The Jeeves Omnibus - Vol 1: (Jeeves & Wooster): No.1

by P. G. Wodehouse

  ‘You get the best breakfast Chuffnell Hall can provide.’

  I eyed him searchingly.

  ‘Kippers?’

  ‘Schools of kippers.’

  ‘Toast?’

  ‘Mounds of toast.’

  ‘And coffee?’

  ‘Pots.’

  I inclined the head.

  ‘Well, mind I do,’ I said. ‘Come, Jeeves, I am ready to accompany you.’

  ‘Very good, sir. If I might be permitted to make an observation –?’

  ‘Yes, Jeeves?’

  ‘It is a far, far better thing that you do than you have ever done, sir.’

  ‘Thank you, Jeeves.’

  As I said before, there is nobody who puts these things more neatly than he does.

  22

  * * *

  Jeeves Applies For A Situation

  THE SUNLIGHT POURED into the small morning-room of Chuffnell Hall. It played upon me, sitting at a convenient table; on Jeeves, hovering in the background; on the skeletons of four kippered herrings; on a coffee-pot; and on an empty toast-rack. I poured myself out the final drops of coffee and sipped thoughtfully. Recent events had set their seal upon me, and it was a graver, more mature Bertram Wooster who now eyed the toast-rack and, finding nothing there, transferred his gaze to the man in attendance.

  ‘Who’s the cook at the Hall now, Jeeves?’

  ‘A woman of the name of Perkins, sir.’

  ‘She dishes up a nifty breakfast. Convey my compliments to her.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’

  I touched the cup to my lips.

  ‘All this is rather like the gentle sunshine after the storm, Jeeves.’

  ‘Extremely like, sir.’

  ‘And it was quite a storm, what?’

  ‘Very trying at times, sir.’

  ‘Trying is the mot juste, Jeeves. I was thinking of my own trial at that very moment. I flatter myself that I am a strong man, Jeeves. I am not easily moved by life’s untoward happenings. But I’m bound to confess that it was an unpleasant experience coming up before Chuffy. I was nervous and embarrassed. A good deal of the awful majesty of the Law about old Chuffy. I didn’t know he wore horn-rimmed spectacles.’

  ‘When acting as Justice of the Peace, invariably, I understand, sir. I gather that his lordship finds that they lend him confidence in his magisterial duties.’

  ‘Well, I think someone ought to have warned me. I got a nasty shock. They change his whole expression. Make him look just like my Aunt Agatha. It was only by reminding myself that he and I once stood in the same dock together at Bow Street, charged with raising Cain on Boat Race night, that I was enabled to maintain my sangfroid. However, the unpleasantness was short-lived. I must admit he rushed things through nice and quickly. He soon settled Dobson’s hash, what?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘A rather severe reprimand, I thought?’

  ‘Well phrased, sir.’

  ‘And Bertram dismissed without a stain on his character.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘But with Police Sergeant Voules firmly convinced that he is either an inveterate souse or a congenital loony. Possibly both. However,’ I proceeded, turning from the dark side, ‘it is no use worrying about that.’

  ‘Very true, sir.’

  ‘The main point is that once again you have shown that there is no crisis which you are unable to handle. A very smooth effort, Jeeves. Exceedingly smooth.’

  ‘I could have effected nothing without your co-operation, sir.’

  ‘Tush, Jeeves! I was a mere pawn in the game.’

  ‘Oh, no, sir.’

  ‘Yes, Jeeves. I know my place. But there’s just one thing. Don’t think for a moment that I want to detract from the merit of your performance, but you did have a bit of luck, what?’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Well, that cable happening to come along in what you might call the very nick of time. A fortunate coincidence.’

  ‘No, sir. I had anticipated its arrival.’

  ‘What!’

  ‘In the cable which I dispatched to my friend Benstead in New York the day before yesterday, I urged him to lose no time in retransmitting the message which formed the body of my communication.’

  ‘You don’t mean to say –?’

