LEAVE IT TO PSMITH (7)
By:
February 11, 2019
Leave It to Psmith (1923) is the last and most rewarding of four novels featuring the dandy, wit, and would-be adventurer Ronald Eustace Psmith, one of P.G. Wodehouse‘s most popular characters. (“One can date exactly,” Evelyn Waugh claimed, in reference to Psmith’s debut in the 1909 novel Mike, “the first moment when Wodehouse was touched by the sacred flame.”) Leave It to Psmith‘s copyright enters the public domain in 2019; HiLoBooks is pleased to serialize this terrific book here at HILOBROW. Enjoy!
Enter Psmith
At about the hour when Lord Emsworth’s train, whirling him and his son Freddie to London, had reached the half-way point in its journey, a very tall, very thin, very solemn young man, gleaming in a speckless top hat and a morning-coat of irreproachable fit, mounted the steps of Number Eighteen, Wallingford Street, West Kensington, and rang the front-door bell. This done, he removed the hat; and having touched his forehead lightly with a silk handkerchief, for the afternoon sun was warm, gazed about him with a grave distaste.
‘A scaly neighbourhood!’ he murmured.
The young man’s judgement was one at which few people with an eye for beauty would have cavilled. When the great revolution against London’s ugliness really starts and yelling hordes of artists and architects, maddened beyond endurance, finally take the law into their own hands and rage through the city burning and destroying, Wallingford Street, West Kensington, will surely not escape the torch. Long since it must have been marked down for destruction. For, though it possesses certain merits of a low practical kind, being inexpensive in the matter of rents and handy for the buses and the Underground, it is a peculiarly beastly little street. Situated in the middle of one of those districts where London breaks out into a sort of eczema of red brick, it consists of two parallel rows of semi-detached villas, all exactly alike, each guarded by a ragged evergreen hedge, each with coloured glass of an extremely regrettable nature let into the panels of the front door; and sensitive young impressionists from the artists’ colony up Holland Park way may sometimes be seen stumbling through it with hands over their eyes, muttering between clenched teeth ‘How long? How long?’
A small maid-of-all work appeared in answer to the bell, and stood transfixed as the visitor, producing a monocle, placed it in his right eye and inspected her through it.
‘A warm afternoon,’ he said cordially.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘But pleasant,’ urged the young man. ‘Tell me, is Mrs. Jackson at home?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Not at home?’
‘No, sir.’
The young man sighed.
‘Ah well,’ he said, ‘we must always remember that these disappointments are sent to us for some good purpose. No doubt they make us more spiritual. Would you inform her that I called? The name is Psmith. P-smith.’
‘Peasmith, sir?’
‘No, no. P-s-m-i-t-h. I should explain to you that I started life without the initial letter, and my father always clung ruggedly to the plain Smith. But it seemed to me that there were so many Smiths in the world that a little variety might well be introduced. Smythe I look on as a cowardly evasion, nor do I approve of the too prevalent custom of tacking another name on in front by means of a hyphen. So I decided to adopt the Psmith. The p, I should add for your guidance, is silent, as in phthisis, psychic, and ptarmigan. You follow me?’
‘Y-yes, sir.’
‘You don’t think,’ he said anxiously, ‘that I did wrong in pursuing this course!’
‘N-no, sir.’
‘Splendid!’ said the young man, flicking a speck of dust from his coat-sleeve. ‘Splendid! Splendid!’
And with a courteous bow he descended the steps and made his way down the street. The little maid, having followed him with bulging eyes till he was out of sight, closed the door and returned to her kitchen.
Psmith strolled meditatively on. The genial warmth of the afternoon soothed him. He hummed lightly — only stopping when, as he reached the end of the street, a young man of his own age, rounding the corner rapidly, almost ran into him.
‘Sorry,’ said the young man. ‘Hallo, Smith.’
Psmith gazed upon him with benevolent affection.
‘Comrade Jackson,’ he said, ‘this is well met. The one man of all others whom I would have wished to encounter. We will pop off somewhere, Comrade Jackson, should your engagements permit, and restore our tissues with a cup of tea. I had hoped to touch the Jackson family for some slight refreshment, but I was informed that your wife was out.’
Mike Jackson laughed.
‘Phyllis isn’t out. She…’
‘Not out? Then,’ said Psmith, pained, ‘there has been dirty work done this day. For I was turned from the door. It would not be exaggerating to say that I was given the bird. Is this the boasted Jackson hospitality?’
‘Phyllis is giving a tea to some of her old school pals,’ explained Mike. ‘She told the maid to say she wasn’t at home to anybody else. I’m not allowed in myself.’
