canine pair copulating, seemed permanently at
a loss. It was not till he came upon his own beloved in the act of being
taken by another dog, far younger than himself but more instinctive and
more physiologically mature, that he discovered what it was that his
body wanted to do.

Henceforth his amours were brought to a point in the normal manner.
Physiologically he was still merely in the "schoolboy" phase, and not
very attractive to mature bitches. Nor was sex at this stage an
obsessive passion with him. It was more important as a symbol of
maturity than as an end in itself. Its natural seductiveness was much
enhanced by its being "the done thing" for grown-up dogs. In comparison
with Plaxy and even the elder children Sirius seemed sexually
precocious, simply because his unrestricted amours afforded him
experience and technique, while to the children everything of the sort
remained for a long while almost unexplored territory.

In one respect Sirius found his love affairs miserably unsatisfactory,
throughout his life. For the beloved of the hour, however delectable in
odour and appearance and in bodily contact, was invariably from his
point of view something less than a half-wit. She could not speak, she
could not understand his spoken endearments. She could not share the
adventures of his wakening mind. And when her heat was over she became
devastatingly frigid and unattractive. The fragrance was gone; the moron
mentality remained.

Thomas was greatly interested in Sirius's accounts of his love affairs;
about which, by the way, he showed no reticence. To the question, "What
is it that attracts you in her?" young Sirius could only reply, "She
smells so lovely." Later in life he was able to say more. Some years
later I myself discussed the matter with him, and he said, "Of course
it's mostly the luscious smell of her. I can't possibly make you
understand the power of it, because you humans are so bad at smells.
It's as though your noses were not merely feeble but colour-blind. But
think of all that your poets have ever said about the delectable curves
and colours of the beloved, and how her appearance seems to express a
lovely _spirit_ (often deceptively), and then imagine the whole thing
done in terms of fragrance. Morwen's fragrance when she wants me is like
the scent of the morning, with a maddening tang in it for which there
are no words. It is the scent of a very gentle and fragrant _spirit_,
but unfortunately the spirit of Morwen is nine-tenths asleep, and always
will be. But she smells like what she _would_ be if she _were_ really
awake."

"But what about her appearance?" I said. "Doesn't that attract you?" "It
attracts _me_ a lot," he replied, "but ordinary dogs take little notice
of it. With them it's smell that counts, and of course the touch of her,
too. But it's the smell that enthrals one, the maddening, stinging,
sweet smell, that soaks right through your body, so that you can't think
of anything else day or night. But her looks? Yes _I_ certainly do care
about her looks. She's so sleek and slim and slick. Also her looks help
a lot to express the spirit that she _might_ have been if she had been
properly awake, like me. But then you see _I_ have been made to notice
appearances so much by being with you sharp-eyed creatures. All the
same, even for me her voice is really more important than her looks. She
can't talk, of course; but she can say the sweetest, tenderest things
with the tone and rhythm of her voice. Of course she doesn't really and
clearly _mean_ them. She says in her sleep, so to speak, things that she
_would_ mean if she were awake."

But to return to Sirius's adolescence. Elizabeth had brought up her
children in the modern tradition. Living in the country they were bound
to learn a bit about sex from watching beasts and birds. But since there
was none of the still very common guiltiness attached to sex in their
minds, their interest in sex was very desultory, and they took a
surprisingly long time to tumble to it. When Sirius achieved his first
love affair, the two younger members of the family, who were not yet at
boarding school, suspected nothing; but presently he began to talk about
it with obvious pride. Elizabeth had to use all her tact and humour to
establish the convention that what was perfectly right and proper for
Sirius was not to be indulged in by human children until they were grown
up; and that anyhow one didn't talk about these things outside the
family; and above all, not in Wales. The whole affair, she confessed to
Thomas, was really rather awkward, and she only hoped she hadn't done
more harm than good.

Plaxy had of course already had numerous childhood romances. Very early
in her schooldays she had been violently in love with a little Welsh
girl at the village school. Whether this should be regarded as a sexual
sentiment or not, it was certainly an obsession. Sirius, for the first
time in his life, found himself unwanted. Plaxy suddenly had no time for
the games they used to play when school and homework were over; for she
had always promised to do something with Gwen. She would not let him
come with her when she went out with her friend, for (she said) Gwen
would soon find out that Sirius could talk; and it was the whole
family's most sacred taboo that outsiders must not discover yet that
Sirius was something more than a super-sheep-dog. This was the secret
which they had learnt to cherish as a tribal mystery. No one but the six
members of the family knew about it, except Kate, who had long ago been
accepted into the tribe. The other two members of the domestic staff,
Mildred the nursemaid and the local girl, had both been regretfully
dismissed in order that the secret might not be endangered. Sirius
therefore saw the force of Plaxy's argument; but something in her voice
told him that she was glad to have such a plausible excuse for leaving
him behind. The sudden loss of Plaxy's companionship and confidence
weighed heavily on the puppy. He did nothing but mope about the house
and garden waiting for her return. When she arrived he treated her with
effusive affection, but in her response there was often a note of
absentmindedness or even indifference.

After a while this early romance faded out, and Sirius was reinstated.
But other romances followed. When she was twelve Plaxy lost her heart to
the local blacksmith's boy, Gwilim, who was eighteen. This was a
one-sided affair, and Plaxy saw little of him. She made Sirius her
confidant, and he comforted her by protesting that Gwilim must be stupid
not to love such a nice girl. Once he said, "Anyhow, Plaxy, _I_ love
you." She hugged him and said, "Yes, I know, and I love you. But I do
love Gwilim. And you see he's my _kind_, and you're not. I love you
differently; not less, but differently."

It was while Plaxy was pining for her brawny young blacksmith that
Sirius himself began to be seriously interested in the females of his
own kind. Suddenly Plaxy found that her faithful confidant, who had
always been ready to listen and sympathize, save during brief hunting
expeditions, was no longer available. Often when she came back from
school he was nowhere to be found. He failed to turn up either for
homework or games or even meals. Or if he was present, he was mentally
far away, and perfunctory in his sympathy. Once when she was telling him
how marvellously Gwilim swung the hammer on to the red-hot iron, and how
he smiled at her afterwards, Sirius suddenly sprang to his feet, stood
for a moment sniffing the air, then bolted. Bitterly mortified, she said
to herself, "He's not a real friend, after all. He's just a brute
beast." (This expression she had recently learnt at school.) "He doesn't
really understand, he doesn't really care." All this she knew to be
quite untrue.

After her intermittent and always unrequited passion for Gwilim had
dragged on for eighteen months, causing her much sweet sorrow and
self-importance, she happened to come one day upon Sirius in the very
act of love with his fragrant darling of the moment. On one occasion
recently she had seen two dogs behaving in this odd way, but she had not
seen Sirius doing it. She was surprised to find that it was a horrid
shock to her. She hurried away, feeling unreasonably outraged and
lonely.

It was two or three years after the affair with Gwilim that she made her
first conquest. Conwy Pritchard, the postmaster's son, was a much more
responsive lover than the always friendly but never sentimental Gwilim.
Conwy had a fight with another boy about her. This was very thrilling.
She let herself be wholly monopolized by him. Sirius was once more
neglected. When he himself happened to have an affair on, or was crazy
about hunting, he did not mind at all. At other times he was often very
lonely.

Moreover, during this enthralling intimacy with Conwy, Plaxy's manner to
Sirius sometimes showed an unwonted harshness. It was as though she had
not merely forgotten about him, but resented his existence. Once he came
upon the youthful lovers walking in a lane, hand in hand. When she saw
him, Plaxy withdrew her hand and said in the way one speaks to a mere
dog, "Go home, Sirius!" Conwy remarked, "Why does your father have to
breed these fat-headed brutes?" Plaxy laughed nervously, and said in a
rather squeaky voice, "Oh, but Sirius is a nice dog, really. Now off
with you, Sirius. We don't want you now." While the dog stood still in
the road, trying to analyse Plaxy's tone, to discover her precise
emotional state, Conwy made a move as though to pick up a stone, and
shouted, "Go home, you tyke." The strong silky mane rose along Sirius's
neck and shoulders, and he stalked ominously towards Conwy, with head
down, ears back, and the ghost of a snarl. Plaxy cried out in a startled
voice, "Sirius! Don't be crazy!" He looked at her coldly, then turned
and walked off down the lane.

That evening Plaxy tried hard to make friends with Sirius, but he would
not respond. At last she said, and he could tell that she was nearly in
tears, "I'm terribly sorry about this afternoon. But what could I do? I
_had_ to pretend you were just an ordinary dog, hadn't I?" His reply
disconcerted her. "You wish I really was one, don't you!" A tear spilled
out of her eye as she answered, "Oh, Sirius, I don't. But I'm growing
up, and I must be like other girls." "Of course," he answered, "just as
I must be like other dogs, even though I'm not really one of them, and
there's no one of my sort in the whole world." He began to move off, but
she suddenly seized him and hugged him, and said, "Oh, oh, you and I
will be friends always. Even if each of us wants to be away living
another life sometimes, we'll always, always, come back to one another
afterwards, and tell about it." "If it could be like that," he said, "I
should not be lonely even when you were away." She smiled and fondled
him. "Plaxy," he said, "in spite of you being a girl and me a dog, you
are nearest of all creatures to lonely me." Sniffing lightly at her
neck, he added, "And the smell of you is more lovely really than the
crazy-making scents of bitches." Then with his little whimpering laugh
he said, "Nice human bitch!" Plaxy blushed, but she too laughed. She
silently considered the phrase; then said, "If Conwy called me a bitch
he'd mean something horrid, and I'd never speak to him again. When you
say it, I suppose it's a compliment." "But you _are_ a bitch," he
protested. "You're a bitch of the species _Homo sapiens_, that Thomas is
always talking about as though it was a beast in the Zoo."

After the incident in the lane, Plaxy's affair with Conwy went all awry.
She saw him in a new light. He was an attractive enough human animal,
but he was nothing more. Apart from his looks and his confident
irresistible love-making, there was nothing to him. The dog Sirius was
far more human.

For a while Plaxy and Sirius maintained a very close intimacy. She even
persuaded him to walk to school in the morning and bring her back in the
afternoon, "to keep Conwy from being a nuisance." Indeed the two were
always together, and never at a loss for talk. When Plaxy went to a
party at the village school, where there was to be dancing, Sirius was
of course lonely and bored, but he did not really mind. She would come
back. When Sirius went off for the day with Thomas, it did not matter.
Plaxy was lonely, but busy. And when he came back he would tell her all
about it. Even when he went crazy over a new bitch she did not
fundamentally mind. She was secretly and unexpectedly jealous; but she
laughed at herself, and she kept her jealousy hidden. His love affairs,
she told herself, were no concern of hers, and they did not really
matter. Anyhow they were soon over; and she herself was beginning to be
interested in a boy she had met at the dance, a young student, on
holiday from Bangor.

At this time Plaxy was already (so I was told) developing that rather
queer gracefulness which became so striking in her maturity. Whether by
native composition or by constant companionship with a non-human
creature, or both, she earned the remark of the local doctor's wife,
"That child is going to be a charmer, but somehow she's not quite
human." At school she was often called "Pussy," and there was indeed a
cat-like quality about her. Her soft hair and very large greenish blue
eyes, her rather broad face, with its little pointed chin and flat nose,
were obviously feline; so was her deliberate, loose-limbed walk.
Sometimes when she was moody, and inaccessible to her own kind, her
mother would call her "The cat that walked by itself." Not till long
after I had married her did I tell her my own theory of her peculiar
grace. It was, of course, the influence of Sirius, I said, that had
created her "scarcely human" manner; but it was her latent antagonism to
Sirius that had turned that manner cat-like. It was this character that
enthralled him and exasperated him, and indeed all her admirers, from
Conwy Pritchard to myself. There was one characteristic about her which
particularly suggested an unconscious protest against Sirius, one which
tended to be exaggerated whenever she was in conflict with him. This was
the extraordinary delicacy and precision of the movements of her hands,
both in practical operations and in gesture. It was as though her
consciousness of herself was chiefly centred in her hands, and to a
lesser degree in her eyes. This character of elegant "handedness" was
something far stronger than mere felinity. It was reminiscent of those
Javanese dancers who use their hands with such exquisite effect. It was
at once human and "para-human," so that she seemed to me not so much cat
as fay. She was indeed at once cat, fawn, dryad, elf, witch.

This description really applies to Plaxy in her early maturity, when I
first met her; no doubt in childhood her peculiar charm was only
nascent. But even at fifteen or sixteen the "scarcely human" grace was
appearing, and was strongly attractive to the young males of her own
species.

It was in this period, in fact when Plaxy was sixteen, that Elizabeth
suggested to Thomas that it was high time for the child to go to
boarding school. The others had gone at a much earlier age. Plaxy had
been kept back partly to be an intelligent companion for Sirius. "But
now," said Elizabeth, "she's much too wrapped up in him. She won't grow
up properly this way. She's cloistered here in this lonely place. She
needs to see more of her own kind." Thomas had been secretly planning
not to send Plaxy to boarding school at all, partly for Sirius's sake,
but also because the other three, he felt, had been rather deadened by
it. "Cloistered!" he cried, "what about that damned nunnery where Tamsy
was?" Elizabeth admitted that it had turned out rather badly, and added,
"Anyhow, I thought we might send Plaxy to a more modern place,
preferably co-educational. She doesn't mix enough with the boys."

Strange, or perhaps not strange at all, that both parents, though
consciously modern in outlook, and on friendly terms with their
children, were kept completely in the dark about their children's love
affairs. They scarcely guessed that such things occurred!

I am inclined to think that there was another reason why Thomas was
reluctant to send Plaxy away from home, a reason which, I suspect,
Thomas himself did not recognize. Perhaps my guess is wrong, but on the
few occasions when I saw father and daughter together, I felt that
behind his detached and ostentatiously "scientific" interest in her lay
a very strong feeling for his youngest child. And I suspect that he
could not bring himself to face week-ends at Garth in her absence.
Plaxy, on her side, was always rather aloof from her father, though
quite friendly with him. She sometimes teased him about his mannerisms,
for instance his habit of pursing his lips when he was puzzled. She was
never infected by his passion for science, but when he was criticized
she sometimes defended him with surprising ardour. For this reason, and
in the light of subsequent events, it may be inferred that Thomas's
submerged passion for her was reciprocated. Yet many years later, when
Plaxy and I were married, and I was planning out this biography of
Sirius with her, she ridiculed my suggestion that there was any strong
feeling between her and her father, arguing that, like so many amateur
psychologists, I was "always looking for a parent complex."

This book is about Sirius, not Plaxy. I should not mention the problem
of Plaxy's relation with Thomas did I not feel that it may throw some
light on her extraordinarily deep, though conflicting, feelings about
Sirius, who was Thomas's crowning work, and the apple of his eye.

However this may be, Thomas was not easily persuaded to let Plaxy go to
boarding school. When at last he agreed in principle, and both parents
began to search for a suitable school, he found weighty objections
against all of them. However, in the end he accepted a certain
co-educational and temperately modern establishment, situated
conveniently near Cambridge.

The whole matter had, of course, been discussed with Plaxy herself, who
was not easily reconciled to the prospect of what she called "going to
prison." So great an upheaval in her life was bound to intimidate her.
Moreover the thought came to her, "What will Sirius do without me?"

As though answering this unexpressed question, her mother said, "We
think it's time for Sirius to get away for a bit too. He is to begin
learning to be a sheep-dog."

Plaxy was in the end reconciled to going; and once she had made up her
mind to it, she found herself sometimes strangely eager. This eagerness
she could not help tracing to the prospect of being wholly a normal girl
among other girls and boys. Evidently she was already suffering from a
serious conflict over Sirius.

It was Thomas who talked to Sirius about the great change that was being
planned. He began by saying that the time seemed to have come for Sirius
to have an active life away from home. "I know quite well, of course,
that I have no right to treat you as a mere dog, and that you yourself
must settle your career; but you are young. In physical and mental
growth, as in years, you are level with Plaxy, about sixteen. So the
advice of an older mind may be helpful. Naturally I have my own ideas
about your future. You are quite as intelligent as most human
adolescents, and you have special advantages. I see you becoming one of
the world's great animal psychologists and working with my crowd at
Cambridge. But you mustn't get into the limelight yet. It would be very
bad for you; and anyhow you have not had the right training yet, and of
course mentally you are still too young. I think what you need now is a
whole-time job as a sheep-dog, say for a year. I'll put you across as my
'_super_-super-sheep-dog.' I think I can fix you up with Pugh, and he
will certainly treat you decently. You'll have a hard life, of course,
but you need that. And the whole experience should be interesting, and
very useful to you later on. You must be careful not to give it away
that you can talk; but you have had some practice at that game already.
I'm afraid the job will be terribly dull at times, but most jobs are.
For intellectual interest you will have to depend on your own resources.
There'll be no chance of reading, but you will be able to make some very
interesting observations of animal and human behaviour."

Sirius listened intently to this long harangue as he walked with Thomas
on the crest of the Moel. At last he spoke, slowly and carefully; for
Thomas was less practised than the others at understanding him. "Yes,"
he said, "I'm ready to have a shot at it. Do you think I should be able
to come home fairly often?"

"Oh yes," Thomas replied, in an altered voice. "You probably haven't yet
heard that Plaxy is going to boarding school. I'll tell Pugh the whole
family will be very disappointed if you are not with us a lot during the
holidays, because you are the family dog, now that Gelert is dead. Pugh
will arrange that all right." He added, "I'm afraid you and Plaxy will
miss one another badly at first. But you will both get used to it. And
after all you must live your lives separately some day, so you had
better begin practising now."

"Yes, of course," said Sirius, but his tail drooped and he fell silent
for a long time.

In fact only once did he speak. He suddenly asked, "Why did you make
only one of me? It's going to be lonely being me."

Thomas told him that there had been a litter of "four of you," and that
he alone had survived. "We have tried again many times," he said. "It's
fairly easy to produce the Gelert sort, but you are a very different
kettle of fish. We have two promising puppies coming on now, but they
are too young yet for us to size up their powers. And there's a
super-chimp, though of course she's no good to you. She's a problem,
sometimes a nit-wit and sometimes too clever by half."

There was always a great bustle in the house when a child was being made
ready for school. When it was the child's first term, the preparations
were even more prolonged. Clothes had to be bought or made. Books,
writing materials, sports gear, had all to be procured. As the day
approached, Plaxy became more and more absorbed in her urgent affairs.
Sirius wondered at her cheerfulness. It was supposed to be a gallant
pose in the face of impending sorrow, but often it "smelt" genuine.
There was little for him to do in the preparations, save for occasional
messages, so he had far too much time to brood on the future. Plaxy's
cheerfulness was, indeed, partly a cloak to cover her desolation at the
prospect of leaving home and all that she loved. Had she been younger
she might not have felt the break so badly. On the morning of her
departure she happened to meet Sirius alone on the landing. She
surprised him by dropping her bundle of clothes and kneeling down to hug
him. With schoolgirl sentimentality but with underlying sincerity of
feeling, she said, "Whatever becomes of me I shall always belong to you.
Even when I have been unkind to you I belong to you. Even if--even if I
fall in love with someone and marry him some day, I shall belong to you.
Why did I not know it properly until to-day?" He said, "It is I that am
yours until I die. I have known it ever so long--since I bit you."
Looking into his grey eyes and fondling the dense growth on his
shoulder, she said, "We are bound to hurt one another so much, again and
again. We are so terribly different." "Yes," he said, "But the more
different, the more lovely the loving."




CHAPTER V
SHEEP-DOG APPRENTICE


On the day after Plaxy went to boarding school Thomas took Sirius over
to Pugh at Caer Blai. On the way he talked a great deal to the dog about
his future, promising that when he had been with Pugh a year he should
see something of the human world beyond the sheep-country, and possibly
settle in Cambridge. Sirius listened and consented; but he was an
anxious and a sorrowing animal, and his tail would not stay proud.

One source of solid comfort lay in the fact that he knew Pugh for a
decent sort. Sirius classified human beings in respect of their altitude
to dogs; and even in later life he found this a useful touchstone of
human character. There were those who were simply indifferent to dogs,
lacking sufficient imagination to enter into any reciprocal relation
with them. There were the "dog-lovers," whom he detested. These were
folk who sentimentalized dogs, and really had no accurate awareness of
them, exaggerating their intelligence and loveableness, mollycoddling
them and over-feeding them; and starving their natural impulses of sex,
pugnacity and hunting. For this sort, dogs were merely animate and
"pathetically human" dolls. Then there were the dog-detesters, who were
either too highbrow to descend to companionship with a dumb animal or
too frightened of their own animal nature. Finally there were the
"dog-interested," who combined a fairly accurate sense of the difference
between dog and man with a disposition to respect a dog _as a dog_, as a
rather remote but essentially like-minded relative. Pugh was of this
sort.

At the farm they were greeted with an uproar by the two super-sheep-dogs
at present in Pugh's possession. The farmer issued from the byre. He was
a fresh-complexioned middle-aged man with a scrubby reddish moustache
and blue eyes with a permanent twinkle. Sirius rather liked the smell of
him. He guessed the man must do a lot of laughing. They were taken into
the kitchen, where drinks were provided by Mrs. Pugh, while the two men
talked. Pugh had a good look at Sirius, who was squatting on the floor
by Thomas. "He's really far too big for a sheep-dog, Mr. Trelone," said
Pugh in his singing Welsh voice. "He should be herding rhinoceroses, or
not the little Welsh mountain sheep, anyhow. But, my! What a head he has
on him! If it's brain that counts, Mr. Trelone, he must be a genius,
isn't it! I can see it's he that'll be running this farm and me running
after the sheep for him. Pity I'm so rheumatic!" Thomas admitted that
Sirius was pretty bright, for a dog. "He'll be useful. But don't expect
_too_ much. After all, he's only a dumb animal." "Of course," said Pugh,
and then surprisingly he winked at Sirius. "I have had experience of
your dogs, Mr. Trelone, and fine animals they are. There's Idwal here
now. He's full of strength, though he is twelve, which is very unusual
for a hard-working sheep-dog. Then there's the bitch you sent me two
years ago. Juno, we call her. My! She was quick to learn the tricks of
the trade! And now she has had that litter of six by old Idwal. But the
magic did not go into them from the parents. They are six little fools.
But I have sold them all for a good price." "Well," said Thomas, "I told
you not to expect anything from the second generation." Pugh replied
with a sigh. "Yes, indeed, and you did, Mr. Trelone. I told the
purchasers what you said, but they would not believe it, whatever; so
what could I do but take the good price and tell them they were fools."
After lighting his pipe Pugh asked, "And how old is this one, Mr.
Trelone?" Thomas hesitated, then said, "Fifteen, aren't you, Sirius?"
The dog let slip a "Yes," but Pugh apparently did not notice anything
unusual in his sudden grunt. "Fifteen! Holy Moses, Mr. Trelone, but most
dogs are dead long before that, and this one is not much more than a
puppy." Thomas reminded him that longevity had been one of the aims of
the experiment. "Well," said Pugh laughing, "if he will stay on with me
he shall marry my daughter Jane and take over the farm when I am gone.
But what is the name he answers to, Mr. Trelone, did you say?" "I call
him Sirius," said Thomas. Pugh pursed his mouth and frowned. "That is
not a handy name for calling across the valley, is it!" He paused,
puffing at his pipe, then added, "Perhaps, Mr. Sirius, you will permit
me to call you by some other name. How would Bran do?" Sirius had tilted
his head over on one side, as though he were vainly trying to understand
this remark, obviously addressed to him. Thomas said, "That's fine.
He'll pick it up in no time."

Sirius's despondency was increased by the discovery that even his name
was to be taken from him. Surely, he thought, he would be changed into a
new being. Nothing whatever of the old life was to be left to him but
the memory of it. At home, though he had grown up in the custom of
sharing ownership of most things with Plaxy, each of the two young
creatures had possessions of their own. Nearly all their toys had been
held in common, but when Plaxy had gone to the village school she had
also begun to acquire personal property connected with her new
life--books, pens, pencils and many little nondescript treasures gained
through intercourse with her fellows. Sirius also had begun to collect a
few personal possessions, though far fewer than Plaxy; for, owing to his
lack of hands, there were few things that he could use. There were
certain ancient treasures preserved on a shelf in the minute room that
had been allotted him--a rubber bone, a lump of gleaming white quartz, a
sheep's skull, several picture books. And there were later-acquired
possessions--more books, and music, his three writing gloves and several
pens and pencils.

In his new life he had to be even more propertyless than St. Francis,
for he was just a dog, and whoever heard of a dog with property?
Fortunately property meant little to him; he had a propensity towards
communism, due perhaps to his strong canine sociality. It should be
remembered, however, that though dogs in many ways show a far more
social disposition than human beings, in some respects they have a keen
sense of personal ownership, for instance over bones, bitches, human
friends, and localities. For Sirius, at any rate, to be completely
stripped, even of his precious writing gloves, was indeed to be reduced
to the status of a brute beast. And now they intended to take away his
very name. Speech, too, was of course stolen from him by the simple fact
that no one on the farm could understand him. Nor was he to be able as a
rule to understand them, for among themselves the Pughs talked Welsh.

Sirius's attention had wandered from the conversation, but it was
recalled when Thomas rose to leave. All three went out into the yard.
Thomas shook hands with Pugh, then patted Sirius, and said "Good-bye,
old man. You stay there." Sirius feigned perplexity, made as if to
follow Thomas, was shooed back and retreated with a puzzled whimper.

In the afternoon Pugh took Sirius and Idwal to a high valley, on the
slopes of which some of his sheep were grazing. He gave a word of
command in Welsh. Idwal raced off and began to round up the sheep.
Sirius looked anxiously at Pugh. The command was repeated, this time
along with his new name, "Bran." He shot away to help Idwal, who was
moving round behind the sheep in a great semi-circle, so as to bunch
them towards Pugh down in the valley. Sirius tumbled to the situation at
once, and decided to start at the opposite horn of the semi-circle and
meet Idwal in the middle. Automatically each dog took charge of his own
arc. Idwal's, however, was much wider than Sirius's, partly because the
less experienced dog had to spend time in retrieving sheep that he had
allowed to slip away up the hill, partly because Idwal was the faster
animal. The operation continued till all the sheep on the hillside had
been brought down into the hollow where Pugh was standing. He said a
Welsh word, and Idwal at once squatted, panting. Sirius followed suit,
anxiously trying to fix the word in his memory.

Pugh then put the two dogs through sundry manoeuvres with the sheep,
folding them in a stone pen, fetching them out, taking them in a bunch
along the valley, separating them into two equal groups, scattering them
again, picking out a particular individual at which Pugh pointed with
his stick. All this was done with commands in Welsh, aided by various
kinds of whistling. After a while he issued commands to Idwal alone,
keeping Sirius at his side. Idwal was made to single out a particular
wether and hold it with his eye. He crept up to within a few feet of it,
flat on the ground like a snake, all the while staring fixedly at it.
Then he lay still, belly to earth, legs ready for sudden action, nose
stretched out on the grass in front of him, tail on the grass behind
him. The wether stared back, or made incipient movements, which Idwal
checked by mere gestures. The animal just stood patiently waiting, or
fidgeted with mild exasperation. Obviously it was not really afraid. It
was used to this sort of game, and it recognized in Idwal's eye a
command that must be obeyed.

Sirius knew that he was witnessing the famous sheep-dog trick of control
by "the eye." Idwal evidently had developed "the eye" almost to
perfection.

Idwal was then put through other manoeuvres, which Sirius anxiously
watched. Presently it was his turn to perform. The novice had strained
every nerve to follow the proceedings, but he found himself badly at
sea. Not only did the sheep constantly slip past him, causing Pugh to
bellow with amiable rage, but also he found that fatigue was preventing
him from managing his body with precision, so that he often stumbled
over rocks or into holes. His great head became increasingly heavy, so
that any slight slip might bowl him over like a shot rabbit. In addition
to all this there was the language difficulty. Again and again Sirius
found himself completely at a loss while Pugh repeated some strange
Welsh noise in a frantic _crescendo_, and Idwal whimpered impatiently at
his side. If only the man would talk English, thought Sirius.

But when it came to the exercise of holding the sheep by the power of
the eye, Sirius found to his delight that he was by no means
incompetent. Of course the process needed perfecting. Once or twice the
sheep nearly broke away. It evidently did not feel itself as masterfully
held as it did under Idwal, but it recognized Sirius's authority. Pugh
was obviously pleased.

Presently Pugh worked the two dogs together again, but issued different
commands to each by name, and also in a different tone of voice for
each. Sirius had to get accustomed to acting promptly to the shriller
tone, whether his name, Bran, was mentioned or not; and to ignore the
deeper tone which was meant for Idwal.

At last the lesson was over. Pugh walked back along the grassy valley
with the two dogs at his heels. Sirius was more tired than he had ever
been before, "dog-tired," as we say. His tail hung, his head almost
touched the ground. The under surface of his body was caked with
bog-mud. His feet were sore, his head ached. With despair he looked
forward to a whole year of this sort of thing, with no companion but the
sub-human dogs and the remote Pugh. Perhaps he would forget language
altogether, and when he met Plaxy again he would indeed be a dumb
animal. But, worn out and despondent as he was, he was able to summon
his fundamental doggedness, and promise himself that he would not be
beaten by this new life. And when he caught Pugh's eye quizzing him with
friendly ridicule because of his abject appearance, he stuck up his tail
and wagged it, at the same time grinning, as though to say, "Oh, I have
spunk all right, you'll see." This unmistakably human response startled
Pugh, and set him thinking.

When they reached the farm, the two dogs were given the remains of the
family midday dinner. After they had devoured this they were put into an
outhouse for the night. Under the straw bedding there was a rough stone
floor. It seemed to Sirius that he had hardly lain down and gone to
sleep when he woke up to the sound of Idwal whining at the shut door.
Sunlight streamed through the chinks.

During the following weeks Sirius was given constant work with the
sheep, and he soon began to get the hang of the job. With practice he
wasted less energy on retrieving his mistakes, and arrived home less
tired. He was successfully learning not only the Welsh commands but the
names of the fields. One day Pugh took both dogs far up among the hills
to inspect the sheep on the remote high pastures and teach Sirius the
names of the hillsides, streams and cwms. Here he was in familiar
country, for he had often walked in this direction with Thomas. At one
point the tour brought him to a bwlch within a couple of miles of his
home. He even seemed to catch a faint characteristic whiff of it on the
wind, but this was probably a delusion.

It did not take long for Sirius to gain sufficient experience to carry
out orders unattended. For instance he could be sent to search all the
bracken areas for sick sheep; for when sheep feel ill they grow fearful
of their disapproving fellows, and so they hide themselves in the
bracken, where, if they are not found, they may die through lack of
attention. Sirius knew also how to help a bogged or crag-bound sheep to
free itself. He would carefully tug at it, till the extra force enabled
it to struggle into safety. And he could catch a sheep and throw it, and
hold it down for Pugh or his man to inspect.

The power of his "eye", too, was greatly improving. In this matter dogs
vary between excessive gentleness towards the sheep and excessive
ruthlessness. Idwal was on the whole ruthless, sometimes making the
sheep unduly nervous and restless. Sirius, on the other hand, was often
too mild by disposition, so that his authority was not established until
he had deliberately learnt a firmer policy. The difference of natural
style appeared also in the whole method of the two dogs. Idwal was of
the "obstinate" type, insisting on doing everything in his own way. If
Pugh prevented him he would raise his tail defiantly and simply trot off
the field of action, "refusing to play." It was to Pugh's credit that on
these occasions he generally gave in, with humorous vituperation,
knowing well that Idwal could be trusted to do the job efficiently in
his own style. Sirius, on the other hand, was of the "biddable" type. He
was desperately anxious to learn, and had little faith in his own
intuition. Shepherds regard this type of dog as less brilliant in the
long run than the other, since they lack the conviction of genius; but
it soon became clear to Pugh that Bran's docility was not due to a
servile disposition. When he had learnt his lesson he often introduced
novelties which greatly improved the method. Yet even when he had become
an expert with sheep, he was always ready to pick up new tips from
observation of other dogs at work.

Sirius could be sent out into the hills alone to select a required bunch
of sheep from the flock, whether young ewes or "hoggs" (young sheep
before their first shearing) or wethers; and he could bring them down
from the hills to the farm without human aid. All this was real
super-sheep-dog work. In order to make full use of his clever animals
Pugh had arranged all his gates with latches that a dog could open or
shut.

As autumn neared, the time came for bringing groups of lambs or of old
or unhealthy ewes down from the mountains to be taken away for sale.
This task Pugh entrusted almost entirely to Idwal and Sirius, helped
sometimes by Juno. But that bright creature was of a distressingly
unstable nature, and was often incapacitated by convulsions. The dogs
would travel over the high moors, picking out the appropriate animals,
sometimes losing them again in the cloud, and recovering them by scent,
finally bringing them in a bunch along the turfy track in the high
valley. All Pugh's sheep bore a red mark on the rump, but this, of
course, was invisible to the colour-blind dogs. In addition the sheep
bore three little slits in the left ear to mark them as Pugh's. This was
invaluable to Idwal and Sirius, as a confirmation of the distinctive
smell of the Caer Blai flock. Any sheep that had strayed into Caer Blai
territory from a neighbouring run was soon detected and piloted home. In
addition to the common smell of the flock, by the way, each individual
sheep had its own peculiar odour. It did not take Sirius more than a few
weeks to recognize every sheep in the flock by its smell, or even by its
voice. Occasionally the dogs found a sheep that had been damaged, and
then one of them had to set out to the farm to fetch Pugh. There was a
recognized way of barking to signify "damaged sheep"; another, less
excited, meant "sheep undamaged but crag-bound and inaccessible"; yet
another meant "dead sheep."

The collecting of sheep for sale was a process which occurred now and
again over many weeks. When the lambs or ewes had been brought down from
the moors they had to be taken by train, or in lorries hired for the
purpose, to the auction sales in the lower country. The dogs accompanied
them, and Sirius thoroughly enjoyed these excursions into the great
world. It was a pleasure merely to hear the English language spoken
again, and to find that he could still understand it.

When the sales were over and autumn was well under way, the main task of
the dogs was to guard the high valley pastures from the sheep. It is
often the custom of mountain sheep to sleep on the heights and come down
in the morning to the richer grazing; but in the autumn they must be
prevented from doing this because the valley grass will be more urgently
needed in the winter. In the autumn, too, the ewes must be prevented
from grazing in marshy places, lest they should become infected by liver
fluke. And autumn is a time for dipping the whole flock. As Pugh had
many hundreds of sheep, this was a great undertaking, and the dogs were
desperately hard worked for many days, bringing the sheep down in
batches and driving them into the pen, where Pugh or one of his helpers
could seize each animal in turn and force it into the dip. Sirius was
pleased to find that he stood up to the strain of this great undertaking
as well as Idwal, though he was not at this stage quite so fast or quite
so agile.

Presently came another task. The ewe lambs had to be collected and sent
to a lowland farm so that they might escape the grim conditions on the
mountains during winter, the savage weather and poor food. Not till the
following May would they be brought home.

In spite of all this hard work, there were days when the dogs had
nothing to do but hang about the yard or accompany Pugh on his rounds,
or run messages to the village. A little stationery-cum-newspaper shop
in the village used to attract Sirius. Outside were posters from which
he gained the most sensational news. Sometimes he put his paws on the
windowsill and read the headlines of the papers displayed within, or the
titles of the little rank of cheap novels. In the village he met other
dogs. They gave him no trouble, because he was by now very large and
"hard as nails." Out of loyalty to Thomas he tried to study the
psychology of these animals; but apart from simple temperamental
differences, they were mentally all depressingly alike. The most obvious
differences between them had been imposed by human conditioning. Some
were disposed towards friendliness with all human beings, some were cold
to strangers but obsessively devoted to their masters, some habitually
fawned, some cringed.

