sex_in_spats

-From Jeeves in the Offing

When a character is only known through the eyes of an imperfect first-person narrator, their inner life is often an enigma. Such is the case with P.G. Wodehouse's Reginald Jeeves. Throughout the majority of the stories in which he appears, readers see Jeeves as depicted by his effervescent, adoring but "mentally negligible"[1] employer, Bertram Wooster. Consequently, we only know Jeeves at a distance mediated by Bertie's concerns and limited awareness.
 

What, then, do we know about the enigmatic Reginald Jeeves? We know that he has an encyclopedic knowledge on all subjects ranging from hangover cures to Shakespeare, that he enjoys fishing, Robert Burns' poetry and "the great Russians.”[2] We also know that his favorite philosopher is Benedict de Spinoza. Wodehouse (quite deliberately, I believe) leaves many aspects of Jeeves' character unknown, but his love of Spinoza might provide a window into the personal philosophy of this paragon among manservants. A reading of Spinoza's Ethics offers tantalizing insight into Jeeves' behavior, and, taken in tandem with Jeeves as he is presented through Bertie's eyes, we might be able to unravel some of the mysteries behind his stratagems and schemes, throwing into sharper relief the man behind the stuffed frog mask.
 

Of course, before addressing the relationship between Jeeves as a character and Spinoza's philosophy in any detail, it is worth asking why Wodehouse made Spinoza Jeeves' philosopher of choice. There remains the possibility, of course, that Wodehouse merely chose Spinoza for practical reasons. Some[3] have suggested that Spinoza just happened to be a name which, alphabetically, is close to Spindrift, a detail that allows Bertie to be presented with Florence Craye's work just in time for her to find him in the bookstore looking for "Spinoza's latest."[4] This, however, seems unlikely. While Spinoza has the same first three letters as Spindrift, it is unclear why if Spindrift were filed alphabetically by title it would be anywhere near Spinoza's Ethics, On the Improvement of the Understanding or his Theologico-Political Treatise. By all accounts, Wodehouse planned his plots with great care,[5] and it seems unlikely that this discrepancy would escape his notice.

Determining with any degree of certainty whether or not Wodehouse had ever read Spinoza is difficult, however. While Wodehouse was unquestionably well-educated, information concerning the reception of Spinoza in England, America and France during the inter-war period is difficult to come by. It is, of course, possible that Wodehouse chose Spinoza as Jeeves' philosopher of choice merely because he is notoriously difficult to understand. Perhaps Spinoza is invoked only to throw Jeeves' intelligence into sharper relief. Yet Nietzsche is also a difficult philosopher, and Jeeves dismisses his work as "fundamentally unsound."[6] This suggests that Wodehouse's understanding of philosophy was at least sufficient to enable him to recognize that Nietzsche's philosophy would be inimical to Jeeves' disposition and would be suited to, say, Honoria Glossop instead.[7] Wodehouse does not explicitly provide any reason for Jeeves to prefer Spinoza over Nietzsche, but given the fact that it is Bertie Wooster telling the story, it is doubtful that Wodehouse would ever have occasion to do so. Besides, detailed exegeses on philosophical theories do not well-paced comic novels make.

If one looks at the philosophy of Spinoza in conjunction with Jeeves' character, Wodehouse's choice in this matter seems less than arbitrary. Even if the parallels between Spinoza's philosophy and Jeeves' personality are not intentional, they are striking and provide interesting and fruitful grounds for speculation concerning the inner life of Reginald Jeeves.

Before I delve into the connections between Spinoza's philosophy and Jeeves, I will provide a brief biography and background for understanding the Ethics. Spinoza was a Jew who lived in the Netherlands from the time of his birth in 1632 until his death at the age of 45 in 1677.[8] He remained unmarried and fathered no children, and was cast out of the Jewish community in 1656 at the age of 23. He was employed as a lens grinder and worked as a private scholar, unaffiliated with any university or institution. His writings were banned by the Catholic Church, and, while he was an extremely influential philosopher, he remained a controversial figure throughout the Modern period in Europe.

His most well-known work, and the only one mentioned explicitly in canon, is his Ethics. The Ethics is divided into five sections: "Of God," "Of the Nature and Origin of the Mind," "On the Origin and Nature of the Emotions," "Of Human Bondage; or of the Strength of the Emotions," and "Of the Power of the Intellect; or, of Human Freedom." The argument of the Ethics is that there exists only one substance (or "stuff") that comprises all that is, and this substance is God.[9] In other words, all that can be said to exist, is God. There has been some debate over whether this makes Spinoza a pantheist (all is God) or an atheist (if all can be said to be God, then nothing is God). I, personally, am inclined to believe the latter. At any rate, whether pantheist or atheist, for Spinoza God has nothing in common with anything the Western Judeo-Christian tradition would consider to be "God." Spinoza's God is not a personal God; this God has no anthropomorphic psychology.[10] God takes no interest in any aspect of the world, since God is the world. God does not desire worship, and God does not reward or favor any particular kind of being within the world because every individual thing is part of God. God is the same thing as Nature.

Spinoza is also a determinist, which means he thinks that everything that happens does so necessarily. There is no such thing as free will for Spinoza, because all that transpires is caused.[11] While this may seem quite abstract, from his definition of God and his understanding of causal necessity, he develops a quite sophisticated understanding of human psychology (a psychology of the individual, if you will). Spinoza writes that "[man] has a desire, of which he is conscious, to seek that which is profitable to him.”[12] Like everything else that exists, humans are determined by the necessary law of their nature. This fundamental human characteristic, this law of human nature, is that we always act in accordance with what they think is most profitable to us.

