An Angler at Large/Chapter 40
I am sitting beside the Island Pool where the river pauses for a moment to circle solemnly round, then flows on its way in a broad green and amber glide. The Island Pool is deep and dark and mysterious. Immortal fishes of incredible size sometimes swim into the ken of him who, lying flat with his nose over the camp-sheathing, peers into its profundities. But they never rise to the fly.
No fishes in this river ever rise to the fly. They used to, but that is long, long ago—a whole week. And they will never do it again. There is no fly for them to rise to, and if there were they would not rise to it. But there will never be any more fly on this river. Nobody will ever catch a fish here again—on the fly. Dynamite would cause some of them to float belly up. There is something to be said for dynamite after all. Here is an unworthy thought. I would not really use dynamite if I had any. I do not know how to use it. And it might blow my hand off. And how should I fish then?
I do not know that I want to fish any more. As one grows older one gets a new way of looking at things. Youth has a distorted vision. For Turkish Delight at one time I would have bartered my soul. To-day it nauseates me. So with angling. Years ago I would, if I could, have killed trout all day, and under any weight of them staggered home rejoicing; the greater the weight, the louder my rejoicing. In those days my joy was clouded by no misgivings; no compunction dulled my appetite for slaughter. I was wholly callous to any destruction I had wrought. Those bright, dead bodies loaded my back only. My souldid I have a soul then? Who knows? But had I succeeded in bartering it for Turkish Delight, the other party to the transaction would infallibly have been swindled—however little of his wares he had yielded. Yes, I gloried in butchery.
And to-day? Well, lately I have had doubts. They have always been put sternly away, for the angling habit strikes deep roots, and it is foolish to examine settled convictions. Only misery can come of it. And, until the last year or two, my conviction that trout exist for anglers to catch has been founded on the rock. But now I find that it needs shoring up a little. I dwell more and more on (yet get less and less satisfaction out of) the Dominion of Man, his supreme place in the creation, his right to dispose of the lives of inferior creatures. I am not content to kill; I must justify the killing. I find man—myself—slaying right and left, and I cry out that his title to do so is unquestionable—thereby questioning it. And is the argument sufficient? Is there not something like an ignoratio elenchi here? (If one were only certain what an ignoratio elenchi is.)
Again, by constantly telling myself and other people that it is so, I nearly always succeed in believing firmly that cold-blooded animals have not the same power of sensation as warm-blooded animals—that fish, for example, do not feel pain, being provided (trout, at any rate) with horny mouths whose substance is comparable to the human nail, and—it does not hurt to cut one's nails—therefore unsensitive to the penetration of a hook. At one time I have even persuaded myself to look on this circumstance as a direct proof of the Creator's intentions regarding trout and men. But there are other fishes that have soft mouths—roach, for example. Thank goodness I have few roach on my conscience.
Once more—how very much better it is for a wild animal to die at the hand of man than, after a miserable and wasting old age, of starvation. For this is the undoubted end of all such creatures as escape destruction at the fangs of their fellows. Thus we defend fox-hunting, thus hare-coursing, thus the pheasant battue. At first sight the argument seems unanswerable. It is certainly best to die quickly. But to live long—that, too, is good. There, I feel, is a sort of point of view. I know it is a foolish one, but it sticks in my mind.
Away from the river I can see the force of all these observations. But on the bank they have less force. Perhaps I put my head carefully over a bank, and there, not six feet below my eyes, is a trout, a great golden-green fellow in the prime of his splendid life. Three pounds he weighs (when I grass him). He has won gallantly through the perils of his fishing days, swimming faster, exercising more wariness, feeding harder than the others of his year. And now, one out of—what is it, a hundred thousand?—two hundred million?—that have succumbed, he lies there in the sunlight just above cool emerald weeds, sucking in the sweet little duns as his bountiful stream carries them above his head. With what ease he keeps his place against the rapid current; with what whole-hearted, admirable gluttonry he gulps his breakfast; what a gorgeous, lithe, perfect animal is this that I would strike into hideous rigidity. The heart is black that can plot mischief to this excellent creature. How many years of joyous dun-devouring life are before him? Five—ten—twenty? I see him, a portly ten-pounder, living for ever, for ever stemming this crystal stream with fins that grow broader and stronger, the intoxicating gold and green, vermilion, brown, and blue of his scales growing deeper, richer, more and more splendid. "No," says Argument, "not for ever. And—ultimately? An old, lean, blind, diseased fish, dying by inches. Have him out?" And I have him out.
But while I am doing it, should I work him into still water, can I, while he swims slowly round and round, always in sight, wholly persuade myself that he feels no pain. I grant his horny mouth. But is fear no pain? And does this fish feel no fear? Fear glares from his eyes. He is stricken with it. And against fear he fights, as well as against gut and split cane. I have given this fish seven minutes of utter terror. It is not a comforting thought. I put it away from me.
And now he is in the net. Now he lies at my feet, staring a dull, foolish reproach at me. At this point I have to be very quick if I mean to take that trout home with me. He lies in my hand, passive, dignified, demeaning himself by no futile wriggles. He owns the Lord of Creation. Whang! The net has done its regal work. A shudder passes through him, through my hand, my arm, to my heart. I have, then, done God's work, which He appointed me to do. This reflection is much more comforting than my last. I hug it to my bosom. I basket the fish. But I am not entirely happy. Ten years ago I should have run all the way home to exhibit my three-pounder. Youth is not to be touched by these morbid thoughts. Happy youth! The Lord of Creation goes his way with a heavier—basket.
Sometimes, at such moments, a grisly idea has come my way. It seems to me that somewhere there is an Angler who casts baits for men and women. Like these same trout that live and feed and fight and love in their stream, and know nothing of that world of the outer air with its fields and trees and birds and flowers and men, save that vague shadows (some to be feared, others undreadful) move now and then between themselves and the light, so we, in our own element, perfectly satisfied with our three dimensions, and only dimly perceiving the possibility of a fourth, live and feed, love, fight, and amuse ourselves, our equanimity disturbed only by one dreadful shadow which moves at times within our field of vision. What it is we do not know, but it passes, and one of our number is gone. Where we do not know either. But that our turn will come we know very well. Like these same trout, we realise a danger, continually imminent, that lurks in those things we love. But loving them, feeling the need of them, we pursue them, some carefully, others recklessly. This danger that we call death (who knows what that Angler calls it?) may be hidden anywhere—in an oyster, a hunter, a footstep cut in eternal ice, a glass of ruby wine, an open window. Sooner or later, the Angler will get us. But we avoid his snares as long as we can. And while our lips proclaim ourselves the Lords of Creation, our hearts tremble at the presumption. For we know that it is a lie.
So I think that I shall give up
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Excuse me. A large fish has just risen under the willow. And here come the duns.