Kipps - H. G. Wells (best books to read non fiction .txt) 📗

1

THE Kippses sat at their midday dinner-table amidst the vestiges of rhubarb pie, and discussed two post cards the one o’clock post had brought. It was a rare, bright moment of sunshine in a wet and windy day in the March that followed their marriage. Kipps was attired in a suit of brown, with a tie of fashionable green, while Ann wore one of those picturesque loose robes that are usually associated with sandals and advanced ideas. But there weren’t any sandals on Ann or any advanced ideas, and the robe had come quite recently through the counsels of Mrs. Sid. Pornick. ‘It’s Art-like,’ said Kipps, but giving way. ‘It’s more comfortable,’ said Ann. The room looked out by French windows upon a little patch of green and the Hythe parade. The parade was all shiny wet with rain, and the green-gray sea tumbled and tumbled between parade and sky.

The Kipps furniture, except for certain chromolithographs of Kipps’ incidental choice, that struck a quiet note amidst the wall-paper, had been tactfully forced by an expert salesman, and it was in a style of mediocre elegance. There was a sideboard of carved oak that had only one fault—it reminded Kipps at times of woodcarving, and its panel of bevelled glass now reflected the back of his head. On its shelf were two books from Parsons’ Library, each with a ‘place’ marked by a slip of paper; neither of the Kippses could have told you the title of either book they read, much less the author’s name. There was an ebonised overmantel set with phials and pots of brilliant colour, each duplicated by looking-glass, and bearing also a pair of Japanese jars made in Birmingham, a wedding-present from Mr. and Mrs. Sidney Pornick, and several sumptuous Chinese fans. And there was a Turkey carpet of great richness. In addition to these modern exploits of Messrs. Bunt and Bubble, there were two inactive tall clocks, whose extreme dilapidation appeal to the connoisseur; a terrestrial and a celestial globe, the latter deeply indented; a number of good old iron-moulded and dusty books; and a stuffed owl, wanting one (easily replaceable) glass eye, obtained by the exertions of Uncle Kipps. The table equipage was as much as possible like Mrs. Bindon Botting’s, only more costly, and in addition there were green and crimson wine-glasses— though the Kippses never drank wine…

Kipps turned to the more legible of his two post cards again.

”Unavoidably prevented from seein’ me to-day,’ ‘e says. I like ‘is cheek. After I give ‘im ‘is start and everything.’

He blew.

”E certainly treats you a bit orf and,’ said Ann.

Kipps gave vent to his dislike of young Walshingham.

‘He’s getting too big for ‘is britches,’ he said. ‘I’m beginning to wish she ‘ad brought an action for breach. Ever since ‘e said the wouldn’t, ‘e’s seemed to think I’ve got no right to spend my own money.’

”E’s never liked your building the ‘ouse,’ said Ann.

Kipps displayed wrath. ‘What the goodness ‘as it got to do wiv ‘im?’

‘Overmantel, indeed!’ he added; ‘Overmantel!… ‘E tries that on with me—I’ll tell ‘im something ‘e won’t like.’

He took up the second card. ‘Dashed if I can read a word of it. I can just make out Chit’low at the end, and that’s all.’

He scrutinised it. ‘It’s like some one in a fit writing. This here might be W-H-A-T—what. P-R-I-C-E—I got it! What price Harry now? It was a sort of saying of ‘is. I expect ‘e’s either done something or not done something towards starting that play, Ann.’

‘I expect that’s about it,’ said Ann.

Kipps grunted with effort. ‘I can’t read the rest,’ he said at last, ‘nohow.’

A thoroughly annoying post. He pitched the card on the table, stood up and went to the window, where Ann, after a momentary reconnaissance at Chitterlow’s hieroglyphics, came to join him.

‘Wonder what I shall do this afternoon,’ said Kipps, with his hands deep in his pockets.

He produced and lit a cigarette.

‘Go for a walk, I s’pose,’ said Ann.

‘I been for a walk this morning.’

‘S’pose I must go for another,’ he added, after an interval.

They regarded the windy waste of sea for a space.

‘Wonder why it is ‘e won’t see me,’ said Kipps, returning to the problem of young Walshingham. ‘It’s all lies about ‘is being too busy.’

Ann offered no solution.

‘Rain again!’ said Kipps—as the lash of the little drops stung the window.

‘Oo, bother!’ said Kipps, ‘you got to do something. Look ‘ere, Ann! I’ll go orf for a reg’lar tramp through the rain, up by Saltwood, round by Newington, over the camp, and so round and back, and see ‘ow they’re getting on about the ‘ouse. See? And look ‘ere!—you get Gwendolen to go out a bit before I come back. If it’s still rainy, she can easy go round and see ‘er sister. Then we’ll ‘ave a bit of tea, with teacake—all buttery—see? Toce it ourselves, p’r’aps. Eh?’

‘I dessay I can find something to do in the ‘ouse,’ said Ann, considering. ‘You’ll take your mackintosh and leggings, I s’pose? You’ll get wet without your mackintosh over those roads.’

‘Right-o,’ said Kipps; and went to ask Gwendolen for his brown leggings and his other pair of boots.

2

Things conspired to demoralise Kipps that afternoon.

When he got outside the house everything looked so wet under the drive of the south-wester that he abandoned the prospect of the clay lanes towards Newington altogether, and turned east to Folkestone along the Seabrook digue. His mackintosh flapped about him, the rain stung his cheek; for a time he felt a hardy man. And then as abruptly the rain ceased and the wind fell, and before he was through Sandgate High Street it was a bright spring day. And there was Kipps in his mackintosh and squeaky leggings, looking like a fool!

Inertia carried him another mile to the Leas, and there the whole world was pretending there had never been such a thing as rain—ever. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky; except for an occasional puddle, the asphalte paths looked as dry as a bone. A smartly dressed man, in one of those overcoats that look like ordinary cloth, and are really most deceitfully and unfairly waterproof, passed him and glanced at the stiff folds of his mackintosh. ‘Demn!’ said Kipps. His mackintosh swished against his leggings, his leggings piped and whistled over his boot-tops.

‘Why do I never get anything right?’ Kipps asked of a bright, implacable universe.

Nice old ladies passed him, refined people with tidy umbrellas, bright, beautiful, supercilious-looking children. Of course, the right thing for such a day as this was a light overcoat and an umbrella. A child might have known that. He had them at home, but how could one explain that? He decided to turn down by the Harvey monument and escape through Clifton Gardens towards the hills. And thereby he came upon Coote.

He already felt the most abject and propitiatory of social outcasts when he came upon Coote, and Coote finished him. He passed within a yard of Coote. Coote was coming along towards the Leas, and when Kipps saw him his legs hesitated about their office, and he seemed to himself to stagger about all over the footpath. At the sight of him Coote started visibly. Then a sort of rigor vitae passed through his frame, his jaw protruded and errant bubbles of air seemed to escape and run about beneath his loose skin. (Seemed, I say—I am perfectly well aware that there is really connective tissue in Coote, as in all of us, to prevent anything