  ‘Immediately after the rift had occurred between Mr Stoker and Sir Roderick Glossop, involving, as it did, the former’s decision not to purchase Chuffnell Hall and the consequent unpleasantness to his lordship and Miss Stoker, the dispatching of the cable to Benstead suggested itself to me as a possible solution. I surmised that the news that the late Mr Stoker’s will was being contested would lead to a reconciliation between Mr Stoker and Sir Roderick.’

  ‘And there’s nobody contesting the will really?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘But what about when old Stoker finds out?’

  ‘I feel convinced that his natural relief will overcome any possible resentment at the artifice. And he has already signed the necessary documents relating to the sale of Chuffnell Hall.’

  ‘So that even if he’s as sick as mud he can’t do a thing?’

  ‘Exactly, sir.’

  I fell into a moody silence. Apart from astounding me, this revelation had had the effect of engendering a poignant anguish. I mean to say, the thought that I had let this man get away from me, that he was now in Chuffy’s employment, and that there was a fat chance of Chuffy ever being chump enough to put him into circulation again … well, dash it, you can’t say it wasn’t enough to shove the iron into the soul.

  It was with something of the spirit of the old aristocrat mounting the tumbril that I forced myself to wear the mask.

  ‘Cigarette, Jeeves?’

  He produced the box, and I puffed in silence.

  ‘Might I ask, sir, what you intend to do now?’

  I came out of the reverie.

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Now that your cottage is burned down, sir. Is it your purpose to take another in this neighbourhood?’

  I shook the head.

  ‘No, Jeeves, I shall return to the metrop.’

  ‘To your former apartment, sir?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But –’

  I anticipated the question.

  ‘I know what you are going to say, Jeeves. You are thinking of Mr Manglehoffer, of the Honourable Mrs Tinkler-Moulke and Lieutenant-Colonel J. J. Bustard. But circumstances have altered since I was compelled to take the firm stand I did in regard to their attitude towards the old banjolele. From now on, there will be no friction. My banjolele perished in the flames last night, Jeeves. I shall not buy another.’

  ‘No, sir?’

  ‘No, Jeeves. The zest has gone. I should not be able to twang a string without thinking of Brinkley. And the one thing I do not wish to do till further notice is think of that man of wrath.’

  ‘You are not intending to retain him in your employment, then, sir?’

  ‘Retain him in my employment? After what has occurred? After finishing first by the shortest of heads in the race with him and his carving knife? I do not so intend, Jeeves. Stalin, yes. Al Capone, certainly. But not Brinkley.’

  He coughed.

  ‘Then, as there is a vacancy in your establishment, sir, I wonder if you would consider it a liberty if I were to offer my services?’

  I upset the coffee-pot.

  ‘You said – what, Jeeves?’

  ‘I ventured to express the hope, sir, that you might be agreeable to considering my application for the post. I should endeavour to give satisfaction, as I trust I have done in the past.’

  ‘But –’

  ‘I would not wish, in any case, to continue in the employment of his lordship, sir, now that he is about to be married. I yield to no one in my admiration for the many qualities of Miss Stoker, but it has never been my policy to serve in the household of a married gentleman.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘It is merely a professional feeling, sir.�
�

  ‘I see what you mean. The psychology of the individual?’

  ‘Precisely, sir.’

  ‘And you really want to come back with me?’

  ‘I should esteem it a great privilege, sir, if you would allow me to do so, sir, unless you are thinking of making other plans.’

  It is not easy to find words in these supreme moments, if you know what I mean. What I mean is, you get a moment like this – supreme, as you might say – with the clouds all cleared away and the good old sun buzzing along on all six cylinders – and you feel … well, I mean, dash it!

  ‘Thank you, Jeeves,’ I said.

  ‘Not at all, sir.’

  * * *

  THE CODE OF THE WOOSTERS

  1

  * * *

  I REACHED OUT a hand from under the blankets, and rang the bell for Jeeves.

  ‘Good evening, Jeeves.’

  ‘Good morning, sir.’

  This surprised me.

  ‘Is it morning?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Are you sure? It seems very dark outside.’

  ‘There is a fog, sir. If you will recollect, we are now in autumn – season of mists and mellow fruitfulness.’

  ‘Season of what?’

