Right Ho, Jeeves
have known. It just shows that you can bury yourself in the country and
still somehow acquire a vocabulary. No doubt one picks up things from
the neighbours--the vicar, the local doctor, the man who brings the
milk, and so on.
“But, dash it,” I said, “can’t you see what this is going to do for
you? It will send your stock up with a jump. There you will be, up on
that platform, a romantic, impressive figure, the star of the whole
proceedings, the what-d’you-call-it of all eyes. Madeline Bassett will
be all over you. She will see you in a totally new light.”
“She will, will she?”
“Certainly she will. Augustus Fink-Nottle, the newts’ friend, she
knows. She is acquainted with Augustus Fink-Nottle, the dogs’
chiropodist. But Augustus Fink-Nottle, the orator--that’ll knock her
sideways, or I know nothing of the female heart. Girls go potty over a
public man. If ever anyone did anyone else a kindness, it was I when I
gave this extraordinary attractive assignment to you.”
He seemed impressed by my eloquence. Couldn’t have helped himself, of
course. The fire faded from behind his horn-rimmed spectacles, and in
its place appeared the old fish-like goggle.
“’Myes,” he said meditatively. “Have you ever made a speech, Bertie?”
“Dozens of times. It’s pie. Nothing to it. Why, I once addressed a
girls’ school.”
“You weren’t nervous?”
“Not a bit.”
“How did you go?”
“They hung on my lips. I held them in the hollow of my hand.”
“They didn’t throw eggs, or anything?”
“Not a thing.”
He expelled a deep breath, and for a space stood staring in silence at
a passing slug.
“Well,” he said, at length, “it may be all right. Possibly I am letting
the thing prey on my mind too much. I may be wrong in supposing it
the fate that is worse than death. But I’ll tell you this much: the
prospect of that prize-giving on the thirty-first of this month has
been turning my existence into a nightmare. I haven’t been able to
sleep or think or eat ... By the way, that reminds me. You never
explained that cipher telegram about the sausages and ham.”
“It wasn’t a cipher telegram. I wanted you to go light on the food, so
that she would realize you were in love.”
He laughed hollowly.
“I see. Well, I’ve been doing that, all right.”
“Yes, I was noticing at dinner. Splendid.”
“I don’t see what’s splendid about it. It’s not going to get me
anywhere. I shall never be able to ask her to marry me. I couldn’t find
nerve to do that if I lived on wafer biscuits for the rest of my life.”
“But, dash it, Gussie. In these romantic surroundings. I should have
thought the whispering trees alone----”
“I don’t care what you would have thought. I can’t do it.”
“Oh, come!”
“I can’t. She seems so aloof, so remote.”
“She doesn’t.”
“Yes, she does. Especially when you see her sideways. Have you seen her
sideways, Bertie? That cold, pure profile. It just takes all the heart
out of one.”
“It doesn’t.”
“I tell you it does. I catch sight of it, and the words freeze on my
lips.”
He spoke with a sort of dull despair, and so manifest was his lack
of ginger and the spirit that wins to success that for an instant,
I confess, I felt a bit stymied. It seemed hopeless to go on trying
to steam up such a human jellyfish. Then I saw the way. With that
extraordinary quickness of mine, I realized exactly what must be done
if this Fink-Nottle was to be enabled to push his nose past the judges’
box.
“She must be softened up,” I said.
“Be what?”
“Softened up. Sweetened. Worked on. Preliminary spadework must be put
in. Here, Gussie, is the procedure I propose to adopt: I shall now
return to the house and lug this Bassett out for a stroll. I shall talk
to her of hearts that yearn, intimating that there is one actually
on the premises. I shall pitch it strong, sparing no effort. You,
meanwhile, will lurk on the outskirts, and in about a quarter of an
hour you will come along and carry on from there. By that time, her
emotions having been stirred, you ought to be able to do the rest on
your head. It will be like leaping on to a moving bus.”
I remember when I was a kid at school having to learn a poem of sorts
about a fellow named Pig-something--a sculptor he would have been, no
doubt--who made a statue of a girl, and what should happen one morning
but that the bally thing suddenly came to life. A pretty nasty shock
for the chap, of course, but the point I’m working round to is that
there were a couple of lines that went, if I remember correctly:
_She starts. She moves. She seems to feel
The stir of life along her keel._
And what I’m driving at is that you couldn’t get a better description
of what happened to Gussie as I spoke these heartening words. His brow
cleared, his eyes brightened, he lost that fishy look, and he gazed
at the slug, which was still on the long, long trail with something
approaching bonhomie. A marked improvement.
“I see what you mean. You will sort of pave the way, as it were.”
“That’s right. Spadework.”
“It’s a terrific idea, Bertie. It will make all the difference.”
“Quite. But don’t forget that after that it will be up to you. You will
have to haul up your slacks and give her the old oil, or my efforts
will have been in vain.”
Something of his former Gawd-help-us-ness seemed to return to him. He
gasped a bit.
“That’s true. What the dickens shall I say?”
I restrained my impatience with an effort. The man had been at school
with me.
“Dash it, there are hundreds of things you can say. Talk about the
sunset.”
“The sunset?”
“Certainly. Half the married men you meet began by talking about the
sunset.”
“But what can I say about the sunset?”
“Well, Jeeves got off a good one the other day. I met him airing the
dog in the park one evening, and he said, ‘Now fades the glimmering
landscape on the sight, sir, and all the air a solemn stillness holds.’