Spinoza is a psychological egoist, although it is important to understand that his Ethics merely describe human nature as it is; his model of human psychology contains no moral evaluation. Because human beings are constituted in this way, we experience the world in light of our desire for those things we think will be profitable to us. We call that which helps us to these ends, "good," and that which does not, "evil." Good and evil do not exist independently of us; there is no good or evil, beauty or ugliness in Nature--these are qualities which we mistakenly ascribe to Nature. This mistake arises from our failure to understand the nature of causes and from our arrogant and narrow assumption that the world (or God) takes a special interest in human beings.

As I have explained it so far, Spinoza's philosophy might seem far afield from Wodehouse's bright, quotidian world of chequered suits and unwanted engagements. The Ethics, however, true to its name, discusses human life at length in quite practical terms. In Books II & III of the Ethics Spinoza explains in considerable detail the origin and the nature of the human mind and human emotions. For Spinoza, we as human beings can experience affect in one of two ways: passively or actively. A passive affect, or a passion, is "a confused idea."[13] In other words, we experience passions when something happens to us and we do not understand what caused it. This is what Spinoza means by "inadequate ideas.” When human beings are enslaved by their passions, or are passively affected because their ideas about Nature and necessary causes are confused, they are in bondage. Spinoza writes that "a man who is under [the control of the emotions] is not his own master, but is mastered by fortune, in whose power he is."[14] When we have inadequate ideas, we are completely vulnerable to external circumstances that we do not understand.

The other way we can experience affect is through the activity of our minds. When we have an adequate idea, we are no longer enslaved to the passions or mastered by fortune; we are, in this way, free. Spinoza's Ethics is a book intended to be a practical guide to how we can learn to use the power of reason. To become rational and free, we must realize "how much reason itself can control the emotions, and then, what is freedom of mind or blessedness."[15] Spinoza demonstrates that human beings belong to the larger order of Nature, and through this recognition he generates an account of what freedom and blessedness--in a word, happiness--is for us. Thus he introduces the idea of the "free man," and it is here that our favorite paragon comes into the equation.

It is important to note, at this juncture, that the "free man" for Spinoza is an ideal, not something that is ever completely attainable. My argument is not that Jeeves is Spinoza's free man; however I maintain that Jeeves lives his life and comports himself in such a way that suggests he actively practices and adheres to the tenets of Spinozistic philosophy. That is to say, insofar as it is possible for a mere mortal to style himself or herself as Spinoza's free man, that person would be Reginald Jeeves.

While, as I noted earlier, direct insight into Jeeves' motivations and thoughts is tantalizingly absent from the stories, we can infer from his actions that Jeeves seems to have a healthy degree of self-interest. This is not to say that he is selfish or uncaring; however, in Bertie's madcap adventures, Jeeves invariably benefits in some way, whether it be a tip from Bertie or his friends, assurance of his continued employment, or an around-the-word cruise with his employer. His motives are always a bit mysterious, but the reader is left with the conviction that whatever else Jeeves' reasons for acting may be, he has a healthy concern for his own advantage. This suggests that Jeeves may be unapologetically aware of Spinoza's adage that "man does everything for an end, namely, for that which is profitable to him."[16]

Jeeves also is a man of extraordinary self-control, both with respect to his emotions and his conduct. Bertie often praises Jeeves' "feudal spirit," and Jeeves is well-known for his placid demeanor, or "stuffed frog mask." Jeeves never betrays any overt agitation, and Bertie can only read his feelings through a minute elevation of the eyebrow or a significant but momentary twitch in the corner of his lip. One could read Jeeves' stoicism as a consequence of his conservative outlook concerning the role and proper conduct of a servant, but given that Jeeves has no problem overstepping boundaries in other respects (policing Bertie's wardrobe is one notable example among others), his motivations may be more complex than this explanation would allow. I would contend that Jeeves' mastery over his emotions is symptomatic of his Spinozism.

For Spinoza, freedom is found through acting in accordance with one's own nature and not being subject to the passions. The final aim is to be "guided by reason, that is to say, the chief desire by which [the free man] strives to govern all his other desires."[17] The free person acts in such a way that all of his or her actions are guided by reason and not by emotion. It does not take much imaginative extrapolation to envision Jeeves' self-mastery as arising from a self-disciplined and rational approach to life's difficulties. Spinoza writes that "to bear with each, therefore, according to his disposition and to refrain from imitating his emotions requires a singular power of mind."[18] I can think of few persons, in life or fiction, who demonstrate this equanimity and intellectual strength to a greater degree than Reginald Jeeves.

By replacing confused or inadequate ideas (remember, all passions stem from a lack of understanding of the true nature of things) with adequate ideas, one can free one's self from slavery to emotion. To learn more is to acquire more freedom. Spinoza writes that, through reason, "[the free man] is lead adequately to conceive himself and all things which can be conceived by his intelligence."[19] To be a Spinozist is to undergo a rigorous regimen of constant intellectual--and bodily--self-improvement. The more one understands nature, the more one "passes to the highest human perfection, and consequently is affected with the highest joy which is accompanied with the idea of himself and his own virtue . . . the highest possible peace of mind."[20] Happiness is the recognition of the power of one's own mind. If there is one thing we know beyond a shadow of a doubt about Jeeves, it is that he is extraordinarily intelligent, well-informed and constantly learning more things. Bertie extols Jeeves' intelligence continuously throughout the stories, and in every misadventure Jeeves shines through as a paragon of sagacity and cunning.

