Mr Pim Passes By

by A. A. Milne

  ‘Oh, I’ll start you on your way to the post office,’ said Dinah. She laughed suddenly, and taking his arm, went on. ‘I want to know if you’re married, and all that sort of thing.’

  ‘No, no, I’m not married,’ he protested hastily.

  ‘Well, I expect you’ve got heaps to tell me. We’ll go out this way, shall we? It’s quicker. Got your hat?’

  ‘Yes, yes, I’ve got my hat,’ said Mr. Pim, and he showed it to her proudly.

  ‘That’s right.’ She gave his arm a squeeze. ‘Isn’t it fun, Mr. Pim? I mean everything.’

  He chuckled happily. He was feeling more comfortable now that the revelations were over; and she was so very young and fresh and innocent. They went out of the French windows together and on to the terrace—quite old friends.

  III

  ‘What a life!’ said Brian, as he walked back to the house, leaving George and Lumsden to the pigs.

  What a life was George’s, what a life was Lumsden’s? What a life, if it comes to that, is the Archbishop of Canterbury’s, or the Prime Minister’s, or the Attorney-General’s! Such lives are necessary, no doubt; we must have bacon and bishops, laws and the keeping of laws; but let us thank Heaven that it is not we who are living them. Above all, let us thank Heaven that we can feel this gratitude for our own lives. Happy was Brian in that he envied no man, and felt sorry for most. What a life they lived, these others!

  They would have to get Olivia to help them. George and he didn’t talk the same language. Even if he said to George quite slowly, ‘I want to marry your niece, Dinah,’ George wouldn’t know what he meant. They could only converse by signs. But how different was Olivia. ‘What a life!’ he murmured to himself again, meaning this time, ‘What a life to be tied to George!’ Most of us have felt like this about our married friends, as they, no doubt, about us; but to Brian the Marden ménage seemed peculiarly sad. What a life for a woman like Olivia!

  He had made his first bow to her at Mrs. Parkinson’s. Parkinson amassed money in the City, where, we may assume, he was something of a figure. He was less of a figure in his wife’s drawing-room, but frequently recognizable. ‘Oh, is that Parkinson?’ you said to your neighbour. All London met in Mrs. Parkinson’s drawing-room—Mayfair and Chelsea, Westminster and Threadneedle Street. The lions were there, of course, but there was no need to be a full-grown lion; the faintest indication of a roar was enough to admit you. And if nothing came of it, if, as the years went on, the roar faded slowly into a gentle bleat, Mrs. Parkinson would still give you a smile of welcome. She liked you for yourself, by then; or she was sorry for you; or perhaps she felt that it was more interesting to have a representative drawing-room than an exclusive one. Certainly a bleat is a most representative noise.

  She knew the George Mardens, of course; that was inevitable. She knew Poole. Poole, who was progressing towards his theatre, asked her if she knew young Marshall. The fact that she could be asked a question like that, and had (for once) to answer it in the negative, meant that Marshall was worth knowing. Marshall, when collected, naturally babbled about his recent adventures, whereof ‘The World’s End: Saturday Night’ was still the most splendid. Here it seemed was a neglected genius; what was he doing outside Mrs. Parkinson’s drawing-room? She got to work. A week later Brian Strange was inside, lunching gloriously, and (as it happened) Olivia was lunching too. They sat next to each other.

  Even while they talked—Brian dashing off a hasty impression of his life, Olivia listening with that friendly, amused smile of hers—he wondered what this fellow Marden could be like. Did he understand his luck? And who was he, anyway? Chelsea had never heard of him.

  ‘Do you ever come and see people?’ asked Olivia, as they were saying good-bye.

  ‘I haven’t got a top-hat,’ said Brian with a smile.

  ‘That’s awkward,’ agreed Olivia gravely.

  ‘I sold a picture the other day.’

  ‘Another one?’

  ‘No, the same one, the one I was telling you about. What I mean is that I could look really beautiful for the money, and buy a lot of top-hats, if you would let me come and see you.’

  ‘Baker’s Hotel in Dover Street,’ she said, holding out her hand. ‘Come to tea on Tuesday, and meet Dinah. Never mind about the top-hat. We aren’t hatty people. Good-bye. I liked my lunch.’

