Goodbye, Mr. Chips: A Novel Read online

  And there he was, dreaming again before the fire, dreaming of times and incidents in which he alone could take secret interest. Funny and sad, comic and tragic, they all mixed up in his mind, and some day, however hard it proved, he would sort them out and make a book of them….

  VIII

  AND THERE WAS ALWAYS in his mind that spring day in ninety-eight when he had paced through Brookfield village as in some horrifying nightmare, half struggling to escape into an outside world where the sun still shone and where everything had happened differently. Young Faulkner had met him there in the lane outside the School. “Please, sir, may I have the afternoon off? My people are coming up.”

  “Eh? What’s that? Oh yes, yes….”

  “Can I miss Chapel, too, sir?”

  “Yes … yes …”

  “And may I go to the station to meet them?”

  He nearly answered: “You can go to blazes for all I care. My wife is dead and my child is dead, and I wish I were dead myself.”

  Actually he nodded and stumbled on. He did not want to talk to anybody or to receive condolences; he wanted to get used to things, if he could, before facing the kind words of others. He took his fourth form as usual after call-over, setting them grammar to learn by heart while he himself stayed at his desk in a cold, continuing trance. Suddenly someone said: “Please, sir, there are a lot of letters for you.”

  So there were; he had been leaning his elbows on them; they were all addressed to him by name. He tore them open one after the other, but each contained nothing but a blank sheet of paper. He thought in a distant way that it was rather peculiar, but he made no comment; the incident gave hardly an impact upon his vastly greater preoccupations. Not till days afterward did he realize that it had been a piece of April foolery.

  They had died on the same day, the mother and the child just born; on April 1, 1898.

  IX

  CHIPS CHANGED HIS MORE commodious apartments in School House for his old original bachelor quarters. He thought at first he would give up his housemastership, but the Head persuaded him otherwise; and later he was glad. The work gave him something to do, filled up an emptiness in his mind and heart. He was different; everyone noticed it. Just as marriage had added something, so did bereavement; after the first stupor of grief he became suddenly the kind of man whom boys, at any rate, unhesitatingly classed as “old.” It was not that he was less active; he could still knock up a half century on the cricket field; nor was it that he had lost any interest or keenness in his work. Actually, too, his hair had been graying for years; yet now, for the first time, people seemed to notice it. He was fifty. Once, after some energetic fives, during which he had played as well as many a fellow half his age, he overheard a boy saying: “Not half bad for an old chap like him.”

  Chips, when he was over eighty, used to recount that incident with many chuckles. “Old at fifty, eh? Umph—it was Naylor who said that, and Naylor can’t be far short of fifty himself by now! I wonder if he still thinks that fifty’s such an age? Last I heard of him, he was lawyering, and lawyers live long—look at Halsbury—umph—Chancellor at eighty-two, and died at ninety-nine. There’s an—umph—age for you! Too old at fifty—why, fellows like that are too young at fifty. … I was myself … a mere infant….”

  And there was a sense in which it was true. For with the new century there settled upon Chips a mellowness that gathered all his developing mannerisms and his oft-repeated jokes into a single harmony. No longer did he have those slight and occasional disciplinary troubles, or feel diffident about his own work and worth. He found that his pride in Brookfield reflected back, giving him cause for pride in himself and his position. It was a service that gave him freedom to be supremely and completely himself. He had won, by seniority and ripeness, an uncharted no-man’s-land of privilege; he had acquired the right to those gentle eccentricities that so often attack schoolmasters and parsons. He wore his gown till it was almost too tattered to hold together; and when he stood on the wooden bench by Big Hall steps to take call-over, it was with an air of mystic abandonment to ritual. He held the School List, a long sheet curling over a board; and each boy, as he passed, spoke his own name for Chips to verify and then tick off on the list. That verifying glance was an easy and favorite subject of mimicry throughout the School—steel-rimmed spectacles slipping down the nose, eyebrows lifted, one a little higher than the other, a gaze half rapt, half quizzical. And on windy days, with gown and white hair and School List fluttering in uproarious confusion, the whole thing became a comic turn sandwiched between afternoon games and the return to classes.

