The Pilgrims of the Rhine

“Hold your tongue,” said the griffin.

“But, sir,” said the dog, after a short silence, “surely nobody ever comes into so retired a situation! Who are the thieves, if I may make bold to ask?”

“Know,” answered the griffin, “that there are a great many serpents in this neighbourhood. They are always trying to steal my treasure; and if they catch me napping, they, not contented with theft, would do their best to sting me to death. So that I am almost worn out for want of sleep.”

“Ah,” quoth the dog, who was fond of a good night’s rest, “I don’t envy you your treasure, sir.”

At night, the griffin, who had a great deal of penetration, and saw that he might depend on the dog, lay down to sleep in another corner of the cave; and the dog, shaking himself well, so as to be quite awake, took watch over the treasure. His mouth watered exceedingly at the bones, and he could not help smelling them now and then; but he said to himself, “A bargain’s a bargain, and since I have promised to serve the griffin, I must serve him as an honest dog ought to serve.”

In the middle of the night he saw a great snake creeping in by the side of the cave; but the dog set up so loud a bark that the griffin awoke, and the snake crept away as fast as he could. Then the griffin was very much pleased, and he gave the dog one of the bones to amuse himself with; and every night the dog watched the treasure, and acquitted himself so well that not a snake, at last, dared to make its appearance,—so the griffin enjoyed an excellent night’s rest.

The dog now found himself much more comfortable than he expected. The griffin regularly gave him one of the bones for supper; and, pleased with his fidelity, made himself as agreeable a master as a griffin could be. Still, however, the dog was secretly very anxious to return to earth; for having nothing to do during the day but to doze on the ground, he dreamed perpetually of his cousin the cat’s charms, and, in fancy, he gave the rascal Reynard as hearty a worry as a fox may well have the honour of receiving from a dog’s paws. He awoke panting; alas! he could not realize his dreams.

One night, as he was watching as usual over the treasure, he was greatly surprised to see a beautiful little black and white dog enter the cave; and it came fawning to our honest friend, wagging its tail with pleasure.

“Ah, little one,” said our dog, whom, to distinguish, I will call the watch-dog, “you had better make the best of your way back again. See, there is a great griffin asleep in the other corner of the cave, and if he wakes, he will either eat you up or make you his servant, as he has made me.”

“I know what you would tell me,” says the little dog; “and I have come down here to deliver you. The stone is now gone from the mouth of the cave, and you have nothing to do but to go back with me. Come, brother, come.”

The dog was very much excited by this address. “Don’t ask me, my dear little friend,” said he; “you must be aware that I should be too happy to escape out of this cold cave, and roll on the soft turf once more: but if I leave my master, the griffin, those cursed serpents, who are always on the watch, will come in and steal his treasure,—nay, perhaps, sting him to death.” Then the little dog came up to the watch-dog, and remonstrated with him greatly, and licked him caressingly on both sides of his face; and, taking him by the ear, endeavoured to draw him from the treasure: but the dog would not stir a step, though his heart sorely pressed him. At length the little dog, finding it all in vain, said, “Well, then, if I must leave, good-by; but I have become so hungry in coming down all this way after you, that I wish you would give me one of those bones; they smell very pleasantly, and one out of so many could never be missed.”

“Alas!” said the watchdog, with tears in his eyes, “how unlucky I am to have eaten up the bone my master gave me, otherwise you should have had it and welcome. But I can’t give you one of these, because my master has made me promise to watch over them all, and I have given him my paw on it. I am sure a dog of your respectable appearance will say nothing further on the subject.”

Then the little dog answered pettishly, “Pooh, what nonsense you talk! surely a great griffin can’t miss a little bone fit for me?” and nestling his nose under the watch-dog, he tried forthwith to bring up one of the bones.

