Pelham Wodehouse - Right Ho, Jeeves

“How did you go?”

“They hung on my lips. I held them in the hollow of my hand.”

“They didn't throw eggs, or anything?”

“Not a thing.”

He expelled a deep breath, and for a space stood staring in silence at a passing slug.

“Well,” he said, at length, “it may be all right. Possibly I am letting the thing prey on my mind too much. I may be wrong in supposing it the fate that is worse than death. But I'll tell you this much: the prospect of that prize-giving on the thirty-first of this month has been turning my existence into a nightmare. I haven't been able to sleep or think or eat ... By the way, that reminds me. You never explained that cipher telegram about the sausages and ham.”

“It wasn't a cipher telegram. I wanted you to go light on the food, so that she would realize you were in love.”

He laughed hollowly.

“I see. Well, I've been doing that, all right.”

“Yes, I was noticing at dinner. Splendid.”

“I don't see what's splendid about it. It's not going to get me anywhere. I shall never be able to ask her to marry me. I couldn't find nerve to do that if I lived on wafer biscuits for the rest of my life.”

“But, dash it, Gussie. In these romantic surroundings. I should have thought the whispering trees alone—”

“I don't care what you would have thought. I can't do it.”

“Oh, come!”

“I can't. She seems so aloof, so remote.”

“She doesn't.”

“Yes, she does. Especially when you see her sideways. Have you seen her sideways, Bertie? That cold, pure profile. It just takes all the heart out of one.”

“It doesn't.”

“I tell you it does. I catch sight of it, and the words freeze on my lips.”

He spoke with a sort of dull despair, and so manifest was his lack of ginger and the spirit that wins to success that for an instant, I confess, I felt a bit stymied. It seemed hopeless to go on trying to steam up such a human jellyfish. Then I saw the way. With that extraordinary quickness of mine, I realized exactly what must be done if this Fink-Nottle was to be enabled to push his nose past the judges' box.

“She must be softened up,” I said.

“Be what?”

“Softened up. Sweetened. Worked on. Preliminary spadework must be put in. Here, Gussie, is the procedure I propose to adopt: I shall now return to the house and lug this Bassett out for a stroll. I shall talk to her of hearts that yearn, intimating that there is one actually on the premises. I shall pitch it strong, sparing no effort. You, meanwhile, will lurk on the outskirts, and in about a quarter of an hour you will come along and carry on from there. By that time, her emotions having been stirred, you ought to be able to do the rest on your head. It will be like leaping on to a moving bus.”

I remember when I was a kid at school having to learn a poem of sorts about a fellow named Pig-something—a sculptor he would have been, no doubt—who made a statue of a girl, and what should happen one morning but that the bally thing suddenly came to life. A pretty nasty shock for the chap, of course, but the point I'm working round to is that there were a couple of lines that went, if I remember correctly:

She starts. She moves. She seems to feel The stir of life along her keel.

And what I'm driving at is that you couldn't get a better description of what happened to Gussie as I spoke these heartening words. His brow cleared, his eyes brightened, he lost that fishy look, and he gazed at the slug, which was still on the long, long trail with something approaching bonhomie. A marked improvement.

“I see what you mean. You will sort of pave the way, as it were.”

“That's right. Spadework.”

“It's a terrific idea, Bertie. It will make all the difference.”

“Quite. But don't forget that after that it will be up to you. You will have to haul up your slacks and give her the old oil, or my efforts will have been in vain.”

Something of his former Gawd-help-us-ness seemed to return to him. He gasped a bit.

“That's true. What the dickens shall I say?”

I restrained my impatience with an effort. The man had been at school with me.

“Dash it, there are hundreds of things you can say. Talk about the sunset.”

“The sunset?”

“Certainly. Half the married men you meet began by talking about the sunset.”

“But what can I say about the sunset?”

“Well, Jeeves got off a good one the other day. I met him airing the dog in the park one evening, and he said, 'Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, sir, and all the air a solemn stillness holds.' You might use that.”

“What sort of landscape?”

“Glimmering. G for 'gastritis,' l for 'lizard'—”

“Oh, glimmering? Yes, that's not bad. Glimmering landscape ... solemn stillness.... Yes, I call that pretty good.”

“You could then say that you have often thought that the stars are God's daisy chain.”

“But I haven't.”

“I dare say not. But she has. Hand her that one, and I don't see how she can help feeling that you're a twin soul.”

“God's daisy chain?”

“God's daisy chain. And then you go on about how twilight always makes you sad. I know you're going to say it doesn't, but on this occasion it has jolly well got to.”

“Why?”

“That's just what she will ask, and you will then have got her going. Because you will reply that it is because yours is such a lonely life. It wouldn't be a bad idea to give her a brief description of a typical home evening at your Lincolnshire residence, showing how you pace the meadows with a heavy tread.”

“I generally sit indoors and listen to the wireless.”

“No, you don't. You pace the meadows with a heavy tread, wishing that you had someone to love you. And then you speak of the day when she came into your life.”

“Like a fairy princess.”

“Absolutely,” I said with approval. I hadn't expected such a hot one from such a quarter. “Like a fairy princess. Nice work, Gussie.”

“And then?”

“Well, after that it's easy. You say you have something you want to say to her, and then you snap into it. I don't see how it can fail. If I were you, I should do it in this rose garden. It is well established that there is no sounder move than to steer the adored object into rose gardens in the gloaming. And you had better have a couple of quick ones first.”

“Quick ones?”

“Snifters.”

“Drinks, do you mean? But I don't drink.”

“What?”

“I've never touched a drop in my life.”

This made me a bit dubious, I must confess. On these occasions it is generally conceded that a moderate skinful is of the essence.

However, if the facts were as he had stated, I supposed there was nothing to be done about it.

“Well, you'll have to make out as best you can on ginger pop.”

“I always drink orange juice.”

“Orange juice, then. Tell me, Gussie, to settle a bet, do you really like that muck?”

“Very much.”

“Then there is no more to be said. Now, let's just have a run through, to see that you've got the lay-out straight. Start off with the glimmering landscape.”

“Stars God's daisy chain.”

“Twilight makes you feel sad.”

“Because mine lonely life.”

“Describe life.”

“Talk about the day I met her.”

“Add fairy-princess gag. Say there's something you want to say to her. Heave a couple of sighs. Grab her hand. And give her the works. Right.”

And confident that he had grasped the scenario and that everything might now be expected to proceed through the proper channels, I picked up the feet and hastened back to the house.

It was not until I had reached the drawing-room and was enabled to take a square look at the Bassett that I found the debonair gaiety with which I had embarked on this affair beginning to wane a trifle. Beholding her at close range like this, I suddenly became cognisant of what I was in for. The thought of strolling with this rummy specimen undeniably gave me a most unpleasant sinking feeling. I could not but remember how often, when in her company at Cannes, I had gazed dumbly at her, wishing that some kindly motorist in a racing car would ease the situation by coming along and ramming her amidships. As I have already made abundantly clear, this girl was not one of my most congenial buddies.