  Some of those names, in little snatches of a chorus, recurred to him ever afterward without any effort of memory…. Ainsworth, Attwood, Avonmore, Babcock, Baggs, Barnard, Bassenthwaite, Battersby, Beccles, Bedford-Marshall, Bentley, Best …

  Another one:—

  … Unsley, Vailes, Wadham, Wagstaff, Wallington, Waters Primus, Waters Secundus, Watling, Waveney, Webb …

  And yet another that comprised, as he used to tell his fourth-form Latinists, an excellent example of a hexameter:—

  … Lancaster, Latton, Lemare, Lytton-Bosworth, MacGonigall, Mansfield …

  Where had they all gone to, he often pondered; those threads he had once held together, how far had they scattered, some to break, others to weave into unknown patterns? The strange randomness of the world beguiled him, that randomness which never would, so long as the world lasted, give meaning to those choruses again.

  And behind Brookfield, as one may glimpse a mountain behind another mountain when the mist clears, he saw the world of change and conflict; and he saw it, more than he realized, with the remembered eyes of Kathie. She had not been able to bequeath him all her mind, still less the brilliance of it; but she had left him with a calmness and a poise that accorded well with his own inward emotions. It was typical of him that he did not share the general jingo bitterness against the Boers. Not that he was a pro-Boer—he was far too traditional for that, and he disliked the kind of people who were pro-Boers; but still, it did cross his mind at times that the Boers were engaged in a struggle that had a curious similarity to those of certain English history-book heroes—Hereward the Wake, for instance, or Caractacus. He once tried to shock his fifth form by suggesting this, but they only thought it was one of his little jokes.

  However heretical he might be about the Boers, he was orthodox about Mr. Lloyd George and the famous Budget. He did not care for either of them. And when, years later, L. G. came as the guest of honor to a Brookfield Speech Day, Chips said, on being presented to him: “Mr. Lloyd George, I am nearly old enough—umph—to remember you as a young man, and—umph—I confess that you seem to me—umph—to have improved—umph—a great deal.” The Head, standing with them, was rather aghast; but L. G. laughed heartily and talked to Chips more than to anyone else during the Ceremonial that followed.

  “Just like Chips,” was commented afterward. “He gets away with it. I suppose at that age anything you say to anybody is all right….”

  X

  IN 1900 OLD MELDRUM, who had succeeded Wetherby as Head and had held office for three decades, died suddenly from pneumonia; and in the interval before the appointment of a successor, Chips became Acting Head of Brookfield. There was just the faintest chance that the Governors might make the appointment a permanent one; but Chips was not really disappointed when they brought in a youngster of thirty-seven, glittering with Firsts and Blues and with the kind of personality that could reduce Big Hall to silence by the mere lifting of an eyebrow. Chips was not in the running with that kind of person; he never had been and never would be, and he knew it. He was an altogether milder and less ferocious animal.

  Those years before his retirement in 1913 were studded with sharply remembered pictures.

  A May morning; the clang of the School bell at an unaccustomed time; everyone summoned to assemble in Big Hall. Ralston, the new Head, very pontifical and aware of himself, fixing the multitude with a cold, pre
saging severity. “You will all be deeply grieved to hear that His Majesty King Edward the Seventh died this morning…. There will be no school this afternoon, but a service will be held in the Chapel at four-thirty.”

  A summer morning on the railway line near Brookfield. The railwaymen were on strike, soldiers were driving the engines, stones had been thrown at trains. Brookfield boys were patrolling the line, thinking the whole business great fun. Chips, who was in charge, stood a little way off, talking to a man at the gate of a cottage. Young Cricklade approached. “Please, sir, what shall we do if we meet any strikers?”

  “Would you like to meet one?”

  “I—I don’t know, sir.”

  God bless the boy—he talked of them as if they were queer animals out of a zoo! “Well, here you are, then—umph—you can meet Mr. Jones—he’s a striker. When he’s on duty he has charge of the signal box at the station. You’ve put your life in his hands many a time.”

  Afterward the story went around the School: There was Chips, talking to a striker. Talking to a striker. Might have been quite friendly, the way they were talking together.

