Pyg

by Russell Potter

  Our first day’s journey was the shortest, being just over two miles. Our way led out through the City, across a narrow Canal, and past rough pastures and small farms into a small, closely packed Village of drab brick houses, which bore the name Drumcondra. There was an Inn, a small stone Church, and a brownish sort of village Green, to one side of which was the Market square where Mr Bisset planned to stage his Show—and yet a more Desolate spot, and more Uncongenial to Entertainment of any Kind would have been Difficult to imagine. The few people I could see looked to be nearly the same Colour as the grey-brown bricks of their homes, walking about in a sort of Torpor, as though they had no will of their own but awaited the Instruction or Command of another. The children there did not smile, and the Dogs looked hungry; it was a Weary town, and one in which, had we been Wise, we would never have Tarried.

  Immune to the charms—or lack thereof—of this drab agglomeration of people and Buildings, Mr Bisset at once established himself at the Inn. He had been assured by the proprietor that the Accommodations were pleasant, and that the next day being a Market day, his Show would doubtless be well attended. Mr Bellows was the innkeeper’s name; in his appearance he was as oily as a wax Taper, and certainly put forth an incandescent Glow of welcome that first evening. We were all accommodated in the best Manner, myself with the other Animals in the Yard, and my Master in the finest Room, which had a sort of Loge overlooking us. Fresh slops were our dinner, although, without Sam to keep me Company, these seemed a cold and lonely meal indeed. It was not long before Quiet reigned over us Animals, while the sound of Messrs Bisset and Bellows, with their clinking glasses and their Guffaws, carried on late into the night.

  And so day dawned—grey and sullen—without a bird, or a beam of light to its name. True to the Innkeeper’s word, there was the Bustle of a Market-day outside the window, but to behold these creatures as they went about their Business was a cheerless sight, for not one of them looked up to see their or any other portion of the Sky—keeping instead low and steady, much as garden Worms, who live in dread of the sudden descent of a Spade. We established ourselves at once on what seemed the best part of the Pitch and set about our usual Routines, but to our invitations there was no ready answer. ‘Has anyone a question for the Learned Pig?’ my Master asked. ‘Come, come, now, let the curious among you speak! Any Query, upon any Matter?’ But question came there none. Mr Bisset was obliged, as he rarely was, to concoct a Dialogue with Himself, chiefly concerning mundane matters such as the Weather and the Time of Day, to which I answered one damp pasteboard Letter at a time. By sunset, which came early, we were all too ready to quit that place, with very little to show for our Efforts, the Nobbins amounting to a mere 4s. 6d.—the lowest we had commanded since our stay in Warrington, the very first Town in which our Act had been tried.

  That night at the Inn, I retired early, unwilling to long contemplate the Dread I felt within at any number of future Performances I would be obliged to make amidst the Habitants of this Irish Limbo, working for a Master whom I no longer considered a Man, but rather a Beast who had still other Beasts in Tow. Worse still, I now knew little of our Plans or Progress, as I was without the company of my dear Benefactor, who alone had provided me with any Intelligence of our Doings. I now found myself in the midst of a dark descent, without my only Friend and Guide; like a Dante suddenly robbed of his Virgil, I was at the Mercy of tormented spirits, crooked Paths and fearful Precipices, with no one to direct my steps. Never the less, I resolved that I would not fall into that darkest chasm of all, the pit of Despair! I told myself repeatedly that Sam would find me somehow, and rescue me from these Torments, and until then, I must be as Stoic as any Philosopher, accepting whatever came my way with patience and Fortitude.

  Both these Virtues were shortly put to the Test, as our northward progress proved to be a dismal detour. It rained continually, until the roads were churned into twin Rivers of Mud, and we were frequently obliged to stop in order to navigate our way through some new and unexpected Mire. At Drogheda, the market was so sodden that we scarce drew any crowd at all, and afterwards Mr Bisset was laid up in Bed for a week, with Rheumatism in his back and legs. When at last we arrived in Dundalk, there was a slight break in the weather, long enough for my Master to recover his Health, and we had an exhibition for two nights at the Assembly Rooms there, adjacent to the Town Hall. Never the less, after the expense of renting the hall was accounted for, our takings remained but little, and it was difficult to call to Mind our late glorious career before the lively crowds at Astley’s, as we now plied our trade before an audience that seemed to consist largely of dreary, disconsolate souls, too weighed down with Drudgery to partake in Enjoyment of any Kind.