  Smoking a last pipe that night, Brian let his thoughts wander into an impossible future, in which terrible unsuspected things happened to this man Marden: diseases and drownings and motor accidents; and wonderful things happened to himself and Olivia, whereby they remained for ever young, possibly on a tropical island lapped by blue seas, possibly not, but in any case together and alone. Not that he was in love with her, of course, but it made a pleasant dream to which to return every evening—until Tuesday. After Tuesday, the dream took a different shape, no longer impossible. Just Dinah. And now, behold! it had come true. Dinah loved him!

  ‘Di-nah!’ he called out to the glint of her dress on the terrace.

  She nodded eagerly at Mr. Pim.

  ‘That’s Brian,’ she said.

  Just for a moment Mr. Pim wondered where he had heard the name ‘Brian’ before. Then he remembered.

  ‘Indeed!’ he said politely.

  Brian was racing up the steps. He stopped suddenly on seeing Mr. Pim. Who on earth——But Dinah dashed across to him.

  ‘Brian,’ she said excitedly, ‘this is Mr. Pim. Mr. Carraway Pim.’ She smiled lovingly at the visitor. ‘He’s been telling me all about himself. It’s so interesting. He’s just going to send a telegram and then he’s coming back again. Mr. Pim, this is Brian—you know.’

  ‘How do you do,’ said Brian in his pleasant way.

  Dinah had left him, and was hooked into Mr. Pim’s arm again.

  ‘You won’t mind going to the post office by yourself now?’ she pleaded. ‘Will you? Because, you see, Brian and I——’ She looked across at her lover, shyly, tenderly, and then back with a disarming little smile at Mr. Pim; and perhaps a memory came back to him of somebody who had once looked like that, how many years ago; or perhaps there were no such memories for him now, but only the sudden realization that they were very, very young. For he took off his hat and gave them a little bow, and then in his gentle voice he said:

  ‘Miss Diana and Mr.—er—Brian. I have only come into your lives for a moment, and it is probable that I shall now pass out of them for ever, but you will allow an old man——’

  ‘Oh, not old!’ said Dinah impetuously.

  Mr. Pim chuckled happily and nodded to himself. ‘Not old! Not old! Well, shall we say middle-aged? And shall I ask you to allow a middle-aged man to wish you both every happiness in the years that you have before you? Good-bye! Goodbye!’

  He gave them another bow, and ambled gently off. They stood watching him, both a little moved, for it was the first blessing which they had shared together, and when they had waved him safely into the drive, and there was no danger now of his getting lost, they turned away with a little sigh.

  ‘Rum old bird,’ said Brian.

  IV

  Mr. Pim drifted down the avenue of tall limes, picking up the patches of sunlight in odd little jerks as he moved.

  ‘A curious name,’ he murmured aloud, ‘a very curious name. Tel—something . . . Now what was it? I shall get it directly. From Australia. Youth, youth! A clean, happy young couple. But she talked too much, the girl. Tel—something. She had no business to tell me all that. Telworthy—that was it! Remarkable how things always come back to me if I give them time. Turn to the left and down the hill. There, you see; there’s another example. I forget nothing. Well, here we are. I will turn to the left.’

  He passed through the gate and turned to the left, down the hill, under the impression that he was on his way to have lunch with the Trevors. The sudden appearance of the post office reminded him. A telegram, and
then he must go back to Marden House again. A charming house. A charming young couple. Ah, youth, youth!

  V

  ‘A rum old bird!’ said Brian, and he led the way through the open windows into the morning-room. ‘Who is he?’

  Dinah did not demean herself by answering. She just gave him one long dignified reproachful look.

  ‘Darling,’ she explained, ‘you haven’t kissed me yet. When two people become engaged to each other, they always kiss each other every time they go away from each other or come back to each other. Doesn’t it sound stupid,’ she added, ‘keeping on saying “each other” like that? Ee-chuther. Silly.’

  Brian put his arms round her suddenly.

  ‘But I oughtn’t to,’ he said as he kissed her. ‘Only then one never ought to do the nice things.’

  ‘Why oughtn’t you?’ said Dinah gently.

  He took her hand and went with her to the sofa.

