Modern Japanese Stories/The House of a Spanish Dog

Supein-Inu no Ie

The House of a Spanish Dog

by Satō Haruo

A short story for those
who are fond of dreaming

Frate starts running all of a sudden and waits for me at the parting of the road that leads to the blacksmith’s. He is a very clever dog and has been my friend for years. I am convinced that he is far cleverer than most men, not to mention my wife. So I take Frate with me whenever I go for a walk. Once in a while he leads me to some quite unexpected spot. That is the reason that when I go for a walk these days I do not have any set destination in mind but follow obediently wherever my dog leads me. So far I have never been down the side-street that goes to the blacksmith’s. Very well, today I shall follow the dog down there. So I turn in that direction.

The narrow road is on a gentle slope which occasionally makes sharp twists. I walk along behind my dog, not looking at the scenery, nor thinking, but simply letting myself indulge in idle fancies. Now and then I look up and observe the clouds in the sky. Suddenly some flowers by the roadside catch my attention. I pick a few and hold them to my nose. I do not know what they are called but they smell good. I walk along twisting them between my fingers. Prate happens to notice them. He stops for a moment, tilts his head to the side and gazes into my eyes. He seems to want them. I throw them down for him. He sniffs at the flowers, and glances up at me as if to say that he wishes they were dog biscuits. Then he starts running down the road once more.

I walk along like this for nearly two hours. We seem to be climbing considerably and before long I can command quite a good view. Below the open fields that stretch out before me I can vaguely make out some town in the distance between the mist and the clouds. I stand there for some time gazing at it. Yes, it is certainly a town. But what town can possibly be lying over there with all those houses? There is something rather peculiar about the whole scene. I am totally ignorant about the geography of these parts, however, and there is really nothing so surprising about seeing an unfamiliar town. I look down the other side of the hill. It slopes down gently into the distance. The entire surface is covered with dense thickets. It is shortly before noon and the gentle spring sun shines like smoke, like scent, through the fresh green foliage and on to the slender trunks of the oaks, the chestnut trees and the silver birches. The balance of the shade and the sun on the tree-trunks and on the ground is beautiful beyond words. I feel like going into the depths of that forest. The undergrowth must be very dense, but it is surely not impenetrable.

My friend Frate seems to be thinking along the same lines. He advances merrily into the forest and I follow him. When we have gone a little over a hundred yards, the dog begins to walk in a different way. He abandons his easy gait and busily moves his legs forward as if he were weaving. He thrusts his nose forward. He must have found something. Is it a rabbit’s footprints, or can he have found a bird’s-nest lying in that thick grass? For a few moments he hurries to and fro restlessly. Then he seems to find the right path and walks straight ahead. My curiosity is slightly aroused and I follow him. From time to time we startle the wild birds who are mating amidst the branches.

After we have walked along at a rapid pace for about half an hour, Frate suddenly comes to a halt. At the same moment I seem to hear the gurgling sound of running water. (This part of the country abounds in springs.) Jerking his ears irritably, Frate walks back a few yards, sniffs the ground once again and then sets off to the left. I am surprised to find how deep the forest is. I had never imagined that there were such vast thickets in this part of the country. From the look of it there must be almost 700 acres of woods. My dog’s peculiar behaviour and the endless forest combine to fill me with curiosity. After another half an hour or so of walking, Frate stops once again. He gives out a couple of staccato barks. Until this moment I had not noticed it, but now I see that a house is standing directly in front of me. There is something very strange about it. Why should anyone have a house in a place like this? For this is no ordinary charcoal shed such as one finds in the forests.

A quick glance tells me that there is nothing in the way of a garden; the house blends abruptly into the woods. ‘Blends’ is indeed the only word, for as I have said I came upon the house all of a sudden and could not catch a glimpse of it from the distance. The house has clearly been built in such a position that it can only be seen when one is standing directly before it. As I walk closer I see that it is quite a commonplace sort of house. At the same time, it is rather hard to put my finger on exactly what type of house it is. It has a thatched roof, but it is not like an ordinary farm house. The windows are all glazed in the Western style. Since I cannot see any entrance, I gather that we must be facing the back and the side. From where I stand I notice that the two side walls are half covered with ivy. This is the only embellishment to give the house any interest or character.

At first I thought it was a lodge, but it is too big for that and, besides, this wood does not seem large enough to require a keeper. Well, if it isn’t a lodge, what can it be? Whatever happens I must go in and have a look. I can say that I have lost my way. No doubt they will offer me a cup of tea, and Frate and I will eat the box-lunch that I have brought.

With this in mind I walk round to the front of the house. Until now my sense of sight seems to have submerged my sense of hearing, but suddenly I realize that there is a stream nearby. The gurgling sound that I heard earlier must have come from near here. When I reach the front, I find that, like the rest of the house, it directly faces the forest. There is one peculiar thing about it, however: it is far more luxuriously built than the other parts of the biding. Four fine stone steps lead up to the front door. This stone is far older than the reminder of the house and it is thickly overgrown with moss.

