Time to read: 13 minutes(s)

Author: Sergey Tashevsky

Siberian writer Grigory Grebenshchikov in his memoirs about Grigory Potanin, written In exile, he tells a remarkable story, one of whose characters is a rare white elephant, gifted to the Russian Tsar in 1838 by the Khan of Khiva. Moreover, this story is told by Potanin himself.

The gist of it is that the Siberian Cossack ensign Nikolai Potanin, the future father of the famous regionalist and explorer, was put in charge of the detachment that was supposed to deliver the elephant to St. Petersburg. His wife volunteered to accompany him. But... "a tale is quickly told, but the work is slowly done. The elephant traveled and traveled and spent the winter in the steppes, and God gave the young officer's wife a son along the way, and he had to be taken home to the village," as Grebenshchikov (somewhat flowerily) writes. Having arranged a comfortable place for the newborn on the sleigh, the couple set off. But either from fatigue or the steady swaying of the sleigh, they both dozed off and didn't notice the infant fall into the snow along the road. Waking up and realizing their mistake, they rushed back across the steppe, accompanied by the howling of wolves, in search of their son, no longer hoping to find him alive.

They were almost giving up hope when, five or ten kilometers later, they suddenly discovered a tiny bundle, fallen near the sled tracks. The child lay there, eyes wide open, silently gazing in awe at the stars. Thus, according to legend, began the life of Grigory Potanin. He believed that the rare white elephant, considered a harbinger of good fortune in Eastern tradition, was a blessing for him.

It's difficult to judge now how credible this legend is. A white elephant was indeed given to Nicholas I as a gift. And perhaps this elephant was accompanied in the convoy by ensign Nikolai Potanin. But all this happened no earlier than 1838, and Georgy Potanin was born in late 1835. He himself, of course, told this story from his parents' words—somewhere, confusion or embellishment must have crept in... But who knows? The elephant, walking across the cold Russian steppe—it really did exist. And not alone.

Since time immemorial, elephants have been hostages of big politics. They were constantly being given away as gifts. Rulers who had no shortage of elephants, especially the Persian shahs, literally "scattered" them, handing them out left and right as exotic gifts to European rulers. Russia at that time was also considered more or less European (that is, a country without its own elephants), so it too was constantly "caught in the crossfire." From Ivan the Terrible to Khrushchev and Brezhnev, everyone was given elephants (even Putin, the Myanmar government recently managed to foist six of them off on him). It was always said that in the East, the elephant is a symbol of loyalty, wisdom, good luck, and many other good things. So, the same to you!

But they weren't giving a symbol, but a living, feeding, defecating, trumpeting elephant, threatening to break and maim everything around it, and then fall ill. This meant the gift was extremely laborious. And it had to be delivered thousands of kilometers, to some Russian capital, Moscow or St. Petersburg. Without dying en route. It was a slow process, excruciating for the elephant and its attendants, but extremely entertaining for onlookers and idle onlookers.

Century after century, elephants traveled across Russia, and, most surprisingly, they reached their destination. The first, according to the chronicles, was an elephant (or two elephants—accounts differ) belonging to Ivan IV. The elephant was sent from Persia, by the Iranian Shah Tahmasp, as a sign of respect and gratitude for the couple dozen Russian cannons and sacks of gunpowder brought to Persia by the Russian embassy. Iranian shahs are like that. Always in need of cannons, they always try to repay with elephants. The elephant, however, also came with a human companion, "a black man in a robe and blue turban," who somehow knew how to handle the beast.

A whole series of legends arose around this elephant, sometimes reaching a truly Shakespearean level of drama. The story goes that the elephant was traveling to the Russian capital, as they say, "under its own power," with a caravan carrying a supply of bananas for its sustenance. But somewhere along the way, the bananas ran out (or were eaten by those accompanying it), and within Russia's borders, the unfortunate animal was forced to switch to turnips. The Tsar was cheerfully informed that the elephant had adapted to the turnips and had not even gotten stuck in the slushy autumn mud, but had safely reached Moscow. However, apparently its nerves were completely shattered, and upon seeing Ivan the Terrible, the elephant collapsed in a faint, so that "two hundred strelets had difficulty raising it to its feet." Highly pleased with the effect produced, Ivan the Terrible next ordered the elephant to bow to the Russian ruler. The incident allegedly happened during some kind of celebration on Red Square, with a large crowd of people in attendance.

