第117章 CHAPTER XLVII(2)

Whatever may be thought now, Mr. Gladstone is not the man whom posterity will ennoble with the title of either 'great' or 'good.'

My second reason for mentioning Frederick Thistlethwayte was one which at first sight may seem trivial, and yet, when we look into it, is of more importance than the renown of an ex-Prime Minister. If these pages are ever read, what follows will be as distasteful to some of my own friends as the above remarks to Mr. Gladstone's.

Pardon a word about the writer himself - it is needed to emphasise and justify these OBITER DICTA. I was brought up as a sportsman: I cannot remember the days when I began to shoot. I had a passion for all kinds of sport, and have had opportunities of gratifying it such as fall to the lot of few. After the shootings of Glenquoich and Invergarry were lost to me through the death of Mr. Ellice, I became almost the sole guest of Mr. Thistlethwayte for twelve years at his Highland shooting of Kinlochmohr, not very far from Fort William. He rented the splendid deer forest of Mamore, extensive grouse moors, and a salmon river within ten minutes' walk of the lodge. His marriage and his eccentricities of mind and temper led him to shun all society. We often lived in bothies at opposite ends of the forest, returning to the lodge on Saturday till Monday morning. For a sportsman, no life could be more enjoyable.

I was my own stalker, taking a couple of gillies for the ponies, but finding the deer for myself - always the most difficult part of the sport - and stalking them for myself.

I may here observe that, not very long after I married, qualms of conscience smote me as to the justifiability of killing, AND WOUNDING, animals for amusement's sake. The more I thought of it, the less it bore thinking about.

Finally I gave it up altogether. But I went on several years after this with the deer-stalking; the true explanation of this inconsistency would, I fear, be that I had had enough of the one, but would never have enough of the other - one's conscience adapts itself without much difficulty to one's inclinations.

Between my host and myself, there was a certain amount of rivalry; and as the head forester was his stalker, the rivalry between our men aroused rancorous jealousy. I think the gillies on either side would have spoilt the others' sport, could they have done so with impunity. For two seasons, a very big stag used occasionally to find its way into our forest from the Black Mount, where it was also known. Thistlethwayte had had a chance, and missed it; then my turn came. I got a long snap-shot end on at the galloping stag. It was an unsportsmanlike thing to do, but considering the rivalry and other temptations I fired, and hit the beast in the haunch. It was late in the day, and the wounded animal escaped.

Nine days later I spied the 'big stag' again. He was nearly in the middle of a herd of about twenty, mostly hinds, on the look-out. They were on a large open moss at the bottom of a corrie, whence they could see a moving object on every side of them. A stalk where they were was out of the question. I made up my mind to wait and watch.

Now comes the moral of my story. For hours I watched that stag. Though three hundred yards or so away from me, I could through my glass see almost the expression of his face. Not once did he rise or attempt to feed, but lay restlessly beating his head upon the ground for hour after hour. I knew well enough what that meant. I could not hear his groans.

His plaints could not reach my ears, but they reached my heart. The refrain varied little: 'How long shall I cry and Thou wilt not hear?' - that was the monotonous burden of the moans, though sometimes I fancied it changed to: 'Lord how long shall the wicked, how long shall the wicked triumph?'

The evening came, and then, as is their habit, the deer began to feed up wind. The wounded stag seemed loth to stir. By degrees the last watchful hind fed quietly out of sight.

With throbbing pulse and with the instincts of a fox - or prehistoric man, 'tis all the same - I crawled and dragged myself through the peat bog and the pools of water. But nearer than two hundred yards it was impossible to get; even to raise my head or find a tussock whereon to rest the rifle would have started any deer but this one. From the hollow I was in, the most I could see of him was the outline of his back and his head and neck. I put up the 200 yards sight and killed him.

A vivid description of the body is not desirable. It was almost fleshless, wasted away, except his wounded haunch.

That was nearly twice its normal size; about one half of it was maggots. The stench drove us all away. This I had done, and I had done it for my pleasure!

After that year I went no more to Scotland. I blame no one for his pursuit of sport. But I submit that he must follow it, if at all, with Reason's eyes shut. Happily, your true sportsman does not violate his conscience. As a friend of mine said to me the other day, 'Unless you give a man of that kind something to kill, his own life is not worth having.'

This, to be sure, is all he has to think about.