CHAPTER V

THE CHASE

The region is rich in game, and so we go a-hunting it. That is to

say, Bashan goes hunting and I look on. In this wise we hunt:

rabbits, quail, field-mice, moles, ducks and gulls. But we do not

by any means fight shy of bigger game; we also track pheasants and

even deer—whenever such first-rate quarry—as sometimes happens—strays

into our hunting-grounds. This always furnishes an exciting

spectacle—when the long-legged, lightly-built animal, the furtive

deer, all yellow against the snow and with its white-tufted

hindquarters bobbing, goes flying before little old Bashan who is

straining every nerve. I follow the course of events with the

greatest interest and tension. It is not as if anything were ever

to result from this chase, for that has never happened and never

will happen. But the lack of tangible results does not in the least

diminish either Bashan’s joy or his passion for hunting, nor does

it in any way minimise my pleasure. We pursue the chase for its

own sake and not for the sake of prey or booty or any other

utilitarian purpose.

Bashan, as I have said, is the active member. He does not expect

any save a moral support from me, since no personal and immediate

experience has taught him a more pronounced and practical manner

of co-operation. I lay particular stress upon the words “personal”

and “immediate,” for it is more than probable that his ancestors,

in so far as they belonged to the tribe of setters, were familiar

with more actual methods of hunting. On occasion I have asked

myself whether some memory of this might not survive in him and

whether this could not be aroused by some accidental impulse. It

is certain that on Bashan’s plane of existence the life of the

individual is less differentiated from the species than in our

case. Birth and death signify a far less profound vacillation of

the balance of being; perhaps the inheritances of the blood are

more perfectly preserved, so that it would merely be an _apparent_

contradiction to speak of inborn experiences, unconscious memories

which, once aroused, would be able to confuse the creature in the

matter of its own personal experiences and cause it to be

dissatisfied with these. I once courted this thought, but then rid

myself of it, just as Bashan had obviously rid himself of the

thoughts of the brutal incident of which he had been a witness and

which gives me occasion for these deliberations.

When I go forth to hunt with him, it usually chances to be

noon—half-past eleven or twelve o’clock—sometimes, especially on

very warm summer days, it may even be late afternoon, say six

o’clock or later. It may be that this is even our second going-out

In any case my mental and spiritual atmosphere is quite different

from what it was during our first careless stroll in the morning.

The virgin freshness of the early hour has vanished long since. I

have worried, and have struggled in the interval with this or that.

I have been forced to grit my teeth and overcome one difficulty

after the other—I have had a tussle with some person or other. At

the same time I have been obliged to keep some diffuse and

complicated matter firmly in mind and my head is weary, especially

after a successful mastery of the problem. Hence this going

a-hunting with Bashan distracts and enlivens me. It infuses me with

new life, putting me into condition for the rest of the day and

for triumph over the tasks that are still lowering in my path. It

is really largely the impulse of gratitude which forces me to

describe these hunting trips.

Things, to be sure, are not so neatly arranged that Bashan and I

could go forth in pursuit of any one special species of the game

which I have mentioned—that we should, for instance, specialise on

rabbits or ducks. No, on the contrary, we hunt everything that

chances to cross our path—I had almost said that chances to come

within range of our guns. We need not go very far in order to

strike game. The hunt may literally begin immediately outside the

garden gate, for there are great numbers of field-mice and moles

in the hollows of the meadows close behind the house. To be exact

and sportsmanlike—I am aware that these fur-bearing animals cannot,

of course, be regarded as game in the strict sense of the term.

But their secret, subterranean habits, especially the nimble

craftiness of the mice, which are not blind o’ day like their

excavating and tunnelling brethren, and often go gambolling upon

the surface, and then when danger approaches go flicking into the

little black burrow without one’s being able to distinguish their

legs or their movements—these things work tremendously upon Bashan’s

hunting instincts. These are also the only animals of the wild

which occasionally become his prey—a field-mouse, a mole—these are

titbits which are not to be despised in such lean and meagre days

as these—when one often finds nothing more palatable than a thick

barley soup in the stoneware bowl beside one’s kennel.

I have scarcely taken a dozen steps with my cane along the poplar

avenue, and Bashan has, as an overture, scarcely got through with

his preliminary leaps and lunges, than he is seen to be performing

the most extraordinary capricoles towards the right. He is already

gripped by the passion for the chase, and is blind and deaf to all

things save the exciting but hidden goings-on of the living things

about him. With every nerve taut and tense, waving his tail,

carefully lifting his feet, he goes slinking through the grass,

sometimes pausing in mid-step, with one foreleg and one hindleg in

air, then peering with cocked head into the hollows, an action

which causes the flaps of his erected ears to fall forward on both

sides of his eyes. And then raising both forepaws, he will suddenly

jump forward and will stare with dumbfounded expression at a spot

where but a moment before there _was_ something and where now there

is nothing. And then he begins to dig. . . .

I feel a strong desire to go to him and await the result, but then

we should never be able to leave the spot Bashan would expend his

entire stock of joy-in-the-chase right here in this meadow, and

this stock is meant to last him for the entire day. And so I walk

on—untroubled by any thought that he might not be able to overtake

me—even though he should remain behind for a long time without

having observed in what direction I had gone. To him my track and

trail are as clear as that of a bit of game. Should he have lost

sight of me, he is sure, with head lowered between his forepaws,

to come tearing along this trail. I hear the clinking of his brass

license-tag, his firm gallop behind me—and then he goes shooting

past me and turns with wagging tail once more to report himself on

duty.

Out yonder, however, in the woods or in the broad meadows alongside

the brook, I often halt and watch when I catch him digging for a

mouse, even though it should be late and I in danger of exceeding

the time I have apportioned for my walk. The passionate devotion

with which he goes to work is so fascinating to observe, his

profound enthusiasm is so contagious, that I cannot but wish him

success with all my heart, and naturally I also wish to be a

witness of this success. The spot he is attacking may have made

quite an innocent impression in its outward aspect—it is, let us

say, some mossy little mound at the foot of a birch and possibly

penetrated by its roots. But did not my Bashan hear the quarry,

scent it, perhaps even see it as it switched away? He is absolutely

certain that his bit of game is sitting there under the earth in

some snug runlet or burrow; all that is necessary is to get at it,

and so he goes digging away for all he is worth in absolute devotion

to his task and oblivious to the world. He proceeds not ragingly,

but with a certain fine deliberation, with the tempered passion of

the real sportsman—it is wonderful to see. His small, tiger-striped

body beneath the smooth coat of which the ribs align themselves

and the muscles play, is hollowed, is concave in the middle; his

hindquarters, with the stump of a tail vibrating to quick time, is

erected vertically. His head is between his forepaws and thrust

into the slant hole he has already dug. With averted face he

continues with the rapid strokes of his iron claws to tear up the

earth more and more—lumps of sod, pebbles, shreds of glass, and

bits of roots fly all about me. Sometimes his snortings are heard

in the silence of the fields—that is when he has succeeded in

penetrating some little distance, and in wedging his snout into

the entrance to the burrow in order, by means of his scent, to keep

check upon the clever, still, and timid creature within there.

His breathing sounds muffled, he ejects his breath in a blast in

order to be able to empty his lungs quickly—and to draw in the

delicate, acrid, distant, and yet disguised odour of the mice. What

emotions must surge through the breast of the little animal down

there when it hears this hollow and muffled snorting? Well, that

is its own affair, or perhaps God’s affair, who has decreed that

Bashan shall be the enemy and persecutor of these earth-mice. And

then—is not fear only an intensified feeling for life? If no Bashan

existed the little mouse would very likely be bored to death. And

what use or purpose would then be served by its beady-eyed

cleverness and its art of swift mining operations, factors that

fairly well equalise the conditions of the battle, so that the

success of the party upon the offensive always remains highly

problematical, even improbable. Indeed I feel no compassion for

the mouse; inwardly I take sides with Bashan, and sometimes I

cannot remain content with the role of a mere spectator. I get my

walking-stick into play whenever some firmly-bedded pebble, some

tough cord of a root is in his way and help him to get rid of these

obstacles. Then sometimes, in the midst of his hot and furious

activity, he will throw up his head and bestow upon me a swift and

fervent glance of gratitude and approval. With munching jaws and

glinting teeth he goes working his way into the stubborn, fibrous

ground,—tears away clods, throws them aside, sends his resonant

snorts once more into the depths, and then, fired to renewed action

by the provocative scent, sets his claws once more into furious

action. . . .

