RIGHT
HO JEEVES
By
P. G. WODEHOUSE
1922
To
RAYMOND NEEDHAM, K.C.
WITH AFFECTION AND ADMIRATION
PART
1
-1-
"Jeeves,"
I said, "may I speak frankly?"
"Certainly,
sir."
"What
I have to say may wound you."
"Not
at all, sir."
"Well,
then——"
No—wait.
Hold the line a minute. I've gone off the rails.
I don't
know if you have had the same experience, but the snag I always come up against
when I'm telling a story is this dashed difficult problem of where to begin it.
It's a thing you don't want to go wrong over, because one false step and you're
sunk. I mean, if you fool about too long at the start, trying to establish
atmosphere, as they call it, and all that sort of rot, you fail to grip and the
customers walk out on you.
Get off the
mark, on the other hand, like a scalded cat, and your public is at a loss. It
simply raises its eyebrows, and can't make out what you're talking about.
And in
opening my report of the complex case of Gussie Fink-Nottle, Madeline Bassett,
my Cousin Angela, my Aunt Dahlia, my Uncle Thomas, young Tuppy Glossop and the
cook, Anatole, with the above spot of dialogue, I see that I have made the
second of these two floaters.
I shall
have to hark back a bit. And taking it for all in all and weighing this against
that, I suppose the affair may be said to have had its inception, if inception
is the word I want, with that visit of mine to Cannes. If I hadn't gone to
Cannes, I shouldn't have met the Bassett or bought that white mess jacket, and
Angela wouldn't have met her shark, and Aunt Dahlia wouldn't have played
baccarat.
Yes, most
decidedly, Cannes was the point d'appui.
Right ho,
then. Let me marshal my facts.
I went to
Cannes—leaving Jeeves behind, he having intimated that he did not wish to miss
Ascot—round about the beginning of June. With me travelled my Aunt Dahlia and
her daughter Angela. Tuppy Glossop, Angela's betrothed, was to have been of the
party, but at the last moment couldn't get away. Uncle Tom, Aunt Dahlia's
husband, remained at home, because he can't stick the South of France at any
price.
So there
you have the layout—Aunt Dahlia, Cousin Angela and self off to Cannes round
about the beginning of June.
All pretty
clear so far, what?
We stayed
at Cannes about two months, and except for the fact that Aunt Dahlia lost her
shirt at baccarat and Angela nearly got inhaled by a shark while aquaplaning, a
pleasant time was had by all.
On July
the twenty-fifth, looking bronzed and fit, I accompanied aunt and child back to
London. At seven p.m. on July the twenty-sixth we alighted at Victoria. And at
seven-twenty or thereabouts we parted with mutual expressions of esteem—they to
shove off in Aunt Dahlia's car to Brinkley Court, her place in Worcestershire,
where they were expecting to entertain Tuppy in a day or two; I to go to the
flat, drop my luggage, clean up a bit, and put on the soup and fish preparatory
to pushing round to the Drones for a bite of dinner.
And it was
while I was at the flat, towelling the torso after a much-needed rinse, that
Jeeves, as we chatted of this and that—picking up the threads, as it
were—suddenly brought the name of Gussie Fink-Nottle into the conversation.
As I
recall it, the dialogue ran something as follows:
SELF:
Well, Jeeves, here we are, what?
JEEVES: Yes,
sir.
SELF: I
mean to say, home again.
JEEVES:
Precisely, sir.
SELF:
Seems ages since I went away.
JEEVES:
Yes, sir.
SELF: Have
a good time at Ascot?
JEEVES:
Most agreeable, sir.
SELF: Win
anything?
JEEVES:
Quite a satisfactory sum, thank you, sir.
SELF:
Good. Well, Jeeves, what news on the Rialto? Anybody been phoning or calling or
anything during my abs.?
JEEVES:
Mr. Fink-Nottle, sir, has been a frequent caller.
I stared.
Indeed, it would not be too much to say that I gaped.
