by Felix Salten
“Perhaps it is the pain that excites him,” the assistant suggested.
“No,” said the curator, and the keeper smiled agreement. “His pain is from quite a different cause. He is weighed down by the memory of the circus years, the hard, hard years!” He turned to the lion. “They certainly gave you wonderful treatment. Well, I’ll give you your old age pension. God knows you’ve earned it.”
As if in answer Brosso roared, a single short moaning roar.
“Yes, yes, I know all about it,” the curator pacified him. “All I need do is look at you, and I know enough! There, there, it’s all right now, old boy.” The curator continued to speak softly to the lion who seemed to grow more and more furious. “But don’t do anything to my Jackie!” The curator meant Mibbel whom he noticed in the background, anxiously pressed against the wall. “Do you understand? He’s not to blame, and can’t help your bad temper.”
Brosso never stopped pushing his mighty head to the right and left against the bars with angry growls and snarls.
“Let us go,” said the curator. “Listen, Gruber,” he added to the keeper, “see that the old fellow gets good soft meat, few bones and only such as he can chew up. You’ll notice he’s lost a fang. He’s really in pretty bad shape. But patience, patience! No rough work, I know you understand! He’s been beaten enough.”
“But everybody says that wild animals are no longer mistreated in training.” The assistant remarked.
“Very likely,” replied the curator. “That is undoubtedly the truth. But there are wild animals and wild animals. Some are tractable, some obstinate, some gentle, some incorrigible. Some become almost tame, almost! Others never will be. What is a manager to do who has paid a high price for such an animal? The trainer drives it perfectly frantic. For after all, a real trainer is a rare phenomenon. The usual type must simply content himself with browbeating the refractory animal more than the others. . . .”
“Of course,” said the assistant, “but browbeating and mistreating are different matters.”
“You don’t say!” laughed the curator and pointed to Brosso’s cage. “You’d better ask the old veteran in there what his opinion is. If he could but talk, he would unfold a tale of pointed iron prods, whips and blank cartridges. He’s had his fair share.”
They were leaving the cage in the distance.
“For the rest,” added the curator, “the old fellow owes the simple fact that he’s still alive to his shrewdness or his cowardice—or both.”
Chapter Nine
Three Lions Visit the City
BROSSO WAS ONCE IN REAL DANGER. (The curator began his story.) Never before had he been in such great danger.
The circus arrived at Bitterstadt and was to open the following day.
The greater part of the animals had made their solemn entry. It is the simplest and cheapest way to transport animals from the depot to the tents. And the publicity doesn’t cost a cent.
You are familiar with such parades, no doubt?
The circus-horses are led or ridden. Then come the work-horses, donkeys and mules. Then the camels and elephants, and perhaps a pair of good-natured feeble bears, with a chain through the ring in their nose. Then the wagon with the monkeys and various harmless smaller animals.
The lions, tigers, panthers and other really wild animals are transported from the depot to the circus at night.
You probably know that these animals travel in cage-like boxes. It is not very comfortable, but there is no better pullman service for such gentry.
At first they are enraged at their cramped quarters. Later, of course, after an all-day and all-night jolting, they become exhausted and quite submissive. Just recollect how such animals come to us after a somewhat longer journey, how tame and broken-spirited they are from exhaustion.
On this occasion they loaded the boxes of lions on a truck. The driver seems to have been a somewhat meddlesome youth. At least so they say. I have no way of confirming it, but no matter how stupidly or recklessly he may have driven, he is by no means entirely to blame, as the circus people would have us believe. For animal boxes must be able to stand anything. Anything at all! That is the first requirement of any box for a traveling circus.
Very well, the driver was doing sixty. Perhaps it was a habit, perhaps his passengers were not entirely agreeable to him. At some point in the city where the streets are narrow and crooked, he made too sharp a turn at a corner. The truck went over the curb.
Rrrmpp! The box crashed down on the pavement.
Crack! A side came off.
In a flash three lions tumbled out on the street.
Escaped!
Oh, I can see it all as if I had been there myself. (The curator sighed.) It’s a pity that I wasn’t there, the affair would have ended differently if I had been.
Picture to yourself a city street at night, lighted by arc-lamps. Practically deserted. And in the middle of the road three lions—rolling around, then jumping up, bewildered, terrified and blinking about in amazement, like strangers who do not know just where they should go.
Three enormous lions, wobbling, venturing a few timid steps.
Believe me, I’d have driven them back into that cage with very little trouble. No particular heroism would have been necessary, just a little presence of mind.
Well, a policeman came running up. Naturally, he had had very little experience with lions. He saw the three huge beasts standing together. Rather an uncommon sight, I’ll grant that. The policeman was terribly astonished, terribly frightened, but didn’t want to show the white feather.
He drew his revolver and fired.
What he thought he was doing, God only knows. Certainly the policeman himself didn’t. At any rate, he fired, twice, three times, obviously from much too great a distance. He hit nothing.
Obviously, too, he produced an effect which, while entirely desirable when employed against a mob, was quite the contrary in the case of three lions. The moment the shots were fired, the lions did just what the mob would do—turned tail and scattered.
