A FEW ITEMS REGARDING BASHAN’S
CHARACTER AND MANNER OF LIFE
A man in the Valley of the Isar had told me that dogs of this
species might become obnoxious, for they were always anxious to be
with the master. I was therefore warned against accepting the
tenacious faithfulness which Bashan soon began to display towards
me as all too personal in its origin. On the other hand, this made
it easier for me to discourage it a little—in so far as this may,
in self-defence, have been necessary. We have to deal here with a
remote and long-derived patriarchal instinct of the dog which
determines him—at least so far as the more manly, open-air loving
breeds are concerned—to regard and honour the man, the head of the
house and the family, as the master, the protector of the home,
the lord, and to find the goal and meaning of his existence in a
peculiar relationship of loyal vassal-friendship, and in the
maintenance of a far greater spirit of independence towards the
other members of the family. It was this spirit that Bashan
manifested towards me from the very beginning. His eyes followed
me about with a manly trustfulness shining in them. He seemed to
be asking for commands which he might fulfil but which I chose not
to give, since obedience was not one of his strong points. He clung
to my heels with the visible conviction that his inseparability
from me was something firmly rooted in the sacred nature of things.
It went without saying that in the family circle he would lie down
only at _my_ feet and never at any one else’s. It went equally
without saying that in case I should separate from the others when
out walking and pursue my own ways, he should join me and follow
_my_ footsteps. He also insisted upon my company when I was working,
and when he chanced to find the door that gave upon the garden
closed, he would come vaulting in through the window with startling
suddenness, whereby a good deal of gravel would come rattling in
upon the floor, and then with a sob and a sigh he would throw
himself under my desk.
But there is a reverence which we pay to life and to living things
which is too vigilant and keen not to be violated even by a dog’s
presence when we feel the need of being alone, and it was then that
Bashan always disturbed me in the most tangible fashion. He would
step up to my chair, wag his tail, look at me with devouring
glances, and keep up an incessant trampling. The slightest receptive
or approving movement on my part would result in his climbing up
on the arm-rests of the chair, and glueing himself against my
chest, in order to force me to laugh by the air-kisses which he
kept lunging in my direction. And then he would proceed to an
investigation of the top of my desk, assuming, no doubt, that
something edible was to be found there, since I was so often caught
bending over it. And then his broad and hairy paws would smear or
blur the wet ink of my manuscript.
Called sharply to account, he would lie down once more and fall
asleep. But no sooner was he asleep than he would begin to dream,
during which he would execute the movements of running with all
his four feet stretched out, at the same time giving vent to a
clear yet subdued ventriloquistic barking which sounded as if it
came from another world. That this had a disturbing and distracting
effect upon me need surprise no one, for, first of all, it was
eerie, and then it stirred and burdened my conscience. This
dream-life was all too clearly an artificial substitute for the
real chase, the real hunt, and was prepared for him by his nature,
because in his common life with me, the happiness of unrestrained
movement in the open did not devolve upon him in that measure which
his blood and his instincts demanded. This came home to me very
strongly, but as it was not to be altered, it was necessary that
my moral disquietude should be dispelled by an appeal to other and
higher interests. This led me to affirm that he brought a great
deal of mud into the room during bad weather, and moreover, that
he tore the carpets with his claws. Hence, as a matter of principle,
he was forbidden to remain in the house or to bear me company as
long as I chanced to be in the house—even though occasional
exceptions were made. He understood this law at once and submitted
to the unnatural prohibition, since it was precisely this which
expressed in itself the inscrutable will of the master and lord of
the house.
For this remoteness from me, which often continues, especially in
the winter, for the greater part of the day, is merely a matter of
being away—no actual separation or lack of connection. He is no
longer with me—by my orders—but then that is merely the carrying-out
of an order, after all a kind of negative being-with-me, as he
would say. As for any independent life which Bashan might lead
without me during these hours—that is not to be thought of. Through
the glass door of my study I see him disporting in a clumsy,
uncle-like manner with the children on the small patch of grass in
front of the house. But constantly he comes running up to the door,
and as he cannot see me through the muslin curtain which stretches
across the pane, he sniffs at the crack between door and jamb so
as to assure himself of my presence, and then sits down on the
steps with his back turned towards the room, mounting guard. From
my writing-table I can also see him moving at a thoughtful trot
between the old aspens on the elevated highway yonder. But such
promenades are merely a tepid pastime devoid of pride, joy, and
life. And it would be unutterably unthinkable that Bashan should
take to devoting himself to the glorious pleasures of the chase
upon his own account, even though no one would hinder him from
doing this, and my presence, as will be shown later, would not be
particularly favourable towards such an objective.
