by H. G. Wells
Everybody looked round, conversation ceased and gave place to gestures.
The friend of Lady Jane became terribly agitated.
‘Can't it be stopped?’ she vociferated, pointing a gloved finger and saying something to the waiter about ‘that dreadful young man.’
‘Ought not to be working,’ said the clerical friend of Lady Jane.
The waiter shook his head at the fat, hairless gentleman.
People began to move away. Kipps leant back luxurious, and then tapped with a half-crown to pay.
He paid, tipped like a gentleman, rose with an easy gesture, and strolled towards the door. His retreat evidently completed the indignation of the friend of Lady Jane, and from the door he could still discern her gestures as asking, ‘Can't it be stopped?’ The music followed him into the passage and pursued him to the lift, and only died away completely in the quiet of his own room, and afterwards from his window he saw the friend of Lady Jane and her party having their tea carried out to a little table in the court.
Certainly that was a point to him. But it was his only score; all the rest of the game lay in the hands of the upper classes and the big hotel. And presently he was doubting whether even this was really a point. It seemed a trifle vulgar, come to think it over, to interrupt people when they were talking.
He saw a clerk peering at him from the office, and suddenly it occurred to him that the place might get back at him tremendously over the bill.
They would probably take it out of him by charging pounds and pounds.
Suppose they charged more than he had!
The clerk had a particularly nasty face, just the face to take advantage of a vacillating Kipps.
He became aware of a man in a cap touching it, and produced his shilling automatically, but the strain was beginning to tell. It was a deuce and all of an expense – this tipping.
If the hotel chose to stick it on to the bill something tremendous, what was Kipps to do? Refuse to pay? Make a row?
If he did he couldn't fight all these men in bottle green… .
He went out about seven and walked for a long time, and dined at last upon a chop in the Euston Road; then he walked along to the Edgware Road and sat and rested in the Metropolitan Music Hall 26 for a time, until a trapeze performance unnerved him, and finally he came back to bed. He tipped the lift-man sixpence and wished him good night. In the silent watches of the night he reviewed the tale of the day's tipping, went over the horrors of the previous night's dinner, and heard again the triumphant bray of the harmonicon devil released from its long imprisonment. Everyone would be told about him to-morrow. He couldn't go on! He admitted his defeat. Never in their whole lives had any of these people seen such a Fool as he! Ugh!…
His method of announcing his withdrawal to the clerk was touched with bitterness.
‘I'm going to get out of this,’ said Kipps, blowing windily. ‘Let's see what you got on my bill.’
‘One breakfast?’ asked the clerk.
‘Do I look as if I'd ate two?’…
At his departure Kipps, with a hot face, convulsive gestures, and an embittered heart, tipped everyone who did not promptly and actively resist, including an absent-minded South African diamond merchant who was waiting in the hall for his wife. 27 He paid his cabman a four-shilling piece at Charing Cross, having no smaller change, and wished he could burn him alive. Then in a sudden reaction of economy he refused the proffered help of a porter, and carried his bag quite violently to the train.
CHAPTER THE EIGHTH
KIPPS ENTERS SOCIETY
§1
Submission to Inexorable Fate took Kipps to the Anagram Tea.
