MY SISTER MABEL EDITH REYNOLDS
The Silence by John Galsworthy
In a car of the Naples express a mining expert was diving into a bag for
papers. The strong sunlight showed the fine wrinkles on his brown face and
the shabbiness of his short, rough beard. A newspaper cutting slipped from
his fingers; he picked it up, thinking: 'How the dickens did that get in
here?' It was from a colonial print of three years back; and he sat
staring, as if in that forlorn slip of yellow paper he had encountered
some ghost from his past.
These were the words he read: "We hope that the setback to civilisation,
the check to commerce and development, in this promising centre of our
colony may be but temporary; and that capital may again come to the
rescue. Where one man was successful, others should surely not fail? We
are convinced that it only needs...." And the last words: "For what can be
sadder than to see the forest spreading its lengthening shadows, like
symbols of defeat, over the untenanted dwellings of men; and where was
once the merry chatter of human voices, to pass by in the silence...."
On an afternoon, thirteen years before, he had been in the city of London,
at one of those emporiums where mining experts perch, before fresh
flights, like sea-gulls on some favourite rock. A clerk said to him: "Mr.
Scorrier, they are asking for you downstairs—Mr. Hemmings of the New
Scorrier took up the speaking tube. "Is that you, Mr. Scorrier? I hope you
are very well, sir, I am—Hemmings—I am—coming up."
In two minutes he appeared, Christopher Hemmings, secretary of the New
Colliery Company, known in the City-behind his back—as
"Down-by-the-starn" Hemmings. He grasped Scorrier's hand—the gesture
was deferential, yet distinguished. Too handsome, too capable, too
important, his figure, the cut of his iron-grey beard, and his intrusively
fine eyes, conveyed a continual courteous invitation to inspect their
infallibilities. He stood, like a City "Atlas," with his legs apart, his
coat-tails gathered in his hands, a whole globe of financial matters
deftly balanced on his nose. "Look at me!" he seemed to say. "It's heavy,
but how easily I carry it. Not the man to let it down, Sir!"
"I hope I see you well, Mr. Scorrier," he began. "I have come round about
our mine. There is a question of a fresh field being opened up—between
ourselves, not before it's wanted. I find it difficult to get my Board to
take a comprehensive view. In short, the question is: Are you prepared to
go out for us, and report on it? The fees will be all right." His left eye
closed. "Things have been very—er—dicky; we are going to
change our superintendent. I have got little Pippin—you know little
Scorrier murmured, with a feeling of vague resentment: "Oh yes. He's not a
Hemmings replied: "We think that he will do." 'Do you?' thought Scorrier;
'that's good of you!'
He had not altogether shaken off a worship he had felt for Pippin—"King"
Pippin he was always called, when they had been boys at the Camborne
Grammar-school. "King" Pippin! the boy with the bright colour, very bright
hair, bright, subtle, elusive eyes, broad shoulders, little stoop in the
neck, and a way of moving it quickly like a bird; the boy who was always
at the top of everything, and held his head as if looking for something
further to be the top of. He remembered how one day "King" Pippin had said
to him in his soft way, "Young Scorrie, I'll do your sums for you"; and in
answer to his dubious, "Is that all right?" had replied, "Of course—I
don't want you to get behind that beast Blake, he's not a Cornishman" (the
beast Blake was an Irishman not yet twelve). He remembered, too, an
occasion when "King" Pippin with two other boys fought six louts and got a
licking, and how Pippin sat for half an hour afterwards, all bloody, his
head in his hands, rocking to and fro, and weeping tears of mortification;
and how the next day he had sneaked off by himself, and, attacking the
same gang, got frightfully mauled a second time.
Thinking of these things he answered curtly: "When shall I start?"
"Down-by-the-starn" Hemmings replied with a sort of fearful sprightliness:
"There's a good fellow! I will send instructions; so glad to see you
well." Conferring on Scorrier a look—fine to the verge of vulgarity—he
withdrew. Scorrier remained, seated; heavy with insignificance and vague
oppression, as if he had drunk a tumbler of sweet port.
A week later, in company with Pippin, he was on board a liner.
The "King" Pippin of his school-days was now a man of forty-four. He
awakened in Scorrier the uncertain wonder with which men look backward at
their uncomplicated teens; and staggering up and down the decks in the
long Atlantic roll, he would steal glances at his companion, as if he
expected to find out from them something about himself. Pippin had still
"King" Pippin's bright, fine hair, and dazzling streaks in his short
beard; he had still a bright colour and suave voice, and what there were
of wrinkles suggested only subtleties of humour and ironic sympathy. From
the first, and apparently without negotiation, he had his seat at the
captain's table, to which on the second day Scorrier too found himself
translated, and had to sit, as he expressed it ruefully, "among the
During the voyage only one incident impressed itself on Scorrier's memory,
and that for a disconcerting reason. In the forecastle were the usual
complement of emigrants. One evening, leaning across the rail to watch
them, he felt a touch on his arm; and, looking round, saw Pippin's face
and beard quivering in the lamplight. "Poor people!" he said. The idea
flashed on Scorrier that he was like some fine wire sound-recording
'Suppose he were to snap!' he thought. Impelled to justify this fancy, he
blurted out: "You're a nervous chap. The way you look at those poor
Pippin hustled him along the deck. "Come, come, you took me off my guard,"
he murmured, with a sly, gentle smile, "that's not fair."
