Insect House, with some design of making trial of the tarantula spider,
our violinist having a theory of his own that spiders had a liking for
harmonious sound; partly, too, from a mixed feeling that the tarantula,
whose bite makes others dance, should itself have a feeling for musical
numbers. Apparently the tarantula’s powers are objective only, for it
remained in its corner sulky and unmoved. But a nest of scorpions was
less indifferent. After the piece of bark behind which these venomous
creatures were lurking had been gently overturned, and they had settled
down to their usual semi-slumbrous state, the violinist played chords,
at first gentle and melodious, then rising to a high and sustained
series of piercing notes. In a few moments, one after another, the
creatures began to move, the mass became violently agitated, and the
torpid scorpions awoke into a writhing tangle of legs and claws and
stings. When the sounds ceased, they became still; when the loud, shrill
notes were played again, they were again agitated. The talking mynah,
which lives in the same room, sprang from end to end of its cage with
ecstatic hops, and whistled and coughed, and gave evidence that it at
least was a critical listener to the rival musician. The pretty dappled
Axis deer, which live in a little paddock by the path, were our next
audience; and as we passed them on our way to the snakes’ house, a few
soft chords were played by way of trial. The deer were at once
attracted, and drew near the railings, with ears pointed forward. While
low, pathetic chords were played, they stood still, panting, but not
unpleased. At a sudden discord they sprang back, and shook their heads.
Loud, quick music followed; but this failed to please, they stood
further off, stamped, and shook their heads again, looking excited and
defiant. But we had not come to play to the deer that day. The snakes
and pythons were our object, the more so as we could play to these
without interruption from the interested visitors, whose inconvenient
attention our enterprise was beginning to attract.
“Behind the scenes” in the new Reptile House lies a most interesting
region; and Orpheus has a prescriptive right of entry to the arcana of
the serpent-world. We explained the object of our visit,—
“Cessit immanis mihi blandienti
Janitor aulæ!”
and we were most kindly taken to the private side of snake-land at the
Zoo. There, if we may not “breakfast on basilisks’ eggs,” as in the land
of Cleopatra’s asp, we may at least see the creature that does breakfast
on basilisks’ eggs, the great monitor lizard, which eats the eggs of the
crocodile—or of hens at the Zoo, where crocodiles’ eggs are scarce.
There too we may see young basilisks, or crocodiles, frisking in a
homely watering-pot; young rats too, by the score, parti-coloured and
piebald, the destined food of serpents, but meantime in high spirits and
playfully squeaking. It was the very place for a chamber concert to the
cobras, for the thick plate-glass before the cages shuts out the sound
of the curious crowd in front, while in the back of each compartment is
a small square iron door, like those through which food is passed in
model prisons to the inmates of the cells. This door, in the case of the
poisonous snakes, is set high above the ground, and is reached by a set
of steps which travels on a rail. It is therefore possible to observe
the creatures’ movements while the player of the music is out of sight
below.
[Illustration:
AXIS DEER LISTENING. From a photograph by Gambier Bolton.
]
The “dweller on the threshold” of the snakes’ home is the monitor
lizard, an active and formidable saurian some 5 ft. in length, whose
watchful habits were said to give warning of the approach of the
crocodile. It did not belie its reputation for watchfulness, for the
instant that it heard the sounds of the violin through its opened door,
it raised its head, and stood alert and listening. Then the forked
tongue came out and played incessantly round its lips; soft, slow music
followed, and the lizard became quite still, except for a gentle swaying
of the head from side to side. Two groups of black snakes from the
Robben Islands next claimed our attention, and gave some evidence of the
way in which the physical conditions of the moment affect the
sensibilities of these creatures. In the first cage, they remained
absolutely torpid, looking exactly as if carved out in polished ebony.