At any rate he would meet Helen there in the presence of other people, and be able to carry off the worst of the difficulty of explaining his little jaunt to London. He had not seen her since his last portentous visit to New Romney. He was engaged to her, he would have to marry her, and the sooner he faced her again the better. Before wild plans of turning socialist, defying the world and repudiating all calling for ever, his heart, on second thoughts, sank. He felt Helen would never permit anything of the sort. As for the Anagrams, he could do no more than his best, and that he was resolved to do. What had happened at the Royal Grand, what had happened at New Romney, he must bury in his memory and begin again at the reconstruction of his social position. Ann, Buggins, Chitterlow – all these, seen in the matter-of-fact light of the Folkestone corridor train, stood just as they stood before – people of an inferior social position, who had to be eliminated from his world. It was a bother about Ann, a bother and a pity. His mind rested so for a space on Ann until the memory of those Anagrams drew him away. If he could see Coote that evening he might, he thought, be able to arrange some sort of connivance about the anagrams, and his mind was chiefly busy sketching proposals for such an arrangement. It would not, of course, be ungentlemanly cheating, but only a little mystification. Coote, very probably, might drop him a hint of the solution of one or two of the things – not enough to win a prize, but enough to cover his shame. Or failing that, he might take a humorous, quizzical line, and pretend he was pretending to be very stupid. There were plenty of ways out of it if one kept a sharp look-out…
The costume Kipps wore to the Anagram Tea was designed as a compromise between the strict letter of high fashion and seaside laxity – a sort of easy semi-state for afternoon. Helen's first reproof had always lingered in his mind. He wore a frock-coat, but mitigated it by a Panama hat of romantic shape with a black band, grey gloves, but, for relaxation, brown button boots. The only other man besides the clergy present – a new doctor with an attractive wife – was in full afternoon dress. Coote was not there.
Kipps was a little pale, but quite self-possessed, as he approached Mrs Bindon Botting's door. He took a turn while some people went in, and then faced it manfully. The door opened and revealed – Ann!
In the background, through a draped doorway, behind a big fern in a great art pot, the elder Miss Botting was visible talking to two guests; the auditory background was a froth of feminine voices….
Our two young people were much too amazed to give one another any formula of greeting, though they had parted warmly enough. Each was already in a state of extreme tension to meet the demands of this great and unprecedented occasion – an Anagram Tea. ‘Lor!’ said Ann, her sole remark; and then the sense of Miss Botting's eye ruled her straight again. She became very pale, but she took his hat mechanically, and he was already removing his gloves. ‘Ann,’ he said in a low tone, and then ‘Fency!’
The eldest Miss Botting knew Kipps was the sort of guest who requires nursing, and she came forward vocalizing charm. She said it was 'awfully jolly of him to come – awfully jolly. It was awfully difficult to get any good men!’
She handed Kipps forward, mumbling, and in a dazed condition, to the drawing-room, and there he encountered Helen, looking unfamiliar in an unfamiliar hat. It was as if he had not met her for years.
She astonished him. She didn't seem to mind in the least his going to London. She held out a shapely hand, and smiled encouragingly. ‘You've faced the anagrams?’ she said.
The second Miss Botting accosted them, a number of oblong pieces of paper in her hand, mysteriously inscribed. ‘Take an anagram,’ she said; ‘take an anagram,’ and boldly pinned one of these brief documents to Kipps' lapel. The letters were ‘Cypshi,’ and Kipps from the very beginning suspected this was an anagram for Cuyps. She also left a thing like a long dance programme, 1 from which dangled a little pencil, in his hand. He found himself being introduced to people, and then he was in a corner with the short lady in a big bonnet, who was pelting him with gritty little bits of small talk, that were gone before you could take hold of them and reply.
‘Very hot,’ said this lady. ‘Very hot indeed – hot all the summer – remarkable year – all the years remarkable now – don't know what we're coming to. Don't you think so, Mr Kipps?’
‘Oo rather,’ said Kipps, and wonde
red if Ann was still in the hall. Ann!
He ought not to have stared at her like a stuck fish, and pretended not to know her. That couldn't be right. But what was right?
The lady in the big bonnet proceeded to a second discharge. ‘Hope you're fond of anagrams, Mr Kipps – difficult exercise – ill, one must do something to bring people together – better than Ludo, 2 anyhow. Don't you think so, Mr Kipps?’
Ann fluttered past the open door. Her eyes met his in amazed inquiry. Something had got dislocated in the world for both of them….
He ought to have told her he was engaged. He ought to have explained things to her. Perhaps, even now, he might be able to drop her a hint.
‘Don't you think so, Mr Kipps?’
‘Oo rather,’ said Kipps for the third time.
A lady with a tired smile, who was labelled conspicuously ‘Wogdelenk,’ drifted towards Kipps' interlocutor, and the two fell into conversation. Kipps found himself socially aground. He looked about him. Helen was talking to a curate and laughing. Kipps was overcome by a vague desire to speak to Ann. He was for sidling doorward.