He begins to live only when I go forth—though, alas, he cannot
always be said to begin life even then! For after I leave the house
the question is whether I am going to turn towards the right, that
is, down the avenue that leads into the open and to the solitude
of our hunting-grounds, or towards the left in the direction of
the tram station in order to ride to the city and into the great
and spacious world. It is only in the first instance that Bashan
finds that there is any sense in accompanying me. At first he
joined me after I had chosen the great and spacious world, regarded
with vast astonishment the car as it came thundering on, and,
forcibly suppressing his shyness, made a blind and loyal jump upon
the platform, directly amongst the passengers. But the storm of
public indignation swept him off again, and so he resolved to go
galloping alongside the roaring vehicle—which bore so little
resemblance to the farm wagon between the wheels of which he had
once trotted. Faithfully he kept step as long as this was possible,
and his wind would no doubt have held out too. But being a son of
the upland farm, he was lost in the traffic of the metropolis; he
got between people’s legs, strange dogs made flank attacks upon
him; a tumult of wild odours such as he had never before experienced,
vexed and confused his senses; house-corners, impregnated with the
essences of old adventures, lured him irresistibly. He remained
behind, and though he once more overtook the wagon on rails, this
proved to be a wrong one, even though it exactly resembled the
right one. Bashan ran blindly in the wrong direction, lost himself
more and more in the disconcerting strangeness of the world. And
it was more than two days before he came home, starved and
limping—to that last house along the river to which his master had
also been sensible enough to return in the meantime.
This happened two or three times, then Bashan finally gave up
accompanying me when I turned towards the left. He knows instantly
what I intend to do as soon as I emerge from the doorway of the
house—make a trip to the hunting-grounds or a trip to the great
world. He jumps up from the door-mat upon which he has been awaiting
my coming forth under the protecting arch of the entrance. He jumps
up and at the same moment he sees what my intentions are. My
clothing betrays these to him, the cane that I carry, also my
attitude and expression, the cool and preoccupied look I give him,
or the irritation and challenge in my eyes. He understands. Headlong
he plunges down the steps and goes dancing before me in swift and
sudden bounds and full of excitement towards the gate when my going
forth seems to be certain. But when he beholds hope vanish, he
subsides within himself, lays his ears close to his head and his
eyes take on that expression of shy misery which is found in
contrite sinners—that look which misfortune begets in the eyes of
men and also of animals.
At times he is really unable to believe what he sees and knows,
that it is all up and that there is no use hoping for a hunt. His
desires have been too intense. He repudiates the signs and
symbols—chooses not to see the city walking-stick, the careful
citified clothes I am wearing. He pushes through the gate with me,
switches around outside in a half turn, and seeks to draw me
towards the right by starting to gallop in this direction and by
turning his head towards me, forces himself to overlook the fateful
No which I oppose to his efforts. He comes back when I actually do
turn towards the left, accompanies me, snorting deeply, and
ejaculating short, confused high notes which seem to arise from
the tremendous tension in his interior, as I walk along the fence
of the garden, and then he begins to jump back and forth over the
pickets of the adjacent public park. These pickets are rather high,
and he groans a little in his flight through the air out of fear
lest he hurt himself. He makes these leaps impelled by a kind of
desperate gaiety, scornful of all hard facts, and also to bribe
me, to work upon my sympathies by his cleverness. For it is not
yet quite _impossible_—however improbable it may seem—that I may
nevertheless leave the city path at the end of the park, once more
turn towards the left and lead him on to liberty—even if only by
way of the slightly roundabout way to the post-box. This happens,
it is true, but it happens only rarely. Once this hope has dissolved
into empty air, Bashan settles down upon his haunches and lets me
go my way.
There he sits now, in yokel-like, ungraceful attitude, in the very
middle of the road, and stares after my retreating form, down the
whole long vista. If I turn my head, he pricks up his ears, but
does not follow me. Nor would he follow me if I should call or
whistle—he knows this would all be to no purpose. Even from the
very end of the avenue I can see him still sitting there, a small,
dark, awkward shape in the middle of the highroad. A pang goes
through my heart—I mount the tram with an uneasy conscience. He
has waited so long and so patiently—and who does not know what
torture waiting can be! His whole life is nothing but waiting—for
the next walk in the open—and this waiting begins as soon as he
has rested after his last run. During the night, too, he waits,
for his slumbers are distributed throughout the entire twenty-four
hours of the sun’s revolution, and many a siesta upon the smooth
lawn, whilst the sun beats upon his coat, or behind the curtains
of his hut, must help to shorten the bare and empty spaces of the
day. His nocturnal rest is therefore dismembered and without unity.