Jeeves possesses an apparent love of learning and extensive expertise on all subjects, a quality that has made his name synonymous with encyclopedic knowledge. But Jeeves is not merely a source of factoids and quotes; he also has a genius for strategy and deep insight into human nature. For Spinoza, to master the emotions one must "understand all things to be necessary, and determined by an infinite change of causes to existence and action."[21] Part of this understanding of causes entails a detailed knowledge of human psychology, a psychology for which Spinoza lays the groundwork in his Ethics. As Bertie reminds us over and over again, Jeeves has a profound knowledge of what he calls "the psychology of the individual." This enables Jeeves to predict the desires and behaviors of those around him and, when it suits his purposes, to manipulate them to his own ends. It is important to note, however, that he always acts in the interest of bolstering certain social relationships. In severing unsuitable fiancées from his hapless employer, reuniting quarreling couples or preserving the security of his own position with Bertie, Jeeves always acts as a stabilizing force among the persons he serves. As Spinoza suggests, he "[applies] his [mind] to those things which subserve concord and the establishment of friendship."[22]

Jeeves' love of Spinoza can also help explain why he works as a valet. Bertie is fond of saying that Jeeves could biff off to be an Oxford don or prime minister, and often wonders why such an exemplar would remain as a personal caretaker for such a hopeless chump as Wooster, B. Of course, on one level this remark reflects Bertie's naïveté: the prospects for a man in Jeeves' station, however brilliant he may be, would probably not be so extravagant. On the other hand, one could imagine that Jeeves might easily procure a position in which he might be able to earn more money (while I am not entirely sure, I think a butler working for a wealthy family or a valet employed by someone with even more of the ready than Bertie would earn a larger income) or, perhaps, a greater appreciation for his intellectual gifts. While Bertie is effusive in singing Jeeves' praises, there is only so much notoriety a manservant in Jeeves' position could enjoy. Though Jeeves is rewarded with tips--quite generous ones--his motivations for working for Bertie could not be primarily pecuniary.

In the Ethics, Spinoza derides those who are motivated by trivial things like improving their reputation or acquiring greater wealth. He writes, "Those, however, who know the true use of money, and regulate the measure of wealth according to their needs, live contented with few things."[23] With the notable exception of the Banjolele incident in Thank You, Jeeves, Jeeves seems nothing if not content, even determined, to retain his position with Bertie. Presumably he lives well within his means and is happy to have a job in which he is able to have his needs met and to develop his particular talents and capacities as a supremely competent servant. For Spinoza, "joy consists in this, that the power of man, in so far as he is made up of mind and body, is helped or increased." [24] Happiness is not acquired through knowledge alone, but also requires the development of the power of the body. Any occupation in which one is able to maximize one's efficacy, both mental and physical, would be one in which any Spinozist would find peace and blessedness. As a valet serving one of nature's bachelors, Jeeves is afforded the opportunity to meet his own basic needs, the means to exercise the power of his mind in extricating Bertie and his friends from innumerable scrapes, and an occupation in which he can perfect his bodily and intellectual powers through improving books and honing his skills as the consummate valet.

The final question, one which can be answered only speculatively, is why does he remain with Bertram Wooster in particular? Surely there are many employers eager to engage Jeeves' services, some of whom may not be averse to taking around the world cruises and could offer a stipend to rival--or even surpass--what Bertie provides for Jeeves. Bertie, while charming, certainly does not provide the kind of meeting of the minds Spinoza describes among "individuals of the same kind" in Book IV of the Ethics.[25] It is my belief, however, that the tie that binds Bertie to Jeeves is best described by what Spinoza says when he writes, "Minds are not conquered by arms, but by love and generosity."[26]

Many thanks to erynn999 for looking over this essay on such short notice.




Endnotes

[1] P.G. Wodehouse. Thank You, Jeeves. (New York: Overlook Press, 1971), 56

[2] Ibid., Jeeves and the Feudal Spirit. (New York: Overlook Press, 1988), 11

[3] Cf. http://www.freelists.org/post/lit-ideas/Wodehouse-on-Spinoza

[4] P.G. Wodehouse. “Jeeves Takes Charge.” Carry on Jeeves. (New York: Penguin, 1975), 9-34

[5] Gerald Clarke. “P.G. Wodehouse Interview: The Art of Fiction.” Paris Review, #60 (http://www.theparisreview.org/interviews/3773/the-art-of-fiction-no-60-p-g-wodehouse)

[6] P.G. Wodehouse. “Jeeves Takes Charge.”

[7] Ibid.

[8] It has been suggested on account of Spinoza's Judaism that Wodehouse made Spinoza Jeeves' favorite philosopher as an implicit criticism of the Nazi regime, but this remains an extremely speculative contention.

[9] Spinoza. Ethics. Trans. James Gutmann. (New York: Hafner Publishing, 1955), Book I, definition I-VI

[10] Ibid., I, Appendix

[11] Ibid., II, Proposition 48

[12] Ibid., I, Appendix

[13] Ibid., III, Definition 48, Explanation

[14] Ibid., IV, Preface

[15] Ibid., V, Preface

[16] Ibid., I, Appendix

[17] Ibid., IV, Appendix, Proposition 4

[18] Ibid., IV, Appendix, Proposition 13

[19] Ibid., IV, Appendix, Proposition 4

[20] Ibid., V, Proposition 27, Definition

[21] Ibid., V, Proposition 6, Definition

[22] Ibid., IV, Appendix, Proposition 14

[23] Ibid., IV, Appendix, Proposition 24

[24] Ibid., IV, Appendix, Proposition 30

[25] Ibid., IV, Appendix, Proposition 9

[26] Ibid., IV, Appendix, Proposition 9

sex_in_spats

For:mellifluous_gel for when she finally arrives home safely :-)
Beta: erynn999 who was kind enough to beta for me with verty little notice. All narrative errors of judgement are mine.
Rating: NC-17
Length: ~ 8000 words
Warning: Graphic sex and crazed sleigh drivers
Summary: For the yuletide exchange, written for this prompt: On the theme of wintry, how about a wild, one-horse open sleigh ride that brings the boys together in mutual fear for their lives. Comedy and crazy sleigh-drivers are a plus! Internet points for anyone who can identify the second prompt I filled.
Disclaimer: I am not P.G. Wodehouse. My silly stories belong to me, all the marvelous characters I use and abuse belong to him.

