Leave it to Psmith by Pelham Grenville Wodehouse (best motivational books of all time TXT) 📖

“I beg your pardon?”

“The Beach gook,” explained Mr. Cootes, “has got something wrong with the lining of his stomach, and if I hadn’t made my getaway he’d be talking about it yet.”

“If you fail to find entertainment and uplift in first-hand information about Comrade Beach’s stomach, you must indeed be hard to please. I am to take it, then, that you came snorting out here, interrupting my daydreams, merely in order to seek my sympathy?”

Mr. Cootes gazed upon him with a smouldering eye.

“I came to tell you I suppose you think you’re darned smart.”

“And very nice of you, too,” said Psmith, touched. “A pretty compliment, for which I am not ungrateful.”

“You got that gun away from me mighty smoothly, didn’t you?”

“Since you mention it, yes.”

“And now I suppose you think you’re going to slip in ahead of me and get away with that necklace? Well, say, listen, lemme tell you it’ll take someone better than a half-baked string-bean like you to put one over on me.”

“I seem,” said Psmith, pained, “to detect a certain animus creeping into your tone. Surely we can be trade rivals without this spirit of hostility. My attitude towards you is one of kindly tolerance.”

“Even if you get it, where do you think you’re going to hide it? And, believe me, it’ll take some hiding. Say, lemme tell you something. I’m your valet, ain’t I? Well, then, I can come into your room and be tidying up whenever I darn please, can’t I? Sure I can. I’ll tell the world I can do just that little thing. And you take it from me, Bill . . .”

“You persist in the delusion that my name is William . . .”

“You take it from me, Bill, that if ever that necklace disappears and it isn’t me that’s done the disappearing, you’ll find me tidying up in a way that’ll make you dizzy. I’ll go through that room of yours with a fine-tooth comb. So chew on that, will you?”

And Edward Cootes, moving sombrely across the hall, made a sinister exit. The mood of cool reflection was still to come, when he would realise that, in his desire to administer what he would have described as a hot one, he had acted a little rashly in putting his enemy on his guard. All he was thinking now was that his brief sketch of the position of affairs would have the effect of diminishing Psmith’s complacency a trifle. He had, he flattered himself, slipped over something that could be classed as a jolt.

Nor was he unjustified in this view. The aspect of the matter on which he had touched was one that had not previously presented itself to Psmith: and, musing on it as he resettled himself in his chair, he could see that it afforded food for thought. As regarded the disposal of the necklace, should it ever come into his possession, he had formed no definite plan. He had assumed that he would conceal it somewhere until the first excitement of the chase slackened, and it was only now that he realised the difficulty of finding a suitable hiding-place outside his bedroom. Yes, it was certainly a matter on which, as Mr. Cootes had suggested, he would do well to chew. For ten minutes, accordingly, he did so. And—it being practically impossible to keep a good man down—at the end of that period he was rewarded with an idea. He rose from his chair and pressed the bell.

“Ah, Beach,” he said affably, as the green baize door swung open, “I must apologise once more for troubling you. I keep ringing, don’t I?”

“No trouble at all, sir,” responded the butler paternally. “But if you were ringing to summon your personal attendant, I fear he is not immediately available. He left me somewhat abruptly a few moments ago. I was not aware that you would be requiring his services until the dressing-gong sounded, or I would have detained him.”

“Never mind. It was you I wished to see. Beach,” said Psmith, “I am concerned about you. I learn from my man that the lining of your stomach is not all it should be.”

“That is true, sir,” replied Beach, an excited gleam coming into his dull eyes. He shivered slightly, as might a war-horse at the sound of the bugle. “I do have trouble with the lining of my stomach.”

“Every stomach has a silver lining.”

“Sir?”

“I said, tell me all about it.”

“Well, really, sir . . .” said Beach wistfully.

“To please me,” urged Psmith.

“Well, sir, it is extremely kind of you to take an interest. It generally starts with a dull shooting pain on the right side of the abdomen from twenty minutes to half an hour after the conclusion of a meal. The symptoms . . .”

There was nothing but courteous sympathy in Psmith’s gaze as he listened to what sounded like an eyewitness’s account of the San Francisco earthquake, but inwardly he was wishing that his companion could see his way to making it a bit briefer and snappier. However, all things come to an end. Even the weariest river winds somewhere to the sea. With a moving period, the butler finally concluded his narrative.

“Parks’ Pepsinine,” said Psmith promptly.

“Sir?”

“That’s what you want. Parks’ Pepsinine. It would set you right in no time.”

“I will make a note of the name, sir. The specific has not come to my notice until now. And, if I may say so,” added Beach, with a glassy but adoring look at his benefactor, “I should like to express my gratitude for your kindness.”

