Right Ho, Jeeves
flashed over the wires. I studied it in a profound reverie for the best
part of two dry Martinis and a dividend. I read it backwards. I read it
forwards. As a matter of fact, I have a sort of recollection of even
smelling it. But it still baffled me.
Consider the facts, I mean. It was only a few hours since this aunt
and I had parted, after being in constant association for nearly two
months. And yet here she was--with my farewell kiss still lingering on
her cheek, so to speak--pleading for another reunion. Bertram Wooster
is not accustomed to this gluttonous appetite for his society. Ask
anyone who knows me, and they will tell you that after two months of my
company, what the normal person feels is that that will about do for
the present. Indeed, I have known people who couldn’t stick it out for
more than a few days.
Before sitting down to the well-cooked, therefore, I sent this reply:
_Perplexed. Explain. Bertie._
To this I received an answer during the after-luncheon sleep:
_What on earth is there to be perplexed about, ass? Come at once.
Travers._
Three cigarettes and a couple of turns about the room, and I had my
response ready:
_How do you mean come at once? Regards. Bertie._
I append the comeback:
_I mean come at once, you maddening half-wit. What did you think I
meant? Come at once or expect an aunt’s curse first post tomorrow.
Love. Travers._
I then dispatched the following message, wishing to get everything
quite clear:
_When you say “Come” do you mean “Come to Brinkley Court”? And when
you say “At once” do you mean “At once”? Fogged. At a loss. All the
best. Bertie._
I sent this one off on my way to the Drones, where I spent a restful
afternoon throwing cards into a top-hat with some of the better
element. Returning in the evening hush, I found the answer waiting for
me:
_Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes. It doesn’t matter whether you
understand or not. You just come at once, as I tell you, and for
heaven’s sake stop this back-chat. Do you think I am made of money
that I can afford to send you telegrams every ten minutes. Stop
being a fathead and come immediately. Love. Travers._
It was at this point that I felt the need of getting a second opinion.
I pressed the bell.
“Jeeves,” I said, “a V-shaped rumminess has manifested itself from
the direction of Worcestershire. Read these,” I said, handing him the
papers in the case.
He scanned them.
“What do you make of it, Jeeves?”
“I think Mrs. Travers wishes you to come at once, sir.”
“You gather that too, do you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I put the same construction on the thing. But why, Jeeves? Dash it
all, she’s just had nearly two months of me.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And many people consider the medium dose for an adult two days.”
“Yes, sir. I appreciate the point you raise. Nevertheless, Mrs. Travers
appears very insistent. I think it would be well to acquiesce in her
wishes.”
“Pop down, you mean?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, I certainly can’t go at once. I’ve an important conference on at
the Drones tonight. Pongo Twistleton’s birthday party, you remember.”
“Yes, sir.”
There was a slight pause. We were both recalling the little
unpleasantness that had arisen. I felt obliged to allude to it.
“You’re all wrong about that mess jacket, Jeeves.”
“These things are matters of opinion, sir.”
“When I wore it at the Casino at Cannes, beautiful women nudged one
another and whispered: ‘Who is he?’”
“The code at Continental casinos is notoriously lax, sir.”
“And when I described it to Pongo last night, he was fascinated.”
“Indeed, sir?”
“So were all the rest of those present. One and all admitted that I had
got hold of a good thing. Not a dissentient voice.”
“Indeed, sir?”
“I am convinced that you will eventually learn to love this
mess-jacket, Jeeves.”
“I fear not, sir.”
I gave it up. It is never any use trying to reason with Jeeves on these
occasions. “Pig-headed” is the word that springs to the lips. One sighs
and passes on.
“Well, anyway, returning to the agenda, I can’t go down to Brinkley
Court or anywhere else yet awhile. That’s final. I’ll tell you what,
Jeeves. Give me form and pencil, and I’ll wire her that I’ll be with
her some time next week or the week after. Dash it all, she ought to
be able to hold out without me for a few days. It only requires will
power.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Right ho, then. I’ll wire ‘Expect me tomorrow fortnight’ or words to
some such effect. That ought to meet the case. Then if you will toddle
round the corner and send it off, that will be that.”
“Very good, sir.”
And so the long day wore on till it was time for me to dress for
Pongo’s party.
Pongo had assured me, while chatting of the affair on the previous
night, that this birthday binge of his was to be on a scale calculated
to stagger humanity, and I must say I have participated in less fruity
functions. It was well after four when I got home, and by that time I
was about ready to turn in. I can just remember groping for the bed
and crawling into it, and it seemed to me that the lemon had scarcely
touched the pillow before I was aroused by the sound of the door
opening.
I was barely ticking over, but I contrived to raise an eyelid.
“Is that my tea, Jeeves?”
“No, sir. It is Mrs. Travers.”
And a moment later there was a sound like a mighty rushing wind, and
the relative had crossed the threshold at fifty m.p.h. under her own
steam.
-4-
It has been well said of Bertram Wooster that, while no one views his
flesh and blood with a keener and more remorselessly critical eye,
he is nevertheless a man who delights in giving credit where credit
is due. And if you have followed these memoirs of mine with the
proper care, you will be aware that I have frequently had occasion to
emphasise the fact that Aunt Dahlia is all right.
