The Elephant Keeper Read online

  I say nothing, fearing to interrupt the course of his Lordship’s thoughts; but Jenny’s trunk gently curls round his stick. “No, Madam, no. Unhand that stick, if you please. That is my stick.” She eyes me; I make a sign; she unhands the stick. “Thank you, Madam. I am very grateful to you.” Now, however, her trunk whisks and flicks the wig off Lord Bidborough’s head and into the air. “Hey!”—“I am sorry, my Lord,” and at my sign she retrieves the wig and plants it on his head back to front, with the tail falling over his nose. “Not at all,” he says, obviously amused, and rearranging the wig, “she is bored, she finds our discussion tedious, does she not, and attempts to divert herself. It illustrates my point exactly. You know, Tom, among the distinctions that Dr. Casey would draw to divide us from the animal kingdom is that of humour. Animals are supposed to lack a sense of humour, to be incapable of laughter. But does not a creature like an Elephant laugh? Clearly she does not express her laughter as we do; but why should we therefore conclude that she does not laugh, or is incapable of laughter?”

  “I believe she laughs, my Lord. She laughs with her eyes. And sometimes with her trunk.”

  “I am sure that you are right, Tom. But what is the opposing argument? Dr. Casey would argue that, for laughter to be true laughter, it must come from the mouth. Against which, an Elephant would argue, would it not—were it able to argue—that our laughter is not true laughter!—Hmmm.” His Lordship taps his stick against his side, and gives a swing of his gouty leg. “The other day you mentioned, did you not, Tom, the Earl of Ancaster’s Elephant? Did they—the two Elephants—it may sound like a curious question—did they ever communicate with each other? Did you ever gain the impression that they were talking to each other?”

  “Often, my Lord. Many times.”

  “Well, I am sure they did; all animals do, with their own kind. But in their own way!” His Lordship looks from Jenny to Argos, and back again. “I once heard of an Elephant that could count up to ten—do you think it possible that Madam might learn to count?”

  “I am not sure, my Lord. I could try to teach her, if you like.”

  “Well, well…whatever else, she is an excellent creature. How old do you think she is, Tom?”

  “My Lord, I believe that she was probably born around seventeen fifty-five.”

  “So she is eighteen. And how long will she live? How long does an Elephant live?”

  “I do not know, my Lord. A gentleman by the name of Mr. Coad once told me that Elephants could live for two hundred years.”

  “Yes, that is what Pliny says, so it is probably untrue. Still, it is a strange thought, is it not? Two hundred long years. Why should Elephants be allowed two hundred years? We have sixty or seventy, eighty if we are very fortunate, while a horse dies in twenty, a dog in fifteen, and a may-fly has to cram its life into the span of a single day. In the morning it is born, in the afternoon it lays its eggs, by evening it is dead. And so the world goes. There is no rhyme nor reason to it at all. How old are you, Tom?”

  “Twenty, my Lord.”

  “You are not married?”

  “No, my Lord.”

  He nods. “You live a solitary life here, you are almost like the Hermit. But then I suppose you have the other servants to talk to.”

  “And the Elephant, my Lord,” but Lord Bidborough seems not to hear. He says:

  “My son is twenty-two, you know, G-d bless him. He will return soon, from abroad, I hope.”

  I wait, expecting him to say some more, when Jenny stretches out her trunk to the flagon of wine and, having removed the stopple with a quick twist, begins to bring it to her mouth. I prevent her, and order her to give me the flagon, which she does, though with a look of great reproach; while Lord Bidborough shakes his head in amazement, declaring that he has never seen the like and that she is the most intelligent creature in existence: “I wish that Dr. Casey had been here—what a pity! This is proof that she can reason! If only he had been here!”

  As a reward, he pours Jenny another glass. Then, leaning on his stick: “You know, Tom, it occurs to me, we ought to have her portrait taken. She would make a fine portrait, would she not?” He surveys her huge form and, with a smile, bows slightly. “Madam, you shall be immortalised in oils. What do you say to that, hey?”

  With this, his Lordship hobbles goutily away, Argos his shadow.

