The Elephant Keeper Read online

  They are all in a very witty mood. When Lord Bidborough, who is naturally eager to shew off the changes he has made at Easton, proposes a tour of the park—“For” (he says to his son), “I would greatly value your opinion on what has been done in your absence,” Mr. Singleton replies that he will do his best to answer honestly; at which Lady Bidborough says, “Charles, pray, do not be too honest—your father’s toe may not be able to bear too much criticising of his Improvements.”—“Nonsense,” replies his Lordship, “my toe always values an honest opinion. Although, as regards the toe itself, I confess, so many false and contrary opinions have been passed about it in the past weeks, it has grown a little tender.” Mr. Singleton replies that he has the greatest respect for the paternal toe: he esteems it highly, and proposes to pray every night on its behalf to the Patron Saint of Toes, Saint Toadibus—“who sitteth on the right Toe of the Father.” Lord Bidborough chuckles: “Well, your prayers may do more good than any of the Pills and Powders I have been given. There are as many remedies for the Gout as there are quack doctors, and all of them useless. I have tried everything.” Mr. Singleton: “Pray, Sir, what colour is your urine? Is it a fine Amber, or Honey, or Straw? Is it clear, or cloudy? What is its perfume? That will be ten guineas, if you please.” Lord Bidborough laughs once more: “Let us begin the tour.” Here even Mr. Church manages a feeble witticism, “I hope it will be the short tour, not the grand tour,” and when Miss Singleton smiles he is sufficiently emboldened to continue: “I am not sure that we have time for the whole of Italy and Switzerland this afternoon.”

  I draw Jenny alongside the mounting block and they climb aboard; however, his Lordship chooses to be lifted by Jenny, and as she lowers him his foot strikes the side of the howdar. He lets out a cry of pain. This makes her Ladyship anxious: “You are not well enough for this, you ought to be a-bed.”—“I am perfectly well,” his Lordship replies in an irritated voice, “it is nothing much. It will pass. Thank you, Tom” (for I have passed him his crutches). Meanwhile Mr. Singleton, still affecting to be a doctor, asks him to describe the nature of the pain. “The pain? It is like having one’s toe gnawed by a dog.”—“Indeed? What breed of dog, Sir? Spaniel? Grey-hound? Mastiff?”—“The breed is immaterial.”—“Well, Sir, your remedy is to hang the dog, forthwith! Twenty guineas!”—“You ought to be a-bed,” repeats Lady Bidborough.—“Nonsense—nonsense—I do not propose to be ruled by my toe!”

  Throughout this gouty conversation I have been waiting to hear whether his Lordship will mention the viper, which he now proceeds to do. “I have been anointing my toe with viper’s flesh, on Tom’s advice.” Mr. Singleton gives a sharp laugh: “Viper’s flesh?” and, addressing me: “Are you an authority on Medicine as well as Elephants?”—“No, Sir,” I explain, “it is an ancient Somersetshire remedy, given me by my mother.”—“Who is,” he says, “no doubt, equally ancient, and a witch of high renown. I have heard of the witches of Somerset. There are seven such hags, and they all deserve burning. Father, you may shortly expect the toe to turn black, and drop off.” Lord Bidborough, greatly amused, confesses that he does not care greatly if it does drop off; indeed, he would be pleased. “I am sick of the thing, Charles. I have immersed myself in the waters at Bath until I am half-drowned. I have taken the Duke of Portland’s Powder, and Dr. James’s Powder. I have even attempted Dr. Cheyne’s milk and vegetable diet.”—“For less than two weeks!” protests her Ladyship. His Lordship ignores this, saying that the only remedies he has found to be the slightest good are wine and brandy.—“And yet every physician since Hippocrates has advised abstinence from wine in cases of Gout,” Lady Bidborough points out in a tart voice. Lord Bidborough: “Which shews, does it not, how worthless they all are? When it comes to wine I prefer to take the opinion of St. Paul.” Her Ladyship now begins: “Dr. Cadogan—” but his Lordship cuts in swiftly: “That quack!”—“Dr. Cadogan,” her Ladyship resumes, “strongly advises abstinence from wine. He maintains that there are three causes of the Gout: intemperance, indolence, and vexation. The first leads to the second, the second to the third.” His Lordship gives a bark of contempt: “And thus he succeeds in vexing all those who suffer from Gout, and thereby making their condition worse!” His irritation draws a small silence, which his daughter breaks: “Why, Father, what did St. Paul say?”—“To avoid excess, my dear girl,” Lord Bidborough tells her. “Too much wine is bad for the constitution, but a little is excellent.” Mr. Singleton: “How interesting, I did not know that St. Paul was such a great physician! Did he have divine authority for his opinion? We may be certain that Tom’s witch of a mother has Satan on her side, to support the viper: what of St. Paul?”

