The Jeeves Omnibus - Vol 1:

by P. G. Wodehouse

  ‘An odd thing, life, Jeeves.’

  ‘Very odd, sir.’

  ‘You never know where you are with it, do you? To take a simple instance, I little thought half an hour ago that I would be sitting here in carefree pyjamas, watching you pack for the getaway. A very different future seemed to confront me.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘One would have said that a curse had come upon me.’

  ‘One would, indeed, sir.’

  ‘But now my troubles, as you might say, have vanished like the dew on the what-is-it. Thanks to you.’

  ‘I am delighted to have been able to be of service, sir.’

  ‘You have delivered the goods as seldom before. And yet, Jeeves, there is always a snag.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘I wish you wouldn’t keep saying “Sir?” What I mean is, Jeeves, loving hearts have been sundered in this vicinity and are still sundered. I may be all right – I am – but Gussie isn’t all right. Nor is Stiffy all right. That is the fly in the ointment.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Though, pursuant on that, I never could see why flies shouldn’t be in ointment. What harm do they do?’

  ‘I wonder, sir –’

  ‘Yes, Jeeves?’

  ‘I was merely about to inquire if it is your intention to bring an action against Sir Watkyn for wrongful arrest and defamation of character before witnesses.’

  ‘I hadn’t thought of that. You think an action would lie?’

  ‘There can be no question about it, sir. Both Mrs Travers and I could offer overwhelming testimony. You are undoubtedly in a position to mulct Sir Watkyn in heavy damages.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose you’re right. No doubt that was why he went up in the air to such an extent when Spode did his act.’

  ‘Yes, sir. His trained legal mind would have envisaged the peril.’

  ‘I don’t think I ever saw a man go so red in the nose. Did you?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Still, it seems a shame to harry him further. I don’t know that I want actually to grind the old bird into the dust.’

  ‘I was merely thinking, sir, that were you to threaten such an action, Sir Watkyn, in order to avoid unpleasantness, might see his way to ratifying the betrothals of Miss Bassett and Mr Fink-Nottle and Miss Byng and the Reverend Mr Pinker.’

  ‘Golly, Jeeves! Put the bite on him, what?’

  ‘Precisely, sir.’

  ‘The thing shall be put in train immediately.’

  I sprang from the bed and nipped to the door.

  ‘Bassett!’ I yelled.

  There was no immediate response. The man had presumably gone to earth. But after I had persevered for some minutes, shouting ‘Bassett!’ at regular intervals with increasing volume, I heard the distant sound of pattering feet, and along he came, in a very different spirit from that which he had exhibited on the previous occasion. This time it was more like some eager waiter answering the bell.

  ‘Yes, Mr Wooster?’

  I led the way back into the room, and hopped into bed again.

  ‘There is something you wish to say to me, Mr Wooster?’

  ‘There are about a dozen things I wish to say to you, Bassett, but the one we will touch on at the moment is this. Are you aware that your headstrong conduct in sticking police officers on to pinch me and locking me in my room has laid you open to an action for – what was it, Jeeves?’

  ‘Wrongful arrest and defamation of character before witnesses, sir.’

  ‘That’s the baby. I could soak you for millions. What are you going to do about it?’

  He writhed like an electric fan.

  ‘I’ll tell you what you are going to do about it,’ I proceeded. ‘You are going to issue your OK on the union of your daughter Madeline and Augustus Fink-Nottle and also on that of your niece Stephanie and the Rev. H. P. Pinker. And you will do it now.’

  A short struggle seemed to take place in him. It might have lasted longer, if he hadn’t caught my eye.

  ‘Very well, Mr Wooster.’

  ‘And touching on that cow-creamer. It is highly probable that the international gang that got away with it will sell it to my Uncle Tom. Their system of underground information will have told them that he is in the market. Not a yip out of you, Bassett, if at some future date you see that cow-creamer in his collection.’

  ‘Very well, Mr Wooster.’

  ‘And one other thing. You owe me a fiver.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘In repayment of the one you took off me at Bosher Street. I shall want that before I leave.’

  ‘I will write you a cheque in the morning.’