Title: Jeeves and the One-Horse Open Sleigh
Author: sex_in_spats 

For:mellifluous_gel for when she finally arrives home safely :-)
Beta: erynn999 who was kind enough to beta for me with verty little notice. All narrative errors of judgement are mine.
Rating: NC-17
Length: ~ 8000 words
Warning: Graphic sex and crazed sleigh drivers
Summary: For the yuletide exchange, written for this prompt: On the theme of wintry, how about a wild, one-horse open sleigh ride that brings the boys together in mutual fear for their lives. Comedy and crazy sleigh-drivers are a plus! Internet points for anyone who can identify the second prompt I filled.
Disclaimer: I am not P.G. Wodehouse. My silly stories belong to me, all the marvelous characters I use and abuse belong to him.

Title: Jeeves and the One-Horse Open Sleigh
Author: sex_in_spats 

For:mellifluous_gel for when she finally arrives home safely :-)
Beta: erynn999 who was kind enough to beta for me with verty little notice. All narrative errors of judgement are mine.
Rating: NC-17
Length: ~ 8000 words
Warning: Graphic sex and crazed sleigh drivers
Summary: For the yuletide exchange, written for this prompt: On the theme of wintry, how about a wild, one-horse open sleigh ride that brings the boys together in mutual fear for their lives. Comedy and crazy sleigh-drivers are a plus! Internet points for anyone who can identify the second prompt I filled.
Disclaimer: I am not P.G. Wodehouse. My silly stories belong to me, all the marvelous characters I use and abuse belong to him.

 

Title: Jeeves and the Best Laid Schemes
Author: sex_in_spats 

For: erynn999 
Beta: ataratah , who is an absolute paragon. Thanks are owed not only for doing a wonderful job beta-ing my fic in spite of the busy holidays but also for providing many of the better plot points when my imagination failed me.
Rating: NC-17
Length: ~16000 words
Warning: Graphic sex and Jeevesian schemes, stratagems and spoils going awry
Summary: For the yuletide exchange, written for this prompt: While on holiday, Jeeves finally realizes he can't take it any more and decides to make his move on Bertie when he gets home. Every time Jeeves tries to say something, there's an interruption. - birds, bezels, aunts, traveling salesmen, thunderstorms, the more bizarre the better. Finally, seeing that trying to talk to Bertie about it is going to be hopeless, he engineers a few days of absolute isolation and pounces the young master, who responds with delight and a what-took-you-so-long attitude. Massive happy smut ensues. Satisfaction is had by all.
Disclaimer: I am not P.G. Wodehouse. My silly stories belong to me, all the marvelous characters I use and abuse belong to him.

“All things excellent are as difficult as they are rare.”

-Spinoza

“Suspense is worse than disappointment.”

-Robert Burns

Self-knowledge is the highest human virtue, and I had always imagined I possessed it in uncommon abundance. Self-mastery, sister to self-knowledge, was another trait which I took care to cultivate both philosophically and in the practicalities of my personal and professional existence. Self-knowledge and self-mastery allowed me to preserve my dignity, liberty and sanity throughout my double life as both the consummate valet and as a gentleman who prefers the company of other gentleman. A servant must learn to wear masks, and for a confirmed invert who has known of his proclivities since he was quite young, these masks must be maintained even among those of one's station.

I have always believed that one who has his hand firmly on the wheel of his own soul can face the vicissitudes of fate with a steady eye and a calm heart. In pride born of long and difficult experience, I imagined that I was unshakable and untouchable. However, in less than one calamitous week, a singular series of events revealed that I did not understand what a powerful sway my feelings could exert over my reason. I was blissfully unaware that in the face of a circumstantial frustrations I might find myself heedlessly abandoning my own best interests in a desperate bid for improbable happiness.

My undoing began with my employment to Mr. Wooster. From the first time I saw him, I was charmed by and attracted to him. For a personal attendant to find the svelte body and fine features of his master pleasing to the eye is a seductive boon, and I indulged this private discomfort and minor pleasure without hesitation. After this had gone on for some time, however, I found that my sentiments concerning Mr. Wooster were not altogether limited to his physical qualities. The thought of him being taken out of my life became increasingly distasteful. Seeing him smile or hearing him praise my cooking or my intellectual prowess became my great secret joy. I experienced pangs of what an honest man would have immediately recognized as jealousy when I found his affections had yet again been engaged in some dubious quarter. I realized, a bit belatedly, that I had fallen in love with my employer.

For many years, I believed that this did not pose any sort of serious obstacle to my contentment. It might be assumed that I must have been unhappy serving a man for whom I had romantic feelings, but I was not. A valet must never be a slave to his emotions, and with little difficulty, I was able to ensure that the tendre I felt for my employer was never visible on my face and scarcely disturbed my inner calm. What more could I ask beyond creature comforts, fiscal security and the constant companionship of the man I adored?

In my weaker moments, I had the combined memory and anticipation of the weeks I spent during my vacation on the French Riviera to sustain me. Every year I would travel to the Cote d'Azur, ostensibly for the fishing. The real pleasures of my leave, however, were confined to the long and balmy Mediterranean nights. After fishing during the day I would spend the evening drinking, smoking and sharing my bed and body with like minded men. Little did Mr. Wooster suspect that the bathing beauties contest I judged did not feature a single female specimen.

