P. G. Wodehouse - The Code of the Woosters

(A book in the Jeeves and Wooster series)

P.G. Wodehouse

1938

Take Gussie Fink-Nottle, Madeline Bassett, old Pop Bassett, the unscrupulous Stiffy Byng, an 18th-century cow-creamer, a small brown leather covered notebook and mix with a dose of the aged aunt Dahlia and one has a dangerous brew which spells toil and trouble for Bertie and Jeeves.

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 youre 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 Jeevess 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 thats 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 cant do with any more education. I was full up years ago. No, Jeeves, I know whats 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 Ill 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 Gussies 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? Shes 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 ducks 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 to 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 enquire 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 for the library, where I had been informed that Aunt Dahlia was at the moment roosting.

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