Blandings Castle and Elsewhere

by P. G. Wodehouse

  'Roberta!'

  'Yes, mother?'

  'What in the world has been happening? A few moments ago Mr Potter ran past my door, dripping wet. And now Clifford Gandle has just gone by, also soaked to the skin. What have they been doing?

  'Fighting in the moat, mother.'

  'Fighting in the moat? What do you mean?'

  'Mr Potter jumped in to try and get away from Mr Gandle, and then Mr Gandle went in after him and seized him round the neck, and they grappled together for quite a long time, struggling furiously. I think they must have had a quarrel.'

  'What on earth would they quarrel about?'

  'Well, you know what a violent man Clifford Gandle is.'

  This was an aspect of Mr Gandle's character which Lady Wickham had not perceived. She opened her penetrating eyes.

  'Clifford Gandle violent?'

  'I think he's the sort of man who takes sudden dislikes to people.'

  'Nonsense!'

  'Well, it all seems very queer to me,' said Bobbie.

  She passed on her way upstairs; and, reaching the first landing, turned down the corridor till she came to the principal guest-room. She knocked delicately. There were movements inside, and presently the door opened, revealing Hamilton Potter in a flowered dressing-gown.

  'Thank Heaven you're safe!' said Bobbie.

  The fervour of her tone touched Mr Potter. His heart warmed to the child.

  'If I hadn't been there when Mr Gandle was trying to drown you—'

  Mr Potter started violently.

  'Trying to drown me?' he gasped.

  Bobbie's eyebrows rose.

  'Hasn't anybody told you about Mr Gandle – warned you? Didn't you know he was one of the mad Gandles?'

  'The – the—'

  'Mad Gandles. You know what some of these very old English families are like. All the Gandles have been mad for generations back.'

  'You don't mean – you can't mean—' Mr Potter gulped. 'You can't mean that Mr Gandle is homicidal?'

  'Not normally. But he takes sudden dislikes to people.'

  'I think he likes me,' said Mr Potter, with a certain nervous satisfaction. 'He has made a point of seeking me out and giving me his views on – er – various matters.'

  'Did you ever yawn while he was doing it?'

  Mr Potter blenched.

  'Would – would he mind that very much?'

  'Mind it! You lock your door at night, don't you, Mr Potter?'

  'But this is terrible.'

  'He sleeps in this corridor.'

  'But why is the man at large?'

  'He hasn't done anything yet. You can't shut a man up till he has done something.'

  'Does Lady Wickham know of this?'

  'For goodness' sake don't say a word to mother. It would only make her nervous. Everything will be quite all right, if you're only careful. You had better try not to let him get you alone.'

  'Yes,' said Mr Potter.

  The last of the mad Gandles, meanwhile, having peeled off the dress-clothes moistened during the recent water-carnival, had draped his bony form in a suit of orange-coloured pyjamas, and was now devoting the full force of a legislator's mind to the situation which had arisen.

  He was a long, thin young man with a curved nose which even in his lighter moments gave him the appearance of disapproving things in general; and there had been nothing in the events of the last hour to cause any diminution of this look of disapproval. For we cannot in fairness but admit that, if ever a mad Gandle had good reason to be mad, Clifford Gandle had at this juncture. He had been interrupted at the crucial point of proposal of marriage. He had been plunged into water and prodded with a punt-pole. He had sown the seeds of a cold in the head. And he rather fancied that he had swallowed a newt. These things do not conduce to sunniness in a man.

  Nor did an inspection of the future do anything to remove his gloom. He had come to Skeldings for rest and recuperation after the labours of an exhausting Session, and now it seemed that, instead of passing his time pleasantly in the society of Roberta Wickham, he would be compelled to devote himself to acting as a guardian to a misguided publisher.

  It was not as if he liked publishers, either. His relations with Prodder and Wiggs, who had sold forty-three copies of his book of political essays – 'Watchman, What of the Night?' – had not been agreeable.

  Nevertheless, this last of the Gandles was a conscientious man. He had no intention of shirking the call of duty. The question of whether it was worth while preventing a publisher committing suicide did not present itself to him.