In the great majority of cases this is all love’s labour lost. With

the moist earth clinging to his nose and sprinkled about his

shoulders, Bashan makes another quick and superficial survey of

the territory and then gives it up and jogs indifferently on.

“There was nothing doing, Bashan,” I remark to him, when he chances

to look at me. “Nothing doing,” I repeat, shaking my head and

raising my brows and my shoulders, so as to make the message

plainer. But it is not at all necessary to comfort him; his failure

does not depress him for a moment. To hunt is to hunt, the titbit

of game is the least of all considerations. It was, take it all in

all, a magnificent effort he thinks—in so far as he still happens

to think of this violent business he has just been through. For

now he is already on new adventure bent—adventures of which there

is, indeed, no lack in the three zones of this domain.

Sometimes, however, he happens to catch the mouse. And then

something occurs which never fails to strike me with horror—for

Bashan devours his prey alive, with hide and hair. Perhaps the

unfortunate creature had not been properly advised by its instincts

of self-preservation and had chosen a spot for its burrow which

was too soft, too unprotected and too easily excavated. Perhaps

the little creature’s tunnels had not been sunk deep enough, or it

had been paralysed by fright and prevented from burrowing to deeper

levels. Or it had perchance lost its head and, crouching a few

inches under the surface with its little beady eyes popping out of

their sockets with horror, listened to that terrible snorting

coming nearer and nearer. No matter, the iron claws disinter it,

uncover it, fling it into the air, into the pitiless glare of the

day! Hapless little mouse! you had good cause to be frightened,

and it is well that this immense and comprehensible fright has

already reduced you to a kind of semi-unconsciousness. For now the

tiny rodent is to be converted into pap and pulp.

Bashan has caught it by the tail; he tosses it upon the ground

twice or thrice; a very faint squeak is heard, the last that is

vouchsafed to the god-forsaken little mouse. And then Bashan snaps

it up, and it disappears between his jaws and the white, gleaming

teeth. He stands there with legs four square and forepaws braced.

His neck is lowered and thrust forth as he chews—he catches at the

titbit again and again and throws it into the proper position in

his mouth. The tiny bones are heard to crack, a shred of fur hangs

for a moment from the corner of his mouth; he draws it in and then

all is over. Bashan then executes a kind of dance of joy and

triumph, circling around me as I stand leaning on my cane with cold

shudders rushing up and down my spine. “You’re a fine fellow!” I

say to him in a kind of gruesome recognition of his victory. “You

scoundrel! you murderer! you cannibal!”

These words cause him to dance still more wildly, and, one might

say, almost to laugh aloud. So I proceed on my way, somewhat

chilled in the limbs owing to the tragedy I have just witnessed,

and yet inwardly enlightened by the brutal humour of life. The

thing, after all, is quite in order, in Nature’s order. A mouselet

which had been ill-advised by its faulty instincts has simply been

converted into pap and pulp. Nevertheless I am inwardly gratified

when in such instances as the foregoing, it did not become necessary

for me to help along the natural order of things with my cane, but

remained a simple and passive spectator.

Startling and even terrifying is it when some pheasant suddenly

bursts from the thicket in which, sleeping or waking, it had hoped

to remain undiscovered, some coign of concealment from which

Bashan’s delicate and unobtrusive nose had after a little searching

managed to rouse it. Thumping and flapping, with frightened and

indignant cries and cacklings, the large, rust-red and long-tailed

bird lifts itself a-wing, and with all the silly heedlessness of

a hen, goes scattering upon some tree from which it begins to

scold, whilst Bashan, erect against the trunk, barks up at the

fowl, stormily, savagely. The meaning behind this barking is clear.

It says plainly enough: “Get off! get off that perch! Tend to

business. Fly off, so I can have my bit o’ fun. Get off—I want to

chase you!” The pheasant cannot, apparently, resist this powerful

voice, and off it scuds, making its way with heavy flight through

the branches, still cackling and complaining, whilst Bashan, full

of manly silence, pursues it smartly along the level ground.

This is sufficient for Bashan’s bliss; his wish and his will go no

farther. What would have happened had he caught the bird? Nothing,

I assure you, absolutely nothing. I once saw him with a bird

between his claws. He had probably come upon it whilst it lay in

deep sleep, so that the clumsy thing had had no time to lift itself

from the ground. On that occasion Bashan had stood over the fowl,

an utterly bewildered victor, and did not know what to do next.

With one wing raked wide open and with its head drawn aside to the

very limit of its neck, the pheasant lay in the grass and screamed,

screamed without a single pause—a passer-by might have thought that

some old woman was being murdered in the bushes. I hurried up, bent

upon preventing something horrible. But I was soon convinced that

there was nothing to fear. Bashan’s all-too conspicuous confusion,

the half-curious, half-disgusted mien with which, head aslant, he

looked down upon his prisoner, assured me of that. This old wives’

screeching and dinning in his ears, very likely got upon his

nerves—the whole affair apparently caused him more embarrassment

than triumph. Was it in victory or in shame that he pulled a couple

of feathers out of his victim’s dress, very, very cautiously with

his mouth, refraining from all use of his teeth, and then threw

them aside with an angry toss of his head?

He followed this tribute to his predatory instincts by taking his

paw off his victim and letting it go free—not out of magnanimity,

to be sure, but simply because the situation bored him, and because

it really had nothing in common with the stir and gaiety of the

chase. Never had I seen a more astonished bird! It had closed its

account with life, and for a brief space it seemed that it no

longer knew what use to make of life, for it lay in the grass as

though dead. It then tottered along the ground for a bit, swung

clumsily upon a tree, appeared about to fall from it, summoned its

strength, and then with heavily-dragging feathery raiment went

fluttering off into the distance. It no longer squawked, but kept

its bill shut. Silently the bird flew across the park, the river,

the forest beyond the river, away, away, as far as its short wings

could carry it. It is certain that this particular pheasant never

returned to this particular spot.

There are, however, a good many of his breed in our hunting-grounds,

and Bashan hounds and hunts them in an honourable sportsmanlike

manner and according to the rules of the game. The only real

blood-guilt that lies heavy upon his head is the devouring of the

field-mice, and this, too, appears as something incidental and

negligible. It is the scenting-out, the drive, the pursuit, which

serve him as a noble end in themselves—all who were able to observe

him at this brilliant game would come to the same conclusion. How

beautiful he grows, how ideal, how perfect to the end and purpose!

It is thus that the awkward and loutish peasant lad of the hills

becomes perfect and picturesque when you see him standing amidst

the rocks and cliffs as a hunter of the _Gemsbock_. All that is

noble, genuine, and fine in Bashan is driven to the surface and

achieves a glorious efflorescence in such hours as these. That is

why he pants for these hours with such intensity and why he suffers

so poignantly when they pass unused.

Bashan is no toy spaniel; he is the veritable woodsman and

pathfinder, such as figure heroically in books. A great joy in

himself, in his own existence cries from every one of the martial,

masculine, and striking poses which he assumes and which succeed

one another with almost cinematographic rapidity. There are few

things which are able so to refresh my eyes as the sight of him,

as he goes sailing through the underbrush in a light, feathering

trot and then suddenly stands at gaze, with one paw daintily raised

and bent inward, sagacious, vigilant, impressive, with all his

faculties in a radiant intensification. And then amidst all this

imposing statuesqueness it is possible that he may give vent to a

sudden squeak, or yelp, occasioned, very likely, by having caught

his foot in something thorny. But this too, is all in order with

the course of nature and with the perfection of the picture—this

cheery readiness to be splendidly simple. It is capable of

diminishing his dignity only as a breath dims a mirror; the

superbness of his carriage is restored the very next moment.

