Mr Pim Passes By

by A. A. Milne

  Title

  A. A. Milne

  MR PIM

  PASSES BY

  Contents

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  About the Author

  Dedication

  To

  Irene Vanbrugh

  and

  Dion Boucicault

  Chapter One

  Breakfast at Marden House

  I

  ‘Tell me what a man has for breakfast, and I will tell you what he is like,’ as George Marden used to say, though whether it was his own, or whether he was quoting from that other great thinker, Podbury, I cannot tell you. But the observation would come out periodically; as, for instance, when Dinah had declined a second go of marmalade, or a weaker vessel among his guests had ref used to let him help her to one of these nice kidneys. ‘I expect Miss Murgatroyd knows best, dear,’ Olivia would murmur from behind the coffee-pot, and that would be the signal.

  ‘Tell me what a man—or a woman—Miss Murgatroyd, has for breakfast,’ he would say, as he replaced the cover on the slighted kidneys and returned to his seat, ‘and I will tell you what he is like.’ Dinah, smiling to herself, would beat time with her teaspoon. She had a special tune of her own which went to it.

  Much could be written about that great national meal—breakfast; has, no doubt, already been written. We might well spare a page at this moment for a few reflections on the split haddock, that strange, jaundiced fish which swims to our table on a sea of butter. What more earthy, we might exclaim, than the plain or dinner haddock; what more divine than the yellow or breakfast haddock! Why is this strange beatification reserved for him only among fish? Why, to put it in another way, does that young cub, Strange, take the thick end round the shoulders and leave George Marden the flat piece towards the tail? He comes down later than George; and just because he shirks his porridge like the finicking artist fellow that he is, thereby getting an unfair start of us at the sideboard——

  But at this point we realize with a sigh how easily we could devote a chapter to porridge. The method of serving the breakfast may define the household—I am coming to that directly—but it is porridge which defines the individual. There are two schools of architecture among porridge-eaters. There is the school which regards it as the foundation-stone for all that is to come, and there is the school which regards it as the keystone of all that has been. Well, perhaps not a keystone so much as a cement for filling up the interstices. It is difficult not to be crude about this, but you see what I mean. One begins or one ends with porridge. George began with it. That he walked up and down while shovelling it away, and denied himself sugar, may be attributed, such is the force of heredity, to a maternal grandmother who came from Aberdeenshire. It was, my dear Miss Murgatroyd, the only way to eat porridge.

  George’s way was, in fact, the only way in which to do anything. It was not that he differed greatly from other people, but that other people differed so greatly from him. He resented this; it was so stupid of them. George’s way, the Marden way, was the happy mean. How could he help feeling unhappy if other people did not follow it?

  We are still at breakfast, so let us consider this question of the best method of serving it. I am speaking of breakfast in the country where there are no omnibuses, trains, or trams to be caught. There are houses in which breakfast is as ceremonial as dinner; indeed, more so, for it is intertwined with the religious ceremony of family prayers. At the summons of the gong we hurry down the stairs buttoning the last button as we go. They are waiting for us as usual; we give them a hushed good morning as we take our seats. Now the butler is counting us. We are all here except Miss Debenham, who (let us hope) is prevented by indisposition, not irreligion, from appearing to-day. The butler gives the summons to the rest of the staff. They file in. We look at them with interest, for this is the only opportunity we have of seeing some of them. What a very pretty girl, the second from the—no, no, we are letting our thoughts wander. Miss Debenham appears suddenly at the door, full of surprised apologies. The butler gives her a pained look. Ought we to offer her our seat? The point of etiquette is a little difficult. Fortunately she solves it for us by sitting next to the second housemaid, the one with dark hair, not the very pretty one who——But our thoughts are wandering again. . . .

