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Jeeves & Wooster WIP - Part Twenty-Three
Previous parts.
Jeeves & Wooster WIP - Part Twenty-Three:
That didn't literally work since the next time I saw him was when Jeeves stopped by to announce his imminent departure and to confirm that I would not see him until tomorrow morning. It only took a quick bit of arithmetic, and a little surreptitious counting on my fingers, to realise that Jeeves would be forced to drive most of the night. It seemed a little much for an errand that mainly designed to give me moping space.
"Jeeves, I think it would be better if you packed your bags and stayed in the metrop. I'll stay here, lie about for a few days until Aunt Dahlia stops threatening to leash hounds to the hall outside my bedroom door, and then take the first train up on Saturday morning."
The set of Jeeves' shoulders showed his dislike for the idea. "Given your current state of inconvenient infirmity, I believe an expeditious return would be advisable, sir."
"Flapdoodle, Jeeves," I said, waving away his concerns in no uncertain terms. "There are more servants here than I can count and a rabid aunt to keep them in line. I will be perfectly fine left to my own devices for a few days."
"There are forty-one members of staff, including the gardeners and stablehands, sir, and I believe you have overlooked recent changes to the train timetable. There is no longer an early Saturday service and you would be forced to wait until the two-ten train in the afternoon, which would result in you lunching at Brinkley Court before your departure."
"With Honoria, you mean? Oh, we can't have that, Jeeves. I'll take the Friday evening train and hope that Aunt Agatha is firmly enscounced in her dragon's cave."
"Travel by car would be more reliable, sir."
"I will be fine on the train, unless Aunt Agatha spots me." I winced at the horrible thought of being caught by that particular dreadful relative, when I was unable to do anything but hobble in the opposite direction. "You will have to send me a telegram before I leave, Jeeves, and let me know if I should board wearing a disguise."
"A disguise, sir?"
"I'm thinking a particularly large hat and dark overcoat. Possibly sunglasses would be a good idea as well."
"They do seem to be favoured in Hollywood films, sir."
"Then that settles the matter. Hat, coat and sunglasses. I'll make Waterbury stop at the village on Friday morning and pick them up. As long as you send me a telegram by two-ish, shall we say? As long as you send it and tell me if the coast is clear or if there are stormy clouds on the horizon, all be fine, Jeeves."
Jeeves gave me a long glance, the type that counts seconds as well as any pocket-watch until I said, "Well, have a good journey and all that, Jeeves. I'll see you Friday night. I'll have the kitchen staff pack me something for the train, so don't worry about fixing dinner. If I'm hungry, I'll stop by the club."
"Yes, sir," Jeeves said, looking for all the world as if I had declared myself one of those futurist chaps and announced my intention to wear my red vest, yellow tie and blue socks at the same time. "I will see you Friday, sir."
With Jeeves out of the county, I was left to mourn my own foolishness in peace. I sighed and flicked through pages, unable to muster any true interest in the printed word. I stared out the open window, glumly pondering on the possibility of rain. I gazed at the ceiling and thought wistfully on what I would never experience with Jeeves. When served meals, I picked at them and spent more time pushing vegetables around my plate than noticing the flavours (in and of itself almost considered a felony amongst the regular inmates of the place). In short, I let my spirits sink lower than the ill-fated Titanic and indulged my lovesick heart with all the misery it could bear.
The next time a friend tells you he is dying of anguish, yearning for one who will not have him, wasting away for want of the more tender feelings in return, put no faith in his story. It is a queer thing but allowing one's life to blacken and one's days to stretch into endless hours of soul-deep sighs and pained mourning brings its own peculiar satisfaction and comfort. There is something quite uplifting about such extreme unhappiness, giving one's all to the depressed emotions with as little inhibition as a Oxford fellow on Boat Race Night.
It is a method of purging I would recommend everybody to try at least once. If possible, I would say, attempt the feat away from family and friends, since they can -- not understanding the purging process -- interfere dreadfully. A perfect example of my point would be the combined efforts of Tuppy and Angela who nearly ruined my schedule of moping, sulking, and sighing with great gusto and pathos.
First Tuppy stopped in to enquire about my spirits ("Gloomy," said I in funereal strains of woe. He rolled his eyes and muttered something about there being numerous maids in London, and I did not disabuse him of his misconception re the cause of despondency). He then proceeded to share the contents of his latest letter from Pongo Twistleton.
