Mr Pim Passes By

by A. A. Milne

  Brian came in, and George looked up impatiently from the leading article.

  ‘Yes?’ he said.

  Brian pulled at his tie.

  ‘Are you busy, sir?’ he began nervously.

  The ‘sir’ mollified George. It was thus that, at Brian’s age, he had addressed the elder men at his father’s table. Perhaps some of the elder men thought that, dammit, they were not so old as that, but George made no such qualifications. He was in the forties, Brian in the twenties; youth must always respect middle age, as middle age respected old age. It was the only basis of a stable society.

  George put down his paper and got up.

  ‘I was just going down to the farm,’ he said. ‘Care to come?’

  ‘Right,’ said Brian eagerly. He felt that it would be easier in the open air. Interviewing Uncle George in the library was too much like a set performance, a humorous situation in some appalling comic paper. Why were the most beautiful things in the world—Birth and Love—vulgarized so horribly? A funny man on the stage of a music-hall had only to mention that his wife had had a baby, and the audience was in shrieks of laughter; the whole building rocked at the humour of a woman sitting up with a poker for the husband who reeled home at midnight. Three thousand people rocking with laughter—did none of them get more from marriage than that, did none of them expect more? Oh, Dinah, Dinah, how different it will be with us!

  ‘Did you have a look at the pigs this morning?’ said George, as they started off.

  Brian woke up from his dream with a start, and said that he hadn’t, no.

  ‘Well, come and have a look at ’em. We’ll find Lumsden there, I expect.’

  Brian cleared his throat.

  ‘As a matter of fact,’ he began, ‘Miss Marden was out, too, and—er—we—I—well, the fact is——’

  ‘I’m not sure that we haven’t made a mistake,’ said George thoughtfully. ‘Of course, Lumsden’s a good man—knows his job—but——’ He shook his head doubtfully.

  Brian cleared his throat again.

  ‘The—er—fact is——’ he began again.

  George went on with his argument. There was the Essex White (which sounded more like a butterfly than a pig to Brian), and there was the Gloucester Old Spot. At mention of the latter, Brian looked up in surprise at this sudden familiarity, but realizing that it was all the name of the animal, looked down again, pondering a new opening. However, by the time they had reached the farm, no new opening had presented itself.

  They talked to the pigs. George, by means of encouraging and helpful noises, seemed to establish some sort of communion with them, but it was weary work to Brian, whose ‘Hallo, old boy,’ several times repeated, lacked conviction even to himself. ‘What a life?’ he thought to himself, with the happy assurance of his age, and lit a cigarette.

  ‘Ah, Lumsden!’ he heard George say.

  The conversation became more and more technical. It was impossible to say anything now. They didn’t want him; the pigs didn’t want him; nobody wanted him. He would go back to Dinah. Dinah!

  Chapter Three

  Enter Mr. Pim

  I

  BRYMER drove his friend Carraway Pim down to the village, and helped him safely out of the dog-cart.

  ‘You’re sure you’ll be all right?’ he said anxiously.

  ‘Yes, thank you, I shall be all right now,’ said Mr. Pim in his clear gentle voice.

  ‘I go down this way.’ He waved his whip. ‘I’d take you on to the gates, if——’

  ‘No, no, pray don’t trouble. I shall like the little walk on this beautiful morning.’

  ‘You’ve got the letter for George?’

  Mr. Pim looked vague.

  ‘George Marden. I gave it to you.’

  ‘Yes, yes, to be sure. You gave it to me. I remember your giving it to me.’

  ‘What’s that in your hand?’

  Mr. Pim looked reproachfully at the letter which he held in his hand, as if it had been trying to escape him. Then he put it close to his eyes.

  ‘George Marden, Esq., Marden House,’ he read, and looked up at Brymer. ‘This is the letter,’ he explained courteously. ‘I have it in my hand.’

  ‘That’s right. It’s the first gate on the right, about a couple of hundred yards up the hill. He’ll put you on to this man, Fanshawe, that you want. His brother Roger used to know him well—the one that died.’

  ‘Dear, dear,’ said Mr. Pim gently, emerging from his own thoughts to the distressing fact that somebody had died.

