Read Online The Phoenix Generation by Henry Williamson - Free Book Online
Authors: Henry Williamson
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lamp for his nightly mug of cocoa. He had a pair of steel-rimmed spectacles, and was a great reader. Phillip’s novels about Donkin, he declared, were the real stuff.
Rippingall, with the points of his moustache held in a fixed position by pomade hongroise , was a man of gentleness, deep feeling, and understanding. After awakening from that drunken stuporhe had wept, saying that he had betrayed the whitest man he had ever known. He would devote his life to Phillip, if only given another chance; he would renounce liquor for ever. Poor Rippingall, said Phillip to Lucy, he must find life with an author even duller than living in the dark background of a vicarage, the incumbent of which was low church almost to Calvinist simplicity, believing literally in the constant war between Heaven and Hell; and with the temptations of Hell there could never be compromise .
*
Now it was the start of another year.
“Ring out the old, ring in the new, ring out the false, ring in the true … ‘for God reveals Himself in many ways, lest one good custom should corrupt the world’. Rippingall, you old sweat, a man must break his principles now and again, to show that he is master of them. Who said that?”
“It sounds like Thomas Carlyle, sir.”
“I’ve never read Carlyle.”
“I must confess that I myself have but the slightest acquaintanceship with the Sage of Chelsea, sir.”
After that first lapse, Phillip made Rippingall sign an agreement that provided for his wages to be paid into a fund which Rippingall could use only at the age of sixty. Even so, he felt that he had let down Rippingall, allowing him only five shillings a week for pocket money. On odd occasions, chosen by himself, Rippingall got into his dress suit in the evening, and rewaxed the ends of his moustaches to points which, to the low church vicar, must have resembled the horns of the Devil himself. Never a glass of beer had he taken, true to his promise, since that one lapse.
“On this New Year’s Eve let us drink to Liberty, Fraternity, and Equality, Rippingall. What a wonderful suit you are wearing. I wish I had one like that.”
“One of the Captain’s” said Rippingall. “He gave me, as was my perquisite, all his wardrobe when I relinquished my post at the Castle.”
Phillip understood that Rippingall had worked as valet and, at times, companion to ‘Boy’ Runnymeade. He had been his opponent at billiards, snooker, cards, chess and picquet, with the ultimate job of the day of hauling his master upstairs and undressing him on the bed—a confidential job, for Captain Runnymeade had a fixed dread of appearing drunk before the other servants. On leaving his service at the Castle, Rippingall hadtaken with him a score or so of suits, shirts, shoes, etc. which had been replaced that year, as annually, by new patterns.
*
The next morning, in bowler hat, yellow goatskin gloves, whangee cane, and brown shoes patterned all over with holes and shining like glass, Rippingall, having brushed himself free of boiler-room dust and withered potato fragments, lit the remains of his cigar of the night before and set off to wish the Reverend Mr. Scrimgeour the compliments of the New Year. Rippingall wore the 1914 Star, with bar, on the lapel of his pepper-and-salt jacket.
“How do you do, everything all reet?” he greeted the parish priest, who was about to leave on his bicycle to go the rounds to some of his aged parishioners.
The vicar, moving his new Raleigh bicycle—a present from his congregation—between them across the front door to prevent entry, caused Rippingall to lurch to the other side, but he recovered his stance with the aid of the cane bent like a bow.
“Go away, you’re drunk again. Why have you come, you silly fellow? Been dismissed, as you deserve, no doubt. And do not smoke when you address me.”
“This——” replied Rippingall, removing the cigar from between yellow teeth and inspecting it “—is a weed, known first to Sir
Rippingall, with the points of his moustache held in a fixed position by pomade hongroise , was a man of gentleness, deep feeling, and understanding. After awakening from that drunken stuporhe had wept, saying that he had betrayed the whitest man he had ever known. He would devote his life to Phillip, if only given another chance; he would renounce liquor for ever. Poor Rippingall, said Phillip to Lucy, he must find life with an author even duller than living in the dark background of a vicarage, the incumbent of which was low church almost to Calvinist simplicity, believing literally in the constant war between Heaven and Hell; and with the temptations of Hell there could never be compromise .
*
Now it was the start of another year.
“Ring out the old, ring in the new, ring out the false, ring in the true … ‘for God reveals Himself in many ways, lest one good custom should corrupt the world’. Rippingall, you old sweat, a man must break his principles now and again, to show that he is master of them. Who said that?”
“It sounds like Thomas Carlyle, sir.”
“I’ve never read Carlyle.”
“I must confess that I myself have but the slightest acquaintanceship with the Sage of Chelsea, sir.”
After that first lapse, Phillip made Rippingall sign an agreement that provided for his wages to be paid into a fund which Rippingall could use only at the age of sixty. Even so, he felt that he had let down Rippingall, allowing him only five shillings a week for pocket money. On odd occasions, chosen by himself, Rippingall got into his dress suit in the evening, and rewaxed the ends of his moustaches to points which, to the low church vicar, must have resembled the horns of the Devil himself. Never a glass of beer had he taken, true to his promise, since that one lapse.
“On this New Year’s Eve let us drink to Liberty, Fraternity, and Equality, Rippingall. What a wonderful suit you are wearing. I wish I had one like that.”
“One of the Captain’s” said Rippingall. “He gave me, as was my perquisite, all his wardrobe when I relinquished my post at the Castle.”
Phillip understood that Rippingall had worked as valet and, at times, companion to ‘Boy’ Runnymeade. He had been his opponent at billiards, snooker, cards, chess and picquet, with the ultimate job of the day of hauling his master upstairs and undressing him on the bed—a confidential job, for Captain Runnymeade had a fixed dread of appearing drunk before the other servants. On leaving his service at the Castle, Rippingall hadtaken with him a score or so of suits, shirts, shoes, etc. which had been replaced that year, as annually, by new patterns.
*
The next morning, in bowler hat, yellow goatskin gloves, whangee cane, and brown shoes patterned all over with holes and shining like glass, Rippingall, having brushed himself free of boiler-room dust and withered potato fragments, lit the remains of his cigar of the night before and set off to wish the Reverend Mr. Scrimgeour the compliments of the New Year. Rippingall wore the 1914 Star, with bar, on the lapel of his pepper-and-salt jacket.
“How do you do, everything all reet?” he greeted the parish priest, who was about to leave on his bicycle to go the rounds to some of his aged parishioners.
The vicar, moving his new Raleigh bicycle—a present from his congregation—between them across the front door to prevent entry, caused Rippingall to lurch to the other side, but he recovered his stance with the aid of the cane bent like a bow.
“Go away, you’re drunk again. Why have you come, you silly fellow? Been dismissed, as you deserve, no doubt. And do not smoke when you address me.”
“This——” replied Rippingall, removing the cigar from between yellow teeth and inspecting it “—is a weed, known first to Sir
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