One day in the village Sirius came upon a fine young bitch in heat, a
red setter. Suddenly life was worth living once more. Her odour and
touch intoxicated him. In their love-play they careered about the open
space in the village while Pugh was in the pub. (Pugh seems to have had
an idea that super-sheep-dogs would be cruelly bored if they were forced
to sit with him inside.) The consummation of this union took place under
the lascivious eyes of two schoolboys and an unemployed quarryman.

Henceforth Sirius had a constant hunger for the village and the bitch.
He was tempted to run away from the farm and have all he could of her
while she was still in the mood; but he did not, because he had once
seen a dog on a neighbouring farm thrashed for absenting himself from
duty. Sirius was determined that he would never do anything to incur
such an indignity. He had never been thrashed in his life, though
occasionally hit or kicked in anger. To be deliberately thrashed seemed
to him to be a mortal insult to his dignity as an intelligent and
self-respecting person. If Pugh ever tried it on him, Pugh must be
killed on the spot, whatever the consequences. But Pugh never did. Pugh
belonged to the school of sheep-dog owners who pride themselves on
obtaining obedience by kindness rather than ferocity. Sirius never saw
him use violence on any dog. Probably he would never have beaten Sirius
even if Sirius had given him serious provocation, for he had a firm
though vague conviction that the new dog was somehow more than a dog,
even more than a super-dog.

Several incidents had aroused this suspicion. Once he sent Sirius to the
village with a basket and a ten-shilling note to fetch a pair of boots
which the cobbler had repaired. The dog duly brought back the boots and
the change. When he arrived in the yard, Pugh, who was in the darkness
of an outhouse, saw Sirius take out the boots and study the money in the
basket. After looking puzzled for some time he trotted back along his
tracks, nosing the ground. Presently he came on a small object which he
managed with great difficulty to pick up. With obvious satisfaction he
brought it back with him. When he dropped it into the basket it was
visible to Pugh as a small brown disc, in fact a penny. Sirius then
brought the basket to Pugh. It contained the boots, the receipted bill
and the change, which consisted of two half-crowns, a florin, and seven
pennies. Pugh was not so fanciful as to suppose that the dog had
actually counted the change and checked it by the bill, but at least he
must have spotted the difference between six pennies and seven.

Another incident made Pugh suspect that there was something "human" (as
he put it) about this dog. The farmer had a few cows and a fine young
bull. Sirius had once been prodded by a cow, and he had heard alarming
stories about bulls. From time to time a cow was brought from one or
other of the neighbouring farms to be served by the Caer Blai bull. On
these occasions the dogs had to enter the paddock, round up the bull,
and bring it down the lane into the farmyard for its love-making. When
the deed had been done, the dogs drove the bull back to its paddock.
Sirius was always very nervous, and did his stuff very badly. Idwal
would face the bull with fierce persistence, and slip away from its
lowered horns in the nick of time; but Sirius was far too anxious to
keep his distance. The bull discovered that Sirius was a coward, and
formed a habit of chasing him.

Pugh, by the way, was struck with the different ways in which the two
dogs behaved when bull and cow were brought together in the farmyard,
generally surrounded by a small group of interested men and boys, while
the women kept discreetly indoors. Idwal nosed about the yard or lay
down to rest. Sirius watched the whole performance with the same
cheerful interest as the human spectators. It was evident that his
interest was sexual, for when the bull effected his clumsy embrace, the
dog himself gave unmistakable signs of sexual excitement.

But the incident which impressed Pugh most, and made him suspect that
Sirius's intelligence was as quick as a man's, occurred in connection
with the bull's habit of taking the offensive against the cowardly
Sirius. Pugh had gone to the village with Idwal. Owen, the hired man,
was ploughing in a remote field. Somehow the bull managed to break out
of its paddock into the lane. It trotted down into the yard, saw Jane
with a basket of washing, and approached her, snorting. Always a nervous
girl, she screamed, dropped the basket and slipped into the stable. The
bull spent a few minutes tossing the clothes, then made off down the
lane. Meanwhile Mrs. Pugh had made a tentative sortie from the house.
Then Sirius appeared, and raced down the lane after the bull. He did not
overtake it till after it had reached the main road. Then he silently
rushed at it, and seized its tail. With a roar the bull swung round, but
Sirius had let go, and was retreating towards the lane, barking. The
bull followed him, and he led it back to the farmyard and into its
field. It was now rather blown, but Sirius led it round and round the
field, till its ardour was cooled. The less anxious it was to follow
him, the more bold grew Sirius. When it came to a standstill, he rushed
in and nipped its hind leg. The reinfuriated beast chased him once more,
but was soon exhausted. This process was repeated several times, till
Sirius noticed that the two women had put some strands of barbed wire
across the gap in the hedge. Then he retreated, with a proud tail,
leaving a bull that was thoroughly cowed. Henceforth Sirius was always
able to deal with the bull or any other cattle.

Some time after this incident Sirius did something which was far beyond
super-sheep-dog capacity.

Throughout his first term he was desperately lonely. He longed for his
own people, and most of all for Plaxy. If only he could write a letter!
But he had no writing-glove, and no stationery. And anyhow the task of
putting a stamp on a letter had always defeated him.

He knew he could write a few words very badly by holding a pencil in his
mouth; if he could find one, and paper. He had once seen Pugh take out
pen, ink and paper from the drawer in the oak dresser. One day, when
Mrs. Pugh and Jane were milking, he slipped into the kitchen, opened the
drawer, and found in it several sheets of paper, also envelopes, a pen,
an ink-pot, and a pencil with a broken point. He stole a sheet and an
envelope. Pen and ink seemed too complicated, and the pencil was
useless, so he left these, and took merely an envelope and paper to the
dog's outhouse. He put them in an old packing case under some straw.

There was now nothing for it but to wait until someone should need to
sharpen the pencil. He seized every opportunity to sneak into the
kitchen and look into the drawer. Meanwhile he spent much thought in
planning exactly how he would write his letter, and what he would say.
Sometimes he practised. Holding a splinter of slate in his mouth, he
scribbled on the slate doorstep. The process was difficult, because his
nose was always in the way, and he could not see what he was doing; and
generally the slate-splinter snapped.

At last, after many days, he found that the pencil had been sharpened.
He took it away to the outhouse.

Not till several days later did Sirius find an opportunity of writing
his letter. In spidery capitals it said, "Dear Plaxy, I hope you are
happy. I am lonely without you, terribly. Love, Sirius." With great care
he addressed the envelope, hoping that his memory was trustworthy. He
had serious difficulty in folding the paper and putting it into the
envelope. Then he licked the gummy-edge, closed it, and held his paw on
it. He had intended to post it unstamped; but the thought that Plaxy
would have to pay threepence, double postage, on it distressed him so
much that he decided to wait in the hope of finding some stamps in the
drawer. When at last a sheet of six three-halfpenny stamps appeared, he
ran off with them and set about trying to detach one. First he held the
sheet between his paws and pulled with his teeth. The stamp tore across
the middle, and the bit in his mouth stuck to his wet teeth, so that he
could not get rid of it. Flustered by this experience, he decided to
think the problem out more carefully. He hit on a plan. He held the
envelope down with his paw and licked the right-hand top corner. Then
with extreme care he took up the stamp-sheet in his teeth and laid it on
the envelope so that one of the corner stamps was roughly in the right
position. This was difficult, because as usual his nose was in the line
of sight. He let go, and inspected the result. The stamp was crooked,
and not wholly on the envelope. Hastily he lifted it off again and
replaced it, well on the envelope. Again he inspected it, then carefully
pulled it into better position. Then he pressed it on with his paw. When
he thought the gum was dry, he held the sheet of stamps down with his
paw and gently pulled the letter with his teeth. The letter came away,
with the stamp intact, and part of the next one projecting over the
edge. This he trimmed off with his teeth. He then restored the mangled
sheet of stamps to the drawer. Not till he came back to the letter did
he notice that the stamp was upside down.

He hid his letter under the straw and waited till his next errand to the
village. This did not occur till some days later. It was fairly common
for him to be sent with letters to the post, but on this occasion his
own was the only one. He trotted off with his basket and an order for
the grocer; and his letter. He went straight to the post office, put
down his basket, took out the letter, raised himself against the wall,
and slipped the precious document into the box.

This was no unusual sight in the village. Dr. Huw Williams, who was
passing, scarcely noticed it; but when, next day, he met Mr. Pugh and
wished him good day, he mentioned the incident, complimenting him on his
dog's intelligence. Now Pugh had sent off no letter that day. He
wondered whether his wife had written to her mother in Bala, or if Jane
had entrusted Bran with a love-letter. This possibility disturbed him,
for though by nature a friendly man, prone to treat people with respect
and trust, he was no modern parent. When he reached home he made
inquiries. Mrs. Pugh and Jane both denied that they had given Bran a
letter. Pugh went to the drawer and saw that the stamps had been badly
mauled. One was missing, and two others were torn. In a burst of
indignation he charged his daughter with clandestine correspondence,
theft, lying and clumsiness. Jane defended herself with vigour, and
added, "Go and ask Bran whose letter it was." That sarcasm put a wild
idea into Pugh's head. He went to the drawer again and picked up the
pencil. There were toothmarks on it--Bran's or his own? Fantastic doubt!




CHAPTER VI
BIRTH-PANGS OF A PERSONALITY


To Sirius, Plaxy's first term at boarding school seemed endless, but in
due season the holidays loomed near. Sirius had counted the days by
putting a pebble a day in the old packing case. One day, when he had
collected almost the right number of pebbles but was expecting two or
three more days of labour, he returned with Pugh and the other dogs from
the moors, with early snow on Pugh's hat and the dogs' backs, and
encountered Thomas in the yard. Sirius rushed at him and nearly knocked
him down with a wild welcome. After both men had shaken the worst of the
snow from their clothes, Pugh took Thomas into the kitchen. Sirius knew
that he was not supposed to go into the house when he was in a mess;
but, after a violent shake, in he went. Mrs. Pugh smiled indulgently.

Thomas asked Pugh about Sirius's success as a sheep-dog, and was given a
good report. Sirius had proved himself as hardy as Idwal, and far more
cunning and responsible. But he was not always quite "on the spot." He
was a bit of a day-dreamer. He was sometimes caught napping. A sheep
might escape from the flock and run away before Sirius woke to the
situation. It was "as though he had been thinking of something else."
After making the report Pugh nodded knowingly at Thomas, who merely
changed the subject. Before they parted, Pugh insisted on handing over
to Thomas ten shillings less fourpence halfpenny. This sum he described
as Bran's earnings, "less a small item of expenditure." Saying this, he
stared hard at Sirius and winked. The dog hastily looked away, but could
not prevent a snort of surprise and a tremor of the tail. Thomas tried
to refuse the money, but Pugh insisted.

The journey home through driving sleet was a journey to heaven. Thomas
explained that he and Elizabeth had come home a couple of days early to
get the house ready before Plaxy and Giles arrived from boarding school.
Tamsy and Maurice, both of them undergraduates, were visiting friends.

Sirius recounted some of his experiences. "It has all been very good for
me, I know, but I really don't think I can go on with that life any
longer. I should go mad with loneliness. No talk, no books, no music.
And all the while knowing the world is so big and strange beyond the
farm. Plaxy will leave me far behind."

This speech came as a shock to the not very imaginative Thomas. He
remarked cautiously, "Oh, it's not quite as bad as all that, is it?
Anyhow, we must talk it over carefully." Sirius knew from his tone that
he was rather put out about it, and that there would be trouble.

Elizabeth greeted Sirius as one of her children, hugging him and kissing
him. He showed none of his former boisterousness, but gave a tremulous
little whine of painful joy.

Next day Giles arrived, and in the evening Plaxy. Thomas took the car to
the station to meet her, Sirius sitting beside him. Out of the train
stepped the long-legged schoolgirl in her school hat and coat. Having
kissed her father, no doubt with her customary rather distant affection,
she squatted down to hug Sirius. "I got your letter," she whispered,
"but I couldn't answer, could I?" Of course she couldn't. Sirius
savoured the well-known voice with delight; but with an undertone of
anxiety, for school life had changed it.

During the first part of the holidays Sirius simply enjoyed being home
again. He scarcely noticed the two disquieting facts that had obtruded
themselves right at the beginning. Thomas would not let him off his
sheep-dog apprenticeship; Plaxy was changed.

For a week or so he was content to live the old family life, which,
though by no means entirely harmonious, did afford to every member the
invaluable experience of belonging to a true community. There was always
talk going on, and Sirius after his long isolation felt a great need for
conversation. There were many walks with members of the family, and
several long expeditions up Moelwyn, the Rhinogs, Arenig. But what
Sirius now craved most was indoor life, with reading, music, talk, and
all the little affairs that fill the day.

After a day or two of almost entirely social life he began to take up
once more some of his old private occupations. Not only did he read as
much as his eyesight would let him, and experiment a good deal in music;
he also contrived adventures in his private art of odour. This he did by
collecting all kinds of materials that had striking or significant
smells, and blending them in saucers. Sometimes, much to the amusement
of the family, he laid his materials out in a long trail round the
garden path, and then followed it from beginning to end, giving tongue
in a weird diversified chant that was neither human nor canine. After
these olfactory adventures he was often very silent and remote.
Sometimes they seemed to put him in the mood for hunting, for he would
disappear for many hours, returning tired and dirty. Not infrequently he
brought back a rabbit or hare, or even a wild duck or grouse, handing it
over to Giles to prepare for cooking. But often he brought nothing, and
behaved as though he himself had gorged.

Not much of his time was spent in solitary occupations, for he craved
social intercourse more than ever, chiefly with Plaxy. Gradually it
dawned on him that when she and he were out together they did not always
find the careless intimacy which formerly had never failed them.
Sometimes neither of them seemed able to think of anything to say;
sometimes Sirius found himself bored with Plaxy's stories of school
life; sometimes she seemed to have lost interest in all the things that
formerly they had enjoyed together. Sirius expected not only that she
would have out-distanced him in knowledge of school subjects, which of
course she had, but also that she would be more keenly and persistently
interested in the life of the mind. But she was nothing of the sort. She
was mainly absorbed, it seemed, in her school companions, with all their
loves and hates; and in the teachers, male and female, who were playing
so large a part in her new life. When he asked her to teach him some of
the wonderful things that she must have learnt during the term, she said
she would, some time; but always she found some excuse to postpone the
lesson. At last there came a time when no excuse was available. She was
idling in an easy chair petting the cat, Smut, who was purring heartily.
Sirius, whose thirst for knowledge was at this time more insistent than
discriminate, suggested that she should tell him what she had learnt
during the term about the Cavaliers and Roundheads. Cornered, she
blurted out, "Oh, I just _can't_ swot in the holidays." He did not ask
her again.

It was not that they were any less fond of one another. On the contrary,
each craved the other's society; but always there was a faint mist of
remoteness between them. And occasionally open antagonism occurred, as
when Plaxy ostentatiously doted upon Smut, half in jest, half in
earnest, calling him "my black panther," affirming that she was a witch,
and witches always had black cats as their companions, and never clumsy
dogs. But antagonism was rare. More often there was a faintly awkward
friendliness. At this time Plaxy developed a maiden shyness in relation
to Sirius. He was bewildered, for instance, by her new and to him quite
inexplicable reluctance to respond to their familiar urinary tune by
singing the antistrophe that signified assent, and crouching to relieve
herself. Although this new shyness was only a passing phase, it was to
recur whenever Plaxy was feeling too much involved with Sirius.

In fact her estrangement from him was partly a reaction against her
deep-rooted entanglement with him. But he, who was far more conscious of
her aloofness than she was herself, attributed it to the fact that she
had outstripped him both in learning and in experience of human people,
while he had stagnated at Caer Blai. Once or twice, however, when she
had gently twitted him with being interested in nothing but learning, he
wondered whether it was she that was stagnating. He had conceived a real
passion for learning, for finding out about the great world, and
understanding the miracle of human nature and the minor miracle of his
own unique nature. The arid weeks behind him and the arid weeks to come
filled him with a thirst not only for intelligent companionship but also
for intellectual life. His proximity to the sub-human perhaps made him
over-anxious to prove that even the loftier ranges of the human spirit
were not beyond him.

It was during these holidays that another and a long-established source
of alienation between Plaxy and Sirius took on a new form and a more
disturbing effect. Even in earlier days Plaxy had developed a peculiarly
keen interest in seeing. As a child she had often shown disappointment
and exasperation with Sirius for his failure to share this delight with
her. She would rhapsodize over the colour and shape of a speedwell, or
of hills receding hazily one behind the other in a cadence of russet to
purple. Once she had innocently called upon him to admire the golden
elegance of her own young arm. On all such occasions his response was
perfunctory, since vision was never for him a gateway to heaven. Even of
Plaxy's arm he could say only, "Yes, it's lovely because it has the look
of a handy tool. And it smells good, like the rest of you, and it's good
to lick." From childhood onwards Plaxy had amused herself with pencil
and paint box, and at school her gift for colour and shape had won her
much praise from the drawing mistress. In the holidays she spent a good
deal of time looking at reproductions of famous pictures, and in
discussing art with her mother. Even more absorbed was she in drawing
schoolgirls in blatantly graceful poses, and in painting the view of the
Rhinogs from her bedroom window. Sirius found all this fuss over the
looks of things very boring. He had tried hard to develop a taste for
pictorial art, but had failed miserably. Now that Plaxy was so absorbed
in it, he felt "left out." If he took no notice of her creations she was
disappointed. If he praised them, she was irritated, knowing quite well
that he could not really appreciate them. Yet all this visual interest,
which at bottom, no doubt, was a protest against Sirius, she also longed
to share with him. Thus did these two alien but fundamentally united
creatures torture one another and themselves.

As the end of the holidays approached, Sirius's anxiety about his future
increased. He took every opportunity of tackling Thomas on the subject.
But Thomas always managed to turn the talk in some other direction. When
at last the time came for Plaxy to return to school, it was assumed that
Sirius would return to Caer Blai. When Plaxy said good-bye to him, she
begged him to go back with a good grace. She herself, she said, hated
leaving home. But he knew quite well from her voice and her tingling
smell that, though in a way she did hate it, in another way she was glad
and excited. But he--well, in a way he too was glad, surprised though he
was at this discovery. He was glad to get away from the mist that had
come between him and Plaxy; and also because a mist had come between him
and the whole of his beloved home life. What was it? Why was there this
remoteness? What was it that kept rising between him and all his dearest
things, making him defiant and wild? Was it just that he wanted a
fragrant bitch, a sweet though stupid companion of his own kind, instead
of these stinking humans? Or did he need something more? Was it the
ancestral jungle beast that sometimes woke in him? His farewell to Plaxy
was seemingly all affection and sorrow. She never guessed that another
and an alien Sirius was at that moment yawning himself awake, finding
her company tiresome and her smell unpleasant.

There followed a term of bitter weather and heavy work with the sheep.
All the dogs were now kept busy stopping the sheep from going up to the
heights for the night, for fear of snow. This meant staying with them
till dark whenever snow seemed likely. Sometimes, without warning, heavy
snow would fall on the tops during the night, and then dogs and men
would have to go up in the morning to bring the flock down into the
valleys. Generally there is far less snow in Wales than in the more
northerly mountain districts, but a run of severe winters caused the
dogs much toil and a good deal of danger. On several occasions, up and
down the district, dogs and even men were lost in the snow. Sometimes
sheep were completely buried under snowdrifts. Only a dog could then
find them; and often only a man with a spade could rescue them.
Sometimes the snow covered both high and low pastures. So long as it
remained soft, the sheep could scrape it away with their feet and feed
on the grass below. But when the surface was hardened by frost following
thaw, this was impossible, and then hay had to be taken out to them.
This was a job for Pugh or his man with a cart and the old mare, Mab.
But the dogs, being super-dogs, were expected to report on the condition
of the snow. If it was hard, they would come home to scratch and whine
at Pugh's feet.

Sometimes when Sirius was out on the hills alone in the winter dawn,
examining the condition of the snow and looking for sheep in distress,
the desolation of the scene would strike him with a shivering dread of
existence. The universal carpet of snow, the mist of drifting flakes,
the miserable dark sheep, pawing for food, the frozen breath on his own
jaws, combined to make him feel that after all _this_ was what the world
was really like; that the warm fireside and friendly talk at Garth were
just a rare accident, or perhaps merely a dream. "The whole world is
just a dreary accident, with a few nice accidents mixed up in the mass."
He had still to learn that there was something far worse than bitter
weather with the near prospect of food and comfort, far worse even than
his bitter loneliness at Caer Blai; and that the most horrible things in
the world were all man-made. It was perhaps well that he did not yet
realize the depth of man's folly and heartlessness, for if he had done
so he might have been turned against the dominant species for ever. As
it was, he attributed all evil to accident or "fate," and in fate's very
indifference he sometimes found a certain exhilaration. Plodding home
through the snow one day (so he told me long afterwards) he had a kind
of inner vision of all living things, led by man, crusading gallantly
against indifferent or hostile fate, doomed in the end to absolute
defeat, but learning to exult in the battle, and snatching much delight
before the end. And he saw himself as a rather lonely outpost in this
great war, in which victory was impossible, and the only recompense was
the sheer joy of the struggle. But by the very next day, so he said, his
mood had changed from self-dramatization to an amused acceptance of his
littleness and impotence.

Before the lambing season Pugh went over all his ewes to cut locks of
wool away from their udders, so that their lambs should not swallow wool
and clog their stomachs. This simple process itself meant a great deal
of work for men and dogs, but the actual lambing meant a great deal
more. The flock had to be met at dawn on its way down from the heights.
During the day the men would be hard at work, but the dogs would often
be idle. Pugh noticed that Bran was far more interested than ordinary
dogs and even super-sheep-dogs in the process of birth. This was one of
the many signs that convinced him that Bran was really a sort of
man-dog. Pugh had gradually formed a habit of giving Bran fairly
detailed instructions in English, and they were always accurately
carried out. He still had no idea that Bran himself could talk, and he
kept his convictions about the dog's nature strictly to himself. But he
increasingly treated him as an assistant rather than as a chattel, an
assistant who was particularly bright and responsible, but lamentably
clumsy through lack of hands. All Sirius's clever arrangements for
fetching and carrying, for pouring from tins and bottles, and so on,
failed to compensate for his grievous handlessness. One useful operation
that needed dexterity he could do. He could drive Mab, the old mare,
whether with the spring cart, the heavy cart, the roller or the harrow.
Ploughing inevitably remained beyond him. And of course he could not
load a cart with turnips or hay or manure, and so on. Nor could he
manage the simple task of harnessing the mare. Buckles defeated him.

When, at the end of the school term, Elizabeth came to fetch Sirius
home, his joy was tempered by a self-important doubt as to how Pugh
would manage without him.

During these holidays he busied himself in intellectual work. Taxing his
eyesight, he even plunged into Wells's _Outline of History_ and _The
Science of Life_. He also pestered members of the family to read poetry
aloud to him, and passages from the Bible. He was very sensitive to the
rhythm of verse and prose, and of course to the musical quality of
words; but vast tracts of literature meant nothing to him, save as
verbal music, because his subconscious nature had not the necessary
human texture to respond to them emotionally, nor had he the necessary
associations in his experience. His strong feeling for personality led
him at one time into an obsession with Browning. Later came a more
lasting interest in what he called "the poetry of self and universe."
Hardy at one time fascinated him. The early Eliot intoxicated him with
new rhythms and with a sense of facing the worst in preparation for a
new vision. But the vision never came. Instead came orthodoxy. Sirius
longed for that vision. He hoped for it from the younger moderns; but
though he was even younger than any of them, they meant little to him.

Music was ever for Sirius a more satisfying art than poetry. But it
tortured him, because the texture of his own musical sensibility
remained alien to the human. He felt that he had to choose between two
evils. Either he must express himself with full sincerity but in utter
loneliness, unappreciated by dogs or men; or, for the sake of his
underlying brotherhood with man, he must violate his finer canine
sensibility, and discipline himself to the coarser human modes, in the
hope that somehow he might express himself adequately to man in man's
own musical language. For this end he was anxious to absorb as much
human music as possible.

His relations with Plaxy at this time were uneasy. While he was obsessed
with the life of the mind, she was obsessed with personal relations. The
loves and hates of school were still far more important to her than
book-learning. And her school life was utterly different from Sirius's
hard and anxious life on the farm. It might have been expected that in
these circumstances dog and girl would find little in common; and indeed
superficially there was little enough. On their walks they were often
silent, while each pursued a private train of thought. Sometimes one or
the other would hold forth at some length, and the soliloquy would be
punctuated by sympathetic but rather uncomprehending comments by the
listener. Occasionally this mutual incomprehension caused exasperated
outbursts.

Their discord was often increased by a tendency on Plaxy's part to
express her vague sense of frustration in subtle little cruelties. Very
often the cattish torture of Plaxy's behaviour was unconscious. For
instance, at times when she was subconsciously resentful of his
emotional hold over her, the affectionate ragging which they sometimes
indulged in would change its character. Not knowing what she did, she
would twist his ear too violently, or press his lip upon his teeth too
hard. Then, realizing that she had hurt him, she would be all
contrition. More often her felinities were mental. Once, for example,
when they were coming down the moel during a brilliant sunset, and Plaxy
was deeply stirred by the riot of crimson and gold, of purple and blue
and green, she said, not remembering how it must wound her colour-blind
companion, "Sunsets in pictures are so tiresome, but only boors and
half-wits are not stirred by real sunsets."

Apart from this infrequent and often thoughtless exposure of her claws,
Plaxy kept up the manner of friendliness even when secretly she was
straining away from him; for fundamentally each respected the other's
life and was thankful for the other's society. The roots of these two
alien beings were so closely intertwined that in spite of their
divergence each needed the other. One unifying subject of common
interest they always had, and they often talked about it. Both these
sensitive young creatures were beginning to puzzle about their own
nature as persons. Both, for very different reasons, were revolting
against the purely scientific assumptions of their home, according to
which a person was simply the psychological aspect of a very complex
physical organism. Plaxy was feeling that persons were the most real of
all things. Sirius was more than ever conscious of the inadequacy of his
canine body to express his super-canine spirit. The word "spirit" seemed
to them to epitomize the thing that science left out; but what precisely
ought to be meant by the word they could not decide. Plaxy had come
under the influence of a member of the school staff for whom she had
conceived a great admiration. This quick-witted and sensitive young
woman taught biology, but was also a lover of literature. It seems to
have been her influence, by the way, that first made Plaxy clearly feel
that, however important science was, for herself not science but
literature was the way to full mental life. The young teacher had once
said, "I suppose I ought to believe that Shakespeare was _just_ a highly
developed mammal, but I can't _really_ believe it. In some sense or
other he was--well, a spirit." This remark was the source of Plaxy's
juvenile dalliance with the word "spirit"; and then of Sirius's.

The young dog was now seriously worrying about his future. Sheep-farming
was not without interest, now that he was helping Pugh in a more human
way; but it was not what he was _for_. What _was_ he for? Was he _for_
anything? He remembered his desolate impression on the snow-clad moors
that the whole world was just a purposeless accident. Now, he somehow
could not believe it. Yet the all-wise Thomas said no one was _for_
anything, they just _were_. Well, what could a unique creature like him,
a sheer freak, find to _be_? How could he discover peace of mind, of
spirit? Thomas did not see why he should worry. Thomas had a nice slick
programme for him.

One evening when the others had gone to bed, man and dog were left in
the sitting-room in the course of one of those long talks which had been
so great a factor in the education of Sirius. They were sitting before
the fire, Thomas in one of the easy chairs, Sirius luxuriating on the
couch. Thomas had been telling him of the progress of his research, and
explaining the latest theory about the localization of mental powers in
the brain-centres. He was pleased at the dog's shrewd questions, and had
said so. Sirius, after a pause in which he absently licked a paw while
gazing into the fire, said, "Even by human standards I really am fairly
bright, am I?" "Indeed you are," was the prompt reply. Sirius continued,
"You see, I don't seem able to think properly. My mind keeps wandering.
I start out to think about something, and then suddenly, with a jolt I
wake up to find I've been thinking about something else instead; and
often I can't even remember what it was, or even what the first subject
was. It's frightening. Do you think I'm going mad? It's like--going off
on the trail of a rabbit and then being led aside by a hare, and then
streaking off on the smell of a fox, and twisting and doubling on the
trail till all of a sudden you find yourself up against water, and no
trail at all. And then you say to yourself, 'How on earth did I get
here? What in hell was I doing?' Human beings don't think that way, do
they?" Thomas laughed with delight. "Don't they!" he said. "I certainly
think that way myself, and I'm not exceptionally scatter-brained."
Sirius sighed with relief, but continued, "Then there's another thing.
Sometimes I manage to follow a trail of thought quite well for a long
time, in and out, up and down, but always with my mind's nose on the
trail; and then suddenly I find--well, the weather has changed and given
it all a different meaning. It was warm and bright, but now it's cold
and dank. No, worse than that! It was fox, and now it's cat, so to
speak, or just dull cow, or horrible menagerie tiger. No, _it's_ the
same but _I_ have changed. I wanted it desperately, and now I don't.
There's an entirely new me. That's frightening, too." Thomas reassured
him. "Don't worry, old thing!" he said. "It's just that you're a rather
complicated person, really, and there's too much diversity in you to be
easily systematized."

Sirius once more licked his paw, but soon stopped to say, "Then I really
am a _person_, not just a laboratory animal?" "Of course," said Thomas,
"and a very satisfactory person, too; and an excellent companion for
_this_ person, in fact the best I have, apart from one or two
colleagues." Sirius added for him, "And Elizabeth, I suppose." "Of
course, but that's different. I meant man-to-man companionship." Sirius
pricked his ears at that phrase, and Thomas laughed at himself. Said the
dog, "Then why apprentice me to a sub-human job, which is bound to
dehumanize me?" "My dear Sirius," replied Thomas with some heat, "we
have had all that out before, but let's try to settle it now, once for
all. It's true you have a first-class human intelligence, but you are
not a man, you are a dog. It's useless to train you for some human
trade, because you can't do it. But it's immensely important to give you
some responsible practical work until the time comes for you to join us
at Cambridge. You are not to be an imitation man. You are a
super-super-dog. This sheep-dog life is very good for you. Remember you
are not yet seventeen. There's no hurry. Your pace is Plaxy's, not
Idwal's. If you grow up too quick, you'll fossilize too quick. Stick to
sheep. There's a lot in that job, if you give your mind to it. When you
come to us at the lab we want you to have had experience of a normal
dog's way of life."

Inwardly Sirius said, "Blast the lab!" but to Thomas he said, "I _have_
been putting my mind into the job. And as a matter of fact it's not just
sheer dog's work now. Pugh has been giving me a lot of man's work to do.
He knows I am different from Idwal. But--well, that sort of work, though
it _is_ largely man's work, does deaden the mind. And the mind--is _me_.
I'm not human, but also I'm not canine. Fundamentally I'm just the sort
of thing you are yourself. I have a canine clothing, just as you have a
human clothing, but _I_--I am"--he paused and looked warily at
Thomas--"a spirit, just as you are." Thomas snorted, and presently his
smell went rather sour. Then almost in the tone of a liberal-minded
parent expostulating with a child that had said something "rude," he
remarked, "Why use that silly meaningless word? Besides, who has been
putting such ideas into your head?"

Sirius did not answer this last question. Instead, he said, "There's
something in me very different from my canine body. If _you_ had a dog's
body instead of a man's, you would grasp that as clearly as I do. You
couldn't help it. You would feel like someone trying to typewrite on a
sewing machine, or make music with a typewriter. You would never mistake
the sewing machine for _you, yourself_."

"I see what you mean," said Thomas, "but the conflict is not really
between your spirit and your canine body; it's between the canine part
of your body and the super-canine part, that I gave you."

There was silence in the room for a full minute. Then Sirius yawned, and
felt the warmth of the fire on his tongue. He said, "That sounds so
sensible; and yet, though I'm only seventeen and only a dog, I can smell
there's something wrong with it. It's only just a bit more true than the
'soul' dope that the parsons give--the Rev. Davies, for instance, when
he called on us, and tried to convert you to Methodism, while you tried
to convert him to scientific method. Do you remember? He caught me
staring too interestedly at him, and he said I looked as if I was more
open to persuasion than you were yourself, and it was a pity, almost,
that God hadn't given _me_ a soul to be saved."

Thomas smiled, and rose to go to bed. As he passed Sirius he gave his
ear a friendly pull, and said, "Oh, well, nearly all great questions
turn out in the end to be misconceived. Probably both our answers are
wrong."

Sirius, getting down from the couch, suddenly realized that he had been
once more side-tracked from his purpose, which was to discuss his
future. "One thing is sure," he said, "My job is not just sheep, and
it's not to alternate between being a sheep-dog and being a
super-laboratory-animal. It's the spirit."

Thomas came to a halt. "Oh, very well," he said gently, respectfully,
but with a faint ridicule that did not escape Sirius. "Your job's the
spirit." Then after a pause he added with friendly sarcasm, "We must
send you to a theological college."

Sirius gave a snort of indignation. He said, "Of course I don't want the
old religious dope. But I don't want just the new science dope either. I
want the truth." Then, realizing that he had said the wrong thing, he
touched his master's hand. "I'm afraid I'm not working out according to
plan," he said. "But if I am really a _person_ you shouldn't expect me
to. Why did you make _me_ without making a world for me to live in? It's
as though God had made Adam and not bothered to make Eden, nor Eve. I
think it's going to be frightfully difficult being me."

Thomas laid his hand on the dog's head. The two stood gazing into the
dying fire. The man said to the dog, "It's my fault that you are more
than a dog. It's my meddling that woke the 'spirit' in you, as you call
it. I'll do my best for you, I promise. And now let's go to bed."




CHAPTER VII
WOLF SIRIUS


Thomas succeeded in persuading Sirius to complete his year with Pugh,
assuring him with Machiavellian subtlety that it would be an invaluable
"spiritual training." And it was. It was a Spartan, an ascetic life; for
Sirius accepted all the ordinary sheep-dog conditions. At times it was a
life of grim hardship and overwork. Men and dogs returned from their
labour dead tired, and fit for nothing but supper and sleep. But there
were other times when there was little to be done that did not
necessitate human hands. Then Sirius used to lie about pretending to
sleep, but in fact trying desperately to think about man and himself,
and the identity of the spirit in them, a task in which he was
singularly unsuccessful.

Since Pugh was by now fairly well in the know about Sirius, Thomas had
arranged that during his last term the dog should have more or less
regular hours, like a human worker, so that he could frequently go home
and put in a little study. The word "study," of course, was not
mentioned, but Pugh agreed with a knowing wink.

Expeditions over the high hills were becoming rather much for the ageing
Welshman, so he handed over more and more responsibility to Sirius. He
arranged with the saddler to make two pairs of small panniers which
could be strapped on to the dogs' flanks. These he filled with lotions,
medicines, bandages. Sirius could now travel far afield and doctor sick
sheep without Pugh having to accompany him. He would set off with Idwal,
who now accepted him as a leader, and spend the day inspecting the whole
flock. When they had rounded up a bunch of sheep into some remote
moorland pen, Sirius would examine each one of them for foot-rot or
fly-strike. Any animal that showed restlessness, or kept trying to
nibble at its own back, was probably infected with fly-strike. Sirius
was sufficiently human to dislike exposing the grubs with his own teeth,
and cleaning out the superficial wound with his tongue; but the work had
to be done. By keeping a sharp watch on the flock, and tackling the
earliest symptoms himself, he was able to reduce to a minimum the number
of advanced cases which demanded attention from man's exploring fingers.
But inevitably a few were not found till they were deeply infected.
These had to be taken away for human treatment. Very rarely Sirius came
on sheep lying down, neither ruminating nor sleeping, and with great
open wounds seething with grub. For these he had to fetch human aid at
once, or they would soon die. Pugh, by the way, had put all the drugs
and ointments into tins with clip-on lids which Sirius could open
without excessive difficulty.

