The Inimitable Jeeves

P. G. Wodehouse

• Publisher: Mint Editions
• Year: 2020
• ISBN:
  9781513265179
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: Science Fiction
• Index: Literature

"Mr Wodehouse's idyllic world can never stale. He will continue to release future generations from captivity that may be more irksome than our own. He has made a world for us to live in and delight in." -Evelyn Waugh

"Wodehouse is one of the funniest and most productive men who ever wrote in English. He is far from being a mere jokesmith: he is an authentic craftsman, a wit and humorist of the first water, the inventor of a prose style which is a kind of comic poetry." -Richard Voorhees

First published in 1923, The Inimitable Jeeves follows young Bertie Wooster as he complicates every attempt to aid the easily confused Bingo Little's pursuit of true love. Disaster surely awaits, unless they can trust in the intervention of Bertie's serenely competent valet, Jeeves.

The Inimitable Jeeves is a chain of short stories masterfully fused into a novel and one of the best-known books about the author's most famous characters, Bertie Wooster and Jeeves. Well meaning, but often clueless, man-about-town Bertie narrates his adventures with assorted friends and relatives. These deal primarily with his chum Bingo Little's astounding ability to fall instantly and randomly in love and then conceive of startlingly absurd methods of getting himself into his beloved's good graces. Wodehouse's joyous farce showcases his trademark vision of a timeless and comfortable England, a collection of generally less-than-perceptive characters, and most especially his sublime prose- deadpan, precise and ceaselessly inventive. The author's vision and style have proven uniquely his own, resist any attempt at imitation and will continue to offer readers entrance into a world of charm and urbane hilarity.

With an eye-catching new cover, and professionally typeset manuscript, this edition of The Inimitable Jeeves is both modern and readable.

Chapter XVI

THE DELAYED EXIT OF CLAUDE AND EUSTACE

The feeling I had when Aunt Agatha trapped me in my lair that morning and spilled the bad news was that my luck had broken at last. As a rule, you see, I’m not lugged into Family Rows. On the occasions when Aunt is calling to Aunt like mastodons bellowing across primeval swamps and Uncle James’s letter about Cousin Mabel’s peculiar behaviour is being shot round the family circle (“Please read this carefully and send it on to Jane”), the clan has a tendency to ignore me. It’s one of the advantages I get from being a bachelor—and, according to my nearest and dearest, practically a half-witted bachelor at that. “It’s no good trying to get Bertie to take the slightest interest” is more or less the slogan, and I’m bound to say I’m all for it. A quiet life is what I like. And that’s why I felt that the Curse had come upon me, so to speak, when Aunt Agatha sailed into my sitting-room while I was having a placid cigarette and started to tell me about Claude and Eustace.

“Thank goodness,” said Aunt Agatha, “arrangements have at last been made about Eustace and Claude.”

“Arrangements?” I said, not having the foggiest.

“They sail on Friday for South Africa. Mr. Van Alstyne, a friend of poor Emily’s, has given them berths in his firm at Johannesburg, and we are hoping that they will settle down there and do well.”

I didn’t get the thing at all.

“Friday? The day after to-morrow, do you mean?”

“Yes.”

“For South Africa?”

“Yes. They leave on the Edinburgh Castle.”

“But what’s the idea? I mean, aren’t they in the middle of their term at Oxford?”

Aunt Agatha looked at me coldly.

“Do you positively mean to tell me, Bertie, that you take so little interest in the affairs of your nearest relatives that you are not aware that Claude and Eustace were expelled from Oxford over a fortnight ago?”

“No, really?”

“You are hopeless, Bertie. I should have thought that even you^____”

“Why were they sent down?”

“They poured lemonade on the Junior Dean of their college.… I see nothing amusing in the outrage, Bertie.”

“No, no, rather not,” I said hurriedly. “I wasn’t laughing. Choking. Got something stuck in my throat, you know.”

“Poor Emily,” went on Aunt Agatha, “being one of those doting mothers who are the ruin of their children, wished to keep the boys in London. She suggested that they might cram for the Army. But I was firm. The Colonies are the only place for wild youths like Eustace and Claude. So they sail on Friday. They have been staying for the last two weeks with your Uncle Clive in Worcestershire. They will spend to-morrow night in London and catch the boat-train on Friday morning.”

“Bit risky, isn’t it? I mean, aren’t they apt to cut loose a bit to-morrow night if they’re left all alone in London?”

“They will not be alone. They will be in your charge.”

“Mine!”

“Yes. I wish you to put them up in your flat for the night, and see that they do not miss the train in the morning.”