He found it a continual source of wonder that Pippin, at his age, should
cut himself adrift from the associations and security of London life to
begin a new career in a new country with dubious prospect of success. 'I
always heard he was doing well all round,' he thought; 'thinks he'll
better himself, perhaps. He's a true Cornishman.'
The morning of arrival at the mines was grey and cheerless; a cloud of
smoke, beaten down by drizzle, clung above the forest; the wooden houses
straggled dismally in the unkempt semblance of a street, against a
background of endless, silent woods. An air of blank discouragement
brooded over everything; cranes jutted idly over empty trucks; the long
jetty oozed black slime; miners with listless faces stood in the rain;
dogs fought under their very legs. On the way to the hotel they met no one
busy or serene except a Chinee who was polishing a dish-cover.
The late superintendent, a cowed man, regaled them at lunch with his
forebodings; his attitude toward the situation was like the food, which
was greasy and uninspiring. Alone together once more, the two newcomers
eyed each other sadly.
"Oh dear!" sighed Pippin. "We must change all this, Scorrier; it will
never do to go back beaten. I shall not go back beaten; you will have to
carry me on my shield;" and slyly: "Too heavy, eh? Poor fellow!" Then for
a long time he was silent, moving his lips as if adding up the cost.
Suddenly he sighed, and grasping Scorrier's arm, said: "Dull, aren't I?
What will you do? Put me in your report, 'New Superintendent—sad,
dull dog—not a word to throw at a cat!'" And as if the new task were
too much for him, he sank back in thought. The last words he said to
Scorrier that night were: "Very silent here. It's hard to believe one's
here for life. But I feel I am. Mustn't be a coward, though!" and brushing
his forehead, as though to clear from it a cobweb of faint thoughts, he
Scorrier stayed on the veranda smoking. The rain had ceased, a few stars
were burning dimly; even above the squalor of the township the scent of
the forests, the interminable forests, brooded. There sprang into his mind
the memory of a picture from one of his children's fairy books—the
picture of a little bearded man on tiptoe, with poised head and a great
sword, slashing at the castle of a giant. It reminded him of Pippin. And
suddenly, even to Scorrier—whose existence was one long encounter
with strange places—the unseen presence of those woods, their heavy,
healthy scent, the little sounds, like squeaks from tiny toys, issuing out
of the gloomy silence, seemed intolerable, to be shunned, from the mere
instinct of self-preservation. He thought of the evening he had spent in
the bosom of "Down-by-the-starn" Hemmings' family, receiving his last
instructions—the security of that suburban villa, its discouraging
gentility; the superior acidity of the Miss Hemmings; the noble names of
large contractors, of company promoters, of a peer, dragged with the
lightness of gun-carriages across the conversation; the autocracy of
Hemmings, rasped up here and there, by some domestic contradiction. It was
all so nice and safe—as if the whole thing had been fastened to an
anchor sunk beneath the pink cabbages of the drawing-room carpet!
Hemmings, seeing him off the premises, had said with secrecy: "Little
Pippin will have a good thing. We shall make his salary L——.
He'll be a great man-quite a king. Ha-ha!"
Scorrier shook the ashes from his pipe. 'Salary!' he thought, straining
his ears; 'I wouldn't take the place for five thousand pounds a year. And
yet it's a fine country,' and with ironic violence he repeated, 'a dashed
Ten days later, having finished his report on the new mine, he stood on
the jetty waiting to go abroad the steamer for home.
"God bless you!" said Pippin. "Tell them they needn't be afraid; and
sometimes when you're at home think of me, eh?"
Scorrier, scrambling on board, had a confused memory of tears in his eyes,
and a convulsive handshake.
It was eight years before the wheels of life carried Scorrier back to that
disenchanted spot, and this time not on the business of the New Colliery
Company. He went for another company with a mine some thirty miles away.
Before starting, however, he visited Hemmings. The secretary was
surrounded by pigeon-holes and finer than ever; Scorrier blinked in the
full radiance of his courtesy. A little man with eyebrows full of
questions, and a grizzled beard, was seated in an arm-chair by the fire.
"You know Mr. Booker," said Hemmings—"one of my directors. This is
Mr. Scorrier, sir—who went out for us."
These sentences were murmured in a way suggestive of their uncommon value.
The director uncrossed his legs, and bowed. Scorrier also bowed, and
Hemmings, leaning back, slowly developed the full resources of his
"So you are going out again, Scorrier, for the other side? I tell Mr.
Scorrier, sir, that he is going out for the enemy. Don't find them a mine
as good as you found us, there's a good man."
