KIPPS Read online

  “I don’t think I’ve ever made up anything for print,” said Kipps, “—ever. I’d have a thundering good try, though, if ever I got a chance. I would that! I’ve written window tickets often enough. Made ’em up and everything. But that’s different.”

  “You’d come to it all the fresher for not having done it before. And the way you picked up every point in that scene, my boy, was a Fair Treat! I tell you, you’d knock William Archer into fits. Not so literary, of course, you’d be, but I don’t believe in literary critics any more than in literary playwrights. Plays aren’t literature—that’s just the point they miss. Plays are plays. No! That won’t hamper you anyhow. You’re wasted down here, I tell you. Just as I was before I took to acting. I’m hanged if I wouldn’t like your opinion on these first two acts of that tragedy I’m on to. I haven’t told you about that. It wouldn’t take me more than an hour to read …”

  3

  Then, so far as he could subsequently remember, Kipps had “another,” and then it would seem that suddenly, regardless of the tragedy, he insisted that he “really must be getting on,” and from that point, his memory became irregular. Certain things have remained quite clearly, and as it is a matter of common knowledge that intoxicated people forget what happens to them, it follows that he was not intoxicated. Chitterlow came with him partly to see him home and partly for a freshener before turning in. Kipps recalled afterward very distinctly how in Little Fenchurch Street he discovered that he could not walk straight and also that Chitterlow’s needle and thread in his still unmended trouser leg was making an annoying little noise on the pavement behind him. He tried to pick up the needle suddenly by surprise and somehow tripped and fell, and then Chitterlow, laughing uproariously, helped him up. “It wasn’t a bicycle this time, old boy,” said Chitterlow, and that appeared to them both at the time as being a quite extraordinarily good joke indeed. They punched each other about on the strength of it.

  For a time after that, Kipps certainly pretended to be quite desperately drunk and unable to walk, and Chitterlow entered into the pretense and supported him. After that Kipps remembered being struck with the extremely laughable absurdity of going downhill to Tontine Street in order to go uphill again to the Emporium, and trying to get that idea into Chitterlow’s head and being unable to do so on account of his own merriment or Chitterlow’s evident intoxication, and his next memory after that was of the exterior of the Emporium, shut and darkened, and, as it were, frowning at him with all its stripes of yellow and green. The chilly way in which “SHALFORD” glittered in the moonlight printed itself with particular vividness on his mind. It appeared to Kipps that that establishment was closed to him forevermore. Those gilded letters, in spite of appearances, spelled FINIS for him and exile from Folkestone. He would never do wood carving, never see Miss Walshingham again. Not that he had ever hoped to see her again. But this was the knife; this was final. He had stayed out; he had got drunk, there had been that row about the Manchester window dressing only three days ago … In the retrospect, he was quite sure that he was perfectly sober then and at bottom extremely unhappy, but he kept a brave face on the matter nevertheless, and declared stoutly he didn’t care if he was locked out.

  Whereupon Chitterlow slapped him on the back very hard and told him that was a “Bit of All Right,” and assured him that when he himself had been a clerk in Sheffield before he took to acting, he had been locked out sometimes for six nights running.

  “What’s the result?” said Chitterlow. “I could go back to that place now, and they’d be glad to have me … Glad to have me,” he repeated, and then added, “that is to say if they remember me—which isn’t very likely.”

  Kipps asked a little weakly, “What am I to do?”

  “Keep out,” said Chitterlow. “You can’t knock ’em up now—that would give you right away. You’d better try and sneak in in the morning with the cat. That’ll do you. You’ll probably get in all right in the morning if nobody gives you away.”

