And suddenly there were hares everywhere. Some were small, the colour of lightly baked buns, not at all like the hares of Transylvania which gave such sport to the mounted huntsmen at Zsuk. Only city-dwellers think of hares as all being alike. Quite different from the long-legged mountain hares, those of the plain came in all sizes, great and small, and they behaved differently too, from one district to another. In the great plain they ran powerfully before the line of beaters, invisible to the guns for nearly an hour, so that it was only at the end of the drive that they all swarmed together in a rush to escape. Here in the valley of the Vag, on the other hand, they rushed about in front of the advancing beaters and all the guns sounded off from the first steps of the drive.
There always seemed to be at least two or three, and often five or six hares running wildly about no more than a hundred metres in front of the guns. And a charming sight it was. On the beautifully tended fields of rape or young green corn the animals seemed to be dancing, kicking up their tails with every leap they made and sometimes sitting down and apparently gazing unconcerned at the fluttering line of the peasant girls’ gaily coloured skirts, before again running forward through the furrows left by the plough. They always kept the same distance, only occasionally dashing further away when Stefi or Fredi shot at them from the centre of the advancing guns. The only times the little animals went at full speed was when they found themselves close to the openings at the end of the line and then they ran for their lives. A few there were that waited until the beaters were almost upon them and then, instead of racing forward they would double back and try their luck by darting swiftly through the line. Most of these were females and the order had been given to let them go, at least for the first half-hour. Even Wuelffenstein did not dare attempt a shot as he was walking next to his host. Some of the hares would run in a wide circle only to be shot as they approached the centre, but mostly they would run for the corners and so Abady, at the end of the line, and Warday next to him, were kept busy. Behind them the game collectors walked proudly two by two carrying long poles on their shoulders from which, like tassels, hung ten or fifteen dead hares.
Each huge square field was divided from the next by hedges planted with gleditschia trees — the honey-locust — in which openings had been left for the guns to pass through. As they did so each had to wait until they had been joined by the beaters who then reformed the line as the horns sounded and there came the order: ‘Virovnajte clapci! — Line up, lads!’ Then the horns sounded again and they moved relentlessly on.
Balint and little Lili Illesvary had just passed through one of the hedges and entered a field of young clover when with a sudden strident whirring a dense cloud of partridges rose up and flew over them at high speed. They turned away to the left as the wind from the north made them fly at a great height towards the centre of the line.
‘How beautiful they are!’ exclaimed Lili as she gazed up at them.
It was an exceptionally large covey, and they flew straight towards Szent-Gyorgyi who always chose this place as it was here that the late winter partridges always came. With the speed of a hurricane they flew towards him. Four shots were heard, and four little specks, two in front of him and two behind, fell from the sky rolling along the ground from the force of their own velocity.
This happened several times and Abady, who was never more than an average shot himself, was so lost in admiration of his host’s skill that more than one hare found its way safely past him.
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: ‘Zayac! Zayac! 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 ‘spadla — 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,hierauchHennenzuschiessen — If your Excellency pleases, here we will also shoot hens!’