  That was why Bobbie's note, when he read it, produced such immediate results.

  Exactly when the missive had been delivered, Clifford Gandle could not say. Much thought had rendered him distrait, and the rustle of the paper as it was thrust under his door did not reach his consciousness. It was only when, after a considerable time, he rose with the intention of going to bed that he perceived lying on the floor an envelope.

  He stooped and picked it up. He examined it with a thoughtful stare. He opened it.

  The letter was brief. It ran as follows: –

  'What about his razors?'

  A thrill of dismay shot through him.

  Razors!

  He had forgotten them.

  Clifford Gandle did not delay. Already it might be that he was too late. He hurried down the passage and tapped at Mr Potter's door.

  'Who's there?'

  Clifford Gandle was relieved. He was in time.

  'Can I come in?'

  'Who is that?'

  'Gandle.'

  'What do you want?'

  'Can you – er – lend me a razah?'

  'A what?'

  A razah.'

  There followed a complete silence from within. Mr Gandle tapped again.

  Are you they-ah?'

  The silence was broken by an odd rumbling sound. Something heavy knocked against the woodwork. But that the explanation seemed so improbable, Mr Gandle would have said that this peculiar publisher had pushed a chest of drawers against the door.

  'Mr Pottah!'

  More silence.

  Are you they-ah, Mr Pottah?'

  Additional stillness. Mr Gandle, wearying of a profitless vigil, gave the thing up and returned to his room.

  The task that lay before him, he now realized, was to wait awhile and then make his way along the balcony which joined the windows of the two rooms; enter while the other slept, and abstract his weapon or weapons.

  He looked at his watch. The hour was close on midnight. He decided to give Mr Potter till two o'clock.

  Clifford Gandle sat down to wait.

  Mr Potter's first action, after the retreating foot-steps had told him that his visitor had gone, was to extract a couple of nerve pills from the box by his bed and swallow them. This was a rite which, by the orders of his medical adviser, he had performed thrice a day since leaving America – once half an hour before breakfast, once an hour before luncheon, and again on retiring to rest.

  In spite of the fact that he now consumed these pills, it seemed to Mr Potter that he could scarcely be described as retiring to rest. After the recent ghastly proof of Clifford Gandle's insane malevolence, he could not bring himself to hope that even the most fitful slumber would come to him this night. The horror of the thought of that awful man padding softly to his door and asking for razors chilled Hamilton Potter to the bone.

  Nevertheless, he did his best. He switched off the light and, closing his eyes, began to repeat in a soft undertone a formula which he had often found efficacious.

  'Day by day,' murmured Mr Potter, 'in every way, I am getting better and better. Day by day, in every way, I am getting better and better.'

  It would have astonished Clifford Gandle, yawning in his room down the corridor, if he could have heard such optimistic sentiments proceeding from those lips.

  'Day by day, in every way, I am getting better and better.'

  Mr Potter's mind performed an unfortun
ate side-slip. He lay there tingling. Suppose he was getting better and better, what of it? What was the use of getting better and better if at any moment a mad Gandle might spring out with a razor and end it all?

  He forced his thoughts away from these uncomfortable channels. He clenched his teeth and whispered through them with a touch of defiance.

  'Day by day, in every way, I am getting better and better. Day by day, in every way—'

  A pleasant drowsiness stole over Mr Potter.

  'Day by day, in every way,' he murmured, 'I am getting better and better. Day by day, in every way, I am betting getter and getter. Bay by day, in every way, I am betting getter and wetter. Way by day—'

  Mr Potter slept.

  Over the stables the clock chimed the hour of two, and Clifford Gandle stepped out on to the balcony.

  It has been well said by many thinkers that in human affairs you can never be certain that some little trifling obstacle will not undo the best-laid of schemes. It was the sunken road at Hougomont that undid the French cavalry at Waterloo, and it was something very similar that caused Clifford Gandle's plan of action to go wrong now – a jug of water, to wit, which the maid who had brought Mr Potter's hot-water can before dinner had placed immediately beneath the window.