He is driven by blind impulses hither and thither in the darkness,
through the yard and the garden—he runs from place to place—and
waits. He waits for the recurrent visit of the local watchman with
the lantern, the heavy thud of whose footfall he accompanies
against his own better knowledge with a terrible burst of heralding
barks. He waits for the paling of the heavens, the crowing of the
cock in the near-by nursery-garden, the stir of the morning wind
in the trees, and for the unlocking of the kitchen entrance, so
that he may slip in and warm himself at the white-tiled range.
But I believe that the torture of this nightly vigil is mild,
compared to that which Bashan must endure in the broad of day,
particularly when the weather is fair, be it winter or summer, when
the sun lures into the open, and the desire for violent motion tugs
in every muscle, and his master, without whom, of course, there
can be no real enjoyment, persistently refuses to leave his seat
behind the glass door.
Bashan’s mobile little body, through which life pulsates so swiftly
and feverishly, has been, so to speak, exhausted with rest—and
there can be no thought of sleep. Up he comes to the terrace in
front of my door, drops himself in the gravel with a sob which
comes from the very depths of his being, and lays his head upon
his paws, turning up his eyes with a martyr’s expression towards
heaven. This, however, lasts only a few seconds, the new position
irks him at once, he feels it to be untenable. There is still one
thing he can do. He may descend the steps and pay attention to a
small tree trimmed in the shape of a rose-tree and flanking the
beds of roses, an unfortunate tree which, owing to these visits of
Bashan, dwindles away every year and must be replanted. There he
stands on three legs, melancholy and contemplative—the slave of a
habit, whether urged by Nature or not. Then he reverts to his four
legs, and is no better off than before. Dumbly he gazes aloft into
the branches of a group of ash-trees. Two birds are flitting from
bough to bough with lively twitterings—he watches feathered ones
dashing away swift as arrows, and turns aside, seeming to shrug
his shoulders at so much childish _élan_ of life.
He stretches and strains as though he intended to tear himself
asunder. This undertaking, for the sake of thoroughness, he divides
into two parts: first of all, he stretches his front legs, lifting
his hindquarters into the air, and then exercises these by
stretching his hind legs far behind him. He yawns tremendously both
times, with wide, red-gaping jaws and upcurled tongue. Well, now
he has also achieved this—the performance cannot be carried on any
further, and having once stretched yourself according to all the
rules of the game, it is inconceivable that you should immediately
repeat the manœuvre. So Bashan stands and gazes at the ground. Then
he begins to turn himself slowly and searchingly about his own axis
as though he wished to lie down and were not as yet certain as to
the way in which this should be done. He changes his mind, however,
and goes with lazy step to the middle of the lawn, where with a
sudden, almost convulsive movement, he hurls himself upon his back
in order to cool and scour this by a lively rolling hither and
thither upon the mown surface of grass.
This must induce a mighty feeling of bliss, for stiffly he draws
up his paws as he rolls and snaps into the air in all directions
in a tumult of joy and satisfaction. All the more passionately he
drains this rapture to the very dregs in that he knows that it is
purely a fleeting rapture, and that one cannot very well wallow in
this fashion more than ten seconds, and that that beneficent
weariness which comes to one after such honest and happy efforts
will not follow—but merely disillusion and two-fold disquietude—the
price paid for this delirium, this drug-like dissipation. For a
moment he lies with twisted eyeballs upon his side as though he
were dead. Then he rises and shakes himself. He shakes himself as
only his kind is able to shake itself—without having to fear a
concussion of the brain. He shakes himself to a crescendo of
flappings and rattlings, and his ears go slapping under his jawbone
and his loose lips part from his white, bare triangular teeth.
And then? Then he stands motionless, in stark abstraction. He has
reached the ultimate limit and no longer has a single idea as to
what he shall do with himself. Under such circumstances as these,
he has recourse to something extreme. He climbs up to the terrace,
approaches the glass door—scratches only once and very feebly. But
this soft and timidly lifted paw, this soft, solitary scratching,
upon which he had resolved, after all other counsel had failed,
work mightily upon me, and I arise to open the door for him in
order to let him in, although I know that this can lead to no good.
For he immediately begins to leap and cavort, as a call to engage
in manly enterprises. He pushes the carpet into a hundred folds,
spreads confusion through the room, and my peace and quiet are at
an end.
But now judge whether it is easy for me to sail off in the tram,
after seeing Bashan wait thus, and leave him sitting as a melancholy
little heap of misery deep within the converging lines of the
avenue of poplars!
