7 APRIL 1939, Page 13

A VICTIM OF PEACE

By JEAN-JACQUES BERNARD

THEY lived side by side and did not understand each other. Someone was between them : she. The one, who was her husband, had given her his whole heart, his whole body, his whole mind. The other had just given her everything : he was her dog.

The husband had married her some ten years before. The war had separated them cruelly; but it had also brought them closer together, and he loved her perhaps more than ever.

As for the dog, he had been with her since time began.

Hence sprang this secret rivalry, unconscious on the husband's part and little irksome to him, but unceasingly painful for the dog. Each of them thought of himself as the first ; or, rather, as the only one. But, while the husband's jealousy only showed itself at odd moments, for two or three seconds a day, when she fondled the creature too long, the dog was jealous from morning till night, and dreamt about it sleeping.

Perhaps the dog would have lived his short life without betraying his secret if, as she sat between them one evening, sewing and inattentive, they had not exchanged a look.

It was the dog who looked first at the man. To tell the truth, he had been looking at him for months, but the man had not noticed it. That night their eyes met. And the dog's eyes were so full of questioning distress that the man did at last understand.

He was troubled, but unable to show it. Was it the fear of grieving his wife ? Was it the presence of the dog ? Wasn't it rather a sort of personal mistrust, a reluctance to attach too much importance to certain feelings? That look had upset him more than any laboured explanation. Be- sides, what further explanation could there be between the dog and himself? They had said everything. And she had noticed nothing. She went on sewing.

All the same, he felt the need to unburden himself. Feign- ing urgent work, he went and shut himself in his study. And he sat down to write this letter to his dog.

" Yes, there's a misunderstanding between us. I wasn't thinking of you just now when, turning round, I saw that you were looking at me. I was surprised, because I thought you were asleep. But your eyes were fixed on me beseech- ingly, kind bull-terrier eyes, fierce and anxious. I was touched and, for once, I wanted to stroke you. Did you feel that? Your tail wagged a little, but your eyes never left me. They implored pity, your poor eyes. ' Why don't you like me? ' they asked. ' What have I done to you? ' " And I was embarrassed I How had you understood that better than she ? Because, not to vex her, I hadn't told her I didn't like you. But you, you guessed it.

Once you were master here. When I came home on leave we scarcely knew each other. I was just a passing guest, not very alarming. Yet even then you kept out of my way. You sensed that this guest was not to be annoyed, that you must humour him a little. And then you knew I never stayed long and as, after all, she seemed happy while I was here, you resigned yourself fairly well to my presence. And we seemed to get on together.

But this time you saw that I stayed on. Something was certainly different. You would have to put up with it: I should always be here. You realised that it were better not to show me that I was in the way. You became very small, very meek, and you tried in your own way, poor terrier, to make yourself liked. But I didn't understand.

Yet I know the good your friendly eyes did her while I was far away. In the evening she would talk affectionately to you, and you will never know how that comforted her.

But what you do know is that now she doesn't or, at least, that she does it differently. It's because she's very fond of you that she still talks to you kindly, it's no longer because she's unhappy. And you're wretched. And you watch us, and can't understand. You're a victim of peace. . . ."

Having finished this letter, he sat musing for a long time, saddened but somehow relieved. And then, wondering what he had written, he read it over. . . .

Soon after he came out of his study. The dog raised his head and gave him the same look as before, exactly the same look, for, unlike ours, the moods of a dog do not change of themselves. But this time the man thought: " Yes, that's it. I read those eyes aright."

He sat beside his wife, with the sheet in his hand, as he often did, but his voice was less steady than usual as he began: " A Letter to my Dog " She had looked up, and seemed surprised. She did not interrupt him. Soon he realised that she was crying quietly. The dog wasn't listening. . . .

The evening, however, had a rather inglorious sequel.

The very next morning, having put his muddy paws on the table-cloth, the bull-terrier was punished. But it was not his most scandalous misdeeds that got him into the worst trouble. He was forgiven, at a pinch, and the price of a beating, for having muddied the carpet. But there are days when a dog is not forgiven for having pushed open a door and left you in the draught.

It had to be acknowledged after a few months that it is not very practical to keep animals in a flat. The bull- terrier lives in the country now. Is he happy? One would have to know whether dogs forget. . .

As for his old masters, they are sometimes moved to regret. Not for long, inevitably. Other duties claim them.