Right Ho, Jeeves jaw-5

by Pelham Grenville Wodehouse

  And there was no question that, unless carefully prepared for the touch, Uncle Tom would see a hundredMilady's Boudoirsgo phut rather than take the rap.

  Then I saw how the thing could be handled. This aunt, I perceived, must fall into line with my other clients. Tuppy Glossop was knocking off dinner to melt Angela. Gussie Fink-Nottle was knocking off dinner to impress the Bassett. Aunt Dahlia must knock off dinner to soften Uncle Tom. For the beauty of this scheme of mine was that there was no limit to the number of entrants. Come one, come all, the more the merrier, and satisfaction guaranteed in every case.

  “I've got it,” I said. “There is only one course to pursue. Eat less meat.”

  She looked at me in a pleading sort of way. I wouldn't swear that her eyes were wet with unshed tears, but I rather think they were, certainly she clasped her hands in piteous appeal.

  “Must you drivel, Bertie? Won't you stop it just this once? Just for tonight, to please Aunt Dahlia?”

  “I'm not drivelling.”

  “I dare say that to a man of your high standards it doesn't come under the head of drivel, but—”

  I saw what had happened. I hadn't made myself quite clear.

  “It's all right,” I said. “Have no misgivings. This is the real Tabasco. When I said 'Eat less meat', what I meant was that you must refuse your oats at dinner tonight. Just sit there, looking blistered, and wave away each course as it comes with a weary gesture of resignation. You see what will happen. Uncle Tom will notice your loss of appetite, and I am prepared to bet that at the conclusion of the meal he will come to you and say 'Dahlia, darling'—I take it he calls you 'Dahlia'—'Dahlia darling,' he will say, 'I noticed at dinner tonight that you were a bit off your feed. Is anything the matter, Dahlia, darling?' 'Why, yes, Tom, darling,' you will reply. 'It is kind of you to ask, darling. The fact is, darling, I am terribly worried.' 'My darling,' he will say—”

  Aunt Dahlia interrupted at this point to observe that these Traverses seemed to be a pretty soppy couple of blighters, to judge by their dialogue. She also wished to know when I was going to get to the point.

  I gave her a look.

  “'My darling,' he will say tenderly, 'is there anything I can do?' To which your reply will be that there jolly well is—viz. reach for his cheque-book and start writing.”

  I was watching her closely as I spoke, and was pleased to note respect suddenly dawn in her eyes.

  “But, Bertie, this is positively bright.”

  “I told you Jeeves wasn't the only fellow with brain.”

  “I believe it would work.”

  “It's bound to work. I've recommended it to Tuppy.”

  “Young Glossop?”

  “In order to soften Angela.”

  “Splendid!”

  “And to Gussie Fink-Nottle, who wants to make a hit with the Bassett.”

  “Well, well, well! What a busy little brain it is.”

  “Always working, Aunt Dahlia, always working.”

  “You're not the chump I took you for, Bertie.”

  “When did you ever take me for a chump?”

  “Oh, some time last summer. I forget what gave me the idea. Yes, Bertie, this scheme is bright. I suppose, as a matter of fact, Jeeves suggested it.”

  “Jeeves did not suggest it. I resent these implications. Jeeves had nothing to do with it whatsoever.”

  “Well, all right, no need to get excited about it. Yes, I think it will work. Tom's devoted to me.”

  “Who wouldn't be?”

  “I'll do it.”

  And then the rest of the party trickled in, and we toddled down to dinner.

  Conditions being as they were at Brinkley Court—I mean to say, the place being loaded down above the Primsoll mark with aching hearts and standing room only as regarded tortured souls—I hadn't expected the evening meal to be particularly effervescent. Nor was it. Silent. Sombre. The whole thing more than a bit like Christmas dinner on Devil's Island.

  I was glad when it was over.

