Pyg

by Russell Potter

  He and I had no need of words, really—in some way, we never had—but he stood a long while gazing upon me, and in his eyes I saw a strange, wistful look. He seemed to be casting his mind back over his career as a trainer of Animals, and wondering if perhaps the undertaking had been worth while. I looked for but could not detect his old mien of Command, though I am sure he could have Mustered it had he wished—but instead, his expression seemed almost Apologetic. And then I, with my little eye, sent back (as best I could) my forgiveness for his harsh words, and his separating Sam and me. After all, I reflected, he had been given his Desserts, and then some, by that Constable, who, although mistaking Private rage for Civic duty, had in some sense served as an agent of Justice, and a messenger of Humility. Mr Bisset seemed to take all this in, paused as if to speak, but merely smiled. Then, with a little wince of pain, he turned, and the innkeeper helped him back inside and up the stairs. We would, I now knew, soon be back upon our Way.

  10

  By the end of the week, Mr Bisset was able to walk unassisted, and declared that he was anxious to get on with his Tour, which had been so violently and unexpectedly interrupted. Never the less, he could no longer manage everything as he once had, being unable to lift or carry the many crates and props with which his wagon had to be loaded, and thus was obliged to take on an Assistant for this purpose. The man he hired, a narrow, wiry young fellow by the name of Edward Dobbs, seemed likely enough for the job—he was remarkably strong, and could carry a crate on each shoulder with no trouble at all—but his Character was far from reassuring. He was possessed of—or perhaps by—a pair of sharp, dark-brown eyes that were constantly darting about, as though they could find no Rest on any thing, and this perpetual Motion extended into his limbs, his fingers and even to his Toes, when I could see them. He also had a sort of Stutter in his speech, of which he seemed deeply ashamed, and thus rarely spoke at all, unless it was absolutely unavoidable. Worst of all was his manner with us Animals: he seemed to regard us with a curious mixture of fear and Contempt; in all their wandering, his eyes never came to rest upon us, as if for them to do so would threaten his very being. How I wished that Sam could return to take his place—but Mr Bisset would not hear of it, saying we had but just enough time to manage the few Engagements he had arranged on our way to London without missing the Season there.

  Our Journey commenced with the unavoidable crossing of the Irish Sea, which looked particularly cold and restless that day. Our conveyance was a modest Packet-boat, the Maria Eliza, whose small size put her quite at the mercy of the Waves, pitching this way and that, such that even the most seasoned travellers were soon hanging at the rails, or lurching towards the Heads, their countenances as grey as the sky. Mr Bisset, although he declared he had no Qualms about the voyage, soon found himself in a similar position, and hastily retired below Decks, where he remained for the duration. The crates containing ‘livestock’, as we were considered, were lashed to the deck in the open air, which gave us a commanding View of the voyage, at the expense of periodic dousings with salt-water whenever a wave crested over the rails. Alone among the passengers, Mr Edward Dobbs was entirely unaffected, which I attributed to the fact that he was in even more constant Motion than the sea.

  At the Isle of Man, we changed boats to a much larger vessel, the Duchess of Athol, where Mr Bisset was able to obtain a private berth, and myself and the other Animals were secured well away from the rails, and provided with fresh straw. The sea had also grown somewhat calmer, with the result that most of us slept for the main part of the journey, awakening only at the sound of the ship’s bell announcing that we were drawing near to Holyhead. We cleared the breakwater just as dusk was falling, and the great Lighthouse at the end of the pier was casting its brilliant beams over the Harbour. With the assistance of many capable Hands, we were able to unload our Wagon and all our gear, but the hour being late, we were only able to travel a very short distance down the main Road, stopping for the night at a modest Inn in the village of Four Mile Bridge, so named for its distance from Town, and its ancient crossing. The inn-yard was so small that my Master left us in our Crates atop the Wagon, and we at once fell asleep where we lay, being greatly wearied by our Voyage.