Ponga had written to share the latest misadventures of his uncle, Lord Ickenham. Like most earls, Lord Ickenham considers his peerage proof that he has done well in life and come a long way through his character and brains -- and, one must note, family inheritance -- and believes this has given him the onus of educating his nephew in the ways of life. While Ickenham was generally welcome in the Drones club for a meal -- until his wife declared he could no longer visit London, that is -- due to his ability to tell a rollicking story with gifted timing and accents when necessary, his educational afternoons have resulted in Pongo pretending to be Sir Roderick Glossop's nephew and on one memorable occasion, have had the police remove the pair of them from the dog races. (We had a rip around the club to raise his bail money but Lady Ickenham had ponied up the with cash, so we'd used the raised funds to buy enough rounds to make Pongo -- a mild-mannered chap if ever you've met one, and one somewhat prone to embarrassment -- forget the entire affair. As Pongo gains a definite chaulky look at the mention of greyhounds, I can only conclude that we were not successful.)
There was a story of Blanding's Castle (a place I've never been but my second cousin Algernon Wooster's cousin, Lord Percy, is a nephew of the chap who lives there, Lord Emsworth, so I'm somehow related to the place) and it involved stolen pigs, church boys and the frightful combination of a bread roll and a top hat, and I quite forgot my current raison d'etre and almost shared a hearty chuckle over the tale. It was only the thought of Jeeves' reaction to such a story -- the lightening of that noble brow, the glitter of those eyes, the serious moue that only signalled amusement to the keenest Jeeves-watcher -- that reminded me of my current predicament and sobered my mood accordingly.
That afternoon, Angela visited with fudge from the village and a game of Lexico in the other hand. Angela, as I have mentioned, is a good egg, sweet natured and downright fun in a way that seems highly rare amongst the finer sex. This opinion was reinforced by her decision to allow words such as 'oomph' and 'tinkerty', and not change that verdict when use of the latter word gave me the winning score. It takes a girl of majestic class and overwhelming splendidness to do that.
I will not deny that for a handful of hours, my time was spent in pleasant company thinking of spelling lists of my youth or relatives more devious-minded than my own, but when left alone again, I put every effort into being as morose and melancholic as I could be. If you looked up the words depressing and lovelorn, I am sure the dictionary would tell you to see the entry entitled, 'Wooster, B, Current state of'.
In the midst of such indulgence, when you are feeling vindicated and satisfied, it becomes paradoxically hard to maintain your mournful air of pessimism and disappointment, and so the feelings perish of excess. This is how it went for me, so by the time I badgered Waterbury into taking me to the village -- achieved through polite asking and outright begging of Angela, Tuppy and Aunt Dahlia, and only allowed once I could prove myself capable of navigating the length of the corridor without limping -- I had started to regain my more usual outlook and was almost looking forward to the shopping expedition.
Jeeves & Wooster WIP - Part Twenty-Three:
That didn't literally work since the next time I saw him was when Jeeves stopped by to announce his imminent departure and to confirm that I would not see him until tomorrow morning. It only took a quick bit of arithmetic, and a little surreptitious counting on my fingers, to realise that Jeeves would be forced to drive most of the night. It seemed a little much for an errand that mainly designed to give me moping space.
"Jeeves, I think it would be better if you packed your bags and stayed in the metrop. I'll stay here, lie about for a few days until Aunt Dahlia stops threatening to leash hounds to the hall outside my bedroom door, and then take the first train up on Saturday morning."
The set of Jeeves' shoulders showed his dislike for the idea. "Given your current state of inconvenient infirmity, I believe an expeditious return would be advisable, sir."
"Flapdoodle, Jeeves," I said, waving away his concerns in no uncertain terms. "There are more servants here than I can count and a rabid aunt to keep them in line. I will be perfectly fine left to my own devices for a few days."
"There are forty-one members of staff, including the gardeners and stablehands, sir, and I believe you have overlooked recent changes to the train timetable. There is no longer an early Saturday service and you would be forced to wait until the two-ten train in the afternoon, which would result in you lunching at Brinkley Court before your departure."
"With Honoria, you mean? Oh, we can't have that, Jeeves. I'll take the Friday evening train and hope that Aunt Agatha is firmly enscounced in her dragon's cave."
"Travel by car would be more reliable, sir."
"I will be fine on the train, unless Aunt Agatha spots me." I winced at the horrible thought of being caught by that particular dreadful relative, when I was unable to do anything but hobble in the opposite direction. "You will have to send me a telegram before I leave, Jeeves, and let me know if I should board wearing a disguise."
"A disguise, sir?"
"I'm thinking a particularly large hat and dark overcoat. Possibly sunglasses would be a good idea as well."
"They do seem to be favoured in Hollywood films, sir."
"Then that settles the matter. Hat, coat and sunglasses. I'll make Waterbury stop at the village on Friday morning and pick them up. As long as you send me a telegram by two-ish, shall we say? As long as you send it and tell me if the coast is clear or if there are stormy clouds on the horizon, all be fine, Jeeves."
