The Elephant Keeper Page 12

  “Well, when it is ready, I shall be very glad to see it, believe me, Tom. I am sure that it will make excellent reading. When it is finished, perhaps it should be bound and printed. After all, she is the only Elephant in England, is she not?”

  At the prospect of the History being set in print, my heart beats even stronger; but I reply that there is another Elephant, who lived with her in Somersetshire, but was sold to the Earl of Ancaster, who has a menagery on his estate at Grimsthorpe, in Lincolnshire. Lord Bidborough is surprized.

  “You mean, a menagery with monkies and the like—not a pheasant menagery?”

  “No, my Lord—at least—I do not know about monkies—”

  “Well, well. And he has an Elephant too, does he?”

  “Yes, my Lord.”

  “Another female?”

  “No, my Lord, a male. Brother to this one.”

  His Lordship ponders a moment, tapping his stick on the floor. “Well, I shall write to the Earl of Ancaster. It would be interesting to compare accounts, would it not, Madam?”

  This has raised my hopes that, after more than three years, I may find out about Timothy. The letter will reach Lincolnshire next week, or the week after, and a page will carry it to the Earl on a gleaming salver. I imagine a high room, flooded by pale sunshine, with a stone-vaulted ceiling; at the end of a long table an elderly man in a wig, opening the letter, reading.

  June 4th

  Early afternoon. His Lordship appears at the Elephant House with Lady Bidborough, Lord and Lady Seely, Mr. and Mrs. Arbuthnot, and Mr. du Quesne. In addition a frosty-faced gentleman, whom I have never seen before. “Dr. Casey” (says his Lordship), “may I present Tom Page, my Elephant Keeper—been here three years—knows more about Elephants than any man alive, though he denies it, the rogue, do you not, Tom?”—“Yes, my Lord.”—“What did I tell you?” cries Lord Bidborough. “Why, he can almost speak Elephant!”

  With Jenny kneeling, I fasten the howdar, and strap the ladder to her side. She rises and walks to the mounting block. The ladies mount first, next the gentlemen; I stand guard lest any of them fall or trip. The Elephant now coils her trunk around his Lordship and lifts him into the howdar—“Excellent! Thank you, Madam! Argos,” he orders the dog, who is standing not far from Jenny’s tail. “Further away, Sir, keep off, thank you. We do not want you in the way. That will do; thank you.”

  Dr. Casey, in a high, precise voice: “How long will the tour take, my Lord?”

  Lord Bidborough: “Sir, that depends upon Tom here. He is the Pilot of our little ship. He may make the Elephant go faster or slower, as you desire.”

  Jenny swings me into position on her neck. I glance over my shoulder, to ascertain that all the members of the company are secure.

  Mrs. Arbuthnot: “O, we do not care what speed we go over the Ocean so long as we go safely.”

  Lord Bidborough: “I can assure you, Mrs. Arbuthnot, you are safer on the back of an Elephant than you would be riding on any other animal, far safer than a horse. There is not the slightest danger of our capsizing.”

  Mrs. Arbuthnot: “Unless we meet a mouse. Is it not true, that Elephants are frightened of mice?”

  Lord Bidborough: “I am assured by Tom that it is entirely false, Mrs. Arbuthnot. Thank Heaven, a mouse carries no terror for the Easton Elephant!”

  Laughter here; out of which Dr. Casey: “In that case, my Lord, it would appear that no less a natural historian than Pliny is in the wrong. He certainly writes of Elephants being frightened of mice.” He adds a few words in what I assume, in my country ignorance, to be Latin.

  Lord Bidborough: “There are many curious stories in Pliny. For instance, he writes that, in Ancient Rome, there lived an Elephant which had been trained to entertain the Emperor by walking along a tight rope, which he could do not only forward but backward. And that, in Ethiopia, there existed a race of giant Elephants, as much as thirty feet high. From which I draw the conclusion, that Pliny was not always the most reliable of historians, at least with regard to Elephants. Tom, shall we proceed?”

  “Yes, my Lord.”

  I tap Jenny’s head, and at a slow, easy pace she leaves the Elephant House and begins down the gravel walk which leads to the lime avenue. Argos trots alongside.

  Lady Bidborough: “My husband has become a great authority on Elephants, as you perceive, Dr. Casey.”

  Lord Bidborough: “By no means, by no means, I have a mere smattering of knowledge. Tom Page here is the true authority. Indeed, he is writing me a History of the Elephant!”

  Lord Seely: “Gad! Well done, Tom!”