The little director asked explosively: "See our last dividend? Twenty per
cent; eh, what?"
Hemmings moved a finger, as if reproving his director. "I will not
disguise from you," he murmured, "that there is friction between us and—the
enemy; you know our position too well—just a little too well, eh? 'A
nod's as good as a wink.'"
His diplomatic eyes flattered Scorrier, who passed a hand over his brow—and
said: "Of course."
"Pippin doesn't hit it off with them. Between ourselves, he's a leetle too
big for his boots. You know what it is when a man in his position gets a
Scorrier caught himself searching on the floor for a sight of Hemmings'
boots; he raised his eyes guiltily. The secretary continued: "We don't
hear from him quite as often as we should like, in fact."
To his own surprise Scorrier murmured: "It's a silent place!"
The secretary smiled. "Very good! Mr. Scorrier says, sir, it's a silent
place; ha-ha! I call that very good!" But suddenly a secret irritation
seemed to bubble in him; he burst forth almost violently: "He's no
business to let it affect him; now, has he? I put it to you, Mr. Scorrier,
I put it to you, sir!"
But Scorrier made no reply, and soon after took his leave: he had been
asked to convey a friendly hint to Pippin that more frequent letters would
be welcomed. Standing in the shadow of the Royal Exchange, waiting to
thread his way across, he thought: 'So you must have noise, must you—you've
got some here, and to spare....'
On his arrival in the new world he wired to Pippin asking if he might stay
with him on the way up country, and received the answer: "Be sure and
A week later he arrived (there was now a railway) and found Pippin waiting
for him in a phaeton. Scorrier would not have known the place again; there
was a glitter over everything, as if some one had touched it with a wand.
The tracks had given place to roads, running firm, straight, and black
between the trees under brilliant sunshine; the wooden houses were all
painted; out in the gleaming harbour amongst the green of islands lay
three steamers, each with a fleet of busy boats; and here and there a tiny
yacht floated, like a sea-bird on the water. Pippin drove his long-tailed
horses furiously; his eyes brimmed with subtle kindness, as if according
Scorrier a continual welcome. During the two days of his stay Scorrier
never lost that sense of glamour. He had every opportunity for observing
the grip Pippin had over everything. The wooden doors and walls of his
bungalow kept out no sounds. He listened to interviews between his host
and all kinds and conditions of men. The voices of the visitors would rise
at first—angry, discontented, matter-of-fact, with nasal twang, or
guttural drawl; then would come the soft patter of the superintendent's
feet crossing and recrossing the room. Then a pause, the sound of hard
breathing, and quick questions—the visitor's voice again, again the
patter, and Pippin's ingratiating but decisive murmurs. Presently out
would come the visitor with an expression on his face which Scorrier soon
began to know by heart, a kind of pleased, puzzled, helpless look, which
seemed to say, "I've been done, I know—I'll give it to myself when
I'm round the corner."
Pippin was full of wistful questions about "home." He wanted to talk of
music, pictures, plays, of how London looked, what new streets there were,
and, above all, whether Scorrier had been lately in the West Country. He
talked of getting leave next winter, asked whether Scorrier thought they
would "put up with him at home"; then, with the agitation which had
alarmed Scorrier before, he added: "Ah! but I'm not fit for home now. One
gets spoiled; it's big and silent here. What should I go back to? I don't
seem to realise."
Scorrier thought of Hemmings. "'Tis a bit cramped there, certainly," he
Pippin went on as if divining his thoughts. "I suppose our friend Hemmings
would call me foolish; he's above the little weaknesses of imagination,
eh? Yes; it's silent here. Sometimes in the evening I would give my head
for somebody to talk to—Hemmings would never give his head for
anything, I think. But all the same, I couldn't face them at home.
Spoiled!" And slyly he murmured: "What would the Board say if they could
Scorrier blurted out: "To tell you the truth, they complain a little of
not hearing from you."
Pippin put out a hand, as if to push something away. "Let them try the
life here!" he broke out; "it's like sitting on a live volcano—what
with our friends, 'the enemy,' over there; the men; the American
competition. I keep it going, Scorrier, but at what a cost—at what a
Pippin only answered: "I try—I try!"
Scorrier felt with remorse and wonder that he had spoken the truth. The
following day he left for his inspection, and while in the camp of "the
enemy" much was the talk he heard of Pippin.
"Why!" said his host, the superintendent, a little man with a face
somewhat like an owl's, "d'you know the name they've given him down in the
capital—'the King'—good, eh? He's made them 'sit up' all along
this coast. I like him well enough—good—hearted man, shocking
nervous; but my people down there can't stand him at any price. Sir, he
runs this colony. You'd think butter wouldn't melt in that mouth of his;
but he always gets his way; that's what riles 'em so; that and the success
he's making of his mine. It puzzles me; you'd think he'd only be too glad
of a quiet life, a man with his nerves. But no, he's never happy unless
he's fighting, something where he's got a chance to score a victory. I
won't say he likes it, but, by Jove, it seems he's got to do it. Now
that's funny! I'll tell you one thing, though shouldn't be a bit surprised
if he broke down some day; and I'll tell you another," he added darkly,
"he's sailing very near the wind, with those large contracts that he
makes. I wouldn't care to take his risks. Just let them have a strike, or
something that shuts them down for a spell—and mark my words, sir—it'll
be all up with them. But," he concluded confidentially, "I wish I had his
hold on the men; it's a great thing in this country. Not like home, where
you can go round a corner and get another gang. You have to make the best
you can out of the lot you have; you won't, get another man for love or
money without you ship him a few hundred miles." And with a frown he waved
his arm over the forests to indicate the barrenness of the land.
