The Mating Season Read online

  Table of Contents

  Cover Page

  Copyright Page

  About the Author

  Some of the P.G. Wodehouse titles

  The Mating Season

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Other Books by P. G. Wodehouse

  Also available in Arrow

  This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  Version 1.0

  Epub ISBN 9781409064671

  www.randomhouse.co.uk

  Published by Arrow Books 2008

  1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

  Copyright by The Trustees of the Wodehouse Estate

  All rights reserved

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser

  First published in the United Kingdom in 1949 by Herbert Jenkins Ltd

  Arrow Books

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  ISBN 9780099513773

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  The author of almost a hundred books and the creator of Jeeves, Blandings Castle, Psmith, Ukridge, Uncle Fred and Mr Mulliner, P.G. Wodehouse was born in 1881 and educated at Dulwich College. After two years with the Hong Kong and Shanghai Bank he became a full-time writer, contributing to a variety of periodicals including Punch and the Globe. He married in 1914. As well as his novels and short stories, he wrote lyrics for musical comedies with Guy Bolton and Jerome Kern, and at one time had five musicals running simultaneously on Broadway. His time in Hollywood also provided much source material for fiction.

  At the age of 93, in the New Year’s Honours List of 1975, he received a long-overdue knighthood, only to die on St Valentine’s Day some 45 days later.

  Some of the P.G. Wodehouse titles to be published by Arrow in 2008

  JEEVES

  The Inimitable Jeeves

  Carry On, Jeeves

  Very Good, Jeeves

  Thank You, Jeeves

  Right Ho, Jeeves

  The Code of the Woosters

  Joy in the Morning

  The Mating Season

  Ring for Jeeves

  Jeeves and the Feudal Spirit

  Jeeves in the Offing

  Stiff Upper Lip, Jeeves

  Much Obliged, Jeeves

  Aunts Aren’t Gentlemen

  BLANDINGS

  Something Fresh

  Leave it to Psmith

  Summer Lightning

  Blandings Castle

  Uncle Fred in the Springtime

  Full Moon

  Pigs Have Wings

  Service with a Smile

  A Pelican at Blandings

  MULLINER

  Meet Mr Mulliner

  Mulliner Nights

  Mr Mulliner Speaking

  UNCLE FRED

  Cocktail Time

  Uncle Dynamite

  GOLF

  The Clicking of Cuthbert

  The Heart of a Goof

  OTHERS

  Piccadilly Jim

  Ukridge

  The Luck of the Bodkins

  Laughing Gas

  A Damsel in Distress

  The Small Bachelor

  Hot Water

  Summer Moonshine

  The Adventures of Sally

  Money for Nothing

  The Girl in Blue

  Big Money

  THE MATING SEASON

  P. G. Wodehouse

  CHAPTER 1

  While I would not go so far, perhaps, as to describe the heart as actually leaden, I must confess that on the eve of starting to do my bit of time at Deverill Hall I was definitely short on chirpi-ness. I shrank from the prospect of being decanted into a household on chummy terms with a thug like my Aunt Agatha, weakened as I already was by having had her son Thomas, one of our most prominent fiends in human shape, on my hands for three days.

  I mentioned this to Jeeves, and he agreed that the set-up could have been juicier.

  ‘Still,’ I said, taking a pop, as always, at trying to focus the silver lining, ‘it’s flattering, of course.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Being the People’s Choice, Jeeves. Having these birds going around chanting “We Want Wooster”.’

  ‘Ah, yes, sir. Precisely. Most gratifying.’

  But half a jiffy. I’m forgetting that you haven’t the foggiest what all this is about. It so often pans out that way when you begin a story. You whizz off the mark all pep and ginger, like a mettlesome charger going into its routine, and the next thing you know, the customers are up on their hind legs, yelling for footnotes.

  Let me get into reverse and put you abreast.

  My Aunt Agatha, the one who chews broken bottles and kills rats with her teeth, arriving suddenly in London from her rural lair with her son Thomas, had instructed me in her authoritative way to put the latter up in my flat for three days while he visited dentists and Old Vies and things preparatory to leaving for his school at Bramley-on-Sea and, that done, to proceed to Deverill Hall, King’s Deverill, Hants., the residence of some pals of hers, and lend my services to the village concert. Apparently they wanted to stiffen up the programme with a bit of metropolitan talent, and I had been recommended by the vicar’s niece.

  And that, of course, was that. It was no good telling her that I would prefer not to touch young Thos with a ten-foot pole and that I disliked taking on blind dates. When Aunt Agatha issues her orders, you fill them. But I was conscious, as I have indicated, of an uneasiness as to the shape of things to come, and it didn’t make the outlook any brighter to know that Gussie Fink-Nottle would be among those present at Deverill Hall. When you get trapped in the d
en of the Secret Nine, you want something a lot better than Gussie to help you keep the upper lip stiff.

