The Elephant Keeper Page 14

  I say proudly, “My Lord, I have written a Dedication.”

  “A Dedication?” My master cocks his head. “You believe it requires a Dedication, Tom?”

  “I—I am not sure, my Lord. Do you think that it should not have one? I will leave it out.”

  “No, no, Tom. Whatever you wish. A Dedication is not, I would have thought, strictly necessary, in a work of this kind—the History of an Elephant. On the other hand, provided that it is to the point, it can do no harm.”

  “Thank you, my Lord.”

  His Lordship frowns. “Perhaps I should look at this Dedication, Tom, if I may.”

  Having fetched it, I wait with great anxiety as he fastens a pair of spectacles on his nose and begins to read:

  To The Very Noble Lord Bidborough of Easton

  My Lord, I hereby respectfully dedicate this Work of Natural History, which describes the Life of a Most Remarkable Creature, in the Hope that, in some small Measure, it may contribute to the Store of Human Knowledge. Were the Subject of this History able to speak her Heart, it must not be doubted, that she would wish to Trumpet her very great Gratitude to your Lordship for his Generosity and Kindness in taking her under his Protection; in the Absence of which Capacity for Expression, that Task is left to the Pen of the Author, who is honoured to be able to write himself, your Lordship’s humble and obedient Servant, Thomas Page, Elephant Keeper.

  “Excellent,” he says. “Excellent indeed! Though there is no need for the ‘very.’”

  “My Lord?”

  “The noble Lord Bidborough is sufficient. There is no need to ennoble me any further.”

  “No, my Lord. Thank you, my Lord. Also, my Lord, with respect to the title of the History…I was thinking of giving it the title, ‘The True History of an Elephant.’”

  “‘The True History of an Elephant’? Very good.”

  “I also considered ‘The Natural History of an Elephant.’ Or, ‘The Life and History of the Elephant.’ Or, ‘Observations on an Elephant,’ my Lord.”

  “Well…well…,” His Lordship hems and havers, “any one of them will do very well, I should say. ‘The True History’ is perhaps the best title. We do not want anyone to think that it is a novel, do we?” He stamps up and down the Elephant House like a sentry. “Have you ever read a novel, Tom? My daughter seems to do nothing else.”

  “I have read Gulliver’s Travels, my Lord. And Pilgrim’s Progress.”

  “The Pilgrim’s Progress? Ah yes, I remember, you mentioned it before, did you not? Well, I do not know whether The Pilgrim’s Progress is exactly a novel, or Gulliver’s Travels, for that matter. Gulliver is more a catalogue of adventures, is it not? But, pray, I am interested—what was your opinion of Gulliver’s Travels?”

  “My opinion, my Lord?”

  “Did you find the book entertaining, or instructive? Was it an improving work?”

  When I first read Gulliver’s Travels, when I was about eight, or ten, I loved the story, and believed every word to be true—indeed, I believed that I was Lemuel Gulliver himself. Who has not sometimes imagined himself into another person, or country, or walk of life, or even into another age? However, unwilling to advance an opinion with which my master may disagree, I answer that I found it entertaining enough, and particularly enjoyed the final part of the book in which Gulliver visited a land ruled by intelligent horses.

  “You approved of that, did you?” his Lordship dryly asks.

  “Yes, my Lord.”

  “You would like to be ruled by horses?”

  His Lordship’s expression seems to say that he himself does not approve of that part at all. I am confused.

  “Human beings have their faults, G-d knows,” he says, “but they are not all so irredeemably bad as the author of Gulliver’s Travels would have us believe. If we lived with horses as our masters, would the world be a better place? Or dogs? I fancy dogs might turn tyrannical.” He muses a moment. “However, Tom, I expect you would prefer to live in a land ruled by Elephants.”

  “Yes, my Lord”—the vision of a land ruled by Elephants springs to my mind, and I answer with sudden certainty—“I am sure Elephants would be kinder, and gentler, than human beings, my Lord. The country would be more peaceful. There would be less quarrelling and fighting, and lying and cheating.”

  “So we would have a Parliament of Elephants, to pass laws over us? And we would be their slaves, to do their bidding?”

  “Yes, my Lord, but, my Lord, it would be different—we would be their friends. They would treat us with kindness and respect.”

  Despite his Gout, Lord Bidborough laughs. “Tom, I fear that the world would be hard-pressed to manage without any servants at all! Who would harvest the crops? Who would build the buildings, or cook food? I fancy that we might have to press some monkies or baboons into service. However, I grant you, it is an admirable idea. The Country of the Elephants! What would be the morals”—(stamp)—“customs”—(stamp)—“religion”—(stamp)—“of such an imaginary country?”

