My Man Jeeves, Pelham Grenville Wodehouse [ebook reader for pc and android TXT] 📗

I had forgotten what a long time

I had been away.

 

“Why, of course, I see now! You’re married!”

 

“Yes.”

 

“How perfectly topping! I wish you all kinds of happiness.”

 

“Thank you, so much. Oh Alexander,” she said, looking past me, “this is

a friend of mine—Mr. Wooster.”

 

I spun round. A chappie with a lot of stiff grey hair and a red sort of

healthy face was standing there. Rather a formidable Johnnie, he

looked, though quite peaceful at the moment.

 

“I want you to meet my husband, Mr. Wooster. Mr. Wooster is a friend of

Bruce’s, Alexander.”

 

The old boy grasped my hand warmly, and that was all that kept me from

hitting the floor in a heap. The place was rocking. Absolutely.

 

“So you know my nephew, Mr. Wooster,” I heard him say. “I wish you

would try to knock a little sense into him and make him quit this

playing at painting. But I have an idea that he is steadying down. I

noticed it first that night he came to dinner with us, my dear, to be

introduced to you. He seemed altogether quieter and more serious.

Something seemed to have sobered him. Perhaps you will give us the

pleasure of your company at dinner to-night, Mr. Wooster? Or have you

dined?”

 

I said I had. What I needed then was air, not dinner. I felt that I

wanted to get into the open and think this thing out.

 

When I reached my apartment I heard Jeeves moving about in his lair. I

called him.

 

“Jeeves,” I said, “now is the time for all good men to come to the aid

of the party. A stiff b.-and-s. first of all, and then I’ve a bit of

news for you.”

 

He came back with a tray and a long glass.

 

“Better have one yourself, Jeeves. You’ll need it.”

 

“Later on, perhaps, thank you, sir.”

 

“All right. Please yourself. But you’re going to get a shock. You

remember my friend, Mr. Corcoran?”

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

“And the girl who was to slide gracefully into his uncle’s esteem by

writing the book on birds?”

 

“Perfectly, sir.”

 

“Well, she’s slid. She’s married the uncle.”

 

He took it without blinking. You can’t rattle Jeeves.

 

“That was always a development to be feared, sir.”

 

“You don’t mean to tell me that you were expecting it?”

 

“It crossed my mind as a possibility.”

 

“Did it, by Jove! Well, I think, you might have warned us!”

 

“I hardly liked to take the liberty, sir.”

 

Of course, as I saw after I had had a bite to eat and was in a calmer

frame of mind, what had happened wasn’t my fault, if you come down to

it. I couldn’t be expected to foresee that the scheme, in itself a

cracker-jack, would skid into the ditch as it had done; but all the

same I’m bound to admit that I didn’t relish the idea of meeting Corky

again until time, the great healer, had been able to get in a bit of

soothing work. I cut Washington Square out absolutely for the next few

months. I gave it the complete miss-in-baulk. And then, just when I was

beginning to think I might safely pop down in that direction and gather

up the dropped threads, so to speak, time, instead of working the

healing wheeze, went and pulled the most awful bone and put the lid on

it. Opening the paper one morning, I read that Mrs. Alexander Worple

had presented her husband with a son and heir.

 

I was so darned sorry for poor old Corky that I hadn’t the heart to

touch my breakfast. I told Jeeves to drink it himself. I was bowled

over. Absolutely. It was the limit.

 

I hardly knew what to do. I wanted, of course, to rush down to

Washington Square and grip the poor blighter silently by the hand; and

then, thinking it over, I hadn’t the nerve. Absent treatment seemed the

touch. I gave it him in waves.

 

But after a month or so I began to hesitate again. It struck me that it

was playing it a bit low-down on the poor chap, avoiding him like this

just when he probably wanted his pals to surge round him most. I

pictured him sitting in his lonely studio with no company but his

bitter thoughts, and the pathos of it got me to such an extent that I

bounded straight into a taxi and told the driver to go all out for the

studio.

 

I rushed in, and there was Corky, hunched up at the easel, painting

away, while on the model throne sat a severe-looking female of middle

age, holding a baby.

 

A fellow has to be ready for that sort of thing.

 

“Oh, ah!” I said, and started to back out.

 

Corky looked over his shoulder.

 

“Halloa, Bertie. Don’t go. We’re just finishing for the day. That will

be all this afternoon,” he said to the nurse, who got up with the baby

and decanted it into a perambulator which was standing in the fairway.

 

“At the same hour to-morrow, Mr. Corcoran?”

 

“Yes, please.”

 

“Good afternoon.”

 

“Good afternoon.”

 

Corky stood there, looking at the door, and then he turned to me and

began to get it off his chest. Fortunately, he seemed to take it for

granted that I knew all about what had happened, so it wasn’t as

awkward as it might have been.

 

“It’s my uncle’s idea,” he said. “Muriel doesn’t know about it yet. The

portrait’s to be a surprise for her on her birthday. The nurse takes

the kid out ostensibly to get a breather, and they beat it down here.

