The Jeeves Omnibus - Vol 1:

by P. G. Wodehouse

  ‘Why, only this morning,’ she said, ‘he spoke to Roderick Spode quite sharply.’

  ‘He did?’

  ‘Yes. They were arguing about something, and Augustus told him to go and boil his head.’

  ‘Well, well!’ I said.

  Naturally, I didn’t believe it for a moment. Well, I mean to say! Roderick Spode, I mean – a chap who even in repose would have made an all-in wrestler pause and pick his words. The thing wasn’t possible.

  I saw what had happened, of course. She was trying to give the boyfriend a build-up and, like all girls, was overdoing it. I’ve noticed the same thing in young wives, when they’re trying to kid you that Herbert or George or whatever the name may be has hidden depths which the vapid and irreflective observer might overlook. Women never know when to stop on these occasions.

  I remember Mrs Bingo Little once telling me, shortly after their marriage, that Bingo said poetic things to her about sunsets – his best friends being perfectly well aware, of course, that the odd egg never noticed a sunset in his life and that, if he did by a fluke ever happen to do so, the only thing he would say about it would be that it reminded him of a slice of roast beef, cooked just right.

  However, you can’t call a girl a liar; so, as I say, I said: ‘Well, well!’

  ‘It was the one thing that was needed to make him perfect. Sometimes, Bertie, I ask myself if I am worthy of so rare a soul.’

  ‘Oh, I wouldn’t ask yourself rot like that,’ I said heartily. ‘Of course you are.’

  ‘It’s sweet of you to say so.’

  ‘Not a bit. You two fit like pork and beans. Anyone could see that it was a what-d’you-call-it … ideal union. I’ve known Gussie since we were kids together, and I wish I had a bob for every time I’ve thought to myself that the girl for him was somebody just like you.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Absolutely. And when I met you, I said: “That’s the bird! There she spouts!” When is the wedding to be?’

  ‘On the twenty-third.’

  ‘I’d make it earlier.’

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘Definitely. Get it over and done with, and then you’ll have it off your mind. You can’t be married too soon to a chap like Gussie. Great chap. Splendid chap. Never met a chap I respected more. They don’t often make them like Gussie. One of the fruitiest.’

  She reached out and grabbed my hand and pressed it. Unpleasant, of course, but one has to take the rough with the smooth.

  ‘Ah, Bertie! Always the soul of generosity!’

  ‘No, no, rather not. Just saying what I think.’

  ‘It makes me so happy to feel that … all this … has not interfered with your affection for Augustus.’

  ‘I should say not.’

  ‘So many men in your position might have become embittered.’

  ‘Silly asses.’

  ‘But you are too fine for that. You can still say these wonderful things about him.’

  ‘Oh, rather.’

  ‘Dear Bertie!’

  And on this cheery note we parted, she to go messing about on some domestic errand, I to head for the drawing-room and get a spot of tea. She, it appeared, did not take tea, being on a diet.

  And I had reached the drawing-room, and was about to shove open the door, which was ajar, when from the other side there came a voice. And what it was saying was:

  ‘So kindly do not talk rot, Spode!’

  There was no possibility of mistake as to whose voice it was. From his earliest years, there has always been something distinctive and individual about Gussie’s timbre, reminding the hearer partly of an escape of gas from a gas pipe and partly of a sheep calling to its young in the lambing season.

  Nor was there any possibility of mistake about what he had said. The words were precisely as I have stated, and to say that I was surprised would be to put it too weakly. I saw now that it was perfectly possible that there might be something, after all, in that wild story of Madeline Bassett’s. I mean to say, an Augustus Fink-Nottle who told Roderick Spode not to talk rot was an Augustus Fink-Nottle who might quite well have told him to go and boil his head.

  I entered the room, marvelling.

  Except for some sort of dim female abaft the tea-pot, who looked as if she might be a cousin by marriage or something of that order, only Sir Watkyn Bassett, Roderick Spode and Gussie were present. Gussie was straddling the hearthrug with his legs apart, warming himself at the blaze which should, one would have said, been reserved for the trouser seat of the master of the house, and I saw immediately what Madeline Bassett had meant when she said that he had lost his diffidence. Even across the room one could see that, when it came to self-confidence, Mussolini could have taken his correspondence course.

