We are glad to repeat this anecdote, although some may call it “stale and old.” The last time we were at the Zoological Gardens, in the Regents Park, London, we saw a lion very kindly come and rub itself against the rails of its den, on seeing a turbaned visitor come up, who addressed it. The man had been kind to it on its passage home. It was by no means a tame lion, nor one that its keeper would have ventured to touch.
Sir George Davis and the Lion
Steele, in the 146th Guardian (August 28, 1713. Chalmers’s edition of British Essayists, Vol. XVIII, p. 116), has followed up a paper by Addison, on the subject of lions, and gives an anecdote sent him, he says, by “a worthy merchant and a friend of mine,” who had it in the year 1700 from the gentleman to whom it happened.
“About sixty years ago, when the plague raged at Naples, Sir George Davis, consul there for the English nation, retired to Florence. It happened one day he went out of curiosity to see the great duke’s lions. At the farther end, in one of the dens, lay a lion, which the keepers in three years’ time could not tame, with all the art and gentle usage imaginable. Sir George no sooner appeared at the grates of the den, but the lion ran to him with all the marks of joy and transport he was capable of expressing. He reared himself up, and licked his hand, which this gentleman put in through the grates. The keeper affrighted, took him by the arm and pulled him away, begging him not to hazard his life by going so near the fiercest creature of that kind that ever entered those dens. However, nothing would satisfy Sir George, notwithstanding all that could be said to dissuade him, but he must go into the den to him. The very instant he entered, the lion threw his paws upon his shoulders, and licked his face, and ran to and fro in the den, fawning and full of joy, like a dog at the sight of his master. After several embraces and salutations exchanged on both sides, they parted very good friends. The rumor of this interview between the lion and the stranger rung immediately through the whole city, and Sir George was very near passing for a saint among the people. The great duke, when he heard of it, sent for Sir George, who waited upon his highness, to the den, and to satisfy his curiosity, gave him the following account of what seemed so strange to the duke and his followers:
“‘A captain of a ship from Barbary gave me this lion when he was a young whelp. I brought him up tame, but when I thought him too large to be suffered to run about the house, I built a den for him in my courtyard; from that time he was never permitted to go loose, except when I brought him within doors to show him to my friends. When he was five years old, in his gamesome tricks, he did some mischief by pawing and playing with people. Having gripped a man one day a little too hard, I ordered him to be shot, for fear of incurring the guilt of what might happen; upon this a friend who was then at dinner with me begged him: how he came here I know not.’”
Here Sir George Davis ended, and thereupon the Duke of Tuscany assured him that he had the lion from that very friend of his.
Canova’s Lions and the Child
The mausoleum of Pope Clement XII, whose name was Rezzonico, is one of the greatest works of Antonio Canova, the celebrated Italian sculptor. It is in St Peter’s, at Rome, and was erected in 1792. It is only mentioned here on account of two lions, which were faithfully studied from nature.
His biographer, Mr. Memes (Memoirs of Antonio Canova, by J. S. Memes, A.M. 1825, p. 332, 334, 346), tells us that these lions were formed “after long and repeated observation on the habits and forms of the living animals. Wherever they were to be seen Canova constantly visited them, at all hours, and under every variety of circumstances, that he might mark their natural expression in different states of action and of repose, of ferocity or gentleness. One of the keepers was even paid to bring information, lest any favorable opportunity should pass unimproved.”
One of these lions is sleeping, while the other, which is under the figure of the personification of religion, crouches—but is awake, in attitude of guarding inviolate the approach to the sepulcher, and ready with a tremendous roar to spring upon the intruder.
Canova himself was much pleased with these lions. Mr. Memes illustrates their wonderful force and truth by a little anecdote.
“One day, while the author (a frequent employment) stood at some distance admiring from different points of view the tomb of Rezzonico, a woman with a child in her arms advanced to the lion, which appears to be watching. The terrified infant began to scream violently, clinging to the nurse’s bosom, and exclaiming, ‘Mordera, mamma, mordera!’ (It will bite, mamma; it will bite.) The mother turned to the opposite one, which seems asleep; her charge was instantly pacified; and smiling through tears, extended its little arm to stroke the shaggy head, whispering in subdued accents, as if afraid to awake the monster, ‘O come placido! Non mordero quello, mamma.’ (How gentle! this one will not bite, mother.)”
