The Elephant Keeper Read online

  Thus we retire to the yard of the Elephant House, where there is more shelter, and for some time he sketches away, fortifying himself with frequent pinches of snuff and barking instructions. I am to sit on her neck. I am to dismount, and stand by her trunk. I am to raise my left hand toward her, I am to look into her face. As I comply with this last command, my eyes meet those of Jenny. What are we doing? she asks, why are we standing here?—We are standing here, I tell her, so that this gentleman may take your portrait for his Lordship.—If you say so, Tom, but it is very tedious, how much longer will he be?—I do not know.—Is this what his Lordship meant when he said I should be immortalised in oils?—It is, yes, though he is merely sketching at present.—Well, she says, it is very tedious.

  We remain frozen like this for a small eternity of time, during which, save for an occasional twitch of her trunk and the flickers of her eye-lashes, Jenny scarcely moves a muscle. Mr. Sanders then looks up. “How did it lose its tusks?” he demands.

  Why does everyone ask this question? Why must people think that an Elephant without tusks is incomplete, like a man who has only one eye or one leg? Concealing my irritation, though perhaps not very well, I explain that she has not lost her tusks; that since she is female, and from the Indies, she does not grow tusks. Mr. Sanders is evidently displeased by this.

  At noon, he releases us for an hour; at one o’clock, he resumes his sketching. He is as uncivil as ever, and issues so many contrary instructions that I find myself saying that an Elephant is not some piece of furniture; to which he replies, that it would be easier if she were a piece of furniture. I ignore this, and politely ask whether I may see his work; he informs me that I will not be able to understand it. My curiosity is aroused, and when, soon afterward, he retires into a thicket to answer the call of Nature, I seize my opportunity and glance at the sketch-book. To my astonishment, he has made the Elephant gigantic—she stands a full thirty feet high, as tall as the Obelisk, as massive as one of Pliny’s Ethiopian monsters! Her ears as big as rhubarb leaves—her eyes, glowing like red-hot Coals—and, most remarkable of all, a pair of monstrous tusks! I turn a page: here is another sketch, also shewing her with tusks, and with her head flung up in a strange, unnatural posture.

  As I blink at this, Mr. Sanders struggles out of the thicket, buttoning his breeches and cursing that he has been stung by a nettle. Where he has been stung, he does not say, though it is clearly in a tender spot. “Where is a dock? What the d-v-l are you doing?” I say, “You have given her tusks!” He answers (furiously rubbing within his breeches), “Why the d-v-l should she not have tusks? What right have you to say whether she should have tusks or not? Go back to your station.” I am so indignant that I cannot prevent myself from arguing: “But, Mr. Sanders, she does not have tusks! It will not be a true portrait! It will be a lie!” He gives a scornful laugh. “What do you know of Art? The keeper of an Elephant! You presume to tell me—”—“I am not presuming, but—”—“Where is a dock? Why the d-v-l are there never any docks when you want one?”

  I bite my tongue while he hunts for a dock, without success. At length, calming himself with several pinches of snuff (and sneezing prodigiously, venting showers of spray), he resumes his sketching. I stand in silence by the Elephant, though my thoughts are far from silent. If his portrait gives Jenny tusks, I mutter indignantly to myself, why then, how can it be a portrait of Jenny? It cannot; it will be a portrait of another Elephant, an Elephant that has never existed, a sham Elephant. Then I think that it will be all right: for he will shew his sketches to Lord Bidborough, who will certainly order him to paint Jenny as she is. Mr. Sanders too is thinking on what has passed, for he looks up and says in a calmer voice: “It is a vulgar error to believe that the Artist is a mere imitator, a copyist, holding up a glass to Nature. Instead he selects, he invents, he sweetens, he beautifies. He improves on Nature.”

  “Mr. Sanders, I do not claim to know anything of Art; but why is it an Improvement to provide her with tusks? She has no tusks; that is the truth of the matter. You may as well give her stripes, or fur, or wings.”

  The painter gives a bark of derision. “You believe his Lordship would thank me for a portrait of an Elephant with wings?”

  “Nor will he thank you to see his Elephant turned into a monster with tusks.”

