through a smaller set of avenues, no doubt. On the sound assumption they knew the measures as well as the riders did. And where was the huntsman? Would he have bothered to go with them? Well, perhaps yes, just in case they took a short cut and ended up in the local butcherâs shop before the stag did, but probably no: having seen his pack safely off on the scent, he was cutting comfortably through the forest by his own route. Direct to the place of rendezvous, no coffee-table obstacles for him. Wiping the spit from his horn, maybe, in order to get it to sound â the French hunting horn lookedto be an admirably designed spit-trap â or loading his gun in preparation for the
coup de grâce.
For the kill, to give it its more fitting name, since grace hardly came into the picture. In Suffolk, in Somerset, in Ireland, in all the places I had hunted before, the kill had been an adjunct, significant but at the same time dispensable, like the coda to an already finished and well-rounded piece of music. Here, on the other hand, it was the centrepiece. In its absence our dainty little suite of caprioles would have had no sense at all. Instead of getting things over swiftly, therefore, in a low-key fashion in front of the few spectators who had managed to keep his pace, the huntsman postponed his task until the arrival of the entire field. Piling artifice on artifice, and creating a long interval between grab and strike, which is not a good thing, either for prey or predator. Judges know this. I know it too.
The mare the Marquis had lent me was fast and willing and knew the route by heart, so we were among the first to reach the clearing and I was granted a ringside view of everything that followed. I watched the whippers-in struggle with the hounds, trying to leash the bossier and more obstreperous first so as not to lose control of the rest and spoil the huntsmanâs timing. I watched the stag, sealed off from the world already by his fear, stand in the shallow water that had betrayed him and observe incuriously his fate approach. I watched the huntsman board a tiny flat-bottomed coracle, armed witha knife and a gun that he kept switching from hand to hand as if undecided about which to use. Or which to use first. I watched him, after a few vain attempts to lasso the stag by the antlers, settle for the gun. Then, with his weapon at the ready, I watched him glance at the Marquis, who nodded, as much as to say, Yes, we are all assembled, go ahead, and I watched the huntsman nod in reply, take aim and fire, and I watched the stag start and buckle and sink into the water with barely another sound.
I felt nothing all this time â why should I, a hunt veteran like myself? No dismay, no repugnance, nothing save the awareness of an empty space inside me â a new space which one day feeling might occupy. Almost as if the stag had snagged my heart with his wide antlers when he fell and made it larger. I was relieved, but in a conventional way, because good marksmanship was a thing to admire and bungling a thing to deprecate, that the huntsman had wielded his gun better than the rope. As yet it went no further than that.
Or did it? The kill signalled a pause, a shift in group behaviour. From silent spectators everyone turned chattery. People dismounted, cigarettes were lit, and backs were courteously turned on the next part of the proceedings: the retrieval and dismemberment of the carcass. Every back, that is, except mine. I donât know why but I went on watching, still in this vacant-minded spirit: no emotion, just a moral question mark or a row of moral dots. Iwatched the flaying of this prey that had cost us zero skill and effort to capture, and I watched the dismemberment and I watched the dressing. I saw the skin and head and antlers being severed from the body, and the hooves, or slots as theyâre called in hunting jargon, being struck off neatly at the bone but with little strips of skin left floating,
coup de grâce.
For the kill, to give it its more fitting name, since grace hardly came into the picture. In Suffolk, in Somerset, in Ireland, in all the places I had hunted before, the kill had been an adjunct, significant but at the same time dispensable, like the coda to an already finished and well-rounded piece of music. Here, on the other hand, it was the centrepiece. In its absence our dainty little suite of caprioles would have had no sense at all. Instead of getting things over swiftly, therefore, in a low-key fashion in front of the few spectators who had managed to keep his pace, the huntsman postponed his task until the arrival of the entire field. Piling artifice on artifice, and creating a long interval between grab and strike, which is not a good thing, either for prey or predator. Judges know this. I know it too.
The mare the Marquis had lent me was fast and willing and knew the route by heart, so we were among the first to reach the clearing and I was granted a ringside view of everything that followed. I watched the whippers-in struggle with the hounds, trying to leash the bossier and more obstreperous first so as not to lose control of the rest and spoil the huntsmanâs timing. I watched the stag, sealed off from the world already by his fear, stand in the shallow water that had betrayed him and observe incuriously his fate approach. I watched the huntsman board a tiny flat-bottomed coracle, armed witha knife and a gun that he kept switching from hand to hand as if undecided about which to use. Or which to use first. I watched him, after a few vain attempts to lasso the stag by the antlers, settle for the gun. Then, with his weapon at the ready, I watched him glance at the Marquis, who nodded, as much as to say, Yes, we are all assembled, go ahead, and I watched the huntsman nod in reply, take aim and fire, and I watched the stag start and buckle and sink into the water with barely another sound.
I felt nothing all this time â why should I, a hunt veteran like myself? No dismay, no repugnance, nothing save the awareness of an empty space inside me â a new space which one day feeling might occupy. Almost as if the stag had snagged my heart with his wide antlers when he fell and made it larger. I was relieved, but in a conventional way, because good marksmanship was a thing to admire and bungling a thing to deprecate, that the huntsman had wielded his gun better than the rope. As yet it went no further than that.
Or did it? The kill signalled a pause, a shift in group behaviour. From silent spectators everyone turned chattery. People dismounted, cigarettes were lit, and backs were courteously turned on the next part of the proceedings: the retrieval and dismemberment of the carcass. Every back, that is, except mine. I donât know why but I went on watching, still in this vacant-minded spirit: no emotion, just a moral question mark or a row of moral dots. Iwatched the flaying of this prey that had cost us zero skill and effort to capture, and I watched the dismemberment and I watched the dressing. I saw the skin and head and antlers being severed from the body, and the hooves, or slots as theyâre called in hunting jargon, being struck off neatly at the bone but with little strips of skin left floating,
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