The C. J. Dennis Collection
From: The Melbourne Herald Date: Unknown
The Story of a Conscience I HAVE never regarded the possession of a tender conscience as in any sense an asset. Even for the pure in heart, because of the need for perpetual watchfulness lest it be inadvertently offended, the thing becomes a liability. While for the venal, the indulger of slothful subterfuge and the follower of paths that lead along the line of least resistance a tender conscience can and does become a thorn in the flesh, a viper in the bosom and a positive pain in the neck. I fervently wish that mine were tougher. For that super-sensitive thing that I recognise as a conscience, inhabiting some dank cell in the dark hinterland of my being has been nagging at me — positively nagging at me day and night for a week because I have been unjust to a dog. Can you believe it? If you own a tender conscience you can; if you cannot, it merely reveals you as one of those extremely tough eggs with a conscience made of synthetic rubber reinforced with spring steel, and you will probably get on in life. * * * * ANYHOW, I am going to own up here and now and try to get a little peace. For I am sick (for one thing) of being discovered around remote corners being abjectly apologetic to a four-footed friend whose persistent attitude toward me is one of disillusionment and dumb disdain. Some time ago I told of a dog who had watched a heap of blue-gum firewood for over a year because in the beginning he had seen a small black rabbit seek sanctuary there. I told how, when the stack came at last to be removed, the dog became suddenly interested, carefully following each barrowful, watching the withdrawal of every stick with meticulous attention, only to find in the end (so I said) when the last of the wood was shifted, that no rabbit was there. I told also of the dog’s comical disgust, of his loss of further interest, and I aggravated the offence by referring to his canine reasoning as “absurd.” And when we told visitors of the amusing episode they laughed immoderately at the idiotic dog and his fatuous faith in the permanence of rabbits. “Fancy! After a whole year! It was too ridiculous.” Meantime, as they laughed (and I, perjured hypocrite, laughed with them) inwardly I squirmed and writhed secretly under the prickings and proddings, the intolerable nudges and naggings of that most unprofitable and wholly damnable incubus, my tender conscience. * * * * AND now it drives me to a reluctant confession; for, as a matter of fact— But let me begin at the beginning and recount the whole truth as briefly as may be. More than a year ago the dog, Tam, and I had a short and merry chase after a small black rabbit that had somehow got inside the protective netting that encloses the residential block, only to drive him to cover in a crevice at the very bottom of the blue-gum stack. Since nothing could dislodge bunny, save the removal of virtually the whole stack, the household was much concerned, and the housewife saw the whole of her cherished garden vulnerable to the assaults of a voracious vegetarian. But I was not going to shift that wood, it was not yet dry enough for use, and the gardener had other things to do. So, after investigation, I announced finally that the black rabbit had left the stack and returned as he had come to his native habitat. I staked my reputation on it. But still the housewife doubted. Choice carnations were being ruthlessly chewed, gladioli gobbled, if not by the black rabbit, then by what? So the thing developed into a year-long argument. Tender annuals were disappearing; but, basing my man-made logic on reasonable grounds, I pointed out that no rabbit could inhabit a small hole in a wood stack month after month and reveal not hide nor hair of him. Preposterous! Housewife, dog and raided garden notwithstanding, the contention was absurd! * * * * AND now for the shamefaced truth. While the last of that blue-gum was being shifted I viewed the proceedings from an upstairs casement. When the gardener (and Tam) had come down to the house with the penultimate barrow load, and but a few sticks remained, I saw, emerging from beneath those few sticks an extremely fat black rabbit — fat with the vitamins of heaven knows what choice carnations; sleek with the succulent juices of nemesia, godetia, eschscholtzia, and a hundred precious plants. He slipped swiftly from the dwindling stack and hid in a rhododendron clump near a wide gate. My reputation was at stake! At all costs my face must be saved! Hastily I sneaked downstairs, set the gate wide open, and gently shooed the black rabbit through into his customary bush. Then gently latching the gate, I wished him good hunting and sneaked back upstairs before the gardener and the dog could return. So now the truth is out. There was a rabbit after all, and Tam, the dog, was right, his vigil justified. I withdraw and apologise. No more, when visitors laugh immoderately at Tam’s supposed stupidity (and there is nothing a dog resents so much as being laughed at), no more when he sneaks abjectly around a corner of the house, ears and tail a-droop, shall I have to follow him with pleas and excuses, only to meet two brown eyes brimming with tears of dumb reproach. I shall read this to him when it is printed; and, because he is a dog, he will forgive.