I look upon him—my Bashan—and I am reminded of a time during which

he lost all his pride and his gallant poise, and was once more

reduced to that condition of bodily and mental dejection in which

we first saw him in the kitchen of that tavern in the mountains,

and from which he so painfully lifted himself to a faith in his

own personality and in life. I do not know what ailed him—he began

to bleed from the mouth or the nose or the ears—even to-day I have

no clear idea of his particular malady. But wherever he went in

those days, he left marks of blood behind him—in the grass of the

hunting-grounds, in the straw of his kennel, on the floor of the

house when he entered it—and yet there was no external injury

anywhere visible. At times his entire nose seemed to be covered

with red paint. Whenever he sneezed he would send forth a spray of

blood, and then he would step in the drops and leave brick-red

impressions of his paws wherever he went. Careful examinations were

made, but these led to no results and thus brought about increased

anxieties. Were his lungs attacked? or was he afflicted by some

mysterious distemper of which we had never heard?—something to

which his breed was subject? Since the strange as well as unpleasant

phenomena did not cease after some days, it was decided that he

must go to the Dog’s Hospital.

Kindly but firmly Bashan’s master imposed upon him on the day

following—it was about noon—the leathern muzzle—that mask of

stubborn meshes which Bashan loathes above all things and of which

he always seeks to rid himself by violent shakings of his head and

furious rubbings of his paws. He was fastened to the braided leash

and thus harnessed was led up the avenue—on the left-hand side—then

through the local park and a suburban street into the group of

buildings belonging to the High School. We passed beneath the

portal and crossed the courtyard. We then entered a waiting-room,

against the walls of which sat a number of persons all of whom,

like myself, held a dog on a leash—dogs of different breeds and

sizes, who regarded one another with melancholy eyes through their

leather muzzles. There was an old and motherly dame with her fat

and apoplectic pug, a footman in livery with a tall and snow-white

Russian deerhound, who emitted from time to time a dry and

aristocratic cough; a countryman with a _dachshund_—apparently a

case for orthopedic science, since all his feet were planted upon

his body in the most crooked and distorted manner, and many others.

The attendant at this veterinary clinic admitted the patients one

after the other into the adjoining consulting-room. At length the

door to this was also opened for me and Bashan.

The Professor was a man of advanced age, and was clad in a long,

white operating coat. He wore gold-rimmed spectacles, his head was

crowned with gray curls and his whole manner was so amiable and

conveyed such an air of wise kindliness that I would immediately

have entrusted myself and my family to him in any emergency. Whilst

I gave him my account of things, he smiled paternally upon his

patient, who sat there in front of him and turned up to him a pair

of humble and trustful eyes.

“He’s got fine eyes,” said the doctor, without allowing Bashan’s

hybrid goatee to disturb him, and declared that he was ready to

make an investigation at once. Bashan, quite helpless with

astonishment, was now, with the aid of the attendant, spread upon

the table. It was moving to see how the old doctor applied the

stethoscope to the breast of the tiger-striped little manikin and

performed his auscultation, just as I had seen it done in my case

more than once. He listened to the swift workings of the tiny

canine heart, and sounded his entire organic internal functions

from different points of his exterior. Hereupon, tucking his

stethoscope under his arm, he began to examine Bashan’s eyes with

both hands, his nose as well as the roof of his mouth, and then

ventured upon delivering a preliminary prognosis.

The dog, said he, was a trifle nervous and anæmic, but otherwise

in good condition. It might be epitaksis or hæmathemesis. But it

might also be a case of tracheal or pharyngeal hemorrhage—this was

by no means precluded. For the present one would be most inclined

to call it a case of hæmoptysis. It was necessary to keep the

animal under careful observation. I should do best to leave him

here and then call and inquire again in the course of a week.

Thus instructed, I expressed my thanks and gave Bashan a farewell

pat on the shoulder. I saw how the attendant led Bashan across the

courtyard towards the entrance to a building at the rear, and how

Bashan, with a bewildered and anxious expression on his face,

looked back at me. And yet he should have felt flattered, just as

I could not help feeling flattered by hearing the Professor declare

him to be nervous and anæmic. No one who had stood at his cradle

would ever have imagined that it was written in his horoscope that

he was one day to be said to be suffering from two such fashionable

ailments, or that Medical Science would be called in to deliberate

over him with such gravity and solicitude.

From that day on my walks were to me what unsalted food is to the

palate—they gave me little pleasure. No silent tumult of joy burst

upon me when I went out—under way no proud, high, mad helter-skelter

of the chase surrounded me. The park seemed to me desolate—I was

bored. I did not fail to make inquiries by telephone during the

interval of waiting. The answer, communicated from some subordinate

quarter, was to the effect that the health of the patient was as

good as could be expected under the circumstances—circumstances

which, for good reasons or for bad, one did not trouble to designate

more clearly. As soon as the day arrived on which I had taken

Bashan to the veterinary institution, and the week was up, I once

more made my way to the place.

Guided by numerous signboards with inscriptions and pointing hands,

liberally affixed to walls and doors, I managed, without going

astray, to negotiate the door of the clinical department which

sheltered Bashan. In accordance with the command upon an enamelled

plate on the door, I forbore to knock, and walked in. The rather

large room in which I found myself gave me the impression of a

wild-beast house in a menagerie. The atmosphere incidental to such

a house also prevailed here, with the exception that the odour of

the menagerie seemed to be mingled here with all kinds of sweetish

medicinal vapours—a cloying and rather disturbing mixture. Cages

with bars were set all around the walls, and nearly all of them

were occupied. Resolute barks saluted me from one of these. A man,

evidently the keeper, was busy with a rake and a shovel before the

open door of one of these cages. He was pleased to respond to my

greeting without interrupting his work, and then left me for the

present entirely to my own impressions.

My first survey of the scene, whilst the door was still open, had

at once revealed to me the whereabouts of Bashan, and so I went up

to him. He lay behind the bars of his cage upon some loose stuff

which must have been made of tan-bark or something similar, and

which added its own peculiar aroma to the odour of the animals and

of the carbolic acid or lysoform. He lay there like a leopard,

though a very weary, very disinterested and disappointed leopard.

I was shocked by the sullen indifference with which he greeted my

entrance and advance. He merely gave a feeble thump or two upon

the floor of his cage with his tail, and only after I had spoken

to him did he deign to raise his head from his paws, but only to

drop it again almost immediately and to blink moodily to one side.

A stoneware vessel full of water stood at the back of his cage.

Outside, attached to the bars of his cage, there was a small wooden

frame with a card, partly-printed, partly hand-written, which

contained an account of Bashan’s name, breed, sex, and age. Beneath

this there was a fever-index curve.

“Bastard setter,” I read. Name: Bashan. Male. Two years old.

Brought in on such and such a day and month of the year—to be

observed for occult hemorrhages. And then followed the curve of

Bashan’s temperature, drawn in ink and showing no great variations.

There were also details in figures regarding the frequency of

Bashan’s pulse. So his temperature was being taken and even his

pulse counted—nothing was lacking in this respect. It was his frame

of mind which occasioned me worry.

“Is that one yourn?” asked the attendant who, implements in hand,

had in the meantime approached me. He was a stocky, round-bearded

and red-cheeked man, wearing a kind of gardener’s apron, with

brown, somewhat bloodshot eyes, the moist and honest glances of

which had something astonishingly dog-like in them.

I answered his question in the affirmative, referred to the order

I had received to call again to-day, to the telephone conversations

I had carried on, and declared that I had come to see how everything

stood. The man cast a glance at the card. Yes, he said, the dog

was suffering from occult hemorrhages, and that kind of thing

always took a long time—especially if one didn’t know where the

hemorrhages came from. Well, wasn’t that always the case? No, one

didn’t know anything about it as yet. But the dog was there to be

observed and he was being observed. The hemorrhages were still

occurring, were they? Yes, they came on now and then. And they were

being observed? Yes, most carefully.

“Has he any fever?” I asked, trying to make something out of the

chart hanging on the bars. No, no fever. The dog had quite a normal

temperature and pulse, about ninety beats in the minute—that was

the normal number, that was about right, they ought not to be less,

but if they were fewer, then he would have to be observed still

more sharply. The dog—if it wasn’t for these here occult hemorrhages,

was really in pretty good condition. Of course he had howled at

first, a full twenty-four hours, but after that he had got used to

things. Of course, he didn’t eat much, but then he got very little

exercise, and it was also a question of how much he was accustomed

to eat. What food did they give him? Soup, said the man. But as he

had already remarked, the dog didn’t eat much of it.

