The Essential Works of P. G. Wodehouse. P. G. WodehouseЧитать онлайн книгу.
but I told him that you were the author of those books I’ve been reading to him.”
“What!”
“Yes, I said that Rosie M. Banks was your pen name, and you didn’t want it generally known, because you were a modest, retiring sort of chap. He’ll listen to you now. Absolutely hang on your words. A brightish idea, what? I don’t want to pelt myself with floral tributes, but I must say I doubt if Jeeves in person could have thought up a better one than that. Well, pitch it strong, old lad, and keep steadily before you the fact that I must have my allowance raised. I can’t possibly marry on what I’ve got now. If this film is to end with the slow fade-out on the embrace, at least double is indicated. Well, that’s that. Pip pip, old cake. Let me know how you get on. I shall watch your future progress with considerable interest. Cheerio!”
And he rang off, just as I was getting ready rather to spread myself. And at that moment the gong sounded, and the genial host came tumbling downstairs like the delivery of a ton of coals. You can never judge a man’s athletic capabilities by his build. Old Little may have looked a bit on the stoutish side, but he was like lightning off the mark when the gong went.
I always look back to that lunch with a sort of aching regret. I feel it was one of those Lost Opportunities the thought of which haunts chappies all through their life and makes them kick themselves in old age. Because it was the lunch of a lifetime, and I wasn’t in a fit state to appreciate it. Subconsciously, if you know what I mean, I could see it was pretty special, and every now and then old Little would break off his remarks to croon lovingly over some dish. But I had got the wind up to such a frightful extent over the ghastly situation in which young Bingo had landed me that its deeper meaning never really penetrated. Most of the time I might have been eating sawdust for all the good it did me.
Old Little struck the literary note right from the start.
“My nephew has probably told you that I have been making a close study of your books of late?” he began.
“Yes. He did mention it. How—er—how did you like the bally things?”
He gazed reverently at me.
“Mr. Wooster, I am not ashamed to say that the tears came into my eyes as I listened to them. It amazes me that a man as young as you can have been able to plumb nature so surely to its depths; to play with so unerring a hand on the quivering heartstrings of your reader; to write novels so true, so human, so moving, so vital!”
“Oh, it’s just a knack!” I said.
The good old persp. was bedewing my forehead
The good old perspiration was bedewing my forehead by this time in a pretty lavish manner. I don’t know when I’ve been so rattled.
“Do you find the room a trifle warm?” he asked.
“Oh no, no, rather not! Just right.”
“Then it’s the pepper. If my cook has a fault—which I am not prepared to admit—it is that she is inclined to stress the pepper a trifle in her made dishes. By the way, do you like her cooking?”
I was so relieved that we had got off the subject of my literary output that I shouted approval in a ringing barytone. The old boy seemed deeply touched.
“I am delighted to hear it, Mr. Wooster. I may be prejudiced, but to my mind that woman is a genius.”
“Absolutely!” I said.
“She has been with me seven years, and in all that time I have not known her guilty of a single lapse from the highest standard. Except once, in the winter of 1917, when a purist might have condemned a certain mayonnaise of hers as lacking in creaminess. But one must make allowances. There had been several air raids about that time, and no doubt the poor woman was shaken. But nothing is perfect in this world, Mr. Wooster, and I have had my cross to bear. For seven years I have lived in constant apprehension lest some evilly disposed person might lure her from my employment. To my certain knowledge she has received offers, lucrative offers, to accept service elsewhere. You may judge of my dismay, Mr. Wooster, when only this morning the bolt fell. She gave notice!”
“Good Lord!”
“Your consternation—excited as it is by the misfortunes of one who until recently was a total stranger—does credit, if I may say so, to the heart of the author of A Red, Red Summer Rose. But I am thankful to say the worst has not happened. The matter has been adjusted. Jane is not leaving me.”
“Good egg!”
“Good egg, indeed—though the expression is not familiar to me. I do not remember having come across it in your books. And, speaking of your books, may I say that what has impressed me about them even more than the moving poignancy of the actual narrative is your philosophy of life. If there were more men like you, Mr. Wooster, London would be a better place.”
This was dead opposite to my Aunt Agatha’s philosophy of life, she having always rather given me to understand that it is the presence in it of chappies like me that makes London more or less of a plague-spot; but I let it go.
“Let me tell you, Mr. Wooster, that I appreciate your splendid defiance of the outworn fetishes of a purblind social system. I appreciate it! You are big enough to see that rank is but the guinea stamp and that, in the magnificent words of Lord Bletchmore in Only A Factory Girl, ‘Be her origin ne’er so humble, a good woman is the equal of the finest lady on earth!’ ”
I sat up.
“I say! Do you think that?”
“I do, Mr. Wooster. I am ashamed to say that there was a time when I was like other men, a slave to the idiotic convention which we call class distinction. But, since I read your books . . .”
I might have known it. Jeeves had done it again.
“You think it’s all right for a chappie in what you might call a certain social position to marry a girl of what you might describe as the lower classes?”
“Most assuredly I do, Mr. Wooster.”
I took a deep breath, and slipped him the good news.
“Young Bingo—your nephew, you know—wants to marry a waitress,” I said.
“I honor him for it,” said old Little.
“You don’t object?”
“On the contrary.”
I took another deep breath and shifted to the sordid side of the business.
“I hope you won’t think I’m butting in, don’t you know,” I said, “but—er—well, how about it?”
“I fear I do not quite follow you.”
“Well, I mean to say, his allowance and all that. The money you’re good enough to give him. He was rather hoping that you might see your way to jerking up the total a bit.”
Old Little shook his head regretfully.
“I fear that can hardly be managed. You see, a man in my position is compelled to save every possible penny. I will gladly continue my nephew’s existing allowance, but beyond that I cannot go. It would not be fair to my wife.”
“What! But you’re not married?”
“Not yet. But I propose to enter upon that holy state almost immediately. The lady who for so many years has cooked so well and faithfully for me, honored me by accepting my hand this very morning.” A cold gleam of triumph came into his eye. “Now let ’em try to get her away from me!” he muttered defiantly.
“Young Mr. Little has been trying frequently during the afternoon to reach you on the telephone, sir,” said Jeeves that night, when I got home.
“I’ll bet he has,” I said. I had sent poor old Bingo an outline of the situation by messenger boy shortly after lunch.
“He seemed a trifle agitated.”
“I don’t