a few items regarding bashan’s character and manner of life

a man in the valley of the isar had told me that dogs of this species might become obnoxious, for they were always anxious to be with the master. i was therefore warned against accepting the tenacious faithfulness which bashan soon began to display towards me as all too personal in its origin. on the other hand, this made it easier for me to discourage it a little—in so far as this may, in self-defence, have been necessary. we have to deal here with a remote and long-derived patriarchal instinct of the dog which determines him—at least so far as the more manly, open-air loving breeds are concerned—to regard and honour the man, the head of the house and the family, as the master, the protector of the home, the lord, and to find the goal and meaning of his existence in a peculiar relationship of loyal vassal-friendship, and in the maintenance of a far greater spirit of independence towards the other members of the family. it was this spirit that bashan manifested towards me from the very beginning. his eyes followed me about with a manly trustfulness shining in them. he seemed to be asking for commands which he might fulfil but which i chose not to give, since obedience was not one of his strong points. he clung to my heels with the visible conviction that his inseparability from me was something firmly rooted in the sacred nature of things.

it went without saying that in the family circle he would lie down only at my feet and never at any one else’s. it went equally without saying that in case i should separate from the others when out walking and pursue my own ways, he should join me and follow my footsteps. he also insisted upon my company when i was working, and when he chanced to find the door that gave upon the garden closed, he would come vaulting in through the window with startling suddenness, whereby a good deal of gravel would come rattling in upon the floor, and then with a sob and a sigh he would throw himself under my desk.

but there is a reverence which we pay to life and to living things which is too vigilant and keen not to be violated even by a dog’s presence when we feel the need of being alone, and it was then that bashan always disturbed me in the most tangible fashion. he would step up to my chair, wag his tail, look at me with devouring glances, and keep up an incessant trampling. the slightest receptive or approving movement on my part would result in his climbing up on the arm-rests of the chair, and glueing himself against my chest, in order to force me to laugh by the air-kisses which he kept lunging in my direction. and then he would proceed to an investigation of the top of my desk, assuming, no doubt, that something edible was to be found there, since i was so often caught bending over it. and then his broad and hairy paws would smear or blur the wet ink of my manuscript.

called sharply to account, he would lie down once more and fall asleep. but no sooner was he asleep than he would begin to dream, during which he would execute the movements of running with all his four feet stretched out, at the same time giving vent to a clear yet subdued ventriloquistic barking which sounded as if it came from another world. that this had a disturbing and distracting effect upon me need surprise no one, for, first of all, it was eerie, and then it stirred and burdened my conscience. this dream-life was all too clearly an artificial substitute for the real chase, the real hunt, and was prepared for him by his nature, because in his common life with me, the happiness of unrestrained movement in the open did not devolve upon him in that measure which his blood and his instincts demanded. this came home to me very strongly, but as it was not to be altered, it was necessary that my moral disquietude should be dispelled by an appeal to other and higher interests. this led me to affirm that he brought a great deal of mud into the room during bad weather, and moreover, that he tore the carpets with his claws. hence, as a matter of principle, he was forbidden to remain in the house or to bear me company as long as i chanced to be in the house—even though occasional exceptions were made. he understood this law at once and submitted to the unnatural prohibition, since it was precisely this which expressed in itself the inscrutable will of the master and lord of the house.

for this remoteness from me, which often continues, especially in the winter, for the greater part of the day, is merely a matter of being away—no actual separation or lack of connection. he is no longer with me—by my orders—but then that is merely the carrying-out of an order, after all a kind of negative being-with-me, as he would say. as for any independent life which bashan might lead without me during these hours—that is not to be thought of. through the glass door of my study i see him disporting in a clumsy, uncle-like manner with the children on the small patch of grass in front of the house. but constantly he comes running up to the door, and as he cannot see me through the muslin curtain which stretches across the pane, he sniffs at the crack between door and jamb so as to assure himself of my presence, and then sits down on the steps with his back turned towards the room, mounting guard. from my writing-table i can also see him moving at a thoughtful trot between the old aspens on the elevated highway yonder. but such promenades are merely a tepid pastime devoid of pride, joy, and life. and it would be unutterably unthinkable that bashan should take to devoting himself to the glorious pleasures of the chase upon his own account, even though no one would hinder him from doing this, and my presence, as will be shown later, would not be particularly favourable towards such an objective.

