by Karel Čapek
One day - it was beginning to get dark - Sir Charles Wiggam, the Director of the Zoo, was touring some of the houses to make sure everything was all right. As he passed through the salamander section there was a splash in one of the tanks and somebody said in a croaking voice: ‘Good evening, sir.’
‘Good evening,’ the Director replied in surprise. ‘Who’s that?’
‘Excuse me, sir,’ said the croaking voice. ‘This isn’t Mr Greggs.’
‘Who’s that?’ the Director repeated.
‘Andy. Andrew Scheuchzer.’
Sir Charles walked up closer to the tank. There was only one erect and motionless newt sitting there. ‘Who spoke?’
‘Andy, sir,’ the newt said. ‘Who are you?’
‘Wiggam,’ Sir Charles blurted out in amazement.
‘Delighted,’ Andrias said politely. ‘How are you?’
‘Dammit,’ Sir Charles roared. ‘Greggs! I say, Greggs!’ The newt flipped over and like lightning hid in the water.
Mr Thomas Greggs burst in, breathless and worried. ‘Yes, sir?’
‘Greggs, what’s the meaning of this?’ Sir Charles began.
‘Is anything wrong, sir?’ Mr Greggs stammered nervously. ‘This animal here talks!’
‘I’m sorry, sir,’ Mr Greggs said, crestfallen. ‘We shouldn’t do that, Andy. I’ve told you a thousand times we don’t annoy people with our chattering. I beg your pardon, sir, it won’t happen again.’
‘Was it you who taught this newt to talk?’
‘But he started it, sir,’ Greggs defended himself.
‘I hope this won’t happen again, Greggs,’ Sir Charles said severely. ‘I’ll have my eye on you.’
Some time later Sir Charles was sitting beside Professor Petrov: they were discussing so-called animal intelligence, conditioned reflexes, and how popular belief overrated the intellectual activity of animals. Professor Petrov expressed his doubts about the Elberfeld horses which were credited with being able not only to do sums but to raise numbers to a higher power and find square roots; after all, how many normal educated people could do square roots, said the great scientist. Sir Charles remembered Greggs’s talking newt. ‘I’ve got a newt here,’ he began hesitantly, ‘it’s that famous Andrias Scheuchzeri, and it’s learned to talk like a parrot.’
‘Impossible,’ said the scientist. ‘Surely newts have a reflexed tongue.’
‘Why don’t you come along and look,’ said Sir Charles. ‘It’s cleaning day today, so the place won’t be full of people.’ And off they went.
At the entrance to the salamanders Sir Charles stopped. From inside they could hear the scratching of a broom and a monotonous voice awkwardly articulating something.
‘Wait,’ whispered Sir Charles Wiggam.
‘IS MARS INHABITED?’ the monotonous voice articulated. ‘Want me to read that?’
‘Something else, Andy,’ replied another voice.
‘WILL PELHAM BEAUTY OR GOBERNADOR WIN THIS YEAR’S DERBY?’
‘Pelham Beauty will,’ said the other voice. ‘But read on.’
Sir Charles quietly opened the door. Mr Thomas Greggs was sweeping the floor with his broom; in the little pool sat Andrias Scheuchzeri, slowly and croakingly reading from an evening paper he was holding in his front paws.
‘Greggs,’ Sir Charles called out. The newt flicked its body and disappeared under the water.
Mr Greggs dropped his broom with fright. ‘Yes, sir?’
‘What is the meaning of this?’
‘I beg your pardon, sir,’ the unhappy Greggs stammered. ‘Andy is reading to me while I do the sweeping. And when he sweeps I read to him.’
‘Who taught him that?’
‘He learns by himself by just watching, sir. I … I give him my paper so he doesn’t talk so much. He was always wanting to talk, sir. So I thought he might as well learn to speak proper like - ’
‘Andy,’ Sir Charles called out.
The black head appeared out of the water. ‘Yes, sir,’ it croaked.
‘Professor Petrov here has come to take a look at you.’
‘Pleased to meet you, sir. I’m Andy Scheuchzer.’
‘How d’you know your name is Andrias Scheuchzer?’
‘Why, it’s written up here, sir. Andreas Scheuchzer, Gilbert Islands.’
‘D’you read the paper often?’
‘Yes, sir. Every day, sir.’
