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

They Differed In Collecting As They Did In Everything Else. Mr.

Peters' Collecting,  As Has Been Shown,  Was Keen,  Furious,

Concentrated; Lord Emsworth's Had The Amiable Dodderingness That

Marked Every Branch Of His Life. In The Museum At Blandings

Castle You Could Find Every Manner Of Valuable And Valueless

Curio. There Was No Central Motive; The Place Was Simply An

Amateur Junk Shop. Side By Side With A Gutenberg Bible For Which

Rival Collectors Would Have Bidden Without A Limit,  You Would

Come On A Bullet From The Field Of Waterloo,  One Of A Consignment

Of Ten Thousand Shipped There For The Use Of Tourists By A

Birmingham Firm. Each Was Equally Attractive To Its Owner.

"My Dear Mr. Peters," Said Lord Emsworth Sunnily,  Advancing Into

The Room,  "I Trust I Am Not Unpunctual. I Have Been Lunching At

My Club."

"I'd Have Asked You To Lunch Here," Said Mr. Peters,  "But You

Know How It Is With Me . . . I've Promised The Doctor I'll Give

Those Nuts And Grasses Of His A Fair Trial,  And I Can Do It

Pretty Well When I'm Alone With Aline; But To Have To Sit By And

See Somebody Else Eating Real Food Would Be Trying Me Too High."

Lord Emsworth Murmured Sympathetically. The Other's Digestive

Tribulations Touched A Ready Chord. An Excellent Trencherman

Himself,  He Understood What Mr. Peters Must Suffer.

"Too Bad!" He Said.

Mr. Peters Turned The Conversation Into Other Channels.

"These Are My Scarabs," He Said.

Lord Emsworth Adjusted His Glasses,  And The Mild Smile

Disappeared From His Face,  To Be Succeeded By A Set Look. A Stage

Director Of A Moving-Picture Firm Would Have Recognized The Look.

Lord Emsworth Was Registering Interest--Interest Which He

Perceived From The First Instant Would Have To Be Completely

Simulated; For Instinct Told Him,  As Mr. Peters Began To Talk,

That He Was About To Be Bored As He Had Seldom Been Bored In His

Life.

Mr. Peters,  In His Character Of Showman,  Threw Himself Into His

Work With Even More Than His Customary Energy. His Flow Of Speech

Never Faltered. He Spoke Of The New Kingdom,  The Middle Kingdom,

Osiris And Ammon; Waxed Eloquent Concerning Mut,  Bubastis,

Cheops,  The Hyksos Kings,  Cylinders,  Bezels And Amenophis Iii;

And Became At Times Almost Lyrical When Touching On Queen Taia,

The Princess Gilukhipa Of Mitanni,  The Lake Of Zarukhe,  Naucratis

And The Book Of The Dead. Time Slid By.

"Take A Look At This,  Lord Emsworth."

As One Who,  Brooding On Love Or Running Over Business Projects In

His Mind,  Walks Briskly Into A Lamppost And Comes Back To The

Realities Of Life With A Sense Of Jarring Shock,  Lord Emsworth

Started,  Blinked And Returned To Consciousness. Far Away His Mind

Had Been--Seventy Miles Away--In The Pleasant Hothouses And Shady

Garden Walks Of Blandings Castle. He Came Back To London To Find

That His Host,  With A Mingled Air Of Pride And Reverence,  Was

Extending Toward Him A Small,  Dingy-Looking Something.

He Took It And Looked At It. That,  Apparently,  Was What He Was

Meant To Do. So Far,  All Was Well.

"Ah!" He Said--That Blessed Word; Covering Everything! He

Repeated It,  Pleased At His Ready Resource.

"A Cheops Of The Fourth Dynasty," Said Mr. Peters Fervently.

"I Beg Your Pardon?"

"A Cheops--Of The Fourth Dynasty."

Lord Emsworth Began To Feel Like A Hunted Stag. He Could Not Go

On Saying "Ah!" Indefinitely; Yet What Else Was There To Say To

This Curious Little Beastly Sort Of A Beetle Kind Of Thing?

"Dear Me! A Cheops!"

"Of The Fourth Dynasty!"

"Bless My Soul! The Fourth Dynasty!"

"What Do You Think Of That--Eh?"

Strictly Speaking,  Lord Emsworth Thought Nothing Of It; And He

Was Wondering How To Veil This Opinion In Diplomatic Words,  When

The Providence That Looks After All Good Men Saved Him By Causing

A Knock At The Door To Occur. In Response To Mr. Peters'

Irritated Cry A Maid Entered.

"If You Please,  Sir,  Mr. Threepwood Wishes To Speak With You On

The Telephone."

Mr. Peters Turned To His Guest. "Excuse Me For One Moment."

"Certainly," Said Lord Emsworth Gratefully. "Certainly,

Certainly,  Certainly! By All Means."

The Door Closed Behind Mr. Peters. Lord Emsworth Was Alone. For

Some Moments He Stood Where He Had Been Left,  A Figure With Small

Signs Of Alertness About It. But Mr. Peters Did Not Return

Immediately. The Booming Of His Voice Came Faintly From Some

Distant Region. Lord Emsworth Strolled To The Window And Looked

Out.

The Sun Still Shone Brightly On The Quiet Street. Across The Road

Were Trees. Lord Emsworth Was Fond Of Trees; He Looked At These

Approvingly. Then Round The Corner Came A Vagrom Man,  Wheeling

Flowers In A Barrow.