  ‘I shall expect it on the breakfast tray. Good night, Bassett.’

  ‘Good night, Mr Wooster. Is that brandy I see over there? I think I should like a glass, if I may.’

  ‘Jeeves, a snootful for Sir Watkyn Bassett.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’

  He drained the beaker gratefully, and tottered out. Probably quite a nice chap, if you knew him.

  Jeeves broke the silence.

  ‘I have finished the packing, sir.’

  ‘Good. Then I think I’ll curl up. Open the window, will you?’

  ‘Very good, sir.’

  ‘What sort of night is it?’

  ‘Unsettled, sir. It has begun to rain with some violence.’

  The sound of a sneeze came to my ears.

  ‘Hallo, who’s that, Jeeves? Somebody out there?’

  ‘Constable Oates, sir.’

  ‘You don’t mean he hasn’t gone off duty?’

  ‘No, sir. I imagine that in his preoccupation with other matters it escaped Sir Watkyn’s mind to send word to him that there was no longer any necessity to keep his vigil.’

  I sighed contentedly. It needed but this to complete my day. The thought of Constable Oates prowling in the rain like the troops of Midian, when he could have been snug in bed toasting his pink toes on the hot-water bottle, gave me a curiously mellowing sense of happiness.

  ‘This is the end of a perfect day, Jeeves. What’s that thing of yours about larks?’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘And, I rather think, snails.’

  ‘Oh, yes, sir. “The year’s at the Spring, the day’s at the morn, morning’s at seven, the hill side’s dew-pearled –”’

  ‘But the larks, Jeeves? The snails? I’m pretty sure larks and snails entered into it.’

  ‘I am coming to the larks and snails, sir. “The lark’s on the wing, the snail’s on the thorn –”’

  ‘Now you’re talking. And the tab line?’

  ‘“God’s in His heaven, all’s right with the world.”’

  ‘That’s it in a nutshell. I couldn’t have put it better myself. And yet, Jeeves, there is just one thing. I do wish you would give me the inside facts about Eulalie.’

  ‘I fear, sir –’

  ‘I would keep it dark. You know me – the silent tomb.’

  ‘The rules of the Junior Ganymede are extremely strict, sir.’

  ‘I know. But you might stretch a point.’

  ‘I am sorry sir –’

  I made the great decision.

  ‘Jeeves,’ I said, ‘give me the low-down, and I’ll come on that World Cruise of yours.’

  He wavered.

  ‘Well, in the strictest confidence, sir –’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Mr Spode designs ladies’ underclothing, sir. He has a considerable talent in that direction, and has indulged it secretly for some years. He is the founder and proprietor of the emporium in Bond Street known as Eulalie Sœurs.’

  ‘You don’t mean that?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Good Lord, Jeeves! No wonder he didn’t want a thing like that to come out.’

  ‘No, sir. It would unquestionably jeopardize his authority over his followers.’

  ‘You can’t be a successful Dictator and design women’s underclothing.’

  ‘No, sir.’
>
  ‘One or the other. Not both.’

  ‘Precisely, sir.’

  I mused.

  ‘Well, it was worth it, Jeeves. I couldn’t have slept wondering about it. Perhaps that cruise won’t be so very foul, after all?’

  ‘Most gentlemen find them enjoyable, sir.’

  ‘Do they?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Seeing new faces.’

  ‘That’s true. I hadn’t thought of that. The faces will be new, won’t they? Thousands and thousands of people, but no Stiffy.’

  ‘Exactly, sir.’

  ‘You had better get the tickets tomorrow.’

  ‘I have already procured them, sir. Good night, sir.’

  The door closed. I switched off the light. For some moments I lay there listening to the measured tramp of Constable Oates’s feet and thinking of Gussie and Madeline Bassett and of Stiffy and old Stinker Pinker, and of the hotsy-totsiness which now prevailed in their love lives. I also thought of Uncle Tom being handed the cow-creamer and of Aunt Dahlia seizing the psychological moment and nicking him for a fat cheque for Milady’s Boudoir. Jeeves was right, I felt. The snail was on the wing and the lark was on the thorn – or, rather, the other way round – and God was in His heaven and all right with the world.