When the shearing season arrived the whole flock had to be brought down
in batches, and put into pens to be tackled each in turn by one of the
half-dozen shearers who were going the round of all the flocks in the
district. The actual shearing was a job which Sirius would never be able
to do. Nothing but human hands or some mechanical device could ever
divide a sheep from its fleece. Sirius would stand about watching the
manual dexterity of the shearers with fascination and sadness. The
sheep, on its haunches between the knees of the man, would sometimes
struggle, generally when its skin was nipped and little red stains
appeared on the cream of its inner wool; but in the main the blades
peeled off its coat as though merely undressing the creature. The
gleaming inner surface of the fleece, as it was rolled back upon its own
drab exterior, was a wave of curd. When the operation was over, the
naked, angular beast would spring away bleating with bewilderment.

Throughout the last few months of his year with Pugh, Sirius was much
absorbed in his work; but also he was in a state of suppressed
excitement, and of conflict. He delighted in the prospect of release
from this servitude, yet in spite of himself he regretted that the
connection must be broken. He had become thoroughly interested, and he
had a real affection for Pugh. It seemed mean to desert him. And though
Cambridge promised novelty and a great diversity of human contacts, he
was sufficiently imaginative to realize that town life might not suit
him at all.

There was also another and a deeper conflict in his mind, one which was
increasingly troubling him. It was the endless conflict over his
relations with the dominant species of the planet. Never did he cease to
feel that man and he were at once poles asunder and yet in essential
nature identical. At this early stage the trouble had not come clear to
him. He could not yet focus it. But to explain his obscure and still
largely inarticulate distress, his biographer must set forth Sirius's
plight with a clarity which he himself had not yet attained. Men were
many and he was one. They had walked the earth for a million years or
more, and they had finally possessed it entirely. And he? Not only was
he himself a unique product of their cunning, but the whole race of dogs
were their creation. Only the wolf was independent. And wolves were now
no more than a romantic relic that man would never again seriously fear.
Little by little, through their million years, men had worked out their
marvellous human way of living, culminating in civilization. With those
enviable hands of theirs they had built themselves their first crude
forest shelters, then settlements of huts, then good stone houses,
cities, railways. With nicely correlated hand and eye they had made
innumerable subtle implements, from microscopes to battleships and
aeroplanes. They had discovered so much, from electrons to galaxies.
They had written their millions of books, which they could read as
easily as he could follow a trail on a damp morning. And some few of
those books even he must read, because they had the truth in them, a bit
of it. He, by contrast, with his clumsy paws and imprecise vision, could
never do anything worthy of the brain that Thomas had given him.
Everything worth while in him had come from mankind. His knowledge, such
as it was, they had taught him. His love of the arts, of wisdom, of the
"humanities"! God! Would that wisdom lay rather in "caninities"! For him
there was no possible life-aim except to help on in some minute way the
great human enterprise, whether through the humble work of sheep-tending
or the career that Thomas had planned for him as a museum piece and a
tenth-rate scientist. For him there could be no wisdom but man's alien
wisdom; just as for him there could be no real loving but the torturing
business of loving these infinitely alien human creatures. Or would
Thomas some day produce others of his kind for him to love? But they
would be so young.

It was indeed mankind that had shown him what love was, with their
gently ministering and caressing hands and their consoling voices. His
ever-trusted and caninely revered foster-mother had loved him always as
her own child; or only with so slight a difference that neither she
herself nor her Plaxy but only he with his keen ears and nose could
detect it. For this difference he could feel no resentment. It was not
indeed strictly a difference of love at all but of animal maternal
attraction. Then Thomas, yes Thomas also had shown him what love was,
but in a different aspect, in the aspect of "man-to-man" intelligent
companionship. Of course Thomas really loved his science far more.
Probably he would be ready to submit his creature to any torture,
physical or spiritual, for the advancement of his science, of his
creative work. But this was as it should be. God himself, if there was a
God, might be like that. Might he? Might he? Anyhow, Sirius could
understand this attitude. It was not with Thomas nor with Elizabeth but
with Plaxy that he had found the essence of love, the close mutual
dependence and sharing. Yet strangely it was often the thought of Plaxy
that wakened the other mood in him, in which he rebelled against
humanity's dominance.

Throughout the summer at the farm he brooded a great deal about his
relationship with Plaxy. When the term was over and they met again, he
found that time and difference of experience had increased the gulf
between them. They still needed one another and gravitated towards each
other, but they ever strained apart for the fulfilling of their
divergent lives. Strange indeed was his relation to Plaxy! So alien were
they in native propensity, yet so united in common history and in
essential spirit. But now so divergent, like stars that have swung very
near together out of space to fly apart towards opposite poles of the
heaven. Altogether, how he loved her; and how, in another mood even
while loving, he hated her!

The native odours of Plaxy were not naturally attractive to him, as was
the intoxicating scent of a bitch. In nature, in the jungle, the
characteristic human smell would probably have repelled him, like the
stink of a baboon. Certainly it was an acquired taste, but he had
acquired it so long ago and so thoroughly that the love of it had become
a second and fuller nature to him; so that by now, though the sweet
maddening smell of a bitch might at any time irresistibly draw him away
from Plaxy, always he must return to her. She, he felt, must ever be the
centre of his life and he of hers; and she knew it. Yet their lives must
inevitably fall apart. There was no common future for them. Even now,
how tiresome was her schoolgirl prattle, how boring her unfulfilled
schoolgirl romances! (Why ever had the human race developed this
ridiculous attitude to sex? How it disgusted him!) And those heartless
artificial scents that she had begun to use, perversely wishing to cover
her wholesome, and to him by now lovely, natural odour!

But there were times when the natural odour of Plaxy filled him with
disgust. Then, all human beings stank in his nostrils, but Plaxy his
darling most of all. Sometimes when he was lying in the yard waiting for
orders, watching the old cock treading one of his harem, or Jane setting
off in her best clothes to Dolgelly, or Mrs. Pugh carrying pails of milk
to the dairy, or one of the hired men shifting muck out of the pig-sty,
he tried hard to analyse his feelings about the human species, and the
causes of his own fluctuation between adoration and contemptuous
resentment. He recognized that the species that had produced him (more
or less for fun) had on the whole treated him pretty well. The specimens
that he knew best had on the whole been kindly. All the same he could
not but resent his present servitude. Even Pugh, who was fundamentally
decent, treated the dogs essentially as chattels. When they happened to
be in the way they were just booted out of it; always with that
ingrained rough friendliness of Pugh's, but still it was exasperating.
Then there were the village people. Many of them showed an unaccountable
spite, kicking him or hitting him for no reason whatever, when Pugh was
not looking. At first he thought they must be Pugh's enemies, or
Thomas's; but no, they were just letting off some secret pent-up
vindictiveness against a living thing that could not hit back. Most dogs
had been thoroughly trained to take these cuffs and kicks meekly, but
Sirius often surprised his assailants by vigorous retaliation.

One cause of Sirius's incipient contempt for human beings was the fact
that since they thought he was "only an animal," they often gave
themselves away badly in his presence. When they were observed by others
of their kind, they maintained the accepted standard of conduct, and
were indignant if they caught anyone falling short of that standard; but
when they thought they were not being watched, they would commit the
very same offences themselves. It was, of course, to be expected that in
his presence they should pick their noses (how he chortled at their
unconscious grimaces) or break wind, and so on. What roused his contempt
was their proneness to insincerity. Mrs. Pugh, for instance, whom he had
once seen licking a spoon instead of washing it, indignantly scolded her
daughter for doing the very same thing. And the hired man, Rhys, who was
a great chapel-goer, and very righteous about sex, would often, when he
was alone, with only Sirius present, do unprintable things to relieve
himself of sexual pressure. Not that Sirius saw anything wrong in such
behaviour, but the insincerity of the man disgusted him.

This insincerity of the dominant species, he decided, was _one_ of the
main causes of those sudden uprushings of rage and physical repugnance
which sometimes possessed him. At these times the human odour became an
intolerable stench. He came to recognize this revulsion as a sign that
his "wolf-nature," as he called it, was waking. In this mood all the
acquired meanings of smells seemed to evaporate, and their natural
qualities smote him with exquisite delight or horror. If he was at home
he would go out from the oppressive stench of the house to clean his
nose with deep sniffs of the fragrant moorland air. A great loathing of
man would seize him. He would perhaps plunge into a stream to wash away
the pollution, or roll in sweet cow dung. Then he would go hunting,
carefully avoiding every human being, irrationally feeling that the hand
of man was everywhere against him. Most often his quarry was a mere
rabbit; but with sufficient luck and intelligence he might take a
mountain hare. The snap of his jaws on the spine, the yielding flesh,
the rich blood welling into his mouth, went to his head like alcohol. He
felt his spirit washed by the blood of the quarry, washed clean of
humanity with all its itching monkey-inquisitiveness, all its restless
monkeying with material things and living things and living minds. To
hell with wisdom and love and all cultural dope. The way of life was to
hunt, to overtake, to snatch, to hear the sharp scream, to wolf the
crushed flesh and bones. Then a drink and a rest in the moorland
sunshine, alone, at peace.

During his last month with Pugh, Sirius suffered a distressing
alternation of moods. Sometimes he was wholly wrapped up in care of the
sheep, sometimes he longed for the life of the mind, sometimes he felt
the strange uprush of the wolf's nature in him.

One day, after attending to some sheep that had been badly struck by
fly, he was haunted by the stinging smell of the lotions that he had
applied. They turned him savage. Why should he be the menial of these
dunder-headed ruminants? Gradually the wolf-mood took complete
possession of him. It was a free afternoon for him, and he should have
gone home to read. Instead he cantered off among the hills till he
reached a certain distant "foreign" sheep-run beyond Arenig Fach, a
miniature Table Mountain far to the east. There he sniffed the wind and
cast about with nose to earth till he found the trail he wanted. He had
not followed it long before the quarry stood before him, a great ram
with royal head and a neck heavy with muscle. Sirius checked, and stood
looking at the beast, which also stood, sniffing the wind, pawing the
ground. Suddenly the dog felt the human, the humane, in him coming
uppermost again. Why murder this fine creature? But it was man's
creature, and it epitomized all the tyranny of the sheep-dog's
servitude. He rushed at the ram, who met his onslaught with lowered head
and flung him off. There followed a long battle. Sirius was gashed in
the shoulder. He persevered, however, running in again and again till at
last he was given a chance to seize the ram by the throat. Desperately
it tried to throw him off, crashing about among the heather and rocks;
but Sirius hung on, remembering his battle with Diawl Du. The ram's
struggles became feebler, as Diawl Du's had done. At last they ceased.
Sirius let go. His tail tucked itself between his legs. He looked about
to see if any human being was in sight. Then he looked at the dead ram.
Human pity, horror, disgust, welled up in him. But he fought them down,
remembering that he was hungry. He began tearing off great shreds of the
hide, bracing his feet against the ground. Then he dragged at the warm
flesh, and gorged himself. At last he slunk away.

It was sheer luck that Sirius was never charged with this crime. It so
happened that another sheep-dog from a farm near by had run amok and
killed several sheep; so the ram was attributed to him. But Sirius, when
his wolf-mood had passed and he realized the full significance of his
deed, lived in terror of detection. There was the tell-tale wound on his
shoulder. But after all this might have been made by an old nail on a
fence.

During the rest of his time with Pugh, Sirius devoted himself
conscientiously to the sheep, treating them with new solicitation and
tenderness. When at last Thomas came to fetch him away and Pugh made his
final report, the old man said, "Yes, indeed, Mr. Trelone, it is a
wonderful dog he is, and I don't know how I shall do without him. This
summer he is like a mother to the sheep, so loving he is in his ways
with them. And they are all in great health because he has watched over
them so closely, and tended any that would be poorly before it ever
showed any sadness for itself. If only he were a man, Mr. Trelone, I
would have my daughter marry him for the sheep's sake. But she has set
her heart on a two-legged animal, a draper's assistant that has not half
the brain of this dog, though he is no fool in his own business. So now
I must look round and take some other young man into partnership, since
Mr. Bran insists on going." He looked at Sirius with a rueful and
affectionate grimace, then continued, "But surely to goodness, Mr.
Trelone, when you make another dog like this one you will not again
forget that hands are as needful as a brain. I have often broken my
heart for Bran when I have watched him trying to use his mouth to do the
things I do so easily with these great clumsy paws of mine. Yes, you
must give the next one hands, isn't it, Mr. Trelone."

Unexpectedly, when Sirius was once more at home, the wolf-mood became
more insistent than ever. With Pugh he was generally absorbed in some
bit of practical work, and had little time to brood; but at home during
that summer holiday his future was all uncertain and had to be
discussed; and Plaxy was present, with her familiar spell and her
increasing remoteness.

Right at the outset, on the walk home from Caer Blai, Sirius had
broached the subject of his future. "Well," said Thomas with a guarded
voice, "first you need a good holiday at home. Then I thought we might
do a walking tour with my young colleague, McBane, in the Lake District,
where you would see a different style of sheep-farming. Then you might
enter for some of the Cumberland sheep-dog trials, just to surprise the
local people a bit. Then it will be time for you to come into residence
at the laboratory, so that we can begin a whole lot of fine experimental
work on you, physiological and psychological. You'll find it all very
interesting, and of course your active co-operation will be needed
throughout. You will learn a lot that way. Little by little, we shall
train you to be a research worker in animal psychology. If you turn out
well we may be glad to publish some of your stuff. Then, of course,
scientists of all sorts passing through Cambridge will want to see you.
So you will have a very interesting life, and you will be the cynosure
of every scientific eye. I hope to God it doesn't turn your head and
make you an insufferable prig." Sirius remained silent. Presently Thomas
continued, "Oh, yes, and when we can spare you I think you might put in
a few weeks now and then on sheep again, either at Pugh's or elsewhere.
In time we shall probably have done all the research we need of you, and
then--well, you will probably come on to our staff as a permanent
member."

"I see," said Sirius, and said no more. He thought about it all the way
home. He thought about it by day and by night, and about other matters
that were disturbing him.

One of these matters was of course his relationship with Plaxy. Shortly
after she came home she learned that she had won a scholarship for one
of the Cambridge colleges. Her subject, by the way, was English
literature. It had been Thomas's wish that she should become a doctor,
but she had steadily veered away from science towards the arts, thus
(according to my theory) asserting her independence against the father
whom she secretly admired. The study of literature at Cambridge is
scientific in temper, and in working for her scholarship Plaxy, I
suggest, had both asserted her independence and been true to her
father's moral code. She had worked hard for her scholarship, and now
for a time she put the life of the mind behind her. Sirius, on the other
hand, after his hard labour with Pugh, proposed to spend all his spare
time on the life of the mind. He had been hoping for her collaboration.
Plaxy, however, was unusually silent and remote. Superficially she was
as friendly as ever, and would often go for walks with him. But they
were silent walks; and the silence, though apparently she did not notice
it, oppressed him. She did not seem really interested in his problems.
Even the great problem of his future, though she often encouraged him to
speak of it, did not _really_ interest her. And she spoke less and less
of her school life, because it took so much explaining. Thus nearly all
their talk centred round family or local affairs and the natural
phenomena of a Welsh summer. This was easy and happy, but Sirius felt
that it did not get them anywhere.

One day in mental agony he said, "Plaxy, why have you gone dead on me? I
do so want us to be happy together!" She answered, "Oh, I know I'm
sometimes a pig to you. The trouble is I'm terribly worried just now,
and I can't think of anything else." "Tell me about it," he said; but
she replied, "I _can't_. It's too complicated. You wouldn't understand.
How could you? There's nothing in your life to help you to begin to
understand. No, I'm sorry, but somehow I _can't_ tell you. It's--it's
just a _human_ thing."

It was not the words that offended him so much as the faint tone of
superiority in the voice. The wolf-mood, which had been brewing in him
ever since his conversation with Thomas, came violently into action. The
smell of this human female beside him suddenly lost all its loveliness
and became a repugnant stink. Sidelong he looked at her. Instead of
seeing the dearest face in the world, he saw the uncouth hairless
features of a super-ape, in fact of that species which so long ago had
broken in his ancestors to be their slaves in body and soul.

"Sorry," he said. "I didn't want to butt in." He was startled at the
snarl in his own voice, and surprised (and oddly resentful) that she did
not notice it. All the way home they walked in silence. At the gate she
touched his head with her hand, and said, "I'm sorry." He answered,
"That's all right, I wish I could help." The snarl was still in his
voice, hidden under gentleness. She did not hear it. Her touch sent
conflicting tremors down his back, for it was at once the touch of his
darling and the touch of the super-simian tyrant.

At the doorway the human smell of the house raised his gorge. She
entered. Longing to restore community with her, he actually licked her
hand as she passed in; and while he did so, he felt to his horror his
lips curl themselves back, baring his teeth for action. She vanished
into the house. He turned away, sniffing the fresh air.

He cantered ruthlessly across a flower-bed, leapt the garden wall, and
swung easily up the hillside with his tail streaming out behind him.

That night he failed to return home. There was nothing unusual in this,
and no one was anxious. On the following night also he was absent.
Thomas was disturbed, but concealed his anxiety under annoyance, for he
had planned a long walk with Sirius for the next day. On the third night
also there was no Sirius. Pugh had not seen him, nor had he put in an
appearance at any of the neighbouring farms, nor in the village. Thomas
was now alarmed; and Plaxy, thinking of their last meeting, felt remorse
for her coldness.

The whole household was organized as a search party, with Idwal and
another super-sheep-dog, who were borrowed for the occasion and made to
smell Sirius's sleeping-basket before setting out on the search. Since
there was no news of him in the cultivated regions, it seemed probable
that he had taken to the moor. The searchers spread out fanwise in
allotted directions.

It was Plaxy who found Sirius, late in the afternoon. Coming round a
buttress, she saw him standing over the carcass of a little moorland
pony. She had approached up wind, and Sirius had not seen her. He began
tugging savagely at the hide of the mangled neck, tearing it away from
the flesh. His legs were driven deep into the bog in the effort to get a
solid purchase. His tail curved under his belly. His jaws and shoulders
were smeared with blood, and peaty mud was splashed all over him. A
great pool of blood and mire spread from the pony's throat. There had
evidently been a wild struggle, for the pony's flanks were torn and the
bracken and grass were trampled.

Only for a second did Plaxy watch, unobserved and horror-stricken. Then
she gasped out, "Sirius!" He let go and faced her, licking his crimson
lips and muzzle. The two gazed at each other, she into the eyes of a
wolf, he into the white, nude, super-simian face of his ancestral
tyrant. His back bristled. A snarl twisted his lips. A low growl was all
his greeting.

She was thoroughly frightened and nauseated, but also she realized that
some desperate art was needed to save him from ruin. And in that moment
(she afterwards said) she realized for the first time the strength of
the bond between them. She advanced towards him. "Sirius, _darling_,"
she cried, surprising herself no less than him, "what ever will become
of us now?" Miserably she approached him, with the bog squelching over
her shoe-tops. His growl became more threatening, for the beast in him
was jealous for its quarry. His ears lay back. His teeth were more
crimson than white. She felt a weakening at the knees, but plodded
towards him, and stretched out a hand to touch the savage head. As she
did so, she caught a nearer view of the carcass, and suddenly she
vomited. When the paroxysm was over, she sobbed out, "_Why_ did you have
to do it? I don't understand. Oh, they'll want to kill you for it." She
sat down on a damp tussock and gazed at Sirius, and he at her. Presently
he turned on the carcass and tore at the flesh. Plaxy screamed, leapt up
and tried to drag him off by the collar. With a roar he turned on her,
and she was flung back on to the boggy ground with the great beast
standing over her, and the cold boggy water oozing about her shoulders.
Their eyes were close together. His breath smelt of blood.

Some people in desperate moments have a knack of doing the right thing.
Plaxy is one of them. "My dear," she said, "you are _not_ a wild beast,
you're Sirius. And you don't really want to hurt me. You love me, you
know you do. I'm your Plaxy." His lips crept back over his teeth. His
growl died out. Presently, with a little whimper he delicately kissed
her cheek. Stroking his throat, she said, "Oh, my poor darling, you must
have been mad"; then, as she rose to her feet, "Come, let me clean you
up a bit."

She took him to the edge of the boggy pond, and with a bit of moss for a
sponge she wiped the blood from his muzzle and his neck and shoulders.
While she was doing so she said, "_Why_ did you have to do it? _Why_ did
you have to leave us? Was I _very_ horrid to you that day?" He stood
silent, passive to her ministrations, with his tail still tight under
him. When he was more or less clean of blood, she kissed his forehead,
then straightened herself. She walked over to the carcass. "Poor pony,"
she said. "He's like our Polly that we used to ride on when Giles and I
were little. Do you remember how you used to kiss her nose, nearly
getting yourself fallen over?" A sudden tortured whimper was his answer.
Then she, still gazing at the pony, said in an altered voice, "If we
leave this mess to be found, they won't rest till they have tracked you
down, and then? If only we could bury it in the bog! We had better go
home and tell Thomas."

On the long walk home she tried to make Sirius tell her all about it,
and suddenly she realized that he had never said a word since she had
found him. "Tell me, tell me!" she implored. "Oh, do at least say
something. What's the matter with you?"

At last he spoke. "You wouldn't understand. There's nothing in your life
for you to judge it by. It's just--a canine thing." This echo of her own
words startled and pained her. "Oh, I'm terribly sorry," she said, "I
_was_ horrid." But he said, "It wasn't all your fault. I was going wild
before that."

The rest of the search party had arrived home before them. Sirius was
given a hearty but anxious welcome. He took it coldly. Refusing his
supper, he retired to bed. Plaxy at once told her story to Thomas, who
was at first indignant and then increasingly interested, though of
course alarmed for Sirius's safety. Next day he traced the owner of the
pony and told him the whole story, attributing the murder to "a new,
untrained experimental super-sheep-dog of mine." He paid up twice the
value of the pony.

The killing of the pony was one of the turning points in Sirius's
career. It clarified his relations with Plaxy, and it made Thomas
realize that Sirius was being seriously strained, and would have to be
treated carefully.

A couple of days later Plaxy and Sirius found themselves talking more
freely to one another than had been possible for many months. It began
by her telling him about that "human" matter which she had formerly
withheld. Consideration for Plaxy forbids me to publish its details,
which are anyhow irrelevant to my theme. Let it suffice that Plaxy had
allowed herself to become entangled with a young man for whom she felt a
strong sexual attraction but no great respect; and that in these
circumstances the shameless promiscuity of Sirius's own sex life seemed
to her to render him an impossible confidant. But the pony incident had
made her realize more clearly how much her intimacy with Sirius mattered
to both of them. She felt compelled to do her utmost to restore
confidence. Sirius on his side told her of the conflict which was
racking him, the alternating moods of respect and loathing for humanity.
"You, for instance, are sometimes the dearest of all things in the
world, and sometimes just a horrible monkey that has cast a filthy spell
on me." She answered at once, "And _you_ are sometimes just my father's
experimental dog that I have somehow got tangled up with and responsible
for, because of _him_; but sometimes you are--_Sirius_, the part of
Sirius-Plaxy that I love." A faint change in her fragrance made him
realize the warmth of her feeling far better than her words could do, or
even the shy frankness of her voice.

Thomas made a point of lecturing Sirius on the folly of killing ponies,
but the lecture gradually changed into a discussion about the causes of
the wolf-mood in him. At the crisis of this talk Sirius cried, "Unless
you help me to be _myself_, you will force me to be--a sham wolf."
Thomas countered this with, "And _what_ must you be to be 'yourself'?"
After a long pause Sirius said, "I don't know, yet. But I must be given
a chance to find out. I must be helped to look round at the world. I
shall not see much of it if I just alternate between sheep and your
laboratory. You see, I feel I have my _own_ active contribution to make
to--well, to human understanding. I can't be just a passive subject for
experiments, or at best a tenth-rate research worker. There's something
I _must_ get clear in my own mind, and when I have got it clear, then I
must get it across somehow to mankind." Thomas softly whistled. "Sounds
as though you wanted to be a sort of canine messiah to men!" Sirius
moved restlessly and said, "No, I'm not as silly as all that. I don't
feel superior at all, far from it. But--well, my point of view is so
utterly different from man's, and yet at bottom the same. In making me
you made something that sees man from clean outside man, and can tell
him what he looks like." Thomas was silent, considering this, and Sirius
presently added, "There's another point. When I feel I'm not going to be
able to be my true self, or not allowed to try to be it, the whole human
race turns foul in my nose, and I just go wild. Everything blacks out. I
don't know why, but there it is."

Thomas was by now thoroughly aware that his policy for Sirius had been
too simple. He undertook to modify it. On the following day he talked it
all over with Elizabeth. "What a fool I was," he said, "not to foresee
this psychological trouble! I don't think I ever _really_ realized that
if things went wrong with _this_ experiment I couldn't just wash my
hands of it all, and start again; any more than a surgeon can wash his
hands of an operation that has gone wrong. I feel as God ought to have
felt towards Adam when Adam went wrong--morally responsible. The devil
of it is that, though moral feelings are mere subjective feelings, you
can't ignore them."

After a long discussion Elizabeth and Thomas decided on a new programme
for Sirius. He should come to the Laboratory, as planned; but also he
should be "shown round a bit" by Elizabeth, so that he could "begin to
get the hang of this crazy human world." He would go about simply as her
dog, meeting her friends in Cambridge and elsewhere, listening to their
talk. She would also help him to do a bit of sight-seeing, if it could
be arranged--slums, factories, docks, museums, concerts. This could be
done at odd times, from the lab. He could also, with Thomas's aid, make
proper use of Cambridge as an educational centre. Thomas would suggest
lines of study and get him books from libraries. All this might help him
to see more clearly what he could do with his life.

When Thomas explained the new plan to Sirius, he ended with a caution.
If Sirius did wander about the country with Elizabeth, he must be very
careful not to give the show away. He must behave simply as her dog. No
one must suspect him of being able to talk, no one but the people in the
know at the laboratory. "But why?" protested Sirius. "Surely it's time I
came out into the open. I can't go on pretending for ever." Thomas
insisted that the time had not yet come for publicity. "We must have you
firmly established in the scientific world before the commercial world
can get hold of you. Otherwise some unscrupulous tough, out on the make,
will try to kidnap you and run you into some foreign country to show you
off for money. Then you really would be a slave for the rest of your
life." Sirius snorted. "Let 'em try, that's all." Thomas pointed out
that a chloroform cloth would put him out of action very effectively,
till they got him away. "Don't think it's just my fancy," Thomas added.
"There are some guys on your track already, and it's time I warned you.
Only yesterday two townee people called here to inquire about buying a
super-sheep-dog. I put them off because I didn't like the look of them.
Told them I had no animal ready. They said they had seen one in
Trawsfynydd posting a letter, you in fact. Wouldn't I sell you? They
offered 30, 40, and gradually raised it to 250. This was fantastic
for a super-sheep-dog, so I began to be suspicious. Well, those fellows
have been hanging about here since then, so look out. And remember,
chloroform."

Some weeks later, when Sirius had almost forgotten about this story, an
attempt was actually made to kidnap him. He had been out hunting, and
was returning by his usual route, which passed over a stile in a wall
about a hundred yards or so above the house. He was on the point of
climbing over the stile when he caught a whiff of something strange. It
was sickly-sweet and pungent. He remembered chloroform, and checked. Now
unfortunately for his assailants his meditations on the way home from
the chase had been sombre. He had been brooding on his subjection to the
human race, and so he was in a mood for retaliation. He leapt the stile
and crashed into two men, who were waiting for him. They had not
expected him to come over like a shell from a gun, exploding on impact.
Both men were knocked flying, and in the struggle which followed Sirius
got his teeth in the throat of one of the men before the other could
apply the chloroform cloth. The choking smell forced him to let go and
attack his other assailant. Number one, however, was temporarily out of
action, so Sirius had to deal only with number two and the chloroform.
The taste, or rather the idea, of human blood had roused the wolf-mood
in Sirius. He became just an animal fighting its natural enemy-species.
The man did his best with the chloroform, but though Sirius had a few
strong whiffs he managed to avoid its full power. Meanwhile the noise of
battle had roused Thomas, who was down below in the garden at Garth. He
pounded up the hill shouting. The damaged man had risen to his feet to
help his colleague, but when he saw Thomas he made off. The other had
succeeded in doping Sirius enough to make him no longer dangerous; but
he too, when he heard Thomas, clambered to his feet, with blood
streaming from his face, and took to his heels, leaving the dog already
three parts doped and quite unable to give chase. Both men reached the
cart track where they had left their car, and drove off as fast as the
bumps would permit. Thomas made no attempt to follow them. Instead, he
went to Sirius and gripped his collar, lest the dog should recover in
time to pursue his enemies.

Shortly after this incident Thomas took Sirius by car to the Lake
District for the projected walking tour with his young colleague,
McBane. His main object was to familiarize McBane with Sirius, and
particularly to give him an opportunity of learning to understand the
dog's speech before undertaking work on him at the Laboratory.
Incidentally Sirius was also given an opportunity to see the north
country sheep-dogs at work. The party also attended an important
sheep-dog trial. Thomas had been persuaded by McBane to enter Sirius as
a competitor. Sirius had on several occasions acquitted himself
brilliantly at trials in Wales, under Pugh; but Thomas knew nothing of
the technique. It very soon became obvious to judges and spectators that
the master was no shepherd, while the dog was more brilliant than any
dog ought to have been. It did not matter how ineptly Thomas gave his
orders; Sirius ignored them and carried out the desired operation with
every refinement of skill. Finally it was discovered that Thomas was the
famous producer of super-sheep-dogs. He received many offers to purchase
Sirius, but laughingly refused. The would-be purchasers had to be
content to have their names entered on the waiting list for future dogs.




CHAPTER VIII
SIRIUS AT CAMBRIDGE


When the holiday was over, Thomas took Sirius to Cambridge. A private
bed-sitting-room had been prepared for the wonder-dog within the
precincts of the Laboratory, near a room which Thomas occupied himself.
The senior members of the staff were introduced to Sirius as "man to
man," on the understanding that they must keep the secret and behave in
public as though this dog were only a rather specially bright
super-sheep-dog.

Sirius was at first very happy at Cambridge. The bustle of city and
university, though rather bewildering, was stimulating. During the first
few days he spent much time in wandering about the streets watching the
people, and the dogs. The abundance of the canine population surprised
him, and so did the extraordinary diversity of breeds. It seemed to him
incredible that the dominant species should keep so many of the
dominated species alive in complete idleness, for not one of these
pampered animals had any function but to be the living toy of some man
or woman. Physically they were nearly all in good condition, save for a
common tendency to corpulence, which in some cases reached a disgusting
fulfilment. Mentally they were unwholesome. How could it be otherwise?
They had nothing to do but wait for their meals, sink from boredom into
sleep, attend their masters or mistresses on gentle walks, savour one
another's odours, and take part in the simple ritual of the lamp-post
and the gate-post. Sexually they were all starved, for bitches were few,
and jealously guarded by their human owners. Had not the canine race
been of sub-human intelligence, they must one and all have been
neurotics, but their stupidity saved them.

Sirius himself had often to act the part of these sub-human creatures.
When Elizabeth took him out to visit her friends he allowed himself to
be petted and laughed at, or praised for the "marvellous intelligence"
that he showed in "shaking hands" or shutting the door. Then the company
would forget him completely, while he lay stretched out on the floor in
seeming boredom, but in fact listening to every word, and trying to get
the hang of some conversation on books or painting; even furtively
stealing a glance at drawings or bits of sculpture that were circulated
for inspection.

Elizabeth did her best to give Sirius a fair sample of life in a
university city. It became a sort of game with her to contrive means to
insinuate him into meetings and concerts. After the simple subsistence
life of the sheep-country, Cambridge filled him with respect for the
surplus energies of the human species. All these great and ornate
buildings had been put up stone by stone, century by century, with the
cunning of human hands. All these articles in shop-windows had been made
by human machinery and transported in human trains, cars and ships from
the many lands of human occupation. Perhaps most impressive of all to
his innocent mind was the interior of a great library, where, by patient
intrigue, Elizabeth managed to effect an entry for him. The thousands of
books lining the walls brought home to him as nothing else had done the
vast bulk and incredible detail of human intellectual tradition. He
stood speechless before it all, his tail drooping with awe. As yet he
was far too simple-minded to realize that the majority of the volumes
that faced him, shoulder to shoulder, were of little importance. He
supposed all to be mightily pregnant. And the nave belief that he could
never attain wisdom until his poor eyes had travelled along most of
those millions of lines of print filled him with despair.

Thomas had decided that the time had come to let out the secret of
Sirius's powers to a carefully selected public. A number of his
scientific and academic friends must be allowed to make the dog's
acquaintance and form their own opinions of his ability, on the
understanding that the truth must not yet be published. His policy was
still to keep the greater public from sharing the secret, lest the
forces of commercial stunt-manufacture should be brought to bear on his
work, and possibly wreck it.

He arranged for Sirius to meet a few eminent persons in the University,
mostly zoologists, biochemists, biologists of one sort or another, but
also psychologists, philosophers, and philologists, who would be
interested in his speech, and a few stray surgeons, painters, sculptors
and writers who happened to be among Thomas's personal friends. These
meetings generally took place after a lunch in Thomas's rooms. Over the
meal Thomas would tell the party something about his experiments and the
success of the super-sheep-dogs. Then he would lead on to his more
daring research, and describe Sirius as "probably quite as bright as
most university students." When lunch was over, the small company would
settle in easy chairs with their pipes, and Thomas, looking at his
watch, would say, "I told him we should be ready for him at two o'clock.
He'll be along in a minute." Presently the door would open and the great
beast would stalk into the room. He did not lack presence. Tall and lean
as a tiger, but with a faint suggestion of the lion's mane, he would
stand for a moment looking at the company. Thomas would rise to his feet
and solemnly introduce his guests one by one to Sirius. "Professor
Stone, anthropologist, Dr. James Crawford, President of ---- College,"
and so on. The guests generally felt extremely ill at ease, not knowing
how to behave, and often suspecting that Thomas was playing a trick on
them. Sometimes they remained stolidly seated, sometimes they rather
sheepishly rose to their feet, as though Sirius were a distinguished
human newcomer. Sirius looked steadily into the eyes of each guest as he
was introduced, acknowledging him with a languid movement of his great
flag of a tail. He would then take up his position in the centre of the
company, generally squatting down on the hearth-rug. "Well," Thomas
would say, "first of all you want to know, of course, that Sirius really
can understand English, so will someone ask him to do something?" Often
the whole company was so paralysed by the oddity of the situation that
it took a full half-minute for anyone to think of an appropriate task.
At last the dog would be asked to fetch a cushion or a book, which of
course he straightway did. Presently Thomas would carry on a
conversation with Sirius, the guests listening intently to the strange
canine speech, and failing to understand a word of it. Then Sirius would
say a few simple words very slowly, Thomas translating. This would lead
on to a general conversation in which the guests would often question
the dog and receive the answer through Thomas. Not infrequently Sirius
himself would question the visitors, and sometimes his questions were
such that Thomas was obviously reluctant to pass on. In this way the
guests received a clear impression of a strong and independent
personality.

