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

Almost With Reverence After The Slow-Moving Figure.

"What A Nut!" Said Adams To His Immortal Soul.

Wafted Through The Sunlit Streets In His Taxicab,  The Earl Of

Emsworth Smiled Benevolently On London's Teeming Millions. He Was

As Completely Happy As Only A Fluffy-Minded Old Man With

Excellent Health And A Large Income Can Be. Other People Worried

About All Sorts Of Things--Strikes,  Wars,  Suffragettes,  The

Diminishing Birth Rate,  The Growing Materialism Of The Age,  A

Score Of Similar Subjects.

Worrying,  Indeed,  Seemed To Be The Twentieth-Century Specialty.

Lord Emsworth Never Worried. Nature Had Equipped Him With A Mind

So Admirably Constructed For Withstanding The Disagreeableness Of

Life That If An Unpleasant Thought Entered It,  It Passed Out

Again A Moment Later. Except For A Few Of Life's Fundamental

Facts,  Such As That His Check Book Was In The Right-Hand Top

Drawer Of His Desk; That The Honorable Freddie Threepwood Was A

Young Idiot Who Required Perpetual Restraint; And That When In

Doubt About Anything He Had Merely To Apply To His Secretary,

Rupert Baxter--Except For These Basic Things,  He Never Remembered

Anything For More Than A Few Minutes.

At Eton,  In The Sixties,  They Had Called Him Fathead.

His Was A Life That Lacked,  Perhaps,  The Sublimer Emotions Which

Raise Man To The Level Of The Gods; But Undeniably It Was An

Extremely Happy One. He Never Experienced The Thrill Of Ambition

Fulfilled; But,  On The Other Hand,  He Never Knew The Agony Of

Ambition Frustrated. His Name,  When He Died,  Would Not Live

Forever In England's Annals; He Was Spared The Pain Of Worrying

About This By The Fact That He Had No Desire To Live Forever In

England's Annals. He Was Possibly As Nearly Contented As A Human

Being Could Be In This Century Of Alarms And Excursions.

Indeed,  As He Bowled Along In His Cab And Reflected That A Really

Charming Girl,  Not In The Chorus Of Any West End Theater,  A Girl

With Plenty Of Money And Excellent Breeding,  Had--In A Moment,

Doubtless,  Of Mental Aberration--Become Engaged To Be Married To

The Honorable Freddie,  He Told Himself That Life At Last Was

Absolutely Without A Crumpled Rose Leaf.

The Cab Drew Up Before A House Gay With Flowered Window Boxes.

Lord Emsworth Paid The Driver And Stood On The Sidewalk Looking

Up At This Cheerful House,  Trying To Remember Why On Earth He Had

Told The Man To Drive There.

A Few Moments' Steady Thought Gave Him The Answer To The Riddle.

This Was Mr. Peters' Town House,  And He Had Come To It By

Invitation To Look At Mr. Peters' Collection Of Scarabs. To Be

Sure! He Remembered Now--His Collection Of Scarabs. Or Was It

Arabs?

Lord Emsworth Smiled. Scarabs,  Of Course. You Couldn't Collect

Arabs. He Wondered Idly,  As He Rang The Bell,  What Scarabs Might

Be; But He Was Interested In A Fluffy Kind Of Way In All Forms Of

Collecting,  And He Was Very Pleased To Have The Opportunity Of

Examining These Objects; Whatever They Were. He Rather Thought

They Were A Kind Of Fish.

There Are Men In This World Who Cannot Rest; Who Are So

Constituted That They Can Only Take Their Leisure In The Shape Of

A Change Of Work. To This Fairly Numerous Class Belonged Mr. J.

Preston Peters,  Father Of Freddie's Aline. And To This Merit--Or

Defect--Is To Be Attributed His Almost Maniacal Devotion To That

Rather Unattractive Species Of Curio,  The Egyptian Scarab.

Five Years Before,  A Nervous Breakdown Had Sent Mr. Peters To A

New York Specialist. The Specialist Had Grown Rich On Similar

Cases And His Advice Was Always The Same. He Insisted On Mr.

Peters Taking Up A Hobby.

"What Sort Of A Hobby?" Inquired Mr. Peters Irritably. His

Digestion Had Just Begun To Trouble Him At The Time,  And His

Temper Now Was Not Of The Best.

"Now My Hobby," Said The Specialist,  "Is The Collecting Of

Scarabs. Why Should You Not Collect Scarabs?"

"Because," Said Mr. Peters,  "I Shouldn't Know One If You Brought

It To Me On A Plate. What Are Scarabs?"

"Scarabs," Said The Specialist,  Warming To His Subject,  "The

Egyptian Hieroglyphs."

"And What," Inquired Mr. Peters,  "Are Egyptian Hieroglyphs?"

The Specialist Began To Wonder Whether It Would Not Have Been

Better To Advise Mr. Peters To Collect Postage Stamps.

"A Scarab," He Said--"Derived From The Latin Scarabeus--Is

Literally A Beetle."

"I Will Not Collect Beetles!" Said Mr. Peters Definitely. "They

Give Me The Willies."

"Scarabs Are Egyptian Symbols In The Form Of Beetles," The

Specialist Hurried On. "The Most Common Form Of Scarab Is In The

Shape Of A Ring. Scarabs Were Used For Seals. They Were Also

Employed As Beads Or Ornaments. Some Scarabaei Bear Inscriptions

Having Reference To Places; As,  For Instance: 'Memphis Is Mighty

Forever.'"