‘Enough, Comrade Jackson!’ said Psmith agreeably. ‘Say no more. If you yourself have been booted out in spite of all the loving, honouring, and obeying your wife promised at the altar, who am I to complain? And possibly, one can console oneself by reflecting, we are all out of it. These gatherings of old girls’-school chums are not the sort of function your man of affairs wants to get lugged into. Capital company as we are. Comrade Jackson, we should doubtless have been extremely in the way. I suppose the conversation would have dealt exclusively with reminiscences of the dear old school, of tales of surreptitious cocoa-drinking in the dormitories and what the deportment mistress said when Angela was found chewing tobacco in the shrubbery. Yes, I fancy we have not missed a lot… By the way, I don’t think much of the new home. True. I only saw it from the outside, but… no, I don’t think much of it.’
‘Best we can afford.’
‘And who,’ said Psmith, ‘am I to taunt my boyhood friend with his honest poverty? Especially as I myself am standing on the very brink of destitution?’
‘You?’
‘I in person. That low moaning sound you hear is the wolf bivouacked outside my door.’
‘But I thought your uncle gave you rather a good salary.’
‘So he did. But my uncle and I are about to part company. From now on he, so to speak, will take the high road and I’ll take the low road. I dine with him to-night, and over the nuts and wine I shall hand him the bad news that I propose to resign my position in the firm. I have no doubt that he supposed he was doing me a good turn by starting me in his fish business, but even what little experience I have had of it has convinced me that it is not my proper sphere. The whisper flies round the clubs, “Psmith has not found his niche!”
‘I am not,’ said Psmith, ‘an unreasonable man. I realize that humanity must be supplied with fish. I am not averse from a bit of fish myself. But to be professionally connected with a firm that handles the material in the raw is not my idea of a large life-work. Remind me to tell you some time what it feels like to sling yourself out of bed at four a.m. and go down to toil in Billingsgate Market. No, there is money in fish — my uncle has made a pot of it — but what I feel is that there must be other walks in life for a bright young man. I chuck it to-night.’
‘What are you going to do, then?’
‘That, Comrade Jackson, is more or less on the knees of the gods. To-morrow morning I think I will stroll round to an employment agency and see how the market for bright young men stands. Do you know a good one?’
‘Phyllis always goes to Miss Clarkson’s in Shaftesbury Avenue. But…’
‘Miss Clarkson’s in Shaftesbury Avenue. I will make a note of it… Meanwhile, I wonder if you saw the Morning Globe to-day?’
‘No. Why?’
‘I had an advertisement in it, in which I expressed myself as willing — indeed, eager — to tackle any undertaking that had nothing to do with fish. I am confidently expecting shoals of replies. I look forward to winnowing the heap and selecting the most desirable.’
‘Pretty hard to get a job these days,’ said Mike doubtfully.
‘Not if you have something superlatively good to offer.’
‘What have you got to offer!’
‘My services,’ said Psmith with faint reproach.
‘What as?’
‘As anything. I made no restrictions. Would you care to take a look at my manifesto? I have a copy in my pocket.’
Psmith produced from inside his immaculate waistcoat a folded clipping.
‘I should welcome your opinion of it, Comrade Jackson. I have frequently said that for sturdy common sense you stand alone. Your judgement should be invaluable.’
The advertisement, which some hours earlier had so electrified the Hon. Freddie Threepwood in the smoking-room at Blandings Castle, seemed to affect Mike, whose mind was of the stolid and serious type, somewhat differently. He finished his perusal and stared speechlessly.
‘Neat, don’t you think?’ said Psmith. ‘Covers the ground adequately? I think so, I think so.’
‘Do you mean to say you’re going to put drivel like that in the paper?’ asked Mike.
‘I have put it in the paper. As I told you, it appeared this morning. By this time to-morrow I shall no doubt have finished sorting out the first batch of replies.’
Mike’s emotion took him back to the phraseology of school days.
‘You are an ass!’
Psmith restored the clipping to his waistcoat pocket.
‘You wound me, Comrade Jackson,’ he said. ‘I had expected a broader outlook from you. In fact, I rather supposed that you would have rushed round instantly to the offices of the journal and shoved in a similar advertisement yourself. But nothing that you can say can damp my buoyant spirit. The cry goes round Kensington (and district) “Psmith is off!” In what direction the cry omits to state: but that information the future will supply. And now, Comrade Jackson, let us trickle into yonder tea-shop and drink success to the venture in a cup of the steaming. I had a particularly hard morning to-day among the whitebait, and I need refreshment.’