When the summer is on and the daylight is long and lingering, this
misfortune may not be so overwhelming, for then there is always a
good chance that at least my evening promenade will take me out
into the open, so that Bashan, even though the period of waiting
be arduous, may nevertheless still meet with his reward and,
provided one has a certain amount of luck, be able to chase a
rabbit. But in winter, it is all up for this day and Bashan must
bury all hope for a full twenty-four hours. For then the night will
have already fallen upon the hour of my second going-forth; the
hunting grounds are buried in impenetrable darkness, and I must
direct my steps towards regions artificially lighted, upstream,
through streets and public parks, and this does not suit Bashan’s
nature and simplicity of soul. It is true that at first he followed
me even here, but soon gave this up and remained at home. It was
not only that visible chances for gadding about were lacking—the
half-dark made him hesitant, he shied in confused alarm at man and
bush. The sudden flapping of a policeman’s cape caused him to jump
aside with a howl, and with the courage of horror to make a sudden
dash at the policeman, who was also scared half to death and strove
to even up the fright he had received by a torrent of harsh and
threatening words directed at me and Bashan. And there were many
other uncomfortable encounters whenever he went forth with me
through the night and the mist. Apropos of this policeman, I will
remark that there are three kinds of human beings to whom Bashan
has a whole-hearted aversion—namely policemen, monks, and
chimney-sweeps. He cannot tolerate them, and will sally forth
against them with furious barks whenever they go past the house,
or wherever they may chance to cross his path.
Moreover, winter is that season in which the world lies most
vigilantly and insolently in ambush against our liberties and our
virtues, and least willingly grants us a uniform and serene
existence, an existence of seclusion and of quiet preoccupation,
and so it happens that often the city draws me to itself a second
time in one day—in the evening—when Society demands its rights.
Then, late, at midnight, the last tram deposits me far out at its
penultimate stop. Or I come jogging along on foot, long after the
last tram has returned to town—I come wandering _distrait_, tempered
with wine, smoking, having passed the bourne of natural fatigue
and wrapped in a sense of false security in relation to all things
mundane. And then it happens that the embodiment of my own
domesticity, as it were, my very retirement, comes to meet me and
salutes and welcomes me not only without reproach or touchiness,
but with extreme joy, and re-introduces me to my own fireside—all
in the shape of Bashan himself. It is pitch dark, and the river
goes by with a rushing sound as I turn into the poplar avenue. A
few steps more and I feel that I am be-capered and be-switched by
paws and tail—and have no clear idea of what is happening to me.
“Bashan?” I ask of the darkness.
And then the capering and the switching are intensified to the
utmost. They pass into something dervish- and Berserker-like,
though the silence continues. The very moment I stand still I feel
two homely and wet and muddy paws upon the lapels of my overcoat,
and there are such violent snappings and lappings close to my face,
that I bend backward, whilst I pat those lean shoulders, wet with
rain or snow.
Yes, the dear fellow has waited for me at the tram-stop, well aware
of my comings and goings and doings; he had gone forth when the
hour seemed to have arrived, and waited for me at the station—waited,
perhaps, a long and weary while in the snow or rain. And his joy
at my arrival is devoid of all resentment at my cruel faithlessness,
even though I had utterly neglected him to-day and reduced all his
hopes and expectances to naught. So I am loud in my praise of him
as I pat his shoulders and we turn towards home. I tell him that
he has acted nobly, and deliver myself of momentous promises with
regard to the day which is already under way. I assure him (that
is to say not so much him as myself) that we shall go hunting
together to-morrow without fail, no matter what the weather. Amidst
resolutions such as these, my mood of universality evaporates,
seriousness and sobriety slink back into my soul, and my fancy,
now full of the hunting-grounds and their loneliness, is seized by
apperceptions of higher, secret and wondrous obligations.
But I am moved to add further details to this transcript of Bashan’s
character, so that the willing reader may see it in the _n_th
degree of vivid verisimilitude. I might perhaps proceed with more
or less skill by drawing a comparison between Bashan and the
lamented Percy, for a contrariety more sharply defined than that
which distinguished their respective natures is scarcely conceivable
within one and the same species. As a basic consideration one must
remember that Bashan enjoys perfect mental health, whilst Percy,
as I have already intimated, was—as is not uncommon with dogs of
blue-blooded pedigrees—a perfect fool his whole life long, crazy,
a very model of overbred impossibility. Mention of this has been
made in a more momentous connection, in a previous chapter.