They say Ivan IV glared at the elephant with his imperious gaze and threatened it with his scepter—but the elephant gazed thoughtfully into the distance, over the heads of the tsar and the boyars. And it had no intention of bowing. Then one of the strelets began stabbing the elephant in the front legs with a spear, forcing it to kneel. But the elephant misunderstood, trumpeted, and trampled its tormentors, thus showing extreme disrespect for the tsar.

Since the elephant's size was too large to be impaled or broken on the wheel, he was immediately exiled to Gorodets, where he and his blackamoor were housed in a cold barn. The blackamoor soon died there of some illness. Apparently, he was the only creature the elephant showed affection for, and like a faithful dog, the animal lay on his grave, allowing no one near and refusing food. Rumors of the faithful elephant began to spread among the people—and they certainly discredited Ivan the Terrible. Therefore, he hastened to put an end to the story by sending one of his oprichniki to the elephant, who "secretly killed" it.

Let's remember again, this is the "folk version" of events. According to another version, known from the memoirs of the famous adventurer of that era, the German oprichnik (!) Ivan the Terrible, Heinrich Staden, the elephant arrived in Moscow almost simultaneously with the onset of the plague epidemic and came under suspicion as its carrier: "The Arab was receiving a large salary in Moscow. This was noticed by Russian revelers, i.e., dissolute people, drunkards who drank and gambled in taverns. For the money, they secretly killed the Arab's wife. It was this Arab who was slandered and framed by the Russians, along with his elephant, that the plague, unheard of in Moscow, had originated with him and his elephant. Then the Arab and his elephant were exiled in disgrace to the Gorodetsky posad. The Arab died there, and the Grand Duke sent a nobleman with orders to kill the elephant with the help of peasants… and tradesmen. The elephant was standing in a barn, surrounded by a fence. The Arab was buried nearby. Then the elephant broke through the fence and lay down on the grave. That's where they finished him off…"

What really happened is unknown. But the elephant at Ivan IV's court did not live long, and for over a century after that, Russian rulers were reluctant to accept elephants as gifts—and that's a fact. Besides, during the Time of Troubles, there was little time for elephants. True, Shah Abbas later, as diplomatic documents attest, persistently sent elephants to Mikhail Fyodorovich Romanov, but where those elephants went is unknown. Russia is vast, and even greater things have gone to waste.

It was only under Peter, who was curious about any foreign curiosities, that the elephants, as they say, began to flock together. Also, mostly "at their own pace."

A little more is already known about their journeys through Russia. The first "Peter the Great" elephant (naturally also from Persia) arrived in 1713. It was transported through Astrakhan, and initially they wanted to transport it up the Volga, but a drought year had created numerous rapids. Moreover, bandits were rampant along the banks, which displeased the Persian escorts. Ultimately, they let the elephant walk—and within a few months, attracting widespread attention along the way, it safely reached Moscow. The Old Believer and spiritual writer Andrei Denisov, who met an elephant on the road, described it this way: “... thick-bodied, short in height, hairless, large-headed, black-faced, hump-backed, with a short-mouthed gait, bear-like in its gait, with a nose or lip or trunk from its upper lip, hanging down to the ground like a cloth sleeve, with which, like a hand, it receives food and drink, and bends it into its mouth and gives it away.”

This same elephant, incidentally, was destined for a long, prosperous life in St. Petersburg, even literary immortality—it was about him that Krylov wrote the fable about the elephant and the pug. Not only was an "Elephant Pavilion" built for him, but he was also given full provisions, including regular strong liquor, since it was believed that elephants, like people, benefit from vodka "for warming up" in the cold. The animal was entitled to over 50 buckets of vodka a year. However, it soon became clear that it was being stolen. The "elephant keeper" in charge of the elephant would periodically report that he had sampled the vodka he had been given, and that it was "unpleasant to the elephant, as it had a burnt taste and was weak." And what could be more important than an elephant's pleasure? And so the vodka was repurchased.

By the 40s, 14 or 15 elephants were already enjoying drinks and snacks at the Elephant Pavilion. Russia's relations with Persia were becoming increasingly complicated, and coups were brewing at court, one after another, and the Shah of Persia tried to give an elephant to every potential Russian ruler (or ruleress). But he wasn't always right. Elizabeth, who came to power in 1741, was left without her own elephant. Perhaps out of resentment, she abolished the Elephant Pavilion, sending the elephants to various provincial towns to entertain the rabble at fairs.

Perhaps, however, there were objective reasons for this, since the elephants in the capital behaved rather poorly—often breaking out of their pens, drunkenly smashing police kennels, and trying to fall off bridges… One of them, “angry at the females, went through the garden and broke a wooden fence, and went to Vasilievsky Island, where he destroyed a Chukhonsky village.” In short, they were to blame.