  And so to breakfast—a full house. Host, with dishes in front of him, at one end; hostess, with the coffee cups, at the other. Ham and cold partridge on the sideboard. The gentleman opposite to us begins his narration of the extraordinarily humorous dream which he had last night. There is a feeling that he ought perhaps to have waited a little. I remember, as a small boy, keeping a calculating eye on the grown-up kneeling next to me, and jumping on to his back the moment that the ‘Amens’ had been said. Strictly speaking, prayers were over at that moment, but it was felt that I had been premature. So we have a feeling now that the gentleman opposite to us should have let the conversation drift insensibly from grave to gay before telling us about his triumphal procession to the Mansion House in the top-half of his pyjamas. He should have waited until he was at the ham-and-partridge stage; might, indeed, have kept it for the marmalade. We should not have complained.

  Well, there you have the ceremonious breakfast. We sit down together; we get up together. At the other extreme is the nine to eleven breakfast. Perhaps the ‘nine’ misleads us on our first visit. Feeling as yet uncertain of the way to the dining-room, we resolve to be in good time for the expedition; 9.1’ finds us on the stairs. The dining-room is empty. It seems that nobody has ever had breakfast there, nor ever will. Fearing that there may be some local etiquette in the matter, we go for a long walk in the park, returning at 9.4’ to find (Thank Heaven!) a fellow-guest at work. The drinks are at one side-table, the cold food at another; the hot dishes in a cunningly-disposed incinerator, which we might well have missed without an introduction. Our new friend finishes his meal, and strolls outside for a pipe. Others find their way in. The women help themselves, such of them as come down to breakfast. Our host appears last, our hostess not at all. A thoroughly informal meal, with or without conversation as you prefer.

  Neither of these breakfasts was the Marden breakfast. At Marden House (in Buckinghamshire) they struck the happy mean. The food was on the side-tables and you helped yourself, but Olivia gave you your coffee. If Olivia were late, George would be exceedingly annoyed, but life would still be possible. Dinah could pour out his coffee for him. If Dinah were late, too, and there were no guests of the coffee-pouring sex available, breakfast would be a dry and bitter thing, a torment to a man who liked his household properly ordered. On such an occasion Brian Strange (it was just the sort of thing he would do) had poured out his own coffee, and had even offered Mr. Marden some. George looked at him in amazement, as if wondering where he had learnt the art, accepted his cup monosyllabically, and spent the rest of the morning on the home-farm in communion with himself. The coffee had tasted just the same—that was the extraordinary thing.

  This was on one of those rare days when Brian was not the last down for breakfast. At the happy-mean or Marden breakfast we may be late, but not too late. One reason for this is that though we need not all sit down together we like to get up together. Perhaps George will push his chair back be
fore the last guest has finished and begin to fill a pipe. Perhaps, if all the women are quite sure that they won’t have any more—as is likely enough, seeing what finicking appetites they have nowadays, always excepting Aunt Julia, of course—perhaps he will even light it in a tentative way; which makes it possible for us also to push our chairs back, as if casually and for the greater freedom of our legs. The last guest then realizes that he has finished. Olivia with that dear smile of hers says, ‘Well!’ and we all get up. The Marden breakfast is over. But you see how difficult it would be for the early ones if people came down at any time they liked. The whole morning would be wasted.

  Breakfast, then, at nine o’clock at Marden House in Buckinghamshire, and we may be as late as 9.1’ if we like. Well, perhaps 9.20. George may ask us sarcastically if we have slept well, but his recovery is certain. However, 9.20 is the limit. Brian varied between 9.10 when there was haddock (or so it seemed to George) and 9.2’ when there wasn’t. You never know where you are with these artist fellows; probably he asked the cook overnight.

  II

  On a certain sunny morning in July the grandfather clock in the corner of the dining-room had just finished its pleasing indication of nine when George opened the door and came briskly in. A good-looking fellow, George, of the type which you may see in a hundred English country-houses; the type which preserves throughout the longest day its air of being freshly tubbed and freshly shorn; blue-eyed, brown-haired with a crinkle to it, moustached within the limits of a narrow mouth, stubborn-chinned; honest, unimaginative; a gentleman without a surprise to him, and for that reason the better to be trusted. George Marden, forty-two next birthday, five foot eleven for the last twenty-three years, and eleven stone ten that very morning on the weighing-machine in his bathroom. A good fellow, George.