Mr. Peters' Scorn Changed To Active Interest.

"Have You Got One Like That?"

"Like What?"

"A Scarab Boosting Memphis. It's My Home Town."

"I Think It Possible That Some Other Memphis Was Alluded To."

"There Isn't Any Other Except The One In Tennessee," Said Mr.

Peters Patriotically.

The Specialist Owed The Fact That He Was A Nerve Doctor Instead

Of A Nerve Patient To His Habit Of Never Arguing With His

Visitors.

"Perhaps," He Said,  "You Would Care To Glance At My Collection.

It Is In The Next Room."

That Was The Beginning Of Mr. Peters' Devotion To Scarabs. At

First He Did His Collecting Without Any Love Of It,  Partly

Because He Had To Collect Something Or Suffer,  But Principally

Because Of A Remark The Specialist Made As He Was Leaving The

Room.

"How Long Would It Take Me To Get Together That Number Of The

Things?" Mr. Peters Inquired,  When,  Having Looked His Fill On The

Dullest Assortment Of Objects He Remembered Ever To Have Seen,  He

Was Preparing To Take His Leave.

The Specialist Was Proud Of His Collection. "How Long? To Make A

Collection As Large As Mine? Years,  Mr. Peters. Oh,  Many,  Many

Years."

"I'll Bet You A Hundred Dollars I'll Do It In Six Months!"

From That Moment Mr. Peters Brought To The Collecting Of Scarabs

The Same Furious Energy Which Had Given Him So Many Dollars And

So Much Indigestion. He Went After Scarabs Like A Dog After Rats.

He Scooped In Scarabs From The Four Corners Of The Earth,  Until

At The End Of A Year He Found Himself Possessed Of What,  Purely

As Regarded Quantity,  Was A Record Collection.

This Marked The End Of The First Phase Of--So To Speak--The

Scarabaean Side Of His Life. Collecting Had Become A Habit With

Him,  But He Was Not Yet A Real Enthusiast. It Occurred To Him

That The Time Had Arrived For A Certain Amount Of Pruning And

Elimination. He Called In An Expert And Bade Him Go Through The

Collection And Weed Out What He Felicitously Termed The "Dead

Ones." The Expert Did His Job Thoroughly. When He Had Finished

The Collection Was Reduced To A Mere Dozen Specimens.

"The Rest," He Explained,  "Are Practically Valueless. If You Are

Thinking Of Making A Collection That Will Have Any Value In The

Eyes Of Archeologists I Should Advise You To Throw Them Away. The

Remaining Twelve Are Good."

"How Do You Mean--Good? Why Is One Of These Things Valuable And

Another So Much Punk? They All Look Alike To Me."

And Then The Expert Talked To Mr. Peters For Nearly Two Hours

About The New Kingdom,  The Middle Kingdom,  Osiris,  Ammon,  Mut,

Bubastis,  Dynasties,  Cheops,  The Hyksos Kings,  Cylinders,  Bezels,

Amenophis Iii,  Queen Taia,  The Princess Gilukhipa Of Mitanni,  The

Lake Of Zarukhe,  Naucratis,  And The Book Of The Dead. He Did It

With A Relish. He Liked To Do It.

When He Had Finished,  Mr. Peters Thanked Him And Went To The

Bathroom,  Where He Bathed His Temples With Eau De Cologne.

That Talk Changed J. Preston Peters From A Supercilious

Scooper-Up Of Random Scarabs To What Might Be Called A Genuine

Scarab Fan. It Does Not Matter What A Man Collects; If Nature Has

Given Him The Collector's Mind He Will Become A Fanatic On The

Subject Of Whatever Collection He Sets Out To Make. Mr. Peters

Had Collected Dollars; He Began To Collect Scarabs With Precisely

The Same Enthusiasm. He Would Have Become Just As Enthusiastic

About Butterflies Or Old China If He Had Turned His Thoughts To

Them; But It Chanced That What He Had Taken Up Was The Collecting

Of The Scarab,  And It Gripped Him More And More As The Years Went

On.

Gradually He Came To Love His Scarabs With That Love,  Surpassing

The Love Of Women,  Which Only Collectors Know. He Became An

Expert On Those Curious Relics Of A Dead Civilization. For A Time

They Ran Neck And Neck In His Thoughts With Business. When He

Retired From Business He Was Free To Make Them The Master Passion

Of His Life. He Treasured Each Individual Scarab In His

Collection As A Miser Treasures Gold.

Collecting,  As Mr. Peters Did It,  Resembles The Drink Habit. It

Begins As An Amusement And Ends As An Obsession. He Was Gloating

Over His Treasures When The Maid Announced Lord Emsworth.

A Curious Species Of Mutual Toleration--It Could Hardly Be

Dignified By The Title Of Friendship--Had Sprung Up Between These

Two Men,  So Opposite In Practically Every Respect. Each Regarded

The Other With That Feeling Of Perpetual Amazement With Which We

Encounter Those Whose Whole Viewpoint And Mode Of Life Is Foreign

To Our Own.

The American's Force And Nervous Energy Fascinated Lord Emsworth.

As For Mr. Peters,  Nothing Like The Earl Had Ever Happened To Him

Before In A Long And Varied Life. Each,  In Fact,  Was To The Other

A Perpetual Freak Show,  With No Charge For Admission. And If

Anything Had Been Needed To Cement The Alliance It Would Have

Been Supplied