Speaker 1: 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, goareze in thick splotches of amber and gray.
The clouds passing galleons across the mountains, now veiling, now revealing,
now descending with ghostlike armies to the very breast of
the plains, suddenly rising to the softest of blue skies,
and lying thin in lazy, languorous color. Fennix's cottage looked
across to low Fells. On his right, seen through the
side windows, sprawled the hills above dur 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 every body.
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 too, 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, ready voice would pipe out something about
the books, What jolly books you have, Fennick. How many
many times, in the long watches of the night, when
Fenich 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.
Speaker 2: 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 fool?
Speaker 1: 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 of the Parthenon, and Fennick had gone
to see him, and they had had a splendid talk.
How magnificently Fenick 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, Fennick,
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 Fennick. Then five years later there
was Fenix'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 not? 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 Foster's
was interfering with fenix happiness. The thing had become, of course,
an obsession. With Fennick 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 like
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 dog's 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. Fennick simply had said that nothing was up. Hamlin,
dis was a damned fool. Oh, I'm glad to hear that.
Foster had cried, springing out of his chair and putting
his hand on Fenix'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 Fennick with eager, gratified eyes.
Every book here is interesting. I like your arrangement of
them too, And those open book shelves. 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
want 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 Aloe. 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've
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 quite 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 Fennex'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 dorant 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 at 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 Fennick, 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 you
could have knocked me down with a feather. You could. Indeed,
of course, one 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. Fennix 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 Feenix'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. Fenix's hand touched Foster's. Then he drew himself apart.
We were 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, Fennik.
But I have always been free of water. I've never
learned to swim. I'm afraid to go out of my tep.
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 leaped 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. A 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 a 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 helvelen. It rounded the cups of hills us
in the base, and then sprawling to the right, there's
the tarn, Fenech exclaimed, and then added, The sun's not
lasting as long as I had expected. It's growing dark already.
Foster stumbled and caught Fenix's arm. This twilight makes the
hills look strange, like living men. I can scarcely see
my way. We're alone here, Fenneck 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 hel velyin knows.
And one day I fancy that it will take me
too into its confidence, will whisper its secrets. Foster sneezed.
Very nice, very beautiful, Fennick. 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? Fennick led Foster by the arm. Some
one built 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
appeered 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 Fennick, or we shall never find our way home.
Then said Fennick, and his hands closed about the thin,
scraggy neck. For the instant the head half turned and
two 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 farther, spreading ripples. Then silence. The silence extended, having
enwrapped the tarn, It spread as though with finger on lip,
to the already quiescent hills. Fennix 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, fool 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 cherish 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 that 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, whife 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 Fennix 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
stone scattered beneath his feet. They made a tit tattering
noise under him, and some one 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 thumbing, 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 whisper 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 were 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 plate.
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 the blind up. Tonight, 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. Fennick 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 wallpaper 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. Fennix 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 cold. 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 Doura'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 now out
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 with 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 scu 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