  ‘Let me see, that must have been fifteen years ago. Clever fellow, Roger. The girl’s there now. Well, we shall see you at tea, eh? You’re lunching with the Trevors.’

  ‘With the Trevors, yes,’ said Mr. Pim, seizing eagerly upon a name which he knew. All this about—what did he call him?—Roger?—was very confusing.

  ‘Good. George will show you your way to the Trevors. Well, I must be getting on. Come on, Polly. See you at dinner anyhow.’ He waved his whip, and as Polly came on, Mr. Pim raised his Panama hat in a gentle farewell to his friend.

  Then he looked again at the letter in his hand.

  ‘George Marden, Esq., Marden House,’ he read, and gazed up at heaven with a puzzled expression. ‘Dear me, I thought somebody said that his name was Roger. Evidently a mistake. It is George. It says so here distinctly.’

  He went on his way. It was such a beautiful morning that as he walked he hummed to himself a succession of vaguely remembered phrases from what had once been tunes, and his mind wandered pleasantly in that between-land of the wonderful things one seems to have done and the wonderful things one hopes to do, as indeed it often wandered; for he was old now, old in body and mind, but young still in spirit, as young, or as old, as he had ever been. A funny little old gentleman he seemed to the two village boys who were kicking their boots at the side of the road as he passed, so funny that they had almost decided to tell him to get his hair cut, or to ask him where he had got that hat; not that these were the outstanding marks of his oddity, but that they lacked other words in which to express their sense of his difference from the rest of their world. Something, however, kept them silent as he passed them, something in his face, a sort of ethereal gentleness, so that they looked down sheepishly, and then up open-mouthed at his back for a moment, before they returned to their kicking.

  Presently Mr. Pim came to the gates of Marden House, and so passed in.

  II

  ‘Mr. George Marden?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Anne with interest, wondering what it was all about.

  ‘Would you be so kind as to give him this letter?’ He held it out to her. ‘I expect that he will want to see me for a moment.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Will you come this way, please.’

  ‘Thank you. My name is Pim—Carraway Pim.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  She led the way through the big hall into the morning-room, Mr. Pim following slowly behind, and stopping now and then in an absent-minded way to look at a picture or piece of furniture which came suddenly into his horizon. However, they got there at last.

  ‘I’ll tell Mr. Marden you’re here, sir. Mr. Pim, didn’t you say?’

  ‘Yes. Carraway Pim. He doesn’t know me, you understand, but if he could just see me for a moment——’ He was feeling in his pockets as he spoke, and looked up to say anxiously, ‘I gave you that letter?’

  ‘Yes, sir. I’ll give it to him.’

  But he was still feeling in his pockets, and now brought out another letter, at which he looked helplessly.

  ‘Dear me!’ he said at last.

  ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘I ought to have posted this yesterday,’ said Mr. Pim, and there was just a suggestion in his voice that he forgave Anne, however, for not reminding him of it before.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry, sir.’ />
  ‘Yes. Well, I must send a telegram on my way back. You have a telegraph office in the village?’

  ‘Oh yes, sir. If you turn to the left when you get outside the gates, it isn’t more than a hundred yards down the hill.’ She went through the open French windows on to the terrace, and indicated the way.

  ‘Thank you, thank you. Very stupid of me to have forgotten. I can’t think how I can have been so stupid. Turn to the left and down the hill. Yes, I must certainly send a telegram.’

  He wandered round the room, singing a happy little song to himself of which the refrain was ‘Turn to the left and down the hill,’ interrupting it for a moment in order to look more closely at this or that which had caught his eye, and then carrying it on again from the point where he had left it. He was looking out over the terrace at George’s spreading lawns when Dinah entered suddenly by the door and came upon his back view.

  Dinah had remained on her seat in the garden, imagining the great scene in the library to herself, until she could bear it no longer. So she went in and (let us admit it defiantly) listened for a moment outside the library door . . . Silence . . . . Were they both overcome by emotion?—Or had they merely adjourned to the morning-room? Silence also in the morning-room. She opened the door and went bravely in.