And in this way Sirius himself gradually reached certain conclusions
about these distinguished specimens of the dominant species. One
characteristic about them perplexed him greatly. It was such a
deep-seated thing that they themselves did not seem to be aware of it.
One and all, they undervalued or misvalued their hands. Many of them, in
fact all but the surgeons, sculptors, painters, and research workers,
were wretchedly clumsy with their hands, and by no means ashamed of it.
Even those whose work involved manual skill, the surgeons, sculptors and
so on, though they were so skilled in their own specialized technique,
had often lost that general handiness, that manual versatility, by which
their species had triumphed. On the whole they were helpless creatures.
Hands were for them highly specialized instruments, like the bird's wing
or the seal's flipper, excellent for some one action, but not versatile.
Those that came on bicycles never mended their punctures themselves.
They could not sew on their buttons or mend their socks. Moreover even
these specialized geniuses of the hand had to some extent been infected
by the general contempt for "manual toil," which the privileged class
had invented to excuse their laziness. As for the writers, academics,
lawyers, politicians, their unhandiness and their contempt for mere
manual dexterity were amazing. The writers couldn't even write properly.
They fell back on the cruder activity of pressing typewriter keys. Or
they simply dictated. Sirius had heard that in Old China the scholar
class let their finger-nails grow fantastically long so that their
incapacity for manual work should be obvious. Think of the millions of
cunning hands thus wasted! How he despised these regressive human types
for the neglect and atrophy of the most glorious human organ, the very
instrument of creation; and for infecting with their contempt for manual
skill even the manual workers themselves, on whose practical dexterity
the whole structure of civilization was founded! Artizans actually
wanted their sons to "rise" into the class of "black-coated" workers.
What would not Sirius himself have achieved if he had been given even
the clumsy hands of an ape, let alone the least apt of all these
neglected human organs!

The first few weeks at Cambridge were indeed delightful for Sirius.
Every morning some bit of research was done upon him at the Laboratory,
with his interested co-operation. Sometimes it was a case of studying
his motor or sensory reactions, sometimes his glandular responses to
emotional stimuli, sometimes his intelligence, and so on. X-ray
photographs had to be made of his skull, gramophone records of his
speech. With the co-operation of a psychologist he himself planned to
write a monograph on his olfactory experiences, and another on his power
of detecting human character and emotional changes by scent and tone of
voice. Psychologists and musicians studied his musical powers. His sex
life had also to be recorded.

In addition to all this strictly scientific work, in which Sirius
collaborated with his human observers, he planned to undertake two
popular books entirely on his own. One was to be called _The Lamp-post,
A Study of the Social Life of the Domestic Dog_. The opening passage is
interesting for the light which it throws on Sirius's temperament. "In
man, social intercourse has centred mainly on the process of absorbing
fluid into the organism, but in the domestic dog and to a lesser extent
among all wild canine species, the act charged with most social
significance is the excretion of fluid. For man the pub, the estaminet,
the Biergarten, but for the dog the tree-trunk, the lintel of door or
gate, and above all the lamp-post, form the focal points of community
life. For a man the flavours of alcoholic drinks, but for a dog the
infinitely variegated smells of urine are the most potent stimuli for
the gregarious impulse." The other projected book, _Beyond the
Lamp-post_, he kept a dead secret. It was to be autobiographical, and
would express his philosophy of life. These works were never completed;
the second was scarcely even begun, but I have found the random notes
for it extremely useful in writing Sirius's biography. They reveal a
mind which combined laughable navety in some directions with remarkable
shrewdness in others, a mind moreover which seemed to oscillate between
a heavy, self-pitying seriousness and a humorous detachment and
self-criticism.

It was flattering to Sirius to be the centre of so much interest; and it
was very unwholesome. Inevitably he began to feel that his mission was
after all simply to be his unique self, and to allow the human race
respectfully to study him. Far from retaining the humility that had
oppressed him on his visit to the library, he now swung away towards
self-complacency. As his presence became more widely known, more people
sought his acquaintance. Thomas received innumerable invitations from
outside the chosen circle, persons who had evidently heard vague rumours
of the human dog and were eager to verify them. When Sirius was out in
the streets people often stared at him and whispered. Thomas strongly
disapproved of his going out by himself, lest attempts should be made to
kidnap him. The anxious physiologist even went so far as to hint that
unless his precious charge agreed never to go out without a human escort
he would have to be confined to the Laboratory. This threat, however,
infuriated Sirius; and Thomas recognized that, if it were carried out,
all friendly co-operation would cease. The best he could do was to
engage a detective to follow the dog on a bicycle whenever he went out
of doors. Sirius conceived a humorous dislike of this individual. "He's
rather like a tin can tied to my tail, he and his clattery old bike,"
said Sirius; and henceforth always referred to him as "Old Tin Can." The
game of giving Old Tin Can the slip or leading him into awkward
situations became Sirius's main outdoor amusement.

Contrary to his original intention Sirius spent the whole of that autumn
term at Cambridge. Though he was often very homesick for the country,
and nearly always had a headache and often felt seedy, he found
Cambridge life far too fascinating to surrender. Several times he did,
indeed, suggest to Thomas that he ought to be moving on; but Thomas was
reluctant to break off the research, and Sirius himself was too
comfortable to find energy to press the matter.

Very soon the Christmas vacation was upon him, and he went back to Wales
with Thomas, Elizabeth, and Plaxy. Once more on the hills, he discovered
that he was in a sorry state of physical decay; and he spent much of his
time trying to restore himself by long hunting expeditions.

During the spring term Sirius was less happy. The glamour of Cambridge
had begun to fade, and he was increasingly restless about his future;
the more so because Cambridge was like a habit-forming drug. By now he
obtained only a mild satisfaction from it, yet it had got into his blood
and he could not bring himself to do without it. He had arrived in
Cambridge, an anatomical study of bone and muscle. A soft, inactive
life, which included far too many delicacies received in the houses of
admiring acquaintances, had already blurred his contours with a layer of
fat, and filled out his waist. Once when he met Plaxy in the street, she
exclaimed, "Gosh! You're going fat and prosperous, and you waddle like a
Pekinese." This remark had greatly distressed him.

Along with physical decay went a less obvious mental decay, a tendency
to sink into being a sort of super-lap-dog-cum-super-laboratory-animal.
His disposition became increasingly peevish and self-centred. There came
a day when a serious difference occurred between Sirius and McBane.
Thomas's lieutenant had prepared a piece of apparatus for a more minute
research into Sirius's olfactory powers. Sirius protested that he was
not in the mood for such an exacting bit of work to-day; his nose was in
a hypersensitive state and must not be put to any strain. McBane pointed
out that, if Sirius refused, hours of preparation would be wasted.
Sirius flew into a whimpering tantrum, crying that his nose was more
important than a few hours of McBane's time. "Good God!" cried McBane,
"you might be a prima donna."

Thomas had been surprised and pleased at the way in which Sirius had
settled down to his new life. It seemed as though the dog had outgrown
his romantic cravings, and was reconciled to becoming a permanent
property at the Lab. But in his second term, though Sirius was still
superficially able to enjoy his work, on a deeper level of his mind he
was becoming increasingly perturbed and rebellious. This life of ease
and self-gratulation was not at all what he was "meant for." The mere
shortage of physical exercise made him miserable. Sometimes he cantered
a few miles along the tow-path, but this was very boring; and he was
always oppressed by the knowledge that the faithful detective was
following on a bicycle. He could not force himself to run every day.
Consequently he was generally constipated and disgruntled. He felt a
growing nostalgia for the moors, the mists, the rich smell of the sheep,
with all its associations of hard work and simple triumphs. He
remembered Pugh with affection, and thought how much more real he seemed
than these dons and their wives.

He was vaguely aware too of his own moral decay. It was increasingly
difficult for him to do anything that he did not want to do. Not that he
was incapable of all mental effort, for he still generally carried out
his intellectual work with conscientious thoroughness. But then, he
happened to like that. What he was failing to do was to control his
ordinary selfish impulses in relation to his human neighbours. He was
also growing less capable even of prudential self-regard.

For instance there was the matter of bitches. Of the few bitches that he
encountered in the Cambridge streets, most were anyhow too small for
him, and many had been treated with a preparation which disguised the
animal's intoxicating natural odour, and made potential lovers regard
her as a filthy-smelling hag. He insisted to Thomas that, since in
Cambridge there was practically no scope at all for love-making, bitches
must be provided for him. It was not to be expected that a vigorous
young dog should be able to do without them and yet maintain his mental
balance. So a succession of attractive females was procured for him.
These creatures were brought in turn and at appropriate times to his
rooms in the Laboratory; and the whole matter was treated as part of the
prolonged and complicated scientific study in which he was co-operating.
The Laboratory, by the way, had analysed the chemistry of the odours
which were sexually stimulating to Sirius, and could choose seductive
animals for him with considerable success. But, his appetite, instead of
being assuaged, increased. Almost daily they brought a young bitch to
his room, yet he was never satisfied. Indeed he became more and more
lascivious and difficult to please. Thomas urged him to take himself in
hand, otherwise his mental vitality would be sapped. Sirius agreed to do
this, but failed to carry out his promise. And now a note of sadism
crept into his love-making. Once there was a terrible commotion because
in the very act of love he dug his teeth into the bitch's neck.

This incident seems to have frightened Sirius himself, for a change now
came over him. Dreading the dark power that seemed to rise up within him
and control his behaviour, he made a desperate effort to pull himself
together. He also determined to leave Cambridge at once and go back to
Wales for a spell with the sheep. Thomas reluctantly agreed that he had
better go, but pointed out that he was in no condition to undertake
sheep work again without some weeks of severe physical training. This
was all too true. The best that could be done was that Thomas should
arrange with Pugh to take him for a month not as a sheep-dog but as a
paying guest. This plan was much discussed, but somehow Sirius could not
bring himself to such an ignominious course. In default of a better
policy he simply stayed on at Cambridge till the end of the term. There
followed an Easter Vacation in Wales, given over wholly to physical
training in preparation for a spell of sheep-tending in Cumberland. But
as no satisfactory arrangement could be made for him, the lure of
Cambridge proved in the end too strong, and he returned with Thomas for
the summer term.

In the familiar environment the old way of life proved fatally easy.
Laboratory work, meetings with Thomas's scientific or academic friends,
a great deal of desultory biological and other scientific reading, a
certain amount of philosophy, the writing of his monographs and notes
for _The Lamp-post_ and _Beyond the Lamp-post_, select parties at which
he was lionised by the wives of dons, the perennial shortage of
exercise, a succession of bitches, all this told upon his health and
loosened his character. He developed more and more the prima donna
disposition. He became increasingly self-centred and self-important. Yet
all the while, deep in his heart, he felt completely disorientated and
futile, spiritually enslaved to the will of man.

At last, when he felt in himself a return of sadistic impulses, he was
seized with such a terror of sheer madness that he once more gathered
all his moral strength together for a great recovery. He set himself a
course of strict self-discipline and asceticism. He would have no more
bitches. He would cut down his food by half. Sometimes he would fast;
and "pray to whatever gods there be." He would take exercise. He would
co-operate conscientiously with the Laboratory staff in their researches
on him. He would once more tackle his literary work; for even this,
which had for long been his one remaining active interest, had recently
been dropped.

For a while he did indeed live a more austere life, punctuated by bouts
of wild self-indulgence; but presently his resolution began once more to
fail, and he found himself slipping back into the old ways. Terror
seized him; and a desperate loneliness in the midst of his social
contacts. He felt a violent need for Plaxy, and sent her a note, asking
her to come for a good walk with him.

Plaxy gladly made an appointment with him, but the day was not a
success. She was naturally very absorbed in her university life; and
though Sirius was in a manner a member of the same university, their
experiences did not overlap. Lectures, essays, meetings, dances, and
above all her new friendships filled her mind with matter that was
remote from Sirius. At first they talked happily and freely, but there
was no depth of intimacy between them. Several times he was on the verge
of blurting out his troubles; but to say, "Oh, Plaxy, help me, I'm going
to hell," which was what he wanted to say, seemed somehow preposterous.
Moreover, as the day wore on, he began to suspect from a faint change in
her odour that she was growing subconsciously hostile to him. He had
been talking to her about the bitches. It was then that her scent had
begun to take on a slight asperity, though in speech and manner she
remained quite friendly. Towards the end of the day a gloomy silence
fell upon them both. Each tried to dispel it with light talk, but
vainly. When at last they were on the point of parting, and Plaxy had
said, "It was nice to be together again." Sirius registered in his own
mind the fact that her odour had been growing mellower as the parting
approached. "Yes, it's good indeed," he said. But even as he said it the
human smell of her, though unchanged in its sensory quality, began to
nauseate him.

In order to return to the Laboratory he had to cross the town. He
strolled off, without any positive desire to reach his destination, or
indeed to do anything else. As he drifted along the streets, he felt
stifled by the surrounding herd of the grotesque super-simians who had
conquered the earth, moulded the canine species as they trimmed their
hedges, and produced his unique self. Feelings of violent hatred surged
up in him. A number of significant little memories presented themselves
to his embittered mind. Long ago in a field near Ffestiniog he had come
upon an angel-faced little boy taking baby thrushes out of a nest and
skewering them one by one on a rusty nail. More recently in a Cambridge
garden he had watched a well-dressed woman sitting on a seat and
fondling a dog's head. Presently she looked about as though to see if
she was being observed. There was no one but Sirius, a mere animal.
Still stroking the dog with one hand, she reached out with the other and
pressed her lighted cigarette-end into the creature's groin. This streak
of sexual cruelty in human beings horrified Sirius all the more because
he himself had indulged in something of the sort with his bitches. But
he persuaded himself that this aberration in him was entirely due to
some sort of infection from man, due, in fact, to his human
conditioning. His own kind, he told himself, were not by nature cruel.
Oh, no, they always killed as quickly as possible. Only the inscrutable
and devilish cat descended to torture.

It was all due to man's horrible selfishness, he told himself. _Homo
sapiens_ was an imperfectly socialized species, as its own shrewder
specimens, for instance H. G. Wells, had pointed out. Even dogs, of
course, were self-centred, but also far more spontaneously social. They
might often fight for bones or bitches, and they persecuted one another
for the glory of dominance; but when they _were_ social they were more
wholeheartedly social. They were much more ready to be loyal absolutely,
without any secret nosing after self-advantage. So he told himself. They
could give absolute, disinterested loyalty; for instance to the human
family that claimed their pack-allegiance, or to a single adored master,
or to the work that was entrusted to them. The sheep-dog didn't expect
to get anything out of his job. He did it for the work's sake alone. He
was an artist. No doubt some men were as loyal as any dog, but Cambridge
life had taught Sirius to smell out self-regard under every bit of
loyalty. Even Plaxy's affection for him seemed in his present mood
merely a sort of living up to a pattern for her precious self, not real
self-oblivious love. Or take McBane. Was it science or the budding great
scientist, Hugh McBane, that really stirred him? Sirius had noticed that
he smelt most excited and eager whenever some little personal triumph
was at stake. Then there were all those prominent people that he had met
at Thomas's lunch parties--biologists, physicists, psychologists,
doctors, surgeons, academics, writers, painters, sculptors and
God-knows-what-all. They were so very distinguished, and all so seeming
modest and so seeming friendly; and yet every one of them, every bloody
one of them, if he could trust his nose and his sensitive ears, was
itching for personal success, for the limelight, or (worse) scheming to
push someone else out of the limelight, or make someone in it look
foolish or ugly. No doubt dogs would be just as bad, really, except when
their glorious loyalty was upon them. That was the point! Loyalty with
dogs could be absolute and pure. With men it was always queered by their
inveterate self-love. God! They must be insensitive really; drunk with
self, and insensitive to all else. There was something reptilian about
them, snakish.

Long ago he had idealized humanity. His silly uncritical, canine loyalty
had made him do so. But now his practised nose had found out the truth
about the species. They were cunning brutes, of course, devilishly
cunning. But they were not nearly so consistently intelligent as he had
thought. They were always flopping back into sub-human dullness, just as
he was himself. And they didn't _know_ themselves even as well as he
knew himself, and not half as well as he knew them. How he knew them! He
had been brought up in a rather superior family, but even the Trelones
were often stupid and insensitive. Even Plaxy knew very little about
herself. She was so absorbed in herself that she couldn't see herself,
couldn't see the wood for the trees. How often she was unreasonable and
self-righteous because of some miserable little self-regard that she
herself didn't spot. But _he_ spotted it all right, oh yes! And she
could be cruel. She could make him feel an outcast and a worm, just for
spite.

What enraged him most of all about human beings, and particularly the
superior ones that he met in Cambridge, was their self-deception. Every
one of them was quite different really from the mask that he or she
presented to the world. McBane, for instance. Of course he really _was_
devoted to science, up to a point, but more so to himself; and he
daren't admit it, even to himself. Why couldn't he just say, "Oh, I know
I'm a selfish brute at heart, but I try not to be"? Instead, he
pretended to have a real sheep-dog loyalty to science. But he didn't
really _use himself up_ for science. Perhaps he might some day, just as
Thomas did. Some day he might be ready to die for science even. But if
he did, he would really be dying not absolutely for science, but for his
own reputation as a devoted scientist.

Oh God! What a species to rule a planet! And so obtuse about everything
that wasn't human! So incapable of realizing imaginatively any _other_
kind of spirit than the human! (Had not even Plaxy failed him?) And
cruel, spiteful! (Had not even Plaxy had her claws in him?) And
complacent! (Did not even Plaxy really, in her secret heart, regard him
as "just a dog"?)

But what a universe, anyhow! No use blaming human beings for what they
were. Everything was made so that it had to torture something else.
Sirius himself no exception, of course. Made that way! Nothing was
_responsible_ for being by nature predatory on other things, dog on
rabbit and Argentine beef, man on nearly everything, bugs and microbes
on man, and of course man himself on man. (Nothing but man was really
cruel, vindictive, except perhaps the loathly cat.) Everything
desperately struggling to keep its nose above water for a few breaths
before its strength inevitably failed and down it went, pressed under by
something else. And beyond, those brainless, handless idiotic stars,
blazing away so importantly for nothing. Here and there some speck of a
planet dominated by some half-awake intelligence like humanity. And here
and there on such planets, one or two poor little spirits waking up and
wondering what in hell everything was for, what it was all about, what
they could make of themselves; and glimpsing in a muddled way what their
potentiality was, and feebly trying to express it, but always failing,
always missing fire, and very often feeling themselves breaking up, as
he himself was doing. Just now and then they might find the real thing,
in some creative work, or in sweet community with another little spirit,
or with others. Just now and then they seemed somehow to create or to be
gathered up into something lovelier than their individual selves,
something which demanded their selves' sacrifice and yet gave their
selves new life. But how precariously, torturingly; and only just for a
flicker of time! Their whole life-time would only be a flicker in the
whole of titanic time. Even when all the worlds have frozen or exploded,
and all the suns gone dead and cold, there'll still be time. Oh, God,
what for?




CHAPTER IX
SIRIUS AND RELIGION


As Sirius walked home to the Laboratory after his day with Plaxy,
brooding on the shortcomings of man, and his own loneliness, and the
indifference of the universe, he began to slip into the wolf-mood.
Frustration always tended to have this effect on him, and he was feeling
desperately frustrated. He longed for self-expression, and could find no
means of attaining it. When he was a puppy he had decided that he would
be a general, deploying his human troops with superhuman skill, charging
with them to superhuman victory. Ludicrous, impossible dream! Later he
had determined to be an explorer of the Siberian Tundra or prairies (a
country that he thought suited to his powers); but how could a dog take
the necessary gear with him without causing excitement among the human
inhabitants? Or perhaps Australian sheep-farming would suit him, or some
kind of hunting career in the north of Canada. No, by now it was all too
clear that nothing would suit him, nothing was possible but to be a
super-lap-dog-cum-super-laboratory-animal.

Yet always there was a strange nagging "something" within him which
said, "Get on with it! You have unique powers. There is only one of you,
and you exist to make your contribution to the world. Find your calling.
It is difficult for you, no doubt, but you must find it or be damned."
Sometimes the voice said, "For you, humanity is the pack. You are not
one of them, but they made you and you are _for_ them. And because you
are different you can give them a vision which they can never win for
themselves." Could he, after all, fulfil his task, perhaps, through
music? Grandiose fantasies assailed him. "Sirius, the unique canine
composer, not only changed the whole character of human music, importing
into it something of the dog's finer auditory sensibility; he also, in
his own incomparable creations, expressed the fundamental
identity-in-diversity of all spirits, of whatever species, canine, human
or superhuman."

But no! It could not be. Man would never listen to him. And what reason
had he to suppose that he had the genius to strike his music into the
deep incomprehensible heart of man?

On the way back to the Laboratory Sirius heard the familiar nagging
voice, calling him to express the "spirit" in him. He greeted it with an
inward snarl. What could he possibly do about it? Nothing. He was a
misfit, a mistake. He ought never to have occurred.

He felt an increasing impulse to run amok in the street. Life was no
good to him. Why not throw it away, why not kill as many as he could of
these ridiculously bedecked, swelled-headed apes, until they managed to
destroy him? "I won't, I won't," he kept saying to himself. "Even if
they _are_ apes, or forked worms, they are the same stuff really as I
am." Fleeing from himself, he broke into a trot, a canter, a real
gallop, needing the seclusion of his own room. There, he paced up and
down for many hours, far into the night. These hours form a crucial
point in his life, so I shall quote from the account which he himself
wrote down on the following day; turgid stuff, but significant of his
unwholesome state.

"I walked and walked, rubbing my shoulder painfully against the wall
every time I turned, snapping at the curtain as I passed it. This was
affectation; I was dramatizing myself as a caged beast. The colleges and
churches chimed, quarter by quarter. The noise of passing cars died down
as the night advanced. I kept remembering with fury the smell of Plaxy,
dear and loathsome; and the scent of my last bitch, so sweet, but false,
promising a lovely spirit that did not exist. Then the sudden presence
of Idwal's friendly smell, and of a flock of sheep, drenched with mist.
The smell of Pugh, sweaty and excited. Of frost, of a summer day, of
wind from the sea, of the change of wind from west to east. Trails of
rabbit and hare. The infuriating stink of cat. Fox, rich and subtle. The
menagerie. Chloroform, and the two toughs that had attacked me. The
faint, throat-tightening smell of suffering which sometimes seems to
come from the part of the Lab where I have never been.

"Below all this flood of smells there was an undercurrent of sounds;
tones of human voices, and dog voices; bleating of sheep and lambs; the
wind, whimpering or furious; snatches of human music, and themes of my
own singing.

"My whole life seemed to crowd in on me in smell and sound; and touch
also, for I felt Plaxy's hand on my neck, and the cracking of bones
between my teeth, and the soft flanks of a young setter that I had loved
long ago in Ffestiniog.

"Visual shapes came too, but dimly, unsteadily. Sometimes I glimpsed
Thomas with pursed lips, considering me; sometimes Plaxy smiling.

"While these memories presented themselves to me, thoughts also kept
racing and jostling one another through my mind, chiefly terrified and
resentful thoughts about man's power over me, and my own failure to be
master of my fate. How could I ever save myself from the breakdown that
had already begun in me? What help was there anywhere for me? Thomas did
not really understand the creature he had made. Elizabeth was always
ready to hear my troubles and comfort me; but somehow she turned them
all into child's troubles. And Plaxy was now so far away. It was 'the
spirit,' we had said, that mattered. It was 'in the spirit' that we were
eternally together. But now? Had we meant anything real at all by 'the
spirit'? I wondered. After all we were just animals, with some degree of
intelligence; animals of different species, doomed never really to be at
one with each other, always in discord, and now drifting inevitably
apart.

"Why, why was everything so sweet in promise and yet always in
realization bitter?

"But presently, as I paced up and down the little room, a queer thing
happened. It was as though my wandering imagination came upon a new
quality, different from all that I had ever known; yet one which was
also more familiar and intimate than the smell of Plaxy in the mood of
love, more piercing sweet than bitches, more hunt-worthy than the trail
of a fox.

"No, I must not romanticize. This is a scientific report. No new sensory
quality really came to me. But something happened in my mind which I
can't describe in any other way. If it was a fragrance at all, it was
the fragrance of love and wisdom and creating, of these for their own
sake, whether crowned with success and happiness or not. It was this
fragrance, which somehow came to me with such a fresh poignancy that it
was something entirely new to me. It was this fragrance, trailed across
the universe, winding in and out of all its chasms and interstices, that
had so often enticed me; but now in my excited state it presented itself
to me so vividly that I had to dramatize it to myself as a new quality,
neither odour nor sound nor visible form, but most like an odour to be
pursued.

"And I did pursue it. I stopped pacing, and lay down with my forelegs
stretched before me; and I laid my chin along them. Ignoring all the
other remembered scents, I pursued this strange new trail, with the
flying feet of inner attention. And as I followed, the trail became
stronger, clearer, more exquisite. Sometimes it escaped me, but casting
back I recovered it. Sometimes my strength failed, and as I flagged the
trail grew fainter. But I gathered myself together again for the chase,
and as I pursued, lessening the distance between myself and the quarry,
the scent grew clearer and more compelling.

"At last a terrible thing happened. As I drew nearer, the quality of the
heavenly quarry seemed to change. Though its exquisite sweetness
remained, drawing me on, a new, pungent tang, a stinging, choking,
bitter, exquisite and terrifying perfume, was mixed with it. There was
something in it that made my mind reel, as the chloroform had done; and
something fierce, like the mighty smells of tiger and lion, but with a
grimness that no earthly smell ever had. I could not give up the chase.
With staggering mind I still clung to the trail. The thing that I was
hunting must surely be the source of all fragrance in the universe, and
all horror also. And I was famished for the thing. I must, must reach
it; though in the end surely not _I_ should devour _it_, but _it_ would
devour _me_. Surely the thing that I was crazily hunting must be the
very thing that men called God, the dear and beautiful and dread.

"At last it was as though the quarry turned at bay and overwhelmed me.
Remembering, I cannot recapture that moment of agony and bliss, the
agony of my slaughtered self, the bliss of the freed spirit in me. It
was as though--how can I put it?--as though the trail which had first
promised the most succulent prey, and then the most formidable but
spell-binding enemy, had led after all not to the universal Tiger but to
the universal Master, the superhuman master whom my super-canine nature
so desperately needed to take possession of me and steady me with his
claim for absolute loyalty and service.

"That supreme moment passed. I can remember only that when it passed I
found peace such as I had not known before and shall never, I believe,
quite lose. The whole universe now presented itself with a new quality,
as though my monochrome vision had suddenly gained the glory of colour.
But the colours that I saw were not of sensation. They were the colours
that are seen by the eye of the spirit. All the things and people that I
had seen hitherto in the plain greys of ordinary life were now enriched
with a great diversity of the new quality which I am calling colour, so
that they gained a new meaning, much as sounds gain a new meaning in
speech or music. I saw them all in their own true colours and suffused
with the music of the whole. And even now, on the day after my glorious
moment, which is lost save for its afterglow in my mind, I still see
everything coloured by the light of the spirit."

There followed a postscript.

"All this was written on the day after my vision, if vision it was. And
now another day has passed. I have read it over, and I see that it does
not describe at all the thing that happened to me. It is sentimental
verbiage. It does not recapture the experience for me, it blurs it. But
I am certain that something big really did happen to me. And the proof
shall be shown in my life. I will take charge of my life. I will drift
no more. I will still be true to science, but I will be true to my new
light also. I will be a sceptic about everything but one thing, which
does not admit of scepticism (once one has clearly seen it), namely that
it does indeed matter to be as quickened a spirit as possible, and to
live for the quickening of the spirit everywhere. In fact I am going to
be the hound of the spirit. Me? Lazy, excuse-finding me? That's a good
joke, isn't it! Looking at the matter with scientific detachment, I am
sure I shall be adrift again before the week is out. Well, even if I
_am_, the thing that happened the night before last will make a
difference. And looking at it all in the light of the thing--no, by God!
I shall never be adrift again! Not fundamentally."

With much misgiving Sirius dutifully offered this document to Thomas.
Would he be amused, or annoyed? Or would he take it with all his aloof
scientific detachment as a psychological datum? Sirius never discovered
what Thomas really felt about it. The great physiologist was respectful,
almost diffident; and hoped Sirius did not object to having the document
typed in triplicate, "for the Laboratory records, and to show to a few
of my friends, if you don't mind."

This seemingly mystical experience awakened in Sirius a new interest in
religion. Through one of Thomas's guests he stumbled on the literature
of mysticism, and was soon devoting a great deal of his time to St.
Catherine of Siena, St. John of the Cross, Jacob Boehme, the Vedanta,
and so on. It was Thomas who had to procure these works for him; and the
task made Thomas smell acrid and disapproving, even though in word and
deed he remained sympathetic.

Sirius now conceived a great desire to discuss religion with some
sincere and orthodox religious person. No such person, it seemed, was
among Thomas's circle of trusted friends who might be admitted into the
secret of Sirius's intelligence. They were all either strictly
scientific in the narrow sense or inclined to say "One feels in one's
bones that there must be _something_ in religion, but God knows what."
Contact with these people merely increased Sirius's desire to pursue the
matter, without helping him.

Sometimes he would hang about the doors of chapels and churches, to
watch the congregation enter or leave the building, or to strain his
hypersensitive ears to catch reverberations of the music, the prayers,
the lessons and the sermon. The fact that as a mere dog he was not
allowed into the sacred building increased his sense of exile and
inferiority, and his readiness to believe that in spite of the critics
it was within those walls that man attained his highest range of
experience.

On one occasion his hunger for the truth was so great that he could not
restrain himself from a very foolish act. It was summer time, and there
was a heat wave. He had been watching the worshippers entering a little
Methodist Chapel. Contrary to custom, the doors were not shut before the
service began. Emotional prayer and vigorous singing flooded out upon
him. To his refined sensibility the music was crude and the execution
vulgar, but these very imperfections increased for him the feeling that
music was here only a hastily executed symbol of some ulterior
experience. A poem might be sincere no matter how hastily it had been
scribbled. Jarred by the barbaric sound, yet fascinated, Sirius drifted
step by step into the porch and across the inner threshold. He had
entered during a prayer. The minister's eyes were reverently closed. His
tone of voice was unctuous and complacently servile. With the
conventional intonation of penitence and worship, but without any inner
experience of them, he affirmed the sinfulness of the whole human race,
and confidently, flatteringly, asked his God for forgiveness and eternal
bliss for himself and his flock. The backs of the bowed congregation
appeared above the pews like the backs of sheep in a pen. But their
smell on that hot day was all too human.

When the prayer was ended the minister opened his eyes. He saw the great
dog standing in the aisle. Pointing dramatically at Sirius, he
exclaimed, "Who has brought that animal into God's House? Put it out!"
Several black coats and striped trousers moved towards Sirius. They
expected him to retire before them, but he stood his ground, his head
and tail erect, his back bristling. A faint growl, rather like distant
thunder, made the assailants hesitate. Sirius looked round the building.
All eyes were turned on him, some outraged, some amused. He turned
slowly to retrace his steps. The ejectors cautiously advanced. One of
them said, "Good dog! Go home!" but another began to chivvy him with an
umbrella, and rashly tapped his haunch. Sirius leapt round with a bark
that echoed through the bare chapel, and his pursuers retreated a pace.
He stood looking at them for a few moments, amused at his easy triumph.
The hair on his spine subsided. He vaguely waved his tail, and turned
towards the door. Then a mischievous idea took possession of him. At the
door he once more faced the congregation, and in a clear, accurate,
though wordless, voice he sang the refrain of the hymn that had been
sung before he entered. As he turned to leave the building a woman
screamed. The minister in a rather strained voice said, "Friends, I
think we had better join once more in prayer."

On another occasion he marched beside the drums of the Salvation Army,
sometimes forgetting himself so far as to add his voice to the trumpets.
The open air service gave him, he told Thomas, an irrational sense of
salvation. What appealed to him most was one of the hymns, sung with
immense gusto. "Washed in the blood of the Lamb," was its theme. He
could not resist joining in the singing, though softly. He could not see
how the imagery of the hymn agreed with the religion of love, but
somehow it had a strange power over him. He vaguely and quite
irrationally felt it as unifying all the tenderness of his life with all
the wolf in him. He scented again the seductive reek of his killed ram
and his killed pony. Somehow the haunting conflict between pity and
blood-lust seemed to be resolved. His guilt was washed away. There was
no sound reason for this; he just felt it. He and these human animals
somehow unloaded their sins upon the Lamb, and found a crude ecstasy of
community one with another, and all together. They abased themselves
into the personified spirit of the group. The intoxicated minds gave up
all attempt to think clearly and feel precisely, and yielded to the
common mentality; which somehow seemed to be universal, cosmical, the
personified "togetherness" of all individual spirits in all the worlds.
Thus he felt, as the barbaric tune soaked through his brain. Yet to
another part of his mind the blasting of the trumpets, the thundering of
the drums and the lusty human singing seemed as remote as the howling of
an alien species in the jungle. Not in this way, said the protesting
part of his mind, not in the remission of clear thought and feeling for
the sake of the mere warmth of togetherness, could one find the
essential spirit, identical in himself and in these humans. Only in the
most articulate, precise self- and other-consciousness was the thing to
be found; for instance on those rare occasions of spiritual accord with
Plaxy, when through their very difference and distinctness they
discovered their underlying identity. Yes, and in another manner he had
sometimes found that thing, with Thomas, when their two intellects had
moved together up the steep path of some argument, Thomas always
leading, till they had reached together some pinnacle from which, it
seemed, they could view the whole universe.




CHAPTER X
EXPERIENCES IN LONDON


One day Sirius demanded very urgently that Thomas should arrange for him
to meet a few of the outstanding religious people of Cambridge. "But I
don't know any," said Thomas. "They're not my line. And anyhow I
wouldn't trust them not to blab." Sirius was not to be put off; and
finally it was agreed that Elizabeth should help him to satisfy his
curiosity about religion, and at the same time show him London. She had
a cousin who was a parson in the East End. He could be taken into their
confidence, and the two of them could perhaps visit him.

The Rev. Geoffrey Adams, now well advanced in middle age, was one of
those clerics who had cared more for his parishioners than for
self-advancement. Long ago he had undertaken a slum parish, and he had
stayed there ever since. His life had been spent in comforting the sick
and the dying with assurances of peace hereafter, in fighting local
authorities on behalf of hard cases, and in agitating for playgrounds,
free milk for mothers and children, and decent treatment for the
unemployed. Throughout the country he had something of a reputation as a
fighting parson, for on several occasions his indiscreet championship of
the oppressed had brought him up against the state or his ecclesiastical
superiors. Nearly all his parishioners admired him, some loved him, very
few attended his services.

Elizabeth wrote to Geoffrey, telling him about Sirius, and asking if she
might visit him, with the wonder-dog. He replied that he was desperately
busy, that religion was not a thing to be got merely by talking about
it, but that if they came to the East End he would show them round, and
they might see a little of it in action.

Elizabeth took Sirius by train to King's Cross, a tiresome journey for
the dog, as he had to travel in the luggage van. They spent the
afternoon walking about the more prosperous end of the metropolis, for
Sirius's edification. Oxford Street, Regent Street, Piccadilly and the
parks gave Sirius a new impression of the multitude and power of the
human race. What an amazing species it was, with its great buildings,
its endless streams of cars, its shop-window displays, its swarming
foot-passengers, with their trousered or silken legs! He could always
detect the familiar sheep smell in the tweed; and in the fur coats there
were still odours of the menagerie. Sirius had many questions to ask
Elizabeth, but of course they dared not talk, for fear of rousing
curiosity.