  Clifford Gandle, insinuating himself with the extreme of caution through the window and finding his foot resting on something hard, assumed that he was touching the floor, and permitted his full weight to rest upon that foot. Almost immediately afterwards the world collapsed with a crash and a deluge of water; and light, flooding the room, showed Mr Potter sitting up in bed, blinking.

  Mr Potter stared at Clifford Gandle. Clifford Gandle stared at Mr Potter.

  'Er – hullo!' said Clifford Gandle.

  Mr Potter uttered a low, curious sound like a cat with a fishbone in its throat.

  'I – er –just looked in,' said Clifford Gandle.

  Mr Potter made a noise like a second and slightly larger cat with another fish-bone in its throat.

  'I've come for the razah,' said Clifford Gandle. 'Ah, there it is,' he said, and, moving towards the dressing-table, secured it.

  Mr Potter leaped from his bed. He looked about him for a weapon. The only one in sight appeared to be the typescript of 'Ethics of Suicide,' and that, while it would have made an admirable instrument for swatting flies, was far too flimsy for the present crisis. All in all, it began to look to Mr Potter like a sticky evening.

  'Good night,' said Clifford Gandle.

  Mr Potter was amazed to see that his visitor was withdrawing towards the window. It seemed incredible. For a moment he wondered whether Bobbie Wickham had not made some mistake about this man. Nothing could be more temperate than his behaviour at the moment.

  And then, as he reached the window, Clifford Gandle smiled, and all Mr Potter's fears leaped into being again.

  The opinion of Clifford Gandle regarding this smile was that it was one of those kindly, reassuring smiles – the sort of smile to put the most nervous melancholiac at his ease. To Mr Potter it seemed precisely the kind of maniac grin which he would have expected from such a source.

  'Good night,' said Clifford Gandle.

  He smiled again, and was gone. And Mr Potter, having stood rooted to the spot for some minutes, crossed the floor and closed the window. He then bolted the window. He perceived a pair of shutters, and shut them. He moved the washhand-stand till it rested against the shutters. He placed two chairs and a small bookcase against the washhand-stand. Then he went to bed, leaving the light burning.

  'Day by day, in every way,' said Mr Potter, 'I am getting better and better.'

  But his voice lacked the ring of true conviction.

  Sunshine filtering in through the shutters, and the song of birds busy in the ivy outside his window, woke Mr Potter at an early hour next morning; but it was some time before he could bring himself to spring from his bed to greet another day. His disturbed night had left him heavy and lethargic. When finally he had summoned up the energy to rise and remove the zareba in front of the window and open the shutters, he became aware that a glorious morning was upon the world. The samples of sunlight that had crept into the room had indicated only feebly the golden wealth without.

  But there was no corresponding sunshine in Mr Potter's heart. Spiritually as well as physically he was at a low ebb. The more he examined the position of affairs, the less he liked it. He went down to breakfast in pensive mood.

  Breakfast at Skeldings was an informal meal, and visitors were expected to take it when they pleased, irrespective of the movements of their hostess, who was a late riser. In the dining-room, when Mr Potter entered it, only the daughter of the house was present.

  Bobbie was reading the morning paper. She nodded cheerfully to him over its top.

  'Good morning, Mr Potter. I hope you slept well.'

  Mr Potter winced.

  'Miss Wickham,' he said, 'last night an appalling thing occurred.'

  A startled look came into Bobbie's eyes.

  'You don't mean – Mr Gandle?'

  'Yes.'

  'Oh, Mr Potter, what?'

  'Just as I was going to bed, the man knocked at my door and asked if he could borrow my razah – I mean my razor.'

  'You didn't lend it to him?'

  'No, I did not,' replied Mr Potter, with a touch of asperity. 'I barricaded the door.'

  'How wise of you!'

  'And at two in the morning he came in through the window!'

  'How horrible!'

  'He took my razor. Why he did not attack me, I cannot say. But, having obtained it, he grinned at me in a ghastly way and went out.'

  There was a silence.