"Mr.
Fink-Nottle?"
"Yes,
sir."
"You
don't mean Mr. Fink-Nottle?"
"Yes,
sir."
"But
Mr. Fink-Nottle's not in London?"
"Yes,
sir."
"Well,
I'm blowed."
And I'll
tell you why I was blowed. I found it scarcely possible to give credence to his
statement. This Fink-Nottle, you see, was one of those freaks you come across
from time to time during life's journey who can't stand London. He lived year
in and year out, covered with moss, in a remote village down in Lincolnshire,
never coming up even for the Eton and Harrow match. And when I asked him once
if he didn't find the time hang a bit heavy on his hands, he said, no, because
he had a pond in his garden and studied the habits of newts.
I couldn't
imagine what could have brought the chap up to the great city. I would have
been prepared to bet that as long as the supply of newts didn't give out,
nothing could have shifted him from that village of his.
"Are
you sure?"
"Yes,
sir."
"You
got the name correctly? Fink-Nottle?"
"Yes,
sir."
"Well,
it's the most extraordinary thing. It must be five years since he was in
London. He makes no secret of the fact that the place gives him the pip. Until
now, he has always stayed glued to the country, completely surrounded by
newts."
"Sir?"
"Newts,
Jeeves. Mr. Fink-Nottle has a strong newt complex. You must have heard of
newts. Those little sort of lizard things that charge about in ponds."
"Oh,
yes, sir. The aquatic members of the family Salamandridae which constitute the
genus Molge."
"That's
right. Well, Gussie has always been a slave to them. He used to keep them at
school."
"I
believe young gentlemen frequently do, sir."
"He
kept them in his study in a kind of glass-tank arrangement, and pretty niffy
the whole thing was, I recall. I suppose one ought to have been able to see
what the end would be even then, but you know what boys are. Careless,
heedless, busy about our own affairs, we scarcely gave this kink in Gussie's
character a thought. We may have exchanged an occasional remark about it taking
all sorts to make a world, but nothing more. You can guess the sequel. The
trouble spread,"
"Indeed,
sir?"
"Absolutely,
Jeeves. The craving grew upon him. The newts got him. Arrived at man's estate,
he retired to the depths of the country and gave his life up to these dumb
chums. I suppose he used to tell himself that he could take them or leave them
alone, and then found—too late—that he couldn't."
"It
is often the way, sir."
"Too
true, Jeeves. At any rate, for the last five years he has been living at this
place of his down in Lincolnshire, as confirmed a species-shunning hermit as
ever put fresh water in the tank every second day and refused to see a soul.
That's why I was so amazed when you told me he had suddenly risen to the
surface like this. I still can't believe it. I am inclined to think that there
must be some mistake, and that this bird who has been calling here is some
different variety of Fink-Nottle. The chap I know wears horn-rimmed spectacles
and has a face like a fish. How does that check up with your data?"
"The
gentleman who came to the flat wore horn-rimmed spectacles, sir."
"And
looked like something on a slab?"
"Possibly
there was a certain suggestion of the piscine, sir."
"Then
it must be Gussie, I suppose. But what on earth can have brought him up to
London?"
"I am
in a position to explain that, sir. Mr. Fink-Nottle confided to me his motive
in visiting the metropolis. He came because the young lady is here."
"Young
lady?"
"Yes,
sir."
"You
don't mean he's in love?"
"Yes,
sir."
"Well,
I'm dashed. I'm really dashed. I positively am dashed, Jeeves."
And I was
too. I mean to say, a joke's a joke, but there are limits.
Then I
found my mind turning to another aspect of this rummy affair. Conceding the
fact that Gussie Fink-Nottle, against all the ruling of the form book, might
have fallen in love, why should he have been haunting my flat like this? No
doubt the occasion was one of those when a fellow needs a friend, but I couldn't
see what had made him pick on me.
