RIGHT
HO JEEVES
PART
2
At the
Drones I ran into Pongo Twistleton, and he talked so much about his forthcoming
merry-making of his, of which good reports had already reached me through my
correspondents, that it was nearing eleven when I got home again.
And
scarcely had I opened the door when I heard voices in the sitting-room, and
scarcely had I entered the sitting-room when I found that these proceeded from
Jeeves and what appeared at first sight to be the Devil.
A closer
scrutiny informed me that it was Gussie Fink-Nottle, dressed as Mephistopheles.
-2-
"What-ho,
Gussie," I said.
You
couldn't have told it from my manner, but I was feeling more than a bit
nonplussed. The spectacle before me was enough to nonplus anyone. I mean to
say, this Fink-Nottle, as I remembered him, was the sort of shy, shrinking goop
who might have been expected to shake like an aspen if invited to so much as a
social Saturday afternoon at the vicarage. And yet here he was, if one could
credit one's senses, about to take part in a fancy-dress ball, a form of
entertainment notoriously a testing experience for the toughest.
And he was
attending that fancy-dress ball, mark you—not, like every other well-bred
Englishman, as a Pierrot, but as Mephistopheles—this involving, as I need
scarcely stress, not only scarlet tights but a pretty frightful false beard.
Rummy,
you'll admit. However, one masks one's feelings. I betrayed no vulgar
astonishment, but, as I say, what-hoed with civil nonchalance.
He grinned
through the fungus—rather sheepishly, I thought.
"Oh,
hullo, Bertie."
"Long
time since I saw you. Have a spot?"
"No,
thanks. I must be off in a minute. I just came round to ask Jeeves how he
thought I looked. How do you think I look, Bertie?"
Well, the
answer to that, of course, was "perfectly foul". But we Woosters are
men of tact and have a nice sense of the obligations of a host. We do not tell
old friends beneath our roof-tree that they are an offence to the eyesight. I
evaded the question.
"I
hear you're in London," I said carelessly.
"Oh,
yes."
"Must
be years since you came up."
"Oh,
yes."
"And
now you're off for an evening's pleasure."
He
shuddered a bit. He had, I noticed, a hunted air.
"Pleasure!"
"Aren't
you looking forward to this rout or revel?"
"Oh,
I suppose it'll be all right," he said, in a toneless voice. "Anyway,
I ought to be off, I suppose. The thing starts round about eleven. I told my
cab to wait.... Will you see if it's there, Jeeves?"
"Very
good, sir."
There was
something of a pause after the door had closed. A certain constraint. I mixed
myself a beaker, while Gussie, a glutton for punishment, stared at himself in
the mirror. Finally I decided that it would be best to let him know that I was
abreast of his affairs. It might be that it would ease his mind to confide in a
sympathetic man of experience. I have generally found, with those under the
influence, that what they want more than anything is the listening ear.
"Well,
Gussie, old leper," I said, "I've been hearing all about you."
"Eh?"
"This
little trouble of yours. Jeeves has told me everything."
He didn't
seem any too braced. It's always difficult to be sure, of course, when a chap
has dug himself in behind a Mephistopheles beard, but I fancy he flushed a
trifle.
"I
wish Jeeves wouldn't go gassing all over the place. It was supposed to be
confidential."
I could
not permit this tone.
"Dishing
up the dirt to the young master can scarcely be described as gassing all over
the place," I said, with a touch of rebuke. "Anyway, there it is. I
know all. And I should like to begin," I said, sinking my personal opinion
that the female in question was a sloppy pest in my desire to buck and
encourage, "by saying that Madeline Bassett is a charming girl. A winner,
and just the sort for you."
"You
don't know her?"
"Certainly
I know her. What beats me is how you ever got in touch. Where did you
meet?"
"She
was staying at a place near mine in Lincolnshire the week before last."
"Yes,
but even so. I didn't know you called on the neighbours."
"I
don't. I met her out for a walk with her dog. The dog had got a thorn in its
foot, and when she tried to take it out, it snapped at her. So, of course, I
had to rally round."
"You
extracted the thorn?"
"Yes."
"And fell
in love at first sight?"
"Yes."
"Well,
dash it, with a thing like that to give you a send-off, why didn't you cash in
immediately?"
"I
hadn't the nerve."
"What
happened?"
"We
talked for a bit."
"What
about?"
"Oh,
birds."
"Birds?
What birds?"
"The
birds that happened to be hanging round. And the scenery, and all that sort of
thing. And she said she was going to London, and asked me to look her up if I
was ever there."
"And
even after that you didn't so much as press her hand?"
"Of
course not."