‘What are you, please?’ said an extraordinarily bold, tall girl, and arrested him while she took down ‘Cypshi.’
‘I'm sure I don't know what it means,’ she explained. ‘I'm Sir Bubh. Don't you think anagrams are something chronic?’
Kipps made stockish noises, and the young lady suddenly became the nucleus of a party of excited friends who were forming a syndicate to guess, and barred his escape. She took no further notice of him. He found himself jammed against an occasional table and listening to the conversation of Mrs ‘Wogdelenk’ and his lady with the big bonnet.
‘She packed her two beauties off together,’ said the lady in the big bonnet. ‘Time enough, too. Don't think much of this girl she's got as housemaid now. Pretty, of course, but there's no occasion for a housemaid to be pretty – none whatever. And she doesn't look particularly up to her work either. Kind of 'mazed expression.’
‘You never can tell,’ said the lady labelled ‘Wogdelenk;’ ‘you never can tell. My wretches are big enough, Heaven knows, and do they work? Not a bit of it!…’
Kipps felt dreadfully out of it with regard to all these people, and dreadfully in it with Ann.
He scanned the back of the big bonnet, and concluded it was an extremely ugly bonnet indeed. It got jerking forward as each short, dry sentence was snapped off at the end, and a plume of osprey on it jerked excessively. ‘She hasn't guessed even one!’ followed by a shriek of girlish merriment, came from the group about the tall, bold girl. They'd shriek at him presently, perhaps! Beyond thinking his own anagram might be Cuyps, he hadn't a notion. What a chatter they were all making! It was just like a summer sale! Just the sort of people who'd give a lot of trouble and swap you! And suddenly the smouldering fires of rebellion leapt to flame again. These were a rotten lot of people, and the anagrams were rotten nonsense, and he (Kipps) had been a rotten fool to come. There was Helen away there still laughing with her curate. Pity she couldn't marry a curate, and leave him (Kipps) alone! Then he'd know what to do. He disliked the whole gathering, collectively and in detail. Why were they all trying to make him one of themselves? He perceived unexpected ugliness everywhere about him. There were two great pins jabbed through the tall girl's hat, and the swirls of her hair below the brim, with the minutest piece of tape tie-up showing, did not repay close examination. Mrs ‘Wogdelenk’ wore a sort of mumps bandage 3 of lace, and there was another lady perfectly dazzling with beads and jewels and bits of trimming. They were all flaps and angles and flounces, these women. Not one of them looked as neat and decent a shape as Ann's clean, trim little figure. Echoes of Masterman woke up in him again. Ladies indeed! Here were all these chattering people, with money, with leisure, with every chance in the world, and all they could do was to crowd like this into a couple of rooms and jabber nonsense about anagrams.
‘Could Cypshi really mean Cuyps?’ floated like a dissolving wreath of mist across his mind.
Abruptly resolution stood armed in his heart. He was going to get out of this!
‘'Scuse me,’ he said, and began to wade neck-deep through the bubbling tea-party.
He was going to get out of it all!
He found himself close by Helen. ‘I'm orf,’ he said, but she gave him the briefest glance. She did not appear to hear him. ‘Still, Mr Spratlingdown, you must admit there's a limit even to conformity,’ she was saying… .
He was in a curtained archway, and Ann was before him, carrying a tray supporting several small sugar-bowls.
He was moved to speech. ‘What a Lot!’ ‘he said, and then mysteriously, ‘I'm engaged to her.’ He indicated Helen's new hat, and became aware of a skirt he had stepped upon.
Ann stared at him helplessly, borne past in the grip of incomprehensible imperatives.
Why shouldn't they talk together?
He was in a small room, and then at the foot of the staircase in the hall. He heard the rustle of a dress, and what was conceivably his hostess was upon him.
‘But you're not going, Mr Kipps?’ she said.
‘I must,’ he said. ‘I got to.’
‘But, Mr Kipps!’
‘I must,’ he said. ‘I'm not well.’
‘But before the guessing! Without any tea!’
Ann appeared and hovered behind him.
