Fic: Jeeves and the Literary Pursuits
Jeeves and the Literary Pursuits
By kalimyre
Rating: PG
Pairing: Jeeves/Wooster
Summary: In which Jeeves is not a time traveler or a ghost, but Bertie is a detective and a literary sort.
Notes: Thanks as always to ennui_blue_lite for tweaking, polishing, and generally being fabulous.
~~~
I am not what you would call a literary sort. I have whiled away many a winter evening with a mystery novel, and I enjoy a nice fast-paced adventure story-you know, the kind with pirates and damsels in distress and a good sword-fight or two, but for those weighty tomes of deep thought, Jeeves is the fellow you want.
Anyway, on that particular long winter e., I put my book down and biffed to the kitchen, where Jeeves was fiddling about with bits of silver and a polishing rag. He began to stand, but I quelled him with a wave. “I say, Jeeves,” I began, “have you ever read that book?”
“Sir?”
“You know, that one I’m reading, with the time traveling whatsit and the little pink chappies.”
“I believe you are referring to The Time Machine, by H.G. Wells, sir. First published in 1895 and considered one of the founding works of the science fiction genre, as well as a grim prediction of the future of capitalism as seen from a socialist viewpoint.” He said all this without so much as a glance up from the silver, in that nonchalant way that makes a chap feel as if he’s missed out on some common knowledge. There must be some things that he doesn’t know, but I’ve yet to discover them.
“Right, that’s the one,” I said. “What do you suppose you’d do with a time machine, Jeeves? Would you go to the future like the fellow in the book?”
“I could not say, sir,” he said.
“Oh, come on, Jeeves,” I chided him. “Use your imagination. Why, I’d have a ball with a machine like that. I’d go see who won at Ascot and make a bundle.”
He gave a faintly disapproving cough. “Yes, sir. Perhaps Mr. Wells had a slightly wider view of time travel.”
“Or I’d go about warning myself not to do things,” I mused. “‘No, Bertram,’ I would say, ‘don’t try that wheeze of pushing young Edwin in the lake.’ Or I’d make sure to have a few clever stories ready for that speech at the girls’ school.”
“With the wisdom of hindsight, matters often grow clear, sir,” he replied.
“You’ve got that in droves then, haven’t you?” I asked. “You do always seem to know the outcome of events. I suppose that’s what you’d do, isn’t it? You’d skip about in that machine seeing what will happen and then advise all and sundry and seem terribly clever.”
The left corner of his mouth lifted nearly a full quarter inch. “Perhaps, sir,” he said, “I am already in the habit of doing so.”
Now, for those of you who don’t have the good fortune to know Jeeves as well as I do, let me inform you that despite outward appearances, he does have a sense of humor. And a dashed good one, at that-just drier than the Sahara. Still, old Bertram knows when his leg is being pulled, and at that moment I could detect a distinct tugging about the ankle.
“Do you mean to tell me, Jeeves, that you are actually in possession of a time device? And that you use it to perform your mysterious wonders?”
“No, sir,” he said, after a precisely calibrated pause.
“Because I would hope you do not think me so gullible as to believe that,” I continued, a trifle haughtily.
“Certainly not, sir.”
“In some circles, I am considered quite the skeptic,” I said. “Is skeptic the word I want?”
“Yes, sir,” he said. “I assure you, sir, that I have never had any doubts about your gullibility.”
It has often struck me that Jeeves has a particular knack for certain turns of phrase which carry more than one meaning. I chose to take the high road, as always. “Right,” I said. “Well. I’ll just get back to my book.”
“Very good, sir.”
Jeeves also has a knack for smirking without actually moving his mouth.
~~~
Some days later, I was comfortably ensconced in bed while Jeeves floated about, straightening the room and drawing the curtains. Soon he would mix my customary nightcap and leave me to my rest, which on that particular evening I could not imagine being very restful. London was in the grip of a winter storm, and the wind was having a dashed good try at knocking the building down. I could hear it howling about outside, just as it was described in The Haunting of Morehouse Manor, which currently lay on my bedside table.
“Will that be all, sir?” Jeeves asked, hovering near the door.
“Ah,” I said, looking about. “Yes, thank you, Jeeves.”
“Good night, sir,” he said. As he began to close the door, a particularly loud gust of wind lashed the building and rattled the windows. I drew the covers up to my chin. “Jeeves?” I said, casually.
He paused in the doorway. “Sir?”
“What are your views on ghosts?” I asked.
He glided across the room and assembled himself by my bed. “Well, sir, from a theological standpoint, there have been numerous conflicting views on spirits, or souls, and one must also consider traditional folklore on the matter which varies widely. The philosopher and theologist Freidrich-”
“I mean to say, do you believe in them, Jeeves?”