  There is further laughter here, and I am greatly relieved when the conversation turns to the park. Pointing his crutch this way and that, Lord Bidborough explains why the temple has been sited there, and not there; why this grove has been planted there, and not here; why the lake has been shaped as it is, to lead the eye onward: everything having been done for a reason, the various parts composed to make a harmonious whole. Mr. Singleton declares that everything is admirable; he cannot conceive how anything could have been done better, it is a work of genius. “The genius lies in the character of the country,” replies his Lordship; “all I have done is helped it to find its voice, when previously it was dumb.” Mr. Singleton says, “Indeed, Father—you have made it sing. It is the Opera of Easton,” and he bursts into song, which is received with applause. When we reach the Grotto we find Robert King, hard at work mortaring shells and minerals into the walls and ceilings. Sitting outside in a patch of long grass, is little Alice, his daughter; she talks to me and Jenny while the party enters the Grotto. I ask her if she has gathered any more shells, and she opens her hand. Three tiny gold shells lie in her palm. “Why,” I exclaim, “they are blackamoors’ teeth!” for that is the name they are called in Somersetshire. Alice looks doubtful. “Tom, are they really blackamoors’ teeth?” No, I tell her, they are shells—it is merely a name. Glancing at me with her bright, twelve-year-old eyes, she says that she hopes to find enough of them to make a neck-lace. “If you do,” I say, “I should very much like to see you wearing it.”

  As we are talking like this, the party comes out of the Grotto—Mr. Church holding his head, having hit it on some jagged piece of rock. “It is nothing, a mere bump, I assure you, a nothing,” he is saying in answer to Miss Singleton’s solicitous inquiries, but she insists on removing his wig and examining the injury: “O, but it is enormous—it is swelling—I can feel it—” This in a voice of great anxiety. Mr. Church: “I assure you, Miss Singleton—it is nothing.” Miss Singleton: “But it is enormous! Do you feel faint?” Mr. Church: “I confess, a trifle.” Miss Singleton: “Let me hold it—there—” drawing his head toward her and pressing the heel of her palm against the bump, “O, it is a great egg, I hope I am not pressing too hard, is it not very painful?” Mr. Church: “Not at all—ahem—thank you—indeed—I am most grateful—” This tender moment does not pass unnoticed by Lord or Lady Bidborough, who exchange significant glances; nor by Mr. Singleton, who makes some amused remark to his Lordship, which I fail to catch, though I think it relates to the possibility that Mr. Church’s bump may, if pressed hard, produce a swelling elsewhere in his anatomy.

  Afterward we are moving through the gloom of the pine-wood to the Hermitage, when I notice Isaac behind us, limping through the trees, and, in order to give him time to reach his hut unobserved, I turn Jenny from the path and take a circuitous route. We startle a party of deer. At a bark from one of the hinds they bound away, before halting to stare from a distance. Their little tails twitch on their pale bodies. When we come to the Hermitage, Isaac is sat over the Bible. “Did I not see this fellow a few minutes back,” asks Mr. Singleton, “running through the woods? I am sure of it. Hermit? Do you hear me? Why were you not at your post? Hermit! Hermit!” and snatching a pine cone from a branch he flings it at Isaac, striking him on the side of the head. Lord Bidborough sm
iles broadly: “Come, Charles, come, this is not fair to the poor man—he is deaf and dumb, we should not torment him,” to which Mr. Singleton retorts that he does not believe that the Hermit is deaf, and throws another cone, which bounces off the Bible. Isaac rises to his feet and, with a shew of outraged dignity, drags his bad leg into the hut. “You see,” Lady Bidborough tells Mr. Singleton, “you have offended him mortally,” and yet even she is laughing.

