What with having, on top of her other troubles, to rein herself back
from the trough, Aunt Dahlia was a total loss as far as anything in the
shape of brilliant badinage was concerned. The fact that he was fifty
quid in the red and expecting Civilisation to take a toss at any moment
had caused Uncle Tom, who always looked a bit like a pterodactyl with a
secret sorrow, to take on a deeper melancholy. The Bassett was a silent
bread crumbler. Angela might have been hewn from the living rock. Tuppy
had the air of a condemned murderer refusing to make the usual hearty
breakfast before tooling off to the execution shed.
And as for Gussie Fink-Nottle, many an experienced undertaker would
have been deceived by his appearance and started embalming him on sight.
This was the first glimpse I had had of Gussie since we parted at
my flat, and I must say his demeanour disappointed me. I had been
expecting something a great deal more sparkling.
At my flat, on the occasion alluded to, he had, if you recall,
practically given me a signed guarantee that all he needed to touch
him off was a rural setting. Yet in this aspect now I could detect no
indication whatsoever that he was about to round into mid-season form.
He still looked like a cat in an adage, and it did not take me long to
realise that my very first act on escaping from this morgue must be to
draw him aside and give him a pep talk.
If ever a chap wanted the clarion note, it looked as if it was this
Fink-Nottle.
In the general exodus of mourners, however, I lost sight of him,
and, owing to the fact that Aunt Dahlia roped me in for a game of
backgammon, it was not immediately that I was able to institute a
search. But after we had been playing for a while, the butler came in
and asked her if she would speak to Anatole, so I managed to get away.
And some ten minutes later, having failed to find scent in the house, I
started to throw out the drag-net through the grounds, and flushed him
in the rose garden.
He was smelling a rose at the moment in a limp sort of way, but removed
the beak as I approached.
“Well, Gussie,” I said.
I had beamed genially upon him as I spoke, such being my customary
policy on meeting an old pal; but instead of beaming back genially, he
gave me a most unpleasant look. His attitude perplexed me. It was as
if he were not glad to see Bertram. For a moment he stood letting this
unpleasant look play upon me, as it were, and then he spoke.
“You and your ‘Well, Gussie’!”
He said this between clenched teeth, always an unmatey thing to do, and
I found myself more fogged than ever.
“How do you mean--me and my ‘Well, Gussie’?”
“I like your nerve, coming bounding about the place, saying ‘Well,
Gussie.’ That’s about all the ‘Well, Gussie’ I shall require from you,
Wooster. And it’s no good looking like that. You know what I mean. That
damned prize-giving! It was a dastardly act to crawl out as you did and
shove it off on to me. I will not mince my words. It was the act of a
hound and a stinker.”
Now, though, as I have shown, I had devoted most of the time on the
journey down to meditating upon the case of Angela and Tuppy, I had
not neglected to give a thought or two to what I was going to say when
I encountered Gussie. I had foreseen that there might be some little
temporary unpleasantness when we met, and when a difficult interview is
in the offing Bertram Wooster likes to have his story ready.
So now I was able to reply with a manly, disarming frankness. The
sudden introduction of the topic had given me a bit of a jolt, it is
true, for in the stress of recent happenings I had rather let that
prize-giving business slide to the back of my mind; but I had speedily
recovered and, as I say, was able to reply with a manly d.f.
“But, my dear chap,” I said, “I took it for granted that you would
understand that that was all part of my schemes.”
He said something about my schemes which I did not catch.
“Absolutely. ‘Crawling out’ is entirely the wrong way to put it. You
don’t suppose I didn’t want to distribute those prizes, do you? Left to
myself, there is nothing I would find a greater treat. But I saw that
the square, generous thing to do was to step aside and let you take it
on, so I did so. I felt that your need was greater than mine. You don’t
mean to say you aren’t looking forward to it?”
He uttered a coarse expression which I wouldn’t have thought he would
have known. It just shows that you can bury yourself in the country and
still somehow acquire a vocabulary. No doubt one picks up things from
the neighbours--the vicar, the local doctor, the man who brings the
milk, and so on.
“But, dash it,” I said, “can’t you see what this is going to do for
you? It will send your stock up with a jump. There you will be, up on
that platform, a romantic, impressive figure, the star of the whole
proceedings, the what-d’you-call-it of all eyes. Madeline Bassett will
be all over you. She will see you in a totally new light.”
“She will, will she?”
