The Jeeves Omnibus Vol. 2: Right Ho, Jeeves / Joy in the Morning / Carry On, Jeeves

by P. G. Wodehouse

  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 semicircle. 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 the 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 older-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 halfwit. 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’s 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.

  4

  * * *

  IT HAS BEEN well said of Bertram Wooster that, while no-one views his flesh and blood with a keener and more remorselessly critical eye, he is nevertheless a man who delights in giving credit where credit is due. And if you have followed these memoirs of mine with the proper care, you will be aware that I have frequently had occasion to emphasize the fact that Aunt Dahlia is all right.

  She is the one, if you remember, who married old Tom Travers en secondes noces, as I believe the expression is, the year Bluebottle won the Cambridgeshire, and once induced me to write an article on What the Well-Dressed Man is Wearing for that paper she runs – Milady’s Boudoir. She is a large, genial soul, with whom it is a pleasure to hob-nob. In her spiritual make-up there is none of that subtle gosh-awfulness which renders such an exhibit as, say, my Aunt Agatha the curse of the Home Counties and a menace to one and all. I have the highest esteem for Aunt Dahlia, and have never wavered in my cordial appreciation of her humanity, sporting qualities and general good-eggishness.

  This being so, you may conceive of my astonishment at finding her at my bedside at such an hour. I mean to say, I’ve stayed at her place many a time and oft, and she knows my habits. She is welt aware that until I have had my cup of tea in the morning, I do not receive. This crashing in at a moment when she knew that solitude and repose were of the essence was scarcely, I could not but feel, the good old form.

  Besides, what business had she being in London at all? That was what I asked myself. When a conscientious housewife has returned to her home after an absence of seven weeks, one does not expect her to start racing off again the day after her arrival. One feels that she ought to be sticking round, ministering to her husband, conferring with the cook, feeding the cat, combing and brushing the Pomeranian – in a word, staying put. I was more than a little bleary-eyed, but I endeavoured, as far as the fact that my eyelids were more or less glued together would permit, to give her an austere and censorious look.

  She didn’t seem to get it.

  ‘Wake up, Bertie, you old ass!’ she cried, in a voice that hit me between the eyebrows and went out at the back of my head.

  If Aunt Dahlia has a fault, it is that she is apt to address a vis-à-vis as if he were somebody half a mile away whom she had observed riding over hounds. A throwback, no doubt, to the time when she counted the day lost that was not spent in chivvying some unfortunate fox over the countryside.

  I gave her another of the austere and censorious, and this time it registered. All the effect it had, however, was to cause her to descend to personalities.

  ‘Don’t blink at me in that obscene way,’ she said. ‘I wonder, Bertie,’ she proceeded, gazing at me as I should imagine Gussie would have gazed at some newt that was not up to sample, ‘if you have the faintest conception how perfectly loathsome you look? A cross between an orgy scene in the movies and some low form of pond life. I suppose you were out on the tiles last night?’

  ‘I attended a social function, yes,’ I said coldly. ‘Pongo Twistleton’s birthday party. I couldn’t let Pongo down. Noblesse oblige.’

  ‘Well, get up and dress.’

  I felt I could not have heard her aright.

  ‘Get up and dress?’

  ‘Yes.’

  I turned on the pillow with a little moan, and at this juncture Jeeves entered with the vital oolong. I clutched at it like a drowning man at a straw hat. A deep sip or two, and I felt – I won’t say restored, because a birthday part
y like Pongo Twistleton’s isn’t a thing you get restored after with a mere mouthful of tea, but sufficiently the old Bertram to be able to bend the mind on this awful thing which had come upon me.

  And the more I bent same, the less could I grasp the trend of the scenario.

  ‘What is this, Aunt Dahlia?’ I inquired.

  ‘It looks to me like tea,’ was her response. ‘But you know best. You’re drinking it.’

  If I hadn’t been afraid of spilling the healing brew, I have little doubt that I should have given an impatient gesture. I know I felt like it.

  ‘Not the contents of this cup. All this. Your barging in and telling me to get up and dress, and all that rot.’

  ‘I’ve barged in, as you call it, because my telegrams seemed to produce no effect. And I told you to get up and dress because I want you to get up and dress. I’ve come to take you back with me. I like your crust, wiring that you would come next year or whenever it was. You’re coming now. I’ve got a job for you.’

  ‘But I don’t want a job.’

  ‘What you want, my lad, and what you’re going to get are two very different things. There is man’s work for you to do at Brinkley Court. Be ready to the last button in twenty minutes.’

  ‘But I can’t possibly be ready to any buttons in twenty minutes. I’m feeling awful.’

  She seemed to consider.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I suppose it’s only humane to give you a day or two to recover. All right, then, I shall expect you on the thirtieth at the latest.’

  ‘But, dash it, what is all this? How do you mean, a job? Why a job? What sort of a job?’

  ‘I’ll tell you if you’ll only stop talking for a minute. It’s quite an easy, pleasant job. You will enjoy it. Have you ever heard of Market Snodsbury Grammar School?’

  ‘Never.’

  ‘It’s a grammar school at Market Snodsbury.’

  I told her a little frigidly that I had divined as much.