You might use that.”
“What sort of landscape?”
“Glimmering. _G_ for ‘gastritis,’ _l_ for ‘lizard’----”
“Oh, glimmering? Yes, that’s not bad. Glimmering landscape ... solemn
stillness.... Yes, I call that pretty good.”
“You could then say that you have often thought that the stars are
God’s daisy chain.”
“But I haven’t.”
“I dare say not. But she has. Hand her that one, and I don’t see how
she can help feeling that you’re a twin soul.”
“God’s daisy chain?”
“God’s daisy chain. And then you go on about how twilight always makes
you sad. I know you’re going to say it doesn’t, but on this occasion it
has jolly well got to.”
“Why?”
“That’s just what she will ask, and you will then have got her going.
Because you will reply that it is because yours is such a lonely life.
It wouldn’t be a bad idea to give her a brief description of a typical
home evening at your Lincolnshire residence, showing how you pace the
meadows with a heavy tread.”
“I generally sit indoors and listen to the wireless.”
“No, you don’t. You pace the meadows with a heavy tread, wishing that
you had someone to love you. And then you speak of the day when she
came into your life.”
“Like a fairy princess.”
“Absolutely,” I said with approval. I hadn’t expected such a hot one
from such a quarter. “Like a fairy princess. Nice work, Gussie.”
“And then?”
“Well, after that it’s easy. You say you have something you want to say
to her, and then you snap into it. I don’t see how it can fail. If I
were you, I should do it in this rose garden. It is well established
that there is no sounder move than to steer the adored object into rose
gardens in the gloaming. And you had better have a couple of quick ones
first.”
“Quick ones?”
“Snifters.”
“Drinks, do you mean? But I don’t drink.”
“What?”
“I’ve never touched a drop in my life.”
This made me a bit dubious, I must confess. On these occasions it is
generally conceded that a moderate skinful is of the essence.
However, if the facts were as he had stated, I supposed there was
nothing to be done about it.
“Well, you’ll have to make out as best you can on ginger pop.”
“I always drink orange juice.”
“Orange juice, then. Tell me, Gussie, to settle a bet, do you really
like that muck?”
“Very much.”
“Then there is no more to be said. Now, let’s just have a run through,
to see that you’ve got the lay-out straight. Start off with the
glimmering landscape.”
“Stars God’s daisy chain.”
“Twilight makes you feel sad.”
“Because mine lonely life.”
“Describe life.”
“Talk about the day I met her.”
“Add fairy-princess gag. Say there’s something you want to say to her.
Heave a couple of sighs. Grab her hand. And give her the works. Right.”
And confident that he had grasped the scenario and that everything
might now be expected to proceed through the proper channels, I picked
up the feet and hastened back to the house.
It was not until I had reached the drawing-room and was enabled to
take a square look at the Bassett that I found the debonair gaiety
with which I had embarked on this affair beginning to wane a trifle.
Beholding her at close range like this, I suddenly became cognisant of
what I was in for. The thought of strolling with this rummy specimen
undeniably gave me a most unpleasant sinking feeling. I could not
but remember how often, when in her company at Cannes, I had gazed
dumbly at her, wishing that some kindly motorist in a racing car would
ease the situation by coming along and ramming her amidships. As I
have already made abundantly clear, this girl was not one of my most
congenial buddies.
However, a Wooster’s word is his bond. Woosters may quail, but they do
not edge out. Only the keenest ear could have detected the tremor in
the voice as I asked her if she would care to come out for half an hour.
“Lovely evening,” I said.
“Yes, lovely, isn’t it?”
“Lovely. Reminds me of Cannes.”
“How lovely the evenings were there!”
“Lovely,” I said.
“Lovely,” said the Bassett.
“Lovely,” I agreed.
That completed the weather and news bulletin for the French Riviera.
Another minute, and we were out in the great open spaces, she cooing
a bit about the scenery, and self replying, “Oh, rather, quite,” and
wondering how best to approach the matter in hand.
-10-
How different it all would have been, I could not but reflect, if
this girl had been the sort of girl one chirrups cheerily to over the
telephone and takes for spins in the old two-seater. In that case, I
would simply have said, “Listen,” and she would have said, “What?” and
I would have said, “You know Gussie Fink-Nottle,” and she would have
said, “Yes,” and I would have said, “He loves you,” and she would have
said either, “What, that mutt? Well, thank heaven for one good laugh
today,” or else, in more passionate vein, “Hot dog! Tell me more.”
I mean to say, in either event the whole thing over and done with in
under a minute.
But with the Bassett something less snappy and a good deal more
glutinous was obviously indicated. What with all this daylight-saving
stuff, we had hit the great open spaces at a moment when twilight had
not yet begun to cheese it in favour of the shades of night. There was
a fag-end of sunset still functioning. Stars were beginning to peep
out, bats were fooling round, the garden was full of the aroma of those
niffy white flowers which only start to put in their heavy work at the
end of the day--in short, the glimmering landscape was fading on the
sight and all the air held a solemn stillness, and it was plain that
this was having the worst effect on her. Her eyes were enlarged, and
her whole map a good deal too suggestive of the soul’s awakening for
comfort.
Her aspect was that of a girl who was expecting something fairly fruity
from Bertram.
In these circs., conversation inevitably flagged a bit. I am never