The tarn by Hugh Walpole. As Foster moved unconsciously across the room, bent
towards the bookcase, and stood leaning forward a little, choosing now one book,
now another. With his eye his host, seeing the muscles of the
back of his thin, scraggy neck stand out above his low flannel collar,
thought of the ease with which he could squeeze that throat, and the pleasure,
the triumphant, lustful pleasure, that such an action would give him.
The low, white walled, white ceilinged room was flooded with the mellow,
kindly lakeland sun. October is a wonderful month in the English lakes, Golden,
rich and perfumed, slow suns moving through apricot tinted skies to ruby evening
glories. The shadows lie then thick about that beautiful country, in dark purple
patches, in long weblike patterns of silver gores, in thick splotches of amber
and gray. The clouds passing galleons across the mountains, now veiling, now
revealing, now descending with ghost like armies to the very breast of the plains,
suddenly rising to the softest of blue skies, and lying thin in lazy
languorous color. Fenix's cottage looked across to low Fells. On his right,
seen through the side windows, sprawled the hills above dor and water. Fennick
looked at Foster's back and felt suddenly sick, so that he sat down,
veiling his eyes for a moment with his hand. Foster had come up there,
come all the way from London to explain. It was so like Foster
to want to explain, to want to put things right. For how many
years had he known Foster? Why for twenty at least? And during all
those years Foster had been forever determined to put things right with everybody. He
could not bear to be disliked. He hated that anyone should think ill of
him. He wanted everyone to be his friend. That was one reason,
perhaps why Foster had got on so well, had prospered so in his career.
One reason two why Fennick had not. For Fennick was the opposite of
Foster in this. He did not want friends. He certainly did not care
that people should like him, That is, people for whom, for one
reason or another, he had contempt, And he had contempt for quite a
number of people. Fennick looked at that long, thin bending back, and
felt his knees tremble. Soon Foster would turn round and that high, reedy
voice would pipe out something about the books, What jolly books you have,
Fenick. How many many times in the long watches of the night, when
Fennick could not sleep, had he heard that pipe sounding close there, yes,
in the very shadow of his bed, And how many times had Fennick
replied to it, I hate you. You are the cause of my failure
in life. You have been in my way, always, always, always,
always patronizing and pretending, and in truth showing others what a poor thing
you thought me, How great a failure, how conceited a fall? I
know you can hide nothing from me. I can hear you. For twenty
years now Foster had been persistently in Fennick's way. There had been that affair
so long ago now, when Robbins had wanted a sub editor for his wonderful
review the Parthenon, and Fennick had gone to see him, and they had
had a splendid talk. How magnificently Fennick had talked that day, with what
enthusiasm he had shown Robins, who was blinded by his own conceit anyway,
the kind of paper the Parthenon might be. How Robins had caught his own
enthusiasm, how he had pushed his fat body about the room, crying,
yes, yes, Fenick, that's fine, that's fine indeed. And then
how, after all Foster had got that job. The paper had only lived
for a year or so, it is true, but the connection with it
had brought Foster into prominence, just as it might have brought Fenick. Then
five years later there was Fenick's novel, The Bitter Aloe, the novel upon
which he had spent three years of blood and tears endeavor. And then in
the very same week of publication, Foster brings out The Circus, the novel
that made his name, although heaven knows the thing was poor enough, sentimental
trash. You may say that one novel cannot kill another, but can it?
Had not the Circus appeared, would not that group of London knowles that
conceited limited, ignorant, self satisfied crowd, who nevertheless, can do by
their talk so much to affect a book's good or evil fortunes, have talked
about The Bitter Aloe and so forced it into prominence, as it was,
the book was stillborn, and the circus went on its prancing, triumphant way.
After that, there had been many occasions, some small, some big,
and always in one way or another, that thin, scraggy body of
Fosters was interfering with Fenix's happiness. The thing had become, of course,
an obsession. With Fenick hiding up there in the heart of the lakes with
no friends, almost no company, and very little money, he was given
too much to brooding over his failure. He was a failure, and it
was not his own fault. How could it be his own fault, with
his talents and his brilliance. It was the fault of modern life and its
lack of culture, the fault of the stupid material mess that made up the
intelligences of human beings, and the fault of Foster. Always Fennick hoped that
Foster would keep away from him. He did not know what he would not
do, did he see the man. And then one day, to his
amazement, he received a telegram passing through this way, may I stop with
you Monday and Tuesday, Giles Foster. Fennick could scarcely believe his eyes,
and then from curiosity, from cynical contempt from some deeper, more mysterious motive
that he dared not analyze. He had telegraphed, come and here the man
was, and he had come, would you believe it? To put things
right? He had heard from Hamelin Edis that Fennick was hurt with him,
had some kind of aggrievance. I didn't to feel that, old man,
and so I thought I'd just stop by and have it out with you,
see what the matter was, and put it right. Last night after supper,
Foster had tried to put it right, eagerly his eyes, like a
good dogs who is asking for a bone that he knows that he thoroughly deserves.