  Several days later, we came into the city of Belfast by way of Banbridge, and here at last we found a more Profitable Venue for our Exhibitions. The Place was originally the Cellar of some long-extinct Structure, which had lately been refitted as a sort of Theatre, and was popularly known as ‘The Vaults’. The manager there, a Mr Atkins, was most attentive to my Master’s requirements, and very nearly repapered every Wall in the town with handbills. He personally arranged to obtain a Licence from the Magistrate, with whom he seemed on most friendly terms, and decorated the hall and the entranceway with banners depicting me with my Waistcoat and medallions, and declaring me the favourite of the Crowned Heads of Europe (a falsity which, though it pained my Conscience, so pleased my Pride that I found I could not complain about it). Rooms were arranged for us at a nearby Hotel, and on the Evening of our performance, the street outside was filled with jugglers, Punch-and-Judy men, and other smaller entertainments, the better to entice the people to our own.

  As a new Attraction this evening, we revived our Clairvoyant act, with which we had little bothered at our previous few shows, my Master averring that there was too little to read in Minds such as those possessed by the Inhabitants of Drumcondra or Drogheda, which were shaped by constant and laboursome Toil. In particular, we invited the Ladies to attend, experience having shown that they were more suggestible to our Routines, as well as more readily Impressed with the results. A modicum of Shrieking and Fainting does wonders for a show, my Master was wont to say, and there was some truth in this. And so, after our regular sequence of spellings-out of where we were, who we were, and answers to the shouted Queries of this or that Gentleman at the back of the Hall (they were, as usual, loud, and drunk, and were thus served with Comic answers), Mr Bisset enquired of a small group of middle-aged women, who were seated by arrangement with the Proprietor in a small Loge quite near the stage, whether they would Approach and see whether the Sapient Pig could see their inmost thoughts.

  The key to this act was that, well in advance of the invitation, my Master had secured some little information about each of the Ladies in question. This had, for a time, been Sam’s job: he would present them with complimentary tickets to the very best Seats, and conduct them himself, all the while chatting merrily, and picking up sundry small details. Through this, and by using a series of seemingly innocent questions (‘Will your husband be joining you tonight, Madam?’), he determined which were married, which widowed, the names of their children and countless other trifles, all of which he duly delivered to Mr Bisset. Then, well before the performance, we would go over the ‘thoughts’ we were to ‘read’, cueing them to each by the order in which my Master would ask them their questions. There was some little chance of variation, or of one of the subjects insisting on putting their own Queries to me, at which he trusted to his usual set of silent cues, or—and this only as a last resort—to my ability, which he now knew all too well, to answer on my own. This last he thought most risky, and forbade me to improvise, save upon a certain special Signal, and of course I was loath to incur his Displeasure.

  The moment having arrived, three Ladies were shown to seats upon the Stage, amidst much crinkling of dresses and fluttering of fans; although they were all of a settled age—perhaps thirty, perhaps forty—they were as anim
ated and exaggeratedly Demure as Schoolgirls, and cast their eyes at me as though they had never seen such a thing as a Pig in all their lives. The first two were easily handled. Number One, a widow, enquired whether I could tell the name of her deceased Husband, which of course I managed without any trouble, along with the particulars of his Trade, and identifying a Watch as his. Number Two, who was in fact the Wife of one of the Proprietor’s near relations, was more than delighted to hear of her husband’s merits, the Names of her Children, and even her pet Cockatoo. Number Three, I thought, might be some trouble: she was the quietest of the lot, and blushed—though whether with pleasure or embarrassment I could not say—at each of the answers we gave to the ladies before her. Her jaw seemed clenched with some determination, and her eyes glittered like little stones; she joined in neither the laughter nor the applause of her Companions. When at last her turn came, she blushed still more deeply, and for a long time appeared to be almost unable to Speak, though several lines of questioning were suggested to her.

  At last, by a visible effort overcoming her trepidation, she burst forth.

  ‘Is it really true that your Pig can read minds?’ (This to Mr Bisset).

