Very Good Jeeves: Page 4

  ‘Bertie, I love her.’

  ‘Have you told her so?’

  ‘How can I?’

  ‘I don’t see why not. Quite easy to bring into the general conversation.’

  Sippy groaned hollowly.

  ‘Do you know what it is, Bertie, to feel the humility of a worm?’

  ‘Rather! I do sometimes with Jeeves. But today he went too far. You will scarcely credit it, old man, but he had the crust to criticize a vase which—’

  ‘She is so far above me.’

  ‘Tall girl?’

  ‘Spiritually. She is all soul. And what am I? Earthy.’

  ‘Would you say that?’

  ‘I would. Have you forgotten that a year ago I did thirty days without the option for punching a policeman in the stomach on Boat-Race night?’

  ‘But you were whiffled at the time.’

  ‘Exactly. What right has an inebriated jail-bird to aspire to a goddess?’

  My heart bled for the poor old chap.

  ‘Aren’t you exaggerating things a trifle, old lad?’ I said. ‘Everybody who has had a gentle upbringing gets a bit sozzled on Boat-Race night, and the better element nearly always have trouble with the gendarmes.’

  He shook his head.

  ‘It’s no good, Bertie. You mean well, but words are useless. No, I can but worship from afar. When I am in her presence a strange dumbness comes over me. My tongue seems to get entangled with my tonsils. I could no more muster up the nerve to propose to her than … Come in!’ he shouted.

  For, just as he was beginning to go nicely and display a bit of eloquence, a knock had sounded on the door. In fact, not so much a knock as a bang – or even a slosh. And there now entered a large, important-looking bird with penetrating eyes, a Roman nose, and high cheek-bones. Authoritative. That’s the word I want. I didn’t like his collar, and Jeeves would have had a thing or two to say about the sit of his trousers; but, nevertheless, he was authoritative. There was something compelling about the man. He looked like a traffic-policeman.

  ‘Ah, Sipperley!’ he said.

  Old Sippy displayed a good deal of agitation. He had leaped from his chair, and was now standing in a constrained attitude, with a sort of pop-eyed expression on his face.

  ‘Pray be seated, Sipperley,’ said the cove. He took no notice of me. After one keen glance and a brief waggle of the nose in my direction, he had washed Bertram out of his life. ‘I have brought you another little offering – ha! Look it over at your leisure, my dear fellow.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Sippy.

  ‘I think you will enjoy it. But there is just one thing. I should be glad, Sipperley, if you would give it a leetle better display, a rather more prominent position in the paper than you accorded to my “Landmarks of Old Tuscany”. I am quite aware that in a weekly journal space is a desideratum, but one does not like one’s efforts to be – I can only say pushed away in a back corner among advertisements of bespoke tailors and places of amusement.’ He paused, and a nasty gleam came into his eyes. ‘You will bear this in mind, Sipperley?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Sippy.

  ‘I am greatly obliged, my dear fellow,’ said the cove, becoming genial again. ‘You must forgive my mentioning it. I would be the last person to attempt to dictate the – ha! – editorial policy, but—Well, good afternoon, Sipperley. I will call for your decision at three o’clock to-morrow.’

  He withdrew, leaving a gap in the atmosphere about ten feet by six. When this had closed in, I sat up.

  ‘What was it?’ I said.

  I was startled to observe poor old Sippy apparently go off his onion. He raised his hands over his head, clutched his hair, wrenched it about for a while, kicked a table with great violence, and then flung himself into his chair.

  ‘Curse him!’ said Sippy. ‘May he tread on a banana-skin on his way to chapel and sprain both ankles!’

  ‘Who was he?’

  ‘May he get frog-in-the-throat and be unable to deliver the end-of-term sermon!’

  ‘Yes, but who was he?’

  ‘My old head master, Bertie,’ said Sippy.

  ‘Yes, but, my dear old soul—’

  ‘Head master of my old school.’ He gazed at me in a distraught sort of way. ‘Good Lord! Can’t you understand the position?’

  ‘Not by a jugful, laddie.’

  Sippy sprang from his chair and took a turn or two up and down the carpet.

  ‘How do you feel,’ he said, ‘when you meet the head master of your old school?’