  I mused a bit.

  ‘I wish I had more data about these people, Jeeves,’ I said. ‘I like on these occasions to know what I’m up against. So far, all I’ve gathered is that I am to be the guest of a landed proprietor called Harris or Hacker or possibly Hassock.’

  ‘Haddock, sir.’

  ‘Haddock, eh?’

  ‘Yes, sir. The gentleman who is to be your host is a Mr Esmond Haddock.’

  ‘It’s odd, but that name seems to strike a chord, as if I’d heard it before somewhere.’

  ‘Mr Haddock is the son of the owner of a widely advertised patent remedy known as Haddock’s Headache Hokies, sir. Possibly the specific is familiar to you.’

  ‘Of course. I know it well. Not so sensationally good as those pick-me-ups of yours, but none the less a sound stand-by on the morning after. So he’s one of those Haddocks, is he?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Mr Esmond Haddock’s late father married the late Miss Flora Deverill.’

  ‘Before they were both late, of course?’

  ‘The union was considered something of a mésalliance by the lady’s sisters. The Deverills are a very old county family – like so many others in these days, impoverished.’

  ‘I begin to get the scenario. Haddock, though not as posh as he might be on the father’s side, foots the weekly bills?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Well, no doubt he can afford to. There’s gold in them thar Hokies, Jeeves.’

  ‘So I should be disposed to imagine, sir.’

  A point struck me which often does strike me when chewing the fat with this honest fellow – viz. that he seemed to know a hell of a lot about it. I mentioned this, and he explained that it was one of those odd chances that had enabled him to get the inside story.

  ‘My Uncle Charlie holds the post of butler at the Hall, sir. It is from him that I derive my information.’

  ‘I didn’t know you had an Uncle Charlie. Charlie Jeeves?’

  ‘No, sir. Charlie Silversmith.’

  I lit a rather pleased cigarette. Things were beginning to clarify.

  ‘Well, this is a bit of goose. You’ll be able to give me all the salient facts, if salient is the word I want. What sort of a joint is this Deverill Hall? Nice place? Gravel soil? Spreading views?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Good catering?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And touching on the personnel. Would there be a Mrs Haddock?’

  ‘No, sir. The young gentleman is unmarried. He resides at the Hall with his five aunts.’

  ‘Five?’

  ‘Yes, sir. The Misses Charlotte, Emmeline, Harriet and Myrtle Deverill and Dame Daphne Winkworth, relict of the late P. B. Winkworth, the historian. Dame Daphne’s daughter, Miss Gertrude Winkworth, is, I understand, also in residence.’

  On the cue ‘five aunts’ I had given at the knees a trifle, for the thought of being confronted with such a solid gaggle of aunts, even if those of another, was an unnerving one. Reminding myself that in this life it is not aunts that matter but the courage which one brings to them, I pulled myself together.

  ‘I see,’ I said. ‘No stint of female society’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘I may find Gussie’s company a relief.’

  ‘Very possibly, sir.’

  ‘Such as it is.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  I wonder, by the way, if you recall this Augustus, on whose activities I have had occasion to touch once or twice before now? Throw the mind back. Goofy to the gills, face like a fish, hornrimmed spectacles, drank orange juice, collected newts, engaged to England’s premier pill, a girl called Madeline Bassett . . . Ah, you’ve got him? Fine.

  ‘Tell me, Jeeves,’ I said, ‘how does Gussie come to be mixed up with these bacteria? Surely a bit of an inscrutable mystery that he, too, should be headed for Deverill Hall?’

  ‘No, sir. It was Mr Fink-Nottle himself who informed me.’

  ‘You’ve seen him, then?’

  ‘Yes, sir. He called while you were out.’

  ‘How did he seem?’

  ‘Low-spirited, sir.’

  ‘Like me, he shrinks from the prospect of visiting this ghastly shack?’

  ‘Yes, sir. He had supposed that Miss Bassett would be accompanying him, but she has altered her arrangements at the last moment and gone to reside at The Larches, Wimbledon Common, with an old school friend who has recently suffered a disappointment in love. It was Miss Bassett’s view that she needed cheering up.’

  I was at a loss to comprehend how the society of Madeline Bassett could cheer anyone up, she being from topknot to shoe sole the woman whom God forgot, but I didn’t say so. I merely threw out the opinion that this must have made Gussie froth a bit.

  ‘Yes, sir. He expressed annoyance at the change of plan. Indeed, I gathered from his remarks, for he was kind enough to confide in me, that there has resulted a certain coolness between himself and Miss Bassett.’

  ‘Gosh!’ I said.