  He sighted me as I entered, and waved what seemed to me a dashed patronizing hand. Quite the ruddy Squire graciously receiving the deputation of tenantry.

  ‘Ah, Bertie. So here you are.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Come in, come in and have a crumpet.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Did you bring that book I asked you to?’

  ‘Awfully sorry. I forgot.’

  ‘Well, of all the muddle-headed asses that every stepped, you certainly are the worst. Others abide our question, thou art free.’

  And dismissing me with a weary gesture, he called for another potted-meat sandwich.

  I have never been able to look back on my first meal at Totleigh Towers as among my happiest memories. The cup of tea on arrival at a country house is a thing which, as a rule, I particularly enjoy. I like the crackling logs, the shaded lights, the scent of buttered toast, the general atmosphere of leisured cosiness. There is something that seems to speak to the deeps in me in the beaming smile of my hostess and the furtive whisper of my host, as he plucks at my elbow and says ‘Let’s get out of here and go and have a whisky and soda in the gun-room.’ It is on such occasions as this, it has often been said, that you catch Bertram Wooster at his best.

  But now all sense of bien-être was destroyed by Gussie’s peculiar manner – that odd suggestion he conveyed of having bought the place. It was a relief when the gang had finally drifted away, leaving us alone. There were mysteries here which I wanted to probe.

  I thought it best, however, to begin by taking a second opinion on the position of affairs between himself and Madeline. She had told me that everything was now hunky-dory once more, but it was one of those points on which you cannot have too much assurance.

  ‘I saw Madeline just now,’ I said. ‘She tells me that you are sweethearts still. Correct?’

  ‘Quite correct. There was a little temporary coolness about my taking a fly out of Stephanie Byng’s eye, and I got a bit panicked and wired you to come down. I thought you might possibly plead. However, no need for that now. I took a strong line, and everything is all right. Still, stay a day or two, of course, as you’re here.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘No doubt you will be glad to see your aunt. She arrives tonight, I understand.’

  I could make nothing of this. My Aunt Agatha, I knew, was in a nursing home with jaundice. I had taken her flowers only a couple of days before. And naturally it couldn’t be Aunt Dahlia, for she had mentioned nothing to me about any plans for infesting Totleigh Towers.

  ‘Some mistake,’ I said.

  ‘No mistake at all. Madeline showed me the telegram that came from her this morning, asking if she could be put up for a day or two. It was dispatched from London, I noticed, so I suppose she has left Brinkley.’

  I stared.

  ‘You aren’t talking about my Aunt Dahlia?’

  ‘Of course I’m talking about your Aunt Dahlia.’

  ‘You mean Aunt Dahlia is coming here tonight?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  This was nasty news, and I found myself chewing the lower lip a bit in undisguised concern. This sudden decision to follow me to Totleigh Towers could mean only one thing, that Aunt Dahlia, thinking things ov
er, had become mistrustful of my will to win, and had felt it best to come and stand over me and see that I did not shirk the appointed task. And as I was fully resolved to shirk it, I could envisage some dirty weather ahead. Her attitude towards a recalcitrant nephew would, I feared, closely resemble that which in the old tally-ho days she had been wont to adopt towards a hound which refused to go to cover.

  ‘Tell me,’ continued Gussie, ‘what sort of voice is she in these days? I ask, because if she is going to make those hunting noises of hers at me during her visit, I shall be compelled to tick her off pretty sharply. I had enough of that sort of thing when I was staying at Brinkley.’

  I would have liked to go on musing on the unpleasant situation which had arisen, but it seemed to me that I had been given the cue to begin my probe.

  ‘What’s happened to you, Gussie?’ I asked.

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Since when have you been like this?’

  ‘I don’t understand you.’

  ‘Well, to take an instance, saying you’re going to tick Aunt Dahlia off. At Brinkley, you cowered before her like a wet sock. And, to take another instance, telling Spode not to talk rot. By the way, what was he talking rot about?’

  ‘I forgot. He talks so much rot.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have the nerve to tell Spode not to talk rot,’ I said frankly. My candour met with an immediate response.

  ‘Well, to tell you the truth, Bertie,’ said Gussie, coming clean, ‘neither would I, a week ago.’

  ‘What happened a week ago?’