Jeeves gave me a long glance, the type that counts seconds as well as any pocket-watch until I said, "Well, have a good journey and all that, Jeeves. I'll see you Friday night. I'll have the kitchen staff pack me something for the train, so don't worry about fixing dinner. If I'm hungry, I'll stop by the club."
"Yes, sir," Jeeves said, looking for all the world as if I had declared myself one of those futurist chaps and announced my intention to wear my red vest, yellow tie and blue socks at the same time. "I will see you Friday, sir."
With Jeeves out of the county, I was left to mourn my own foolishness in peace. I sighed and flicked through pages, unable to muster any true interest in the printed word. I stared out the open window, glumly pondering on the possibility of rain. I gazed at the ceiling and thought wistfully on what I would never experience with Jeeves. When served meals, I picked at them and spent more time pushing vegetables around my plate than noticing the flavours (in and of itself almost considered a felony amongst the regular inmates of the place). In short, I let my spirits sink lower than the ill-fated Titanic and indulged my lovesick heart with all the misery it could bear.
The next time a friend tells you he is dying of anguish, yearning for one who will not have him, wasting away for want of the more tender feelings in return, put no faith in his story. It is a queer thing but allowing one's life to blacken and one's days to stretch into endless hours of soul-deep sighs and pained mourning brings its own peculiar satisfaction and comfort. There is something quite uplifting about such extreme unhappiness, giving one's all to the depressed emotions with as little inhibition as a Oxford fellow on Boat Race Night.
It is a method of purging I would recommend everybody to try at least once. If possible, I would say, attempt the feat away from family and friends, since they can -- not understanding the purging process -- interfere dreadfully. A perfect example of my point would be the combined efforts of Tuppy and Angela who nearly ruined my schedule of moping, sulking, and sighing with great gusto and pathos.
First Tuppy stopped in to enquire about my spirits ("Gloomy," said I in funereal strains of woe. He rolled his eyes and muttered something about there being numerous maids in London, and I did not disabuse him of his misconception re the cause of despondency). He then proceeded to share the contents of his latest letter from Pongo Twistleton.
Ponga had written to share the latest misadventures of his uncle, Lord Ickenham. Like most earls, Lord Ickenham considers his peerage proof that he has done well in life and come a long way through his character and brains -- and, one must note, family inheritance -- and believes this has given him the onus of educating his nephew in the ways of life. While Ickenham was generally welcome in the Drones club for a meal -- until his wife declared he could no longer visit London, that is -- due to his ability to tell a rollicking story with gifted timing and accents when necessary, his educational afternoons have resulted in Pongo pretending to be Sir Roderick Glossop's nephew and on one memorable occasion, have had the police remove the pair of them from the dog races. (We had a rip around the club to raise his bail money but Lady Ickenham had ponied up the with cash, so we'd used the raised funds to buy enough rounds to make Pongo -- a mild-mannered chap if ever you've met one, and one somewhat prone to embarrassment -- forget the entire affair. As Pongo gains a definite chaulky look at the mention of greyhounds, I can only conclude that we were not successful.)
There was a story of Blanding's Castle (a place I've never been but my second cousin Algernon Wooster's cousin, Lord Percy, is a nephew of the chap who lives there, Lord Emsworth, so I'm somehow related to the place) and it involved stolen pigs, church boys and the frightful combination of a bread roll and a top hat, and I quite forgot my current raison d'etre and almost shared a hearty chuckle over the tale. It was only the thought of Jeeves' reaction to such a story -- the lightening of that noble brow, the glitter of those eyes, the serious moue that only signalled amusement to the keenest Jeeves-watcher -- that reminded me of my current predicament and sobered my mood accordingly.
That afternoon, Angela visited with fudge from the village and a game of Lexico in the other hand. Angela, as I have mentioned, is a good egg, sweet natured and downright fun in a way that seems highly rare amongst the finer sex. This opinion was reinforced by her decision to allow words such as 'oomph' and 'tinkerty', and not change that verdict when use of the latter word gave me the winning score. It takes a girl of majestic class and overwhelming splendidness to do that.
I will not deny that for a handful of hours, my time was spent in pleasant company thinking of spelling lists of my youth or relatives more devious-minded than my own, but when left alone again, I put every effort into being as morose and melancholic as I could be. If you looked up the words depressing and lovelorn, I am sure the dictionary would tell you to see the entry entitled, 'Wooster, B, Current state of'.
In the midst of such indulgence, when you are feeling vindicated and satisfied, it becomes paradoxically hard to maintain your mournful air of pessimism and disappointment, and so the feelings perish of excess. This is how it went for me, so by the time I badgered Waterbury into taking me to the village -- achieved through polite asking and outright begging of Angela, Tuppy and Aunt Dahlia, and only allowed once I could prove myself capable of navigating the length of the corridor without limping -- I had started to regain my more usual outlook and was almost looking forward to the shopping expedition.