The City Jungle Page 13

  Hella roared in her cage. A deep moan, as if something were tearing her breast.

  Mieze turned to look at her, and Max followed Mieze. They were the only people standing before the cage. Hella’s features were distorted with pain, while from her throat broke wild moans. Her wide open jaws revealed her dangerous fangs as she uttered the terrifying elemental sounds of despair.

  In the neighboring cages, to the right and left, then farther away, the other beasts of prey took up Hella’s maternal wail. The old circus-lion thundered so that the air seemed to quiver. Mibbel rumbled from a heavy heart. The tiger howled terrifyingly, voraciously, ­imperiously. From the panther came sharp, crying, howling sounds.

  Mieze, who felt a little strained and a little bored, tugged at Max’s arm. “Let’s go.”

  Unhearing, he did not even move. He was quite numbed. His face had become chalk-white again and the color had faded even from his lips. His chin quivered. He stood listening to the untamable languages of those voices of revolt. He was stirred by the impotence with which this elemental outbreak died away, unheeded and unheard.

  “Jail,” he whispered, “jail. When one of them begins shouting, they all begin shouting. And not one of the keepers pays the least attention to it.”

  He was whispering in the midst of the uproar about him, and became more and more aroused. “Nobody hears their ravings, not one of the righteous judges who imprisons human beings behind bars!”

  Mieze was silent.

  “Do they know what they’re doing?” cried Max passionately. “Do they ever dream how many souls they murder, how much goodness they destroy? You can’t punish and reform at the same time! They just don’t go together!”

  He turned to Mieze, apparently calm and rational. But she could see how upset he was. “I tell you, some of those fine gentlemen ought to sit once behind the bars. Just once. Cut off from the world, deviled, looked down upon, helpless and defenseless. They ought to try it, only for a month or two, and sit in there where a man ceases to be a man. Maybe they’d understand then that they and their jails breed more evil than all the criminals in creation! Maybe they’d understand. . . .

  “Lord,” Mieze interrupted, “how worked up you are! Come, let’s go! It would have been better if we hadn’t come here at all.”

  “Yes, let’s go,” replied Max a little more calmly. “You’re right. I’ll simply be upset here. But it’s a good thing that we came. A very good thing! These creatures,” he included all the cages in a sweeping gesture, “these creatures here are my companions in suffering, so to speak. Indeed they are! I have respect and I have pity for them. For after all,” his voice sank to a whisper, “after all I defended myself against a bully, but they never did anything, nothing at all. . . .”

  He stopped. “Yes, it’s a good thing that we came here,” he said. “This is a place where a poor devil can see the injustice and the cruelty of the world plainly enough. You can see how people stroll past suffering, tortured creatures and don’t care any more for them than that. Aren’t even amused by them. And—do you know, Mieze, that kind of comforts me.”

  Mieze clasped his arm and they hurried away.

  Hella’s moans and Brosso’s dull roaring sounded behind them.

  Max turned. “Yes, go on roaring. You’re right!” And he added with the ghost of a smile, “But what good does it do to be in the right, what good does roaring do, when nobody pays any attention to it?”

  Chapter Eighteen

  “He Wants No More of It”

  ZATO THE ORANGUTAN AWOKE from his long stupor.

  When Yppa observed that her mate was beginning to show signs of life she held Tikki tight in her arms and fled into the farthest corner of the cage. For several hours she had watched for Zato’s revival. She was afraid he would be violent. Again and again she had been terrified by the thought that Zato would tear his little son from her arms, would attack her in a fit of rage and abuse her.

  Now Zato had moved. Yppa fled as far away as she could get and sat cowering in her corner, peering through half-closed blinking eyes, shyly, at the body stretched out on the floor. With her arms and hands she hid Tikki as well as she could.

  “Why haven’t they taken Zato away?” she wondered. “Why haven’t they put back the wall that separated us when Tikki was born?”

  Zato groaned softly. After a while his arms groped slowly and uncertainly in the air.

