‘I will have the animal removed to the stables, sir,’ he said coldly, and I said Oh, thanks, that would be fine.
And now,’ I said, ‘I’d better be nipping along and dressing, what? I don’t want to be late for dinner.’
‘Dinner has already commenced, sir. We dine at seven-thirty punctually. If you would care to wash your hands, sir,’ he said, and indicated a door to the left.
In the circles in which I move it is pretty generally recognized that I am a resilient sort of bimbo, and in circumstances where others might crack beneath the strain, may frequently be seen rising on stepping-stones of my dead self to higher things. Look in at the Drones and ask the first fellow you meet ‘Can the fine spirit of the Woosters be crushed?’ and he will offer you attractive odds against such a contingency. However tough the going, he will say, and however numerous what are called the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, you will still find Bertram in there swinging.
But I had never before been thrust into the position of having to say I was Gussie Fink-Nottle and, slap on top of that, of having to dine in a strange house without dressing, and I don’t mind admitting that for an instant everything went black. It was a limp and tottering Bertram Wooster who soaped, rinsed and dried the outlying portions and followed Uncle Charlie to the dining-room. And what with the agony of feeling like a tramp cyclist and the embarrassment of having to bolt my rations with everybody, or so it seemed to my inflamed imag., clicking their tongues and drumming on the table and saying to one another in undertones what a hell of a nuisance this hold-up was, because they wanted the next course to appear so that they could start digging in and getting theirs, it was not for some time that I was sufficiently restored to be able to glance around the board and take a dekko at the personnel. There had been introductions of a sort, of course – I seemed to recall Uncle Charlie saying ‘Mr Fink-Nottle’ in a reserved sort of voice, as if wishing to make it clear that it was no good blaming him – but they hadn’t really registered.
As far as the eye could reach, I found myself gazing on a surging sea of aunts. There were tall aunts, short aunts, stout aunts, thin aunts, and an aunt who was carrying on a conversation in a low voice to which nobody seemed to be paying the slightest attention. I was to learn later that this was Miss Emmel-ine Deverill’s habitual practice, she being the aunt of whom Corky had spoken as the dotty one. From start to finish of every meal she soliloquized. Shakespeare would have liked her.
At the top of the table was a youngish bloke in a well-cut dinner jacket which made me more than ever conscious of the travel-stained upholstery in which I had been forced to appear. E. Haddock, presumably. He was sitting next to a girl in white, so obviously the junior member of the bunch that I deduced that here we had Catsmeat’s Gertrude.
Drinking her in, I could see how Catsmeat had got that way. The daughter of Dame Daphne, relict of the late P. B. Winkworth, was slim and blonde and fragile, in sharp contradistinction to her mother, whom I had now identified as the one on my left, a rugged light-heavyweight with a touch of Wallace Beery in her make-up. Her eyes were blue, her teeth pearly, and in other respects she had what it takes. I was quite able to follow Catsmeat’s thought processes. According to his own statement, he had walked with this girl in an old garden on twilight evenings, with the birds singing sleepily in the shrubberies and the stars beginning to peep out, and no man of spirit could do that with a girl like this without going under the ether.
I was musing on these two young hearts in springtime and speculating with a not unmanly touch of sentiment on their chances of spearing the happy ending, when the subject of the concert came up.
The conversation at the table up to this point had been pretty technical stuff, not easy for the stranger within the gates to get a toe-hold on. You know the sort of thing I mean. One aunt saying that she had had a letter from Emily by the afternoon post, and another aunt saying Had she said anything about Fred and Alice, and the first aunt saying Yes, everything was all right about Fred and Alice, because Agnes had now told Edith what Jane had said to Eleanor. All rather mystic.
But now an aunt in spectacles said she had met the vicar that evening and the poor old gook was spitting blood because his niece, Miss Pirbright, insisted on introducing into the programme of the concert what she described as a knockabout cross-talk act by Police Constable Dobbs and Agatha Worples-don’s nephew, Mr Wooster. What a knockabout cross-talk act was, she had no idea. Perhaps you can tell us, Augustus?