  What with having, on top of her other troubles, to rein herself back from the trough, Aunt Dahlia was a total loss as far as anything in the shape of brilliant badinage was concerned. The fact that he was fifty quid in the red and expecting Civilisation to take a toss at any moment had caused Uncle Tom, who always looked a bit like a pterodactyl with a secret sorrow, to take on a deeper melancholy. The Bassett was a silent bread crumbler. Angela might have been hewn from the living rock. Tuppy had the air of a condemned murderer refusing to make the usual hearty breakfast before tooling off to the execution shed.

  And as for Gussie Fink-Nottle, many an experienced undertaker would have been deceived by his appearance and started embalming him on sight.

  This was the first glimpse I had had of Gussie since we parted at my flat, and I must say his demeanour disappointed me. I had been expecting something a great deal more sparkling.

  At my flat, on the occasion alluded to, he had, if you recall, practically given me a signed guarantee that all he needed to touch him off was a rural setting. Yet in this aspect now I could detect no indication whatsoever that he was about to round into mid-season form. He still looked like a cat in an adage, and it did not take me long to realise that my very first act on escaping from this morgue must be to draw him aside and give him a pep talk.

  If ever a chap wanted the clarion note, it looked as if it was this Fink-Nottle.

  In the general exodus of mourners, however, I lost sight of him, and, owing to the fact that Aunt Dahlia roped me in for a game of backgammon, it was not immediately that I was able to institute a search. But after we had been playing for a while, the butler came in and asked her if she would speak to Anatole, so I managed to get away. And some ten minutes later, having failed to find scent in the house, I started to throw out the drag-net through the grounds, and flushed him in the rose garden.

  He was smelling a rose at the moment in a limp sort of way, but removed the beak as I approached.

  “Well, Gussie,” I said.

  I had beamed genially upon him as I spoke, such being my customary policy on meeting an old pal; but instead of beaming back genially, he gave me a most unpleasant look. His attitude perplexed me. It was as if he were not glad to see Bertram. For a moment he stood letting this unpleasant look play upon me, as it were, and then he spoke.

  “You and your 'Well, Gussie'!”

  He said this between clenched teeth, always an unmatey thing to do, and I found myself more fogged than ever.

  “How do you mean—me and my 'Well, Gussie'?”

  “I like your nerve, coming bounding about the place, saying 'Well, Gussie.' That's about all the 'Well, Gussie' I shall require from you, Wooster. And it's no good looking like that. You know what I mean. That damned prize-giving! It was a dastardly act to crawl out as you did and shove it off on to me. I will not mince my words. It was the act of a hound and a stinker.”

  Now, though, as I have shown, I had devoted most of the time on the journey down to meditating upon the case of Angela and Tuppy, I had not neglected to give a thought or two to what I was going to say when I encountered Gussie. I had foreseen that there might be some little temporary unpleasantness when we met, and when a difficult interview is in the offing Bertram Wooster likes to have his story ready.

  So now I was able to reply with a manly, disarming frankness. The sudden introduction of the topic had given me a bit of a jolt, it is true, for in the stress of recent happenings I had rather let that prize-giving business slide to the back of my mind; but I had speedily recovered and, as I say, was able to reply with a manly d.f.

  “But, my dear chap,” I said, “I took it for granted that you would understand that that was all part of my schemes.”

  He said something about my schemes which I did not catch.

  “Absolutely. 'Crawling out' is entirely the wrong way to put it. You don't suppose I didn't want to distribute those prizes, do you? Left to myself, there is nothing I would find a greater treat. But I saw
that the square, generous thing to do was to step aside and let you take it on, so I did so. I felt that your need was greater than mine. You don't mean to say you aren't looking forward to it?”

  He uttered a coarse expression which I wouldn't have thought he would have known. It just shows that you can bury yourself in the country and still somehow acquire a vocabulary. No doubt one picks up things from the neighbours—the vicar, the local doctor, the man who brings the milk, and so on.

  “But, dash it,” I said, “can't you see what this is going to do for you? It will send your stock up with a jump. There you will be, up on that platform, a romantic, impressive figure, the star of the whole proceedings, the what-d'you-call-it of all eyes. Madeline Bassett will be all over you. She will see you in a totally new light.”