Admiral Napier and the Lion in the Tower
Admiral Sir Charles Napier, K.C.B., when a boy in his fourteenth year, visited London on his way to join his first ship at Spithead, the Renown. His biographer tells us he was staying at the house of a relative, who, “after showing the youngster all the London sights, took him to see the lions at the Tower. Amongst them was one which the keeper represented as being so very tame that, said he, ‘you might put your hand into his mouth.’” Taking him at his word, the young middy, to the horror of the spectators, thrust his hand into the jaws of the animal, who, no doubt, was taken as much by surprise as the lookers-on. It was a daring feat; but providentially he did not suffer for his temerity” (The Life of Admiral Sir Charles Napier, K.C.B, by Major-General Elers Napier, Vol. I, p. 8). This reminds the biographer of Nelson’s feat with the polar bear, and of Charles Napier’s (the soldier) bold adventure with an eagle in his boyhood, as related by Sir William Napier in the history of his gallant brother’s life.
Old Lady and the Beasts on the Mound
When the houses were cleared from the head of the Mound in Edinburgh, a traveling menagerie had set up its caravans on that great earthen bridge, just at the time when George Ferguson, the celebrated Scotch advocate, better known by his justiciary title of Lord Hermand, came up, full of Pittite triumph that the ministry of “all the talents” had fallen. “They are out! They are all out! Every mother’s son of them!” he shouted. A lady, who heard the words, and perceived his excited condition, imagined that he referred to the wild beasts; and seizing the judge by his arm, exclaimed, “Gude heaven! We shall a’ be devoored!” (A Tour in Tartan-Land, by Cuthbert Bede).
THE ADVENTURE OF THE HANOVERIAN VAMPIRES, by Darrell Schweitzer
I found it. It was mine, a pretty, shiny thing, which I found amusing to swat about on the ground for several minutes, watching the evening sunlight gleam off the polished surface. Then, of course, I lost interest and left it where it lay. But it was still mine. So when one of the “street arabs”—verminous boys—snatched it up, I yowled in protest and gave the villain a fine raking on the calf.
He yowled right back and kicked me away. I landed nimbly and hissed, ready for another round of combat.
“What have you got there, Billy?” came another voice.
“I dunno, Mr. ’olmes.”
“I’ll give you a shilling for it.”
The transaction was done, though the shiny object was still mine.
But now I was content, for the trouser leg I rubbed against belonged to the most perceptive of all human beings, the Great Detective himself, and the result of that encounter is the only Sherlock Holmes adventure ever narrated by a cat.
It is not possible for me to give you my name, for the true names of cats are never revealed outside our secretive tribe, and not even Sherlock Holmes may deduce them; whether the street arabs or Dr. Watson called me Fluffy or Mouser or something far less complimentary is, frankly, beneath notice. Suffice it to say that Holmes and I had a certain understanding by which we recognized and respected one another. You won’t read of any of this in the chronicles penned by the doltish Watson, an altogether inferior lump of clay, wh
o once owned a bulldog pup, probably without appreciating the crucial distinction that one owns a dog but entertains a cat. A dog is a useful object, even as, I suppose, Watson at times was useful.
But he tried to shoo me away, hissing, “Scat!” and other ridiculous imprecations, before Holmes drew his attention to the object in hand.
“It is the clue we have been seeking,” said he. “Come, Watson, we have much to do this night. It would be well if you brought your revolver.”
Moments later, all three of us were clattering along the rapidly darkening streets of London in a Hansom. At first the driver, like the boorish Watson, objected to my presence, but Holmes gave the driver an extra coin. Watson, dog-like, acquiesced. Holmes would have found it useless to explain to him that cats partake of the most ancient mysteries of the dark, and so have a proper place in any night of intrigue and adventure.
It was indeed such a night.
As we wove through the narrow, filthy streets of the East End, past increasingly disreputable denizens, Holmes held up the shiny thing—which I now conceded I had loaned to Mr. Holmes.
“Deduce, Watson.”
I assume this was a game for Holmes, like swatting a ball of string.
“It is a very thin locket,” said Watson, “for I see that a spring-lock opens it—”
“Look out, Watson!” cried Holmes, for Watson had unthinkingly sprung open the locket, allowing a scrap of paper to flutter out. Deftly, Holmes snatched the paper out of the air.
“What is it, Holmes?”
“Momentarily, Watson. First, the locket.”
“It and its chain are gold-plated.”
“Not silver, Watson. Perhaps you will see the significance of that.”
Obviously not. Watson continued. “On one side, is a female portrait—not an attractive one, I dare say—”
“I shall entirely trust your judgment in that department, Watson. Pray, continue.”
“She wears a royal crown. The inscription is in German, and it reads: VICTORIA KAISERIN GROSS BRITANNIEN—Good God, Holmes!”
“Yes, Watson, it is the emblem of the current Hanoverian pretender, whose plottings against our king and country never cease, even after the failure—so ably chronicled by another writer—of the desperate scheme to place St. Paul’s Cathedral on rollers and wheel it into the Thames, back in the days of James the Fourth.”
