THE TRAINERS.
It is difficult to see how man would have fared if he had not
compelled the animals to serve him. The science of animal-training
must therefore date back to the earliest stages of the world’s
history; and we may believe that _artistic training_ is almost as
old. The dwellers in caves had not yet invented the game of fox and
geese, and they must have found some difficulty in amusing themselves
in the long winter evenings; they therefore probably taught their
dumb companions the art of leaping and showing off.
Now that animal-training has become a lucrative profession,
competition has forced the trainers to rival each other, and their
skill has obtained wonderful results. All the inmates of Noah’s Ark
have passed under the whip, from minute insects to Jumbo himself. Men
have tamed serpents, birds, cats, dogs, goats, monkeys, seals, and
pigs. In their desire to grasp and conquer increasing difficulties,
they have even [p108] taken the fleas from the animals they were
training, have bridled the fleas themselves, and taught them to draw
a carriage. Do you remember Virgil’s lines upon a stallion for the
first time subject to the yoke? The poet dwells with rapture upon the
vigorous bounds which wrench the plough from the furrows. What would
he have said of the spring of a flea, which, at liberty, jumps one
hundred and forty times its own height?
If you wish to know all the mysteries of animal-training, an art
based upon definite rules which vary very little in their application
to the instincts of the different pupils, I recommend you to read
a book which will surprise you. It was written by Professor G. J.
Romanes, secretary of the London Zoological Linnean Society, and
has been translated into French for the “International Scientific
Library.” It is called the _Intelligence of Animals_. You need
only glance at the first volume, which refers to the intelligence
of molluscs, ants, termites, white ants, spiders, scorpions, and
the lower articulated animals. But you should carefully study the
chapters in the second volume devoted to birds, the cat, dog,
baboons, and elephant. I fancy that if any of you are partisans of
the Cartesian doctrine, and hitherto only regarded animals as clocks
with better regulated machinery than our own, you will leave off
reading considerably shaken in your assurance.
The _saltimbanque_, who is not a creator of systems _à priori_,
but whose philosophy is purely experimental, has, for a long time,
observed the regularity with which animals follow the same habits.
Upon this observation he has based his method of training them.
[p109]
Whatever the animal may be which he wishes to train, he commences
by watching it closely, endeavouring to discover not only the usual
habits of the race, but the personal disposition of the individual in
question. One specimen raises itself naturally upon its hind legs,
another is born with a talent for jumping. . . . And this axiom
prevails in every case under training: “Animals are never forced to
execute, at the command and will of others, any movements which are
not natural to them in a free state.” Monkeys love to swing in the
tropical creepers: they are placed on a _trapèze_; a goat seeks for
pointed rocks—he is a natural equilibrist: so he is taught to balance
himself on the neck of a bottle; a dog instinctively rises on his
hind legs to seize a morsel of sugar held out to him. He must learn
to maintain himself in the same position.
[Illustration] [p110]
Guided by these remarks, a trainer enters upon his task. He will
attain his end if he judiciously uses the triple forces of _fear_,
_greediness_, and _habit_.
[Illustration]
The first time that you make a dog stand on its hind legs you have to
contend with the indolence which makes the animal wish to revert to
its usual position. Practise the [p111] lesson every day, and each
time reward the pupil with a lump of sugar. An association of ideas
will be soon formed in the dog’s mind: the disagreeable sensation
of _walking on its hind legs_ will be inseparably linked in its
memory with the pleasure of _crunching sugar_. And since the frequent
repetition of the same movement lessens the fatigue of maintaining a
vertical position, the dog will at last willingly perform the feat
which it at first disliked. On the other hand, it must be remembered
that the whip is always ready to punish any obstinacy or awkwardness,
and you will readily understand that a poodle, finding itself in the
dilemma of either walking upon its hind legs and receiving a dainty,
or of not walking and receiving a blow, at once chooses the polka.