With that the evil was done.
Each of the three took a different direction. Each carried the terror of his presence into another locality. The panic spread, tripled, quadrupled, throughout the city.
What would you expect, my friends? When face to face with animals, human beings are incredibly stupid. Especially when face to face with an animal that can defend itself. In the case of an animal that is reputed to be kingly, savage, ferocious, people are not only stupid, they are pitiable cowards.
And note well, there is no more dangerous, no crueler beast on earth than a stupid, cowardly man.
Three poor lions! They were much more frightened than all the people in the city put together. The people knew where to find refuge. The people were not pursued and not attacked. But they thought they were.
The three lions were terrified by their sudden freedom. The crackle of shots sent a thrill of fear through their bones. In the stony world of the city they did not know what to do. They did not know what to do in the world in any case. They were perfectly helpless and had only one mad desire—to be locked up in safety. They were accustomed to that from their birth.
Though lions sometimes turn savagely on their trainer, in their first moment of undesired freedom, there is not a trace of viciousness or wildness in them. They are bewildered, frightened and as easy to manage as children. Of course, later on, after they’ve been hunted and driven to desperation they are capable of fierceness. I’m not denying that in any way. But this time matters did not take that course. The lions were left no time for that.
The unfortunates showed from their manner how fervently they longed for some cubby-hole, some cage in which to hide.
One of them ran after a bus and caught it when it stopped. Obviously thinking that here was a safe haven, he crept eagerly in. The bus contained a singl
e passenger, a fat and elderly wine-merchant. He simply froze stiff with horror when the lion suddenly entered, so stiff that he forgot to rub his eyes.
Choking with terror he could do no more than gargle a brief groan. Then he threw up the window and with one plunge was in the street. Since his schooldays the man had never taken such a header. But necessity is the mother of gymnastics, even in the case of a fat and elderly wine-merchant. He was convinced that the lion had boarded the bus with the sole intention of seeking him out and devouring him. Therefore he hurled himself from the window and ran for all he was worth. The driver and conductor were already in flight. The bus was deserted.
Inside, however, the lion crouched in the narrow aisle, waiting. He was still so frightened that his tongue hung out and his flanks heaved from his soft panting.
But he lay quite still and remained perfectly peaceable.
The second lion trotted past the houses for a while, looking everywhere for some spot to hide. At last he found an open door and scampered in. It was the Hotel Ritz!
His reception was not wholeheartedly enthusiastic.
In a flash the elevator boys headed the cars skywards without waiting for the doorman or an official who attempted to crowd on. Even the most robust and impudent lackeys galloped away in mad flight, like hunted antelopes.
Within the space of two seconds the lower hall was swept bare of human life, while the night-clerk barricaded himself in a telephone booth and sent the alarm to the police.
Meanwhile the homeless lion was snuffling about the lobby. He lay down on the thick carpet but did not feel at ease. The room seemed too wide, too open. He rose, discovered the gloomy stairs and scampered up. He bounded aloft as if he had a most painful sensation of invisible foes in full pursuit.
He ran to the fifth floor. There the narrow corridor tempted him. He slunk along it, hesitantly, with a worried expression like someone who has lost his way.
You know, my friends, that by nature lions are very peaceable and timid. You know, too, that only danger, a threat or a wound can arouse the full force of their terrible rage.
I am willing to guarantee that never was a lion so peaceably inclined, so timid or so meek as the poor fellow who settled down outside that fifth floor door.
Incidentally, the door seemed familiar; it looked like the entrance to a cage. So he crept into the deep frame, settling into its accustomed narrowness. He pressed his nose against the latch, waiting for some keeper to open up for him.
And indeed the door was opened for a moment. The tiniest little crack. The gentleman who was passing the night in the room wished to set his shoes outside.
Right under his nose he beheld the massive head and flowing mane of the lion. The two stared eye to eye, man and lion. Both surprised, both bewildered. But I would like to wager that it was the man who was the more hateful and exasperated at that moment, the more ready, in his terror, for any cruelty.
I admit that it is only rarely that one opens the door of one’s hotel room to find a lion waiting outside, apparently desirous of entering. I admit that the gentleman who was about to set his shoes in the hall and thereby nearly came into collision with a real live lion on the fifth floor of a Central European hotel is probably the first and only person to whom such a thing ever happened. He slammed the door, turned the key and even shot the bolt. Understandable enough. A solid citizen who wants to go to sleep and comes to the door in his underdrawers and slippers is neither in the humor nor qualified to settle conclusions with a lion. But how absurd it becomes when he rushes to his telephone and roars at the clerk, “What kind of a management is this?”
The third lion had the worst luck. He strayed onto a dance floor. Slinking past the horrified doorman, he spread terror and wild panic in the small overcrowded hall. But he was himself certainly the most terrified, the most panic-stricken.
The jazz suddenly broke off on a plaintive note. The dancing couples crashed screaming into one another, or sought refuge on the orchestra’s platform, or sought exits. All around the empty dance floor, against the walls, and in the loges, pale and tottering gentlemen and deathly white, shrieking, weeping, wailing young ladies pushed and pressed.
