Джеймс Хилтон: Good-bye, Mr Chips

Once he heard them talking about him in the room.

Cartwright was whispering to Merivale. "Poor old chap—must have lived a lonely sort of life, all by himself."

Merivale answered: "Not always by himself. He married, you know."

"Oh, did he? I never knew about that."

"She died. It must have been—oh, quite thirty years ago. More, possibly."

"Pity. Pity he never had any children."

And at that, Chips opened his eyes as wide as he could and sought to attract their attention. It was hard for him to speak out loud, but he managed to murmur something, and they all looked round and came nearer to him.

He struggled, slowly, with his words. "What—was that—um—you were saying—about me—just now?"

Old Buffles smiled and said: "Nothing at all, old chap—nothing at all—we were just wondering when you were going to wake out of your beauty sleep."

"But—umph—I heard you—you were talking about me—"

"Absolutely nothing of any consequence, my dear fellow—really, I give you my word..."

"I thought I heard you—one of you—saying it was a pity—umph—a pity I never had—any children... eh?... But I have, you know... I have..."

The others smiled without answering, and after a pause Chips began a faint and palpitating chuckle.

"Yes—umph—I have," he added, with quavering merriment. "Thousands of 'em... thousands of 'em... and all boys."

And then the chorus sang in his ears in final harmony, more grandly and sweetly than he had ever heard it before, and more comfortingly too... Pettifer, Pollett, Porson, Potts, Pullman, Purvis, Pym-Wilson, Radlett, Rapson, Reade, Reaper, Reddy Primus... come round me now, all of you, for a last word and a joke... Harper, Haslett, Hatfield, Hatherley... my last joke... did you hear it? Did it make you laugh?... Bone, Boston, Bovey, Bradford, Bradley, Bramhall-Anderson... wherever you are, whatever has happened, give me this moment with you... this last moment... my boys...

And soon Chips was asleep.

He seemed so peaceful that they did not disturb him to say good-night; but in the morning, as the School bell sounded for breakfast, Brookfield had the news. "Brookfield will never forget his lovableness," said Cartwright, in a speech to the School. Which was absurd, because all things are forgotten in the end. But Linford, at any rate, will remember and tell the tale: "I said good-bye to Chips the night before he died..."

1934

JAMES HILTON was born in Lancashire in 1900. Educated at the Leys School, Cambridge (which some regard as the original of Brookfield in Good-bye Mr. Chips) he was still an undergraduate at Christ's College, Cambridge, when his first novel, Catherine Herself, was written, and it was in the same year that no less a newspaper than The Manchester Guardian began to take articles of his.

During the decade that followed, Hilton lived in London and devoted his time to most kinds of literary work, none of which, he says, "set the Thames on fire," nor did he become overburdened with riches. His first big success came suddenly. In the spring of 1933 his Lost Horizon had been brought out. The reviews had been very favourable, but the sale, as in the case of his earlier books, had been limited. Then, a few months later, he was given an assignment by The British Weekly to write a long short story for their Christmas supplement, and the deadline was in two weeks. Inspiration refused to come; finally, unable to sleep, he climbed out of bed one cold, foggy morning and went for a bicycle ride. When he returned for breakfast, he went straight to his desk and began to write. Four days later Good-bye, Mr. Chips was completed, within a few months it was a best-seller, and James Hilton was one of England's outstanding authors at the age of 33.

Lost Horizon had been published in America in September, 1933. While the excitement over Mr. Chips was spreading, several critics were rediscovering the earlier work. Then Alexander Woollcott went "quietly mad" over Lost Horizon, and millions of people heard him. Suddenly the book, which had appeared unheralded, was a best-seller, and it has been selling steadily and well ever since. In England the novel was awarded the Hawthornden Prize of £100. This award is for England what the Pulitzer Prize is for America. Hollywood purchased the book, and in 1937 produced one of the finest pictures of the year; the engrossing story set against the magnificent snow-clad peaks of Tibet made many new readers for the book.

Hilton's other novels include Ill Wind, Without Armor, and We Are Not Alone. His latest novel is Random Harvest.

Part of the key to his style can be found in his expressed admiration for the work of Somerset Maugham and Maurice Baring. Indeed, his approach to writing strongly resembles that of Maugham, in that he firmly believes in the value of pure story-telling. For the same reason, he is an advocate of journalistic training for authors. It keeps them, he has said, "from writing nonsense."

Hilton went out to Hollywood for a while to work on scripts for motion-pictures, and there showed himself to be that rare wonder among authors—the novelist without temperament. His gentle and unassuming manner, however, cloaks determination. When his first big success came some publishers were anxious to capitalise on it by reissuing the early titles, most of which were out of print. Hilton fought this; he felt that this early work was not of a sufficiently high standard, and he didn't want to let his public down.

In private life, Hilton enjoys three things above all others: dogs, mountain-climbing, and music. He even, at one time, wanted to become a concert pianist. If he cannot do this, he nevertheless can and does climb mountains whenever they present themselves, and he owns a burly Alsatian who is happy to do it with him.