Something New, Pelham Grenville Wodehouse [best historical biographies TXT] 📗

 

An Elderly,  Thin-Faced,  Bald-Headed,  Amiably Vacant Man Entered.

He Regarded The Honorable Freddie With A Certain Disfavor.

 

"Are You Only Just Getting Up,  Frederick?"

 

"Hello,  Gov'nor. Good Morning. I Shan't Be Two Ticks Now."

 

"You Should Have Been Out And About Two Hours Ago. The Day Is

Glorious."

 

"Shan't Be More Than A Minute,  Gov'nor,  Now. Just Got To Have A

Tub And Then Chuck On A Few Clothes."

 

He Disappeared Into The Bathroom. His Father,  Taking A Chair,

Placed The Tips Of His Fingers Together And In This Attitude

Remained Motionless,  A Figure Of Disapproval And Suppressed

Annoyance.

 

Like Many Fathers In His Rank Of Life,  The Earl Of Emsworth Had

Suffered Much Through That Problem Which,  With The Exception Of

Mr. Lloyd-George,  Is Practically The Only Fly In The British

Aristocratic Amber--The Problem Of What To Do With The Younger

Sons.

 

It Is Useless To Try To Gloss Over The Fact--In The Aristocratic

Families Of Great Britain The Younger Son Is Not Required.

 

Apart,  However,  From The Fact That He Was A Younger Son,  And,  As

Such,  A Nuisance In Any Case,  The Honorable Freddie Had Always

Annoyed His Father In A Variety Of Ways. The Earl Of Emsworth Was

So Constituted That No Man Or Thing Really Had The Power To

Trouble Him Deeply; But Freddie Had Come Nearer To Doing It Than

Anybody Else In The World. There Had Been A Consistency,  A

Perseverance,  About His Irritating Performances That Had Acted On

The Placid Peer As Dripping Water On A Stone. Isolated Acts Of

Annoyance Would Have Been Powerless To Ruffle His Calm; But

Freddie Had Been Exploding Bombs Under His Nose Since He Went To

Eton.

 

He Had Been Expelled From Eton For Breaking Out At Night And

Roaming The Streets Of Windsor In A False Mustache. He Had Been

Sent Down From Oxford For Pouring Ink From A Second-Story Window

On The Junior Dean Of His College. He Had Spent Two Years At An

Expensive London Crammer's And Failed To Pass Into The Army. He

Had Also Accumulated An Almost Record Series Of Racing Debts,

Besides As Shady A Gang Of Friends--For The Most Part Vaguely

Connected With The Turf--As Any Young Man Of His Age Ever

Contrived To Collect.

 

These Things Try The Most Placid Of Parents; And Finally Lord

Emsworth Had Put His Foot Down. It Was The Only Occasion In His

Life When He Had Acted With Decision,  And He Did It With The

Accumulated Energy Of Years. He Stopped His Son's Allowance,

Chapter 2 Pg 15

Haled Him Home To Blandings Castle,  And Kept Him There So

Relentlessly That Until The Previous Night,  When They Had Come Up

Together By An Afternoon Train,  Freddie Had Not Seen London For

Nearly A Year.

 

Possibly It Was The Reflection That,  Whatever His Secret

Troubles,  He Was At Any Rate Once More In His Beloved Metropolis

That Caused Freddie At This Point To Burst Into Discordant Song.

He Splashed And Warbled Simultaneously.

 

Lord Emsworth's Frown Deepened And He Began To Tap His Fingers

Together Irritably. Then His Brow Cleared And A Pleased Smile

Flickered Over His Face. He,  Too,  Had Remembered.

 

What Lord Emsworth Remembered Was This: Late In The Previous

Autumn The Next Estate To Blandings Had Been Rented By An

American,  A Mr. Peters--A Man With Many Millions,  Chronic

Dyspepsia,  And One Fair Daughter--Aline. The Two Families Had

Met. Freddie And Aline Had Been Thrown Together; And,  Only A Few

Days Before,  The Engagement Had Been Announced. And For Lord

Emsworth The Only Flaw In This Best Of All Possible Worlds Had

Been Removed.