Scorrier finished his inspection and went on a shooting trip into the
forest. His host met him on his return. "Just look at this!" he said,
holding out a telegram. "Awful, isn't it?" His face expressed a profound
commiseration, almost ludicrously mixed with the ashamed contentment that
men experience at the misfortunes of an enemy.
The telegram, dated the day before, ran thus "Frightful explosion New
Colliery this morning, great loss of life feared."
Scorrier had the bewildered thought: 'Pippin will want me now.'
He took leave of his host, who called after him: "You'd better wait for a
steamer! It's a beastly drive!"
Scorrier shook his head. All night, jolting along a rough track cut
through the forest, he thought of Pippin. The other miseries of this
calamity at present left him cold; he barely thought of the smothered men;
but Pippin's struggle, his lonely struggle with this hydra-headed monster,
touched him very nearly. He fell asleep and dreamed of watching Pippin
slowly strangled by a snake; the agonised, kindly, ironic face peeping out
between two gleaming coils was so horribly real, that he awoke. It was the
moment before dawn: pitch-black branches barred the sky; with every jolt
of the wheels the gleams from the lamps danced, fantastic and intrusive,
round ferns and tree-stems, into the cold heart of the forest. For an hour
or more Scorrier tried to feign sleep, and hide from the stillness, and
overmastering gloom of these great woods. Then softly a whisper of noises
stole forth, a stir of light, and the whole slow radiance of the morning
glory. But it brought no warmth; and Scorrier wrapped himself closer in
his cloak, feeling as though old age had touched him.
Close on noon he reached the township. Glamour seemed still to hover over
it. He drove on to the mine. The winding-engine was turning, the pulley at
the top of the head-gear whizzing round; nothing looked unusual. 'Some
mistake!' he thought. He drove to the mine buildings, alighted, and
climbed to the shaft head. Instead of the usual rumbling of the trolleys,
the rattle of coal discharged over the screens, there was silence. Close
by, Pippin himself was standing, smirched with dirt. The cage, coming
swift and silent from below, shot open its doors with a sharp rattle.
Scorrier bent forward to look. There lay a dead man, with a smile on his
"How many?" he whispered.
Pippin answered: "Eighty-four brought up—forty-seven still below,"
and entered the man's name in a pocket-book.
An older man was taken out next; he too was smiling—there had been
vouchsafed to him, it seemed, a taste of more than earthly joy. The sight
of those strange smiles affected Scorrier more than all the anguish or
despair he had seen scored on the faces of other dead men. He asked an old
miner how long Pippin had been at work.
"Thirty hours. Yesterday he wer' below; we had to nigh carry mun up at
last. He's for goin' down again, but the chaps won't lower mun;" the old
man gave a sigh. "I'm waiting for my boy to come up, I am."
Scorrier waited too—there was fascination about those dead, smiling
faces. The rescuing of these men who would never again breathe went on and
on. Scorrier grew sleepy in the sun. The old miner woke him, saying:
"Rummy stuff this here chokedamp; see, they all dies drunk!" The very next
to be brought up was the chief engineer. Scorrier had known him quite
well, one of those Scotsmen who are born at the age of forty and remain so
all their lives. His face—the only one that wore no smile—seemed
grieving that duty had deprived it of that last luxury. With wide eyes and
drawn lips he had died protesting.
Late in the afternoon the old miner touched Scorrier's arm, and said:
"There he is—there's my boy!" And he departed slowly, wheeling the
body on a trolley.
As the sun set, the gang below came up. No further search was possible
till the fumes had cleared. Scorrier heard one man say: "There's some
we'll never get; they've had sure burial."
Another answered him: "'Tis a gude enough bag for me!" They passed him,
the whites of their eyes gleaming out of faces black as ink.
Pippin drove him home at a furious pace, not uttering a single word. As
they turned into the main street, a young woman starting out before the
horses obliged Pippin to pull up. The glance he bent on Scorrier was
ludicrously prescient of suffering. The woman asked for her husband.
Several times they were stopped thus by women asking for their husbands or
sons. "This is what I have to go through," Pippin whispered.
When they had eaten, he said to Scorrier: "It was kind of you to come and
stand by me! They take me for a god, poor creature that I am. But shall I
ever get the men down again? Their nerve's shaken. I wish I were one of
those poor lads, to die with a smile like that!"
