Pyg (19 page)

After the Man, whose name, or so we were informed, was Mr John
Fawkes
, had been led away, we turned our attentions to his unfortunate
Pig
. Deprived of his crimson
waistcoat, and the other trappings of his Act, he presented a very piteous Sight; his hair was uncombed, his backside showed welts from the lashes of a bamboo Cane (which instrument stood near at
hand against the wall), and his two hind legs were afflicted with sores where they had rubbed against the bars of his Cage. We at once conveyed him to our carriage, using a board and a bedsheet as
a sort of improvised Pallet, and thence to Mr Sheldon’s. That kind and capable gentleman then ministered to my unfortunate cousin with all the care he would have lavished upon any Human
patient; he was set up in a spacious enclosure, provided with fresh straw, and nursed back to Health with infinite patience. Within a week, the sores were nearly healed, and he was able to move
about without discomfort, and a few days later we thought it proper to bring him his Cards, that he and I might enjoy a porcine
Parley
, something which—so far as I know—had never
been attempted before, or Since.

He was hesitant at first to take up his
Letters
, and I could well imagine why: having only fetched them before under the threat of the Lash, it was something new and strange for him to
select them on his own, without the nervous glance over his shoulder that had become so habitual to his being. At last, though, he overcame his trepidation, and told me something of his History,
which greatly
Amazed
me. He had been born in Dublin, and it was—or so he was later told—on account of my appearance at
Astley
’
s
that his proprietor had been
inspired to acquire him. This man’s real name was not Fawkes but
Schmidt
; he had been given the nickname ‘Fawkes’ as a youth, on account of his fierce temper and tendency
to
Explode
, which it was no surprise to learn. On the departure of Mr Bisset and myself, he went to the Dublin market and made for a stall of suckling
Pigs
, from which he selected the
one he thought the most apt to Training—which was, of course, my unlucky Comrade.

Mr Schmidt then brought him to his residence, which was in the poorer quarter of the City, and kept him in a tiny and squalid
Yard
, a sort of accidental gap between the tenements, which
deeply shadowed it on every side and was used by the inhabitants to toss refuse and the contents of their chamberpots. From this unhappy abode he was brought, three times a day, to a small room Mr
Schmidt had rented for the purpose, where he was given his training. At first, he had only to jump upon a box and through a Hoop; after that he was given his first few letters, and asked to choose
the one demanded; any mistake resulted in an instantaneous blow with the bamboo. He quickly learnt them all, but his Education then reached an
Impasse
, as Mr Schmidt was unable himself to
Spell or write anything more than his Name. A second, kinder, man was brought in; but despite their long acquaintance, he never learnt this man’s name, calling him simply ‘the
Gentleman’. This man trained him in spelling, reproving his mistakes with only a glance, and rewarding his better efforts with a piece of a turnip or a handful of sweet oats. As his ordinary
fare was the worst sort of swill, he laboured greatly to please this Gentleman, and within the next few months, was as capable a Speller as any schoolboy.

Once these lessons were complete, alas, my friend never saw the man again. Mr Schmidt enquired at
Astley
’
s
, and was told they had no further place for such an Act—but
from them he learnt the names of the acrobats with whom I had shared the bill, and tracked them down to Manchester, where they were then appearing. Sceptical at first, they eventually added him to
their programme on two nights of the week, and the interest of the Audience—stirred up, I do not doubt, by my own appearances in the same part of the Country—grew substantially. There
was nothing so self-evidently
Profitable
as to name this pig ‘Toby’ as well, for in that way the Public was readily led to believe him the very same animal, and indeed every
particle of his
Act
was modelled upon mine. In a few cases, such as the mind-reading trick, the system evaded the (rather limited) capacity of Mr Schmidt’s
understanding
, and so
it was simply left off the bills. By sundry turns, as the acrobatic troupe wound its way towards London for the autumn season, this act became their star attraction, but this proved to be of little
benefit to my
alter Ego.
For, just as his master gained in wealth and reputation, so he increased in
Cruelty
, even though there was no longer any Call for it, other than to satisfy
his degraded sense of Enjoyment, in the wilful infliction of Pain upon another.

The last few weeks had been the worst of his life, he told me: he had had to learn Latin, as his master knew it was sure to be part of our Contest. For this purpose, Mr Schmidt had brought in
another man, no gentleman in his conduct but apparently a Graduate of one of the Universities, and he was just as cruel and sharp as his master, if not more so. To be beaten for improperly
conjugating the verbs that signified Love, and Help, and Hope—
spero
,
speras
,
sperat
,
speramus!
—was a terrible thing indeed. When the contest was lost, he was
certain he was to be beaten viciously, or even sold to a slaughterhouse, as his master often threatened when he was in his
Cups
, but our arrival on the very evening of his defeat had saved
him from either fate, for which he was eternally Grateful.

