The Elephant Keeper Read online

This race is now set to take place for Friday. Mr. Partridge has declined the mounts in Lord Bidborough’s stables and is gone to fetch his best thorough-bred. Everyone has been laying bets, and Finch has warned me to keep a close watch on the Elephant, since he has heard that an attempt will be made to give her a dose of poison. The general opinion is that the Elephant has little chance of winning the race: she will lumber like a cart-horse, and be easily out-stripped by the horse. I cannot tell. I am not even certain whether Jenny will agree to run. What if she refuses? This afternoon I take her to the lime avenue, and endeavour to persuade her into a run. Elephants do not trot like horses; instead, when they need to make speed, they move their legs more quickly. She manages what might be called a short canter, before ambling to a halt. Tom, why do you want me to run? she asks, it is a warm afternoon, let us go to the lake. I say, There is to be a running race, between you and a horse.—When is the race? she inquires.—Friday. She swings her trunk. In that case I shall run on Friday, if I must. Now, Tom, may we go to the lake, please, I would like to bathe.

  We go to the lake. As she swims, no doubt frightening any number of fish, for his Lordship has stocked the lake with carp, I am joined by Mr. Sanders, the painter. “The Portrait is finished,” he announces in a gruff voice. Wishing to myself, that I could say the same of the History, I ask him whether he is pleased; by which I mean, pleased that it is finished. However, he takes me to mean, is he pleased with it as a work of Art? “You may see it if you wish,” he says. “No one else has seen it yet.” I understand, then, that he greatly wants to shew me the Portrait, indeed, it is for that reason he has come to join me by the lake, to issue me with an invitation. I say that I would very much like to see it.

  Later, therefore, I do indeed go to Mr. Sanders’s room. The Portrait is propped on a large easel and smelling strongly of spirit. Mr. Sanders waits, scratching his teeth, and patting his brow with a green handkerchief.

  My mouth opens and shuts like a baby bird; I cannot think what to say. The Portrait shews the Elephant to one side of the lime avenue, with the temple on the right and the mansion in the background. I, her keeper, am nowhere to be seen, but Lord Bidborough is standing by her trunk, offering her a bright red apple. This apple is too red, and the limes are too green, and the sky is too blue. As for Jenny, she has no tusks, thank G-d, but is still enormous, a veritable Colossus, and there is something wrong in the shape of her fore-legs, which are too thick and short, and in the curve of her trunk, which looks like a misshapen trumpet, and in the tilt of her head and the cast of her expression. In short, she is unreal, improbable, an invention.

  I tell Mr. Sanders that he has caught the Elephant’s likeness perfectly.

  “You think so?”

  “I do. Most certainly. It is excellent.”

  “It will look better when it is varnished, of course. And framed.”

  “It is excellent already.”

  Mr. Sanders does not seem to want to believe me, however. “I had great difficulties with the tail,” he says. “The tail was a Challenge.”

  The tail? The tail is a rope. But there is nothing wrong, I hope, in a certain species of lying, and whatever the faults of the Portrait, I have come to like Mr. Sanders. Over the past few days he has become much more talkative, offering me occasional pinches of his snuff, and certain glimpses into his life as a travelling painter (or, as he styles himself, “Artist”). Until about five years ago, he was much in demand for his portraits; the flow of commissions then became more and more irregular, and finally dried up; after which, to support his family, he had to resort to giving lessons in water-colour to young ladies who had no talent whatever, save in chattering of their latest beaux. The drought ended when a Mr. Peters of East Grinstead, Sussex, asked him to do a portrait in oils of Hercules, the famous cockerel. (“You have heard of Hercules?” Mr. Sanders asks, anxiously; to which I reply, lying again, that everyone has heard of Hercules.)

  At first, Mr. Sanders was not sure whether to accept the commission of Hercules. “Then I thought to myself, it was a Challenge. An Artistic Challenge.” Since which, he has faced many such Challenges. Two months ago, he was in Oswestry, taking the likeness of a vast pig, which, having been stuffed and crammed with pies and puddings, had swelled to such a corpulent size that it could scarcely move; two months before that, in Devon, taking the portrait of a champion bull. This is the story of Mr. Sanders’s life. He is angry that he is obliged to resort to animals, which he does not consider proper subjects for his Art; he consoles himself by thinking of them as Challenges; at the same time, he is proud of the skill with which these portraits are executed. He exists somewhere between the hope that one day his merit will be recognised, that he will be acclaimed as a great Artist; and the fear that he will find himself without work and fall into the pit of penury, dragging his family with him.