“God save His Majesty, King James the Sixth, and all the House of Stuart!”
“A sentiment I echo, Watson, but we must hurry on and save the patriotism for our leisure. As you see, we are running out of time.”
I placed my paws on the high dashboard of the Hansom for a better view. We were near the London docks. A fog had settled in among the poorly-lit streets. The air was thick with strange smells. Many of the passersby were foreigners of the most unsavory sort.
“Recall, Watson,” said Holmes, “that the notorious Dr. Moriarty, before he turned to crime, wrote, in addition to a curious monograph about an asteroid, a treatise on the possibility of an infinity of alternative worlds existing side by side, which may perhaps be realized by the use of certain potent objects—he actually used the word ‘numinous’—which suggests all manner of fantastic combinations, such as, for example, one in which Bonnie Prince Charlie was defeated at Culloden and England today is ruled by this same unhandsome Victoria of the House of Hanover—”
“Good God, Holmes!”
“You could as well imagine a world in which you, Watson, are Grand Panjandrum of Nabobistan, complete with harem. You would enjoy that, would you not?”
“I wouldn’t be with you, Holmes,” he said with some regret.
For an instant I almost admired Watson, though I knew his was mere dog-like loyalty.
“But to conclude,” said Holmes, “it was Moriarty’s theory, which I believe he has passed on to his Hanoverian confederates and which will perhaps be put to the test tonight, that with the use of such an object, which has been manufactured in one of the alternative worlds and conjured into ours, all manner of what the ignorant would call supernatural beings or creatures may be imposed—”
At that moment the Hansom came to a halt. We three debarked. The cab hurried off. I ran ahead of the two humans, into the gloom. The hideous smell of the river and of river rats was ahead of me.
Holmes and Watson hurried to keep pace with me, their great, clumsy feet thundering on the pavement. Dr. Watson gasped between breaths.
“This theory, Holmes, seems perfectly insane—”
“Watson, at such times it pays to be a little mad!”
“And you, the rationalist!”
Holmes made no reply to Watson’s taunt, for we had come to our destination, a deserted wharf amid tumbledown warehouses. The fog was so thick it seemed a solid thing. Even I shivered.
Holmes struck a match for light. He held the paper from inside the locket up so Watson could read it.
“It is a shipping document,” said Watson. “In receipt of five boxes of earth…what would anybody want with those, Holmes?”
“Observe the crest, Watson.”
“An odd one. With a bat—”
“It is the arms of a certain Voivode of Transylvania, a Count Dracula, about whom many terrible things are whispered. Now all the pieces of the puzzle come together. This Dracula, in the employ of the Hanoverians, under the direction of Moriarty—”
“I don’t understand, Holmes.”
Impatiently, Holmes got out the locket and showed Watson the reverse.
“It’s the same crest, Holmes, to be sure, but—”
I let out a screech of challenge, and at this point Holmes had no time to deal with Watson’s thick-headedness. A low, flat barge drifted out of the fog toward the wharf, heavily laden with long, rectangular boxes.
“Quick, Watson! Under no circumstances must that vessel be allowed to touch land!”
The two of them ran to the end of the wharf, and with a long leap all three of us landed squarely in the middle of the approaching barge. Watson’s thick head proved to be of some service at this point, I must admit, because even as we landed one of those disreputable foreigners arose from behind one of the boxes and clubbed Watson with a stout cudgel, which would have broken his skull had it not been so thick, but instead sent him tumbling back against his assailant, who was thus set off balance.
Sherlock Holmes, strikingly agile for a human, had all the advantage he needed. He dealt with the single live crewman on the barge, leaving him unconscious at his feet.
But even he could not quite grasp the true danger. I was the one who first appreciated the significance of the horrible carrion smell which wafted from the boxes, now all the more intense as the lids of those boxes creaked and rose up, opened from within.
In the struggle, Holmes dropped the gold locket. It gleamed even in the poor light.
The thing which streaked out of one of the boxes far more swiftly than the other occupant could emerge went straight for the locket, swatted it to one side, then to the other, then turned to confront me.
“Mine!” I communicated, in the secret language of cats, which no human may ever understand.
When I call it a cat, I use the term loosely, for though it had the form of a huge, black-furred tom, it was a dead thing with burning red eyes and glistening fangs. We struggled even as Holmes and his opponents did, both seeking to regain the shiny locket-and-chain, while we rolled right to the edge of the barge’s deck, mere inches above the noxious water.
The Third Cat Story Megapack: 25 Frisky Feline Tales, Old and New Page 30