  ‘Hallo!’

  At the greeting Mr. Pim turned round and collected himself as quickly as he could.

  ‘Good morning, Mrs.—er—Marden,’ he said, giving her a little bow. ‘You must forgive——’

  ‘Oh I say, I’m not Mrs. Marden,’ said Dinah with a frank smile. ‘I’m Dinah.’

  With another little bow and a smile Mr. Pim explained that in that case he would say ‘Good morning, Miss Diana.’

  Dinah shook her head reproachfully at him.

  ‘Now, look here, if you and I are going to be friends, you mustn’t do that. Dinah, not Diana. Do remember it, there’s a good man, because I get so tired of correcting people. Have you come to stay with us?’

  ‘Well, no, Miss—er—Dinah.’

  She nodded at him in approval.

  ‘That’s right. I can see I shan’t have to speak to you again. Now tell me your name, and I bet you I get it right first time. And do sit down, won’t you?’

  ‘Thank you.’ He sat down gently on the sofa. ‘My name is Pim. Carraway Pim.’

  ‘Pim—that’s easy.’ She perched herself on the back of the sofa.

  ‘And I have a letter of introduction to your father——’

  Dinah interrupted with a shake of the head.

  ‘Oh no, now you’re going wrong again, Mr. Pim. George isn’t my father, he’s my uncle. Uncle George—he doesn’t like me calling him George. Olivia doesn’t mind—I mean she doesn’t mind being called Olivia—but George is rather touchy. You see, he’s been my guardian since I was about two, and then about five years ago he married a widow called Mrs. Telworthy—that’s Olivia—so she became my Aunt Olivia, only she lets me drop the aunt. Got that?’

  Mr. Pim started at the sudden question and then said doubtfully, ‘I—I think so, Miss Marden.’

  Dinah looked at him in admiration.

  ‘I say, you are quick, Mr. Pim. Well, if you take my advice, when you’ve finished your business with George, you’ll hang about a bit and see if you can’t see Olivia. She’s simply—devastating. I don’t wonder George fell in love with her.’

  Mr. Pim felt that the time had come for a clear statement of his position. This was all intensely embarrassing. Evidently she mistook him for an old friend of the family.

  ‘It is only the merest matter of business, my dear Miss—er——’

  ‘Dinah.’

  ‘Miss Dinah. Just a few minutes with your uncle. I am afraid I shall hardly——’

  ‘Well, you must please yourself, Mr. Pim. I’m just giving you a friendly word of advice. Naturally I was awfully glad to get such a magnificent aunt, because, of course, marriage is rather a toss-up, isn’t it, and George might have gone off with anybody.’

  Mr. Pim began to explain that he had had no experience of marriage, but that he would really have to be getting along now; at least, he would have explained all this if Dinah had given him a moment in which to say it. But she was sweeping on again.

  ‘Of course, it’s different on the stage,’ she said, ‘where guardians always marry their wards in the third act, but George couldn’t very well marry me because I’m his niece. Mind you, I don’t say that I should have had him, because between ourselves he is a little bit old-fashioned.’

  ‘So he married Mrs.—er—Marden instead,’ said Mr. Pim feebly.

  ‘Mrs. Telworthy. Don’t say you’ve forgotten already just when you were getting so good at names. Mrs. Telworthy.’ She swung herself over the back of the sofa and was sitting beside him. ‘You see,’ she went on earnestly, ‘Olivia married the Telworthy man and went to Australia with him, and he drank himself to death in the bush—or wherever you drink yourself to death out there—and Olivia came back to England, and met my uncle—that’s George—and he fell in love with her and proposed to her, and he came into my room that night, I was about fourteen, and turned on the light and said in his heaviest voice, “Dinah, how would you like to have a beautiful aunt of your own?” and I said, “Congratulations, George,” because, of course, I’d seen it coming for weeks. That was the first time I called him George. Telworthy—isn’t it a funny name?’

  ‘Very singular,’ said Mr. Pim revolving the story in his mind, but feeling strongly that he ought not to be listening to it. ‘From Australia, you say?’ He knew Australia, parts of Australia, well. Certainly a very curious name.