  Then he sat up.

  He stared straight ahead of him. Everything seemed to swim before his eyes—those eyes that were like those of a drunkard or a man dying for sleep.

  Hour after hour he stared thus.

  When the keeper came and tossed him fruit he did not stir. He remained motionless when the curator appeared and talked to him through the bars.

  “Well, my boy,” said the curator in a friendly voice, “sleep it off? Have a good rest?”

  Zato sat as if he had heard and seen nothing.

  “You must understand that it was necessary, my friend,” continued the curator, “so that your little son would not starve. You were so obstinate, there was nothing else to do. Now treat your family nicely and we’ll do the same to you.” The curator turned to the keeper. “Let’s go. He’ll pick up overnight. Even a human head would ache a little after coming out of that kind of veronal debauch.”

  But Yppa trembled at the thought of the night. She felt dreadfully certain that Zato was sitting there so silent and indifferent because he was controlling himself, pretending. Terrified, she was convinced that Zato was only waiting for darkness to leave her alone with him. Then he would attack her and the child, would choke her, and kill poor Tikki. She did not dare move, but she was a little comforted by the fact that Tikki was sleeping on her breast and so made no noise that might excite Zato.

  From the time that darkness settled down until morning broke, she continued in a state of panic that robbed her of her breath, then became a more and more relaxed anxiety.

  Zato had not once changed his position. He had not made a sound.

  When the first feeble light permitted her to distinguish objects Yppa glanced at her mate. He was sitting in the same place: he had not moved. As it grew lighter, just before sunrise, Yppa gathered courage to turn her head cautiously and stare curiously at Zato. His head had sunk down upon his breast. After the fashion of unhappy orangs, he had laid his face in both hands. He seemed to be asleep. But Yppa knew that Zato was awake.

  She was terribly tired. In her state of total exhaustion she no longer had the strength to be worried. She no longer cared what happened to her or to Tikki.

  Thus the morning passed and half of the afternoon.

  Tikki became lively and Yppa let him do as he liked. When she observed that the little thing avoided his father she let him run free.

  The second night passed without any change. Zato seemed to sink deeper and deeper into himself. He did not take the slightest notice of Yppa or of Tikki. The fruit that was tossed him lay dried up or rotting. He had not even glanced at it.

  In time his condition began to worry the curator. He stood before the bars, talking kindly to the orangu­tan. But after all they were utter strangers. Zato did not hear the man, or if he heard, did not understand him. He did not give him a thought.

  The curator spread rare and tempting fruits before the orang. Zato left them untouched.

  Once Yppa approached Zato, timidly, tenderly. Timidly she held out Tikki to him, like one ready for sacrifice.

  Zato did not move.

  “Tikki is here,” she whispered, “right beside you, Tikki whom you love so much.”

  In vain. The words fell upon deaf ears.

  The little one resisted violently, trying to avoid his father and clinging to his mother with every sign of terror.

  Hours later Yppa again went to Zato, and sitting down at his side put her arm around his shoulder. She sat per
fectly still beside him. But Zato’s rigidity did not relax for a moment. Yppa might just as well have embraced a block of wood. She was frightened. She picked up the fruit, picked it up piece by piece from the floor and held it before Zato’s mouth. He did not refuse, he did not resist. He was inaccessible, hard and strange, as lifeless as the walls. Yppa ate a little to arouse his appetite. He did not even see her.

  That night she slept beside him, pressing her body softly against his, stroking, caressing him. But there was not the slightest response, not the slightest sign that he was aware of her. Her gentle appeals remained unanswered. She could embrace only one side of his body, nestling close to his ribs and thigh. He did not change his position, sitting with his hands over his face, his head sunk low upon his breast.

  Next day a scene took place that shocked Yppa. It shocked the curator too. He was standing outside the cage with Dr. Wollet. He had brought choice fruit and was talking again very gently.