Half way through the fifth vacation I took as Mr. Wooster's personal gentleman, I realized that something had changed. I was seated on a balcony overlooking the shimmering, fragrant sea at a discreet little restaurant I favoured when I was suddenly forced to acknowledge the fruit of what had been growing in my heart for many years. The night was lovely. The full moon illuminated the smooth sands of the shore, and a cigar smoked in its holder at my elbow as I sipped a fine vintage of Beaujolais. We are allotted a finite number of perfect moments in this life, and by all counts this ought to have been one of them. But I could not drink deep its bliss as I had once done because I missed Mr. Wooster.

In the past, I had thoroughly enjoyed the fleshly diversions the Côte d'Azur provided; though my affections were thoroughly engaged with my employer, I would have been either a fool or a madman to allow such a one-sided and hopeless attachment to lessen the sweetness of my dalliances. This time, however, I found that I had little interest in my usual evanescent intrigues and seductions. The magical place which once offered me the freedom I craved like air had lost its charms. I didn't want to spend my night with a stranger; I wanted him.

Things, I concluded as I drank the dregs of my wine, had gotten out of hand. I asked myself whether my new-found inability to regulate my feelings for my employer would lessen with time. Given that my affection for him had only grown stronger throughout the many years of our acquaintance, I could only conclude that this was unlikely. I considered my next course of action. I could exert more effort to keep my unruly feelings in check in the interest of maintaining the status quo, but something deep and unruly inside my heart rebelled at the thought. I considered resigning, but I could not bear the idea of never seeing him again.

Or, I thought, allowing my mind to linger on a fantasy which I had forbidden myself for half a decade, I could declare myself to him.

I would have never contemplated such a drastic and dangerous step had I no indication that Mr. Wooster might welcome the change in our arrangement. As it stood, I believed he was almost certainly an invert, though whether he himself was aware of this remained questionable. By this time he had sworn off women entirely, but even during the years when he had fancied himself in love with sundry members of the fairer sex, his love seemed to be seated in his imagination rather than in any genuine romantic attachment to the individual in question. Once all ties had been severed, he never regretted their loss for long, if he did at all.

But what, I wondered, rolling the flute of my glass between my thumb and forefinger, did he think of me? Of course I was aware that Mr. Wooster was fond of me; my presence was the lodestar of his domestic life. But did he see me as anything more? I did not—could not—know beyond a shadow of a doubt, but I suspected that he did. There were times when I would notice him watching me with a look of mingled fondness and sadness which would vanish so quickly I almost suspected I imagined it. Many times he had tried to elicit information about my family and my affairs, inquiries I half indulged and half dodged, and this concern gave me hope. Finally and most tellingly , when I was gone from him he pined. There is no other word for the despondency I read in his demeanour and from a thousand other signs which only someone who knew Mr. Wooster as I did could interpret.

That night I resolved to take the first daringly foolish step of my life. I was aware that I faced the possibility of utter ruin. But as I stood, paid my bill and made my way down the gas lit roads back to my solitary cottage by the sea, I vowed silently to the man I had come to love as dearly as life itself, I'll follow you and make a heaven out of hell, and I'll die by your hand which I love so well.

****

“We apologize for the continued delay. We are fixing the problem as quickly as we can, but we probably won't get into London until around midnight.”

The conductor who made the announcement looked exhausted, but I was too entrenched in my own eagerness to return to Mr. Wooster to feel anything but an uncharacteristic impatience. I had been sorely tried. The trains in France had run late, but that was no surprise; the French have a much more lax attitude toward punctuality than the English. When I boarded the ferry which was to take me across the Channel the weather was bright and the sky clear, and I felt optimistic that I would be back in Berkeley Square by mid-afternoon. As soon as we were a hundred yards from shore, however, thunder heads rolled in and the winds picked up from the south. Soon torrents of rain lashed the deck and enormous waves battered the ship. I arrived many hours too late for my connecting train and barely caught the 7.14.

I was beginning to wonder irritably whether I would ever reach London at all when the conductor made his announcement to our crowded car. We were about halfway down the Brighton line and I would not be able to send a telegram to Mr. Wooster alerting him to my late arrival. I took a deep breath and calmed my rattled nerves. I was, after all, a deeply disciplined, resourceful, but most of all, patient man. And, while inconvenient, this delay was inconsequential to my larger plan.

Little did I suspect that the mishaps plaguing my journey were mere shadows of the trials to come, trials which would weigh my self-mastery in the balance and find me wanting.

* * *

The conductor's estimated time for our arrival was optimistic, for we did not reach Waterloo station until well after 1:00 AM. By the time I found myself standing on the kerb opposite our building looking up at the windows, it was slightly after 2:00 AM. Our lights were still on, which I took as a propitious sign. Mr. Wooster often goes to bed in the small hours of the morning and sleeps quite late, so there was a good chance I could make my confession that very evening.

In spite of my anxiety and exhaustion, I walked to the lift with a sure and resolute step. I let myself in the flat and looked around for my employer, clearing my throat to announce my presence. Every light was on and the room looked an absolute disaster. I hung my hat and coat and began slowly tiding as I worked my way to the master bedroom. He was not there. I turned back to the living room and realized that the flat was such a mess I had initially failed to notice Mr. Wooster's lanky legs protruding from beneath the chesterfield.

Alarmed, I reached his side in moments and peered into the dark recess under the couch. “Sir?” My calm inquiry, which betrayed none of the frantic concern I felt, elicited a groan. “Sir, are you well?”