“Not at all, Beach, not at all. Oh, Beach,” he said, as the other started to manœuvre towards the door, “I’ve just remembered. There was something else I wanted to talk to you about.”

“Yes, sir?”

“I thought it might be as well to speak to you about it before approaching Lady Constance. The fact is, Beach, I am feeling cramped.”

“Indeed, sir? I forgot to mention that one of the symptoms from which I suffer is a sharp cramp.”

“Too bad. But let us, if you do not mind, shelve for the moment the subject of your interior organism and its ailments. When I say I am feeling cramped, I mean spiritually. Have you ever written poetry, Beach?”

“No, sir.”

“Ah! Then it may be a little difficult for you to understand my feelings. My trouble is this. Out in Canada, Beach, I grew accustomed to doing my work in the most solitary surroundings. You remember that passage in my Songs of Squalor which begins ‘Across the pale parabola of Joy . . .’?”

“I fear, sir . . .”

“You missed it? Tough luck. Try to get hold of it some time. It’s a bird. Well, that passage was written in a lonely hut on the banks of the Saskatchewan, miles away from human habitation. I am like that, Beach. I need the stimulus of the great open spaces. When I am surrounded by my fellows, inspiration slackens and dies. You know how it is when there are people about. Just as you are starting in to write a nifty, someone comes and sits down on the desk and begins talking about himself. Every time you get going nicely, in barges some alien influence and the Muse goes blooey. You see what I mean?”

“Yes, sir,” said Beach, gaping slightly.

“Well, that is why for a man like me existence in Blandings Castle has its drawbacks. I have got to get a place where I can be alone, Beach—alone with my dreams and visions. Some little eyrie perched on the cliffs of Time. . . . In other words, do you know of an empty cottage somewhere on the estate where I could betake myself when in the mood and swing a nib without any possibility of being interrupted?”

“A little cottage, sir?”

“A little cottage. With honeysuckle over the door, and Old Mister Moon climbing up above the trees. A cottage, Beach, where I can meditate, where I can turn the key in the door and bid the world go by. Now that the castle is going to be full of all these people who are coming for the County Ball, it is imperative that I wangle such a haven. Otherwise, a considerable slab of priceless poetry will be lost to humanity for ever.”

“You desire,” said Beach, feeling his way cautiously, “a small cottage where you can write poetry, sir?”

“You follow me like a leopard. Do you know of such a one?”

“There is an unoccupied gamekeeper’s cottage in the west wood, sir, but it is an extremely humble place.”

“Be it never so humble, it will do for me. Do you think Lady Constance would be offended if I were to ask for the loan of it for a few days?”

“I fancy that her ladyship would receive the request with equanimity, sir. She is used to . . . She is not unaccustomed . . . Well, I can only say, sir, that there was a literary gentleman visiting the castle last summer who expressed a desire to take sun-baths in the garden each morning before breakfast. In the nood, sir. And, beyond instructing me to warn the maids, her ladyship placed no obstacle in the way of the fulfilment of his wishes. So . . .”

“So a modest request like mine isn’t likely to cause a heart-attack? Admirable! You don’t know what it means to me to feel that I shall soon have a little refuge of my own, to which I can retreat and be in solitude.”

“I can imagine that it must be extremely gratifying, sir.”

“Then I will put the motion before the Board directly Lady Constance returns.”

“Very good, sir.”

“I should like to splash it on the record once more, Beach, that I am much obliged to you for your sympathy and advice in this matter. I knew you would not fail me.”

“Not at all, sir. I am only too glad to have been able to be of assistance.”

“Oh, and, Beach . . .”

“Sir?”

“Just one other thing. Will you be seeing Cootes, my valet, again shortly?”

“Quite shortly, sir, I should imagine.”

“Then would you mind just prodding him smartly in the lower ribs . . .”

“Sir?” cried Beach, startled out of his butlerian calm. He swallowed a little convulsively. For eighteen months and more, ever since Lady Constance Keeble had first begun to cast her fly and hook over the murky water of the artistic world and jerk its denizens on to the pile carpets of Blandings Castle, Beach had had his fill of eccentricity. But until this moment he had hoped that Psmith was going to prove an agreeable change from the stream of literary lunatics which had been coming and going all that weary time. And lo! Psmith’s name led all the rest. Even the man who had come for a week in April and had wanted to eat jam with his fish paled in comparison.

“Prod him in the ribs, sir?” he quavered.

“Prod him in the ribs,” said Psmith firmly. “And at the same time whisper in his ear the word ‘Aha!’” Beach licked his dry lips.

“Aha, sir?”

“Aha! And say it came from me.”

“Very good, sir. The matter shall be attended to,” said Beach. And with a muffled sound that was half a sigh, half a death-rattle, he tottered through the green-baize door.