  ‘I had a spiritual rebirth. Thanks to Jeeves. There’s a chap, Bertie!’

  ‘Ah!’

  ‘We are as little children, frightened of the dark, and Jeeves is the wise nurse who takes us by the hand and –’

  ‘Switches the light on?’

  ‘Precisely. Would you care to hear about it?’

  I assured him that I was all agog. I settled myself in my chair and, putting match to gasper, awaited the inside story.

  Gussie stood silent for a moment. I could see that he was marshalling his facts. He took off his spectacles and polished them.

  ‘A week ago, Bertie,’ he began, ‘my affairs had reached a crisis. I was faced by an ordeal, the mere prospect of which blackened the horizon. I discovered that I would have to make a speech at the wedding breakfast.’

  ‘Well, naturally.’

  ‘I know, but for some reason I had not foreseen it, and the news came as a stunning blow. And shall I tell you why I was so overcome by stark horror at the idea of making a speech at the wedding breakfast? It was because Roderick Spode and Sir Watkyn Bassett would be in the audience. Do you know Sir Watkyn intimately?’

  ‘Not very. He once fined me five quid at his police court.’

  ‘Well, you can take it from me that he is a hard nut, and he strongly objects to having me as a son-in-law. For one thing, he would have liked Madeline to marry Spode – who, I may mention, has loved her since she was so high.’

  ‘Oh, yes?’ I said, courteously concealing my astonishment that anyone except a certified boob like himself could deliberately love this girl.

  ‘Yes. But apart from the fact that she wanted to marry me, he didn’t want to marry her. He looks upon himself as a Man of Destiny, you see, and feels that marriage would interfere with his mission. He takes a line through Napoleon.’

  I felt that before proceeding further I must get the low-down on this Spode. I didn’t follow all this Man of Destiny stuff.

  ‘How do you mean, his mission? Is he someone special?’

  ‘Don’t you ever read the papers? Roderick Spode is the founder and head of the Saviours of Britain, a Fascist organization better known as the Black Shorts. His general idea, if he doesn’t get knocked on the head with a bottle in one of the frequent brawls in which he and his followers indulge, is to make himself a Dictator.’

  ‘Well, I’m blowed!’

  I was astounded at my keenness of perception. The moment I had set eyes on Spode, if you remember, I had said to myself ‘What ho! A Dictator!’ and a Dictator he had proved to be. I couldn’t have made a better shot, if I had been one of those detectives who see a chap walking along the street and deduce that he is a retired manufacturer of poppet valves named Robinson with rheumatism in one arm, living at Clapham.

  ‘Well, I’m dashed! I thought he was something of that sort. That chin … Those eyes … And, for the matter of that, that moustache. By the way, when you say “shorts”, you mean “shirts”, or course.’

  ‘No. By the time Spode formed his association, there were no shirts left. He and his adherents wear black shorts.’

  ‘Footer bags, you mean?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How perfectly foul.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Bare knees?’

  ‘Bare knees.’

  ‘Golly!’

  ‘Yes.’

  A thought struck me, so revolting that I nearly dropped my gasper.

  ‘Does old Bassett wear black shorts?’

  ‘No. He isn’t a member of the Saviours of Britain.’

  ‘Then how does he come to be mixed up with Spode? I met them going around London like a couple of sailors on shore leave.’

  ‘Sir Watkyn is engaged to be married to his aunt – a Mrs Wintergreen, widow of the late Colonel H. H. Wintergreen, of Pont Street.’

  I mused for a moment, reviewing in my mind the scene in the antique-bin.

  When you are standing in the dock, with a magistrate looking at you over his pince-nez and talking about you as ‘the prisoner Wooster’, you have ample opportunity for drinking him in, and what had struck me principally about Sir Watkyn Bassett that day at Bosher Street had been his peevishness. In that shop, on the other hand, he had given the impression of a man who has found the blue bird. He had hopped about like a carefree cat on hot bricks, exhibiting the merchandise to Spode with little chirps of ‘I think your aunt would like this?’ and ‘How about this?’ and so forth. And now a clue to that fizziness had been provided.

  ‘Do you know, Gussie,’ I said, ‘I’ve an idea he must have clicked yesterday.’

  ‘Quite possibly. However, never mind about that. That is not the point.’