After a while Elizabeth was tired with all the walking, and wanted her
tea. It was difficult to find a caf where the great dog was acceptable,
but after a while they settled beside a little table. Sirius, of course,
lay on the floor, and was much in the way of the waitresses. Elizabeth
gave him a bun and a slop-basin full of sweet tea. While she smoked, he
watched the company. Someone was overheard to say, "That dog's
expression is almost human."

After they had refreshed themselves they went eastwards by tube, and
emerged in an entirely different world, the down-and-out world that
Plaxy had often described to him. He was amazed by the contrast of _homo
sapiens_ in affluence and _homo sapiens_ in penury. Young men hung about
aimlessly at pub-corners. Dirty-faced children and shabby curs played in
the gutters. Both the smell and the voices of the passers-by gave Sirius
an unmistakable impression of defeat and resentment. He walked beside
Elizabeth with alert and anxious eyes and heavy tail. This line of
country threatened to be too much for him. The only familiar and
comforting thing about it was the variety of odours left by his own kind
at the foot of each lamp-post. The rest was overwhelming, not only
because of the oppressive stink of man, but because it was a stink of
man in abject anxiety. The western crowd had smelt mainly of cosmetics,
perfume, soap, fresh tweed, tobacco smoke, moth balls and the
slaughtered beasts whose furs they had stolen. There was also, of
course, a strong undertone of human sweat, mostly female, and of all the
other physical odours, including now and then an unmistakable whiff of
sexual excitement. But in the eastern crowd the smell of crude human
bodies dominated everything else; and it was on the average different in
quality from the smell of the western bodies. In the prosperous region
the odour was mainly of wholesome physique, but in the poorer region
there was a faint but definite and very widespread smell of ill-health,
rising sometimes (for his keen nose) to one or other of the repellent
stenches of disease. There was another difference, too. Even in the west
there was a tell-tale smell of peevish discontent; but in the east,
where frustration was far more poignant, the same smell of discontent
was stronger, and often accompanied by the acrid stink of chronic but
suppressed rage.

Sirius, of course, had come across sordid town areas before, but never
before had he imaginatively realized the extent of man's degradation in
Britain. So this, he kept saying to himself, is what man has done to
man, this is the average condition of the proud tyrant species. Its
fundamentally self-regarding intelligence and its inadequate feeling for
community has led it to this. The West End cared not a damn for the East
End, and both, in their several ways, were frustrated.

The Rev. Geoffrey Adams received his visitors with some embarrassment.
He had no idea how to treat Sirius, and even ordinary dogs he felt to be
rather remote and incomprehensible. However, he soon learned that this
great beast must be treated more or less as a human being; and he showed
a surprising quickness in recognizing that Sirius's strange noises were
an attempt at the English language. He accounted for his aptitude by
saying, "I come across so many queer lingos at the docks." Then,
realizing that this remark might seem disrespectful, he looked anxiously
at Sirius, who moved his tail slightly in sign of friendliness.

Elizabeth had intended that they should spend a couple of nights with
Geoffrey and then return to Cambridge, but Sirius was determined to stay
on by himself, if Geoffrey would have him. For here was an aspect of
mankind about which he knew nothing, and he could not begin to
understand it in a couple of days. Geoffrey had been at first rather
sceptical and even offhand about Sirius's search for religion, but some
of the dog's remarks during their first interview, interpreted by
Elizabeth, had roused his interest, particularly his statement that the
heart of religion was love, and nothing else mattered. Here was a truth
that called for elaboration and qualification. Geoffrey was also much
intrigued by Sirius's real capacity for song, for the cleric was
musical, and something of a singer himself. This was an added reason for
his unexpectedly warm encouragement of Sirius's suggestion that he
should remain in the East End for a while.

It was arranged that the dog should stay with Geoffrey for a week.
Actually he remained much longer, He masqueraded as Geoffrey's dog,
going with him among the parishioners whenever possible. Often, of
course, he had to be left behind. Geoffrey could not take him to share
death-bed scenes or difficult interviews with town councillors. But on
most pastoral visits cleric and dog would set out together, and on the
doorstep Geoffrey would ask, "May I bring in my dog? He's quite
friendly." Sirius's amiable expression and waving tail would nearly
always gain him a welcome.

In this manner he saw much of the conditions in which the less fortunate
members of the dominant species lived. He also listened to many a
conversation on matters practical or spiritual. Sometimes Geoffrey would
greatly amuse his friends in the parish by including Sirius in the
conversation, and Sirius to their delight would "reply." No one, of
course, suspected that these little performances were genuine; but the
Rev. Adams's queer dog was well received in all but the most
unimaginative families. Children were specially accessible, for Sirius
allowed them to ride him and maul him, and often showed "an uncanny
understanding" of their talk and games. One boy of twelve insisted that
Sirius's own talk was not sham at all, and that he himself could often
understand it. Geoffrey affirmed, "Of course it's real," then knowingly
smiled at the grown-ups.

Sometimes Geoffrey's duties took him to a canteen or mission-hall in
dockland, sometimes to a Men's Club, where, followed by the observant
Sirius, he would pass from room to room exchanging greetings with the
members. Sometimes the parson took a turn at darts or billiards, or
watched a boxing match. Once, with Sirius carelessly stretched out on
the floor, he gave a talk on "Housing."

It did not take long for Sirius to discover that there were many
different reactions to Geoffrey in this club. A few members regarded him
with resentment and suspicion; and expressed their spleen by furtive
persecution of his dog. Others, while respecting Geoffrey's kindliness
and sincerity, regarded him and his religion as survivals from a
prehistoric world. A few curried favour by professing conventional
piety. One or two, for whom Geoffrey showed a special bantering
affection, were for ever trying to convert him to atheism. The
arguments, on both sides, rather shook Sirius's faith in the
intellectual honesty of the dominant species, for on both sides the
calibre of the reasoning was sometimes laughably poor. It was as though
neither side really cared about mere logical cogency, because both had
already made up their minds. Of all the club members, not one, it seemed
to Sirius, was a sincere Christian in Geoffrey's sense of the term;
though many were deeply influenced by Geoffrey's personality.

Sometimes Geoffrey took Sirius into the actual land of docks. The
strange odours of foreign merchandise greatly interested him. They
afforded him, he said, not only information about the goods themselves
but something of the atmosphere of the lands from which they came. They
enabled him to "travel by nose." He was greatly intrigued also by the
new varieties of human odour associated with coloured people. Negroes,
Lascars, Chinese, each had their distinctive racial scent, and in
contrast with these the smell characteristic of Europeans distinguished
itself in his mind.

On one occasion Geoffrey and Sirius came upon a minor riot. The dockers
were on strike on account of the sacking of one of their number for
political reasons. Blackleg labour was introduced, and the local men
attacked the interlopers. Geoffrey and Sirius arrived at the height of
the trouble. A large crowd of men was preventing a smaller crowd from
going to work. Stones and bottles were thrown. A blackleg was knocked
unconscious, and lay in the mud with a bleeding forehead. Geoffrey
hastened to him, with Sirius at his heels, the wolf-mood rising. As
Geoffrey bent over the stricken man, some of the dockers reviled him for
helping their enemy. Someone even threw a stone, and Sirius took up a
position between Geoffrey and the crowd, with bared teeth and a
terrifying growl. Geoffrey did not take the men's hostile action meekly.
In fact, for the first time Sirius saw him lose his temper. "Fools!"
cried the parson. "I'm on your side, but this man is as precious to God
as any of us." At this point God's damaged treasure recovered
consciousness and rose to his feet, using most ungodly language. Then
the police arrived in considerable force, drew their truncheons, and
charged the dockers, most of whom fled. A few put up a fight and were
arrested; two were picked up unconscious.

Before going to bed that night, Geoffrey and Sirius, as was their
custom, talked over the affairs of the day. This time Sirius was deeply
interested. He had long ago discovered that the human species was not at
one with itself, and that authority was not always sympathetic with the
common people, but the scene at the dock entrance had brought this home
to him. According to Geoffrey the aim of the strike was to make a stand
against gross victimization; and yet the police, though their action had
been legally correct, had shown unnecessary brutality.

The world that Sirius now lived in was bewilderingly different from both
his two other worlds, North Wales and Cambridge. The three worlds were
inhabited by such diverse creatures that he could almost believe them
three different species. Country people, intellectuals, dockers!
Mentally they were far more alien to one another than dogs, cats and
horses. Yet, of course, the difference was really all imposed by
environment. Well, for the present he was wholly occupied in studying
his third world; the others faded imperceptibly into dreamlands. For
some weeks he was far too interested in the East End to look back on
those other worlds; but at last there came times, chiefly when Geoffrey
was busy on committee work, when he found himself hankering after open
country and the smell of the sheep. For at these times there was nothing
for him to do but wander about the streets watching the rather shabby
crowds, listening to their monkey chatter, smelling their slightly
unhealthy and frustrated odour, and feeling himself utterly alien to
them. Then he would begin to worry about his future. What was to become
of him? In Wales he was just a sheep-dog and a chattel; in Cambridge, a
curiosity. In London? Well, at least, he was a student of the human
species. But what could he ever _do_? It was his nature to _give_
himself absolutely to some work; but to what work? To mere
sheep-tending? To science? Why, of course, to the spirit. But how? His
despondency was largely due to constipation. Do what he would, he could
not get enough physical exercise in a town, and he could not help eating
far too much for an inactive life. Worse, his soul was constipated. He
was always taking in mental food and never doing anything with it.

One day as he was strolling past the entrance to a railway station, he
noticed a display of large framed photographs advertising holiday
resorts. One of them was a magnificent picture of moorland with mist
driving over it. There was a little llyn, and one or two sheep. Waves
splashed seductively on the stony shore. In the background the mountain
rose darkly into the cloud. The immediate foreground was all tussocks of
grass and heather, inviting his legs to action. He stood for a long time
looking at this picture, letting the feel of the moors soak into him
again, getting the smell of them. He caught himself actually working his
nostrils to take the sheep's scent. Were they Pugh's or a neighbour's?
It was all so real. And yet so far away and dreamlike. He could scarcely
believe that he would ever be there again. Sudden panic seized him.

Then Sirius came to a firm resolution about his future. Science or no
science, spirit, or no spirit, he would spend his life in that sort of
country, not in slums, nor in universities. That alone was his line of
country. That was the only world he could ever really live in. Somehow
in that world he must express whatever potency it was that was always
straining in him to find exercise. But how?

On Sundays Geoffrey was always very busy, and Sirius was of course
excluded from his sacred duties. The dog generally took the opportunity
of securing a bit of much-needed exercise, cantering off into Epping
Forest. On Sunday evenings Geoffrey often seemed dejected and old.
Sirius had observed that few people entered the church for any of the
services. Unfortunately Geoffrey, though respected and loved by so many,
could not attract a large congregation. This incapacity he regarded as a
failure in his religious duty. He did not realize, but Sirius did, that
the influence of his personality reached far beyond the range of his
official ministrations, and that he had given to thousands the essence
of religion, though they could not accept from him the ritual and
doctrine which, though symbolically true for a past age, was quite out
of keeping with the spirit of our times. Some of Geoffrey's warmest
admirers were persons who never attended his church or even counted
themselves Christians. Of those who did attend, a few were of course
sincere believers in the Christian myth as "gospel truth." Others came
because they vaguely felt the need of some kind of religious life. They
recognized in Geoffrey a truly religious spirit, and he assured them
that they ought to join in communal worship. But the living example
which he gave them in his life of practical love was somehow not
clarified or strengthened by his church services. Geoffrey had no power
to infuse the services with the ardent religious passion which he
himself felt; and this failure it was which filled him with a gnawing
doubt of his own sincerity.

These conclusions Sirius boldly announced to Geoffrey in their many
talks over meals or late in the evenings. The ageing priest was saddened
by them. He could not for a moment contemplate the possibility that his
rituals and doctrines had only symbolical truth, though he could and did
doubt his own sincerity as a servant of God. He was saddened that men
should be so blind as to doubt the literal truth of Christian doctrine,
and specially sad that his friend Sirius should be so blind. For between
priest and dog there had rapidly developed a deep mutual respect and
affection. They had told one another much of their personal lives, and
in particular of their religious searchings. To Geoffrey it seemed that
Sirius's vague yearnings and rigorous agnosticism formed only an utterly
inadequate shadow of religion. To Sirius it seemed, of course, that
Geoffrey's religion was an incongruous tissue of true value-intuitions
and false or meaningless intellectual propositions. Sirius had spoken of
his love for Plaxy as "at heart a religious love for the universal
spirit." He had also told of his strange vision in Cambridge. On one
occasion he had said, "I see, indeed I _know_, that in _some_ sense God
is love, and God is wisdom, and God is creative action, yes and God is
beauty; but what God actually _is_, whether the maker of all things, or
the fragrance of all things, or just a dream in our own hearts, I have
not the art to know. Neither have you, I believe; nor any man, nor any
spirit of our humble stature." Geoffrey merely smiled sadly and said,
"May God in His time show you the truth that His Son died to manifest."

On another occasion Sirius challenged Geoffrey about immortality. They
had been discussing for some while when Sirius said, "Now take me! Have
_I_ an immortal soul?" Geoffrey replied at once, "I have often wondered
about you. I _feel_, indeed, that you are an immortal spirit, and I
earnestly prayed that God should grant you salvation. But if you are,
and if He does, it is a miracle which I cannot interpret."

Sirius had come to Geoffrey in the hope of finding the true religion. At
Cambridge, in spite of all the free and fearless intelligence, there had
obviously been something lacking, something that he greatly needed,
though Cambridge regarded it as something almost indecent. He had
thought it must be simply "religion," and he had come to London to find
it. And in Geoffrey he had, indeed, found it. There could be no doubt
that Geoffrey had a firm hold on the thing that Cambridge lacked, that
Geoffrey was the very embodiment of "religion" in action. But--but--one
couldn't have Geoffrey's religion without violating all that one had
learnt at Cambridge, all the constant loyalty to intelligence that was
the best thing in Cambridge. In a way it was easy to cling to faith and
betray intelligence, though Geoffrey's active faith was no easy-going
affair. It was easy, too, to cling to intelligence and abandon faith,
like McBane, for instance. But was there no way of being equally loyal
to both? Vaguely it began to appear to Sirius that there was, but that
it involved both keener intelligence and more sensitive religious
feeling than either of the other courses. Passion for "the spirit," the
awakened way of living, whatever its fortune in the universe, passion
for the spirit, stripped of all belief and comfort save the joy of that
passion itself--this, expressed in a life of devoted action, like
Geoffrey's, this was the only, the true religion. But poor Sirius felt
dismally that this was beyond him. He just hadn't the guts. He hadn't
either the intelligence or the passion. If only the spirit itself would
seize him and set fire to him! But then--he was not prepared. He was not
really inflammable. There was too much damp fog drenching all his
tissues.

The friendship of the parson and his dog was the source of much comment
in the district; the more so when it became known that the Rev. Adams
was sometimes to be heard talking to the great animal as though to a
human being. The dear old man, they said, was growing more eccentric
than ever. Some declared simply that he was crazy. But presently rumour
had it that real conversations did take place between man and dog, and
that there actually was something mysterious about Sirius. The devout
said he was either possessed by the Devil or was an angel in disguise.
The scientific wiseheads said it was all quite simple, the dog was a
biological sport.

The climax came when Sirius made a dramatic appearance in church. He had
for long been secretly planning to gain Geoffrey's consent to this,
partly because he wanted to witness one of Geoffrey's services, partly
because it rankled to be shut out from the most solemn activity of the
human species, and treated as an inferior animal. Geoffrey, of course,
felt that he ought not to permit a brute to enter the holy place. His
curate would have been outraged, and so would the congregation. But he
had been much impressed by Sirius's superb singing voice, and Sirius had
subtly induced him to toy with the idea of allowing his canine friend to
sing a wordless anthem from behind the vestry door. When they were at
home together, Sirius made a point of practising some of Geoffrey's
favourite "sacred" music.

With much misgiving, and a sense not of sin but of naughtiness, Geoffrey
finally agreed to allow Sirius to sing at a Sunday morning service,
unseen, from behind the vestry door. The great day arrived, Dog and man
walked to the church, the priest explaining to the canine singer the
point in the service at which the anthem should occur. "Keep well behind
the door," he said. "This is a bold step for me, Sirius. If they find
out there will be trouble."

When the couple reached the gate of the little church, Sirius paused for
a moment, looked up at Geoffrey rather anxiously, and then deposited a
few drops of golden fluid on the gate-post. With a rather nervous laugh
Geoffrey said, "You might have relieved yourself somewhere else." "No,"
answered Sirius. "It was a religious act. I have poured my libation in
honour of your God. And I have relieved my spirit of impurity. I am
lightened for the chase, the pursuit of the divine quarry by song."

When the service was about to begin, the verger noticed that the parson
had left the vestry door open. He stepped over to shut it, but Geoffrey
waved him away with his hand.

At the appropriate point in the service Geoffrey announced, "You will
now hear a wordless anthem sung by a dear friend of mine who will remain
unnamed and unseen." Sirius's strong pure voice, unaccompanied, then
filled the church. Geoffrey listened with delight at its power and
delicacy of expression. It seemed to him that in this music lay the
truth that he himself had striven all his life long to express in word
and deed. And now a dog, interpreting a great human composer (it was
Bach) was saying it unmistakably, though without words. Many of the
congregation also were deeply moved. The few musical members were
impressed and mystified, for the execution was accurate, and it
expressed with severe restraint a deep and subtle passion. But what
perplexed them was the curiously non-human quality of the voice. Was it
perhaps some cunning instrumental imitation of a man's voice, or of a
woman's? The range, they said, was too great for either. If it was
indeed a singer, why did he or she not appear? Throughout the following
week rumour was busy. A great singer, it was said, had consented to do
this thing for Mr. Adams on condition that his identity was not
revealed. The pious secretly believed that the great singer was not a
man but an angel from heaven. Such was the decay of faith, however, that
fear of ridicule prevented all but a few simple souls from openly
proclaiming this belief.

Next Sunday there were far more people than usual at the morning
service, though not enough to make the church look full. The newcomers
obviously had come out of mere curiosity. In his sermon Geoffrey scolded
them for it. There was no anthem.

Not till the following Sunday, which was to be Sirius's last before
returning to Cambridge, did he sing again. His earlier success had made
him long for another opportunity, and he wished to face the
congregation. This was to be the beginning of his message to the human
species. He would sing them something of his own composition. It must be
something intelligible to human ears, and indeed to a good proportion of
this simple congregation. It must be something which would help them to
feel again the essential truth in their own religion, and the
unimportance of its mythology.

Geoffrey was reluctant to let Sirius perform again, because too much of
a "sensation" had already been caused. But he longed to hear that great
voice filling his church once more. And his natural sincerity inclined
him to let the singer be seen as well as heard. Moreover, though he knew
there would be trouble with the bishop and some of the congregation, he
felt that he was under an obligation to welcome his canine friend in
God's house. Further, he secretly relished the prospect of shocking his
earnest young curate.

Sirius spent several mornings out in Epping Forest, trying over many of
his compositions. Though he kept out of view, as far as possible, his
strange voice caused several people to seek him out. Whenever anyone
discovered him, he let his song turn imperceptibly into a normal canine
baying, so that the intruder supposed that the musical quality had been
an illusion.

At the morning service Sirius sang from behind the vestry door. But the
music was very different from that of his previous performance. All the
meaningful intonations of the human voice and all canine ullulations
seemed to enter into this alien yet intelligibly musical, this sweet yet
rather frightening, sound. It ranged from a thundering growl to a high
clear piping, almost as of singing birds.

I am not myself sufficiently sensitive musically to judge whether
"interpretation" of music is legitimate. In Geoffrey's view, though he
was intensely interested in music for its own sake, the supreme function
of this art, as of all other arts, was as a medium of religious
expression. Hence his eagerness to have Sirius sing in his church, and
his intention to interpret the song to his congregation. Sirius, too,
held that interpretation was legitimate, though in the hands of the
imperfectly musical it often became ludicrous. I have heard him insist
that, in so far as music ever had a "meaning" beyond the immediate and
exquisite value of the sound-pattern itself, its "meaning" must be
simply an emotional attitude. It could never speak directly about the
objective world, or "the nature of existence"; but it might create a
complex emotional attitude which might be appropriate to some feature of
the objective world, or to the universe as a whole. It might therefore
create religious feelings. Its "interpretation" in words would then
involve describing those features of the universe which should evoke
those feelings.

In this sense the strange music that Sirius put forth in Geoffrey's
church spoke of bodily delight and pain, and of the intercourse of
spirits. It expressed through the medium of sound, and transformed into,
universal symbols, the particular spirits of Thomas, Elizabeth, Plaxy
and Geoffrey himself. It spoke of love and death, of the hunger for the
spirit, and of Sirius's own wolf-mood. It spoke of the East End and the
West End, of the docker's strike and the starry heaven.

All this it did at least for Sirius himself. To most of the congregation
it was an inconsequent mixture of music and noise, and moreover a
mixture of the recognizably, comfortably pious and the diabolical.

Geoffrey in his sermon tried to tell the congregation what the strange
song had meant to him. "The singer," he said, "must have known love in
his own experience and recognized it as good absolutely. He must also
have known the presence of Satan, in the world and in his own heart."

In the evening service, when Geoffrey had announced the anthem, he
added, "This time the singer will appear in the church. Do not be
outraged. Do not think that a trick is being played on you. The singer
is my dear friend, and it is good that you should know that God can
still work miracles."

Out of the vestry strode the great beast, black and frosty-fawn. Head
and tail were proudly erect. Grey eyes keenly watched the congregation.
There was an audible gasp of surprise and protest, then dead silence. It
was as though the power of "the eye," which the Border Collie used so
successfully on sheep, was now being used by Sirius upon a whole human
flock. He had made his entry with very solemn feelings; but the
spectacle of these spellbound human sheep greatly tickled him, and he
could not resist turning his head towards Geoffrey and giving him a very
human wink with the eye that was hidden from the congregation. After
this lapse, which shocked Geoffrey, Sirius pulled himself together. His
mouth opened, displaying the white fangs that had recently killed ram
and pony, and gripped the throat of a man. The church was then flooded
with Sirius's music. Geoffrey seemed to hear in it echoes of Bach and
Beethoven, of Holst, Vaughan Williams, Stravinsky and Bliss, but also it
was pure Sirius. Most of the congregation, on a far lower musical level
than their pastor, and a far lower human level also, were merely
intrigued by its novelty. Some were sufficiently sensitive to be
disturbed and revolted by it. A few conscious musical modernists
probably decided that it was a bad imitation of the real thing. One or
two, perhaps, were stirred more or less in the manner that Sirius
intended. The performance lasted quite a long time, but the audience
remained throughout still and attentive. When it was finished Sirius
looked for a moment at Geoffrey, who returned his questioning gaze with
a smile of admiration and affection. Sirius crouched down, muzzle on
paws, tail stretched out along the ground. The service proceeded.

Geoffrey began his sermon by trying to interpret the music, warning his
congregation that it might legitimately mean different things to
different people, and that to the composer-singer his interpretation
might seem very wrong. The congregation were startled. Were they
expected to believe that the animal that had produced the music had also
composed it, that what they had witnessed was not simply the result of
brilliant circus-training but actually a miracle?

Geoffrey affirmed, rightly or wrongly, "The song gave me a view of
humanity from outside humanity, from the point of view of another of
God's creatures, and one that both admires and despises us, one that has
fed from our hands and has also suffered at our hands. By means of
echoes of the great human composers mingled with themes reminiscent of
the wolf's baying and the dog's barking and howling, the singer conjured
up his vision of humanity. And what a humanity it was! With God and
Satan, love and hate together in its heart; with cunning surpassing all
the beasts, and wisdom too, but also utter folly; with fabulous power,
turned as often as not to Satan's will!" Geoffrey spoke of the luxury of
the rich and the misery of the workers all over the world, of strikes
and revolutions, of the ever-increasing threat of a war more terrible
even than the last war. "And yet in our personal lives love is not
unknown. In the song, as in my own knowledge, I seem to hear it said
that love and wisdom must triumph in the end, because Love is God."

He looked down at Sirius, who was showing signs of protest. Geoffrey
continued, "My friend does not agree with that part of my
interpretation. But that is indeed how the climax of his song affected
me."

He paused, then ended his sermon with these words: "I am growing old
before my time. I shall not be able to carry on much longer. When I have
gone, remember me by this Sunday. Remember that I once, by God's grace,
was able to let you witness a very lovely miracle."

Not many of the congregation imagined even in that summer of 1939 that
in a few months not only the ageing priest but many of the congregation
themselves would be lying crushed under the East End buildings, or that
the little church would become a blazing beacon for enemy planes.

At the end of the service Sirius walked out behind Geoffrey, and before
the congregation had begun to leave the church he hurried off in the
direction of Geoffrey's home. Soon after the parson had returned,
Elizabeth arrived (according to plan) to take Thomas's canine
masterpiece back to Cambridge.

During the following weeks Sirius received letters from Geoffrey talking
of the excitement in the neighbourhood. Journalists had pestered him,
but he had refused absolutely to give them any information. The church
was filled on the following Sunday, but Geoffrey surmised that only a
small minority had come for religion. Indeed he very soon realized that
a daring act which he had undertaken with innocent motives was appearing
to the public as no better than a piece of gross self-advertisement. His
ecclesiastical superiors reprimanded him, and might well have deprived
him of his office, had it not been for the passionate loyalty of his
supporters in the parish.

When Thomas was told of the incident, he was at first annoyed, but the
humour of it won him over to forgive Sirius for his escapade.




CHAPTER XI
MAN AS TYRANT


In the summer of 1939 the clouds of war were already gathering over
Europe. Everyone was living in dread of the future or hoping against
hope that by some miracle the storm would after all not break. Sirius
had never taken much interest in the international situation, but now,
like so many others, he was forced to be interested. Thomas also was
merely bored at the prospect of war. He wanted to carry on his work
unhindered, and he feared that war would make this impossible. Of
course, if the clash came, we should have to do our damnedest to win;
but if only the fool politicians had been more intelligent and honest
there would never have been any trouble. This was roughly Sirius's
attitude also, except that in addition he felt a rising fury against the
dominant species, which had been given such power and such opportunity,
and yet was making such a sorry mess of its affairs.

During the summer vac the Trelone family spent only a few weeks in
Wales. It was a clouded holiday, for there was no escape from the
international situation. Thomas was embittered, and Elizabeth
desperately saddened. Tamsy, who had been married some months earlier,
spent her week in Wales brooding over the newspapers and the wireless
set. Maurice, now a don at Cambridge, argued a great deal with Tamsy
about Hitler's chances. Giles was very quiet, adjusting himself to the
idea that he would soon have to fight. Plaxy ignored the war-clouds
completely, and went out of the room whenever the subject was raised.
Sirius concentrated on recovering physical fitness after Cambridge and
London.

When war broke out Sirius was on a Cumberland sheep farm learning the
ways of the Lakeland shepherds. Sirius's Cumberland experiences were
valuable, but painful. Thwaites, who was by no means typical of the fine
Lakeland type, turned out to be a harsh and unreasonable master. He
showed Sirius an aspect of humanity with which he had never before had
personal contact to any appreciable extent. Sirius suspected Thwaites at
the outset because his own dog, Roy, a Border Collie, avoided him
whenever possible, and cringed when spoken to. In Thwaites's relations
with Sirius some quite irrelevant and probably forgotten conflict seems
to have found expression. He conceived an uncontrollable dislike for the
dog, perhaps because of a strong suspicion that Sirius was no ordinary
super-sheep-dog, and was privately judging his character very
ruthlessly. Whatever the cause, Thwaites soon began to treat Sirius with
crude harshness. I find it difficult to excuse Thomas for his gross
carelessness in choosing him as Sirius's instructor. Thomas was always
surprisingly insensitive about the psychological aspect of his great
experiment; or perhaps not insensitive but unimaginative. But on this
occasion his failure to secure decent conditions for Sirius was so
flagrant that I am inclined to attribute it to deliberate purpose. Had
he determined to afford the dog some first-hand experience of the more
brutal aspect of humanity? If so, his purpose was only too well
fulfilled.

Anyhow, Thwaites constantly indulged his spite against Sirius, ordering
him to carry heavy loads in his mouth, forcing on him all sorts of tasks
which only a human hand could perform efficiently, overworking him with
awkward jobs that were obviously unnecessary, and laughing bitterly at
him in conversation with his neighbours.

At first Sirius was rather pleased to have the experience of contact
with a human being of brutal temper. Hitherto his immediate human
environment had been on the whole too amiable to be a fair sample. He
needed to know what man was like in his harsher modes. There was soon
trouble, because Sirius did not cringe when Thwaites gave orders.
Instead, he carried out his task with calm efficiency. This provoked the
man to curse him on the flimsiest pretext; and when he did so, Sirius
would gaze at him with cold and ostentatious surprise. This, of course,
made matters worse. In time, Thwaites's harsh voice and the whole
atmosphere of the place began to get on Sirius's nerves. The milder
human contacts in Wales, Cambridge and London began to fade out of his
consciousness, and he found himself feeling that Thwaites was the
typical man. Obscurely he dramatized himself as the champion of his own
kind against the tyrant race. Thwaites's great cruel hands symbolized
for him the process by which the ruthless species had mastered all the
living creatures of the planet. Irrationally Sirius, though a hunter who
had again and again inflicted agony and death, felt a self-righteous
indignation against the sheer cruelty of man. Compassion for the weak;
which had been inculcated in him by his own human friends, now turned
him against humanity itself.

Thwaites had several times threatened Sirius with his stick, but had
always thought better of it, sobered by the dog's great size and a
dangerous look in his eye. As time passed, the man's irrational spite
against the dog increased. But the incident which caused the final
catastrophe was an attack not on Sirius but on Roy. A few days before
Thomas was due to come and fetch Sirius away there was some difficulty
with a bunch of sheep that Roy had brought into the yard. Thwaites
caught the collie a sharp blow on the haunch. Sirius turned on Thwaites
in fury and knocked him down; then, remembering himself, he withdrew and
watched the man pick himself up. Roy promptly disappeared from the
scene. It was a fixed principle with Thwaites that when dogs were
rebellious one must thrash them into subjection, which meant in his view
thrashing them almost to death. He called to his hired man, "Anderson,
the brute's gone savage, come and help me teach him." There was no
answer. Anderson was far afield. Thwaites was no coward, but he did not
relish attacking the great cunning beast single-handed. However,
insubordination must be crushed, at all costs. Besides, such a dangerous
animal might do incalculable harm. Better destroy it at once. He could
tell Trelone that the dog had gone mad and had to be shot. He went into
the house. Sirius guessed that he would emerge with his gun. He
therefore rushed to the house door and crouched at one side of it.
Thwaites stepped over the threshold, looking round the yard. Sirius
leapt at him, knocked him over again, and seized the gun with his teeth.
Both antagonists rolled over and over. Thwaites struggled to his feet,
and tried to turn the muzzle of the gun against the dog's body. One
barrel went off harmlessly, then the other. Sirius let go the gun and
sprang away. Thwaites put his hand in his pocket and brought out a
couple of cartridges. Sirius leapt at him, knocked him over again and
seized his throat, gripping his windpipe with the full power of his
strong jaws. The flavour of warm human blood and the sound of the man's
stifled gurgle filled him with an exultant, careless fury. In this
symbolic act he would kill not only Thwaites but the whole tyrant race.
Henceforth all beasts and birds should live naturally, and the planet's
natural order should never again be disturbed by the machinations of
this upstart species. These thoughts flashed through his mind even as
the couple floundered and crashed about, gripping each other's throats.

Presently the man's struggles slackened, his grip weakened. Then a
change began to come over Sirius's mind. Fury gave place to a more
detached observation of the situation. After all, this creature was only
expressing the nature that the universe had bred in him. And so was the
whole human race. Why this silly hate? The human stink suddenly reminded
him of Plaxy's fragrance. The blood-taste nauseated him. The crushed
windpipe between his teeth filled him with horror. He let go, moved
away, and stood watching the feeble movements of his non-canine brother,
whom he, Cain, had murdered.

Practical considerations presented themselves to him. The hand of man
would now indeed be relentlessly turned against him. The hand of two
thousand million human beings; all the race, save his own few friends. A
panic of loneliness suddenly seized him. A solitary airman, flying over
hostile territory, with nothing but enemies below and nothing but stars
above, may sometimes feel desperately lonely; but that loneliness is
nothing to the loneliness which now oppressed Sirius, with the whole
human race against him, and his own species unable to comprehend him,
and no pack anywhere to comfort him and accept his service.

He went over to the trough in the yard, drank, and licked his lips
clean. Once more he stood watching Thwaites, who now lay still, with a
torn and bloody neck. His own neck was stiff after Thwaites's desperate
effort. Imagining the pain that his teeth must have inflicted, he
cringed. He returned to the body and sniffed the neck. Already there was
a very faint odour of death. No need, then, to risk his own life
fetching a doctor to save this human being. Obeying a sudden freakish
impulse, he fleetingly touched the forehead of his slaughtered brother
with his tongue.

Distant footsteps! He took to his heels in sudden panic, leapt the yard
gate and raced away for the fells. Lest they should come after him with
bloodhounds, he used every fox-trick to mislead them. He doubled on his
track, he took to streams, and so on. That night he slept under the
bracken in a remote ghyll. Next day hunger forced him to go hunting. He
managed to secure a rabbit, and took it to his lair, where he wolfed it.
He spent the rest of the day hidden, and haunted by his crime; haunted,
yet strangely exultant. Though it was indeed a crime, it was a positive
act of self-assertion which had emancipated him for ever from the spell
of the master race. Henceforth he would fear no man simply as a man. Two
more nights and the intervening day he spent in hiding. Then he set off
to intercept Thomas, who was due at the farm in the afternoon. With
great caution he worked his way back over the hills till he was looking
down on the road to Thwaites's farm. He went to a point on the road
where there was good cover and a hairpin bend. Here the car would have
to slow down almost to walking pace. He hid himself in the undergrowth
of a little wood, and waited. An occasional foot-passenger passed, and
an occasional car. At last there was the unmistakable sound of Thomas's
Morris Ten. Cautiously Sirius crept from his hiding, looking to see if
any other human being was visible. There was no one. He stepped out into
the road. Thomas stopped the car and got out with a cheery "Hello!"
Sirius, with tucked-in tail, simply said, "I've killed Thwaites." Thomas
exclaimed, "God!" then gaped at him in silence. The dog's keen ears
heard distant footsteps, so they retired into the wood to discuss the
situation. It was decided that Thomas should go up to the farm as though
he knew nothing of the tragedy, while Sirius kept in hiding.

There is no need to record in detail how Thomas dealt with the problem.
Naturally he did not tell the police that he had met Sirius. He strongly
denied that his super-sheep-dogs were dangerous, and he produced
evidence to that effect. He insisted that Thwaites must have treated
Sirius very badly; and the man (it appeared) was known to be of a
sadistic temper. Clearly he had attacked the animal with his gun, and
had probably wounded it. In self-defence the dog had killed him. And
where was the dog now? The valuable creature had probably died of wounds
somewhere on the moors.

This much of the truth Thomas told Sirius, but not till long afterwards
did the murderer learn the rest. Things had not in fact gone as well as
Thomas had reported. The officers of the law remained suspicious, and
ordered that if the dog was found it must be destroyed. Thomas therefore
decided that in order to protect his unique canine masterpiece he must
resort to trickery. After a suitable interval he would notify the
authorities that the man-killing beast had at last found its way home,
and that it had been duly destroyed. He would sacrifice a certain large
Alsatian super-sheep-dog, and palm off his corpse as Sirius's.