  Mr. Arbuthnot: “Let us hope he will prove more reliable than Pliny! Eh, Tom?”

  “I hope so, Sir.”

  They laugh again, Lord Seely loudly, and I feel uneasy. However, it is perfectly true that Elephants have no fear of mice, or, at least, that Jenny has no fear of mice. At the Elephant House, they nest in the hay, and run around her feet at night.

  Dr. Casey: “My Lord, why does your Elephant have no tusks?”

  Lord Bidborough: “She is female, Dr. Casey; that is all. Is that not so, Tom? The females are tusk-less.”

  “Yes, my Lord, except in the Cape, my Lord. The females in the Cape have short tusks.”

  Lord Bidborough: “There, what did I say? The voice of authority.”

  Lord Seely: “I would very much like to have a pair of tusks. They would lend me an air of distinction!”

  With much laughter at this remark, we enter the lime avenue. The young leaves shimmer and flicker. In the distance, the Obelisk is a tall, dark spike, an exclamation point.

  Mrs. Arbuthnot: “I heard a most curious story last week from Lady Franklyn, whom I met in Town. She told me of a woman in Gloucestershire, who lately gave birth to a baby with a tail. The tail was fully six inches long.”

  Mr. Arbuthnot: “Lady Franklyn told me that the tail was over a foot long. We may safely conclude, therefore, that it was an inch in length.”

  Lord Seely: “Excellent story! The woman in question must have had relations with an ape!”

  Lady Seely: “In Gloucestershire?”

  Lord Seely: “In Africa there are races that are half-man, half-monkie. The pongo is half-man half-monkie, I have read of it. The pongo that comes from the Congo. Ha ha.”

  Mr. Arbuthnot: “It is more probable that the entire story is an invention. It is another tale out of Pliny.”

  Lady Seely: “It is certainly a tail! It is the tale of a tail!”

  General amusement, not shared by Mrs. Arbuthnot: “Indeed, I am sure that it must be true, for the tail was cut off—Lady Franklyn saw it with her own eyes! It was covered in white down.”

  Mr. Arbuthnot: “We must not doubt Lady Franklyn’s veracity, but, had she seen the tail before it were cut off, attached to the baby, I should be more inclined to credit the tale! A tail covered in white down sounds uncommonly like a sheep’s tail!”

  Lord Bidborough: “I remember hearing—from Lord Monboddo—of a Scotsman with such a tail, which he had concealed even from his wife, who discovered it only after his death.”

  Lord Seely, chuckling: “Excellent!”

  Dr. Casey: “One should not entirely dismiss the idea that a baby should be born with a tail, for just as certain human beings behave like animals, so their offspring will develop animal features. It is on this account that the inhabitants of foreign countries untouched by Civilization have so much coarser features, darker skin, and more hair, than the inhabitants of countries such as England. The woman need not have mated with a monkie or a Negro, merely with a man who allowed his Passions to hold sway over his Reason.”

  Lord Seely: “Or with a sheep—hey, Dr. Casey?” He baas loudly.

  More laughter here, this time not shared by Dr. Casey.

  Mrs. Arbuthnot: “O, but that reminds me of another story—did you hear—a woman in Wiltshire, who—”

  Lady Seely, with a shudder: “La, I cannot believe that, I cannot. I refuse to believe it!”
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  Mrs. Arbuthnot: “But it is true, I have it on excellent authority!”

  Mr. Arbuthnot: “What piece of fish-wife’s gossip is this?”

  Mrs. Arbuthnot, severely: “Mr. Arbuthnot, it is not a piece of gossip but entirely true. It is the story of a woman in Wiltshire—in the Town of Hungerford—a woman whose breast was infected with a Cancer—”

  Lady Seely: “I cannot believe it, I declare, I refuse to believe it.”

  Mrs. Arbuthnot: “—who applied a toad to the infection; whereupon the toad began to give suck, and, swelling and changing colour, until it was a brilliant butter-yellow, dropped off; and since the swelling was reduced, the woman applied another toad, and the same thing happened, and another and another, until the Cancer had been entirely sucked away!”

  Mr. Arbuthnot: “I heard this story. It appears that the toads, as they suckled, seemed to enjoy themselves.”

  Lord Seely, with a loud laugh: “Gad, I am sure they did!”

  Lady Seely: “I declare, I could not bring myself to do such a thing, even if I had a Cancer. There is something so vile and hideous about a toad. It is the most deformed and disgusting animal in the entire Creation.”