The house faces south and beneath the front window a row of small red roses grows along the wall. They stand there with a proprietary air. The flowers are in full bloom and I have the impression that they blossom regardless of the season. And that is not all. From under the clump of roses flows a stream of water, the width of a sash, glittering brightly in the sun. At first glance it looks as if the water were flowing out of the house itself. My retainer Frate starts lapping the water avidly; he evidently finds it delicious.

Now I quietly walk up the steps. I can clearly hear the sound of my shoes against the stone, but they do not really disturb the quiet of the surrounding scene. Playfully I mutter to myself, “I am now visiting the house of a hermit, or perhaps of a magician.” I look round and see Frate standing there nonchalantly with his pink tongue hanging out and his tail wagging.

In the Western manner I knock on the Western-style door. There is no answer. I have to knock again. Still no answer. This time I call out, “May I come in?” There is not the slightest reaction. Is the owner out, I wonder, or is the house completely unoccupied? I am overcome by a rather weird feeling. I go to the front window where the roses are growing—for some reason I walk as quietly as possible—and standing on tiptoe look inside the house.

The window has a heavy, dark maroon curtain decorated with blue lines. Obviously of very good quality, it does not go with the rest of the house. The curtain has been partly pulled aside and I can see clearly into the room. To my surprise I find a large stone basin, about two feet high, standing in the middle of the room. Water is gushing up from the centre of the basin and pouring constantly over the sides. The basin is overgrown with moss. The floor, too, is of stone and it looks rather damp. (When I think about it later, I realize that the water spilling over the edge of the basin is the same glittering water that I saw slithering out like a snake from among the roses.)

That basin really amazes me. Although I have felt from the beginning that there was something rather peculiar about the house, I never expected to find such a weird device inside. A new surge of curiosity comes over me and I start carefully examining the inside of the house through the window. The floor is made of some pale stone whose name I do not know. Round the basin where it is wet it has taken on a beautiful blue colour. In laying out the floor they evidently used the stone just as it came from the quarry; there is something peculiarly natural about the surface. On the wall furthest from the entrance there is a fireplace also made of stone, and to the right I notice three bookshelves with what look like dishes piled on top. At the other end of the room, near the window where I am standing, is a large plain desk, and on the desk—yes, what is on the desk? I bring my face as close to the glass as possible, but the window is so shaped that I cannot see. Oh, wait a moment! This house is far from being deserted. Indeed, someone must have been here only a moment ago. For on the corner of that desk lies a cigarette butt and from it, very gently, rises a thread of smoke; it goes up vertically for about two feet, then starts wavering and, as it goes higher, becomes more and more disturbed.

Amidst all the unexpected happenings of today’s walk I have completely forgotten about smoking. Now I am reminded of it and I take a cigarette out of my pocket and light it. At the same moment my desire to enter the house and have a look becomes quite irresistible. I think carefully for a moments and make up my mind. Yes, I shall go in. Even if the owner happens to be out. In case he comes back and finds me, I’ll explain my reason to him honestly. Since he is leading such a peculiar existence in any case, I am sure he won’t object to my uninvited visit. He may even welcome me. The paint-box, which I have taken along on my walks and which has begun to be rather a nuisance, will now turn out to be useful, since it will prove that I am not a thief. No, nothing will stop me: I’m going into this house. Once again I climb the steps to the entrance. As a final precaution I call out, “Is anyone there?” No answer. Quietly I open the door. It is unlocked.

As soon as I have walked in, I draw back a few steps. For there, lying in the sun under the window, is a coal-black Spanish dog; the dog, who has been dozing with his chin touching the floor and his body curled in a ball, opens his eyes in a sly, furtive manner when he hears me and sluggishly stands up.

At this, Frate starts growling and walks up to the black dog. For a time they both growl at each other. But the Spanish dog seems to have a peculiarly gentle disposition: after the two dogs have sniffed carefully at each other, it is he who starts wagging his tail. My dog joins in and soon they are both wagging busily. Then the Spanish dog lies down in the same place as before. Frate lies down directly beside him. Strange indeed to see such a friendly attitude between two dogs of the same sex who have only just met each other! Of course Frate has a very amiable nature, but the Spanish dog deserves the main praise for his amazing magnanimity in welcoming a stranger. I feel reassured and walk into the room.

This Spanish dog is unusually large for the breed. He has the characteristically thick, tufty tail and when he winds it up on his back he looks very impressive indeed. From the little I know about dogs I can tell from the lustre of his fur and the look of his face that he is quite old. I walk up to him and pat him on the head by way of paying my respects to my temporary host. From past experience I know that dogs (so long as they are not strays who are in the habit of being badly treated by human beings) tend by nature to be friendly to people. This is especially true of dogs who live in lonely places. Such dogs will never hurt people who are nice to them even if they are complete strangers. Besides, their instinct tells them instantly whether a man is a dog-lover or the type that is likely to treat dogs unkindly. My theory proves to be correct, for the Spanish dog now happily starts licking my hand.

