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

Consummation Of Exercise One,  That He Was Doing Anything Funny.

And The Behavior Of Those Present Seemed To Justify His

Confidence. The Proprietor Of The Hotel Mathis Regarded Him

Without A Smile. The Proprietor Of The Hotel Previtali Might Have

Been In A Trance,  For All The Interest He Displayed. The Hotel

Employees Continued Their Tasks Impassively. The Children Were

Blind And Dumb. The Cat Across The Way Stropped Its Backbone

Against The Railings Unheeding.

But,  Even As He Unscrambled Himself And Resumed A Normal Posture,

From His Immediate Rear There Rent The Quiet Morning Air A Clear

And Musical Laugh. It Floated Out On The Breeze And Hit Him Like

A Bullet.

Three Months Ago Ashe Would Have Accepted The Laugh As

Inevitable,  And Would Have Refused To Allow It To Embarrass Him;

But Long Immunity From Ridicule Had Sapped His Resolution. He

Spun Round With A Jump,  Flushed And Self-Conscious.

From The Window Of The First-Floor Front Of Number Seven A Girl

Was Leaning. The Spring Sunshine Played On Her Golden Hair And

Lit Up Her Bright Blue Eyes,  Fixed On His Flanneled And Sweatered

Person With A Fascinated Amusement. Even As He Turned,  The Laugh

Smote Him Afresh.

For The Space Of Perhaps Two Seconds They Stared At Each Other,

Eye To Eye. Then She Vanished Into The Room.

Ashe Was Beaten. Three Months Ago A Million Girls Could Have

Laughed At His Morning Exercises Without Turning Him From His

Purpose. Today This One Scoffer,  Alone And Unaided,  Was

Sufficient For His Undoing. The Depression Which Exercise Had

Begun To Dispel Surged Back On Him. He Had No Heart To Continue.

Sadly Gathering Up His Belongings,  He Returned To His Room,  And

Found A Cold Bath Tame And Uninspiring.

The Breakfasts--Included In The Rent--Provided By Mrs. Bell,  The

Landlady Of Number Seven,  Were Held By Some Authorities To Be

Specially Designed To Quell The Spirits Of Their Victims,  Should

They Tend To Soar Excessively. By The Time Ashe Had Done His Best

With The Disheveled Fried Egg,  The Chicory Blasphemously Called

Coffee,  And The Charred Bacon,  Misery Had Him Firmly In Its Grip.

And When He Forced Himself To The Table,  And Began To Try To

Concoct The Latest Of The Adventures Of Gridley Quayle,

Investigator,  His Spirit Groaned Within Him.

This Morning,  As He Sat And Chewed His Pen,  His Loathing For

Gridley Seemed To Have Reached Its Climax. It Was His Habit,  In

Writing These Stories,  To Think Of A Good Title First,  And Then

Fit An Adventure To It. And Overnight,  In A Moment Of

Inspiration,  He Had Jotted Down On An Envelope The Words: "The

Adventure Of The Wand Of Death."

It Was With The Sullen Repulsion Of A Vegetarian Who Finds A

Caterpillar In His Salad That He Now Sat Glaring At Them.

The Title Had Seemed So Promising Overnight--So Full Of Strenuous

Possibilities. It Was Still Speciously Attractive; But Now That

The Moment Had Arrived For Writing The Story Its Flaws Became

Manifest.

What Was A Wand Of Death? It Sounded Good; But,  Coming Down To

Hard Facts,  What Was It? You Cannot Write A Story About A Wand Of

Death Without Knowing What A Wand Of Death Is; And,  Conversely,

If You Have Thought Of Such A Splendid Title You Cannot Jettison

It Offhand. Ashe Rumpled His Hair And Gnawed His Pen.

There Came A Knock At The Door.

Ashe Spun Round In His Chair. This Was The Last Straw! If He Had

Told Mrs. Ball Once That He Was Never To Be Disturbed In The

Morning On Any Pretext Whatsoever,  He Had Told Her Twenty Times.

It Was Simply Too Infernal To Be Endured If His Work Time Was To

Be Cut Into Like This. Ashe Ran Over In His Mind A Few Opening

Remarks.

"Come In!" He Shouted,  And Braced Himself For Battle.

A Girl Walked In--The Girl Of The First-Floor Front; The Girl

With The Blue Eyes,  Who Had Laughed At His Larsen Exercises.

Various Circumstances Contributed To The Poorness Of The Figure

Ashe Cut In The Opening Moments Of This Interview. In The First

Place,  He Was Expecting To See His Landlady,  Whose Height Was

About Four Feet Six,  And The Sudden Entry Of Somebody Who Was

About Five Feet Seven Threw The Universe Temporarily Out Of

Focus. In The Second Place,  In Anticipation Of Mrs. Bell's Entry,

He Had Twisted His Face Into A Forbidding Scowl,  And It Was No

Slight Matter To Change This On The Spur Of The Moment Into A

Pleasant Smile. Finally,  A Man Who Has Been Sitting For Half An

Hour In Front Of A Sheet Of Paper Bearing The Words: "The

Adventure Of The Wand Of Death," And Trying To Decide What A Wand

Of Death Might Be,  Has Not His Mind Under Proper Control.