  June 12th–25th

  His Lordship is away in London. Mrs. Eakins says that he is expected to be away for upwards of two weeks, searching for a cure for the Gout. These are two weeks longer to wait for news of Timothy. Every day I see the post-boy with his packet of letters, and I wonder whether it may include one from the Earl of Ancaster. We must be patient, I say to Jenny, we must not hope for too much, we must not hope, though it is difficult not to hope, or to imagine, that London itself may contain the Earl of Ancaster, and that he and Lord Bidborough will meet at some coffee-house. As the two elderly noblemen sit together, in red leather chairs, I perch between them like a pet magpie and, cocking my head this way and that, hear every word of their conversation.

  —I understand that you possess an Elephant, begins his Lordship—I do indeed, replies the Earl, a most excellent handsome creature, he lives at Grimsthorpe; he is a great joy to me and to all who meet him!—Lord Bidborough: I, too, own an Elephant, a female—the sister to your Elephant, I am told!—The Earl: Why, I did not know he had a sister. How interesting! How does your Elephant?—Lord Bidborough: Very well, thank you—she is in very good health and excellent spirits—(he pauses here to sip a glass of port wine)—it would be a fine thing if the Elephants were to meet, would it not—imagine how pleased they would be to see each other again!—The Earl (fired with enthusiasm): I agree—indeed—a splendid idea—we must set this in train immediately! Would you prefer to bring your Elephant to Grimsthorpe, or should I bring mine to Easton?

  Until his Lordship’s return, I have been attempting to teach the Elephant to count—that is (for she is able to count naturally, I am sure), I have been attempting to teach her to express her counting by stamping. Thus I hold a carrot before her eyes.—Jenny, you can see this—you know what it is, do you not? She blinks slowly.—What is it? It is a carrot, Tom.—That is right, it is a carrot, how many carrots is it?—How many?—Yes. It is one carrot, is it not, Jenny? A single carrot. Now lift your leg and stamp, once.—Why, Tom?—I should like you to.—Which leg am I meant to lift, Tom? The right or the left?—Well—it does not matter—either leg. She does not exactly stamp, but flexes her left fore-leg.—Good, that is excellent. Now look—and I hold up another carrot. How many carrots am I holding up now?—Tom, you are holding up two carrots. And you have three more, hidden behind your back, in your other hand. What is the purpose of this game?—It is not a game, Jenny—the idea is to teach you to count, like a human being.—What is counting?—Counting, Jenny—it is very useful to be able to count from one to ten. And it will greatly please his Lordship. Now, as you say, I have two carrots in my hand—but, if I give you one, how many do I have left?—Why will it please his Lordship?—It will please his Lordship, because…I notice the sly look in her eyes. O, never mind, Jenny. It will please his Lordship because it will shew him how intelligent you are; it will demonstrate that the differences between human beings and animals are not so great as some folk believe. Jenny pops one of the carrots into her mouth.—Is it so important? May I have another carrot, please, Tom?

  We have been practising this for four days, and I cannot say that we have made any great progress. It is not that she cannot count, but that she cannot see the point of stamping; and, indeed, I think that she is probably right. After all, if she were able to stamp her way up to ten, what would it mean? Today, after another failure, I begin to rack my brains and ask, what can we humans do which animals cannot? What can I do that Jenny cannot? Well, I think, I can cook food. I can dress myself, and mend my cloaths when they are torn, but there is little else, save for shooting a gun, angling, playing cards, sailing ships, and riding a hor
se (though this last is ridiculous, for an Elephant’s inability to ride a horse can scarcely be held as a lack of accomplishment on the part of the Elephant, any more than a human’s inability to ride a beetle or a toad). Besides—I say to myself—how easily the question may be changed. What can we humans not do that animals can? To which I answer: Why, we cannot swim like a fish, we cannot dig like a mole, we cannot fly like a bird; we cannot follow a scent like a dog, we cannot see in the dark like an owl. Yet, because we claim to have Reason, we say that we are vastly superior.

  It seems to me, therefore, that I should not be attempting to make an Elephant think like a human being; instead, I should be attempting to learn how to think like an Elephant, although what that means, what that would mean, I have scarcely any idea.