It was not until late on the day of the inquest that Thomas picked up
Sirius at the hairpin bend. In spite of the black-out, they drove home
through the night, helped by a full moon.




CHAPTER XII
FARMER SIRIUS


It was not till dawn on the following day that Thomas and Sirius in the
Morris Ten drove up the familiar Welsh lane, and came to a stand in the
yard of Garth. Elizabeth and Plaxy were still asleep. When they woke,
they were very surprised to find that man and dog had returned already.
They were surprised also at the wretched condition of Sirius. He was
filthy, his coat lacked its customary gloss, he was painfully thin, and
he was silent and dejected.

Plaxy, fresh from a busy and happy term at Cambridge, was in the mood
for a happy holiday. Moreover she was aware that in recent meetings with
Sirius she had somehow proved inadequate, and she was anxious to make
amends. She therefore set about being "sweet" to Sirius. It was she who
gave him a thorough wash and carefully groomed his coat. She also took a
thorn out of one of his feet, and dressed a bad cut in another. He
surrendered himself to the firm and gentle touch of her hands and the
subtle odour that was for him her most poignant feature. She pressed him
to tell her all about his doings in Cumberland, and he told
her--everything but the main thing. It was obvious that he was holding
something back, so she pressed him no further, though suspecting that he
really wanted to tell her. He did indeed long to confess to her. The
memory of the crime was a constant source of turmoil in his mind. He had
committed a murder. This was the stark fact that had to be faced. It was
useless to pretend that he had been forced to kill Thwaites in
self-defence, for he had hung on to him much longer than was necessary
to put him out of action. No, it was murder, and sooner or later
Thomas's ruse would probably be found out. Even if Sirius remained
uncaught he would have this thing hanging over him for ever; not just
the fear of retribution, but the deadly remorse for the destruction of a
creature who, though biologically alien to him, was none the less his
fellow in the spirit. He longed for Plaxy's sympathy, but feared her
horror. And anyhow, Thomas had insisted that no one should be told.

During that Christmas holiday Sirius and Plaxy spent many an hour
talking about themselves and their friends; about art, particularly
Sirius's music; about philosophy and religion, particularly his
experiences with Geoffrey; about the war, for though both of them felt
it to be utterly unreal and remote, and "not their fault anyhow," it
could not be ignored. Several of Plaxy's friends were already in it.

But though at first they had much to say to one another, later they
often fell into silence, and as time advanced these silences became
longer and more frequent. He brooded over his prospects, she retired
into her memories. She was beginning to yearn once more for human
companionship. His nose told him that it was one of those phases when
she was fully ripe for the love of her own kind. Her behaviour towards
him alternated between exaggerated tenderness and aloofness. She seemed
to want to maintain contact with him, but at these times the gulf
between the human and the canine was generally too great. But not
always. Sometimes the intensification of animal sex-feeling in the young
human female linked up with her deep affection for the dog, so that she
treated him with an altogether novel shyness, which somehow stimulated a
similar sexually toned warmth of feeling in him. He would then, if she
permitted, caress her with a new tenderness and ardour. But these
passages were rare, and often they were followed on Plaxy's side by a
frightened aloofness. It seemed to her, so she told me long afterwards,
that in those strange, sweet moments she was taking the first step
towards some very far-reaching alienation from her own kind. Yet while
they lasted they seemed entirely innocent and indeed beautiful.

Once Sirius said to Plaxy, "The music of our two lives is a duet of
variations upon three themes. There is the difference between our
biological natures, yours human and mine canine, and all the differences
of experience that follow from that. Then there is the love that has
grown up between us, alien as we are. It has gathered us together and
made us one fundamentally, in spite of all our differences. It feeds on
differences. And there is sex, which alternates between tearing us apart
because of our biological remoteness and welding us together because of
our love." They silently gazed at one another. He added, "There is a
fourth theme in our music, or perhaps it is the unity of the other
three. There is our journey along the way of the spirit, together and
yet poles apart." Plaxy replied with sudden warmth, "Oh, my darling, I
do, I do love you. We are never really poles apart, not in the spirit, I
mean. But--oh, it's all strange and frightening. And you see, don't you,
that I must be properly human. Besides--men can mean so much more to me
than bitches can mean to you." "Of course," he answered. "You have your
life and I have mine. And sometimes we meet, and sometimes clash. But
always, yes, always, we are one in the spirit."

He wondered whether, if she knew about Thwaites, it would make any
difference; and he realized that it wouldn't. She would be horrified, of
course, but not revolted against him. Suddenly he realized that ever
since the killing he had been anxiously condemning himself on behalf of
Plaxy, and so nursing a sore resentment against her. But so deeply had
he nursed it that he never till this moment recognized its existence.
And now somehow he knew that she would not condemn him, and so the
resentment became conscious and at the same time vanished.

Later in the vacation Plaxy busied herself with her studies. She was all
behind-hand, she said. And when at last the day came for departure, she
was as usual both sad and pleased. At the station she found an excuse to
stray with Sirius to a less crowded stretch of the platform. "We have
drifted apart again lately," she said, "but _whatever_ happens I never
forget that I am the human part of Sirius-Plaxy." He touched her hand
and said, "We have a treasure in common, a bright gem of community."

During the vacation Sirius had been anxiously concerned with other
things besides that treasure. He had been carrying on an urgent
discussion about his future with Thomas and Elizabeth, with Plaxy as a
disinterested critic. Sirius was determined not to go back to the subtly
enervating life of Cambridge. The time had come, he said, when he really
must strike out on his own. He was ready to agree that at least for a
while he might be able to find self-expression through his skill with
sheep, but he could do so only in a responsible position, not as a mere
sheep-dog. What did Thomas propose to do about it?

In the end a bold plan was adopted. Owing to the scarcity of labour,
Pugh, whose health was failing, had found great difficulty in carrying
on his farm. Thomas decided to tell him the whole truth about Sirius's
powers, and to propose that Sirius should join him not as a sheep-dog
but as a prospective partner. Or rather, the Laboratory would legally be
his partner, contributing capital to the farm. Elizabeth would be the
Laboratory's resident representative, and would lend a hand with the
work. Sirius, being only a dog, could sign no contract and hold no
property. But he would in effect be in the partnership relation to Pugh,
who would initiate him into the whole management of the farm, and the
business of marketing sheep and wool. An important side-line would be
the training of super-sheep-dogs for sale.

There were several long discussions with Pugh. This was perhaps an
advantage, as it gave him an opportunity of learning to understand
Sirius's speech with Thomas and Elizabeth present to help him. The old
man was very ready to enter into the spirit of the game; but he was
cautious, and he thought of many difficulties, each of which had to be
patiently smoothed out. Mrs. Pugh regarded the arrangement with
misgiving. She secretly feared that Satan, not God, was the worker of
this miracle of the man-dog. That Thomas himself was responsible she
never seriously supposed. The only other person who might have been
concerned in the new arrangement was Pugh's daughter, but she was by now
married and settled in Dolgelly.

It was not long before Sirius was established at Caer Blai in his new
capacity. It was arranged that normally he should sleep at home at
Garth, since he could cover the distance between the two houses in a few
minutes; but at Caer Blai the room formerly occupied by the daughter of
the house was allotted to him for emergencies. To the new quarters
Thomas transferred the dog's accumulation of books on sheep and
sheep-farming, also a spare writing-glove and other writing materials.
In addition Sirius kept at the farm several of the girths and panniers
that had been made for him from time to time to enable him to carry
things while keeping his mouth free. In early days the apparatus had to
be fastened on him by human hands, but by now, owing to his increased
"manual" skill and an ingenious fastener, he could saddle or unsaddle
himself in a few seconds.

Pugh could not teach Sirius anything about the actual care of sheep. The
dog had a closer practical experience of them, and a far more scientific
knowledge. He was eager to improve the breed on the farm and to develop
the pasture. But on the side of farm management he had everything to
learn. Not only had he to understand prices and the whole book-keeping
problem; there was also the small but important agricultural side of the
farm. Before the war this had been entirely subordinate to sheep,
producing only hay and roots and a very small amount of grain. But in
war-time every possible acre had to be ploughed up to produce food, and
by now Pugh had a good deal of land under oats, rye and potatoes. The
handless Sirius could never do much on this side of the work, but he was
determined to understand it and learn to direct it. The necessity of
employing hired human labour raised the whole question of Sirius's
contact with the outside world. Thomas, with his phobia of publicity,
was very reluctant to let the countryside know just how developed a
creature Sirius was, but clearly it would not be possible for him in his
new life to masquerade as a dumb animal. However, said Thomas, let
people discover the truth gradually. In this way it would be less of a
shock to them. Pugh could begin by holding simple conversations with
Sirius in public places. Gradually he could let it be realized that he
respected the dog's judgment in all matters connected with sheep. In
this manner Sirius would little by little become a congenial figure in
the neighbourhood.

For some time Sirius was too busy learning his new responsibilities to
undertake the training of super-sheep-dogs. Old Idwal and another of
these animals, Mifanwy, a young bitch, were on the farm already, and
able to do far more intelligent work than the brightest normal animal.
Juno, who had been one of the most intelligent of super-sheep-dogs, had
developed some obscure kind of brain trouble, so that Pugh had been
forced to destroy her.

After a while Sirius wrote to Thomas saying that he now felt ready for
the new venture, and Thomas sent him three puppies of the right age for
training. Sirius privately believed that with sympathetic education by
one of their own species (though superior to them in intelligence) these
animals could be made into something far more capable than Idwal and
Mifanwy, or even Juno. He had also secret hopes that one of them, or one
of some future batch, might turn out to be a creature of his own mental
rank; but this, he had to admit, was very unlikely, for presumably
Thomas would have detected any such animal long before it was old enough
for training. Many attempts had, as a matter of fact, been made to
produce another Sirius, but without success. Sirius himself seemed to
have been something of a fluke. The effort to repeat his type had
produced at best large-brained and highly intelligent animals that were
too frail to reach maturity, and more often mental defectives of one
sort or another. It seemed that, if the cerebral hemispheres were
increased beyond a certain size, the discrepancy between them and the
normal canine organization was too great for reliable viability. Even in
man, whose brain and body had developed in step with one another for
millions of years, the large cerebrum seems to put a strain on the
system, and to be in fact something of a morbid growth, leading all too
often to mental disorder. In the case of the dog, when it is suddenly
given an enlarged brain, the stress is far more serious.

Not only Sirius but Elizabeth also had to be trained for work on the
farm. Though normally she now spent more time in Cambridge than in the
country, it was arranged that for some months she should live at Garth.
She was now a middle-aged but sturdy woman, and during the last war she
had been a land-girl. Pugh at first found it almost impossible to treat
her otherwise than as a lady visitor, but the two of them gradually
evolved a relationship which fitted his humour perfectly. She posed as
the lazy and grumbling servant, he as the exacting master. He greatly
enjoyed disparaging the results of all her labour, scolding her for
idling, and threatening that he would report her to Sirius and have her
sacked if she couldn't keep a civil tongue in her head. She, for her
part, treated him with mock servility and affectionate insolence. It
took Mrs. Pugh a long time to realize that the constant wrangling was
all friendly. She was confirmed in her anxiety by the fact that Sirius,
entering into the spirit of the game, sometimes acted the part of the
faithful dog defending his beloved mistress against threatened attack.
One day when Mrs. Pugh earnestly tried to curb her husband's tongue,
Pugh shook a finger at her, winking at Elizabeth, and said, "Ah, but you
don't know, my dear, how Mrs. Trelone and I behave together when you are
not watching. Yes indeed, for all you know it is then we are the
love-birds, isn't it, Mrs. Trelone?"

Both Sirius and Elizabeth were very busy during the Lent Term. Thomas
contrived to spend several weeks in Wales to see how the venture was
proceeding. On one occasion he brought two scientific friends to meet
Sirius. On another, as Sirius was much interested in improving the local
moorland pasture, dog and man went off for a couple of days to
Aberystwyth to visit the Plant-Breeding Station. Sirius returned full of
daring ideas to put before the sympathetic but cautious Pugh.

In a way this was probably the happiest time of Sirius's life, for at
last he felt that he was using his super-canine powers adequately, and
he had attained a degree of independence that he had never known before.
The work was often worrying, since he was in many respects a novice, and
he made many mistakes; but it was varied, concrete, and (as he put it)
spiritually sound. There was little time to think deep thoughts, and
less to write; but now that he was doing responsible work he did not
feel the same urge for intellectual activity. And anyhow he promised
himself that later, when he was more at home with the work, he would
take up once more the threads of his former literary and musical
activities.

His only recreation was music. In the evenings, with Elizabeth yawning
in an easy chair after the day of fresh air and exercise, he would
listen to broadcast concerts, or try records on the radio-gram.
Sometimes, when he was out on the moors with his young pupils, he would
sing his own songs, some of which, the less humanized ones, had a strong
emotional appeal for the super-sheep-dogs.

Then there was the bright young bitch, Mifanwy. She was an attractive
creature, mainly collie but with a dash of setter. She was slim as a
leopard, and had a luxurious silken coat. Sirius had intended to refrain
from all sexual relations with his underlings. Moreover he regarded
Mifanwy as Idwal's preserve. But Idwal was growing old. Merely a
super-sheep-dog, he was bound to sink far more rapidly into senescence
than Sirius, who was still in early maturity. When Mifanwy was in heat
she refused her former lover and did her best to seduce Sirius. For a
while he took no notice, but one day he indulged in dalliance with this
sweet sub-human though super-canine charmer. Of course there was protest
from Idwal; but the heavier and biologically far younger dog could, if
necessary, easily have shown his senior that protest was futile. In
fact, however, Idwal was so overawed by, and faithful to, his canine
master, that his protest never developed beyond a conflict-expressing
whimper and an occasional rebellious growl.

In due season Mifanwy had a litter of five puppies. Their heads, of
course, were of normal size, but most of them bore on their foreheads
the large fawn patches which distinguished Sirius, and his mother before
him. In a few weeks the Alsatian strain in them was obvious to all the
world. It was obvious too that if Sirius was not their father he must at
least be their grandfather. He was the original source of the Alsatian
characters which were now fairly common among the dogs of the
neighbourhood. There had been a time when the local farmers had
perversely hoped (without official encouragement) that in allowing the
man-dog to have intercourse with their bitches they would acquire
super-canine puppies. Inevitably this hope was disappointed, though a
dash of Alsatian had proved a useful stiffening to the local sheep-dog
strain. Even when both parents were super-canine, the offspring were of
course normal. As for Sirius, he took no interest in his numerous moron
progeny. His three sons and two daughters by Mifanwy were treated as
mere chattels. One of each sex was promptly drowned. The other three
were allowed to remain with their mother considerably longer than was
usual, in fact until her super-canine but sub-human maternal feelings
had waned sufficiently to make it possible to deprive her of her
offspring without causing her distress. Sirius then sold his two
remaining sons and his daughter.

Meanwhile super-canine puppies continued to arrive from Cambridge for
Sirius to train. Mostly they were turned into super-sheep-dogs, but
owing to the war a new profession seemed to open up for Thomas's bright
animals.

The need for war economy was seriously interfering with the work of the
Laboratory. Thomas foresaw the time when the whole organization would
have to close down or turn over to some kind of war research. It was at
this time, in the spring of 1940, that the war changed from its "phony"
to its violent phase. The collapse of Holland, Belgium and finally
France made the British feel that they really had to fight for their
lives. Thomas had always regarded the war as a gigantic irrelevance. It
was beneath the notice of minds that were given wholly to the
advancement of science. But at last he was forced to recognize that this
gigantic irrelevance must not be ignored or it would destroy the very
possibility of science. He began to puzzle over two problems. How far,
if at all, could his present work be made useful for winning the war? If
it was quite useless, what kind of war-work could the Laboratory
undertake? He saw that his super-sheep-dogs, if they could be produced
in large enough numbers, might have an important function in war. The
Government was already training normal dogs for running messages in the
battle area, and clearly the super-sheep-dog mentality would be far more
useful. He therefore set about the task of discovering a simplified
technique for the mass-production of these animals. He also told Sirius
to give some of his brightest pupils special training in running
messages.

The time came when Thomas was ready to display three of his animals to
the brass-hats, and after much importuning he secured an interview with
a high military authority. The performance of the animals was brilliant.
Thomas was assured that the War Office would undoubtedly make use of his
super-canine messengers. He then waited impatiently for many weeks,
wrote many respectful letters, and was repeatedly assured that the
necessary machinery was now in action for adopting his suggestion. But
somehow nothing happened. Every official whom he interviewed was at
least sympathetic, and often eager to take any amount of trouble to help
the great scientist. Yet nothing resulted. The vast and venerable
institution remained unresponsive. Meanwhile the whole energy of the
Laboratory had been turned over to the mass-production of "missing-link"
dogs for war. The more interesting but less useful task of producing
creatures of the calibre of Sirius had been abandoned; and Thomas's
dearest dream, the stimulation of a human foetus to super-normal brain
growth, now faded into mere fantasy.

Sirius, no less than Thomas, now realized that the war had to be won,
otherwise all that was best in the tyrant species would be destroyed.
But he lived in the depth of the country, and he was wholly absorbed in
his new work; which, moreover, seemed to him a piece of worthy national,
or rather human, service. Consequently he did not realize the war
emotionally as fully as Thomas. Moreover, though one side of his nature
was wholly identified with this glorious human species, another side was
secretly and irrationally gratified by the tyrant's plight.
Intellectually he knew that his future depended on the future of
Britain, but emotionally he was as detached from the struggle as, at a
later stage, the threatened millions of India were to be emotionally
aloof from the menace of Japan.

When Plaxy came home, she found the Caer Blai atmosphere rather unreal.
Of course she could not help being impressed by Sirius's success. He
really did seem to have come into his own, even from the point of view
of war. But she was rather shocked at his aloofness from the agony of
the human race, and perhaps also a little jealous of his new-found peace
of mind. For she herself was painfully torn between revulsion from the
whole crazy disgusting mess and the urge to play her part in the
desperate crisis of her species. In Cambridge she always made a point of
maintaining her accustomed detachment, for so many of her friends seemed
to her obsessed by the war; but in Wales she found herself warning
Sirius that he was living in a fool's paradise, and that at any moment
all familiar and precious things might be swept away in a tide of German
invasion. She herself, she said, was feeling uncomfortable about her own
work, a teaching post which she was to take up at the end of the summer.
Perhaps she ought to do something more directly useful.

Sirius was impressed by all this talk, but emotionally he remained as
unenthusiastic as ever. Perhaps he ought to go and be an Army messenger
dog. (Anyhow he was training messenger dogs.) But to hell with the whole
war! He had found his job, for the present, producing wool and food for
the dominant species; which was probably destroying itself, anyhow. And
good riddance, too! Good riddance? No, he didn't really mean that. But
damn it, anyhow it wasn't his fault, and man was not his responsibility.

At this time Plaxy had become very much concerned with politics. For a
short spell she had been a member of the Communist Party, but she had
resigned, "because, though they are energetic and devoted, they're also
intolerably cocksure and unfair." Nevertheless she remained very much
under the influence of Marxism, though she was hard put to it to find
room in Marxism for her faith in "the spirit," which was playing an ever
deeper part in her life. "The spirit," she said, "must be the highest of
all dialectical levels, the supreme synthesis." While she was at home
she talked much to Sirius about "equality of opportunity," "the class
war," "the dictatorship of the proletariat," and so on. And she insisted
that if Communism was not, after all, the whole truth, then nothing
short of a great _new_ idea, based on Communism, could win the war and
found a tolerable social order. Sirius had always been sympathetic with
the desire for revolutionary social change. His spell in the East End
had shown him how necessary it was. He had heartily agreed with the plea
for common ownership of the means of production, and for creative social
planning. But now that he had property to look after he found himself,
much to his own surprise, looking at the whole matter from a different
angle. "That's all quite true," he would say, "but I'm a bit anxious
about your new order. Are you going to merge all the farms into great
collective farms? It all smells a bit dangerous. It's too theoretical.
And what about eccentric creative enterprises like Thomas's? And what on
earth would become of oddities like me, if I ever existed at all? The
point is, _who_ is to do the social planning? It's all very well to say
the people will do it, but God save us from the people. Anyhow they
can't _really_ do it at all. Some minority will do it, either mere
demagogues or bosses. Somehow we have to get the _wide-awake_ people to
do it. It's always the wide-awake people who do everything worth while,
really. The rest are just sheep." "But surely," said Plaxy, "it's
_ordinary_ people that all the planning is _for_; and so it's the
ordinary people that must settle the aims of all the planning, and
control it. The wide-awakes are servants of the community. The
sheep-dogs serve the sheep." "Rot," said Sirius, "sheer tripe! The dogs
serve a master, who _uses_ the sheep, and the dogs." Plaxy protested,
"But the people, if they are a free people, have no master but
themselves. The people as a whole are the master." "No, no!" cried
Sirius. "You might as well say the sheep as a whole are the master. I,
at any rate, acknowledge only one master, not forty-five million
two-legged sheep, or two thousand million, but simply and absolutely the
spirit." The answer came promptly, "But who is to say what the spirit
demands? Who is to interpret the spirit?" "Why, the spirit itself, of
course," he replied, "working in the minds of its servants, its
sheep-dogs, the wide-awake people." "But, Sirius, dear, dangerous,
ridiculous darling, that's the way straight to Fascism. There's a leader
who _knows_, and the rest do what they're told. And there's a Party of
faithful sheep-dogs who make them do it." Sirius protested, "But a
Fascist Party is _not_ made up of wide-awake people. Its members don't
really know at all what the spirit is. They don't know the smell of it.
They can't hear its voice. All they can ever be, even at their best is
just sheep-dogs run amok, wild sheep-dogs, wolves under a wolf leader."
"But, Sirius, my own, don't you see, that's just what they would say
about _us_. Who is to judge between us?" He had his answer ready. "Who
judged between Christ and the High Priest? Not the people. They said
'Crucify him.' The real judge was Christ's master, the spirit, speaking
in Christ's own mind; _and_ in the High Priest's, if only he would
listen. The point is, if you serve the spirit you can't serve any other
master. But what the spirit demands always is love and intelligence and
strong creative action in its service, love of the sheep as individuals
to be made the most of, not _merely_ as mutton or as coral insects in a
lovely coral pattern, but as individual vessels of the spirit. _That_
spirit--love, intelligence and creating--is precisely what 'the spirit'
is." Plaxy's reply was merely ribald. "The Reverend Sirius preached one
of his most profound and helpful sermons."

They were sitting together on the lawn at Garth, and he playfully
attacked her, pushing her over and making for her throat. Accustomed
from childhood to such battles, she gripped his ears and tugged hard.
Before his teeth had softly seized her, or his tongue had begun its
tickling caresses, he squealed for mercy. They smiled into each other's
eyes. "Sadistic little bitch!" he said. "Sweet cruel bitch!" With one
hand she seized his lower jaw and pressed it backwards and downwards
into his neck. The sierras of ivory closed gently on the back of her
hand. Dog and girl struggled playfully for a while, till she let go,
exhausted. Wiping her hand on his coat, she protested, "Slobberry old
thing!" They lay quietly on the grass.

Suddenly Plaxy said, "I expect you have great fun with Mifawny, don't
you?" He heard a faint tension in her voice. There was a pause before he
answered, "She's lovely. And though she's so deadly stupid, she really
has the rudiments of a soul." Plaxy pulled a piece of grass and chewed
it, looking at the distant Rhinogs. "_I_ have a lover, too," she said.
"He wants me to marry him, but that would be so binding. He has just
joined the R.A.F. He wants me to have babies, lots of them, as quickly
as possible. But it's too soon. I'm much too young to pledge myself for
ever to anyone." There was a long pause. Then Sirius asked, "Does he
know about me?" "No." "Will he make any difference to--us?" Promptly she
answered, "_I_ don't _feel_ any different. But perhaps I don't really
care enough about him. I love him terribly as a human animal, just as
you love Mifawny, I suppose, as a canine animal. And I love him very
much as a friend too. But I don't know whether that's enough for
marriage. And it must be marriage, for the children's sake, because they
need a permanent father. They ought to grow up in the community of their
parents." Another long pause came between them. She threw him a quick
sidelong glance. He was staring at her, his head very slightly tilted to
one side, his brows puckered, like any puzzled terrier. "Well," he said
at last, "marry him, and have your litter, if you must. And of course
you must. But all this is much more serious than bitches. Oh, Plaxy,
fundamentally it's you and I that are married, for ever. Will he spoil
that? Will he put up with it?" She pulled nervously at the turf, and
said, "I know, I know we're somehow married in the spirit. But if that
makes me ever unable to love a man wholeheartedly enough to want to be
his wife and have babies with him, oh, I'll _hate_ the hold you have on
me." Before he could reply she looked squarely at him and continued, "I
didn't mean that. I _can't_ hate the hold you have on me. But--oh, God,
what a mess!" Tears were in her eyes. He stretched forward to touch her
hand, but thought better of it. Then he said, "If I am spoiling your
life, it would have been better if Thomas had never made me." She put a
hand on his shoulder, and said, "If you had never been you, then I
should never have been I, and there would have been no difficult, lovely
'us.' And even if I do hate you sometimes, I love you much more, always.
Even while I am hating you, I know (and the best of me knows gladly)
that I am not just Plaxy but the human part of Sirius-Plaxy." He
answered quickly, "But to be that properly you must be as much Plaxy as
possible, and so you must somehow live your human life fully. Oh, yes, I
understand. Being human, and a girl, and in England, and middle class,
you can't _merely_ have lovers and an illegitimate litter. You must have
a husband." To himself he added, "And I, perhaps, must sometimes kill
your kind." But the memory of Thwaites murdered suddenly came upon him,
and revolted him with its contrast to the present happy situation. It
was as though, running on the moor in bright weather, he had suddenly
been swallowed by a bog. And somehow it seemed that only Plaxy could
pull him out. On a sudden impulse he told her the whole story.




CHAPTER XIII
THE EFFECTS OF WAR


By the autumn of 1940 Sirius was well established at Caer Blai, was
planning great improvements for the pasture, the breed and the arable
land, and was known in the neighbourhood as "Pugh's man-dog." Precisely
what his mental stature was, no one could decide. Pugh, by telling the
whole truth about him, had put them off the scent. It was known that the
man-dog had a marvellous facility with sheep, and was managing them on
the latest scientific principles. But all this was vaguely thought to be
less a matter of intelligence than of a sort of super-instinct
mysteriously implanted in him by science. It was known too that he could
understand a good deal of speech, and was actually able to use words
himself to those who had the key to his queer pronunciation. He was
learning a bit of Welsh; and the fact that his Welsh was so rudimentary,
and that this was the language which alone was familiar in the district,
disguised from everyone his true linguistic gifts and his fully human
mentality.

Even so, had it not been war-time, the newspapers would certainly have
publicized him, and with far more success than befell the stunt of the
talking mongoose at an earlier date.

Sirius made himself thoroughly popular with most of the surrounding
farmers and villagers, but there were a few who stubbornly regarded him
with suspicion. Devout chapel-goers affirmed that the man-dog's real
master was not Pugh but Satan, and that Pugh had sold his soul to the
Devil to help him out of the labour-shortage. Some of the sexually
obsessed, aware of the great affection that held between the man-dog and
the scientist's younger daughter, whispered that it was Thomas, in the
first instance, who had sold his soul, in order to gain scientific fame,
and that Satan, incarnate in the dog, habitually gratified himself in
perverse sexual intercourse with Thomas's daughter. And she, they said,
for all her charm, was little better than a witch. Anyone could see that
there was something queer and inhuman about her. Rumours of a different
type were spread by the cruder sort of patriots. They declared that
Thomas was in the pay of the Nazis, who had found in his man-dog the
ideal kind of spy. It was no accident that the animal was established in
the neighbourhood of a big artillery camp.

Most people were too sensible to take these rumours seriously. Pugh was
popular, and so was Sirius; for he was certainly a genius with sheep,
and he lent distinction to the district. Thomas, though an Englishman,
had won a place in local esteem; and his daughter, in spite of her
new-fangled ways, was an attractive girl. Not till the pressure of war
had been much prolonged, driving simple folk to look for scapegoats, was
public opinion to become hostile.

When the great air attacks on London began, Elizabeth received a long
letter from Geoffrey describing conditions in his parish, and urging her
to take in some of his refugee children, and plant out others in
suitable homes in her district. Geoffrey was one of those who believed
in personal responsibility. He suspected all Government organization;
consequently he was anxious to avoid as far as possible merely handing
over his charges to the official evacuation authorities.

Geoffrey's account of the devastation, heroism, muddle, callousness, and
human kindness in the great blitzes had a deep effect on Sirius. He
remembered vividly the smell of Geoffrey's home, and of the bare little
church and all the stuffy houses that he had visited. And these
olfactory images called up in his mind a rich picture of human beings
struggling against a hostile environment and their own inadequacy. He
remembered many of the people whom Geoffrey reported as casualties, and
many of the children for whom hospitality was required. He had a
generous impulse to rush off to London at once with his panniers filled
with first-aid equipment. But it was a foolish impulse. He would only be
in the way. Besides, it was one thing to enjoy a generous impulse and
quite another to put it in action. He suspected that he would be a
thorough coward in an air raid; and anyhow, fundamentally he felt aloof
from the whole war. If the human race was fool enough to torture itself
in this crazy manner, what had _he_ to do with it? Nevertheless he could
not help being deeply moved by Geoffrey's story, and by affection for
Geoffrey himself. The plight of London became even more vivid to him and
to the local population when, by one of those flukes which seem common
in war, a single bomb, dropped at random by a stray raider, fell neatly
on a lonely cottage in the neighbourhood, killing or wounding all its
occupants.

Elizabeth undertook to take three London children into her house, and
Mrs. Pugh, with much misgiving, agreed to accommodate two more. Sirius
gave up his room at Caer Blai. Most of the local wives had already
either taken on evacuees from blitzed towns in the north-west, or had
refused to do so; but Elizabeth, after paying many calls, was able to
tell Geoffrey that she had accommodation for fifteen more children and
two mothers. It so happened that the neighbourhood had been rather lucky
so far with its little immigrants. Though there had been a good deal of
grumbling on the part of some hostesses, on the whole the scheme had
worked. But the twenty little Londoners were a different kettle of fish.
They were smelly, lousy, unruly little brats, and it was said in the
district that no decent housewife would have had them across her
doorstep if she had known what they were like. They made horrid messes
in the house, broke the furniture, ruined the garden, lied, stole, bit
one another and their hostesses, tormented the cat, and used dreadful
language.

Some of the hostesses had the wit to realize that these children were
simply the product of circumstances. It was shocking, they said, that
society should allow its more unfortunate members to grow up in such
degradation. The less imaginative housewives, however, indulged in
orgies of self-righteous indignation against the children themselves and
their parents. Some took the line that the immigrants were English, and
that was what the English were like. As for Elizabeth, her popularity
suffered somewhat. She alone was responsible for this recent affliction.
It was remembered in some quarters not only that she was English, but
that her husband had sold his soul to the Devil. Matters were made worse
by the fact that her own evacuees turned out quite well. She was one of
those who had a natural gift for treating children as human persons and
expecting to be treated decently in return. There were troubles enough
at first. But in a few weeks the little girl and her two small brothers
were proudly helping with the house and the garden.

One day Elizabeth had news from Geoffrey that his church had been
destroyed, but that he was continuing to devote his whole time to the
care of his parishioners. He was elated that after long agitation he and
others had secured great improvements in the public shelters in the
district. A few days later she received a letter in an unknown hand
saying that her cousin had been killed.

The news of Geoffrey's death seemed to bring the war strangely near to
Sirius. For the first time someone whom he knew and loved had vanished.
This somehow put the whole thing into a new perspective. It should not
have done so. He thought he had imagined the personal impact of war
pretty well, but evidently he had not. Geoffrey had simply ceased to be,
like a match flame when it is blown out. So simple, and yet somehow so
incredible! For in a queer way Geoffrey now seemed more real than
before, and nearer to him. For days he caught himself quietly talking to
Geoffrey and getting perfectly good answers from him in his own mind.
Queer! Just a trick of imagination, no doubt. But somehow he couldn't
really in his heart believe that Geoffrey had simply been snuffed out.
Or rather, part of him believed it confidently and another part just
couldn't. He had a fantastic dream. Geoffrey sought out Thwaites in
Hell, and found him with Sirius's soul in his pocket. Somehow Geoffrey
brought Thwaites up to Heaven, and his reward was the freeing of Sirius.

The war was soon to come even nearer to Sirius. In May Thomas took him
by car to visit a farm near Shap, where several super-sheep-dogs were
being successfully used to do practically the whole routine work on the
sheep. The route back to North Wales passed through Liverpool. There had
been a good deal of raiding on Merseyside from time to time, and Thomas
judged it wise to be well across the river before dark. Unfortunately
they were late in starting, and did not arrive in Liverpool till dusk.
Somewhere in the outskirts of the town they developed engine trouble,
and by the time an overworked garage hand had put matters right it was
dark. They set out once more, but were much delayed by the condition of
the town. There had been a bad raid on the previous night, and the
streets had not yet been properly cleared. The result was that, before
they could reach the entrance of the famous tunnel under the Mersey, a
raid began. It was not far to the tunnel, so Thomas decided to hurry on.
Sirius was terrified. Probably the noise was even more trying to his
sensitive ears than to the duller human organ. Anyhow he had always been
a coward, save in the wolf-mood. The moaning of planes, the prodigious
smack and racket of anti-aircraft guns, the tearing rush of bombs (like
a raucous and vastly amplified whisper, he thought), followed by such a
crash as he had not believed possible, and then the clatter of falling
masonry, the roaring and crackling of fires, the scurrying of human
feet, the screams of casualties demanding help as the car passed a
wrecked shelter, all this had a shattering effect on his morale. Sitting
there in the back of the car he had nothing to do but be terrified. Then
there were the smells, the stinging smells of gases from explosives, the
dusty smell of shattered masonry, the pungent smell of burning woodwork,
and occasionally the stench of mangled human bodies.

It seemed madness to go on any farther, so Thomas drew the car into the
side of the road, and they dashed for the nearest shelter. The blast
from a bomb pushed the side of a house across the street at them. Thomas
was pinned under it; Sirius, though bruised and cut, was free. The lower
part of Thomas's body was covered with masonry. With great difficulty
and in great pain he gasped out, "Save yourself. By the tunnel. Down the
street. Then to Wales. Save yourself, for my sake. Please go, please!"
Sirius tried frantically to shift the debris with his paws and teeth,
but could not. "I'll get help," he said. "No, save yourself," Thomas
gasped. "I'm--done--anyhow. Good luck." But Sirius hurried off, and
presently was tugging at a man's coat, and whimpering. It was obvious
that he wanted help for someone, so a party came back with him. But when
they reached the place where Thomas had been, they found only a fresh
crater. The men returned to their former task, leaving Sirius blankly
gazing. He sniffed about for a long while, whimpering miserably. Then
his terror, which had been blotted out by action, welled up again. But
his head was clear. He must find the tunnel entrance, which Thomas had
said was quite near. He hurried along by the light of fires reflected
from the clouds. At one point the road was completely blocked by fallen
masonry, and he had to clamber over it. At last he reached the tunnel
and managed to sneak in unobserved. He cantered along the footpath; and
though a stream of cars was travelling towards Birkenhead, making a
terrifying noise in the confined space of the tunnel, no one took much
notice of him. At the Birkenhead entrance he made a dash for liberty,
and found himself once more in the threatening racket of war and under
the fire-lit sky. But the bombs were falling mostly on the Liverpool
side of the Mersey.