In the next, the heads were raised at once, the forked tongues played,
and at a sudden discord each snake’s head started violently back. Nor
was this quick repulsion caused by any sudden movement of the bow, for
the player was invisible. In the next cages to these were some small
boas, and Madame Paulus’s pythons, with which that lady used to perform
in a tank at the Royal Aquarium. The pythons showed no signs of
interest, except by a quickened respiration; but a boa was at once
attracted by the music. As it worked along the rounded rim of its
circular bath in the direction of the sounds, it gave a beautiful
exhibition of that snake-movement for which we have no name—neither
crawling nor creeping, but gently enveloping portions of the surface on
which it lay with its lower scales, and advancing noiselessly and almost
imperceptibly. Arrived at the side of the bath nearest to the door, it
extended its head with a kind of tremulous motion until it obtained a
view of the violin. It remained for some minutes motionless, with its
eye fixed upon the instrument, until the music became loud and strident.
Then, in sinuous folds, it dropped like some viscous fluid to the
ground, and slowly advanced to the door, from which it was gently put
back by its keeper.
But the cobra is the snake to which all tradition points as most
susceptible to musical sounds, and we prepared to watch its attitude
towards the violin with no little excitement and curiosity. The accounts
of Indian residents mainly agree in saying that the snake-charmer does
influence these serpents by the monotonous notes of his little bagpipes;
that as soon as the sound is heard, the snake rises, spreads its hood,
and often waves its head from side to side in some sort of time to the
music; and that, under these conditions, these venomous serpents may be
handled with impunity. The last claim of the snake-charmer is perhaps
over-bold. The snakes appear generally to have their fangs drawn. But in
any case, opinion agrees that the sound of the pipes does attract and
interest the cobra. Wild cobras are also induced by the pipe-player to
come out from the holes in old wells or ruins in which they have taken
up their residence, the snake being noosed when its body is sufficiently
clear of the hole to enable it to be jerked away by the snake-charmer’s
partner.
The behaviour of the cobras at the Zoo more than justified the Indian
stories. We selected for our serenade a large yellow Indian cobra, which
was lying coiled up asleep on the gravel at the bottom of its cage. At
the first note of the violin, the snake instantly raised its head, and
fixed its bright yellow eye with a set gaze on the little door at the
back. The music then gradually became louder, and the snake raised
itself in the traditional attitude on its tail, and spread its hood,
slowly oscillating from one side to the other as the violin played
waltz-time. There was a most strangely “interested” look in the cobra’s
eye and attitude at this time, and the slightest change in the volume or
character of the music was met by an instantaneous change in the
movements or poise of the snake. At the tremolo, it puffed its body out.
A rattlesnake in the next cage was also listening intently at the same
time, with its head drawn back, and slowly rising and falling. But it
was less apparently sensitive than the cobra. The violin suddenly
reproduced the sound of the bagpipes, which greatly excited the snake;
and as the “drone” was put on to the tune of “The Keel Row,” its hood
expanded to its utmost dimensions. Soft minor chords were then played,
and a sudden sharp discord struck without warning. The snake flinched
whenever this was done, as if it had been struck, and this, it may be
worth noting, was subsequently found to be a general effect of discords
on most animals of a higher organization. The results of these further
experiments were naturally more easy to detect and record than in the
case of the snakes; but it may be taken as established, that at the Zoo
there are serpents that are not yet deaf to the voice of the charmer,
even if he lack the training of Eastern magicians.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
ORPHEUS AT THE ZOO.
THE SECOND VISIT.
