What Will He Do with It? — Complete. Эдвард Бульвер-Литтон
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not even let the drunken owner know where I took the dog to yesterday. I brought him here, where, I learned in the village, there were two rooms to let, locked him up, and my story is told.”
“But why keep it such a secret?”
“Because I don’t want Rugge to trace us. He might do one a mischief; because I have a grand project of genteel position and high prices for the exhibition of that dog. And why should it be known where we come from, or what we were? And because, if the owner knew where to find the dog, he might decoy it back from us. Luckily he had not made the dog so fond of him but what, unless it be decoyed, it will accustom itself to us. And now I propose that we should stay a week or so here, and devote ourselves exclusively to developing the native powers of this gifted creature. Get out the dominos.”
“What is his name?”
“Ha! that is the first consideration. What shall be his name?”
“Has he not one already?”
“Yes,—trivial and unattractive,—Mop! In private life it might pass. But in public life—give a dog a bad name and hang him. Mop, indeed!”
Therewith Mop, considering himself appealed to, rose and stretched himself.
“Right,” said Gentleman Waife; “stretch yourself—you decidedly require it.”
CHAPTER V
Mop becomes a personage.—Much thought is bestowed on the verbal dignities, without which a personage would become a mop.—The importance of names is apparent in all history.—If Augustus had called himself king, Rome would have risen against him as a Tarquin;
so he remained a simple equestrian, and modestly called himself Imperator.—Mop chooses his own title in a most mysterious manner, and ceases to be Mop.
“The first noticeable defect in your name of Mop,” said Gentleman Waife, “is, as you yourself denote, the want of elongation. Monosyllables are not imposing, and in striking compositions their meaning is elevated by periphrasis; that is to say, Sophy, that what before was a short truth, an elegant author elaborates into a long stretch.”
“Certainly,” said Sophy, thoughtfully; “I don’t think the name of Mop would draw! Still he is very like a mop.”
“For that reason the name degrades him the more, and lowers him from an intellectual phenomenon to a physical attribute, which is vulgar. I hope that that dog will enable us to rise in the scale of being. For whereas we in acting could only command a threepenny audience—reserved seats a shilling—he may aspire to half-crowns and dress-boxes; that is, if we can hit on a name which inspires respect. Now, although the dog is big, it is not by his size that he is to become famous, or we might call him Hercules or Goliath; neither is it by his beauty, or Adonis would not be unsuitable. It is by his superior sagacity and wisdom. And there I am puzzled to find his prototype amongst mortals; for, perhaps, it may be my ignorance of history—”
“You ignorant, indeed, Grandfather!”
“But considering the innumerable millions who have lived on the earth, it is astonishing how few I can call to mind who have left behind them a proverbial renown for wisdom. There is, indeed, Solomon, but he fell off at the last; and as he belongs to sacred history, we must not take a liberty with his name. Who is there very, very wise, besides Solomon? Think, Sophy,—Profane History.”
Sophy (after a musing pause).—“Puss in Boots.”
“Well, he was wise; but then he was not human; he was a cat. Ha! Socrates. Shall we call him Socrates, Socrates, Socrates?”
SOPHY.—“Socrates, Socrates!” Mop yawned.
WAIFE.—“He don’t take to Socrates,—prosy!”
SOPHY.—“Ah, Mr. Merle’s book about the Brazen Head, Friar Bacon! He must have been very wise.”
WAIFE.—“Not bad; mysterious, but not recondite; historical, yet familiar. What does Mop say to it? Friar, Friar, Friar Bacon, sir,—Friar!”
SOPHY (coaxingly).—“Friar!”
Mop, evidently conceiving that appeal is made to some other personage, canine or human, not present, rouses up, walks to the door, smells at the chink, returns, shakes his head, and rests on his haunches, eying his two friends superciliously.
SOPHY.—“He does not take to that name.”
WAIFE.—“He has his reasons for it; and indeed there are many worthy persons who disapprove of anything that savours of magical practices. Mop intimates that on entering public life one should beware of offending the respectable prejudices of a class.”
Mr. Waife then, once more resorting to the recesses of scholastic memory, plucked therefrom, somewhat by the head and shoulders, sundry names reverenced in a by-gone age. He thought of the seven wise men of Greece, but could only recall the nomenclature of two out of the—even,—a sad proof of the distinction between collegiate fame and popular renown. He called Thales; he called Bion. Mop made no response. “Wonderful intelligence!” said Waife; “he knows that Thales and Bion would not draw!—obsolete.”
Mop was equally mute to Aristotle. He pricked up his cars at Plato, perhaps because the sound was not wholly dissimilar from that of Ponto,—a name of which he might have had vague reminiscences. The Romans not having cultivated an original philosophy, though they contrived to produce great men without it, Waife passed by that perished people. He crossed to China, and tried Confucius. Mop had evidently never heard of him.
“I am at the end of my list, so far as the wise men are concerned,” said Waife, wiping his forehead. “If Mop were to distinguish himself by valour, one would find heroes by the dozen,—Achilles, and Hector, and Julius Caesar, and Pompey, and Bonaparte, and Alexander the Great, and the Duke of Marlborough. Or, if he wrote poetry, we could fit him to a hair. But wise men certainly are scarce, and when one has hit on a wise man’s name it is so little known to the vulgar that it would carry no more weight with it than Spot or Toby. But necessarily some name the dog must have, and take to sympathetically.”
Sophy meanwhile had extracted the dominos from Waife’s bundle, and with the dominos an alphabet and a multiplication-table in printed capitals. As the Comedian’s one eye rested upon the last, he exclaimed, “But after all, Mop’s great strength will probably be in arithmetic, and the science of numbers is the root of all wisdom. Besides, every man, high and low, wants to make a fortune, and associations connected with addition and multiplication are always pleasing. Who, then, is the sage at computation most universally known? Unquestionably Cocker! He must take to that, Cocker, Cocker” (commandingly),—“C-o-c-k-e-r” (with persuasive sweetness).
Mop looked puzzled; he put his head first on one side, then on the other.
SOPHY (with mellifluous endearment).—“Cocker, good Cocker; Cocker dear!”
BOTH.—“Cocker, Cocker, Cocker!”
Excited and bewildered, Mop put up his head, and gave vent to his perplexities in a long and lugubrious howl, to which certainly none who heard it could have desired addition or multiplication.
“Stop this instant, sir,—stop; I shoot you! You are dead,—down!” Waife adjusted his staff to his shoulder gun-wise; and at the word of command, “Down,” Mop was on his side, stiff and lifeless. “Still,” said Waife, “a name connected with profound calculation would be the most appropriate; for instance, Sir Isaac—”
Before the Comedian could get out the word Newton, Mop had sprung to his four feet, and, with wagging tail and wriggling back, evinced a sense of beatified recognition.
“Astounding!” said Waife, rather awed. “Can it be the name? Impossible. Sir Isaac, Sir Isaac!”
“Bow-wow!” answered Mop, joyously.