 

Yes,  He Was Glad Freddie Was Engaged To Be Married To Aline

Peters. He Liked Aline. He Liked Mr. Peters. Such Was The Relief

He Experienced That He Found Himself Feeling Almost Affectionate

Toward Freddie,  Who Emerged From The Bathroom At This Moment,

Clad In A Pink Bathrobe,  To Find The Paternal Wrath Evaporated,

And All,  So To Speak,  Right With The World.

 

Nevertheless,  He Wasted No Time About His Dressing. He Was Always

Ill At Ease In His Father's Presence And He Wished To Be

Elsewhere With All Possible Speed. He Sprang Into His Trousers

With Such Energy That He Nearly Tripped Himself Up. As He

Disentangled Himself He Recollected Something That Had Slipped

His Memory.

 

"By The Way,  Gov'nor,  I Met An Old Pal Of Mine Last Night And

Asked Him Down To Blandings This Week. That's All Right,  Isn't

It? He's A Man Named Emerson,  An American. He Knows Aline Quite

Well,  He Says--Has Known Her Since She Was A Kid."

 

"I Do Not Remember Any Friend Of Yours Named Emerson."

 

"Well,  As A Matter Of Fact,  I Met Him Last Night For The First

Time. But It's All Right. He's A Good Chap,  Don't You Know!

--And All That Sort Of Rot."

 

Lord Emsworth Was Feeling Too Benevolent To Raise The Objections

He Certainly Would Have Raised Had His Mood Been Less Sunny.

 

"Certainly; Let Him Come If He Wishes."

 

"Thanks,  Gov'nor."

Chapter 2 Pg 16

 

Freddie Completed His Toilet.

 

"Doing Anything Special This Morning,  Gov'nor? I Rather Thought

Of Getting A Bit Of Breakfast And Then Strolling Round A Bit.

Have You Had Breakfast?"

 

"Two Hours Ago. I Trust That In The Course Of Your Strolling You

Will Find Time To Call At Mr. Peters' And See Aline. I Shall Be

Going There Directly After Lunch. Mr. Peters Wishes To Show Me

His Collection Of--I Think Scarabs Was The Word He Used."

 

"Oh,  I'll Look In All Right! Don't You Worry! Or If I Don't I'll

Call The Old Boy Up On The Phone And Pass The Time Of Day. Well,

I Rather Think I'll Be Popping Off And Getting That Bit Of

Breakfast--What?"

 

Several Comments On This Speech Suggested Themselves To Lord

Emsworth. In The First Place,  He Did Not Approve Of Freddie's

Allusion To One Of America's Merchant Princes As "The Old Boy."

Second,  His Son's Attitude Did Not Strike Him As The Ideal

Attitude Of A Young Man Toward His Betrothed. There Seemed To Be

A Lack Of Warmth. But,  He Reflected,  Possibly This Was Simply

Another Manifestation Of The Modern Spirit; And In Any Case It

Was Not Worth Bothering About; So He Offered No Criticism.

 

Presently,  Freddie Having Given His Shoes A Flick With A Silk

Handkerchief And Thrust The Latter Carefully Up His Sleeve,  They

Passed Out And Down Into The Main Lobby Of The Hotel,  Where They

Parted--Freddie To His Bit Of Breakfast; His Father To Potter

About The Streets And Kill Time Until Luncheon. London Was Always

A Trial To The Earl Of Emsworth. His Heart Was In The Country And

The City Held No Fascinations For Him.

 

                        *   *   *

 

On One Of The Floors In One Of The Buildings In One Of The

Streets That Slope Precipitously From The Strand To The Thames

Embankment,  There Is A Door That Would Be All The Better For A

Lick Of Paint,  Which Bears What Is Perhaps The Most Modest And

Unostentatious Announcement Of Its Kind In London. The Grimy

Ground-Glass Displays The Words:

 

                  R. Jones

 

Simply That And Nothing More. It Is Rugged In Its Simplicity.