THE result of the first experiments made upon animals with musical
sounds, was such as to invite a second visit by the violin-player to the
inmates of the Zoo. The sun was shining brightly, and most of the
animals were just awaking from their morning sleep. Some were not yet
awake. The two Polar bears were lying fast asleep in an affectionate
embrace, their noses touching, and each with one paw laid on its
companion’s side, while the other grasped its friend’s. Both were
dreaming, like dogs on a hearth-rug, and gave slight starts and sounds
from time to time and movements of their feet and paws. We seated
ourselves on the balustrade of the bridge above, and serenaded the
bears. The young one awoke at once, and slowly rolled over, stretched
itself, and as the music increased in volume, came out into the main
cage to listen. The violin was some ten feet above the level on which
the bear was standing. In order to get nearer the sound, it stood up on
its hind-legs, and listened intently. It then retired, and began to walk
backwards and forwards, uttering some half-formed sound. But a fresh
burst of music from the violin once more brought it to the front, where
it stood up, and, spreading its arms wide on either side, pushed its
muzzle between the bars. When the musician descended from the balcony
and went close to the cage, the bear at once crossed to the place, and
sat down to listen, occasionally putting its paws through the bars to
try and reach the instrument. It was not until we had ceased to play for
some time that the bear left its place against the bars, and sought
refreshment in a morning tub. The two grizzly bears, at the first chord
struck, assumed at once an air of the most comic and critical attention,
each with its head on one side, and its paws clasping the bars. A sudden
discord made both bears start back, and the lively tone of “The Keel
Row” set them walking up and down the cage. In the Lion House, every
head turned to the first sound of the violin; as the strains continued,
the largest lion, to whom the music was more particularly addressed,
began to wave the black tuft on its tail from side to side; and a
lioness, which had been asleep in the inner cage, walked straight out
towards the violin, and tried to push the lion from its “front seat.”
But by this time so much public interest was awakened in our experiment
that we were obliged to forego our concert to the lions, and seek an
audience less subject to interruption. There is a German tale of a
fiddler pursued by wolves who was saved by the accidental breaking of a
string of his fiddle. The sound of the breaking string frightened the
wolves for the moment, and afterwards, the legend adds, he kept them
from pulling him from the roof of the hut on which he had taken refuge
by playing continuously. The story of the breaking string frightening
the wolves, so far agreed with our experience of the effect of sudden
and sharp discords on various animals, that it was decided to make the
experiment upon the wolves. The result went far to show that the old
legend of their fear of music is based on fact. The common European wolf
set up its back, and drew back its lips into a fixed and hideous sneer,
showing all its teeth to the gums, with its tail between its legs. The
Indian wolf showed signs of extreme and abject fear. It trembled
violently, its fur was erected, and cowering down till its body almost
touched the ground, it retreated to the furthest corner of the cage.
When the music was played at the back of the cage, where the musician
was invisible, its alarm was in no degree abated. It crept to the door
to listen, and then sprang back and cowered against the bars in front of
the cage, and so continued in alternate spasms of curiosity and fear.
The jackals and some of the wilder foxes were only less alarmed than the
wolves. The female jackals ran back to their inner den and hid
themselves. The male erected its fur until it appeared as rough as an
Esquimaux dog, and crept backwards and forwards, with its lips curled
back, opening and shutting its mouth, growling whenever a strong
discordant note was struck. The scene at this time was extremely
amusing. The prairie wolves next door sat down to listen, the African
jackals sat on a shelf and watched, and the performance was overlooked
from a distance by a nervous but highly interested row of foxes of
various sizes and colours, all sitting on the party-walls which divide
their cages from the wolves and dingoes. It was like a picture from an
illustrated edition of _Æsop’s Fables_. The foxes in the large cages
came forward readily to listen to the music, though the usual experiment
of striking a discord startled them greatly. But the rough fox from
Demerara, in a small cage behind the building, was so violently alarmed
that the keeper requested that the music might cease, for fear the
creature should “have a fit,” to which ailment it appears that foxes and
wolves are very subject. As might be expected, the sheep found pleasure