‘And what interests you most in it?’
‘Police Court news, horse racing, football - ’
‘Have you ever seen a football match?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Or a horse?’
‘No, sir.’
‘So why do you read about it?’
‘Because it’s in the paper, sir.’
‘You’re not interested in politics?’
‘No, sir. WILL THERE BE WAR?’
‘No one can tell, Andy.’
‘GERMANY BUILDS A NEW TYPE OF SUBMARINE,’ Andy said worriedly. ‘DEATH RAYS CAN TURN WHOLE CONTINENTS INTO DESERT.’
‘You read that in the paper, didn’t you?’ asked Sir Charles.
‘Yes, sir. WILL PELHAM BEAUTY OR GOBER-NADOR WIN THIS YEAR’S DERBY?’
‘What do you think, Andy?’
‘Gobernador, sir. But Mr Greggs thinks Pelham Beauty.’ Andy nodded his head. ‘BUY BRITISH, sir. SNIDER’S BRACES ARE BEST. HAVE YOU GOT YOUR NEW SIX-CYLINDER TANCRED JUNIOR? FAST, CHEAP, ELEGANT.’
‘Thank you, Andy. That will do.’
‘WHO IS YOUR FAVOURITE FILM STAR?’
Professor Petrov’s hair and beard were bristling. ‘Excuse me, Sir Charles,’ he muttered, ‘but I must be off.’
‘Very well, we’ll go. Andy, would you mind if I sent a few learned gentlemen to take a look at you? I think they would like to talk to you?’
‘I shall be delighted, sir,’ the newt croaked. ‘Good-bye, Sir Charles. Good-bye, professor.’
Professor Petrov was hurrying away, snorting and muttering with irritation. ‘Forgive me, Sir Charles,’ he said at last. ‘But couldn’t you show me some animal that doesn ‘t read the paper?’
The learned gentlemen were Sir John Bertram, D.M., Professor Ebbigham, Sir Oliver Dodge, Julian Foxley and others. We quote part of the report on their experiment with Andrias Scheuchzer.
What is your name?
A.: Andrew Scheuchzer.
How old are you?
A.: I don’t know. Do you want to look young? Wear a Libella bra.
What is today’s date?
A.: Monday. Lovely weather, sir. Gibraltar will be running at Epsom this Saturday.
How much is three times five?
A.: Why?
Can you do arithmetic?
A.: Yes, sir. How much is seventeen times twenty-nine?
We shall ask the questions, Andrew. Give us the names of some English rivers.
A.: The Thames …
Any more?
A.: The Thames.
You don’t know any others, do you? Who reigns over England?
A.: King George. God bless him.
Well done, Andy. Who is the greatest English writer?
A.: Kipling.
Very good. Have you read anything by him?
A.: No. How do you like Mae West?
We will ask the questions, Andy. What do you know of English history?
A.: Henry the Eighth.
What do you know about him?
A.: Best film in recent years. Marvellous decor. Terrific spectacle.
Have you seen it?
A.: I haven’t. Want to see England? Buy a Baby Ford.
What would you most like to see, Andy?
A.: The Oxford-Cambridge boat race, sir.
How many continents are there?
A.: Five.
Very good. Which are they?
A.: England and the rest.
Which are the rest?
A.: The Bolsheviks and the Germans. And Italy.
Where are the Gilbert Islands?
>
A.: In England. England will not tie herself to the Continent. England needs ten thousand aircraft. Visit the English south coast.
May we look at your tongue, Andy?
A.: Yes, sir. Brush your teeth with Fresh. It saves you money, it’s the best, and it’s British. Do you want perfumed breath? Use Fresh toothpaste.
Thank you, that will do. And now tell us, Andy …
And so on. The report of the conversation with Andrias Scheuchzer ran to sixteen full pages and was published in Natural Science. At the end of the report the expert commission summed up the results of its experiment in these words:
(1) Andrias Scheuchzeri, the salamander kept at the London Zoo, can talk, though with something of a croak; it has a vocabulary of about four hundred words; it says what it has heard or read. There can, of course, be no suggestion of independent thought. Its tongue is sufficiently flexible; in the circumstances it was not possible to examine its vocal cords more closely.