  Porridge in hand, he stood with his back to the empty fire-place, and surveyed so much of his heritage as came within view. Often, in the middle of whatever he was doing or thinking, George would rest suddenly, look round him, and see that it was good. As he rested thus, drinking in his prosperity, his thoughts were never very definitely formulated. A glow of quiet satisfaction would steal over his mind, in which thoughts flickered for a moment and died down again. ‘It was his—it had been his father’s before him—(Ah, but it was good!)—his grandfather’s—his great-grandfather’s. . . . Some day, please God, if Olivia had a son, it would be his son’s after him. . . . Ah, but it was good!’

  His thoughts went no farther. He never wondered why he, George Marden, was so blessed, when John Lumsden, who managed the home farm, could at his most imaginative only take a semi-proprietary interest in the pigs, and the millions outside the magic gates could contemplate nothing at all which was theirs. He never wondered, for why should he? But sometimes a frown would draw his eyebrows together as the ugly thought came up that there were all manner of ravening beasts in the world, Socialists and Atheists, waiting their chance to tear from him that which God in His great wisdom had seen fit to entrust to the Mardens. But it was mostly after dinner that he wanted to tell Olivia just what he thought of these people.

  His view, porridge, in hand, was restricted. The dining-room was there, most of it. He had his back to Anne Marden and Henry Marden (circa 1800), but he faced Lady Fanny (1720), who, weary suddenly of the Marden chin, ran away with young Buckhurst to some godless place over the seas, leaving her portrait as a warning to future Mardens to choose their wives more carefully. ‘Damn it, but she must have been a beauty,’ said George to himself for the hundredth time, and wondered how that earlier George Marden could have let her go. His thoughts wandered on to that Olivia who was so soon to pour out his coffee for him, and he smiled to himself. Lady Fanny was a beauty, but he would back his Olivia against her. He would like to see anybody taking his Olivia from him. He smiled again. Olivia—his!—ah, but she was good!

  The silver dishes on the side-table were good, too, and the mahogany, and the widening sector of lawn through the mullioned windows, even the faded curtains and carpet, all were good, and all were his, George Marden’s. Thus had stood his father and his grandfather before him, and their eyes had rested upon the same sector of lawn, the same silver and mahogany—yes, even the same curtains and carpet. All had been the same, always, at Marden House.

  His eyebrows came together in that frown which Olivia knew so well: the frown which meant that other people were being stupid, or unreasonable, or—not to make any bones about it—wicked. The faint uneasiness which had lain in the back of his mind from the moment when he had waked that morning was explained suddenly. Olivia’s curtains! Automatically he walked across to the side-table, lifted the silver covers—kedgeree and kidneys, as it happened—and walked back again. Yes, and young Strange, confound him!

  Of course, there was nothing to worry about really. He had said quite plainly that he would not have any of that new-fangled art stuff, neither in the morning-room nor anywhere else, and Olivia understood that when he gave a carefully-considered decision on any matter he did not wish for further discussion. In the five years of their married life Olivia had never failed to recognize his authority. No man had had a more devoted wife. Naturally he had given way to her on certain occasions—occasions when no point of principle was involved—but this was different. She would understand that. No need for him to say any more on the subject. And as for Strange, her friend—where on earth did she pick him up?—well, the fellow was going back to London to-morrow, going back to paint some more of his ridiculous pictures, and perhaps that was the last they would see of him. There was nothing to worry about really.

  III

  While George Marden is finishing his porridge, and Brian Strange, very much at ease with himself this morning, is sliding down the broad balustrade on his way to the dining-room, let us spend a moment in comparing the two of them. The fact that this would annoy George must not deter us; higher considerations supervene.