  Chips, thinking it over a good many times, always added to himself that Kathie would have approved, and would also have been amused.

  Because always, whatever happened and however the avenues of politics twisted and curved, he had faith in England, in English flesh and blood, and in Brookfield as a place whose ultimate worth depended on whether she fitted herself into the English scene with dignity and without disproportion. He had been left a vision that grew dearer with each year—of an England for which days of ease were nearly over, of a nation steering into channels where a hair’s breadth of error might be catastrophic. He remembered the Diamond Jubilee; there had been a whole holiday at Brookfield, and he had taken Kathie to London to see the procession. That old and legendary lady, sitting in her carriage like some crumbling wooden doll, had symbolized impressively so many things that, like herself, were nearing an end. Was it only the century, or was it an epoch?

  And then that frenzied Edwardian decade, like an electric lamp that goes brighter and whiter just before it burns itself out.

  Strikes and lockouts, champagne suppers and unemployed marchers, Chinese labor, tariff reform, H.M.S. Dreadnought, Marconi, Home Rule for Ireland, Doctor Crippen, suffragettes, the lines of Chatalja. …

  An April evening, windy and rainy; the fourth form construing Vergil, not very intelligently, for there was exciting news in the papers; young Grayson, in particular, was careless and preoccupied. A quiet, nervous boy.

  “Grayson, stay behind—umph—after the rest.”

  Then:—

  “Grayson, I don’t want to be—umph—severe, because you are generally pretty good—umph—in your work, but to-day—you don’t seem—umph—to have been trying at all. Is anything the matter?”

  “N-no, sir.”

  “Well—umph—we’ll say no more about it, but—umph—I shall expect better things next time.”

  Next morning it was noised around the School that Grayson’s father had sailed on the Titanic, and that no news had yet come through as to his fate.

  Grayson was excused lessons; for a whole day the School centred emotionally upon his anxieties. Then came news that his father had been among those rescued.

  Chips shook hands with the boy. “Well, umph—I’m delighted, Grayson. A happy ending. You must be feeling pretty pleased with life.”

  “Y-yes, sir.”

  A quiet, nervous boy. And it was Grayson Senior, not Junior, with whom Chips was destined later to condole.

  XI

  AND THEN THE ROW with Ralston. Funny thing, Chips had never liked him; he was efficient, ruthless, ambitious, but not, somehow, very likable. He had, admittedly, raised the status of Brookfield as a school, and for the first time in memory there was a longish waiting list. Ralston was a live wire; a fine power transmitter, but you had to beware of him.

  Chips had never bothered to beware of him; he was not attracted by the man, but he served him willingly enough and quite loyally. Or, rather, he served Brookfield. He knew that Ralston did not like him, either; but that didn’t seem to matter. He felt himself sufficiently protected by age and seniority from the fate of other masters whom Ralston had failed to like.

  Then suddenly, in 1908, when he had just turned sixty, came Ralston’s urbane ultimatum. “Mr. Chipping, have you ever thought you would like to retire?”

  Chips stared about him in that book-lined study, startled by the question, wondering why Ralston should have asked it. He said, at length: “No—umph—I can’t say that—umph—I have thought much about it—umph—yet.” “Well, Mr. Chipping, the suggestion is there for you to consider. The Governors would, of course, agree to your being adequately pensioned.”

  Abruptly Chips flamed up. “But—umph—I don’t want—to retire. I don’t—umph—need to consider it.”

  “Nevertheless, I suggest that you do.”

  “But—umph—I don’t see—why—I should!”

  “In that case, things are going to be a little difficult.”

  “Difficult? Why—difficult?”

  And then they set to, Ralston getting cooler and harder, Chips getting warmer and more passionate, till at last Ralston said icily: “Since you force me to use plain words, Mr. Chipping, you shall have them. For some time past, you haven’t been pulling your weight here. Your methods of teaching are slack and old-fashioned; your personal habits are slovenly; and you ignore my instructions in a way which, in a younger man, I should regard as rank insubordination. It won’t do, Mr. Chipping, and you must ascribe it to my forbearance that I have put up with it so long.”