  “Then, if he prefers, Master Page, I shall paint her without tusks. I care not a fart.” He puts down his pen. “I once took the likeness of a daughter of the Marquis of Granby. A repulsive girl with fat lips, a skin pitted by the pox, and a curious squint. When I had done with her, the squint was gone, her skin was smooth as cream, and her lips were a perfect rose-bud. Did the Marquis object? To him, it was an exact likeness, and he asked me to turn his other daughters into similar beauties, for ten guineas apiece. If I were to represent the world in its true character, with all its blots and blemishes, do you suppose I would get much work?”

  I say to myself, it is a lie to portray an Elephant with tusks when she has no tusks. It is a lie, just as it would be a lie if I were to fill The History of the Elephant with untrue stories. However, I keep silent, not wanting to pursue a pointless cause. As Mr. Sanders sketches away, another idea strikes me, and I ask him whether he has ever worked at Langley, in Northamptonshire, the seat of Lord Luttershall—hoping that he may have some news of Timothy—but Mr. Sanders says that he has never been to Langley.

  Evening. Lord Bidborough comes to the Elephant House. “How goes it with Mr. what-d’ye-call him, the painter?”

  “My Lord, he has been drawing the Elephant with tusks.”

  “Tusks? Ha! Upon what grounds?”

  “He maintains that they are a vast Improvement, my Lord.”

  “Indeed! I shall study his Improvements with interest,” he replies.

  July 16th

  Mr. Sanders, having shewn his sketches to Lord Bidborough, and been instructed to remove the tusks, has begun to paint Jenny in oils. This morning we are standing for him in the yard of the Elephant House when Mr. Singleton appears in the arch-way. He gives us a brusk good day, which we return. “Thank you,” says he. “Now, if it is not too inconvenient, Mr. Painter, I should like you to rest your brushes while I borrow this animal for a short time.”

  I assume that he wants to ride in his Lordship’s throne, but no: his intention is to sit on Jenny’s neck. “Sir,” I say, “she is not accustomed to strangers.” He replies in a pleasant voice: “She will accustom herself soon enough, and then I will no longer be a stranger, will I? My father has ridden her often enough, I am sure.”

  “No, Sir.”

  “No? Pray, why not?”

  “He has never asked to, Sir.”

  “Indeed? I cannot believe that it is much more difficult to ride an Elephant than a horse.”

  I attempt to explain that it is not a matter of skill, but that, while a horse may be controlled by means of the bit and bridle, an Elephant is different; that the rider’s control, if it can be so described, lies to a great extent in the Elephant’s willingness to be controlled; that there needs must be a contract of mutual understanding, between the Elephant and her rider—

  “What is that?” he interrupts.

  “Sir, it is an ankus.”

  “Which you use, do you not, to chastise the Elephant, when it refuses to obey?”

  I tell him that I scarcely ever have cause to use the ankus, since the Elephant understands me well enough; I merely wear it, as a token of Authority—

  “Well, now, I shall wear it, for the same reason, and no doubt she will understand me.”

  He holds out his hand, and I take it off my neck and give it to him. “Now I should like to mount, if I may. Pray, tell her to lift me into the saddle.”

  He raises his hands, and I sign to Jenny. However, instead of placing him on her neck, she holds him in mid-air. Mr. Singleton glares. “D—n—what is happening?”

  “Sir, she is uncertain what to do.”

  “Well, tell her what to do. This is intolerable.�
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  I give the sign; whereupon she uncoils her trunk and lets him fall to the ground. He stumbles and picks himself up, breathing rather heavily. “I understood that this creature obeyed you.”

  I look at Jenny: her eyes are lowered, she seems as demure and innocent as you would like. She must have misunderstood, I say.

  “Make her kneel,” orders Mr. Singleton. “I will mount by myself.”

  He climbs on to her neck and tells me to order her to rise. I do so, and she obeys. He sits there, legs dangling. “Well then, giddy-up, d—n you!” and urges her with his knees. “Walk, will you? Walk! Why is she not walking? What is wrong with the beast?” He kicks his heels against the sides of her neck. “What do you do to make her walk? What is the command?”

  I reach out my hand to Jenny’s trunk, and begin to lead her out of the yard. However, Mr. Singleton tells me to step aside, saying that he does not want me to lead, that he is capable of riding by himself. He speaks in such a sharp, peremptory voice that there is no purpose in arguing. I step aside. “How fast will she gallop?” he inquires. “I have heard it said that an Elephant may gallop as fast as a horse, if not faster.”

