“Just as I was, as I clearly remember. And you, too, a few paces behind me-you were as mesmerized as the beast and I, both of us in front and in range of you as you lifted the safety catch with that quiet, cold click that is the sound of perfectly tempered steel going about its fatal task, whether it is a dagger crossing another or a fine English rifle being cocked for the kill. Do you remember?” “Yes,” says the guest. “A classic moment,” says the General with almost a connoisseur’s pleasure.
“I was the only one to hear the click, it was too quiet to carry three hundred paces to the deer, even through the silence of dawn.
“And then something happened that I could never prove in a court of law, but that I can tell you because you know it already-it was a little thing, I felt you move, more clearly than if I’d been watching you. You were close behind me, and a fraction to the side. I felt you raise your gun, set it to your shoulder, take aim, and close one eye. I felt the gun slowly swivel. My head and the deer’s head were in the exact same line of fire, and at the exact same height; at most there may have been four inches between the two targets. I felt your hand tremble, and I knew as surely as only the hunter can assess a particular situation in the woods, that from where you were standing you could not be taking aim at the deer. Please understand me: it was the hunting aspect, not the human, that held my attention right then. I was, after all, a devotee of hunting, with some expertise in its technical problems, such as the angle at which one must position oneself in relation to a deer standing unsuspecting at a distance of three hundred paces. Given the geometrical arrangement of the marksman and the two targets, the whole thing was quite clear, and I could calculate what was going on in the mind of the person behind my back. You took aim for half a minute, and I knew that down to the second, without a watch. I knew you were not a fine shot and that all I had to do was move my head a fraction and the bullet would whistle past my ear and maybe hit the deer. I knew that one movement would suffice and the bullet would remain in the barrel of your gun. But I also knew I couldn’t move because my fate was no longer mine to controclass="underline" some moment had come, something was going to happen of its own volition. And I stood there, waiting for the shot, waiting for you to pull the trigger and put a bullet through the head of your friend. It was a perfect situation: no witnesses, the gamekeeper and the dogs were a long way back, it was one of those well-known ‘ accidents’ that are detailed every year in the newspapers. The half minute passed and still there was no shot. Suddenly the deer smelled danger and exploded into motion with a single bound that took him out of our sight to safety in the undergrowth. We still didn’t move. And then, very slowly, you let the gun sink.
“I could not see or hear that movement, either, but I knew it as well as if I were facing you. You lowered the gun so carefully in case even the air moving over the barrel might make a whisper and betray you, now that the moment to take the shot was gone and the deer had vanished.
“You see, the interesting thing is that you still could have killed me, there were no witnesses, and no judge would have convicted you, everyone would have rushed to surround you with sympathy, because we were the legendary friends, Castor and Pollux, together for twenty-four years through thick and thin, we were their reincarnation. If you had killed me, everyone would have reached out to you, everyone would have mourned with you, because the world believes there could be no more tragic figure than someone who accidentally kills his friend. What man, what prosecutor, what lunatic would make the unbelievable accusation that you had done it deliberately? There is absolutely no proof that you were harboring any deadly animosity toward me. The previous evening, we had all dined together-my wife, my relations, our hunting comrades-as a friendly circle in the castle where you had been welcome, no matter what the day, for decades, everyone had seen us together just as we always were, in the regiment and in society, as warm and affectionate as ever.
You did not owe me any money, you lived in my house like a member of the family, who could imagine you would do such a thing? No one. What cause would you have to murder me?
Who could be inhuman enough to imagine that you, my friend-of-friends, would kill me, your friend-of- friends, when you could ask anything in life of me, receive anything you needed by way of psychological or material support, treat my house as yours, my fortune as yours to share, my family as your second family?
“Any accusation would have rebounded on whoever made it; the world would have punished it as a piece of insolence, and then rushed to comfort you again.
“That is how things stood. And yet you didn’t fire. Why? What happened in that moment? Was it just that the deer sensed the danger and fled, whereas human nature is constructed in such a way that when we have to accomplish some action that is utterly abnormal, we need some objective pretext? Your plan was the right one, it was both precise and perfect, but perhaps it required the presence of the deer; the scene had come apart, and you let your gun drop. It was a matter of fractions of a second; who could divide everything up into its constituent parts, see them separately and make a judgment? And it’s really not important. The fact is what matters, even if it would not determine a trial. You wanted to kill me, and when something unanticipated disrupted the moment, your hand began to tremble and you didn’t do it. The deer was already out of sight between the trees, we didn’t move, I didn’t turn around. We stood like that for some seconds. If I had looked you in the face just then, I might have seen it all. But I didn’t dare. There’s a feeling of shame that is more painful than any other in life; it’s the shame felt by the victim who is forced to look his killer in the eyes, as if he were the creature bowing before its creator. That’s why I didn’t look at you, and as the paralysis left us, I started to walk across the clearing toward the top of the hill. You started mechanically to move behind me. As we went, without turning around, I said, ‘ missed your shot.”
“You didn’t say a word, and your silence was its own admission. At times like that, anyone would start talking, either ashamed or worked up, trying to explain himself, making jokes or sounding insulted: every huntsman wants to prove that he was right, that the animal was a poor specimen, that the distance was too great, that the shot was too risky.
..but you said nothing. And your silence meant, ‘, I missed the shot that should have killed you.’ We reached the top of the hill without a word being exchanged. The gamekeeper was already up there with the dogs, the valley was echoing with shots, the hunt had begun. Our paths separated. When midday came and it was time to eat-a table and food for the huntsmen had been set up under the trees-your beater told me you had left for town.”
The guest picks up another cigar. His hands betray no tremor, he calmly cuts the tip. The General leans forward, holding a candle, to light it for him.
“Thank you,” says the guest. “But that evening, you came to dinner,”
says the General. “As you always did, every evening. You came at the usual time, seven-thirty, in the carriage. And as on so many evenings we dined ŕ trois with Krisztina.
“The table was laid in the great dining room, as it was tonight, and with the same ornamental figures, and Krisztina sat between us. There were blue candles burning. She liked candlelight, she liked everything that echoed tradition, and times past, and a nobler form of human discourse. After the hunt was over, I had gone directly to my rooms to change, and had not seen Krisztina that afternoon. The manservant had told me that she had left after luncheon for town. As I came into the room, Krisztina was sitting in front of the fireplace with a light Indian shawl around her shoulders, for the weather was misty and damp. A fire had been lit; she was reading and did not hear me. Perhaps the rugs absorbed the sound of my footsteps, perhaps she was simply too absorbed in the text-it was an English book, a traveler’s description of the tropics-but in any case she did not become aware of me until I was standing right in front of her. Then she looked up-do you remember her eyes? She had a way of looking up that turned the world to brilliant daylight-and maybe it was the effect of the candlelight, but I was shocked by her pallor. ‘ you feeling unwell?’ I asked her. She said nothing. She stared at me for a long moment, wide-eyed, and those seconds were almost as drawn out and as eloquent as the moments that morning in the forest when I stood still, waiting to see whether you would say something or squeeze the trigger. She scrutinized my face as if her life depended on finding out what I was thinking if I was thinking … if there was something I knew … At that moment, knowledge was more important than life itself. The thing that is always the most important-more important than the outcome, more important than the prey-is to know what the creature we have chosen as our victim thinks of us … She looked into my eyes as if she were conducting an interrogation. I believe I returned her gaze steadily. During those seconds, and later, I was calm, and my face betrayed nothing to her.