Something New by Pelham Grenville Wodehouse (best memoirs of all time TXT) 📕

Statement. He Began To Deal As Authoritatively With Mr. Peters'

Steamer Trunk As He Had Dealt With The Milk Cans.

"At Last!" Said Joan. "I Hope It's A Covered Cart. I'm Frozen.

Let's Go And See."

Ashe Followed Her With The Gait Of An Automaton.

                        *   *   *

Cold Is The Ogre That Drives All Beautiful Things Into Hiding.

Below The Surface Of A Frost-Bound Garden There Lurk Hidden

Bulbs,  Which Are Only Biding Their Time To Burst Forth In A Riot

Of Laughing Color; But Shivering Nature Dare Not Put Forth Her

Flowers Until The Ogre Has Gone. Not Otherwise Does Cold Suppress

Love. A Man In An Open Cart On An English Spring Night May

Continue To Be In Love; But Love Is Not The Emotion Uppermost In

His Bosom. It Shrinks Within Him And Waits For Better Times.

The Cart Was Not A Covered Cart. It Was Open To The Four Winds Of

Heaven,  Of Which The One At Present Active Proceeded From The

Bleak East. To This Fact May Be Attributed Ashe's Swift Recovery

From The Exalted Mood Into Which Joan's Smile Had Thrown Him,  His

Almost Instant Emergence From The Trance. Deep Down In Him He Was

Aware That His Attitude Toward Joan Had Not Changed,  But His

Conscious Self Was Too Fully Occupied With The Almost Hopeless

Task Of Keeping His Blood Circulating,  To Permit Of Thoughts Of

Love. Before The Cart Had Traveled Twenty Yards He Was A Mere

Chunk Of Frozen Misery.

After An Eternity Of Winding Roads,  Darkened Cottages,  And Black

Fields And Hedges,  The Cart Turned In At A Massive Iron Gate,

Which Stood Open Giving Entrance To A Smooth Gravel Drive. Here

The Way Ran For Nearly A Mile Through An Open Park Of Great Trees

And Was Then Swallowed In The Darkness Of Dense Shrubberies.

Presently To The Left Appeared Lights,  At First In Ones And Twos,

Shining Out And Vanishing Again; Then,  As The Shrubberies Ended

And The Smooth Lawns And Terraces Began,  Blazing Down On The

Travelers From A Score Of Windows,  With The Heartening Effect Of

Fires On A Winter Night.

Against The Pale Gray Sky Blandings Castle Stood Out Like A

Mountain. It Was A Noble Pile,  Of Early Tudor Building. Its

History Is Recorded In England's History Books And Viollet-Le-Duc

Has Written Of Its Architecture. It Dominated The Surrounding

Country.

The Feature Of It Which Impressed Ashe Most At This Moment,

However,  Was The Fact That It Looked Warm; And For The First Time

Since The Drive Began He Found Himself In A Mood That

Approximated Cheerfulness. It Was A Little Early To Begin Feeling

Cheerful,  He Discovered,  For The Journey Was By No Means Over.

Arrived Within Sight Of The Castle,  The Cart Began A Detour,

Which,  Ten Minutes Later,  Brought It Under An Arch And Over

Cobblestones To The Rear Of The Building,  Where It Eventually

Pulled Up In Front Of A Great Door.

Ashe Descended Painfully And Beat His Feet Against The Cobbles.

He Helped Joan To Climb Down. Joan Was Apparently In A Gentle

Glow. Women Seem Impervious To Cold.

The Door Opened. Warm,  Kitcheny Scents Came Through It. Strong

Men Hurried Out To Take Down The Trunks,  While Fair Women,  In The

Shape Of Two Nervous Scullery Maids,  Approached Joan And Ashe,

And Bobbed Curtsies. This Under More Normal Conditions Would Have

Been Enough To Unman Ashe; But In His Frozen State A Mere

Curtsying Scullery Maid Expended Herself Harmlessly On Him. He

Even Acknowledged The Greeting With A Kindly Nod.

The Scullery Maids,  It Seemed,  Were Acting In Much The Same

Capacity As The Attaches Of Royalty. One Was There To Conduct

Joan To The Presence Of Mrs. Twemlow,  The Housekeeper; The Other

To Lead Ashe To Where Beach,  The Butler,  Waited To Do Honor To

The Valet Of The Castle's Most Important Guest.

After A Short Walk Down A Stone-Flagged Passage Joan And Her

Escort Turned To The Right. Ashe's Objective Appeared To Be

Located To The Left. He Parted From Joan With Regret. Her Moral

Support Would Have Been Welcome.

Presently His Scullery Maid Stopped At A Door And Tapped Thereon.

A Fruity Voice,  Like Old Tawny Port Made Audible,  Said: "Come

In!" Ashe's Guide Opened The Door.

"The Gentleman,  Mr. Beach," Said She,  And Scuttled Away To The

Less Rarefied Atmosphere Of The Kitchen.

Ashe's First Impression Of Beach,  The Butler,  Was One Of Tension.

Other People,  Confronted For The First Time With Beach,  Had Felt

The Same. He Had That Strained Air Of Being On The Very Point Of

Bursting That One Sees In Bullfrogs And Toy Balloons. Nervous And

Imaginative Men,  Meeting Beach,  Braced Themselves Involuntarily,

Stiffening Their Muscles For The Explosion. Those Who Had The

Pleasure Of More Intimate Acquaintance With Him Soon Passed This

Stage,  Just As People Whose Homes Are On The Slopes Of Mount

Vesuvius Become Immune To Fear Of Eruptions.

