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of these occasions Pippin had withdrawn to his room; and when Scorrier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 this glory.
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.
End of Project Gutenberg's Villa Rubein and Other Stories, by John
Galsworthy