  I reply that I do not know, but that, with respect to religion, there is a story that Elephants sometimes worship the moon, ceremoniously washing themselves in lakes and rivers in order to purify their souls.

  “You know, Tom, that not everyone will admit that animals have souls, or any spiritual faculty?”

  “Yes, my Lord, but I think they are wrong.”

  “I likewise,” agrees his Lordship. “If animals do not have immortal souls, it must follow that there is no place for them in Heaven, and I would be very sorry indeed if Heaven were to contain no birds or animals. Or dogs. I cannot believe it.” He goes on sentry duty again. “In Gulliver, Tom, what is it the human beings are called by the horses?”

  “Yahoos, my Lord. The horses are Houyhnhnms.”

  “Yahoos and Houyhnhnms. And Gulliver is able to converse with the Houyhnhnms, is he not? Well, well. Novels are strange things, built on weak premises, and stuffed full of improbabilities and contrivances.” He gazes at Jenny. “You know, Tom, I have occasionally toyed with the notion that an Elephant is somewhat like a novel.”

  I try to think how an Elephant could possibly, in any form, resemble a novel.

  “Those ears—those legs—the trunk—she is such an irrational beast! She is a collection of improbabilities! If no one in England had ever seen, or heard of, an Elephant, and a traveller were to describe a quadruped with a nose more than four feet long, legs like tree-trunks, hairs like wires, and a whip of a tail, would anyone believe him? He would be roundly condemned as a liar; he would be laughed to scorn.” His Lordship affectionately pats Jenny on the flank. “If G-d is the Author of all things, as we are led to believe, it is curious to wonder what kind of temper He must have been in when He resolved to write the Story of the Elephant. Well, Tom, when you have finished the History, I would very much like to see it. I am sure that it will make excellent reading.”

  “Thank you, my Lord.”

  “Hmmm.” Further stamping. “D—n this toe. I wonder whether it might help if you were to set yourself a date by which it should be finished. I do not mean to hurry you, but if it had to be finished by, say, the end of July? A month hence. Could you manage that? It need not be as long as Gulliver’s Travels, you know. Well. Good day to you both.”

  “My Lord?”

  He turns an inquiring face upon me, and I stammer: “I was wondering, my Lord, whether, by any chance, there had been a reply from Lincolnshire, my Lord.”

  This question, running across the current of his thoughts, catches his Lordship amidships. “Lincolnshire?”

  “In connection with”—(I nearly lose my head and say “Timothy”)—“in connection with, if you remember, my Lord, I mentioned to you”—(my tongue tying itself in knots)—“in connection with the other Elephant, the male, my Lord. From the Earl of Ancaster.”

  “Oh, yes,” says he. “Well, I certainly wrote to the Earl, did I not? But no, Tom, there has been no reply yet, to my knowledge. I or Mr. Bridge will let y
ou know when one comes.”

  “Thank you, my Lord.” Then I venture even further, though my emotion is such that I can scarcely express myself. “It has occurred to me, my Lord, that, if it were possible, it would be a fine thing, if the Elephants were to meet again.”

  “And how would that be managed, hey? You think we should invite the Earl of Ancaster to bring his Elephant here from Lincolnshire!?”

  “It was merely a thought, my Lord.”

  “No, no, I am not saying that it is not possible. I agree that it might be instructive. But, Tom, Lincolnshire is some distance from Sussex, is it not?”

  I fall silent.

  “Well,” says his Lordship, giving a last stamp, “we must first wait for the Earl’s letter. I do not know the Earl, save by reputation.”

  My mind is wound up like a clock. Every hour brings the Earl’s letter nearer, with its intelligence of Timothy. Why has the letter not arrived? Is the Earl sick, is he abroad? Has his letter gone astray?

  I cannot sleep. I climb from my bed and look out of the window. The moon is not to be seen, lurking behind a large dark cloud that seems trimmed with silver; it glows brighter and brighter, it bursts forth in its full radiance and bathes the sleeping grounds. Black trees float like seed-heads over the grey land, the land has no substance. Is Jenny awake? I turn, and look into the heart of the Elephant House. The moon-light shines at a slant through the windows; her left side catches the light, her right lies in indistinct shadow. I cannot see whether she is awake, or asleep, or dreaming. Is she dreaming? You may tell when Elephants dream—they are like dogs—by the flicker of their eyelids, by the twitches that jerk their bodies like invisible wires. What they dream of is another question. Does Jenny dream of Timothy, of Harrington Hall? Or do the arms of her dreams reach further back, across the ocean, to the Indies?