Scorrier felt the futility of his presence. On Pippin alone must be the
heat and burden. Would he stand under it, or would the whole thing come
crashing to the ground? He urged him again and again to rest, but Pippin
only gave him one of his queer smiles. "You don't know how strong I am!"
He himself slept heavily; and, waking at dawn, went down. Pippin was still
at his desk; his pen had dropped; he was asleep. The ink was wet;
Scorrier's eye caught the opening words:
"GENTLEMEN,—Since this happened I have not slept...."
He stole away again with a sense of indignation that no one could be
dragged in to share that fight. The London Board-room rose before his
mind. He imagined the portentous gravity of Hemmings; his face and voice
and manner conveying the impression that he alone could save the
situation; the six directors, all men of commonsense and certainly humane,
seated behind large turret-shaped inkpots; the concern and irritation in
their voices, asking how it could have happened; their comments: "An awful
thing!" "I suppose Pippin is doing the best he can!" "Wire him on no
account to leave the mine idle!" "Poor devils!" "A fund? Of course, what
ought we to give?" He had a strong conviction that nothing of all this
would disturb the commonsense with which they would go home and eat their
mutton. A good thing too; the less it was taken to heart the better! But
Scorrier felt angry. The fight was so unfair! A fellow all nerves—with
not a soul to help him! Well, it was his own lookout! He had chosen to
centre it all in himself, to make himself its very soul. If he gave way
now, the ship must go down! By a thin thread, Scorrier's hero-worship
still held. 'Man against nature,' he thought, 'I back the man.' The
struggle in which he was so powerless to give aid, became intensely
personal to him, as if he had engaged his own good faith therein.
The next day they went down again to the pit-head; and Scorrier himself
descended. The fumes had almost cleared, but there were some places which
would never be reached. At the end of the day all but four bodies had been
recovered. "In the day o' judgment," a miner said, "they four'll come out
of here." Those unclaimed bodies haunted Scorrier. He came on sentences of
writing, where men waiting to be suffocated had written down their
feelings. In one place, the hour, the word "Sleepy," and a signature. In
another, "A. F.—done for." When he came up at last Pippin was still
waiting, pocket-book in hand; they again departed at a furious pace.
Two days later Scorrier, visiting the shaft, found its neighbourhood
deserted—not a living thing of any sort was there except one
Chinaman poking his stick into the rubbish. Pippin was away down the coast
engaging an engineer; and on his return, Scorrier had not the heart to
tell him of the desertion. He was spared the effort, for Pippin said:
"Don't be afraid—you've got bad news? The men have gone on strike."
Scorrier sighed. "Lock, stock, and barrel"
"I thought so—see what I have here!" He put before Scorrier a
"At all costs keep working—fatal to stop—manage this somehow.—HEMMINGS."
Breathing quickly, he added: "As if I didn't know! 'Manage this somehow'—a
"What's to be done?" asked Scorrier.
"You see I am commanded!" Pippin answered bitterly. "And they're quite
right; we must keep working—our contracts! Now I'm down—not a
soul will spare me!"
The miners' meeting was held the following day on the outskirts of the
town. Pippin had cleared the place to make a public recreation-ground—a
sort of feather in the company's cap; it was now to be the spot whereon
should be decided the question of the company's life or death.
The sky to the west was crossed by a single line of cloud like a bar of
beaten gold; tree shadows crept towards the groups of men; the evening
savour, that strong fragrance of the forest, sweetened the air. The miners
stood all round amongst the burnt tree-stumps, cowed and sullen. They
looked incapable of movement or expression. It was this dumb paralysis
that frightened Scorrier. He watched Pippin speaking from his phaeton, the
butt of all those sullen, restless eyes. Would he last out? Would the
wires hold? It was like the finish of a race. He caught a baffled look on
Pippin's face, as if he despaired of piercing that terrible paralysis. The
men's eyes had begun to wander. 'He's lost his hold,' thought Scorrier;
'it's all up!'
A miner close beside him muttered: "Look out!"
Pippin was leaning forward, his voice had risen, the words fell like a
whiplash on the faces of the crowd: "You shan't throw me over; do you
think I'll give up all I've done for you? I'll make you the first power in
the colony! Are you turning tail at the first shot? You're a set of
cowards, my lads!"
Each man round Scorrier was listening with a different motion of the hands—one
rubbed them, one clenched them, another moved his closed fist, as if
stabbing some one in the back. A grisly-bearded, beetle-browed,
twinkling-eyed old Cornishman muttered: "A'hm not troublin' about that."
It seemed almost as if Pippin's object was to get the men to kill him;
they had gathered closer, crouching for a rush. Suddenly Pippin's voice
dropped to a whisper: "I'm disgraced Men, are you going back on me?"
The old miner next Scorrier called out suddenly: "Anny that's Cornishmen
here to stand by the superintendent?" A group drew together, and with
murmurs and gesticulation the meeting broke up.