“No, sir,” he said.
“Really? Never seen one, then?”
“No, sir.”
“Hmm.” The wind did its howling act round the corners of the building again. We Woosters are a courageous bunch, however, and I manfully restrained a shiver.
The soft, respectful sound of a Jeevesian throat-clearing came at my right elbow, and I jumped. He’d somehow got round the bed without my noticing. Jeeves is a bit ghost-like, now that I think of it. Always materializing silently in places and drifting about unseen.
“If I may take the liberty of mentioning it, sir, perhaps your reading material is poorly matched with your nature.”
“Just what are you suggesting, Jeeves?”
“Only that your gift of vivid imagination may cause a simple tale of the supernatural to have undue influence on your peace of mind, sir,” he said.
“Well,” I said, mollified. “I do have a generous helping of the old creative spirit.”
“Indeed, sir,” he said.
“And as you say, it’s a simple fiction.”
“Quite, sir.”
It occurred to me that with the storm outside and the warm lamplight inside and Jeeves’ steady presence in the flat with me, it was actually rather cozy. “Of course, I don’t believe in ghosts either,” I said. “Silly notion.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You could probably sneak up on any ghost that happened to intrude, anyway,” I added.
“Sir?”
“You move like a wraith, Jeeves. It’s uncanny.”
“Yes, sir,” he said.
“Compared to you, a ghost would probably blunder about the place tripping over things.”
“Indeed, sir,” he said, with a downright parched tone in his voice that meant he was humouring me. I hear that tone a bit more often than I would like. “If that will be all, sir?”
“Yes, thank you, Jeeves, that will be all.”
“Very good, sir,” he said. He trickled out the door, but left it open, allowing a swath of light from the hall. “Good night, sir.”
“Good night, Jeeves.”
~~~
“Do you like romance novels, Jeeves?” I asked him one morning over the morning cup.
“No, sir,” he said. “However, I have an aunt who is extremely fond of them.”
“Mmm,” I said. “Is that the same aunt with the oversized collection of Rosie M. Banks novels?”
“Yes, sir,” he replied, and poured me another cup of tea.
“I imagine you’re wondering why I asked that,” I said.
“I would be most gratified to learn, sir.”
“Yes, well, it seems that young Bingo Little has once again fallen in love, with a secretary this time, and he wants me to go broach the subject with his uncle-who, as I’m sure you’ll remember, thinks that Rosie M. Banks is my nom de plume.”
“Is Mr. Little unsure of receiving his Lordship’s approval, sir?”
“No, no, it’s not that,” I assured him. “Your wheeze about reading him those novels worked wonders. Bingo’s sure his uncle will approve of the engagement, but he needs an increase in his allowance as well.”
“Yes, sir,” Jeeves said. “As I recall, that was the obstacle impeding Mr. Little’s previous engagement to a young lady working as a waitress.”
“Just so, Jeeves, just so. But Bingo’s hit on this new plan to get his uncle to part with a bit of the oil of palm. Apparently Lord Bittlesham is quite keen on the latest Banks novel, Written in the Stars, and he thinks that if I go over there and discuss it with him, soften him up a bit, he’ll be only too happy to pave the way for true love.”
“A most ingenious plan, sir,” Jeeves said.
“Yes, but the trick here is that I must actually read the blasted thing. It’s a bit thick, you know.”
“I would imagine so, sir.”
“There’s a bit in the beginning where Sophia-she’s the girl of the story-she sees her new employer, the Earl of Lansing, and falls instantly in love. It drones on for quite a while, in re: soulmates and fate and how she recognized him the moment she saw him and so forth.” I forked up a contemplative bite of eggs. “Have you ever fallen in love at first sight, Jeeves?”
His usual stuffed frog expression wavered for a moment, and his left eyebrow attained record highs. “Yes, sir,” he said.
I goggled at him, breakfast forgotten. “Really? Just been struck with it and bowled over, the way Bingo manages on a weekly basis?”
He gave a disapproving cough. “If I may say so, sir, I believe what Mr. Little so frequently encounters is not love, but infatuation.”
“Ah, quite,” I said, wisely. “But you’ve had the genuine article?”
“Yes, sir,” he said. I tried to catch his eye, but he had busied himself with the bunging away of plates and did not look up.
“Well, what happened?” I asked. “Did you tell her?”
“No, sir.”
“What? Why on earth not?”
“It would not have been appropriate, sir,” he said, and made rather hastily for the kitchen with his armful of dishes.
I followed him in. “What was the outcome, then?” I asked.