  At twenty-four we have made up our mind about the world. On all questions of art and ethics and polities Brian held opinions as decided as those of George. One difference between them was that George had remained of the same opinion from twenty-two to forty-two, whereas Brian at forty-two would realize how very young he had been twenty years earlier. This difference was more fundamental than the difference (say) between Brian’s vision of a new world, in which all had equal opportunities, and George’s reverence of the old world, in which Hodge’s opportunity of remaining Hodge was equivalent to Marden’s of remaining Marden, or than the difference in their emotions when they looked upon the same painting or read the same book. But what divided them most of all was their attitude to other people’s opinions and emotions. George resented Brian’s outlook, as he resented the outlook of everybody who differed from him; Brian was undisturbed by George’s politics and ideas of art, as he was undisturbed by the opinions of all the other Georges in the world. This was not because Brian was more tolerant, more what we call broadminded, than George, but because he felt, to put it plainly, that ‘if the other fellow really thought like that, then it obviously didn’t matter much what he thought.’ The fellow, in fact, was negligible. In Brian’s world many people were negligible; in George’s world, none was negligible, for even the stupidest had a soul to be saved.

  Enter, then, that lost sheep, Brian Strange. Perhaps his hair was a little longer, his tie a little more emotional, than George would have approved, but there was no denying that he was a presentable young man in his flannels, who would be at home, perhaps a trifle too much at home, in any company.

  As he came in, he gave George a cheery nod, and threw in a smile for the sunny morning that it was.

  ‘Good morning,’ said George. ‘Up early this morning, aren’t you?’

  ‘Lord, I’ve been up ages. Getting an appetite.’ He took the covers off the dishes. ‘Kedgeree and kidneys. I love my love with a K, because she’s kind—no, kissable. I hate her because—because she has a sportico house a
t South Kensington, she lives on kedgeree and kidneys, and the answer’s a lemon. I can never remember how that thing goes.’ He helped himself to kedgeree.

  ‘So you’ve been out getting an appetite for once. Glad to hear it. You didn’t happen to see Lumsden, did you?’

  ‘Lumsden?—Lumsden?—oh, you mean the pig man?’

  George frowned.

  ‘No, we didn’t see anybody,’ Brian went on. ‘Are you ready for coffee?’

  ‘Olivia will be down directly,’ said George coldly.

  ‘Good,’ said Brian, his hand on the coffee-pot.

  But it was Dinah who came in. Brian left the coffee-pot and went towards her. George, at the side-table, had his back to them.

  ‘Hallo! Good morning,’ said Brian. He held out his hand.

  Twinkles in her eyes, she took it. They shook hands formally; Brian had a twinkle, too. George turned round.

  ‘Good girl, you’re just in time to pour out coffee,’ he said as he went to his place. ‘Been out?’

  ‘Rather,’ said Dinah. She kissed him on the side of the forehead and, turning to Brian, said, ‘May I trouble you for a slice of ham, Mr. Strange?’

  Brian put his finger to his lips, and shook his head warningly at her. She bubbled over into a laugh.

  When Dinah laughed you realized what a pessimist you had been. God was in His Heaven still, even if you only had Dinah’s laugh for it. She laughed often; at the most unexpected things sometimes, as it seemed to her uncle; sometimes, as it seemed to her lover—who thought that George had no sense of humour, a feeling which George also had about Brian—sometimes at nothing at all but the joy of being alive. She gave you the impression always of having tried to keep it back until the last moment, when it insisted; as if she were in church, and knew she oughtn’t to, but just had to; it came suddenly and all at once, eyes and mouth and chin. Brian tried to draw it, but couldn’t. Then he tried to write it down, and said that it looked like pebbles seen through running water with the sun on it, which was much better, though I am not sure that he has got it even now. But there were times when it irritated George, who was only her uncle.