The Elephant Keeper Read online

  Two winters ago, the river froze over, from bank to bank, all the way from Putney Bridge down to Redriff, and the ice was so thick that people set up booths selling gin and gingerbread and other wares. Fires were lit, and sheep and oxen roasted on spits. As the crowds grew, Mr. Cross conceived the excellent commercial idea of exhibiting the Man-Eater on the ice. Loaded in a hired cart, he was taken down to the river’s edge. When the horses felt their hooves slipping on the frozen sheet, they began to panic, and might have bolted had I not been there to calm them, for Mr. Scott has no skill with horses. The lion stayed the entire day on the ice, groaning with pain and licking his paws, which as his spittle froze would have soon been cased in ice if Mr. Scott had not come to his aid. He returned very sad and shrunken. I dread the winters. Yet spring and early summer, when breezes waft the scents of the country into the city, are harder still for me; then I feel that London is, like the Prince of Wales, a snake, and that I am one of the mice which it is in the process of swallowing and digesting, by slow convulsions. Struggle as I may, there is no escape.

  2

  If living here is so strange for me, I ask myself, what must it be like for Jenny?

  When I look at her now, she seems her usual, easy, good-natured self, and when I talk to her, she replies in her usual, easy, good-natured way. But it is not, it cannot be, good for her to live in such a small cage, measuring a mere twenty feet by fifteen feet, or for her never to see the sky, or feel the warm sun on her back. Her skin is too dry, her joints ache even more than my elbow, her mind is dulled into a lethargy. How I long to be able to take her into some meadows, where she can stretch her stiffening limbs; or into some woodland nook, where she can roam and feed on fresh green leaves! How I long to watch her bathe again; to watch her thunder into some cool river, or lake, or pond! It is not possible. The distance to the river is less than a quarter of a mile, but who would bathe in that stinking vat of poisons, the city’s sluice, of which even to drink a mouthful is fatal, or so people say? Yet, even if the river were crystal clear, I could not lead her into the streets without causing a commotion, and even if I could lead her into the streets without causing a commotion, I would not have the permission of Mr. Cross. No, it is not possible.

  “It is not possible,” says Jenny. “I am owned. I am the property of Mr. Cross. I am content, Tom.”

  “I do not believe that you are content. How can you be content?”

  “There are worse places to live.”

  “But this is a prison!”

  “It may seem like a prison, but it is not a prison in my head. In my head I am free enough. I see the people who come into the Menagery, and as they watch me, I watch them. I smell their scents, and imagine their lives.”

  “But you cannot go outside. As you say, it is not possible. That is the truth.”

  “It is tolerable, Tom. We are together. I like the stories you tell me, from outside. Last night, what was it like?”

  “It was cold,” I say. “The wind was from the east. People walked with their hands in their pockets and their heads down, not talking.”

  “What was the sky like? Could you see the moon?”

  She often asks me this; she likes to hear about the moon.

  “The sky was clear,” I reply, “though there were a few dark clouds. The moon was waning, but still large. It rose gracefully behind the buildings and shone brightly. The clouds were dark, but the moon whitened their edges. Late in the evening, I looked up and a halo of light surrounded the moon.”

  “Is that not a sure sign of bad weather?”

  “It is said to be. My father believed it to be so.”

  I tell her of a tavern yard, in which men cheer and shout at two bewhiskered rats, which having been set to fight each other, are locked together, neither daring to open its jaws, and how they roll over the stones; I tell her of the music drifting from a great house in which a ball is taking place, and the lacquered carriages which wait outside, attended by liveried foot-men, and the horses stamping their hooves; I tell her of a small fire, in the flicker of which an urchin, barefoot, and no more than eight or nine years old, crouches over a baby wrapped in a bundle of rags.

  “Where was their mother? Why do they not go home, on such a night?”

  “I am not sure whether they have a home, Jenny. They may be lost.”

  “But what will become of them?”

  “I do not know.”

  She gives me her innocent gaze. “Why can they not live in the great house, where the ball was taking place?”

