Jeeves and the Feudal Spirit:

by P. G. Wodehouse

  He looked at Jeeves with a wild surmise. I heard Aunt Dahlia gasp a gasp.

  'Is that right?'

  'Yes, sir. I can guarantee the efficacy of the preparation.'

  L. G. Trotter emitted a loud 'Woof!'

  'Let's go,' he said briefly.

  'I'll come with you and hold your hand,' said Aunt Dahlia.

  'Just one word,' I said, as the procession started to file out. 'On swallowing the stuff you will have the momentary illusion that you have been struck by lightning. Pay no attention. It's all part of the treatment. But watch the eyeballs, as they are liable, unless checked, to start from the parent sockets and rebound from the opposite wall.'

  They passed from the room, and I was alone with Florence.

  CHAPTER 22

  It's an odd thing, but it hadn't occurred to me in the rush and swirl of recent events that, with people drifting off in twos and threes and – in the case of Spode – in ones, the time must inevitably come when this beasel and I would be left face to face in what is called a solitude à deux. And now that this unpleasant state of affairs had come about, it was difficult to know how to start the conversation. However, I had a pop at it, the same pop I had had when finding myself closeted with L. G. Trotter.

  'Can I get you a sausage?' I said.

  She waved it away. It was plain that the unrest in her soul could not be lulled with sausages.

  'Oh, Bertie,' she said, and paused.

  'Or a slice of ham?'

  She shook her head. Ham appeared to be just as much a drug in the market as sausages.

  'Oh, Bertie,' she said again.

  'Right opposite you,' I said encouragingly.

  'Bertie, I don't know what to do.'

  She signed off once more, and I stood there waiting for something to emerge. A half-formed idea of offering her a kipper I dismissed. Too silly, I mean, keeping on suggesting items on the menu like a waiter trying to help a customer make up his mind.

  'I feel awful!' she said.

  'You look fine,' I assured her, but she dismissed the pretty compliment with another wave of the hand.

  She was silent again for a moment, and then it came out with a rush.

  'It's about Percy.'

  I was nibbling a slice of toast as she spoke, but lowered it courteously.

  'Percy?' I said.

  'Oh, Bertie,' she proceeded, and from the way her nose wiggled I could see that she was in quite a state. 'All that that happened just now... when he said that about not disappointing the woman he loved... when I realized what he had done... just for me...'

  'I know what you mean,' I said. 'Very white.'

  'Something happened to me. It was as though for the first time I was seeing the real Percy. I had always admired his intellect, of course, but now it was different. I seemed to be gazing into his naked soul, and what I saw there...'

  'Pretty good, was it?' I queried, helping the thing along.

  She drew a deep breath.

  'I was overcome. I was stunned. I realized that he was just like Rollo Beaminster.'

  For a moment I was not abreast. Then I remembered.

  'Oh, ah, yes. You didn't get around to telling me much about Rollo, except that he was in a wild mood.'

  'Oh, that was quite early in the story, before he and Sylvia came together again.'

  'They came together, did they?'

  'Yes. She gazed into his naked soul and knew that there could be no other man for her.'

  I have already stressed the fact that I was mentally at my brightest this morning, and hearing these words I got the distinct idea that she was feeling pretty pro-Percy as of even date. I might be wrong, of course, but I didn't think so, and it seemed to me that this was a good thing that wanted pushing along. There is, as Jeeves had so neatly put it, a tide in the affairs of men which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune.

  'I say,' I said, 'here's a thought. Why don't you marry Percy?'

  She started. I saw that she was trembling. She moved, she stirred, she seemed to feel the rush of life along her keel. In her eyes, as she gazed at me, it wasn't difficult to spot the light of hope.

  'But I'm engaged to you,' she faltered, rather giving the impression that she could have kicked herself for being such a chump.

  'Oh, that can be readily adjusted,' I said heartily. 'Call it off, is my advice. You don't want a weedy butterfly like me about the home, you want something more in the nature of a soul-mate, a chap with a number nine hat you can sit and hold hands and talk about T. S. Eliot with. And Percy fills the bill.'

  She choked a bit. The light of hope was now very pronounced.