After Psmith had withdrawn his spectacular person from it, there was an interval of perhaps twenty minutes before anything else occurred to brighten the drabness of Wallingford Street. The lethargy of afternoon held the thoroughfare in its grip. Occasionally a tradesman’s cart would rattle round the corner, and from time to time cats appeared, stalking purposefully among the evergreens. But at ten minutes to five a girl ran up the steps of Number Eighteen and rang the bell.
She was a girl of medium height, very straight and slim; and her fair hair, her cheerful smile, and the boyish suppleness of her body all contributed to a general effect of valiant gaiety, a sort of golden sunniness — accentuated by the fact that, like all girls who looked to Paris for inspiration in their dress that season, she was wearing black.
The small maid appeared again.
‘Is Mrs Jackson at home?” said the girl. ‘I think she’s expecting me. Miss Hailiday.’
‘Yes, miss.’
A door at the end of the narrow hall had opened.
‘Is that you, Eve?’
‘Hallo, Phyl, darling.’
Phyllis Jackson fluttered down the passage like a rose-leaf on the wind, and hurled herself into Eve’s arms. She was small and fragile, with great brown eyes under a cloud of dark hair. She had a wistful look, and most people who knew her wanted to pet her. Eve had always petted her, from their first days at school together.
‘Am I late or early?’ asked Eve.
‘You’re the first, but we won’t wait. Jane, will you bring tea into the drawing-room?’
‘Yes’m.’
‘And, remember, I don’t want to see anyone for the rest of the afternoon. If anybody calls, tell them I’m not at home. Except Miss Clarkson and Mrs McTodd, of course.’
‘Yes’m.’
‘Who is Mrs McTodd?’ inquired Eve. ‘Is that Cynthia?’
‘Yes. Didn’t you know she had married Ralston McTodd, the Canadian poet? You knew she went out to Canada?’
‘I knew that, yes. But I hadn’t heard that she was married. Funny how out of touch one gets with girls who were one’s best friends at school. Do you realize it’s nearly two years since I saw you?’
‘I know. Isn’t it awful! I got your address from Elsa Wentworth two or three days ago, and then Clarkie told me that Cynthia was over here on a visit with her husband, so I thought how jolly it would be to have a regular reunion. We three were such friends in the old days… You remember Clarkie, of course? Miss Clarkson, who used to be English mistress at Wayland House.’
‘Yes, of course. Where did you run into her?’
‘Oh, I see a lot of her. She runs a Domestic Employment Agency in Shaftesbury Avenue now and I have to go there about once a fortnight to get a new maid. She supplied Jane.’
‘Is Cynthia’s husband coming with her this afternoon?’
‘No. I wanted it to be simply us four. Do you know him? But of course you don’t. This is his first visit to England.’
‘I know his poetry. He’s quite a celebrity. Cynthia’s lucky.’
They had made their way into the drawing-room, a gruesome little apartment full of all those antimacassars, wax flowers, and china dogs inseparable from the cheaper type of London furnished house. Eve, though the exterior of Number Eighteen should have prepared her for all this, was unable to check a slight shudder as she caught the eye of the least prepossessing of the dogs, goggling at her from the mantelpiece.
‘Don’t look at them,’ recommended Phyllis, following her gaze. ‘I try not to. We’ve only just moved in here, so I haven’t had time to make the place nice. Here’s tea. All right, Jane, put it down there. Tea, Eve?’
Eve sat down. She was puzzled and curious. She threw her mind back to the days at school and remembered the Phyllis of that epoch as almost indecently opulent. A millionaire stepfather there had been then, she recollected. What had become of him now, that he should allow Phyllis to stay in surroundings like this? Eve scented a mystery, and in her customary straightforward way went to the heart of it.
‘Tell me all about yourself,’ she said, having achieved as much comfort as the peculiar structure of her chair would permit. ‘And remember that I haven’t seen you for two years, so don’t leave anything out.’
‘It’s so difficult to know where to start.’
‘Well, you signed your letter “Phyllis Jackson”. Start with the mysterious Jackson. Where does he come in? The last I heard about you was an announcement in the Morning Post that you were engaged to — I’ve forgotten the name, but I’m certain it wasn’t Jackson.’
‘Rollo Mountford.’
‘Was it? Well, what has become of Rollo? You seem to have mislaid him. Did you break off the engagement?’
‘Well, it — sort of broke itself off. I mean, you see, I went and married Mike.’
‘Eloped with him, do you mean?’
‘Good heavens!’
‘I’m awfully ashamed about that, Eve. I suppose I treated Rollo awfully badly.’