  The next morning, we set out at daybreak on the road to Chester, which was yet about eighty miles distant. The sky was grey, the wind cold, and the rain constant, such that although we replaced our plain canvas cover with one of weather-cloth, we were soon all thoroughly chilled. Mr Bisset, though ensconced under a great heap of woollen rugs and blankets, was constantly shivering with the cold; at last he was obliged to leave the management of the horses to Mr Dobbs, and retreat to the interior of the wagon. The towns along our route, all of them with impossible Welsh names—Llanfairfechan, Llandudno and Llanddulas, to name but a few—sounded like something from Gulliver’s Travels, and offered likewise the most Lilliputian sort of Accommodations—small rooms, small inn-yards and small beer. By the time we drew near once more to England, and to English names, they seemed almost Shrunken to our ears, and by the time we passed through Holywell, Northup and the aptly named village of Mold that very substance seemed to be growing upon our Selves, so dark and dank had our Habitation become. The idea of a metropolis of any Size, and lodgings more ample than a Thimble, was indeed the only Hope that kept us going.

  We arrived in the vicinity of Chester on the afternoon of the fifth day of our Journey, and as if to signal the Blessing of heavens, the clouds parted and some rays of the Sun were briefly disclosed. Now, this city was unlike any other that I have seen before, or since, in that it was still defined by its ancient Wall, and very few dwellings stood without it. The old Gates of the City were like those of some medieval Castle, and I am reliably informed that the name of the place derives from the old Saxon word Ceastre, which has that very meaning. We found admirable lodgings at the Blue-Bell Inn, which was formed of two identical houses that had been joined together as one, behind which was an ample Yard, with fine Stables and, to my joy, an abundance of clean, dry Straw. Mr Bisset looked much the worse for our Journey, but on taking some warm Soup, he seemed more comfortable, and slept very soundly.

  The next morning, we met with a Mr Dawes, the representative of Messrs Banks and Ward, proprietors of the Theatre-Royal in Chester. He laid forth the requirements of his Employers: that the Act be both honest and Amusing, that we engaged to keep the stage clean and free of any dirty Straw or Manure, and that we fitted ourselves into the space of the Entr’acte, which was not to be longer than Ten Minutes. A Comedy was then being represented, Mrs Cowley’s More Ways Than One, which Messrs Banks and Ward considered suitable, and as its Business had been only middling of late, they hoped that this new attraction on the bills might revive its sagging Fortunes. Mr Bisset assured him that it would, and invited him to see us at the Inn, where he would happily offer a demonstration of our Abilities, but Mr Dawes declined, declaring he had no time for such idle Rehearsals. ‘Mind you,’ he added, as he departed, ‘this Engagement is for one night only. If you acquit yourself well, then we will consider extending it, but if you do not, then you may expect nothing more.’

  We had apparently come a step down in the world, and there was no way to ascend again but by our own Exertions. Mr Bisset declared that he welcomed the challenge; he was delighted to return to the Stage. He talked of new routines for us to prepare for our London début. And yet, for my part, I could take but little Pleasure in such things, nor feel so sanguine about our success. I feared for my Master, as it seemed to me that he was not yet recovered from his terrible Beating, nor yet from the chill he had endured on our late journey. His enthusiasm was as great as ever, but in many ways he seemed only the Shadow of the impresario he once had been. His hands were less steady, his eye less piercing, and his voice had a sort of Tremble to it, which it had never had before. That afternoon, as we practised with our Cards, I urged him to take some Rest, and delay the next leg of our journey, but he would hear nothing of it.

  I
n the evening, we were escorted to a small box at the very edge of the Stage, from which we might the more speedily ascend when our Turn came round. One of the Players, a Mr Edwin, in costume for his role as Sir Marvell Mushroom, was appointed to give us our Cue, as he was to exit a moment before the rest of the Cast. That the scene was to change from that of the Town to that of the Country was a perfect Excuse—our appearance would, as it were, set the stage for this Shift, even as the stage-hands were busily moving the props in and out. With his Periwig and feathered Cap, his face whitened and his wrinkled cheeks spotted with Red, Mr Edwin looked almost the part of a Clown, which—such that we had any anxieties about the too-high dignity of a Licensed Theatre—at once dissolved them. Indeed, our chiefest care was to remain still throughout the Overture—we were directly adjacent to the Orchestra—and the first acts.