  Lord Bidborough: “Is it not possible that to a toad other toads may possess great beauty?”

  Lady Seely: “That may be so, but I am very glad that I was made a human being, and not a common toad! To spend one’s life crawling in dank, gloomy holes would be unendurable!”

  Lord Seely: “Have you considered that someone might keep you as a pet? I heard of a family that kept a toad as a pet for thirty years. They would bring it to the table and feed it maggots from a pot of bran. They said it was a most amiable creature.”

  When we reach the Obelisk, I halt the Elephant and set up the ladder, allowing the party to dismount. The sky has clouded and the woods are dark and green, the birds quiet but for a trilling lark and the cries of a distant hawk. A gusting wind ruffles the grasses. Jenny ambles to the nearest bushes, eases herself, and snatches at a tangle of vegetation, cramming it hastily into her mouth like a child with a pie, and giving me a look of guilty pleasure. On a sudden she raises her head to stare down a woodland path. Following her gaze, I see little Alice King walking toward us. One of Jenny’s great favourites, she is a young maid with dark hair and shining eyes. She is carrying a basket filled with shells, which she has collected from the sea-shore. “Do you have some pretty ones?” I inquire, and she nods shyly. “They are for the Grotto, Tom.” Her father is Robert King, the mason, who is working on the Grotto. Jenny’s trunk sidles over her hair.

  When the ladies and gentlemen return from their walk they are deep in conversation.

  Lady Bidborough: “Dr. Casey, was there not once a parrot that cried ‘fire’ during a conflagration one night, and so saved all the members of the household, who were asleep, from burning? No one had taught it to say ‘fire,’ but it knew the word, and its application. It was counted a hero.”

  Dr. Casey: “Is it not as likely that the parrot, alarmed by the smoke and flames, began to squawk loudly, as would be only natural, and that these indistinct squawks were, in the general confusion, interpreted as the word ‘fire’?”

  Mrs. Arbuthnot: “I heard of a parrot that could speak fluent Milton. Do you remember, Mr. Arbuthnot? Mrs. Urquart was telling us of it, it belonged to one of her cousins.”

  Mr. Arbuthnot: “If I remember correctly, Mr. Urquart told me that Mrs. Urquart’s cousin believed the parrot was Milton himself, transmogrified by the Devil!”

  Lord Bidborough: “Dr. Casey, what you say about parrots may be true. But what of dogs and horses? What of Elephants? An Elephant is, of all animals, commonly thought to be among the most reasonable; will you not allow my Elephant some sparks of Reason?”

  Dr. Casey: “Elephants are good at imitation, and can perform certain tricks, my Lord, there is no doubt. That an Elephant seems to be capable of Reason does not necessarily make it so, however.”

  Lord Bidborough: “Yet my observations of this Elephant, Dr. Casey, have convinced me that she possesses Reason. I have seen her do certain things that she could not have done, without some powers of reasoning.”

  Lord Seely: “Dogs are d—ned clever creatures. I have a little bitch at the moment who is stuffed with brains.”

  Dr. Casey, very courteous: “My Lord, while dogs and Elephants may seem to shew signs of Reason, their behaviour is driven solely by Instinct. It is a matter of Theology. Reason was given by God to Man alone, in order to distinguish him from the rest of Creation. It is Reason that enables Man to rule over and conquer the passions, which are part of his baser, brutish nature.”

  Mr. Arbuthnot: “I do not dispute the theological point, Dr. Casey, and yet, as Lord Seely says, dogs are remarkably clever. When Odysseus returned from Troy, Homer tells us, only his dog was able to recognise him. Would you say that was mere instinct? Surely one must allow the dog the power of memory.”

  Lord Bidborough: “Indeed, the original Argos!”

  Dr. Casey: “A dog may well possess the rudiments of memory, but memory is not the same as Reason. The mind of an animal is essentially passive; it is like a harp, on which the winds of instinct will sometimes play and make what may sound like music, but it is not true music. By contrast, the mind of a human being is active; it too is like a harp, and we understand it as such and may play it at will.”

  Lord Seely: “Dr. Casey, I declare I wish I could shew you this bitch of mine, I venture to suggest you might change your mind.”

  Any further words on this subject are prevented by Lady Seely, saying, “I do hope we will have time to visit the new Hermit.”—“O, on no account must we miss the Hermit!” Mrs. Arbuthnot echoes, “Dr. Casey, as a philosopher, you will be entertained by the Hermit, believe me. He is a wonderful Hermit!” Dr. Casey answers that he looks forward to it very much.

