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indeedsir_backup2010-12-18 05:36 pm
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Hey, a fic!
Not too long ago I was reading "Wodehouse at War" by Iain Sproad, which, if you don't know, is a book about Wodehouse's activities during WWII, specifically his Berlin-based radio broadcasts. Basically, it was written by a journalist in an attempt to clear Plum's name, since he was considered a traitor by many in England. But the point here is that I was actually really inspired by the book. It occurred to me that Bertie Wooster would probably do the exact same thing that Wodehouse did, if he were in his place, and I was so taken by this idea that I simply had to write a fic. It's my first shot at writing fanfiction, so try to forgive any awkwardness or melodrama, but I had fun writing it. I hope you enjoy it!
Title: Wooster at War, part 1 of 3
Total Word Count: 8,342
Pairing: Jeeves/Bertie
Rating: PG
Summary: Bertie makes a terrible mistake during WWII, and Jeeves is powerless to help him.
Disclaimer: Jeeves and Wooster belong to PG Wodehouse, not me. "Wodehouse At War" belongs to Iain Sproad, not me.
Though I am loathe to admit it, there was a time when I lost faith in my own abilities.
Perhaps you cannot understand the import of this statement if you are not aware of the circumstances under which I was raised. You see, from the first I was tutored in omnipotence. That isn't to say that we were religious fanatics, or that we dabbled in black magic. My father did not believe in true omnipotence; he did, however, believe that determination and confidence could affect an essentially identical outcome.
“If you look like you can conquer the world,” he told me, “then everyone will believe that you can. If they believe it, then they will everything in their power to ensure that you do.”
To the uninitiated, these might sound like the words of some bloodthirsty politician or steel magnate. My father was no such man. He was a butler in a remote country estate. We have always been in service, and, as my father used to say, it is through service that we obtain our own sort of glory.
My father crafted me into a flawless servant, and so it was that I was drawn, in my own independence, to seek the perfect employer. It is here that my father and I parted ways, philosophically, for in his mind, the perfect employer was the most powerful, the most influential, the most likely to go down in the history books as a shining beacon of the age.
All I have ever wanted, conversely, was to serve the man with the kindest heart. It took me thirty years to find him. To my everlasting shame, it took me only fifteen years to lose him. It was then that my self-confidence first began to waver. But I am getting ahead of myself.
The story, I suppose, could be said to begin in the April 1936, when Mr. Wooster first declared his intentions to move us away to Paris. It was a cool morning, with a hint of winter still lingering about the edges of the air. Mr. Wooster had thrown the window open the night before, complaining of a stifling heat that, to my mind, did not actually exist outside himself. I remember that as I opened my eyes, the first pale ribbons of dawn were just gracing the horizon, and a chill breeze oozed softly through our quarters. It was six in the morning; my usual rising hour. As always – or at least, as it had been for nine years, at that point – the chief difficulty of the morning lay in extricating myself from the possessive grip of the young master's arms. From the very first shared night, so long before, he had evinced a need so vast and unfathomable I could not bear to refuse him. Of course, my initial moment of acquiescence was expedited by the fact that I had no desire to refuse him. Though he did not know it at the time, I had been his longer than he had known of my existence.
So then perhaps the story begins earlier still, in 1925, when I was in service in the household of the Earl of Worplesdon. Mrs. Gregson came to call, accompanied by her somewhat wayward nephew, about whom there was much prattle and speculation in the servants' halls. I heard his name seven or eight times before my curiosity was sufficiently galvanized to question the under butler Andrews, who was, at that time, a close friend.
“Oh, you haven't heard of Bertram Wooster?” he asked.
“I have heard the name,” I countered, “but I do not know its significance.”
“Well, it's all old news, really,” Andrews dallied. “You're a young fellow yet; I shouldn't expect you to know the story. It's really awfully silly that we still talk about it at all. But then, I suppose a good story should last a lifetime. And Bertram Wooster is one of the better stories you can find.”
“I am agog to learn,” I said, feigning disinterest, as is my way.
“Real tragedy, it is,” Andrews told me. “He was the second child of Mr. and Mrs. Arnold Wooster. There's an older sister who lives in some foreign clime. The mother, it seems, had a difficult time carrying young Mr. Wooster, Mr. Bertram Wooster, that is, and never quite recovered. She died of pneumonia when the lad was five or so. By that time the sister was off at school, but the elder Mr. Wooster decided to do the brave thing and raise his boy himself, rather than send him off to some female relation, though he had plenty to spare. He was a generous, kind-hearted man, by all accounts. Well loved by his servants, some of whom still circulate. However, fate cares not for merit. When young Bertram was nine years old, his generous father elected to take him on a train journey away from London; I can't say quite where. They were on the platform, preparing to board their train, when the elder Mr. Wooster slipped and tumbled head first down onto the tracks. I've heard it said that the boy tried to save his father, but the train started up and nothing could be done. They say that no one could stop the boy's screaming for hours.