  “The world is not like that. It is not possible.”

  What is possible, and what is not possible. It is possible that, on a certain cold night, beautiful ladies and handsome gentlemen should glide over a ball-room floor; yet it is not possible that, on the same night, a shivering child and a baby should find shelter. It is possible that a certain Elephant should live in a small dark Menagery, and that she should be able to converse with her keeper, just as it is also possible that the sun exists to shine and to heat this world; yet it does not seem possible that the same Elephant should be allowed to walk out of the Menagery, and to feel the warm sun on her back.

  In the day, I bring her hay and carrots, turnips and other vegetables from the Market. I bring her tid-bits of gingerbread and sugar and liquorice; and sometimes a tub of ale, which she loves; I scrub her skin, and I pick off fleas, and clean between her toes. At night I settle her to sleep, and twice a year, in the spring and autumn, she allows me to give her a gentle purge, to clear the impurities from her digestion. Yet I wonder, who is keeping whom? Am I keeping Jenny, or is she keeping me?

  “We are keeping each other, Tom,” she assures me. “We are keeping each other. It is tolerable.”

  If we knew how long we would have to stay in the city, it would be more tolerable. If we knew that, in a year’s time, we would be going to York, or Southampton, it would be more tolerable, and it would be more tolerable if we knew that the Menagery would have to close down, that we would be sold, though we might be sold into even worse conditions than here. What is so hard to bear is the prospect of no prospect, of living here always, of living here and dying here, like the giraffe. O, the poor giraffe! How well I remember that hot, heavy August day, when the flies were thick, and how she seemed unable to stand, and tottered on wabbling legs. Mr. Scott and I tried to support her, he on one side, I on the other, our arms up-raised; and, for a moment, we seemed to be succeeding. Then her joints gave way, and she fell with a crash into the dust. What did she think, in those last moments, as her eyes grew dull and her life ebbed away? Did she know what was happening? Did the other animals, who saw the dead giraffe as it was dragged past their cages—did they know what had happened? It is said that, along with human beings, the only creatures that have a fore-knowledge of death are Elephants. Indeed, it is said that, in the Indies, Elephants have their own burial places, sacred groves littered with the bleached bones of their dead relations; but this may be another story. I have never asked Jenny. Nor have I ever asked her what she thinks of the twice-weekly cart-load of horse-bones which Mr. Scott and I shovel into sacks and store at the back of the Menagery. Perhaps she knows that they are bones, that they once joined other bones to form the frames of creatures with soft skin and warm blood, and sinews and veins, and beating hearts, and that such creatures breathed, fed, slept, woke, walked, trotted, pranced, cantered, galloped, and flew over hedges and ditches on sun-lit mornings. Yet perhaps she does not know; or perhaps she prefers not to know. It is better not to ask.

  Soon after the death of the giraffe I became alarmed about Jenny’s future; indeed as I lay awake at night, listening to her long, rumbling snores, I could think of little else. One moment I would picture her falling to her knees, toppling to her side, and dying like the giraffe; the next, I myself had died, and she was left alone, lost and friendless, a shrunken version of her real self. This was a worse prospect, for then she would be at the mercy of the savage world of those human beings who belie
ve that animals have no capacity either to reason or to feel, and may therefore be treated as objects. Yet there was another, much brighter possibility, that she would be bought by some wealthy gentleman with a large estate, another Lord Bidborough, in whose generous care she would enjoy a true freedom. Which gentleman, Tom? Is it likely? How many gentlemen can afford the vast expense of an Elephant?

  I had no answer to these questions until one night when a quiet voice whispered, as if in a dream, Why, Tom, wake up—have you forgotten Mr. Harrington’s son, little Joshua, and how much he loved the Elephants? By now he must be a grown man, and if, as is possible, his father has died, and he is now in charge of Harrington Hall, well then, surely…and in an instant my mind, leaping ahead, told me that he had already agreed to buy the Elephant, and that I had found a means of escape from the Menagery, and from London. Our story, which seemed to have come to a halt, would begin again. We would live again at Harrington Hall, where we were so happy, and all would be well.

