KIPPS

by WordFire Press

  He selected a little table—not the one where a rather impudent looking waiter held a chair, but another—sat down, and finding his gibus in his hand, decided after a moment of thought to rise slightly and sit on it. (It was discovered in his abandoned chair at a late hour by a supper party, and restored to him next day.)

  He put the napkin carefully on one side, selected his soup without difficulty, “Clear, please,” but he was rather floored by the presentation of a quite splendidly bound wine card. He turned it over, discovered a section devoted to whiskey, and had a bright idea.

  “’Ere,” he said to the waiter, with an encouraging movement of his head, and then in a confidential manner, “you haven’t any Old Methuselah Three Stars, ’ave you?”

  The waiter went away to enquire, and Kipps went on with his soup with an enhanced self-respect. Finally, Old Methuselah being unobtainable, he ordered a claret from about the middle of the list. “Let’s ’ave some of this,” he said. He knew claret was a good sort of wine.

  “A half bottle?” said the waiter.

  “Right you are,” said Kipps.

  He felt he was getting on. He leant back after his soup, a man of the world, and then slowly brought his eyes around to the ladies in evening dress on his right …

  He couldn’t have thought it!

  They were scorchers. Just a bit of black velvet over the shoulders!

  He looked again. One of them was laughing with a glass of wine half raised—wicked-looking woman she was—the other, the black velvet one, was eating bits of bread with nervous quickness and talking fast.

  He wished old Buggins could see them.

  He found a waiter regarding him and blushed deeply. He did not look again for some time, and became confused about his knife and fork over the fish. Presently he remarked a lady in pink to the left of him eating the fish with an entirely different implement.

  It was over the vol au vent that he began to go to pieces. He took a knife to it; then saw the lady in pink was using a fork only, and hastily put down his knife, with a considerable amount of rich creaminess on the blade, upon the cloth. Then he found that a fork in his inexperienced hand was an instrument of chase rather than capture. His ears became violently red, and then he looked up, to discover the lady in pink glancing at him and then smiling as she spoke to the man beside her.

  He hated the lady in pink very much.

  He stabbed a large piece of the vol au vent at last, and was too glad of his luck not to take a mouthful of it. But it was an extensive fragment, and pieces escaped him. Shirt front! “Desh it!” he said, and had resort to his spoon. His waiter went and spoke to two other waiters, no doubt jeering at him. He became very fierce suddenly. “’Ere!” he said, gesticulating, and then, “Clear this away!”

  The entire dinner party on his right, the party of the ladies in advanced evening dress, looked at him … He felt that everyone was watching him and making fun of him, and the injustice of this angered him. After all, they had every advantage he hadn’t. And then, when they got him there doing his best, what must they do but glance and sneer and nudge one another. He tried to catch them at it, and then took refuge in a second glass of wine.

  Suddenly and extraordinarily he found himself a socialist. He did not care how close it was to the lean years when all these things would end.

  Mutton came with peas. He arrested the hand of the waiter. “No peas,” he said. He knew something of the difficulty and danger of eating peas. Then, when the peas went away again, he was embittered again … Echoes of Masterman’s burning rhetoric began to reverberate in his mind. Nice lot of people these were to laugh at anyone! Women half undressed. It was that made him so beastly uncomfortable. How could one eat one’s dinner with people about him like that? Nice lot they were. He was glad he wasn’t one of them, anyhow. Yes, they might look. He resolved if they looked at him again he would ask one of the men who he was staring at. His perturbed and angry face would have concerned anyone. The band by an unfortunate accident was playing truculent military music. The mental change Kipps underwent was, in its way, what psychologists call a conversion. In a few moments all Kipps’ ideals were changed. He who had been “practically a gentleman,” the sedulous pupil of Coote, the punctilious raiser of hats, was instantly a rebel, an outcast, the hater of everything “stuck-up,” the foe of Society and the social order of today. Here they were among the profits of their robbery, these people who might do anything with the world …

  “No, thenks,” he said to a dish.

  He addressed a scornful eye at the shoulders of the lady to his left.

  Presently he was refusing another dish. He didn’t like it—fussed up food! Probably cooked by some foreigner. He finished up his wine and his bread.

  “No, thenks.”

  “No, thenks.”