  Suddenly Zato got up. His limbs stirred very slowly, almost solemnly. His eyes were fastened on the curator. His big dark eyes had seemed sad even before. But what an expression was in them now! An expression of the most intense pain, the patience of martyrdom, an expression of farewell that was already directed from the hither side of life, from the beyond. It shocked the two men who saw it.

  They were silent. Dr. Wollet struggled to keep back the tears that were smarting in his eyes.

  Zato accepted a banana and peeled it. Slowly. ­Solemnly.

  “Thank God,” said the curator very softly, “he’s going to eat at last.”

  With a voice choking with emotion Dr. Wollet replied, “He will not eat again.”

  Zato carried the banana to his mouth. Then he broke and mashed it and dropped it on the floor. He took some grapes, and put them to his lips as if he were going to kiss them. Then he clenched his fist and squeezed the grapes so that the juice oozed between his fingers.

  Always that expression of ultimate pain and knowledge.

  A shudder passed over Zato’s gigantic body.

  Dr. Wollet turned away, he could not bear it. “He will never eat again!” he repeated in a low voice.

  “Nonsense!” declared the curator. “Even a human being has to eat no matter how bad he feels. Certainly an animal must.”

  “But, but,” cried Dr. Wollet, “how can you say that? Think of the dogs that won’t eat another mouthful after their masters die, but follow them to the grave.”

  “Stop,” the curator interrupted. “I know your hobby! The animal belongs to a higher order than man. But in spite of your love of animals, you’ll never make me . . .”

  “Not higher in any sense!” Dr. Wollet replied. “But not lower either. Not much lower! The lower characteristics in us and in them just about balance. As for the human mind, that sublime and godlike mind—there may be some significance in the fact that animals do not lie, are honest and are quite without a sense of guilt.”

  The curator raised his hand to allay and to dismiss. “Your hobby is carrying you to absurdity at a gallop!”

  “Don’t laugh!” Dr. Wollet became emphatic. “How can you look at that and laugh?” He motioned with his head toward the cage.

  “I’m not laughing,” the curator protested. “I perceived before you did that this is a serious case.”

  Zato sat hunched over, hiding his head in his hands.

  “So savage a determination to end matters,” continued Dr. Wollet pointedly, “so grim and persistent a renunciation of life, is found but seldom among humans. And when it is found, it is only among exceptionally elementary natures!”

  “As if it were an everyday occurrence among animals,” cried the curator.

  “This whole garden,” said Dr. Wollet angrily, “this whole garden is filled with elementary tragic figures! The whole world is filled with the tragedies of dumb creatures in which the human always gets the better of the beast!”

  The curator’s shrugging shoulders betrayed his impatience.

  Dr. Wollet said nothing for a few moments. Then he spoke quietly, in a calmer tone, only the frequent catches in his voice betraying how disturbed he was.

  “This orang,” he said, “who was drugged and captured, who was dragged from his jungle into this ter­rible prison of stone and iron, this orang found one little remnant of joy, perhaps of happiness. In any case he found some faint consolation for all he had lost in his mate—and in his child.”

  “He would have starved it to death,” the curator interrupted.

  “Perhaps . . . who knows? But he was drugged again, and that little shred of courage, that tiny trust that let him live was snapped. It dissipated like a little drop of water that you brush away unawares with your sleeve.”

  “It was done in the interest of the baby, in the interest of the mother,” said the curator nervously. “And it was in his own interest, too, that we gave him veronal.”

  “Possibly. But he doesn’t understand your expedients, and he doesn’t understand veronal. He doesn’t trouble himself about what you call his best interests. He has had enough of the mysterious craft that makes his life wretched. He wants no more of it.”

  Dr. Wollet was close to the truth. Zato wanted no more of it.

  Neither Yppa’s tenderness and imploring appeals, or Tikki who hopped about comically, existed for him. Zato took no nourishment and seldom stirred from his place. One day he lay stretched out on the floor, cold. A peaceful sleeper.

  Yppa was alone with her child.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The Miniature Reporter

  VASTA THE MOUSE CARRIED THE melancholy news to every cage in the zoo.

