CHAPTER 1

When you are getting on(ageing) in years (but not ill, of course), you get
very sleepy(drowsy) at times, and the hours seem to pass like lazy(idle)
cattle moving across a landscape( scenery). It was like that for Chips as the
autumn term progressed and the days shortened till it was actually dark
enough to light the gas before call-over (call-back). For Chips, like some old
sea captain, still measured (calculated) time by the signals of the past; and
well he might, for he lived at Mrs. Wickett's, just across the road from the
School. He had been there more than a decade( ten years), ever since he
finally gave up his mastership; and it was Brookfield far(much) more than
Greenwich time that both he and his landlady(owner) kept. "Mrs. Wickett,"
Chips would sing out, in that jerky, high-pitched (piercing) voice that had
still a good deal of sprightliness (lively) in it, "you might bring me a cup of
tea before prep, will you?"

When you are getting on in years it is nice(pleasant) to sit by the fire and
drink a cup of tea and listen to the school bell sounding dinner, call-over,
prep, and lights-out. Chips always wound up(rounded) the clock after that
last bell; then he put the wire guard(protector, net) in front of the fire, turned
out(end up) the gas, and carried a detective novel to bed. Rarely (seldom)
did he read more than a page of it before sleep came swiftly and peacefully,
more like a mystic(spiritual) intensifying of perception(awareness) than any
changeful entrance into another world. For his days and nights were equally
full of dreaming.

He was getting on in years (but not ill, of course); indeed, as Doctor

Merivale said, there was really nothing the matter with him. "My dear
fellow, you're fitter than I am," Merivale would say, sipping (drink) a glass
of sherry (a fortified wine) when he called every fortnight (two weeks) or so.
"You're past the age when people get these horrible (dreadful) diseases;
you're one of the few lucky ones who're going to die a really natural death.
That is, of course, if you die at all. You're such a remarkable (extraordinary)
old boy that one never knows." But when Chips had a cold or when east
winds roared (thunder), Merivale would sometimes take Mrs. Wickett aside
in the lobby (corridor): "Look after him, you know. His chest... it puts a
strain on his heart. Nothing really wrong with him— only anno domini
(growing age), but that's the most fatal (disastrous) complaint (protest) of all,
in the end."

Anno domini... by Jove, yes. Born in 1848, and taken to the Great Exhibition
as a toddling (with unsteady steps) child—not many people still alive
(living) could boast (brag) a thing like that. Besides, Chips could even
remember Brookfield in Wetherby's time. A phenomenon (occurrence), that
was. Wetherby had been an old man in those days—1870—easy to
remember because of the Franco-Prussian War. Chips had put in for
Brookfield after a year at Melbury, which he hadn't liked, because he had
been ragged (worn) there a good deal. But Brookfield he had liked, almost
from the beginning. He remembered that day of his preliminary (first)
interview—sunny June, with the air full of flower scents (fragrance) and the
plick-plock (tittering sound) of cricket on the pitch. Brookfield was playing
Barnhurst, and one of the Barnhurst boys, a chubby (plump) little fellow,
made a brilliant century. Queer (strange) that a thing like that should stay in
the memory so clearly. Wetherby himself was very fatherly (caring) and
courteous (polite); he must have been ill then, poor chap, for he died during
the summer vacation (holiday(s)), before Chips began his first term. But the
two had seen and spoken to each other, anyway.

Chips often thought, as he sat by the fire at Mrs. Wickett's: I am probably

(likely) the only man in the world who has a vivid (clear) recollection of old
Wetherby... Vivid, yes; it was a frequent (common) picture in his mind, that
summer day with the sunlight filtering (trickle) through the dust (grime) in
Wetherby's study. "You are a young man, Mr. Chipping, and Brookfield is
an old foundation (basis). Youth and age often combine well. Give your
enthusiasm (keenness) to Brookfield, and Brookfield will give you
something in return. And don't let anyone play tricks (deception) with you. I
—er—gather that discipline was not always your strong point at Melbury?"

"Well, no, perhaps not, sir."

"Never mind; you're full young; it's largely a matter of experience. You have
another chance here. Take up a firm (hard) attitude (approach) from the
beginning— that's the secret (mystery) of it."

Perhaps it was. He remembered that first tremendous (huge) ordeal of taking

prep; a September sunset more than half a century ago; Big Hall full of
lusty(vigorous) barbarians(savage) ready to pounce(attack) on him as their
legitimate(lawful) prey(victim). His youth, fresh-complexioned(make-up),
high-collared, and side-whiskered (odd fashions people followed in those
days), at the mercy of five hundred unprincipled(dishonest) ruffians(bully)
to whom the baiting(lure) of new masters was a fine art, an
exciting(stimulating) sport, and something of a tradition(custom). Decent
(satisfactory) little beggars individually, but, as a mob (crowd), just pitiless
and implacable (ruthless). The sudden hush(quiet) as he took his place at the
desk on the dais; the scowl(glower) he assumed(presume) to cover his
inward(internal) nervousness(anxiety); the tall clock ticking behind him, and
the smells of ink and varnish(lacquer); the last blood-red rays
slanting(sloping) in slabs(piece) through the stained-glass(dye) windows.
Someone dropped a desk lid (top)- Quickly, he must take everyone by
surprise (shock); he must show that there was no nonsense (idiocy) about
him. "You there in the fifth row—you with the red hair—what's your
name?"

"Colley, sir."

"Very well, Colley, you have a hundred lines."

No trouble (problems) at all after that. He had won his first round (session).

And years later, when Colley was an alderman (nobleman) of the City of
London and a baronet (lord) and various other things, he sent his son (also
red-haired) to Brookfield, and Chips would say: "Colley, your father was the
first boy I ever punished when I came here twenty-five years ago. He
deserved (earned) it then, and you deserve it now." How they all laughed;
and how Sir Richard laughed when his son wrote home the story in next
Sunday's letter!

And again, years after that, many years after that, there was an even better
joke. For another Colley had just arrived—son of the Colley who was a son
of the first Colley. And Chips would say, punctuating (accentuate) his
remarks with that little "umph-um" that had by then become a habit with
him: "Colley, you are—umph—a splendid(excellent) example of—umph —
inherited(inborn, hereditary) traditions. I remember your grandfather—umph
—he could never grasp the Ablative Absolute. A stupid (silly) fellow, your
grandfather. And your father, too—umph—I remember him— he used to sit
at that far desk by the wall—he wasn't much better, either. But I do believe
—my dear Colley—that you are— umph—the biggest fool of the lot
(group)!" Roars of laughter.

A great joke, this growing old—but a sad joke, too, in a way. And as Chips
sat by his fire with autumn gales(wind) rattling(clatter) the windows, the
waves of humor(comedy) and sadness(sorrow) swept over him very often
until tears fell, so that when Mrs. Wickett came in with his cup of tea she did
not know whether he had been laughing or crying. And neither did Chips
himself.

CHAPTER 2

Across the road behind a rampart (fence) of ancient (very old , antique)
elms(temperate lamptrees) lay Brookfield, russet(reddish-brown) under its
autumn(old age) mantle(cover) of creeper(climber, rambler). A group of
eighteenth-century buildings centered upon a quadrangle (square), and there
were acres of playing fields beyond; then came the small dependent village
and the open fen (marsh) country. Brookfield, as Wetherby had said, was an
old foundation (basis); established in the reign (rule) of Elizabeth, as a
grammar school, it might, with better luck, have become as famous(well-
known) as Harrow. Its luck, however, had been not so good; the School
went up and down, dwindling (decline) almost to non-existence at one time,
becoming almost illustrious (famous) at another. It was during one of these
latter periods, in the reign of the first George, that the main structure had
been rebuilt (reconstruct) and large additions made. Later, after the
Napoleonic Wars and until mid-Victorian days, the School declined (drop)
again, both in numbers and in repute (fame). Wetherby, who came in 1840,
restored (reinstate) its fortunes (luck) somewhat; but its subsequent
(successive) history never raised it to front-rank status (position). It was,
nevertheless, a good school of the second rank. Several notable (remarkable)
families supported it; it supplied fair (reasonable) samples (model) of the
history-making men of the age—judges, members of parliament, colonial
administrators, a few peers (lord) and bishops. Mostly, however, it turned
out merchants, manufacturers, and professional men, with a good sprinkling
(handful) of country squires and parsons. It was the sort of school which,
when mentioned, would sometimes make snobbish (arrogant) people confess
(acknowledge) that they rather (instead of) thought they had heard of it.

But if it had not been this sort (kind) of school it would probably (perhaps)
not have taken Chips. For Chips, in any social or academic sense
(perception), was just as respectable (honorable), but no more brilliant
(intelligent), than Brookfield itself.

It had taken him some time to realize (understand) this, at the beginning
(start). Not that he was boastful (bragging) or conceited (arrogant), but he
had been, in his early twenties, as ambitious (desirous) as most other young
men at such an age. His dream had been to get a headship (principal ship)
eventually (ultimately), or at any rate a senior (superior) mastership in a
really first-class school; it was only gradually, after repeated trials (attempt)
and failures, that he realized the inadequacy (insufficiency) of his
qualifications. His degree, for instance, was not particularly good, and his
discipline, though good enough and improving, was not absolutely reliable
(dependable) under all conditions. He had no private means and no family
connections of any importance. About 1880, after he had been at Brookfield
a decade, he began to recognize that the odds (chances) were heavily
(excessively) against his being able to better himself by moving elsewhere
(different place); but about that time, also, the possibility (probability) of
staying where he was began to fill a comfortable (relaxed) niche (place) in
his mind. At forty, he was rooted, settled (established), and quite
(absolutely) happy. At fifty, he was the doyen (dean) of the staff. At sixty,
under a new and youthful Head, he was Brookfield—the guest of honor at
Old Brookfieldian dinners, the court of appeal (plea) in all matters affecting
Brookfield history and traditions. And in 1913, when he turned sixty-five, he
retired, was presented with a check and a writing desk and a clock, and went
across the road to live at Mrs. Wickett's. A decent career, decently closed;
three cheers for old Chips, they all shouted (cry (out)), at that uproarious
(riotous, wild) end-of-term dinner. Three cheers, indeed; but there was more
to come, an unguessed (unpredictable) epilogue (conclusion), an encore
(repetition) played to a tragic (sad) audience (spectators).