The Net Result Of These Things Was That,  For Perhaps Half A

Minute,  Ashe Behaved Absurdly. He Goggled And He Yammered. An

Alienist,  Had One Been Present,  Would Have Made Up His Mind About

Him Without Further Investigation. For An Appreciable Time He Did

Not Think Of Rising From His Seat. When He Did,  The Combined Leap

And Twist He Executed Practically Amounted To A Larsen Exercise.

Nor Was The Girl Unembarrassed. If Ashe Had Been Calmer He Would

Have Observed On Her Cheek The Flush Which Told That She,  Too,

Was Finding The Situation Trying. But,  Woman Being Ever Better

Equipped With Poise Than Man,  It Was She Who Spoke First.

"I'm Afraid I'm Disturbing You."

"No,  No!" Said Ashe. "Oh,  No; Not At All--Not At All! No. Oh,

No--Not At All--No!" And Would Have Continued To Play On The

Theme Indefinitely Had Not The Girl Spoken Again.

"I Wanted To Apologize," She Said,  "For My Abominable Rudeness In

Laughing At You Just Now. It Was Idiotic Of Me And I Don't Know

Why I Did It. I'm Sorry."

Science,  With A Thousand Triumphs To Her Credit,  Has Not Yet

Succeeded In Discovering The Correct Reply For A Young Man To

Make Who Finds Himself In The Appalling Position Of Being

Apologized To By A Pretty Girl. If He Says Nothing He Seems

Sullen And Unforgiving. If He Says Anything He Makes A Fool Of

Himself. Ashe,  Hesitating Between These Two Courses,  Suddenly

Caught Sight Of The Sheet Of Paper Over Which He Had Been Poring

So Long.

"What Is A Wand Of Death?" He Asked.

"I Beg Your Pardon?"

"A Wand Of Death?"

"I Don't Understand."

The Delirium Of The Conversation Was Too Much For Ashe. He Burst

Out Laughing. A Moment Later The Girl Did The Same. And

Simultaneously Embarrassment Ceased To Be.

"I Suppose You Think I'm Mad?" Said Ashe.

"Certainly," Said The Girl.

"Well,  I Should Have Been If You Hadn't Come In."

"Why Was That?"

"I Was Trying To Write A Detective Story."

"I Was Wondering Whether You Were A Writer."

"Do You Write?"

"Yes. Do You Ever Read Home Gossip?"

"Never!"

"You Are Quite Right To Speak In That Thankful Tone. It's A

Horrid Little Paper--All Brown-Paper Patterns And Advice To The

Lovelorn And Puzzles. I Do A Short Story For It Every Week,  Under

Various Names. A Duke Or An Earl Goes With Each Story. I Loathe

It Intensely."

"I Am Sorry For Your Troubles," Said Ashe Firmly; "But We Are

Wandering From The Point. What Is A Wand Of Death?"

"A Wand Of Death?"

"A Wand Of Death."

The Girl Frowned Reflectively.

"Why,  Of Course; It's The Sacred Ebony Stick Stolen From The

Indian Temple,  Which Is Supposed To Bring Death To Whoever

Possesses It. The Hero Gets Hold Of It,  And The Priests Dog Him

And Send Him Threatening Messages. What Else Could It Be?"

Ashe Could Not Restrain His Admiration.

"This Is Genius!"

"Oh,  No!"

"Absolute Genius. I See It All. The Hero Calls In Gridley Quayle,

And That Patronizing Ass,  By The Aid Of A Series Of Wicked

Coincidences,  Solves The Mystery; And There Am I,  With Another

Month's Work Done."

She Looked At Him With Interest.

"Are You The Author Of Gridley Quayle?"

"Don't Tell Me You Read Him!"

"I Do Not Read Him! But He Is Published By The Same Firm That

Publishes Home Gossip,  And I Can't Help Seeing His Cover

Sometimes While I Am Waiting In The Waiting Room To See The

Editress."

Ashe Felt Like One Who Meets A Boyhood's Chum On A Desert Island.

Here Was A Real Bond Between Them.

"Does The Mammoth Publish You,  Too? Why,  We Are Comrades In

Misfortune--Fellow Serfs! We Should Be Friends. Shall We Be

Friends?"

"I Should Be Delighted."

"Shall We Shake Hands,  Sit Down,  And Talk About Ourselves A

Little?"

"But I Am Keeping You From Your Work."

"An Errand Of Mercy."

She Sat Down. It Is A Simple Act,  This Of Sitting Down; But,  Like

Everything Else,  It May Be An Index To Character. There Was

Something Wholly Satisfactory To Ashe In The Manner In Which This

Girl Did It. She Neither Seated Herself On The Extreme Edge Of

The Easy-Chair,  As One Braced For Instant Flight; Nor Did She

Wallow In The Easy-Chair,  As One Come To Stay For The Week-End.

She Carried Herself In An Unconventional Situation With An

Unstudied Self-Confidence That He Could Not Sufficiently Admire.

Etiquette Is Not Rigid In Arundell Street; But,  Nevertheless,  A

Girl In A First-Floor Front May Be Excused For Showing Surprise

And Hesitation When Invited To A Confidential Chat With A

Second-Floor Front Young Man Whom She Has Known Only Five

Minutes. But There Is A Freemasonry Among Those Who Live In Large

Cities On Small Earnings.

"Shall We Introduce Ourselves?" Said Ashe. "Or Did Mrs. Bell Tell

You My Name? By The Way,  You Have Not Been Here Long,  Have You?"

"I Took My Room Day Before