  The party climbs back aboard the Elephant, and we ride to the temple, where the marble statue of the goddess, standing with her bow drawn, is much admired. “Diana the Huntress, goddess of the moon,” says Dr. Casey, and striking a worthy pose he declaims in Latin, or Greek, for all I know. “True indeed,” says Mr. du Quesne with a sigh; “Bravo,” cries Lord Seely.

  We make for the Hermitage, entering the pine-wood. The wind dies away, stirring only the tops of the pines, which sigh like the sea. Some tiny birds twitter, a squirrel hurries over the litter of dead needles. The Hermit’s house lies deep in the wood, and is held in permanent shade. At its entrance sits the Hermit; on our approach, he looks up quickly before bending his head over the Bible. He is clad in black, and has long, unkempt hair and a long beard. “A melancholy sight,” remarks Dr. Casey. Lord Bidborough says, “Well, he is a simple man, whom I am told has suffered many tragedies. Now he lives in solitude and contemplation, shunning all society. Draw closer, Tom.” I press Jenny’s head with a finger, and she moves slowly closer, lifting a low branch with her trunk. The Hermit remains still as the statue, and seems not to notice us. “Will he not speak?” asks Mr. du Quesne in a whisper. Lady Seely: “No, he never speaks.” Mr. du Quesne: “Never?” Lady Seely: “He has taken a vow of absolute silence. He subsists on a diet of roots and berries.”

  A fly buzzes round Jenny’s eyes; she flaps her ears. Wood ants crawl over the pine needles. Mr. du Quesne asks if he may dismount. “By all means,” says his Lordship; whereupon Mr. du Quesne clambers from the howdar, and walks up to the Hermit, who is studying a page of his Bible. “The Book of Job,” announces Mr. du Quesne; and he reads, in a shaking, doleful voice: “Man that is born of a Woman is of a few days, and full of Trouble. He cometh forth like a Flower, and is cut down: he fleeth also as a Shadow, and continueth not.”—“Gad—a most excellent Hermit,” remarks Lord Seely.

  The truth of the matter is that the Bible-reading is a sham, since the Hermit cannot read. He is a man by the name of Isaac Simmons, who lives in Easton village. He and his wife have seven children. He has a bad leg and is a Hermit merely because he can fi
nd no other employment.

  June 5th

  Evening. Lord Bidborough hobbles into the Elephant House, Argos a step behind. “Ah, Tom, I am glad to find you here.” In his hand he has his flagon of port wine. “No, Sir,” he tells Argos, “wine would not suit your digestion. Why, you don’t agree. Here you are, then, Sir, if you will.” The dog sniffs the wine, wrinkles his nose, and turns aside. “What did I tell you?” his Lordship remarks in a pleased voice, pouring out the usual three glasses and setting the flagon on the floor. “Stay there, Sir,” he tells the flagon. “Well now, Tom, what was your opinion of our discussion the other day?”

  “In respect of what, my Lord?”

  “Why, in respect of the rationality of animals. And of the distinctions between Man and the brutes.”

  Sometimes I cannot tell whether his Lordship means me to speak or not, and I remain silent. He continues, in his dry voice: “Dr. Casey is a learned man, but I confess that, for my part, I am not convinced that the differences between humans and the higher animals are as great as he asserts. He will not allow—will not even allow—the possibility that animals are able to think for themselves. Yet, look at Argos. He is annoyed, he feels banished, he is sulking. Or, look at her”—he indicates the Elephant. “She is thinking at this very moment! She is asking herself, whether I will give her another glass—are you not, Madam?”

  I glance at Jenny, who is in a mischievous temper. Her eyes move from Lord Bidborough to the flagon of wine; shift momentarily to me; return to the flagon. Her trunk advances, tentatively, as though shaping itself into a question.

  “Surely the problem—the entire problem of our relations with the rest of the animal kingdom—comes down to language! Dr. Casey would deny animals any independently conceived thoughts; whereas, I maintain, they are as full of thoughts as we, but are unable to express them in a form that we human beings can easily comprehend. They cannot speak our language; but, then, nor can we speak their language. Is not this the true gulf that lies between us? It is an abyss, a chasm, but one of incomprehension, not of thought or feeling or rationality!” Lord Bidborough contemplates the Elephant. “It is absurd to deny her a large portion of Reason. She is more rational than many human beings; indeed, in her own Elephant way, I believe, she is something of a philosopher—are you not, Madam? If only she could speak for herself—she and Dr. Casey would have an interesting debate!”