  And I’ll tell you why I goshed. If you remember Gussie Fink-Nottle, you will probably also remember the chain of circumstances which led up, if chains do lead up, to this frightful Bassett getting the impression firmly fixed in her woollen head that Bertram Wooster was pining away for love of her. I won’t go into details now, but it was her conviction that if ever she felt like severing relations with Gussie, she had only to send out a hurry call for me and I would come racing round, all ready to buy the licence and start ordering the wedding cake.

  So, knowing my view regarding this Bassett, M, you will readily understand why this stuff about coolnesses drew a startled ‘Gosh!’ from me. The thought of my peril had never left me, and I wasn’t going to be really easy in my mind till these two were actually centre-aisling. Only when the clergyman had definitely pronounced sentence would Bertram start to breathe freely again.

  ‘Ah, well,’ I said, hoping for the best. ‘Just a lovers’ tiff, no doubt. Always happening, these lovers’ tiffs. Probably by this time a complete reconciliation has been effected and the laughing Love God is sweating away at the old stand once more with knobs on. Ha!’ I proceeded as the front-door bell tootled, ‘someone waits without. If it’s young Thos, tell him that I shall expect him to be in readiness, all clean and rosy, at seven forty-five tonight to accompany me to the performance of King Lear at the Old Vic, and it’s no good him trying to do a sneak. His mother said he had got to go to the Old Vic, and he’s jolly well going.’

  ‘I think it is more probable that it is Mr Pirbright, sir.’

  ‘Old Catsmeat? What makes you think that?’

  ‘He also called during your absence and indicated that he would return later. He was accompanied by his sister, Miss Pirbright.’

  ‘Good Lord, really? Corky? I thought she was in Hollywood.’

  ‘I understand that she has returned to England for a vacation, sir.’

  ‘Did you give her tea?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Master Thomas played host. Miss Pirbright took the young gentleman off subsequently to see a picture.’

  ‘I wish I hadn’t missed her. I haven’t seen Corky for ages. Was she all right?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And Catsmeat? How was he?’

  ‘Low-spirited, sir.’

  ‘You’re mixing him up with Gussie. It was Gussie, if you recall, who was low-spirited.’

  ‘Mr Pirbright also.’

  ‘There seems to be a lot of low-spiritedness kicking about these days.’

  ‘We live in difficult times, sir.’

  ‘True. Well, bung him in.’

  He oozed out, and a few moments later oozed in again.

  ‘Mr Pirbright,’ he announced.

  He had called his shots correctly. A glance at the young visitor was enough to tell me that he was low-spirited.

  CHAPTER 2

  And mind you, it isn’t often that you find the
object under advisement in this condition. A singularly fizzy bird, as a rule. In fact, taking him by and large, I should say that of all the rollicking lads at the Drones Club, Claude Cattermole Pirbright is perhaps the most rollicking, both on the stage and off.

  I say ‘on the stage’, for it is behind the footlights that he earns his weekly envelope. He comes of a prominent theatrical family. His father was the man who wrote the music of The Blue Lady and other substantial hits which I unfortunately missed owing to being in the cradle at the time. His mother was Elsie Cattermole, who was a star in New York for years. And his sister Corky has been wowing the customers with her oomph and espièglerie, if that’s the word I want, since she was about sixteen.

  It was almost inevitable, therefore, that, looking about him on coming down from Oxford for some walk in life which would ensure the three squares a day and give him time to play a bit of county cricket, he should have selected the sock and buskin. Today he is the fellow managers pick first when they have a Society comedy to present and want someone for ‘Freddie’, the light-hearted friend of the hero, carrying the second love interest. If at such a show you see a willowy figure come bounding on with a tennis racket, shouting ‘Hallo, girls’ shortly after the kick-off, don’t bother to look at the programme. That’ll be Catsmeat.

  On such occasions he starts off sprightly and continues sprightly till closing time, and it is the same in private life. There, too, his sprightliness is a byword. Pongo Twistleton and Barmy Phipps, who do each year at the Drones smoker the knockabout Pat and Mike cross-talk act of which he is the author and producer, have told me that when rehearsing them in their lines and business, he is more like Groucho Marx than anything human.

  Yet now, as I say, he was low-spirited. It stuck out a mile. His brow was sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought and his air that of a man who, if he had said ‘Hallo, girls’, would have said it like someone in a Russian drama announcing that Grandpapa had hanged himself in the barn.

  I greeted him cordially and said I was sorry I had been out when he had come seeking an audience before, especially as he had had Corky with him.

  ‘I should have loved a chat with Corky,’ I said. ‘I had no idea she was back in England. Now I’m afraid I’ve missed her.’

  ‘No, you haven’t.’

  ‘Yes, I have. I leave to-morrow for a place called Deverill Hall in Hampshire to help at the village concert. It seems that the vicar’s niece insisted on having me in the troupe, and what’s puzzling me is how this girl of God heard of me. One hadn’t supposed one’s reputation was so far flung.’