The Code of the Woosters / Фамильная честь Вустеров. Пелам Гренвилл Вудхаус

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, sir.”

      This surprised me. “Is it morning?”

      “Yes, sir.”

      “Are you sure? It seems very dark outside.”

      “There is a fog, sir. We are now in autumn—season of mists and mellow fruitfulness[2].”

      “Season of what?”

      “Mists, sir, and mellow fruitfulness.”

      “Oh? Yes, I see. Well, get me one of those cocktails of yours, will you?”

      “I have one in the fridge.”

      He shimmered out, and I sat up in bed feeling I was going to die in about five minutes. On the previous night, I had given a little dinner to Gussie Fink-Nottle[3] who was going to marry Madeline[4], only daughter of Sir Watkyn Bassett[5]. Indeed, just before Jeeves came in, I had been dreaming that some bounder was driving spikes through my head—not just ordinary spikes, but red-hot[6] ones.

      Jeeves returned with his morning reviver. After drinking it, my skull flew up to the ceiling and the eyes shot out of their sockets and rebounded from the opposite wall like racquet balls. I felt better.

      “Ha!” I said, retrieving the eyeballs and replacing them in position. “Well, Jeeves, what goes on in the great world? Is that the paper you have there?”

      “No, sir. It is some literature from the Travel Bureau. I thought that you might care to glance at it.”

      “Oh?” I said. “You did, did you?”

      And there was a brief and—if that’s the word I want—pregnant silence. I suppose that when two men of iron live in close association with one another, there are occasional clashes. Jeeves was trying to get me to go on a Round-The-World cruise, and I would have none of it. But in spite of my firm statements to this effect, scarcely a day passed without him bringing me those illustrated folders which the travel agents usually send out. Jeeves was like some assiduous hound who will persist in laying a dead rat on the drawing-room carpet.

      “Jeeves,” I said, “this nuisance must now cease.”

      “Travel is highly educational, sir.”

      “No more education. I was full up years ago. No, Jeeves, I know what’s the matter with you. That old Viking blood of yours! You yearn for the tang of the salt breezes. You see yourself walking the deck in a yachting cap. Possibly someone has been telling you about the Dancing Girls of Bali. I understand, and I sympathize. But not for me. I refuse.”

      “Very good, sir.[7]”

      He spoke with a certain what-is-it in his voice, so I tactfully changed the subject.

      “Well, Jeeves, it was quite a satisfactory binge last night.”

      “Indeed, sir?”

      “Oh, most. An excellent time was had by all. Gussie sent his regards.”

      “I appreciate the kind thought, sir. I trust Mr. Fink-Nottle was in good spirits?”

      “Extraordinarily good, considering that he will shortly have Sir Watkyn Bassett for a father-in-law. Sooner him than me[8], Jeeves, sooner him than me.”

      I spoke with strong feeling, and I’ll tell you why. A few months before, while celebrating Boat Race[9] night, I had fallen into the clutches of the Law for trying to separate a policeman from his helmet, and I had been fined. A fiver[10]! The magistrate who had inflicted this monstrous sentence was none other than old Bassett, father of Gussie’s bride-to-be.

      I was one of his last clients, for a couple of weeks later he inherited a pot of money from a distant relative and retired to the country. That, at least, was the story. My own view was that he had got the stuff by sticking like glue to the fines. Five quid here, five quid there—a lot of money, eh?

      “You have not forgotten that man of wrath, Jeeves? Eh?”

      “Possibly Sir Watkyn is less formidable in private life, sir.”

      “I doubt it. A hellhound is always a hellhound. But enough of this Bassett. Any letters today?”

      “No, sir.”

      “Telephone communications?”

      “One, sir. From Mrs Travers[11].”

      “Aunt Dahlia[12]? She’s back in town, then?”

      “Yes, sir. She expressed a desire that you would ring her up at your earliest convenience.”

      “I will do even better,” I said cordially. “I will call in person.[13]”

      And half an hour later I was near the steps of her residence. I did not know that I was to become involved in an imbroglio that would test the Wooster soul as it had seldom been tested before. The story was connected with Gussie Fink-Nottle, Madeline Bassett, old Pop Bassett, Stiffy Byng[14], the Rev. H. P. (“Stinker”) Pinker[15], the eighteenth-century cow-creamer[16] and the small, brown, leather-covered notebook.

* * *

      But I was looking forward with bright anticipation to the coming reunion with Dahlia—she, being my good and deserving aunt, not to be confused with Aunt Agatha[17], who eats broken bottles and wears barbed wire[18] next to the skin. Apart from the mere intellectual pleasure of talking to her, there was the prospect that I might be able to get an invitation to lunch. Anatole[19], her French cook, was outstanding!

      The door of the morning room was open. Aunt Dahlia greeted me:

      “Hallo, ugly,” she said. “What brings you here?”

      “I understood, that you wished to talk to me.”

      “I didn’t want you to come in, interrupting my work. A few words on the telephone would’ve been enough. But I suppose some instinct told you that this was my busy day.”

      “If you were wondering if I could come to lunch, have no anxiety. By the way, what will Anatole be giving us?”

      “He won’t be giving you anything, my young tapeworm. I am entertaining Pomona Grindle[20], the novelist, to the midday meal.”

      “I should be charmed to

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