  As our moment drew near, I watched the Players go through their Moves, and reflected that they, too, lived but at the Pleasure of their Audience. What a strange whim it was, when People first put People upon a stage—and yet, this given, placing a Pig before them seemed perfectly sensible. Just as this thought was passing through my mind, there was Sir Marvell Mushroom, a bit breathless, beckoning us on to the Stage. We did our best to unfold ourselves after our long Confinement, and strode upon the stage to much laughter and applause—as much from Surprise as Anticipation, I am sure. In accord with my Master’s instructions, a low Table had been placed before us, and my Cards laid on the floor beside it. And then we thought no more, but at once set to our well-practised routine.

  ‘My lords, ladies, and Gentlemen,’ Mr Bisset began, ‘I come here before you this evening to present a Wonder, that men of both Universities, along with a Committee of Edinburgh Physicians, have been, despite their estimable Learning, utterly unable to explain! It has been said, but falsely so, that the Pig, of all Animals, is the most Intractable, stubborn, and Lazy. I shall here upon this Stage prove the wrongness of these common Sentiments, and more: that the Pig, when given the benefit of such an ordinary education as we suppose fitted for any Child, can at once apprehend the basic Tenets of our Language, and employ it with as much Sense—some would say More—than most Human pupils.’

  My first few questions were always of the sort that could be answered with ‘Yes’ or ‘No’ and I had but to select the correct card of the two. This was calculated to be the sort of thing that would rouse the Audience’s scepticism, and thus prepare the way for their greater Amazement, when I began to Spell. And, indeed, the effect, if anything, seemed far greater in this grand Theatre than it had in our more humble venues. Being asked what Place this was, and having replied at first, C-H-E-S-T-E-R, and, on further prompting, T-H-E-A-T-R-E R-O-Y-A-L, the great Intake of Breath upon the part of our Spectators, was quite literally Audible. There was but time for one Question from the Audience, and here we had to take care that it was answered with both Brevity and Alacrity, as our Ten Minutes were nearly up.

  ‘Is there anyone who has a Question, upon any Subject, that may be briefly answered by my learned Companion? Come, come, surely there is one such!’

  High up at the back of the Balcony, a woman, who seemed somehow familiar to me, stood and raised her kerchief in her hand and waved it with such grace that Mr Bisset immediately called upon her.

  ‘Will you ask your Pig, sir, if he serves you Freely? Is he not upon some constraint, or fear of Punishment, lest he not trot out the correct Answer?’

  ‘I shall let Toby speak for himself, Ma’am,’ was my Master’s reply. And so he did, and so I wrote: O-F M-Y O-W-N W-I-L-L.

  This reply quite brought down the House, as there at once went up such a round of Applause as would gratify any Actor, along with many shouts and cheers and demands that we continue our Performance. The noise only ceased when the Manager, Mr Dawes, came forth upon the Stage to declare that those who wished to address further question to the Sapient Pig could visit him in the Stalls when the Play was done. And, indeed, the moment the curtain fell upon the Human players that evening, there was a great Rush to Mr Bisset and myself to put to us more Questions, the which we did our best to Answer for the better part of an Hour. We were not too greatly surprised to discover that Ladies and Gentlemen of Quality sorted out much as did supposedly Lesser folk in that they asked either out of curiosity (this was mostly the Ladies) or a desire to find us out in some Fraud (this from the Gentlemen). We acquitted ourselves at all points. At last a rather portly fellow—whom we later discovered to be the chief Magistrate of that fair City—asked us when we could be seen again. My final answer, T-O-M-O-R-R-O-W, pleased all present, not the least of them Mr Dawes, who was anxious both to disperse the lingering Crowd, and to reassure both them and us of our continuing Engagement. We retired wearily yet happily to our lodgings, well satisfied with our evening’s Work, and looking forward to the betterment of our mutual Fortunes on our way to what we hoped and expected would be our ultimate Triumph in London.

  And yet it was never to be. That very night Mr Bisset suffered a sudden nervous collapse or Apoplexy such that—so I was told later—when the knock for breakfast came at his door, he was unable to make any answer. The housemaid, on entering, had such a fright at his Appearance that she dropped the platter, which at once brought the Innkeeper up from his rooms. Due to the curious construction of the Inn, with its two connected buildings and the stairs between, I was able to see and hear quite well the commotion that followed. Once again a Doctor was summoned, and on arriving hastily mounted the steps. Of his examination of the Patient, I could see nothing, but he emerged shaking his head, and had a very grave consultation with those assembled outside. I could hardly make out his words, catching only ‘nothing’ and ‘I fear he may not.’ And then, as I was about to regret once more the absence of my good Sam to bring me word as to Mr Bisset’s condition, the Doctor himself with his assistant came directly to me.