I was only too glad to have the opportunity of saying a few words, for, except for a sort of simpering giggle at the outset, I hadn’t uttered since joining the party, and I felt it was about time, for Gussie’s sake, that I came out of the silence. Carry along on these lines much longer, and the whole gang would be at their desks writing letters to the Bassett entreating her to think twice before entrusting her happiness to a dumb brick who would probably dish the success of the honeymoon by dashing off in the middle of it to become a Trappist monk.
‘Oh, rather,’ I said. ‘It’s one of those Pat and Mike things. Two birds come on in green beards, armed with umbrellas, and one bird says to the other bird “Who was that lady I saw you coming down the street with?” and the second bird says to the first bird “Faith and begob, that was no lady, that was my wife.” And then the second bird busts the first bird over the bean with his umbrella, and the first bird, not to be behindhand, busts the second bird over the head with his umbrella. And so the long day wears on.’
It didn’t go well. There was a sharp intake of breath from one and all.
‘Very vulgar!’ said one aunt.
‘Terribly vulgar!’ said another.
‘Disgustingly vulgar,’ said Dame Daphne Winkworth. ‘But how typical of Miss Pirbright to suggest such a performance at a village concert.’
The rest of the aunts didn’t say ‘You betcher’ or ‘You’ve got something there, Daph’, but their manner suggested these words. Lips were pursed and noses looked down. I began to get on to what Catsmeat had meant when he had said that these females did not approve of Corky. Her stock was plainly down in the cellar and the market sluggish.
‘Well, I am glad,’ said the aunt in spectacles, ‘that it is this Mr Wooster and not you, Augustus, who is disgracing himself by taking part in this degrading horseplay. Imagine how Madeline would feel!’
‘Madeline would never get over it,’ said a thin aunt.
‘Dear Madeline is so spiritual,’ said Dame Daphne Wink-worth.
A cold hand seemed to clutch at my heart. I felt like a Gadarene swine that has come within a toucher of doing a nose-dive over the precipice. You’ll scarcely believe it, but it had never so much as crossed my mind that Madeline Bassett, on learning that her lover had been going about in a green beard socking policemen with umbrellas, would be revolted to the depths of her soul. Why, dash it, the engagement wouldn’t go on functioning for a minute after the news had reached her. You can’t be too careful how you stir up these romantic girls with high ideals. A Gussie in a green beard would be almost worse than a Gussie in the cooler.
It gave me a pang to hand in my portfolio, for I had been looking forward to a sensational triumph, but I know when I’m licked. I resolved that bright and early tomorrow morning word must be sent to Corky that Bertram was out and that she would have to enlist the services of another artist for the role of Pat.
‘From all I have heard of Mr Wooster,’ said an aunt with a beaky nose, continuing the theme, ‘this kind of vulgar foolery will be quite congenial to him. By the way, where is Mr Wooster?’
‘Yes,’ chimed in the aunt with spectacles. ‘He was to have arrived this afternoon, and he has not even sent a telegram.’
‘He must be a most erratic young man,’ said a third aunt, who would have been the better for a good facial.
Dame Daphne took command of the conversation like a headmistress at a conference of her subordinates.
‘“Erratic”,’ she said, ‘is a kindly term. He appears
to be completely irresponsible. Agatha tells me that sometimes she despairs of him. She says she often wonders if the best thing would not be to put him in a home of some kind.’
You may picture the emotions of Bertram on learning that his flesh and blood was in the habit of roasting the pants off him in this manner. One doesn’t demand much in the way of gratitude, of course, but when you have gone to the expense and inconvenience of taking an aunt’s son to the Old Vic, you are justified, I think, in expecting her to behave like an aunt who has had her son taken to the Old Vic – in expecting her, in other words, to exhibit a little decent feeling and a modicum of the live-and-let-live spirit. How sharper than a serpent’s tooth, I remember Jeeves saying once, it is to have a thankless child, and it isn’t a dashed sight better having a thankless aunt.