“Well, after that, of course, the poor lad went away into an institution for a year or so. His elders despaired of him; thought he'd never recover. But they released him halfway through his tenth year, and his money and position secured him a place at Eton, where he scraped by. Now he's just finished up at Oxford, and they say he's doing better than anyone could have expected. But he still isn't... well, quite right, so they say. He's something of a wastrel; no ambition, no direction, no purpose. His family thinks him hopeless. All except one childless uncle, who, out of charity or pity, has named him the soul heir to his vast fortune. Once the uncle goes – and his health is none too stable – young Mr. Wooster will be pretty well set for life. He'd be set for a dozen lives, in fact. So there really aren't any worries on that score. Still, it's pretty well universally understood that he has no potential. A waste of air, I've heard him called.”
I admit the story stirred me. I have always had a weakness for a tragic tale, especially if it involves a prominent family. I wondered that I had never heard it before. But of course it would not be spoken of lightly, even in intimate circles. Nevertheless, I felt a powerful curiosity in connection with the young man.
“Is he mean-spirited?” I asked, hoping he was not. But how could he be otherwise?
“Not at all, surprisingly enough. He came to call here for a few weeks after his Michaelmas term a few years back. What I recall was that he possessed a rather wild quality, as if he was some sort of feral beast. But though he can be trying, and his intellect leaves much to be desired, the fact remains that you simply cannot find a kinder soul. Even so, he goes through valets quick as you please. He can't keep them. I don't blame them, of course. A lad like that, with no direction, no possibility of greatness in him. No pride to be had by association with him. And to top all that, you'd probably have to tie his shoelaces for him! It would be more like nursemaiding than valeting. A situation like that is bad for the nerves, wouldn't you say?”
I didn't precisely answer. I may have nodded, or perhaps even murmured a soft sound, but my thoughts were vastly distant, swiftly conceptualizing my chimerical future serving this gallant casualty of the world. I would work for this man. I would be his valet. I would protect him and guide him and, yes, control him. He would be in constant awe of me, and I would never leave him.
This sudden leap of faith and lack of logic should not be quite so surprising as it may seem. In my youth, my sister imperiously informed me that I was a, quote, “hopeless romantic.” She never spoke a single word of greater veracity. All of my deepest held beliefs inevitably possess a flair of quixotic irrationality. It is not that I am in any way unrealistic; I have seen this world's unsatisfactory face, and I know as well as anyone how prosaic life can be. However, it is my humble opinion that a successful servant must have at least a touch of romance in his heart and mind, else how could he, in good faith, spend his lifetime happily polishing shoes and pouring tea? I have ever endeavored to be an exemplary servant, and, to my mind, a certain amount of sentimentality is essential. We are meant, after all, to give our lives to our gentlemen. Could you do so if you did not permit yourself to imagine him as some sort of demi-god? Heaven knows that I could not.
Of course, all of my musings were mere flights of fancy for the time being, and I believed that they would remain so. However, when I actually saw him upon his arrival the next day, the deal, as they say, was sealed. Though I have always been a master at hiding my proclivities from my friends and acquaintances, there is no hiding them from myself. From the moment I first beheld those sparkling blue eyes and that thin, angelic face, I was a smitten schoolboy. I watched him almost hungrily as he tripped his careless way through the gardens, his entire torso turning to follow the progress of a swiftly winging bird. He had another valet at the time, but the man was entirely unsuitable: harsh, short-tempered, and, if I may say so, somewhat untrustworthy. From that day, I wanted nothing more than to protect and shelter Bertram Wooster from whatever troubles fate or God or the Devil himself might choose to throw his way.
That night I telephoned every agency in London and informed them that if a Mr. Bertram Wooster came in at any point requesting a new valet, I should be informed immediately, as I had decided to take the job. This procedure is a little uncommon, but I was not willing to leave this alliance up to chance.
I was in his employment a little above a year later, after that same iniquitous valet stole his socks.
And that, I swear to Heaven, was all that I ever expected. I did not expect to become his trusted confidant. I did not expect for us to grow to be close friends. I did not expect that he would gradually begin to prefer my company to that of his erstwhile favorite companions. And I certainly did not expect that he would come home one night, thoroughly inebriated, and pull me desperately into his bed.
But there we were. April, 1936. Ten years in his service, nine in his arms. Six o'clock in the morning on what should have been an ordinary day, but when I turned my head to gaze at him – as I always loved to do in the earliest mornings – his bright blue eyes were gazing back at me.
