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CHAPTER XII
A NEW ROAD TO FAME

It may have been but my fancy, – it probably was so, – but it seemed to me that Oddity felt a good deal the departure of his little human friend. I thought that he missed the lame child who had taken such pleasure in watching him, and who had found beauties even in his ungainly figure and piebald skin. It certainly was not that he needed the crumbs which the half-starved little Billy had stinted himself to throw to him; but I suppose that it is possible even for rats to grow attached to such as show them confidence and kindness. I often rallied poor Oddity upon his melancholy after the boys had been taken away. Bright-eyes told him that he ought to have been a cat, to sit purring on a mat before the fire, and lick the hand of some old maiden lady, who would feed him with porridge and milk. I said that he should be kept in a gentleman’s house, with a bell round his neck, as rats sometimes are in Germany, to frighten their brethren away.

Oddity took all our taunts very quietly, nibbled his dinner in the warehouse, but spent most of his time in the shed; where, as he snuffed along the ground, and fumbled amongst the chipping and the straw, we used to say that he was searching for little lame Billy, whom he never would see any more.

Winter at length passed away. Down the roof of the shed, and through the hole in it, ran little streams of water from the melted snow. The west wind blew softly, bending the columns of smoke from the tall chimneys on shore, and the black funnels of the steamers that went snorting and puffing down the river.

On one of the first mild days we found poor old Furry dead in the warehouse. Life had long been a burden to him, which his unhappy temper rendered yet more galling.

I have heard that the rats of Newfoundland bury their comrades when they die, laying the bodies neatly one beside another, head and heels placed alternately together. I do not know whether this be true: it is not the custom of rats in England. We therefore left old Furry where he lay, close behind a barrel of salt meat, where he was discovered the next day by one of the men of the warehouse.

Now, if there be one thing which men usually think more worthless lumber than another, it is the body of a dead rat. Our skins are not in England collected and valued as they are in France; the only thought is usually how to get rid of the unpleasant presence of the dead creature. And yet, strange to say, the porter did not throw away the body of poor old Furry: he carried it off to his master. I was very curious indeed to know its fate; and, after many fruitless inquiries, at length I discovered it.

The tooth which had been Furry’s torment in life, was destined to make him famous after death. Learned men – I know not how many – examined the head of the rat, looked, wondered, consulted together; and the end of the matter was, that it was placed as a great curiosity in some building which is called a museum. There, amidst fine vases and ancient weapons, old manuscripts and precious stones, and noble busts of the wise and great, is the head of poor old Furry preserved, with the mouth wide open, to display the extraordinary tooth! Fame is a strange thing, after all. I believe that our friend the rat was not the first, nor will be the last, to pay a heavy price for the bubble!

Early in spring, one sunny morn, I received a visit from my old comrade Whiskerandos. He was full of life and spirits.

“Ratto,” cried he, “I have often heard you say that you and I should visit foreign countries together; we’ve a capital opportunity now. A vessel is to weigh anchor to-morrow. I have been talking to a ship-rat of my acquaintance, who intends to sail in her, as he has done so before. He says that she is a capital old vessel, full of first-rate accommodation for rats; that Captain Blake keeps a very good table; that there is never any scarcity of pickings; and, in short, I am off for St. Petersburg, and mean to embark to-night: just say that you will go with me.”

“I’m your rat!” I exclaimed, highly delighted. “Would there be room for Oddity too?”

“I daresay that there is plenty of room; but – well, well, Oddity’s an excellent old fellow in spite of his ugly skin; and I’ll take care that nobody insults him.”

Off I scampered to Oddity, half out of breath with excitement; and giving him the news which I had just received, I begged him to accompany Whiskerandos and myself on a pleasure excursion to Russia.

The piebald one bluntly declined.

“Now this is nonsense, Oddity,” cried I; “you must not stay moping here any longer, pining after a child, and watching for his return, when he is never likely to come back.”

“I know he will not come back!” sighed Oddity.

“Then why don’t you come and shake off this silly gloom? To tell you the plain truth, Oddity, your mind really requires opening, and there is nothing like travelling for that. You are, I am afraid, not a well-informed quadruped. I insist upon your embarking with us to-night, and we’ll make a rat of you, my good fellow!”

Oddity shook his head.

“What! you are resolved not to travel?”

