The Signal-man (word text)

The Signal-Man

By Charles Dickens

“Halloa! Below there!”

When he heard a voice thus calling to him, he was standing at the door of his box,

with

a

flag

in

his

hand,

furled

round

its

short

pole.

One

would

have

thought,

considering

the

nature

of

the

ground,

that

he

could

not

have

doubted

from

what

quarter the voice came; but instead of looking up to where I stood on the top of the

steep cutting nearly over his head, he turned himself about, and looked down the Line.

There was something remarkable in his manner of doing so, though I could not have

said for my life what. But I know it was remarkable enough to attract my notice, even

though

his

figure

was

foreshortened

and

shadowed,

down

in

the

deep

trench,

and

mine was high above him, so steeped in the glow of an angry sunset, that I had shaded

my eyes with my hand before I saw him at all.

“Halloa! Below!”

From looking down the Line, he turned himself about again, and, raising his eyes,

saw my figure high above him.

“Is there any path by which I can come down and speak to you?”

He looked up at me without replying, and I looked down at him without pressing

him

too

soon

with

a

repetition

of

my

idle

question.

Just

then

there

came

a

vague

vibration

in

the

earth

and

air,

quickly

changing

into

a

violent

pulsation,

and

an

oncoming rush that caused me to start back, as though it had force to draw me down.

When such vapour as rose to my height from this rapid train had passed me, and was

skimming away over the landscape, I looked down again, and saw him refurling the

flag he had shown while the train went by.

I repeated my inquiry. After a pause, during which he seemed to regard me with

fixed attention, he motioned with his rolled-up flag towards a point on my level, some

two or three hundred yards distant. I called down to

him, “All right!” and made for

that

point.

There,

by

dint

of

looking

closely

about

me,

I

found

a

rough

zigzag

descending path notched out, which I followed.

The cutting was extremely deep, and unusually precipitate. It was made through

a clammy stone, that became oozier and wetter as I went down. For these reasons, I

found the way long enough to give me time to recall a singular air of reluctance or

compulsion with which he had pointed out the path.

When I came down low enough upon the zigzag descent to see him again, I saw

that he was standing between the rails on the way by which the train had lately passed,

in an attitude as if he were waiting for me to appear. He had his left hand at his chin,

and that left elbow rested on his right hand, crossed over his breast. His attitude was

one of such expectation and watchfulness that I stopped a moment, wondering at it.

I

resumed my

downward way, and stepping

out

upon the level

of the railroad,

and drawing nearer to him, saw that he was a dark sallow man, with a dark beard and

rather heavy eyebrows. His post was in as solitary and dismal a place as ever I saw.

On either side, a dripping-wet wall of jagged stone, excluding all view but a strip of

sky; the perspective one way only a crooked prolongation of this great dungeon; the

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shorter perspective in

the other direction terminating in

a gloomy red light,

and the

gloomier

entrance

to

a

black

tunnel,

in

whose

massive

architecture

there

was

a

barbarous, depressing, and forbidding air. So little sunlight ever found its way to this

spot, that it had an earthy, deadly smell; and so much cold wind rushed through it, that

it struck chill to me, as if I had left the natural world.

Before he stirred, I was near enough to him to have touched him. Not even then

removing his eyes from mine, he stepped back one step, and lifted his hand.

This

was

a

lonesome

post

to

occupy

(I

said),

and

it

had

riveted

my

attention

when I looked down from up yonder. A visitor was a rarity, I should suppose; not an

unwelcome rarity, I hoped? In me, he merely saw a man who had been shut up within

narrow

limits

all

his

life,

and

who,

being

at

last

set

free,

had

a

newly-awakened

interest in these great works. To such purpose I spoke to him; but I am far from sure

of

the

terms

I

used;

for,

besides

that

I

am

not

happy

in

opening

any

conversation,

there was something in the man that daunted me.

He directed a most curious look towards the red light near the tunnel?s mouth,

and looked all about it, as if something were missing from it, and then looked at me.

That light was part of his charge? Was it not?

He answered in a low voice,

—“Don?t you know it is?”

The monstrous thought came into my mind, as I perused the fixed eyes and the

saturnine face, that this was a spirit, not a man. I have speculated since, whether there

may have been infection in his mind.

In my turn, I stepped back. But in making the action, I detected in his eyes some

latent fear of me. This put the monstrous thought to flight.

“You look at me,” I said, forcing a smile, “as if you had a dread of me.”

“I was doubtful,” he returned, “whether I had seen you before.”

“Where?”

He pointed to the red light he had looked at.

“There?” I said.

Intently watchful of me, he replied (but without sound), “Yes.”

“My

good fellow, what

should

I do there? However,

be that as

it may,

I never

was there, you may swear.”

“I think I may,” he rejoined. “Yes; I am sure I may.”

His manner cleared, like my own. He replied to my remarks with readiness, and

in well-chosen words. Had he much to do there? Yes; that was to say, he had enough

responsibility to bear; but exactness and watchfulness were what was required of him,

and of actual work

—

manual labour

—

he had next to none. To change that signal, to

trim those lights, and to turn this iron handle now and then, was all he had to do under

that head. Regarding those many long and lonely hours of which I seemed to make so

much, he could only say that the routine of his life had shaped itself into that form,

and he had grown used to it. He had taught himself a language down here,

—

if only to

know it by sight, and to have formed his own crude ideas of its pronunciation, could

be called learning it. He had also worked at fractions and decimals, and tried a little

algebra; but he was, and had been as a boy, a poor hand at figures. Was it necessary

for

him

when

on

duty

always

to

remain

in

that

channel

of

damp

air,

and

could

he

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never rise into the sunshine from between those high stone walls? Why, that depended

upon times and circumstances. Under some conditions there would be less upon

the

Line

than

under

others,

and

the

same

held

good

as

to

certain

hours

of

the

day

and

night. In bright weather, he did choose occasions for getting a little above these lower

shadows;

but,

being

at

all

times

liable

to

be

called

by

his

electric

bell,

and

at

such

times listening for it with redoubled anxiety, the relief was less than I would suppose.