  ‘Well, we said we wouldn’t again. I mean until your uncle and aunt knew all about it. You see, being a guest in their house, I can’t very well——’

  Dinah flopped on to the sofa, and looked at him open-mouthed.

  ‘But, darling child,’ she said at last, ‘what have you been doing, all this time except telling George?’

  ‘Trying to tell George.’

  ‘Yes, of course, there’s a difference,’ she agreed with a nod. ‘I tried to tell him once that—what’s the opposite to a surplus?’

  ‘A cassock,’ said Brian, playing with her fingers. ‘Or a biretta. I forget which.’

  ‘I mean a financial one.’

  ‘Oh, I see. A sur-minus I should think.’

  ‘Well, I told him that my budget was going to show a surminus for the quarter if something wasn’t done about it. It was Olivia’s birthday and I’d rather let myself go. But he never grasped the situation properly. We always seemed to be talking about something else. So I had to borrow from Olivia. Go on telling me.’

  ‘Well, that’s just how it was. I think he guessed something was up, because he suggested that we should go down and see the pigs. He said he simply had to see the pigs at once—I don’t know why—an appointment, perhaps. And we talked about pigs ail the way down, and I couldn’t say, “Oh, talking about pigs, George, I want to marry your niece——”’

  ‘Of course you couldn’t,’ said Dinah with mock indignation.

  ‘No. Well, you see how it was. And then when we’d finished talking about the pigs, we started talking to the pigs, and——’

  Dinah interrupted breathlessly.

  ‘Oh, how is Arnold?’

  ‘Arnold?’ said Brian. ‘Arnold? Oh, the little black-and-white one? He’s very jolly, I believe, but naturally I wasn’t thinking about him much. I was wondering how to begin. Well, and then Lumsden came up and started to talk pig-food, and the atmosphere grew less and less romantic and—and I gradually drifted away.’

  ‘Poor darling!’

  ‘Yes. What an absurd little hand you have! Yes, well, there we are.

  ‘Well, there’s only one thing for it,’ said Dinah decisively. ‘We shall have to approach him through Olivia.’

  ‘Don’t say it as if it were a wonderful discovery of your own. I always wanted to tell her first. She’s so much easier. Only you wouldn’t let me.’

  ‘That’s your fault, Brian. You would tell her that she ought to have orange-and-black curtains in here.’

  ‘But she wants orange-and-black curtains. She’s bought them. She’s going to have them.’

  ‘Yes, but George says’—and at this Dinah stood up, so as to allow herself more room for a hasty impression of George—’ George says that he’s not going to have any futuristic nonsense in an honest English country house which has been good enough for his father—what?—and his grandfather—what, what?—and his great-grandfather—what, what, what?—and all the rest of them. So there’s a sort of strained feeling between George and Olivia just now, and if Olivia were to sort of recommend you, well, it wouldn’t do you much good.’

  Brian, lying back on the sofa, looked at her lazily with half-closed eyes.

  ‘Yes, I know what you want, Dinah.’

  ‘What do I want?’ said Dinah, coming to him eagerly.

  ‘You want a secret engagement——’

  She gave an ecstatic little shudder.

  ‘—and notes left under doormats——’

  ‘Oh!’ she breathed happily.

  ‘—and meetings by the withered thorn when all the household is asleep. I know you.’

  ‘Oh, but it is such fun! I love meeting people by withered thorns.’

  Her mind hurried on to the first meeting. There was a withered thorn by the pond. Well, it wasn’t a thorn exactly, it was an oak, but it certainly had a withered look because the caterpillars had got at it, as at all the other oaks this year, much to George’s annoyance, who felt that this was probably the beginning of Socialism. She would be there as the stable clock was striking midnight. It hadn’t struck lately, but it could easily be put right; because otherwise Brian, who would be hanging about outside the park walls, wouldn’t know when to climb over and force his way through the dense undergrowth to where his love stood waiting. And then with only the moon for witness——

  ‘Yes,’ said Brian, breaking in tactlessly at the critical moment. ‘Well, I’m not going to have any of that.’

  Dinah’s happy enjoyment of these romantic goings-on changed suddenly into the sort of expression you wore in church when you accidentally caught the vicar’s eye in the Litany.

  ‘Oh, George,’ she said primly, ‘look at us being husbandy!’