“Oh, I say, no!”

“Bertie!”

“Well, I mean, quite jolly coves both of them, but I don’t know. They’re rather nuts, you know^____ Always glad to see them, of course, but when it comes to putting them up for the night^____”

“Bertie, if you are so sunk in callous self-indulgence that you cannot even put yourself to this trifling inconvenience for the sake of^____”

“Oh, all right,” I said. “All right.”

It was no good arguing, of course. Aunt Agatha always makes me feel as if I had gelatine where my spine ought to be. She’s one of those forceful females. I should think Queen Elizabeth must have been something like her. When she holds me with her glittering eye and says, “Jump to it, my lad,” or words to that effect, I make it so without further discussion.

When she had gone, I rang for Jeeves to break the news to him.

“Oh, Jeeves,” I said, “Mr. Claude and Mr. Eustace will be staying here to-morrow night.”

“Very good, sir.”

“I’m glad you think so. To me the outlook seems black and scaly. You know what those two lads are!”

“Very high-spirited young gentlemen, sir.”

“Blisters, Jeeves. Undeniable blisters. It’s a bit thick!”

“Would there be anything further, sir?”

At that, I’m bound to say, I drew myself up a trifle haughtily. We Woosters freeze like the dickens when we seek sympathy and meet with cold reserve. I knew what was up, of course. For the last day or so there had been a certain amount of coolness in the home over a pair of jazz spats which I had dug up while exploring in the Burlington Arcade. Some dashed brainy cove, probably the chap who invented those coloured cigarette-cases, had recently had the rather topping idea of putting out a line of spats on the same system. I mean to say, instead of the ordinary grey and white, you can now get them in your regimental or school colours. And, believe me, it would have taken a chappie of stronger fibre than I am to resist the pair of Old Etonian spats which had smiled up at me from inside the window. I was inside the shop, opening negotiations, before it had even occurred to me that Jeeves might not approve. And I must say he had taken the thing a bit hardly. The fact of the matter is, Jeeves, though in many ways the best valet in London, is too conservative. Hide-bound, if you know what I mean, and an enemy to Progress.

“Nothing further, Jeeves,” I said, with quiet dignity.

“Very good, sir.”

He gave one frosty look at the spats and biffed off. Dash him!

---

ANYTHING MERRIER AND BRIGHTER THAN the Twins, when they curveted into the old flat while I was dressing for dinner the next night, I have never struck in my whole puff. I’m only about half a dozen years older than Claude and Eustace, but in some rummy manner they always make me feel as if I were well on in the grandfather class and just waiting for the end. Almost before I realised they were in the place, they had collared the best chairs, pinched a couple of my special cigarettes, poured themselves out a whisky-and-soda apiece, and started to prattle with the gaiety and abandon of two birds who had achieved their life’s ambition instead of having come a most frightful purler and being under sentence of exile.

“Hallo, Bertie, old thing,” said Claude. “Jolly decent of you to put us up.”

“Oh, no,” I said. “Only wish you were staying a good long time.”

“Hear that, Eustace? He wishes we were staying a good long time.”

“I expect it will seem a good long time,” said Eustace, philosophically.

“You heard about the binge, Bertie? Our little bit of trouble, I mean?”

“Oh, yes. Aunt Agatha was telling me.”

“We leave our country for our country’s good,” said Eustace.

“And let there be no moaning at the bar,” said Claude, “when I put out to sea. What did Aunt Agatha tell you?”

“She said you poured lemonade on the Junior Dean.”

“I wish the deuce,” said Claude, annoyed, “that people would get these things right. It wasn’t the Junior Dean. It was the Senior Tutor.”

“And it wasn’t lemonade,” said Eustace. “It was soda-water. The dear old thing happened to be standing just under our window while I was leaning out with a siphon in my hand. He looked up, and—well, it would have been chucking away the opportunity of a lifetime if I hadn’t let him have it in the eyeball.”

“Simply chucking it away,” agreed Claude.

“Might never have occurred again,” said Eustace.

“Hundred to one against it,” said Claude.

“Now what,” said Eustace, “do you propose to do, Bertie, in the way of entertaining the handsome guests to-night?”

“My idea was to have a bite of dinner in the flat,” I said. “Jeeves is getting it ready now.”

“And afterwards?”

“Well, I thought we might chat of this and that, and then it struck me that you would probably like to turn in early, as your train goes about ten or something, doesn’t it?”

The twins looked at each other in a pitying sort of way.

“Bertie,” said Eustace, “you’ve got the programme nearly right, but not qu...