  And presently the eyes closed, the muscles relaxed, the breathing became soft and regular, and sleep which does something which has slipped my mind to the something sleave of care poured over me in a healing wave.

  * * *

  THE INIMITABLE JEEVES

  1

  * * *

  Jeeves Exerts the old Cerebellum

  ‘MORNING, JEEVES,’ I said.

  ‘Good morning, sir,’ said Jeeves.

  He put the good old cup of tea softly on the table by my bed, and I took a refreshing sip. Just right, as usual. Not too hot, not too sweet, not to weak, not too strong, not too much milk, and not a drop spilled in the saucer. A most amazing cove, Jeeves. So dashed competent in every respect. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again. I mean to say, take just one small instance. Every other valet I’ve ever had used to barge into my room in the morning while I was still asleep, causing much misery: but Jeeves seems to know when I’m awake by a sort of telepathy. He always floats in with the cup exactly two minutes after I come to life. Makes a deuce of a lot of difference to a fellow’s day.

  ‘How’s the weather, Jeeves?’

  ‘Exceptionally clement, sir.’

  ‘Anything in the papers?’

  ‘Some slight friction threatening in the Balkans, sir. Otherwise, nothing.’

  ‘I say, Jeeves, a man I met at the club last night told me to put my shirt on Privateer for the two o’clock race this afternoon. How about it?’

  ‘I should not advocate it, sir. The stable is not sanguine.’

  That was enough for me. Jeeves knows. How, I couldn’t say, but he knows. There was a time when I would laugh lightly, and go ahead, and lose my little all against his advice, but not now.

  ‘Talking of shirts,’ I said, ‘have those mauve ones I ordered arrived yet?’

  ‘Yes, sir. I sent then back.’

  ‘Sent them back?’

  ‘Yes, sir. They would not have become you.’

  Well, I must say I’d thought fairly highly of those shirtings, but I bowed to superior knowledge. Weak? I don’t know. Most fellows, no doubt, are all for having their valets confine their activities to creasing trousers and what not without trying to run the home; but it’s different with Jeeves. Right from the first day he came to me, I have looked on him as a sort of guide, philosopher, and friend.

  ‘Mr Little rang up on the telephone a few moments ago, sir. I informed him that you were not yet awake.’

  ‘Did he leave a message?’

  ‘No, sir. He mentioned that he had a matter of importance to discuss with you, but confided no details.’

  ‘Oh, well, I expect I shall be seeing him at the club.’

  ‘No doubt, sir.’

  I wasn’t what you might call in a fever of impatience. Bingo Little is a chap I was at school with, and we see a lot of each other still. He’s the nephew of old Mortimer Little, who retired from business recently with a goodish pile. (You’ve probably heard of Little’s Liniment – It Limbers Up the Legs.) Bingo biffs about London on a pretty comfortable allowance given him by his uncle, and leads on the whole a fairly unclouded life. It wasn’t likely that anything which he described as a matter of importance would turn out to be really so frightfully important. I took it that he had discovered some new brand of cigarette which he wanted me to try, or something like that, and didn’t spoil my breakfast by worrying.

  After breakfast I lit a cigarette and went to the open window to inspect the day. It certainly was one of the best and brightest.

  ‘Jeeves,’ I said.

  ‘Sir?’ said Jeeves. He had been clearing away the breakfast things, but at the sound of the young master’s voice cheesed it courteously.

  ‘You were absolutely right about the weather. It is a juicy morning.’

  ‘Decidedly, sir.’

  ‘Spring and all that.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘In the spring, Jeeves, a livelier iris gleams upon the burnished dove.’

  ‘So I have been informed, sir.’

  ‘Right ho! Then bring me my whangee, my yellowest shoes, and the old green Homburg. I’m going into the park to do pastoral dances.’

  I don’t know if you know that sort of feeling you get on these days round about the end of April and the beginning of May, when the sky’s a light blue, with cotton-wool clouds, and there’s a bit of breeze blowing from the west? Kind of uplifted feeling. Romantic, if you know what I mean. I’m not much of a ladies’ man, but on this particular morning it seemed to me that what I really wanted was some charming girl to buzz up and ask me to save her from assassins or something. So that it was a bit of an anti-climax when I merely ran into young Bingo Little, looking perfectly foul in a crimson satin tie decorated with horseshoes.

