CHAPTER 1

When you are getting on in years (but not ul, of course), you get very
sleepy at times, and the hours seem to pass like lazy cattle moving across a
landscape. 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.
For Chips, like some old sea-captain, still measured time by the signals of the
past, and well he might, for he lived at Mrs. Wickett’s, just across the read from
the school. He had been there more than a decade, ever since he finally gave up
his mastership, and it was Brookfield far more than Greenwich time that both
he and his landlady kept. “Mrs. Wickett,” Chips would sing out, in that jerky,
high pitched voice that had still a good deal of sprightliness im 1, “you might
bring me a cup of tea before prep , will you?”
When you are getting on in years 1t 1s mice 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 the clock after that last bell, then he put the
wire guard in front of the fire, turned out the gas, and carried a detective novel
to bed. Rarely did he read more than a page of 1t before sleep came swiftly and
peacefully, more hke a mystic intensifying of perception than any changeful
entrance into another world. For his days and mghts were equally full of
dreaming.
He was getting on m years (but not ul, 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 a glass of sherry when he
called every fortnight or so “You're past the age when people get these horrible
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 old boy that
one never knows ” But when Chips had a cold or when east winds roared over
the fenlands, Merivale would sometimes take Mrs. Wickett aside in the lobby
and whisper: “Look after him, you know His chest It puts a strain on his
heart. Nothing really wrong with him — only Anno Domim, but that’s the most
fatal complaint of all, mthe end . ”
Anno Domini... By Jove, yes. Born in 1848 and taken to the Great
Exhibition as a toddling child—not many people still alive could boast a thing
like that. Besides, Chips could even remember Brookfield in Wetherby’s time A
phenomenon, 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 there a good deal. But Brookfield he had liked, almost from the
beginning. He remembered that day of his prelimmmary interview — sunny July,
with the air full of flower scents and the plick-plock of cricket on the pitch
Brookfield was playing Barnhurst, and one of the Barnhurst boys, a

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chubby little fellow, made a brilliant
century. Queer that a thing lke that
should stay mn the memory so clearly
Wetherby himself was very fatherly
and courteous, he must have been ill
then, poor chap, for he died during
the summer vacation, 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 1
am probably the only man in the
world who has a vivid recollection of
old Wetherby .. Vivid, yes, it was a
frequent picture in his mind, that
summer day with the sunlight
filtering through the dust in
Wetherby’s study. “You are a young
man, Mr Chipping, and Brookfield is
an old foundation Youth and age
often combine well. Give your
enthusiasm to Brookfield and
Brookfield will give you something in
return And don’t let anyone play tricks 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 attitude from the beginning, that’s the
secret of it ”
Perhaps 1t was He remembered that first tremendous ordeal of taking
prep , a September sunset more than half a century ago; Big Hall full of lusty
barbarians ready to pounce on him as their legitimate prey His youth, fresh-
complemoned, high-collared, and side-whiskered (odd fashions people followed
in those days), at the mercy of five hundred unprinerpled ruffians to whom the
baiting of new masters was a fine art, an exciting sport, and something of a
tradition Decent little beggars individually, but as a mob, just pitiless and
implacable. The sudden hush as he took his place at the desk on the dais, the
scowl he assumed to cover his inward nervousness. the tall clock ticking behind
him and the smells of ink and varnish; the last blood-red rays slanting in slabs
through the stained-glass windows Someone dropped a desk lid — quickly, he
must take everyone by surprise; he must show that there was no nonsense about
him. “You there in the fifth row — you with the red hair — what's your name?” —

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“Colley, sir” — “Very well, Colley, you have a hundred lines.” No trouble at all
after that. He had won his first round.
And years later, when Colley was an alderman of the City of London and
a baronet and various other things, he sent bis son (also redhaired) 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 it then, and you
deserve it now.” How they all laughed; and how Sir Richard laughed when his
son wrote homie 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 his remarks with that
little “umph-um” that had by then become a habit with him. “Colley, you are—
umph-—a splendid example of -umph-inherited traditions | remember your
grandfather - umph—-he could never grasp the Ablative Absolute A stupid
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, exther But I do
beleve—my dear Colley-that you are~umph-the biggest fool of the lot!” 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 rattling the windows, the waves of
humour and sadness swept over him very often until tears fell, so that when
Mrs. Wickett came m with his cup of tea she did not know whether he had been
laughing or crying. And neither did Chips himself.