Short Fiction by P. G. Wodehouse (me reader .txt) 📕

“I understand the main idea,” said Agravaine. “But in my case⁠—”

“You were to marry me,” said Yvonne. Her voice was quiet and cold, but she was quivering.

Agravaine was conscious of a dull, heavy weight pressing on his heart. He had known his love was hopeless, but even hopelessness is the better for being indefinite. He understood now.

“And you naturally want to get rid of me before it can happen,” he said. “I don’t wonder. I’m not vain⁠ ⁠… Well, I’ll go. I knew I had no chance. Goodbye.”

He turned. She stopped him with a sharp cry.

“What do you mean? You cannot wish to stay now? I am saving you.”

“Saving me! I have loved you since the moment you entered the Hall at Camelot,” said Agravaine.

She drew in her breath.

“You⁠—you love me!”

They looked at each other in the starlight. She held out her hands.

“Agravaine!”

She drooped towards him, and he gathered her into his arms. For a novice, he did it uncommonly well.

It was about six months later that Agravaine, having ridden into the forest, called upon a Wise Man at his cell.

In those days almost anyone who was not a perfect bonehead could set up as a Wise Man and get away with it. All you had to do was to live in a forest and grow a white beard. This particular Wise Man, for a wonder, had a certain amount of rude sagacity. He listened carefully to what the knight had to say.

“It has puzzled me to such an extent,” said Agravaine, “that I felt that I must consult a specialist. You see me. Take a good look at me. What do you think of my personal appearance? You needn’t hesitate. It’s worse than that. I am the ugliest man in England.”

“Would you go as far as that?” said the Wise Man, politely.

“Farther. And everybody else thinks so. Everybody except my wife. She tells me that I am a model of manly beauty. You know Lancelot? Well, she says I have Lancelot whipped to a custard. What do you make of that? And here’s another thing. It is perfectly obvious to me that my wife is one of the most beautiful creatures in existence. I have seen them all, and I tell you that she stands alone. She is literally marooned in Class A, all by herself. Yet she insists that she is plain. What do you make of it?”

The Wise Man stroked his beard.

“My son,” he said, “the matter is simple. True love takes no account of looks.”

“No?” said Agravaine.

“You two are affinities. Therefore, to you the outward aspect is nothing. Put it like this. Love is a thingummybob who what-d’you-call-its.”

“I’m beginning to see,” said Agravaine.

“What I meant was this. Love is a wizard greater than Merlin. He plays odd tricks with the eyesight.”

“Yes,” said Agravaine.

“Or, put it another way. Love is a sculptor greater than Praxiteles. He takes an unsightly piece of clay and moulds it into a thing divine.”

“I get you,” said Agravaine.

The Wise Man began to warm to his work.

“Or shall we say⁠—”

“I think I must be going,” said Agravaine. “I promised my wife I would be back early.”

“We might put it⁠—” began the Wise Man perseveringly.

“I understand,” said Agravaine, hurriedly. “I quite see now. Goodbye.”

The Wise Man sighed resignedly.

“Goodbye, Sir Knight,” he said. “Goodbye. Pay at ye desk.”

And Agravaine rode on his way marvelling.

It was Harold who first made us acquainted, when I was dining one night at the Café Britannique, in Soho. It is a peculiarity of the Café Britannique that you will always find flies there, even in winter. Snow was falling that night as I turned in at the door, but, glancing about me, I noticed several of the old faces. My old acquaintance, Percy the bluebottle, looking wonderfully fit despite his years, was doing deep breathing exercises on a mutton cutlet, and was too busy to do more than pause for a moment to nod at me; but his cousin, Harold, always active, sighted me and bustled up to do the honours.

He had finished his game of touch-last with my right ear, and was circling slowly in the air while he thought out other ways of entertaining me, when there was a rush of air, a swish of napkin, and no more Harold.

I turned to thank my preserver, whose table adjoined mine. He was a Frenchman, a melancholy-looking man. He had the appearance of one who has searched for the leak in life’s gas-pipe with a lighted candle; of one whom the clenched fist of Fate has smitten beneath the temperamental third waistcoat-button.

He waved my thanks aside. “It was a bagatelle,” he said. We became friendly. He moved to my table, and we fraternized over our coffee.

Suddenly he became agitated. He kicked at something on the floor. His eyes gleamed angrily.

“Ps-s-st!” he hissed. “Va-t’en!”

I looked round the corner of the table, and perceived the restaurant cat in dignified retreat.

“You do not like cats?” I said.

“I ’ate all animals, monsieur. Cats especially.” He frowned. He seemed to hesitate.

“I will tell you my story,” he said. “You will sympathize. You have a sympathetic face. It is the story of a man’s tragedy. It is the story of a blighted life. It is the story of a woman who would not forgive. It is the story⁠—”

“I’ve got an appointment at eleven,” I said.

He nodded absently, drew at his cigarette, and began:

I have conceived my ’atred of animals, monsieur, many years ago in Paris. Animals are to me a symbol for the lost dreams of youth, for ambitions foiled, for artistic impulses cruelly stifled. You are astonished. You ask why I say these things. I shall tell you.

I am in Paris, young, ardent, artistic. I wish to paint pictures. I ’ave the genius, the ent’usiasm. I wish to be disciple of the great Bouguereau. But no. I am dependent for support upon an uncle. He is rich. He is proprietor of the great Hotel Jules Priaulx.