As Far Back As They Could Remember Beach Had Always Looked As

Though An Apoplectic Fit Were A Matter Of Minutes; But He Never

Had Apoplexy And In Time They Came To Ignore The Possibility Of

It. Ashe,  However,  Approaching Him With A Fresh Eye,  Had The

Feeling That This Strain Could Not Possibly Continue And That

Within A Very Short Space Of Time The Worst Must Happen. The

Prospect Of This Did Much To Rouse Him From The Coma Into Which

He Had Been Frozen By The Rigors Of The Journey.

Butlers As A Class Seem To Grow Less And Less Like Anything Human

In Proportion To The Magnificence Of Their Surroundings. There Is

A Type Of Butler Employed In The Comparatively Modest Homes Of

Small Country Gentlemen Who Is Practically A Man And A Brother;

Who Hobnobs With The Local Tradesmen,  Sings A Good Comic Song At

The Village Inn,  And In Times Of Crisis Will Even Turn To And

Work The Pump When The Water Supply Suddenly Fails.

The Greater The House The More Does The Butler Diverge From This

Type. Blandings Castle Was One Of The More Important Of England's

Show Places,  And Beach Accordingly Had Acquired A Dignified

Inertia That Almost Qualified Him For Inclusion In The Vegetable

Kingdom. He Moved--When He Moved At All--Slowly. He Distilled

Speech With The Air Of One Measuring Out Drops Of Some Precious

Drug. His Heavy-Lidded Eyes Had The Fixed Expression Of A

Statue's.

With An Almost Imperceptible Wave Of A Fat White Hand,  He

Conveyed To Ashe That He Desired Him To Sit Down. With A Stately

Movement Of His Other Hand,  He Picked Up A Kettle,  Which Simmered

On The Hob. With An Inclination Of His Head,  He Called Ashe's

Attention To A Decanter On The Table.

In Another Moment Ashe Was Sipping A Whisky Toddy,  With The

Feeling That He Had Been Privileged To Assist At Some Mystic

Rite. Mr. Beach,  Posting Himself Before The Fire And Placing His

Hands Behind His Back,  Permitted Speech To Drip From Him.

"I Have Not The Advantage Of Your Name,  Mr.----"

Ashe Introduced Himself. Beach Acknowledged The Information With

A Half Bow.

"You Must Have Had A Cold Ride,  Mr. Marson. The Wind Is In The

East."

Ashe Said Yes; The Ride Had Been Cold.

"When The Wind Is In The East," Continued Mr. Beach,  Letting Each

Syllable Escape With Apparent Reluctance,  "I Suffer From My

Feet."

"I Beg Your Pardon?"

"I Suffer From My Feet," Repeated The Butler,  Measuring Out The

Drops. "You Are A Young Man,  Mr. Marson. Probably You Do Not Know

What It Is To Suffer From Your Feet." He Surveyed Ashe,  His

Whisky Toddy And The Wall Beyond Him,  With Heavy-Lidded

Inscrutability. "Corns!" He Said.

Ashe Said He Was Sorry.

"I Suffer Extremely From My Feet--Not Only Corns. I Have But

Recently Recovered From An Ingrowing Toenail. I Suffered Greatly

From My Ingrowing Toenail. I Suffer From Swollen Joints."

Ashe Regarded This Martyr With Increasing Disfavor. It Is The

Flaw In The Character Of Many Excessively Healthy Young Men That,

Though Kind-Hearted Enough In Most Respects,  They Listen With A

Regrettable Feeling Of Impatience To The Confessions Of Those

Less Happily Situated As Regards The Ills Of The Flesh. Rightly

Or Wrongly,  They Hold That These Statements Should Be Reserved

For The Ear Of The Medical Profession,  And Other And More General

Topics Selected For Conversation With Laymen.

"I'm Sorry," He Said Hastily. "You Must Have Had A Bad Time. Is

There A Large House Party Here Just Now?"

"We Are Expecting," Said Mr. Beach,  "A Number Of Guests. We Shall

In All Probability Sit Down Thirty Or More To Dinner."

"A Responsibility For You," Said Ashe Ingratiatingly,  Well

Pleased To Be Quit Of The Feet Topic.

Mr. Beach Nodded.

"You Are Right,  Mr. Marson. Few Persons Realize The

Responsibilities Of A Man In My Position. Sometimes,  I Can Assure

You,  It Preys On My Mind,  And I Suffer From Nervous Headaches."

Ashe Began To Feel Like A Man Trying To Put Out A Fire Which,  As

Fast As He Checks It At One Point,  Breaks Out At Another.

"Sometimes When I Come Off Duty Everything Gets Blurred. The

Outlines Of Objects Grow Indistinct And Misty. I Have To Sit Down

In A Chair. The Pain Is Excruciating."

"But It Helps You To Forget The Pain In Your Feet."

"No,  No. I Suffer From My Feet Simultaneously."

Ashe Gave Up The Struggle.

"Tell Me All About Your Feet," He Said.

And Mr. Beach Told Him All About His Feet.

The Pleasantest Functions Must Come To An End,  And The Moment

Arrived When The Final Word On The Subject Of Swollen Joints Was

Spoken. Ashe,  Who Had Resigned Himself To A Permanent

Contemplation Of The Subject,  Could Hardly Believe He Heard

Correctly When,  At The End Of Some Ten Minutes,  His Companion

Changed The Conversation.

"You Have Been With