CHAPTER 3

It was a small but very comfortable (relaxing) and sunny (bright) room that
Mrs. Wickett let to him. The house itself was ugly (unattractive) and
pretentious (pompous); but that didn't matter. It was convenient (fitting)—
that was the main thing. For he liked, if the weather were mild (temperate)
enough, to stroll across to the playing fields in an afternoon and watch the
games. He liked to smile and exchange (chat) a few words with the boys
when they touched (moved) their caps to him. He made a special point of
getting to know all the new boys and having them to tea with him during
their first term. He always ordered a walnut cake with pink icing from
Reddaway's, in the village, and during the winter term there were crumpets
(pieces), too—a little pile of them in front of the fire, soaked (drenched) in
butter so that the bottom (depths) one lay in a little shallow (superficial)
pool. His guests found it fun to watch him make tea —mixing careful
spoonfuls from different caddies (small containers). And he would ask the
new boys where they lived, and if they had family connections at
Brookfield. He kept watch to see that their plates were never empty, and
punctually at five, after the session (meeting) had lasted an hour, he would
glance (glimpse) at the clock and say: "Well—umph—it's been very
delightful—umph —meeting you like this—I'm sorry—umph—you can't
stay..." And he would smile and shake hands with them in the porch (lobby),
leaving them to race across the road to the School with their comments.
"Decent (decorous) old boy, Chips. Gives you a jolly (cheerful) good tea,
anyhow, and you do know when he wants you to push off (depart)..."

And Chips also would be making his comments—to Mrs. Wickett when she
entered (made an entrance) his room to clear away the remains of the party.
"A most— umph—interesting time, Mrs. Wickett. Young Branksome tells
me— umph—that his uncle was Major Collingwood—the Collingwood we
had here in—umph—nought-two, I think it was. Dear me, I remember
Collingwood very well. I once thrashed (beat) him—umph—for climbing
(mounting) on to the gymnasium (A room or building equipped for indoor
sports) roof—to get a ball out of the gutter (drain). Might have—umph—
broken his neck, the young fool (idiot). Do you remember him, Mrs.
Wickett? He must have been in your time."

Mrs. Wickett, before she saved money, had been in charge of the linen room
at the School.

"Yes, I knew 'im, sir. Cheeky (rude), 'e was to me, gener'ly. But we never 'ad
no bad words between us. Just cheeky-like. 'E never meant no harm. That
kind never does, sir. Wasn't it 'im that got the medal (award), sir?"

"Yes, a D.S.O."

"Will you be wanting anything else, sir?"

"Nothing more now—umph—till chapel (a small church) time. He was

killed —in Egypt, I think... Yes—umph—you can bring my supper about
then."

"Very good, sir."

A pleasant (delightful), placid (peaceful) life, at Mrs. Wickett's. He had no

worries (troubles); his pension (allowance) was adequate (suitable), and
there was a little money saved up besides. He could afford (bear) everything
and anything he wanted. His room was furnished (decorated) simply and
with schoolmasterly taste: a few bookshelves and sporting trophies (award);
a mantelpiece (fireplace) crowded with fixture (attachment) cards and signed
photographs of boys and men; a worn Turkey carpet (mat); big easy-chairs;
pictures (images) on the wall of the Acropolis and the Forum. Nearly
everything had come out of his old housemaster's room in School House.
The books were chiefly classical, the classics having been his subject; there
was, however, a seasoning of history and belles-lettres. There was also a
bottom shelf piled up with cheap editions of detective (Investigator) novels.
Chips enjoyed these. Sometimes he took down Vergil or Xenophon and read
for a few moments, but he was soon back again with Doctor Thorndyke or
Inspector French. He was not, despite his long years of assiduous (laborious)
teaching, a very profound (keen) classical scholar; indeed, he thought of
Latin and Greek far more as dead (deceased) languages from which English
gentlemen ought to know a few quotations (citation) than as living tongues
that had ever been spoken by living people. He liked those short leading
articles in the Times that introduced a few tags that he recognized. To be
among the dwindling (falling) number of people who understood such things
was to him a kind of secret (mystery) and valued (appreciated) freemasonry
(builder, stone worker); it represented (stand for), he felt, one of the chief
(main) benefits (advantage) to be derived (draw) from a classical education.

So there he lived, at Mrs. Wickett's, with his quiet (peaceful) enjoyments

(pleasures) of reading and talking and remembering; an old man, white-
haired and only a little bald (hairless), still fairly active for his years,
drinking tea, receiving callers, busying himself with corrections for the next
edition of the Brookfieldian Directory, writing his occasional letters in thin,
spidery (irregular), but very legible (readable) script (writing). He had new
masters to tea, as well as new boys. There were two of them that autumn
term, and as they were leaving after their visit one of them commented:
"Quite a character, the old boy, isn't he? All that fuss about mixing the tea—
a typical (model) bachelor, if ever there was one."

Which was oddly (strangely) incorrect; because Chips was not a bachelor at
all. He had married, though it was so long ago that none of the staff at
Brookfield could remember his wife.

CHAPTER 4

There came to him, stirred (excite) by the warmth (heat) of the fire and the
gentle aroma (scent) of tea, a thousand tangled (complicated) recollections
(memory) of old times. Spring—the spring of 1896. He was forty-eight—an
age at which a permanence (constancy) of habits begins to be predictable
(foreseeable). He had just been appointed (assign) housemaster; with this
and his classical forms, he had made for himself a warm and busy corner of
life. During the summer vacation (holidays) he went up to the Lake District
with Rowden, a colleague (team-mate); they walked and climbed for a week,
until Rowden had to leave suddenly on some family business. Chips stayed
on alone at Wasdale Head, where he boarded (lodged) in a small farmhouse.

One day, climbing on Great Gable, he noticed a girl waving (gesture)

excitedly (eagerly) from a dangerous (risky)-looking ledge. Thinking she
was in difficulties (troubles), he hastened (rushed) toward her, but in doing
so slipped (slide) himself and wrenched (sprain) his ankle (talus). As it
turned out, she was not in difficulties at all, but was merely (only) signaling
to a friend farther (a great distance) down the mountain; she was an expert
(adept) climber, better even than Chips, who was pretty (somewhat) good.
Thus he found himself the rescued instead of the rescuer; and neither role
was one for which he had much relish (enjoyment). For he did not, he would
have said, care for women; he never felt at home or at ease with them; and
that monstrous (horrible) creature (living thing) beginning to be talked
about, the New Woman of the nineties, filled him with horror (hatred). He
was a quiet (peaceful), conventional (traditional) person, and the world,
viewed from the haven (sanctuary) of Brookfield, seemed to him full of
distasteful (offensive) innovations (newness); there was a fellow (comrade)
named Bernard Shaw who had the strangest (weird) and most reprehensible
(condemnable) opinions (ideas); there was Ibsen, too, with his disturbing
(perturbing) plays; and there was this new craze (enthusiasm) for bicycling
which was being taken up by women equally with men. Chips did not hold
with all this modern newness and freedom. He had a vague (unclear) notion
(idea), if he ever formulated it, that nice women were weak (feeble), timid
(shy), and delicate (frail), and that nice men treated them with a polite
(affable) but rather distant (reserved) chivalry (gentlemanliness). He had not,
therefore, expected to find a woman on Great Gable; but, having
encountered (meet) one who seemed to need masculine (manful) help, it was
even more terrifying (frightening) that she should turn the tables by helping
him. For she did. She and her friend had to. He could scarcely (hardly) walk,
and it was a hard job getting him down the steep (perpendicular) track (path)
to Wasdale.

Her name was Katherine Bridges; she was twenty-five—young (youthful)

enough to be Chips's daughter. She had blue, flashing (sparkling) eyes and
freckled (dotted) cheeks and smooth (sleek) straw-colored hair. She too was
staying at a farm, on holiday with a girl friend, and as she considered herself
responsible (accountable) for Chips's accident, she used to bicycle along the
side of the lake (pond) to the house in which the quiet (peaceful), middle-
aged, serious-looking man lay resting.

That was how she thought of him at first. And he, because she rode (steer) a
bicycle and was unafraid (fearless) to visit a man alone in a farmhouse
sitting room, wondered (ponder) vaguely (inattentively) what the world was
coming to. His sprain (wrench) put him at her mercy (pity), and it was soon
revealed (display) to him how much he might need that mercy. She was a
governess (tutor) out of a job, with a little money saved up; she read and
admired (praise) Ibsen; she believed that women ought to be admitted to the
universities; she even thought they ought to have a vote. In politics she was
a radical (revolutionary), with leanings toward the views of people like
Bernard Shaw and William Morris. All her ideas and opinions she poured
(flow) out to Chips during those summer afternoons at Wasdale Head; and
he, because he was not very articulate (expressive), did not at first think it
worthwhile to contradict (counter) them. Her friend went away, but she
stayed; what could you do with such a person, Chips thought. He used to
hobble (stagger) with sticks along a footpath leading to the tiny church;
there was a stone slab (piece) on the wall, and it was comfortable (restful) to
sit down, facing (fronting) the sunlight and the green-brown majesty
(splendor) of the Gable and listening to the chatter (talk) of—well, yes,
Chips had to admit it— a very beautiful girl.

He had never met anyone like her. He had always thought that the modern
type, this "new woman" business, would repel (reject) him; and here she
was, making him positively (confidently) look forward to the glimpse (sign)
of her safety (security) bicycle careering along the lakeside road. And she,
too, had never met anyone like him. She had always thought that middle-
aged men who read the Times and disapproved (condemned) of modernity
(newness) were terrible (awful) bores; yet here he was, claiming her interest
and attention (care) far more than youths of her own age. She liked him,
initially (at the start), because he was so hard to get to know, because he had
gentle (kind) and quiet manners, because his opinions dated from those
utterly (absolutely) impossible seventies and eighties and even earlier—yet
were, for all that, so thoroughly honest; and because—because his eyes were
brown and he looked charming (appealing) when he smiled. "Of course, _I_
shall call you Chips, too," she said, when she learned that was his nickname
at school.

Within a week they were head over heels in love; before Chips could walk
without a stick, they considered themselves engaged; and they were married
in London a week before the beginning of the autumn term.

CHAPTER 5

When Chips, dreaming through the hours at Mrs. Wickett's, recollected

(remember) those days, he used to look down at his feet and wonder which
one it was that had performed so signal a service. That, the trivial (minor)
cause of so many momentous (significant) happenings (event), was the one
thing of which details evaded (dodged) him. But he resaw the glorious
(splendid) hump (projection) of the Gable (he had never visited the Lake
District since), and the mouse-gray depths of Wastwater under the Screes;
he could resmell the washed air after heavy (massive) rain, and refollow the
ribbon (strip) of the pass across to Sty Head. So clearly it lingered (stay),
that time of dizzy (giddy) happiness (delight), those evening strolls by the
waterside, her cool voice and her gay laughter (chuckling). She had been a
very happy person, always.

They had both been so eager (keen), planning a future together; but he had
been rather serious (alarming) about it, even a little awed. It would be all
right, of course, her coming to Brookfield; other housemasters (principal)
were married. And she liked boys, she told him, and would enjoy living
among them. "Oh, Chips, I'm so glad (happy) you are what you are. I was
afraid (frightened) you were a solicitor (lawyer) or a stockbroker (merchant)
or a dentist or a man with a big cotton business in Manchester. When I first
met you, I mean. Schoolmastering's so different, so important, don't you
think? To be influencing (controlling) those who are going to grow up and
matter to the world..."
Chips said he hadn't thought of it like that—or, at least, not often. He did his
best; that was all anyone could do in any job.