[Illustration]
And here, in its simplicity, lies the whole secret of training
animals. Patience and regularity from the man, habit and greediness
in the animal. There is no other talisman. You have all seen a
pigeon-charmer on foot or on horseback; it is [p112] one of the
prettiest performances exhibited. A young woman is carried round the
arena at full gallop by her steed; she raises herself or crouches
down in graceful attitudes which show off the suppleness of her
figure. Behind her, like a mantle streaming in the wind, the white
flight of pigeons follows her movements. They alight on the arms,
neck, and shoulders of their mistress, who recalls one of the young
priestesses in the groves of Gnide, offering her rosy lips and soft
white throat to the caresses of her doves.
Now would you like to know the secret of her charm? It is explained
in an amusing _vaudeville_ of the old style—_Le Sourd, ou l’Auberge
pleine_.
“Would you like,” one of the characters in this farce remarks to his
companion, “Would you like me to tell you an infallible method of
catching birds? Well then, listen! You must strew some corn on your
window-sill—the little birds will come and eat it. Put it there a
second time—the little birds will come again. On the eighth day you
need not put any. The birds will come open mouthed . . . and they
will be caught.”
This is the whole secret of the pigeon-charmer. For seven days she
strewed corn in the folds of her mantle. The eighth day the pigeons
were charmed.
This is an almost mechanical movement; the certainty of success
arises from the strength of instinct and the weakness of intelligence.
[Illustration: PIGEON TAMER.]
With superior animals like the dog, the chances of failure are much
more numerous; but the same individual intelligence which renders
obedience more doubtful, authorizes the trainer to exact an effort
that surpasses intelligence from [p113] those picked performers
which he selects from amongst the pack. And Munito, who played
dominoes with his master, seems to have as much chance of being
remembered by posterity as Archimedes the Syracusian. One of his
companions, an unlucky mongrel, born in a gutter, caused all Paris to
throng to the Folies Bergères last year. Amongst his compeers he had
created the _rôle_ of the clown Auguste.
[Illustration]
This clever dog-clown would reach the springing-board at a gallop,
then stop short before the bar, pass under the chairs when the
hoop was held out to him, feign a sound and sonorous sleep when he
was told to perform. But all this was only shamming, intended to
evoke laughter from the audience. Suddenly the Merry-Andrew would
free himself from his collar, bound upon the board, and cleave
the air [p114] with such a wonderful spring that the greyhounds
refused to follow him, and it was necessary to catch him on a
mattress to prevent him from breaking his paws. Some months later
he broke his back in London in a still more dangerous performance.
The best doctors were sent for, but nothing could be done; he died
after a short struggle of sobs and howls. I met his master some
months afterwards, and spoke to him about his loss. He still wept
when he mentioned the poor clown, whom he had cherished with human
friendship. I listened to all his regrets, and his words reawakened a
sympathetic pang in my own heart.
[Illustration]
My lost favourite—a black poodle—was called Miette. She was not
clever, for she never even learnt to stand on her hind legs, but we
loved each other. At that time I lived on the banks of the Marne,
between Nogent and Joinville-le-Pont, a terribly deserted and
solitary district in winter. If Miette found that I did not return
home by the last train, she would break her chain and go and wait for
me near Reuilly, in the moats of Vincennes. She wished to escort me
through the woods, which, she felt, were by night full of possible
attacks and hidden peril. One day she was bitten by a mad dog. I did
not suspect the nature of the illness that followed, and endeavoured
to open her mouth and give her some medicine. She looked at me with
mad, supplicating eyes, seeming to say, “Leave me, my master, I do
not want to bite you.” When I knew what was the matter, I would not
leave the task of killing her to a veterinary surgeon, who might
have done it awkwardly perhaps. I led her into a thicket in that
forest of Vincennes which we had so frequently crossed together on
fine, silent, [p115] frosty nights, lighted only by the brilliance
of the stars. My heart ached with the agony of a man about to commit
a crime, who has led his friend into the corner of a wood [p116]
intending to perpetrate a cowardly murder. But it was necessary that
she should die. I made her lie down, put my revolver to her ear, and
fired.
Oh, my poor Miette! the long reproachful look you gave me ere your
eyes closed for ever—your loving, childlike eyes! I dug a hole and
gently laid you in the grave. I took off your collar—it still lies in
the drawer of my writing-table, my hand often touches it when I turn
over the confusion of papers. The little curb rings like halfpence
in a purse. And then I fancy that my poor Miette is moving round me;
that I hear her clumsy gallop on the wooden staircase; that in a
moment she will be scratching at the door.