“Not by water,” was his short reply.

“He is going into the country with me,” cried Bright-eyes, springing with a few light bounds to my side. “We’re going to my birth-place, near the sea-side. We will feast amongst the young corn there; and when the pea-blossom has faded, and the ripe pods hang temptingly down, we’ll climb up the stalks and shell them, and banquet on the sweet green seeds! We’ll revel in the strawberry beds, and try which peach is the ripest! Oh! merry lives lead the rats in a kitchen-garden, beneath the bright sun of summer!”

“I’ve half a mind to go with you myself,” said I, charmed with the rural description. But I remembered my engagement with Whiskerandos, and repressed the rising longing to feast upon English fruits, whose names sounded so tempting.

“Then farewell, Oddity,” cried I; “I fear I shall never meet you again.”

“I’ll come back to the old shed in winter,” said he.

“But I – ah! where shall I be then? How do I know, once crossing the sea, whether I shall ever be able to return?” I had not the faintest idea where Russia might be, or what sort of a place I should find it; whether its rats are black, brown, or white, fierce as the Hamster, or gentle as Zibethicus. A feeling of misgiving came suddenly over me; one fear above all others depressed my heart, and unconsciously I uttered it aloud: “I wonder whether in Russia rats find plenty to eat!”

The snub face of Oddity grew very grave at a question which he could not answer, and whose importance he felt. But light-hearted Bright-eyes quickly relieved our apprehensions.

“If we are to judge of what is in Russia by what comes from it,” he cried, “I should say that you have little to fear. I examined the cargo of a Russian ship once, and never did I see a finer collection of everything that could charm a rat. I say nothing of the furs, – skins of all kinds of creatures, sables, black and white foxes, ermines, lynxes, hyænas, bears, panthers, wolves, martens, white hares – ”

“Stop, stop!” I exclaimed, “we do not want any furs beyond those with which nature has adorned us.”

“There was copper, iron, talc, (a mineral resembling glass – )”

“We don’t care about them; no rat ever lived upon minerals.”

“Linen, flax, hemp, feathers – ”

“If there is nothing more nutritious to be had in Russia, why I’d rather stay at home,” cried I, with a little vexation.

“What do you say, then, to oil, both linseed and train-oil? to delicious honey, corn without end, soap, isinglass, and, to crown the whole, hogsheads upon hogsheads of – tallow!”

“Enough, enough!” I exclaimed with delight, “Russia is the country for me.”

CHAPTER XIII
HOW I SET OUT ON MY VOYAGE

When the passengers of the Nautilus went on board, the bright sun was glittering on the water, the whole river was full of life, covered with vessels of all kinds, – the light boat, the lugger, the steamer, with her gaily-coloured paddle-boxes and long dark stream of smoke; the heavy coal-barge, scarcely moving at all, sunk down almost to a level with the water: and there were sounds of all sorts, both from the vessels and the shore – puffing of steam, dipping of oars, creaking of rigging, ringing of bells, shouts and calls, and the sailors’ musical “yo, heave, yo!”

But when we went on board a few hours before, all was comparatively quiet, though the great pulse of life in London never quite ceases to be heard, even in the middle of the night. When we crept down to the edge of the shore, the yellow lamps were gleaming around, and the quiet stars twinkling above, and the young moon was looking down at her own image dimly reflected in the river.

“Where is our vessel?” whispered I to Whiskerandos.

“Yonder; don’t you see her black hull?”

“But how are we to get to her?” said I. nervously; “I have no great mind to swim.”

“Do you mark that dark line that cuts the sky? That is the rope which fastens her to shore. We will make our way easily along that.”

I had a tolerably intimate acquaintance with ropes, and the feat was not a difficult one for a rat; and yet – shall I confess it? – my heart quaked a little as I followed my leader across this trembling suspension bridge. I was, however, always unwilling to show fear in the presence of Whiskerandos, so I concealed even the relief which I felt when I reached the vessel without a ducking.

It was indeed a delightful home for rats, and many of my race had thought so, for the number of us on board certainly trebled that of the sailors. The majority of our brethren in the vessel were ship rats, whose appearance so much resembled my own that terms of friendship were at once established between us. The brown rats kept together in quite a separate part of the ship, – a wise precaution to avoid the quarrels and fights which must otherwise have constantly ensued. I consequently saw less of Whiskerandos during the voyage than I otherwise should have done.