“He has a very depressed look,” I said, affecting an expert air.

Yes, no doubt of that, said the man, but then that didn’t really

mean much. For it wasn’t very nice for a dog to have to be cooped

up in that way and be observed. They were all depressed more or

less, that is to say, the good-natured ones, but there were some

as got mean and nasty. But he couldn’t say as this here dog had.

This dog of mine was a good-natured sort and wouldn’t think of

biting—even though one were to observe him till Doomsday. I agreed

with what the man said, though indignation and anxiety gnawed at

my heart. How long, I asked him, did one think it was necessary to

keep Bashan here? The man cast another glance at the chart. Another

week, he remarked, would be necessary to observe him properly—that’s

what the Professor had said. I might come after another week and

inquire again—that would make two weeks in all, and then I would

be able to get exact information about the dog and about curing

his occult hemorrhages.

I went—after I had made another attempt to cheer up Bashan’s

spirits by talking to him. But he was as little affected by my

going away as by my coming. He seemed to be oppressed by a feeling

of dark hopelessness—and contempt. “Since you have been capable,”

his attitude seemed to declare, “of having me put into this cage,

I expect nothing more from you.” And was it not in truth enough to

make him despair of all reason and justice? What had he done that

this should happen to him? How came it that I not only permitted

it, but even took the initial steps? I had meant to act well by

him. He had begun to bleed from the nose, and though this did not

appear to disturb him in any way, I had nevertheless thought it

fitting that veterinary science should be consulted, as befitted

a dog in good circumstances, and I had also learned that he was

rather anæmic and nervous—like the daughter of an earl. How could

I know that such a fate awaited him? How could I make him understand

that he was having honours and attention bestowed upon him by being

locked behind bars—like a jaguar—in being deprived of air, sunshine,

and exercise, and instead of being able to enjoy these blessings,

tormented with a thermometer day after day?

Such were the questions which I put to myself as I walked home.

Whilst I had up to then only missed Bashan, I now began to be

afflicted with a positive anxiety for him, for the welfare of his

soul, and was forced to contend with doubt and self-accusatory

thoughts. After all, was it not mere vanity and egoistic conceit

which had induced me to take him to this canine infirmary? Besides,

was it not possible, that a secret wish had been the wellspring of

this action, a wish to get rid of him for a time, a certain ignoble

curiosity to free myself from his incessant watching, and to see

how it would feel to be able to turn calmly to the right or to the

left without bringing about emotional cataclysms in the animated

world without—emotional tempests whether of joy or sorrow, or

bitter disillusionment? It was not to be denied—since Bashan’s

internment I was enjoying a definite feeling of independence such

as I had not known for a long time. When I glanced through the

glass door of my study there was no one there to annoy me with the

spectacle of his martyrdom of patience. No one came with paw

hesitatingly raised, so that, giving way to a burst of pitying

laughter, I should be forced to deny my own fixed resolution and

go forth earlier than I had intended. No one questioned my right

to go into the house or into the park, just as the spirit moved

me. This was a comfortable condition of things, quieting and full

of the charm of novelty. But as the accustomed incentive was

lacking, I almost ceased to go walking at all. My health suffered

in consequence, and whilst my condition grew to be remarkably like

that of Bashan in his cage, I indulged in the moral reflection that

the fetters of sympathy would have been more conducive to my own

comfort than the egoistic freedom for which I had panted.

The second week elapsed in good time, and so, on the day appointed,

I and the bearded attendant stood once more in front of Bashan’s

barred habitation. The inmate lay upon his side, stretched out in

a posture of absolute indifference upon the tan-bark of his cage,

bits of which flecked his coat. He was staring backward at the

chalky wall of his prison with eyes that were glassy and dull. He

did not move. His breathing was scarcely perceptible. Only, from

time to time, his chest—which displayed every rib—rose in a sob

which he breathed forth with a soft and heartrending tremolo of

his vocal chords. His legs seemed to have grown too long, his paws

huge and unshapely—due to his terrible emaciation. His coat was

extremely rough and dishevelled and crushed, and, as already

remarked, soiled from wallowing in the tan-bark. He paid no

attention to me, and it seemed that he would never again be able

to summon up enough energy to take an interest in anything.

The hemorrhages, said the attendant, had not quite disappeared—they

still happened now and then. Their origin was not as yet quite

clear, but in any case they were of a harmless nature. I was free

to leave the dog there for a still longer period of observation—in

order to make quite sure—or I might take him home with me, where

he would no doubt get rid of the evil—all in good time. I then drew

out the plaited leather leash from my pocket and said that I would

take Bashan with me. The attendant thought that would be very

sensible. He opened the barred door and we both called Bashan by

name, alternately and both together—but he did not stir. He merely

kept staring at the whitewashed wall opposite. He made no resistance

when I thrust my arm into the cage and pulled him out by the

collar. He gave a kind of convulsive flounce about and landed on

his legs on the floor. There he stood with his tail between his

legs, his ears retracted, a very picture of misery.

I picked him up, gave the attendant a tip, and left the ward of

this canine hospital. I then proceeded to pay my bill in the office

of the institution. This bill, at seventy-five pfennigs a day and

the veterinary’s fee for the first examination, amounted to twelve

marks, fifty pfennigs. I then led Bashan home, clothed in the stern

yet sweetish atmosphere of the clinic which still permeated my

companion’s coat.

He was broken in body and in soul. Animals are more unrestrained

and primitive, less subject to inhibitions of all kinds, and

therefore in a certain sense more human in the physical expression

of their moods than we. Forms and figures of speech which survive

among us only in a kind of mental or moral translation, or as

metaphors, are still true and valid when applied to them. They live

up to the expression in the fullest, freshest sense of the term—and

in this there is something wonderfully enlivening to the eye.

Bashan, as one would say, “let his head hang,” or “had a hang-dog

look.” He did actually hang his head—hung it low like some wrack

of a wornout cab-horse which, with abscesses on its legs and

periodical shivers undulant along its sides, stands at its post

with a hundredweight of woe pulling its poor nose, swarming with

flies, towards the pavement.

These two weeks, at the veterinary high school, as I have already

said, had reduced him to the very condition in which I had first

found him in the foot-hills. Perhaps I ought to say that he was

only the shadow of himself—if this would not be an insult to the

proud and joyous Bashan. The smell of the dog-hospital which he

had brought with him, vanished in the wash trays, after several

ablutions with soap and hot water—vanished—all save a few floating

and rebellious whiffs. A bath may be said to exercise a spiritual

influence, may be said to possess a symbolic significance to us

human beings—but no one would dare to say that the physical

cleansing of poor Bashan, meant the restoration of his customary

spirits. I took him to the hunting-grounds on the very first day

of his home-coming. But he went slinking at my heels with silly

look and lolling tongue, and the pheasants were jubilant over a

close season. At home he would remain lying for days as I had last

seen him stretched out in his cage at the hospital, and staring

with glassy eyes, inwardly limp and without a trace of his wholesome

impatience, without making a single attempt to force me to go forth

for a walk. On the contrary I was forced to fetch him from his

berth at the tiny door of his kennel and to spur him on and up.

Even the wild and indiscriminate way in which he wolfed his food,

reminded me of his sordid youth.

And then it was a great joy to see how he found himself again, how

his greeting gradually took on the old, warm-hearted, playful

impetuosity, how, instead of coming towards me with a sullen limp,

he would once more come storming upon me in swift response to my

morning whistle, so that he might put his forepaws on my chest and

snap at my face. It was wonderful to see how the joy in his mere

body and in his senses returned to him in the wide spaces and the

open air—and to observe those daring and picturesque positions he

would assume, those swift plunging pounces with drawn-up feet which

he would make upon some tiny creature in the high grass—all these

things came back and refreshed my eyes. Bashan began to forget.

That hateful incident of his internment, an incident so absolutely

senseless from Bashan’s point of view, sank into oblivion,

unredeemed, to be sure, unexplained by any clear

understanding—something which, after all, would have been

impossible. But time swallowed it up and enveloped it, even as time

must heal these things where human beings are concerned, and so we

went on with our lives as before, whilst the inexpressible thing

sank deeper and deeper into forgetfulness. For some weeks longer

it happened that Bashan would occasionally sport an incarnadined

nose, then the phenomenon vanished, and became a thing of the past.