On this the watch-dog grew angry, and, though with much reluctance, he seized the little dog by the nape of the neck and threw him off, but without hurting him. Suddenly the little dog changed into a monstrous serpent, bigger even than the griffin himself, and the watch-dog barked with all his might. The griffin rose in a great hurry, and the serpent sprang upon him ere he was well awake. I wish, dearest Nymphalin, you could have seen the battle between the griffin and the serpent,—how they coiled and twisted, and bit and darted their fiery tongues at each other. At length the serpent got uppermost, and was about to plunge his tongue into that part of the griffin which is unprotected by his scales, when the dog, seizing him by the tail, bit him so sharply that he could not help turning round to kill his new assailant, and the griffin, taking advantage of the opportunity, caught the serpent by the throat with both claws, and fairly strangled him. As soon as the griffin had recovered from the nervousness of the conflict, he heaped all manner of caresses on the dog for saving his life. The dog told him the whole story, and the griffin then explained that the dead snake was the king of the serpents, who had the power to change himself into any shape he pleased. “If he had tempted you,” said he, “to leave the treasure but for one moment, or to have given him any part of it, ay, but a single bone, he would have crushed you in an instant, and stung me to death ere I could have waked; but none, no, not the most venomous thing in creation, has power to hurt the honest!”

“That has always been my belief,” answered the dog; “and now, sir, you had better go to sleep again and leave the rest to me.”

“Nay,” answered the griffin, “I have no longer need of a servant; for now that the king of the serpents is dead, the rest will never molest me. It was only to satisfy his avarice that his subjects dared to brave the den of the griffin.”

Upon hearing this the dog was exceedingly delighted; and raising himself on his hind paws, he begged the griffin most movingly to let him return to earth, to visit his mistress the cat, and worry his rival the fox.

“You do not serve an ungrateful master,” answered the griffin. “You shall return, and I will teach you all the craft of our race, which is much craftier than the race of that pettifogger the fox, so that you may be able to cope with your rival.”

“Ah, excuse me,” said the dog, hastily, “I am equally obliged to you; but I fancy honesty is a match for cunning any day, and I think myself a great deal safer in being a dog of honour than if I knew all the tricks in the world.”

“Well,” said the griffin, a little piqued at the dog’s bluntness, “do as you please; I wish you all possible success.”

Then the griffin opened a secret door in the side of the cabin, and the dog saw a broad path that led at once into the wood. He thanked the griffin with all his heart, and ran wagging his tail into the open moonlight. “Ah, ah, master fox,” said he, “there’s no trap for an honest dog that has not two doors to it, cunning as you think yourself.”

With that he curled his tail gallantly over his left leg, and set off on a long trot to the cat’s house. When he was within sight of it, he stopped to refresh himself by a pool of water, and who should be there but our friend the magpie.

“And what do you want, friend?” said she, rather disdainfully, for the dog looked somewhat out of case after his journey.

“I am going to see my cousin the cat,” answered he.

“Your cousin! marry come up,” said the magpie; “don’t you know she is going to be married to Reynard the fox? This is not a time for her to receive the visits of a brute like you.”

These words put the dog in such a passion that he very nearly bit the magpie for her uncivil mode of communicating such bad news. However, he curbed his temper, and, without answering her, went at once to the cat’s residence.

The cat was sitting at the window, and no sooner did the dog see her than he fairly lost his heart; never had he seen so charming a cat before. He advanced, wagging his tail, and with his most insinuating air, when the cat, getting up, clapped the window in his face, and lo! Reynard the fox appeared in her stead.

“Come out, thou rascal!” said the dog, showing his teeth; “come out, I challenge thee to single combat; I have not forgiven thy malice, and thou seest that I am no longer shut up in the cave, and unable to punish thee for thy wickedness.”

“Go home, silly one!” answered the fox, sneering; “thou hast no business here, and as for fighting thee—bah!” Then the fox left the window and disappeared. But the dog, thoroughly enraged, scratched lustily at the door, and made such a noise, that presently the cat herself came to the window.

“How now!” said she, angrily; “what means all this rudeness? Who are you, and what do you want at my house?”

“Oh, my dear cousin,” said the dog, “do not speak so severely. Know that I have come here on purpose to pay you a visit; and, whatever you do, let me beseech you not to listen to that villain Reynard,—you have no conception what a rogue he is!”

“What!” said the cat, blushing; “do you dare to abuse your betters in this fashion? I see you have a design on me. Go, this instant, or—”

“Enough, madam,” said the dog, proudly; “you need not speak twice to me,—farewell.”