The legs moved and my master slid out from under the furniture, his curls tousled and his clothing in a state too wrinkled to contemplate. He was not, as I had at first feared, injured, but only intoxicated—exceedingly intoxicated. My heart sank. All hope of bringing up the matter which had lain so heavily on my mind for two weeks vanished. I rose to my feet and asked a bit coolly, “Did sir wish to spend the night on the floor, or shall I prepare the master bedroom?”

When his eyes finally focused on me, they grew wider. “Jeeves?” he slurred, pulling himself onto the cushions with considerable effort. “You're here.”

“Indeed, sir. Did you enjoy an invigorating evening?”

Mr. Wooster was curiously affected by my presence; he seemed surprised to see me. “Jeeves... I ... where were you?” He blurted out. “Was... worried, 'bout you. Thought you'd giv'n me the... ol' heave-ho. It was the chequered tie, thought you'd decided to say dash th'feudal spirit and the young master ... I never even wore the bally tie, Jeeves!”

I was aware, of course, of the existence of the aforementioned article, which had been naively concealed in the bottom of his sock drawer. I had intended to destroy it as soon as Mr. Wooster took a trip to the country, but he had not ventured to wear the horrific thing in my presence so far. I gathered from his disjointed ramblings that when I had not arrived that morning and sent no word, he had leapt to the hasty and erroneous conclusion that I had decided to leave his service without notice on account of the contraband item. What this suggested about my master's estimation of my integrity and devotion to him did nothing to alleviate my growing resentment of his excessive drunkenness. Behind my irritation part of me wondered why he was drunk. While it was not uncommon for him to make merry at the Drones Club and come back somewhat the worse for wear, I had rarely seen him so far gone.

I continued to address him in glacial tones. “Sir, my train was delayed and there was some unexpected difficulty crossing the channel. I would have sent you a telegram but was never afforded the opportunity. I trust this has caused you no undue distress.”

“Undue distress?” He mouthed the words slowly, as if they were in a language unfamiliar to him. He shook his head and raised his hand over his eyes. “Jeeves, you sound destickt-distingu-”

“Distinctly, sir?” I supplied reflexively.

He raised his eyes and gave me a look of dizzy and somewhat uncharacteristic belligerence. “Very very soupy, n' froglike.” His eyes were red-rimmed, although whether this was a symptom of his inebriation or whether he had been crying I could not say.

I stiffened at his words. “I shall endeavour to correct it, sir. If you will excuse me I must prepare the master bedroom.”

I drifted out of the living room and began stripping the sheets off his bed. I was so disturbed by how rapidly he had assumed that I had abandoned him that for a few evil moments I entertained the thought of dumping him in the rumpled sheets and retiring for the evening. But no, regardless of my petty resentment it would not do to let standards drop. I snapped the clean sheets onto the bed and finished tucking them in when I turned to find Mr. Wooster leaning heavily on the doorway of the bedroom, watching me in silence. He seemed more collected and a bit contrite.

“'M sorry Jeeves.”

“Sir?”

“M'sorry m' so tight, old thing. I just wonder sometimes, what a paragon like you is doing with a chump like Wooster, B. Gets worse when you're gone y'know. When I didn't hear from you I biffed off to the Drones to pass the time and the later it became the more sense had been washed out of the Wooster onion.” He gave me a wan smile which faded as he registered something in my expression. “How was your trip? You look distinctly un-chuffed, if that's a word. Usually you come back from the shores stuffed to the brim with fish and the Viking light gleaming in your baby blues. Is something wrong?” He lurched forward to peer at my face more closely.

He has always been adept at reading even my slightest expression and it is a tribute to his acute sensitivity that even in this state he could sense my displeasure. “My vacation was quite satisfactory, thank you sir,” I replied more gently. “If you are ready to retire the bed has been prepared. You will find a glass of water on the bedside table should you need it.” He obligingly, if a bit clumsily, began stepping out of his clothing. When I finished gathering them up in his wake he had slipped into his pyjamas and was crawling into bed, his eyes never leaving my face. I disposed of the clothing and stood at attention. “Will there be anything else this evening, sir?”

He frowned in concentration even as his eyelids began to droop. “Met Gussie at the Drones, and he needs your help fishing him out, though if you ask me he's behaving like a first-rate chump. He's in the metrop. for a week and...” His voice trailed off. “Meant to tell you something, Jeeves, but I can't seem to get my bally brain to deliver up the goods.”

“Do not concern yourself, sir. We will speak tomorrow,” I assured him as I left the room. As soon as I had switched the light off a small voice murmured, almost inaudibly, “Missed you terribly, Jeeves.”

I closed the door behind me softly and lingered outside his bedroom for a moment, closing my eyes. Perhaps it was sheer psychological and physical exhaustion, but I found myself deeply affected by this unprecedented, if drunken, confession. I tried to temper the warmth which blossomed in my chest by reminding myself that to take seriously the things a man says whilst in his cups is dangerous, particularly for someone in my position. This did not prevent me from replying, softly, “I've missed you too, sir.”

Part 2

I woke up only slightly later than is my custom, and in spite of the late night, found myself in excellent spirits. After a light breakfast I busied myself by tidying up the flat which was, as I noted earlier, an appalling mess. Socks were strewn over lampshades, cigarettes secreted in diverse and unexpected locations such as between the settee cushions and inside drawers, and sticky cocktail glasses covered nearly every table and every inch of the mantelpiece. This did nothing to sour my good humour, as these small tasks inaugurated my return to the care of Mr. Wooster. When I found half-charred remains of the offensive chequered tie in the fireplace, I very nearly smiled.

I made quick work of the living room and the kitchen before preparing Mr. Wooster's restorative. I concocted an unusually potent mixture and felt perversely gratified at the thought of the headache the excesses of last night would doubtlessly visit on my unfortunate master. I knew it was likely he would not be up for a full breakfast so I only prepared a cup of tea before gliding into Mr. Wooster's room.