And so, after all, it mattered little whether it had been a case

of epistaksis or of hæmathemesis. . . .

There—I have told the story of the clinic—against my own better

resolution. May the reader forgive this lengthy digression and

return with me to the chase in the hunting-grounds which we had

interrupted. Ah, have you ever heard that tearful yowling with

which a dog, mustering his utmost forces, takes up the pursuit of

a rabbit in flight—that yowling in which fury and bliss, longing

and ecstatic despair mix and mingle? How often have I heard Bashan

give vent to this! It is a grand passion, desired, sought for and

deliriously enjoyed which goes ringing through the landscape, and

every time this wild cry comes to my ear from near or far, I am

given a shock of pleasant fright, and the thrill goes tingling

through all my limbs. Then I hurry forwards, or to the left or

right, rejoicing that Bashan is to get his money’s worth to-day,

and I strive mightily to bring the chase within my range of vision.

And when this chase goes storming past me in full and furious

career, I stand banned and tense, even though the negative outcome

of the venture is certain from the beginning, and I look on whilst

an excited smile draws taut the muscles of my face.

And what of the rabbit—the timid, the tricky? He switches his ears

through the air, crocks his head backwards at an angle, and runs

for dear life in long, lunging leaps, throwing his whitish-yellow

scut into the air. Thus he goes scratching and scudding in front

of Bashan, who is howling inwardly. And yet the rabbit in the

depths of his fearsome and flighty soul ought to know that he is

in no serious danger and that he will manage to escape, just as

his brothers and sisters and he himself have always managed to

escape. Not once in all his life has Bashan managed to catch a

single rabbit, and it is practically beyond the bounds of

possibility that he ever should. Many dogs, as the old proverb

goes, bring about the death of the rabbit—a clear proof that a

single dog cannot manage it. For the rabbit is a master of the

quick and sudden turn-about—a feat quite beyond the capacity of

Bashan, and it is this feat which decides the whole matter. It is

an infallible weapon and an attribute of the animal that is born

to fight with flight—a means of escape which can be applied at any

moment and which it carries in its instincts in order to put it

into use at precisely that moment when victory is almost within

Bashan’s grasp. And alas, Bashan is then betrayed and sold.

Here they come shooting diagonally through the woods, flash across

the path on which I am standing, and then go dashing towards the

river, the rabbit dumb and bearing his inherited trick in his

heart, Bashan yammering in high and heady tones. “No howling now!”

I say or think to myself. “You are wasting strength, strength of

lung, strength of breath, which you ought to be saving up and

concentrating—so that you can grab him!” I am forced to think thus,

because I am on Bashan’s side, because his passion is

infectious—imperatives which force me to hope fervently that he

will succeed—even at the peril of seeing him tear the rabbit to

pieces before my eyes. Ah, how he runs! How beautiful it is, how

edifying to see a living creature unfolding all its forces in some

supreme effort. My dog runs better than this rabbit; his muscular

system is stronger; the distance between them has visibly

diminished—ere they are lost to sight. I leave the path and hurry

through the park towards the left, going in the direction of the

river-bank. I emerge upon the gravelly street just in time to see

the mad chase come ravening on from the right—the hopeful,

infinitely thrilling chase—for Bashan is almost at the heels of

the rabbit. He is silent now; he is running with his teeth set,

the close proximity of the scent urges him to the final effort.

“One last plunge, Bashan,” I think, and would like to shout to

him—“just one more—aim well! keep cool! And beware of the

turnabout!” But these thoughts have scarcely flashed through my

brain than the “turnabout,” the “hook,” the _volte-face_, has taken

place—the catastrophe is upon us. My gallant dog makes the decisive

forward plunge—but . . . at the selfsame moment there is a short

jerk, and with pert and limber swiftness the rabbit switches aside

at a right angle to the course—and Bashan goes shooting past the

hindquarters of his quarry—shooting straight ahead, howling,

desperate and with all his feet stemmed as brakes—so that the dust

and gravel go flying. By the time he has overcome his momentum,

flung himself right about and gained leeway in the new

direction—whilst, I say, he has done this in agony of soul and with

wailings of woe, the rabbit has won a considerable handicap towards

the woods—yes, he is even lost to the eyes of his pursuer, for

during the convulsive application of his four brakes, the pursuer

could not see whither the pursued had turned.

“It’s no use,” I think, “it may be beautiful, but it is surely

futile.” The wild pursuit vanishes in the distances of the park

and in the opposite direction. “There ought to be more dogs—five

or six—a whole pack of dogs! There ought to be dogs to cut him off

on the flank, dogs to cut him off ahead, dogs to drive him into a

corner, dogs to be in at the death.” And in my mind’s eye, in my

excitement, I behold a whole pack of fox-hounds with lolling

tongues go storming upon the rabbit in their midst.

I think these things and dream these dreams out of a sheer passion

for the chase, for what has the rabbit done to me that I should

wish him to meet with so terrible an end? It is true that Bashan

is closer to me than the long-eared one, and it is quite in order

that I should share his feelings and accompany him with my good

wishes for his success. But then the rabbit is also a warm, furry,

breathing bit of our common life. He has played his trick upon my

hunting dog not out of malice, but out of the urgent wish to be

able to nibble soft tree-shoots a little longer and to bring forth

young.

Nevertheless my thoughts continue to weave themselves about the

matter and about. As, for example: “It would, of course, be quite

another matter, if this”—and I lift and regard the walking-stick

in my hand—“if this cane here were not so useless and benign an

instrument, but a thing of more serious construction and

constitution, pregnant with lightning and operative at a distance,

by means of which I could come to the assistance of the gallant

Bashan and hold up the rabbit, so that he would remain flop upon

the spot—after doing a fine _salto mortale._ Then there would be

no need of other hounds, and Bashan would have done his duty if he

had merely brought me the rabbit.”

The way things shape themselves, however, it is Bashan who sometimes

goes tumbling head over heels when he tries to meet and counter

that damnable quick turn, and sometimes it is also the rabbit who

does the somersault, though this is a mere trifle to the latter,

something quite in order and inconsequential and certainly by no

means identified with any feeling of abject misery. For Bashan,

however, it means a severe concussion, which might some time or

other lead to his breaking his neck.

Often a rabbit-chase comes to an end in a few minutes, that is to

say, when the rabbit succeeds after a few hot lengths of running,

in ducking into the underbrush and hiding, or in throwing his

pursuer off his trail by means of feints and quick double turns,

so that the four-legged hunter, sorely puzzled and uncertain, jumps

hither and thither, whilst I shout bloodthirsty advice to him and

with frantic gesticulations of my cane try to point out to him the

direction in which I saw the rabbit escape.

Sometimes the hunt extends itself throughout the length and breadth

of the landscape, so that Bashan’s voice, wildly yowling, sounds

like a hunting-horn ringing through the region from afar, now

nearer and now farther away, whilst I, awaiting his return, calmly

go my ways. And, great Heavens! in what a condition he _does_

return! Foam drips from his jaws, his thighs are lax and hollow,

his ribs flutter, his tongue hangs long and loose from his maw,

inordinately gaping, something which causes his drunken and swimming

eyes to appear distorted and slant, Mongolian, the while his

breathing goes like a steam-engine.

“Lie down, Bashan!” I command him, “take a rest, or you’ll have

apoplexy of the lungs!” I halt so as to give him time to recover.

In winter when there is a cold frost and I see him pumping the icy

air with hoarse pantings into his overheated interior and then

puffing it forth in the form of white steam, or else swallowing

whole handfuls of snow in order to cool his thirst, I grow quite

terrified. Nevertheless, whilst he lies there, gazing up at me with

confused eye, now and again snapping up his dribblings, I cannot

refrain from poking a bit of fun at him, because of the unalterable

futility of his efforts.

“Bashan! where’s that rabbit! Aren’t you going to fetch me that

rabbit!” Then he begins to thump the ground with his tail, and

interrupts for a moment whilst I am speaking the spasmodic pumping

machinery of his sides. He snaps in embarrassment, for he does not

know that my ridicule is intended merely to conceal from him and

from myself an accretion of shame and guilty conscience, because

I, on my part, was not man enough to “hold up” the rabbit—as is

the duty of a real master. He is unaware of all this, and so it is

easy for me to make fun and to put the matter as though _he_ were

in some way to blame. . . .