You Wonder,  As You Look At It--If You Have Time To Look At And

Wonder About These Things--Who This Jones May Be; And What Is The

Business He Conducts With Such Coy Reticence.

 

As A Matter Of Fact,  These Speculations Had Passed Through

Suspicious Minds At Scotland Yard,  Which Had For Some Time Taken

Not A Little Interest In R. Jones. But Beyond Ascertaining That

He Bought And Sold Curios,  Did A Certain Amount Of Bookmaking

Chapter 2 Pg 17

During The Flat-Racing Season,  And Had Been Known To Lend Money,

Scotland Yard Did Not Find Out Much About Mr. Jones And Presently

Dismissed Him From Its Thoughts.

 

On The Theory,  Given To The World By William Shakespeare,  That It

Is The Lean And Hungry-Looking Men Who Are Dangerous,  And That

The "Fat,  Sleek-Headed Men,  And Such As Sleep O' Nights," Are

Harmless,  R. Jones Should Have Been Above Suspicion. He Was

Infinitely The Fattest Man In The West-Central Postal District Of

London. He Was A Round Ball Of A Man,  Who Wheezed When He Walked

Upstairs,  Which Was Seldom,  And Shook Like Jelly If Some Tactless

Friend,  Wishing To Attract His Attention,  Tapped Him Unexpectedly

On The Shoulder. But This Occurred Still Less Frequently Than His

Walking Upstairs; For In R. Jones' Circle It Was Recognized That

Nothing Is A Greater Breach Of Etiquette And Worse Form Than To

Tap People Unexpectedly On The Shoulder. That,  It Was Felt,

Should Be Left To Those Who Are Paid By The Government To Do It.

 

R. Jones Was About Fifty Years Old,  Gray-Haired,  Of A Mauve

Complexion,  Jovial Among His Friends,  And Perhaps Even More

Jovial With Chance Acquaintances. It Was Estimated By Envious

Intimates That His Joviality With Chance Acquaintances,  Specially

With Young Men Of The Upper Classes,  With Large Purses And Small

Foreheads--Was Worth Hundreds Of Pounds A Year To Him. There Was

Something About His Comfortable Appearance And His Jolly Manner

That Irresistibly Attracted A Certain Type Of Young Man. It Was

His Good Fortune That This Type Of Young Man Should Be The Type

Financially Most Worth Attracting.

 

Freddie Threepwood Had Fallen Under His Spell During His Short

But Crowded Life In London. They Had Met For The First Time At

The Derby; And Ever Since Then R. Jones Had Held In Freddie's

Estimation That Position Of Guide,  Philosopher And Friend Which

He Held In The Estimation Of So Many Young Men Of Freddie's

Stamp.

 

That Was Why,  At Twelve O'clock Punctually On This Spring Day,  He

Tapped With His Cane On R. Jones' Ground Glass,  And Showed Such

Satisfaction And Relief When The Door Was Opened By The

Proprietor In Person.

 

"Well,  Well,  Well!" Said R. Jones Rollickingly. "Whom Have We

Here? The Dashing Bridegroom-To-Be,  And No Other!"

 

R. Jones,  Like Lord Emsworth,  Was Delighted That Freddie Was

About To Marry A Nice Girl With Plenty Of Money. The Sudden

Turning Off Of The Tap From Which Freddie's Allowance Had Flowed

Had Hit Him Hard. He Had Other Sources Of Income,  Of Course; But

Few So Easy And Unfailing As Freddie Had Been In The Days Of His

Prosperity.

 

"The Prodigal Son,  By George! Creeping Back Into The Fold After

All This Weary Time! It Seems Years Since I Saw You,  Freddie.

The Old Gov'nor Put His Foot Down--Didn't He?--And Stopped The