I could discern from his breathing that he was awake but in a great deal of discomfort. His slender hands covered his eyes and what I could see of his face looked pained.

“Good morning, sir. I trust you are well rested enough to drink this?”

Bertie groaned. “Jeeves, I have no need of mornings. Mornings can go hang. Are my affairs in order? The last of the Woosters needs nothing more than an undertaker and a quiet hole in which to bung the mortal remains.”

“I trust that is not the case, sir.”

His free hand groped blindly for the glass which I supplied and he drank in silence. As he did so I opened the curtains and cracked the window, letting the unseasonably warm autumn breeze whisk away the stale air. When I turned back to him he had brightened considerably and was sitting up, regarding me with a warm smile. As I looked, his smile wilted and he looked uneasy. “Erm, Jeeves, I am a bit unsure what the young master might have said or done last night. I had a few—more than a few—snootfuls at the Drones and was pretty well under the surface when you came back.”

“To be precise, sir, you were under the chesterfield.”

Mr. Wooster turned a becoming shade of pink and continued, not quite meeting my eyes. “Well, Jeeves, this is the thing. Did I say or do anything unbecoming of a preux chevalier ? I have not been so tight since I was sailing under the old Oxford blues and, well, I hate that you probably had to play nursemaid to the young master as soon as you stepped off the boat, old fruit.”

I handed him his tea. “Not at all, sir,” I assured him.

He looked relieved and he continued to sip his tea as the smile returned to his expressive features. “How was your vacation, Jeeves? You look quite tanned and fit, brimming with good health. Did you strike terror into the heart of the mighty mackerel with the power of your harpoon?”

“Thank you sir,” I inclined my head, “but I feel bound to inform you that one does not hunt for mackerel with a harpoon and as I generally vacation on the shores of the Mediterranean Sea, I do not fish for mackerel. This particular species of fish is common in the Atlantic Ocean near the shore of North America, and on account of their bland flavour and peculiar consistency-”

“Jeeves,” Mr. Wooster interrupted, bringing his cup down with a force and alacrity which made me fear for the saucer, “that is enough about mackerel. Expunge mackerel from your mind.”

“I have already done so, sir. To answer your initial inquiry, my vacation was quite pleasant, thank you sir.”

There was a pause as he finished his tea. I rallied my courage, and coughed softly.

“Jeeves?”

“If I may, sir, there is a . . . delicate matter which I should like to discuss with you.”

Mr. Wooster's eyes widened with apprehension. He placed his teacup and saucer on the table and gave me his full attention. “Of course Jeeves, though if it's regarding that natty chequered tie, I got rid of the thing.”

“No, sir, what I have to say has nothing whatsoever to do with that eccentric item, though I have no doubt that it has gone to a better place.” I took a deep breath. “Sir, ever since I-aggh!”

I gave a rather undignified exclamation of surprise. While I was speaking, I had suddenly become aware of something cold and clammy climbing up my leg inside my trousers. I knelt and raised my trouser leg to discover a member of the taricha granulosa family—the common rough-skinned newt—had crawled up my calf. Shuddering, I scooped the amphibious creature into my hand and held him up in disbelief. “Sir? Why is there a newt in your bedroom?”

Mr. Wooster regarded me wide eyed, the blankets clutched in his hand. “Jeeves, if you'll turn around there's a good sight more than just one newt,” he squeaked.

I whirled around to face at least twelve of the loathsome creatures crawling over the carpet in a line leading from the master bathroom. Incredulously, I followed their ranks back to the source: Mr. Wooster's tub. The rest of the flat had been in such poor repair that I had not found the time to investigate the state of the master bathroom, and I realized belatedly that this oversight had been a grave error. Three empty, sizeable newt tanks were stacked by the sink and the tub was crawling with the creatures. The tub, which was filled with islands of dirt supplied by the now-vacant tanks, had at one time been filled with a few inches of water, but the plug had been inserted carelessly so the water had ebbed slowly throughout the night. Now that the water had disappeared the intrepid explorers had gone in search of more suitable environs. I turned to Mr. Wooster, who sat in open-mouthed shock, staring at the amphibious invasion.

“Am I to understand that we are entertaining Mr. Fink-Nottle, sir?”

“Gussie?” He continued to gape until realization dawned. He turned to me brightly as if suddenly forgetting our home was infested with newts. “Gussie. Yes, Jeeves, he is staying in the guest bedroom. I was so bally potted last night I completely forgot about it until now. He requires you to rally round, Jeeves. The milk of wedded paradise has turned sour on poor old Gussie's lips. Apparently Emerald has given him the bum's rush.”

“Indeed, sir.” On my own account, I am perfectly indifferent to Mr. Wooster's innumerable and at times nearly indistinguishable friends, but as he is so devotedly loyal to them I have a predisposition to like them rather than not, save in those instances where their demands and desires endanger or compromise Mr. Wooster. Unfortunately this happens to be the case quite often. This time, however, I found myself resenting Mr. Fink-Nottle entirely on my own behalf. I could never risk my own safety, to say nothing of Mr. Wooster's well being, by making such an incriminating confession as I'd planned with a guest present, even a guest as customarily oblivious and inept as Mr. Fink-Nottle. Furthermore, I wanted Mr. Wooster to be able to think about what I had to say without the distraction of another person in our home. I immediately resolved to rid us of this unwelcome interruption and his small army of pestilential pets in as expedient a fashion as decorum would permit.

* * *

As soon as Mr. Fink-Nottle emerged from the guest bedroom, I realized that he had also been indulging, something he only did when in dire distress. He was clad in what I could only assume was the same suit he had worn the night before.

