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

It Is Worthy Of Record,  In The Light Of After Events,  That At The

Beginning Of Their Visit It Was The General Opinion Of The Guests

Gathered Together At Blandings Castle That The Place Was Dull.

The House Party Had That Air Of Torpor Which One Sees In The

Saloon Passengers Of An Atlantic Liner--That Appearance Of

Resignation To An Enforced Idleness And A Monotony To Be Broken

Only By Meals. Lord Emsworth's Guests Gave The Impression,

Collectively,  Of Being Just About To Yawn And Look At Their

Watches.

This Was Partly The Fault Of The Time Of Year,  For Most House

Parties Are Dull If They Happen To Fall Between The Hunting And

The Shooting Seasons,  But Must Be Attributed Chiefly To Lord

Emsworth's Extremely Sketchy Notions Of The Duties Of A Host.

A Host Has No Right To Interne A Regiment Of His Relations In His

House Unless He Also Invites Lively And Agreeable Outsiders To

Meet Them. If He Does Commit This Solecism The Least He Can Do Is

To Work Himself To The Bone In The Effort To Invent Amusements

And Diversions For His Victims. Lord Emsworth Had Failed Badly In

Both These Matters. With The Exception Of Mr. Peters,  His

Daughter Aline And George Emerson,  There Was Nobody In The House

Who Did Not Belong To The Clan; And,  As For His Exerting Himself

To Entertain,  The Company Was Lucky If It Caught A Glimpse Of Its

Host At Meals.

Lord Emsworth Belonged To The People-Who-Like-To-Be-Left-Alone-

To-Amuse-Themselves-When-They-Come-To-A-Place School Of Hosts. He

Pottered About The Garden In An Old Coat--Now Uprooting A Weed,

Now Wrangling With The Autocrat From Scotland,  Who Was

Theoretically In His Service As Head Gardener---Dreamily

Satisfied,  When He Thought Of Them At All,  That His Guests Were

As Perfectly Happy As He Was.

Apart From His Son Freddie,  Whom He Had Long Since Dismissed As A

Youth Of Abnormal Tastes,  From Whom Nothing Reasonable Was To Be

Expected,  He Could Not Imagine Anyone Not Being Content Merely To

Be At Blandings When The Buds Were Bursting On The Trees.

A Resolute Hostess Might Have Saved The Situation; But Lady Ann

Warblington's Abilities In That Direction Stopped Short At

Leaving Everything To Mrs. Twemlow And Writing Letters In Her

Bedroom. When Lady Ann Warblington Was Not Writing Letters In Her

Bedroom--Which Was Seldom,  For She Had An Apparently

Inexhaustible Correspondence--She Was Nursing Sick Headaches In

It. She Was One Of Those Hostesses Whom A Guest Never Sees Except

When He Goes Into The Library And Espies The Tail Of Her Skirt

Vanishing Through The Other Door.

As For The Ordinary Recreations Of The Country House,  The Guests

Could Frequent The Billiard Room,  Where They Were Sure To Find

Lord Stockheath Playing A Hundred Up With His Cousin,  Algernon

Wooster--A Spectacle Of The Liveliest Interest--Or They Could,  If

Fond Of Golf,  Console Themselves For The Absence Of Links In The

Neighborhood With The Exhilarating Pastime Of Clock Golf; Or They

Could Stroll About The Terraces With Such Of Their Relations As

They Happened To Be On Speaking Terms With At The Moment,  And

Abuse Their Host And The Rest Of Their Relations.

This Was The Favorite Amusement; And After Breakfast,  On A

Morning Ten Days After Joan And Ashe Had Formed Their Compact,

The Terraces Were Full Of Perambulating Couples. Here,  Colonel

Horace Mant,  Walking With The Bishop Of Godalming,  Was Soothing

That Dignitary By Clothing In Soldierly Words Thoughts That The

Latter Had Not Been Able To Crush Down,  But Which His Holy Office

Scarcely Permitted Him To Utter.

There,  Lady Mildred Mant,  Linked To Mrs. Jack Hale,  Of The

Collateral Branch Of The Family,  Was Saying Things About Her

Father In His Capacity Of Host And Entertainer,  That Were Making

Her Companion Feel Like Another Woman. Farther On,  Stopping

Occasionally To Gesticulate,  Could Be Seen Other Emsworth

Relations And Connections. It Was A Typical Scene Of Quiet,

Peaceful English Family Life.

Leaning On The Broad Stone Balustrade Of The Upper Terrace,  Aline

Peters And George Emerson Surveyed The Malcontents. Aline Gave A

Little Sigh,  Almost Inaudible; But George's Hearing Was Good.

"I Was Wondering When You Are Going To Admit It," He Said,

Shifting His Position So That He Faced Her.

"Admit What?"

"That You Can't Stand The Prospect; That The Idea Of Being Stuck

For Life With This Crowd,  Like A Fly On Fly Paper,  Is Too Much

For You; That You Are Ready To Break Off Your Engagement To

Freddie And Come Away And Marry Me And Live Happily Ever After."

"George!"

"Well,  Wasn't That What It Meant? Be Honest!"

"What What Meant?"

"That Sigh."

"I Didn't Sigh. I Was Just Breathing."

"Then You Can Breathe In This Atmosphere! You Surprise Me!" He

Raked The Terraces With Hostile Eyes. "Look At Them! Look At

Them--Crawling Round Like Doped Beetles. My Dear Girl,  It's No

Use Your Pretending That This Sort Of Thing Wouldn't Kill You.