  'Bertie! You will release me?'

  'Certainly, certainly. Frightful wrench, of course, and all that sort of thing, but consider it done.'

  'Oh, Bertie!'

  She flung herself upon me and kissed me. Unpleasant, of course, but these things have to be faced. As I once heard Anatole remark, one must learn to take a few roughs with a smooth.

  We were still linked together in a close embrace, when the silence – we were embracing fairly silently – was broken by what sounded like the heart-cry of one of the local dogs which had bumped its nose against the leg of the table.

  It wasn't a dog. It was Percy. He was standing there looking overwrought, and I didn't blame him. Agony, of course, if you love a girl, to come into a room and find her all tangled up with another fellow.

  He pulled himself together with a powerful effort.

  'Go on,' he said, 'go on. I'm sorry I interrupted you.'

  He broke off with a choking gulp, and I could see it was quite a surprise to him when Florence, abruptly detaching herself from me, did a jack rabbit leap that was almost in the Cheesewright–Wooster class and hurled herself into his arms.

  'Eh, what?' he said, plainly missing the gist.

  'I love you, Percy!'

  'You do?' His face lit up for an instance. Then there was a black-out. 'But you're engaged to Wooster,' he said moodily, eyeing me in a manner that seemed to suggest that in his opinion it was fellows like me who caused half the trouble in the world.

  I moved over to the table and took another slice of toast. Cold, of course, but I rather like cold toast, provided there's plenty of butter.

  'No, that's off,' I said. 'Carry on, old sport. You have the green light.'

  Florence's voice shook.

  'Bertie has released me, Percy. I was kissing him because I was so grateful. When I told him I loved you, he released me.'

  You could see that Percy was impressed.

  'I say! That was very decent of him.'

  'He's like that. Bertie is the soul of chivalry.'

  'He certainly is. I'm amazed. Nobody would think it, to look at him.'

  I was getting about fed up with people saying nobody would think it, to look at me, and it is quite possible that I might at this point have said something. But before I could assemble the makings Florence suddenly uttered something that was virtually tantamount to a wail of anguish.

  'But, Percy, what are we to do? I've only a small dress allowance.'

  I didn't follow the trend of her thought. Nor did Percy. Cryptic, I considered it, and I could see he thought so, too.

  'What's that got to do with it?' he said.

  Florence wrung her hands, a thing I've often heard about but never seen done. It's a sort of circular movement, starting from the wrists.

  'I mean, I haven't any money and you haven't any money, except what your stepfather is going to pay you when you join the business. We should have to live in Liverpool. I can't live in Liverpool!'

  Well, of course, lots of people do, or so I have been given to understand, but I saw what she meant. Her heart was in London's Bohemia – Bloomsbury Chelsea, sandwiches and absinthe in the old studio, all that sort of thing, and she hated to give it up. I don't suppose they have studios up Liverpool way.

  "Myes,' said Percy.

  'You see what I mean?'

  'Oh, quite,'said Percy.
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br />   He was plainly ill at ease. A strange light had come into his tortoiseshell-rimmed spectacles, and his whiskers quivered gently. For a moment he stood there letting 'I dare not' wait upon 'I would'. Then he spoke.

  'Florence, I have a confession to make. I hardly know how to tell you. The truth is that my financial position is reasonably sound. I am not a rich man, but I have a satisfactory income, quite large enough to support the home. I have no intention of going to Liverpool'

  Florence goggled. I have an idea that she was thinking, early though it was, that he had had one over the eight. Her air was that of a girl on the point of asking him to say Theodore Oswaldtwistle, the thistle sifter, in sifting a sack of thistles thrust three thorns through the thick of his thumb'. However, all she said was:

  'But, Percy darling, you surely can't make much out of your poetry?'

  He twiddled his fingers for a moment. You could see he was trying to nerve himself to reveal something he would much have preferred to keep under his hat. I have had the same experience when had up on the carpet by my Aunt Agatha.

  'I don't,' he said. 'I only got fifteen shillings for that "Caliban At Sunset" thing of mine in Parnassus, and I had to fight like a tiger to get that. The editress wanted to beat me down to twelve-and-six. But I have a ... an alternative source of revenue.'