I would merely mention here as a contrast Bashan’s simple and
popular ways as these manifest themselves when going for walks or
when making salutations—occasions upon which the enunciation of
his emotions remains within the bounds of common sense and a sound
heartiness without ever touching the limits of hysteria—limits
which Percy often transgressed on these occasions and that in the
most disconcerting fashion.
But the whole antithesis between the two creatures is by no means
exhausted in this—for this antithesis is in truth a mixed and
complicated one. Bashan, you must know, is somewhat crude, like
the common people themselves, but, like them, also soft and
sentimental, whilst his noble predecessor combined more delicacy
and possibilities of pain with an incomparably prouder and firmer
spirit, and despite his silliness, far excelled that old yokel
Bashan in the matter of self-discipline. It is not in defence of
an aristocratic cult of values that I call attention to this
mixture of opposite qualities, of coarseness and tenderness, of
delicacy and resolution, but purely in the interests of life and
actuality. Bashan, for example, is just the man for spending even
the coldest winter nights in the open, that is on the straw behind
the coarse burlap curtains of his kennel. A slight affection of
the bladder prevents him from spending seven hours uninterruptedly
in a locked room without committing a nuisance—a weakness of his
which caused us to lock him out during the inhospitable time of
the year, setting a justifiable faith in his robust health. Only
once, after a particularly icy and foggy night, did he make his
appearance with moustaches and goatee miraculously frosted and iced
and with that jerky, one-syllabic cough peculiar to dogs—but a few
hours, and lo, he had conquered the cold and was none the worse
for it.
But never would we have dared to expose the silken-haired Percy to
the inclemency of such a night. On the other hand, Bashan stands
in great fear of even the slightest pain, and every twinge wrings
from him a response, the whining complaint of which would arouse
aversion, if its naive, folkish quality did not disarm one and set
the springs of gaiety aflow. Again and again, during his prowlings
in the underwood, I have heard him squeal aloud—a thorn had chanced
to prick him, or a resilient branch had switched him across the
face, and if he happened to have scratched his belly a little in
vaulting over the fence, or sprained his foot, I have been treated
to an antique hero’s chorus, a three-legged limping approach, an
uncontrollable wailing and self-lamentation. And the more
sympathetically I talked to him, the more insistent his clamour
became—though in a quarter of an hour he would be swooping and
running about as madly as before.
Percy was of a different metal. Percy would grit his teeth and keep
mum. He feared the rawhide whip just as Bashan fears it, and
unfortunately he got a taste of it oftener than Bashan; for, first
of all, I was younger and more hot-tempered during his epoch than
I am at present, and secondly, his heedlessness often assumed a
wanton and sinister aspect which simply clamoured for chastisement
and urged me to it. When, driven to extremities, I would take down
the whip from the nail, then, it is true, he would crawl under the
table or bench and make himself small, but never a howl passed his
lips when the blow, and perhaps yet another, came humming down upon
his back; at most he gave a low moan, in case the whip bit too
hard. But Bully Bashan begins to shriek and whimper when I merely
raise my arm. In short, he is without pride or dignity, without
self-restraint or self-discipline. But his activities seldom call
for armed punitive intervention—the less so since I have long ago
ceased to demand achievements from him which are contrary to his
nature and insistence upon which might lead to a collision.
Tricks, for instance, I never expect from him—it would be futile.
He is no savant, no market-place miracle-monger, no poodle-like
valet—no professor—but a hunter-lad, full of go and vitality. I
have already emphasised the fact that he is a splendid vaulter. If
it be necessary, he will balk at no obstacle—if it be too high, he
will simply take a running jump and climb over it, letting himself
drop down on the other side—but take it he will. But the obstacle
must be a _real_ obstacle, that is, not one under which one may
run or crawl; for then Bashan would consider it sheer insanity to
jump over it. Such obstacles present themselves in the shape of a
wall, a ditch, a barred gate, a fence without a hole. A horizontal
bar, a stick held out, is no obstacle, and so, of course, one
cannot well jump over it without bringing oneself into a silly
contrariness to things as well as to one’s reason. Bashan refuses
to do this. He refuses. Should you attempt to persuade him to jump
over some sham obstacle, you would finally in your wrath be forced
to take him by the scruff of the neck and to hurl him over it,
barking and yapping. He will hereupon assume a mien as though he
had magnanimously permitted you to attain your wishes and will
celebrate the result by caperings and rapturous barks. You may
flatter him, beat him, but here you will encounter a resistance of
sheer reason against the trick pure and simple which you will never
be able to overcome.
He is not unobliging, gratifying his master means a great deal to
him—he will vault over a hedge at my wish or command, and not only
from his own impulses, and gladly will he reap his meed of praise
and thanks for this. But even though you should beat him half to
death, he will not jump over a pole or a stick, but run under it.