  ‘I never do. He’s dead.’

  ‘Well, I’ll tell you how I feel. I feel as if I were in the Lower Fourth again, and had been sent up by my form-master for creating a disturbance in school. That happened once, Bertie, and the memory still lingers. I can recall as if it were yesterday knocking at old Waterbury’s door and hearing him say, “Come in!” like a lion roaring at an early Christian, and going in and shuffling my feet on the mat and him looking at me and me explaining – and then, after what seemed a lifetime, bending over and receiving six of the juiciest on the old spot with a cane that bit like an adder. And whenever he comes into my office now the old wound begins to trouble me, and I just say, “Yes, sir,” and “No, sir,” and feel like a kid of fourteen.’

  I began to grasp the posish. The whole trouble with these fellows like Sippy, who go in for writing, is that they develop the artistic temperament, and you never know when it is going to break out.

  ‘He comes in here with his pockets full of articles on “The Old School Cloisters” and “Some Little-Known Aspects of Tacitus”, and muck like that, and I haven’t the nerve to refuse them. And this is supposed to be a paper devoted to the lighter interests of Society.’

  ‘You must be firm, Sippy. Firm, old thing.’

  ‘How can I, when the sight of him makes me feel like a piece of chewed blotting-paper? When he looks at me over that nose, my morale goes blue at the roots and I am back at school again. It’s persecution, Bertie. And the next thing that’ll happen is that my proprietor will spot one of those articles, assume with perfect justice that, if I can print that sort of thing, I must be going off my chump, and fire me.’

  I pondered. It was a tough problem.

  ‘How would it be—?’ I said.

  ‘That’s no good.’

  ‘Only a suggestion,’ I said.

  ‘Jeeves,’ I said, when I got home, ‘surge round!’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Burnish the old bean. I have a case that calls for one of your best efforts. Have you ever heard of a Miss Gwendolen Moon?’

  ‘Authoress of Autumn Leaves. ’Twas on an English June, and other works. Yes, sir.’

  ‘Great Scott, Jeeves, you seem to know everything.’

  ‘Thank you very much, sir.’

  ‘Well, Mr Sipperley is in love with Miss Moon.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘But fears to speak.’

  ‘It is often the way, sir.’

  ‘Deeming himself unworthy.’

  ‘Precisely, sir.’

  ‘Right! But that is not all. Tuck that away in a corner of the mind, Jeeves, and absorb the rest of the facts. Mr Sipperley, as you are aware, is the editor of a weekly paper devoted to the interests of the lighter Society. And now the head master of his old school has started calling at the office and unloading on him junk entirely unsuited to the lighter Society. All clear?’

  ‘I follow you perfectly, sir.’

  ‘And this drip Mr Sipperley is compelled to publish, much against his own wishes, purely because he lacks the nerve to tell the man to go to blazes. The whole trouble being, Jeeves, that he has got one of those things that fellows do get – it’s on the tip of my tongue.’

  ‘An inferiority complex, sir?’

  ‘Exactly. An inferiority complex. I have one myself with regard to my Aunt Agatha. You know me, Jeeves. You know that if it were a question of volunteers to man the lifeboat, I would spring to the task. If anyone said, “Don’t go down the co
al-mine, daddy,” it would have not the slightest effect on my resolution—’

  ‘Undoubtedly, sir.’

  ‘And yet – and this is where I want you to follow me very closely, Jeeves – when I hear that my Aunt Agatha is out with her hatchet and moving in my direction, I run like a rabbit. Why? Because she gives me an inferiority complex. And so it is with Mr Sipperley. He would, if called upon, mount the deadly breach, and do it without a tremor; but he cannot bring himself to propose to Miss Moon, and he cannot kick his old head master in the stomach and tell him to take his beastly essays on “The Old School Cloisters” elsewhere, because he has an inferiority complex. So what about it, Jeeves?’

  ‘I fear I have no plan which I could advance with any confidence on the spur of the moment, sir.’

  ‘You want time to think, eh?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Take it, Jeeves, take it. You may feel brainier after a night’s sleep. What is it Shakespeare calls sleep, Jeeves?’

  ‘Tired Nature’s sweet restorer, sir.’

