Well, of course you should know that caption is absolutely vicious, but nevertheless… The last two words came from the lexicon of my teacher in English, to say more accurate -- the teacher, who teach my school friends and me History in English. As a result we all now had at least two peculiarities. First, we know well history of Great Britain, and history of other countries from the British point of view… And second comes the masterful using of that universal "But nevertheless…" For instance your country is suffering bad from an economic crisis, all live in poverty, but here arrives it - but nevertheless… and you are speaking further about the country, its peoples' potential and natural resources and so on and so forth…. We became unplugging optimists from that time…

Returning to Wodehouse, it means that for me, as an instance of "butnevertheless" class, is nothing saint left, and ones I am an optimist from the youth, the task to transfer Wodehouse to Russian rooted in my mind. Having started by translator's contest, I've already translated some passages from different Sir Pelham causes, but without any success. My voyage to other country had finished on Monday, 29 - immediately I wrote the letter to contest organizer asking about celebration of the Sir Pelham's anniversary. He answered that everything went well; reports lie in the Internet, and noticed that new passage for contest is rather interesting. Indeed, I looked through it, -- Baxter was in curious circumstances again, giving his best to overcome the faith…

Also I noticed that not more than ten contenders made their reports by that time. "Now, or never", - decided I. So, I had begun the translation. In order to imagine full picture for you - we must add some small details: all the passage was at least, ten times more than previous ones - it was so long to afford 120-anniversary, I guess; I felt myself as a person migrated from the place where lived for a certain period of time with a nine hour shift, so the normal hours for a work here comes to be the best hours for a sleep there and vice versa; my chiefs were eager to listen for reports from the country in the nearest future; and, at last, the time left for preparing the translation was a day and a half. Those obstacles never would frighten Butneverthelessers, all the more so I promised the organizer to complete the task...

I had hardly finished two sentences when my chief gave me a call in order to fix the time of my report. The report ought to be made in a two hours, as it turns out during the speech. Moreover, the theme of it, that was the most displeasing fact, should be changed, for unknown to me representative from the headquarters also had arrived and wanted to hear about the things running there, i.e. at headquarters, and of course in another language. Although the English was absorbed in the cortex from the youth, but the state of mine had demanded the good sleep and as soon as possible, so my native language was popping in the brain, the native speaker of which… Well, further should not be explained to you, I believe… As Chef Muller said: "Every woman, when bears the child cries on her native language…" Fifteen minutes were dedicated for bearing the report. I had made a decision to find out details in place.

One hour, from the remaining hour and a half left, was used for presenting my shell before the audience and half an hour for reading the description of struggle between Ashe and George from the Wodehouse's "Something New" as I found out later afterwards. Coming to office was not pleasant at all - the chief from headquarters turned to be the "warden". She participated in Vietnamese war, she turned up her shirtsleeves and I could watch her muscles rolling over. My attempts to distract her by using extra greetings were in vain - she had put it baldly about the report's availability and about the proper conclusions I must to announce. How Wodehouse said it? "Ashe dislodged George's hands from his ears and hit George in the ribs with his elbow." Having realized myself as George, but only for a moment, 'cause I cannot strike her on knee. That was an awful state of mine - had to answer her questions and having in brains only passage from Sir Pelham. The most horrid was the attempt to recall proper conclusions for her.

Stop! I could remember about some figures for the report, having been prepared on a sheet of paper before, at home. Here it was! Now we would swamp her by figures! Let's read… Oh, my Gees! It was Wodehouse, on the sheets! Then I tried to show as though it was an already prepared report, by looking through them periodically. The warden asked to put those sheets in the file. New "luck"! At last the sheets were in her hands. She winked and looked at me straight. Suddenly she exclaimed: "That is Wodehouse!" Could I keep a silent any more? I had to describe the history of the question.

Our famous writer Maxim Gorky liked to retell the story about the young woman that gave a notice before she would snicker. Now the same had occured with the warden, but without any notice. She disclosed herself as great votary of Sir Pelham. Having played the situation from the beginning had led her to joyful spirits. Guess, what was coming next? In spite of my avoiding any possible eye contact with the warden, the case was set - I ought to accompany her as a guide for her excursions to Sergiev-Posad and Vladimir on the upcoming two days.

And what about the translation? No time was left for it, at least for Monday and Tuesday. I had to tell the goodbye to my family by phone - it was the time to go to Sergiev-Posad. I was reading the Wodehouse's passage, already became the historic relics, brokenly, while we were going to the point of destination. Cathy, yes, the name of the warden was Cathy, spoke with great enthusiasm about Wodehouse all the way long. It was a pity I had no Dictaphone with me - now we all could have enjoyed the facts about Sir Pelham, by Cathy. My current relapse was with me again - nothing except passage from the contest in my brain…

Finally we arrived to Sergiev-Posad, visited great monastery and stayed in the hotel. Cathy was in a sorrow afterwards, she would prefer to live in tents - her attitude to the word "hotel" now was changed. On Tuesday we went to Vladimir. Cathy somehow decided that I was from Vladimir, for my surname is Vladimirov - perhaps she had read something about the roots of the families before. Parted with her as friends.

At last, something about eleven o'clock in the evening, on Tuesday, 30, I found myself in my Moscow seat in front of computer. In an hour the contest would be closed. May be I will catch it? I began to punch the continuation to my previously written two phrases. All the translation was in my brain. My next of kin, observing my excitation, were moving nervously to and fro and inquired closely about the matter. I had no time to answer, so I said: "No, but if I would not catch it in an hour, then it will be the end…" I suspect that the answer didn't satisfy them, but they began to tiptoe…

The clocks showed consequently 23:30, 23:40, 23:50, 23:55… Got it! That was all, done!... Gees! I almost forgot to get to the Internet! The entrance was, as it always goes in such situations, rather slow... Only at 23:58, according to my watch, I connected normally to my provider and at 23:59 was on contest page...

All the process was accompanied by different phrases like that: "You don't understand anything" said to next of kin, or, "Hey, you... could not do it faster?" said to modem. Even the cat, getting regularly by that time his evening food, had not begun his ordinary miaou-song -- everybody was feeling the moment tension.

So, quickly I made the operation "Copy|Paste" to the form field, then click button "Done". Fine? No, I was not listed as a candidate after refreshing the screen. Oh, no… Convulsively, I run the mail, sent the translation to everest@telemost.ru. In Outlook Express Window with caption "Sent Items" the cold-livered figures were frozen in the target record: 31.10.01 0:00. I was sitting calmly, as Baxter, after the fusillade. And here the last phrase from the passage had flashed in my dormant mind: "I think you have killed him, Clarence "…

I began to laugh as true Butneverthelesser, understanding all the comics of the situation. After that I had not but wrote this story...

P.S. The neighbor asked my spouse next day: "What were that cries from your flat yesterday at the midnight, on the Halloween's Eve?"
Happy Halloween!