  “I think it admirable,” I say. “Have you considered Argos—his Lordship’s dog?”

  “For a portrait?” Mr. Sanders pulls a wry face. “It has probably already been done.”

  I tell him that there is another Elephant, presently owned by Lord Luttershall, in Northamptonshire, which his Lordship has resolved to buy and bring to Easton. When his Lordship has fully recovered, I say, he will surely want to have its Portrait taken.

  “If he recovers,” Mr. Sanders answers, gloomily.

  July 26th

  After midnight, voices in the darkness. Remembering Finch’s warning, I pull on my cloaths and run into the yard. Mr. Singleton is standing there, a bottle in his hand. “Tom Page One Page?” The moon shines low in the sky. “It is such a fine night that we are resolved to take a short tour on the Elephant.”—“Now, Sir?”—“If it is not inconvenient,” in a curt voice. At this moment I see Mr. Huntly in the shadows, and with him Fat Ellie. There is no sign of Poll.

  I fetch the howdar, strap it on Jenny’s back, and lead her to the mounting block. Ellie is badly drunk, indeed can scarcely walk, and Mr. Huntly has to help her on board. “So you have never been on an Elephant before?” Mr. Singleton asks her. When she does not reply, he puts the question again. “Have you never ridden on an Elephant?”—“No, Sir, never,” she replies, with a giggle.—“And how do you find it?” is his next inquiry.—“Very pleasant, Sir, thank you.”—“Well, we shall go to see the Spike.” She asks what the Spike is. “Why, my dear, it is the Obelisk, of course, and it will look very fine and picturesque by moon-light. Maybe we will hear a nightingale.” Small chance of that, I think to myself, for nightingales have not been singing these six weeks past.

  As we travel down the lime avenue, the moon flings the shadows of the trees in blotches over the ground. The two gentlemen talk in low voices, and from Ellie there comes the occasional squeal; glancing over my shoulder, I see her slumped against Mr. Huntly, who is taking a long swigg from a bottle. This glance earns me a rebuke from Mr. Singleton, who is in an impatient mood. “Can we not go faster?” I give Jenny her orders, and she strides along at a great pace. Her ears are wide, her trunk half-coiled, and I can sense her excitement in the night air.

  The Obelisk lies far ahead, black against the pearl-grey of the sky. We are not half-way there, however, when the gentlemen change their minds and tell me to take them to the Cascade. A little way further and they have begun to argue, with Mr. Huntly saying that they ought to go back. “Why?” says Mr. Singleton. Mr. Huntly: “Is it not obvious?” Mr. Singleton: “You may go back if you like.” Mr. Huntly: “Singleton, you know that this is no d—n good. Look at her, she is cut. She is beyond anything. Stop the Elephant.” Mr. Singleton: “This is my d—ned Elephant, not yours.” Mr. Huntly: “I am going back. I am not a party to this.” Mr. Singleton: “Go back then, if you will.”

  The argument continues for several minutes, and finally Mr. Huntly jumps off. In the half-dark he misjudges the drop and falls aukwardly, but picks himself up with a curse and walks away.

  We go on, not as fast as before; Jenny seems less certain of herself. Mr. Singleton talks to
Ellie in a calm, pleasant voice, while she mumbles her replies. “You are a sweet girl, even if you are a Fat Ellie-phant. You do not mind me calling you the Ellie-phant, do you? It is my pet name for you. It suits you perfectly.” More of this. Then a gasp: “You see, I promised to shew you the Spike—what do you say? Is it not a fine prospect?” and though I dare not turn my head I somehow divine that he has unbuttoned his breeches. “Come now, it is not so strange, is it now? You are a country girl. It will not bite you.” She says nothing, and in an attempt to rouse her, for she is barely sensible, he slaps her face. At the second or third slap, I turn. With her hair tight in one hand he has pulled back her head so that her mouth gapes, her buck-teeth shine, her eyes start. “Sir,” I say.—“What? D—n you, did I not tell you to look ahead?”—“Yes, Sir.”

  We reach the Cascade. Here he orders me to stop. I do so, wishing with all my heart that I had forgot to strap on the ladder.