He had held out his hand and asked Fennick to say what was up.
Fenick simply had said that nothing was up. Hamlin Edis was a damned
fool. Oh, I'm glad to hear that Foster had cried, springing out
of his chair and putting his hand on Fenick's shoulder. I'm glad of that
old man. I couldn't bear for us not to be friends. We've been
friends so long. Lord, how Fennick hated him at that moment? What
a jolly lot of books you have. Foster turned round and looked at Fenick
with eager, gratified eyes. Every book here is interesting. I like your
arrangement of them too, And those open bookshelves. It always seems to me
a shame to shut up books behind glass. Foster came forward and sat down
quite close to his host. He even reached forward and laid his hand on
his host's knee. Look here, I'm mentioning it for the last time positively,
but I do want to make quite certain there is nothing wrong between us,
is there? Old man? I know you assured me last night,
but I just w Fennick looked at him, and surveying him felt suddenly an
exquisite pleasure of hatred. He liked the touch of the man's hand on his
knee. He himself bent forward a little, and thinking how agreeable it would
be to push Foster's eyes in, deep, deep into his head, crunching
them, smashing them to purple, leaving the empty staring, bloody sockets.
Said why no, of course not, I told you last night. What
could there be? The hand gripped the knee a little more tightly. I
am so glad. That's splendid splendid. I hope you won't think me ridiculous.
But I've always had an affection for you, ever since I can remember.
I've always wanted to know you better. I've admired your talents so greatly.
That novel of yours, that the one about the Alloe, the Bitter
Alloe. Ah, Yes, that was it. That was a splendid book.
Pessimistic of course, but still fine. It ought to have done better,
I remember thinking so at the time. Yes, it ought to have
done better. Your time will come, though. What I say is that
good work always tells in the end. Yes, my time will come.
The thin piping voice went on, Now I have had more success than I
deserved. Oh, yes I have. You can't deny it. I'm not
being falsely modest. I mean it. I've got some talent, of course,
but not so much as people say. And you why you've got so
much more than they acknowledge you have, old man, you have indeed only
I do hope you'll forgive my saying this. Perhaps you haven't advanced quiet as
you might have done, living up here, shut away here, closed in
by all these mountains, in this wet climate, always raining. Why you're
out of things, you don't see, people don't talk, and discover what's
really going on. Why look at me? Fennick turned round and looked at
him. Now I have half the year in London, where one gets the
best of everything, best talk, best music, best plays, and then
I'm three months abroad Italy or Greece or somewhere, and then three in the
country. Now that's an ideal arrangement. You have everything that way, Italy
or Grease or somewhere. Something turned in Phenix's breast, grinding, grinding,
grinding. How he had longed, oh, how passionately, for just one
week in Greece, two days in Sicily. Sometimes he had thought that he
might run to it. But when it had come to the actual counting of
the pennies, and how this fool, this fat head, this self satisfied,
conceited, patronizing. He got up, looked out at the golden sun.
What do you say to a walk? He suggested, The sun will
last for a good hour. Yet as soon as the words were out of
his lips, he felt as though someone else had set them for him.
He even turned half round to see whether anyone else were there. Ever,
since Foster's arrival, and the evening before he had been conscious of this sensation
a walk. Why should he take Foster for a walk? Show him his
beloved country. Point out those curves and lines and hollows, the broad silver
shield of dough and water, the cloudy purple hills hunched like blankets about the
knees of some recumbent giant. Why it was as though he had turned round
to someone behind him and had said, you have some further design in this.
They started out. The road sank abruptly to the lake. Then the
path ran between trees of the water's edge. Across the lake, tones of
bright yellow light, crocus hued rode upon the blue. The hills were dark.
