This passage is adapted from P.G. Wodehouse, “Extricating Young Gussie.” Originally published in 1917.
She sprang it on me before breakfast. There in seven words
you have a complete character sketch of my Aunt Agatha. I
could go on indefinitely about brutality and lack of
consideration. I merely say that she routed me out of bed to
listen to her painful story somewhere in the small hours. It can’t
have been half past eleven when Jeeves, my man, woke me out
of the dreamless and broke the news:
‘Mrs Gregson to see you, sir.’
I thought she must be walking in her sleep, but I crawled out
of bed and got into a dressing-gown. I knew Aunt Agatha well
enough to know that, if she had come to see me, she was going
to see me. That’s the sort of woman she is.
She was sitting bolt upright in a chair, staring into space.
When I came in she looked at me in that darn critical way that
always makes me feel as if I had gelatine where my spine
ought to be. Aunt Agatha is one of those strong-minded
women. I should think Queen Elizabeth must have been
something like her. She bosses her husband, Spencer Gregson,
a battered little chappie on the Stock Exchange. She bosses my
cousin, Gussie Mannering-Phipps. She bosses her sister-in-law,
Gussie’s mother. And, worst of all, she bosses me. She has an
eye like a man-eating fish.
I dare say there are fellows in the world—men of blood and
iron, don’t you know, and all that sort of thing—whom she
couldn’t intimidate; but if you’re a chappie like me, fond of a
quiet life, you simply curl into a ball when you see her coming,
and hope for the best. My experience is that when Aunt Agatha
wants you to do a thing you do it.
‘Hello, Aunt Agatha!’ I said.
‘Bertie,’ she said, ‘you look a sight. You look perfectly
dissipated.’
I was feeling like a badly wrapped brown-paper parcel. I’m
never at my best in the early morning. I said so.
‘Early morning! I had breakfast three hours ago, and have
been walking in the park ever since, trying to compose my
thoughts. I am extremely worried, Bertie. That is why I have
come to you.’
And then I saw she was going to start something, and I
bleated weakly to Jeeves to bring me tea. But she had begun
before I could get it.
‘What are your immediate plans, Bertie?’
‘Well, I rather thought of tottering out for a bite of lunch
later on, and then I might trickle off to Walton Heath for a
round of golf.’
‘I am not interested in your totterings and tricklings. I mean,
have you any important engagements in the next week or so?’
I scented danger.
‘Rather,’ I said. ‘Heaps! Millions! Booked solid!’
‘What are they?’
‘I—er—well, I don’t quite know.’
‘I thought as much. You have no engagements. Very well,
then, I want you to start immediately for America.’
‘America!’
Do not lose sight of the fact that all this was taking place on
an empty stomach, shortly after the rising of the lark.
‘Yes, America. I suppose even you have heard of America?’
‘But why America?’
‘Because that is where your Cousin Gussie is. He is in New
York, and I can’t get at him.’
‘What’s Gussie been doing?’
‘Gussie is making a perfect idiot of himself.’
To one who knew young Gussie as well as I did, the words
opened up a wide field for speculation.
‘In what way?’
‘He has lost his head over a creature.’
On past performances this rang true. Ever since he arrived at
man’s estate Gussie had been losing his head over creatures.
He’s that sort of chap. But, as the creatures never seemed to
lose their heads over him, it had never amounted to much.
‘I imagine you know perfectly well why Gussie went to
America, Bertie. He is not clever, but he is very good-looking,
and, though he has no title, the Mannering-Phippses are one of
the best and oldest families in England. He had some excellent
letters of introduction, and when he wrote home to say that he
had met the most charming and beautiful girl in the world I felt
quite happy. He continued to rave about her for several mails,
and then this morning a letter has come from him in which he
says, quite casually as a sort of afterthought, that he knows we
are broadminded enough not to think any the worse of her
because she is on the vaudeville stage.’
‘Oh, I say!’
She sprang it on me before breakfast. There in seven words
you have a complete character sketch of my Aunt Agatha. I
could go on indefinitely about brutality and lack of
consideration. I merely say that she routed me out of bed to
listen to her painful story somewhere in the small hours. It can’t
have been half past eleven when Jeeves, my man, woke me out
of the dreamless and broke the news:
‘Mrs Gregson to see you, sir.’
I thought she must be walking in her sleep, but I crawled out
of bed and got into a dressing-gown. I knew Aunt Agatha well
enough to know that, if she had come to see me, she was going
to see me. That’s the sort of woman she is.
She was sitting bolt upright in a chair, staring into space.
When I came in she looked at me in that darn critical way that
always makes me feel as if I had gelatine where my spine
ought to be. Aunt Agatha is one of those strong-minded
women. I should think Queen Elizabeth must have been
something like her. She bosses her husband, Spencer Gregson,
a battered little chappie on the Stock Exchange. She bosses my
cousin, Gussie Mannering-Phipps. She bosses her sister-in-law,
Gussie’s mother. And, worst of all, she bosses me. She has an
eye like a man-eating fish.
I dare say there are fellows in the world—men of blood and
iron, don’t you know, and all that sort of thing—whom she
couldn’t intimidate; but if you’re a chappie like me, fond of a
quiet life, you simply curl into a ball when you see her coming,
and hope for the best. My experience is that when Aunt Agatha
wants you to do a thing you do it.
‘Hello, Aunt Agatha!’ I said.
‘Bertie,’ she said, ‘you look a sight. You look perfectly
dissipated.’
I was feeling like a badly wrapped brown-paper parcel. I’m
never at my best in the early morning. I said so.
‘Early morning! I had breakfast three hours ago, and have
been walking in the park ever since, trying to compose my
thoughts. I am extremely worried, Bertie. That is why I have
come to you.’
And then I saw she was going to start something, and I
bleated weakly to Jeeves to bring me tea. But she had begun
before I could get it.
‘What are your immediate plans, Bertie?’
‘Well, I rather thought of tottering out for a bite of lunch
later on, and then I might trickle off to Walton Heath for a
round of golf.’
‘I am not interested in your totterings and tricklings. I mean,
have you any important engagements in the next week or so?’
I scented danger.
‘Rather,’ I said. ‘Heaps! Millions! Booked solid!’
‘What are they?’
‘I—er—well, I don’t quite know.’
‘I thought as much. You have no engagements. Very well,
then, I want you to start immediately for America.’
‘America!’
Do not lose sight of the fact that all this was taking place on
an empty stomach, shortly after the rising of the lark.
‘Yes, America. I suppose even you have heard of America?’
‘But why America?’
‘Because that is where your Cousin Gussie is. He is in New
York, and I can’t get at him.’
‘What’s Gussie been doing?’
‘Gussie is making a perfect idiot of himself.’
To one who knew young Gussie as well as I did, the words
opened up a wide field for speculation.
‘In what way?’
‘He has lost his head over a creature.’
On past performances this rang true. Ever since he arrived at
man’s estate Gussie had been losing his head over creatures.
He’s that sort of chap. But, as the creatures never seemed to
lose their heads over him, it had never amounted to much.
‘I imagine you know perfectly well why Gussie went to
America, Bertie. He is not clever, but he is very good-looking,
and, though he has no title, the Mannering-Phippses are one of
the best and oldest families in England. He had some excellent
letters of introduction, and when he wrote home to say that he
had met the most charming and beautiful girl in the world I felt
quite happy. He continued to rave about her for several mails,
and then this morning a letter has come from him in which he
says, quite casually as a sort of afterthought, that he knows we
are broadminded enough not to think any the worse of her
because she is on the vaudeville stage.’
‘Oh, I say!’