  In these high spirits we return to the Elephant House; here they dismount, and I am about to take down the howdar when Lord Bidborough swings back on his crutches.

  “Oh, by the by, Tom, I had clean forgot, the painter will be starting shortly. I have asked him to make some preparatory sketches. Also, I have received a reply from the Earl of Ancaster, I have it here—” standing on his left foot and pulling out his letter-case. “I am afraid that the information may disappoint you somewhat.”

  “My Lord?”

  “He no longer has the Elephant; he tells me that he was obliged to sell it, very shortly after it reached Lincolnshire.”

  I repeat, like a village dolt: “He sold it?”

  “However, all is not lost. He sold it to Lord Luttershall, who lives in Northamptonshire, at Langley. I once met Lord Luttershall, in Town; an excellent gentleman, with very refined sensibility. I shall get Bridge to write to him.”

  Until this moment, the possibility of Timothy having been sold has never entered into my head. I stammer out: “My Lord, did the Earl of Ancaster—in his letter, did he say why he sold the Elephant?”

  “Why, not exactly—well, what does he say?” Lord Bidborough fastens his spectacles on his nose. “Let me see—merely that, for particular considerations—hmmm—which he does not specify—he was obliged to abandon the notion of a menagery. No other reason is given.” He puts the letter back in the letter-case. “Well, well, we shall see what happens.”

  “Thank you, my Lord.”

  He seems to have finished, but then adds: “You know, Tom, I have been thinking over your idea of uniting the two Elephants—you say that they are brother and sister?”

  “Yes, my Lord.”

  “Well.” His Lordship smiles. “There is nothing better than a family re-union. Perhaps it will be possible to arrange, in some way. Who knows? Lord Luttershall may even be willing to sell his Elephant.”

  On this note he swings away. My heart is bounding like a deer. I say to Jenny, Jenny, is this not wonderful news? Timothy is in Northamptonshire: which is not so far away as Lincolnshire: and Lord Bidborough will buy him from Lord Luttershall, and we will see him again. She says, we must not hope, we must not hope too much, Tom. We do not know, for certain, that he is still in Northamptonshire. Lord Luttershall may have sold him to someone else, who may have sold him to someone else. We must not hope. Then she turns from me, her deep-set eyes falling away, as though reluctant to meet my gaze, as though sensing that something is not right. I say to her, Jenny, why, what is the matter, what is wrong?—I do not know, she answers.—There is nothing wrong, I say.—I do not know, Tom, she says, I do not know, but it is not good to hope too much.

  Her unease makes me uneasy. What does she sense that I do not sense? How much does she understand?

  July 12th

  In the stables I find John Finch and tell him—I cannot contain myself, I am so full of the possibility—that his Lordship has resolved to buy another Elephant. Finch is currying Mr. Singleton’s horse. He whistles. “Is that true? Another one? Where is it now?”—“The Elephant? He is in Northamptonshire, at Langley.” I ask him how many miles Northamptonshire is from Sussex, but he does not know. “When are you fetching it?” he asks. I confess that this question is not very welcome, for it forces me to admit that his Lordship has not yet bought the Elephant.

  Finch then asks for my opinion of Mr. Singleton. I reply that I have nothing to say against him. “But not much in his favour,” he observes. Staying on the side of caution, I point out that I scarcely know him, but that he seems a great wit, and that everyone speaks highly of him. This is true: all the maids admire him prodigiously, and say how much more of a man he is than Mr. Church (and with justification, for, having failed to propose to Miss Singleton, Mr. Church has retired, abject, to Horsham).

  A long silence follows. At length Finch says, “Tom, you’ve been here three years. I’ve been here fifteen. I knew his character when he was a boy.”

