Goodbye, Mr. Chips

One moonlit night, as air-raid sirens shatter the tranquility of one of Chips’s Latin lessons, he tells his students to remain in the classroom, which offers as sturdy a shelter as any in Brookfield, and proceeds with his lecture. As loud bombs rain nearby, Chips counters with a steady stream of calming jokes, including a deft quote from Julius Caesar about the Germans’ “pugnae” (fighting). Afterward, news of Chips’s coolness and wit under fire spreads widely, further burnishing his legend. In November of 1918, at a school dinner celebrating the Armistice, all of Brookfield rises as one to cheer and applaud for Chips, revering him as a “symbol of victory” (59). That night, with the war at an end, Chips steps down as Acting Head and teacher to begin his retirement in earnest.

In the 15 years since his final retirement in 1918, Chips has seldom left his home near Brookfield. He went abroad once, to the Riviera, but the unseasonably chilly weather only drove him deeper into his sedentary habits. With his warm fire, books, and tea, the cold seasons pose no hardships. He looks forward to summer, which brings visits from old boys, many of whom have gone on to illustrious, dynamic lives. He enjoys these visits more than anything in the world and always wonders about other past students, whose names still echo in his mind in the exact order of the old roll calls. The wider world now interests him less and less: The developments of the post-war era have largely dismayed him, especially in Europe and the British Empire, but England, and especially Brookfield, still comfort him with their stability and longevity. The school culture of Brookfield has even improved in some ways; there is a more sincere friendliness between students and teachers, though Chips takes mild umbrage at some new familiarities, such as masters allowing the boys to call them by their first names.

During the General Strike of 1926, Brookfield students do their part to ease privations by loading vans with food. When the strike is resolved with no violence, Chips feels a great sense of pride for both Brookfield and England as a whole. He conveys his optimism, even into the Depression years, with his unfailing wit for which he has become locally famous; listeners find that he can always be counted on to find the laughter in almost any situation. After 1929, he stops visiting London to attend old boy dinners and increasingly becomes a homebody. Unlike many, he has made only the safest investments, so the Depression does not hurt his finances; he has more money than he needs and freely donates to school funds and the Brookfield mission. His health and faculties continue relatively unimpaired, and his sense of humor loses none of its dash. His questioners, young and old alike, are frequently rewarded with one of “Chips’s latest” witticisms.

In 1933, on a foggy November afternoon, Chips huddles by the fire in his front parlor, feeling that he may have caught a “chill” at the Armistice Day service 15 years earlier: Ever since, he has not felt quite himself. Wistfully, he marvels at the rich “pageant” of his memories; all the things he has done and those he has not done and never will now, such as flying in an airplane or going to a “talkie.”

At a quarter to four, he is surprised to receive a visitor, a small first-year boy named Linford, who timidly asks for “Mr. Chips,” who, he says, has asked for him. Older boys, Chips guesses, have told him this as an “old leg-pull,” so Chips plays along, saying he has summoned the boy to share tea with him. He tells Linford that Brookfield will soon feel like home to him and confides that he himself was quite scared when he first came to the school, more scared than he has ever been, before or since. To Chips’s amusement, the boy misunderstands, thinking Chips was a student then. After chatting warmly with him for a while, Chips escorts him to the door, where he shakes hands with him and bids him goodbye. The boy’s farewell (“Goodbye, Mr. Chips”), the same as Katherine’s on the eve of their wedding, brings tears to his eyes (69). Then, Katherine had been teasing him for his seriousness; no one, he thinks, would call him “serious” today. Feeling exhausted by the boy’s visit, Chips sinks back into his chair, too tired to light his pipe as he usually does at twilight. Drowsily content, Chips is glad to have met Linford but thinks how “odd” that the boy should have said goodbye just as Katherine did, so long ago.

When he awakes, Chips is surprised to find himself in bed, being watched over by Dr. Merivale, who says jovially that he gave them all a “shock” by fainting. Still very tired, Chips makes out the figure of Mrs. Wickett in his room, along with the headmaster, Cartwright, and Buffles, the science master. Momentarily puzzled by their presence at his bedside, he soon shrugs it off, trying to sleep. In a hazy state full of dreams, faces, and voices, fragments of memory, including his Latin puns, snatches of music, and cheers and laughter, press around him, punctuated by the lilting bells of Brookfield.

At one point, he hears the headmaster, in the present time, say to Merivale what a “pity” it was that Chips never had any children. This rouses him a little, and he tries to respond, saying with a chuckle that he has had children, thousands of them, “all boys.” With that, the “chorus” of students’ names sings in his ears again, in “final harmony,” more sweetly and comfortingly than ever, and Chips bids them all to come close, “for a last word and a joke […] wherever you are, whatever has happened, give me this moment with you... this last moment... my boys...” (72). Mr. Chips drifts off to sleep, for the last time.

The next day, before the bells ring for breakfast, Brookfield is in mourning. The school, Cartwright says in a speech, shall always remember Chips’s “lovableness.” The narrator questions this, noting that all things, in time, are forgotten. However, Linford will always remember and forever tell the tale of how he said goodbye to Mr. Chips the night before he died.