I flushed darkly, and would have drained my glass if it had contained anything restorative. But it didn’t. Champagne of a sound vintage was flowing like water elsewhere, Uncle Charlie getting a stiff wrist pouring the stuff, but I, in deference to Gussie’s known tastes, had been served with that obscene beverage which is produced by putting half an orange on a squeezer and pushing.
‘There seems,’ proceeded Dame Daphne in the cold and disapproving voice which in the old days she would have employed when rebuking Maud or Beatrice for smoking gaspers in the shrubbery, ‘to be no end to his escapades. It is not so long ago that he was arrested and fined for stealing a policeman’s helmet in Piccadilly’
I could put her straight there, and did so.
‘That,’ I explained, ‘was due to an unfortunate oversight. In pinching a policeman’s helmet, as of course I don’t need to tell you, it is essential before lifting to give a forward shove in order to detach the strap from the officer’s chin. This Wooster omitted to do, with the results you have described. But I think you ought to take into consideration the fact that the incident occurred pretty late on Boat Race night, when the best of men are not quite themselves. Still, be that as it may,’ I said, quickly sensing that I had not got the sympathy of the audience and adroitly changing the subject, ‘I wonder if you know the one about the strip-tease dancer and the performing flea. Or, rather, no, not that one,’ I said, remembering that it was a conte scarcely designed for the gentler sex and the tots. ‘The one about the two men in the train. It’s old, of course, so stop me if you’ve heard it before.’
‘Pray go on, Augustus.’
‘It’s about these two deaf men in the train.’
‘My sister Charlotte has the misfortune to be deaf. It is a great affliction.’
The thin aunt bent forward.
‘What is he saying?’
‘Augustus is telling us a story, Charlotte. Please go on, Augustus.’
Well, of course, this had damped the fire a bit, for the last thing one desires is to be supposed to be giving a maiden lady the horse’s laugh on account of her physical infirmities, but it was too late now to take a bow and get off, so I had a go at it.
‘Well, there were these two deaf chaps in the train, don’t you know, and it stopped at Wembley, and one of them looked out of the window and said “This is Wembley”, and the other said “I thought it was Thursday”, and the first chap said “Yes, so am I”.’
I hadn’t had much hope. Right from the start something had seemed to whisper in my ear that I was about to lay an egg. I laughed heartily to myself, but I was the only one. At the point where the aunts should have rolled out of their seats like one aunt there occurred merely a rather ghastly silence as of mourners at a death-bed, which was broken by Aunt Charlotte asking what I had said.
I would have been just as pleased to let the whole thing drop, but the stout aunt spoke into her ear, spacing her syllables carefully.
Augustus was telling us a story about two men in a train. One of them said “To-day is Wednesday”, and the other said “I thought it was Thursday”, and the first man said ‘Yes, so did I”.’
‘Oh?’ said Aunt Charlotte, and I suppose that about summed it up.
Shortly after this, the browsing and sluicing being concluded, the females rose and filed from the room. Dame Daphne told Esmond Haddock not to be too long over his port, and popped off. Uncle Charlie brought the decanter, and also popped off. And Esmond Haddock and I were alone together, self wondering how chances were for getting a couple of glassfuls.
I moved up to his end of the table, licking the lips.
CHAPTER 6
Esmond Haddock, seen close to, fully bore out Catsmeat’s description of him as a Greek god, and I could well understand the concern of a young lover who saw his girl in danger of being steered into rose gardens by such a one. He was a fine, upstanding – sitting at the moment, of course, but you know what I mean – broad-shouldered bozo of about thirty, with one of those faces which I believe, though I should have to check up with Jeeves, are known as Byronic. He looked like a combination of a poet and an all-in wrestler.
It would not have surprised you to learn that Esmond Haddock was the author of sonnet sequences of a fruity and emotional nature which had made him the toast of Bloomsbury, for his air was that of a man who could rhyme ‘love’ and ‘dove’ as well as the next chap. Nor would you have been astonished if informed that he had recently felled an ox with a single blow. You would simply have felt what an ass the ox must have been to get into an argument with a fellow with a chest like that.