  ‘Well, Mr Toby,’ said he, addressing me in a wholly natural manner, so rare among his kind, ‘you’d best go and see your Master. I’m afraid he’s not long for this world! And, as you would seem to be the only Creature who is on close terms with him, there being no other Family present, I’m afraid you’ll have to do!’

  With that, he and his man lifted me into my Case and carried me up the stairs into the very room where Mr Bisset lay. He looked very poorly indeed: his hair was all dishevelled, his skin a mottled red, and his eyes wide and blank—an indication, it seemed to me, that the chief Tenant of their shared Apartment was ready to remove, having left both Windows open. He had been, as it were, Propped up in his Bed, and his arms lay at his sides, no longer obedient to him whose mere Look had once commanded all. And yet there lingered yet some small portion of his Spirit, as his right hand, trembling, appeared to motion me near. The good Doctor opened the door of my crate, and I approached with hesitation, uncertain of what I should expect. And then my Master did a thing he never had in Life, which was to place his hand upon my Head. His lips quivered as he would Speak, but no words came forth, only a sort of shivering mumble.

  The Doctor leant over, cupping his ear in his Hand and endeavouring to make out what words these were which trembled on the edge of speech. He frowned, listened again, and turned to me. ‘Good-bye,’ said he.

  And with that, Mr Bisset’s body seemed at once to relax and recede, as though the String that had stretched it taut upon its Frame had been undone, and he slid down into the bedcloathes, his last Exhalation of breath coming in the form of a drawn-out Sigh. The Doctor reached up and closed his Eyes, and everyone else cast theirs down, except me: transfixed by the sight, I could not turn away. I had never before beheld the Death of any being, although on many Occasions I had feared for my own, or that of other Creatures. That humans, and Animals as well, were all such expiring things, reaching our Date at some moment we could neither know nor postpone, came as a strange shock to my Awareness; like a mark of punctuation in the middle of a Sentence, it at once divided my own life into two Dependent Clauses. For knowing t
his, I knew myself, and was thence expelled for ever from my own Garden of Innocence. No Angel bearing a sword did I see, nor an Angry God to escort me out; about me I had only a few of my fellow-exiles, none of them any Wiser than the other in the face of this, our strange and common Fate.

  And yet, as I soon discovered, my immediate Destiny was in one most Significant manner divided from that of Men. Upon the death of Mr Bisset, I was no longer a Friend or Relation, but instantly transformed into a piece of Property, a Good, a Chattel, whose disposition would be consigned neither to an orphanage, nor to distant relatives, but rather to the auctioneer’s Hammer. Along with the rest of what was referred to in the Bills as Mr Bisset’s ‘Menagerie’, I was consigned to be sold on Saturday next, the proceeds to be given to his heirs and assigns, as soon as these should be located. I envied even Mr Dobbs who, released from his contract with his late unfortunate Employer, was at least free to seek his fortunes elsewhere.

  Through the grace of the Innkeeper, we were permitted to remain on his Premises until the date fixed for our Auction. Never did I endure a more melancholy Period than this: without a Friend of any kind, and only the daily slops to mark the hours of my Existence, I was as alone as I had been as a young Pig in my sty. Nay, more alone—for then, at least, I enjoyed the companionship of Pigs and knew no other sort, whereas now I was no longer fitted for their Company, nor any more for that of Men. My greatest dread, indeed, was of being returned to those thought to be of ‘my own kind’, for among them all my Distinctions would be undone, and my Shame would be complete. I found only slightly less dreadful the prospect of being purchased by some other Exhibitor, for in the light of Mr Bisset’s passing and my own impending Sale, such relations had taken a most Material cast, and seemed to me little more desirable than to be Enslaved. I knew not then, as I do now, the long history of the bondage of one race of humans to another, which so damned the name of Humanity to Either, but if I had, I can be sure, it would have been cold comfort indeed. For to see oneself in such a History is to gain only the Company of Misery, and not its end.