  THE GOSSIP IN THE SERVANTS’ quarters concerns Lord and Lady Bidborough’s lovely daughter, Anne Singleton, who is now seventeen, and Mr. Church, who is one of her Admirers. Mr. Church is handsome, or at least is accounted handsome by half of the maids, while the other half maintain that he is anything but handsome. I have no opinion on the matter, save to observe that his chin cannot have ever felt more than the lightest touch of a razor, and that his wig is so white it almost dazzles. It sits on his head like a patch of crisply curled snow. However, his looks do not matter as much as his wealth, for he has lately inherited an estate of more than two thousand acres near Horsham, in the County of Surrey, and the question is whether the beautiful surroundings of Easton, conjoined to the beauty of Anne herself, will persuade him into a further conjoining, that is, into a proposal of marriage.

  Twice now Miss Singleton and Mr. Church have arrived at the Elephant House and asked to be taken on a tour of the park. Twice I have put the howdar on the Elephant’s back and watched as Miss Singleton and Mr. Church mounted the ladder and settled into their seats: she at the back of the howdar, facing forward, he at the front, facing back. Yet, as we ride out, a silence falls; a pool of silence, which grows to a lake, an ocean, a waste of emptiness; at length, as our voyage threatens to become unendurable, Mr. Church clears his clogged throat:

  “Hem—Miss Singleton—how fine the limes appear today!” Miss Singleton: “They do, do they not—very fine—exceptionally fine—I have never seen them look so fine!” Mr. Church: “How long ago were they planted?” Miss Singleton: “It is no more than three years ago.” Mr. Church: “They have done very well, to have grown so fast—it is remarkable. They will look even finer in fifty years.” Miss Singleton: “I am sure they will.” Mr. Church: “In a century, they will be finer still. They will be magnificent.” A long pause ensues, after which Miss Singleton: “Is that a crow or a raven?” Mr. Church: “I think—I think it must be a crow.” Miss Singleton: “I hate crows, they are such evil birds.” Mr. Church (fervently): “I declare, I hate them too, indeed I should not mind if all the crows in the world were shot.” Miss Singleton: “And yet I have a curious affection for rooks.” Mr. Church: “I could not agree with you more, rooks are the most amiable birds.”

  Another pause, even longer than the first, is again broken by Miss Singleton: “O, do you hear the cuckow, Mr. Church? I heard, the other day—a most interesting piece of information—that cuckows call in different notes in different counties; so in Kent a cuckow may cuckow in A flat, in Surrey in A sharp, in Hampshire in B flat, and so on. Here in Sussex it calls in B.” Mr. Church: “When I return to Horsham, I shall have to listen out for the Surrey cuckow.” Miss Singleton (anxiously): “You are not planning to leave Easton soon?” Mr. Church: “Not—not for a few days, I hope. I should be sorry to leave before your father’s return. Do you know when he is expected?” Miss Singleton: “It is still not certain. He is likely to be away some days longer, I believe.”

  Again a silence, this time broken by Mr. Church: “I hear from her Ladyship that your brother, Charles, is returning shortly, from Italy.” Miss Singleton: “He is, it is true.” Mr. Church: “I look forward greatly to meeting him.” Miss Singleton: “I hope that you will like him.” Mr. Church: “As he is your brother, I cannot fail to like him very much indeed.” Miss Singleton: “My father and mother hope that Travel will have been an improving influence upon him. You yourself have never thought of travelling, Mr. Church?” Mr. Church: “I—” Miss Singleton (hastily): “O, please forgive me—I do not mean that you need Improvement, or that you ought to travel! Merely that, if I were a man, I feel sure that I should be curious about the world! And yet, why is there any need to go abroad? After all, one can travel easily enough through novels!”

  Mr. Church (after a long pause, and in a low, gloomy voice): “I am grateful to you, Miss Singleton—indeed I am grateful—for saying that I do not need improvement—although, of course, I am all too conscious of my defects.” Miss Singleton: “O, Mr. Church, believe me, I am certain that you have no defects!” Mr. Church: “It is kind of you to say so—hem, Miss Singleton—I fear that, if I were to travel, my heart would remain here in England.” Miss Singleton (with a gasp): “O, mine would remain here too!”

  At this point, I felt certain that Mr. Church would propose. However, there followed a silence broken only by the gently creaking stays of the howdar.