No, what was extraordinary was that this superman was in the habit, as testified to by the witness Corky, of crawling to his aunts. But for Corky’s evidence I would have said, looking at him, that there sat a nephew capable of facing the toughest aunt and making her say Uncle. Not that you can ever tell, of course, by the outward appearance. Many a fellow who looks like the dominant male and has himself photographed smoking a pipe curls up like carbon paper when confronted with one of these relatives.
He helped himself to port, and there was a momentary silence, as so often occurs when two strong men who have not been formally introduced sit face to face. He worked painstakingly through his snootful, while I continued to fix my bulging eyes on the decanter. It was one of those outsize decanters, full to the brim.
He swigged away for some little while before opening the conversation. His manner was absent, and I got the impression that he was thinking deeply. Presently he spoke.
‘I say,’ he said, in an odd, puzzled voice. ‘That story of yours.’
‘Oh, yes?’
‘About the fellows in the train.’
‘Quite.’
‘I was a bit distraitwhen you were telling it, and I think I may possibly have missed the point. As I got it, there were two men in a train, and it stopped at a station.’
‘That’s right.’
And one of them said “This is Woking”, and the other chap said “I’m thirsty”. Was that how it went?’
‘Not quite. It was Wembley the train stopped at, and the fellow said he thought it was Thursday’
‘Was it Thursday?’
‘No, no, these chaps were deaf, you see. So when the first chap said “This is Woking”, the other chap, thinking he had said “Wednesday”, said “So am I”. I mean –’
‘I see. Yes, most amusing,’ said Esmond Haddock.
He refilled his glass, and I think that as he did so he must have noticed the tense, set expression on my face, rather like that of a starving wolf giving a Russian peasant the once-over, for he started, as if realizing that he had been remiss.
‘I say, I suppose it’s no good offering you any of this?’
I felt the table-talk could not have taken a more satisfactory turn.
‘Well, do you know,’ I said, ‘I wouldn’t mind trying it. It would be an experience. It’s whisky, or claret or something, isn’t it?’
‘Port. You may not like it.’
‘Oh, I think I shall.’
And a moment later I was in a position to state that I did. It was a very fine old port, full of buck and body, and though my better self told me that it s
hould be sipped, I lowered a beakerful at a gulp.
‘It’s good,’ I said.
‘It’s supposed to be rather special. More?’
‘Thanks.’
‘I’ll have another myself,’ he said. ‘One needs a lot of bracing up these days, I find. Do you know the expression “These are the times that try men’s souls”?’
‘New to me. Your own?’
‘No, I heard it somewhere.’
‘It’s very neat.’
‘It is, rather. Another?’
‘Thanks.’
‘I’ll join you. Shall I tell you something?’
‘Do.’
I inclined the ear invitingly. Three goblets of the right stuff had left me with a very warm affection for this man. I couldn’t remember when I had liked a fellow more at a first meeting, and if he wanted to tell me his troubles, I was prepared to listen as attentively as any barman to an old and valued customer.
‘The reason I mentioned the times that try men’s souls is that I am right up against those identical times at this very moment. My soul is on the rack. More port?’
‘Thanks. I find this stuff rather grows on you. Why is your soul on the rack, Esmond? You don’t mind me calling you Esmond?’
‘I prefer it. I’ll call you Gussie.’
This, of course, came as rather an unpleasant shock, Gussie being to my mind about the ultimate low in names. But I quickly saw that in the role I had undertaken I must be prepared to accept the rough with the smooth. We drained our glasses, and Esmond Haddock refilled them. A princely host, he struck me as.
‘Esmond,’ I said, ‘you strike me as a princely host.’
‘Thank you, Gussie,’ he replied. ‘And you’re a princely guest. But you were asking me why my soul was on the rack. I will tell you, Gussie. I must begin by saying that I like your face.’
I said I liked his.
‘It is an honest face.’
I said his was, too.
The Mating Season Page 5