“Reg,” he whispered. He insisted on using my Christian name in bed, just as I insisted he use my surname everywhere else.
“Sir?” I inquired. I did not show my surprise at his uncharacteristic early consciousness.
He took on a pained expression which melted my heart. “No, no,” he said, “I beg you, old thing. At this moment, you must not call me sir.”
“I apologize,” I said softly. He had been making this same request of me for nearly a decade, and it was brutally difficult for me to make the adjustment. I did hate to disappoint him with such regularity.
“I wish you wouldn't. Apologize, I mean. Now listen here, Reg. I've made up my mind. London isn't any place for us. It... Well, it isn't safe, dash it! Too many people into our business, what?”
“Indeed...” I bit off the word “sir” just before it formed on my lips. Nine years, and I still didn't dare become casual. Regardless of our arrangement, Mr. Wooster was still my employer, and, which is more, my social better. His ancestors fought in the Crusades, so they say. Mine may very well have polished their saddles. It pleased me to regard him so highly, to set him on a pedestal, as they say. More than that, it was necessary. Understand: he was my very world.
“Don't 'Indeed' me. You know it's true! Why, it's really only a matter of time before... Before... Well, I know you don't need me to do the whole s. and d. for you. We've got to go to Paris, and that's final.”
I will not say that the news was entirely unpleasant to me. I have always appreciated Paris. But his manner was desperate, his tired eyes wide. He was terrified, and though I had a reasonable idea of what, I did not know why the matter had so furiously and abruptly come to a head. I'll admit that when I do not know something, especially something so urgent regarding the young master himself, I begin to feel rather nervous.
“Sir,” I murmured, then caught myself. “Bert–”
“Give it up and say what you're thinking,” he said, uncharacteristically short.
I obeyed. “If I may inquire, whatever has precipitated this abrupt decision?”
He squinted at me in the early sunshine. I knew that look; he was trying to decide if he should tell me the truth. He agonized about honesty quite regularly. I often wondered if I should spare him the trouble by informing him that I knew that he was faltering. He always chose honesty in the end, anyway.
He did not let me down.
“I'm afraid I've gotten myself – both of us, really – quite in the soup. I received a note at the club last night. Some cruel-hearted chappie says he's got the goods on us, if you catch my meaning. Says he's got proof! Some photograph or something. I hate to think what it could be. But he wants ten thousand, you see. I suppose I could manage such a thing, but one hates to give in to these shady coves, what?”
“Indeed,” I said. My heart was pounding, but I kept my visage calm. Mr. Wooster needed me to be calm.
“It rather encourages them, don't you know?” He gave a light chuckle, and it melted my heart to hear it. He tried so to be brave. He didn't know how brave he truly was.
“So anyhow, I gave it a good bit of thought, and then I legged it back home to you, determined to give it a night's sleep to ruminate, you know, and all that.”
“Yes.”
“And now that I've had a good hour or two – can't imagine I managed any more – I've quite made up my mind. Unless, that is, you've any suggestions of your own?”
Here I was obliged to fail him. I did not have another solution. Indeed, I could see no sure safe route except the one that he had suggested; go to Paris, where they do not care about such things. Go to Paris, where one can live without fear at last.
I had nothing to say, so I merely kissed him. It felt so insufficient I wanted to weep with shame. But no. Paris was a good plan. It was the only option, really. So I kissed him in despair but with a modicum of hope, and then I extricated myself from his arms and I went to bathe and dress and prepare his breakfast.
When we had both broken our fast, he gave me a quick smile and said that he was going to the club, to bid all the old lads farewell.
“I'll just tell them we're headed for New York again. How does that sound? They won't expect us back for months, or years. We'll be safe and sound in Paris when they think we're in a bally boat halfway across the Atlantic. You pack up then, Jeeves. Whatever you can manage. We'll have to leave most of it behind, don't you know. No matter. Only things, eh?”
“Indeed, sir.”
He smiled at me fondly. “My hat then, if you please.”
We were in Paris the very next morning. We found ourselves a suitable flat, in what might be called the less reputable section of the city. We weren't vacationing after all, but exiled, and under cover. Those first months were, as I recall, a pleasant enough time, considering the circumstances. Mr. Wooster has always had a bright and sunny disposition, the result being that even the most troublesome trials have an air of carefree frivolity to them. He is, in a sense, beyond the reach of true catastrophe, provided he successfully evades marriage to any female. Of that prospect he is thoroughly petrified. Any other sting, however, generally fails to excite him to any great degree.
