by
T. H. White
The
Goshawk
Chapter
I
Tuesday
When
I first saw him he was a round thing like a clothes basket covered
with sacking. But he was tumultuous and frightening, repulsive in the
same way as snakes are frightening to people who do not know them, or
dangerous as the sudden movement of a toad by the door step when one
goes out at night with a lantern into the dew. The sacking had been
sewn with string, and he was bumping against it from underneath:
bump, bump, bump, incessantly, with more than a nint of lunacy. The
basket pulsed like a big heart in fever. It gave our weird cries of
protest, hysterical, terrified, but furious and authoritative. It
would have eaten anybody alive.
Imagine what his life had been till then. When he was an infant, still
unable ot fly and untidy with bits of fluff, still that kind of
mottled, motive and gaping toad which confronts us when we look into
birds' nests in May: when, moreover, he was a citizen of Germany, so
far away: a glaring man had come to his mother's nest with a basket
like this one, and had stuffed him it. He had never seen a human
being, never been confined in such a box, which smelled of darkness
and manufacture and the stink of man. It must have been like death –
the thing which we can never know beforehand – as, with clumsy
talons groping for an unnatural foothold, his fledgeling
consciousness was hunched and bundled in the oblong alien
surroundingness. The gutteral voices, the un-birdlike den he was
taken to, the scaly hands which bound him, the second basket, the
smell and noise of the motor car, at the unbearable, measured clamour
of the aircraft which bounced those skidding talons on the
untrustworthy woven floor all the way to England: heat, fear, noise,
hunger, the reverse of nature: with these to stomach, terrified, but
still nobly and madly defiant, the eyas goshawk had arrived at my
small cottage in his accursed basket – a wild and adolescent
creature whose father and mother in eagles' nests had fed him with
bloody meet still quivering with life, a foreigner from far black
pine slopes, where a bundle of precipitous sticks and some white
droppings, with a few bones and feathers splashed over the tree foot,
had been to him the ancestral heritage. He was born to fly, sloping
sideways, free among the verdure of that Teutonic upland, to murder
with his fierce feet and to consume with that curved Persian beak,
who now hopped up and down in the clothes basket with a kind of
imperious precocity, the impatience of a spoiled but noble heir
apparent to the Holy Roman Empire.
I
picked up the clothes basket in a gingerly way and carried it to the
barn. The workman's cottage which I lived in had been built under
Queen Victoria, with barn and pigsty and bakehouse, and it had once
been inhabited by a gamekeeper. There in the wood, long agon when
Englishmen lived their own sports, instead of competing at games with
tedious abstract tennis bats and cricket sticks and golfing mallets
as they do today, the keeper who lived in the cottage had reared his
pheasants. There was no wire netting in his days, and the windows of
the low barn were enclosed with wooden slats, nailed criss-cross, a
diamond lattice work. I put Gos down in the barn, in his basket, and
was splitting a rabbit's head to get at the brain, when two friends
whose sad employment I had lately followed came to take me to a
public house for the last time. The hawk came out of the basket
already strong on the wing, beat up to the rafters, while his master,
armed with two pairs of leather gloves on each hand, cowered near the
floor – and then there was no more time. I had intended to put a
pair of jesses on him at once, but he flew up before I had pulled
myself together: and it was only when the great bundle of young
feathers was perching on the rafters that one could see the jesses
already on him. Jesses were what they called the thongs about his
feet. Jessed but not belled, perched at the top of the old
gamekeeper's loft, baleful and extraordinary, I left the goshawk to
settle down: while we three went out to the public house for a kind of
last supper, at which none was more impatient of translation than the departing guest.