  Then for a time—perhaps as the result of that slap in the back—Kipps felt decidedly queer, and acting on Chitterlow’s advice went for a bit of a freshener upon the Leas. After a time, he threw off the temporary queerness and found Chitterlow patting him on the shoulder and telling him that he’d be all right now in a minute and all the better for it—which he was. And the wind having dropped and the night being now a really very beautiful moonlight night indeed, and all before Kipps to spend as he liked and with only a very little tendency to spin round now and again to mar its splendor, they set out to walk the whole length of the leas to the Sandgate lift and back, and as they walked Chitterlow spoke first of moonlight transfiguring the sea and then of moonlight transfiguring faces, and so, at last, he came to the topic of love, and upon that he dwelt a great while and with a wealth of experience and illustrative anecdote that seemed remarkably pungent and material to Kipps. He forgot his lost Miss Walshingham and his outraged employer again. He became, as it were, a desperado by reflection.

  Chitterlow had had adventures, a quite astonishing variety of adventures in this direction; he was a man with a past, a really opulent past, and he certainly seemed to like to look back and see himself amidst its opulence.

  He made no consecutive history, but he gave Kipps vivid, momentary pictures of relations and entanglements. One moment he was in flight—only too worthily in flight—before the husband of a Malay woman in Cape Town. At the next, he was having passionate complications with the daughter of a clergyman in York. Then he passed to a remarkable grouping at Seaford.

  “They say you can’t love two women at once,” said Chitterlow. “But I tell you—” He gesticulated and raised his ample voice. “It’s Rot! Rot!”

  “I know that,” said Kipps.

  “Why, when I was in the smalls with Bessie Hopper’s company, there were three.” He laughed and decided to add, “Not counting Bessie, that is.”

  He set out to reveal life as it is lived in touring companies, a quite amazing jungle of interwoven “affairs” it appeared to be, a mere amorous winepress for the crushing of hearts.

  “People say this sort of thing’s a nuisance and interferes with work. I tell you it isn’t. The work couldn’t go on without it. They must do it. They haven’t the temperament if they don’t. If they hadn’t the temperament, they wouldn’t want to act, if they have—Bif!”

  “You’re right,” said Kipps. “I see that.”

  Chitterlow proceeded to a close criticism of certain historical indiscretions of Mr. Clement Scott respecting the morals of the stage. Speaking in confidence and not as one who addresses the public, he admitted regretfully the general truth of these comments. He proceeded to examine various typical instances that had almost forced themselves upon him personally, and with especial regard to the contrast between his own character towards women and that of the Hon. Thomas Norgate, with whom it appeared he had once been on terms of great intimacy …

  Kipps listened with emotion to these extraordinary recollections. They were wonderful to him; they were incredibly credible. Of course, the tumultuous, passionate course was the way life ran—except in high-class establishments! Such things happened in novels, in plays—only he had been fool enough not to understand they happened. His share in the conversation was now indeed no more than faint writing in the margin; Chitterlow was talking quite continuously. He expanded his magnificent voice into huge guffaws, he drew it together into a confidential intensity, it became drawlingly reminiscent, he was frank, frank with the effect of a revelation, reticent also with the effect of a revelation, a stupendously gesticulating, moonlit black figure, wallowing in itself, preaching adventure and the flesh to Kipps. Yet withal shot with something of sentiment, with a sort of sentimental refinement very coarsely and egotistically done. The times he had had!—even before he was as old as Kipps, he had had innumerable times.

  Well, he said with a sudden transition, he had sown his wild oats—one had to somewhen—and now he fancied he had mentioned
it earlier in the evening, he was happily married. She was, he indicated, a “born lady.” Her father was a prominent lawyer, a solicitor in Kentish Town, “done a lot of public house business”; her mother was second cousin to the wife of Abel Jones, the fashionable portrait painter—“almost society people in a way.” That didn’t count with Chitterlow. He was no snob. What did count was that she possessed what he ventured to assert, without much fear of contradiction, was the very finest, completely untrained contralto voice in all the world. (“But to hear it properly,” said Chitterlow, “you want a Big Hall.”) He became rather vague and jerked his head about to indicate when and how he had entered matrimony. She was, it seemed, “away with her people.” It was clear that Chitterlow did not get on with these people very well. It would seem they failed to appreciate his playwright, regarding it as an unremunerative pursuit, whereas as he and Kipps knew, wealth beyond the dreams of avarice would presently accrue. Only patience and persistence were needful.

