Something New - P. G. Wodehouse (books to read to get smarter txt) 📗

“Damme! They all seem to be millionaires in America. Wish I knew how they managed it. Honestly, I hope. Mr. Peters is an honest man, but his digestion is bad. He used to bolt his food. You don’t bolt your food, I hope, Adams?”

“No, your lordship; I am most careful.”

“The late Mr. Gladstone used to chew each mouthful thirty-three times. Deuced good notion if you aren’t in a hurry. What cheese would you recommend, Adams?”

“The gentlemen are speaking well of the Gorgonzola.”

“All right, bring me some. You know, Adams, what I admire about Americans is their resource. Mr. Peters tells me that as a boy of eleven he earned twenty dollars a week selling mint to saloon keepers, as they call publicans over there. Why they wanted mint I cannot recollect. Mr. Peters explained the reason to me and it seemed highly plausible at the time; but I have forgotten it. Possibly for mint sauce. It impressed me, Adams. Twenty dollars is four pounds. I never earned four pounds a week when I was a boy of eleven; in fact, I don’t think I ever earned four pounds a week. His story impressed me, Adams. Every man ought to have an earning capacity. I was so struck with what he told me that I began to paint.”

“Landscapes, your lordship?”

“Furniture. It is unlikely that I shall ever be compelled to paint furniture for a living, but it is a consolation to me to feel that I could do so if called on. There is a fascination about painting furniture, Adams. I have painted the whole of my bedroom at Blandings and am now engaged on the museum. You would be surprised at the fascination of it. It suddenly came back to me the other day that I had been inwardly longing to mess about with paints and things since I was a boy. They stopped me when I was a boy. I recollect my old father beating me with a walking stick⁠—Tell me, Adams, have I eaten my cheese?”

“Not yet, your lordship. I was about to send the waiter for it.”

“Never mind. Tell him to bring the bill instead. I remember that I have an appointment. I must not be late.”

“Shall I take the fork, your lordship?”

“The fork?”

“Your lordship has inadvertently put a fork in your coat pocket.”

Lord Emsworth felt in the pocket indicated, and with the air of an inexpert conjurer whose trick has succeeded contrary to his expectations produced a silver-plated fork. He regarded it with surprise; then he looked wonderingly at Adams.

“Adams, I’m getting absentminded. Have you ever noticed any traces of absentmindedness in me before?”

“Oh, no, your lordship.”

“Well, it’s deuced peculiar! I have no recollection whatsoever of placing that fork in my pocket⁠ ⁠… Adams, I want a taxicab.” He glanced round the room, as though expecting to locate one by the fireplace.

“The hall porter will whistle one for you, your lordship.”

“So he will, by George!⁠—so he will! Good day, Adams.”

“Good day, your lordship.”

The Earl of Emsworth ambled benevolently to the door, leaving Adams with the feeling that his day had been well-spent. He gazed 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