This is all very well, but who on earth is the owner of the house? And where is he? Will he be back soon? Despite my resolutions, now that I am actually in the house I am beginning to have compunctions. I am free to examine the place from top to bottom, but instead I remain standing by the large stone basin. Just as I had expected when I looked through the window, it only comes up to my knees. The brim is about two inches across and is provided with three grooves. The water runs along the grooves, round the outer edge of the basin and then spills on to the floor. Yes, to be sure, in places situated like this house this is one possible way to draw water. No doubt the people who live here use it for drinking water. The basin is certainly no mere ornament.

From the look of things this room seems to be serving several purposes at once. There are one, two, three chairs. Yes, just three—one by the basin, one by the fireplace and one next to the table. They are all practical, down-to-earth chairs; neither they nor anything else in the room bespeaks the slightest effort at elaboration. As I continue looking round the room, I feel myself gradually becoming emboldened. I notice that a clock is ticking away the time. Tick-tock, tick-tock—like the pulsation of the quiet house itself. Where can the clock be? It is nowhere on the dark reddish-yellow wall. Ah yes, there it is, standing on the table that I saw from the window. With a slight feeling of diffidence towards the Spanish dog, the temporary master of the house, I walk up to the table. There on the corner lies the cigarette that I saw from outside. By now it has completely burnt out and is nothing but a cylinder of white ash.

Above the dial of the clock is painted a picture. This gives it a toy-like appearance which contrasts curiously with the generally uncouth aspect of the room. I examine the picture. It shows a lady of noble deportment standing next to a gentleman. There is a third member in the party—a boot-black who polishes the left shoe of the gentlemen once each second. A childish picture, but nevertheless interesting. I am no expert where foreign matters are concerned, but from the lady’s wide skirt that trails on the floor with its lace frills and from the gentleman’s top-hat and side whiskers I gather that the scene depicted on the clock must be some fifty years old. Well, well—what a pathetic fellow that boot-black really is! There he has to crouch in this quiet house, and in the smaller world contained inside this house, and day and night he has to keep on polishing a single shoe. As I observe the monotony of his ceaseless movements, I feel my own shoulder becoming stiff. The clock says quarter past one; it is one hour slow.

Some four or five dozen dusty books are piled on the table and a couple of others are lying by themselves. All the books are rather bulky—they might be albums of pictures, or books of architecture, or again, atlases. The titles seem to be in German and I cannot understand them. On the wall hangs a heliochrome sea-piece. I’ve seen this picture before somewhere—isn’t that Whistler’s colouring? I strongly approve of having such a picture here. Anyone secluded among the hills like this would probably forget that the world contained such things as the sea unless he had a picture to remind him.

I decide to leave the house and go home. Perhaps I’ll call again one of these days and meet the real owner. Still, I feel a little uneasy about having entered the house while it was empty and now leaving while it is still empty. On second thoughts, perhaps I’d better wait until he comes back. I watch the water gushing out of the basin and light another cigarette. For some time I stand there gazing at the water. Now that I really absorb myself in it, I seem to hear some sort of music coming from the distance. I listen with admiration and rapture. Can it be that music is actually coming from the depths of this constantly gushing water? The owner of such an unusual house must be an extremely eccentric individual…. Wait! Is it possible that I have become a sort of Rip Van Winkle? Shall I return home to find that my wife has turned into an old woman? I imagine myself leaving the forest and asking a passing peasant where the village of Kurosaka is. “Kurosaka?” he answers. “There’s no such place in these parts.” A queer feeling comes over me and I decide to hurry home at once.

I go to the door and whistle for Frate. The Spanish dog, who seems to have been following my every moment, now gazes at me as I prepare to leave. I become frightened. Perhaps that dog has only been pretending to be gentle, and now that he sees me going he may jump on me from behind and bite me. I wait impatiently for Frate to follow me, then I hurry out of the door, carefully watching the Spanish dog, and shut it with a bang.

Before setting out for home, I decide to have a final glance inside the house. I stand on tiptoe by the window and look in. The Spanish dog gets slowly to his feet and walks towards the table.

“Well, that was quite a startling visit I had today,” he seems to say to himself in a human voice, evidently unaware of my presence. He yawns in the way that dogs so often do—and then in a twinkling he becomes a middle-aged man in glasses and a black suit who stands leaning against the chair by the desk with a still unlit cigarette in his mouth, and who slowly turns the pages of one of those large books.

It is a very warm spring afternoon. I am in a thicket of trees that nestles among the hushed hills.

Satō Haruo (b. 1892)
This story was first published in 1916
Translated by George Saitō
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