in sounds which terrified the wolves. The _burrhel_, or wild sheep of
the Himalayas, all came forward to listen, their ears pointed forward to
catch the sounds. Some even stood up, and placing their fore-feet
against the palings, stretched their necks in the direction of the
music. Our violinist appropriately chose “The Shepherd’s Call” in
_William Tell_, and this served to engage their intention more than “The
Keel Row” or any more violent airs. Like almost all other creatures,
they were startled at a discord. In the row of sheep-sheds, the music
drew out all the inmates, the Markhor and the Cretan ibex coming forward
to listen, and walking back to their food when the music stopped. The
old Indian wild boar was an unexpected and appreciative convert to the
charms of music. It was lying fast asleep in the sun, with its back
towards the musician; but at the first chords it rose and faced round
towards the player. After listening attentively, with ears forward, the
boar began a series of complacent grunts, and advanced to the front of
the pen, until disconcerted by a sharp discordant note, which drove it
back several feet. The wild swine from Spain and Africa were also much
interested in the music. For some unknown reason, the sounds which
pleased the boars offended the African elephant. Setting up its huge,
flapping ears, it flung up its trunk, snorted and whistled like a
steam-engine, driving its head against the rails, and exhibiting every
mark of anger and dislike. The Indian bison and the gayal both brought
forward their broad ears to listen, and, resting their muzzles against
the railings, seemed to enjoy the sounds; a sharp discord caused them to
start back, and produced the same effect on the zebras and African wild
ass, both of which listened to the harmonious chords with pleasure, and
followed the musician from one side of their stall to another. But it
was in the Monkey House that the music caused the greatest wonder and
excitement. The large apes—two of which will never hear the violin
again, for “Sally” and the young ourang-outang have both died since our
visit—were more frightened than pleased. “Tim,” the silver gibbon, was
much agitated, opening and shutting his mouth, and waving his long arms
about, until two loud discordant notes were played, when he came flying
down from his tree, and flung himself against the bars. The young
ourang-outang turned his back at once, and made off to the top of his
cage, from which not even a banana would tempt him. “Sally” listened
gravely, with her hands crossed and a far-off look in her eyes, until a
strong crescendo was played, when she made an audible and perfectly
articulate remark, though we were unable to record its meaning. Outside
the large monkey house, a large Tcheli monkey was sitting in a cage
apart, thoughtfully chewing a stick. At the sound of the violin, it gave
a violent start and frowned, which, however, is not a necessary sign of
displeasure in monkey physiognomy. When sudden discords were played, it
sprang forward and rattled the bars. The Capuchin monkeys, the species
selected by Dr. Garnier for his experiments in monkey language, showed
the strangest and most amusing excitement. These pretty little creatures
have wonderfully expressive and intelligent pink faces, with
bright-brown eyes and pink lips, and the play and mobility of their
faces and bodies while listening to the music was extraordinarily rapid.
The three in the first cage at first rushed up into their box, and then
all peeped out chattering and excited. One by one they came down and
listened to the music with intense curiosity, shrieking and making faces
at a crescendo, shaking the wires at a discord, and putting their heads
upside-down in efforts of acute criticism at low and musical passages.
Every change of note was marked by some alteration of expression in the
faces of the excited little monkeys, and a series of discordant notes
roused them to a passion of rage. Most of the other monkeys came up to
listen; the Malbrook monkey dropped the clay pipe he was making-believe
to smoke, and the white-nosed monkey stole a lady’s veil and picked it
thoughtfully to pieces. But a big baboon recently brought to the Gardens
assumed a most comic look of disgust and surprise, and walked off to the
utmost limits of its chain.
It is easier to give a record of such experiments than to speak with
confidence of the feelings excited in our various listeners. Darwin,
while giving many instances of the expression of anger, pain, and fear,
gives few of the expression of pleasure, or the milder emotions of
curiosity and contentment. It will not, however, be difficult to show
that in many cases the animals at the Zoo did exhibit pleasure and
curiosity in a very marked degree; while strange to say, in the case of
others, anger or fear was shown in all the modes which Darwin has
described. With the behaviour of the wolves we may compare his
description of the characteristic expression of fear in carnivorous
animals, by erecting the hair and uncovering the teeth and trembling.
