They Were Found Wanting (24 page)

As the long line of guns and beaters passed steadily from field to field through well-tended hedges or avenues of trees –
occasionally
passing neat little groups of farm buildings all surrounded, after the Austrian custom, by low stone walls – great herds of Electoral-Negretti sheep, which were reputed to produce the
finest
wool, stared stupidly up at them and then went on contentedly chewing the rich grass.

Until then the drive had been much like any other at a
well-organized
shoot. Now the picture began to change. Instead of the simple well-tended fields of a great agricultural complex, there began to appear clumps of fir-trees, standing like islands in the wide paddocks‚ lines of tall Lombardy poplars on the banks of
little
streams, and thick plantations of oak at the edge of each
meadow
, all so cunningly planted that the game would run in the most diverse manner possible and the birds fly at even dizzier heights. And so it was: the hares stopped running predictably and darted unexpectedly in every direction, disappearing into
thickets
of undergrowth and vanishing from sight round the edge of each plantation; and the partridges and pheasants got up as if shot from catapults and rose high in the sky over the lines of the tall poplar-trees only to take refuge once again in the next block of covert. Every shot was different and every hit a triumph.

A little further on, while at the corners there were still open fields, the six guns in the centre found themselves deep in a long and narrow wood where cock-pheasants rose in confusion,
whirring
back and forth in every direction, while on the ground hares and little wild rabbits darted about like lightning. The beaters put up a tremendous show, all shouting at once: ‘
Z
ayac!
Z
ayac!
Nalevo!
Napravo!
– Hare! Hare! To the right! To the left!’ and then:
‘Kohut!
Kohut!
Cock here! Cock there!’ The noise was
tremendous
as it seemed that all the guns were shooting at once. All this, however, was as nothing compared with the hubbub a few minutes later when, after traversing another field of barley, the line entered a plantation which stretched right across the line of the shoot. Suddenly the cry was heard:
‘Liska!
–
Fox!’

It started on the right not far from Balint, firstly by the
baritone
voices of the male beaters and then taken up with a high shrill cry by the girls, hopeful and triumphant, joyful and at the same time surprised, for the Szent-Gyorgyi estates were so well patrolled and kept by the army of keepers and forest guards and carefully laid traps that to put up a fox seemed like a miracle.

It was not difficult to keep track of where the quarry ran for, shrewd and swift though he was, each time he was sighted, at the centre, to the left or to the right, everywhere he was followed by the cry of
‘Liska!
Liska!’
And the cries never let up until, as the guns were emerging from the densest part of the thick plantation, there came the sound of two shots in quick succession followed by a long-drawn-out shout of triumph of which all that could be distinguished was the long double vowel ‘aa-aa’ of the word ‘
spa
dla
– he’s fallen’, as the girls at the edge of the beat passed to the moving line the happy news that the fox, that enemy of every poultry-keeping peasant, was no more. When the line stepped out into the open, there, at the far left-hand corner, was one of Slawata’s game carriers holding high his master’s booty for all the world to see and admire.

Now they passed through a gently sloping and rather damp
meadow
in the centre of which there was a plantation of plane trees. Beyond this was a hillside covered in shrubs which marked the boundary of the Jablanka parkland. After barely fifty paces, when the party was only half-way towards the trees, the horns sounded to tell everyone that the official drive was now over and that the guns should stay where they were so that the two wings of girl-beaters could join up and drive any game that remained back towards the mile-wide line of guns. The head-keeper now galloped down the line, stopping his horse as he reached each invited guest, lifting his hat and saying politely: ‘
Belieben
Euer
Hochgeboren,
hier
auch
Hennen
zu
schiessen
–
If your Excellency pleases, here we will also shoot hens!’

Though said with the greatest respect, the phrase could
perhaps
a little later, with the knowledge of hindsight, have been taken as the gentlest of mockery, not because there were no hens to be shot but because all the birds, cocks and hens alike – and there were tremendous quantities of both – now flew so high and so fast that only the most skilful shot could bring them down at all.

Most of the birds started their flight from the top of the hill ahead. They took an arrow-straight line back to the woods from which the guns had just emerged, and they flew straight over the 100-foot high plane-trees. With dizzying speed, they streaked through the sky, only one or two darting through the highest branches or swerving diagonally with wings spread wide,
hundreds
of them, brown hens and green and reddish cocks, and with them some strange birds with tails more than a yard long, crosses between the Amherst and silver pheasants, with exotic crests, which Szent-Gyorgyi bred specially to add variety and colour to the game in his forests. In the bright sunshine they glittered in jewelled splendour.