If you want an instance of the irony of fate, Bertie, get acquainted

with this. Here’s the first commission I have ever had to paint a

portrait, and the sitter is that human poached egg that has butted in

and bounced me out of my inheritance. Can you beat it! I call it

rubbing the thing in to expect me to spend my afternoons gazing into

the ugly face of a little brat who to all intents and purposes has hit

me behind the ear with a blackjack and swiped all I possess. I can’t

refuse to paint the portrait because if I did my uncle would stop my

allowance; yet every time I look up and catch that kid’s vacant eye, I

suffer agonies. I tell you, Bertie, sometimes when he gives me a

patronizing glance and then turns away and is sick, as if it revolted

him to look at me, I come within an ace of occupying the entire front

page of the evening papers as the latest murder sensation. There are

moments when I can almost see the headlines: ‘Promising Young Artist

Beans Baby With Axe.’”

 

I patted his shoulder silently. My sympathy for the poor old scout was

too deep for words.

 

I kept away from the studio for some time after that, because it didn’t

seem right to me to intrude on the poor chappie’s sorrow. Besides, I’m

bound to say that nurse intimidated me. She reminded me so infernally

of Aunt Agatha. She was the same gimlet-eyed type.

 

But one afternoon Corky called me on the ‘phone.

 

“Bertie.”

 

“Halloa?”

 

“Are you doing anything this afternoon?”

 

“Nothing special.”

 

“You couldn’t come down here, could you?”

 

“What’s the trouble? Anything up?”

 

“I’ve finished the portrait.”

 

“Good boy! Stout work!”

 

“Yes.” His voice sounded rather doubtful. “The fact is, Bertie, it

doesn’t look quite right to me. There’s something about it—My uncle’s

coming in half an hour to inspect it, and—I don’t know why it is, but

I kind of feel I’d like your moral support!”

 

I began to see that I was letting myself in for something. The

sympathetic co-operation of Jeeves seemed to me to be indicated.

 

“You think he’ll cut up rough?”

 

“He may.”

 

I threw my mind back to the red-faced chappie I had met at the

restaurant, and tried to picture him cutting up rough. It was only too

easy. I spoke to Corky firmly on the telephone.

 

“I’ll come,” I said.

 

“Good!”

 

“But only if I may bring Jeeves!”

 

“Why Jeeves? What’s Jeeves got to do with it? Who wants Jeeves? Jeeves

is the fool who suggested the scheme that has led–-”

 

“Listen, Corky, old top! If you think I am going to face that uncle of

yours without Jeeves’s support, you’re mistaken. I’d sooner go into a

den of wild beasts and bite a lion on the back of the neck.”

 

“Oh, all right,” said Corky. Not cordially, but he said it; so I rang

for Jeeves, and explained the situation.

 

“Very good, sir,” said Jeeves.

 

That’s the sort of chap he is. You can’t rattle him.

 

We found Corky near the door, looking at the picture, with one hand up

in a defensive sort of way, as if he thought it might swing on him.

 

“Stand right where you are, Bertie,” he said, without moving. “Now,

tell me honestly, how does it strike you?”

 

The light from the big window fell right on the picture. I took a good

look at it. Then I shifted a bit nearer and took another look. Then I

went back to where I had been at first, because it hadn’t seemed quite

so bad from there.

 

“Well?” said Corky, anxiously.

 

I hesitated a bit.

 

“Of course, old man, I only saw the kid once, and then only for a

moment, but—but it was an ugly sort of kid, wasn’t it, if I

remember rightly?”

 

“As ugly as that?”

 

I looked again, and honesty compelled me to be frank.

 

“I don’t see how it could have been, old chap.”

 

Poor old Corky ran his fingers through his hair in a temperamental sort

of way. He groaned.

 

“You’re right quite, Bertie. Something’s gone wrong with the darned

thing. My private impression is that, without knowing it, I’ve worked

that stunt that Sargent and those fellows pull—painting the soul of

the sitter. I’ve got through the mere outward appearance, and have put

the child’s soul on canvas.”

 

“But could a child of that age have a soul like that? I don’t see how

he could have managed it in the time. What do you think, Jeeves?”

 

“I doubt it, sir.”

 

“It—it sorts of leers at you, doesn’t it?”

 

“You’ve noticed that, too?” said Corky.

 

“I don’t see how one could help noticing.”

 

“All I tried to do was to give the little brute a cheerful expression.

But, as it worked out, he looks positively dissipated.”

 

“Just what I was going to suggest, old man. He looks as if he were in

the middle of a colossal spree, and enjoying every minute of it. Don’t

you think so, Jeeves?”

 

“He has a decidedly inebriated air, sir.”

 

Corky was starting to say something when the door opened, and the uncle

came in.

 

For about three seconds all was joy, jollity, and goodwill. The old boy

shook hands with me, slapped Corky on the back, said that he didn’t

think he had ever seen such a fine day, and whacked his leg with his

stick. Jeeves had projected himself into the background, and he didn’t

notice him.

 

“Well, Bruce, my boy; so the portrait is really finished, is it—really

finished? Well, bring it out. Let’s have a look at it. This will be a

wonderful surprise for your aunt. Where is