In the evening a deputation came to visit Pippin; and all night long their
voices and the superintendent's footsteps could be heard. In the morning,
Pippin went early to the mine. Before supper the deputation came again;
and again Scorrier had to listen hour after hour to the sound of voices
and footsteps till he fell asleep. Just before dawn he was awakened by a
light. Pippin stood at his bedside. "The men go down to-morrow," he said:
"What did I tell you? Carry me home on my shield, eh?"
In a week the mine was in full work.
Two years later, Scorrier heard once more of Pippin. A note from Hemmings
reached him asking if he could make it convenient to attend their Board
meeting the following Thursday. He arrived rather before the appointed
time. The secretary received him, and, in answer to inquiry, said: "Thank
you, we are doing well—between ourselves, we are doing very well."
The secretary frowned. "Ah, Pippin! We asked you to come on his account.
Pippin is giving us a lot of trouble. We have not had a single line from
him for just two years!" He spoke with such a sense of personal grievance
that Scorrier felt quite sorry for him. "Not a single line," said
Hemmings, "since that explosion—you were there at the time, I
remember! It makes it very awkward; I call it personal to me."
"But how—" Scorrier began.
"We get—telegrams. He writes to no one, not even to his family. And
why? Just tell me why? We hear of him; he's a great nob out there.
Nothing's done in the colony without his finger being in the pie. He
turned out the last Government because they wouldn't grant us an extension
for our railway—shows he can't be a fool. Besides, look at our
It turned out that the question on which Scorrier's opinion was desired
was, whether Hemmings should be sent out to see what was the matter with
the superintendent. During the discussion which ensued, he was an
unwilling listener to strictures on Pippin's silence. "The explosion," he
muttered at last, "a very trying time!"
Mr. Booker pounced on him. "A very trying time! So it was—to all of
us. But what excuse is that—now, Mr. Scorrier, what excuse is that?"
Scorrier was obliged to admit that it was none.
"Business is business—eh, what?"
Scorrier, gazing round that neat Board-room, nodded. A deaf director, who
had not spoken for some months, said with sudden fierceness: "It's
disgraceful!" He was obviously letting off the fume of long-unuttered
disapprovals. One perfectly neat, benevolent old fellow, however, who had
kept his hat on, and had a single vice—that of coming to the
Board-room with a brown paper parcel tied up with string—murmured:
"We must make all allowances," and started an anecdote about his youth. He
was gently called to order by his secretary. Scorrier was asked for his
opinion. He looked at Hemmings. "My importance is concerned," was written
all over the secretary's face. Moved by an impulse of loyalty to Pippin,
Scorrier answered, as if it were all settled: "Well, let me know when you
are starting, Hemmings—I should like the trip myself."
As he was going out, the chairman, old Jolyon Forsyte, with a grave,
twinkling look at Hemmings, took him aside. "Glad to hear you say that
about going too, Mr. Scorrier; we must be careful—Pippin's such a
good fellow, and so sensitive; and our friend there—a bit heavy in
the hand, um?"
Scorrier did in fact go out with Hemmings. The secretary was sea-sick, and
his prostration, dignified but noisy, remained a memory for ever; it was
sonorous and fine—the prostration of superiority; and the way in
which he spoke of it, taking casual acquaintances into the caves of his
experience, was truly interesting.
Pippin came down to the capital to escort them, provided for their
comforts as if they had been royalty, and had a special train to take them
to the mines.
He was a little stouter, brighter of colour, greyer of beard, more nervous
perhaps in voice and breathing. His manner to Hemmings was full of
flattering courtesy; but his sly, ironical glances played on the
secretary's armour like a fountain on a hippopotamus. To Scorrier,
however, he could not show enough affection:
The first evening, when Hemmings had gone to his room, he jumped up like a
boy out of school. "So I'm going to get a wigging," he said; "I suppose I
deserve it; but if you knew—if you only knew...! Out here they've
nicknamed me 'the King'—they say I rule the colony. It's myself that
I can't rule"; and with a sudden burst of passion such as Scorrier had
never seen in him: "Why did they send this man here? What can he know
about the things that I've been through?" In a moment he calmed down
again. "There! this is very stupid; worrying you like this!" and with a
long, kind look into Scorrier's face, he hustled him off to bed.
Pippin did not break out again, though fire seemed to smoulder behind the
bars of his courteous irony. Intuition of danger had evidently smitten
Hemmings, for he made no allusion to the object of his visit. There were
moments when Scorrier's common-sense sided with Hemmings—these were
moments when the secretary was not present.
'After all,' he told himself, 'it's a little thing to ask—one letter
a month. I never heard of such a case.' It was wonderful indeed how they
stood it! It showed how much they valued Pippin! What was the matter with
him? What was the nature of his trouble? One glimpse Scorrier had when
even Hemmings, as he phrased it, received "quite a turn." It was during a
drive back from the most outlying of the company's trial mines, eight
miles through the forest. The track led through a belt of trees blackened
by a forest fire. Pippin was driving. The secretary seated beside him wore
an expression of faint alarm, such as Pippin's driving was warranted to
evoke from almost any face. The sky had darkened strangely, but pale
streaks of light, coming from one knew not where, filtered through the
trees. No breath was stirring; the wheels and horses' hoofs made no sound
on the deep fern mould. All around, the burnt tree-trunks, leafless and
jagged, rose like withered giants, the passages between them were black,
the sky black, and black the silence. No one spoke, and literally the only
sound was Pippin's breathing. What was it that was so terrifying? Scorrier
had a feeling of entombment; that nobody could help him; the feeling of
being face to face with Nature; a sensation as if all the comfort and
security of words and rules had dropped away from him. And-nothing
happened. They reached home and dined.