Jeeves was at the sink, splashing about with a scrub brush, and his back was to me. I fancied I could see his shoulders lift and drop somewhat, as if with a heavy sigh. “Outcome, sir?”
“With the lady in question,” I elucidated. “You never told her?”
“No, sir.”
“When did this happen?”
“Just under three years ago, sir,” he said.
“Ah,” I said, comprehension dawning. “So your tendre faded over time.”
“No, sir,” he said, and it occurred to me that it was quite unusual for Jeeves to hold an entire conversation with me while his back was turned.
“You’re still in love?”
“Yes, sir.”
I shook my head. “Jeeves, this simply will not do.”
Finally, he turned and looked at me, and if I was expecting his expression to reveal something, I was disappointed. “Sir?”
“How many times have you assisted all and sundry in matters of the heart?” I asked.
“I have not kept an exact count, sir.”
“Yes, well, many times, Jeeves, many times. And now you expect me to stand idly by while you languish in unrequited love?”
A faintly pained expression crossed his dial-much like the one he’d worn when confronted with my white mess jacket. “I appreciate your offer, sir, but I must decline.”
“You don’t want me to intervene?”
“No, sir,” he said.
“I don’t suppose you could tell me her name?”
“I regret not, sir.”
Well, I was frankly stymied. Some readers may wonder why I was so interested-Jeeves being, after all, a mere manservant whose private life was not my concern. To said readers I say this: Jeeves is not a mere anything. He’s a marvel, and more of a trusted advisor, confidant, and friend than a servant. Now, I have been in love a time or two, and when the sentiment is not returned, it can be a dashed unpleasant feeling. I could not abide Jeeves being in that situation without making some effort to help.
“Jeeves,” I said, “have no fear. Your feudal sense of what is fitting may have sealed your lips on the matter, but I shall solve it anyway. I owe it to you, old thing.”
“Sir,” he said, in a protesting sort of way.
“No, no, I won’t hear any arguments,” I said, raising a hand. “The Wooster intellect is on the case.”
“Very good, sir.”
~~~
“Jeeves,” I said one rainy afternoon, “I should have been a detective.”
“Indeed, sir?”
“Oh, rather,” I confirmed. “I nearly always manage to discover the culprit before Poirot does. It’s all in the observation of details, you know. I’ve developed quite the eye for that sort of thing.”
“I am gratified to hear it, sir,” he said, moving about the sitting room shifting pillows and sprucing up the flower vases.
“As you should be,” I said, “for I am about to turn this ability to your advantage.”
He paused. “Sir?”
“Do not imagine for a moment that I have forgotten about your troubles, old thing,” I assured him. “I intend to discover who your mystery love is and see you united happily.”
“Sir, I could not advise such a course.”
“Nonsense,” I said, airily. “I have already narrowed the field. You said you fell in love at first sight, and that this happened not quite three years ago. Well Jeeves, that is what is known in detective circles as a clue. You entered my employment not quite three years ago.”
He straightened and regarded me with what seemed a very guarded expression. “Indeed, sir?”
“Indeed, Jeeves,” I replied. “And I have drawn the logical conclusion.”
His throat moved visibly as he swallowed, and a bright flash of excitement raced through the Wooster corpus. I must have been on the right track, to unsettle him so. “Do you want to hear what I have deduced?” I asked.
“Yes, sir,” he said, hoarsely.
“You must have met the young lady while you were in my employ,” I said with a flourish.
The oddest thing happened to his expression. It... closed, somehow, although his facial arrangement didn’t seem to change at all. “I see, sir,” he said, and went back to fiddling about with the cushions.
I frowned down at my Poirot novel. Whenever he assembled the clues and made a brilliant announcement, everyone seemed quite impressed. Jeeves’ reaction was decidedly lacking. “You don’t agree, Jeeves?”
“I cannot fault your logic, sir.”
“So I was correct?” I pressed.
“No, sir,” he said after a longish pause.
“No?”
“I did not meet and fall in love with a young lady while in your employ, sir,” he said, very deliberately. It was the way he spoke when he was trying to tell me something without actually saying it. I mean to say, the frustrating, baffling way.
“Ah,” I said, exuding wisdom and understanding. “Then it must have happened shortly before we met.”
“No, sir.”
I began to feel a bit lost, as often happens when Jeeves becomes obdurate with his explanations. “Jeeves, I feel a bit lost.”
“I am sorry to hear that, sir.”
“I don’t suppose you could make it a bit clearer?”
“Unfortunately, no, sir,” he replied. “Please excuse me.” He trickled out toward his lair, leaving me frowning at an empty room.
