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Hunting Sketches-Part1_Antony Trollope(1815-1882)_English Literature(文学名著)-第2页

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But at moments such as these something has to be done. The man



who doesn't like it, let him dislike it ever so much, Cannot

check his horse and simply ride back to the hunting stables. He



understands that were he to do that, he must throw up his cap at

once and resign. Nor can he trot easily along the roads with the



fat old country gentleman who is out on his rough cob, and who,

looking up to the wind and remembering the position of adjacent



coverts, will give a good guess as to the direction in which the

field will move. No; he must make an effort. The time of his



penance has come, and the penance must be borne. There is a spark

of pluck about him, though unfortunately he has brought it to



bear in a wrong direction. The blood still runs at his heart, and

he resolves that he will ride, if only he could tell which way.



The stout gentleman on the cob has taken the road to the left

with a few companions; but our friend knows that the stout



gentleman has a little game of his own which will not be suitable

for one who intends to ride. Then the crowd in front has divided



itself. Those to the right rush down a hill towards a brook with

a ford. One or two, men whom he hates with an intensity of



envy, have jumped the brook, and have settled to their work.

Twenty or thirty others are hustling themselves through the



water. The time for a judicious start on that side is already

gone. But others, a crowd of others, are facing the big ploughed



field immediately before them. That is the straightest riding,

and with them he goes. Why has the scent lain so hot over the up-



turned heavy ground? Why do they go so fast at this the very

first blush of the morning ? Fortune is always against him, and



the horse is pulling him through the mud as though the brute

meant to drag his arm out of the socket. At the first fence, as



he is steadying himself, a butcher passes him roughly in the jump

and nearly takes away the side of his top boot. He is knocked



half out of his saddle, and in that condition scrambles through.

When he has regained his equilibrium he sees the happy butcher



going into the field beyond. He means to curse the butcher when

he catches him, but the butcher is safe. A field and a half



before him he still sees the tail hounds, and renews his effort.

He has meant to like it to-day, and he will. So he rides at the



next fence boldly, where the butcher has left his mark, and does

it pretty well, with a slight struggle. Why is it that he can



never get over a ditch without some struggle in his saddle, some

scramble with his horse? Why does he curse the poor animal so



constantly, unless it be that he cannot catch the butcher? Now

he rushes at a gate which others have opened for him, but rushes



too late and catches his leg. Mad with pain, he nearly gives it

up, but the spark of pluck is still there, and with throbbing



knee he perseveres. How he hates it! It is all detestable now. He

cannot hold his horse because of his gloves, and he cannot get



them off. The sympathetic beast knows that his master is unhappy,

and makes himself unhappy and troublesome in consequence. Our



friend is still going, riding wildly, but still keeping a grain

of caution for his fences. He has not been down yet, but has



barely saved himself more than once. The ploughs are very deep,

and his horse, though still boring at him, pants heavily. Oh,



that there might come a check, or that the brute of a fox might

happily go to ground ! But no! The ruck of the hunt is far away



from him in front, and the game is runningsteadily straight for

some well known though still distant protection. But the man who



doesn't like it still sees a red coat before him, and perseveres

in chasing the wearer of it. The solitary red coat becomes



distant, and still more distant from him, but he goes on while he

can yet keep the line in which that red coat has ridden. He must



hurry himself, however, or he will be lost to humanity, and will

be alone. He must hurry himself, but his horse now desires to



hurry no more. So he puts his spurs to the brute savagely, and

then at some little fence, some ignoble ditch, they come down



together in the mud, and the question of any further effort is

saved for the rider. When he arises the red coat is out of sight,



and his own horse is half across the field before him. In such a

position, is it possible that a man should like it ?



About four o'clock in the afternoon, when the other men are

coming in, he turns up at the hunting stables, and nobody asks



him any questions. He may have been doing fairly well for what

anybody knows, and, as he says nothing of himself, his disgrace



is at any rate hidden. Why should he tell that he had been nearly

an hour on foot trying to catch his horse, that he had sat






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