And then this other Toby made a singular request—one that surprised me at the time, but which I now regard as a sure sign of his native
Wisdom
. He asked to have his Cards burnt, and
never to have to spell again. He knew that, were this done, he would never again be able to communicate with me or with any one, and while he regretted the loss, he considered that his life, looked
at in full, would be a far richer and happier one if he never again felt the taste of pasteboard in his mouth, or had to squint against the stage-lights amidst a jeering crowd as he trotted back
and forth. I endeavoured to persuade him to postpone so Rash and irrevocable a plan, to wait a while, and then to take a place alongside me, as my companion and my Cohort, and enjoy the kindest
treatment, never having to take the Stage again, if that were his wish. But he refused all my entreaties, both with kindness and with firmness, and so we at last consented to his Desire. The very
next day, we burnt his cards in the side-yard of Mr Sheldon’s museum, retaining only one—
P
—as a sort of souvenir. Mr Wilberforce, who as ever maintained the keenest
interest in the future of his porcine Ward, had provided him a permanent place at his farm at Marden Park in Surrey, where he would be for ever free from any demands, and kept in safety and comfort
until the end of his days, whenever that might be. Scarcely a week later, he was conveyed there by a hired coach; along with the rest of his London friends, I saw him off that chilly morning. We
lined up along the edge of the Tottenham-court Road, the men with their hats in their hands, and I received his final Token: the crimson waistcoat he had worn upon the stage. In the end, neither
our letters nor all our
Words
would have been of any comfort or use: we simply bade each other good-bye with our
Eyes
.

15

T
he abrupt retirement of my esteemed Comrade to his country residence left a deep and persistent feeling of melancholy in its wake. The mood was
further darkened by the news, which came only a few days later, of the death of Dr Adams, who had been such an excellent friend and patron of the Arts; in his absence, I knew, it would be
impossible for me to return to my studies at Oxford. I found myself at a strange
Impasse
, with disenchantment at every Door: I had little wish to return to the Stage, for the words of my
erstwhile rival had only strengthened my
Conviction
that such a Life was unsuited to any Animal with a sense of pride or dignity; but with the path to Learning now foreclosed, I knew not
where next to turn. Sam and I were quite content with each other’s Company, and Mr Sheldon was most anxious that we remain, and placed his private Library at our disposal as an enticement.
This, for a time, was contentment enough, as I was able at last to read according to my Pleasure, and spent many a profitable afternoon perusing the works of the Poets, among whom
Shakespeare
became a special favourite. Never the less, despite these rich and convenient pleasures, I was restless; having come of age upon the Road, I was ill at ease with a Sedentary
life, however well provided. There remained so much I had not seen, and I longed to travel to distant Lands, and take in the wonders of the habitable World.

But, as so often it chanced to happen in my singular career, I was soon obliged to set aside these plans, and acquiesce to the demands of the
Fashionable
world. Having taken a
subscription to the London
Chronicle
, I of course regularly browsed the columns in which Amusements were advertised, and was quite taken aback one day to discover that, once again, I had a
Rival upon the Stage—indeed, as it turned out, not just one but
Two
. The rage for educated Pigs—and horses, dogs, and even
Fish
—seemed unquenchable, and into the
Void my absence from the public Eye had left, stept many an upstart, and many a brutish
Imitator
. The first of these at first caused me great distress, as it seemed to me that here was
another poor, exploited creature—the notice spoke of the Pig’s
instant
compliance with its Master’s commands—and so of course I at once sent word to Mr Wilberforce,
and together we went to Mr Hughes’s Royal
Circus
, the rival of Mr Astley’s establishment, with a demand to see his new Act, and satisfy ourselves that the Animal concerned was
being treated humanely.

Mr Hughes, a sharp-faced man with the practised step and voice of a veteran showman, welcomed us into his office. As soon as he had heard our case, he burst out laughing uproariously, so much so
that he could scarce contain himself, despite Mr Wilberforce’s evident and growing anger. At last he held up his hands, resumed his serious demeanour, and bade us follow him into a room
behind the stage of the Circus, where the sundry stools, ladders, steps and other props of the show were kept. He led us around to a large pedestal of polished wood, upon which was a figure draped
with a linen sheet. Bowing, just as he would to open a new act, he at once drew back the cloth, to our utter and absolute amazement.

‘Gentlemen, behold! Here is the learned Pig you seek! And yet, I am afraid, you may find him a little
unresponsive
, as he’s badly in want of winding!’

There upon the plinth we saw a
Pig
indeed—a Pig of brass and silvered sheen, with hoofs of ebon and a nose of polished
Copper
, his eyes a pair of carbuncles and a tail of
twisted Iron. Up along one of the rear legs of the figure, we could see a number of wires and cogs, through which we surmised the actions of the figure were controlled. We had to laugh ourselves,
then, to see how we had been deceived—we had come to help a fellow creature, and had encountered only a clever
Facsimile
, a mere mechanical
manqué
whose
‘well-being’ would better be attended to with an oil-can and a polishing-cloth than with Oats or Straw. Mr Hughes then briefly explained the act, in which the pig would seem to eat, and
then excrete, its food, would stamp its forelegs for simple sums of Arithmetic, and then answer questions from the audience, shaking its head up and down for ‘Yes’ and from side to side
for ‘No’. It seemed to me a rather limited set of possibilities, but Mr Hughes assured us that, in the hands of the pig’s inventor and proprietor—the eminent
mechanic-showman Signor
Spinetti
—it provided ample material for a fifteen-minute pantomime, which formed the
Entr
’
acte
between the bareback riders and the
rope-dancers.