  'I don't understand.'

  He bowed his head.

  'You will. My receipts from this – er – alternative source of revenue amounted last year to nearly eight hundred pounds, and this year it should be double that, for my agent has succeeded in establishing me in the American market. Florence, you will shrink from me, but I have to tell you. I write detective stories under the pseudonym of Rex West.'

  I wasn't looking at Florence, so I don't know if she shrank from him, but I certainly didn't. I stared at him, agog.

  'Rex West? Lord-love-a-duck! Did you write The Mystery of the Pink Crayfish?' I gasped.

  He bowed his head again.

  'I did. And Murder in Mauve, The Case of the Poisoned Doughnut and Inspector Biffen Views the Body.'

  I hadn't happened to get hold of those, but I assured him that I would lose no time in putting them on my library list, and went on to ask a question which had been occupying my mind for quite a while.

  Then who was it who bumped off Sir Eustace Willoughby Bart, with the blunt instrument?'

  In a low, toneless voice he said:

  'Burwash, the butler.'

  I uttered a cry.

  As I suspected! As I suspected from the first!'

  I would have probed further into this Art of his, asking him how he thought up these things and did he work regular hours or wait for inspiration, but Florence had taken the floor again. So far from shrinking from him, she was nestling in his arms and covering his face with burning kisses.

  'Percy!' She was all over the blighter. 'I think it's wonderful! How frightfully clever of you!'

  He tottered.

  'You aren't revolted?'

  'Of course I'm not. I'm tremendously pleased. Are you working on something now?'

  A novelette. I think of calling it Blood Will Tell. It will run to about thirty thousand words. My agent says these American magazines like what they call one-shotters – a colloquial expression, I imagine, for material of a length suitable for publication in a single issue.'

  'You must tell me all about it,' said Florence, taking his arm and heading for the french window.

  'Hey, just a moment,' I said.

  'Yes?' said Percy, turning. 'What is it, Wooster? Talk quickly. I'm busy'

  'May I have your autograph?'

  He beamed.

  'You really want it?'

  'I am a great admirer of your work.'

  'That is the boy!' said Percy.

  He wrote it on the back of an envelope, and they went out hand in hand, these two young folks starting on the long journey together. And I, feeling a bit peckish after this emotional scene, sat down and had another go at the sausages and bacon.

  I was still thus engaged when the door opened and Aunt Dahlia came in. A glance was enough to tell me that all was well with the aged relative. On a previous occasion I have described her face as shining like the seat of a bus-driver's trousers. It was doing so now. If she had been going to be Queen of the May, she could not have looked chirpier.

  'Has L. G. Trotter signed the papers?' I asked.

  'He's going to, the moment he gets his eyeballs back. How right you were about his eyeballs. When last seen, they were ricocheting from wall to wall, with him in hot pursuit. Bertie,' said the old ancestor, speaking in an awed voice, 'what does Jeeves put into those mixtures of his?'

  I shook my head.

  'Only he and his God know that,' I said gravely.

  They seem powerful stuff. I remember reading somewhere once about a dog that swallowed a bottle of chilli sauce. It was described as putting up quite a performance. Trotter reacted in a somewhat similar manner. I should imagine dynamite was one of the ingredients.'

  'Very possibly,' I said. 'But let us not talk of dogs and chilli sauce. Let us rather discuss these happy endings of ours.'

  'Endings? In the plural? I've had a happy ending, all right, but you–'

  'Me, too. Florence –'

  'You don't mean it's off?'

  'She's going to marry Percy.'

  'Bertie, my beamish boy!'

  'Didn't I tell you I had faith in my star? The moral of the whole thing, as I see it, is that you can't keep a good man down, or' – I bowed slightly in her direction – 'a good woman. What a lesson this should be to us, old flesh and blood, never to give up, never to despair. However dark the outlook

  I was about to add 'and however black the clouds' and go on to speak of the sun sooner or later smiling through, but at this moment Jeeves shimmered in.

  'Excuse me, madam. Would it be convenient for you to join Mr Trotter in the library, madam? He is waiting for you there.'