  Thus I began to compose a letter. To Mr. Joshua Harrington, Esquire. Sir, You will remember that, many years ago—Sir, Many years ago—Sir, You may remember that, more than twenty years ago, your father owned a pair of young Elephants, of which I was their keeper—Sir, more than twenty years ago, I had the honour to serve your father, Mr. John Harrington, as his Elephant Keeper. It may interest you to know that one of these Elephants is still alive, the female—that one of these Elephants, the female, is still alive, though her present situation in London, in a Menagery—in a stinking Menagery, is far from ideal and stirs the compassion of all who see her—but this is not true—in a stinking Menagery, exposed to publick view, is far from ideal for such a noble, intelligent creature, and—

  And what? Something stopped me—the memory of Lord Luttershall’s letter, the fear that, were I to send such an epistle, the answer, if indeed I received an answer, would be another blow in the face. Dear Mr. Page, I regret to inform you that Mr. Joshua Harrington was drowned at sea, five years ago. Dear Mr. Page, I regret to inform you that Harrington Hall is now owned by Lord and Lady B—. Dear Mr. Page, I regret to inform you that Mr. Joshua Harrington, though remembering the Elephant well, would not be interested in its purchase. Dear Mr. Page, I write on behalf of Mr. Harrington, who is presently in the Barbadoes… there were a dozen replies which seemed more likely than the one I wanted.

  I therefore attempted to suppress the idea; indeed, I did suppress it, though it remained in my mind as a little piece of hope which I would take from its cupboard and nibble now and then, like a mouse with a piece of cheese. So matters stood until last summer, when Mr. Cross decided that, in order to revive the fortunes of the Menagery, a fight should be held between the lion and the bear. This fight was held on May Day, at ten o’clock in the evening, by special licence from the authorities. Over the preceding weeks, Mr. Cross took it upon himself to teach the bear to feign death. Encouraged by the salutary exercise of the whip on his snout, Bruin soon learnt this simple lesson, and at the first twitch would topple over and lie on his back with his eyes closed—Mr. Cross’s idea being that, after some minutes of sparring, the lion would win the fight and be proclaimed the victor. Mr. Scott and I were sent to stick bills round the city, in order to advertise the event; and, as we did so, I remember saying to Mr. Scott, that I feared that the fight would end badly, by which I meant that one of the animals would be injured. “End?” said he. “For my part, I shall be greatly surprized if it even begins.”

  In the event, his prediction proved accurate. A crowd of more than a hundred red-faced men, many of whom seemed drunk, and all of whom had placed bets either on the bear or the lion, pressed into the Menagery at the appointed hour. Torches having been lit, both animals were led into the same cage, and there they stood (Mr. Scott by the bear, I by the lion), as Mr. Cross proceeded to introduce them to the spectators, comparing them to the heroes of antiquity. The bear he proclaimed to be none other than Hector; the lion, Achilles; but little enough of his speech could be heard above the shouts of the crowd, and soon he stepped aside. The fight would then have commenced; unfortunately, both combatants being so cowed by the noise and the torches, neither was willing to come to terms. On one side of the cage stood the little bear, his head down, his mind in a state of utter confusion, while on the other side the Man-Eater had sunk to the floor, to which he had been glued by fear. Straddling his body, I attempted to haul him to his feet, but as soon as I did so, he fell back; whereupon Mr. Cross, alarmed by the rising temper of the crowd, pushed me aside and seized a torch—his intention being to frighten the Man-Eater into fighting. He succeeded in setting fire to the tail of the poor animal, who, giving a frantic howl and rising to his feet, fled across the cage, where the bear had already chosen to play dead and was flat on his back with his eyes shut. Most members of the crowd laughed and jeered, I think at Mr. Cross as much as at the animals. I quickly took pity on the Man-Eater, leading him back to his cage, where he lay in darkness and misery, with his tail still smoking.