‘Never mind. A man with a name like that was made for suffering.’
‘I never really cared for him. He had horrid swimmy eyes…’
‘I understand. So you eloped with your Mike. Tell me about him. Who is he? What does he do?’
‘Well, at present he’s master at a school. But he doesn’t like it. He wants to get back to the country again. When I met him, he was agent on a place in the country belonging to some people named Smith. Mike had been at school and Cambridge with the son. They were very rich then and had a big estate. It was the next place to the Edgelows. I had gone to stay with Mary Edgelow — I don’t know if you remember her at school? I met Mike first at a dance, and then I met him out riding, and then — well, after that we used to meet every day. And we fell in love right from the start and we went and got married. Oh, Eve, I wish you could have seen our darling little house. It was all over ivy and roses, and we had horses and dogs and…’
Phyllis’ narrative broke off with a gulp. Eve looked at her sympathetically. All her life she herself had been joyously impecunious, but it had never seemed to matter. She was strong and adventurous, and revelled in the perpetual excitement of trying to make both ends meet. But Phyllis was one of those sweet porcelain girls whom the roughnesses of life bruise instead of stimulating. She needed comfort and pleasant surroundings. Eve looked morosely at the china dog, which leered back at her with an insufferable good-fellowship.
‘We had hardly got married,’ resumed Phyllis, blinking, ‘when poor Mr Smith died and the whole place was broken up. He must have been speculating or something, I suppose, because he hardly left any money, and the estate had to be sold. And the people who bought it — they were coal people from Wolverhampton — had a nephew for whom they wanted the agent job, so Mike had to go. So here we are.’
Eve put the question which she had been waiting to ask ever since she had entered the house.
‘But what about your stepfather? Surely, when we were at school, you had a rich stepfather in the background. Has he lost his money, too?’
‘No.’
‘Well, why doesn’t he help you, then?’
‘He would, I know, if he was left to himself. But it’s Aunt Constance.’
SERIALIZED BY HILOBOOKS: Jack London’s The Scarlet Plague | Rudyard Kipling’s With the Night Mail (and “As Easy as A.B.C.”) | Arthur Conan Doyle’s The Poison Belt | H. Rider Haggard’s When the World Shook | Edward Shanks’ The People of the Ruins | William Hope Hodgson’s The Night Land | J.D. Beresford’s Goslings | E.V. Odle’s The Clockwork Man | Cicely Hamilton’s Theodore Savage | Muriel Jaeger’s The Man With Six Senses | Jack London’s “The Red One” | Philip Francis Nowlan’s Armageddon 2419 A.D. | Homer Eon Flint’s The Devolutionist | W.E.B. DuBois’s “The Comet” | Edgar Rice Burroughs’s The Moon Men | Charlotte Perkins Gilman’s Herland | Sax Rohmer’s “The Zayat Kiss” | Eimar O’Duffy’s King Goshawk and the Birds | Frances Hodgson Burnett’s The Lost Prince | Morley Roberts’s The Fugitives | Helen MacInnes’s The Unconquerable | Geoffrey Household’s Watcher in the Shadows | William Haggard’s The High Wire | Hammond Innes’s Air Bridge | James Branch Cabell’s Jurgen | John Buchan’s “No Man’s Land” | John Russell’s “The Fourth Man” | E.M. Forster’s “The Machine Stops” | John Buchan’s Huntingtower | Arthur Conan Doyle’s When the World Screamed | Victor Bridges’ A Rogue By Compulsion | Jack London’s The Iron Heel | H. De Vere Stacpoole’s The Man Who Lost Himself | P.G. Wodehouse’s Leave It to Psmith | Richard Connell’s “The Most Dangerous Game” | Houdini and Lovecraft’s “Imprisoned with the Pharaohs” | Arthur Conan Doyle’s “The Sussex Vampire.”
RADIUM AGE SCIENCE FICTION: “Radium Age” is HILOBROW’s name for the 1904–33 era, which saw the discovery of radioactivity, the revelation that matter itself is constantly in movement — a fitting metaphor for the first decades of the 20th century, during which old scientific, religious, political, and social certainties were shattered. This era also saw the publication of genre-shattering writing by Edgar Rice Burroughs, Sax Rohmer, E.E. “Doc” Smith, Jack London, Arthur Conan Doyle, Aldous Huxley, Olaf Stapledon, Karel Čapek, H.P. Lovecraft, Charlotte Perkins Gilman, Yevgeny Zamyatin, Philip Gordon Wylie, and other pioneers of post-Verne/Wells, pre-Golden Age “science fiction.” More info here.
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