P. G. Wodehouse

Right Ho, Jeeves

Rukia Hollowцитує4 роки тому
What you want, my lad, and what you're going to get are two very different things.
Rukia Hollowцитує4 роки тому
“I don't suppose he has spoken to a girl for years. What a lesson this is to us, Jeeves, not to shut ourselves up in country houses and stare into glass tanks. You can't be the dominant male if you do that sort of thing. In this life, you can choose between two courses. You can either shut yourself up in a country house and stare into tanks, or
ksynonymцитує5 років тому
“You have such a great heart, such a fine soul. You are so generous, so unselfish, so chivalrous. I have always felt that about you—that you are one of the few really chivalrous men I have ever met.”
ksynonymцитує5 років тому
“I put the same construction on the thing. But why, Jeeves? Dash it all, she's just had nearly two months of me.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And many people consider the medium dose for an adult two days.”
ksynonymцитує5 років тому
“Oh, Gussie's coming, is he? Well, give him my love.”
“Very good, sir.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And a whisky and soda, and so forth.”
ksynonymцитує5 років тому
She was a pretty enough girl in a droopy, blonde, saucer-eyed way, but not the sort of breath-taker that takes the breath.
ksynonymцитує5 років тому
You will agree with me that he is not everybody's money.”
“There may be something in what you say, sir.”
“Cleopatra wouldn't have liked him.”
b9350054332цитує3 місяці тому
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b9350054332цитує3 місяці тому
b9350054332цитує3 місяці тому
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Асанали Ахметжанцитує5 місяців тому
Егор Ерёминцитує6 місяців тому
I stared. Indeed, it would not be too much to say that I gaped.

“Mr. Fink-Nottle?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You don’t mean Mr. Fink-Nottle?”

“Yes, sir.”

“But Mr. Fink-Nottle’s not in Lon­don?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, I’m blowed.”

And I’ll tell you why I was blowed. I found it scarcely pos­sible to give cre­dence to his state­ment. This Fink-Nottle, you see, was one of those freaks you come across from time to time dur­ing life’s jour­ney who can’t stand Lon­don. He lived year in and year out, covered with moss, in a re­mote vil­lage down in Lin­colnshire, never com­ing up even for the Eton and Har­row match. And when I asked him once if he didn’t find the time hang a bit heavy on his hands, he said, no, be­cause he had a pond in his garden and stud­ied the habits of newts.

I couldn’t ima­gine what could have brought the chap up to the great city. I would have been pre­pared to bet that as long as the sup­ply of newts didn’t give out, noth­ing could have shif­ted him from that vil­lage of his.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You got the name cor­rectly? Fink-Nottle?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, it’s the most ex­traordin­ary thing. It must be five years since he was in Lon­don. He makes no secret of the fact that the place gives him the pip. Until now, he has al­ways stayed glued to the coun­try, com­pletely sur­roun­ded by newts.”


“Newts, Jeeves. Mr. Fink-Nottle has a strong newt com­plex. You must have heard of newts. Those little sort of liz­ard things that charge about in ponds.”

“Oh, yes, sir. The aquatic mem­bers of the fam­ily Sa­la­man­dridae which con­sti­tute the genus Molge.”

“That’s right. Well, Gussie has al­ways been a slave to them. He used to keep them at school.”

“I be­lieve young gen­tle­men fre­quently do, sir.”

“He kept them in his study in a kind of glass-tank ar­range­ment, and pretty niffy the whole thing was, I re­call. I sup­pose one ought to have been able to see what the end would be even then, but you know what boys are. Care­less, heed­less, busy about our own af­fairs, we scarcely gave this kink in Gussie’s char­ac­ter a thought. We may have ex­changed an oc­ca­sional re­mark about it tak­ing all sorts to make a world, but noth­ing more. You can guess the se­quel. The trouble spread,”

“Indeed, sir?”

“Ab­so­lutely, Jeeves. The crav­ing grew upon him. The newts got him. Ar­rived at man’s es­tate, he re­tired to the depths of the coun­try and gave his life up to these dumb chums. I sup­pose he used to tell him­self that he could take them or leave them alone, and then found—too late—that he couldn’t.”

“It is of­ten the way, sir.”

“Too true, Jeeves. At any rate, for the last five years he has been liv­ing at this place of his down in Lin­colnshire, as con­firmed a spe­cies-shun­ning her­mit as ever put fresh wa­ter in the tank every second day and re­fused to see a soul. That’s why I was so amazed when you told me he had sud­denly risen to the sur­face like this. I still can’t be­lieve it. I am in­clined to think that there must be some mis­take, and that this bird who has been call­ing here is some dif­fer­ent vari­ety of Fink-Nottle. The chap I know wears horn-rimmed spec­tacles and has a face like a fish. How does that check up with your data?”

“The gen­tle­man who came to the flat wore horn-rimmed spec­tacles, sir.”

“And looked like some­thing on a slab?”

“Poss­ibly there was a cer­tain sug­ges­tion of the pis­cine, sir.”

“Then it must be Gussie, I sup­pose. But what on earth can have brought him up to Lon­don?”

“I am in a po­s­i­tion to ex­plain that, sir. Mr. Fink-Nottle con­fided to me his motive in vis­it­ing the met­ro­polis. He came be­cause the young lady is here.”

“Young lady?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You don’t mean he’s in love?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, I’m dashed. I’m really dashed. I pos­it­ively am dashed, Jeeves.
Annaцитує7 місяців тому
Noth­ing could have ex­ceeded the cor­di­al­ity with which she waved her fork.

“Hallo, Ber­tie, you old ass,” was her very matey greet­ing
yiriden838цитує9 місяців тому
“It’s a gram­mar school at Mar­ket Snods­bury.”

I told her a little fri­gidly that I had di­vined as much.

“Well, how was I to know that a man with a mind like yours would grasp it so quickly?” she pro­tested. “All right, then. Mar­ket Snods­bur
Цени матьцитує10 місяців тому
Get off the mark, on the other hand, like a scal­ded cat, and your pub­lic is at a loss. It simply raises its eye­brows, and can’t make out what you’re talk­ing about.

And in open­ing my re­port of the com­plex case of Gussie Fink-Nottle, Madeline Bas­sett, my Cousin An­gela, my Aunt Dah­lia, my Uncle Tho­mas, young Tuppy Glos­sop and the cook, Anatole, with the above spot of dia­logue, I see that I have made the second of these two float­ers.

I shall have to hark back a bit. And tak­ing it for all in all and weigh­ing this against that, I sup­pose the af­fair may be said to have had its in­cep­tion, if in­cep­tion is the word I want, with that visit of mine to Cannes. If I hadn’t gone to Cannes, I shouldn’t have met the Bas­sett or bought that white mess jacket, and An­gela wouldn’t have met her shark, and Aunt Dah­lia wouldn’t have played bac­carat.

Yes, most de­cidedly, Cannes was the point d’ap­pui.

Right ho, then. Let me mar­shal my facts.

I went to Cannes—leav­ing Jeeves be­hind, he hav­ing in­tim­ated that he did not wish to miss Ascot—round about the be­gin­ning of June. With me trav­elled my Aunt Dah­lia and her daugh­ter An­gela. Tuppy Glos­sop, An­gela’s be­trothed, was to have been of the party, but at the last mo­ment couldn’t get away. Uncle Tom, Aunt Dah­lia’s hus­band, re­mained at home, be­cause he can’t stick the
Tara Nivian-Bealцитує2 роки тому
He was look­ing like a wolf on the steppes of Rus­sia which has seen its peas­ant shin up a high tree
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