“Certainly she will. Augustus Fink-Nottle, the newts’ friend, she
knows. She is acquainted with Augustus Fink-Nottle, the dogs’
chiropodist. But Augustus Fink-Nottle, the orator--that’ll knock her
sideways, or I know nothing of the female heart. Girls go potty over a
public man. If ever anyone did anyone else a kindness, it was I when I
gave this extraordinary attractive assignment to you.”
He seemed impressed by my eloquence. Couldn’t have helped himself, of
course. The fire faded from behind his horn-rimmed spectacles, and in
its place appeared the old fish-like goggle.
“’Myes,” he said meditatively. “Have you ever made a speech, Bertie?”
“Dozens of times. It’s pie. Nothing to it. Why, I once addressed a
girls’ school.”
“You weren’t nervous?”
“Not a bit.”
“How did you go?”
“They hung on my lips. I held them in the hollow of my hand.”
“They didn’t throw eggs, or anything?”
“Not a thing.”
He expelled a deep breath, and for a space stood staring in silence at
a passing slug.
“Well,” he said, at length, “it may be all right. Possibly I am letting
the thing prey on my mind too much. I may be wrong in supposing it
the fate that is worse than death. But I’ll tell you this much: the
prospect of that prize-giving on the thirty-first of this month has
been turning my existence into a nightmare. I haven’t been able to
sleep or think or eat ... By the way, that reminds me. You never
explained that cipher telegram about the sausages and ham.”
“It wasn’t a cipher telegram. I wanted you to go light on the food, so
that she would realize you were in love.”
He laughed hollowly.
“I see. Well, I’ve been doing that, all right.”
“Yes, I was noticing at dinner. Splendid.”
“I don’t see what’s splendid about it. It’s not going to get me
anywhere. I shall never be able to ask her to marry me. I couldn’t find
nerve to do that if I lived on wafer biscuits for the rest of my life.”
“But, dash it, Gussie. In these romantic surroundings. I should have
thought the whispering trees alone----”
“I don’t care what you would have thought. I can’t do it.”
“Oh, come!”
“I can’t. She seems so aloof, so remote.”
“She doesn’t.”
“Yes, she does. Especially when you see her sideways. Have you seen her
sideways, Bertie? That cold, pure profile. It just takes all the heart
out of one.”
“It doesn’t.”
“I tell you it does. I catch sight of it, and the words freeze on my
lips.”
He spoke with a sort of dull despair, and so manifest was his lack
of ginger and the spirit that wins to success that for an instant,
I confess, I felt a bit stymied. It seemed hopeless to go on trying
to steam up such a human jellyfish. Then I saw the way. With that
extraordinary quickness of mine, I realized exactly what must be done
if this Fink-Nottle was to be enabled to push his nose past the judges’
box.
“She must be softened up,” I said.
“Be what?”
“Softened up. Sweetened. Worked on. Preliminary spadework must be put
in. Here, Gussie, is the procedure I propose to adopt: I shall now
return to the house and lug this Bassett out for a stroll. I shall talk
to her of hearts that yearn, intimating that there is one actually
on the premises. I shall pitch it strong, sparing no effort. You,
meanwhile, will lurk on the outskirts, and in about a quarter of an
hour you will come along and carry on from there. By that time, her
emotions having been stirred, you ought to be able to do the rest on
your head. It will be like leaping on to a moving bus.”
I remember when I was a kid at school having to learn a poem of sorts
about a fellow named Pig-something--a sculptor he would have been, no
doubt--who made a statue of a girl, and what should happen one morning
but that the bally thing suddenly came to life. A pretty nasty shock
for the chap, of course, but the point I’m working round to is that
there were a couple of lines that went, if I remember correctly:
_She starts. She moves. She seems to feel
The stir of life along her keel._
And what I’m driving at is that you couldn’t get a better description
of what happened to Gussie as I spoke these heartening words. His brow
cleared, his eyes brightened, he lost that fishy look, and he gazed
at the slug, which was still on the long, long trail with something
approaching bonhomie. A marked improvement.
“I see what you mean. You will sort of pave the way, as it were.”
“That’s right. Spadework.”
“It’s a terrific idea, Bertie. It will make all the difference.”
“Quite. But don’t forget that after that it will be up to you. You will
have to haul up your slacks and give her the old oil, or my efforts
will have been in vain.”
Something of his former Gawd-help-us-ness seemed to return to him. He
gasped a bit.
“That’s true. What the dickens shall I say?”
I restrained my impatience with an effort. The man had been at school
with me.