The lion stood trembling in the middle of the dance floor—which was slippery. He gazed around in desperation.
Several of the ladies sprang upon tables and held up their skirts, screaming as if they beheld a mouse. Glasses fell with a crash to the ground.
At the sound the lion shrank together.
Somebody threw a champagne bottle at him. In an instant dozens of champagne bottles were flying through the air, some of which reached their mark. The hail of bottles made a sound of thunder.
This bombardment, together with the hellish uproar and the bottles that took effect, combined to render the lion mad with fear. Crouching, he strove to find some shelter, some salvation, and spying the dark opening of a loge, he sprang with one enormous bound over tables and bombardment and howling humanity, toward the sheltering corner.
For all he cared, everybody could leave the place quietly and at his leisure. He had found his nook, where he proceeded to lie down, breathing heavily, his nerves aquiver, his pulses pounding: he wanted peace and quiet.
When the uproar which had been caused by the general brainless pell-mell flight had died down, calm was restored. By that time the police had arrived—at the bus, the hotel and dance hall.
They might have heeded the tearful entreaties of the circus director, the trainer and the keepers, they might have afforded them every opportunity to recapture the fugitives. It might have been a sufficient fulfillment of their duty simply to stand guard over the lions with guns ready and wait to see whether any of them were savage.
But the police had guns, they were men summoned “to restore order,” and they did not hesitate a moment. Perhaps, too, since none of them had ever shot a lion in his life, this seemed a more favorable moment than was ever likely to present itself again.
Enough, all three patrols acted in the same fashion. Riddled by their bullets, the lion in the bus fell dead.
The lion on the fifth floor of the Hotel Ritz they laid low in the W.C. whither he had fled, mortally wounded.
The third lion perished under their murderous fire in that charming nook which he refused to abandon.
Now you see why I say that old fellow we have with us was very cunning. Doubtless you observed that he can be savage on occasion?
But that night he did the most cunning thing it is possible to conceive. He simply remained in the broken box. He did not as much as poke out his nose. He stretched out as far back as he could get, and appeared to be asleep. He did not disturb the circus people when they came and again nailed up the box.
That is how he saved himself. A sly fellow!
When the director of the circus asked me if I would accept the old rascal, I gladly agreed. There you have Brosso’s story.
Chapter Ten
Peace Pact
PETER THE CHIMPANZEE WAS RIDING his bicycle through the zoological garden, Eliza, as usual, walking beside him.
It was still early morning and there were few visitors, though several elderly ladies and gentlemen were strolling along the walks, a few students were roaming about, with now and again a pair of lovers whose interest in the animals was nominal. In the wide park, governesses, nurses and young mothers were seated on the benches, their baby-carriages in front of them, supervising the sleep of their charges which, in the mild sunshine, were acquiring cheeks the color of pears. In the sand pile were playing the little children who did not have to go to school yet and could pass the whole day in the open. The soft hum that was made up of the chatter of women and the clear voices of children was shattered now and again by the roar of some beast of prey, the croak of a bird or the screeching of monkeys. Nobody paid any attention to such interruptions.
Presently the soft patter of con
versation turned into a joyful and delighted surprise.
Peter was passing by.
The children jumped up, and ran for a short way beside Peter, eager to guide his bicycle for him. Several loiterers stopped to gaze with amusement at the noisy little swarm at whose head the grotesque and exotic cyclist was playing his pranks. Then the children gave up following him.
Once more Peter was alone with Eliza.
He was perched on the kind of low bicycle that is made for small children. He rode very slowly, for he had long ago observed that Eliza could only keep up a certain pace.
The fine gravel crunched softly under the smoothly rolling tires.
But sometimes Peter would pedal fast and shoot away like an arrow. Eliza walked on undisturbed. She knew Peter’s delicate consideration.
And she was right. After his short spurt, Peter would make an easy and elegant turn and come back, would turn again gracefully, or at any rate artistically, and be at Eliza’s side once more.
He watched her good-naturedly out of affectionate and thoughtful eyes—eyes in whose depths there was always a heavy sorrow. His was the grave expression of an aged man whose face is furrowed and creased with a thousand experiences, sorrows and secrets. He pursed and puckered up his ugly protruding lips, childishly, soliciting, demanding attention.
“Yes, that’s a fine fellow,” whispered Eliza, “a good Peter.”
He took his hand from the handle-bars, and laying it on Eliza’s shoulder, glided along beside her with an appearance of perfect contentment, as if to say, “Everything in order.”
Of course, this was not the usual hour for his bicycle ride. Usually Peter rode along the walks in the afternoon when many people had gathered in the zoo. He always wore some kind of fantastic uniform, and a whole crowd of children and grown-ups would follow him everywhere, laughing, howling and shouting. These processions were among Peter’s great triumphs. At these moments he was the success, the sensation of the whole zoo.
As he rode about, followed and surrounded by a vast train that yelled and shouted and tried to play him all kinds of tricks, he was the only creature whose manner was quiet and dignified.