She is the one, if you remember, who married old Tom Travers _en
secondes noces_, as I believe the expression is, the year Bluebottle
won the Cambridgeshire, and once induced me to write an article on What
the Well-Dressed Man is Wearing for that paper she runs--_Milady’s
Boudoir_. She is a large, genial soul, with whom it is a pleasure
to hob-nob. In her spiritual make-up there is none of that subtle
gosh-awfulness which renders such an exhibit as, say, my Aunt Agatha
the curse of the Home Counties and a menace to one and all. I have
the highest esteem for Aunt Dahlia, and have never wavered in my
cordial appreciation of her humanity, sporting qualities and general
good-eggishness.
This being so, you may conceive of my astonishment at finding her at
my bedside at such an hour. I mean to say, I’ve stayed at her place
many a time and oft, and she knows my habits. She is well aware that
until I have had my cup of tea in the morning, I do not receive. This
crashing in at a moment when she knew that solitude and repose were of
the essence was scarcely, I could not but feel, the good old form.
Besides, what business had she being in London at all? That was what
I asked myself. When a conscientious housewife has returned to her
home after an absence of seven weeks, one does not expect her to start
racing off again the day after her arrival. One feels that she ought
to be sticking round, ministering to her husband, conferring with the
cook, feeding the cat, combing and brushing the Pomeranian--in a word,
staying put. I was more than a little bleary-eyed, but I endeavoured,
as far as the fact that my eyelids were more or less glued together
would permit, to give her an austere and censorious look.
She didn’t seem to get it.
“Wake up, Bertie, you old ass!” she cried, in a voice that hit me
between the eyebrows and went out at the back of my head.
If Aunt Dahlia has a fault, it is that she is apt to address a
_vis-à-vis_ as if he were somebody half a mile away whom she had
observed riding over hounds. A throwback, no doubt, to the time
when she counted the day lost that was not spent in chivvying some
unfortunate fox over the countryside.
I gave her another of the austere and censorious, and this time it
registered. All the effect it had, however, was to cause her to descend
to personalities.
“Don’t blink at me in that obscene way,” she said. “I wonder, Bertie,”
she proceeded, gazing at me as I should imagine Gussie would have gazed
at some newt that was not up to sample, “if you have the faintest
conception how perfectly loathsome you look? A cross between an orgy
scene in the movies and some low form of pond life. I suppose you were
out on the tiles last night?”
“I attended a social function, yes,” I said coldly. “Pongo Twistleton’s
birthday party. I couldn’t let Pongo down. _Noblesse oblige_.”
“Well, get up and dress.”
I felt I could not have heard her aright.
“Get up and dress?”
“Yes.”
I turned on the pillow with a little moan, and at this juncture Jeeves
entered with the vital oolong. I clutched at it like a drowning man
at a straw hat. A deep sip or two, and I felt--I won’t say restored,
because a birthday party like Pongo Twistleton’s isn’t a thing you get
restored after with a mere mouthful of tea, but sufficiently the old
Bertram to be able to bend the mind on this awful thing which had come
upon me.
And the more I bent same, the less could I grasp the trend of the
scenario.
“What is this, Aunt Dahlia?” I inquired.
“It looks to me like tea,” was her response. “But you know best. You’re
drinking it.”
If I hadn’t been afraid of spilling the healing brew, I have little
doubt that I should have given an impatient gesture. I know I felt like
it.
“Not the contents of this cup. All this. Your barging in and telling me
to get up and dress, and all that rot.”
“I’ve barged in, as you call it, because my telegrams seemed to produce
no effect. And I told you to get up and dress because I want you to get
up and dress. I’ve come to take you back with me. I like your crust,
wiring that you would come next year or whenever it was. You’re coming
now. I’ve got a job for you.”
“But I don’t want a job.”
“What you want, my lad, and what you’re going to get are two very
different things. There is man’s work for you to do at Brinkley Court.
Be ready to the last button in twenty minutes.”
“But I can’t possibly be ready to any buttons in twenty minutes. I’m
feeling awful.”
She seemed to consider.
“Yes,” she said. “I suppose it’s only humane to give you a day or two
to recover. All right, then, I shall expect you on the thirtieth at the
latest.”
“But, dash it, what is all this? How do you mean, a job? Why a job?
What sort of a job?”
“I’ll tell you if you’ll only stop talking for a minute. It’s quite an
easy, pleasant job. You will enjoy it. Have you ever heard of Market
Snodsbury Grammar School?”
“Never.”
“It’s a grammar school at Market Snodsbury.”
I told her a little frigidly that I had divined as much.
“Well, how was I to know that a man with a mind like yours would grasp
it so quickly?” she protested. “All right, then. Market Snodsbury
Grammar School is, as you have guessed, the grammar school at Market
Snodsbury. I’m one of the governors.”
“You mean one of the governesses.”
“I don’t mean one of the governesses. Listen, ass. There was a board
of governors at Eton, wasn’t there? Very well. So there is at Market
Snodsbury Grammar School, and I’m a member of it. And they left the
arrangements for the summer prize-giving to me. This prize-giving takes
place on the last--or thirty-first--day of this month. Have you got
that clear?”
I took another oz. of the life-saving and inclined my head. Even after
a Pongo Twistleton birthday party, I was capable of grasping simple
facts like these.
“I follow you, yes. I see the point you are trying to make, certainly.