“Dash it, there are hundreds of things you can say. Talk about the
sunset.”
“The sunset?”
“Certainly. Half the married men you meet began by talking about the
sunset.”
“But what can I say about the sunset?”
“Well, Jeeves got off a good one the other day. I met him airing the
dog in the park one evening, and he said, ‘Now fades the glimmering
landscape on the sight, sir, and all the air a solemn stillness holds.’
You might use that.”
“What sort of landscape?”
“Glimmering. _G_ for ‘gastritis,’ _l_ for ‘lizard’----”
“Oh, glimmering? Yes, that’s not bad. Glimmering landscape ... solemn
stillness.... Yes, I call that pretty good.”
“You could then say that you have often thought that the stars are
God’s daisy chain.”
“But I haven’t.”
“I dare say not. But she has. Hand her that one, and I don’t see how
she can help feeling that you’re a twin soul.”
“God’s daisy chain?”
“God’s daisy chain. And then you go on about how twilight always makes
you sad. I know you’re going to say it doesn’t, but on this occasion it
has jolly well got to.”
“Why?”
“That’s just what she will ask, and you will then have got her going.
Because you will reply that it is because yours is such a lonely life.
It wouldn’t be a bad idea to give her a brief description of a typical
home evening at your Lincolnshire residence, showing how you pace the
meadows with a heavy tread.”
“I generally sit indoors and listen to the wireless.”
“No, you don’t. You pace the meadows with a heavy tread, wishing that
you had someone to love you. And then you speak of the day when she
came into your life.”
“Like a fairy princess.”
“Absolutely,” I said with approval. I hadn’t expected such a hot one
from such a quarter. “Like a fairy princess. Nice work, Gussie.”
“And then?”
“Well, after that it’s easy. You say you have something you want to say
to her, and then you snap into it. I don’t see how it can fail. If I
were you, I should do it in this rose garden. It is well established
that there is no sounder move than to steer the adored object into rose
gardens in the gloaming. And you had better have a couple of quick ones
first.”
“Quick ones?”
“Snifters.”
“Drinks, do you mean? But I don’t drink.”
“What?”
“I’ve never touched a drop in my life.”
This made me a bit dubious, I must confess. On these occasions it is
generally conceded that a moderate skinful is of the essence.
However, if the facts were as he had stated, I supposed there was
nothing to be done about it.
“Well, you’ll have to make out as best you can on ginger pop.”
“I always drink orange juice.”
“Orange juice, then. Tell me, Gussie, to settle a bet, do you really
like that muck?”
“Very much.”
“Then there is no more to be said. Now, let’s just have a run through,
to see that you’ve got the lay-out straight. Start off with the
glimmering landscape.”
“Stars God’s daisy chain.”
“Twilight makes you feel sad.”
“Because mine lonely life.”
“Describe life.”
“Talk about the day I met her.”
“Add fairy-princess gag. Say there’s something you want to say to her.
Heave a couple of sighs. Grab her hand. And give her the works. Right.”
And confident that he had grasped the scenario and that everything
might now be expected to proceed through the proper channels, I picked
up the feet and hastened back to the house.
It was not until I had reached the drawing-room and was enabled to
take a square look at the Bassett that I found the debonair gaiety
with which I had embarked on this affair beginning to wane a trifle.
Beholding her at close range like this, I suddenly became cognisant of
what I was in for. The thought of strolling with this rummy specimen
undeniably gave me a most unpleasant sinking feeling. I could not
but remember how often, when in her company at Cannes, I had gazed
dumbly at her, wishing that some kindly motorist in a racing car would
ease the situation by coming along and ramming her amidships. As I
have already made abundantly clear, this girl was not one of my most
congenial buddies.
However, a Wooster’s word is his bond. Woosters may quail, but they do
not edge out. Only the keenest ear could have detected the tremor in
the voice as I asked her if she would care to come out for half an hour.
“Lovely evening,” I said.
“Yes, lovely, isn’t it?”
“Lovely. Reminds me of Cannes.”
“How lovely the evenings were there!”
“Lovely,” I said.
“Lovely,” said the Bassett.
“Lovely,” I agreed.
That completed the weather and news bulletin for the French Riviera.
Another minute, and we were out in the great open spaces, she cooing
a bit about the scenery, and self replying, “Oh, rather, quite,” and
wondering how best to approach the matter in hand.