Sirius gave me a very full account of his long trek from Birkenhead to
Trawsfynydd, but there is no need to report it here in detail. Tired and
mentally shattered, he made his way westward through the town and out
across the Wirral towards Thurstastone Common. As he cantered through
the night his mind kept reverting to the complete disappearance of
Thomas, the being who had made him, whom he had at first adored with
uncritical canine devotion, and more recently had strongly criticized,
while always retaining a deep affection for him, and a deep respect for
his powers. Intellectually he had little doubt that Thomas had simply
ceased to exist; yet, as with Geoffrey's death, he could not really
believe it. Lobbing along a stretch of road, he found himself arguing
with Thomas on the subject. The dead man insisted that there was now
nothing anywhere in the universe which could reasonably be called Thomas
Trelone, no mind continuous with that mind's thoughts, desires,
feelings. "Well, you ought to know," said Sirius; and then came to a
sudden halt, wondering if he was going mad.

From Thurstastone he travelled along the shore of the Dee Estuary and
over the salt marshes to Queensferry, then by road and field and
moorland, always in a south-westerly direction. Often he wondered how
much he was guided by the sub-human mammal's proverbial "homing
faculty," how far by vague memory of Thomas's maps. The long stretches
of road he found very tiring. The motor traffic was a constant worry,
for the drivers gave him little consideration. He imagined the tyrant
species as a composite creature made up of man and machine. How he hated
its harsh voice and brutal ways! Yet only yesterday he himself, sitting
in Thomas's open tourer, had exulted in the speed and the wind as they
streamed across the Lancashire plain. His present plight made him
realize more clearly than ever how contemptuous and heartless men were
towards "dumb animals" that did not happen to be their own pets.

Whenever he passed through a populous area he was careful to attract as
little attention as possible. He slowed down and strayed about the road,
sniffing at lamp-posts, like any local dog. When anyone made inquisitive
or friendly advances, which was fairly often, for he was a striking
animal, he replied with a nonchalant tail-wag, but never stopped. After
crossing the Clwydian Range and the wide Vale of Clwyd, he made his way
up into ample moors, and went badly astray in mist; but at last he
dropped down into lower country near Pentrevoelas, and soon he was
heading for the high wild hills of Migneint. Toiling up a steep grassy
spur he entered heavy cloud, and it began to rain. Tired as he was, and
with a painful task awaiting him, he exulted in the cold wet wind, the
scents of the bog and turf and sheep. Once he caught the unmistakable
odour of fox, that rare, intoxicating smell of the most illusive quarry.
God! How the qualities of sensation seemed to hint at exquisite hidden
things, always to be pursued, never found. Even sight could do it. The
driving mist, the half-seen rocks, appearing and vanishing, and all the
little grass-plumes jewelled with mist-drops, how they stabbed him with
sweet familiarity and with a never-comprehended lure! No doubt it was
all electrons and wave-trains and the tickling of nerve-endings, but oh
how sweet and mysterious and frightening with uncomprehended truth!
Somehow the beauty of it all was intensified to the point of agony by
the horrors that he had so recently witnessed.

On and on he climbed, surprised at the height. Then suddenly the mist
cleared for a moment, and he found himself almost at the top of a
considerable mountain, which he soon identified as Carnedd Filast. Long
ago, before he had taken to sheep, he used to hunt on these moors from
Garth, but it was not often that he came quite so far afield.

Now that he was once more on the high hills, a change of mood came over
him. Why should he go back to the tyrant species at all? Why give
himself the pain of telling Elizabeth that her husband would not return?
Why not live wild on the moor, free, spurning all mankind, feeding on
rabbits and perhaps an occasional sheep, till at last man did him to
death? Why not? He had lived wild for a time after killing Thwaites, but
that had been spoilt by conscience. This time it would be different. It
was clear by now that life had little to offer him. True, he had found a
niche of sorts, but only by man's aid and tolerance. And it was a
cramping niche. He could not extend his powers thoroughly. Strangely, on
this occasion, it was the thought not of Thomas but of his sheep
unshepherded that turned his attention from these gloomy meditations.

The mist now closed down heavily on the mountains, and it was already
twilight; but he had taken his bearings, and was able to grope his way
down towards a high boggy valley, and then up round a shoulder of Arenig
Fach. Soon he was on little Carnedd Iago, then stumbling down in
darkness towards the road, which he crossed near the head of Cwm Prysor.
Leaving the wild moorland valley on his left, he came into home
pastures. Now, even in darkness, every crag, every hummock, every pool,
almost every tussock of heather or grass was familiar, and redolent with
associations. Here he had found a dead sheep and half-born lamb. Here he
had sat with Thomas, eating sandwiches on one of those long walks that
would never be repeated. Here he had killed a hare. But though every
step was familiar, increasing darkness and the heavy mist greatly
delayed him. It was almost midnight when he reached Garth. I calculate
that, since leaving Thurstastone Common in the early morning, he must
have covered altogether, including all his lengthy aberrations from the
direct route, well over eighty miles. Much of the journey was on hard
roads or through difficult, hedged agricultural country.

At the door of the darkened house he gave his special summoning bark.
Elizabeth promptly let him into the blinding light and the familiar
smells of home. Before he had said a word, she had closed the door,
knelt down, and put her arms round him, saying "Thank God one of you is
safe." "Only me," he said. She gave one small moan, and clung to him in
silence. Held in a rather awkward position, tired out after the strain
of the last few days, and oppressed by the indoor atmosphere, he
suddenly went deadly faint, and wilted in her arms. She laid his head
low on the floor and went to fetch some brandy. But in a moment he
recovered, staggered on to his feet, dutifully but feebly wiped them on
the door-mat, and walked unsteadily into the sitting-room. Then he
realized that his under surface was covered with the wet black mud of
the bog. When Elizabeth returned, he was standing with trembling legs
and hanging head, wondering what to do. "Lie down, precious," she said.
"The mess is nothing." Presently she had him lapping up sweet tea, and
then eating bread and milk.




CHAPTER XIV
TAN-Y-VOEL


Thomas's death affected the female members of the Trelone family very
deeply. The two boys were away at the war, but Tamsy and Plaxy both came
home to spend a week or so with their mother. Sirius at a later date
told me that Tamsy was superficially more distressed than Plaxy. She
wept a good deal, and by her too demonstrative sympathy she increased
rather than assuaged the emotional strain that inevitably fell upon
Elizabeth. Plaxy, on the other hand, was strangely cold and awkward.
With a pale face, and an almost sullen expression, she occupied herself
mainly with housework, leaving her mother and sister to dwell upon the
past. One day Tamsy unearthed from Thomas's chest of drawers a
dilapidated handkerchief-case which Plaxy as a child had made and given
to her father on his birthday. With swimming eyes Tamsy brought this
relic to her sister, obviously expecting it to be a stimulus to sweet
sorrow. Plaxy turned away, muttering, "Oh, for God's sake, don't!" Then,
unaccountably, and with a look almost of fury, she rushed at Sirius and
gave him so brusque a hug that he wondered whether it was meant as a
caress or as the opening of a wrestling bout. I mention this incident
because it suggests that Plaxy's relations with her father were in fact
rather complex and emotional.

As for Sirius himself, his very real grief, he told me, was mingled with
a new deep sense of independence. His canine nature lamented the loss of
his master, and he was haunted by memories of Thomas's affectionate
guidance; yet his human intelligence now breathed more freely. At last
he was his own master, not literally perhaps, but emotionally. At last
he would be master of his fate and captain of his soul. Sometimes the
thought frightened him; for he had grown up in complete emotional
dependence on Thomas's ultimate authority over him. Even when he stood
out for his own will, he did so always in the hope of persuading Thomas
to agree with him, never with any depth of intention to resist the will
of his revered creator. And so, now that Thomas was gone, his creature
was torn between anxious self-distrust and a strange new decisiveness.

But though Sirius was now emotionally freed from Thomas, he was destined
to be for a while bound more closely than ever to his foster-mother.

Though Thomas's death was a heavy blow to Elizabeth, she would not let
it crush her. She carried on with her normal life, looking after the
three little evacuees, digging and planting in the garden, helping
Sirius with the sheep; for Pugh had grown very rheumatic and found the
outlying pastures almost inaccessible. Plaxy had offered to give up
teaching and settle down at home, but Elizabeth would not hear of it.
"The child must live her own life," she said.

Inevitably Elizabeth became more and more devoted to Sirius, who was the
supreme achievement of Thomas's creative power, and also her own adopted
child. Indeed Sirius now seemed more to her than her own children, who
were independent, and in no further need of her help. But Sirius
constantly needed her more than ever. Once when she found him struggling
to repair a wire fence with his teeth, he had cried out, "Oh for hands!
At night I dream of hands." She answered, "My hands belong to you till I
die." Between the dog and the middle-aged woman a very close,
affectionate, but not entirely happy relationship developed. Elizabeth
had always maintained towards her children a friendly detachment towards
which they had readily responded. Sirius also she had formerly treated
in the same way. But now, her devotion to her husband combined with
maternal hunger to fix her attention obsessively upon Sirius. Helping
him became her constant passion. Now that Pugh was partially
incapacitated, and skilled labour was so hard to obtain, her help was
valuable. But Sirius came to find it rather tiresome. She was _too_
anxious to help, and _too_ full of suggestions, which he tended to
reject if he could find any plausible excuse for doing so. It was
strange and tragic, and entirely unexpected, that a woman formerly so
quiet-hearted and so unpossessive should in middle age have become so
clinging. I cannot account for the change. It is easy to point to
influences in her life making for neurosis, but why should they have
taken effect so late, and so extravagantly as they were destined to do?
How frail a thing is the human spirit, even at its best!

Elizabeth showed an unwelcome inclination to take part in the actual
management of the farm, and particularly all contacts with the outside
world. Sirius strongly disliked this, not only because she had
insufficient experience and sometimes made bad mistakes, but also
because he was anxious to accustom the local population to dealing with
him direct, and it was his ambition to play an active part in the common
life of the district. Already he had earned respect. Not only the local
papers but the great national dailies had referred to "the brilliant
man-dog of North Wales." Only the paper shortage and the over-mastering
interest of warfare had prevented them from using him for a stunt.
Consequently he had been able to make himself known in the neighbourhood
by personal contact without attracting too much attention from the rest
of the country. Intellectuals of one sort or another did visit him now
and then with introductions from the Laboratory; and these visits he
greatly enjoyed, because they enabled him to keep in touch with
movements of contemporary cultural life. He never gave up his intention
of playing a part in that life as soon as the farm had been fully
developed and regularized.

To return to Elizabeth. Perhaps out of loyalty to Thomas, who had always
been extravagantly fearful of publicity, she did her utmost to keep
Sirius from the public eye, and indeed from all social contacts. When at
last she sent away her three little evacuee children in order to devote
all her time to the farm, Sirius was torn between satisfaction at the
prospect of having more help and fear of increased interference; and
between affection and an exasperation which kindness forbade him to
express. Why was it that one who had always been so tactful and detached
in her relations had suddenly turned so difficult? He put it down to
overwork and the emotional strain of losing her husband. No doubt
advancing age had also something to do with it. Only when one or other
of her own children was at home did she return almost to her normal
self. Then Sirius would feel with relief that he was no longer the apple
of her eye, and would be able to devote himself to his own affairs
without having to consider her.

It was in the autumn of 1941 that Elizabeth fell ill. Her heart was
tired, but Dr. Huw Williams told her that there was nothing seriously
wrong with it. She had merely over-strained it, and must take things
easy for a few weeks. Sirius saw the doctor to his car, and asked him
whether he had told the truth or merely said what would comfort the
patient. After Sirius had repeated the question several times, the
doctor understood, and assured him that he had spoken the truth, and
emphasized the need for a long rest. In a week Elizabeth refused to stay
in bed any longer, and insisted on taking up light jobs on the farm.
This led to another collapse, and the whole cycle was repeated several
times in spite of Sirius's strong protest. It was obvious that Elizabeth
would work herself to death. She seemed to be impelled by some obscure
passion for self-expression through self-destruction in service of
Sirius. The perplexed dog could not keep a constant watch over her
unless he gave up his work entirely. In despair he wrote to Tamsy, but
she had just had her second baby; she could find no one to look after
her family and free her to nurse her mother. Sirius and Mrs. Pugh took
turns with the invalid; but when at last Elizabeth was taken more
seriously ill, and the doctor's optimism had given way to exasperation
and despair, it was suggested to Elizabeth that she had better have a
real rest in a nursing home. She rejected the idea with scorn. Very
reluctantly Sirius now summoned Plaxy.

For several weeks Sirius and Plaxy and Mrs. Pugh kept a close watch on
Elizabeth. The common task drew the girl and the dog closer to one
another than they had ever been before. They were often together, but
seldom alone together. This frequent compresence and infrequent intimacy
generated in each a great longing for unrestrained talk, and an
increasing sensibility towards each other's slightest changes of mood.
Both, of course, were mainly and anxiously concerned with the patient.
Some exasperation was inevitable, but was tempered and indeed almost
wholly silenced by the strong affection which both had felt for her
since their infancy. Both were put to strain by the necessity of
sacrificing their own urgent activities, perhaps for a very long time.
Each knew that the other was strained, and the two were drawn closer by
that knowledge.

Under Plaxy's firm and loving treatment Elizabeth made good progress;
but as her health improved she became increasingly restless. One day she
insisted on dressing and going downstairs. It so happened that on the
table there was an unopened newspaper. She picked it up and opened it.
"BRITISH CRUISER SUNK," said the main headline. It was the ship on which
Maurice was serving. Owing to the fact that the Germans were the first
to announce the sinking, the Admiralty had been forced to break their
rule and publish the information _before_ the next of kin had been told
of the casualties. The shock of the news, and the suspense that followed
it, killed Elizabeth before word came through that her son was among the
survivors.

Plaxy, though "scarcely human," though cat-like and fay, was human
enough to have deep feelings for her mother, who had always shown
special affection for her youngest child, and yet had built up with her
an even freer, happier relationship than with the elder children; for
she had learnt by her own past mistakes with them. Elizabeth's death
therefore hit Plaxy hard. Sirius too was greatly distressed, on his own
account, and still more on hers. For himself, he was again strangely
perplexed by this business of death. The dead Elizabeth kept talking to
him. And it was not the Elizabeth that had just died, the over-strained
and difficult Elizabeth; it was Elizabeth as she was in her prime. Again
and again, with variations, she made or seemed to make a very
intelligent contribution to his thoughts. She said, "Don't puzzle your
old head about it so! Minds like ours just aren't clever enough to
understand, and whichever way you decide you're sure to be wrong. Don't
_believe_ I still exist, for that would be false to your intellect; but
don't refuse the _feeling_ of my presence in the universe, for that
would be blind."

Shared grief and common responsibility tended to bring Plaxy and Sirius
into an ever closer intimacy. They now sank exhausted into mutual
dependence. And there was much work to do together. With the aid of the
family solicitor and a representative of the Laboratory, they had to
wind up the Trelone affairs. Obviously the house must be sold. But the
decision to surrender the home in which they had been brought up
together was momentous both to girl and dog, for it meant severing the
remaining tangible link between them. They spent many hours of many days
sorting out the contents of the house. All the furniture had to go, save
the few pieces that Tamsy wanted for her own house, and the fewer that
were to be given to Sirius, who must now be re-established at Caer Blai.
Books, crockery, kitchen utensils, clothes, all the multifarious
possessions of the dead parents, had to be sorted out. The property of
the absent children must be separated from the rest, and packed up and
dispatched. Plaxy's own and Sirius's own things must be collected and
sorted. A great bonfire of sheer rubbish was made every morning, and
carefully extinguished at night, because of the black-out. Photographs
of the parents themselves, of _their_ parents and relatives, of the four
children and Sirius at all ages, of super-sheep-dogs, of holiday
expeditions, of Sirius at work with sheep, all had to be looked at by
dog and girl together, squatting on the floor of the dismantled
sitting-room. All had to be talked over, laughed over, sighed over, and
finally assigned either to the rubbish pile or to the collection of
things too good to destroy.

When the labour was over, when the furniture was all gone, when there
was nothing in the house but a few packing cases not yet dispatched and
the few crocks and scraps which the two had been using for their meals;
when the floors were bare board and the house was the mere shell of a
home, Plaxy prepared a final meal for the two of them. It was lunch. She
was to leave by train early in the afternoon, and he was to begin at
once to catch up with arrears of work at the farm. They sat together on
the floor of the empty sitting-room, and ate almost in silence. They had
as a matter of course settled down in the spot by the fireplace where
they had so often sat together during the past two decades. The old soft
hearth-rug had gone. They sat on Plaxy's mackintosh, spread on the floor
boards. She leaned against a packing case instead of the vanished couch.
The solemn little picnic was soon finished. Sirius had licked out the
last drop of his last bowl of tea. Plaxy had stubbed her cigarette-end
in her saucer. Both sat silent.

Suddenly Plaxy said, "I have been thinking hard." And he, "So it seems,
oh wise woman." "I've been thinking about us," she continued. "Mother
was useful on the farm, wasn't she?" He agreed, and wondered how they
would manage without her. "The new land-girl," he added, "is not a patch
on the last. She tries to keep her hands soft." "Suppose," said Plaxy,
looking hard at her toe, "well--would you like it if I stayed to help
you?" Sirius was licking a cut on his paw. He stopped to say, "Wouldn't
I just! But that's impossible." He went on licking. "Well," said Plaxy,
"why _shouldn't_ I, if I want to? And I have decided that I do want to,
very much. I _don't_ want to go, I want to stay, if you'll let me." He
stopped licking, and looked up at her. "You _can't_ stay. It's all
arranged. And you don't _really_ want to stay. But it's nice of you to
think you do." "But, Sirius, sweet, I do really want to, not for always,
but for the present. I have thought it all out, right here. We'll rent
Tan-y-Voel." This was the labourer's cottage on Pugh's land, where later
I was to discover them. "It'll be fine," she cried brightly; then with
sudden shyness, for he was gazing at her sadly, she added, "Or
_wouldn't_ you like it?" He reached out and nuzzled into her neck. "You
needn't ask," he said, "but you have a life of your own to lead. You
can't give it all up for a dog." "But," she answered, "I am sick of
teaching, or rather trying to. I suppose I'm not really interested
enough in the little brats. Perhaps I'm too interested in _me_. Anyhow,
I want to live." "Then what about Robert," he said, "and being a mother,
and all that?" She looked away and was silent for a while, then sighed.
"He's a dear. But--oh, I don't know. Anyhow, we have agreed that I must
be myself, and being myself just now means staying with you."

In the end she had her way. They went straight off to tell the Pughs of
the change, and announce that they intended to seize the empty cottage
at once. Pugh was of course overjoyed, and with innocent mirth he
remarked, "I congratulate you, Mr. Sirius, on your bride." Plaxy
coloured, and did not respond well to this sally; so that Pugh had to
smooth matters over by saying, "Just an old farmer's joke, Miss Plaxy.
No offence, indeed." Mrs. Pugh scolded him, "For shame, Llewelyn! You
are a horrid old man, and you have a nasty mind like a bubbling black
bog." They all laughed.

Before the lorry came to transport the last load from Garth, Plaxy had
opened one of the cases and taken out some bedding, towels and so on.
She dumped the remaining crocks and pans into the one empty case.
Together they made a list of essential furniture which must be fetched
back from the store and sent to Tan-y-Voel. When the furniture removers
returned, they were mildly annoyed at the change and the confusion, but
Plaxy used all her charm, and they duly delivered the goods at the
cottage.

Even a two-roomed cottage takes some settling into, and Plaxy spent most
of the following day arranging their new life. She brushed out the two
rooms, scrubbed the stone floors, cleaned the grate, improvised
black-out curtains for the little windows, and bought such stores as
were possible in war-time. In the evening Sirius returned from his work
to find a smiling home and a smiling though rather exhausted Plaxy. The
table was laid for her supper, and on the carpet beside her chair was
Sirius's customary "table-cloth" and bowl. Sirius had two distinct
styles of feeding. In the wild he fed wild, on rabbits and hares and so
on; in the house he was given porridge, soup, bread-and-milk, bones,
crusts of bread, cake and a good deal of tea. At one time it had been
very difficult to buy enough to feed him adequately, because of the
rationing system; but Thomas had pulled wires and secured a special
ration for him as a valuable experimental animal.

After the meal, when Plaxy had washed up, they sat together on the couch
that had been rescued from the old home. They had been gay, but now a
sadness settled on them. Sirius said, "This is not real. It is a very
lovely dream. Presently I shall wake up." And she, "Perhaps it will not
last long, but it is real while it lasts. And there is a rightness in
it. It had to be, to make us one in spirit for ever, whatever else may
come. We shall be happy, never fear." He kissed her cheek.

They were both tired after the day's work, and very soon they were
yawning. Plaxy lit a candle and put out the lamp. In the next room her
familiar bed was awaiting her, and on the floor was Sirius's old
sleeping-basket, a vast pan of wicker containing a circular mattress.
Strange! They had been brought up together, child and puppy, sharing the
same room; and even when they were grown up she had been thoroughly used
to undressing before him without any self-consciousness; yet now,
unexpectedly, she was shy.

At this point I cannot resist pausing to ask the reader a question. Does
not Plaxy's momentous decision to give up her career and live with
Sirius need some explanation? Here was a young woman of outstanding
charm, with many admirers, and one of them her accepted lover. She had
taken up a teaching post which she filled with distinction, and in which
she was finding a good opening for self-expression. Suddenly she gave up
her work and practically broke off relations with her lover in order to
join her life with the strange being who was her father's most brilliant
creation. Does it not seem probable that the underlying motive of this
decision was the identification of Sirius with her father? Plaxy
herself, now my wife, scorns this explanation, holding that it does not
do justice to the power of Sirius's own personality over her. Well,
there is my theory, for what it is worth.

On the morning after the occupation of Tan-y-Voel, Plaxy began her
apprenticeship on the farm. She cleaned out a pig-sty, harnessed the
horse, loaded muck into the cart and unloaded it on the manure heap. She
also helped Sirius to attend to a sick sheep on the moor. Towards the
end of the day she put in some hard work on the wilderness that was
meant to be the cottage garden. In such style, with variations, the days
passed. Her face took on the healthy glow that delighted me when in due
season I discovered her. With mingled distress and pride she watched her
hands go blistered, grime-ingrained, scratched, cut and hard. Mrs. Pugh
taught her to milk. Pugh himself taught her to broadcast a field with
oats, while the instrument which she insisted on calling the "sowing
machine" was out of order. Always there were countless nameless jobs to
do about the farm. Her main function, she said, was to save Sirius's
teeth, which were beginning to wear down with too much gripping of wood
and iron. So far as possible he confined his attention to the sheep and
the super-sheep-dogs, but there was no end to the number of small
unexpected tasks which really called for hands but could most easily be
disposed of at once by his own clumsy jaws. On the farm premises he was
always, in spite of his painfully acquired skill with those unsuitable
instruments, too pitifully handless. But on the moors he was in his
element. Plaxy greatly enjoyed the expeditions into the hills with
Sirius and his canine pupils. Bounding through the bracken, he was a
storm-tossed but seaworthy boat. Trotting around, giving orders to his
pupils, he was a general and his charger all in one. When a sheep broke
away and had to be retrieved, he would streak after it, belly to earth,
like a torpedo.

In this new life there was almost no leisure, no time for reading,
music, writing. Contact with the world beyond the hills was at a
minimum. Expeditions to sheep sales were rare excitements. On these
occasions both Sirius and Plaxy would accompany Pugh, she as Pugh's
unofficial land-girl. The bustle, the babble of Welsh voices, the
clamour of sheep, the variety of human and canine types, the social
atmosphere of the pubs, and of course the young men's unconcealed
admiration of this bright and humorously self-important, this
forthcoming but rather queer land-girl (not in uniform)--all this Plaxy
vastly enjoyed as a change from the seclusion of the farm.

Apart from these infrequent excursions, social intercourse was to be had
only on expeditions to the village, and on visits to neighbouring farms
to borrow or lend tools, or simply for friendly intercourse. Often Plaxy
would tidy herself up and revert as far as possible to the gay young
lady; and it was with deep peace of mind that she walked through the
fields with the great sinewy beast at her side. With a careless, queenly
self-confidence she accepted the inevitable admiration of the young
farmers and shepherds, and sensed their puzzlement over her indefinable
oddity.

After she had been with Sirius for several months, however, something
happened which spoiled these social occasions for her. She was made to
realize that, though she was so popular with many of the local people,
there were some who were outraged by her living alone with the man-dog.
Increasingly it was made difficult for her to be unselfconscious with
Sirius in public. And her observed shyness with him fomented the
salacious rumours.

The trouble began with a visit from a local nonconformist minister. This
earnest young man took it upon himself to save Plaxy from damnation. He
was simple enough to be impressed by the notion that Sirius was inspired
by Satan, and he listened to the rumours of perverse relations between
the dog and the girl. As the cottage lay within his sphere of
responsibility, he felt it his duty to intervene. He timed his visit
well. Plaxy had returned from the farm to prepare supper, and Sirius was
still at work. Plaxy foresaw a late meal, but she treated the Reverend
Mr. Owen Lloyd-Thomas with friendly ease. Indeed she made a point of
being sweet to him, knowing that his good opinion counted. After beating
about the bush for some time, he suddenly said, "Miss Trelone, it is my
difficult duty as a minister of the Lord to speak to you on a very
delicate matter. It is believed by simple people in the neighbourhood
that your dog, or Mr. Pugh's dog, is not merely an extraordinary animal
but a spirit clothed in a dog's flesh. And simple people, you know,
sometimes go nearer to the truth than clever people. In spite of all the
wonders of science, it may really be _less false_ to say that the dog is
possessed by a spirit than that it is just the work of man's scientific
skill. And if it is indeed possessed, then perhaps the spirit in the dog
is of God, but perhaps it is of Satan. By their fruits ye shall know
them." He fell silent, cast a self-conscious glance at Plaxy, and fell
to twisting the brim of his soft black hat. At last he continued, "It is
felt by the neighbours, Miss Trelone, that for you to live alone with
the animal is unseemly. It is believed that Satan has already snared you
through the man-dog into sin. I do not know what the truth is. But I
believe you are in danger. And as a minister I offer you advice. Change
your way of living, even if only because it is an offence to the
neighbours."

According to the reverend young man's reading of womanly nature, Plaxy
should have blushed, either with innocent modesty or with guilty shame.
If indeed she was guilty, then she might be expected either to confess
with tears of penitence or to deny with self-righteous and unconvincing
indignation. Her actual behaviour disconcerted him. For some time she
just sat looking at him; then she rose and silently moved off into the
minute larder. She came back with some potatoes, and sat down to peel
them, saying, "Excuse me, won't you, I must get the supper ready. We can
talk while I do this. You see, I love Sirius. And to leave him alone now
would be unkind. And it would hurt our love, because it would be a
running away. Mr. Lloyd-Thomas, your religion is love. You must surely
see that I can't leave him."

At that moment Sirius appeared in the doorway. He stood with his
nostrils moving, to catch the smell of the visitor. Plaxy stretched out
her arm to welcome him to her, and said. "Mr. Lloyd-Thomas thinks we
ought not to live together, because you may be Satan dressed up as a
dog, and perhaps you have taught me to live in sin." She laughed. This
was not a very tactful beginning, but tact had never been Plaxy's strong
suit. It is possible that if she had not made this remark their whole
future would have been different. Lloyd-Thomas flushed, and said, "It is
not good to jest about sin. I do not know whether you have done this
thing, but I know now that your spirit is frivolous." Sirius moved over
to her, and she laid a hand on his back. He was still analysing the
visitor's smell. She felt the hair on his back rise against her hand. A
very faint growl made her fear lest he should go wild. He advanced half
a pace towards the cleric, but she clasped him round the neck with both
arms. "Sirius!" she cried, "don't be silly!" Lloyd-Thomas rose with
careful dignity, saying, "This is not a good time for us to talk. Think
over what I have said." In the garden he turned, and saw through the
open door Plaxy still holding Sirius. Girl and dog were staring at him.
She bowed her head to the dog's head, and laid her cheek to it.

When he had gone, Sirius said to Plaxy, "He smells as if he were in love
with you. He smells a decent sort, really; but probably he would sooner
see you dead than living in sin with me; just as McBane, I suspect,
would rather see me dead than fail to squeeze every drop of information
out of my body and mind. Morality and truth! The two most relentless
divinities! I'm afraid we're for it with Lloyd-Thomas sooner or later."

Lloyd-Thomas's sermons began to have obvious references to Plaxy and
Sirius. He prayed for those who had been snared into unnatural vice.
Some of his congregation were very receptive to the new minatory trend
of his services. Little by little, among those who had no personal
contact with Plaxy, there grew up a considerable movement of censure and
indignation; and also anxiety, for would not the Lord punish the whole
neighbourhood for harbouring the wicked couple? Fresh rumours seemed to
sprout every day. Someone claimed that he had seen Plaxy swimming naked
in a lonely llyn with the man-dog. This harmless story developed into
unpublishable accounts of dalliance on the turf while they were basking
in the sun before the bathe. A boy also reported that one Sunday he had
peered through the hedge at Tan-y-Voel and seen Plaxy lying naked on the
grass ("black as a nigger, she was, with the sun"), while the dog licked
her from head to foot. The patriots and spy-hunters were also roused. It
was affirmed that Sirius's panniers contained a radio-set with which he
signalled to enemy planes.

Sirius's friends ridiculed these stories, or indignantly reprimanded
those who spread them. Plaxy was still able to do her shopping in an
atmosphere of friendly attentiveness. There were, however, a few
unpleasant incidents. A village girl who worked for Mrs. Pugh on the
farm was forbidden by her mother ever to enter Tan-y-Voel; and after a
while she ceased to come to Caer Blai at all. Sometimes, when Plaxy
entered a shop, conversation between shopkeeper and customers would
suddenly cease. Some young hooligans, apparently in the hope of
collecting evidence for scandal, haunted the spur of the moor
overlooking the cottage. One evening, just before black-out time, a bold
lad crept up to the window and peered into the lamp-lit room. Sirius
with ferocious clamour chased him out of the garden and half-way to the
main road.

These little incidents were of no great moment in themselves, but they
were significant of a spreading movement of hostility. Plaxy began to be
reluctant to go to the village. Both she and Sirius grew suspicious of
callers. And between them there developed a rather tense emotional
relationship, which alternated between reserve and tenderness.

Hitherto they had lived very happily. Their days were spent in hard work
on the farm or away on the moors, often in co-operation upon the same
task. Plaxy found a good deal to do in the cottage itself, cleaning and
cooking, and there was always work in the little vegetable garden. The
evenings they sometimes spent with the Pughs or at one or other of the
neighbouring farms, where music often formed the medium of social
intercourse. The musical Welsh were at first hostile to Sirius's own
unconventional creations, but his singing of human music won their
applause. And in a few houses the more sensitive were becoming
interested in his distinctively canine modes. But under the influence of
scandal these social occasions were reduced. Far more often Plaxy and
Sirius spent their evenings at home upon household chores, or singing in
private the strange duets and solos that Sirius still occasionally
conceived. Sometimes they would spend their evening with books. Sirius
still took a deep delight in listening to prose and poetry read aloud by
a good human voice. Often he would persuade Plaxy to read to him. And
not infrequently he would suggest subtle modifications of tone or
emphasis; for though his own reading was inevitably grotesque, his
sensitive ear had detected many emotional cadences and changes of
timbre, which human beings were apt to overlook until their attention
was drawn to them.

As Plaxy and Sirius became more aware of the hostility and suspicion
round about them, their relationship began to change. It became more
passionate and less happy. Isolation, combined with contempt for the
critics, drew girl and dog into closer intimacy, in fact into a manner
of life which some readers may more easily condemn than understand.
Plaxy herself, in spite of her fundamental joy in her love for Sirius,
was increasingly troubled by a fear that she might irrevocably be losing
touch with her own species, even that in this strange symbiosis with an
alien creature she might be losing her very humanity itself. Sometimes,
so she tells me, she would look at her own face in the little square
mirror over the dressing-table, and feel a bewildering sense that it was
not _her_ face at all, but the face of the tyrant species that she had
outraged. Then she would find herself in the same breath hating her
unalterably human physiognomy and yet being half surprised and wholly
thankful that it had not suffered a canine change.

This fear of ceasing to be human occasionally induced in her a dumb
antagonism towards Sirius, which sprang not from any real sense of sin
or even of indecorousness, for she was convinced that her behaviour was
a fitting symbol of their deep spiritual union. No, the source of her
infrequent fits of gloom was simply her consciousness of alienation from
the world of normal human beings. The call of her kind was still strong
in her, and she was tormented by her outlawry. The solemn taboos of
humanity still dominated her through her unconscious nature, though
consciously she had long since declared her independence of them. Once
she said to Sirius, "I must indeed have become a bitch in a girl's body,
and so humanity has turned against me." "No, no!" he answered. "You are
always fully human, but just because you are also more than merely
human, and I am more than merely canine, just because we are both in
essence intelligent and sensitive beings, we can rise far above our
differences, to reach across the gulf that separates us, and be together
in this exquisite union of opposites." Thus, in the rather navely
formal diction that he was apt to use when he was speaking most
earnestly, he tried to console her. In his mind there was no conflict
over their intimacy. His love of her combined a dog's devotion with
human parity in comradeship, and blended the wolf's over-mastering
hunger with the respect of spirit for spirit.

At a later date both Plaxy and Sirius told me much about their life
together at this time; but though after our marriage she urged me to
publish all the facts for the light they throw on Sirius, consideration
for her feelings and respect for the conventions of contemporary society
force me to be reticent.

It was at such times that she would write those tortured letters to me,
and by all sorts of devices contrived to have them posted far from home,
lest I should track her down. For while she longed increasingly for
human intimacy and human love, while she yearned to take up once more
the threads of her life as a normal English girl, she clung with passion
to the strange life and the strange love that fate had given her. It was
clear from her letters that in the same breath she longed for me to take
her away, and yet also dreaded the disruption of her life with Sirius.




CHAPTER XV
STRANGE TRIANGLE


I have already told how I found Plaxy with Sirius at Tan-y-Voel, and how
clear it was to me that any attempt to persuade her to leave him would
have alienated her from me. It was not till some days after our first
meeting, and after many talks with Plaxy, that I realized how intimate
her relations with the dog had become. The discovery was a shock to me,
but I took pains not to betray my revulsion; for Plaxy, finding me
sympathetic, soon poured out in a flood of confession the whole story of
her emotional relations with Sirius. When she had many times dwelt upon
this theme I found myself putting aside the conventional feelings of the
outraged lover. I could not but realize that the passion, which united
these two dissimilar creatures was deep and generous. But this made me
all the more fearful lest I should never win my strange darling back
again. And I was deeply convinced that for her own sake, no less than
for mine, she must in the end be won back to human ways.

During the few remaining days of my leave I spent much time at
Tan-y-Voel, sometimes with Plaxy alone, sometimes with the two of them.
Sirius was busy all day, but Plaxy allowed herself a good deal of time
off duty to be with me. We used to work together in the garden. Indoors
I helped her to clean and cook, and so on. I also constructed a number
of labour-saving gadgets for her. I have always been fairly apt with my
hands, and I thoroughly enjoyed putting up shelves and curtain rods, and
improving the arrangements for washing up. Sirius's sleeping-basket
needed repairing, but it seemed better not to put this right until much
later, when I had established friendly relations with him. While I was
occupied with all these little manual tasks we would talk, sometimes
seriously, sometimes with the old familiar banter. Sometimes I even
ventured to tease her about her "canine husband"; but on one of these
occasions (she was washing up and I was drying) she broke into tears.
After that I was more tactful.