During dinner he had again that old remembrance of a little man chopping
at a castle with his sword. It came at a moment when Pippin had raised his
hand with the carving-knife grasped in it to answer some remark of
Hemmings' about the future of the company. The optimism in his uplifted
chin, the strenuous energy in his whispering voice, gave Scorrier a more
vivid glimpse of Pippin's nature than he had perhaps ever had before. This
new country, where nothing but himself could help a man—that was the
castle! No wonder Pippin was impatient of control, no wonder he was out of
hand, no wonder he was silent—chopping away at that! And suddenly he
thought: 'Yes, and all the time one knows, Nature must beat him in the
That very evening Hemmings delivered himself of his reproof. He had sat
unusually silent; Scorrier, indeed, had thought him a little drunk, so
portentous was his gravity; suddenly, however he rose. It was hard on a
man, he said, in his position, with a Board (he spoke as of a family of
small children), to be kept so short of information. He was actually
compelled to use his imagination to answer the shareholders' questions.
This was painful and humiliating; he had never heard of any secretary
having to use his imagination! He went further—it was insulting! He
had grown grey in the service of the company. Mr. Scorrier would bear him
out when he said he had a position to maintain—his name in the City
was a high one; and, by George! he was going to keep it a high one; he
would allow nobody to drag it in the dust—that ought clearly to be
understood. His directors felt they were being treated like children;
however that might be, it was absurd to suppose that he (Hemmings) could
be treated like a child...! The secretary paused; his eyes seemed to bully
"If there were no London office," murmured Pippin, "the shareholders would
get the same dividends."
Hemmings gasped. "Come!" he said, "this is monstrous!"
"What help did I get from London when I first came here? What help have I
Hemmings swayed, recovered, and with a forced smile replied that, if this
were true, he had been standing on his head for years; he did not believe
the attitude possible for such a length of time; personally he would have
thought that he too had had a little something to say to the company's
position, but no matter...! His irony was crushing.... It was possible
that Mr. Pippin hoped to reverse the existing laws of the universe with
regard to limited companies; he would merely say that he must not begin
with a company of which he (Hemmings) happened to be secretary. Mr.
Scorrier had hinted at excuses; for his part, with the best intentions in
the world, he had great difficulty in seeing them. He would go further—he
did not see them! The explosion...! Pippin shrank so visibly that Hemmings
seemed troubled by a suspicion that he had gone too far.
"We know," he said, "that it was trying for you...."
"Trying!" "burst out Pippin.
"No one can say," Hemmings resumed soothingly, "that we have not dealt
liberally." Pippin made a motion of the head. "We think we have a good
superintendent; I go further, an excellent superintendent. What I say is:
Let's be pleasant! I am not making an unreasonable request!" He ended on a
fitting note of jocularity; and, as if by consent, all three withdrew,
each to his own room, without another word.
In the course of the next day Pippin said to Scorrier: "It seems I have
been very wicked. I must try to do better"; and with a touch of bitter
humour, "They are kind enough to think me a good superintendent, you see!
After that I must try hard."
Scorrier broke in: "No man could have done so much for them;" and, carried
away by an impulse to put things absolutely straight, went on "But, after
all, a letter now and then—what does it amount to?"
Pippin besieged him with a subtle glance. "You too?" he said—"I must
indeed have been a wicked man!" and turned away.
Scorrier felt as if he had been guilty of brutality; sorry for Pippin,
angry with himself; angry with Pippin, sorry for himself. He earnestly
desired to see the back of Hemmings. The secretary gratified the wish a
few days later, departing by steamer with ponderous expressions of regard
and the assurance of his goodwill.
Pippin gave vent to no outburst of relief, maintaining a courteous
silence, making only one allusion to his late guest, in answer to a remark
"Ah! don't tempt me! mustn't speak behind his back."
A month passed, and Scorrier still—remained Pippin's guest. As each
mail-day approached he experienced a queer suppressed excitement. On one
of these occasions Pippin had withdrawn to his room; and when Scorrier
went to fetch him to dinner he found him with his head leaning on his
hands, amid a perfect fitter of torn paper. He looked up at Scorrier.
"I can't do it," he said, "I feel such a hypocrite; I can't put myself
into leading-strings again. Why should I ask these people, when I've
settled everything already? If it were a vital matter they wouldn't want
to hear—they'd simply wire, 'Manage this somehow!'"
Scorrier said nothing, but thought privately 'This is a mad business!'