he begins to live only when i go forth—though, alas, he cannot always be said to begin life even then! for after i leave the house the question is whether i am going to turn towards the right, that is, down the avenue that leads into the open and to the solitude of our hunting-grounds, or towards the left in the direction of the tram station in order to ride to the city and into the great and spacious world. it is only in the first instance that bashan finds that there is any sense in accompanying me. at first he joined me after i had chosen the great and spacious world, regarded with vast astonishment the car as it came thundering on, and, forcibly suppressing his shyness, made a blind and loyal jump upon the platform, directly amongst the passengers. but the storm of public indignation swept him off again, and so he resolved to go galloping alongside the roaring vehicle—which bore so little resemblance to the farm wagon between the wheels of which he had once trotted. faithfully he kept step as long as this was possible, and his wind would no doubt have held out too. but being a son of the upland farm, he was lost in the traffic of the metropolis; he got between people’s legs, strange dogs made flank attacks upon him; a tumult of wild odours such as he had never before experienced, vexed and confused his senses; house-corners, impregnated with the essences of old adventures, lured him irresistibly. he remained behind, and though he once more overtook the wagon on rails, this proved to be a wrong one, even though it exactly resembled the right one. bashan ran blindly in the wrong direction, lost himself more and more in the disconcerting strangeness of the world. and it was more than two days before he came home, starved and limping—to that last house along the river to which his master had also been sensible enough to return in the meantime.

this happened two or three times, then bashan finally gave up accompanying me when i turned towards the left. he knows instantly what i intend to do as soon as i emerge from the doorway of the house—make a trip to the hunting-grounds or a trip to the great world. he jumps up from the door-mat upon which he has been awaiting my coming forth under the protecting arch of the entrance. he jumps up and at the same moment he sees what my intentions are. my clothing betrays these to him, the cane that i carry, also my attitude and expression, the cool and preoccupied look i give him, or the irritation and challenge in my eyes. he understands. headlong he plunges down the steps and goes dancing before me in swift and sudden bounds and full of excitement towards the gate when my going forth seems to be certain. but when he beholds hope vanish, he subsides within himself, lays his ears close to his head and his eyes take on that expression of shy misery which is found in contrite sinners—that look which misfortune begets in the eyes of men and also of animals.

at times he is really unable to believe what he sees and knows, that it is all up and that there is no use hoping for a hunt. his desires have been too intense. he repudiates the signs and symbols—chooses not to see the city walking-stick, the careful citified clothes i am wearing. he pushes through the gate with me, switches around outside in a half turn, and seeks to draw me towards the right by starting to gallop in this direction and by turning his head towards me, forces himself to overlook the fateful no which i oppose to his efforts. he comes back when i actually do turn towards the left, accompanies me, snorting deeply, and ejaculating short, confused high notes which seem to arise from the tremendous tension in his interior, as i walk along the fence of the garden, and then he begins to jump back and forth over the pickets of the adjacent public park. these pickets are rather high, and he groans a little in his flight through the air out of fear lest he hurt himself. he makes these leaps impelled by a kind of desperate gaiety, scornful of all hard facts, and also to bribe me, to work upon my sympathies by his cleverness. for it is not yet quite impossible—however improbable it may seem—that i may nevertheless leave the city path at the end of the park, once more turn towards the left and lead him on to liberty—even if only by way of the slightly roundabout way to the post-box. this happens, it is true, but it happens only rarely. once this hope has dissolved into empty air, bashan settles down upon his haunches and lets me go my way.

there he sits now, in yokel-like, ungraceful attitude, in the very middle of the road, and stares after my retreating form, down the whole long vista. if i turn my head, he pricks up his ears, but does not follow me. nor would he follow me if i should call or whistle—he knows this would all be to no purpose. even from the very end of the avenue i can see him still sitting there, a small, dark, awkward shape in the middle of the highroad. a pang goes through my heart—i mount the tram with an uneasy conscience. he has waited so long and so patiently—and who does not know what torture waiting can be! his whole life is nothing but waiting—for the next walk in the open—and this waiting begins as soon as he has rested after his last run. during the night, too, he waits, for his slumbers are distributed throughout the entire twenty-four hours of the sun’s revolution, and many a siesta upon the smooth lawn, whilst the sun beats upon his coat, or behind the curtains of his hut, must help to shorten the bare and empty spaces of the day. his nocturnal rest is therefore dismembered and without unity. he is driven by blind impulses hither and thither in the darkness, through the yard and the garden—he runs from place to place—and waits. he waits for the recurrent visit of the local watchman with the lantern, the heavy thud of whose footfall he accompanies against his own better knowledge with a terrible burst of heralding barks. he waits for the paling of the heavens, the crowing of the cock in the near-by nursery-garden, the stir of the morning wind in the trees, and for the unlocking of the kitchen entrance, so that he may slip in and warm himself at the white-tiled range.