  He discovered the eye of a diner fixed curiously upon his flushed face. He responded with a glare. Couldn’t he go without things if he liked?

  “What’s this?” said Kipps to a great green cone.

  “Ice,” said the waiter.

  “I’ll ’ave some,” said Kipps.

  He seized a fork and spoon and assailed the bombe. It cut rather stiffly. “Come up!” said Kipps, with concentrated bitterness, and the truncated summit of the bombe flew off suddenly, travelling eastward with remarkable velocity. Flop, it went upon the floor a yard away, and for a while time seemed empty.

  At the adjacent table they were laughing together.

  Shy the rest of the bombe at them?

  Flight?

  At any rate a dignified withdrawal.

  “No,” said Kipps, “no more,” arresting the polite attempt of the waiter to serve him with another piece. He had a vague idea he might carry off the affair as though he had meant the ice to go on the floor—not liking ice, for example, and being annoyed at the badness of his dinner. He put both hands on the table, thrust back his chair, disengaged a purple slipper from his napkin, and rose. He stepped carefully over the prostrate ice, kicked the napkin under the table, thrust his hands deep into his pockets, and marched out—shaking the dust of the place, as it were, from his feet. He left behind him a melting fragment of ice upon the floor, his gibus hat, warm and compressed in his chair, and in addition every social ambition he had ever entertained in the world.

  7

  Kipps went back to Folkestone in time for the Anagram Tea. But you must not imagine that the change of heart that came to him in the dining room of the Royal Grand Hotel involved any change of attitude toward this promised social and intellectual treat. He went back because the Royal Grand was too much for him.

  Outwardly calm, or at most a little flushed and ruffled, inwardly Kipps was a horrible, tormented battleground of scruples, doubts, shames, and self-assertions during that three days of silent, desperate grappling with the big hotel. He did not intend the monstrosity should beat him without a struggle, but at last he had sullenly to admit himself overcome. The odds were terrific. On the one hand himself—with, among other things, only one pair of boots; on the other a vast wilderness of rooms, covering several acres, and with over a thousand people, staff and visitors, all chiefly occupied in looking queerly at Kipps, in laughing at him behind his back, in watching for difficult corners at which to confront and perplex him, and inflict humiliations upon him. For example, the hotel scored over its electric light. After the dinner the chambermaid, a hard, unsympathetic young woman with a superior manner, was summoned by a bell Kipps had rung under the impression the button was the electric light switch. “Look ’ere,” said Kipps, rubbing a shin that had suffered during his search in the dark, “why aren’t there any candles or matches?” The hotel explained and scored heavily.

  “It isn’t everyone is up to these things,” said Kipps.

  “No, it isn’t,” said the chambermaid, with ill-concealed scorn, and slammed the door at him.

  “S’pose I ought to have tipped her,” said Kipps.

  After that Kipps cleaned his boots with a p
ocket-handkerchief and went for a long walk and got home in a hansom, but the hotel scored again by his not putting out his boots and so having to clean them again in the morning. The hotel also snubbed him by bringing him hot water when he was fully dressed and looking surprised at his collar, but he got a breakfast, I must admit, with scarcely any difficulty.

  After that the hotel scored heavily by the fact that there are twenty-four hours in the day and Kipps had nothing to do in any of them. He was a little footsore from his previous day’s pedestrianism, and he could make up his mind for no long excursions. He flitted in and out of the hotel several times, and it was the polite porter who touched his hat every time that first set Kipps tipping.

  “What ’e wants is a tip,” said Kipps.

  So at the next opportunity he gave the man an unexpected shilling, and having once put his hand in his pocket, there was no reason why he should not go on. He bought a newspaper at the bookstall and tipped the boy the rest of the shilling, and then went up by the lift and tipped the man a sixpence, leaving his newspaper inadvertently in the lift. He met his chambermaid in the passage and gave her half a crown. He resolved to demonstrate his position to the entire establishment in this way. He didn’t like the place; he disapproved of it politically, socially, morally, but he resolved no taint of meanness should disfigure his sojourn in its luxurious halls. He went down by the lift (tipping again), and, being accosted by a waiter with his gibus, tipped the finder half a crown. He had a vague sense that he was making a flank movement upon the hotel and buying over its staff. They would regard him as a character. They would get to like him. He found his stock of small silver diminishing, and replenished it at a desk in the hall. He tipped a man in bottle green who looked like the man who had shown him his room the day before, and then he saw a visitor eyeing him, and doubted whether he was in this instance doing right. Finally he went out and took chance ’buses to their destinations, and wandered a little in remote, wonderful suburbs and returned. He lunched at a chop house in Islington, and found himself back in the Royal Grand, now unmistakably footsore and London weary, about three. He was drawn towards the drawing room by a neat placard about afternoon tea.