The very way that Foster walked bespoke the man. He was always a
little ahead of you, pushing his long, thin body along with little eager
jerks, as though he did not hurry, he would miss something that would
be immensely to his advantage. He talked, throwing words over his shoulder to
Fenick, as you throw crumbs of bread to a robin. Of course,
I was pleased. Who would not be? After all, it's a new
prize. They've only been awarding it for a year or two. But it's
gratifying, really gratifying to secure it. When I opened the envelope and found
the check there, well she could have knocked me down with a feather,
you could. Indeed, of course a hundred pounds isn't much, but it's
the honor. Whither were they going? Their destiny was as certain as though
they had no free will, free will. There is no free will.
All is fate. Fenix suddenly laughed aloud. Foster stopped, Why what is
it? What's what? He laughed? Something amused me. Foster slipped his
arm through Fenix. It is jolly to be walking along together like this,
arm in arm. Friends. I'm a sentimental man. I won't deny it.
What I say is that life is short, and one must love one's
fellow beings, Or where is one? You live too much alone? Old
man? He squeezed Phenix's arm. That's the truth of it. It was
torture, exquisite, heavenly torture. It was wonderful to feel that thin,
bony arm pressing against his almost you could hear the beating of that other heart.
Wonderful to feel that arm and the temptation to take it in your two
hands. And to end it and twist it, and then to hear the
bones crack, crack, crack. Wonderful to feel that temptation rise through one's
body like boiling water, and yet not to yield to it. For a
moment, Phenix's hand touched Foster's. Then he drew himself apart. We're at
the village. This is the hotel where they all come in the summer.
We turn off at the right here. I'll show you my tarn, your
tarn, asked Foster. Forgive my ignorance, but what is a tarn?
Exactly? A tarn is a miniature lake, a pool of water lying in
the lap of the hill, very quiet, lovely, silent. Some of
them are immensely deep. I should like to see that. It is some
little distance up a rough road. Do you mind not a bit? I
have long legs. Some of them are immensely deep, unfathomable. Nobody touched
the bottom, but quiet, like glass with shadows. Only do you know,
Fennick. But I have always been a free of water. I've never
learned to swim. I'm afraid to go out of my depth. Isn't that
ridiculous? But it is all because at my private school. Years ago,
when I was a small boy, some big fellows took me and held me
with my head under the water, and nearly drowned me they did. Indeed,
they went farther than they meant to. I can see their faces.
Fennick considered this. The picture leapt to his mind. He could see the
boys, large strong fellows probably, and this little skinny thing like a frog,
their thick hands about his throat, his legs like gray sticks kicking out
of the water, and their laughter, their sudden sense that something was wrong.
The skinny body all flaccid, and still he drew a deep breath.
Foster was walking beside him, now not ahead of him, as though he
were a little afraid and needed reassurance. Indeed had changed before. And behind
them stretched the uphill path, loose with shale and stones. On their right,
on a ridge at the foot of the hill were some quarries, almost
deserted, but the more melancholy in the fading afternoon, because the little work
still continued. There, faint sounds came from the gaunt, listening chimneys.
A stream of water ran and tumbled angrily into a pool below. Once and
again a black silhouette like a question mark, appeared against the darkening hill.
It was a little steep here, and Foster puffed and blue. Fennick hated
him the more for that, so thin and spare, and still he could
not keep in condition. They stumbled, keeping below the quarry, on the
edge of the running water, now green, now a dirty white gray,
pushing their way along the side of the hill. Their faces were set now
towards Helvellyn. It rounded the cups of hills, closed in the base,
and then sprawling to the right. There's the tarn, Fennick exclaimed, and
then added, The sun's not lasting as long as I had expected. It's
growing dark already. Foster stumbled and caught Pheneck's arm. This twilight makes the
hills look strange, like living men. I can scarcely see my way.
We're alone here, Fennick answered, don't you feel the stillness? The men
will have left the quarry now and gone home. There is no one in
all this place but ourselves. If you watch, you will see a strange
green light steal down over the hills. It lasts but for a moment,
and then it is dark. Ah, here is my tarn. Do you
know how I love this place, Foster. It seems to belong especially to
me, just as much as all your work and your glory and fame and
success seem to belong to you. I have this and you have that.
Perhaps in the end we are even after all. Yes, but I feel
as though that piece of water belonged to me and I to it, and
as though we should never be separated. Yes, isn't it black? It
is one of the deep ones. No one has ever sounded it. Only
hell Vellin knows. And one day I fancy that it will take me to
into its confidence, will whisp its secrets? Foster sneezed. Very nice,
very beautiful, Fenic. I like your tarn charming. And now let's turn
back. That is a difficult walk beneath the quarry. It's chilly too.