Well, I
mean, it looked as though there was no more to be said. If a chap is such a
rabbit that he can't get action when he's handed the thing on a plate, his case
would appear to be pretty hopeless. Nevertheless, I reminded myself that this
non-starter and I had been at school together. One must make an effort for an
old school friend.
"Ah,
well," I said, "we must see what can be done. Things may brighten. At
any rate, you will be glad to learn that I am behind you in this enterprise.
You have Bertram Wooster in your corner, Gussie."
"Thanks,
old man. And Jeeves, of course, which is the thing that really matters."
I don't
mind admitting that I winced. He meant no harm, I suppose, but I'm bound to say
that this tactless speech nettled me not a little. People are always nettling
me like that. Giving me to understand, I mean to say, that in their opinion
Bertram Wooster is a mere cipher and that the only member of the household with
brains and resources is Jeeves.
It jars on
me.
And
tonight it jarred on me more than usual, because I was feeling pretty dashed
fed with Jeeves. Over that matter of the mess jacket, I mean. True, I had
forced him to climb down, quelling him, as described, with the quiet strength
of my personality, but I was still a trifle shirty at his having brought the
thing up at all. It seemed to me that what Jeeves wanted was the iron hand.
"And
what is he doing about it?" I inquired stiffly.
"He's
been giving the position of affairs a lot of thought."
"He
has, has he?"
"It's
on his advice that I'm going to this dance."
"Why?"
"She
is going to be there. In fact, it was she who sent me the ticket of invitation.
And Jeeves considered——"
"And
why not as a Pierrot?" I said, taking up the point which had struck me
before. "Why this break with a grand old tradition?"
"He
particularly wanted me to go as Mephistopheles."
I started.
"He
did, did he? He specifically recommended that definite costume?"
"Yes."
"Ha!"
"Eh?"
"Nothing.
Just 'Ha!'"
And I'll
tell you why I said "Ha!" Here was Jeeves making heavy weather about
me wearing a perfectly ordinary white mess jacket, a garment not only tout
ce qu'il y a de chic, but absolutely de rigueur, and in the same
breath, as you might say, inciting Gussie Fink-Nottle to be a blot on the
London scene in scarlet tights. Ironical, what? One looks askance at this sort
of in-and-out running.
"What
has he got against Pierrots?"
"I
don't think he objects to Pierrots as Pierrots. But in my case he thought a
Pierrot wouldn't be adequate."
"I
don't follow that."
"He
said that the costume of Pierrot, while pleasing to the eye, lacked the
authority of the Mephistopheles costume."
"I
still don't get it."
"Well,
it's a matter of psychology, he said."
There was
a time when a remark like that would have had me snookered. But long
association with Jeeves has developed the Wooster vocabulary considerably.
Jeeves has always been a whale for the psychology of the individual, and I now
follow him like a bloodhound when he snaps it out of the bag.
"Oh, psychology?"
"Yes.
Jeeves is a great believer in the moral effect of clothes. He thinks I might be
emboldened in a striking costume like this. He said a Pirate Chief would be
just as good. In fact, a Pirate Chief was his first suggestion, but I objected
to the boots."
I saw his
point. There is enough sadness in life without having fellows like Gussie
Fink-Nottle going about in sea boots.
"And
are you emboldened?"
"Well,
to be absolutely accurate, Bertie, old man, no."
A gust of
compassion shook me. After all, though we had lost touch a bit of recent years,
this man and I had once thrown inked darts at each other.
"Gussie,"
I said, "take an old friend's advice, and don't go within a mile of this
binge."
"But
it's my last chance of seeing her. She's off tomorrow to stay with some people
in the country. Besides, you don't know."
"Don't
know what?"
"That
this idea of Jeeves's won't work. I feel a most frightful chump now, yes, but
who can say whether that will not pass off when I get into a mob of other people
in fancy dress. I had the same experience as a child, one year during the
Christmas festivities. They dressed me up as a rabbit, and the shame was
indescribable. Yet when I got to the party and found myself surrounded by
scores of other children, many in costumes even ghastlier than my own, I perked
up amazingly, joined freely in the revels, and was able to eat so hearty a
supper that I was sick twice in the cab coming home. What I mean is, you can't
tell in cold blood."
I weighed
this. It was specious, of course.
"And
you can't get away from it that, fundamentally, Jeeves's idea is sound. In a
striking costume like Mephistopheles, I might quite easily pull off something
pretty impressive. Colour does make a difference. Look at newts. During the courting
season the male newt is brilliantly coloured. It helps him a lot."
"But
you aren't a male newt."
"I
wish I were. Do you know how a male newt proposes, Bertie? He just stands in
front of the female newt vibrating his tail and bending his body in a semi-circle.
