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.
It was when this impassioned situation was at its height that there occurred the uprising at Chernova.
A priest named Hlinka had been suspended by his bishop from the care of the parish of Rozsahegy and a local tribunal had found him guilty of making treasonable statements in public. Hlinka’s birthplace was the neighbouring village of Chernova where he had built a church out of his own money. This he wanted to consecrate himself, but he now found himself forbidden by the bishop to do so, while other priests were sent to Rozsahegy to do this office for him. The people of Chernova were at once up in arms, hid the sacred vessels of their church and sent furious threatening letters to the bishop, whose chosen priests took fright and asked for an escort of gendarmes, even though the local sheriff had told them that this was not wise. What happened was that, when the priests arrived to consecrate the church, they and their escort were met with a hail of stones. The gendarmes, to defend themselves as well as the priests, opened fire. Nine men fell dead and many others were wounded, of which several died later. It was a sad, unnecessary and bloody affair.