  This was the full extent of their conversation on their first journey; the second was even emptier. After the second, three of the maids, Susan, Poll, and Fat Ellie, flew into the Elephant House, impatient to hear about the tour. Susan is one of the house-maids; she is about twenty-three years of age, but has the sense of someone much older. Poll and Fat Ellie are much younger, no more than fifteen, and work in the kitchens.

  I gave them a short account of proceedings, to which they listened with open mouths. “If only he were not such a milk-sop of a man,” they said. “He is all manners and no passion. He is as cold as a statue.” This reminded me of Dr. Casey’s remark, that it is Reason which enables Man to rule over and conquer his passions, but when I said as much they laughed at me. “What I mean,” I stammered, “is that although Mr. Church appears cold, he is very hot underneath.” They laughed again. “What do you know about it all, Tom?” Susan asked.

  Whether Mr. Church marries Miss Singleton is of no concern to me, but surely he needs to ask permission of his Lordship before making his proposal. Nothing will be resolved until his Lordship’s return from London.

  THE DAYS DRAG SLOWLY BY. His Lordship has still not returned. When will he return? asks Jenny, gazing at me. I do not know, I tell her. Tomorrow, or the day after, or the day after that.—And then we will hear about Timothy?—Yes, I am sure. I am sure.

  In his Lordship’s absence, I have been busy at my desk. I am writing, or attempting to write, a Dedication to his Lordship. I have written this twice, thrice, a dozen times, without success. I try the word remarkable—and immediately find myself thinking that, instead, I should have written admirable. Surely admirable carries precisely the right shade of meaning for my purpose? I strike out remarkable and write admirable—but at once I see that admirable is not right at all! No, the word that I should have used, is excellent, for it is one of his Lordship’s favourite words, and admirable is therefore tossed aside in favour of excellent. Five minutes later, I have re-considered again: the weather-cock is veering toward its original position, and I am now beginning to think that remarkable is, after all, the word which I need—unless, perhaps, it is some other word which is hiding in a thicket of my mind. Well then, I plunge into the thicket—beat through the undergrowth with a stick—and flush out magnificent. It is like this all the time: at every turn, to change the metaphor, there are possible words, and phrases, and expressions eagerly lining up before me, like labourers at a day-fair, all of them begging to be hired. How many ways there are of writing the same thing! How hard it is to write when every thought turns to Timothy!

  I must finish the History soon, I know; yet I am no longer sure where it should finish. It must be brought up to the Present. But where does the Present stop? A month ago—a week—a second? Or next week? O, if the History were to conclude wit
h Timothy’s arrival at Easton, with him and Jenny, greeting each other, after so long apart, why, that would be the perfect end.

  June 27th

  Yesterday afternoon Lord Bidborough’s carriage rattled up the drive, and this morning Jenny and I stood under the window of his bed-chamber, and he looked out in his night-cap. “Good day, Madam!”—“Good morning, your Lordship!”—“Good morning, Tom! A fine morning! I shall be coming to see you later, if I may.”

  Soon he hobbles in, very gouty, and stamping hard—one of his London doctors, it seems, having told him that the cause of his Gout lies in poor circulation of the blood, which has clotted in the offending toe, and that, to disperse the clot, he must, therefore, stamp his right foot regularly, however much it hurts—indeed, the more it hurts, the better, for the pain is a sign of the clot being disturbed. Nonetheless, he is in an excellent temper on account of his son, Charles, who is now back in England. “He is expected here soon enough, and is very eager to have a ride upon the Elephant, if she is willing to carry him.” I—thinking all the while of Timothy—answer that she will be honoured. Lord Bidborough nods, and stamps his foot, wincing in pain, and rousing Jenny’s interest (she stares at him, puzzled, as though wondering whether he, too, is under some compulsion to count carrots). “No, I do not have any food, you greedy creature” (for her trunk is twitching around his pockets). “Madam, desist!”

  His Lordship then tells me how, in Town, he attended a meeting of the Royal Society, “which as you may know, Tom, is the pre-eminent scientific body in the kingdom,” and there again met Dr. Goldsmith, who confided in him that he was preparing a vast work, a history of the whole of animated nature, including both the animal and vegetable kingdoms. “He is very interested in using your History of the Elephant in his work.”