Do you see that little jetty there? Fenick led Foster by the arm.
Someone bilked that out into the water. He had a boat there, I
suppose, come and look down from the end of the little jetty. It
looked so deep, and the mountains seemed to close round. Fennick took Foster's
arm and led him to the end of the jetty. Indeed, the water
looked deep here, deep and very black. Foster peered down. Then he
looked up at the hills that did indeed seem to have gathered close around him.
He sneezed again, I've caught a cold. I'm afraid. Let's turn
homewards Fenick, or we shall never find our way home. Then said Fenick,
and his hands closed about the thin, scraggy neck. For the instant
the head half turned, and too startled strangely. Childish eyes stared. Then,
with a push that was ludicrously simple, the body was impelled forward,
and there was a sharp cry, a splash, a stir of something white
against the swiftly gathering dusk. Again and then again, then father spreading ripples.
Then silence. The silence extended, Having enwrapped the tarn, it spread
as though with finger on lip, to the already quiescent hills. Fenix shared
in the silence. He luxuriated in it. He did not move at all.
He stood there, looking upon the inky water of the tarn, his
arms folded, a man lost in intensest thought. But he was not thinking.
He was only conscious of a warm, luxurious relief, a sensuous feeling
that was not thought at all. Foster was gone, that tiresome, prating,
conceited, self satisfied fall, gone, never to return. The tarn
assured him of that. It stared back into Fenix's face approvingly, as though
it said, you have done well, a clean and necessary job. We
have done it together, you and I. I am proud of you.
He was proud of himself. At last he had done something definite with his
life. Thought, eager, active thought was beginning now to flood his brain.
For all these years, he had hung around in this place doing nothing
but cherished grievances, weak backboneless. Now at last there was action. He
drew himself up and looked at the hills. He was proud, and he
was cold. He was shivering. He turned up the collar of his coat.
Yes, there was the faint green light always lingered in the shadows of
the hills for a brief moment before darkness came. It was growing late.
He had better return. Shivering now so that his teeth chattered, he started
off down the path, and then was aware that he did not wish to
leave the tarn. The tarn was friendly, the only friend he had in
all the world. As he stumbled along in the dark. This sense of
loneliness grew. He was going home to an empty house. There had been
a guest in it last night. Who was it? Wife Foster? Of
course, Foster, with his silly laugh and amiable, mediocre eyes. Well
Foster would not be there now, No, he would never be there again.
And suddenly Fennick started to run. He did not know why, except
that now that he had left the tarn, he was lonely. He wished
that he could have stayed there all night, but because he was cold,
he could not, And so now he was running, so that he might
be at home, with the lights and the familiar furniture and all the things
that he knew to reassure him. As he ran, the shale and stones
scattered beneath his feet. They made a tit tattering noise under him, and
someone else seemed to be running too. He stopped, and the other runner
also stopped. He breathed in the silence. He was hot now. The
perspiration was trickling down his cheeks. He could feel a dribble of it down
his back inside his shirt. His knees were pounding, his heart was thumping,
and all around him the hills were so amazingly silent now, like India
rubber clouds that you could push in or pull out, as you do those
India rubber faces, gray against the night sky of a crystal purple, upon
whose surface, like the twinkling eyes of boats at sea, stars were now
appearing. His knees steadied, his heart beat less fiercely, and he began
to run again. Suddenly he had turned the corner and was out at the
hotel. Its lamps were kindly and reassuring. He walked then quietly along the
lakeside path, and had it not been for the certainty that someone was treading
behind him, he would have been comfortable and at his ease. He stopped
once or twice and looked back. And once he stopped and called out,
who's there? Only the rustling trees answered. He had the strangest fancy,
But his brain was throbbing so fiercely that he could not think that it was
the tarn that was following him, the tarn slipping sliding along the road,
being with him so that he should not be lonely. He could almost hear
the tarn whisp in his ear that together, and so I do not wish
you to bear all the responsibility yourself. I will stay with you so that
you are not lonely. He climbed the road towards home, and there were
the lights of his house. He heard the gate click behind him, as
though it was shutting him in. He went into the sitting room, lighted
and ready there were the books that Foster had admired. The old woman who
looked after him appeared. Will you be having some tea, sir? No,
thank you Annie. Will the other gentleman be wanting any No, the
other gentleman is away for the night. Then there will only be one for
supper. Yes, only one for supper. He sat in the corner of
the sofa and fell instantly into a deep slumber. He woke when the old
woman tapped him on the shoulder and told him that supper was served. The
room was dark save for the jumping light of two uncertain candles. Those two
red candlesticks. How he hated them up there on the mantelpiece. He had
always hated them, and now they seemed to him to have something of the
quality of Foster's voice, that thin, reedy, piping tone. He was
expecting at every moment that Foster would enter and yet he knew that he would
not. He continued to turn his head towards the door, but it was
so dark there that you could not see. The whole room was dark,
except just there by the fireplace, where the two candlesticks went whining with their
miserable, twinkling plaint. He went into the dining room and sat down to
his meal, but he could not eat anything. It was odd that place
by the table where Foster's chair should be, odd, naked, and made
a man feel lonely. He got up once from the table and went to
the window, opened it, and looked out. He listened for something.