but i believe that the torture of this nightly vigil is mild, compared to that which bashan must endure in the broad of day, particularly when the weather is fair, be it winter or summer, when the sun lures into the open, and the desire for violent motion tugs in every muscle, and his master, without whom, of course, there can be no real enjoyment, persistently refuses to leave his seat behind the glass door.

bashan’s mobile little body, through which life pulsates so swiftly and feverishly, has been, so to speak, exhausted with rest—and there can be no thought of sleep. up he comes to the terrace in front of my door, drops himself in the gravel with a sob which comes from the very depths of his being, and lays his head upon his paws, turning up his eyes with a martyr’s expression towards heaven. this, however, lasts only a few seconds, the new position irks him at once, he feels it to be untenable. there is still one thing he can do. he may descend the steps and pay attention to a small tree trimmed in the shape of a rose-tree and flanking the beds of roses, an unfortunate tree which, owing to these visits of bashan, dwindles away every year and must be replanted. there he stands on three legs, melancholy and contemplative—the slave of a habit, whether urged by nature or not. then he reverts to his four legs, and is no better off than before. dumbly he gazes aloft into the branches of a group of ash-trees. two birds are flitting from bough to bough with lively twitterings—he watches feathered ones dashing away swift as arrows, and turns aside, seeming to shrug his shoulders at so much childish élan of life.

he stretches and strains as though he intended to tear himself asunder. this undertaking, for the sake of thoroughness, he divides into two parts: first of all, he stretches his front legs, lifting his hindquarters into the air, and then exercises these by stretching his hind legs far behind him. he yawns tremendously both times, with wide, red-gaping jaws and upcurled tongue. well, now he has also achieved this—the performance cannot be carried on any further, and having once stretched yourself according to all the rules of the game, it is inconceivable that you should immediately repeat the manœuvre. so bashan stands and gazes at the ground. then he begins to turn himself slowly and searchingly about his own axis as though he wished to lie down and were not as yet certain as to the way in which this should be done. he changes his mind, however, and goes with lazy step to the middle of the lawn, where with a sudden, almost convulsive movement, he hurls himself upon his back in order to cool and scour this by a lively rolling hither and thither upon the mown surface of grass.

this must induce a mighty feeling of bliss, for stiffly he draws up his paws as he rolls and snaps into the air in all directions in a tumult of joy and satisfaction. all the more passionately he drains this rapture to the very dregs in that he knows that it is purely a fleeting rapture, and that one cannot very well wallow in this fashion more than ten seconds, and that that beneficent weariness which comes to one after such honest and happy efforts will not follow—but merely disillusion and two-fold disquietude—the price paid for this delirium, this drug-like dissipation. for a moment he lies with twisted eyeballs upon his side as though he were dead. then he rises and shakes himself. he shakes himself as only his kind is able to shake itself—without having to fear a concussion of the brain. he shakes himself to a crescendo of flappings and rattlings, and his ears go slapping under his jawbone and his loose lips part from his white, bare triangular teeth.

and then? then he stands motionless, in stark abstraction. he has reached the ultimate limit and no longer has a single idea as to what he shall do with himself. under such circumstances as these, he has recourse to something extreme. he climbs up to the terrace, approaches the glass door—scratches only once and very feebly. but this soft and timidly lifted paw, this soft, solitary scratching, upon which he had resolved, after all other counsel had failed, work mightily upon me, and i arise to open the door for him in order to let him in, although i know that this can lead to no good. for he immediately begins to leap and cavort, as a call to engage in manly enterprises. he pushes the carpet into a hundred folds, spreads confusion through the room, and my peace and quiet are at an end.

but now judge whether it is easy for me to sail off in the tram, after seeing bashan wait thus, and leave him sitting as a melancholy little heap of misery deep within the converging lines of the avenue of poplars!