And he turned away very slowly, and went under a tree, where he took up his lodgings for the night. But the next morning there was an amazing commotion in the neighbourhood; a stranger, of a very different style of travelling from that of the dog, had arrived at the dead of the night, and fixed his abode in a large cavern hollowed out of a steep rock. The noise he had made in flying through the air was so great that it had awakened every bird and beast in the parish; and Reynard, whose bad conscience never suffered him to sleep very soundly, putting his head out of the window, perceived, to his great alarm, that the stranger was nothing less than a monstrous griffin.

Now the griffins are the richest beasts in the world; and that’s the reason they keep so close under ground. Whenever it does happen that they pay a visit above, it is not a thing to be easily forgotten.

The magpie was all agitation. What could the griffin possibly want there? She resolved to take a peep at the cavern, and accordingly she hopped timorously up the rock, and pretended to be picking up sticks for her nest.

“Holla, ma’am!” cried a very rough voice, and she saw the griffin putting his head out of the cavern. “Holla! you are the very lady I want to see; you know all the people about here, eh?”

“All the best company, your lordship, I certainly do,” answered the magpie, dropping a courtesy.

Upon this the griffin walked out; and smoking his pipe leisurely in the open air, in order to set the pie at her ease, continued,—

“Are there any respectable beasts of good families settled in this neighbourhood?”

“Oh, most elegant society, I assure your lordship,” cried the pie. “I have lived here myself these ten years, and the great heiress, the cat yonder, attracts a vast number of strangers.”

“Humph! heiress, indeed! much you know about heiresses!” said the griffin. “There is only one heiress in the world, and that’s my daughter.”

“Bless me! has your lordship a family? I beg you a thousand pardons; but I only saw your lordship’s own equipage last night, and did not know you brought any one with you.”

“My daughter went first, and was safely lodged before I arrived. She did not disturb you, I dare say, as I did; for she sails along like a swan: but I have got the gout in my left claw, and that’s the reason I puff and groan so in taking a journey.”

“Shall I drop in upon Miss Griffin, and see how she is after her journey?” said the pie, advancing.

“I thank you, no. I don’t intend her to be seen while I stay here,—it unsettles her; and I’m afraid of the young beasts running away with her if they once heard how handsome she was: she’s the living picture of me, but she’s monstrous giddy! Not that I should care much if she did go off with a beast of degree, were I not obliged to pay her portion, which is prodigious; and I don’t like parting with money, ma’am, when I’ve once got it. Ho, ho, ho!”

“You are too witty, my lord. But if you refused your consent?” said the pie, anxious to know the whole family history of so grand a seigneur.

“I should have to pay the dowry all the same. It was left her by her uncle the dragon. But don’t let this go any further.”

“Your lordship may depend on my secrecy. I wish your lordship a very good morning.”

Away flew the pie, and she did not stop till she got to the cat’s house. The cat and the fox were at breakfast, and the fox had his paw on his heart. “Beautiful scene!” cried the pie; the cat coloured, and bade the pie take a seat.

Then off went the pie’s tongue, glib, glib, glib, chatter, chatter, chatter. She related to them the whole story of the griffin and his daughter, and a great deal more besides, that the griffin had never told her.

The cat listened attentively. Another young heiress in the neighbourhood might be a formidable rival. “But is this griffiness handsome?” said she.

“Handsome!” cried the pie; “oh, if you could have seen the father!—such a mouth, such eyes, such a complexion; and he declares she’s the living picture of himself! But what do you say, Mr. Reynard,—you, who have been so much in the world, have, perhaps, seen the young lady?”

“Why, I can’t say I have,” answered the fox, waking from a revery; “but she must be wonderfully rich. I dare say that fool the dog will be making up to her.”

“Ah, by the way,” said the pie, “what a fuss he made at your door yesterday; why would you not admit him, my dear?”

“Oh,” said the cat, demurely, “Mr. Reynard says that he is a dog of very bad character, quite a fortune-hunter; and hiding the most dangerous disposition to bite under an appearance of good nature. I hope he won’t be quarrelsome with you, dear Reynard!”

“With me? Oh, the poor wretch, no!—he might bluster a little; but he knows that if I’m once angry I’m a devil at biting;—one should not boast of oneself.”

