"FEAR"

I AM going, as one of Kipling's characters, the naturalist Hans Breitmann, puts it, to tell you a story which you will not believe.

   It is about a man who lived very peaceably on his income, was considered all his life to be perfectly normal and well balanced, enjoyed to the very end the esteem of his equals and the respect of his trades-people, and died in a singular manner.

   I made his acquaintance at Hastings, a city which gave its name to a celebrated battle, an elegant watering-place which, of all the places I know, is perhaps the one where man has most scientifically disfigured the sea. It would be costly, and far from practicable, to bring the sea to Piccadilly; but there is a very simple solution, which is to transport Piccadilly to the sea-shore. The result is an admirable promenade five miles long, as wide as the Champs-Elysées, lined on one side by villas, hotels and shops of all sorts, and on the other by a fine masonry wall which, at low tide, forms a very satisfactory background for the beach and, at high tide, holds in check the waves, turn by turn humbled and raging. It is an unequalled spot for smoking a cigar in a well-cut flannel suit, between the splash of the domesticated waves and the harmonies of a Hungarian orchestra; but for those who love the free water and quiet cliff corners, "it is not the thing."

   "It was not the thing," apparently, for a smart-looking man whom I met day after day, on this beach-boulevard, and it was probably that which attracted us to each other. We exchanged severe opinions, one afternoon, concerning the locality and its inhabitants; and next day, happening to meet at bath-time, we swam together, with easy strokes, out to where the sea, far from the little children playing on the sand, from the overdressed young ladies and from the befrogged orchestras, really resembles the sea and recovers its independence.

   He swam perfectly, with neither the impeccable style of a Hoggarty, nor the formidable foot-thrust of a Jarvis, but like a man who is accustomed to the water and is at home in it. Thereafter we took our baths together regularly. He was not talkative and I was even less curious, so that several weeks passed without either of us bothering to find out about the other anything more than he had volunteered. He announced to me one morning that he was leaving that very evening, adding, somewhat to my surprise, that he lived on a little property in Devon, and that he would be happy to see me there if I could find time to go and spend several days with him. He dazzled me with the delights of smoking a pipe face down in the thick grass, and spoke to me of a pond which belonged to him and compared with which the sea, at Hastings, was merely a dirty basin, without charm. I accepted his invitation and acted upon it a month later.

   He lived in an absolutely commonplace brick and plaster house, built on the side of a hill. He showed me, behind it, a garden which ran down the slope and pointed out, with a vague gesture, the valley below us, saying that the water was there. I proposed an immediate bath, but he replied, in an embarrassed tone, that it was better to wait until evening and that, besides, it was tea-time. We returned to the house. His tea consisted of brandy and soda, half and half. He drank three glasses and we talked of bathing and swimming. Races and records did not interest him; he swam the "over- hand" stroke perfectly -- I had seen him do it -- but he did not even know how it was called. He told me, with a meditative air, that all the men of his family had been very fond of the water. His father had died of a congestion at the age of seventy-two, while bathing in the neighborhood of Maidenhead, and his brother had been drowned as a child in the water-grass -- he did not say where. I wanted, as a matter of courtesy, to tell him a story, too, and spoke to him of a man I had known who, while swimming in a bay on the coast of Ireland, had distinctly seen, several yards away, an octopus measuring six feet, attached to a rock. It inspired him with so terrible a fear that he made for the shore, with frantic strokes, tried to hoist himself to the top of a boulder which turned, breaking his leg, and he remained in the water a quarter of an hour, clinging to the boulder, incapable of stirring, and shrieking with fright.

   My host listened to me with wild eyes, his mouth open and his hands clenched on the table. I asked him if he was nervous; he answered no, poured out two fingers of brandy -- his hand trembled a trifle -- drank it and looked out of the window with a stupefied air.

   The sun was on the point of setting when we descended into the valley. We had to cross a rough covert, then go to the bottom of a steep slope in order to reach the water.

   It was a big, wild-looking pond, completely surrounded with brush and thickets, and somewhat curiously shaped. It was about a hundred and fifty yards long and, at the point where we stood, at least sixty wide. But the other end narrowed progressively and ended in a sort of canal which measured scarcely four or five yards from bank to bank, and was completely shaded by the foliage of a clump of trees overhanging it. The water appeared perfectly clear, and yet was so singularly lacking in transparency that, save right inshore, it was impossible to see the bottom.

   I began to undress tranquilly, enjoying in advance the luxury of half an hour in the cold water, after a hot day. My host remained several seconds without stirring, then abruptly removed his clothes, flung them on the ground, drew on his bathing-togs, and again stood still, facing the pond and panting slightly. I attributed his evident nervousness to the influence of the brandy, and could not help thinking that there was a good chance of his coming to an end some day through the same unfortunate congestion which had finished his father.