Is there a better world, a paradise for these faithful servants of
mankind? I dare not assert that I believe so, and yet, in Dauphiné,
I once knew a dog who certainly cherished the hope of it. He was a
small curious-looking yellow mastiff, a dog of a divine race which
the Emperor of China had given as a choice present to a French
diplomat. He resembled a beast in heraldry, or one of those strange
monsters that we see writhing and baying on painted vases and reliefs
in bronze. Transported into France, the Chinese had crossed with
every breed of dogs for ten leagues round, and had created a race of
fantastic-looking animals which showed the curious type of the father
blended with every variation of the canine form. Towards the end of
his life, when I made his acquaintance, he had become a dreamer. He
spent whole days with his head resting upon his paws, his eyes fixed,
lost in his recollections. One autumn evening we went out upon a
terrace to enjoy the brilliant night; we found him immovable upon a
flagstone; his head was raised [p117] towards the sky, his eyes,
shining like carbuncles, seemed to pierce the heavens, gazing upon a
definite point beyond. His master was puzzled, and called him three
times:
“Kiang! Kiang! Kiang!”
But he remained motionless, like a bronze chimera, soaring far above
us in his ecstasy.
On the morrow he was found dead in his kennel.
[Illustration]
I have often thought since that he had some presentiment of his
approaching death, and that he heard the distant baying of Sirius’s
hounds—of those dogs, sons of heaven, who hunt the Bear, and through
all eternity assuage their divine thirst in the fountains of the
Milky Way.
Although the grimaces of the monkey may be amusing, the dog’s
capacity for affection has won a higher place in my esteem. I am
wrong; for if a poodle be very near to us by its heart and its
delicacy of feeling, a monkey is more closely akin to humanity
through its gestures and form. Darwin has written very cleverly on
this subject. A baby of four years old, whom I took to the Corvi
Theatre the other day, [p118] and who had not read Darwin, cried
out, when the dishonest cook appeared:
“Look! it’s a little negro!”
You all know the popular performance of _The Roman Orgie_ by Couture.
Behind a table well provided with biscuits and nuts, a company of
baboons, ourang-outangs, and brown monks is seated. They are dressed
like Peruvian generals, and each has a napkin tucked into his collar.
A poor little monkey, tricked out in a town-crier’s old clothes, with
a white cap and apron, waits upon his comrades, gambolling round the
table. In his right hand he holds a lighted candle; in the left a
basket, which he dances by its handle. Ah! yes, that head cook! he
dances it by the handle morally and materially.[6] You see, he is
weighing his provisions on the sly, and seizing a mouthful whenever
M. Corvi is not looking.
The same entertainment has gone on ever since our childhood, and
since the infancy of your father and grandfather. And, as it would be
difficult to believe that the head cook is a sexagenarian, we must
conclude that a whole generation of actors have worn the apron and
carried the candle without our remarking any change.
To satisfy myself on this point, I questioned M. Corvi himself on the
subject.
[Illustration]
“My show,” he kindly answered, “is really a permanent
entertainment. As it entirely consists of scenes in which goats,
monkeys, poodles, and ponies are the sole actors, I keep a reserve
staff, behind the scenes, of understudies of [p119] every part.
In the pantomime called _The Deserter_, you will no longer find
one single artist belonging to the original caste. I have already
replaced the judge, the gendarmes, the [p120] prisoner, and the
gravediggers, just as consumption or gout made vacancies in my
troupe. The actors pass, the play remains. No one here is absolutely
necessary. If I lost my first leading gentleman to-morrow—he is
a baboon named Coquelin _aîné_—the play would not be interrupted
for one single day. We should replace him by his understudy—she is
called Coquelin _cadet_—and neither the nurses nor the babies, who
are our subscribers for Tuesdays, would ever discover the change of
performer.”