You're Pining Away Already. You're Thinner And Paler Since You

Came Here. Gee! How We Shall Look Back At This And Thank Our

Stars That We're Out Of It When We're Back In Old New York,  With

The Elevated Rattling And The Street Cars Squealing Over The

Points,  And Something Doing Every Step You Take. I Shall Call You

On The 'Phone From The Office And Have You Meet Me Down Town

Somewhere,  And We'll Have A Bite To Eat And Go To Some Show,  And

A Bit Of Supper Afterward And A Dance Or Two; And Then Go Home To

Our Cozy---"

"George,  You Mustn't--Really!"

"Why Mustn't I?"

"It's Wrong. You Can't Talk Like That When We Are Both Enjoying

The Hospitality--"

A Wild Laugh,  Almost A Howl,  Disturbed The Talk Of The Most

Adjacent Of The Perambulating Relations. Colonel Horace Mant,

Checked In Mid-Sentence,  Looked Up Resentfully At The Cause Of

The Interruption.

"I Wish Somebody Would Tell Me Whether It's That American Fellow,

Emerson,  Or Young Freddie Who's Supposed To Be Engaged To Miss

Peters. Hanged If You Ever See Her And Freddie Together,  But She

And Emerson Are Never To Be Found Apart. If My Respected

Father-In-Law Had Any Sense I Should Have Thought He Would Have

Had Sense Enough To Stop That."

"You Forget,  My Dear Horace," Said The Bishop Charitably; "Miss

Peters And Mr. Emerson Have Known Each Other Since They Were

Children."

"They Were Never Nearly Such Children As Emsworth Is Now,"

Snorted The Colonel. "If That Girl Isn't In Love With Emerson

I'll Be--I'll Eat My Hat."

"No,  No," Said The Bishop. "No,  No! Surely Not,  Horace. What Were

You Saying When You Broke Off?"

"I Was Saying That If A Man Wanted His Relations Never To Speak

To Each Other Again For The Rest Of Their Lives The Best Thing He

Could Do Would Be To Herd Them All Together In A Dashed Barrack

Of A House A Hundred Miles From Anywhere,  And Then Go Off And

Spend All His Time Prodding Dashed Flower Beds With A Spud--Dash

It!"

"Just So; Just So. So You Were. Go On,  Horace; I Find A Curious

Comfort In Your Words."

On The Terrace Above Them Aline Was Looking At George With

Startled Eyes.

"George!"

"I'm Sorry; But You Shouldn't Spring These Jokes On Me So

Suddenly. You Said Enjoying! Yes--Reveling In It,  Aren't We!"

"It's A Lovely Old Place," Said Aline Defensively.

"And When You've Said That You've Said Everything. You Can't Live

On Scenery And Architecture For The Rest Of Your Life. There's

The Human Element To Be Thought Of. And You're Beginning--"

"There Goes Father," Interrupted Aline. "How Fast He Is Walking!

George,  Have You Noticed A Sort Of Difference In Father These

Last Few Days?"

"I Haven't. My Specialty Is Keeping An Eye On The Rest Of The

Peters Family."

"He Seems Better Somehow. He Seems To Have Almost Stopped

Smoking--And I'm Very Glad,  For Those Cigars Were Awfully Bad For

Him. The Doctor Expressly Told Him He Must Stop Them,  But He

Wouldn't Pay Any Attention To Him. And He Seems To Take So Much

More Exercise. My Bedroom Is Next To His,  You Know,  And Every

Morning I Can Hear Things Going On Through The Wall--Father

Dancing About And Puffing A Good Deal. And One Morning I Met His

Valet Going In With A Pair Of Indian Clubs. I Believe Father Is

Really Taking Himself In Hand At Last."

George Emerson Exploded.

"And About Time,  Too! How Much Longer Are You To Go On Starving

Yourself To Death Just To Give Him The Resolution To Stick To His

Dieting? It Maddens Me To See You At Dinner. And It's Killing

You. You're Getting Pale And Thin. You Can't Go On Like This."

A Wistful Look Came Over Aline's Face.

"I Do Get A Little Hungry Sometimes--Late At Night Generally."

"You Want Somebody To Take Care Of You And Look After You. I'm

The Man. You May Think You Can Fool Me; But I Can Tell. You're

Weakening On This Freddie Proposition. You're Beginning To See

That It Won't Do. One Of These Days You're Going To Come To Me

And Say: 'George,  You Were Right. I Take The Count. Me For The

Quiet Sneak To The Station,  Without Anybody Knowing,  And The

Break For London,  And The Wedding At The Registrar's.' Oh,  I

Know! I Couldn't Have Loved You All This Time And Not Know.

You're Weakening."

The Trouble With These Supermen Is That They Lack Reticence. They

Do Not Know How To Omit. They Expand Their Chests And Whoop. And

A Girl,  Even The Mildest And Sweetest Of Girls--Even A Girl Like

Aline Peters--Cannot Help Resenting The Note Of Triumph. But

Supermen Despise Tact. As Far As One Can Gather,  That Is The

Chief Difference Between Them And The Ordinary Man.

A Little Frown Appeared On Aline's Forehead And She Set Her Mouth

Mutinously.

"I'm Not Weakening At All," She