Strange things sometimes occur during these hunts. I shall never

forget how the rabbit once ran into my very arms. It happened along

the river, or rather upon the small and clayey bank above it.

Bashan was in full cry after his quarry and I was approaching the

zone of the river-bank from the direction of the wood. I broke

through the thistle stalks along the gravel slope and sprang down

the grass-covered declivity on to the path at the very moment that

the rabbit, with Bashan some fifteen paces behind him, was coming

towards me in long bounds from the direction of the ferryman’s

house, towards which I was turning. Bunny came running along the

middle of the path straight towards me. . . .

My first, hunter-like and hostile impulse was to take advantage of

the situation and to bar his way, driving him, if possible, back

into the jaws of his pursuer, who came on yelping in poignant joy.

There I stood, as though rooted to the spot, and, slave that I was

to the fever of the chase, I simply balanced the stick in my hand

whilst the rabbit came nearer and nearer. I knew that a rabbit’s

vision is very poor, that alone the sense of hearing and the sense

of smell are able to convey warnings to him. He might therefore

possibly mistake me for a tree as I stood there—it was my plan and

my lively desire that he should do this, and so succumb to a fatal

error, the consequences of which were not quite clear to me, but

of which I nevertheless thought to make use. Whether the rabbit

really made such an error during the course of his advance, is not

quite clear. . . . I believe that he noticed me only at the very

last moment, for what he did was so unexpected that all my schemes

and deliberations were at once reduced to nothing, and a deep,

sudden, and startling change took place in my state of mind.

Was the little animal beside itself with mortal fear? Enough, it

leaped upon me, just like a little dog, ran up my overcoat with

its tiny paws, and, still upright, struggled to bore itself into

the depths of my chest—the terrible chest of the master of the

chase. With upraised arms and my body bent backwards, I stood there

and looked down upon the rabbit who, on his part, looked up at me.

We stood thus for only a second, perhaps it was only the fraction

of a second, but thus and there we stood. I saw him with such

strange, disconcerting minuteness, saw his long ears, of which one

stood upright, whilst the other hung down, saw his great, clear,

protuberant, short-sighted eyes, his rough lip, and the long hairs

of his whiskers, the white on his breast and the little paws. I

felt, or seemed to feel the pounding of his harried little heart.

It was very strange to see him thus plainly and to have him so

close to me, the little familiar spirit of the place, the secret

throbbing heart of the landscape, this ever evasive creature which

I had seen only for a few brief moments in its meadows and downs

as it went scudding comically away. And now in the extremity of

its need and helplessness it was nestling up against me and

clutching my coat, clutching at the breast of a man—not the man,

it seemed to me, who was Bashan’s master, but the breast of one

who is also the master of the rabbit and of Bashan and of Bashan’s

master. This lasted, as I have said, only a brief moment or so,

and then the rabbit had dropped off, had once more taken to his

unequal legs and jumped down the escarpment to the left, whilst

Bashan had now arrived in his place—Bashan with horrible hue-and-cry

and with all the heady tones of his frenetic hunting-howls—all of

which suffered swift interruption on his arrival. For a well-aimed

blow of the stick delivered with malice prepense by the master of

the rabbit, sent him yelping with smarting hindquarters down the

slope to the right, up which he was forced to climb—with a

limp—before he was once more able, after considerable delay, to

take up the trail of the no longer visible quarry.

And then finally there is the hunt after water-fowl to which I must

also dedicate a few lines. This hunt can take place only during

winter and the colder part of the spring, before the birds migrate

from their quarters near the city to the lakes—the suburbs here

serving them merely as a kind of emergency halting-place in

obedience to the demands of the stomach. This hunt is less exciting

than the rabbit hunt is likely to be, but like this it has something

that is attractive both to hunter and to hound, or rather to the

hunter and his master. The master is captivated by these forays

after the wild fowl chiefly in consideration of the landscape,

since the friendly nearness of the water is connected with them,

but also because it diverts and edifies him to study the form of

life practised by these swimmers and flyers, thus emerging a little

out of his own rut and experimenting with theirs.

The attitude towards life assumed by the ducks is more amiable,

more bourgeois, and more comfortable than that of the gulls. Nearly

always they appear to be full and contented, little troubled by

the cares of subsistence—no doubt because they always chance to

find what they seek, and because the table, so to speak, is always

set for them. For, as I observe, they eat nearly everything—worms,

snails, insects, or even green ooze from the water, and enjoy vast

stretches of leisure which enable them to sit and sun themselves

on the stones, with bills tucked comfortably under one wing for a

little siesta or preening and oiling their plumage so that it does

not come into contact with the water at all, but rather causes this

to pearl off from the surface in a string of nervous drops. Or you

may catch them going for a mere pleasure ride or swim upon the

racing stream, lifting their pointed tails into the air, and

turning and twisting and shrugging their shoulders in bland

self-satisfaction.

But in the nature of the gulls there is something wild and hectic,

dreary and sad and monotonous; they are invested with an air of

desperate and hungry depredation. Almost all day long they go

crying around the waterfall in bevies and in slant transverse

flight, or curving about the place where the brownish waters pour

from the mouths of the great pipes into the stream. For the swift,

darting plunge for fish which some of these gulls practise is

scarcely sufficiently rich in results to still their raw and

ranging mass-hunger, and the titbits with which they are frequently

forced to content themselves as they swoop above the overflows and

carry away mysterious fragments in their bent beaks, must sometimes

be far from appetising. They do not like the banks of the river.

But when the water is low they stand and huddle in close crowds

upon the rocks, which are then free of water, and these they cover

with their white feathery masses—just as the crags and islets of

the northern seas squirm and writhe with untold numbers of nesting

eider-ducks.

When Bashan, barking from the shore across the intervening flood,

threatens their security, then it is a fine sight to see them all

rise simultaneously into the air with loud cries and caws. But

there is no need of their feeling themselves menaced; there is no

real danger. For quite apart from his inborn aversion to water,

Bashan harbours a very wise and entirely justifiable fear of the

current of the river. He knows that his strength could not possibly

cope with this and that it would infallibly bear him off, God knows

whither or to what distances, presumably as far as the Danube,

where he would arrive, however, in an extremely disfigured

condition. This is a contingency of which we have already had

ocular evidence in the shape of bloated cadavers of cats which were

en route to those far-off parts. He will never venture into the

river farther than the first submerged stones that line the

bank—even though the fierce and ecstatic lust of the chase should

be tugging at his limbs—even though he should wear a mien as though

he were about to plunge himself into the waves—yes, the very next

moment! Full confidence, however, may be placed in his caution,

which remains active and vigilant beneath all this external show

of passionate abandon. There is a distinct purpose behind all these

mimetic onsets, these spectacular preparations for action—they are

empty threats which in the last analysis are not really dictated

by passion at all, but are calculated with the utmost _sangfroid_

merely to intimidate the webfooted foe.

But the gulls, true to their names, are far too poorly equipped in

head and heart to be capable of mocking his efforts. Bashan cannot

get at them, but he can send his barks against them, send his voice

thundering across the water. This voice has the effect of something

material—an onset which flutters them and cows them and which they

are unable to resist for long. True, they make the attempt to do

so; they remain seated, but an uneasy movement goes through the

writhing mass. They turn their heads, ever and anon one of them

will lift its wings upon a chance, until suddenly the whole crew,

like a whitish cloud, from the core of which come bitter and

fatalistic caws, goes rustling and rushing up into the air—with

Bashan jumping about hither and thither on the stones in order to

scare and scatter them and keep them in motion. For that is the

thing to do—to keep them in motion—they must not be permitted to

rest; they must fly up-stream and down-stream, so that he may chase

them.

Bashan goes scouring along the banks, nosing along their entire

length, for everywhere there are ducks at rest, with bills tucked

cunningly and comfortably under their wings, and wherever he

chances to go they fly up in front of his nose, so that his progress

is like a gay sweeping-clean and whirling up of the entire strip

of sand. They glide and plump into the water which buoys and turns

them about in security, or they go flying over his head with bills

and necks outstretched, whilst Bashan, running along the bank,

measures the power of his legs with that of their pinions.

