Kipps H. G. Wells (best thriller novels to read .txt) 📖

particular notice of it when I was with Bessie Hopper. Three months we were and all over England, North Wales and the Isle of Man, and I never struck a sofa in diggings anywhere that hadn’t a broken spring. Not once⁠—all the time.”

He added almost absently: “It happens like that at times.”

They descended the slant road towards Harbour Street and went on past the Pavilion Hotel.

They came into the presence of old Methusaleh again, and that worthy under Chitterlow’s direction at once resumed the illumination of Kipps’ interior with the conscientious thoroughness that distinguished him. Chitterlow took a tall portion to himself with an air of asbestos, lit the bulldog pipe again, and lapsed for a space into meditation, from which Kipps roused him by remarking that he expected “an acter ’as a lot of ups and downs like, now and then.”

At which Chitterlow seemed to bestir himself. “Rather,” he said. “And sometimes it’s his own fault and sometimes it isn’t. Usually it is. If it isn’t one thing it’s another. If it isn’t the manager’s wife it’s bar-bragging. I tell you things happen at times. I’m a fatalist. The fact is Character has you. You can’t get away from it. You may think you do, but you don’t.”

He reflected for a moment. “It’s that what makes tragedy Psychology really. It’s the Greek irony⁠—Ibsen and⁠—all that. Up to date.”

He emitted this exhaustive summary of high-toned modern criticism as if he was repeating a lesson while thinking of something else, but it seemed to rouse him as it passed his lips, by including the name of Ibsen.

He became interested in telling Kipps, who was indeed open to any information whatever about this quite novel name, exactly where he thought Ibsen fell short, points where it happened that Ibsen was defective just where it chanced that he, Chitterlow, was strong. Of course he had no desire to place himself in any way on an equality with Ibsen; still the fact remained that his own experience in England and America and the colonies was altogether more extensive than Ibsen could have had. Ibsen had probably never seen “one decent bar scrap” in his life. That, of course, was not Ibsen’s fault or his own merit, but there the thing was. Genius, he knew, was supposed to be able to do anything or to do without anything; still he was now inclined to doubt that. He had a play in hand that might perhaps not please William Archer⁠—whose opinion, after all, he did not value as he valued Kipps’ opinion⁠—but which he thought was at any rate as well constructed as anything Ibsen ever did.

So with infinite deviousness Chitterlow came at last to his play. He decided he would not read it to Kipps, but tell him about it. This was the simpler because much of it was still unwritten. He began to explain his plot. It was a complicated plot and all about a nobleman who had seen everything and done everything and knew practically all that Chitterlow knew about women; that is to say, “all about women” and suchlike matters. It warmed and excited Chitterlow. Presently he stood up to act a situation⁠—which could not be explained. It was an extremely vivid situation.

Kipps applauded the situation vehemently. “Tha’s dam’ fine,” said the new dramatic critic, quite familiar with his part now, striking the table with his fist and almost upsetting his third portion (in the second series) of old Methusaleh. “Tha’s dam’ fine, Chit’low!”

“You see it?” said Chitterlow, with the last vestiges of that incidental gloom disappearing. “Good, old boy! I thought you’d see it. But it’s just the sort of thing the literary critic can’t see. However, it’s only a beginning⁠—”

He replenished Kipps and proceeded with his exposition.

In a little while it was no longer necessary to give that over-advertised Ibsen the purely conventional precedence he had hitherto had. Kipps and Chitterlow were friends and they could speak frankly and openly of things not usually admitted. “Any ’ow,” said Kipps, a little irrelevantly and speaking over the brim of the replenishment, “what you read jus’ now was dam’ fine. Nothing can’t alter that.”

He perceived a sort of faint, buzzing vibration about things that was very nice and pleasant and with a little care he had no difficulty whatever in putting his glass back on the table. Then he perceived Chitterlow was going on with the scenario, and then that old Methusaleh had almost entirely left his bottle. He was glad there was so little more Methusaleh to drink because that would prevent his getting drunk. He knew that he was not now drunk, but he knew that he had had enough. He was one of those who always know when they have had enough. He tried to interrupt Chitterlow to tell him this, but he could not get a suitable opening. He doubted whether Chitterlow might not be one of those people who did not know when they had had enough. He discovered that he disapproved of Chitterlow. Highly. It seemed to him that Chitterlow went on and on like a river. For a time he was inexplicably and quite unjustly cross with Chitterlow and wanted to say to him, “you got the gift of the gab,” but he only got so far as to say “the gift,” and then Chitterlow thanked him and said he was better than Archer any day. So he eyed Chitterlow with a baleful eye until it dawned upon him that a most extraordinary thing was taking place. Chitterlow kept mentioning someone named Kipps. This presently began to perplex Kipps very greatly. Dimly but decidedly he perceived this was wrong.

“Look ’ere,” he said suddenly, “what Kipps?”

“This chap Kipps I’m telling you about.”

“What chap Kipps you’re telling which about?”

“I told you.”

Kipps struggled with a difficulty in silence for a space. Then he reiterated firmly, “What chap Kipps?”

“This chap in my play⁠—man who kisses the girl.”

“Never kissed a girl,” said Kipps; “leastwise⁠—” and subsided for a space. He