-10-
How different it all would have been, I could not but reflect, if
this girl had been the sort of girl one chirrups cheerily to over the
telephone and takes for spins in the old two-seater. In that case, I
would simply have said, “Listen,” and she would have said, “What?” and
I would have said, “You know Gussie Fink-Nottle,” and she would have
said, “Yes,” and I would have said, “He loves you,” and she would have
said either, “What, that mutt? Well, thank heaven for one good laugh
today,” or else, in more passionate vein, “Hot dog! Tell me more.”
I mean to say, in either event the whole thing over and done with in
under a minute.
But with the Bassett something less snappy and a good deal more
glutinous was obviously indicated. What with all this daylight-saving
stuff, we had hit the great open spaces at a moment when twilight had
not yet begun to cheese it in favour of the shades of night. There was
a fag-end of sunset still functioning. Stars were beginning to peep
out, bats were fooling round, the garden was full of the aroma of those
niffy white flowers which only start to put in their heavy work at the
end of the day--in short, the glimmering landscape was fading on the
sight and all the air held a solemn stillness, and it was plain that
this was having the worst effect on her. Her eyes were enlarged, and
her whole map a good deal too suggestive of the soul’s awakening for
comfort.
Her aspect was that of a girl who was expecting something fairly fruity
from Bertram.
In these circs., conversation inevitably flagged a bit. I am never
at my best when the situation seems to call for a certain soupiness,
and I’ve heard other members of the Drones say the same thing about
themselves. I remember Pongo Twistleton telling me that he was out in a
gondola with a girl by moonlight once, and the only time he spoke was
to tell her that old story about the chap who was so good at swimming
that they made him a traffic cop in Venice.
Fell rather flat, he assured me, and it wasn’t much later when the girl
said she thought it was getting a little chilly and how about pushing
back to the hotel.
So now, as I say, the talk rather hung fire. It had been all very well
for me to promise Gussie that I would cut loose to this girl about
aching hearts, but you want a cue for that sort of thing. And when,
toddling along, we reached the edge of the lake and she finally spoke,
conceive my chagrin when I discovered that what she was talking about
was stars.
Not a bit of good to me.
“Oh, look,” she said. She was a confirmed Oh-looker. I had noticed this
at Cannes, where she had drawn my attention in this manner on various
occasions to such diverse objects as a French actress, a Provençal
filling station, the sunset over the Estorels, Michael Arlen, a man
selling coloured spectacles, the deep velvet blue of the Mediterranean,
and the late mayor of New York in a striped one-piece bathing suit.
“Oh, look at that sweet little star up there all by itself.”
I saw the one she meant, a little chap operating in a detached sort of
way above a spinney.
“Yes,” I said.
“I wonder if it feels lonely.”
“Oh, I shouldn’t think so.”
“A fairy must have been crying.”
“Eh?”
“Don’t you remember? ‘Every time a fairy sheds a tear, a wee bit star
is born in the Milky Way.’ Have you ever thought that, Mr. Wooster?”
I never had. Most improbable, I considered, and it didn’t seem to me to
check up with her statement that the stars were God’s daisy chain. I
mean, you can’t have it both ways.
However, I was in no mood to dissect and criticize. I saw that I had
been wrong in supposing that the stars were not germane to the issue.
Quite a decent cue they had provided, and I leaped on it Promptly:
“Talking of shedding tears----”
But she was now on the subject of rabbits, several of which were
messing about in the park to our right.
“Oh, look. The little bunnies!”
“Talking of shedding tears----”
“Don’t you love this time of the evening, Mr. Wooster, when the sun has
gone to bed and all the bunnies come out to have their little suppers?
When I was a child, I used to think that rabbits were gnomes, and that
if I held my breath and stayed quite still, I should see the fairy
queen.”
Indicating with a reserved gesture that this was just the sort of loony
thing I should have expected her to think as a child, I returned to the
point.
“Talking of shedding tears,” I said firmly, “it may interest you to
know that there is an aching heart in Brinkley Court.”
This held her. She cheesed the rabbit theme. Her face, which had
been aglow with what I supposed was a pretty animation, clouded. She
unshipped a sigh that sounded like the wind going out of a rubber duck.
“Ah, yes. Life is very sad, isn’t it?”
“It is for some people. This aching heart, for instance.”
“Those wistful eyes of hers! Drenched irises. And they used to dance
like elves of delight. And all through a foolish misunderstanding about
a shark. What a tragedy misunderstandings are. That pretty romance
broken and over just because Mr. Glossop would insist that it was a
flatfish.”