"Yes, of course, Chips. I do love you for saying simple things like that."

And one morning—another memory (recollection) gem-clear when he

turned to it —he had for some reason been afflicted with an acute desire to
depreciate (underestimate) himself and all his attainments (achievement). He
had told her of his only mediocre (middling) degree, of his occasional
(periodic) difficulties of discipline, of the certainty that he would never get a
promotion (upgrading), and of his complete ineligibility (disability) to marry
a young and ambitious (desirous) girl. And at the end of it all she had
laughed in answer.

She had no parents and was married from the house of an aunt in Ealing. On
the night before the wedding, when Chips left the house to return to his
hotel, she said, with mock (pretended) gravity (seriousness): "This is an
occasion, you know— this last farewell of ours. I feel rather like a new boy
beginning his first term with you. Not scared (afraid), mind you—but just,
for once, in a thoroughly respectful (mannerly) mood (tone). Shall I call you
'sir'—or would 'Mr. Chips' be the right thing? 'Mr. Chips,' I think. Good-bye,
then— good-bye, Mr. Chips..."

(A hansom clop-clopping in the roadway; green-pale gas lamps flickering

(twinkling) on a wet pavement (footpath); newsboys shouting something
about South Africa; Sherlock Holmes in Baker Street.)

"Good-bye, Mr. Chips..."

CHAPTER 6

There had followed (accompany) then a time of such happiness (pleasure)

that Chips, remembering (recall) it long afterward, hardly believed it could
ever have happened (occur) before or since in the world. For his marriage
was a triumphant (victorious) success. Katherine conquered (win)
Brookfield as she had conquered Chips; she was immensely (extremely)
popular with boys and masters alike. Even the wives of the masters, tempted
(lure) at first to be jealous (envious) of one so young and lovely, could not
long resist (oppose) her charms (attraction).

But most remarkable (extraordinary) of all was the change she made in
Chips. Till his marriage he had been a dry and rather neutral sort of person;
liked and thought well of by Brookfield in general, but not of the stuff
(materials) that makes for great popularity (fame) or that stirs (stimulate)
great affection (love). He had been at Brookfield for over a quarter of a
century, long enough to have established (prove) himself as a decent
(decorous) fellow and a hard worker; but just too long for anyone to believe
him capable of ever being much more. He had, in fact, already begun to sink
into that creeping (sneaking) dry rot of pedagogy which is the worst
(destructive) and ultimate pitfall (drawback) of the profession; giving the
same lessons year after year had formed a groove (indentation) into which
the other affairs of his life adjusted themselves with insidious (stealthy)
ease. He worked well; he was conscientious (honorable); he was a fixture
that gave service, satisfaction, confidence (belief), everything except
inspiration (motivation).

And then came this astonishing (surprising) girl-wife whom nobody had
expected— least of all Chips himself. She made him, to all appearances, a
new man; though most of the newness was really a warming to life of things
that were old, imprisoned (locked up), and unguessed. His eyes gained
sparkle (flash); his mind, which was adequately if not brilliantly equipped
(prepared), began to move more adventurously. The one thing he had always
had, a sense of humor, blossomed (develop) into a sudden richness to which
his years lent maturity (sophistication). He began to feel a greater sureness
(confident); his discipline improved to a point at which it could become, in a
sense, less rigid (strict); he became more popular. When he had first come to
Brookfield he had aimed (planed for) to be loved, honored, and obeyed—but
obeyed, at any rate. Obedience (compliance) he had secured, and honor had
been granted (allow) him; but only now came love, the sudden love of boys
for a man who was kind without being soft, who understood them well
enough, but not too much, and whose private happiness linked them with
their own. He began to make little jokes, the sort that schoolboys like—
mnemonics (reminiscential) and puns (witticism) that raised laughs and at
the same time imprinted (implant) something in the mind. There was one
that never failed to please, though it was only a sample of many others.
Whenever his Roman History forms came to deal with the Lex Canuleia, the
law that permitted patricians to marry plebeians, Chips used to add: "So that,
you see, if Miss Plebs wanted Mr. Patrician to marry her, and he said he
couldn't, she probably replied: 'Oh yes, you can, you liar!'" Roars (crash) of
laughter.

And Kathie broadened (expand) his views and opinions, also, giving him an
outlook far beyond the roofs (ceiling) and turrets (towers) of Brookfield, so
that he saw his country as something deep and gracious (courteous) to which
Brookfield was but one of many feeding streams. She had a cleverer brain
than his, and he could not confuse her ideas even if and when he disagreed
with them; he remained, for instance, a Conservative (traditional) in politics,
despite all her radical-socialist talk. But even where he did not accept, he
absorbed (engrossed); her young idealism (romanticism) worked upon his
maturity to produce an amalgam (mixture) very gentle and wise.

Sometimes she persuaded (motivate) him completely. Brookfield, for

example, ran a mission in East London, to which boys and parents
contributed (donated) generously (bigheartedly) with money but rarely with
personal contact. It was Katherine who suggested that a team from the
mission should come up to Brookfield and play one of the School's elevens
at soccer. The idea was so revolutionary (innovative) that from anyone but
Katherine it could not have survived (lived) its first frosty (unfriendly)
reception (response). To introduce a group of slum (ghetto) boys to the
serene (peaceful) environment of better-class youngsters seemed at first a
wanton (senseless) stirring of all kinds of things that had better be left
untouched (unharmed). The whole staff was against it, and the School, if its
opinion could have been taken, was probably against it too. Everyone was
certain that the East End lads would be hooligans (delinquent), or else that
they would be made to feel uncomfortable (uneasy); anyhow, there would be
"incidents (events)," and everyone would be confused (dazed) and upset
(distressed). Yet Katherine persisted (continue).

"Chips," she said, "they're wrong, you know, and I'm right. I'm looking
ahead to the future, they and you are looking back to the past. England isn't
always going to be divided into officers and 'other ranks.' And those Poplar
boys are just as important—to England—as Brookfield is. You've got to
have them here, Chips. You can't satisfy your conscience (moral sense) by
writing a check for a few guineas and keeping them at arm's length. Besides,
they're proud of Brookfield—just as you are. Years hence, maybe, boys of
that sort will be coming here—a few of them, at any rate. Why not? Why
ever not? Chips, dear, remember this is eighteen-ninety-seven—not sixty-
seven, when you were up at Cambridge. You got your ideas well stuck in
those days, and good ideas they were too, a lot of them. But a few— just a
few, Chips—want unsticking..."

Rather to her surprise, he gave way and suddenly became a keen advocate
(supporter) of the proposal (suggestion), and the volte-face was so complete
that the authorities (officials) were taken unaware (unconscious) and found
themselves consenting (agreeing) to the dangerous experiment. The boys
from Poplar arrived at Brookfield one Saturday afternoon, played soccer
with the School's second team, were honorably (Respectfully) defeated by
seven goals to five, and later had high tea with the School team in the
Dining Hall. They then met the Head and were shown over the School, and
Chips saw them off at the railway station in the evening. Everything had
passed without the slightest (minor) hitch (problem) of any kind, and it was
clear that the visitors were taking away with them as fine an impression
(feeling) as they had left behind.

They took back with them also the memory of a charming woman who had
met them and talked to them; for once, years later, during the War, a private
stationed (post) at a big military camp near Brookfield called on Chips and
said he had been one of that first visiting team. Chips gave him tea and
chatted (talked) with him, till at length, shaking hands, the man said: "And
'ow's the missus, sir? I remember her very well."

"Do you?" Chips answered, eagerly. "Do you remember her?"

"Rather. I should think anyone would."

And Chips replied: "They don't, you know. At least, not here. Boys come
and go; new faces all the time; memories don't last. Even masters don't stay
forever. Since last year—when old Gribble retired (give up work)—he's —
um—the School butler—there hasn't been anyone here who ever saw my
wife. She died, you know, less than a year after your visit. In ninety-eight."
"I'm real sorry to 'ear that, sir. There's two or three o' my pals, anyhow, who
remember 'er clear as anything, though we did only see 'er that wunst. Yes,
we remember 'er, all right."

"I'm very glad... That was a grand day we all had—and a fine game, too."

"One o' the best days aht I ever 'ad in me life. Wish it was then and not nah
—straight, I do. I'm off to Frawnce to-morrer."

A month or so later Chips heard that he had been killed at Passchendaele.

CHAPTER 7

And so it stood, a warm (pleasant) and vivid (clear) patch (period) in his life,
casting (throwing) a radiance (brightness) that glowed (brightened) in a
thousand recollections (memories). Twilight (dusk) at Mrs. Wickett's, when
the School bell clanged (resounded) for call-over, brought them back to him
in a cloud —Katherine scampering (running) along the stone corridors
(hallway), laughing beside him at some "howler" (mistake) in an essay he
was marking, taking the cello part in a Mozart trio for the School concert,
her creamy (milky) arm sweeping over the brown sheen (shine) of the
instrument (tool). She had been a good player and a fine musician. And
Katherine furred and muffed for the December house matches, Katherine at
the Garden Party that followed Speech Day Prize-giving, Katherine
tendering (giving) her advice in any little problem that arose (appeared).
Good advice, too—which he did not always take, but which always
influenced (affected) him.

"Chips, dear, I'd let them off if I were you. After all, it's nothing very serious
(weighty)."

"I know. I'd like to let them off, but if I do I'm afraid they'll do it again."

"Try telling them that, frankly (openly), and give them the chance."

"I might."

And there were other things, occasionally (irregularly), that were serious.

"You know, Chips, having all these hundreds of boys cooped up here is
really an unnatural (abnormal) arrangement (plan), when you come to think
about it. So that when anything does occur that oughtn't to, don't you think
it's a bit unfair (unjustified) to come down on them as if it were their own
fault (mistake) for being here?"

"Don't know about that, Kathie, but I do know that for everybody's sake we
have to be pretty (fairly) strict (firm) about this sort of thing. One black
sheep can contaminate (pollute) others."

"After he himself has been contaminated to begin with. After all, that's what
probably (possibly) DID happen, isn't it?"
"Maybe. We can't help it. Anyhow, I believe Brookfield is better than a lot
of other schools. All the more reason (cause) to keep it so."

"But this boy, Chips... you're going to sack (dismiss) him?"

"The Head probably will, when I tell him."

"And you're going to tell the Head?"

"It's a duty, I'm afraid."

"Couldn't you think about it a bit... talk to the boy again... find out how it
began... After all—apart from this business—isn't he rather a nice boy?"

"Oh, he's all right."

"Then, Chips dear, don't you think there ought to be some other way..."

And so on. About once in ten times he was adamant (rigid) and wouldn't be
persuaded (prompted). In about half of these exceptional (unusual) cases he
afterward rather wished he had taken her advice. And years later, whenever
he had trouble (problem) with a boy, he was always at the mercy
(forgiveness) of a softening wave of reminiscence (recollection); the boy
would stand there, waiting to be told his punishment, and would see, if he
were observant (attentive), the brown eyes twinkle (sparkle) into a shine
(flash) that told him all was well. But he did not guess that at such a moment
Chips was remembering something that had happened long before he was
born; that Chips was thinking: Young ruffian (bully), I'm hanged if _I_ can
think of any reason to let him off, but I'll bet (speculate) she would have
done!