  When she came to Hella she found Mibbel the lion with her. Hella was pacing about nervously in a circle, with Mibbel trotting leisurely after her. He would tease Hella by nestling his light short-maned head against her shoulder, her flanks, her chin, whatever he could reach. But whenever he touched Hella she drew back angrily and seemed on the verge of an outburst. Mibbel did not notice or did not want to notice anything. He continued to purr contentedly and to chat while purring.

  Vasta sat in her crack in the wall, astonished at ­Mibbel’s urbanity, her clever inquisitive eyes fixed on him.

  “Really, Hella,” Mibbel was purring, “you should hear Brosso some time. You have no idea of all that he’s been through. I can’t even begin to imagine it all.” He rubbed his head against her shoulder. She bounded lightly away to avoid his caress, changing the direction of her walk. “All Brosso’s experiences are so exciting,” he purred. “It was wonderful to be together with him, although I’m very happy to be allowed to stay with you again.” He pushed his head affectionately against her flank. Hella drew back and continued pacing. Mibbel followed her. “A splendid old boy, this Brosso,” he purred, “you ought to see and hear him. Yet he’s friendly and gentle. Of course, he’s lost a great deal of his strength. A great deal. What a powerful fellow he must have been! Even today he is strong enough to . . .”

  Hella faced about and began to trot. Three or four steps in one direction, three or four in the other, with Mibbel close beside her. “Well, perhaps Brosso will come to stay with us, too,” he said. “That would be wonderful! What splendid entertainment! None of us has ever been through the things he’s experienced.”

  Hella threw herself on the floor. “I think,” she muttered, “I think I’ve been through enough, more than I care for!” She sighed deeply.

  Mibbel was dancing around her. “Oh, you mean the cubs,” he said lightly and not very sympathetically. “The cubs! I understand what you mean. But don’t be sad. There’s no sense to it and it doesn’t help at all.”

  “You never knew them,” growled the lioness.

  “No,” he said hastily, “no, I didn’t know them. I only saw them a couple of times as they passed by. Nice boys, very nice. . . .”

  A piteous howl was her answer. �
��Nice? They were charming, they were fascinating, and so clever! Nice! It’s easy to see that you never knew them.”

  “Well, it’s not my fault; I would have liked to see them. I wanted to be together with you and them,” Mibbel protested.

  “Not your fault?” repeated Hella. “Who knows?”

  “Forget the little fellows,” urged Mibbel, “there’s nothing else to do. We must all of us learn to forget if we want to live.”

  “Forget?” snarled Hella angrily.

  Zealously he tried to pacify her. “You managed to forget the cubs you had before.”

  Hella started up. “You heartless creature! Do you really believe that?”

  Mibbel fled to the bars in one terrified bound.

  Hella was furious. “I always remember all of my children! You, you heartless wretch, think I don’t because I say nothing. But they are all of them in my heart, all of them, always, forever. . . .”

  “Why do you grieve?” wailed Mibbel. “They’re all right. They’re gone, of course, but they’re all right. I feel positively certain of it!”

  “Ugh!” Hella’s contemptuous grunt was accompanied by a disdainful toss of her head. Then she went to the back of the cage and lay down against the wall.

  Vasta took advantage of the silence that followed to whisper her news to the lioness. Hella listened attentively, pitying Zato.

  “Think of Yppa,” said the mouse. “Now she is all alone.”

  “She has her child,” replied Hella.

  “But she has lost her mate,” warned the mouse. “Remember that when you become angry at Mibbel. He’s alive, he’s well and strong, he is handsome and he loves you.” With that she slipped away. She was in haste.

  Hella remained for a long time lost in thought. But when Mibbel slunk up to her, meekly and cautiously, he perceived from the beating of the tassel on her tail, and from her manner, that she was in a friendlier mood.

  “Are you still angry at me?” he asked. She looked at him as he snuggled against her side. “I am stupid,” he purred. “You are right, that business about the children was hateful. . . .”