A trickle as of running water, a stir through the silence, as though
some deep pool were filling to the brim, A rustle in the trees.
Perhaps an owl hooted sharply, as though someone had spoken to him unexpectedly,
behind his shoulder. He closed the window and looked back, peering under his
dark eyebrows into the room. Later on he went up to bed. Had
he been sleeping or had he been lying lazily as one does, half dozing,
half luxuriously not thinking? He was wide awake, now utterly awake,
and his heart was beating with apprehension. It was as though someone had called
him by name. He slept always with his window a little open and blind
up to night. The moonlight shadowed in sickly fashion the objects in his room.
It was not a flood of light, nor yet a sharp splash,
silvering a square, a circle, throwing the rest into ebony blackness. The
light was dim, a little green, perhaps like the shadow that comes over
the hills just before dark. He stared at the window, and it seemed
to him that something moved there within, or rather against the green gray light.
Something silver tinted, glistened. Phenix stared. It had the look exactly
of slipping water. Slipping water. He listened his head up, and it
seemed to him that from beyond the window he caught the stir of water,
not running, but rather welling up and up, gurgling with satisfaction as it
filled and filled. He sat up higher in bed, and then saw that
down the wall paper beneath the window water was undoubtedly trickling. He could see
it lurched to the projecting wood of the sill, pause, and then slip
slither down the incline. The odd thing was that it fell so silently beyond
the window there was that odd gurgle, but in the room itself absolute silence.
Whence could it come? He saw the line of silver rise and fall
as the stream on the window ledge ebbed and flowed. He must get up
and close the window. He drew his legs above the sheets and blankets and
looked down. He shrieked. The floor was covered with a shining film of
water. It was rising as he looked. It had covered half the short,
stumpy legs of the bed. It rose without a wink, a bubble,
a brake over the sill. It poured now in a steady flow,
but soundless. Fennick sat back in the bed, The clothes gathered to his
chin, his eyes blinking, the Adam's apple throbbing like a throttle in his
throat. But he must do something, He must stop this. The water
was now level with the seats of the chairs, but still was soundless.
Could he but reach the door. He put down his naked foot, then
cried again. The water was icy coal. Suddenly leaning staring at its dark,
unbroken sheen, Something seemed to push him forward. He fell his head.
His face was under the icy liquid. It seemed adhesive and in the
heart of its ice, hot like melting wax. He struggled to his feet.
The water was breast high. He screamed again and again. He could
see the looking glass, the row of books, the picture of Durah's horse,
aloof impervious. He beat at the water, and flakes of it seemed
to cling to him like scales of fish, clammy to his touch. He
struggled, plowing his way towards the door. The water was nowt his neck.
Then something had caught him by the ankle. Something held him. He
struggled, crying, let me go, let me go. I tell you
to let me go. I hate you. I hate you. I will
not come down to you. I will not. The water covered his mouth.
He felt that someone pushed in his eyeballs would bare knuckles. A cold
hand reached up and caught his naked thigh. In the morning, the little
maid knocked, and, receiving no answer, came in as was her wont
with his shaving water. What she saw made her sam She ran for the
gardener. They took the body, with its staring, protruding eyes, its
tongue sticking out between the clenched teeth, and laid it on the bed.
The only sign of disorder was an overturned water jug. A small pool of
water stained the carpet. It was a lovely morning. A twig of ivy
idly in the little breeze, tapped the pane end of the tarn