He is ravished and grateful if they will but fly, if they will only

deign to give him an opportunity for a bit of glorious coursing up

and down the river. They are no doubt aware of these wishes of his,

and are even capable of utilising them for their own benefit. I saw

a mother duck with her brood—it was in the spring, and the river

was already void of birds—this one alone had remained behind with

her young who were not yet able to fly, and she was guarding them

in a slime-covered puddle which had been left by the last

flood-water and which filled a depression in the dry bed of the

stream. It was there that Bashan chanced upon them—I observed the

scene from the upper way. He sprang into the puddle, sprang into

it with barkings and savage truculent motions, and scattered the

family of ducks in a most deplorable fashion. To be sure, he did

no harm to any member of this family, but he frightened them all

beyond expression, and the ducklings, flapping their stumps of

wings, plunged wildly in all directions.

The mother duck, however, was seized by that maternal heroism which

will hurl itself blindly and full of mad courage even against the

most formidable foe in order to protect the brood, and which

frequently knows how to bewilder and fluster this foe by a delirious

courage which apparently exceeds the limits of nature. With every

feather ruffled and with bill horribly agape, the bird fluttered

repeatedly against Bashan’s face in attack after attack, making

one heroic offensive after another against him, hissing portentously

the while. And actually her wild and uncompromising aspect brought

about a confused retreat on the part of the enemy, without, however,

inducing him to quit the field of battle for good, for with a great

hullabaloo and clamour he still persisted in advancing anew. The

duck-mother there-upon changed her tactics and chose the part of

wisdom since heroism had shown itself to be impracticable. It is

more than likely that she knew Bashan from some previous experience,

was fully acquainted with his weaknesses and childish desires. So

she abandoned her little ones—that is, she _apparently_ abandoned

them. She took refuge in cunning, flew up, flew across the river,

“pursued” by Bashan—pursued, as was his firm belief—whilst in

reality it was she who led him, led him by the fool’s tether of

his dominant passion. She flew with the stream, then against it,

farther and farther, whilst Bashan raced beside her, so far

down-stream and away from the puddle with the ducklings that I lost

sight of both the duck and the dog as I walked on. Later on my good

dolt came back to me, quite winded and panting furiously. But when

we again passed that puddle, it was empty of its erstwhile tenants.

Such were the tactics of the mother-duck, and Bashan was sincerely

grateful. But he abominates those ducks who in the sleek placidity

of their bourgeois-like existence, refuse to serve him as objects

of the hunt, and who, whenever he comes tearing along, simply let

themselves slip into the water from the stones along the banks,

and then in ignoble security rock themselves before his nose, not

impressed in the least by his mighty voice, and not in the least

deceived, like the nervous gulls, by his theatrical lunges towards

the river.

There we stand on the stones, side by side, Bashan and I, and

there, two paces from us, in insolent security, the duck sways

lightly upon the waves, with her bill pressed in pretentious

dignity against her breast, and though stormed at by Bashan’s

maddened voice, absolutely undisturbed in her serenity, soberness,

and common sense. She keeps rowing against the current, so that

she remains approximately in about the same spot. For all that she

is drawn a little down-stream. Only a yard or two from her there is

a whirlpool, a beautiful foaming cascade towards which she turns

her conceited and upstanding tail. Bashan barks and braces his

forefeet against the stones, and inwardly I bark with him, for I

cannot forbear sharing some of his feelings of hatred against the

duck and her cool, insolent, matter-of-factness, and so I hope that

evil may overtake her.

“Pay at least some attention to our barking,” is the mental speech

I hurl at her, “and not to the rapids, so that you may be drawn by

accident into the whirlpool and thus expose yourself to danger and

discomfiture before our eyes.” But this angry hope of mine is also

doomed to remain unfulfilled, for precisely at the moment when she

nears the edge of the cascade in the stream, the duck flutters a

bit and flies a few yards upstream and sits down in the water once

more—the shameless hussy!

I am unable to think of the vexation with which we both contemplate

the duck under these circumstances without recalling to mind an

adventure which I shall recount at the close. It was attended by

a certain satisfaction for me and my companion, and yet there was

something painful in it, something disturbing and confusing. Yes,

it even led to a temporary chill in the relationship between Bashan

and myself, and could I have foreseen this, I would rather have

avoided the spot where this adventure awaited us.

It was a good distance out and down-stream, and beyond the ferryman’s

house—there where the wilderness of the river bank approaches close

to the upper road along the river. We were going along this, I with

a leisurely step, and Bashan, a trifle in front of me, with an easy

and somewhat lop-sided lope. He had been chasing a rabbit, or, if

you prefer, had permitted himself to be chased by him. He had also

routed out three or four pheasants and was now graciously minded

to pay a little attention to me, so that his master might not feel

utterly neglected. A small bevy of ducks with extended necks and

in triangular formation flew over the river. They were flying

pretty high and closer to the other bank than to ours, so that we

could not consider them as game at all, so far as hunting purposes

were concerned. They flew in the direction in which we were walking,

without regarding us or even being aware of our presence, and we

too merely cast a desultory and intentionally indifferent glance

at them.

It then came to pass that on the farther bank, which was of the

same steepness as our own, a man came beating out of the bushes.

As soon as he had stepped upon the scene of action he assumed a

pose which caused both of us, Bashan as well as myself, to halt

and to turn round and face him and watch what he would do. He was

a rather tall, fine figure of a man, somewhat rough and ready, so

far as his externals were concerned. He had drooping moustaches

and wore puttees, a small green Alpine hat which was well pulled

over his forehead, wide, loose trousers which were made of a kind

of hard velveteen or so-called corduroy or Manchester cloth, and

a jacket to match. This was behung with all kinds of belts and

leather contraptions, for he carried a _rucksack_ strapped to his

back and a gun which also hung from a strap. Or it would be more

proper to say that he had carried this, for scarcely had he come

into view, than he drew the weapon towards him and leaning his

cheek aslant against the butt, raised the barrel obliquely towards

the heavens. He had set one be-putteed leg in front of the other,

the barrel rested in the hollow of his extended left hand with the

elbow bent under this—the other elbow, however, that of the right

arm, the hand of which rested on the trigger, was extended very

sharply towards the side. It revealed his face with squinting,

aiming eye, much foreshortened and boldly exposed to the clear

light of the skies.

There was something most decidedly operatic in this apparition of

the man as he stood reared against the skies amidst this open-air

scenery of bushes, river, and sky. Our intense and respectful

regard, however, endured for only a moment—then there came the

dull, flat report from over yonder—something which I had attended

with great inner tension and which therefore caused me to start.

A tiny jet of light, pale in the broad of day, blazed forth at the

same time, and was followed by a tiny cloudlet of smoke that puffed

after it. The man then inclined himself forward and once more his

attitude and his action were reminiscent of the opera. And with

the gun hanging from the strap, which he clutched in his right

fist, he raised his face towards the skies. Something was going on

up there, whither we too were now staring. There was a brief,

confused scattering—the triangle of ducks flew apart, a wild,

panic-stricken fluttering ensued, as when a puff of wind sets loose

sails a-snapping, an attempt at a glide—as of an aeroplane—followed,

then suddenly the body which had been struck became a mere inanimate

object and fell swift as a stone upon the surface of the water near

the opposite bank.

This was only the first half of the proceedings. But I must

interrupt my narrative here in order to turn the living light of

my memory upon Bashan. There are a number of coined phrases and

ready-made figures of speech which I might use for describing his

behaviour—current terms—terms which in most cases would be both

valid and appropriate. I might say, for example, that he was

thunderstruck. But this term does not please me, and I do not wish

to use it. Big words, the big, well-worn words, are not very

suitable for expressing the extraordinary. One may best achieve

this by intensifying the small words and forcing them to ascend to

the very acme of their meaning. So I will say no more than that

Bashan _started_ at the report of the gun and the accompanying

phenomena—and that this starting was the same as that which is

peculiar to him when confronted with something striking, and that

all this was well known to me though it was now elevated to the

_n_th degree. It was a start which flung his whole body backward,

wobbling to right and left, a start which jerked his head in rash

recoil against his chest and which, in recovering himself, almost

tore his head from his shoulders, a start which seemed to cry from

every fibre of his being: “What, what! _What_ was that? Hold! in

the name of a hundred thousand devils! _How_ was that!”