  He went off at a tangent to hospitality. Kipps must come down home with him. They couldn’t wander about all night, with a bottle of the right sort pining at home for them. “You can sleep on the sofa. You won’t be worried by broken springs anyhow, for I took ’em all out myself two or three weeks ago. I don’t see what they even put ’em in for. It’s a point I know about. I took particular notice of it when I was with Bessie Hopper. Three months we were and all over England, North Wales, and the Isle of Man, and I never struck a sofa in diggings anywhere that hadn’t a broken spring. Not once—all the time.”

  He added almost absently: “It happens like that at times.”

  They descended the slant road towards Harbor Street and went on past the Pavilion Hotel.

  4

  They came into the presence of Old Methusaleh again, and that worthy under Chitterlow’s direction at once resumed the illumination of Kipps’ interior with the conscientious thoroughness that distinguished him. Chitterlow took a tall portion to himself with an air of asbestos, lit the bulldog pipe again, and lapsed for a space into meditation, from which Kipps roused him by remarking that he expected “a nacter ’as a lot of ups and downs like, now and then.”

  At which Chitterlow seemed to bestir himself. “Rather,” he said. “And sometimes it’s his own fault and sometimes it isn’t. Usually, it is. If it isn’t one thing, it’s another. If it isn’t the manager’s wife, it’s bar-bragging. I tell you things happen at times. I’m a fatalist. The fact is, character has you. You can’t get away from it. You may think you do, but you don’t.”

  He reflected for a moment. “It’s that what makes tragedy. Psychology really. It’s the Greek irony—Ibsen and—all that. Up to date.”

  He emitted this exhaustive summary of high-toned modern criticism as if he was repeating a lesson while thinking of something else, but it seemed to rouse him as it passed his lips, by including the name of Ibsen.

  He became interested in telling Kipps, who was indeed open to any information whatever about this quite novel name, exactly where he thought Ibsen fell short, points where it happened that Ibsen was defective just where it chanced that he, Chitterlow, was strong. Of course, he had no desire to place himself in any way on an equality with Ibsen; still, the fact remained that his own experience in England and America and the colonies was altogether more extensive than Ibsen could have had. Ibsen had probably never seen “one decent bar scrap” in his life. That, of course, was not Ibsen’s fault or his own merit, but there the thing was. Genius, he knew, was supposed to be able to do anything or to do without anything; still, he was now inclined to doubt that. He had a play in hand that might perhaps not please William Archer—whose opinion, after all, he did not value as he valued Kipps’ opinion—but which he thought was at any rate as well constructed as anything Ibsen ever did.

  So, with infinite deviousness, Chitterlow came at last to his play. He decided he would not read it to Kipps, but tell him about it. This was the simpler because much of it was still unwritten. He began to explain his plot. It was a complicated plot and all about a nobleman who had seen everything and done everything and knew practically all that Chitterlow knew about women; that is to say, “all about women” and suchlike matters. It warmed and excited Chitterlow. Presently he stood up to act a situation—which could not be explained. It was an extremely vivid situation.

  Kipps applauded the situation vehemently. “Tha’s dam’ fine,” said the new dramatic critic, quite familiar with his part now, striking the table with his fist and almost upsetting his third portion (in the second series) of Old Methusaleh. “Tha’s dam’ fine, Chit’low!”

  “You see it?” said Chitterlow, with the last vestiges of that incidental gloom disappearing. “Good old boy! I thought you’d see it. But it’s just the sort of thing the literary critic can’t see. However, it’s only a beginning—”

  He replenished Kipps and proceeded with his exposition.

  In a little while, it was no longer necessary to give that over-advertised Ibsen the purely conventional precedence he had hitherto had. Kipps and Chitterlow were friends, and they could speak frankly and openly of things not usually admitted. “Any’ow,” said Kipps, a little irrelevantly and speaking over the brim of the replenishment, “what you read jus’ now was dam’ fine. Nothing can’t alter that.”