M. Corvi is one of the last representatives of the old-fashioned
trainers, who wore evening dress or a frock-coat, like M. Loyal, when
they exhibited their pupils in the arena. Modern trainers prefer a
clown’s dress, and their intentionally grotesque appearance is very
effective when accompanied by ridiculous animals like the pig and the
donkey.
The terrible Onos, compared by Homer to the divine Ajax, the ass
himself, is now drawn by the ears into the arena by a clown. Perhaps
you already know that the male ass is a dangerous animal. He may be
chosen from a small race, but his bite will still be formidable,
and therefore the halter, which only seems to decorate his head, is
really a strong muzzle, and his hoofs are never shod. In spite of
these precautions the clown must be very agile to evade the kicks
showered full at his chest, and must be careful not to miss his
spring over the bench when Master Aliboron charges at him across the
arena like a bull rushing at a picador.
The appearance even of the pig has the power of delighting the crowd,
and who can resist laughing when the clown approaches his pupil and
shouts:
“Come here, pig!” [p121]
“Eh?” asks M. Loyal.
“I’m not talking to you.”
Although the training of the pig may still seem imperfect, the
education of this animal requires extreme patience from its teacher.
An Irish proverb quoted to me by Billy Hayden says: “Beat your wife
with a cudgel and your pig with a straw.” And, truly, the pig’s
bristling skin is so sensitive that the least touch of the whip
covers it with blisters, and disgusts the animal with all work for
ever. Only coaxing and kindness must be used.
[Illustration]
The elephant is, perhaps, the only beast yet stricter than the pig in
regard to politeness. [p122]
This animal, which the trainer Corradini at the Hippodrome, and the
brothers Lockhart in most places have exhibited with so much success,
possesses all the passions and all the feelings of man.
I quite agree with you that some of the stories quoted to us about
elephants require confirmation, and I always feel some distrust in
reading the anecdote, related by Plutarch (_De Solert. Anim._ cap.
xii.), of an elephant which had been punished for dancing badly, and
was afterwards discovered practising its steps alone in the moonlight.
But there is scientific evidence of the magnanimity of the elephant,
of its deep sense of duty and self-respect.
Griffiths, whose good faith cannot be doubted, quotes one very
characteristic incident proving this self-respect. At the siege of
Bhurtpore, after the English had been encamped for some time before
the walls of the city, the dry winds set in and soon evaporated all
the water in the reserved ponds; this led to great competition round
the last well which contained any. One day two drivers were at the
edge of the well with their elephants; one of the beasts, which
was of remarkable size, seeing its companion use a pail to draw up
the water, forcibly wrenched it away. Whilst the two keepers were
joking, the victim, though conscious of the injury, restrained its
resentment. But when the thief bent over the edge of the well to
reach the water, the smaller elephant made a terrible spring, and
throwing itself with lowered head upon its enemy, sent it rolling
into the cistern.
[Illustration]
This pride, when once overcome, is of great assistance to the
trainer, but it sometimes produces a tragedy. When elephants are
tamed, the presence of the monitor elephants [p123] can usually
be dispensed with at the end of two months, and the prisoner is
afterwards ridden by its keeper. At the end of three or four months
it is sufficiently docile to work, but there is some danger in
subjecting it to this ordeal too abruptly, for it frequently happens
that an adult and perfectly [p124] healthy elephant will lie down
and die after it has worn harness for the first time. The natives
then say that it died of a _broken heart_; in any case, the death is
not caused by either illness or wounds. (Sir E. TENNENT, _loc. cit._
p. 216.)
I have also found, amongst the _Memoirs_ of the actor, Charles Young,
published by his son, the Rev. Julius Young, an anecdote which well
illustrates the sagacity and affectionate sensibility of these huge
pachyderms.
The newspapers had announced the arrival in England of the largest
elephant that had ever been seen. Henry Harris, the manager of
Covent Garden Theatre, at once purchased Chung—that was the animal’s
name—for exhibition in a pantomime entitled _Harlequin_, which he
had mounted very expensively. Harris paid 900 guineas for the beast.