  I set up the ladder and Mr. Singleton carries Ellie down. He puts her on her feet, she falls in a heap; he lifts her up again. “Come, my dear, let us have a walk, come now, there is nothing to fear.” Though she seems to resist, he is determined, and catches her arm. She casts a wild imploring glance at me. They cross a stretch of moon-light and disappear into the darkness of the pine-wood.

  The moon shines brightly, the air is altogether still; when I listen, I can hear nothing above the steady roar of the Cascade. Every second is as long as a minute. I ride Jenny to the very edge of the trees. I wait, picturing the darkness within. Jenny’s trunk snakes back to find me. What is happening, Tom?—I do not know.—Where have they gone?—Jenny, I do not know, be quiet.

  A stag with a heavy set of antlers trots into view, very pale in the moon-light, and moving with a strange kind of stiffness which seems to denote its agitation. Then Mr. Singleton appears. He shouts something I cannot hear, and makes off on foot. I dismount, leave Jenny by herself, enter the darkness. Ellie is sprawling on the ground. She is moaning. I try to lift her, she cannot walk. I carry her out. Half her cloaths have been torn from her body. I help her dress, help her into the howdar. As we ride back to the mansion, she shivers and retches.

  When we reach the Elephant House she speaks for the first time, in a distracted voice, saying that she cannot sleep in the servants’ quarters, that the doors are locked. “Where then?” I ask. She is silent. “Where is my shoe?”—“Your shoe?”—“My shoe—I have lost my shoe.”

  I offer her my bed in the Elephant House. She stumbles inside. I lift the howdar off Jenny’s back, and, finding it covered in vomit, wash it clean.

  When I wake at dawn, Ellie is still asleep. I leave her, and ride Jenny through the park, tracing the same course which we followed in the night. The sun is rising into a blue sky layered with trails of misty cloud, while the limes are bright with green leaves. The air seems full of singing birds. I think, our lives are divided into darkness and light, night and day; in one we lie asleep, at the mercy of our dreams, which carry us where they will; in the other we tell ourselves that we are awake, and hope to control our actions. Now, though I seem awake, my head spins, I feel I am still dreaming; in the brilliance of the morning everything is so fresh and clean that I can scarcely believe what happened in the night. By the Cascade I come upon Isaac, crouched in the cover of some reeds, fishing; beside him, in the long grass, a silver fish, flopping and gasping.

  The missing shoe lies in a patch of dandelion, on the edge of the wood. Jenny sniffs with her trunk. What is this?—It is Fat Ellie’s shoe.—What is it doing here?—It does not matter; pick it up, give it to me. She does so. Tom, what happened to Fat Ellie?—It does not matter.

  We return to the Elephant House, and find that Ellie has gone. I give Jenny her broom and she sweeps violently.

  In the afternoon I am stood in the shallows of the lake, scrubbing Jenny’s flanks, when Mr. Singleton rides up. To my astonishment, he makes no reference to Ellie, merely putting to me a series of inquiries about the race. At the end he says, “Tom, I find that I have been guilty of baiting you, and I should like to apologise; it was not done with any malice, and I sincerely hope you will forgive me; as a token of which—” and from a coat pocket he pulls three guineas. Three guineas! I understand well enough, that I am required to keep silent. Should I keep silent? What would be gained by telling the truth? What would be lost?

  July 27th

  I meet Susan hanging some wet cloaths by the laundry. I have Ellie’s shoe in my hand. “Susan—where is Ellie?” I ask. She turns round, sees me, and bursts into tears. “Leave me alone—I am not speaking to you.” Puzzled, I ask her what it is that I have done wrong. She refuses to reply, but again tells me to leave her alone. “Where is Ellie?” I say. “Will you give her this?” (meaning the shoe)—“Then it is true!” she cries. I say, “What is true?”—“It is true that she spent the night at the Elephant House! O, I do not want to know!”

  I tell her the truth. I tell her that Ellie did indeed spend the night at the Elephant House, but I also tell her why Ellie spent the night at the Elephant House. I tell her what happened in the park with Mr. Singleton. She listens, without looking at me.

  Then:

  “Why did you do nothing to save her?”

  “What could I have done?”

  “You are a man. You could have done something, I am sure. Instead you helped him.”

  “What could I have done?”

  “You could have stopped him.”

  “If I had refused to obey him, I would have been discharged, and there would have been no one to care for the Elephant.”

  She shakes her head. “Tom, his Lordship would never allow you to be discharged.”