“Oh, hello Jeeves,” he murmured before collapsing into an armchair.

“Good morning, Mr. Fink-Nottle,” I replied. “Mr. Wooster was wondering if you could take care of the little newt problem which appears to have developed in the master bathroom.”

His eyes widened and the ill effects of last night's excesses were instantaneously exorcised as he leaped to his feet and dashed into the master bedroom. I entered the guest bedroom and found it in a state to rival Mr. Fink-Nottle's dishabille; suitcases had been thrown into the corner and the sheets tangled into knots. I tidied as quickly as possible, and when I returned Mr. Fink-Nottle stood in the living room, the newts restored to their proper place in the tanks by his side. Mr. Wooster entered the room a moment later, and I was pleased to note that to my trained eye he appeared slightly annoyed with his guest.

“Now Gussie,” he said, thrusting his hands into the pockets of his robe, “do dress yourself properly or old Jeeves will refuse to answer your supplication for succour. You know how hidebound and reactionary he is in re. appearing the next morning in the togs in which one spent a rather fruity evening.”

Mr. Fink-Nottle cast me a guilty glance a timid schoolboy caught out after hours might give his headmaster. “All right, Bertie.”

As soon as the door of the guest room closed, Mr. Wooster turned to me. “That got rid of the blighter for a little bit. Now, Jeeves, you said you had something to say to me.”

I sighed inwardly. “It is unimportant, sir.”

He eyed me narrowly. “I know what unimportant looks like on the Jeevesian map and whatever it is you had to say to the young master this morning was certainly not.”

I raised my eyebrow. “Indeed, sir?”

“Jeeves, you sound displeased. I am sorry I forgot to tell you about Gussie, but when a chap has been imbibing b&s of an evening allowances must be made. The Wooster bean was not in its top form. What was it you had to say to me?”

Apprehension had crept back into his voice and I hastened to reassure him. It wouldn't do to have him believe I was seriously angry with him before I lay my romantic proposition and my destiny at his feet. “I was only going to ask, sir, whether in my absence you had decided to seek gainful employment at the zoo.”

“Eh?”

“While cleaning underneath your bed, I discovered a scarf patterned with what appeared to be leopard spots. I could only conclude that you had taken an interest in exotic animal life.”

All apprehension vanished from his face; this was familiar territory for us. “Jeeves, you go too far. The stylish article on which you lavish such disdain was a gift from Oofy Prosser. He was on safari last month and the chaps at the Drones are absolutely mad for this dashing piece of neck wear. I won't hear anything against it Jeeves. In fact, I shall sport it about the metrop. this very afternoon to the envy and admiration of all.”

“Very good sir. Shall I lay out a whip and patterned topper to complete the ensemble?”

“I think the blue pinstripe should fit the bill. Let me hear no more about zoos or circuses. The scarf will remain a stylish adornment to the graceful Wooster neck with or without your approval, Jeeves.”

“Yes sir.”

Mr. Wooster made good on his threat, and I immediately regretted that what I had intended as a mere diversion had give rise to his wrong-headed determination to wear the scarf to spite both me and all standards of good taste. He departed with a lofty proclamation that he would be back around supper time. As soon as he had gone Mr. Fink-Nottle reappeared, dressed in a way almost appropriate for a civilized gentleman.

“I suppose Bertie has told you all, Jeeves,” Mr. Fink-Nottle greeted me despondently.

“On the contrary, Mr. Fink-Nottle, Mr. Wooster has only given me to understand that you have experienced some little domestic strife.”

“Little! Jeeves, Emerald has thrown me out of my own home! Bertie has a lot of dashed nerve to call that 'little'!”

“Perhaps it would be best if you told me what happened from the beginning.”

I won't tire my readers by reproducing the rambling and disjointed tale of marital woe Mr. Fink-Nottle laid before me. Suffice it to say that his relations with the former Ms. Stoker had undergone some strain on account of Mr. Fink-Nottle's repeatedly, though inadvertently, being caught in compromising positions with various female members of the staff. Had any other man told me this I would have thought him a liar, but Mr. Fink-Nottle is one of the most hapless, incompetent and harmless people of Mr. Wooster's acquaintance. The story culminated with his being caught in the maid's bedroom searching for a large female newt who happened to share the appellation “Annie” with the servant in question. Upon discovering Mr. Fink-Nottle rifling through the chambermaid's undergarments calling “Annie, Annie,” in a sotto voice, Mrs. Fink-Nottle had, not unreasonably, told him to pack his things.

I confess the scheme I devised was not intended to help Mr. Fink-Nottle so much as to get him to leave the flat as soon as humanly possible and it therefore lacked a certain subtlety. I told him that he ought to return and surprise Mrs. Fink-Nottle with a cruise away from the domestics and, perhaps more importantly, away from his newts. This plan, I told him, also had the virtue of providing a plausible explanation of why he was so intent on conversing privately with the staff.

If this plot lacked my usual finesse, Mr. Fink-Nottle did not notice. He brightened when I finished laying out the details. “Jeeves, that's a corker! Here, take a fiver. Now go and pack my bags. I have a cruise to book and a wife to win!”

I fetched his hat and coat. “I hear the Caribbean is quite clement this time of year,” I suggested, savouring the thought of sending him to a location as remote as possible from Mr. Wooster and myself.

“Thank you Jeeves!”

I shut the door behind him and was left to my own devices for the remainder of the afternoon, time I spent scrubbing dirt and newt skin out of the tub in the master bathroom and fantasizing about what I had planned to say to Mr. Wooster as soon as we were left in peace. But, as the poet Burns cautions, “The best-laid schemes o' mice an' men gang aft agley, An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain for promis'd joy.”

Part 3