But she had not always pleaded (appealed) for leniency (gentleness). On
rather rare (uncommon) occasions she urged severity (strictness) where
Chips was inclined (willing) to be forgiving (merciful). "I don't like his type,
Chips. He's too cocksure (arrogant) of himself. If he's looking for trouble I
should certainly let him have it."

What a host (presenter) of little incidents, all deep-buried in the past—

problems that had once been urgent (crucial), arguments (issues) that had
once been keen (earnest), anecdotes (tales) that were funny (humorous) only
because one remembered the fun. Did any emotion (feeling) really matter
when the last trace (sign) of it had vanished (disappeared) from human
memory; and if that were so, what a crowd (multitude) of emotions clung to
him as to their last home before annihilation (destruction)! He must be kind
to them, must treasure (value) them in his mind before their long sleep. That
affair of Archer's resignation, for instance—a queer (strange) business, that
was. And that affair about the rat that Dunster put in the organ loft while old
Ogilvie was taking choir (singers) practice. Ogilvie was dead and Dunster
drowned at Jutland; of others who had witnessed (marked) or heard of the
incident, probably most had forgotten. And it had been like that, with other
incidents (events), for centuries. He had a sudden vision of thousands and
thousands of boys, from the age of Elizabeth onward; dynasty (empire) upon
dynasty of masters; long epochs (periods) of Brookfield history that had left
not even a ghostly (supernatural) record. Who knew why the old fifth-form
room was called "the Pit"? There was probably a reason, to begin with; but it
had since been lost—lost like the lost books of Livy. And what happened at
Brookfield when Cromwell fought at Naseby, near by? How did Brookfield
react to the great scare (shock) of the "Forty-Five"? Was there a whole
holiday when news came of Waterloo? And so on, up to the earliest (first)
time that he himself could remember—1870, and Wetherby saying, by way
of small talk after their first and only interview: "Looks as if we shall have
to settle (resolve) with the Prussians ourselves one of these fine days, eh?"

When Chips remembered things like this he often felt that he would write
them down and make a book of them; and during his years at Mrs. Wickett's
he sometimes went even so far as to make desultory (irregular) notes
(records) in an exercise book. But he was soon brought up against
difficulties (problems)—the chief one being that writing tired (exhausted)
him, both mentally and physically. Somehow, too, his recollections lost
much of their flavor (essence) when they were written down; that story
about Rushton and the sack (bag) of potatoes, for instance—it would seem
quite (somewhat) tame (submissive) in print, but Lord, how funny it had
been at the time! It was funny, too, to remember it; though perhaps if you
didn't remember Rushton... and who would, anyway, after all those years? It
was such a long time ago... Mrs. Wickett, did you ever know a fellow named
Rushton? Before your time, I dare (venture) say... went to Burma in some
government job... or was it Borneo?... Very funny fellow, Rushton... 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
(unhappy), comic (humorous) and tragic (woeful), they all mixed up in his
mind, and some day, however hard it proved, he would sort (arrange) them
out and make a book of them...

CHAPTER 8

And there was always in his mind that spring day in ninety- eight when he
had paced (walked) through Brookfield village as in some horrifying
(frightening) nightmare (bad dream), half struggling to escape (get away)
into an outside world where the sun still shone and where everything had
happened differently. Young Faulkner had met him there in the lane (street)
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 (almost) answered: "You can go to blazes (fire) for all I care. My
wife is dead and my child is dead, and I wish I were dead myself."

Actually he nodded (assent) and stumbled (staggered) on. He did not want to
talk to anybody or to receive condolences (sympathies); he wanted to get
used to things, if he could, before facing the kind (gentle) 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 (spell). Suddenly someone said: "Please, sir, there are a lot of letters
for you."

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

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

CHAPTER 9

Chips changed his more commodious (spacious) apartments (flats) in School

House for his old original bachelor quarters. He thought at first he would
give up (surrender) his house mastership, but the Head persuaded
(motivated) him otherwise; and later he was glad (happy). The work gave
him something to do, filled up an emptiness (hollowness) in his mind and
heart. He was different; everyone noticed it. Just as marriage had added
something, so did bereavement (death); after the first stupor (trance) of grief
(sorrow) he became suddenly the kind of man whom boys, at any rate,
unhesitatingly (resolutely) 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 (eagerness) 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 (spirited) fives,
during which he had played as well as many a fellow half his age, he
overheard (listened to) a boy saying: "Not half bad for an old chap like him."

Chips, when he was over eighty, used to recount (rehearse) that incident
(event) with many chuckles (giggles). "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 (baby)..."

And there was a sense (impression) in which it was true. For with the new
century there settled upon Chips a mellowness (softness) that gathered all
his developing mannerisms (characteristics) and his oft-repeated jokes into a
single harmony (accord). No longer did he have those slight (minor) and
occasional (infrequent) disciplinary troubles (problems), or feel diffident
(shy) about his own work and worth (value). 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
(superlatively) and completely himself. He had won, by seniority
(superiority) and ripeness (maturity), an uncharted (unexplored) no-man's-
land of privilege (honour); he had acquired the right to those gentle (kind)
eccentricities (oddities) that so often attack schoolmasters and parsons. He
wore his gown till it was almost too tattered (torn) to hold together; and
when he stood on the wooden (woody) bench by Big Hall steps to take call-
over, it was with an air of mystic (spiritual) abandonment (surrender) to
ritual (ceremony). He held the School List, a long sheet curling (bending)
over a board (piece of wood); and each boy, as he passed, spoke his own
name for Chips to verify (attest) and then tick off on the list. That verifying
glance (glimpse) was an easy and favorite (best-loved) subject of mimicry
(imitation) throughout the School— steel-rimmed spectacles (glasses)
slipping down the nose, eyebrows lifted, one a little higher than the other, a
gaze (stare) half rapt (entranced), half quizzical (curious). And on windy
(stormy) days, with gown and white hair and School List fluttering
(flapping) in uproarious (very funny) confusion (disorder), the whole thing
became a comic (funny) turn sandwiched between afternoon games and the
return to classes.

Some of those names, in little snatches of a chorus (strain), recurred

(returned to mind) 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 (meditated); those threads he
had once held together, how far had they scattered (dispersed), some to
break, others to weave into unknown patterns (designs)? The strange
randomness (Disarrangement) of the world beguiled (cheated) 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 (glance) a mountain behind
another mountain when the mist (fog) clears, he saw the world of change
and conflict (dispute); and he saw it, more than he realized, with the
remembered eyes of Kathie. She had not been able to bequeath (bestow) him
all her mind, still less the brilliance (wisdom) of it; but she had left him with
a calmness (peacefulness) and a poise (composure) that accorded well with
his own inward emotions. It was typical (characteristic) of him that he did
not share the general jingo (bigotry) bitterness (anguish) against the Boers.
Not that he was a pro-Boer—he was far too traditional (conventional) 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 (strange) similarity to those of certain English history-book heroes—
Hereward the Wake, for instance, or Caractacus. He once tried to shock
(horrify) his fifth form by suggesting this, but they only thought it was one
of his little jokes (jests).

However heretical (unorthodox) he might be about the Boers, he was

orthodox (traditional) 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 (admit) that you seem to me—
umph—to have improved—umph—a great deal." The Head standing with
them, was rather aghast (horrified); but L. G. laughed heartily
(enthusiastically) and talked to Chips more than to anyone else during the
ceremonial (formal) that followed.

"Just like Chips," was commented (remarked) afterward. "He gets away with
it. I suppose at that age anything you say to anybody is all right..."

CHAPTER 10

In 1900 old Meldrum, who had succeeded (followed) Wetherby as Head and
had held office for three decades, died suddenly from pneumonia; and in the
interval (break) before the appointment (selection) of a successor (heir),
Chips became Acting Head of Brookfield. There was just the faintest (faded)
chance (possibility) that the Governors might make the appointment a
permanent (long-term) one; but Chips was not really disappointed when they
brought in a youngster of thirty-seven, glittering (illustrious) with Firsts and
Blues and with the kind of personality (disposition) that could reduce Big
Hall to silence by the mere (just) 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 (tender) and less ferocious (fierce)
animal.

Those years before his retirement in 1913 were studded (ornamented) with
sharply (clearly) remembered pictures.
A May morning; the clang (ringing) of the School bell at an unaccustomed
(unusual) time; everyone summoned (called) to assemble in Big Hall.
Ralston, the new Head, very pontifical (pompous) and aware (informed) of
himself, fixing the multitude with a cold, presaging (predicting) severity
(strictness). "You will all be deeply grieved (saddened) 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 railway men
were on strike (stop-work), soldiers were driving the engines, stones had
been thrown at trains. Brookfield boys were patrolling (guarding) the line,
thinking the whole business great fun (amusement). Chips, who was in
charge, stood a little way off, talking to a man at the gate of a cottage
(cabin). Young Cricklade approached (moved towards). "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 (mad) 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 round the School: There was Chips, talking to a
striker. Talking to a striker. Might have been quite (absolutely) friendly
(cordial), the way they were talking together.

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

Because always, whatever happened and however the avenues (paths) of

politics twisted (perverted) and curved (rounded), he had faith in England, in
English flesh and blood (soul), and in Brookfield as a place whose ultimate
(eventual) worth (value) depended on whether she fitted (adjusted) herself
into the English scene (setting) with dignity (decorum) and without
disproportion (inequality). He had been left a vision (insight) that grew
clearer with each year—of an England for which days of ease (comfort)
were nearly over, of a nation steering (driving) into channels where a hair's
breadth (narrow) of error might be catastrophic (disastrous). He remembered
the Diamond Jubilee; there had been a whole holiday at Brookfield, and he
had taken Kathie to London to see the procession (parade). That old and
legendary (famous) lady, sitting in her carriage like some crumbling
(collapsing) wooden doll, had symbolized (represented) impressively
(superbly) so many things that, like herself, were nearing an end. Was it
only the century, or was it an epoch (era)?

And then that frenzied (wild) Edwardian decade, like an electric lamp that
goes brighter (shining) and whiter silver just before it burns itself out.
Strikes and lockouts, champagne suppers (dinner) and unemployed
marchers, Chinese labor, tariff (tax) reform, H.M.S. Dreadnought, Marconi,
Home Rule for Ireland, Doctor Crippen, suffragettes, the lines of Chatalja...

An April evening, windy (stormy) and rainy (wet); the fourth form
construing (interpreting) Vergil, not very intelligently (cleverly), for there
was exciting news in the papers; young Grayson, in particular, was careless
(irresponsible) and preoccupied (oblivious). A quiet, nervous (apprehensive)
boy.

"Grayson, stay behind—umph—after the rest."