when the summer is on and the daylight is long and lingering, this misfortune may not be so overwhelming, for then there is always a good chance that at least my evening promenade will take me out into the open, so that bashan, even though the period of waiting be arduous, may nevertheless still meet with his reward and, provided one has a certain amount of luck, be able to chase a rabbit. but in winter, it is all up for this day and bashan must bury all hope for a full twenty-four hours. for then the night will have already fallen upon the hour of my second going-forth; the hunting grounds are buried in impenetrable darkness, and i must direct my steps towards regions artificially lighted, upstream, through streets and public parks, and this does not suit bashan’s nature and simplicity of soul. it is true that at first he followed me even here, but soon gave this up and remained at home. it was not only that visible chances for gadding about were lacking—the half-dark made him hesitant, he shied in confused alarm at man and bush. the sudden flapping of a policeman’s cape caused him to jump aside with a howl, and with the courage of horror to make a sudden dash at the policeman, who was also scared half to death and strove to even up the fright he had received by a torrent of harsh and threatening words directed at me and bashan. and there were many other uncomfortable encounters whenever he went forth with me through the night and the mist. apropos of this policeman, i will remark that there are three kinds of human beings to whom bashan has a whole-hearted aversion—namely policemen, monks, and chimney-sweeps. he cannot tolerate them, and will sally forth against them with furious barks whenever they go past the house, or wherever they may chance to cross his path.

moreover, winter is that season in which the world lies most vigilantly and insolently in ambush against our liberties and our virtues, and least willingly grants us a uniform and serene existence, an existence of seclusion and of quiet preoccupation, and so it happens that often the city draws me to itself a second time in one day—in the evening—when society demands its rights. then, late, at midnight, the last tram deposits me far out at its penultimate stop. or i come jogging along on foot, long after the last tram has returned to town—i come wandering distrait, tempered with wine, smoking, having passed the bourne of natural fatigue and wrapped in a sense of false security in relation to all things mundane. and then it happens that the embodiment of my own domesticity, as it were, my very retirement, comes to meet me and salutes and welcomes me not only without reproach or touchiness, but with extreme joy, and re-introduces me to my own fireside—all in the shape of bashan himself. it is pitch dark, and the river goes by with a rushing sound as i turn into the poplar avenue. a few steps more and i feel that i am be-capered and be-switched by paws and tail—and have no clear idea of what is happening to me.

“bashan?” i ask of the darkness.

and then the capering and the switching are intensified to the utmost. they pass into something dervish- and berserker-like, though the silence continues. the very moment i stand still i feel two homely and wet and muddy paws upon the lapels of my overcoat, and there are such violent snappings and lappings close to my face, that i bend backward, whilst i pat those lean shoulders, wet with rain or snow.

yes, the dear fellow has waited for me at the tram-stop, well aware of my comings and goings and doings; he had gone forth when the hour seemed to have arrived, and waited for me at the station—waited, perhaps, a long and weary while in the snow or rain. and his joy at my arrival is devoid of all resentment at my cruel faithlessness, even though i had utterly neglected him to-day and reduced all his hopes and expectances to naught. so i am loud in my praise of him as i pat his shoulders and we turn towards home. i tell him that he has acted nobly, and deliver myself of momentous promises with regard to the day which is already under way. i assure him (that is to say not so much him as myself) that we shall go hunting together to-morrow without fail, no matter what the weather. amidst resolutions such as these, my mood of universality evaporates, seriousness and sobriety slink back into my soul, and my fancy, now full of the hunting-grounds and their loneliness, is seized by apperceptions of higher, secret and wondrous obligations.

but i am moved to add further details to this transcript of bashan’s character, so that the willing reader may see it in the nth degree of vivid verisimilitude. i might perhaps proceed with more or less skill by drawing a comparison between bashan and the lamented percy, for a contrariety more sharply defined than that which distinguished their respective natures is scarcely conceivable within one and the same species. as a basic consideration one must remember that bashan enjoys perfect mental health, whilst percy, as i have already intimated, was—as is not uncommon with dogs of blue-blooded pedigrees—a perfect fool his whole life long, crazy, a very model of overbred impossibility. mention of this has been made in a more momentous connection, in a previous chapter.