Never let it be said that a Wooster surrendered the field without a fight. I have found that writing things down often clarifies the clouded, so I went to the desk and assembled paper and pen. I lit a thoughtful gasper and began my list.
1. Jeeves says he fell in love just less than three years ago.
2. Jeeves entered my employ at about the same time.
3. Yet he says he did not meet the young lady while in my employ or before.
4. Specifically, he says he did not meet and fall in love with a young lady, either in my employ or previously.
5. An old lady?
6. No, that doesn’t work either.
7. Maybe during that time when he left me to work for Chuffy?
8. No, that was less than two years ago.
9. Not a lady at all?
I stared at the last point, nibbling at the end of my pen. Then I went back up to the first two points. Then down to the last one again. A sort of creeping, tingling feeling started at the top of my spine and crept in all directions, until I could feel it buzzing in my fingertips. I thought maybe this was how Poirot felt when all the clues fell into place and he solved the puzzle.
I immediately rose and went to beard Jeeves in his lair. I found him ironing a pair of trousers, bent over the task and moving with the same careful precision he brings to everything. “Jeeves,” I said, and he straightened.
“Sir?”
Now, while we Woosters may be known for our courage and willingness to aid a friend in trouble, subtlety and patience are not quite as high on the list of our qualities. It may have been the influence of generations of impulsively leaping in that led me to blurt the question out. “Do you love me?”
He put the iron down very slowly. His hands dropped to his sides, arms rigid, and he drew himself to his full height. Jeeves has an expression like a stuffed frog at the best of times, and now it seemed to go beyond stuffed and became a ranine figure carved in stone. “Pardon me, sir?”
“Ah,” I said. “I mean to say... well. That is, er... well, it’s the only thing that made sense, really. And I got the impression, you know, that you were sort of trying to say it without saying it, if you follow my meaning. Of course I could be wrong, but I was rather hoping I wasn’t, because then I’d be able to keep that promise I made about seeing you happily united with your love. Which I, er... well, I don’t know if I could have done if you’d been keen on some young lady, is what I mean. Right. So. There it is, then.”
Jeeves still hadn’t moved from his statue imitation, but his eyes had gone all dark and swimmy. “Am I to understand, sir,” he said, “that you are not displeased by the prospect?”
It took me a moment to work out exactly what that meant, and while I did that Jeeves shimmered across the room and arranged himself with a very satisfactory lack of distance from the Wooster person. “Rather the opposite,” I said, blinking up at him. “I can’t remember the last time I was so pleased.”
“Nor I, sir,” he said, and kissed me.
What followed involved a highly inappropriate use for an ironing board which necessitated the purchase of a new one and caused me to feel a warm glow from that day forward whenever I stepped into a pair of perfectly pressed trousers. I rather enjoy recollecting the details, but Jeeves tells me there are some things which are not meant to be written.
~~~
“I say, Jeeves,” I said late one evening. “Is this your book?”
“Yes, sir,” he said, reaching across me on the bed and giving it a gander. “I purchased it this afternoon.”
I leaned over his shoulder, reading the cover. “What language is that?”
“The book is an English translation of an ancient Indian text, sir,” he said. “The title remains in the original language--Kamasutram, by Vatsyayana. This is the illustrated version.”
“Ah,” I said. “An improving book?”
One corner of his mouth curled upward slightly. “It is... educational, sir. I believe you would enjoy it.”
“Possibly, Jeeves, possibly,” I said, not wanting to discourage the fellow. “Philosophy, is it?”
“No, sir,” he said. “It is widely considered to be the standard work on love in Sanskrit literature.”
“Ah,” I replied. “Poetry, then.”
“No, sir.” He opened the book and flipped to one of the illustrations.
Our shoulders pressed chummily together as I leaned in for a better look. I tilted my head sideways, and, when that didn’t seem to work, I tilted the book.
“Oh,” I said.
“Indeed, sir.”
“Is that...?”
“Yes, sir.”
I had occasion to be grateful that Jeeves is not the sort to tease a fellow for blushing like a schoolgirl. He kindly made no mention of my propensity for pink cheeks, and merely turned the pages again.
“I thought you said some things were not meant to be written,” I said.
“There is a difference between the writing of personal experiences and abstract theory, sir,” he replied.
“Right, right,” I said, nodding sagely. “I say, have we done that?”
“No, sir,” he said, one hand resting lightly on the page in question. His fingertips traced a line of the illustration, and I swallowed.
“Shall we, then?”
“Very good, sir.”
“Right ho, Jeeves,” I said, and he set the book carefully aside just in time.
It is not so bad, I’ve decided, being a literary sort. It’s amazing what one can learn from books.