What was a letter? Why make a fuss about a letter? The approach of
mail-day seemed like a nightmare to the superintendent; he became
feverishly nervous like a man under a spell; and, when the mail had gone,
behaved like a respited criminal. And this had been going on two years!
Ever since that explosion. Why, it was monomania!
One day, a month after Hemmings' departure, Pippin rose early from dinner;
his face was flushed, he had been drinking wine. "I won't be beaten this
time," he said, as he passed Scorrier. The latter could hear him writing
in the next room, and looked in presently to say that he was going for a
walk. Pippin gave him a kindly nod.
It was a cool, still evening: innumerable stars swarmed in clusters over
the forests, forming bright hieroglyphics in the middle heavens, showering
over the dark harbour into the sea. Scorrier walked slowly. A weight
seemed lifted from his mind, so entangled had he become in that uncanny
silence. At last Pippin had broken through the spell. To get that, letter
sent would be the laying of a phantom, the rehabilitation of commonsense.
Now that this silence was in the throes of being broken, he felt curiously
tender towards Pippin, without the hero-worship of old days, but with a
queer protective feeling. After all, he was different from other men. In
spite of his feverish, tenacious energy, in spite of his ironic humour,
there was something of the woman in him! And as for this silence, this
horror of control—all geniuses had "bees in their bonnets," and
Pippin was a genius in his way!
He looked back at the town. Brilliantly lighted it had a thriving
air-difficult to believe of the place he remembered ten years back; the
sounds of drinking, gambling, laughter, and dancing floated to his ears.
'Quite a city!' he thought.
With this queer elation on him he walked slowly back along the street,
forgetting that he was simply an oldish mining expert, with a look of
shabbiness, such as clings to men who are always travelling, as if their
"nap" were for ever being rubbed off. And he thought of Pippin, creator of
He had passed the boundaries of the town, and had entered the forest. A
feeling of discouragement instantly beset him. The scents and silence,
after the festive cries and odours of the town, were undefinably
oppressive. Notwithstanding, he walked a long time, saying to himself that
he would give the letter every chance. At last, when he thought that
Pippin must have finished, he went back to the house.
Pippin had finished. His forehead rested on the table, his arms hung at
his sides; he was stone-dead! His face wore a smile, and by his side lay
an empty laudanum bottle.
The letter, closely, beautifully written, lay before him. It was a fine
document, clear, masterly, detailed, nothing slurred, nothing concealed,
nothing omitted; a complete review of the company's position; it ended
with the words: "Your humble servant, RICHARD PIPPIN."
Scorrier took possession of it. He dimly understood that with those last
words a wire had snapped. The border-line had been overpassed; the point
reached where that sense of proportion, which alone makes life possible,
is lost. He was certain that at the moment of his death Pippin could have
discussed bimetallism, or any intellectual problem, except the one problem
of his own heart; that, for some mysterious reason, had been too much for
him. His death had been the work of a moment of supreme revolt—a
single instant of madness on a single subject! He found on the
blotting-paper, scrawled across the impress of the signature, "Can't stand
it!" The completion of that letter had been to him a struggle ungraspable
by Scorrier. Slavery? Defeat? A violation of Nature? The death of justice?
It were better not to think of it! Pippin could have told—but he
would never speak again. Nature, at whom, unaided, he had dealt so many
blows, had taken her revenge...!
In the night Scorrier stole down, and, with an ashamed face, cut off a
lock of the fine grey hair. 'His daughter might like it!' he thought....
He waited till Pippin was buried, then, with the letter in his pocket,
started for England.
He arrived at Liverpool on a Thursday morning, and travelling to town,
drove straight to the office of the company. The Board were sitting.
Pippin's successor was already being interviewed. He passed out as
Scorrier came in, a middle-aged man with a large, red beard, and a foxy,
compromising face. He also was a Cornishman. Scorrier wished him luck with
a very heavy heart.
As an unsentimental man, who had a proper horror of emotion, whose living
depended on his good sense, to look back on that interview with the Board
was painful. It had excited in him a rage of which he was now heartily
ashamed. Old Jolyon Forsyte, the chairman, was not there for once,
guessing perhaps that the Board's view of this death would be too small
for him; and little Mr. Booker sat in his place. Every one had risen,
shaken hands with Scorrier, and expressed themselves indebted for his
coming. Scorrier placed Pippin's letter on the table, and gravely the
secretary read out to his Board the last words of their superintendent.
When he had finished, a director said, "That's not the letter of a
madman!" Another answered: "Mad as a hatter; nobody but a madman would
have thrown up such a post." Scorrier suddenly withdrew. He heard Hemmings
calling after him. "Aren't you well, Mr. Scorrier? aren't you well, sir?"
He shouted back: "Quite sane, I thank you...."
The Naples "express" rolled round the outskirts of the town. Vesuvius
shone in the sun, uncrowned by smoke. But even as Scorrier looked, a white
puff went soaring up. It was the footnote to his memories.
February 1901. February 1901.