I managed to establish myself, audacious rat that I was, in Captain Blake’s own cabin. I knew that it was a spot of danger, – that much skill and caution would be required to avoid detection; but I employed myself industriously in enlarging a small hole, till I had secured for myself a passage for escape in case I should be discovered, and also the means of free communication with the other parts of the ship.

I need not describe the cabin more than by saying that it appeared to be a very snug little place. It held both a swinging-cot and a hammock; and I examined with great curiosity these and other articles of furniture, as this was the first opportunity which I had had of observing how man makes himself comfortable. Assuredly his wants are not so few nor his requirements so simple as ours.

Early in the day the captain came on board with his son, and after he had given sundry orders on deck, they both descended to the cabin. Imagine my surprise when, on their entrance, I recognised my old acquaintance of the Zoological Gardens, the blue-eyed boy and his father! I instinctively looked, though in vain, to see if they were followed by Billy and Bob.

Soon afterwards the anchor was weighed, and the vessel began to move. It was to me a strange and new sensation. I had never before experienced any motion but that of my own little feet.

Towards evening the motion grew stronger. The vessel heaved up and down, rocked to and fro; the creaking sounds above grew louder, and were mingled with a constant splashing noise. Neddy, who had been very merry and active all day, now on deck, now in the cabin, asking questions, and examining everything upon which he could lay his hands, appeared now quite heavy and dull. He complained of headache, and lay down in his hammock. I thought that the boy was ill. However, he was lively as ever in the morning.

Our sea life was rather a same one, after the first excitement of starting was over. Neddy spent some hours every day in the cabin, poring over things which I found were called books. I could not at first comprehend why, when his eyes were fixed on the pages which to me seemed exactly alike, he should sometimes look grave, sometimes merry, and sometimes laugh outright, as though some one were talking with him out of the book. When, however, his father read aloud to the boy, or he read aloud to his father, I could imagine why they were amused, though I never could find out by what means the book could make itself heard. I have often snuffed round the volumes, and even touched them with my whiskers, but they seemed to me dead as clay. It must be some wonderful talent, possessed only by man, which enables him to hear any voice from them.

There was one large volume in particular, which Captain Blake called “Shakespeare,” from which he sometimes read extracts to his son. I heard him say once that this very Shakespeare had been dead for more than two hundred years. Is it not marvellous that his thoughts, preserved in leaves of paper in some manner inexplicable to a rat, should survive himself so long, – that he should make others both laugh and weep when he himself laughs and weeps no more?

As may be supposed, I took no great interest in the reading until my ear was caught one evening by an allusion to my own race in Shakespeare, “Rats, and mice, and such small deer.” We had then a place in the wondrous volume; this made me all attention, and more than once that attention was rewarded by hearing of the race of Mus. One mention both surprised and puzzled me. The rhyme still rests on my memory:

 
“But in a sieve I’ll thither sail,
And like a rat without a tail,
I’ll do – I’ll do – I’ll do!”
 

The do, of course, represents nibble, nibble, nibble; but the rat without a tail is of some species of which I had never before heard, and have certainly never met with.

When Neddy read to his father, it was from a different book; he called it “History of the French Revolution.” It might have been a history of my race, for it seemed to be all about rats: democ-rats and aristoc-rats; “doubtless,” thought I, “tribes peculiar to France.” Most savage fellows the first seemed to have been – to our race what tigers are to cats, still more powerful, bloody, and destructive. I, like others who jump at conclusions, and do not understand half of what they hear, had made a ridiculous mistake. My vanity had led me to over-estimate the importance of my family; but a conversation between Neddy and his father undeceived me, and made me a sadder and a wiser rat.

Neddy.– “Well, papa, I fancy that we shall have a great deal to see at St. Petersburg – palaces, churches, gardens, all sorts of sights! But what I most want to see is the czar himself, the great autoc-rat of all the Russias.”

I gave such a start at this, that I dreaded for a moment that I had betrayed my hiding-place. Here was another rat, and one so singular and so great, that he was thought more worthy to be seen than all St. Petersburg besides! I really felt my whole frame swelling with pride; every hair in my whiskers quivered!

“Is he really so powerful, papa, as people say that he is?”

“Very powerful indeed, my boy.”

