Painful story of Mr. Chips
Painful story of Mr. Chips
And there was always in his mind that spring day in
ninety-eight when he had paced through Brookfield village as in some horrifying
nightmare, half-struggling to escape into an outside world where the sun still
shone and where everything had happened differently. Young Faulkner had met him
there in the lane outside the School. “Please, sir, may I have the afternoon
off? My people are coming up.”
“Eh? What’s that? Oh, yes, yes …”
Can I miss chapel, too, sir?”
“Yes……. yes……”
“And can I go to the station to meet them?”
informationmaker.blogspot.com |
He nearly answered; “You can go to blazes for all I care. My
wife is dead and my child is dead, and I wish I were dead myself.”
Actually he nodded and stumbled on. He did not want to talk
to anybody or to receive condolences; he wanted to get used to things, if he
could, before facing the kind words of others. He took his fourth form as usual
after call-over, setting them grammar to learn by heart while he himself stayed
at his desk in a cold, continuing trance. Suddenly someone said: “Please, sir,
there are a lot of letters for you.”
So there were; he had been leaning his elbows on them; they
were all addressed to him by name. He tore them open one after the other, but
each contained nothing but a blank sheet of paper. He thought in a distant way
that it was rather peculiar, but he made no comment; the incident gave hardly
an impact upon his vastly greater preoccupations. Not till days afterwards did
he realize that it had been a piece of April foolery.
They had died on the same day, the mother and the child just
born; on April 1st, 1898.
“Good-bye, Mr. Chips…..”
Comments
Post a Comment