  ‘Madam, I can assure you, he has done so on Hundreds of occasions, without Error, and without causing his subjects the least Distress of any Kind,’ was his reply.

  She grappled inwardly with this. ‘Very well, then. I should like to know whether my Husband has been Faithful to me!’

  This was impossible. In the absence of the Husband, it was quite unclear whose Mind I was supposed to read. And yet I could readily perceive—as could, I am sure, my Master—that the woman was completely convinced of her spouse’s infidelity, and sought only to have her suspicions confirmed. Were we, then, to give a Positive answer, we would incur her wrath—she might well claim that our Clairvoyant act was a sham—and if we answered in the Negative, we would instantly offend her Husband, who would be none too pleased, and likely to condemn our Act even more vociferously. Mr Bisset glanced furtively among the Audience, but due to the subterranean nature of the dim-lit Hall, he could not quite make out whether there was any Husband in attendance. At last, he could defer no longer and gave me the Signal to answer freely. I readily spelt out: ‘N-O.’

  The audience immediately roared their reaction, with the women, and the more sober of the men, exclaiming against the Impropriety of such a question, while those at the rear of the hall laughed uproariously, cheered and whistled. For the Subject upon the Stage, at least, this Answer proved to be precisely the one she had hoped to hear: she tossed a small silk purse at me—which we later found to contain five Guineas in gold—and strode off the stage with a look of fierce Determination. Her two Companions, their moment of public fame now spoilt by this unexpected Breach of Protocol, loudly expressed their disapproval, and ran—or nearly ran—as fast as their crinolined figures could carry them, down the aisle and out of the door behind her. The hoots, the catcalls and the shouts continued to mount, and soon made such a veritable Cacophony of Noise that the unfortunate manager, Mr Atkins, could hardly make himself heard over the Din. We endeavoured mightily to continue our Act, but were met only with raucous jeers and cries of ‘How ’bout you read my wife’s mind?’, ‘Bloody knackers!’ and ‘Geroff!’, such that we were shortly obliged to quit the Stage, and make a hasty exit via the back stairs.

  Luckily—or so it then seemed—the alley in which we found ourselves was adjacent to the yard of the Inn at which we were lodged, such that Mr Bisset was able to return me to my Paddock and slip into his own rooms without attracting any further attention from the boisterous crowd, who had since moved out of the ‘Vaults’ and were milling about on the street, looking for any sort of Trouble they could find, or make. From where I was confined, I could see the light in my Master’s chamber, and heard him in a heated discussion with Mr Atkins, after which he paced back and forth before the Window, muttering words I could not discern. As nearly as I could gather, the manager had declared that he had sustained great Damage to his furniture and equipment on account of our Show, and insisted that the cost must be deducted from our Take—and no argument of Mr Bisset’s could persuade him to withdraw this Demand. Shortly after Mr Atkins had quit the room, I could see that my Master had ordered up a flagon of ale—a very unusual thing for him—and appeared to be drinking it down with great gusto.

  Not long after this, I must have fallen asleep, for my next recollection was of being awakened by an enormous clatter, like the crashing of a table laden with dishes as it was knocked to the floor. There then came shouts and Curses, ffollowed by a series of dull thwacks, such as a heavy stick might make were it struck against a sack of Grain. Then the Door that communicated with the Inn’s back stairs was suddenly thrust Open, and I beheld the figure of Mr Bisset in his Dressing-gown, which I saw was darkly stained with Blood. Immediately after him came a tall Figure, clad in a double-breasted uniform of blue serge, wielding a night-stick.

  ‘Mountebank! God damn you to Hell! Your sort of Filth will not be tolerated in this City!’ shouted the figure.

  ‘Mercy! Mercy! I have a Licence from the Magistrate!’ replied my Master, raising his hands in an attempt to shield himself from further blows. ‘Good sir, if you are, as you seem, a Constable, surely you will not see me so ill-used, I pray you, nor violate the Peace you are sworn to protect!’

  ‘Mercy? I’ll show you Mercy, you fifth-rate cheapjack Charlatan! You’ve ruined me, ruined my Wife, and made us the Laughing-stock of the entire city, you and that damned Pig! I’ll not have it! Hear me! If you quit these Premises, and this County, no later than Noon on the Morrow, I will mercifully spare your life and Property. But if I find you Here, I swear by my Oath, I’ll have you Flayed within an Inch of your Life, slice your damned Pig to Ribbons, and sell them in the Market for country Bacon! Your operatic cats shall Gut my Fiddle, and I’ll hang your monkeys from the nearest Tree!’

