The Clicking of Cuthbert

THE CLICKING OF CUTHBERT

by P. G. Wodehouse

 

1922

 DEDICATION

TO THE IMMORTAL MEMORY OF

JOHN HENRIE AND PAT ROGIE

WHO AT EDINBURGH IN THE YEAR 1593 A.D.

WERE IMPRISONED FOR

"PLAYING OF THE GOWFF ON THE LINKS OF LEITH

EVERY SABBATH THE TIME OF THE SERMONSES",

ALSO OF ROBERT ROBERTSON WHO GOT IT IN THE NECK

IN 1604 A.D. FOR THE SAME REASON

 

FORE!

This book marks an epoch in my literary career. It is written in

blood. It is the outpouring of a soul as deeply seared by Fate's

unkindness as the pretty on the dog-leg hole of the second nine was

ever seared by my iron. It is the work of a very nearly desperate man,

an eighteen-handicap man who has got to look extremely slippy if he

doesn't want to find himself in the twenties again.

As a writer of light fiction, I have always till now been handicapped

by the fact that my disposition was cheerful, my heart intact, and my

life unsoured. Handicapped, I say, because the public likes to feel

that a writer of farcical stories is piquantly miserable in his private

life, and that, if he turns out anything amusing, he does it simply in

order to obtain relief from the almost insupportable weight of an

existence which he has long since realized to be a wash-out. Well,

today I am just like that.

Two years ago, I admit, I was a shallow farceur. My work lacked

depth. I wrote flippantly simply because I was having a thoroughly good

time. Then I took up golf, and now I can smile through the tears and

laugh, like Figaro, that I may not weep, and generally hold my head up

and feel that I am entitled to respect.

If you find anything in this volume that amuses you, kindly bear in

mind that it was probably written on my return home after losing three

balls in the gorse or breaking the head off a favourite driver: and,

with a murmured "Brave fellow! Brave fellow!" recall the story of the

clown jesting while his child lay dying at home. That is all. Thank you

for your sympathy. It means more to me than I can say. Do you think

that if I tried the square stance for a bit.... But, after all, this

cannot interest you. Leave me to my misery.

 

POSTSCRIPT

In the second chapter I allude to Stout Cortez staring at

the Pacific. Shortly after the appearance of this narrative in serial

form in America, I received an anonymous letter containing the words,

"You big stiff, it wasn't Cortez, it was Balboa." This, I believe, is

historically accurate. On the other hand, if Cortez was good enough for

Keats, he is good enough for me. Besides, even if it was Balboa,

the Pacific was open for being stared at about that time, and I see no

reason why Cortez should not have had a look at it as well.

         P. G. WODEHOUSE.

CONTENTS

 

DEDICATION

FORE!

The Clicking of Cuthbert

A Woman is only a Woman

A Mixed Threesome

Sundered Hearts

The Salvation of George Mackintosh

Ordeal By Golf

The Long Hole

The Heel of Achilles

The Rough Stuff

The Coming of Gowf

The Clicking of Cuthbert

The young man came into the smoking-room of the clubhouse, and flung

his bag with a clatter on the floor. He sank moodily into an arm-chair

and pressed the bell.

"Waiter!"

"Sir?"

The young man pointed at the bag with every evidence of distaste.

"You may have these clubs," he said. "Take them away. If you don't want

them yourself, give them to one of the caddies."

Across the room the Oldest Member gazed at him with a grave sadness

through the smoke of his pipe. His eye was deep and dreamy--the eye of

a man who, as the poet says, has seen Golf steadily and seen it whole.

"You are giving up golf?" he said.

He was not altogether unprepared for such an attitude on the young

man's part: for from his eyrie on the terrace above the ninth green he

had observed him start out on the afternoon's round and had seen him

lose a couple of balls in the lake at the second hole after taking

seven strokes at the first.

"Yes!" cried the young man fiercely. "For ever, dammit! Footling game!

Blanked infernal fat-headed silly ass of a game! Nothing but a waste of

time."

The Sage winced.

"Don't say that, my boy."

"But I do say it. What earthly good is golf? Life is stern and life is

earnest. We live in a practical age. All round us we see foreign

competition making itself unpleasant. And we spend our time playing

golf! What do we get out of it? Is golf any use? That's what I'm

asking you. Can you name me a single case where devotion to this

pestilential pastime has done a man any practical good?"

The Sage smiled gently.

"I could name a thousand."

"One will do."