In the evening Reynard felt a strange desire to go and see the griffin smoking his pipe; but what could he do? There was the dog under the opposite tree evidently watching for him, and Reynard had no wish to prove himself that devil at biting which he declared he was. At last he resolved to have recourse to stratagem to get rid of the dog.

A young buck of a rabbit, a sort of provincial fop, had looked in upon his cousin the cat, to pay her his respects, and Reynard, taking him aside, said, “You see that shabby-looking dog under the tree? He has behaved very ill to your cousin the cat, and you certainly ought to challenge him. Forgive my boldness, nothing but respect for your character induces me to take so great a liberty; you know I would chastise the rascal myself, but what a scandal it would make! If I were already married to your cousin, it would be a different thing. But you know what a story that cursed magpie would hatch out of it!”

The rabbit looked very foolish; he assured the fox he was no match for the dog; that he was very fond of his cousin, to be sure! but he saw no necessity to interfere with her domestic affairs; and, in short, he tried all he possibly could to get out of the scrape; but the fox so artfully played on his vanity, so earnestly assured him that the dog was the biggest coward in the world and would make a humble apology, and so eloquently represented to him the glory he would obtain for manifesting so much spirit, that at length the rabbit was persuaded to go out and deliver the challenge.

“I’ll be your second,” said the fox; “and the great field on the other side the wood, two miles hence, shall be the place of battle: there we shall be out of observation. You go first, I’ll follow in half an hour; and I say, hark!—in case he does accept the challenge, and you feel the least afraid, I’ll be in the field, and take it off your paws with the utmost pleasure; rely on me, my dear sir!”

Away went the rabbit. The dog was a little astonished at the temerity of the poor creature; but on hearing that the fox was to be present, willingly consented to repair to the place of conflict. This readiness the rabbit did not at all relish; he went very slowly to the field, and seeing no fox there, his heart misgave him; and while the dog was putting his nose to the ground to try if he could track the coming of the fox, the rabbit slipped into a burrow, and left the dog to walk back again.

Meanwhile the fox was already at the rock; he walked very soft-footedly, and looked about with extreme caution, for he had a vague notion that a griffin-papa would not be very civil to foxes.

Now there were two holes in the rock,—one below, one above, an upper story and an under; and while the fox was peering about, he saw a great claw from the upper rock beckoning to him.

“Ah, ah!” said the fox, “that’s the wanton young griffiness, I’ll swear.”

He approached, and a voice said,—

“Charming Mr. Reynard, do you not think you could deliver an unfortunate griffiness from a barbarous confinement in this rock?”

“Oh, heavens!” cried the fox, tenderly, “what a beautiful voice! and, ah, my poor heart, what a lovely claw! Is it possible that I hear the daughter of my lord, the great griffin?”

“Hush, flatterer! not so loud, if you please. My father is taking an evening stroll, and is very quick of hearing. He has tied me up by my poor wings in the cavern, for he is mightily afraid of some beast running away with me. You know I have all my fortune settled on myself.”

“Talk not of fortune,” said the fox; “but how can I deliver you? Shall I enter and gnaw the cord?”

“Alas!” answered the griffiness, “it is an immense chain I am bound with. However, you may come in and talk more at your ease.”

The fox peeped cautiously all round, and seeing no sign of the griffin, he entered the lower cave and stole upstairs to the upper story; but as he went on, he saw immense piles of jewels and gold, and all sorts of treasure, so that the old griffin might well have laughed at the poor cat being called an heiress. The fox was greatly pleased at such indisputable signs of wealth, and he entered the upper cave, resolved to be transported with the charms of the griffiness.

There was, however, a great chasm between the landing-place and the spot where the young lady was chained, and he found it impossible to pass; the cavern was very dark, but he saw enough of the figure of the griffiness to perceive, in spite of her petticoat, that she was the image of her father, and the most hideous heiress that the earth ever saw!

However, he swallowed his disgust, and poured forth such a heap of compliments that the griffiness appeared entirely won.

He implored her to fly with him the first moment she was unchained.

“That is impossible,” said she; “for my father never unchains me except in his presence, and then I cannot stir out of his sight.”

“The wretch!” cried Reynard, “what is to be done?”