  At this, I heard from my Master a sound I had neither Known before, nor in my darkest dreams Imagined from any Creature, man or Beast. It was not merely a Sob, but a sort of Bellow, a complete, contracted Obeisance, which sent a horrid Chill throughout my Being. For who, and under what Circumstances, could make himself so Low to Another as this? Surely no Animal but Man could contrive it! Of course, I had regarded Mr Bisset in a very Dim light before this Moment, but I was Repulsed to Think that even the Worst of men could be put Down by another whose Scruples, if any, were even Lower. The words of Goethe, whose work has so enlivened my later days, express the Occasion perfectly:

  Man calls it Reason—thence his Power’s increased,

  To be far beastlier than any Beast . . .

  The Constable left my Master prostrate on the ground and strode off at a brisk March, as one who had done no more than his Duty. I was at a loss as to how I might Respond to this awful Occurrence; along with all the other Animals, I was secured in my Paddock—but even if I was Freed, what could I, a Pig, do? Would my testimony be heard in Court? What weight would my account of this singular act of Brutality carry against that of a uniformed Officer of the Law? And even in the most practical of matters, I was unable to Console or Aid Mr Bisset, or summon a Doctor to his side. I would have done all of these things, surely, if I only Could—but, absent some Human intervention, I was as powerless as any Mute and Uneducated creature.

  Fortunately, although I was the lone witness to this dreadful Attack, the Noise of it had roused a number of people, including the proprietor of the Inn, who soon came out into the Yard and discovered the groaning figure of Mr Bisset. Along with several neighbours, he made an attempt to lift my Master to his feet; this failing, a narrow table was brought and used for a Pallet, on which the injured party was conveyed upstairs to his rooms. A few moments later, I saw a young Boy sent out to fetch a Doctor, returning shortly with a person I am sure was a member of that Profession as he wore a grey frock coat and carried a leathern bag, within which some variety of unseen Instruments could be heard rattling a
s he ran. Alas! Without Sam as my guide, I could gain no further intelligence of Mr Bisset’s health until well into the next afternoon, when I heard a serving-girl remark about ‘poor Mr Bisset’. That he was ill, but not dead, I could infer from the continued visitations of the Doctor, and the absence of any Undertaker or other gentleman in Mourning dress.

  It was two more days before anyone came to attend to us Animals, other than the boy who brought our Slops, and this turned out to be Mr Atkins himself. He patted the horses, paused at the case within which the Monkeys were confined, and then approached me with some trepidation, which I could not at first understand. He looked in all directions, like Midas’s wife about to whisper her Secret to the bulrushes—clearly he was afraid lest someone see him talking to a Pig—then spoke to me in a quiet undertone.

  ‘Toby, my dear—ehm—your master, as you doubtless have sensed, has been very ill since he was attacked. We have, ehm, learnt something of his assailant—he appears, indeed, to be the Husband of the lady who questioned you upon the stage—and he has been brought in and charged. Such an unfortunate turn of events! The Doctor says there’s hope, though! Mr Bisset is possessed of a remarkable constitution! This morning he was able to stand without assistance, and he insists that he will continue his Tour and make his way to London. It will be some time, though, before he will fully recover—until then, I’ll be sure you’re—ehm—comfortable. Yes, ehm, well, I do hope you’re taking all this in—why, it seems as though you are, but how you do it passes my Understanding, I’m sure! Good day to you, then—ehm—I’m sure Mr Bisset will come to see you as soon as ever he can.’

  This awkward discourse concluded, Mr Atkins glanced about him again, wiped his forehead with a handkerchief, and hurried back out of the gate. Another three days of ‘comfortable’ ignorance passed before, to my great surprise, Mr Bisset himself managed, with some assistance, to make his way downstairs. Leaning on the innkeeper’s arm, he made the rounds of the inn-yard, stopping last at me. How he looked! A large swelling rose above one eye, and bits of sticking-plaster still adhered to his neck; one of his hands was wrapped in a cotton bandage, and he was breathing heavily.