  When I try to discover what he means by this, he shrugs. I am already beginning to understand, however, for yesterday afternoon I took Mr. Singleton and two other young gentlemen, Mr. Partridge and Mr. Huntly, on a tour of the park, in the course of which I learnt Mr. Singleton’s true opinions concerning his father’s Improvements. The Obelisk, which he calls the Spike, he admires, but the lake is the wrong shape, while the Cascade is a feeble trickle in comparison with the great torrents gushing from the Alps; and though the temple is pleasant enough, the statue of Diana is a poor imitation of one in Rome. I cannot say how much this irritated me. Mr. Singleton’s greatest derision was reserved for the Hermitage, where he and his friends had some fine sport, creeping up on poor Isaac as he lay fast asleep, and tugging on his beard to see whether it was real or not. Isaac, in an anguished voice, howled at them to leave him alone, which they answered with taunting applause. “The Hermit is not so dumb after all!” Mr. Singleton remarked.

  This is merely the beginning, for that night the three young gentlemen come into the Elephant House, singing catches and rolling a barrel of strong beer. They broach it and draw off a full pail, which they offer to Jenny. She is delighted and drains it at once, whereupon they re-fill the pail and she drains it again. I see that they hope to make her drunk, but what can I do to stop them? Silently I watch as they fill a third pail. “Why so grave?” Mr. Singleton chides me. “Why the sad face?”—“Sir, she is not used to quantities of beer. If she becomes drunk, I cannot answer for her behaviour.” He seizes on this reply like a dog with a rat. “O—you cannot answer—but why should you answer? Tell me, Tom, whose Elephant is it? Is it yours? Do you pay for its keep?”—“Sir, she is your father’s Elephant.”—“Indeed,” says he, “and my father gives her wine, does he not? Let her drink her fill.” Then he takes a new tack. “I understand that you are writing a History of the Elephant. Is it long, is it short? Is it more than one page? His name is Tom Page, so we must count on one page, at least. How does it go, I wonder?” He throws out a hand, and declaims: “‘The Natural History of the Elephant,’ by Thomas Page. ‘From Antiquity to The Present.’ The Elephant is a Creature which surpasses all other animals in size and ugliness. It has four legs, and a probbossis known as a trunk, and is scared of mice. The End.” I bite my tongue. “Not a word?” says he.—“Sir, I beg your pardon, I have nothing to say.”—“Nothing to say?” he mimicks. “Well, that is most uncivil of you, Tom. We are truly disappointed, are we not? We are mortified with disappointment.” As they laugh at this, Jenny releases a long fire-brand of a fart. “Hark,” says Mr. Singleton, “the voice of the Elephant! She speaks! She talks!”—“She is expressing her love of good English ale!” declares Mr. Huntly, and Mr. Partridge continues, “Now we have heard the thunder, I hope we will not have too much rain.” Mr. Singleton: “I hope Tom will not omit to mention the Fart in his History!” This makes them laugh even louder. They slap and prod the Elephant like a prize-pig, and give her more beer. After a time they go away in high spirits, and leave me very angry.

  July 14th

  Today I meet the painter, Mr. John Sanders, a man of uncertain age, thirty in the shade, fifty in the sun, with bad teeth, an unhealthy complexion, and hair faded ginger in colour and unevenly scraped across his pate, like the coat of a mangy fox. He is afflicted by perpetual sneezes and coughs, which he blames on the country air, and is much given to snuff, in consequence of which his cloaths are stained dark brown. He is consistently ill-tempered, and we have scarcely exchanged a civil word.

  He begins by ordering me to stand with the Elephant on the gra
ssy slope below the Elephant House. Here he sets up his easel, but, the ground being uneven, cannot find the right place, and when he has finally got it set, says that we are not standing exactly where he told us to stand, that we must move this way (motioning with his hand). I move Jenny forward about two paces, but this is far too far; I move her back one pace but this is not far enough; I move her back to the original place but he remains dissatisfied. Again we move a pace, then another; finally he takes out his pen. At this moment, the breeze (it is a breezy, windy, gusty day) rises, and the easel topples to the ground with a crash. Mr. Sanders curses, sets it aright, and glares. “D-v-l take it, this is no good, I cannot work here.”