  ‘No, I know. But it’s interesting.’

  ‘No, it isn’t.’

  ‘Perhaps you’re right.’

  ‘Don’t let us go wandering off into side issues,’ said Gussie, calling the meeting to order. ‘Where was I?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘I do. I was telling you that Sir Watkyn disliked the idea of having me for a son-in-law. Spode also was opposed to the match. Nor did he make any attempt to conceal the fact. He used to come popping out at me from round corners and muttering threats.’

  ‘You couldn’t have liked that.’

  ‘I didn’t.’

  ‘Why did he mutter threats?’

  ‘Because though he would not marry Madeline, even if she would have him, he looks on himself as a sort of knight, watching over her. He keeps telling me that the happiness of that little girl is very dear to him, and that if ever I let her down, he will break my neck. That is the gist of the threats he mutters, and that was one of the reasons why I was a bit agitated when Madeline became distant in her manner, on catching me with Stephanie Byng.’

  ‘Tell me, Gussie, what were you and Stiffy actually doing?’

  ‘I was taking a fly out of her eye.’

  I nodded. If that was his story, no doubt he was wise to stick to it.

  ‘So much for Spode. We now come to Sir Watkyn Bassett. At our very first meeting I could see that I was not his dream man.’

  ‘Me, too.’

  ‘I became engaged to Madeline, as you know, at Brinkley Court. The news of the betrothal was, therefore, conveyed to him by letter, and I imagine that the dear girl must have hauled up her slacks about me in a way that led him to suppose that what he was getting was a sort of cross between Robert Taylor and Einstein. At any rate, when I was i
ntroduced to him as the man who was to marry his daughter, he just stared for a moment and said “What?” Incredulously, you know, as if he were hoping that this was some jolly practical joke and that the real chap would shortly jump out from behind a chair and say “Boo!” When he at last got on to it that there was no deception, he went off into a corner and sat there for some time, holding his head in his hands. After that I used to catch him looking at me over the top of his pince-nez. It unsettled me.’

  I wasn’t surprised. I have already alluded to the effect that over-the-top-of-the-pince-nez look of old Bassett’s had had on me, and I could see that, if directed at Gussie, it might quite conceivably have stirred the old egg up a good deal.

  ‘He also sniffed. And when he learned from Madeline that I was keeping newts in my bedroom, he said something very derogatory – under his breath, but I heard him.’

  ‘You’ve got the troupe with you, then?’

  ‘Of course. I am in the middle of a very delicate experiment. An American professor has discovered that the full moon influences the love life of several undersea creatures, including one species of fish, two starfish groups, eight kinds of worms and a ribbon-like seaweed called Dictyota. The moon will be full in two or three days, and I want to find out if it affects the love life of newts, too.’

  ‘But what is the love life of newts, if you boil it right down? Didn’t you tell me once that they just waggled their tails at one another in the mating season?’

  ‘Quite correct.’

  I shrugged my shoulders.

  ‘Well, all right, if they like it. But it’s not my idea of molten passion. So old Bassett didn’t approve of the dumb chums?’

  ‘No. He didn’t approve of anything about me. It made things most difficult and disagreeable. Add Spode, and you will understand why I was beginning to get thoroughly rattled. And then, out of a blue sky, they sprang it on me that I would have to make a speech at the wedding breakfast – to an audience, as I said before, of which Roderick Spode and Sir Watkyn Bassett would form a part.’

  He paused, and swallowed convulsively, like a Pekingese taking a pill.

  ‘I am a shy man, Bertie. Diffidence is the price I pay for having a hyper-sensitive nature. And you know how I feel about making speeches under any conditions. The mere idea appals me. When you lugged me into that prize-giving affair at Market Snodsbury, the thought of standing on a platform, faced by a mob of pimply boys, filled me with a panic terror. It haunted my dreams. You can imagine, then, what it was like for me to have to contemplate that wedding breakfast. To the task of haranguing a flock of aunts and cousins I might have steeled myself. I don’t say it would have been easy, but I might have managed it. But to get up with Spode on one side of me and Sir Watkyn Bassett on the other … I didn’t see how I was going to face it. And then out of the night that covered me, black as the pit from pole to pole, there shone a tiny gleam of hope. I thought of Jeeves.’