  This spectacle filled me with such loathing and disgust that I again began to entertain thoughts of Harrington Hall, though my aversion to writing a letter remained as strong as ever. One afternoon later in the summer, when Mr. Scott and I were drinking tea, I turned to him for advice.

  “How old would he be, this Joshua Harrington?”

  “Thirty years old. But it is perfectly possible that he is abroad, or dead. Or that his father is still alive.”

  “And there’s no one else in this village—what’s it called?”

  “Thornhill.”

  “There’s no one else in Thornhill who’d be able to give you any information?”

  “No one. But it is a day-dream. Mr. Cross would never sell the Elephant.”

  “Old Gilbert? He’d sell anything if the price was high enough. If I were in your position, Tom, I’d write the letter. Or I’d apply in person.”

  “You would apply in person?”

  Mr. Scott considered. “I believe I would. A letter he might throw away without another thought, but if he were to see your face, after so many years, it’d be bound to touch his heart. Wouldn’t it now? Now, how long would it take you to get there? Two days?”

  “Two days, or three. And the same to return.”

  “Well then, five days in all. I’ll look after the Empress for you. She’ll be all right.” He drew the dish of tea to his mouth.

  “You don’t think she’ll pine?”

  “Pine? She may droop a little, that’s true. But she’ll be all right. I’ll look after her. I’ll sleep here.”

  I was not sure, however. To leave Jenny, for five or six long days and nights, when I had never left her for even one day and night, would not be easy. It was certain that she would pine; indeed, already I seemed to see her standing in the darkness, listening for my return. I had, moreover, another fear, one which had grown since the fight between the lion and the bear, that the Menagery might somehow be set on fire, and the animals burnt alive. There are plenty of house-fires in the city, generally in the winter, sometimes because people fail to have their chimneys swept as they ought, or for other reasons. I remember that, in my first year in London, a mansion in Holborn was razed to its foundations after a servant girl fell asleep over a candle.

  Despite all this, I was inclined to go. For one thing, it occurred to me, I might learn something of my brother, of whom, to my regret, I had had no intelligence for fifteen years. In a letter, written not long before she died, but which I have somehow lost, my dear mother said that she had heard from another sea-man, a Captain Fitzpatrick, who having met Jim near Cochin, in the Indies, reported that he had had all manner of adventures, having been ship-wrecked, and chased by cannibals, and captured by pirates; but, having survived these calamities, was in a fair way to making his fortune. Another traveller’s tale, of doubtful worth, I thought. Why, for all I knew, Jim was here, in London; the city is crowded with former sailors. We might have sat in the same tavern, drunk from the same mug, e
njoyed the same whores. Nonetheless, I told myself, it was also possible that he now lived back in Thornhill.

  “Five days?” asked Jenny.

  “You will be safe with Mr. Scott.”

  “And at night?”

  “He will stay the night here, with you all. You will be safe.”

  She was silent, her trunk twisting slowly, forming and un-forming question-marks.

  “It is not Mr. Scott,” she said.

  “What then? You do not want me to go!”

  “I have no opinion.”

  “No—I can tell—you do not want me to go.”

  There was a long pause, during which she walked to the back of her cage and rubbed her hind-quarters against the picture of the Indian prince. “Tom, what do you imagine you will find, when you arrive in Thornhill?”

  “What do I imagine? I do not imagine anything.”

  “What are you hoping to find?”

  “I am hoping to learn whether Joshua is now in charge of the estate, and, if so, whether he may be willing to buy you off Mr. Cross. And perhaps gain some intelligence of Jim. That is all.”

  She gazed frankly into my face. “You are not hoping to meet Lizzy Tindall?”

  “Lizzy Tindall?” It was true that somewhere, in my picture of Thornhill, I seemed to see the little cottage where the Tindalls once lived, and where, God knew, she might live still. However, that Jenny had divined this secret, which I thought I had kept private, vexed me greatly. “I can assure you, I have no particular intention of meeting her.”

  She blinked slowly, but said nothing, as though doubting me.

  I began to rebel. “If we happen to meet, is there any harm done? Why should we not meet? Jenny! What reason do you have?”