  ‘Hallo, Bertie,’ said Bingo.

  ‘My God, man!’ I gargled. ‘The cravat! The gent’s neckwear! Why? For what reason?’

  ‘Oh, the tie?’ He blushed. ‘I – er – I was given it.’

  He seemed embarrassed, so I dropped the subject. We toddled along a bit, and sat down on a couple of chairs by the Serpentine.

  ‘Jeeves tells me you want to talk to me about something,’ I said.

  ‘Eh?’ said Bingo, with a start. ‘Oh yes, yes. Yes.’

  I waited for him to unleash the topic of the day, but he didn’t seem to want to get along. Conversation languished. He stared straight ahead of him in a glassy sort of manner.

  ‘I say, Bertie,’ he said, after a pause of about an hour and a quarter.

  ‘Hallo!’

  ‘Do you like the name Mabel?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You don’t think there’s a kind of music in the word, like the wind rustling gently through the tree-tops?’

  ‘No.’

  He seemed disappointed for a moment; then cheered up.

  ‘Of course, you wouldn’t. You always were a fatheaded worm without any soul, weren’t you?’

  ‘Just as you say. Who is she? Tell me all.’

  For I realized now that poor old Bingo was going through it once again. Ever since I have known him – and we were at school together – he has been perpetually falling in love with someone, generally in the spring, which seems to act on him like magic. At school he had the finest collection of actresses’ photographs of anyone of his time; and at Oxford his romantic nature was a byword.

  ‘You’d better come along and meet her at lunch,’ he said, looking at his watch.

  ‘A ripe suggestion,’ I said. ‘Where are you meeting her? At the Ritz?’

  ‘Near the Ritz.’

  He was geographically accurate. About fifty yards east of the Ritz there is one of those blighted tea-and-bun
shops you see dotted about all over London, and into this, if you’ll believe me, young Bingo dived like a homing rabbit; and before I had time to say a word we were wedged in at a table, on the brink of a silent pool of coffee left there by an early luncher.

  I’m bound to say I couldn’t quite follow the development of the scenario. Bingo, while not absolutely rolling in the stuff, has always had a fair amount of the ready. Apart from what he got from his uncle, I knew that he had finished up the jumping season well on the right side of the ledger. Why, then, was he lunching the girl at this God-forsaken eatery? It couldn’t be because he was hard up.

  Just then the waitress arrived. Rather a pretty girl.

  ‘Aren’t we going to wait –?’ I started to say to Bingo, thinking it somewhat thick that, in addition to asking a girl to lunch with him in a place like this, he should fling himself on the foodstuffs before she turned up, when I caught sight of his face, and stopped.

  The man was goggling. His entire map was suffused with a rich blush. He looked like the Soul’s Awakening done in pink.

  ‘Hullo, Mabel!’ he said, with a sort of gulp.

  ‘Hallo!’ said the girl.

  ‘Mabel,’ said Bingo, ‘this is Bertie Wooster, a pal of mine.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you,’ she said. ‘Nice morning.’

  ‘Fine,’ I said.

  ‘You see I’m wearing the tie,’ said Bingo.

  ‘It suits you beautiful,’ said the girl.

  Personally, if anyone had told me that a tie like that suited me, I should have risen and struck them on the mazzard, regardless of their age and sex; but poor old Bingo simply got all flustered with gratification, and smirked in the most gruesome manner.

  ‘Well, what’s it going to be today?’ asked the girl, introducing the business touch into the conversation.

  Bingo studied the menu devoutly.

  ‘I’ll have a cup of cocoa, cold veal and ham pie, slice of fruit cake, and a macaroon. Same for you, Bertie?’

  I gazed at the man, revolted. That he could have been a pal of mine all these years and think me capable of insulting the old tum with this sort of stuff cut me to the quick.

  ‘Or how about a bit of hot steak-pudding, with a sparkling limado to wash it down?’ said Bingo.