It was my fixed intention, of course, to wean Plaxy from her present
life, though not to tear her from Sirius. I made no suggestion that she
should come away with me. Indeed it was part of my plan to persuade her
and Sirius that I fully accepted the continuance of their intimacy and
of their present regime. My improvements in the house were calculated to
strengthen this impression. They also accidentally served another
purpose. They allowed me to take a rather mean advantage over Sirius,
who could not himself help in this way. I could see that my handiness
galled him; and, seeing it, I was ashamed of hurting him. Yet whenever
an opportunity offered I failed to resist the temptation of triumphing
over him and delighting my darling. After all, I told myself, all is
fair in love and war. But I was ashamed; the more so because Sirius with
inhuman generosity encouraged me to help Plaxy whenever possible.
Perhaps it was in the long run a good thing that I indulged myself in
this manner, for Sirius's magnanimity forced me to realize quickly how
fine a spirit he was, and compelled me to treat him with warm respect,
not merely for being loved by Plaxy, but for his own sake.

Relations with Sirius were at first very awkward, and I feared at one
time that our presence in the same house would prove intolerable to both
of us. He made no attempt to get rid of me. He treated me with friendly
politeness. But I could see that he hated to leave Plaxy with me.
Obviously he feared that she might at any moment vanish out of his life.
One source of strain between us was that I had at first very great
difficulty in understanding his speech. Though in the end I learned to
follow his uncouth English fairly easily, during that first visit to
Wales I was often entirely at a loss, even when he spoke word by word
and with many repetitions. In these circumstances it was almost
impossible for us to come to terms at all. However, before we parted I
succeeded at least in dispelling the initial chill by showing him that I
had no intention of acting as the jealous rival, and that I did not
condemn Plaxy for her relations with him. I went so far as to assure him
that I did not want to come between them. To this he replied with a
little speech which I laboriously made out to be, "But you _do_ want to
come between us. I don't blame you. You want her to live with you,
always. And obviously she _must_ live with you, or some man. I cannot
give her all that she needs. This life is only temporary for her. As
soon as she wants to, she must go." There was dignity and sanity in this
statement, and I felt rebuked for my lack of candour.

By judicious wangling I was able to secure an extension of leave, so
that I could spend some ten days with Plaxy and Sirius, conscientiously
returning to my hotel every night. Sirius suggested that I should sleep
at the cottage, but I pointed out that if I did there would be an added
scandal. It seemed strangely tantalizing to me, who had been, and in a
manner still was, Plaxy's acknowledged lover, to kiss her good night at
the garden gate while Sirius tactfully remained indoors. A revulsion
little short of horror (which I was at pains to dissemble) would
sometimes seize me at the thought of leaving her with the non-human
being whom she strangely loved. On one of these occasions I must have
somehow infected her with my own distress, for she suddenly clung to me
with passion. A surge of joy and hunger swept over me, and I lost my
presence of mind so far as to say, "Darling, come away with me. This
life is all wrong for you." But she disengaged herself, "No, dear
Robert, you don't understand. Humanly I do love you very much, but--how
can I say it?--super-humanly, in the spirit, but therefore in the flesh
also, I love my other dear, my strange darling. And for him there can
never possibly be anyone but me." I protested, "But he can't give you
what you really need. He said so, himself." "Of course not," she
answered, "he can't give me what as a girl I need most. But I am not
just a girl. I am different from all other girls. I am Plaxy. And Plaxy
is half of Sirius-Plaxy, needing the other half. And the other half
needs me." She paused, but before I had thought of an answer she said,
"I must go. He may be thinking I shall never come back." She kissed me
hastily and hurried to the cottage door.

The next day was Sunday, which the Welsh keep with dreadful strictness.
No work could be done on the farm, beyond feeding the beasts, so Sirius
was free. I went round to Tan-y-Voel after breakfast and found Plaxy
working in the garden, alone and rather self-conscious. Sirius, she
said, had gone off for the day, and would not be back till after sunset.
I was surprised, and in answer to my questions she explained, "The wild
mood is on him, he says. It takes him and then leaves him. He has gone
over the Rhinogs by the Roman Steps to a farm near Dyffryn to his
crazy-making Gwen, a beautiful super-sheep-dog bitch. She should be ripe
for him just now." I showed signs of disgust and sympathy; but she
promptly said, "I don't mind. I did mind once, before I understood. But
now it seems quite natural and right. Besides----" I pressed her to
continue, but she went on digging in silence. I forcibly stopped the
digging. She looked me in the eyes, laughing, and said nothing. I kissed
her warm sunned cheek.

There was human love-making in the cottage that day, and a great deal of
talk. But though my darling responded to my caresses with ardour, I knew
that she was all the while withholding her inmost self. Sometimes I
found myself imagining with horror how a beast had awkwardly mauled the
sweet human form that I now so fittingly embraced. Sometimes, on the
other hand, it seemed to me that, after all, the lithe creature in my
arms, though humanly, divinely shaped, was inwardly not human at all but
some exquisite fawn-like beast, or perhaps a fox or dainty cat
transformed temporarily into the likeness of a woman. Even the human
form was not quite human; so spare and supple and delicately muscular
was it that she did indeed seem more fawn than girl. Once she said, "Oh
lovely, lovely to be human again, even for a little while! How we fit,
my dear!" But when I urged, "This, Plaxy darling, is what you are meant
for," she answered: "This is what my body was meant for, but in spirit I
cannot ever be wholly yours." How I hated the brute Sirius in that
moment! And she, sensing my hate, burst into tears, and struggled in my
arms like a captive animal till she had freed herself. But the quarrel
was soon made up. We spent the rest of that day as lovers do, wandering
on the hill, sitting about in the garden, preparing and eating meals.

When the sun was low in the west I prepared to leave her, but she said,
"Wait for Sirius. I do so want you to be friends." Not till late in the
evening, when we were sitting talking in the little kitchen, did we hear
the garden gate. Presently Sirius opened the door and stood blinking in
the lamp-light, his nostrils taking the scent of us. She held out both
arms towards him, and when he reached her she drew his great head to her
cheek. "Be friends, you two," she said, taking my hand. Sirius looked at
me steadily for a moment, and I smiled. He slowly waved his tail.

During my last few days I saw more of the dog than I had done before. We
no longer avoided one another; and by now I could understand his speech
rather better. One morning, while Plaxy was helping Mrs. Pugh in the
dairy, I went out with Sirius and his pupils to the high pastures. It
was wonderful to watch him controlling these bright but sub-human
creatures with barks and singing cries that were to me quite
unintelligible. It was wonderful, too, to see them at his bidding
capture a particular sheep and hold it down on the ground while their
master examined its feet or mouth, sometimes treating it from the
panniers, which, by the way, were carried by one of the pupils. Between
whiles we talked of Plaxy and of her future, and of the war, and of the
prospects of the human species. Conversation was difficult, because he
had so often to repeat himself, but gradually we established a genuine
friendship. On the way home he said, "Come often to see us while Plaxy
is still here. It is good for Plaxy. And it is good for me too to have
your friendship. Some day, perhaps, it will be my turn to visit you two,
if you will have me." I felt a sudden warmth towards him, and I said,
"If she and I have ever a home, it must certainly be your home too."




CHAPTER XVI
PLAXY CONSCRIPTED


During the next few months I spent frequent week-ends at Tan-y-Voel. The
more I saw of Sirius, the more I was drawn towards him. Always, of
course, there was a latent but an acknowledged conflict over Plaxy. All
three of us, however, were determined to work out a tolerable
relationship, and between Sirius and me the strain was eased by a
genuine mutual affection. Sometimes, of course, the latent conflict
became overt, and only by heroic tact and restraint on one side or the
other could friendliness be maintained. But little by little the
identical spirit in each of us, as Sirius himself said, triumphed over
the diversity of our natures and our private interests. Had I not
actually experienced this close-knit triple relationship I should not
have believed it possible. Nor should I, perhaps, have been able to
sustain my part in it, had not my love for Plaxy been from the onset
unpossessive; owing to the fact that I myself, like Sirius in his canine
style, had sometimes loved elsewhere.

The three of us were drawn more closely together by the hostility of a
small but active section of the local people. The Rev. Owen Lloyd-Thomas
had on several occasions issued veiled warnings from his pulpit. A few
other ministers, realizing, perhaps subconsciously, that the theme of
the "unnatural vice" of a girl and dog was likely to increase their
congregations, could not resist the temptation to use it for that end.
The result was that a small but increasing number of persons who were in
one way or another emotionally frustrated and in need of an object for
persecution were using Plaxy and Sirius for the same sort of purpose as
the Nazis had used the Jews. The neighbours were mostly far too friendly
to be accessible to this disease of self-righteous hate; but farther
afield, in fact throughout North Wales, rumours were spreading both
about the vice and the supposed treasonable activities of the couple in
the lonely cottage in Merioneth. Plaxy received anonymous letters which
caused her much distress. Messages for "Satan's Hound" were pinned on
the door at night, including several threats that unless he released the
spellbound girl he would be shot. Pugh's sheep were sometimes found
maimed. One was slaughtered and laid at the cottage door. Obscene
drawings of a girl and dog were scrawled on blank walls. A local paper
published a leading article calling the population to action. A battle
occurred on the moors between the canine inhabitants of Caer Blai and a
number of youths and dogs who had come out to do Sirius to death.
Fortunately they had no firearms, and they were routed.

Meanwhile events of another type were threatening to change the fortunes
of all three of us. I was expecting to be sent abroad very soon. The
prospect caused Plaxy to treat me with increased tenderness. And if
Sirius's grief was feigned, the imitation was very convincing. But worse
than the prospect of my departure was the official order that Plaxy
herself must take up some form of approved national service. We had
hoped that she might be allowed to remain in peace as a farm worker, but
her position was anomalous. The authorities could not see why a girl
with a university training, living alone with a dog in the depths of the
country, should be let off merely because she voluntarily helped on a
neighbouring farm. The officials, however, were at first friendly, and
anxious to interpret the regulations in a human manner. But just when it
seemed most probable that Plaxy would be allowed to remain with Sirius,
there was a marked and unaccountable change of tone. I suspect that some
local enemy of Sirius had been telling tales of the scandalous and
reputedly treasonous actions of the strange couple. Anyhow, whatever the
cause, Plaxy was told that her appeal was rejected. Pugh put in a strong
plea for her retention, but it was pointed out that he could easily find
a land-girl to take her place. She could then be used for national
service more suited to her capacity. Pugh offered to take on Plaxy
herself as a land-girl, paying her the official wage. This was too
obviously a put-up job. Authority became increasingly suspicious and
uncompromising. Plaxy must either join one of the military organizations
for women or take a temporary post in the civil service. She chose the
latter, hoping to get herself attached to one of the great government
offices evacuated into Lancashire or North Wales.

Plaxy was greatly distressed at the prospect of leaving. "This is my
life," she said to Sirius. "_You_ are my life, for the present, anyhow.
The war matters terribly, I know; but I can't _feel_ that it matters. It
_feels_ an irrelevance. At least, I can't feel that it makes any
difference to the war whether I stay or go. Surely I'm doing more useful
work here, really, even for the war. It's as though the hand of man were
turning more and more against us. And oh, my dear, my sweet, what will
you do without me to brush you and wash you and take thorns out of your
feet, to say nothing of helping you with the sheep?" "I shall manage,"
he said. "And you, though part of you hates to go, another part will be
glad of it, wanting to be entirely human again. And you will be freed
from all this silly persecution." She replied, "Oh, yes, part of me
wants to go. But that part of me isn't really _me_. The real I, the
whole real Plaxy, desperately wants to carry on. The bit of me that
wants to go is just a dream self. The only consolation is that perhaps
when I am gone the persecutors will leave you alone."

At last the day came for Plaxy to go. Sirius would henceforth live with
the Pughs, but Tan-y-Voel was to be kept ready to receive them whenever
Plaxy had her leave. On the last morning Sirius did his best to help her
with her final preparations, his tail (when he could remember it) kept
bravely up. Before the village car was due to take her to the station
she made tea for the two of them. They sat together on the hearth-rug,
drinking it almost in silence. "How glad I am," she said, "that I
decided as I did on that last morning at Garth!" "And I," he answered,
"if it has not drawn you away too far from your kind." They heard the
taxi hoot as it turned out of the main road. It roared up the hill in
bottom gear. Plaxy sighed deeply and said, "My species has come to take
me from you." Then with sudden passion she clung to him and buried her
face in the stubborn mane on his neck. Twisting himself round in her
embrace, he snuggled to her breast. "Whatever happens now," he said, "we
have had these months together, nothing can destroy that."

The taxi stopped at the garden gate and hooted again. They kissed. Then
she stood up, tossed back her hair, seized some luggage and met the
taxi-man at the door. Seated in the car, she leaned out of the window to
touch Sirius, saying only "Good-bye, good luck!" It had been arranged
that this should be their parting. He would not go with her to the
station.




CHAPTER XVII. OUTLAW


Plaxy had hoped to be stationed in North Wales, but she was sent to a
much more remote part of the country, and would only be able to visit
Sirius for a fortnight in the year. Meanwhile he was having a difficult
time. Pugh had engaged an extra land-girl, Mary Griffith, to take
Plaxy's place. She had not been long on the farm before she began to be
frightened of Sirius. She could not reconcile herself to the fact that
the dog could talk and was in authority over her. Presently she began to
hear of the scandal connected with him. She was terrified, and
fascinated. Badly equipped by nature as a charmer of the male of her own
species, she had never suffered the flattery of persecution. Though her
moral sense was outraged by the possibility that the great brute would
make love to her, something in her whispered, "Better a dog for a lover
than no lover at all." Spell-bound, she awaited pursuit. Sirius gave no
sign. She did her best to understand his speech, hoping that his
instructions might include endearments. Sirius's conduct remained coldly
correct. She herself began to make clumsy attempts to entice him. His
failure to give any sign that he had ever noticed these signals roused a
perverse hunger in her, and the thought that even a dog rejected her was
too repugnant to be admitted to her consciousness. She protected herself
against it by illusions that, as a matter of fact, it was he that had
made unseemly advances, and she that had refused. She began to invent
incidents, and allowed them to be transformed in her mind from fiction
to false memory. She recounted her stories to her acquaintances in the
village, and began to gain a welcome notoriety. Once, when she had
vainly done her utmost to excite Sirius, she stayed out in the fields
for half the night. Next day she declared that the animal had driven her
with snarls and bites to the lonely cottage to rape her. Rents in her
clothes and marks on her arm were said to be due to his teeth.

This improbable story was welcomed by Sirius's enemies. They did not
trouble to inquire why the girl did not complain to the Land Army
authorities and get herself transferred to another post. They merely
redoubled their activities against Sirius. A deputation called on Pugh
to persuade him to destroy the lascivious brute. Pugh laughed at their
stories and dismissed them with a quip. "You might as well ask me to
destroy the nose on my face because you don't like the way it dribbles.
No! It's worse than that, because my poor old nose does dribble, but the
man-dog does none of the foul things you say he does. And if you try to
do any harm to him, I'll put the police on you. If you hurt him there'll
be gaol for you, and thousands of pounds damages to pay to the great
Laboratory at Cambridge." He sacked the Griffith girl, but found to his
horror that no substitute was to be had. Rumour had been busy, and no
girl would risk her reputation by working at Caer Blai.

Sirius's enemies were not to be intimidated. Whenever he went to the
village, a stone was sure to be thrown at him, and when he whisked round
to spot the culprit no one looked guilty. Once, indeed, he did detect
the assailant, a young labourer. Sirius approached him threateningly,
but immediately a swarm of dogs and men set on him. Fortunately two of
his friends, the local doctor and the village policeman, were able to
quell the brawl.

Meanwhile Pugh and his wife were sharing the unpopularity of Sirius.
Cows and sheep were damaged, crops trampled. The police force had been
so depleted by the war that the miscreants were seldom caught.

Matters were brought to a head by a serious incident. This I recount on
the evidence of Pugh, who had the story from Sirius himself. The man-dog
was out on the hills with one of his canine pupils. Suddenly a shot was
fired, and Sirius's companion leapt into the air, then staggered about
yelping. The charge, no doubt, was meant for Sirius; it winged the other
dog. Sirius at once turned wolf. Getting wind of the man, he charged in
his direction. The second barrel of the shot-gun was fired, but the
assailant had lost his nerve; he missed again, and then he dropped his
gun and ran to some steep rocks. Before he could climb out of reach,
Sirius had him by the ankle. There followed a tug of war, with the human
leg as rope. Sirius had not secured a good grip, and presently his teeth
slipped on the ankle bone, coming away with a good deal of flesh. The
dog rolled backwards down the slope, and the man, though in great pain,
clambered out of reach. Sirius's rage was now somewhat cooled. He wisely
sought out the shot-gun and sank it in a bog. His companion had
vanished. Sirius overtook him limping homewards.

When the wounded man, whose name was Owen Parry, had dragged himself
back to the village, he told a story of gratuitous attack by the
man-dog. He said he had found Sirius squatting on a hillside overlooking
the camp, counting ammunition cases that were being unloaded from
lorries. When the brute saw him it attacked. The more gullible villagers
believed the whole story. They urged Parry to prosecute Pugh for
damages, and to tell the military of the canine spy. Parry, of course,
took no action.

Some weeks later Plaxy received a telegram from Pugh saying "S.O.S.
Sirius wild." As she had a good record with her superiors she was able
to secure a spell of "compassionate leave." A couple of days after Pugh
had telegraphed she arrived at Caer Blai, tired and anxious.

Pugh told her a distressing story. After the incident with Parry a
change seemed to come over Sirius. He carried on his work as usual, but
after work hours he avoided all human contacts, retiring to the moors,
and often staying out all night. He turned morose and touchy towards all
human beings except the Pughs. Then one day he told Pugh he had decided
to leave the farm so that the flock and the crops should be safe from
violence. "He was very gentle in his speaking," said the farmer, "but
there was a look of the wild beast in his eye. His coat was out of
condition, not all glossy as it used to be when you were here to look
after him, Miss Plaxy, dear. And there was a little wound on his belly,
festering with the mud that was always being splashed on it. I was
frightened for him. He made his wildness so gentle for us that my eyes
dribbled like my nose. I said he must stay, and not be beaten by a bunch
of dirty-tongued hooligans. Together we would teach them. But he would
not stay. When I asked him what he would do if he left, he looked very
strange. It gave me the creeps, yes indeed, Miss Plaxy. As though it was
a wild beast I was speaking to, with no sense and no human kindness.
Then he seemed to make an effort, for he licked my hand ever so gently.
But when I put my other hand on his head he jumped like a shot thing,
and stood away from me, looking at me with his head cocked over, as
though he was torn between friendliness and fear, and didn't know what
to do. His tail was miserable under his belly. 'Bran,' I said, 'Sirius,
my old friend! Don't go off till I have fetched Miss Plaxy.' Then he
wagged his old tail under his belly, and he cried softly. But when I put
out a hand to him he sprang away again, and then he ran off up the lane.
When he was beside Tan-y-Voel he stopped for a moment, but soon he
lolloped away up the moel."

After Sirius's disappearance several days passed without incident in the
neighbourhood. No one saw anything of the fugitive. Pugh was so busy
with farm work, and trying to find help to replace Sirius, that he could
not make up his mind whether or not to tell Plaxy of the dog's
disappearance. Then one day he came upon Sirius outside Tan-y-Voel and
hailed him, but in vain. At this stage Pugh telegraphed to Plaxy. Then a
farmer in the Ffestiniog district found one of his sheep killed and
partly eaten. Nearer home a dog that had been one of Sirius's opponents
in the battle was found dead with its throat torn. The police then
organized a party of armed men and dogs to search the moors for the
dangerous beast. The party, said Pugh, had just returned. They had drawn
the whole district round the slaughtered sheep, arguing that Sirius
would return to the carcass to feed, but they had seen nothing of him.
To-morrow a larger party would search the whole moorland area between
Ffestiniog, Bala and Dolgelly.

While Pugh was telling the story Plaxy listened in silence. "She stared
at me," he afterwards said, "as if she was a frightened hare, and me a
stoat." When Pugh had finished she insisted that she must sleep at
Tan-y-Voel. "In the morning," she said, "I will go out and look for him.
I _know_ I shall find him." Mrs. Pugh urged her to stay at Caer Blai,
but she shook her head, moving towards the door. Then she checked, and
said piteously, "But if I bring him home they will take him from me. Oh,
what am I to do?" The Pughs could give no helpful answer.

Plaxy groped her way over to Tan-y-Voel in the dark, lit the kitchen
fire, and changed into her old working clothes. She made herself tea,
ate a large number of biscuits, and stoked up the fire, so that there
might be smoke visible in the morning. Then she went out again into the
dark. She made her way over the moors by a familiar route, until after
several hours she reached the place where long ago she had found Sirius
with the dead pony. The eastern sky was already light. She called his
name, or chanted it with the accustomed lilt that she had used ever
since childhood. Again and again she called, but there was no answer;
nothing but the sad bleating of a sheep and the far-off rippling pipe of
a curlew. She wandered about till the sun rose from behind Arenig Fawr.
Then she searched carefully round the bog where the pony had lain, until
at last she found a large dog's footprint. Bending down she scrutinized
it eagerly, and others. One of them, the print of a left hind paw, gave
her what she wanted. The mark of the outer toe was very slightly
irregular, recording a little wound that Sirius had received when he was
a puppy. Plaxy surprised herself by weeping. After standing for a while
mopping her eyes, she unbuttoned her coat and dragged out from her waist
a corner of the old blue and white check shirt, well known to Sirius.
With her clasp knife, often used in the past for paring the hooves of
sheep, she cut the hem, and tore out a little square of the material.
This she laid beside the footmark. Sirius's monochrome vision would miss
the colour, but he might pick up the bold pattern from afar, and when he
came near he would recognize it. Moreover, since the shirt had been next
her body, it would hold the smell of her for a long time. He would know
that she had seen the footprints and would return.

Then she wandered about the moor again for some time, frequently using a
little monocular field-glass that I had recently given her for use with
the sheep. (In the choice of a gift I had perhaps unconsciously
emphasized the pleasure of human eyesight, which was so much more
precise than any dog's.) At last fatigue and hunger forced her to return
to Tan-y-Voel. There she made herself tea, ate the rest of the biscuits,
changed into smarter clothes and went straight into the village. People
stared at her. Some greeted her warmly for old time's sake. Others
looked away. Most of the hostile ones were sufficiently impressed by her
elegant appearance to treat her with respect, but a bunch of lads
shouted at her in Welsh, and laughed.

She went to the police station, where the search party was already
collecting. Her old friend the village constable took her into a private
room and listened with distress to her earnest appeal for mercy. "I
shall find him," she said, "and take him away from Wales. His madness
won't last." The constable shook his head, and said, "If _they_ find him
they'll kill him. They want blood." "But it would be murder," she cried.
"He's not just an animal." "No, he's far more than an animal, Miss
Plaxy, I know; but in the eyes of the law that's just what he is, an
animal. And the law says that dangerous animals must be destroyed. I
have done my best to delay matters, but I can't do more." In desperation
Plaxy said, "Tell them he's worth thousands of pounds and must be taken
alive. 'Phone the Laboratory at Cambridge, and they will confirm this
and put it in writing." He fetched the inspector, who had come over from
H.Q. to take charge of the search. After some discussion the inspector
allowed Plaxy to call up the Laboratory. She summoned McBane and told
him, incidentally, to come with his car as soon as possible to take
Sirius away if she could recover him. The inspector then spoke to McBane
and was sufficiently impressed to alter his plans. The search party
would do their utmost to bring the animal back alive. With some
reluctance he even agreed that the search should be called off for a day
to give Miss Trelone a chance to capture her dog undisturbed.

When she left the police station she was almost light-hearted. And
though she was shocked by the cold reception given her at the grocer's,
where she laid in a store of food, the baker was kindly and hopeful, and
the warm-hearted lame tobacconist, whose meagre stock was sold out,
produced a packet of cigarettes from his own pocket and thrust it upon
her, "because you will need them, Miss Plaxy, and for old time's sake."
She toiled up the lane to Tan-y-Voel, with a reeling head, made herself
a good meal, changed into working clothes, called to tell the Pughs how
things stood, and went straight out on to the moor. All morning she
searched in vain. Then after eating her lunch she lay down in the sun,
and sleep overcame her. Some hours later she woke, sprang to her feet,
and renewed her search. At the pony-bog the bit of shirt remained as she
had left it. She hurried away in the afternoon light to explore a
remoter region, and in particular a certain rocky cleft in the wildest
part of the moor, which in the past they had sometimes used as a lair.
Near this she found a dog's excrement, not recently dropped; but there
was no other sign. Once more she left a piece of her shirt as a token.
Then with weary limbs and a heavy heart she groped her way back in the
dusk, and arrived in pitch darkness at the pony-pool. At a loss to know
what to do next, she finally decided to wait there till dawn. She found
a sheltered spot among the rocks and heather overlooking the bog, and
made herself as comfortable as possible. In spite of the cold, she fell
asleep. Not till the sun had risen did she wake, chilled and aching.
Once more there was no sign of Sirius. After some desultory searching
and calling she set off for home.

At the cottage she made herself breakfast, changed her clothes, attended
to her haggard face, and returned to the police station. There she
learned with horror that on the previous day a man had been killed and
partly eaten. It had happened on the eastern shoulder of Filast, far
beyond Arenig. He was a local sheep-farmer. Hearing that Sirius had been
seen in the neighbourhood, he announced that he would hunt the brute
down and destroy it, no matter what its value to the godless scientists.
He went out with an old army rifle and a dog. In the evening the dog
returned in great distress without his master. A search party had found
the man's body, and near it the rifle, with an empty magazine.

After this incident the police determined to bring about the destruction
of Sirius as quickly as possible. Parties of Home Guards were being sent
out to comb all the moorland areas of North Wales.

In great distress Plaxy hurried away to the moors again. At the pony-bog
the bit of shirt was missing, and there were fresh canine footprints;
but whether they were Sirius's or not she could not determine. She put
down another bit of shirt, then set off towards the lair, searching
every hillside and valley with her field-glass. Once she saw on the
distant skyline two men with rifles on their shoulders, but there was no
other sign of the searchers. It was a bright day, with the wind in the
north-west; no day at all for avoiding detection. But the moors were
vast, and the searchers few.

As she was approaching the lair, she saw Sirius, his tail between his
legs, his head low, like a tired horse. She was coming up wind, and
behind him, so that he was unconscious of her presence till she called
his name. He leapt at the sound, and whisked round, facing her, with a
growl. In his mouth was the bit of shirt. She advanced, repeating his
name. Seeing her, he stood still with his head cocked over and his brows
puckered; but when she was within a few paces he backed, growling, away
from her. At a loss, she stood still, with out-stretched hand, saying,
"Sirius, dear darling, it's Plaxy." His tail under his belly trembled
with recognition and love, but his teeth were still bared. He whimpered
with the stress of conflict in his bewildered mind. Every time she
advanced, he backed and growled. After Plaxy had tried many times to win
his confidence, her spirit broke. She covered her face with her hands
and threw herself on the ground sobbing. The sight of her impotent
distress evidently worked the miracle which her advances had frustrated;
for Sirius crept forward, crying with the strife of fear and love, till
at last he reached out and kissed the back of her neck. The intimate
smell of her body woke his mind to full clarity. While she continued to
lie still, fearing that any movement might scare him away, he nuzzled
under her face. She turned over and let his warm tongue caress her
cheeks and lips. Though his breath was foul as a wild beast's and the
thought of his recent human killing revolted her, she made no
resistance. At last he spoke. "Plaxy! Plaxy! Plaxy!" He nosed into the
open neck of her shirt. Then she dared to put her arms round him.

"Come to the lair," she said. "We must hide till after dark, then we'll
go down to Tan-y-Voel and wait till McBane comes with his car to take us
away. I told him to hurry."

The lair was as good a retreat as they could expect. At the foot of the
cliff was a tangle of heather and broken rocks. A huge slab had split
from the side of the cliff and moved away, leaving a gap. This formed
the lair. Its floor was below the surrounding wreckage and heather
clumps. The buttress above was inaccessible, so no one could look down
on them. Inside lay the remains of the heather which Plaxy herself had
gathered to form a couch long ago. She now added a fresh supply. They
nestled close together, and little by little, by talk about their common
past, she weaned his mind away from madness. For some hours they
remained talking with increasing ease and happiness. Plaxy often spoke
about their future, but whenever she led his attention forward a dark
cloud seemed to settle on his mind. Once she said, "We will leave this
district and start a flock somewhere in Scotland, as soon as we can find
a place." He answered, "There is no place for me in man's world, and
there is no other world for me. There is no place for me anywhere in the
universe." She answered quickly, "But wherever I am there is always a
place for you. I'm your home, your footing in the world. And I'm--your
wife, your dear constant bitch." He caressed her hand, and said, "In the
last few days, whenever I was not raging mad against your whole species,
I was longing for you; but you--must not be tied to me. And anyhow you
cannot make a world for me. Of course, any world that I could live in
must have you in it for its loveliest scent, drawing me along the trail;
but you can't make a whole world for me. Indeed, it's not _possible_ for
me to have a world at all, because my own nature doesn't make sense. The
spirit in me needs the world of men, and the wolf in me needs the wild.
I could only be at home in a sort of Alice-in-Wonderland world, where I
could have my cake and eat it."

A distant voice set both their hearts racing. She clung to him, and they
waited in silence, thankful for the deep shadow of the lair, for it was
already almost sunset. They heard quite near at hand the scrape of a
nailed boot on rock. Sirius began to move in her arms, and growl.
"Idiot! Be quiet," she whispered. She tried to hold his mouth shut with
one hand while she desperately gripped him with the other. Footsteps
moved past the entrance of the lair, then faded into the distance. After
some minutes she could hold on no longer. Cautiously she let go, saying,
"Now, for God's sake keep quiet."

For a long time they sat together waiting and occasionally talking.
Twilight was now far advanced, and Plaxy began to feel that the worst of
their ordeal was over. "Soon it will be dark enough to go home," she
said, "home to Tan-y-Voel, my dog, and a great big meal. I'm hungry as
hell. Are you?" He said nothing for a moment; then, "Yesterday I ate
part of a man." He must have felt her shudder. "Oh," he said, "I was
savage. And I shall be again, unless you hold me tight with your love."
She hugged him, and a surge of joy made her softly laugh. Her
imagination leapt forward to the time when they would be safely on the
way to Cambridge.

Presently she rose, and went cautiously out to look round. The sunset
colour had almost gone. There was no sign of the enemy. She moved round
a projecting rock, and still there seemed to be no danger. After
straying about for a few moments, searching the landscape, she felt the
need to relieve herself. She crouched down in the heather, and sang
softly the little tune which since childhood had been associated in both
their minds with this homely operation. He should have responded with
one or other of the appropriate antistrophes, but he was silent. She
repeated her phrase several times, but there was no answer. Suddenly
alarmed, she hurried round the intervening rock and saw Sirius standing
outside the lair sniffing the wind. His tail was erect, his back
bristling. At that moment another dog came into sight, and Sirius,
rousing the echoes with his uproar, charged the intruder, who turned
tail, with Sirius on his heels. Both dogs vanished round the shoulder of
the hill. There was a savage sound of dog-fight, then human voices, and
a shot, followed by a canine scream. Plaxy stood fixed in horror. After
a moment's silence a man's voice cried, "Blast! I've hit the wrong one.
The devil's got away." Two more shots were fired. Another voice said,
"No bloody good. Too dark." Plaxy from behind a rock peered at the men.
They strode over to inspect the dead dog; then moved off down the
valley. When they were out of sight, she wandered about looking for
Sirius. After a while she returned to the lair, hoping to find him
there. It was still empty. Anxiously she strayed about in the dark,
sometimes softly calling his name. For hours she wandered. Some time in
the middle of the night she heard the sirens wailing far off in the
villages. Searchlights fingered the clouds. After a while the wavering
drone of a plane passed overhead towards the north-east; then another,
and many others. There was distant firing, and one larger thud. Dead
tired, Plaxy still strayed farther and farther over the dark moor,
sometimes calling.

At last, almost at her feet she heard a little sound. She stepped aside
and found him stretched out on the grass. The end of his tail beat
feebly on the ground for greeting. She knelt beside him. Passing her
hand along his body, she found that his flank was wet and sticky. One of
the Home Guards' last shots had taken effect, though in the failing
light he had seen only that the dog had not been immediately stopped.
The badly damaged animal had staggered off towards the mountains, but
shock and loss of blood had at last brought him down. With the first-aid
outfit that she had carried on all her searches she put a pad on the
wound and contrived to pass a bandage round his body to hold it, though
he trembled with the added pain. Then she said, "I must go and get help
and a stretcher." He protested, with feeble earnestness; and when she
rose to go, he cried piteously for her to come down to him again. In
despair she sank beside him, and lay down to put her face to his cheek.
"But, my darling," she said, "we _must_ get you home before daylight,
else they'll find you." He feebly cried again, and seemed to say,
"Dying--stay--Plaxy--dear." Presently he said "Dying--is very--cold."
She took off her coat and laid it over him, then tried to lie closer to
him to warm him. He said something which she guessed to be, "I don't fit
you. Robert does." Stabbed with love and compassion, she said, "But
dearest darling, our spirits fit." His last words were
"Plaxy-Sirius--worth while." Some minutes later she saw his mouth fall
open a little, revealing the white teeth in the faint light of dawn. His
tongue slipped out. She buried her face in the strong fur of his neck,
silently weeping.

For a long while she lay, till discomfort forced her to move. Then a
shuddering sigh heaved her body, a sigh of bitter grief, but also of
exhaustion; of love and compassion, but also of relief. Presently she
realized that she was deadly cold and shivering. She sat up and rubbed
her bare arms. Gently she took away the coat from dead Sirius, and put
it on herself once more. The act seemed callous, and she wept again;
then stooped once more to give the great head a kiss. For a while she
sat by Sirius with a hand in the side pocket of her coat. She found that
her fingers had closed upon the little field-glass that I had given her.
Even this seemed a disloyalty to the dead; but she reminded herself that
Sirius had accepted me.

Presently the sirens sounded, far down in the villages, steady, sad and
thankful. A sheep called mournfully. Very far away a dog barked. Behind
Arenig Fawr the dawn was already like the glow of a great fire. "What
must I do now?" she wondered. She remembered how, a few hours earlier,
with happiness too soon in her heart, she had sung for him to answer,
but in vain. The memory overpowered her with a sense of the gulf that
now divided them. He that had been so near seemed now as remote as their
common mammalian ancestor. Not again would he sing to her.

But now at last she thought of a fitting thing to do. She would sing his
requiem. Returning to her dead darling, she stood erect beside him,
facing the dawn. Then in as firm and full a voice as she could muster,
she began singing a strange thing that he himself had made for her in
his most individual style. The wordless phrases symbolized for her the
canine and the human that had vied in him all his life long. The hounds'
baying blended with human voices. There was a warm and brilliant theme
which he said was Plaxy, and a perplexed one which was himself. It began
in playfulness and zest, but developed in a tragic vein against which
she had often protested. Now, looking down on him she realized that his
tragedy was inevitable. And under the power of his music she saw that
Sirius, in spite of his uniqueness, epitomized in his whole life and in
his death something universal, something that is common to all awakening
spirits on earth, and in the farthest galaxies. For the music's darkness
was lit up by a brilliance which Sirius had called "colour," the glory
that he himself, he said, had never seen. But this, surely, was the
glory that no spirits, canine or human, had ever clearly seen, the light
that never was on land or sea, and yet is glimpsed by the quickened mind
everywhere.

As she sang, red dawn filled the eastern sky, and soon the sun's bright
finger set fire to Sirius.






[End of Sirius, by Olaf Stapledon]