  “His Lordship is ill,” I say.

  “You could have done something,” she repeats, and turning her back on me she continues to hang up the cloaths. Among them, a pair of Mr. Singleton’s velvet breeches, which dangle, agape, dripping.

  JENNY IS PLAYING WITH SOME HAY. She is not hungry, but is amusing herself by tossing lumps of hay into the air, and watching them fall through a band of sun-light.

  But, Tom, she begins, you are entirely innocent, are you not?

  Yes, I agree, I am innocent.

  Mr. Singleton is the guilty one, is he not? He is guilty.

  Yes, he is guilty.

  Then I do not understand. Why is Susan blaming you?

  She blames me, Jenny, because she thinks that I should have stopped him.

  How would you have stopped him?

  I do not know.

  What has happened to Ellie’s shoe?

  Susan has undertaken to give it to her.

  Jenny blows into the hay with her trunk. She draws a heap of hay together and blows it apart. Why will Ellie not tell the truth? she asks. Why does she not accuse Mr. Singleton?

  Probably she is afraid. She thinks she will not be believed. People will think she is lying. Not John Finch, but other people, they will assume that she is lying. And it is very probable that she too has been given some money by Mr. Singleton.

  Jenny’s trunk slips round my neck. Tom, you are entirely innocent, she repeats.

  I do not feel entirely innocent. Because I did nothing to save her? No, not for that reason; but because after the attack, when Ellie was lying in my bed in the Elephant House, I wanted to join her. I stood by the bed and looked into her dull face. Her lips moved, her breath came short and warm. I leant over her, I sensed the heat of her body, I drank the heat of her breath. My blood rose. I longed to climb into the bed and, whether she consented or no, to renew the assault which Mr. Singleton had begun. In the swelling darkness I felt like Mr. Singleton, dragging her into the trees, tearing off her cloaths, ignoring her pleas for mercy.

  It was the Ooze, Tom; that is all.

  Perhaps. Who knows? But then the question comes, what is the difference between him and me? What he did, I, or some black part of my male nature, a part which remains deep in cover, would like to have done. What is the difference? Jenny?

>   Reluctantly, she lifts her head from her game with the hay.—The difference is plain enough: you did not climb into the bed.

  Only because I lacked courage, I answer her, because I feared the consequences. That aside, there is no difference between us.

  Tom, it does not matter why you did not climb into the bed. What matters is that you did not climb in. Another difference between you and Mr. Singleton is this. He is the son of Lord Bidborough, and heir to one of England’s greatest estates. You are the son of a groom, an Elephant keeper, and heir to nothing.

  I remember Susan’s words.—I am a man, I tell her. I am a human being.

  She gazes at me, expressionless, a pale stalk hanging from the tip of her trunk.—What is a human being?

  What is a human being, and what is a brute? Dr. Casey’s distinctions have never seemed that clear to me. I wonder to myself: does Jenny believe that she is a human being? Or that I am an Elephant? Sometimes I think one thing, sometimes the other; sometimes I believe she supposes that I am both man and Elephant.

  There is a dream which I have had, more than once. In this dream, I am an Elephant in a hot country. I can see my long trunk, I can feel the weight of the tusks. I reach up with my trunk, and latch on to the branch of a tree; I drag it to the ground and stuff its leaves and fruits into my mouth. There are other Elephants near me, including Jenny, also feasting. As we move through the jungles we meet grey monkies swinging through the trees, and deadly crocodiles lying in the rivers, and lions lurking in the thick grasses. We come to a watering hole, its sides slippery with mud. With the rest of the herd I wade in, submerging myself and breathing through my trunk. As we clamber out, with Jenny ahead of me, the Ooze burns from my temples, and between my hind legs my long club stiffens and hardens and begins to smoke. Advancing toward Jenny, trumpeting, I curl my trunk along her back. She lumbers forward, her ears flapping. I pursue her, scattering the other Elephants. She breaks into a trot, but I am hard behind, a roaring beast. I drive her into a quiet part of the jungle, hemming her in a green, creeper-walled chamber from which she cannot escape. There she stands, patiently, while I board. When I discharge, it is a bolt of lightning which strikes the sky into flames, and I imagine that she will bear my children, who will be both Elephant and Human, and that they will have the minds of human beings but the bodies of Elephants. Then I wake in the darkness, and lie horrified that my mind should have given birth to such an unnatural story.