  ‘Exactly. Well, there you are, then.’

  You know, there’s nothing like sleeping on a thing. Scarcely had I woken up next morning when I discovered that, while I slept, I had got the whole binge neatly into order and worked out a plan Foch might have been proud of. I rang the bell for Jeeves to bring me my tea.

  I rang again. But it must have been five minutes before the man showed up with the steaming.

  ‘I beg your pardon, sir,’ he said, when I reproached him. ‘I did not hear the bell. I was in the sitting-room, sir.’

  ‘Ah?’ I said, sucking down a spot of the mixture. ‘Doing this and that, no doubt?’

  ‘Dusting your new vase, sir.’

  My heart warmed to the fellow. If there’s one person I like, it’s the chap who is not too proud to admit it when he’s in the wrong. No actual statement to that effect had passed his lips, of course, but we Woosters can read between the lines. I could see that he was learning to love the vase.

  ‘How does it look?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  A bit cryptic, but I let it go.

  ‘Jeeves,’ I said.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘That matter we were in conference about yestereen.’

  ‘The matter of Mr Sipperley, sir?’

  ‘Precisely. Don’t worry yourself any further. Stop the brain working. I shall not require your services. I have found the solution. It came on me like a flash.’

  ‘Indeed, sir?’

  ‘Just like a flash. In a matter of this kind, Jeeves, the first thing to do is to study – what’s the word I want?’

  ‘I could not say, sir.’

  ‘Quite a common word – though long.’

  ‘Psychology, sir?’

  ‘The exact noun. It is a noun?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Spoken like a man! Well, Jeeves, direct your attention to the psychology of old Sippy. Mr Sipperley, if you follow me, is in the position of a man from whose eyes the scales have not fallen. The task that faced me, Jeeves, was to discover some scheme which would cause those scales to fall. You get me?’

  ‘Not entirely, sir.’

  ‘Well, what I’m driving at is this. At present this head master bloke, this Waterbury, is tramping all over Mr Sipperley because he is hedged about with dignity, if you understand what I mean. Years have passed; Mr Sipperley now shaves daily and is in an important editorial position; but he can never forget that this bird once gave him six of the juiciest. Result: an inferiority complex. The only way to remove that complex, Jeeves, is to arrange that Mr Sipperley shall see this Waterbury in a thoroughly undignified position. This done, the scales will fall from his eyes. You must see that for yourself, Jeeves. Take your own case. No doubt there are a number of your friends and relations who look up to you and respect you greatly. But suppose one night they were to see you, in an advanced state of intoxication, dancing the Charleston in your underwear in the middle of Piccadilly Circus?’

  ‘The contingency is remote, sir.’

  ‘Ah, but suppose they did. The scales would fall from their eyes, what?’

  ‘Very possibly, sir.’

  ‘Take another case. Do you remember a year or so ago the occasion when my Aunt Agatha accused the maid at that French hotel of pinching her pearls, only to discover that they were still in her drawer?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Whereupon she looked the most priceless ass. You’ll admit that.’

  ‘Certainly I have seen Mrs Spenser Gregson appear to greater advantage than at that moment, sir.’

  ‘Exactly. Now follow me like a leopard. Observing my Aunt Agatha in her downfall; watching her turn bright mauve and listening to her being told off in liquid French by a whiskered hotel proprietor without coming back with so much as a single lift of the eyebrows, I felt as if the scales had fallen from my eyes. For the first time in my life, Jeeves, the awe with which this woman had inspired me from childhood’s days left me. It came back later, I’ll admit; but at the moment I saw my Aunt Agatha for what she was – not, as I had long imagined, a sort of man-eating fish at the very mention of whose name strong men quivered like aspens, but a poor goop who had just dropped a very serious brick. At that moment, Jeeves, I could have told her precisely where she got off; and only a too chivalrous regard for the sex kept me from doing so. You won’t dispute that?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Well, then, my firm conviction is that the scales will fall from Mr Sipperley’s eyes when he sees this Waterbury, this old head master, stagger into his office covered from head to foot with flour.’

  ‘Flour, sir?’

  ‘Flour, Jeeves.’

  ‘But why should he pursue such a course, sir?’