~~~
End
By kalimyre
Rating: PG
Pairing: Jeeves/Wooster
Summary: In which Jeeves is not a time traveler or a ghost, but Bertie is a detective and a literary sort.
Notes: Thanks as always to ennui_blue_lite for tweaking, polishing, and generally being fabulous.
~~~
I am not what you would call a literary sort. I have whiled away many a winter evening with a mystery novel, and I enjoy a nice fast-paced adventure story-you know, the kind with pirates and damsels in distress and a good sword-fight or two, but for those weighty tomes of deep thought, Jeeves is the fellow you want.
Anyway, on that particular long winter e., I put my book down and biffed to the kitchen, where Jeeves was fiddling about with bits of silver and a polishing rag. He began to stand, but I quelled him with a wave. “I say, Jeeves,” I began, “have you ever read that book?”
“Sir?”
“You know, that one I’m reading, with the time traveling whatsit and the little pink chappies.”
“I believe you are referring to The Time Machine, by H.G. Wells, sir. First published in 1895 and considered one of the founding works of the science fiction genre, as well as a grim prediction of the future of capitalism as seen from a socialist viewpoint.” He said all this without so much as a glance up from the silver, in that nonchalant way that makes a chap feel as if he’s missed out on some common knowledge. There must be some things that he doesn’t know, but I’ve yet to discover them.
“Right, that’s the one,” I said. “What do you suppose you’d do with a time machine, Jeeves? Would you go to the future like the fellow in the book?”
“I could not say, sir,” he said.
“Oh, come on, Jeeves,” I chided him. “Use your imagination. Why, I’d have a ball with a machine like that. I’d go see who won at Ascot and make a bundle.”
He gave a faintly disapproving cough. “Yes, sir. Perhaps Mr. Wells had a slightly wider view of time travel.”
“Or I’d go about warning myself not to do things,” I mused. “‘No, Bertram,’ I would say, ‘don’t try that wheeze of pushing young Edwin in the lake.’ Or I’d make sure to have a few clever stories ready for that speech at the girls’ school.”
“With the wisdom of hindsight, matters often grow clear, sir,” he replied.
“You’ve got that in droves then, haven’t you?” I asked. “You do always seem to know the outcome of events. I suppose that’s what you’d do, isn’t it? You’d skip about in that machine seeing what will happen and then advise all and sundry and seem terribly clever.”
The left corner of his mouth lifted nearly a full quarter inch. “Perhaps, sir,” he said, “I am already in the habit of doing so.”
Now, for those of you who don’t have the good fortune to know Jeeves as well as I do, let me inform you that despite outward appearances, he does have a sense of humor. And a dashed good one, at that-just drier than the Sahara. Still, old Bertram knows when his leg is being pulled, and at that moment I could detect a distinct tugging about the ankle.
“Do you mean to tell me, Jeeves, that you are actually in possession of a time device? And that you use it to perform your mysterious wonders?”
“No, sir,” he said, after a precisely calibrated pause.
“Because I would hope you do not think me so gullible as to believe that,” I continued, a trifle haughtily.
“Certainly not, sir.”
“In some circles, I am considered quite the skeptic,” I said. “Is skeptic the word I want?”
“Yes, sir,” he said. “I assure you, sir, that I have never had any doubts about your gullibility.”
It has often struck me that Jeeves has a particular knack for certain turns of phrase which carry more than one meaning. I chose to take the high road, as always. “Right,” I said. “Well. I’ll just get back to my book.”
“Very good, sir.”
Jeeves also has a knack for smirking without actually moving his mouth.
~~~
Some days later, I was comfortably ensconced in bed while Jeeves floated about, straightening the room and drawing the curtains. Soon he would mix my customary nightcap and leave me to my rest, which on that particular evening I could not imagine being very restful. London was in the grip of a winter storm, and the wind was having a dashed good try at knocking the building down. I could hear it howling about outside, just as it was described in The Haunting of Morehouse Manor, which currently lay on my bedside table.
“Will that be all, sir?” Jeeves asked, hovering near the door.
“Ah,” I said, looking about. “Yes, thank you, Jeeves.”
“Good night, sir,” he said. As he began to close the door, a particularly loud gust of wind lashed the building and rattled the windows. I drew the covers up to my chin. “Jeeves?” I said, casually.
He paused in the doorway. “Sir?”
“What are your views on ghosts?” I asked.
He glided across the room and assembled himself by my bed. “Well, sir, from a theological standpoint, there have been numerous conflicting views on spirits, or souls, and one must also consider traditional folklore on the matter which varies widely. The philosopher and theologist Freidrich-”
“I mean to say, do you believe in them, Jeeves?”