Flowers! Lord Emsworth's Mind Shot Back To Blandings Like A

Homing Pigeon. Flowers! Had He Or Had He Not Given Head Gardener

Thorne Adequate Instructions As To What To Do With Those

Hydrangeas? Assuming That He Had Not,  Was Thorne To Be Depended

On To Do The Right Thing By Them By The Light Of His Own

Intelligence? Lord Emsworth Began To Brood On Head Gardener

Thorne.

He Was Aware Of Some Curious Little Object In His Hand. He

Accorded It A Momentary Inspection. It Had No Message For Him.

It Was Probably Something; But He Could Not Remember What. He Put

It In His Pocket And Returned To His Meditations.

                        *   *   *

At About The Hour When The Earl Of Emsworth Was Driving To Keep

His Appointment With Mr. Peters,  A Party Of Two Sat At A Corner

Table At Simpson's Restaurant,  In The Strand. One Of The Two Was

A Small,  Pretty,  Good-Natured-Looking Girl Of About Twenty; The

Other,  A Thick-Set Young Man,  With A Wiry Crop Of Red-Brown Hair

And An Expression Of Mingled Devotion And Determination. The Girl

Was Aline Peters; The Young Man's Name Was George Emerson. He,

Also,  Was An American,  A Rising Member In A New York Law Firm. He

Had A Strong,  Square Face,  With A Dogged And Persevering Chin.

There Are All Sorts Of Restaurants In London,  From The Restaurant

Which Makes You Fancy You Are In Paris To The Restaurant Which

Makes You Wish You Were. There Are Palaces In Piccadilly,  Quaint

Lethal Chambers In Soho,  And Strange Food Factories In Oxford

Street And Tottenham Court Road. There Are Restaurants Which

Specialize In Ptomaine And Restaurants Which Specialize In

Sinister Vegetable Messes. But There Is Only One Simpson's.

Simpson's,  In The Strand,  Is Unique. Here,  If He Wishes,  The

Briton May For The Small Sum Of Half A Dollar Stupefy Himself

With Food. The God Of Fatted Plenty Has The Place Under His

Protection. Its Keynote Is Solid Comfort.

It Is A Pleasant,  Soothing,  Hearty Place--A Restful Temple Of

Food. No Strident Orchestra Forces The Diner To Bolt Beef In

Ragtime. No Long Central Aisle Distracts His Attention With Its

Stream Of New Arrivals. There He Sits,  Alone With His Food,  While

White-Robed Priests,  Wheeling Their Smoking Trucks,  Move To And

Fro,  Ever Ready With Fresh Supplies.

All Round The Room--Some At Small Tables,  Some At Large Tables

--The Worshipers Sit,  In Their Eyes That Resolute,  Concentrated

Look Which Is The Peculiar Property Of The British Luncher,

Ex-President Roosevelt's Man-Eating Fish,  And The American Army

Worm.

Conversation Does Not Flourish At Simpson's. Only Two Of All

Those Present On This Occasion Showed Any Disposition Toward

Chattiness. They Were Aline Peters And Her Escort.

"The Girl You Ought To Marry," Aline Was Saying,  "Is Joan

Valentine."

"The Girl I Am Going To Marry," Said George Emerson,  "Is Aline

Peters."

For Answer,  Aline Picked Up From The Floor Beside Her An

Illustrated Paper And,  Having Opened It At A Page Toward The End,

Handed It Across The Table.

George Emerson Glanced At It Disdainfully. There Were Two

Photographs On The Page. One Was Of Aline; The Other Of A Heavy,

Loutish-Looking Youth,  Who Wore That Expression Of Pained

Glassiness Which Young England Always Adopts In The Face Of A

Camera.

Under One Photograph Were Printed The Words: "Miss Aline Peters,

Who Is To Marry The Honorable Frederick Threepwood In June";

Under The Other: "The Honorable Frederick Threepwood,  Who Is To

Marry Miss Aline Peters In June." Above The Photographs Was The

Legend: "Forthcoming International Wedding. Son Of The Earl Of

Emsworth To Marry American Heiress." In One Corner Of The Picture

A Cupid,  Draped In The Stars And Stripes,  Aimed His Bow At The

Gentleman; In The Other Another Cupid,  Clad In A Natty Union

Jack,  Was Drawing A Bead On The Lady.

The Subeditor Had Done His Work Well. He Had Not Been Ambiguous.

What He Intended To Convey To The Reader Was That Miss Aline

Peters,  Of America,  Was Going To Marry The Honorable Frederick

Threepwood,  Son Of The Earl Of Emsworth; And That Was Exactly The

Impression The Average Reader Got.

George Emerson,  However,  Was Not An Average Reader. The

Subeditor's Work Did Not Impress Him.

"You Mustn't Believe Everything You See In The Papers," He Said.

"What Are The Stout Children In The One-Piece Bathing Suits

Supposed To Be Doing?"

"Those Are Cupids,  George,  Aiming At Us With Their Little Bow--

A Pretty And Original Idea."

"Why Cupids?"

"Cupid Is The God Of Love."

What Has The God Of Love Got To Do With It?"

Aline Placidly Devoured A Fried Potato. "You're Simply Trying To

Make Me Angry," She Said; "And I Call It Very Mean Of You. You

Know Perfectly Well How Fatal It Is To Get Angry At Meals. It Was

Eating While He Was In A Bad Temper That Ruined Father's

Digestion. George,  That Nice,  Fat Carver Is Wheeling His Truck

This Way. Flag Him And Make Him Give Me Some More Of That

Mutton."

George Looked Round Him Morosely.

"This," He Said,  "Is England--This Restaurant,  I Mean. You Don't

Need To Go Any Farther. Just Take A Good Look