  Jenny, I say—Jenny, are you dreaming? Are you awake? Yes, Tom, she replies, I am awake.—What are you doing?—I am thinking, Tom. I say, Jenny, do you remember Timothy, your brother? She seems to raise her head from the floor. Yes, Tom, of course I remember Timothy, it was not so long ago, a mere three years, I remember him well. We lived together at Harrington Hall.—Jenny, I say, we are hoping to have news of him soon. Lord Bidborough has written to the Earl of Ancaster. We shall hear how he does in Lincolnshire. Jenny says, He is a good man, Lord Bidborough.—Yes, I say, he is a good man, a great man. At the thought of his Lordship’s greatness a feeling of warm contentment seems to spread through me.

  I think of Timothy all the time. I think of him snorting and trumpeting, playing in the stream, tearing up roots with his tusk. I think how patiently he lay on the ground while I took the rusty nail from the great pad of his fore-foot. I think of the moment when I treacherously persuaded him into the crate, of the expression on his face when he understood that he had been tricked. I think of the confusion that he must have felt on his release, among strangers. Then I comfort myself by imagining him under the same moon that shines here. His tusks will have grown over the past three years. I imagine his ivory tusks, moon-coloured, curving into the moon-light.

  July 4th

  A letter comes this morning: not from the Earl of Ancaster, but from my mother. Who wrote it for her, I do not know. It is the first letter from her for upwards of a year and tells me that my brother, Jim, has given up his work as a gardener and is gone to sea on one of Mr. Harrington’s ships. He left for Bristol in February, and she is full of gloom. Now with your Father gone and Jim at Sea and you with your Ellyfents I have no one else in the World and am very desolet and do not expect to live many Months so fare thee well my son Tom. This is such nonsense and I have written back to tell her so, though the news about Jim is astonishing. He was always so shy and timid, with his head-aches, that to think of him now, travelling the world like Gulliver, and seeing porpoises, mermaids, whales, and I don’t know what else—for, by now, he may be half-way to Africa—it is scarcely believable.

  The letter also contains a supposedly infallible cure for the Gout, given to my mother by Mrs. Perry; and for that reason—Mrs. Perry, I mean—I resolve not to mention it to his Lordship. However, when I see him this afternoon he is in such pain that I change my mind.

  “An infallible cure, hey? Well, I should be very glad to hear of it, Tom, though I hope it does not involve cupping, or purging?”

  “No, my Lord.”

  “No hot baths, or cold baths? And it is not one of Dr. James’s Powders?”

  “No, my Lord, at least—it is a matter of”—I bring this out with a certain shame-facedness—“the flesh of a viper.”

  Despite his pain, Lord Bidborough laughs more than I think I have ever known. Tears spring in his eyes. “Indeed? A viper? Pray, is the viper dead, or alive?”

  “O, it is dead, my Lord.”

  “Do I have to hang it round my neck?”

  “No, my Lord. I am told that a portion of raw flesh should be rubbed on the affected joint, twice a day.”

  His Lordship continues to laugh. “Well, Tom, I have tried so many remedies, none of which has done the slightest good, that I am now at the stage where viper’s flesh may be my only chance. You are sure it will not bring me bad luck?”

  “No, my Lord—that is, yes, my Lord, so long as it is fresh.”

  “Ha! What if it is not fresh?”

  I am silent.

  “You know,” he says, “I foresee one problem with this cure—I do not have a ready stock of fresh vipers.”

  I promise to look for one.

  “Thank you, Tom. Viper’s flesh, hey? And if it does not work, I shall cut off my big toe, and have done with it!”