i would merely mention here as a contrast bashan’s simple and popular ways as these manifest themselves when going for walks or when making salutations—occasions upon which the enunciation of his emotions remains within the bounds of common sense and a sound heartiness without ever touching the limits of hysteria—limits which percy often transgressed on these occasions and that in the most disconcerting fashion.

but the whole antithesis between the two creatures is by no means exhausted in this—for this antithesis is in truth a mixed and complicated one. bashan, you must know, is somewhat crude, like the common people themselves, but, like them, also soft and sentimental, whilst his noble predecessor combined more delicacy and possibilities of pain with an incomparably prouder and firmer spirit, and despite his silliness, far excelled that old yokel bashan in the matter of self-discipline. it is not in defence of an aristocratic cult of values that i call attention to this mixture of opposite qualities, of coarseness and tenderness, of delicacy and resolution, but purely in the interests of life and actuality. bashan, for example, is just the man for spending even the coldest winter nights in the open, that is on the straw behind the coarse burlap curtains of his kennel. a slight affection of the bladder prevents him from spending seven hours uninterruptedly in a locked room without committing a nuisance—a weakness of his which caused us to lock him out during the inhospitable time of the year, setting a justifiable faith in his robust health. only once, after a particularly icy and foggy night, did he make his appearance with moustaches and goatee miraculously frosted and iced and with that jerky, one-syllabic cough peculiar to dogs—but a few hours, and lo, he had conquered the cold and was none the worse for it.

but never would we have dared to expose the silken-haired percy to the inclemency of such a night. on the other hand, bashan stands in great fear of even the slightest pain, and every twinge wrings from him a response, the whining complaint of which would arouse aversion, if its naive, folkish quality did not disarm one and set the springs of gaiety aflow. again and again, during his prowlings in the underwood, i have heard him squeal aloud—a thorn had chanced to prick him, or a resilient branch had switched him across the face, and if he happened to have scratched his belly a little in vaulting over the fence, or sprained his foot, i have been treated to an antique hero’s chorus, a three-legged limping approach, an uncontrollable wailing and self-lamentation. and the more sympathetically i talked to him, the more insistent his clamour became—though in a quarter of an hour he would be swooping and running about as madly as before.

percy was of a different metal. percy would grit his teeth and keep mum. he feared the rawhide whip just as bashan fears it, and unfortunately he got a taste of it oftener than bashan; for, first of all, i was younger and more hot-tempered during his epoch than i am at present, and secondly, his heedlessness often assumed a wanton and sinister aspect which simply clamoured for chastisement and urged me to it. when, driven to extremities, i would take down the whip from the nail, then, it is true, he would crawl under the table or bench and make himself small, but never a howl passed his lips when the blow, and perhaps yet another, came humming down upon his back; at most he gave a low moan, in case the whip bit too hard. but bully bashan begins to shriek and whimper when i merely raise my arm. in short, he is without pride or dignity, without self-restraint or self-discipline. but his activities seldom call for armed punitive intervention—the less so since i have long ago ceased to demand achievements from him which are contrary to his nature and insistence upon which might lead to a collision.

tricks, for instance, i never expect from him—it would be futile. he is no savant, no market-place miracle-monger, no poodle-like valet—no professor—but a hunter-lad, full of go and vitality. i have already emphasised the fact that he is a splendid vaulter. if it be necessary, he will balk at no obstacle—if it be too high, he will simply take a running jump and climb over it, letting himself drop down on the other side—but take it he will. but the obstacle must be a real obstacle, that is, not one under which one may run or crawl; for then bashan would consider it sheer insanity to jump over it. such obstacles present themselves in the shape of a wall, a ditch, a barred gate, a fence without a hole. a horizontal bar, a stick held out, is no obstacle, and so, of course, one cannot well jump over it without bringing oneself into a silly contrariness to things as well as to one’s reason. bashan refuses to do this. he refuses. should you attempt to persuade him to jump over some sham obstacle, you would finally in your wrath be forced to take him by the scruff of the neck and to hurl him over it, barking and yapping. he will hereupon assume a mien as though he had magnanimously permitted you to attain your wishes and will celebrate the result by caperings and rapturous barks. you may flatter him, beat him, but here you will encounter a resistance of sheer reason against the trick pure and simple which you will never be able to overcome.