  “I am not sure, Sir.”

  “You disappoint me. My father assured me that you could answer all questions about Elephants.”

  “Sir, I have never had any occasion to make her gallop. I do not know whether Elephants are able to gallop.”

  “Well, maybe I shall find out.” Again he falls to urging Jenny with his boots. “Walk! Giddy-up! Walk, will you?” When she does not move, he raises the ankus and brings it down on her skull. It makes a dull, wooden thud. “Walk, d—n you! Well, you shall be punished, if you will not even walk,” and the ankus thuds again. She shakes her head. He gives her a third blow, and she sinks down and rolls over, pitching him on to the stones. Though he springs up nimbly enough, his breeches are streaked with dirt.

  He stands with his hands on his hips. “Well, Master Page, I perceive what kind of character she has. Only you may ride her. That is what I am meant to understand by her behaviour, is it not? No one else is permitted, save as a passenger.”

  He hands me the ankus and strides proudly away, whereupon I turn on Jenny, who has risen to her feet, and ask her to explain herself. She listens, swinging her trunk from side to side, her eyes shifting uneasily.

  Mr. Sanders, who has been a spectator of the entire scene, throws back his head and gives a savage laugh.

  Later I watch Mr. Singleton spurring his horse across the park, its hooves flinging up clods.

  July 21st

  His Lordship is unwell. Last night he had a bad fall; as he descended a flight of stairs, on his crutches, either his legs gave way, or one of the crutches slipped on the stone. How serious his condition is I do not know. When I spoke to Mrs. Eakins early this morning she said that he was in no danger, that a doctor had bled him and that he was resting peacefully, but later I happened to walk into the kitchen yard where Poll and Fat Ellie were plucking some black turkies. Their hands were covered in blood and feathers. They told me that his Lordship had had a Paralytic Fit, and that there were no less than three doctors at his bedside, and that Lady Parham, his daughter from his first marriage, had been sent for. What is a Paralytic Fit? Poll says, with a smirk, that he is unable to speak, or to move his legs. “If his Lordship dies,” says Fat Ellie, wiping her bloody hands on her skirts, “Mr. Singleton will be our lord and master.”

  Lord Bidborough’s illness has put Mr. Sanders in a low, grumbling temper. He tells me of a commission that he once had, to paint the favourite hound of some gentleman in Essex. Shortly before he, that is, Mr. Sanders, was due to begin work, the gentleman was struck down by an Apoplexy which rendered him insensible; his debts, which had previously been concealed, then came to light, and the commission was withdrawn. Mr. Sanders was left badly out of pocket. “If Lord Bidborough dies, I may be paid, or I may not,” he concludes in a despondent tone, and begins to talk about his wife and four children, who live in the Surrey village of Streatham, and depend upon him for their entire existence.

  I assure him that there is no question of his Lordship’s life being in danger. He says: “Are you a doctor, now, or an Elephant keeper?”

  If his Lordship dies, if Mr. Singleton becomes the new Lord Bidborough, what then? Will Mr. Singleton be willing to buy Timothy from Lord Luttershall? Will he even want to keep Jenny?

  July 22nd

  Mrs. Eakins reports that his Lordship has been bled again, and, as a result, has recovered somewhat. This has relieved me a little of my anxiety, and yet I am now troubled by the thought that, while he lies a-bed, the letter may have arrived from Northamptonshire. Even now, it may be on Mr. Bridge’s desk, waiting to be opened. Indeed, it may already have been opened and read by Mr. Bridge!

  I pluck up courage, and visit the Toad. He is dozing, elbows up, chin resting on his palms, squashing his fat face. When I knock, he fails to wake. On his desk are some papers, half-hidden. I wait, cough; he does not stir. I tip-toe toward the desk. Among the papers I can see a letter, with a crimson seal. The seal is very big; I am sure it is a nobleman’s seal. However, Mr. Bridge cannot be as deeply asleep as he seems, for without warning his eyes spring open and he sits upright. The pressure of his hands has turned his chin bright red. “What the d-v-l are you doing here?” I am sorry to disturb him, I say, but I would be grateful for more sheets of paper. “Again? What? How dare you come in here? How many sheets this time?”—“Ten will suffice,” I reply, whereupon he thumbs out six and gives me good day. I stand my ground. “Mr. Bridge, I wonder whether, by any chance, his Lordship has received a letter from Lord Luttershall, in Northamptonshire.” He answers that any letter addressed to his Lordship is none of my concern. “Good day to you now, be off.”

