The Code of the Woosters / Фамильная честь Вустеров

“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 - I will call in person. – Лично навещу.]”

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 - Stiffy Byng – Стиффи Бинг], the Rev. H. P. (“Stinker”) Pinker[15 - Rev. H. P. (“Stinker”) Pinker – Преподобный Г. П. («Мерзавец, Вонючка») Пинкер], the eighteenth-century cow-creamer[16 - cow-creamer – кувшинчик для сливок] 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 - Agatha – Агата], who eats broken bottles and wears barbed wire[18 - barbed wire – колючая проволока] 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 - Anatole – Анатоль], 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 - Pomona Grindle – Помона Гриндл], the novelist, to the midday meal.”

“I should be charmed to meet her.”

“Well, you’re not going to. It is to be a strictly tête-à-tête[21 - tête-à-tête – тет-а-тет (франц.)] affair. All I wanted was to tell you to go to an antique shop in the Brompton Road[22 - Brompton Road – Бромптон-роуд]—it’s just past the Oratory—you can’t miss it—and sneer at a cow-creamer.”

I was surprised. The impression I received was that my dear aunt was a little crazy.

“Do what to a what?”

“They’ve got an eighteenth-century cow-creamer there that your uncle Tom’s going to buy this afternoon.”

“Oh, it’s silver, isn’t it?”

“Yes. A sort of cream jug. Go there and ask them to show it to you, and when they do, show your scorn.”

“What for?”

“To sow doubts and misgivings in their mind and make them lower the price a bit, chump. The cheaper Tom gets the thing, the better he will be pleased. And I want him to be in cheery mood, because if I succeed in signing the Grindle up for my serial, I shall be compelled to get some money from him. These women novelists want millions for their novels. So run away and shake your head at the thing.”

I am always anxious to help my aunt, but I was compelled to refuse. Morning mixtures of Jeeves are practically magical in their effect, but…

“I can’t shake my head. Not today.”

She gazed at me.

“Oh, so that’s how it is? Well, if your loathsome excesses have left you incapable of headshaking, you can at least curl your lip[23 - curl your lip – поджать губы].”

“Oh, rather.”

“Then carry on. And try clicking the tongue. Oh, yes, and tell them you think it’s Modern Dutch.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. Apparently it’s something a cow-creamer ought not to be.” She paused, and allowed her eye to roam thoughtfully over my face. “So you were completely drunk last night, my chicken? It’s an extraordinary thing—every time I see you, you appear to be recovering from some debauch. Don’t you ever stop drinking? How about when you are asleep?”

“You wrong me[24 - you wrong me – ты клевещешь на меня], aunt. I am exceedingly moderate. A couple of cocktails, a glass of wine at dinner and possibly a liqueur with the coffee—that is Bertram Wooster. But last night I gave a small bachelor binge for Gussie Fink-Nottle.”

“You did, did you?” She laughed—a bit louder than I could endure. “Spink-Bottle, eh? Bless his heart! How was the old newt-fancier?”

“Pretty roguish.”

“Did he make a speech at this orgy of yours?”

“Yes. I was astounded. I was all prepared for a refusal. But no. We drank his health, and he rose to his feet as cool as some cucumbers, as Anatole would say, and held us spellbound.”

“Tight as a skunk, I suppose?”

“On the contrary. Absolutely sober.”

“Well, nice to hear.”

This Gussie was a fish-faced pal of mine, who had buried himself in the country and devoted himself entirely to the study of newts, keeping the little chaps in a glass tank and observing their habits with a sedulous eye. A confirmed recluse you would have called him, if you had happened to know the word, and you would have been right. But Love will find a way. Meeting Madeline Bassett one day, he had emerged from his retirement and started to woo, and after numerous vicissitudes had been successful. Now he was going to marry that ghastly girl.

I call her a ghastly girl because she was a ghastly girl. The Woosters are chivalrous, but they can tell the truth. Droopy, soupy, sentimental, with melting eyes and a cooing voice and the most extraordinary views on such things as stars and rabbits. I remember her telling me once that rabbits were gnomes in attendance on the Fairy Queen and that the stars were God’s daisy chain. Perfect nonsense, of course. They’re nothing of the sort.

Aunt Dahlia emitted a low, rumbling chuckle.

“Good old Spink-Bottle[25 - Spink-Bottle – Пенёк-Бутылёк]! Where is he now?”

“Staying at the Bassett’s place—Totleigh Towers, Glos[26 - Totleigh Towers, Glos – Тотлей-тауэрс в Глостере]. He went back there this morning. They’re having the wedding at the local church.”

“Are you going to it?”

“Definitely no.”

“No, I suppose it would be too painful for you. You were in love with the girl.”

I stared.

“In love? With a female who thinks that every time a fairy sneezes a baby is born?”

“Well, you were certainly engaged to her once.”

“For about five minutes, yes, and there was no fault of my own. My dear old relative,” I said, “you are perfectly well aware of the inside facts of that frightful affair.”

I winced. It was an incident in my career which I don’t like to remember. Briefly, what had occurred was this. Gussie had asked me to talk to Madeline Bassett for him. And when I did so, the fat-headed[27 - fat-headed – тупоголовая] girl thought I was pleading mine. With the result that she had refused Gussie and attached herself to me, and I had no option but to take the rap[28 - to take the rap – смириться с неизбежным]. Mercifully, things went well and there was a reconciliation between them, but the thought of my peril was one at which I still shuddered.

“Well, if it is of any interest to you,” said Aunt Dahlia, “I am not proposing to attend that wedding myself. I disapprove of Sir Watkyn Bassett, and don’t think he ought to be encouraged.”