“And he’s despotic, is he not? He has no Parliament?”

“No Parliament!” I repeated to myself; “well, that’s no great matter in a country so abounding with other good things! But what a rat of rats this must be, to be so spoken of and thought of by the lords of creation!”

“It must be a fine thing to be an autoc-rat, papa, and have no law but one’s own will!”

“It is a giddy elevation, Neddy, which no truly wise man, conscious of human infirmity, would ever covet to attain.”

“Wise man! human infirmity!” exclaimed I. These few words, like a touch to a bubble, had burst my high-blown ideas of family dignity. It was a man, then, one of human race, who chose to add rat to his name; and these democ-rats and aristoc-rats in France – why, they must be men too, nothing but men, after all!

CHAPTER XIV
A TERRIBLE WORD

When I met my old friend Whiskerandos, it was usually at night, as moving about by day was dangerous; for who ever showed mercy to a rat, or even thought of inquiring whether he possessed qualities which might render him deserving of it?

“How do you like your quarters?” said Whiskerandos to me one starry night, when all was still upon deck, and, save one sailor on the watch, all of humankind were sleeping.

“They please me well enough,” I replied.

“For my part,” said Whiskerandos, “I shall be heartily glad when our voyage is over; and I am half vexed that I ever led you to make it.”

“Why so? We do not fare ill; we have plenty to eat.” As I have mentioned before, this is ever the first consideration with a rat.

“The sailors don’t starve,” said Whiskerandos more slowly; “yet they think of adding another dish to their mess.”

“Glad to hear it,” said I; “you know that I am curious about dishes, and should like to have my whiskers in a new one.”

“Oh! but they won’t be contented with your whiskers!” cried my friend, with a funny, forced laugh.

“What do you mean?” said I quickly.

“Well, I heard Jack and Tom, two of the sailors, talking together to-day down in the hold; and there was one word of their conversation which, I own, struck me like the paw of a cat. That word was – ”

“What was it?” cried I nervously; for if a hero like Whiskerandos felt anything approaching to fear, I might be expected to be half-dead with fright.

He drooped his head for a moment, and uttered one word – “rat-pies!”

I started as though I had seen a tabby pounce down from the rigging!

“’Tis impossible!” I faintly exclaimed; “human beings never, never eat rats!”

“Oh! I beg your pardon!” replied Whiskerandos, regaining his usual brisk manner; “don’t you remember old Furry telling us that his reason for quitting China was, that he was afraid of being dished up for the dinner of some mighty mandarin, whose hair hung in a long tail behind him? Amongst the lowest classes in France, and the gypsies in England, we poor rats are known as an article of food; and I have heard that in the islands of the South Seas we were held in so much esteem, that ‘sweet as a rat’ passed as a proverb.”

“I don’t like such compliments!” exclaimed I, beginning to tremble all over.

“Come, Ratto, you must pluck up a little courage, and show yourself worthy of the race of Mus! There is never any use in meeting misfortune half way. To be caught, killed, and put into a pie, is, I grant it, a serious evil; to be always afraid of being so is another. The first we may or we may not escape; but the second – which is perhaps the worse of the two – lies in some degree within the power of our own will. We need not make ourselves wretched before the time, about some event which never may happen.”

Good philosophy this, I believe, but not a little difficult to act upon. When I have seen the younger members of that race which proudly styles itself “lords of creation,” trembling, shrinking, nay – I shame to say it – even crying, at fear of some possible evil, a little disappointment perhaps, or a little pain, I have thought of Whiskerandos and the pies, and fancied that reasoning mortals might learn something even from a rat.

I was so terribly afraid of being caught by the sailors, that I confined myself more than usual to the cabin, keeping close to the hole that I had made, that I might always be ready for a start should the blue eyes ever happen to rest upon me; but those books, those famous books, happily gave them other occupation.

“Papa,” said Neddy to his father one day, “I should rather have gone to some other place than St. Petersburg, I feel such a dislike to the Russians.”

“Why should you dislike them,” said the captain.

“Oh! because they were our enemies so long, and killed so many of our fine fellows!”

“They were but obeying the orders of their czar – doing what they believed to be their duty.”

“But they were horribly cruel, papa.”

