Bashan and I Thomas Mann (carter reed txt) 📖

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 turnabout⁠—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 riverbank. 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 foxhounds 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,