The Code of the Woosters / Фамильная честь Вустеров

I remembered Mrs Bingo Little once telling me, shortly after their marriage, that Bingo said poetic things to her about sunsets—his best friends being perfectly well aware, of course, that the old man never noticed a sunset in his life and that, if he did by a chance, the only thing he would say about it would be that it reminded him of a slice of roast beef, cooked just right. However, you can’t call a girl a liar; so I said: “Well, well!”

“It was the one thing that was needed to make him perfect. Sometimes, Bertie, I ask myself if I am worthy of so rare a soul.”

“Oh, of course you are,” I said heartily.

“It’s sweet of you to say so.”

“Not a bit. You two fit like pork and beans. Anyone could see that it was a what-do-you-call-it… ideal union. I’ve known Gussie since we were kids together, and when I met you, I said: ‘That’s the girl for him!’ When is the wedding to be?”

“On the twenty-third.”

“I’d make it earlier.”

“You think so?”

“Definitely. Get it over and done with. You can’t be married too soon to a chap like Gussie. Great chap. Splendid chap. Never met a chap I respected more. Gussie. One of the best.”

She reached out and grabbed my hand and pressed it. Unpleasant, of course, but what to do. “Ah, Bertie! Always the soul of generosity!”

“No, no, rather not. Just saying what I think.”

“It makes me so happy to feel that… all this… So many men in your position might have become embittered.”

“Silly asses.”

“But you are too fine for that. You can still say these wonderful things about him.”

“Oh, rather.”

“Dear Bertie!”

And on this cheery note we parted. I headed for the drawing room and got a cup of tea. She did not take tea, being on a diet. And I had reached the drawing room, and was about to open the door, when from the other side there came a voice. And what it was saying was: “So do not talk rot[68 - do not talk rot – не мелите чушь], Spode!”

There was no possibility of mistake as to whose voice it was. Nor was there any possibility of mistake about what he had said. The words were precisely as I have stated, and to say that I was surprised would be to put it too weakly. I saw now that it was possible that there might be something, after all, in that wild story of Madeline Bassett’s. I mean to say, an Augustus Fink-Nottle who told Roderick Spode not to talk rot was an Augustus Fink-Nottle who might have told him to go and stop talking nonsense. I entered the room, marvelling. Sir Watkyn Bassett, Roderick Spode and Gussie were present. Gussie sighted me as I entered, and waved what seemed to me a patronizing hand.

“Ah, Bertie. So here you are.”

“Yes.”

“Come in, come in and have a drink.”

“Thanks.”

“Did you bring that book I asked you to?”

“Awfully sorry. I forgot.”

“Well, of all the asses that ever lived, you certainly are the worst.”

And he called for another potted-meat sandwich. All sense of bien-être[69 - bien-être – благополучие (франц.)] was destroyed by Gussie”s peculiar manner—he looked as if he had bought the place. It was a relief when the gang had finally drifted away, leaving us alone. There were mysteries here which I wanted to probe.

I thought it best, however, to begin by taking a second opinion on the position of affairs between himself and Madeline.

“I saw Madeline just now,” I said. “She tells me that you are sweethearts still. Correct?”

“Quite correct. There was a little temporary coolness about my taking a fly out of Stephanie Byng’s eye, and I got a bit panicked and wired you to come down. However, no need for that now. I was strong, and everything is all right. Still, stay a day or two, of course, as you’re here.”

“Thanks.”

“No doubt you will be glad to see your aunt. She arrives tonight, I understand.”

“You aren’t talking about my Aunt Dahlia?”

“Of course I’m talking about your Aunt Dahlia.”

“You mean Aunt Dahlia is coming here tonight?”

“Exactly.”

This was nasty news. This sudden decision to follow me to Totleigh Towers could mean only one thing: that Aunt Dahlia had become mistrustful of my will to win, and had felt it best to come and stand over me and see that I did not shirk the appointed task.

“Tell me,” continued Gussie, “what sort of voice is she in these days? I ask, because if she is going to make those hunting noises of hers at me during her visit, I shall be compelled to tick her off[70 -

 – поставить её на место] pretty sharply. I had enough of that sort of thing when I was staying at Brinkley.”

“What’s happened to you, Gussie?” I asked.

“Eh?”

“Since when have you been like this?”

“I don’t understand you.”

“Well, you are saying you’re going to tick Aunt Dahlia off. And you are telling Spode not to talk rot. By the way, what was he talking rot about?”

“I forgot. He talks so much rot.”

“I wouldn’t have the nerve to tell Spode not to talk rot,” I said frankly.

“Well, to tell you the truth, Bertie,” said Gussie, “neither would I, a week ago.”

“What happened a week ago?”

“I had a spiritual rebirth. Thanks to Jeeves. There’s a chap, Bertie!”

“Ah!”

“We are as little children, frightened of the dark, and Jeeves is the wise nurse who takes us by the hand and—”