he is not unobliging, gratifying his master means a great deal to him—he will vault over a hedge at my wish or command, and not only from his own impulses, and gladly will he reap his meed of praise and thanks for this. but even though you should beat him half to death, he will not jump over a pole or a stick, but run under it. he will beg a hundred times for forgiveness, for consideration, for mercy, for he fears pain, fears it, to the point of utter pusillanimity. but no fear and no pain can force him to do something which from a physical point of view would be mere child’s play for him, but for which all mental capacities are obviously lacking in him. to demand this act of him is not to confront him with the question as to whether he should or should not jump—this question is already settled for him in advance, and the command simply means a clubbing. to demand the incomprehensible and therefore the impossible from him is, in his eyes, merely a pretext for a quarrel, for a disturbance of friendship and a chance to inflict a whipping, and is in itself the very inauguration of these things. this is bashan’s conception of things, as far as i can see, and i doubt whether one can speak of mere ordinary stubbornness in this connection. obduracy may finally be broken, yes, it even demands to be broken, but bashan would seal his refusal to perform a trick or feat with his very life.

a wondrous soul! so friendly and intimate and yet so alien in certain traits, so alien that our language is incapable of doing justice to this canine logic. what relation has this, for instance, with that terrible circumstantiality, always so unnerving for the spectator, with which the meeting, the acquaintance or the mere recognition of dog and dog fulfil themselves? my picaroon forays with bashan have made me the witness of hundreds of such meetings, or rather i should say forced me to be an unwilling, embarrassed witness. and every time, as long as the scene lasted, his usually transparent behaviour became inscrutable to me—i found it impossible to effect a sympathetic penetration into the feelings, laws, and tribal customs which form the basis of his behaviour. in reality the meeting in the open of two dogs strange to each other, belongs to the most poignant, arresting, and pathetic of conceivable happenings. it takes place in an atmosphere of daemonry and strangeness. an inhibition operates here for which there is no exacter term—the two cannot pass each other—a terrible embarrassment prevails.

i need scarcely speak of cases in which the one party is locked inside some allotment, behind a fence or a hedge—even then it is not easy to see what humour the two may be in, but the affair is comparatively less ticklish. they scent each other from vast distances. bashan suddenly appears at my side, as though seeking protection, and gives way to whimperings which proclaim an indefinite grief and perturbation of soul, whilst at the same time the stranger, the prisoner, starts up a furious barking, to which he seems anxious to give the character of vigilance energetically announcing itself, but which now and again impulsively reverts to tones which resemble those of bashan’s yearning, a tearfully jealous, a distressful whining. we approach the spot, drawing nearer and nearer. the strange dog has been awaiting us behind the fence—there he stands—scolding and lamenting his impotence, and makes wild leaps against the fence and pretends—no one can tell just how much he pretends—that he would infallibly tear bashan to pieces, if he could but reach him. in spite of this, bashan, who might easily remain at my side and walk past, goes towards the fence—he must go—he would go even contrary to my orders. not to go would violate some immanent law—far more deeply-rooted, more inviolable than my own prohibition. so he walks up to the spot and, with a humble and inscrutable mien, fulfils that act of sacrifice which, as he well knows, always brings about a certain pacification and temporary reconciliation with the other dog—so long as he too performs the same act, even though it be in another spot and accompanied by low growlings and whines. then both begin to chase wildly alongside the fence, the one on this, the other on the opposite side—dumb and always keeping parallel to each other. both simultaneously face about at the end of the fence and race back towards the other end, turn about and race back once more. suddenly, however, in the very middle, they remain as if rooted to the ground, no longer longitudinal to the fence—but at right angles with it, and touch noses through the rails. they stand thus for a considerable time, and then once more resume their strange and ineffectual race, shoulder to shoulder on either side of the fence. finally, however, my dog makes use of his liberty and races off. this is always a terrible moment for the imprisoned one. this sudden lighting out is to him something unendurable; it is villainy unutterable and unparalleled—to think that the other dog, his racial colleague, should really think of abandoning him!

so he raves, howls, acts like one possessed, races up and down his territory, all by himself, threatens to jump over the fence and strangle the traitor, and keeps on hurling the vilest curses after him. bashan cannot help hearing all this pother, and he is most disagreeably affected by it, as his guilty and diffident air proclaims. still he refuses to look back, and jogs easily along. during this the terrible maledictions to our rear gradually decline in intensity and slowly die away into low whinings and thin yowls.