He will beg a hundred times for forgiveness, for consideration,
for mercy, for he fears pain, fears it, to the point of utter
pusillanimity. But no fear and no pain can force him to do something
which from a physical point of view would be mere child’s play for
him, but for which all mental capacities are obviously lacking in
him. To demand this act of him is not to confront him with the
question as to whether he should or should not jump—this question
is already settled for him in advance, and the command simply means
a clubbing. To demand the incomprehensible and therefore the
impossible from him is, in his eyes, merely a pretext for a quarrel,
for a disturbance of friendship and a chance to inflict a whipping,
and is in itself the very inauguration of these things. This is
Bashan’s conception of things, as far as I can see, and I doubt
whether one can speak of mere ordinary stubbornness in this
connection. Obduracy may finally be broken, yes, it even demands
to be broken, but Bashan would seal his refusal to perform a trick
or feat with his very life.
A wondrous soul! So friendly and intimate and yet so alien in
certain traits, so alien that our language is incapable of doing
justice to this canine logic. What relation has this, for instance,
with that terrible circumstantiality, always so unnerving for the
spectator, with which the meeting, the acquaintance or the mere
recognition of dog and dog fulfil themselves? My picaroon forays
with Bashan have made me the witness of hundreds of such meetings,
or rather I should say forced me to be an unwilling, embarrassed
witness. And every time, as long as the scene lasted, his usually
transparent behaviour became inscrutable to me—I found it impossible
to effect a sympathetic penetration into the feelings, laws, and
tribal customs which form the basis of his behaviour. In reality
the meeting in the open of two dogs strange to each other, belongs
to the most poignant, arresting, and pathetic of conceivable
happenings. It takes place in an atmosphere of daemonry and
strangeness. An inhibition operates here for which there is no
exacter term—the two cannot pass each other—a terrible embarrassment
prevails.
I need scarcely speak of cases in which the one party is locked
inside some allotment, behind a fence or a hedge—even then it is
not easy to see what humour the two may be in, but the affair is
comparatively less ticklish. They scent each other from vast
distances. Bashan suddenly appears at my side, as though seeking
protection, and gives way to whimperings which proclaim an
indefinite grief and perturbation of soul, whilst at the same time
the stranger, the prisoner, starts up a furious barking, to which
he seems anxious to give the character of vigilance energetically
announcing itself, but which now and again impulsively reverts to
tones which resemble those of Bashan’s yearning, a tearfully
jealous, a distressful whining. We approach the spot, drawing
nearer and nearer. The strange dog has been awaiting us behind the
fence—there he stands—scolding and lamenting his impotence, and
makes wild leaps against the fence and pretends—no one can tell
just how much he pretends—that he would infallibly tear Bashan to
pieces, if he could but reach him. In spite of this, Bashan, who
might easily remain at my side and walk past, goes towards the
fence—he _must_ go—he would go even contrary to my orders. Not to
go would violate some immanent law—far more deeply-rooted, more
inviolable than my own prohibition. So he walks up to the spot and,
with a humble and inscrutable mien, fulfils that act of sacrifice
which, as he well knows, always brings about a certain pacification
and temporary reconciliation with the other dog—so long as he too
performs the same act, even though it be in another spot and
accompanied by low growlings and whines. Then both begin to chase
wildly alongside the fence, the one on this, the other on the
opposite side—dumb and always keeping parallel to each other. Both
simultaneously face about at the end of the fence and race back
towards the other end, turn about and race back once more. Suddenly,
however, in the very middle, they remain as if rooted to the
ground, no longer longitudinal to the fence—but at right angles
with it, and touch noses through the rails. They stand thus for a
considerable time, and then once more resume their strange and
ineffectual race, shoulder to shoulder on either side of the fence.
Finally, however, my dog makes use of his liberty and races off.
This is always a terrible moment for the imprisoned one. This
sudden lighting out is to him something unendurable; it is villainy
unutterable and unparalleled—to think that the other dog, his
racial colleague, should really think of abandoning him!
So he raves, howls, acts like one possessed, races up and down his
territory, all by himself, threatens to jump over the fence and
strangle the traitor, and keeps on hurling the vilest curses after
him. Bashan cannot help hearing all this pother, and he is most
disagreeably affected by it, as his guilty and diffident air
proclaims. Still he refuses to look back, and jogs easily along.
During this the terrible maledictions to our rear gradually decline
in intensity and slowly die away into low whinings and thin yowls.