Mrs. Henry Johnston was to ride it, and Miss Parker was to act as
columbine. But at the general rehearsal, when Chung reached a bridge
over a cascade which he was expected to cross, he refused to step
upon it, distrusting its solidity, and not without reason. In vain
the angry keeper punished him by pricking him behind the ear with an
iron goad. With lowered eyes and pendent ears, the enormous animal
stood in a pool of blood, motionless as a wall.
[Illustration]
The captain of the vessel which had brought Chung over, came in
during the contest between the man and the elephant. He had become
fond of the beast, and often fed it with dainties. The animal
had scarcely recognized its friend when it approached him with a
supplicating air, gently took his hand in its trunk and placed it in
the bleeding wound, then held the hand up to the captain’s eyes. The
gesture [p126] said as clearly as words: “See how they have made me
suffer!”
Poor Chung appeared so unhappy that every one was touched, even the
cruel keeper. To win pardon the man ran out and bought some apples,
which he offered to the elephant. But Chung disdainfully threw them
away. The captain, who had also fetched some fruit from Covent Garden
Market, came back immediately afterwards and held it out to Chung. He
willingly accepted it, and after eating it, coiled his trunk gently
round his protector’s waist.
Since no one has yet succeeded in exhibiting a learned whale, the
elephant is the largest animal that has been taught obedience to
man. Chung’s adventures would therefore seem a fitting close to this
monograph on training.
Yet I wish to crown this chapter by an account of the training of an
animal of very different size—the cat. And although this sequence
may seem curious to you, it is chosen for at least two reasons;
first, that the appearance of a trained domestic cat is the latest
achievement of the trainer’s art; and secondly, that I am not sure
whether the conquest of the cat is a triumph of _training_ or of
_taming_. There is, in fact, as much ground for regarding the cat as
a wild beast, as for considering it a domestic animal.
Hitherto we have believed, on the authority of M. de Buffon, the
systematic detractor of the cat, that it was an untamable animal. The
great naturalist states that “it will not allow any one to influence
its idle, thieving instincts.”
The cat has waited for nearly a century, but at last this slander can
be refuted; its falsehood is clearly proved.
Nearly twenty years ago a child was born in a Dutch [p127] village,
who, from an early age, showed unusual skill in taming and training
animals.
[Illustration]
When the youth was seventeen—his name is Bonnetty—he introduced
learned rabbits, hares, and guinea pigs, into the arena, so
wonderfully trained that even the Dutch, who are not, as a rule, easy
to move, were much astonished. However Bonnetty was not going to stop
yet. Tempted by the great difficulty of the feat, he determined to
prove that M. de Buffon was unjust to the cat, and with rare patience
he devoted himself to the education of that animal.
He chose two subjects, both Dutch, like himself, cats from Hooren—M.
Bonnetty had remarked, after much [p128] observation, that the cats
from that district are particularly docile—and he spent some months
in training them; then one by one he added comrades to them, until he
had twenty; the instinct of imitation assisted the later recruits to
learn more rapidly.
The first exercise consisted in making the cat jump at the word of
command.
“_Vooruit!_” cries M. Bonnetty, who speaks nothing but Dutch.
The cat does not _vooruit_ all at once. It pauses undecided; very
often it does not understand. But Bonnetty never loses patience.
With a gentle hand, which resembles velvet in its touch, he softly
caresses the cat’s spine, quite determined not to be angry, yet
equally decided not to yield the point. At last the cat realizes what
is required of it, and jumps.
This first step gained, the after-work of education proceeds more
quickly. The animal gets used to walking on the backs of chairs and
the necks of bottles, or to leaping over flaming circles. But there
is one decisive trial to pass through—that of appearing before the
public.
M. Bonnetty has had some cats, perfectly obedient in rehearsal, which
could not be induced to perform to the sound of music before a crowd
of spectators. They coiled themselves up in a corner of their little
house, returning suddenly to a wild state.
“I cannot treat them as I would dogs,” M. Bonnetty observed to me,
“by interpreting my wishes through a whip. All violence is useless
with them; I can only count upon what it pleases them to do; and my
cats and I always treat each other with the utmost courtesy.” [p129]
And in a moment of effusion his eyes suddenly filled with tears, and
the cat-tamer related to me the story of an incomparable cat that he
had lost in Brussels last May.