  “She will, will she?”

  “Certainly she will. Augustus Fink-Nottle, the newts' friend, she knows. She is acquainted with Augustus Fink-Nottle, the dogs' chiropodist. But Augustus Fink-Nottle, the orator—that'll knock her sideways, or I know nothing of the female heart. Girls go potty over a public man. If ever anyone did anyone else a kindness, it was I when I gave this extraordinary attractive assignment to you.”

  He seemed impressed by my eloquence. Couldn't have helped himself, of course. The fire faded from behind his horn-rimmed spectacles, and in its place appeared the old fish-like goggle.

  '“Myes,” he said meditatively. “Have you ever made a speech, Bertie?”

  “Dozens of times. It's pie. Nothing to it. Why, I once addressed a girls' school.”

  “You weren't nervous?”

  “Not a bit.”

  “How did you go?”

  “They hung on my lips. I held them in the hollow of my hand.”

  “They didn't throw eggs, or anything?”

  “Not a thing.”

  He expelled a deep breath, and for a space stood staring in silence at a passing slug.

  “Well,” he said, at length, “it may be all right. Possibly I am letting the thing prey on my mind too much. I may be wrong in supposing it the fate that is worse than death. But I'll tell you this much: the prospect of that prize-giving on the thirty-first of this month has been turning my existence into a nightmare. I haven't been able to sleep or think or eat ... By the way, that reminds me. You never explained that cipher telegram about the sausages and ham.”

  “It wasn't a cipher telegram. I wanted you to go light on the food, so that she would realize you were in love.”

  He laughed hollowly.

  “I see. Well, I've been doing that, all right.”

  “Yes, I was noticing at dinner. Splendid.”

  “I don't see what's splendid about it. It's not going to get me anywhere. I shall never be able to ask her to marry me. I couldn't find nerve to do that if I lived on wafer biscuits for the rest of my life.”

  “But, dash it, Gussie. In these romantic surroundings. I should have thought the whispering trees alone—”

  “I don't care what you would have thought. I can't do it.”

  “Oh, come!”

  “I can't. She seems so aloof, so remote.”

  “She doesn't.”

  “Yes, she does. Especially when you see her sideways. Have you seen her sideways, Bertie? That cold, pure profile. It just takes all the heart out of one.”

  “It doesn't.”

  “I tell you it does. I catch sight of it, and the words freeze on my lips.”

  He spoke with a sort of dull despair, and so manifest was his lack of ginger and the spirit that wins to success that for an instant, I confess, I felt a bit stymied. It seemed hopeless to go on trying to steam up such a human jellyfish. Then I saw the way. With that extraordinary quickness of mine, I realized exactly what must be done if this Fink-Nottle was to be enabled to push his nose past the judges' box.

  “She must be softened up,” I said.

  “Be what?”

  “Softened up. Sweetened. Worked on. Preliminary spadework must be put in. Here, Gussie, is the procedure I propose to adopt: I shall now return to the house and lug this Bassett out for a stroll. I shall talk to her of hearts that yearn, intimating that there is one actually on the premises. I shall pitch it strong, sparing no effort. You, meanwhile, will lurk on the outskirts, and in about a quarter of an hour you will come along and carry on from there. By that time, her emotions having been stirred, you ought to be able to do the rest on your head. It will be like leaping on to a moving bus.”

  I remember when I was a kid at school having to learn a poem of sorts about a fellow named Pig-something—a sculptor he would have been, no doubt—who made a statue of a girl, and what should happen one morning but that the bally thing suddenly came to life. A pretty nasty shock for the chap, of course, but the point I'm working round to is that there were a couple of lines that went, if I remember correctly:

  She starts. She moves. She seems to feel The stir of life along her keel.

  And what I'm driving at is that you couldn't get a better description of what happened to Gussie as I spoke these heartening words. His brow cleared, his eyes brightened, he lost that fishy look, and he gazed at the slug, which was still on the long, long trail with something approaching bonhomie. A marked improvement.

  “I see what you mean. You will sort of pave the way, as it were.”