“It would both be ungenerous and unjust to charge upon a whole nation the crimes of a few individuals. It is singular that one of the most striking examples of mercy to a foe of which I have ever heard, was shown by a Russian. The story is given as a fact, and I have pleasure in relating it, not only from its own touching interest, but from the hope that it may teach my son what our conduct should be towards those who, though our foes, are our fellow-creatures still.

“In the time of the first Napoleon, the French invaded Russia, from whence they were obliged to retreat, suffering the most fearful hardships, not only from the usual privations of war, but those caused by famine and the fearful cold of that northern clime. Thousands and thousands of brave troops perished in this fatal retreat. The splendid army which had marched into Russia so numerous and strong, melted away like a snow-ball! The fierce Cossacks hovered around the lessening bands, cutting off the weary stragglers who, unable to keep up with the rest, sank down upon the snow to die!

“At this fearful time two poor French officers, separated from their comrades, helpless and exhausted, sought refuge at the house of a lady, beseeching her to preserve them from the terrible death with which they were threatened, either from cold and hunger, or the swords of their enemies. The lady was a Russian, – the officers were her foes, – she had probably suffered from the devastating march of the French army, – but she had the heart of a woman. She dared not conceal the officers in her own house for fear of her servants and the rage of her countrymen, who would probably have not only slain the fugitives, but have wreaked their vengeance also upon her for seeking to protect their enemies. The Russian lady hid them in a wood, at some little distance from her dwelling, and thither every night, braving both the danger of discovery and the peril of being attacked by wolves, did this noble-hearted woman go alone, to bear food and necessaries to the suffering Frenchmen.”

“Oh! papa, just fancy hurrying along the snow, with the sharp winter’s wind cutting like a knife, – and then perhaps to hear a distant howl, showing that a wolf was on one’s track! Oh! I should not have fancied those night expeditions!”

“It would have been noble,” resumed the captain, “to have ventured thus for a friend, – the Russian lady did so for her enemies.”

“And were the French officers saved at last?”

“Yes; by freely giving her money as she had freely risked her safety, after a while the lady contrived the escape of the fugitives beyond the frontier. When a considerable time had elapsed, a present of a piece of plate, which she received from France, showed that the officers were not ungrateful to their preserver.”

“She was a generous enemy, papa, and a noble woman. But are not the common people in Russia very ignorant and bad?”

“Very ignorant I believe they are, but it would be harsh and wrong to call them very bad. They are cheerful and good-tempered, and even when intoxicated they do not show the ferocity which disgraces a drunkard in England.”

“But are they not dreadful thieves?”

“They are said to be very skilful in cheating, and singularly dexterous in picking pockets. But here again it would be unjust to brand a whole nation with a disgraceful stigma.⁴ I have another true story for you, Neddy, and this time it shall be of a poor Russian, a messenger, or as they call him, an Isdavoi.

“An English lady living at St. Petersburg gave five hundred rubles⁵ in charge to an Isdavoi to deliver to her daughter, who dwelt at some distance. On the following day the Russian returned, kissed the lady’s hand after the fashion of his country, and said, ‘Pardon me, I am guilty. I cannot tell how it has happened, but I have lost your money, and cannot find it again. Deal with me as you please.’”

“The poor fellow,” continued the captain, “probably expected a severe flogging, or dismissal from his office, but the lady had no inclination to punish him with such rigour. Unwilling to ruin the Isdavoi, she made no mention of his offence, considered the money as gone for ever, and after a while lost sight of the messenger entirely. After six years had elapsed he came to her one day with a joyful face, laden with six hundred rubles, which he brought in the place of those which had been intrusted to his care. On inquiry it was found that this honest Russian had for those six years been denying himself every little pleasure, and by resolute economy had saved up his wages until he had collected about half of the sum required. He had then married a wife whose feelings of honour appeared to have been as delicate as his own, for not only her dower of one hundred rubles was added to his hard-earned savings, but her little valuables had been sold to make up the full amount of the money that had been lost!”

“Oh, papa! what honest people! But did the English woman take all their money!”

“No entreaties on her part could induce the poor Isdavoi to take back the rubles to save up which had been for so long the object of his life. The lady, however, generously placed the money in a public bank to accumulate for the benefit of his children.”

“Bravo!” exclaimed Neddy, clapping his hands; “that was just how a lady should behave; and as for the poor Isda – what do you call him? – he was a fine fellow, and quite worthy to have been an Englishman!”