“Cattle and sheep,” says the great naturalist, “are remarkable for
displaying their emotions in a very slight degree, except that of
extreme pain.” But in the case of the wild sheep, and even of the wild
cattle, the pleasure and curiosity aroused by the music was plainly
shown, as we have described above, by their instant attention and their
approach towards the sounds. At the sudden discords they instantly
showed displeasure by stamping the feet and retiring. The African
elephant gave unmistakable signs of anger; the wild boar and pigs, of
pleasure and curiosity; and among others which shared these amiable
emotions, were beyond doubt the zebras, wild asses, Polar and grizzly
bears, and the ant-eater. No creature seemed wholly indifferent except
the seals, and the sudden start and displeasure at a discord was almost
universal, from the snakes to the African elephant. There are many men,
perhaps many races of men, who could not detect a discord, and would be
indifferent alike to harmony and its opposite. Must we not, then, infer
that, owing to some greater sensitiveness of the organ, most animals
have a musical ear, and that the stories of Orpheus and his lute have,
at any rate, a basis in the facts of animal æsthetics?
------------------------------------------------------------------------
ORPHEUS AT THE ZOO.
THE CHOICE OF INSTRUMENTS.
“Last came Joy’s ecstatic trial;
He with viny crown advancing,
First to the lively pipe his hand addrest;
But soon he saw the brisk awakening viol,
Whose sweet entrancing voice he loved the best.”
IN a former trial of the effects of sweet sounds on animals’ ears at the
Zoo, our Orpheus was so far in character that he played but one
instrument; and though the violin did duty for the classic lute, the
audience was in many cases as responsive as in the groves of Thessaly,
when music still was young. Our object so attained, curiosity went no
further, though if a matter-of-fact and scientific age demands “results”
as a natural sequence to experiments, however playful, we would sum up
the conclusions then reached as follows:—All animals, except the cobras
and the wolves, showed pleasure and curiosity when listening to soft and
melancholy music; and all exhibited extreme dislike of loud, harsh,
discordant sounds. Minor keys in all cases seemed most appreciated, and
in some animals, such as the mountain sheep, the bears, and the wolves,
they produced the strangest results—in the first two of pleasure, in the
last of fear. But though the violin-player is master of many sounds, and
can even imitate the drone of the bagpipe, which the cobras so much
enjoyed, it still remained to make trial of our hearers with other
sounds than those of the tuneful strings. Animals, like the Passions,
might have their favourite instrument, if only it could be found, and
Orpheus, with his lute, could be matched against the shepherd’s pipe, or
could watch the emotion of his animal admirers while melancholy “poured
through the mellow horn her pensive soul.” Respect for the peaceful
early hours at the Zoo induced us to forego, for the time, the trial of
instruments of brass. But it was thought that the contrasts of the
violin, the flute, and the shrill and piping piccolo, might afford some
guide to animals’ taste in instrumental music, without injury either to
their own nerves, or to the comfort of visitors to the Gardens. The hour
chosen was the earliest which the rules for securing the animals’
comfort allowed; for the tests to be made were far more delicate than
those by which we had proved the general susceptibility of animals to
musical sound, and demanded the undivided attention of our captive
hearers. The general order of our experiments, based upon the
supposition that animal nerves are not unlike our own, was so arranged
that their attention should be first arrested by a low and
gradually-increasing volume of sound, in those melodious minor keys
which experience showed them to prefer. The piccolo was then to follow,
in shrill and high-pitched contrast. And, lastly, the mellow wood-notes
of the flute were to soothe away whatever ruffled feelings the less
tuneful piccolo had aroused. In case the creatures showed any marked
preference for the flute over the violin, then the flute was to take
precedence.
There is a curious attraction in watching these half-human appeals to
animal emotion, and marking the quick look of interest and surprise
visible in most of their faces, as the sweet sounds gradually steal on
their senses, and the growth of pleasure—or fear—as the creature springs
to its feet, and either advances eagerly to listen, or with bristling
hair retreats to the farthest corner of the den, until perhaps pleasure
or curiosity overcomes their terror at the unusual sounds. Pleasure or
dislike are often most strongly shown where least expected, and the
result of our last experiment goes to show that the tiger has stronger
dislikes, if not stronger preferences, in the musical scale than the
most intellectual anthropoid apes.