  I consult Jenny. She asks whether I am sure that it is the letter. I say, I think it is the letter. It may be the letter.—But you are not entirely sure? she asks. No, I am not entirely sure, how can I be sure? But I have resolved to steal the letter. She gazes at me, blinking. Mrs. Eakins locks all the doors. How will you get in?—I will find a way in, I will force a window. She flaps her ears. It is not a good idea, she says, it is far too dangerous. The Toad does not like you, he never has. If you are discovered, you will be discharged, or worse. Even if the letter is from Lord Luttershall, who knows whether it will have any news of Timothy? Why was he sold so quickly by the Earl of Ancaster? Why did the Earl of Ancaster say that he was obliged to sell him?—I do not know, I tell her, but perhaps he found the Expense too great.—Or perhaps it was the Ooze, she says, and gazes so seriously at me that I feel frightened.

  Should I try to steal the letter? I imagine myself by the mansion at night, standing in the shadow of its walls, taking off my boots. I force a window, climb in, listen. There are no sounds; everyone is deep asleep. Carefully I feel my way past dark furniture, watched only by the eyes of the ladies and gentlemen hanging on the walls. My ears are straining so hard that the skin seems tight on my face; and when I turn a corner, when I find myself greeted by the pale form of a marble goddess, or by the figure of the armoured knight, his visor shut, his breast-plate, greaves, and sword faintly gleaming, one of my knee-caps begins to jump up and down. Yet I move on, trembling, down one corridor and then another, and reach Mr. Bridge’s room. I wait, my hand on the handle of the door. Mr. Bridge is sleeping in the adjacent chamber; his slow, wheezing snores rise and fall. Quiet as a mouse, I turn the handle. It opens. In I steal, fumble through the darkness to the desk; find the letter, put it in my pocket, and hurry away. I slip back through the mansion, climb out of the window, and run triumphant back to the Elephant House. Jenny, lying in the straw, raises her head.—Where have you been, Tom?—Nowhere.—Where have you been?—Go to sleep.

  I take the letter to my bed-room, light a candle, use the blade of my pocket knife to lift the seal. Opening the letter, I read what? Why, that Lord Luttershall is delighted to hear from Lord Bidborough, that Lord Luttershall will g
ladly sell his Elephant to his Lordship.

  How easy it is to imagine oneself into happiness! Yet that same imagination also supplies a dozen ways in which I fail to steal the letter. I fail to force the window. Or, I force the window but fail to find Mr. Bridge’s room. Or, I do find his room, but the door is locked. Or, I find his room, and the door is unlocked, but as I pick up the letter he wakes. Or, blundering in the darkness, I crash into some piece of furniture, and the alarm is raised, and I am discovered behind a curtain by Mrs. Eakins, or Mr. Singleton. If that were to happen, what could I possibly say in my defence? Jenny is right, it is too dangerous; there is nothing to do but wait.

  July 25th

  His Lordship is said to have made a further recovery, though he remains deprived of speech. I have seen him once only, and from a distance, in a bath-chair, attended by her Ladyship and the faithful Argos. Meanwhile Mr. Singleton’s two friends, Mr. Huntly and Mr. Partridge, are again staying at Easton. Last night they came to the Elephant House, and with them Poll and Fat Ellie. Poll flirted her impudent eyes at Mr. Partridge, while Ellie could do nothing but admire Mr. Singleton with ogling attention. How it would all have ended I do not know, but Mrs. Eakins appeared and promptly whisked both girls away to the safety of their beds.

  Afterward, the gentlemen began to talk in low, easy voices about horses, and horse-breeding and betting. I could not hear much; however, Mr. Partridge suddenly exclaimed: “Done! Two hundred guineas!” and Mr. Singleton addressed me: “Tom Page One Page? Mr. Partridge and I are resolved to hold a race between the Elephant and a horse, in order to determine which is the faster, as a scientific experiment. He believes that the horse will easily win, while I favour the Elephant. You will be jockey of the Elephant, Tom Page One Page—since you are the only man alive capable of riding the creature”—this in a sarcastick voice—“while Mr. Partridge will ride the horse.”—“Yes, Sir,” I replied, and they began to talk about billiards.