I could do that on my head. No, you wouldn't find me grousing if I were a male
newt."
"But
if you were a male newt, Madeline Bassett wouldn't look at you. Not with the
eye of love, I mean."
"She
would, if she were a female newt."
"But
she isn't a female newt."
"No,
but suppose she was."
"Well,
if she was, you wouldn't be in love with her."
"Yes,
I would, if I were a male newt."
A slight
throbbing about the temples told me that this discussion had reached saturation
point.
"Well,
anyway," I said, "coming down to hard facts and cutting out all this
visionary stuff about vibrating tails and what not, the salient point that
emerges is that you are booked to appear at a fancy-dress ball. And I tell you
out of my riper knowledge of fancy-dress balls, Gussie, that you won't enjoy
yourself."
"It
isn't a question of enjoying yourself."
"I
wouldn't go."
"I
must go. I keep telling you she's off to the country tomorrow."
I gave it
up.
"So
be it," I said. "Have it your own way.... Yes, Jeeves?"
"Mr.
Fink-Nottle's cab, sir."
"Ah?
The cab, eh?... Your cab, Gussie."
"Oh,
the cab? Oh, right. Of course, yes, rather.... Thanks, Jeeves ... Well, so
long, Bertie."
And giving
me the sort of weak smile Roman gladiators used to give the Emperor before
entering the arena, Gussie trickled off. And I turned to Jeeves. The moment had
arrived for putting him in his place, and I was all for it.
It was a
little difficult to know how to begin, of course. I mean to say, while firmly
resolved to tick him off, I didn't want to gash his feelings too deeply. Even
when displaying the iron hand, we Woosters like to keep the thing fairly matey.
However,
on consideration, I saw that there was nothing to be gained by trying to lead
up to it gently. It is never any use beating about the b.
"Jeeves,"
I said, "may I speak frankly?"
"Certainly,
sir."
"What
I have to say may wound you."
"Not
at all, sir."
"Well,
then, I have been having a chat with Mr. Fink-Nottle, and he has been telling
me about this Mephistopheles scheme of yours."
"Yes,
sir?"
"Now
let me get it straight. If I follow your reasoning correctly, you think that,
stimulated by being upholstered throughout in scarlet tights, Mr. Fink-Nottle,
on encountering the adored object, will vibrate his tail and generally let
himself go with a whoop."
"I am
of opinion that he will lose much of his normal diffidence, sir."
"I
don't agree with you, Jeeves."
"No,
sir?"
"No.
In fact, not to put too fine a point upon it, I consider that of all the dashed
silly, drivelling ideas I ever heard in my puff this is the most blithering and
futile. It won't work. Not a chance. All you have done is to subject Mr.
Fink-Nottle to the nameless horrors of a fancy-dress ball for nothing. And this
is not the first time this sort of thing has happened. To be quite candid,
Jeeves, I have frequently noticed before now a tendency or disposition on your
part to become—what's the word?"
"I
could not say, sir."
"Eloquent?
No, it's not eloquent. Elusive? No, it's not elusive. It's on the tip of my
tongue. Begins with an 'e' and means being a jolly sight too clever."
"Elaborate,
sir?"
"That
is the exact word I was after. Too elaborate, Jeeves—that is what you are
frequently prone to become. Your methods are not simple, not straightforward.
You cloud the issue with a lot of fancy stuff that is not of the essence. All
that Gussie needs is the elder-brotherly advice of a seasoned man of the world.
So what I suggest is that from now onward you leave this case to me."
"Very
good, sir."
"You
lay off and devote yourself to your duties about the home."
"Very
good, sir."
"I
shall no doubt think of something quite simple and straightforward yet
perfectly effective ere long. I will make a point of seeing Gussie
tomorrow."
"Very
good, sir."
"Right
ho, Jeeves."
But on the
morrow all those telegrams started coming in, and I confess that for
twenty-four hours I didn't give the poor chap a thought, having problems of my
own to contend with.
-3-
The first
of the telegrams arrived shortly after noon, and Jeeves brought it in with the
before-luncheon snifter. It was from my Aunt Dahlia, operating from Market
Snodsbury, a small town of sorts a mile or two along the main road as you leave
her country seat.
It ran as
follows:
Come at
once. Travers.
And when I
say it puzzled me like the dickens, I am understating it; if anything. As
mysterious a communication, I considered, as was ever flashed over the wires. I
studied it in a profound reverie for the best part of two dry Martinis and a
dividend. I read it backwards. I read it forwards. As a matter of fact, I have
a sort of recollection of even smelling it. But it still baffled me.