It wasn't
as if he and I were in any way bosom. We had seen a lot of each other at one
time, of course, but in the last two years I hadn't had so much as a post card
from him.
I put all
this to Jeeves:
"Odd,
his coming to me. Still, if he did, he did. No argument about that. It must
have been a nasty jar for the poor perisher when he found I wasn't here."
"No,
sir. Mr. Fink-Nottle did not call to see you, sir."
"Pull
yourself together, Jeeves. You've just told me that this is what he has been
doing, and assiduously, at that."
"It
was I with whom he was desirous of establishing communication, sir."
"You?
But I didn't know you had ever met him."
"I
had not had that pleasure until he called here, sir. But it appears that Mr.
Sipperley, a fellow student with whom Mr. Fink-Nottle had been at the
university, recommended him to place his affairs in my hands."
The
mystery had conked. I saw all. As I dare say you know, Jeeves's reputation as a
counsellor has long been established among the cognoscenti, and the first move
of any of my little circle on discovering themselves in any form of soup is
always to roll round and put the thing up to him. And when he's got A out of a
bad spot, A puts B on to him. And then, when he has fixed up B, B sends C
along. And so on, if you get my drift, and so forth.
That's how
these big consulting practices like Jeeves's grow. Old Sippy, I knew, had been
deeply impressed by the man's efforts on his behalf at the time when he was
trying to get engaged to Elizabeth Moon, so it was not to be wondered at that
he should have advised Gussie to apply. Pure routine, you might say.
"Oh,
you're acting for him, are you?"
"Yes,
sir."
"Now
I follow. Now I understand. And what is Gussie's trouble?"
"Oddly
enough, sir, precisely the same as that of Mr. Sipperley when I was enabled to
be of assistance to him. No doubt you recall Mr. Sipperley's predicament, sir.
Deeply attached to Miss Moon, he suffered from a rooted diffidence which made
it impossible for him to speak."
I nodded.
"I
remember. Yes, I recall the Sipperley case. He couldn't bring himself to the
scratch. A marked coldness of the feet, was there not? I recollect you saying
he was letting—what was it?—letting something do something. Cats entered into
it, if I am not mistaken."
"Letting
'I dare not' wait upon 'I would', sir."
"That's
right. But how about the cats?"
"Like
the poor cat i' the adage, sir."
"Exactly.
It beats me how you think up these things. And Gussie, you say, is in the same
posish?"
"Yes,
sir. Each time he endeavours to formulate a proposal of marriage, his courage
fails him."
"And
yet, if he wants this female to be his wife, he's got to say so, what? I mean,
only civil to mention it."
"Precisely,
sir."
I mused.
"Well,
I suppose this was inevitable, Jeeves. I wouldn't have thought that this
Fink-Nottle would ever have fallen a victim to the divine p, but, if he
has, no wonder he finds the going sticky."
"Yes,
sir."
"Look
at the life he's led."
"Yes,
sir."
"I
don't suppose he has spoken to a girl for years. What a lesson this is to us,
Jeeves, not to shut ourselves up in country houses and stare into glass tanks.
You can't be the dominant male if you do that sort of thing. In this life, you
can choose between two courses. You can either shut yourself up in a country
house and stare into tanks, or you can be a dasher with the sex. You can't do
both."
"No,
sir."
I mused
once more. Gussie and I, as I say, had rather lost touch, but all the same I
was exercised about the poor fish, as I am about all my pals, close or distant,
who find themselves treading upon Life's banana skins. It seemed to me that he
was up against it.
I threw my
mind back to the last time I had seen him. About two years ago, it had been. I had
looked in at his place while on a motor trip, and he had put me right off my
feed by bringing a couple of green things with legs to the luncheon table,
crooning over them like a young mother and eventually losing one of them in the
salad. That picture, rising before my eyes, didn't give me much confidence in
the unfortunate goof's ability to woo and win, I must say. Especially if the
girl he had earmarked was one of these tough modern thugs, all lipstick and
cool, hard, sardonic eyes, as she probably was.