He listened to—he regarded everything with a kind of indignation

such as extremes of surprise are apt to cause—drank everything in,

as it were, and there in his heart of hearts these things were

already existing—there, in some form or other they had always

been—no matter what astounding novelties may have been sprung upon

him here. Yes, whenever these things came upon him, causing him to

leap to the right and the left and turn himself half around his

own axis, it always seemed to me as though he were attempting to

catch a glimpse of himself and inquiring: “What am I? Who am I? Am

I really I?” At the very moment in which the corpse of the duck

fell upon the water, Bashan made a leap forward, towards the edge

of the escarpment, as though he wished to go down into the river-bed

and plunge himself into the water. But then he thought of the

current, clamped the brakes upon this sudden impulse, grew ashamed,

and once more confined his efforts to staring.

I regarded him with anxiety. After the fall of the duck, I was of

the opinion that we had seen enough, and proposed that we should

go on. But he had already sat himself down upon his haunches. His

face, with ears erected to their utmost extent, was addressed

towards the other bank, and when I said to him: “Well, Bashan,

shall we go on?” he merely gave a flirt of his head in my direction,

as though one should say, not without a certain rudeness: “Please

do not disturb me!” and kept on looking. And so I gave in, crossed

my feet, leaned on my stick, and also went on watching to see what

might now take place.

The duck—one of those very ducks which had so often in impudent

security rocked itself on the water before our very noses, was

driving on the water—a wreck—no one could tell which part of the

bird was bow and which stern. The river is quieter here; the fall

is not so great as farther up-stream. Nevertheless the carcass of

the duck had been seized at once by the current, whirled about its

axis and was beginning to float off. It was clear that if our good

man was not merely concerned with having made a good pot-shot and

a killing, but also with a more practical purpose, then he would

be obliged to put his best leg forward. This he did without losing

a moment—everything happened with immense rapidity. No sooner had

the duck landed in the water than the man leaped, scrambled, almost

tumbled down the escarpment. He carried the shot-gun in his

outstretched arm, and once more I was reminded of the opera and

the romantic novel, as he went leaping down over the stage-like

setting of the stone slope—like some robber chieftain or smuggler

bold in a melodrama. With careful calculation he kept a little to

the right in an oblique direction, for the drifting duck was being

carried away from him and it was necessary to head it off. This he

actually succeeded in doing with the butt of his double-barrelled

gun—extending this towards his kill with his body bent far forward

and with his feet in the water. He managed to halt it in its

downward course. And then carefully and not without much effort he

steered and piloted it against the stones with the guiding gun-butt

and so drew it ashore.

The job was done and the man drew a breath of relief. He laid his

gun upon the bank beside him, pulled his _rucksack_ from his

shoulder, stuffed his booty into it, drew the sack shut by its

cords, slung it upon his shoulders. Then supporting himself on his

gun as on a cane, and thus pleasantly laden, he climbed complacently

up the loose stone of the slope and made for the covert.

“Well, he’s got his bit of roast game for to-morrow,” I thought

approvingly, yet not without envy. “Come, Bashan, let’s go—there’s

really nothing more to see.” But Bashan simply stood up and turned

himself once around himself, then sat down and stared after the

man, even after he had already left the scene of action and vanished

among the bushes. I did not again ask him to come along—I refused

to do this as a matter of principle. He knew where we were living,

and if he thought it reasonable to sit here still longer and stare,

after everything was over and there was absolutely nothing more to

see, well that was his own affair. It was a long way back, and I,

for my part, was going to return. And then at last he gave ear and

came.

During this exceedingly painful journey homeward, Bashan refrained

from all further inclination to indulge in the sport of the chase.

He did not canter on ahead of me in a diagonal direction as was

his wont when he was not in the right mood for trailing and

beating-up the game. He walked a little behind me, keeping regular

step and drew down his mouth in a way which I would be bound to

notice when I turned around to look at him. This might have been

tolerated, and I was not going to let it ruffle or upset me—on the

contrary, I was disposed to laugh and shrug my shoulders. But then

every thirty or fifty steps he began to _yawn_, and it was this

which embittered me. It was this shameless, wide-angle, rudely

bored yawning, accompanied by a little piping guttural sound which

clearly said: “My God! talk about a master! Why, he isn’t a master

at all. He’s simply rotten!” This insulting sound nearly always

disturbs me, but this time it was sufficient to shake our friendship

to its very foundations.

“Go!” I said, “go away! Go to your master, the man with the

thunder-club, and join up with him. He does not appear to own a

dog, and so he might give you a job. He may need you in that

business of his. He is, of course, only a plain man in corduroys

and no particular class, but in your eyes, no doubt, he is the

finest gentleman in the world—a real master for you. And so I

honestly advise you to go and make up to him—now that he has put

a flea in your ear—to keep the others company.” (Yes, I went to

such extremes as this.) “We need not inquire whether he has a

hunting permit or not, and it’s quite possible that you might get

into difficulties when you happen to be caught some fine day whilst

engaged in your shady work, but then that is your business, and

the advice which I have given you is, as I have already remarked,

most sincere.

“The devil take your hunting,” I went on, “Did you ever bring me

a single rabbit for our table out of all those which I permitted

you to chase? Is it my fault that you don’t know how to do a quick

turn and go pounding into the gravel with your nose like a fool at

the very moment you should be showing your agility? Or have you

ever brought me a pheasant—which would have been just as welcome

in these lean times? And now you are—yawning! Go to that fellow

with the puttees, I say. You will soon see whether he is the sort

of man who will scratch your throat and get you to laugh. I’d be

surprised if he can laugh himself. At best, I am sure, his laugh

must be a very coarse one. Perhaps you are under the impression

that he would call in the aid of science and permit you to be

observed in case you decide to have occult hemorrhages, perhaps

you are under the delusion that once you were _his_ dog, you would

also have a chance to be nervous and anæmic. If so, you had better

go to him. And yet it is possible that you are making a great

mistake with regard to the degree of respect which this kind of

master would display towards you. There are, for example, certain

fine points and differences for which such gun-bearing persons have

a very sharp nose, natural merits or demerits—or, to make my

allusions clearer, very awkward questions regarding pedigree and

breed. If I must express myself with superlative clearness, then

I must say that these are things which not everybody is disposed

to ignore with that delicacy and humanity to which you have been

accustomed. And should your husky master—upon your first difference

of opinion with him, reproach you with that goatee of yours, and

call you an unpleasant name, then think of me and of the words

which I am now addressing to you. . . .”

It was in such bitter irony that I spoke to Bashan as he slunk

behind me on the way home, and even though I spoke inwardly and

did not permit my words to be heard, so as not to appear eccentric,

I am nevertheless convinced that he understood perfectly well what

I meant, and that he was capable of following at least the main

line of my argument. In short, the quarrel was serious, and having

reached home, I purposely let the garden gate fall to close behind

me and he was forced to run and clamber over the fence. Without

casting a single glance behind me, I went into the house, and heard

him give a squeak, as a sign that he had prodded his belly on one

of the pointed pickets—something which merely produced a mocking

shrug of the shoulders on my part.

But all this happened long ago—more than half a year ago. And the

same thing occurred as in the matter of the clinical interim. Time

and oblivion have buried it deep, and upon the floating surface of

these—which constitute the base of all life,—we continue to live

on. Bashan, to be sure, appeared to be rather contemplative for a

few days, but he has long ago recovered his full and undiminished

joy in hunting mice, pheasants, rabbits, and water-fowl, and our

return home means to him merely attendance upon the next going

forth. Whenever I reach my front door I turn round and face him

once more, and that is the signal for him to come jumping up the

steps in two great leaps in order that he may raise himself on his

hind legs and stem his forepaws against the front door, so that I

can pat his shoulder and say good-bye.

“To-morrow, Bashan,” I remark, “we’ll go out again—in case I don’t

have to make a trip into the big outside world.” And then I hurry

into the house to rid myself of my hob-nailed boots, for the soup

has been served and stands smoking on the table.

GLASGOW: W. COLLINS SONS AND CO. LTD.