Consider
the facts, I mean. It was only a few hours since this aunt and I had parted,
after being in constant association for nearly two months. And yet here she
was—with my farewell kiss still lingering on her cheek, so to speak—pleading
for another reunion. Bertram Wooster is not accustomed to this gluttonous
appetite for his society. Ask anyone who knows me, and they will tell you that
after two months of my company, what the normal person feels is that that will
about do for the present. Indeed, I have known people who couldn't stick it out
for more than a few days.
Before
sitting down to the well-cooked, therefore, I sent this reply:
Perplexed.
Explain. Bertie.
To this I
received an answer during the after-luncheon sleep:
What on
earth is there to be perplexed about, ass? Come at once. Travers.
Three
cigarettes and a couple of turns about the room, and I had my response ready:
How do
you mean come at once? Regards. Bertie.
I append
the comeback:
I mean
come at once, you maddening half-wit. What did you think I meant? Come at once
or expect an aunt's curse first post tomorrow. Love. Travers.
I then
dispatched the following message, wishing to get everything quite clear:
When
you say "Come" do you mean "Come to Brinkley Court"? And
when you say "At once" do you mean "At once"? Fogged. At a
loss. All the best. Bertie.
I sent
this one off on my way to the Drones, where I spent a restful afternoon
throwing cards into a top-hat with some of the better element. Returning in the
evening hush, I found the answer waiting for me:
Yes,
yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes. It doesn't matter whether you understand or not.
You just come at once, as I tell you, and for heaven's sake stop this
back-chat. Do you think I am made of money that I can afford to send you
telegrams every ten minutes. Stop being a fathead and come immediately. Love.
Travers.
It was at
this point that I felt the need of getting a second opinion. I pressed the
bell.
"Jeeves,"
I said, "a V-shaped rumminess has manifested itself from the direction of
Worcestershire. Read these," I said, handing him the papers in the case.
He scanned
them.
"What
do you make of it, Jeeves?"
"I
think Mrs. Travers wishes you to come at once, sir."
"You
gather that too, do you?"
"Yes,
sir."
"I
put the same construction on the thing. But why, Jeeves? Dash it all, she's
just had nearly two months of me."
"Yes,
sir."
"And
many people consider the medium dose for an adult two days."
"Yes,
sir. I appreciate the point you raise. Nevertheless, Mrs. Travers appears very
insistent. I think it would be well to acquiesce in her wishes."
"Pop
down, you mean?"
"Yes,
sir."
"Well,
I certainly can't go at once. I've an important conference on at the Drones
tonight. Pongo Twistleton's birthday party, you remember."
"Yes,
sir."
There was
a slight pause. We were both recalling the little unpleasantness that had
arisen. I felt obliged to allude to it.
"You're
all wrong about that mess jacket, Jeeves."
"These
things are matters of opinion, sir."
"When
I wore it at the Casino at Cannes, beautiful women nudged one another and
whispered: 'Who is he?'"
"The
code at Continental casinos is notoriously lax, sir."
"And
when I described it to Pongo last night, he was fascinated."
"Indeed,
sir?"
"So
were all the rest of those present. One and all admitted that I had got hold of
a good thing. Not a dissentient voice."
"Indeed,
sir?"
"I am
convinced that you will eventually learn to love this mess-jacket, Jeeves."
"I
fear not, sir."
I gave it
up. It is never any use trying to reason with Jeeves on these occasions.
"Pig-headed" is the word that springs to the lips. One sighs and
passes on.
"Well,
anyway, returning to the agenda, I can't go down to Brinkley Court or anywhere
else yet awhile. That's final. I'll tell you what, Jeeves. Give me form and
pencil, and I'll wire her that I'll be with her some time next week or the week
after. Dash it all, she ought to be able to hold out without me for a few days.
It only requires will power."
"Yes,
sir."
"Right
ho, then. I'll wire 'Expect me tomorrow fortnight' or words to some such
effect. That ought to meet the case. Then if you will toddle round the corner
and send it off, that will be that."
"Very
good, sir."
And so the
long day wore on till it was time for me to dress for Pongo's party.
Pongo had
assured me, while chatting of the affair on the previous night, that this
birthday binge of his was to be on a scale calculated to stagger humanity, and
I must say I have participated in less fruity functions. It was well after four
when I got home, and by that time I was about ready to turn in. I can just
remember groping for the bed and crawling into it, and it seemed to me that the
lemon had scarcely touched the pillow before I was aroused by the sound of the
door opening.
I was
barely ticking over, but I contrived to raise an eyelid.
"Is
that my tea, Jeeves?"
"No,
sir. It is Mrs. Travers."
And a
moment later there was a sound like a mighty rushing wind, and the relative had
crossed the threshold at fifty m.p.h. under her own steam.
To be continued
