Дживс, вы – гений! / Thank you, Jeeves!. Пелам Гренвилл Вудхаус

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that Mrs Tinkler-Moulke owns a Pomeranian?”

      “Don’t drivel.”

      “I am not drivelling. This animal yaps all day and night. So Mrs Tinkler-Moulke has had the nerve to complain of my banjolele, has she? Ha! Let her first throw away her dog.”

      “I am not here to talk about dogs. Stop annoying this unfortunate woman.”

      I shook the head.

      “I am sorry she is a cold audience, but my art must come first.”

      “That is your final word, is it?”

      “It is.”

      “Very good. You will hear more of this.”

      “And Mrs Tinkler-Moulke will hear more of this,” I replied, taking the banjolele.

      I touched the buzzer.

      “Jeeves,” I said, “show Sir R. Glossop out![21]”

* * *

      With a good deal of quiet self-satisfaction I proceeded to play “The Wedding of the Painted Doll”, “Singin’ In the Rain”, “Three Little Words”, “Good-Night, Sweetheart”, “My Love Parade”, “Spring Is Here”, “Whose Baby Are You”, and part of “I Want an Automobile With a Horn That Goes Toot-Toot”, in the order named: and it was as I was approaching the end of this last number that the telephone rang.

      I went to the telephone and stood listening. And, as I listened, my face grew hard and set.

      “Very good, Mr Manglehoffer[22],” I said coldly. “You may inform Mrs Tinkler-Moulke and her associates that I choose the latter alternative.”

      I touched the bell.

      “Jeeves,” I said, “there has been a spot of trouble.”

      “Indeed, sir?”

      “I have just been talking to the manager of this building on the telephone, and he has delivered an ultimatum. He says I must either stop playing the banjolele or go out.”

      “Indeed, sir?”

      “Complaints have been lodged by the Honourable Mrs Tinkler-Moulke, of C.6; by Lieutenant-Colonel J. J. Bustard, DSO[23], of B.5; and by Sir Everard and Lady Blennerhassett[24], of B.7. All right. So be it. I don’t care. We shall be rid of these Tinkler-Moulkes, these Bustards, and these Blennerhassetts. I leave them readily.”

      “You are proposing to move, sir?”

      I raised the eyebrows.

      “Surely, Jeeves, you cannot imagine that I ever considered any other course?”

      “But I fear you will encounter a similar hostility elsewhere, sir.”

      “Not where I am going. I want to retire to the depths of the country. I shall find a cottage, and there resume my studies.”

      “A cottage, sir?”

      “A cottage, Jeeves. If possible, honeysuckle-covered[25].”

      There was a brief pause, and then Jeeves gave a sort of cough and there proceeded from his lips these incredible words:

      “In that case, I fear I must give my notice[26].”

      There was a tense silence. I stared at the man.

      “Jeeves,” I was stunned, “did I hear you correctly?”

      “Yes, sir. If it is your intention to play that instrument within a country cottage…”

      “You say ‘that instrument’, Jeeves. And you say it in an unpleasant voice. Am I to understand that you dislike this banjolele?”

      “Yes, sir.”

      “Let me tell you one thing. Are you aware that a certain Bulgarian, Elia Gospodinoff[27], once played the bagpipes for twenty-four hours without a stop?”

      “Indeed, sir?”

      “Well, do you suppose Gospodinoff’s personal attendant went away? A laughable idea. Be Bulgarian, Jeeves.”

      “No, sir. I fear I cannot.”

      “Are you serious, Jeeves?”

      “Yes, sir.”

      “And you are resolved?”

      “Yes, sir. If it is really your intention to continue playing that instrument, I have no option but to leave.”

      The Wooster blood boiled over. This blighter thinks he is domestic Mussolini[28]. But what is Jeeves, after all? A valet. A salaried servant!

      “Then, Jeeves, leave, dash it![29]”

      “Very good, sir.”

      2

      Chuffy

      I assembled the stick, the hat, and the lemon-coloured gloves and strode out into the streets of London. Though I was afraid what existence would be like without Jeeves, I had no thought of weakening. As I turned the corner into Piccadilly[30], I observed a familiar form.

      This familiar form was none other than that of my boyhood friend, the fifth Baron Chuffnell[31] —the chap, if you remember, whose Aunt Myrtle I had seen the previous night with the hellhound, Glossop.

      The sight of him reminded me that I was looking for a country cottage and that here was the very chap who had one.

      I wonder if I have ever told you about Chuffy? Stop me if I have. He’s a fellow I’ve known more or less all my life, he and myself having been at private school, Eton and Oxford[32] together. Now he spends most of his time down at Chuffnell Regis[33], where he owns an enormous great place with about a hundred and fifty rooms and miles of parkland.

      Don’t think, however, that Chuffy is one of my wealthier friends. He can’t afford to live anywhere else. If somebody came to him and offered to buy the place, he would kiss him on both cheeks. But who wants to buy a house that size in these times? So he lives there most of the year, with nobody to talk to except the local doctor and parson and his Aunt Myrtle and her twelve-year-old son, Seabury[34], who live at the Dower House[35]

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