  He perceived a sort of faint, buzzing vibration about things that were very nice and pleasant, and with a little care, he had no difficulty whatever in putting his glass back on the table. Then he perceived Chitterlow was going on with the scenario, and then that Old Methusaleh had almost entirely left his bottle. He was glad there was so little more Methusaleh to drink because that would prevent his getting drunk. He knew that he was not now drunk, but he knew that he had had enough. He was one of those who always know when they have had enough. He tried to interrupt Chitterlow to tell him this, but he could not get a suitable opening. He doubted whether Chitterlow might not be one of those people who did not know when they had had enough. He discovered that he disapproved of Chitterlow. Highly. It seemed to him that Chitterlow went on and on like a river. For a time, he was inexplicably and quite unjustly cross with Chitterlow and wanted to say to him, “you got the gift of the gab,” but he only got so far as to say “the gift,” and then Chitterlow thanked him and said he was better than Archer any day. So he eyed Chitterlow with a baleful eye until it dawned upon him that a most extraordinary thing was taking place. Chitterlow kept mentioning someone named Kipps. This presently began to perplex Kipps very greatly. Dimly but decidedly, he perceived this was wrong.

  “Look ’ere,” he said suddenly, “what Kipps?”

  “This chap Kipps I’m telling you about.”

  “What chap Kipps you’re telling which about?”

  “I told you.”

  Kipps struggled with a difficulty in silence for a space. Then he reiterated firmly, “What chap Kipps?”

  “This chap in my play—man who kisses the girl.”

  “Never kissed a girl,” said Kipps, “leastwise—” and subsided for a space. He could not remember whether he had kissed Ann or not—he knew he had meant to. Then suddenly, in a tone of great sadness and addressing the hearth, he said, “My name’s Kipps.”

  “Eh?” said Chitterlow.

  “Kipps,” said Kipps, smiling a little cynically.

  “What about him?”

  “He’s me.” He tapped his breastbone with his middle finger to indicate his essential self.

  He leant forward very gravely towards Chitterlow. “Look ’ere, Chit’low,” he said, “you haven’t no business putting my name into plays. You mustn’t do things like that. You’d lose me my crib, right away.” And they had a little argument—so far as Kipps could remember. Chitterlow entered upon a general explanation of how he got his names. These he had, for the most part, got out of a newspaper that was still, he believed, “lying about.” He even made to look for it, and while he was doing so, Kipps went on with the argument, addressing himself more particularly to th
e photograph of the girl in tights. He said that at first, her costume had not commended her to him, but now he perceived she had an extremely sensible face. He told her she would like Buggins if she met him; he could see she was just that sort. She would admit, all sensible people would admit, that using names in plays was wrong. You could, for example, have the law of him.

  He became confidential. He explained that he was already in sufficient trouble for stopping out all night without having his name put in plays. He was certain to be in the deuce of a row, the deuce of a row. Why had he done it? Why hadn’t he gone at ten? Because one thing leads to another. One thing, he generalized, always does lead to another …

  He was trying to tell her that he was utterly unworthy of Miss Walshingham when Chitterlow gave up the search and suddenly accused him of being drunk and talking “Rot—”

  Chapter the Fifth

  “Swapped!”

  He awoke on the thoroughly comfortable sofa that had had all its springs removed, and although he had certainly not been intoxicated, he awoke with what Chitterlow pronounced to be, quite indisputably, a head and a mouth. He had slept in his clothes, and he felt stiff and uncomfortable all over, but the head and mouth insisted that he must not bother over little things like that. In the head was one large, angular idea that it was physically painful to have there. If he moved his head, the angular idea shifted about in the most agonizing way. This idea was that he had lost his situation and was utterly ruined and that it really mattered very little. Shalford was certain to hear of his escapade, and that coupled with that row about the Manchester window—!