Such is the customary course of events when one of the parties
concerned happens to be under duress. But the strange contrariety
of things reaches its apex when the _rencontre_ takes place under
equal conditions and both happen to be free of foot. It is extremely
unpleasant to be obliged to describe this—really, it is the most
oppressive, embarrassing and ticklish situation conceivable.
However——
Bashan, who has just been blithely gambolling about, comes to me,
simply forcing himself upon my attention with that peculiar
sniffling and whining which arise from the very profounds of his
nature. These sounds cannot be interpreted as the expression of
any particular emotion, though I at once recognise them as an
attempt to tell me of the approach of a strange dog. I peer sharply
about me. No mistake—there he comes—and it is clear even from afar,
as proclaimed by his cautious and hesitant advance, that he has
become conscious of the other. My own anxiety is scarcely less than
that of the other two—I have premonitions that this meeting is
going to be precarious and highly undesirable.
“Go ’way!” I say to Bashan. “What d’ye mean by clinging to my leg!
Can’t you two carry on negotiations amongst yourselves—and at a
distance?”
I try to push him away with my stick, for if it should come to a
battle of bites, which—whether there be a reason for it or not—is
extremely probable, it is sure to take place around my feet and I
shall become the centre of a most unedifying tussle.
“Go ’way!” I repeat hoarsely.
But Bashan does not go ’way. He continues to cling to me, tightly
and helplessly. Only for a moment does he deign to move aside to
sniff at a tree—an operation which the stranger, as I observe out
of the corner of my eye, is also performing yonder. The distance
between the two is now only twenty paces—the tension is fearful.
The stranger has now assumed a crouching position like a tiger-cat,
with head thrust forward, and in this highwaymanlike pose he awaits
Bashan’s approach, apparently in order to seize him by the throat
at the proper moment. This, however, does not take place, nor does
Bashan appear to expect it. At all events he continues to advance
straight towards the lowering one, though with palpitant hesitancy
and an alert though tragic mien. He would do so—would, in fact, be
_forced_ to do so, even though I were to leave him and pursue my
path, abandoning him to all the perils of the situation. No matter
how upsetting the _rencontre_ may be, no thought can be given to
evasion or escape. He goes as one that is under a spell—a ban. Both
are bound to each other by some secret and tenebrous tie, and
neither dares belie this. We have now approached within two paces.
And then the other dog gets up quietly, just as though he had never
assumed the looks or attitude of a lion couchant and stands there
precisely as Bashan stands—both with hangdog look, miserable and
deeply embarrassed and both incapable of yielding an inch or of
passing each other. They would like to be free of all this; they
turn away their heads, squint sadly aside. Thus they shove and
slink towards each other, side by side, tense and full of a troubled
watchfulness, flank to flank, and begin to snuffle at each other’s
hides.
It is during this procedure that the growlings begin. _Sotto voce_,
I call Bashan by name and warn him, for this is the fateful moment
which is to decide whether a tussle and biting-match is to take
place, or whether I am to be spared this calamity. But the battle
of bites, of tooth and claw, is upon us—in a flash—no one could
say how or why. In a moment both of them are merely a tangle, a
raving, chaotic tumult out of which arise horrible gutteral cries,
as of dragons of the prime tearing each other. In order to avert
a tragedy I am forced to interpose my stick, to seize Bashan by
his collar or by the scruff of his neck, and to hoist him into the
air with one arm with his antagonist hanging to him with locked
jaws—or face whatever other terrors may be awaiting me—terrors
which I am then fated to feel in every nerve during the greater
part of the walk. But it also happens that the entire affair may
pass off quite uneventfully, and, as it were, ebb away. Nevertheless,
in both contingencies it is difficult to get away from the spot.
For even if these twain do not happen to clamp themselves together
by the teeth, they remain fettered by a tenacious inner bond. In
this case things proceed as follows:—
You imagine that the two dogs have already passed each other, for
they are no longer hesitating flank to flank, but are aligned
almost in keel formation, the one with his head turned in one
direction, the other with his in the opposite direction. They do
not see each other; they scarcely turn their heads, merely squinting
towards the rear, straining the eyeball back as far as possible.
Even though they are already separated by some short distance, the
tenacious, sinister tie still holds and neither of them is sure
whether the moment of liberation has arrived. Both would like to
move off, but some inscrutable, conscientious anxiety prevents them
from leaving the spot. Until at last—at last!—the ban is broken,
and Bashan, redeemed, and with the air of having just been granted
a new lease of life, goes bounding off.
I mention these things in order to indicate how strange and alien
so close a friend may appear under certain circumstances—times when
his entire nature reveals itself as something eerie and obscure.