  ‘Mists, sir, and mellow fruitfulness.’

  ‘Oh? Yes. Yes, I see. Well, be that as it may, get me one of those bracers of yours, will you?’

  ‘I have one in readiness, sir, in the ice box.’

  He shimmered out, and I sat up in bed with that rather unpleasant feeling you get sometimes that you’re going to die in about five minutes. On the previous night, I had given a little dinner at the Drones to Gussie Fink-Nottle as a friendly send-off before his approaching nuptials with Madeline, only daughter of Sir Watkyn Bassett, CBE, and these things take their toll. Indeed, just before Jeeves came in, I had been dreaming that some bounder was driving spikes through my head – not just ordinary spikes, as used by Jael the wife of Heber, but red-hot ones.

  He returned with the tissue-restorer. I loosed it down the hatch, and after undergoing the passing discomfort, unavoidable when you drink Jeeves’s patent morning revivers, of having the top of the skull fly up to the ceiling and the eyes shoot out of their sockets and rebound from the opposite wall like racquet balls, felt better. It would have been overstating it to say that even now Bertram was back again in mid-season form, but I had at least slid into the convalescent class and was equal to a spot of conversation.

  ‘Ha!’ I said, retrieving the eyeballs and replacing them in position. ‘Well, Jeeves, what goes on in the great world? Is that the paper you have there?’

  ‘No, sir. It is some literature from the Travel Bureau. I thought that you might care to glance at it.’

  ‘Oh?’ I said. ‘You did, did you?’

  And there was a brief and – if that’s the word I want – pregnant silence.

  I suppose that when two men of iron will live in close association with one another, there are bound to be occasional clashes, and one of these had recently popped up in the Wooster home. Jeeves was trying to get me to go on a Round-The-World cruise, and I would have none of it. But in spite of my firm statements to this effect, scarcely a day passed without him bringing me a sheaf or nosegay of those illustrated folders which the Ho-for-the-open-spaces birds send out in the hope of drumming up custom. His whole attitude recalled irresistibly to the mind that of some assiduous hound who will persist in laying a dead rat on the drawing-room carpet, though repeatedly apprised by word and gesture that the market for same is sluggish or even non-existent.

  ‘Jeeves,’ I said, ‘this nuisance must now cease.’

  ‘Travel is highly educational, sir.’

  ‘I can’t do with any more education. I was full up years ago. No, Jeeves, I know what’s the matter with you. That old Viking strain of yours has come out again. You yearn for the tang of the salt breezes. You see yourself walking the deck in a yachting cap. Possibly someone has been telling you about the Dancing Girls of Bali. I understand, and I sympathize. But not for me. I refuse to be decanted into any blasted ocean-going liner and lugged off round the world.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’

  He spoke with a certain what-is-it in his voice, and I could see that, if not actually disgruntled, he was far from being gruntled, so I tactfully changed the subject.

  ‘Well, Jeeves, it was quite a satisfactory binge last night.’

  ‘Indeed, sir?’

  ‘Oh, most. An excellent time was had by all. Gussie sent his regards.’

  ‘I appreciate the kind thought, sir. I trust Mr Fink-Nottle was in good spirits?’

  ‘Extraordinarily good, considering that the sands are running out and that he will shortly have Sir Watkyn Bassett for a father-in-law. Sooner him than me, Jeeves, sooner him than me.’

  I spoke with strong feeling, and I’ll tell you why. A few months before, while celebrating Boat Race night, I had fallen into the clutches of the Law for trying to separate a policeman from his helmet, and after sleeping fitfully on a plank bed had been hauled up at Bosher Street next morning and fined five of the best. The magistrate who had inflicted this monstrous sentence – to the accompaniment, I may add, of some very offensive remarks from the bench – was none other than old Pop Bassett, father of Gussie’s bride-to-be.

  As it turned out, I was one of his last customers, for a couple of weeks later he inherited a pot of money from a distant relative and retired to the country. That, at least, was the story that had been put about. My own view was that he had got the stuff by sticking like glue to the fines. Five quid here, five quid there – you can see how it would mount up over a period of years.