such is the customary course of events when one of the parties concerned happens to be under duress. but the strange contrariety of things reaches its apex when the rencontre takes place under equal conditions and both happen to be free of foot. it is extremely unpleasant to be obliged to describe this—really, it is the most oppressive, embarrassing and ticklish situation conceivable. however——

bashan, who has just been blithely gambolling about, comes to me, simply forcing himself upon my attention with that peculiar sniffling and whining which arise from the very profounds of his nature. these sounds cannot be interpreted as the expression of any particular emotion, though i at once recognise them as an attempt to tell me of the approach of a strange dog. i peer sharply about me. no mistake—there he comes—and it is clear even from afar, as proclaimed by his cautious and hesitant advance, that he has become conscious of the other. my own anxiety is scarcely less than that of the other two—i have premonitions that this meeting is going to be precarious and highly undesirable.

“go ’way!” i say to bashan. “what d’ye mean by clinging to my leg! can’t you two carry on negotiations amongst yourselves—and at a distance?”

i try to push him away with my stick, for if it should come to a battle of bites, which—whether there be a reason for it or not—is extremely probable, it is sure to take place around my feet and i shall become the centre of a most unedifying tussle.

“go ’way!” i repeat hoarsely.

but bashan does not go ’way. he continues to cling to me, tightly and helplessly. only for a moment does he deign to move aside to sniff at a tree—an operation which the stranger, as i observe out of the corner of my eye, is also performing yonder. the distance between the two is now only twenty paces—the tension is fearful. the stranger has now assumed a crouching position like a tiger-cat, with head thrust forward, and in this highwaymanlike pose he awaits bashan’s approach, apparently in order to seize him by the throat at the proper moment. this, however, does not take place, nor does bashan appear to expect it. at all events he continues to advance straight towards the lowering one, though with palpitant hesitancy and an alert though tragic mien. he would do so—would, in fact, be forced to do so, even though i were to leave him and pursue my path, abandoning him to all the perils of the situation. no matter how upsetting the rencontre may be, no thought can be given to evasion or escape. he goes as one that is under a spell—a ban. both are bound to each other by some secret and tenebrous tie, and neither dares belie this. we have now approached within two paces.

and then the other dog gets up quietly, just as though he had never assumed the looks or attitude of a lion couchant and stands there precisely as bashan stands—both with hangdog look, miserable and deeply embarrassed and both incapable of yielding an inch or of passing each other. they would like to be free of all this; they turn away their heads, squint sadly aside. thus they shove and slink towards each other, side by side, tense and full of a troubled watchfulness, flank to flank, and begin to snuffle at each other’s hides.

it is during this procedure that the growlings begin. sotto voce, i call bashan by name and warn him, for this is the fateful moment which is to decide whether a tussle and biting-match is to take place, or whether i am to be spared this calamity. but the battle of bites, of tooth and claw, is upon us—in a flash—no one could say how or why. in a moment both of them are merely a tangle, a raving, chaotic tumult out of which arise horrible gutteral cries, as of dragons of the prime tearing each other. in order to avert a tragedy i am forced to interpose my stick, to seize bashan by his collar or by the scruff of his neck, and to hoist him into the air with one arm with his antagonist hanging to him with locked jaws—or face whatever other terrors may be awaiting me—terrors which i am then fated to feel in every nerve during the greater part of the walk. but it also happens that the entire affair may pass off quite uneventfully, and, as it were, ebb away. nevertheless, in both contingencies it is difficult to get away from the spot. for even if these twain do not happen to clamp themselves together by the teeth, they remain fettered by a tenacious inner bond. in this case things proceed as follows:—

you imagine that the two dogs have already passed each other, for they are no longer hesitating flank to flank, but are aligned almost in keel formation, the one with his head turned in one direction, the other with his in the opposite direction. they do not see each other; they scarcely turn their heads, merely squinting towards the rear, straining the eyeball back as far as possible. even though they are already separated by some short distance, the tenacious, sinister tie still holds and neither of them is sure whether the moment of liberation has arrived. both would like to move off, but some inscrutable, conscientious anxiety prevents them from leaving the spot. until at last—at last!—the ban is broken, and bashan, redeemed, and with the air of having just been granted a new lease of life, goes bounding off.

i mention these things in order to indicate how strange and alien so close a friend may appear under certain circumstances—times when his entire nature reveals itself as something eerie and obscure. i brood upon this mystery and find no answer save a shake of the head. it is only by intuition and not by reason that i am able to identify myself with it. otherwise i am well acquainted with bashan’s inner world, and am able to meet its every manifestation with sympathy and with cheerfulness—to understand his play of features, his whole behaviour.