  'Have an egg or something,' said Bobbie, in a hushed voice.

  'Thank you, I will take a little ham,' whispered Mr Potter.

  There was another silence.

  'I'm afraid,' said Bobbie at length, 'you will have to go.'

  'That is what I think.'

  'It is quite evident that Mr Gandle has taken one of his uncontrollable dislikes to you.'

  'Yes.'

  'What I think you ought to do is to leave quite quietly, without saying good-bye or anything, so that he won't know where you've gone and won't be able to follow you. Then you could write mother a letter, saying that you had to go because of Mr Gandle's persecution.'

  'Exactly.'

  'You needn't say anything about his being mad. She knows that. Just say that he ducked you in the moat and then came into your room at two in the morning and made faces at you. She will understand.'

  'Yes. I—'

  'Hush!'

  Clifford Gandle came into the room.

  'Good morning,' said Bobbie.

  'Good morning,' said Mr Gandle.

  He helped himself to poached egg; and, glancing across the table at the publisher, was concerned to note how wan and sombre was his aspect. If ever a man looked as if he were on the verge of putting an end to everything, that man was John Hamilton Potter.

  Clifford Gandle was not feeling particularly festive himself at the moment, for he was a man who depended greatly for his well-being on a placid eight hours of sleep; but he exerted himself to be bright and optimistic.

  'What a lovely morning!' he trilled.

  'Yes,' said Mr Potter.

  'Surely such weather is enough to make any man happy and satisfied with life.'

  'Yes,' said Mr Potter doubtfully.

  'Who, with all Na-chah smiling, could seriously contemplate removing himself from so bright a world?'

  'George Philibert, of 32, Acacia Road, Cricklewood, did,' said Bobbie, who had resumed her study of the paper.

  'Eh?' said Mr Gandle.

  'George Philibert, of 32, Acacia Road, Cricklewood, was had up before the beak yesterday, charged with attempted suicide. He stated that—'

  Mr Gandle cast a reproachful look at her. He had always supposed Roberta Wickham to be a girl of fair intelligence, as women go; and it seemed to him that he had ov
er-estimated her good sense. He did his best to cover up her blunder.

  'Possibly,' he said, 'with some really definite and serious reason—'

  'I can never understand,' said Mr Potter, coming out of what had all the outward appearance of a trance, 'why the idea arose that suicide is wrong.'

  He spoke with a curious intensity. The author of 'Ethics of Suicide' had wielded a plausible pen, and the subject was one on which he now held strong views. And, even if he had not already held them, his mood this morning was of a kind to breed them in his bosom.

  'The author of a very interesting book which I intend to publish shortly,' he said, 'points out that none but the votaries of the monotheistic religions look upon suicide as a crime.'

  'Yes,' said Mr Gandle, 'but—'

  'If, he goes on to say, the criminal law forbids suicide, that is not an argument valid in the Church. And, besides, the prohibition is ridiculous, for what penalty can frighten a man who is not afraid of death itself?'

  'George Philibert got fourteen days,' said Bobbie.

  'Yes, but—' said Mr Gandle.

  'The ancients were very far from regarding the matter in the modern light. Indeed, in Massilia and on the island of Cos, the man who could give valid reasons for relinquishing his life was handed the cup of hemlock by the magistrate, and that, too, in public.'

  'Yes, but—'

  'And why,' said Mr Potter, 'suicide should be regarded as cowardly is beyond me. Surely no man who had not an iron nerve—'

  He broke off. The last two words had tapped a chord in his memory. Abruptly it occurred to him that here he was, half-way through breakfast, and he had not taken those iron nerve-pills which his doctor had so strictly ordered him to swallow thirty minutes before the morning meal.

  'Yes,' said Mr Gandle. He lowered his cup, and looked across the table. 'But—'

  His voice died away. He sat staring before him in horror-struck silence. Mr Potter, with a strange, wild look in his eyes, was in the very act of raising to his lips a sinister-looking white pellet. And, even as Mr Gandle gazed, the wretched man's lips closed over the horrid thing and a movement of his Adam's apple showed that the deed was done.