"Tell
me, Jeeves," I said, wishing to know the worst, "what sort of a girl
is this girl of Gussie's?"
"I
have not met the young lady, sir. Mr. Fink-Nottle speaks highly of her
attractions."
"Seemed
to like her, did he?"
"Yes,
sir."
"Did
he mention her name? Perhaps I know her."
"She
is a Miss Bassett, sir. Miss Madeline Bassett."
"What?"
"Yes,
sir."
I was
deeply intrigued.
"Egad,
Jeeves! Fancy that. It's a small world, isn't it, what?"
"The
young lady is an acquaintance of yours, sir?"
"I
know her well. Your news has relieved my mind, Jeeves. It makes the whole thing
begin to seem far more like a practical working proposition."
"Indeed,
sir?"
"Absolutely.
I confess that until you supplied this information I was feeling profoundly
dubious about poor old Gussie's chances of inducing any spinster of any parish
to join him in the saunter down the aisle. You will agree with me that he is
not everybody's money."
"There
may be something in what you say, sir."
"Cleopatra
wouldn't have liked him."
"Possibly
not, sir."
"And
I doubt if he would go any too well with Tallulah Bankhead."
"No,
sir."
"But
when you tell me that the object of his affections is Miss Bassett, why, then,
Jeeves, hope begins to dawn a bit. He's just the sort of chap a girl like
Madeline Bassett might scoop in with relish."
This
Bassett, I must explain, had been a fellow visitor of ours at Cannes; and as
she and Angela had struck up one of those effervescent friendships which girls
do strike up, I had seen quite a bit of her. Indeed, in my moodier moments it
sometimes seemed to me that I could not move a step without stubbing my toe on
the woman.
And what
made it all so painful and distressing was that the more we met, the less did I
seem able to find to say to her.
You know
how it is with some girls. They seem to take the stuffing right out of you. I
mean to say, there is something about their personality that paralyses the
vocal cords and reduces the contents of the brain to cauliflower. It was like
that with this Bassett and me; so much so that I have known occasions when for
minutes at a stretch Bertram Wooster might have been observed fumbling with the
tie, shuffling the feet, and behaving in all other respects in her presence
like the complete dumb brick. When, therefore, she took her departure some two
weeks before we did, you may readily imagine that, in Bertram's opinion, it was
not a day too soon.
It was not
her beauty, mark you, that thus numbed me. She was a pretty enough girl in a
droopy, blonde, saucer-eyed way, but not the sort of breath-taker that takes
the breath.
No, what
caused this disintegration in a usually fairly fluent prattler with the sex was
her whole mental attitude. I don't want to wrong anybody, so I won't go so far
as to say that she actually wrote poetry, but her conversation, to my mind, was
of a nature calculated to excite the liveliest suspicions. Well, I mean to say,
when a girl suddenly asks you out of a blue sky if you don't sometimes feel
that the stars are God's daisy-chain, you begin to think a bit.
As regards
the fusing of her soul and mine, therefore, there was nothing doing. But with
Gussie, the posish was entirely different. The thing that had stymied me—viz.
that this girl was obviously all loaded down with ideals and sentiment and what
not—was quite in order as far as he was concerned.
Gussie had
always been one of those dreamy, soulful birds—you can't shut yourself up in
the country and live only for newts, if you're not—and I could see no reason
why, if he could somehow be induced to get the low, burning words off his
chest, he and the Bassett shouldn't hit it off like ham and eggs.
"She's
just the type for him," I said.
"I am
most gratified to hear it, sir."
"And
he's just the type for her. In fine, a good thing and one to be pushed along
with the utmost energy. Strain every nerve, Jeeves."
"Very
good, sir," replied the honest fellow. "I will attend to the matter
at once."
