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msand3's review
4.0
Four years after publishing the classic novel [b:Good-Bye, Mr. Chips|413617|Good-Bye, Mr. Chips|James Hilton|https://images.gr-assets.com/books/1344264065s/413617.jpg|2147442], James Hilton returned with a collection of short stories that revisited the lovable schoolmaster at Brookfield who had spent fifty years of his life educating boys form the late-Victorian era through the early-30s. I must admit upfront that I'm probably rating this a little higher than an unbiased reader might. I'm a Hilton fan. And I also went to an all-boys high school founded in the 1840s and with the type of multi-generational traditions and stories that are as close as possible to Hilton's Brookfield as the United States might have, excepting perhaps those old New England boarding schools. We had Mr. Chips at our school (don't most schools, in one form or another?); ours was a brother (since it was a Catholic school) who had taught generations of students and who in his very old age puttered around campus in a golf cart with his German shepherds. The stories surrounding the man were legendary. Long story short: I begin this review stating that Hilton's book connected with me, as did the first Mr. Chips book, and so my rating is probably higher for that reason.
Beneath the surface of these light-hearted, nostalgic short stories of school life is a deeper, more stark truth that Hilton hints at in his introductory essay: this is an anti-war book. Chips is not just a character, but a symbol for the lost Britain of the Victorian era -- not a perfect era, with its bent on empire and industrial labor strife, but one in which young people could be raised to freely exchange ideas in the hope that their lives might be better for it, and that they might have something to contribute. This is a Britain that was devastated by the Great War, which ripped away the flower of that youth before it could blossom, leaving an emptiness in place that would never be filled in the same way again. As Hilton writes of those days during the war in his teenage years: "Those were days of history, but most of us were too young to be historians, too young to disassociate the trivial from the momentous -- gnarled desks and war-headlines, photogravure generals and the school butler who stood at the foot of the dormitory staircase and at lights-out warned sepulchrally -- 'Time, Gentlemen, Time.' It was Time in a way that so many of us could not realise. That warning marked the days during which, on an average, ten thousand men were killed."
Chips is there to mark the time -- in the previous novel, but most especially in this collection, which contains stories of boys who will pass through Brookfield on the cusp of young manhood only to die within a year. Hilton tells us light-hearted stories for tens of pages about the exploits of these boys, only to inform us of their fate -- one which Chips must witness time and again. But Hilton doesn't hammer the reader with these moments. They occur a few times throughout the text, but enough to allow us to understand that Chips is the binding witness to that history -- not only the marker for an era of Lost Time, but also a bridge to an era before, when boys could be boys without the specter of Death casting a pall on their near-futures.
(Did I mention I was a James Hilton fan? This is strong stuff, and it's integrated beautifully into these stories, as direct, unassuming, and unforgettable as Chips himself.)
It is impossible to discuss this book without mentioning the year of its publication, 1938, when a similar specter of war hung over Europe. One can imagine the impact of this collection of stories on young people faced with the possibility of a similar fate, as well as the older generation of Hilton's age (and slightly older) who would have a feeling of deja vu as the Second World War swung into gear. The fictional Chips had died by 1933 (his life as a teacher bookended, not coincidentally, by two wars: the Franco-Prussian and WWII), but in these stories his memory remains alive, a testament to the British spirit in the face of adversity that might otherwise crush a less resilient people.
I should add that I'm not really the "rah-rah" patriotic-type of American, nor am I much for nationalistic literature in general. But this is not that type of writing. It's not Kipling singing the praises of empire, nor is it Julian Fellowes' cheesy, Downton Abbey-style of nostalgia (although, I confess I enjoyed the latter, at least for a couple seasons). Instead, it's a remembrance and a celebration of an indomitable spirit that remains in memory, if not in presence. Chips might be gone, but he survives in the stories of those who knew and cherished him. Hilton suggests that just as Chips waits silently and patiently over Christmas break for the next session to return in January, perhaps that spirit also lies waiting to return again one day.
Beneath the surface of these light-hearted, nostalgic short stories of school life is a deeper, more stark truth that Hilton hints at in his introductory essay: this is an anti-war book. Chips is not just a character, but a symbol for the lost Britain of the Victorian era -- not a perfect era, with its bent on empire and industrial labor strife, but one in which young people could be raised to freely exchange ideas in the hope that their lives might be better for it, and that they might have something to contribute. This is a Britain that was devastated by the Great War, which ripped away the flower of that youth before it could blossom, leaving an emptiness in place that would never be filled in the same way again. As Hilton writes of those days during the war in his teenage years: "Those were days of history, but most of us were too young to be historians, too young to disassociate the trivial from the momentous -- gnarled desks and war-headlines, photogravure generals and the school butler who stood at the foot of the dormitory staircase and at lights-out warned sepulchrally -- 'Time, Gentlemen, Time.' It was Time in a way that so many of us could not realise. That warning marked the days during which, on an average, ten thousand men were killed."
Chips is there to mark the time -- in the previous novel, but most especially in this collection, which contains stories of boys who will pass through Brookfield on the cusp of young manhood only to die within a year. Hilton tells us light-hearted stories for tens of pages about the exploits of these boys, only to inform us of their fate -- one which Chips must witness time and again. But Hilton doesn't hammer the reader with these moments. They occur a few times throughout the text, but enough to allow us to understand that Chips is the binding witness to that history -- not only the marker for an era of Lost Time, but also a bridge to an era before, when boys could be boys without the specter of Death casting a pall on their near-futures.
(Did I mention I was a James Hilton fan? This is strong stuff, and it's integrated beautifully into these stories, as direct, unassuming, and unforgettable as Chips himself.)
It is impossible to discuss this book without mentioning the year of its publication, 1938, when a similar specter of war hung over Europe. One can imagine the impact of this collection of stories on young people faced with the possibility of a similar fate, as well as the older generation of Hilton's age (and slightly older) who would have a feeling of deja vu as the Second World War swung into gear. The fictional Chips had died by 1933 (his life as a teacher bookended, not coincidentally, by two wars: the Franco-Prussian and WWII), but in these stories his memory remains alive, a testament to the British spirit in the face of adversity that might otherwise crush a less resilient people.
I should add that I'm not really the "rah-rah" patriotic-type of American, nor am I much for nationalistic literature in general. But this is not that type of writing. It's not Kipling singing the praises of empire, nor is it Julian Fellowes' cheesy, Downton Abbey-style of nostalgia (although, I confess I enjoyed the latter, at least for a couple seasons). Instead, it's a remembrance and a celebration of an indomitable spirit that remains in memory, if not in presence. Chips might be gone, but he survives in the stories of those who knew and cherished him. Hilton suggests that just as Chips waits silently and patiently over Christmas break for the next session to return in January, perhaps that spirit also lies waiting to return again one day.
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