Then:—

"Grayson, I don't want to be—umph—severe (strict), because you are

generally pretty (fairly) good—umph—in your work, but to-day— you don't
seem—umph—to have been trying at all. Is anything the matter (issue)?"

"N-no, sir."

"Well—umph—we'll say no more about it, but—umph —I shall expect

(anticipate) better things next time."

Next morning it was noised (circulated) around the School that Grayson's
father had sailed (voyaged) on the Titanic, and that no news had yet (until
now) come through as to his fate (destiny).

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

Chips shook hands with the boy. "Well, umph—I'm delighted (pleased),
Grayson. A happy ending. You must be feeling pretty pleased (happy) with
life."

"Y-yes, sir."

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

CHAPTER 11

And then the row (quarrel) with Ralston. Funny (humorous) thing, Chips
had never liked him; he was efficient (competent), ruthless (merciless),
ambitious (demanding), but not, somehow, very likable (amiable). He had,
admittedly (certainly), raised (improved) the status (position) 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 (spreader), but you had to
beware (be careful) of him.

Chips had never bothered (troubled) to beware of him; he was not attracted
(allured) by the man, but he served (workeds for) 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 (adequately) protected by age and seniority (longer service)
from the fate (destiny) of other masters whom Ralston had failed to like.

Then suddenly, in 1908, when he had just turned sixty, came Ralston's
urbane (sophisticated) ultimatum (requirement). "Mr. Chipping, have you
ever thought you would like to retire?"

Chips stared (gazed) about him in that book-lined study, startled (shocked)
by the question, wondering (meditating) 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 (proposition) is there for you to

consider. The Governors would, of course, agree to your being adequately
(sufficiently) pensioned (benefited)."

Abruptly (suddenly) Chips flamed up (angered). "But—umph—I don't want

— to retire. I don't—umph—need to consider it."

"Nevertheless (however), 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 (emotional), till at last Ralston said, icily
(coldly): "Since you force me to use plain (bold) 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 (sluggish) and old-fashioned
(outdated); your personal habits are slovenly (careless); and you ignore my
instructions (orders) in a way which, in a younger man, I should regard as
rank insubordination (disobedience). It won't do, Mr. Chipping, and you
must ascribe (attribute) it to my forbearance (patience) that I have put up
with it so long."

"But—" Chips began, in sheer (complete) bewilderment (confusion); and

then he took up isolated (random) words out of that extraordinary (unusual)
indictment (allegation). "Slovenly—umph —you said—?"

"Yes, look at the gown (frock) you're wearing (dressing). I happen to know
that that gown of yours is a subject of continual (frequent) amusement
(enjoyment) throughout the School."

Chips knew it, too, but it had never seemed to him a very regrettable
(disappointing) 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 (perhaps) a mixture of slackness and obstinacy
(stubbornness). This question of Latin pronunciation (intonation), for
instance—I think I told you years ago that I wanted the new style used
throughout the School. The other masters obeyed (acted upon) me; you
prefer (liked better) to stick (adhere) to your old methods, and the result is
simply chaos (disorder) and inefficiency (incompetence)."

At last Chips had something tangible (definite) that he could tackle (deal
with). "Oh, that!" he answered, scornfully (contemptuously). "Well, I—
umph—I admit that I don't agree with the new pronunciation. I never did.
Umph—a lot of nonsense, in my opinion (belief). Making boys say 'Kickero'
at school when— umph—for the rest (remains) of their lives they'll say
'Cicero'—if they ever—umph—say it at all. And instead of 'vicissim (in
turn)'— God bless my soul—you'd make them say, 'We kiss 'im'! Umph—
umph!" And he chuckled (laughed) momentarily (temporarily), 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 (lament) of. You hold one opinion and I hold another, and, since
you decline (reject) to give way, there can't very well be any alternative
(option). I aim 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 (effectively). Because they are dead
(obsolete) languages is no reason why they should be dealt (taught) with in a
dead educational technique. I understand, Mr. Chipping, that your Latin and
Greek lessons are exactly (accurately) 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 (ancestor)—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 (recommended) my syllabus. 'You'll
take the Cicero for the fourth,' he said to me. Cicero, too—not Kickero!"

"Very interesting (fascinating), 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 (understand) it or not.
Modern parents are beginning to demand something more for their three
years' school fees than a few scraps (fragments) 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 (flow) 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 (elitist) culture (civilization) based
on money and machines. The old gentlemanly traditions (customs) of family
and broad acres were changing, as doubtless they were bound to; but instead
of widening them to form a genuine (real) inclusive (incorporating)
democracy (republic) of duke and dustman, Ralston was narrowing
(restricting) them upon the single issue of a fat (large) 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 (prompted) them that Brookfield was the
coming (promising) school, and, since they couldn't buy their way into Eton
or Harrow, they greedily swallowed (gulped) the bait (temptation). Awful
(disgusting) fellows (persons), 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 (indecent)...
ostentatious (pretentious)... all the hectic (frantic) rotten (decomposed)-
ripeness of the age... And once Chips had got into trouble (problems)
because of some joke (jest) he had made about the name and ancestry
(parentage) of a boy named Isaacstein. The boy wrote home about it, and
Isaacstein père sent an angry letter to Ralston. Touchy (bad-tempered), no
sense of humor (comedy), no sense of proportion (harmony)—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...

All this flashed (twinkled) through his mind in an instant of protest

(complaint) and indignation (resentment), but he did not say a word of it. He
merely (only) gathered his tattered (torn) gown together and with an "umph
—umph" walked a few paces (footsteps) away. He had had enough of the
argument. At the door he turned and said: "I don't— umph—intend (aim) to
resign—and you can—umph—do what you like about it!"

Looking back upon that scene (episode) in the calm perspective (context) of
a quarter (region) of a century, Chips could find it in his heart to feel a little
sorry for Ralston. Particularly when, as it happened, Ralston had been in
such complete ignorance (unawareness) of the forces he was dealing with.
So, for that matter, had Chips himself. Neither had correctly estimated
(assessed) the toughness (hardness) of Brookfield tradition (customs), and
its readiness (willingness) to defend (protect) itself and its defenders. For it
had so chanced that a small boy, waiting to see Ralston that morning, had
been listening outside the door during the whole of the interview; he had
been thrilled (trembled) by it, naturally, and had told his friends. Some of
these, in a surprisingly short time, had told their parents; so that very soon it
was common knowledge that Ralston had insulted (humiliated) Chips and
had demanded his resignation (retirement). The amazing (astonishing) result
was a spontaneous (impulsive) outburst (outbreak) of sympathy (empathy)
and partisanship (favoritism) such as Chips, in his wildest (foolish) dreams,
had never envisaged (visualized). He found, rather to his astonishment
(surprise), that Ralston was thoroughly unpopular (disliked); he was feared
and respected, but not liked; and in this issue of Chips the dislike rose to a
point where it conquered (overcame) fear and demolished (destroyed) even
respect. There was talk of having some kind of public riot (disturbance) in
the School if Ralston succeeded in banishing (expelling) Chips. The masters,
many of them young men who agreed that Chips was hopelessly
(completely) old-fashioned, rallied (gathered together) round him
nevertheless because they hated Ralston's slave driving and saw in the old
veteran (expert) a likely champion (winner). And one day the Chairman of
the Governors, Sir John Rivers, visited Brookfield, ignored (neglected)
Ralston, and went direct to Chips. "A fine (excellent) fellow, Rivers," Chips
would say, telling the story to Mrs. Wickett for the dozenth time. "Not—
umph—a very brilliant boy in class. I remember he could never—umph—
master his verbs. And now —umph—I see in the papers—they've made him
— umph—a baronet (nobleman). It just shows you—umph—it just shows
you."

Sir John had said, on that morning in 1908, taking Chips by the arm as they
walked round the deserted (empty) cricket pitches: "Chips, old boy, I hear
you've been having the deuce (draw) of a row (quarrel) with Ralston. Sorry
to hear about it, for your sake—but I want you to know that the Governors
are with you to a man. We don't like the fellow a great deal. Very clever and
all that, but a bit too clever, if you ask me. Claims to have doubled the
School's endowment (provision) funds by some monkeying on the Stock
Exchange. Dare say he has, but a chap like that wants watching. So if he
starts chucking (throw) his weight about with you, tell him very politely he
can go to the devil. The Governors don't want you to resign. Brookfield
wouldn't be the same without you, and they know it. We all know it. You
can stay here till you're a hundred if you feel like it—indeed, it's our hope
that you will."

And at that—both then and often when he recounted it afterward —Chips

broke down.

CHAPTER 12

So he stayed (lodged) on at Brookfield, having as little to do with Ralston as

possible. And in 1911 Ralston left, "to better himself"; he was offered the
headship of one of the greater public schools. His successor (heir) was a
man named Chatteris, whom Chips liked; he was even younger than Ralston
had been —thirty-four. He was supposed to be very brilliant (intelligent); at
any rate, he was modern (Natural Sciences Tripos), friendly, and
sympathetic (caring). Recognizing (acknowledging) in Chips a Brookfield
institution, he courteously (politely) and wisely accepted the situation.

In 1913 Chips had had bronchitis (lung disease) and was off duty for nearly
the whole of the winter term. It was that which made him decide to resign
that summer, when he was sixty-five. After all, it was a good, ripe age; and
Ralston's straight words had, in some ways, had an effect. He felt that it
would not be fair to hang on if he could not decently (adequately) do his job.
Besides, he would not sever himself completely. He would take rooms
across the road, with the excellent Mrs. Wickett who had once been linen-
room maid; he could visit the School whenever he wanted, and could still, in
a sense, remain a part of it.

At that final end-of-term dinner, in July 1913, Chips received his farewell
presentations and made a speech. It was not a very long speech
(communication), but it had a good many jokes in it, and was made twice as
long, perhaps, by the laughter (chuckling) that impeded (hinder) its progress.
There were several Latin quotations (excerpts) in it, as well as a reference to
the Captain of the School, who, Chips said, had been guilty (ashamed) of
exaggeration (overstatement) in speaking of his (Chips's) services to
Brookfield. "But then—umph—he comes of an—umph—exaggerating
family. I—um—remember—once —having to thrash his father—for it.
[Laughter] I gave him one mark—umph—for a Latin translation, and he—
umph —exaggerated the one into a seven! Umph—umph!" Roars (guffaw)
of laughter and tumultuous (wild) cheers! A typical (conventional) Chips
remark, everyone thought.