(2) The same salamander can read, though only the evening papers. It is interested in the same things as the average Englishman and reacts to them in a similar manner, i.e. in the direction of established general views. Its intellectual life - in so far as one may speak of any -consists precisely of ideas and opinions current at the present time.
(3) There is absolutely no need to overrate its intelligence, since in no respect does it exceed the intelligence of the average person of our time.
In spite of this sober assessment by the experts the talking newt became the sensation of the London Zoo. Darling Andy was besieged by people anxious to discuss with him anything, from the weather to the economic recession and the political situation. In consequence he received so much chocolate and sweets from his visitors that he became seriously ill with an inflammation of the stomach and the intestines. In the end, the salamander section had to closed, but by then it was too late: Andrias Scheuchzeri, known as Andy, died of the consequences of his popularity. As can be seen, fame demoralises even newts.
10
The Fair at Nové Strašecí
Mr Povondra, the doorman at the Bondy residence, was for once spending his leave in his native town. The next day there was to be the annual fair; and when Mr Povondra stepped out of his house, leading his 8-year-old Frankie by the hand, the whole of Nove Straseci was fragrant with cakes, and women and girls were scurrying about the streets carrying the freshly kneaded dough to the baker’s. In the town square two toffee stalls had already been set up, as well as one with cheap glass and china, and one run by a loud-voiced woman selling all kinds of haberdashery. And then there was a square canvas tent, enclosed by sheets on all sides. Some slight little man was standing on a ladder, fixing a notice to the top.
Mr Povondra stopped to see what it would say.
The wizened little man climbed down from his ladder and looked with satisfaction at the lettering he had put up and Mr Povondra read with surprise:
CAPTAIN J. VAN TOCH
and
HIS TRAINED NEWTS
Mr Povondra remembered the big fat man with the captain’s cap whom he had admitted to Mr Bondy some time before. What a come-down, poor chap, Mr Povondra commiserated mentally: a ship’s captain, and now he’s having to tour the world with this miserable circus! Such a fine healthy man he was, too! Ought to look him up really, Mr Povondra reflected compassionately.
Meanwhile, the little man had fixed another banner by the entrance to the tent:
TALKING LIZARDS
THE GREATEST SCIENTIFIC SENSATION !!
Admission 2 Crowns. Accompanied children half price.
Mr Povondra hesitated. Two crowns, plus one for the boy, that seemed a bit steep. But Frankie did well at school, and seeing outlandish animals was really part of one’s education. Mr Povondra was willing to make sacrifices for education, and so he stepped up to the wizened little man. ‘Mate,’ he said; ‘I’d like to have a word with Captain van Toch.’
The little man blew out his chest under its striped sweatshirt. ‘That’s me, sir.’
‘You are Captain van Toch?’ Mr Povondra expressed surprise.
‘Yessir,’ said the little man and pointed to an anchor tattoed on his wrist.
Mr Povondra blinked thoughtfully. That captain could not have shrunk quite so much. Impossible. ‘As it happens, I know Captain van Toch personally,’ he said. ‘My name’s Povondra.’
‘Well, that’s different,’ said the little man. ‘But these newts really are Captain van Toch’s, sir. Guaranteed real Australian lizards, sir. Why not step in, sir? The great performance is just starting,’ he crowed, lifting the tarpaulin by the entrance.
‘Come along, Frankie,’ said Papa Povondra and stepped inside. An unusually large lady was hurriedly sitting down at a little table. An odd pair, Mr Povondra thought in amazement, paying his three crowns. Inside the booth there was nothing except a rather unpleasant smell and a tin bathtub.
‘Where’ve you got those newts?’ asked Mr Povondra.
‘In that bath,’ the huge lady said indifferently.
‘Don’t be scared, Frankie,’ said Papa Povondra and stepped up to the bath. In it was something black and lethargic, as large as an old catfish; except that at the back of its head the skin expanded and contracted a little.
‘So this is the antediluvian salamander we’ve read about in the newspapers,’ Papa Povondra said didactically, not letting his disappointment show. (Been had again, he thought to himself, but the boy needn’t know. Three crowns down the drain!)
‘Dad, why is it in the water?’ asked Frankie.
‘Because salamanders live in the water, see?’
‘And what does it eat?’
‘Fish and such stuff,’ Papa Povondra suggested. (Must eat something.)