‘I got to go,’ said Kipps.
If he parleyed with her Helen might awake to his desperate attempt.
‘Of course, if you must go.’
‘It's something I've forgotten,’ said Kipps, beginning to feel regrets. ‘Reely I must.’
Mrs Botting turned with a certain offended dignity, and Ann, in a state of flushed calm that evidently concealed much, came forward to open the door.
‘I'm very sorry,’ he said, ‘I'm very sorry,’ half to his hostess and half to her, and was swept past her by superior social forces – like a drowning man in a mill-race 4 – and into the Upper Sandgate Road. He half turned upon the step, and then slam went the door… .
He retreated along the Leas, a thing of shame and perplexity, Mrs Botting's aggrieved astonishment uppermost in his mind….
Something – reinforced by the glances of the people he was passing – pressed its way to his attention through the tumultuous disorder of his mind.
He became aware that he was still wearing his little placard with the letters ‘Cypshi.’ 5
‘Desh it!’ he said, clutching off this abomination. In another moment its several letters, their task accomplished, were scattering gleefully before the breeze down the front of the Leas.
§ 2
Kipps was dressed for Mrs Wace's dinner half an hour before it was time to start, and he sat waiting until Coote should come to take him round. Manners and Rules of Good Society lay beside him neglected. He had read the polished prose of the Member of the Aristocracy on page 96 as far as –
‘the acceptance of an invitation is in the eyes of diners out, a 'binding obligation which only ill-health, family bereavement, or 'some all-important reason justifies its being set on one side or 'otherwise evaded’ –
and then he had lapsed into gloomy thoughts.
That afternoon he had had a serious talk with Helen.
He had tried to express something of the change of heart that had happened to him. But to broach the real state of the matter had been altogether too terrible for him. He had sought a minor issue. ‘I don't like all this Seciety,’ he had said.
‘But you must see people,’ said Helen.
‘Yes, but— It's the sort of people you see.’ He nerved himself. ‘I didn't think much of that lot at the Enegram Tea.’
‘You have to see all sorts of people if you want to see the world,’ said Helen.
Kipps was silent for a space, and a little short of breath.
‘My dear Arthur,’ she began almost kindly, ‘I shouldn't ask you to go to these affairs if I didn't think it good for you, should I?’
&nbs
p; Kipps acquiesced in silence.
‘You will find the benefit of it all when we get to London. You learn to swim in a tank before you go out into the sea. These people here are good enough to learn upon. They're stiff and rather silly, and dreadfully narrow, and not an idea in a dozen of them, but it really doesn't matter at all. You'll soon get Savoir Faire.’
He made to speak again, and found his powers of verbal expression lacking. Instead he blew a sigh.
‘You'll get used to it all very soon,’ said Helen, helpfully… .
As he sat meditating over that interview, and over the vistas of London that opened before him, on the little flat and teas and occasions, and the constant presence of Brudderkins and all the bright prospect of his new and better life, and how he would never see Ann any more, the housemaid entered with a little package, a small, square envelope for ‘Arthur Kipps, Esquire.’
‘A young woman left this, Sir,’ said the housemaid, a little severely.
‘Eh?’ said Kipps. ‘What young woman?’ and then suddenly began to understand.
‘She looked an ordinary young woman,’ said the housemaid, coldly.
‘Ah!’ said Kipps. ‘That's orlright.’
He waited till the door had closed behind the girl, staring at the envelope in his hand, and then, with a curious feeling of increasing tension, tore it open. As he did so, some quicker sense than sight or touch told him its contents. It was Ann's half-sixpence. And besides, not a word!
Then she must have heard him—!
He was standing with the envelope in his hand when Coote became audible without.
Coote appeared in evening dress, a clean and radiant Coote, with large greenish white gloves, and a particularly large white tie edged with black. ‘For a third cousin,’ he presently explained. ‘Nace, isn't it?’ He could see Kipps was pale and disturbed, and put this down to the approaching social trial. ‘You keep your nerve up, Kipps, my dear chap, and you'll be all right,’ said Coote, with a big brotherly glove on Kipps' sleeve.