And then he mentioned (referred) that he had been at Brookfield for forty-
two years, and that he had been very happy there. "It has been my life," he
said, simply. "O mihi praeteritos referat si Jupiter annos(If only Jupiter
would restore me those bygone years.)... Umph—I need not—of course—
translate..." Much laughter. "I remember lots of changes at Brookfield. I
remember the—um—the first bicycle. I remember when there was no gas or
electric light and we used to have a member of the domestic (home) staff
called a lamp-boy—he did nothing else but clean and trim (crop) and light
lamps throughout the School. I remember when there was a hard frost
(freeze) that lasted for seven weeks in the winter term —there were no
games, and the whole School learned to skate on the fens (marsh). Eighteen-
eighty-something, that was. I remember when two-thirds of the School went
down with German measles and Big Hall was turned into a hospital ward. I
remember the great bonfire we had on Mafeking night. It was lit too near the
pavilion and we had to send for the fire brigade to put it out. And the
firemen were having their own celebrations and most of them were— um—
in a regrettable (unfortunate) condition. [Laughter] I remember Mrs. Brool,
whose photograph is still in the tuckshop; she served there until an uncle in
Australia left her a lot of money. In fact, I remember so much that I often
think I ought to write a book. Now what should I call it? 'Memories of Rod
and Lines'(In English public schools, punishment could be physical
(beating) or scholastic (writing out lines - usually classical poetry in Greek
or Latin)—eh? [Cheers and laughter. That was a good one, people thought—
one of Chips's best.] Well, well, perhaps I shall write it, some day. But I'd
rather tell you about it, really. I remember... I remember... but chiefly I
remember all your faces. I never forget them. I have thousands of faces in
my mind—the faces of boys. If you come and see me again in years to come
—as I hope you all will—I shall try to remember those older faces of yours,
but it's just possible I shan't be able to—and then some day you'll see me
somewhere and I shan't recognize you and you'll say to yourself, 'The old
boy doesn't remember me.' [Laughter] But I do remember you—as you are
now. That's the point. In my mind you never grow up at all. Never.
Sometimes, for instance (example), when people talk to me about our
respected Chairman of the Governors, I think to myself, 'Ah, yes, a jolly
(happy) little chap (fellow) with hair that sticks up on top—and absolutely
no idea whatever about the difference between a Gerund and a Gerundive.'
[Loud laughter] Well, well, I mustn't go on—umph— all night. Think of me
sometimes as I shall certainly think of you. Haec olim meminisse juvabit
(perhaps it will be pleasing to have remembered these things one day”)...
again I need not translate." Much laughter and shouting (crying) and
prolonged (long) cheers (applause).

August 1913. Chips went for a cure (remedy) to Wiesbaden, where he

lodged (stayed) at the home of the German master at Brookfield, Herr
Staefel, with whom he had become friendly (amiable). Staefel was thirty
years his junior, but the two men got on excellently (). In September, when
term began, Chips returned and took up residence at Mrs. Wickett's. He felt
a great deal stronger and fitter after his holiday, and almost wished he had
not retired. Nevertheless, he found plenty (abundance) to do. He had all the
new boys to tea. He watched all the important matches on the Brookfield
ground. Once a term he dined (had supper) with the Head, and once also
with the masters. He took on the preparation and editing of a new
Brookfeldian Directory. He accepted presidency of the Old Boys' Club and
went to dinners in London. He wrote occasional (infrequent) articles, full of
jokes and Latin quotations, for the Brookfield terminal magazine. He read
his Times every morning—very thoroughly; and he also began to read
detective stories —he had been keen on them ever since the first thrills of
Sherlock. Yes, he was quite busy, and quite happy, too. A year later, in
1914, he again attended the end-of-term dinner. There was a lot of war talk
—civil war in Ulster, and trouble between Austria and Serbia. Herr Staefel,
who was leaving for Germany the next day, told Chips he thought the
Balkan business wouldn't come to anything.

CHAPTER 13

The War years.

The first shock (upset), and then the first optimism (hope). The Battle of the
Marne, the Russian steam-roller, Kitchener.

"Do you think it will last long, sir?"

Chips, questioned (interrogated) as he watched the first trial game of the

season, gave quite a cheery (cheerful) answer. He was, like thousands of
others, hopelessly (completely) wrong; but, unlike thousands of others, he
did not afterward conceal (hide) the fact. "We ought to have—um—finished
it—um—by Christmas. The Germans are already beaten. But why? Are you
thinking of—um —joining up, Forrester?"

Joke—because Forrester was the smallest new boy Brookfield had ever had
—about four feet high above his muddy (dirty) football boots. (But not so
much a joke, when you came to think of it afterward; for he was killed in
1918—shot down in flames over Cambrai.) But one didn't guess (estimate)
what lay ahead. It seemed tragically sensational (amazing) when the first
Old Brookfeldian was killed in action—in September. Chips thought, when
that news came: A hundred years ago boys from this school were fighting
against the French. Strange, in a way, that the sacrifices (offering) of one
generation (breeding) should so cancel out those of another. He tried to
express this to Blades, the Head of School House; but Blades, eighteen years
old and already in training for a cadetship, only laughed. What had all that
history stuff (substance) to do with it, anyhow? Just old Chips with one of
his queer (strange) ideas, that's all.

1915. Armies clenched in deadlock from the sea to Switzerland. The

Dardanelles. Gallipoli. Military camps springing up quite near Brookfield;
soldiers using the playing fields for sports and training; swift (quick)
developments of Brookfield O.T.C. Most of the younger masters gone or in
uniform. Every Sunday night, in the Chapel after evening service, Chatteris
read out the names of old boys killed, together with short biographies (life
stories). Very moving; but Chips, in the black pew under the gallery
(passage), thought: They are only names to him; he doesn't see their faces as
I do...

1916... The Somme Battle. Twenty-three names read out one Sunday
evening.

Toward the close of that catastrophic (disastrous) July, Chatteris talked to

Chips one afternoon at Mrs. Wickett's. He was overworked and overworried
and looked very ill. "To tell you the truth, Chipping, I'm not having too easy
a time here. I'm thirty-nine, you know, and unmarried, and lots of people
seem to think they know what I ought to do. Also, I happen to be diabetic,
and couldn't pass the blindest (Minor) M.O., but I don't see why I should pin
(fix) a medical certificate on my front door."

Chips hadn't known anything about this; it was a shock to him, for he liked
Chatteris.

The latter (second) continued: "You see how it is. Ralston filled the place up
with young men—all very good, of course—but now most of them have
joined up and the substitutes (replacements) are pretty, dreadful (terrible), on
the whole. They poured (flowed) ink down a man's neck in prep one night
last week—silly (stupid) fool— got hysterical (frenzied). I have to take
classes myself, take prep for fools like that, work till midnight every night,
and get cold-shouldered as a slacker (loafer) on top of everything. I can't
stand it much longer. If things don't improve next term I shall have a
breakdown."

"I do sympathize (condole) with you," Chips said.

"I hoped you would. And that brings me to what I came here to ask you.
Briefly, my suggestion (recommendation) is that—if you felt equal to it and
would care to—how about coming back here for a while? You look pretty
fit, and, of course, you know all the ropes. I don't mean a lot of hard work
for you —you needn't take anything strenuously (hardly)—just a few odd
jobs here and there, as you choose. What I'd like you for more than anything
else is not for the actual work you'd do—though that, naturally, would be
very valuable—but for your help in other ways—in just belonging here.
There's nobody ever been more popular (famous) than you were, and are still
—you'd help to hold things together if there were any danger of them flying
to bits. And perhaps there is that danger..."

Chips answered, breathlessly (excitedly) and with a holy (sacred) joy in his
heart: "I'll come..."

CHAPTER 14

He still kept on his rooms with Mrs. Wickett; indeed, he still lived there; but
every morning, about half-past ten, he put on his coat and muffler and
crossed the road to the School. He felt very fit, and the actual work was not
taxing (demanding). Just a few forms in Latin and Roman History—the old
lessons—even the old pronunciation. The same joke about the Lex Canuleia
—there was a new generation that had not heard it, and he was absurdly
(ridiculously) gratified (pleased) by the success it achieved. He felt a little
like a music-hall favorite returning to the boards after a positively last
appearance.

They all said how marvelous (excellent) it was that he knew every boy's
name and face so quickly. They did not guess how closely he had kept in
touch from across the road.

He was a grand (glorious) success altogether. In some strange (odd) way he

did, and they all knew and felt it, help things. For the first time in his life he
felt necessary—and necessary to something that was nearest his heart. There
is no sublimer feeling in the world, and it was his at last.

He made new jokes, too—about the O.T.C. and the food-rationing system
and the anti-air-raid blinds that had to be fitted on all the windows. There
was a mysterious (secret) kind of rissole that began to appear on the School
menu on Mondays, and Chips called it abhorrendum—"meat to be
abhorred." The story went round—heard Chips's latest?

Chatteris fell ill during the winter of '17, and again, for the second time in
his life, Chips became Acting Head of Brookfield. Then in April Chatteris
died, and the Governors asked Chips if he would carry on "for the duration."
He said he would, if they would refrain (stop) from appointing him
officially. From that last honor, within his reach at last, he shrank (withered)
instinctively (naturally), feeling himself in so many ways unequal (uneven)
to it. He said to Rivers: "You see, I'm not a young man and I don't want
people to—um —expect a lot from me. I'm like all these new colonels and
majors you see everywhere—just a war-time fluke (coincidence). A ranker
—that's all I am really."
1917. 1918. Chips lived through it all. He sat in the headmaster's study every
morning, handling (tackling) problems, dealing with plaints (accusation) and
requests. Out of vast experience had emerged a kindly, gentle confidence
(courage) in himself. To keep a sense of proportion, that was the main thing.
So much of the world was losing it; as well keep it where it had, or ought to
have, a congenial (pleasant) home.

On Sundays in Chapel it was he who now read out the tragic (sad) list, and
sometimes it was seen and heard that he was in tears over it. Well, why not,
the School said; he was an old man; they might have despised (loathed)
anyone else for the weakness.

One day he got a letter from Switzerland, from friends there; it was heavily
censored (expurgated), but conveyed (communicated) some news. On the
following Sunday, after the names and biographies of old boys, he paused a
moment and then added: —

"Those few of you who were here before the War will remember Max
Staefel, the German master. He was in Germany, visiting his home, when
war broke out. He was popular while he was here, and made many friends.
Those who knew him will be sorry to hear that he was killed last week, on
the Western Front."

He was a little pale (faint) when he sat down afterward, aware (informed)
that he had done something unusual (Uncommon). He had consulted
(confered) nobody about it, anyhow; no one else could be blamed (accused).
Later, outside the Chapel, he heard an argument:—

"On the Western Front, Chips said. Does that mean he was fighting for the
Germans?"

"I suppose it does."

"Seems funny (humorous), then, to read his name out with all the others.
After all, he was an enemy."

"Oh, just one of Chips's ideas, I expect. The old boy still has 'em."

Chips, in his room again, was not displeased (annoyed) by the comment.
Yes, he still had 'em—those ideas of dignity (decorum) and generosity
(charity) that were becoming increasingly rare (exceptional) in a frantic
(frenzied) world. And he thought: Brookfield will take them, too, from me;
but it wouldn't from anyone else.