  ‘Yes, Australia,’ said Dinah. ‘At least that’s where he went. I always say that he’s probably still alive, and will turn up here one morning and annoy George—like they do sometimes, you know.’ She sighed and added, ‘But I’m afraid there’s not much chance.’

  Mr. Pim was horrified.

  ‘Really, Miss Marden!’ he exclaimed. ‘Really!’ and he held up a protesting hand.

  Dinah laughed.

  ‘Well, of course, I don’t really want it to happen,’ she said, and then added wistfully, ‘but it would be rather exciting, wouldn’t it?’ She shook her head sadly at the impossibility of it. ‘You know, things like that never seem to occur down here. There was a hay-rick burnt down about a mile away last year, but that isn’t quite the same thing, is it?’

  Mr. Pim admitted that that was certainly different. Really this was a very embarrassing young lady. She had no business at all to be telling him all these family secrets. Why didn’t somebody come and take her away?

  Dinah looked round the room to make sure that they were alone, and then put her head close to his.

  ‘Of course,’ she began in a mysterious voice, ‘something very, very wonderful did happen this morning, but I’m not sure if I know you well enough——’

  Mr. Pim recoiled in horror.

  ‘Really, Miss Marden,’ he protested, ‘I am only a—a passer-by. Here to-day and gone to-morrow. You really mustn’t——’

  ‘And yet there’s something about you,’ said Dinah, looking at him lovingly, ‘which inspires confidence. The fact is’—she was whispering in his ear now—‘I got engaged before breakfast!’

  The announcement relieved Mr. Pim. Here was news which the whole world would know directly; the engagement anyhow—even if not the fact that it happened before breakfast. He beamed at her.

  ‘Dear me. I do congratulate you,’ he said.

  ‘I expect that’s why George is keeping you such a long time. Brian, my young man, the well-known painter’—she paused and added with a sigh, ‘only nobody has ever heard of him—he’s smoking a pipe with George in the library, and asking for his niece’s hand.’ She jumped up and seized his hands. ‘Oh, Mr. Pim, isn’t it exciting?’

  She pulled him out of his
seat. He was excited too; she was so young, so delightfully young and happy. She seemed to want him to dance with her. For a moment he wondered whether it mightn’t come to that, as he stood there beaming at her and nodding his head. Then her next words woke him up.

  ‘You’re really rather lucky, Mr. Pim. I mean being told so soon. Even Olivia doesn’t know yet.’

  And he was a perfect stranger, a passer-by! Really, she shouldn’t do these things!

  ‘Yes, yes,’ he said, looking at his watch, and moving towards the door. ‘I congratulate you, Miss Marden. Perhaps now it would be better if I——’

  But at that moment Anne came in.

  ‘Mr. Marden is out at the moment, sir,’ she began.

  ‘I think he must be down at the farm. If you—Oh, I didn’t see you, Miss Dinah.’

  ‘It’s all right, Anne,’ said Dinah cheerily. ‘I’m looking after Mr. Pim.’

  ‘Yes, miss.’ She went out again.

  Excitement in her eyes, Dinah came up to Mr. Pim and clutched him by the arm.

  ‘That’s me!’ she said, nodding at him.

  Mr. Pim looked startled.

  ‘They can’t discuss me in the library without breaking down, so they’re walking up and down outside, blowing their noses and slashing at the thistles, so as to conceal their emotion. You know. I expect Brian——’

  Mr. Pim decided that he must really be firm.

  ‘Yes, I think, Miss Marden,’ he said timidly, ‘I had better go now and return a little later. I have a telegram which I require to send, and perhaps by the time I come back——’

  ‘Oh, but how disappointing of you when we were getting on together so nicely! And it was just going to be your turn to tell me all about yourself.’

  ‘I have really nothing to tell, Miss Marden. I have a letter of introduction to Mr. Marden, who in turn, I hope, will give me a letter to a certain distinguished man whom it is necessary for me to meet. That is all. That is really all.’ He held out his hand to her with a kindly smile. ‘And now, Miss Marden, I will say good-bye.’