‘And why is it so ugly?’ Frankie persisted.
Mr Povondra did not know what to say; but at that moment the little man came into the tent. ‘Your attention, please, ladies and gentlemen,’ he began hoarsely.
‘You’ve only got that one salamander?’ Mr Povondra inquired reproachfully. (With two of them I’d have had somewhat better value for my money.)
‘The other one died,’ said the little man. ‘Now this is the famous Andrias, ladies and gentlemen, a rare and poisonous lizard from the Australian islands. In its homeland it grows to the height of a man and walks upright. ‘You,’ he said, poking a stick into that black lethargic mass lying motionless in the tank. The black mass wriggled and with an effort rose from the water. Frankie retreated a little, but Mr Povondra squeezed his hand: don’t be scared, I’m with you.
Now it was standing on its hindlegs, its front paws resting on the edge of the tank. The gills behind its head were spasmodically twitching and its black mouth was yapping for air. Its skin, rubbed raw, was too loose and covered with warts, and every so often its round frog-like eyes were closed in pain by their membraneous lower lids.
‘As you can see, ladies and gentlemen,’ the little man continued hoarsely, ‘this animal lives in the water; that’s why it is equipped with both gills and lungs, so that it can breathe when it comes out on land. It has five toes on its hind feet and four on its front ones, but it can pick up objects with them. Here.’ The animal gripped the stick in its fingers and held it up in front like some melancholy sceptre.
‘It can also tie a knot in a piece of string,’ the little man announced, taking the stick from the animal and handing it a dirty length of string. The animal held it in its fingers for a moment and then actually tied a knot.
‘It can also beat the drum and dance,’ the litde man crowed, handing the animal a child’s drum and a drumstick. The animal hit the drum a few times and twisted the upper part of its body; in doing so it dropped the drumstick in the water. ‘Bloody brute,’ the little man snapped and fished the drumstick out.
‘And this animal,’ he added, solemnly raising his voice, ‘is so intelligent and talented it can talk like a human being.’ At this he clapped his hands.
‘Guten Morgen,
’ croaked the animal, painfully blinking its lower lids. ‘Good morning.’
Mr Povondra was almost terrified, but Frankie did not seem particularly impressed.
‘What do you say to our gracious audience?’ the little man asked sharply.
‘Welcome,’ the newt bowed; its gills closed convulsively. ‘Willkommen. Ben venuti.’
‘Can you do sums?’
‘I can.’
‘How much is six times seven?’
‘Forty-two,’ quacked the newt with an effort.
‘See, Frankie,’ Papa Povondra pointed out, ‘he can do sums!’
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ the little man bellowed; ‘you may put questions to it yourselves.’
‘Ask him something, Frankie,’ Papa Povondra nudged.
Frankie squirmed with embarrassment. ‘How much is eight times nine?’ he blurted out at last; evidently this seemed to him the most difficult of all possible questions.
The newt blinked slowly. ‘Seventy-two.’
‘What day is it today?’ asked Mr Povondra.
‘Saturday,’ said the newt.
Mr Povondra shook his head in wonderment. ‘Really just like a human. What’s the name of this town?’
The newt opened its mouth and shut its eyes. ‘He’s tired out,’ the little man hurriedly explained. ‘What do you say to the ladies and gentlemen?’
The newt bowed. ‘My compliments. My humble thanks. Good-bye. Hope to see you again.’ And quickly it hid under the water.
‘That’s - that’s a strange beast.’ Mr Povondra was still amazed. But because three crowns was after all three crowns he added: ‘And that’s all you have to show the boy?’
The little man sucked his lower lip in embarrassment. ‘That’s all,’ he said. ‘I used to have monkeys in the old days, but they were rather a business,’ he explained vaguely. ‘Except that I could show you my wife. She used to be the fattest woman in the world. Mary, dear, come over here!’
Mary rose with difficulty. ‘What is it?’
‘Show yourself to the gentlemen, Mary, dear.’
The world’s fattest woman put her head coquettishly to one side, put one leg forward and raised her skirt above her knee. There was a view of a red woollen stocking and in it something swollen and massive like a ham. ‘Leg circumference at the top eighty-four centimetres,’ the wizened little man explained; ‘but what with today’s competition Mary’s no longer the fattest woman in the world.’