Once, asked for his opinion of bayonet (sword) practice (training) being
carried on near the cricket pavilion, he answered, with that lazy (idle),
slightly (little) asthmatic intonation (tone) that had been so often and so
extravagantly (wasteful) imitated (copied): "It seems—to me —umph—a
very vulgar (cheap) way of killing people."
The yarn (story) was passed on and joyously (cheerfully) appreciated—how
Chips had told some big brass (impudence) hat from the War Office that
bayonet fighting was vulgar. Just like Chips. And they found an adjective
for him—an adjective just beginning to be used: he was pre-War.

CHAPTER 15

And once, on a night of full moonlight, the air-raid (attack) warning (notice)
was given while Chips was taking his lower fourth in Latin. The guns began
almost instantly (immediately),and, as there was plenty (abundance) of
shrapnel (missiles) falling about outside, it seemed to Chips that they might
just as well stay where they were, on the ground floor of School House. It
was pretty solidly (strongly) built and made as good a dugout (bunker) as
Brookfield could offer; and as for a direct hit, well, they could not expect to
survive (lived) that, wherever they were.

So he went on with his Latin, speaking a little louder amid (amongst) the
reverberating (echoing) crashes (thunders) of the guns and the shrill
(piercing) whine (cry) of anti-aircraft shells (missiles). Some of the boys
were nervous (worried); few were able to be attentive (focused). He said,
gently: "It may possibly seem to you, Robertson—at this particular moment
in the world's history—umph—that the affairs (matters) of Caesar in Gaul
some two thousand years ago—are— umph—of somewhat secondary
importance—and that—umph —the irregular (random) conjugation
(combination) of the verb tollo is—umph— even less important still. But
believe me—umph—my dear Robertson—that is not really the case." Just
then there came a particularly loud explosion (blast)—quite (somewhat)
near. "You cannot—umph —judge the importance of things—umph—by the
noise (sound) they make. Oh dear me, no." A little chuckle (laugh). "And
these things—umph —that have mattered—for thousands of years—are not
going to be—snuffed out (blew out)—because some stink (stench) merchant
(trader)— in his laboratory—invents a new kind of mischief (trouble)."
Titters (giggle) of nervous (confused) laughter (chuckling); for Buffles, the
pale, lean (thin), and medically unfit science master, was nicknamed the
Stink Merchant. Another explosion—nearer still. "Let us—um—resume
(recommence) our work. If it is fate that we are soon to be—umph—
interrupted (intervened), let us be found employing ourselves in something
—umph—really appropriate (suitable). Is there anyone who will volunteer
(step forward) to construe (interpret)?"

Maynard, chubby (stout), dauntless (fearless), clever (shrewd), and

impudent (rude), said: "I will, sir."

"Very good. Turn to page forty and begin at the bottom line."

The explosions still continued deafeningly (ear-splitting); the whole building

shook as if it were being lifted off its foundations. Maynard found the page,
which was some way ahead, and began, shrilly (piercing):—
"Genus hoc erat pugnae (The kind of fighting)—this was the kind of fight—
quo se Germani exercuerant—in which the Germans busied themselves. Oh,
sir, that's good—that's really very funny indeed, sir—one of your very best
—"

Laughing began, and Chips added: "Well—umph—you can see —now—

that these dead languages—umph—can come to life again—sometimes—
eh? Eh?"

Afterward they learned that five bombs had fallen in and around Brookfield,
the nearest of them just outside the School grounds. Nine persons had been
killed.

The story was told, retold, embellished (decorated). "The dear old boy never
turned a hair. Even found some old tag (label) to illustrate (demonstrate)
what was going on. Something in Caesar about the way the Germans fought.
You wouldn't think there were things like that in Caesar, would you? And
the way Chips laughed... you know the way he does laugh... the tears all
running down his face... never seen him laugh so much..."

He was a legend (celebrity).

With his old and tattered (ragged) gown, his walk that was just beginning to
break into a stumble (stagger), his mild eyes peering over the steel-rimmed
spectacles (glasses), and his quaintly (Strangely) humorous (funny) sayings,
Brookfield would not have had an atom of him different.

November 11, 1918.

News came through in the morning; a whole holiday was decreed (ordered)
for the School, and the kitchen staff were implored (begged) to provide as
cheerful (happy) a spread as wartime rationing (restriction) permitted. There
was much cheering and singing, and a bread fight across the Dining Hall.
When Chips entered in the midst (middle) of the uproar (clamour) there was
an instant (moment) hush (silence), and then wave upon wave of cheering;
everyone gazed (stared) on him with eager (keen), shining (Bright) eyes, as
on a symbol (sign) of victory. He walked to the dais (rostrum), seeming as if
he wished to speak; they made silence (quiet) for him, but he shook his head
after a moment (instant), smiled, and walked away again.

It had been a damp (moist), foggy (misty) day, and the walk across the
quadrangle (square) to the Dining Hall had given him a chill (coldness). The
next day he was in bed with bronchitis, and stayed there till after Christmas.
But already, on that night of November 11, after his visit to the Dining Hall,
he had sent in his resignation (leaving) to the Board of Governors.

When school reassembled (gathered) after the holidays he was back at Mrs.
Wickett's. At his own request there were no more farewells or presentations
(awards), nothing but a handshake with his successor (heir) and the word
"acting" crossed out on official stationery (). The "duration (term)" was over.
 CHAPTER 16

And now, fifteen years after that, he could look back upon it all with a deep
(sound) and sumptuous (luxurious) tranquillity (calm). He was not ill, of
course—only a little tired (exhausted) at times, and bad with his breathing
(inhale and exhale) during the winter months. He would not go abroad—he
had once tried it, but had chanced to strike the Riviera during one of its
carefully unadvertised cold spells (period). "I prefer—um—to get my chills
—umph—in my own country," he used to say, after that. He had to take care
of himself when there were east winds, but autumn and winter were not
really so bad; there were warm (balmy) fires, and books, and you could look
forward to the summer. It was the summer that he liked best, of course; apart
from the weather, which suited (matched) him, there were the continual
(frequent) visits of old boys. Every weekend some of them motored (drove)
up to Brookfield and called at his house. Sometimes they tired him, if too
many came at once; but he did not really mind; he could always rest and
sleep afterward. And he enjoyed their visits—more than anything else in the
world that was still to be enjoyed. "Well, Gregson —umph—I remember
you—umph—always late for everything—eh—eh? Perhaps you'll be late in
growing old —umph—like me—umph—eh?" And later, when he was alone
again and Mrs. Wickett came in to clear away the tea things: "Mrs. Wickett,
young Gregson called—umph—you remember him, do you? Tall boy with
spectacles. Always late. Umph. Got a job with the—umph —League of
Nations—where—I suppose—his— um—dilatoriness (delayed)—won't be
noticeable (striking)—eh?"

And sometimes, when the bell rang for call-over, he would go to the window
and look across the road and over the School fence (barrier) and see, in the
distance, the thin line of boys filing (arranging) past the bench (seat). New
times, new names... but the old ones still remained... Jefferson, Jennings,
Jolyon, Jupp, Kingsley Primus, Kingsley Secundus, Kingsley Tertius,
Kingston... where are you all, where have you all gone to?... Mrs. Wickett,
bring me a cup of tea just before prep, will you, please?

The post-War decade swept (passed) through with a clatter (clang) of change
and maladjustments (disturbed); Chips, as he lived through it, was
profoundly (deeply) disappointed when he looked abroad. The Ruhr,
Chanak, Corfu; there was enough to be uneasy about in the world. But near
him, at Brookfield, and even, in a wider (broad) sense (faculty), in England,
there was something that charmed (fascinated) his heart because it was old
—and had survived. More and more he saw the rest of the world as a vast
disarrangement () for which England had sacrificed (slaughtered) enough—
and perhaps too much. But he was satisfied with Brookfield. It was rooted in
things that had stood the test of time and change and war. Curious (strange),
in this deeper sense, how little it had changed. Boys were a politer race
(breed); bullying (pressurizing) was non-existent; there was more swearing
(bad language) and cheating (deceiving). There was a more genuine (real)
friendliness (amiableness) between master and boy—less pomposity
(loftiness) on the one side, less unctuousness (obsequiousness) on the other.
One of the new masters, fresh from Oxford, even let the Sixth call him by
his Christian name. Chips didn't hold with that; indeed (certainly), he was
just a little bit shocked (surprised). "He might as well —umph—sign his
terminal (end) reports—umph—'yours affectionately'—eh—eh?" he told
somebody.

During the General Strike (revolt) of 1926, Brookfield boys loaded (laden)
motor vans with foodstuffs (edibles). When it was all over, Chips felt stirred
(motivated) emotionally as he had not been since the War. Something had
happened, something whose ultimate (extreme) significance (importance)
had yet to be reckoned (considered). But one thing was clear: England had
burned her fire in her own grate (lattice) again. And when, at a Speech Day
function that year, an American visitor laid (placed) stress (emphasis) on the
vast (huge) sums (money) that the strike had cost (damaged) the country,
Chips answered: "Yes, but—umph— advertisement—always is costly."

"Advertisement?"

"Well, wasn't it—umph—advertisement—and very fine advertisement—

too? A whole week of it—umph—and not a life lost—not a shot (gunfire)
fired! Your country would have—umph —spilt (shed) more blood in—
umph—raiding (attacking) a single liquor (alcohol) saloon (bar)!"

Laughter... laughter... wherever he went and whatever he said, there was

laughter. He had earned the reputation of being a great jester (humorist), and
jests (jokes) were expected of him. Whenever he rose to speak at a meeting,
or even when he talked across a table, people prepared their minds and faces
for the joke. They listened in a mood to be amused (entertained) and it was
easy to satisfy (convince) them. They laughed sometimes before he came to
the point. "Old Chips was in fine form," they would say, afterward.
"Marvelous (excellent) the way he can always see the funny side of
things..."

After 1929, Chips did not leave Brookfield—even for Old Boys' dinners in
London. He was afraid (scared) of chills, and late nights began to tire him
too much. He came across to the School, however, on fine days; and he still
kept up a wide (large) and continual hospitality (conviviality) in his room.
His faculties (senses) were all unimpaired (undamaged), and he had no
personal worries (troubles) of any kind. His income was more than he
needed to spend, and his small capital (), invested in gilt-edged stocks
(shares), did not suffer when the slump (depreciation) set in. He gave a lot of
money away —to people who called on him with a hard-luck (misfortunate)
story, to various School funds, and also to the Brookfield mission. In 1930
he made his will. Except for legacies (bequest) to the mission and to Mrs.
Wickett, he left all he had to found an open scholarship to the School.

1931... 1932...

"What do you think of Hoover, sir?"

"Do you think we shall ever go back to gold?"

"How d'you feel about things in general, sir? See any break in the clouds?"

"When's the tide going to turn, Chips, old boy? You ought to know, with all
your experience of things."

They all asked him questions, as if he were some kind of prophet

(forecaster) and encyclopedia combined—more even than that, for they
liked their answer dished (presented) up as a joke. He would say:—

"Well, Henderson, when I was—umph—a much younger man —there used

to be someone who—um—promised people ninepence for fourpence. I don't
know that anybody—umph—ever got it, but—umph—our present rulers
seem—um— to have solved the problem how to give—umph—fourpence
for ninepence."