“No, sir,” he said.
“Really? Never seen one, then?”
“No, sir.”
“Hmm.” The wind did its howling act round the corners of the building again. We Woosters are a courageous bunch, however, and I manfully restrained a shiver.
The soft, respectful sound of a Jeevesian throat-clearing came at my right elbow, and I jumped. He’d somehow got round the bed without my noticing. Jeeves is a bit ghost-like, now that I think of it. Always materializing silently in places and drifting about unseen.
“If I may take the liberty of mentioning it, sir, perhaps your reading material is poorly matched with your nature.”
“Just what are you suggesting, Jeeves?”
“Only that your gift of vivid imagination may cause a simple tale of the supernatural to have undue influence on your peace of mind, sir,” he said.
“Well,” I said, mollified. “I do have a generous helping of the old creative spirit.”
“Indeed, sir,” he said.
“And as you say, it’s a simple fiction.”
“Quite, sir.”
It occurred to me that with the storm outside and the warm lamplight inside and Jeeves’ steady presence in the flat with me, it was actually rather cozy. “Of course, I don’t believe in ghosts either,” I said. “Silly notion.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You could probably sneak up on any ghost that happened to intrude, anyway,” I added.
“Sir?”
“You move like a wraith, Jeeves. It’s uncanny.”
“Yes, sir,” he said.
“Compared to you, a ghost would probably blunder about the place tripping over things.”
“Indeed, sir,” he said, with a downright parched tone in his voice that meant he was humouring me. I hear that tone a bit more often than I would like. “If that will be all, sir?”
“Yes, thank you, Jeeves, that will be all.”
“Very good, sir,” he said. He trickled out the door, but left it open, allowing a swath of light from the hall. “Good night, sir.”
“Good night, Jeeves.”
~~~
“Do you like romance novels, Jeeves?” I asked him one morning over the morning cup.
“No, sir,” he said. “However, I have an aunt who is extremely fond of them.”
“Mmm,” I said. “Is that the same aunt with the oversized collection of Rosie M. Banks novels?”
“Yes, sir,” he replied, and poured me another cup of tea.
“I imagine you’re wondering why I asked that,” I said.
“I would be most gratified to learn, sir.”
“Yes, well, it seems that young Bingo Little has once again fallen in love, with a secretary this time, and he wants me to go broach the subject with his uncle-who, as I’m sure you’ll remember, thinks that Rosie M. Banks is my nom de plume.”
“Is Mr. Little unsure of receiving his Lordship’s approval, sir?”
“No, no, it’s not that,” I assured him. “Your wheeze about reading him those novels worked wonders. Bingo’s sure his uncle will approve of the engagement, but he needs an increase in his allowance as well.”
“Yes, sir,” Jeeves said. “As I recall, that was the obstacle impeding Mr. Little’s previous engagement to a young lady working as a waitress.”
“Just so, Jeeves, just so. But Bingo’s hit on this new plan to get his uncle to part with a bit of the oil of palm. Apparently Lord Bittlesham is quite keen on the latest Banks novel, Written in the Stars, and he thinks that if I go over there and discuss it with him, soften him up a bit, he’ll be only too happy to pave the way for true love.”
“A most ingenious plan, sir,” Jeeves said.
“Yes, but the trick here is that I must actually read the blasted thing. It’s a bit thick, you know.”
“I would imagine so, sir.”
“There’s a bit in the beginning where Sophia-she’s the girl of the story-she sees her new employer, the Earl of Lansing, and falls instantly in love. It drones on for quite a while, in re: soulmates and fate and how she recognized him the moment she saw him and so forth.” I forked up a contemplative bite of eggs. “Have you ever fallen in love at first sight, Jeeves?”
His usual stuffed frog expression wavered for a moment, and his left eyebrow attained record highs. “Yes, sir,” he said.
I goggled at him, breakfast forgotten. “Really? Just been struck with it and bowled over, the way Bingo manages on a weekly basis?”
He gave a disapproving cough. “If I may say so, sir, I believe what Mr. Little so frequently encounters is not love, but infatuation.”
“Ah, quite,” I said, wisely. “But you’ve had the genuine article?”
“Yes, sir,” he said. I tried to catch his eye, but he had busied himself with the bunging away of plates and did not look up.
“Well, what happened?” I asked. “Did you tell her?”
“No, sir.”
“What? Why on earth not?”
“It would not have been appropriate, sir,” he said, and made rather hastily for the kitchen with his armful of dishes.
I followed him in. “What was the outcome, then?” I asked.
