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Goodreads: Mr. Hilton's classic story of an English schoolmaster.Mr. Chipping, the classics master at Brookfield School since 1870, takes readers on a beguiling journey through the late 19th and early 20th centuries. Sometimes Chips, as he is affectionately known, is an old man who dreams by the fire; then he's a difficult young taskmaster schooling his students, or a middle-aged man encountering the lovely Katherine, whose "new woman" opinions work far-reaching changes in him. As succeeding generations of boys march onward through Chips' mind, Hilton's narrative remains masterful. He seamlessly interweaves a poignant love story with the jokes and eccentricities of English public school life, while also chronicling a new, uncertain world full of conflict and upheaval that extends far beyond the turrets of Brookfield.
This was a re-read for me, but now it's off to the Goodwill. The story of a lovable boys school teacher throughout his ups and downs. Great character development. A good way to spend a few hours. 144 pages ( )
In his old age, retired teacher Arthur Chipping (known to all as “Chips”) reflects on his life and career at a second-rate public school (private school if you’re American). The faces and names of his former students float through his memory as he sits by the fire with his tea. While the content of his lessons didn’t change throughout the decades, his relationships with his students and with one influential person shaped his classroom management skills and endeared him to generations of Brookfield students.
Mr. Chips’ career spanned the mid-Victorian era to the close of the Great War, and his retirement years stretched into the Depression era. These were momentous times in British history. Many of the Brookfield students went on to positions of power and influence while Mr. Chips’ career seemed to stagnate. He wasn’t aware that his words and example helped to shape his students’ later success.
The audio version read by Martin Jarvis added a special touch to an already special story. The audio producers made an inspired choice for the incidental music, using an instrumental version of the hymn “Jerusalem” for the interludes and concluding with a choral version. ( )
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When you are getting on in years (but not ill, of course), you get very sleepy at times, and the hours seem to pass like lazy cattle moving across a landscape.
Citater
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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 humor and sadness 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.
On the night before the wedding, when Chips left the house to return to his hotel, she said, with mock gravity: "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, mind you—but just, for once, in a thoroughly respectful mood. Shall I call you 'sir'—or would 'Mr. Chips' be the right thing? 'Mr. Chips,' I think. Good-bye, then—good-bye, Mr. Chips. . . ."
Where had they all gone to, he often pondered; those threads he had once held together, how far had they scattered, some to break, others to weave into unknown patterns? The strange randomness of the world beguiled him, that randomness which never would, so long as the world lasted, give meaning to those choruses again.
And sometimes, when the bell rang for call-over, he would go to the window and look across the road and over the School fence and see, in the distance, the thin line of boys filing past the bench. 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?
"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 chuckle.
"Yes—umph—I have," he added, with quavering merriment. "Thousands of 'em . . . thousands of 'em . . . and all boys."
Sidste ord
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But Linford, at any rate, will remember and tell the tale: "I said goodbye to Chips the night before he died ..."
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