Laughter.

Sometimes, when he was strolling (walking) about the School, small boys of
the cheekier (disrespectful) kind would ask him questions, merely for the
fun of getting Chips's "latest" to retail (retell).

"Please, sir, what about the Five-Year Plan?"

"Sir, do you think Germany wants to fight another war?"

"Have you been to the new cinema (films), sir? I went with my people the
other day. Quite a grand (great) affair for a small place like Brookfield.
They've got a Wurlitzer."

"And what—umph—on earth—is a Wurlitzer?"

"It's an organ, sir—a cinema organ."

"Dear me... I've seen the name on the hoardings, but I always—umph —
imagined—it must be some kind of—umph— sausage (banger)."

Laughter... Oh, there's a new Chips joke, you fellows, a perfectly

(exemplary) lovely one. I was gassing () to the old boy about the new
cinema, and...

CHAPTER 17

He sat in his front (exterior) parlor (sitting room) at Mrs. Wickett's on a

November afternoon in thirty-three. It was cold and foggy (misty), and he
dare (ventured) not go out. He had not felt too well since Armistice Day; he
fancied (imagined) he might have caught a slight (minor) chill during the
Chapel service. Merivale had been that morning for his usual (regular)
fortnightly (after fifteen days) chat (talk). "Everything all right? Feeling
hearty (friendly)? That's the style —keep indoors this weather—there's a lot
of flu about. Wish I could have your life for a day or two."

His life... and what a life it had been! The whole pageant (display) of it
swung (sway) before him as he sat by the fire that afternoon. The things he
had done and seen: Cambridge in the sixties; Great Gable on an August
morning; Brookfield at all times and seasons throughout the years. And, for
that matter, the things he had not done, and would never do now that he had
left them too late —he had never traveled (journeyed) by air, for instance,
and he had never been to a talkie-show. So that he was both more and less
experienced than the youngest new boy at the School might well be; and
that, that paradox (contradiction) of age and youth, was what the world
called progress.

Mrs. Wickett had gone out, visiting relatives (kinsman) in a neighbourly

village; she had left the tea things ready on the table, with bread and butter
and extra cups laid out in case anybody called. On such a day, however,
visitors (guests) were not very likely (probable); with the fog thickening
hourly outside, he would probably (perhaps) be alone.

But no. About a quarter to four a ring came, and Chips, answering the front
door himself (which he oughtn't to have done), encountered a rather small
boy wearing a Brookfield cap and an expression of anxious (uneasy)
timidity (nervousness). "Please, sir," he began, "does Mr. Chips live here?"

"Umph—you'd better come inside," Chips answered. And in his room a

moment later he added: "I am—umph—the person you want. Now what can
I—umph—do for you?"

"I was told you wanted me, sir."

Chips smiled. An old joke—an old leg-pull (teased), and he, of all people,
having made so many old jokes in his time, ought not to complain (lament).
And it amused (entertained) him to cap their joke, as it were, with one of his
own; to let them see that he could keep his end up, even yet. So he said, with
eyes twinkling (flashing): "Quite right, my boy. I wanted you to take tea
with me. Will you—umph —sit down by the fire? Umph—I don't think I
have seen your face before. How is that?"

"I've only just come out of the sanatorium (clinic), sir—I've been there since
the beginning of term (duration) with measles."

"Ah, that accounts for it."

Chips began his usual ritualistic (sacramental) blending (mixing) of tea from
the different caddies; luckily there was half a walnut cake with pink icing in
the cupboard. He found out that the boy's name was Linford, that he lived in
Shropshire, and that he was the first of his family at Brookfield.

"You know—umph—Linford—you'll like Brookfield —when you get used

to it. It's not half such an awful (disgusting) place—as you imagine
(suppose). You're a bit afraid of it—um, yes—eh? So was I, my dear boy—
at first. But that was—um—a long time ago. Sixty-three years ago—umph
—to be precise (exact). When I— um—first went into Big Hall and—um—I
saw all those boys—I tell you—I was quite scared. Indeed—umph —I don't
think I've ever been so scared (afraid) in my life. Not even when —umph—
the Germans bombed (bombard) us—during the War. But —umph—it didn't
last long—the scared feeling, I mean. I soon made myself—um—at home."

"Were there a lot of other new boys that term, sir?" asked Linford shyly
(timidly).

"Eh? But—God bless my soul—I wasn't a boy at all—I was a man—a

young man of twenty-two! And the next time you see a young man—a new
master—taking his first prep in Big Hall —umph—just think—what it feels
like!"

"But if you were twenty-two then, sir—"

"Yes? Eh?"

"You must be—very old—now, sir."

Chips laughed quietly and steadily (constantly) to himself. It was a good

joke.

"Well—umph—I'm certainly—umph—no chicken."

He laughed quietly to himself for a long time.

Then he talked of other matters, of Shropshire, of schools and school life in

general, of the news in that day's papers. "You're growing up into— umph—
a very cross sort of world, Linford. Maybe it will have got over some of its
—umph—crossness—by the time you're ready for it. Let's hope so—umph
—at any rate... Well..." And with a glance (glimpse) at the clock he
delivered (gave) himself of his old familiar formula (method). "I'm —umph
—sorry—you can't stay..."

At the front door he shook hands.

"Good-bye, my boy."

And the answer came, in a shrill treble (high-pitched): "Good-bye, Mr.

Chips..."

Chips sat by the fire again, with those words echoing (reverberating) along
the corridors (hallway) of his mind. "Good-bye, Mr. Chips..." An old leg-
pull, to make new boys think that his name was really Chips; the joke was
almost traditional (conventional). He did not mind. "Good-bye, Mr. Chips..."
He remembered that on the eve of his wedding day Kathie had used that
same phrase, mocking (imitating) him gently (politely) for the seriousness
(solemnity) he had had in those days. He thought: Nobody would call me
serious today, that's very certain...
Suddenly the tears began to roll down his cheeks—an old man's failing; silly
(stupid), perhaps, but he couldn't help it. He felt very tired; talking to
Linford like that had quite (somewhat) exhausted him. But he was glad
(happy) he had met Linford. Nice boy. Would do well.

Over the fog-laden (misty) air came the bell for call-over, tremulous
(trembling) and muffled. Chips looked at the window, graying into twilight
(dusk); it was time to light up. But as soon as he began to move he felt that
he couldn't; he was too tired; and, anyhow, it didn't matter. He leaned (bent)
back in his chair. No chicken —eh, well—that was true enough. And it had
been amusing about Linford. A neat score off the jokers who had sent the
boy over. Good-bye, Mr. Chips... odd (unusual), though, that he should have
said it just like that...

CHAPTER 18

When he awoke, for he seemed to have been asleep (sleeping), he found

himself in bed; and Merivale was there, stooping (hunch) over him and
smiling. "Well, you old ruffian (thug) —feeling all right? That was a fine
shock (surprise) you gave us!"

Chips murmured (whispered), after a pause (break), and in a voice that

surprised him by its weakness (frailty): "Why—um—what—what has
happened?"

"Merely (only) that you threw a faint (unconsciousness). Mrs. Wickett came
in and found you— lucky she did. You're all right now. Take it easy. Sleep
again if you feel inclined."

He was glad (happy) someone had suggested such a good idea. He felt so
weak that he wasn't even puzzled (perplexed) by the details of the business
—how they had got him upstairs, what Mrs. Wickett had said, and so on.
But then, suddenly, at the other side of the bed, he saw Mrs. Wickett. She
was smiling. He thought: God bless my soul, what's she doing up here? And
then, in the shadows (shape) behind Merivale, he saw Cartwright, the new
Head (he thought of him as "new," even though he had been at Brookfield
since 1919), and old Buffles, commonly called "Roddy." Funny, the way
they were all here. He felt: Anyhow, I can't be bothered to wonder why
about anything. I'm going to go to sleep.

But it wasn't sleep, and it wasn't quite wakefulness (attentive), either; it was
a sort of in-between state, full of dreams and faces and voices. Old scenes
and old scraps (pieces) of tunes: a Mozart trio that Kathie had once played in
— cheers and laughter and the sound of guns—and, over it all, Brookfield
bells, Brookfield bells. "So you see, if Miss Plebs wanted Mr. Patrician to
marry her... yes, you can, you liar (falsifier)..." Joke... Meat to be abhorred...
Joke... That you, Max? Yes, come in. What's the news from the
Fatherland?... O mihi praeteritos... Ralston said I was slack (lazy) and
inefficient (incompetent) —but they couldn't manage without me... O nobile
heres ago fortibus es in aro... Can you translate that, any of you?... It's a
joke...

Once he heard them talking about him in the room.

Cartwright was whispering (gossiping) to Merivale. "Poor old chap—must

have lived a lonely sort of life, all by himself."

Merivale answered: "Not always by himself. He married, you know."

"Oh, did he? I never knew about that."

"She died. It must have been—oh, quite thirty years ago. More, possibly."

"Pity (). Pity he never had any children."

And at that, Chips opened his eyes as wide as he could and sought to attract
their attention. It was hard for him to speak out loud, but he managed to
murmur something, and they all looked round and came nearer to him.

He struggled (strived), slowly, with his words. "What—was that—um —you

were saying—about me—just now?"

Old Buffles smiled and said: "Nothing at all, old chap—nothing at all—we
were just wondering when you were going to wake out of your beauty
sleep."

"But—umph—I heard you—you were talking about me —"

"Absolutely nothing of any consequence (result), my dear fellow—really, I

give you my word..."

"I thought I heard you—one of you—saying it was a pity —umph—a pity I

never had—any children... eh?... But I have, you know... I have..."

The others smiled without answering, and after a pause Chips began a faint
and palpitating (beating) chuckle.

"Yes—umph—I have," he added, with quavering (trembling) merriment

(fun). "Thousands of 'em... thousands of 'em... and all boys."

And then the chorus (singers) sang in his ears in final harmony (balance),
more grandly and sweetly than he had ever heard it before, and more
comfortingly too... Pettifer, Pollett, Porson, Potts, Pullman, Purvis, Pym-
Wilson, Radlett, Rapson, Reade, Reaper, Reddy Primus... come round me
now, all of you, for a last word and a joke... Harper, Haslett, Hatfield,
Hatherley... my last joke... did you hear it? Did it make you laugh?... Bone,
Boston, Bovey, Bradford, Bradley, Bramhall-Anderson... wherever you are,
whatever has happened, give me this moment with you... this last moment...
my boys...

And soon Chips was asleep.

He seemed so peaceful that they did not disturb him to say good-night; but
in the morning, as the School bell sounded for breakfast, Brookfield had the
news. "Brookfield will never forget his lovableness (amiable)," said
Cartwright, in a speech to the School. Which was absurd (ridiculous),
because all things are forgotten in the end. But Linford, at any rate, will
remember and tell the tale (story): "I said good-bye to Chips the night before
he died..."

THE END