Now up to
this point, as you will doubtless agree, what you might call a perfect harmony
had prevailed. Friendly gossip between employer and employed, and everything as
sweet as a nut. But at this juncture, I regret to say, there was an unpleasant
switch. The atmosphere suddenly changed, the storm clouds began to gather, and
before we knew where we were, the jarring note had come bounding on the scene.
I have known this to happen before in the Wooster home.
The first
intimation I had that things were about to hot up was a pained and disapproving
cough from the neighbourhood of the carpet. For, during the above exchanges, I
should explain, while I, having dried the frame, had been dressing in a
leisurely manner, donning here a sock, there a shoe, and gradually climbing
into the vest, the shirt, the tie, and the knee-length, Jeeves had been down on
the lower level, unpacking my effects.
He now
rose, holding a white object. And at the sight of it, I realized that another
of our domestic crises had arrived, another of those unfortunate clashes of
will between two strong men, and that Bertram, unless he remembered his
fighting ancestors and stood up for his rights, was about to be put upon.
I don't
know if you were at Cannes this summer. If you were, you will recall that
anybody with any pretensions to being the life and soul of the party was
accustomed to attend binges at the Casino in the ordinary evening-wear
trouserings topped to the north by a white mess-jacket with brass buttons. And
ever since I had stepped aboard the Blue Train at Cannes station, I had been
wondering on and off how mine would go with Jeeves.
In the
matter of evening costume, you see, Jeeves is hidebound and reactionary. I had
had trouble with him before about soft-bosomed shirts. And while these
mess-jackets had, as I say, been all the rage—tout ce qu'il y a de chic—on
the Côte d'Azur, I had never concealed it from myself, even when treading the
measure at the Palm Beach Casino in the one I had hastened to buy, that there
might be something of an upheaval about it on my return.
I prepared
to be firm.
"Yes,
Jeeves?" I said. And though my voice was suave, a close observer in a
position to watch my eyes would have noticed a steely glint. Nobody has a
greater respect for Jeeves's intellect than I have, but this disposition of his
to dictate to the hand that fed him had got, I felt, to be checked. This
mess-jacket was very near to my heart, and I jolly well intended to fight for
it with all the vim of grand old Sieur de Wooster at the Battle of Agincourt.
"Yes,
Jeeves?" I said. "Something on your mind, Jeeves?"
"I
fear that you inadvertently left Cannes in the possession of a coat belonging
to some other gentleman, sir."
I switched
on the steely a bit more.
"No,
Jeeves," I said, in a level tone, "the object under advisement is
mine. I bought it out there."
"You
wore it, sir?"
"Every
night."
"But
surely you are not proposing to wear it in England, sir?"
I saw that
we had arrived at the nub.
"Yes,
Jeeves."
"But,
sir——"
"You
were saying, Jeeves?"
"It
is quite unsuitable, sir."
"I do
not agree with you, Jeeves. I anticipate a great popular success for this
jacket. It is my intention to spring it on the public tomorrow at Pongo
Twistleton's birthday party, where I confidently expect it to be one long
scream from start to finish. No argument, Jeeves. No discussion. Whatever
fantastic objection you may have taken to it, I wear this jacket."
"Very
good, sir."
He went on
with his unpacking. I said no more on the subject. I had won the victory, and
we Woosters do not triumph over a beaten foe. Presently, having completed my
toilet, I bade the man a cheery farewell and in generous mood suggested that,
as I was dining out, why didn't he take the evening off and go to some
improving picture or something. Sort of olive branch, if you see what I mean.
He didn't
seem to think much of it.
"Thank
you, sir, I will remain in."
I surveyed
him narrowly.
"Is
this dudgeon, Jeeves?"
"No,
sir, I am obliged to remain on the premises. Mr. Fink-Nottle informed me he
would be calling to see me this evening."
"Oh,
Gussie's coming, is he? Well, give him my love."
"Very
good, sir."
"Yes,
sir."
"And
a whisky and soda, and so forth."
"Very
good, sir."
"Right
ho, Jeeves."
I then set
off for the Drones.
To be continued