I brood upon this mystery and find no answer save a shake of the
head. It is only by intuition and not by reason that I am able to
identify myself with it. Otherwise I am well acquainted with
Bashan’s inner world, and am able to meet its every manifestation
with sympathy and with cheerfulness—to understand his play of
features, his whole behaviour.
How well, for example, a solitary example, do I know that chirruping
yawn to which he has recourse whenever he has been disappointed in
the results of a walk. It may be that the walk was all too short
or else barren of events in a sporting sense—as sometimes happens
when I have begun my day’s work a little later than usual and have
gone into the open air with Bashan for a brief quarter of an hour
before sitting down at my desk. He walks beside me then, and yawns.
It is a shameless, impolite, wide-angle yawning—the yawning of the
beast, of the brute, and it is accompanied by a whistling, guttural
note and by a hurt and bored look. It says, as clearly as words:—
“A nice sort of master I’ve got! I went and fetched him from the
bridge last night. And now he goes and sits behind that there glass
door, and I’ve got to wait till he goes out, and me a-perishing
with impatience. And then at last when he _does_ go out, he turns
round again and starts back home before I’ve had a sniff at a
single bit o’ game! A fine sort of master, eh? And what a mean
trick to play on a hound! Why, he ain’t fit to be called a master
at all!”
Such are the sentiments expressed with rude clarity by these yawns
of his—and there is no mistaking them. I am also aware that he is
perfectly right in cherishing such sentiments and that in his eyes
I am guilty. And so my hand steals towards his shoulder for a pat
or two, or I proceed to stroke the top of his skull. But he has no
use for caresses under such circumstances. He refuses to acknowledge
or accept them. He gives another yawn, and this still more rudely
than before, if that be possible, and withdraws himself from my
conciliatory hand. He withdraws himself, even though he is extremely
fond of such caresses, in accordance with his earthy, all too
earthy sentimentality, and in contradistinction to the impervious
Percy. He particularly appreciates being scratched upon the throat,
and he has acquired a droll but adroit energy in guiding one’s hand
to the proper place by means of short movements of the head. That
he ignores all tendernesses at present is due not only to his
disillusion and disappointment, but also to the fact that he has
no interest for such fondlings when in a state of movement, that
is, a state of movement co-ordinated with mine. He is then obsessed
by a masculine mood and spirit, and scorns all feminine touches.
But an immediate change takes place as soon as I sit down. Then
his heart expands and he becomes receptive to all friendly advances,
and his manner of responding to them is full of rapturous and
awkward insistence.
Often, when I chance to be seated on my chair in the angle of the
garden wall or in the grass with my back against some favourite
tree, reading a book, I am happy to interrupt my literary occupation
in order to speak and play with Bashan. I repeat—to speak with him.
And what do I find to say? Well, the conversation is usually
limited to repeating his name to him—his name—those two syllables
which concern him more than all others, since they designate
nothing but himself, and thus have an electrifying effect upon his
entire being. I thus stir and fire his consciousness of his ego by
abjuring him in different tones and in different degrees of emphasis
to consider the fact that he is called Bashan and that he _is_
Bashan. By keeping this up for a short time I am able to throw him
into a state of veritable ecstasy, a kind of drunkenness of
identity, so that he begins to rotate upon his own axis and to send
loud barks towards heaven—all out of sheer inner triumph and the
proud compulsion of his heart. Or we amuse each other in that I
flick him upon the nose, whilst he snaps at my hand as at a fly.
This forces both of us to laugh, yes, even Bashan must laugh. This
laugh of his—to which I must instinctively respond, is for me the
most wonderful and touching thing in the world. It is unutterably
moving to see how his haggard canine cheek and the corners of his
mouth quiver and jerk to the excitement of the teasing, how the
dusky mien of the dumb creature takes on the physiognomic expression
of human laughter, or how a troubled, helpless, and melancholy
reflection of this appears and vanishes again to give way to the
stigmata of fear and embarrassment, and then how it once more makes
its wry appearance. . . .
But it is best to pause here and not involve myself deeper in
detail. I must not allow my descriptions to exceed the limits which
I have set. I merely wish to show my hero in all his glory and in
his natural elements and in that position in life in which he is
most himself and which casts the most favourable light upon his
various gifts and accomplishments—that is to say, the hunt or
chase. I must, however, as a preliminary, make the reader more
closely acquainted with the scene of these joys—our hunting-grounds—my
landscape along the river. For there is a strange affinity between
this and the person of Bashan. This strip of land is as dear to me
as it is to him—it is intimate and full of meaning—like himself.
Therefore, without further ado or novellistic preciosity, let the
following suffice in the way of description:—
THE HUNTING-GROUNDS