  ‘Because he won’t be able to help it. The stuff will be balanced on top of the door, and the force of gravity will do the rest. I propose to set a booby-trap for this Waterbury, Jeeves.’

  ‘Really, sir, I would scarcely advocate—’

  I raised my hand.

  ‘Peace, Jeeves! There is more to come. You have not forgotten that Mr Sipperley loves Miss Gwendolen Moon, but fears to speak. I bet you’d forgotten that.’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Well, then, my belief is that, once he finds he has lost his awe of this Waterbury, he will be so supremely braced that there will be no holding him. He will rush right off and bung his heart at her feet, Jeeves.’

  ‘Well, sir—’

  ‘Jeeves,’ I said, a little severely, ‘whenever I suggest a plan or scheme or course of action, you are too apt to say “Well, sir,” in a nasty tone of voice. I do not like it, and it is a habit you should check. The plan or scheme or course of action which I have outlined contains no flaw. If it does, I should like to hear it.’

  ‘Well, sir—’

  ‘Jeeves!’

  ‘I beg your pardon, sir. I was about to remark that, in my opinion, you are approaching Mr Sipperley’s problems in the wrong order.’

  ‘How do you mean; the wrong order?’

  ‘Well, I fancy sir, that better results would be obtained by first inducing Mr Sipperley to offer marriage to Miss Moon. In the event of the young lady proving agreeable, I think that Mr Sipperley would be in such an elevated frame of mind that he would have no difficulty in asserting himself with Mr Waterbury.’

  ‘Ah, but you are then stymied by the question – How is he to be induced?’

  ‘It had occurred to me, sir, that, as Miss Moon is a poetess and of a romantic nature, it might have weight with her if she heard that Mr Sipperley had met with a serious injury and was mentioning her name.’

  ‘Calling for her brokenly, you mean?’

  ‘Calling for her, as you say, sir, brokenly.’

  I sat up in bed, and pointed at him rather coldly with the teaspoon.

  ‘Jeeves,’ I said, ‘I would be the last man to accuse you of dithering, but this is not like you. It is not the old form, Jeeves. You are losing your grip. It might
be years before Mr Sipperley had a serious injury.’

  ‘There is that to be considered, sir.’

  ‘I cannot believe that it is you, Jeeves, who are meekly suggesting that we should suspend all activities in this matter year after year, on the chance that some day Mr Sipperley may fall under a truck or something. No! The programme will be as I have sketched it out, Jeeves. After breakfast, kindly step out, and purchase about a pound and a half of the best flour. The rest you may leave to me.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’

  The first thing you need in matters of this kind, as every general knows, is a thorough knowledge of the terrain. Not know the terrain, and where are you? Look at Napoleon and that sunken road at Waterloo. Silly ass!

  I had a thorough knowledge of the terrain of Sippy’s office, and it ran as follows. I won’t draw a plan, because my experience is that, when you’re reading one of those detective stories and come to the bit where the author draws a plan of the Manor, showing room where body was found, stairs leading to passageway, and all the rest of it, one just skips. I’ll simply explain in a few brief words.

  The offices of The Mayfair Gazette were on the first floor of a mouldy old building off Covent Garden. You went in at a front door and ahead of you was a passage leading to the premises of Bellamy Bros, dealers in seeds and garden produce. Ignoring the Bros Bellamy, you proceeded upstairs and found two doors opposite you. One, marked Private, opened into Sippy’s editorial sanctum. The other – sub-title: Inquiries – shot you into a small room where an office-boy sat, eating peppermints and reading the adventures of Tarzan. If you got past the office-boy, you went through another door and there you were in Sippy’s room, just as if you had nipped through the door marked Private. Perfectly simple.

  It was over the door marked Inquiries that I proposed to suspend the flour.

  Now, setting a booby-trap for a respectable citizen like a head master (even of an inferior school to your own) is not a matter to be approached lightly and without careful preparation. I don’t suppose I’ve ever selected a lunch with more thought than I did that day. And after a nicely-balanced meal, preceded by a couple of dry Martinis, washed down with half a bot. of a nice light, dry champagne, and followed by a spot of brandy, I could have set a booby-trap for a bishop.