  It occurred to him that the campaign of tipping upon which he had embarked was perhaps after all a mistake. He was confirmed in this by observing that the hotel officials were watching him, not respectfully, but with a sort of amused wonder, as if to see whom he would tip next. However, if he backed out now, they would think him an awful fool. Everyone wasn’t so rich as he was. It was his way to tip. Still—

  He grew more certain the hotel had scored again.

  He pretended to be lost in thought and so drifted by, and having put hat and umbrella in the cloak room went into the drawing room for afternoon tea.

  There he did get what for a time he held to be a point in his favor. The room was large and quiet at first, and he sat back restfully until it occurred to him that his attitude brought his extremely dusty boots too prominently into the light, so instead he sat up, and then people of the upper and upper middle classes began to come and group themselves about him and have tea likewise, and so revive the class animosities of the previous day.

  Presently a fluffy, fair-haired lady came into prominent existence a few yards away. She was talking to a respectful, low-voiced clergyman, whom she was possibly entertaining at tea. “No,” she said, “dear Lady Jane wouldn’t like that!”

  “Mumble, mumble, mumble,” from the clergyman.

  “Poor dear Lady Jane was always so sensitive,” the voice of the lady sang out clear and emphatic.

  A fat, hairless, important-looking man joined this group, took a chair and planted it firmly with its back in the face of Kipps, a thing that offended Kipps mightily. “Are you telling him,” gurgled the fat, hairless man, “about dear Lady Jane’s affliction?” A young couple, lady brilliantly attired and the man in a magnificently cut frock coat, arranged themselves to the right, also with an air of exclusion towards Kipps.

  “I’ve told him,” said the gentleman in a flat, abundant voice. “My!” said the young lady, with an American smile. No doubt they all thought Kipps was out of it. A great desire to assert himself in some way surged up in his heart. He felt he would like to cut in on the conversation in some dramatic way. A monologue something in the manner of Masterman? At any rate, abandoning that as impossible, he would like to appear self-centered and at ease. His eyes, wandering over the black surfaces of a noble architectural mass close by, discovered a slot—an enameled plaque of directions. It was some sort of musical box! As a matter of fact, it was the very best sort of Harmonicon and specially made to the scale of the Hotel. He scrutinized the plaque with his head at various angles and glanced about him at his neighbors.

  It occurred to Kipps that he would like some music, that to inaugurate some would show him a man of taste and at his ease at the same time. He rose, read over a list of tunes, selected one haphazard, pressed his sixpence—it was sixpence!—home, and prepared for a confidential, refined little melody.

  Considering the high social tone of the Royal Grand, it was really a very loud instrument indeed. It gave vent to three deafening brays and so burst the dam of silence that had long pent it in. It seemed to be chiefly full of the great uncles of trumpets, megalo-trombones and railway brakes. It made sounds like shunting trains. It did not so much begin as blow up your counter-scarp or rush forward to storm under cover of melodious shrapnel. It had not so much an air as a ricochette. The music had, in short, the inimitable quality of Sousa. It swept down upon the friend of Lady Jane and carried away something socially striking into the eternal night of the unheard; the American girl to the left of it was borne shrieking into the inaudible. “HIGH cockalorum Tootletootle tootle loo. HIGH cockalorum tootle lootle loo. BUMP, bump, bump—BUMP.” Joyous, exorbitant music it was from the gigantic nursery of the Future, bearing the hearer along upon its torrential succession of sounds, as if he was in a cask on Niagara. Whiroo! Yah and have at you! The strenuous Life! Yaha! Stop! A Reprieve! A Reprieve! No! Bang! Bump!

  Everybody looked around, 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 tipped 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 trem
endous 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 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 tomorrow. 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 absentminded South African diamond merchant, who was waiting in the hall for his wife and succumbed to old habit. 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

  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 forever, 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 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 these 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 lookout …