how well, for example, a solitary example, do i know that chirruping yawn to which he has recourse whenever he has been disappointed in the results of a walk. it may be that the walk was all too short or else barren of events in a sporting sense—as sometimes happens when i have begun my day’s work a little later than usual and have gone into the open air with bashan for a brief quarter of an hour before sitting down at my desk. he walks beside me then, and yawns. it is a shameless, impolite, wide-angle yawning—the yawning of the beast, of the brute, and it is accompanied by a whistling, guttural note and by a hurt and bored look. it says, as clearly as words:—

“a nice sort of master i’ve got! i went and fetched him from the bridge last night. and now he goes and sits behind that there glass door, and i’ve got to wait till he goes out, and me a-perishing with impatience. and then at last when he does go out, he turns round again and starts back home before i’ve had a sniff at a single bit o’ game! a fine sort of master, eh? and what a mean trick to play on a hound! why, he ain’t fit to be called a master at all!”

such are the sentiments expressed with rude clarity by these yawns of his—and there is no mistaking them. i am also aware that he is perfectly right in cherishing such sentiments and that in his eyes i am guilty. and so my hand steals towards his shoulder for a pat or two, or i proceed to stroke the top of his skull. but he has no use for caresses under such circumstances. he refuses to acknowledge or accept them. he gives another yawn, and this still more rudely than before, if that be possible, and withdraws himself from my conciliatory hand. he withdraws himself, even though he is extremely fond of such caresses, in accordance with his earthy, all too earthy sentimentality, and in contradistinction to the impervious percy. he particularly appreciates being scratched upon the throat, and he has acquired a droll but adroit energy in guiding one’s hand to the proper place by means of short movements of the head. that he ignores all tendernesses at present is due not only to his disillusion and disappointment, but also to the fact that he has no interest for such fondlings when in a state of movement, that is, a state of movement co-ordinated with mine. he is then obsessed by a masculine mood and spirit, and scorns all feminine touches. but an immediate change takes place as soon as i sit down. then his heart expands and he becomes receptive to all friendly advances, and his manner of responding to them is full of rapturous and awkward insistence.

often, when i chance to be seated on my chair in the angle of the garden wall or in the grass with my back against some favourite tree, reading a book, i am happy to interrupt my literary occupation in order to speak and play with bashan. i repeat—to speak with him. and what do i find to say? well, the conversation is usually limited to repeating his name to him—his name—those two syllables which concern him more than all others, since they designate nothing but himself, and thus have an electrifying effect upon his entire being. i thus stir and fire his consciousness of his ego by abjuring him in different tones and in different degrees of emphasis to consider the fact that he is called bashan and that he is bashan. by keeping this up for a short time i am able to throw him into a state of veritable ecstasy, a kind of drunkenness of identity, so that he begins to rotate upon his own axis and to send loud barks towards heaven—all out of sheer inner triumph and the proud compulsion of his heart. or we amuse each other in that i flick him upon the nose, whilst he snaps at my hand as at a fly. this forces both of us to laugh, yes, even bashan must laugh. this laugh of his—to which i must instinctively respond, is for me the most wonderful and touching thing in the world. it is unutterably moving to see how his haggard canine cheek and the corners of his mouth quiver and jerk to the excitement of the teasing, how the dusky mien of the dumb creature takes on the physiognomic expression of human laughter, or how a troubled, helpless, and melancholy reflection of this appears and vanishes again to give way to the stigmata of fear and embarrassment, and then how it once more makes its wry appearance. . . .

but it is best to pause here and not involve myself deeper in detail. i must not allow my descriptions to exceed the limits which i have set. i merely wish to show my hero in all his glory and in his natural elements and in that position in life in which he is most himself and which casts the most favourable light upon his various gifts and accomplishments—that is to say, the hunt or chase. i must, however, as a preliminary, make the reader more closely acquainted with the scene of these joys—our hunting-grounds—my landscape along the river. for there is a strange affinity between this and the person of bashan. this strip of land is as dear to me as it is to him—it is intimate and full of meaning—like himself. therefore, without further ado or novellistic preciosity, let the following suffice in the way of description:—

the hunting-grounds