On the floor of the meadow hares and rabbits were milling in untold numbers, falling over each other as they tried to jump the water-filled ditches which had cunningly been dug on each side of the trees. As they did so coveys of partridges rose and flew through the lower branches as fast as a hail of gunfire. All this had been carefully and masterfully planned so as to ensure that the last minutes of the day’s shooting should be the best and also the most taxing. The wide spacing of the guns and the
purpose-dug
ditches were placed, as were the trees and shrubs, with
knowing
care, so that suddenly the sport was more difficult, required infinite skill, and was much, much more exciting.

Where the guns stood there raged an inferno. Nothing could be heard but the continuous rattle of gunfire and the shouts of the beaters: ‘
Kohut!
Kohut!
–
Zayac!
Kohut
!’ while all the time the
loaders
frenziedly changed their masters’ guns and the game
collectors
rushed in every direction to pick up the birds and beasts which died all around them. Sometimes a hit was made only by chance and then, in the sky, a few tail-feathers flew or a bird was winged and fluttered slowly to the earth. The two young
Szent-Gyorgyis
and Louis Kollonich were excellent shots who rarely missed their aim but now even they did not always hit their mark. And still, all around, could be heard the shouts of ‘
Nalevo
zayac!
– Hare to the left!’ and
‘Napravo!
–
Look to your right! –
Zelanka!
– Partridge!’ and then, over and over again,
‘Kohut!
Kohut!
Kohut!’

Amongst them all only one man remained absolutely calm; it was Antal Szent-Gyorgyi. His tall figure seemed to move no faster as he took each of his three weapons in turn, fired twice, once in front of him and once behind – always killing cleanly with a shot in the head so that each bird fell dead to the ground with folded wings dropping in a gentle arc and propelled only by the velocity of its own flight – left and right, left and right, left and right! with unfailing precision. Count Antal’s calm and uncanny skill were indeed imperial.

It was some time before the line of the girls in their
multi-coloured
skirts emerged from the shrub-covered hillside. At the end of the beat only hares were still running, plenty of them. These were males and had to be shot – just as at the beginning the females that had darted back through the line were spared – because the breed would suffer if too many were left alive.

When the sound of gunshot finally died away the guests’
carriages
were already lined up to take them back to the castle.

The beautiful dapple-grey horses moved slowly and rhythmically between the double rows of beaters who were lined up on each side of the road. All the young men now had long pheasant
feathers
stuck in their caps and, as Slawata’s carriage passed by, they waved these hats in the air and cheered loudly, for was he not the Great Lord who had slain that wild beast the fox? It was possible that some there were who cheered him for other reasons; for while Louis Kollonich had been busy shooting hares for him in his remote place at the end of the line, Slawata too had been busy, busy talking politics with the beaters who accompanied him, if not in Slovak, their own tongue, at least in Czech. The anti-Hungarian movement, called Sokolist in Moravia where it was spreading fast, was beginning to take hold in North Nyitra, where Jablanka was situated, and here its partisans were
clamouring
to be heard.

Sitting back in his carriage, his eyes glittering behind the thick lenses of his spectacles, Slawata responded to the men’s greetings with genuine satisfaction; and it was for more reasons than the killing of the fox. He was pleased at the thought of a day well spent. Often, as the drive had halted while it was being reformed, or if there had been some obstacle to be overcome before everyone lined up again before once more moving
forward
, or if someone had lagged behind, Slawata had found time to talk politics with some of the local men and, while not
concealing
his subversive ideas, what he had mostly discussed were the effects of the Rozsahegy case.

This had been a particularly disagreeable affair which had upset many people. Since the last elections to the Parliament in Budapest, during which for the first time there had been many candidates of Czecho-Slovak blood for this predominantly Czecho-Slovak province, there had been growing political unrest, resulting in that year alone in 33 prosecutions for sedition. Most of these had been, juridically speaking, justified. Politically,
however
, they had been disastrous, for their principal effect had been to create martyrs for the cause of the ethnic majority. The government’s policy was far from clever for, though each
condemned
man spent a few months in a not uncomfortable state prison, everyone felt he had earned a martyr’s crown on his release. The government, having once embarked on this
campaign
of repression, found itself hoist on its own petard, helpless in the face of an ever-growing political movement of opposition, fostered and encouraged from where no one knew.