  ‘You have not forgotten that man of wrath, Jeeves? A hard case, eh?’

  ‘Possibly Sir Watkyn is less formidable in private life, sir.’

  ‘I doubt it. Slice him where you like, a hellhound is always a hellhound. But enough of this Bassett. Any letters today?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Telephone communications?’

  ‘One, sir. From Mrs Travers.’

  ‘Aunt Dahlia? She’s back in town, then?’

  ‘Yes, sir. She expressed a desire that you would ring her up at your earliest convenience.’

  ‘I will do even better,’ I said cordially. ‘I will call in person.’

  And half an hour later I was toddling up the steps of her residence and being admitted by old Seppings, her butler. Little knowing, as I crossed that threshold, that in about two shakes of a duck’s tail I was to become involved in an imbroglio that would test the Wooster soul as it had seldom been tested before. I allude to the sinister affair of Gussie Fink-Nottle, Madeline Bassett, old Pop Bassett, Stiffy Byng, the Rev. H. P. (‘Stinker’) Pinker, the eighteenth-century cow-creamer and the small, brown, leather-covered notebook.

  No premonition of an impending doom, however, cast a cloud on my serenity as I buzzed in. I was looking forward with bright anticipation to the coming reunion with this Dahlia – she, as I may have mentioned before, being my good and deserving aunt, not to be confused with Aunt Agatha, who eats broken bottles and wears barbed wire next the skin. Apart from the mere intellectual pleasure of chewing the fat with her, there was the glittering prospect that I might be able to cadge an invitation to lunch. And owing to the outstanding virtuosity of Anatole, her French cook, the browsing at her trough is always of a nature to lure the gourmet.

  The door of the morning-room was open as I went through the hall, and I caught a glimpse of Uncle Tom messing about with his collection of old silver. For a moment I toyed with the idea of pausing to pip-pip and inquire after his indigestion, a malady to which he is extremely subject, but wiser counsels prevailed. This uncle is a bird who, sighting a nephew, is apt to buttonhole him and become a bit informative on the subject of sconces and foliation, not to mention scrolls, ribbon wreaths in high relief and gadroon borders, and it seemed to me that silence was best. I whizzed by, accordingly, with sealed lips, and headed f
or the library, where I had been informed that Aunt Dahlia was at the moment rooting.

  I found the old flesh-and-blood up to her Marcelwave in proof sheets. As all the world knows, she is the courteous and popular proprietress of a weekly sheet for the delicately nurtured entitled Milady’s Boudoir. I once contributed an article to it on ‘What the Well-Dressed Man is Wearing’.

  My entry caused her to come to the surface, and she greeted me with one of those cheery view-halloos which, in the days when she went in for hunting, used to make her so noticeable a figure of the Quorn, the Pytchley and other organizations for doing the British fox a bit of no good.

  ‘Hullo, ugly,’ she said. ‘What brings you here?’

  ‘I understood, aged relative, that you wished to confer with me.’

  ‘I didn’t want you to come barging in, interrupting my work. A few words on the telephone would have met the case. But I suppose some instinct told you that this was my busy day.’

  ‘If you were wondering if I could come to lunch, have no anxiety. I shall be delighted, as always. What will Anatole be giving us?’

  ‘He won’t be giving you anything, my gay young tapeworm. I am entertaining Pomona Grindle, the novelist, to the midday meal.’

  ‘I should be charmed to meet her.’

  ‘Well, you’re not going to. It is to be a strictly tête-à-tête affair. I’m trying to get a serial out of her for the Boudoir. No, all I wanted was to tell you to go to an antique shop in the Brompton Road – it’s just past the Oratory – you can’t miss it – and sneer at a cow-creamer.’

  I did not get her drift. The impression I received was that of an aunt talking through the back of her neck.

  ‘Do what to a what?’

  ‘They’ve got an eighteenth-century cow-creamer there that Tom’s going to buy this afternoon.’

  The scales fell from my eyes.

  ‘Oh, it’s a silver whatnot, is it?’

  ‘Yes. A sort of cream jug. Go there and ask them to show it to you, and when they do, register scorn.’