  She sat very meek and straight, knees together, hands folded on lap, waiting for further pronouncements from the Head of the House.

  ‘You babe,’ said Brian, picking up her hands and kissing them suddenly. ‘I adore you. You know, the more I look at you, the more I feel that you are throwing yourself away on me. Has there ever been anybody like you since the world began?’

  ‘Only Queen Elizabeth,’ said Dinah, ‘and her hair was redder.’

  ‘You don’t mind only marrying me?’

  ‘Oh, but I’m proud, I’m proud!’

  ‘We shall never be rich, but we shall have lots of fun and meet interesting people and feel we are doing something worth doing, and not getting paid nearly enough for it. And when they won’t buy our pictures——’

  ‘Will it be our pictures?’ said Dinah softly.

  ‘Why, of course it will.’

  She nodded to herself. ‘Go on,’ she whispered.

  ‘Well, then, we can curse the British Public together and tell each other that on the whole we prefer not to sell our pictures to them, and we can curse the critics, and—oh, it’s an exciting life.’

  ‘I shall love it,’ said Dinah, seeing it all.

  ‘I’ll make you love it. You shan’t be sorry, Dinah.’

  ‘You shan’t be sorry either, Brian.’

  ‘Good Lord, of course I shan’t.’

  ‘Ah, don’t say that,’ said Dinah, suddenly serious. ‘As if it were an easy thing to be a wife, and I only had to look pretty and talk nicely, and you would always be glad of me. It’s much more difficult than that, Brian. You could so easily be sorry. And when I say you shan’t be sorry, I really do mean it because—because I love you so much.’

  ‘Oh, Dinah!’

  He put out his hand and she took it, and they sat in silence for a little.

  But Dinah could never be silent for long.

  ‘However, the immediate question,’ she said, ‘is whether George will be sorry. Olivia will be glad because she loves people being in love.’ She stood up. ‘Come on, let’s go and tell her.’

  Brian stood up too.

  ‘Righto. I say, I wonder if she really has guessed.’

  ‘S
ure to. She always seems to think of things about a week before they happen. George just begins to get hold of them about a week after they’ve happened.’ She inspected him carefully, pulling his tie straight, brushing back a stray piece of hair from his forehead, and exposing another square inch of handkerchief from his pocket. ‘After all, there’s no reason why George shouldn’t like you, darling.’

  ‘Yes, that’s improved me a good deal, but I shall never be his sort, you know.’

  ‘You’re Olivia’s sort—and mine. Well, come along, let’s go and tell Olivia——’

  ‘And what,’ said a cool fresh voice from the windows, ‘are you going to tell Olivia?’ And then with an understanding little laugh for all of them—for the lovers, for herself and for all that George would say about it—she added: ‘Oh, well, I think I can guess.’

  Chapter Four

  Olivia

  I

  AND now, I suppose, I must describe Olivia. She stands by the open window, love in her eyes and her mouth, waiting, until we are ready for her. ‘What’s she like?’ whispers my neighbour eagerly. ‘I can’t see.’ I shake my head. ‘Listen,’ I say. ‘The music of her voice will tell you what she is like.’ But he persists. ‘I can’t hear,’ he says. ‘You must tell us what she is like. Her voice—is it so very beautiful?’ I nod absently. I am listening to it.

  She is tall, and a woman; and her voice——Yet, if she had no voice, she could speak to you for ever with her eyes, and if she were blind, you could read in her finger-tips what she was thinking. She moved, and revealed the true goddess: a goddess with a sense of humour. ‘Devastating,’ said Dinah to Mr. Pim, meaning nothing by the word but that Olivia was worth waiting to see. Devastating—no. Olivia devastated no homes; she flooded them slowly with her dear beauty.

  She was never hot, nor in a hurry. After his first meeting with her, Brian tried to imagine her clinging to a strap in a jolting tube-train, and laughed at the impiety of it. When he knew her better, he realized that she could do this quite as easily as she could sit in the drawing-room after dinner. George hated to think that she should ever scramble for a bus in Piccadilly, ‘mixing with God knows who’; but, being a woman, she liked these economies, and the sight of her helping everybody else on with a smile, and then saying, ‘May I really? How sweet of you!’ as somebody made way for her, set you hurrying round to see the number of the celestial omnibus on which these things happened.