  “But—” Chips began, in sheer bewilderment; and then he took up isolated words out of that extraordinary indictment. “Slovenly—umph—you said—?”

  “Yes, look at the gown you’re wearing. I happen to know that that gown of yours is a subject of continual amusement throughout the School.”

  Chips knew it, too, but it had never seemed to him a very regrettable matter.

  He went on: “And—you also said—umph—something about—insubordination—?”

  “No, I didn’t. I said that in a younger man, I should have regarded it as that. In your case it’s probably a mixture of slackness and obstinacy. This question of Latin pronunciation, for instance—I think I told you years ago that I wanted the new style used throughout the School. The other masters obeyed me; you prefer to stick to your old methods, and the result is simply chaos and inefficiency.”

  At last Chips had something tangible that he could tackle. “Oh, that!” he answered scornfully. “Well, I—umph—I admit that I don’t agree with the new pronunciation. I never did. Umph—a lot of nonsence, in my opinion. Making boys say ‘Kickero’ at school when—umph—for the rest of their lives they’ll say ‘Cicero’—if they ever—umph—say it at all. And instead of ‘vicissim’—God bless my soul—you’d make them say, ‘We kiss ‘im’! Umph—umph!” And he chuckled momentarily, forgetting that he was in Ralston’s study and not in his own friendly form room.

  “Well, there you are, Mr. Chipping—that’s just an example of what I complain of. You hold one opinion and I hold another, and, since you decline to give way, there can’t very well be any alternative. I am to make Brookfield a thoroughly up-to-date school. I’m a science man myself, but for all that I have no objection to the classics—provided that they are taught efficiently. Because they are dead languages is no reason why they should be dealt with in a dead educational technique. I understand, Mr. Chipping, that your Latin and Greek lessons are exactly the same as they were when I began here ten years ago?”

  Chips answered, slowly and with pride: “For that matter—umph—they are the same as when your predecessor—Mr. Meldrum—came here, and that—umph—was thirty-eight years ago. We began here, Mr. Meldrum and I—in—umph—in 1870. And it was—um—Mr. Meldrum’s predecessor, Mr. Wetherby—who first approved my syllabus. ‘You’ll take the
Cicero for the fourth he said to me. Cicero, too—not Kickero!”

  “Very interesting, Mr. Chipping, but once again it proves my point—you live too much in the past, and not enough in the present and future. Times are changing, whether you realize it or not. Modern parents are beginning to demand something more for their three years’ school fees than a few scraps of languages that nobody speaks. Besides, your boys don’t learn even what they’re supposed to learn. None of them last year got through the Lower Certificate.”

  And suddenly, in a torrent of thoughts too pressing to be put into words, Chips made answer to himself. These examinations and certificates and so on—what did they matter? And all this efficiency and up-to-dateness—what did that matter, either? Ralston was trying to run Brookfield like a factory—a factory for turning out a snob culture based on money and machines. The old gentlemanly traditions of family and broad acres were changing, as doubtless they were bound to; but instead of widening them to form a genuine inclusive democracy of duke and dustman, Ralston was narrowing them upon the single issue of a fat banking account. There never had been so many rich men’s sons at Brookfield.

  The Speech Day Garden Party was like Ascot. Ralston met these wealthy fellows in London clubs and persuaded them that Brookfield was the coming school, and, since they couldn’t buy their way into Eton or Harrow, they greedily swallowed the bait. Awful fellows, some of them—though others were decent enough. Financiers, company promoters, pill manufacturers. One of them gave his son five pounds a week pocket money. Vulgar … ostentatious … all the hectic rotten-ripeness of the age. … And once Chips had got into trouble because of some joke he had made about a boy’s name. The boy wrote home about it, and his father sent an angry letter to Ralston. Touchy, no sense of humor, no sense of proportion—that was the matter with them, these new fellows…. No sense of proportion. And it was a sense of proportion, above all things, that Brookfield ought to teach—not so much Latin or Greek or Chemistry or Mechanics. And you couldn’t expect to test that sense of proportion by setting papers and granting certificates….