Jeeves was at the sink, splashing about with a scrub brush, and his back was to me. I fancied I could see his shoulders lift and drop somewhat, as if with a heavy sigh. “Outcome, sir?”
“With the lady in question,” I elucidated. “You never told her?”
“No, sir.”
“When did this happen?”
“Just under three years ago, sir,” he said.
“Ah,” I said, comprehension dawning. “So your tendre faded over time.”
“No, sir,” he said, and it occurred to me that it was quite unusual for Jeeves to hold an entire conversation with me while his back was turned.
“You’re still in love?”
“Yes, sir.”
I shook my head. “Jeeves, this simply will not do.”
Finally, he turned and looked at me, and if I was expecting his expression to reveal something, I was disappointed. “Sir?”
“How many times have you assisted all and sundry in matters of the heart?” I asked.
“I have not kept an exact count, sir.”
“Yes, well, many times, Jeeves, many times. And now you expect me to stand idly by while you languish in unrequited love?”
A faintly pained expression crossed his dial-much like the one he’d worn when confronted with my white mess jacket. “I appreciate your offer, sir, but I must decline.”
“You don’t want me to intervene?”
“No, sir,” he said.
“I don’t suppose you could tell me her name?”
“I regret not, sir.”
Well, I was frankly stymied. Some readers may wonder why I was so interested-Jeeves being, after all, a mere manservant whose private life was not my concern. To said readers I say this: Jeeves is not a mere anything. He’s a marvel, and more of a trusted advisor, confidant, and friend than a servant. Now, I have been in love a time or two, and when the sentiment is not returned, it can be a dashed unpleasant feeling. I could not abide Jeeves being in that situation without making some effort to help.
“Jeeves,” I said, “have no fear. Your feudal sense of what is fitting may have sealed your lips on the matter, but I shall solve it anyway. I owe it to you, old thing.”
“Sir,” he said, in a protesting sort of way.
“No, no, I won’t hear any arguments,” I said, raising a hand. “The Wooster intellect is on the case.”
“Very good, sir.”
~~~
“Jeeves,” I said one rainy afternoon, “I should have been a detective.”
“Indeed, sir?”
“Oh, rather,” I confirmed. “I nearly always manage to discover the culprit before Poirot does. It’s all in the observation of details, you know. I’ve developed quite the eye for that sort of thing.”
“I am gratified to hear it, sir,” he said, moving about the sitting room shifting pillows and sprucing up the flower vases.
“As you should be,” I said, “for I am about to turn this ability to your advantage.”
He paused. “Sir?”
“Do not imagine for a moment that I have forgotten about your troubles, old thing,” I assured him. “I intend to discover who your mystery love is and see you united happily.”
“Sir, I could not advise such a course.”
“Nonsense,” I said, airily. “I have already narrowed the field. You said you fell in love at first sight, and that this happened not quite three years ago. Well Jeeves, that is what is known in detective circles as a clue. You entered my employment not quite three years ago.”
He straightened and regarded me with what seemed a very guarded expression. “Indeed, sir?”
“Indeed, Jeeves,” I replied. “And I have drawn the logical conclusion.”
His throat moved visibly as he swallowed, and a bright flash of excitement raced through the Wooster corpus. I must have been on the right track, to unsettle him so. “Do you want to hear what I have deduced?” I asked.
“Yes, sir,” he said, hoarsely.
“You must have met the young lady while you were in my employ,” I said with a flourish.
The oddest thing happened to his expression. It... closed, somehow, although his facial arrangement didn’t seem to change at all. “I see, sir,” he said, and went back to fiddling about with the cushions.
I frowned down at my Poirot novel. Whenever he assembled the clues and made a brilliant announcement, everyone seemed quite impressed. Jeeves’ reaction was decidedly lacking. “You don’t agree, Jeeves?”
“I cannot fault your logic, sir.”
“So I was correct?” I pressed.
“No, sir,” he said after a longish pause.
“No?”
“I did not meet and fall in love with a young lady while in your employ, sir,” he said, very deliberately. It was the way he spoke when he was trying to tell me something without actually saying it. I mean to say, the frustrating, baffling way.
“Ah,” I said, exuding wisdom and understanding. “Then it must have happened shortly before we met.”
“No, sir.”
I began to feel a bit lost, as often happens when Jeeves becomes obdurate with his explanations. “Jeeves, I feel a bit lost.”
“I am sorry to hear that, sir.”
“I don’t suppose you could make it a bit clearer?”
“Unfortunately, no, sir,” he replied. “Please excuse me.” He trickled out toward his lair, leaving me frowning at an empty room.