[Illustration]
“Ah! monsieur, he was a cat that I can never replace. He would leap
over fourteen chairs with one bound, at more than a yard and a half
high.
“But you know what artists are: great children, all of them. On the
very evening that we reached Brussels, I went to see my animals
an hour before the performance. I found that Thommech had made
his escape. The poor fellow was high on the tiles rushing after a
Brussels cat that had turned his head. He tried to leap from one roof
to another on the opposite side of the [p130] street. He fell, and
when I picked him up from the pavement he was dying.
“Since then, monsieur,” continued M. Bonnetty, after a moment’s
sorrowful silence, “I have made one great resolution: I have now only
sultanas in my troupe, and the keepers of the harem.”
[Illustration]
Like Bidel, who introduced a sheep into the cage with his lions, M.
Bonnetty has forced his cats to live in harmony with mice and birds.
A flock of Dutch canaries is perched upon a cord stretched across the
circus; near them some white mice and dappled grey rats are quietly
resting. The tamer then opens the door of the cats’ palace, and
in Indian file all the band of artists, _Thiber_, _Jano_, _Moor_,
_Edward_, _Paris_, _Brussel_, _Boulanger_, _Djeh_, _Brutus_, and
_César_, march slowly out [p131] striding over the rodents and
birds, some of which fly off and fearlessly return, alighting on the
heads of the cats.
[Illustration]
The first interviews between a new rat and a new cat are really
amusing. M. Bonnetty delicately holds each of his pupils by the skin
of the neck, and forces them to look at each other, at first holding
them at a respectful distance, but afterwards gradually drawing them
nearer together, until at last they can touch each other’s nose.
“This proves,” M. Bonnetty said to me, “that the worst enemies are
always interested in knowing each other.”
I remember that we parted after this philosophic reflection.
I went home and found my own cat lying before the smouldering
fire. He was asleep, crouched in his usual sphinx-like attitude. I
approached him gently and said:
“My friend, hitherto I have misunderstood you. I beg your pardon.
“The friendship of so many great men who, from Théophile Gautier to
Sylvestre Bonnard, have venerated you as a god, might have warned me
that I was wrong to distrust you.
“Forgive me. Bonnetty has proved to me that you are neither indocile
nor cruel; henceforth I will live with you in greater intimacy, on
terms of confidential affection.”
And whilst pussy purred loudly in the warmth of the dying embers, I
bent over him and softly murmured, like a religious invocation, the
beautiful sonnet written by Jules Lemaître, the gentle friend of cats
and of myself: [p132]
[Illustration]
Mon chat, hôte sacré de ma vieille maison,
De ton dos électrique arrondis la souplesse,
Viens te pelotonner sur mes genoux, et laisse
Que je plonge mes doigts dans ta chaude toison.
Ferme à demi, les reins émus d’un long frisson,
Ton œil vert qui me raille et pourtant me caresse,
Ton œil vert semé d’or qui, chargé de paresse,
M’observe d’ironique et bénigne façon.
Tu n’as jamais connu, philosophe, ô vieux frère,
La fidélité sotte et bruyante du chien;
Tu m’aimes cependant, et mon cœur le sent bien.
Ton amour clairvoyant et peut-être éphémère
Me plaît; et je salue en toi, calme penseur,
Deux exquises vertus: scepticisme et douceur.
My cat, the sacred guest of my old home,
Thy sleek electric back now curve for me.
Come nestle on my knee and let my fingers roam
In the warm glossy fur that clotheth thee.
Half closed, now thou hast ended that long yawn,
Thine emerald eye, half scornful its caress,
Thine emerald eye, gleaming with golden rays
That idly kind, yet mocking o’er me plays.
Philosopher, old brother, thou hast not known
The faithful, noisy friendship of the dog,
Yet my heart feels the love that thou hast shown.
Thy clear seeing, perhaps ephemeral affection,
Contents me; and in thee calm sage I greet
Scepticism and meekness, virtues exquisite.
[Illustration]
FOOTNOTES:
[6] To “dance the basket” is the French idiom for the pilfering of
the cook.
[p133] [Illustration]