  When the sun comes out I go a viper-hunting. I find my viper easily enough, basking on a grass bank, and beat it to death with a stone. As I return, I meet Isaac the Hermit; he is bathing below the Cascade, in a deep pool thick with white foam, but clambers out and limps toward me. Water streams from his beard while a strand of green weed coils round his neck, though the rest of his body is very white in the sunlight. He dries himself on his rags, and I ask him how he likes it in the wood as a Hermit, whereupon he tells me, with many curses, that he likes it not at all: that in the winter he nearly died of cold, that even in summer the pine-wood is dark and clammy; that he is plagued by black ants and biting flies; that his hut leaks in the rain; that he has nothing to do all day but sit and stare at the Bible; that he has been told by Mr. Bridge that he will be discharged if he ever lights a fire. “Are you allowed to bathe?” I ask. Squeezing out his beard he answers, “No,” and grins, “nor fish neither. What is that thing?”—“A viper—for his Lordship’s Gout.” He responds: “That’ll do no good. He should try bathing in the sea.” So I say, “Why don’t you tell him?”—to which he replies: “Tell his Lordship? Why should I tell him? I don’t owe him any favours. Besides, I can’t speak—I’ve taken a vow of silence, haven’t I? If I open my mouth even for a yawn, I’ll be discharged.” This last is uttered in a voice of great bitterness, and Isaac proceeds to rail against the miseries of his life and how for playing the part of a Hermit he is paid a mere four pounds a year, which is no more than any of the maids. He says that he leads a dog’s life, and would not be a Hermit for another winter, not on any account, but would prefer to starve in a ditch.

  His words about playing a part remind me of something that has been puzzling me, ever since the visit with Dr. Casey and Mr. du Quesne: whether Lord Bidborough knows that he is a sham. Isaac gives me a cunning look. “A sham? What does that mean, a sham?” I explain: “That it is a pretence, a lie, a story; that you are playing a part, that you are not a true Hermit.” He replies that of course Lord Bidborough knows that it is a pretence, and Lord and Lady Seely too; he is sure of it. “I am here for shew, that’s all. As are you and your Elephant. We are their slaves. They can do with us what they will, curse them.”

  Not being sure how to deliver the viper to Lord Bidborough, I carry it into the servants’ quarters, where I meet Poll and Fat Ellie, who screech and flee d
own a corridor, and I chase after them, hissing, and waving the creature, and encounter Mrs. Eakins, who puts on a very stern face and tells me not to frighten her girls. She says that it is best to take the snake to Mr. Bridge, who will no doubt give it to his Lordship.

  Upon this advice I go straightway to Mr. Bridge. At the sight of a snake dangling over my arm, he flies into an instant rage. What do I mean by bringing that object into the mansion? Is it some prank? As he rants on, never allowing me a single word of explanation, his Lordship enters the room. “Why, is that my viper, Tom? Thank you very much; I am most grateful to you.” Mr. Bridge is exceedingly out of countenance, to my great satisfaction.

  July 9th

  Lord Bidborough’s son and heir, Mr. Charles Singleton, yesterday arrived at Easton after nearly four years abroad, to general rejoicing, and this afternoon came to the Elephant House. With him Lord and Lady Bidborough, Miss Singleton, and Mr. Church.

  His Lordship, who is on crutches, and with his foot wrapped in bandages, says, “Now, Charles, this is Tom Page, you remember I was telling you he can speak Elephant—though he says he can’t, I believe not a word of it—go on, Tom, make her shake his hand,” and I sign to Jenny, who promptly puts out her trunk and shakes Mr. Singleton’s right hand. He is fashionably dressed, in an embroidered red waistcoat, white silk cravat, and velvet breeches, and very handsome, and I am struck by his very great resemblance to his Lordship. “I undertake that Tom will answer any question you care to ask about Elephants,” declares his Lordship, and Mr. Singleton says that he is very glad to meet me. “No doubt I shall be posing him some questions in due time, as: what did the Elephant say to the Rhinoceros, what did the Rhinoceros reply, and who was the winner?” I am so thrown by this sally that I do not answer. “There, you see,” he says triumphantly, “I have found him out already.” There is much laughter at this. Jenny’s trunk sways slightly from side to side. “Take my advice,” says his Lordship, “and don’t ask why the Elephant has no tusks.” Mr. Singleton smiles: “Why, now I am determined to learn why she has no tusks, but I will not ask, I shall hazard a guess instead.” He looks at Jenny. “Either she has them concealed inside her cheeks—but that I doubt—or they have been sawn off, and made into billiard balls—but then there would be stumps, I fancy.” He walks round to her tail end. “I perceive that she is a cow—is that not the correct term for a female Elephant? May that be the explanation?” Lord Bidborough laughs again, while Lady Bidborough and Miss Singleton clap their hands. Mr. Singleton says, with great modesty: “It was not so very difficult. I have seen Elephants before.”—“In Italy?” asks Lord Bidborough.—“Yes, in Rome,” comes the reply, “the Pope always rides on one, for preference, when he goes on his parades around the city. He is nervous of horses, or so people say.” Miss Singleton: “Why?” Mr. Singleton: “Why, for several reasons—because he is a coward, and because he holds that horses are Protestant and consequently will not obey him.” At this, again much laughter.