P. G. Wodehouse. Much Obliged, Jeeves
P. G. Wodehouse. Much Obliged, Jeeves
London. 1971
CHAPTER One
As I slid into my chair at the breakfast table and started to deal with the toothsome eggs and bacon which Jeeves had given of his plenty, I was conscious of a strange exhilaration, if I’ve got the word right. Pretty good the set-up looked to me. Here I was, back in the old familiar headquarters, and the thought that I had seen the last of Totleigh Towers, of Sir Watkyn Bassett, of his daughter Madeline and above all of the unspeakable Spode, or Lord Sidcup as he now calls himself, was like the medium dose for adults of one of those patent medicines which tone the system and impart a gentle glow.
‘These eggs, Jeeves,’ I said. ‘Very good. Very tasty.’
‘Yes, sir?’
‘Laid, no doubt, by contented hens. And the coffee, perfect. Nor must I omit to give a word of praise to the bacon. I wonder if you notice anything about me this morning.’
‘You seem in good spirits, sir.’
‘Yes Jeeves, I am happy today.’
‘I am very glad to hear it, sir.’
‘You might say I’m sitting on top of the world with a rainbow round my shoulder.’
‘A most satisfactory state of affairs, sir.’
‘What’s the word I’ve heard you use from time to time-begins with eu?’
‘Euphoria, sir?’
‘That’s the one. I’ve seldom had a sharper attack of euphoria. I feel full to the brim of Vitamin B. Mind you, I don’t know how long it will last. Too often it is when one feels fizziest that the storm clouds begin doing their stuff.’
‘Very true, sir. Full many a glorious morning have I seen flatter the mountain tops with sovereign eye, kissing with golden face the meadows green, gilding pale streams with heavenly alchemy, Anon permit the basest clouds to ride with ugly rack on his celestial face and from the forlorn world his visage hide, stealing unseen to west with this disgrace.’
‘Exactly,’ I said. I couldn’t have put it better myself. ‘One always has to budget for a change in the weather. Still, the thing to do is to keep on being happy while you can.’
‘Precisely, sir. Carpe diem, the Roman poet Horace advised. The English poet Herrick expressed the same sentiment when he suggested that we should gather rosebuds while we may. Your elbow is in the butter, sir.’
‘Oh, thank you, Jeeves.
‘ Well, all right so far. Off to a nice start. But now we come to something which gives me pause. In recording the latest instalment of the Bertram Wooster Story, a task at which I am about to have a pop, I don’t see how I can avoid delving into the past a good deal, touching on events which took place in previous instalments, and explaining who’s who and what happened when and where and why, and this will make it heavy going for those who have been with me from the start. ‘Old hat’ they will cry or, if French, ‘Deja Vu.’ On the other hand, I must consider the new customers. I can’t just leave the poor perishers to try to puzzle things out for themselves. If I did, the exchanges in the present case would run somewhat as follows.
Self: The relief I felt at having escaped from Totleigh Towers was stupendous.
New C: What’s Totleigh Towers?
Self : For one thing it had looked odds on that I should have to marry Madeline.
New C: Who’s Madeline?
Self: Gussie Fink-Nottle, you see, had eloped with the cook.
New C: Who’s Gussie Fink-Nottle?
Self: But most fortunately Spode was in the offing and scooped her up, saving me from the scaffold.
New C: Who’s Spode?
You see. Hopeless. Confusion would be rife, as one might put it. The only way out that I can think of is to ask the old gang to let their attention wander for a bit–there are heaps of things they can be doing; washing the car, solving the crossword puzzle, taking the dog for a run,–while I place the facts before the newcomers. Briefly, then, owing to circumstances I needn’t go into, Madeline Bassett daughter of Sir Watkyn Bassett of Totleigh Towers, Glos. had long been under the impression that I was hopelessly in love with her and had given to understand that if ever she had occasion to return her betrothed, Gussie Fink-Nottle, to store, she would marry me. Which wouldn’t have fitted in with my plans at all, she though physically in the pin-up class, being as mushy a character as ever broke biscuit, convinced that the stars are God’s daisy chain and that every time a fairy blows its wee nose a baby is born. The last thing, as you can well imagine, one would want about the home.