Never let it be said that a Wooster surrendered the field without a fight. I have found that writing things down often clarifies the clouded, so I went to the desk and assembled paper and pen. I lit a thoughtful gasper and began my list.
1. Jeeves says he fell in love just less than three years ago.
2. Jeeves entered my employ at about the same time.
3. Yet he says he did not meet the young lady while in my employ or before.
4. Specifically, he says he did not meet and fall in love with a young lady, either in my employ or previously.
5. An old lady?
6. No, that doesn’t work either.
7. Maybe during that time when he left me to work for Chuffy?
8. No, that was less than two years ago.
9. Not a lady at all?
I stared at the last point, nibbling at the end of my pen. Then I went back up to the first two points. Then down to the last one again. A sort of creeping, tingling feeling started at the top of my spine and crept in all directions, until I could feel it buzzing in my fingertips. I thought maybe this was how Poirot felt when all the clues fell into place and he solved the puzzle.
I immediately rose and went to beard Jeeves in his lair. I found him ironing a pair of trousers, bent over the task and moving with the same careful precision he brings to everything. “Jeeves,” I said, and he straightened.
“Sir?”
Now, while we Woosters may be known for our courage and willingness to aid a friend in trouble, subtlety and patience are not quite as high on the list of our qualities. It may have been the influence of generations of impulsively leaping in that led me to blurt the question out. “Do you love me?”
He put the iron down very slowly. His hands dropped to his sides, arms rigid, and he drew himself to his full height. Jeeves has an expression like a stuffed frog at the best of times, and now it seemed to go beyond stuffed and became a ranine figure carved in stone. “Pardon me, sir?”
“Ah,” I said. “I mean to say... well. That is, er... well, it’s the only thing that made sense, really. And I got the impression, you know, that you were sort of trying to say it without saying it, if you follow my meaning. Of course I could be wrong, but I was rather hoping I wasn’t, because then I’d be able to keep that promise I made about seeing you happily united with your love. Which I, er... well, I don’t know if I could have done if you’d been keen on some young lady, is what I mean. Right. So. There it is, then.”
Jeeves still hadn’t moved from his statue imitation, but his eyes had gone all dark and swimmy. “Am I to understand, sir,” he said, “that you are not displeased by the prospect?”
It took me a moment to work out exactly what that meant, and while I did that Jeeves shimmered across the room and arranged himself with a very satisfactory lack of distance from the Wooster person. “Rather the opposite,” I said, blinking up at him. “I can’t remember the last time I was so pleased.”
“Nor I, sir,” he said, and kissed me.
What followed involved a highly inappropriate use for an ironing board which necessitated the purchase of a new one and caused me to feel a warm glow from that day forward whenever I stepped into a pair of perfectly pressed trousers. I rather enjoy recollecting the details, but Jeeves tells me there are some things which are not meant to be written.
~~~
“I say, Jeeves,” I said late one evening. “Is this your book?”
“Yes, sir,” he said, reaching across me on the bed and giving it a gander. “I purchased it this afternoon.”
I leaned over his shoulder, reading the cover. “What language is that?”
“The book is an English translation of an ancient Indian text, sir,” he said. “The title remains in the original language--Kamasutram, by Vatsyayana. This is the illustrated version.”
“Ah,” I said. “An improving book?”
One corner of his mouth curled upward slightly. “It is... educational, sir. I believe you would enjoy it.”
“Possibly, Jeeves, possibly,” I said, not wanting to discourage the fellow. “Philosophy, is it?”
“No, sir,” he said. “It is widely considered to be the standard work on love in Sanskrit literature.”
“Ah,” I replied. “Poetry, then.”
“No, sir.” He opened the book and flipped to one of the illustrations.
Our shoulders pressed chummily together as I leaned in for a better look. I tilted my head sideways, and, when that didn’t seem to work, I tilted the book.
“Oh,” I said.
“Indeed, sir.”
“Is that...?”
“Yes, sir.”
I had occasion to be grateful that Jeeves is not the sort to tease a fellow for blushing like a schoolgirl. He kindly made no mention of my propensity for pink cheeks, and merely turned the pages again.
“I thought you said some things were not meant to be written,” I said.
“There is a difference between the writing of personal experiences and abstract theory, sir,” he replied.
“Right, right,” I said, nodding sagely. “I say, have we done that?”
“No, sir,” he said, one hand resting lightly on the page in question. His fingertips traced a line of the illustration, and I swallowed.
“Shall we, then?”
“Very good, sir.”
“Right ho, Jeeves,” I said, and he set the book carefully aside just in time.
It is not so bad, I’ve decided, being a literary sort. It’s amazing what one can learn from books.
~~~
End