“Why, there is only one thing I know of,” answered the griffiness, “which is this: I always make his soup for him, and if I could mix something in it that would put him fast to sleep before he had time to chain me up again I might slip down and carry off all the treasure below on my back.”

“Charming!” exclaimed Reynard; “what invention! what wit! I will go and get some poppies directly.”

“Alas!” said the griffiness, “poppies have no effect upon griffins. The only thing that can ever put my father fast to sleep is a nice young cat boiled up in his soup; it is astonishing what a charm that has upon him! But where to get a cat?—it must be a maiden cat too!”

Reynard was a little startled at so singular an opiate. “But,” thought he, “griffins are not like the rest of the world, and so rich an heiress is not to be won by ordinary means.”

“I do know a cat,—a maiden cat,” said he, after a short pause; “but I feel a little repugnance at the thought of having her boiled in the griffin’s soup. Would not a dog do as well?”

“Ah, base thing!” said the griffiness, appearing to weep; “you are in love with the cat, I see it; go and marry her, poor dwarf that she is, and leave me to die of grief.”

In vain the fox protested that he did not care a straw for the cat; nothing could now appease the griffiness but his positive assurance that come what would poor puss should be brought to the cave and boiled for the griffin’s soup.

“But how will you get her here?” said the griffiness.

“Ah, leave that to me,” said Reynard. “Only put a basket out of the window and draw it up by a cord; the moment it arrives at the window, be sure to clap your claw on the cat at once, for she is terribly active.”

“Tush!” answered the heiress; “a pretty griffiness I should be if I did not know how to catch a cat!”

“But this must be when your father is out?” said Reynard.

“Certainly; he takes a stroll every evening at sunset.”

“Let it be to-morrow, then,” said Reynard, impatient for the treasure.

This being arranged, Reynard thought it time to decamp. He stole down the stairs again, and tried to filch some of the treasure by the way; but it was too heavy for him to carry, and he was forced to acknowledge to himself that it was impossible to get the treasure without taking the griffiness (whose back seemed prodigiously strong) into the bargain.

He returned home to the cat, and when he entered her house, and saw how ordinary everything looked after the jewels in the griffin’s cave, he quite wondered how he had ever thought the cat had the least pretensions to good looks. However, he concealed his wicked design, and his mistress thought he had never appeared so amiable.

“Only guess,” said he, “where I have been!—to our new neighbour the griffin; a most charming person, thoroughly affable, and quite the air of the court. As for that silly magpie, the griffin saw her character at once; and it was all a hoax about his daughter,—he has no daughter at all. You know, my dear, hoaxing is a fashionable amusement among the great. He says he has heard of nothing but your beauty, and on my telling him we were going to be married, he has insisted upon giving a great ball and supper in honour of the event. In fact, he is a gallant old fellow, and dying to see you. Of course, I was obliged to accept the invitation.”

“You could not do otherwise,” said the unsuspecting young creature, who, as I before said, was very susceptible to flattery.

“And only think how delicate his attentions are,” said the fox. “As he is very badly lodged for a beast of his rank, and his treasure takes up the whole of the ground floor, he is forced to give the fete in the upper story, so he hangs out a basket for his guests, and draws them up with his own claw. How condescending! But the great are so amiable!”

The cat, brought up in seclusion, was all delight at the idea of seeing such high life, and the lovers talked of nothing else all the next day,—when Reynard, towards evening, putting his head out of the window, saw his old friend the dog lying as usual and watching him very grimly. “Ah, that cursed creature! I had quite forgotten him; what is to be done now? He would make no bones of me if he once saw me set foot out of doors.”

With that, the fox began to cast in his head how he should get rid of his rival, and at length he resolved on a very notable project; he desired the cat to set out first, and wait for him at a turn in the road a little way off. “For,” said he, “if we go together we shall certainly be insulted by the dog; and he will know that in the presence of a lady, the custom of a beast of my fashion will not suffer me to avenge the affront. But when I am alone, the creature is such a coward that he will not dare say his soul’s his own; leave the door open and I’ll follow immediately.”

The cat’s mind was so completely poisoned against her cousin that she implicitly believed this account of his character; and accordingly, with many recommendations to her lover not to sully his dignity by getting into any sort of quarrel with the dog, she set off first.