  Aunt Dahlia really needs a horse to help her get up speed, but though afoot she made excellent time to the door.

  'How is he?' she asked, turning on the threshold.

  'Completely restored to health, madam, I am happy to say. He speaks of venturing on a sandwich and a glass of milk at the conclusion of your conference.'

  She gave him a long, reverent look.

  'Jeeves,' she said, 'you stand alone. I knew you would save the day.'

  'Thank you very much, madam.'

  'Have you ever tried those mixtures of yours on a corpse?'

  'Not yet, madam.'

  'You should,' said the old relative, and curveted out like one of those mettlesome steeds which, though I have never heard one do it myself, say 'Ha!' among the trumpets.

  A silence followed her departure, for I was plunged in thought. I was debating within myself whether to take a step of major importance or whether, on the other hand, not to, and at such times one does not talk, one weighs the pros and cons. I was, in short, standing at a man's cross-roads.

  That moustache of mine...

  Pro: I loved the little thing. I fancied myself in it. I had hoped to nurse it through the years with top dressing till it became the talk of the town.

  Con: But was it, I asked myself, safe ? Recalling the effect of its impact on Florence Craye, I saw clearly that it had made me too fascinating. There peril lurked. When you become too fascinating, all sorts of things are liable to occur which you don't want to occur, if you follow me.

  A strange calm descended on me, I had made my decision.

  'Jeeves,' I said, and if I felt a passing pang, why not? One is but human. 'Jeeves,' I said, 'I'm going to shave my moustache.'

  His left eyebrow flickered, showing how deeply the words had moved him.

  'Indeed, sir?'

  'Yes, you have earned this sacrifice. When I have eaten my fill... Good sausages, these.'

  'Yes, sir.'

  'Made, no doubt, from contented pigs. Did you have some for your breakfast?'

  '
Yes, sir.'

  'Well, as I was saying, when I have eaten my fill, I shall proceed upstairs to my room, I shall lather the upper lip, I shall take razor in hand... and voilà!'

  'Thank you very much, sir,' he said.

  THE END

  P.G. Wodehouse

  IN ARROW BOOKS

  If you have enjoyed Jeeves and Wooster, you'll love Mr Mulliner

  FROM

  Mr Mulliner Speaking

  The conversation in the bar-parlour of the Angler's Rest, which always tends to get deepish towards closing-time, had turned to the subject of the Modern Girl; and a Gin-and-Ginger-Ale sitting in the corner by the window remarked that it was strange how types die out.

  'I can remember the days,' said the Gin-and-Ginger-Ale, 'when every other girl you met stood about six feet two in her dancing-shoes, and had as many curves as a Scenic Railway. Now they are all five foot nothing and you can't see them sideways. Why is this?'

  The Draught Stout shook his head.

  'Nobody can say. It's the same with dogs. One moment the world is full of pugs as far as the eye can reach; the next, not a pug in sight, only Pekes and Alsatians. Odd!'

  The Small Bass and the Double-Whisky-and-Splash admitted that these things were very mysterious, and supposed we should never know the reason for them. Probably we were not meant to know.

  'I cannot agree with you, gentlemen,' said Mr Mulliner. He had been sipping his hot Scotch and lemon with a rather abstracted air: but now he sat up alertly, prepared to deliver judgement. 'The reason for the disappearance of the dignified, queenly type of girl is surely obvious. It is Nature's method of ensuring the continuance of the species. A world full of the sort of young woman that Meredith used to put into his novels and du Maurier into his pictures in Punch would be a world full of permanent spinsters. The modern young man would never be able to summon up the nerve to propose to them.'

  'Something in that,' assented the Draught Stout.

  'I speak with authority on the point,' said Mr Mulliner, 'because my nephew, Archibald, made me his confidant when he fell in love with Aurelia Cammarleigh. He worshipped that girl with a fervour which threatened to unseat his reason, such as it was: but the mere idea of asking her to be his wife gave him, he informed me, such a feeling of sick faintness that only by means of a very stiff brandy and soda, or some similar restorative, was he able to pull himself together on the occasions when he contemplated it. Had it not been for. . . But perhaps you would care to hear the story from the beginning?'