   I entered the water with a bound and, several minutes later, he followed me. After a little hesitation, he first advanced slowly, with prudent strides; then, when the depth was sufficient, he let himself go gently, noiselessly and without splashing, and started at once towards the narrow part of the pond, swimming with singular force and precision. He stopped before the entrance to this sort of passage of which I have spoken, and for several instants remained almost motionless, moving about in the water with infinite precaution, his face turned to the surface, under which he seemed to be scrutinizing something invisible to me. His actions struck me as so strange that I asked him what there could be at that end of the pond. He answered in a low voice: "There's... there's a spring," and again became silent. I, too, strove to distinguish what lay beneath us, and it was not long before I perceived that the depth was much greater than I had at first supposed.

   All I could see of the bottom was the ends of the tall grasses which stopped at about a yard and a half from the surface and swayed perpetually, although the water was perfectly calm in appearance. The existence of a spring at the end of this narrow canal which was, perhaps, eight or ten yards long, did, indeed, explain the movement which agitated them. They parted occasionally and then left between them a sort of channel whose depth it was difficult to determine, and which continued, like a path suddenly traced, to the vertical bank at the end. There I could vaguely make out a hole -- the spring, very likely -- which a new movement of the grasses screened a moment later. It was quite the strangest corner of a pond I have ever seen.

   I turned my head to make a remark to this effect to my companion, but the sight of his face made me instantly forget what I was going to say. He was pale -- a fact which could be explained by the extreme coldness of the water -- but, above all, drawn and marked with sudden wrinkles, and wore a curiously occupied, troubled expression. I was still looking at him when he swam slowly towards me, always with cautious strokes, and asked me, in a frightened whisper: "There isn't anything, eh?" I was about to answer him gently that there was nothing at all, and that perhaps we would do well to dress, when I felt the deep layers of the pond stirred with a mysterious urge. The tall bottom- grasses opened abruptly as if parted by the passing of a body, and my host, whirling around convulsively, with a sort of groan, fled towards the other end of the pond, stretching out in the water like a hunted animal. His panic must have been contagious, for I followed him at once with the same haste; but I had kept enough presence of mind to note that he employed the "trudgeon" (double-over-arm stroke with a single kick) -- a stroke which I had never seen him use before and with so much power and skill that, far from overtaking him, I saw him, in spite of all my efforts, gain on me each instant. When I reached the shore, he had already left the water and, seated on the muddy grass, open-mouthed, was panting and gasping in such a manner that I believed he was about to die then and there.

   He pulled himself together, however; and, a quarter of an hour later, having dressed, we returned to the house.

   I refrained from asking my companion any question concerning the day's incidents, having already catalogued him as an alcoholic, afflicted with nervous disorders, and contented myself with observing him out of the corner of my eye. He was, however, perfectly calm and normal all the evening, drank only a few glasses of beer at dinner and, although not particularly communicative, discussed various topics in the most reasonable manner.

   The next morning was equally peaceful. At luncheon I asked him if it would not be preferable to take our bath a little earlier than the previous evening. He acquiesced, but later found some trivial pretext, and it was almost dusk when we left. He was, as before, not precisely drunk, but unbalanced by the continuous over-excitation produced by the alcohol and, as we approached the pond, gave signs of morbid nervousness. He performed the same pantomime of abject fear and of curiosity in front of the obscure hole where the spring was located, advancing nearer, then nearer still, until, at the sudden recoil of the grasses, he started abruptly in the water before turning to flee.

   But I had taken care to place myself a little behind him and, seizing him by the arm as he passed, I stopped him short. I was still holding him, when the water seemed to become agitated behind him and, with a sort of panting, he gave a sharp kick which threw him against me. Then I distinctly felt on my leg the brushing of a long, swift thing which passed close to my body -- a thing which seemed to have started up from among the thick grasses and whose sudden spring shook the deep layers of the pond. I am not easily frightened, and not in the least nervous; but, at this simple contact, fear, frightful fear, clutched at my throat. I can recall nothing but a frantic flight, side by side with a man who, at each stroke, gave a desperately agonized groan. I remember confusedly that he still employed the "trudgeon" -- a stroke which he had always told me he did not know -- and the strength of his effort left a deep wake behind him in the troubled water; but this time the same force urged us both, and I reached the bank before him.

   When we had dressed, I turned a second to look at the pond, before re-traversing the thicket. Its surface was marvelously calm and shone under the dying light like a pewter plate; but it seemed to me that I saw, at the far end, the inexplicable eddies which swayed the bottom-grasses.

   Not a word was pronounced between us concerning what had passed, either that evening or the day following; but, when evening came, I firmly refused to accompany him to the pond and gave him to understand that, seeing the state of his nerves, he would do better to follow my example. He shook his head without saying anything, and went off alone. During his absence I was seized with a sense of the colossal absurdity of the situation and, leaving him a word, I packed my bag and departed without further formalities.

   A month and a half later, I chanced to read in the paper a brief item announcing that Mr. Silver, of Sherborne (Devon), had been found dead in a pond belonging to him. When the corpse was discovered, it was half out of the water, the hands clung desperately to the branches of an overhanging willow, and the face was frozen in a mask of frightful horror. The death was attributed to heart failure.

   My own version was... slightly different; but I did not deem it my duty to give it at the time, for the simple reason that no one would have believed me, any more than you will believe me now.

(End.)