  “That's right. Spadework.”

  “It's a terrific idea, Bertie. It will make all the difference.”

  “Quite. But don't forget that after that it will be up to you. You will have to haul up your slacks and give her the old oil, or my efforts will have been in vain.”

  Something of his former Gawd-help-us-ness seemed to return to him. He gasped a bit.

  “That's true. What the dickens shall I say?”

  I restrained my impatience with an effort. The man had been at school with me.

  “Dash it, there are hundreds of things you can say. Talk about the sunset.”

  “The sunset?”

  “Certainly. Half the married men you meet began by talking about the sunset.”

  “But what can I say about the sunset?”

  “Well, Jeeves got off a good one the other day. I met him airing the dog in the park one evening, and he said, 'Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, sir, and all the air a solemn stillness holds.' You might use that.”

  “What sort of landscape?”

  “Glimmering.Gfor 'gastritis,'lfor 'lizard'—”

  “Oh, glimmering? Yes, that's not bad. Glimmering landscape ... solemn stillness.... Yes, I call that pretty good.”

  “You could then say that you have often thought that the stars are God's daisy chain.”

  “But I haven't.”

  “I dare say not. But she has. Hand her that one, and I don't see how she can help feeling that you're a twin soul.”

  “God's daisy chain?”

  “God's daisy chain. And then you go on about how twilight always makes you sad. I know you're going to say it doesn't, but on this occasion it has jolly well got to.”

  “Why?”

  “That's just what she will ask, and you will then have got her going. Because you will reply that it is because yours is such a lonely life. It wouldn't be a bad idea to give her a brief description of a typical home evening at your Lincolnshire residence, showing how you pace the meadows with a heavy tread.”

  “I generally sit indoors and listen to the wireless.”

  “No, you don't. You pace the meadows with a heavy tread, wishing that you had someone to love you. And then you speak of the day when she came into your life.”

  “Like a fairy princess.”

  “Absolutely,” I said with approval. I hadn't expected such a hot one from such a quarter. “Like a fairy princess. Nice work, Gussie.”

  “And then?”

  “Well, after that it's easy. You say you have something you want to say to her, and then you snap into it. I don't see how it can fail. If I were you, I should do it in this rose garden. It is well established
that there is no sounder move than to steer the adored object into rose gardens in the gloaming. And you had better have a couple of quick ones first.”

  “Quick ones?”

  “Snifters.”

  “Drinks, do you mean? But I don't drink.”

  “What?”

  “I've never touched a drop in my life.”

  This made me a bit dubious, I must confess. On these occasions it is generally conceded that a moderate skinful is of the essence.

  However, if the facts were as he had stated, I supposed there was nothing to be done about it.

  “Well, you'll have to make out as best you can on ginger pop.”

  “I always drink orange juice.”

  “Orange juice, then. Tell me, Gussie, to settle a bet, do you really like that muck?”

  “Very much.”

  “Then there is no more to be said. Now, let's just have a run through, to see that you've got the lay-out straight. Start off with the glimmering landscape.”

  “Stars God's daisy chain.”

  “Twilight makes you feel sad.”

  “Because mine lonely life.”

  “Describe life.”

  “Talk about the day I met her.”

  “Add fairy-princess gag. Say there's something you want to say to her. Heave a couple of sighs. Grab her hand. And give her the works. Right.”

  And confident that he had grasped the scenario and that everything might now be expected to proceed through the proper channels, I picked up the feet and hastened back to the house.

  It was not until I had reached the drawing-room and was enabled to take a square look at the Bassett that I found the debonair gaiety with which I had embarked on this affair beginning to wane a trifle. Beholding her at close range like this, I suddenly became cognisant of what I was in for. The thought of strolling with this rummy specimen undeniably gave me a most unpleasant sinking feeling. I could not but remember how often, when in her company at Cannes, I had gazed dumbly at her, wishing that some kindly motorist in a racing car would ease the situation by coming along and ramming her amidships. As I have already made abundantly clear, this girl was not one of my most congenial buddies.