In any case, by the 18th century, elephants had become almost a habit in Rus'. It turned out they behaved just like humans, even drinking just as much. And by the 19th century, even "manuals" and popular prints had appeared, explaining to the common people how to greet elephants, what to feed them, and how to behave around them. After all, at first, when approaching a new village, the elephant "drivers" didn't know what they would encounter. In some places, sticks and stones were thrown at the elephant, in others, they fell prostrate before the giant and began praying to him as to a deity. And sometimes both happened simultaneously—after all, the Russian man is generous, as Dostoevsky later wrote.

Meanwhile, the locals themselves often benefited from the elephant "translocation": roads were leveled and bridges were reinforced everywhere for the animals' safety. Yes! There was nothing to be done, because an elephant doesn't cross a bridge "at random." The intelligent animal senses the slightest instability in the structure and immediately turns back. No amount of force would force it onto a rickety bridge, so considerable public funds had to be spent on the intended purpose.

As a result, a wealth of experience in transporting elephants had been accumulated. They knew where to spend the night, how to treat them, how to steal from their diet reports, and so on and so forth... Yet, every elephant delivery from the eastern countries to the capital turned into a long, arduous adventure. And in 1838, with the rare white elephant being transported to Nicholas I (or, in reality, to his son, Alexander), things also proved challenging.

Whether Potanin was in that convoy or not is unknown, but the task was handled responsibly. The unique white elephant spent its first winter in Orenburg (in a special covered pavilion), then over the summer it was to be transported through the Simbirsk, Nizhny Novgorod, Vladimir, and Moscow provinces, and finally to St. Petersburg. It was estimated that the elephant would cover 20 to 60 versts per day, meaning the journey would take 75 days. Funds for feeding the elephant and the convoy were allocated for this period. And, of course, they miscalculated. Not only was the elephant constantly slow, but his feet quickly bled on the journey from Orenburg to Samara. Later, special boots were invented for transporting elephants on Russian roads, custom-made. But they hadn't yet been invented, so the unique white elephant suffered.

In Simbirsk, he actually caught a cold, so we had to treat him for a week (mostly with vodka). Luckily, we found a sturdy barge and crammed the elephant into it. We somehow made it to Nizhny Novgorod, and from there, along the Volga and Oka rivers, to Murom. By that point, of course, all the money had been eaten (and drunk, and not only by the elephant). We had to beg. The governor of Vladimir province gave us 100 rubles for medicine, and we managed to find some in Moscow, but the elephant often fed himself, eating leaves from Russian birch trees, which were previously unfamiliar to him.

It was precisely at this patriotic pursuit that he was found somewhere between Vladimir and Moscow by the man considered in Russia to be the founder of Russophobia, the traveler and chronicler Marquis de Custine. Or rather, it was the elephant that caught the Marquis, speeding along a dirt road in his carriage at full speed, as if he were in France. Suddenly catching sight of the already considerably Russified white elephant by the side of the road, the horses were utterly terrified, bolted, and overturned the carriage. However, the Marquis survived—and, following his duty as a traveler and chronicler, climbed out of the carriage, which was lying in the mud, to approach the elephant:

“The formidable animal seemed even larger to me since it had brought me into such danger; the trunk with which it groped through the tops of the birches resembled a boa constrictor coiled around the palm branches. I was beginning to understand my horses—and indeed, there was reason to be greatly frightened. At the same time, the elephant amused me with the disdain it must have felt for our tiny bodies… Next to it, I was like an ant; terrified by such a transformation, I hurried away from this marvel, thanking God for saving me from a terrible death that at one moment already seemed inevitable…”

Fortunately, everything ended well for the elephant, too. In early October, he finally made it to Tsarskoye Selo, where he was housed in a specially built Indian-style pavilion.

"A very smart and kind animal" — wrote Arctic explorer Fyodor Litke about it, who visited there at the end of 1839. — “He was born to a tame couple in Bukhara and sent to the sovereign from the khan as a gift…”

The "gift" looked at the officer with kind, attentive eyes and thoughtfully chewed the straw. He seemed like a creature from another planet entirely. His entire appearance exuded an ancient dignity, beyond the comprehension of military men, officials, peasants, and especially courtiers. After all, unlike them, no elephant, even one sent as a gift, had ever bowed before kings and other rulers of this world. That's just the way he was, this elephant.