He took me into his box, where there was a fire, a desk for an official book in

which he had to make certain entries, a telegraphic instrument with its dial, face, and

needles,

and

the

little

bell

of

which

he

had

spoken.

On

my

trusting

that

he

would

excuse the remark that he had been well educated, and (I hoped I might say without

offence)

perhaps

educated

above

that

station,

he

observed

that

instances

of

slight

incongruity in such wise would rarely be found wanting among large bodies of men;

that

he

had

heard

it

was

so

in

workhouses,

in

the

police

force,

even

in

that

last

desperate resource, the army; and that he knew it was so, more or less, in any great

railway staff. He had been, when young (if I could believe it, sitting in that hut,

—

he

scarcely could), a student of natural philosophy, and had attended lectures; but he had

run

wild,

misused

his

opportunities,

gone

down,

and

never

risen

again.

He

had

no

complaint to offer about that. He had made his bed, and he lay upon it. It was far too

late to make another.

All

that

I

have

here

condensed

he

said

in

a

quiet

manner,

with

his

grave

dark

regards divided between me and the fire. He threw in the word, “Sir,” from ti

me to

time,

and

especially

when

he

referred

to

his

youth,

—

as

though

to

request

me

to

understand that he claimed to be nothing but what I found him. He was several times

interrupted by the little bell, and had to read off messages, and send replies. Once he

had to

stand without the door, and display a flag as a train

passed, and make some

verbal communication to the driver. In the discharge of his duties, I observed him to

be

remarkably

exact

and

vigilant,

breaking

off

his

discourse

at

a

syllable,

and

remaining silent until what he had to do was done.

In

a

word,

I

should

have

set

this

man

down

as one

of

the

safest

of

men

to

be

employed in that capacity, but for the circumstance that while he was speaking to me

he twice broke off with a fallen colour, turned his face towards the little bell when it

did

NOT

ring,

opened

the

door

of

the

hut

(which

was

kept

shut

to

exclude

the

unhealthy damp), and looked out towards the red light near the mouth of the tunnel.

On both of those occasions, he came back to the fire with the inexplicable air upon

him which I had remarked, without being able to define, when we were so far asunder.

Said

I, when

I

rose to

leave him, “You almost

make me think that

I

have met

with a contented man.”

(I am afraid I must acknowledge that I said it to lead him on.)

“I believe

I used to be so,” he rejoined, in the low voice in which he had first

spoken; “but I am troubled, sir, I am troubled.”

He would have recalled the words if he could. He had said them, however, and I

took them up quickly.

“With what? What is your trouble?”

“It is very difficult to impart, sir. It is very, very difficult to speak of. If ever you

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make me another visit, I will try to tell you.”

“But I expressly intend to make you another visit. Say, when shall it be?”

“I go off ea

rly in the morning, and I shall be on again at ten to- morrow night,

sir.”

“I will come at eleven.”

He thanked me, and went out at the door with me. “I?ll show my white light, sir,”

he said, in his peculiar low voice, “till you have found the way up. When

you have

found it, don?t call out! And when you are at the top, don?t call out!”

His

manner

seemed

to

make

the

place

strike

colder

to

me,

but

I

said

no

more

than, “Very well.”

“And when you come down to

-

morrow night, don?t call out! Let me ask you a

partin

g question. What made you cry, ?Halloa! Below there!? to

-

night?”

“Heaven knows,” said I. “I cried something to that effect—”

“Not to that effect, sir. Those were the very words. I know them well.”

“Admit

those

were

the

very

words.

I

said

them,

no

doubt,

be

cause

I

saw

you

below.”

“For no other reason?”

“What other reason could I possibly have?”

“You had no feeling that they were conveyed to you in any supernatural way?”

“No.”

He wished me good-night, and held up his light. I walked by the side of the down

Line of rails (with a very disagreeable sensation of a train coming behind me) until I

found

the

path.

It

was

easier

to

mount

than

to

descend,

and

I

got

back

to

my

inn

without any adventure.

Punctual

to

my

appointment,

I

placed

my

foot

on

the

first

notch

of

the

zigzag

next night, as the distant clocks were striking eleven. He was waiting for me at the

bottom, with his white light on. “I have not called out,” I said, when we came close

together; “may I speak now?” “By all means, sir.” “Good

-night, then, and he

re?s my

hand.” “Good

-

night, sir, and here?s mine.” With that we walked side by side to his box,

entered it, closed the door, and sat down by the fire.

“I have made up my mind, sir,” he began, bending forward as soon as we were

seated, and speaking in a ton

e but a little above a whisper, “that you shall not have to

ask me twice what troubles me. I took you for some one else yesterday evening. That

troubles me.”

“That mistake?”

“No. That some one else.”

“Who is it?”

“I don?t know.”

“Like me?”

“I don?t know. I

never saw the face. The left arm is across the face, and the right

arm is waved,

—violently waved. This way.”

I followed his action with my eyes, and it was the action of an arm gesticulating,

with the utmost passion and vehemence, “For God?s sake, clear the way!”

“One moonlight night,” said the man, “I was sitting here, when I heard a voice

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