Indeed, this was the characteristic that impressed me most upon first meeting him. My own experiences have caused me to be more melancholic and brooding than I should really like to be. My father was a stern sort, my mother morose. Both, I think, were silently pining for something rather better than the hand that they had been dealt. Perhaps they envied the seemingly carefree lords and ladies who drifted in and out of our own Lordship's halls. Or perhaps they simply didn't know how to be anything but sorrowful. I would not be surprised if such were the case, since I was once that way myself. I have always had a tendency to think of life as being a burden to be borne. But then, I have never suffered as Mr. Wooster has, so perhaps he is better equipped to appreciate the beauty of life, wherever it may be found. I am not certain. All I know for sure is that Mr. Wooster has looked death square in the face and come out smiling.
I asked him once, in the darkest hour of the night, when, at times, I am very nearly what you might call relaxed, how it was that he could find such joy in life when he had seen such horrors. I shall never forget his typical reply.
“Eh?” he said, his voice momentarily muffled by the pillow. “Horrors? What?”
“I am referring to your father's unfortunate fate.”
“Oh! Yes. Bally business, that. What were you asking me?”
“I suppose that I was attempting to inquire whether that event haunts you in any way.”
“Oh, rather. Not the sort of thing anyone likes to see, is it? But I don't think on it too much, no. What's the use, eh?”
Normally I would have registered my consternation with a questioning, “Sir?” but of course I wasn't ever to call him by that title when we were in bed. He liked me to call him Bertram, but that never settled well, either. So generally I refrained from calling him anything. In this case, I remained silent. He continued after a moment.
“What I mean is, things just jolly well happen, whether you expect them to or not. And you can either let them tie you up in knots, or you can say, 'Ah well. Right ho,' and keep a-going, as the fellow said. You've only got about seventy five years here, and that's if you're dashed lucky, so why shouldn't you have a nice time of it and enjoy yourself? What I'm saying is, if you're going about feeling as if you're suffering great hardships all the time, well, then you're just, well... suffering. What?”
He drifted off to sleep shortly after that, but I remained awake long into the night, as I often do. In that instance, I was musing on Mr. Wooster's intelligence, or lack thereof. There were times when he seemed to be the simplest child. Nevertheless, hidden within his naivete and obtuseness, there was an impressive philosophic wisdom. Perhaps he lacked the verbosity to express himself eloquently, but that did not detract from the intelligence and true beauty of his meaning.
There is an unfortunate tendency among the general mass of humanity to dismiss with disgust the most precious and beautiful treasures if they come wrapped in drab paper or packed into an unappealing crate. I suppose that that is what I felt when I first saw his true nature; I felt that I had uncovered a rare gift, an incalculable fortune, and, what is more, a gift and a fortune that had been lying in plain sight for twenty five years. To this day it is almost enough to bring me to tears when I think of how abysmally my dear Mr. Wooster had been treated by all, even friends and family, who should have been the first to care for him and value him. For some inscrutable reason, it seemed that there was no one in the world but myself who was capable of seeing past his buffoonery and his lack of direction and ambition and into the soul of the man whom I would earnestly and unabashedly title the best I have ever known.
I suppose, then, that I must infer that I am blessed.
Of course, there was evidence to suggest his carefree demeanor was a ruse. How could it not be, to some extent? Once a month or so he would wake me, weeping and thrashing in his sleep. From time to time he would even cry out unintelligibly, as though wracked with agonizing pain. At these times I held him grimly, never certain as to the best way to proceed. Always I considered waking him to save him from whatever ghoulish nightmares plagued his sleeping mind, but one fearful thought stayed my hand: what if waking him in the middle should cause him to remember his ordeal? If I permitted him to continue sleeping, he generally woke five or seven hours later without even slightest recollection of the event. It was, I eventually decided, some subconscious coping mechanism that his brain had devised in order to allow him to live a relatively normal life, in light of his traumatic childhood. If it enabled him to continue to be the cheerful man I so desperately adored, then so be it.
So our time in Paris was pleasant enough, as indeed, all things are when Mr. Wooster is present. We traveled often to the country, and when winter set in we talked and sang and read our books, perfectly content. Life gives us what it gives us, after all. As Mr. Wooster would say, why shouldn't we take it with a smile? With Mr. Wooster, life itself was reason enough to celebrate.
In all, we passed nearly four merry years in France, years marred only by my personal and unspoken resentment at the fact that none of Mr. Wooster's so-called friends and relations made any attempt to track him down. Even the Travers family, who supposedly cared for him the most, seemed to spare him not a thought in his absence. But they were pleasant times nonetheless. I would not have traded those four precious years for the world.
Of course, we all know what happened to France in general and Paris especially in the year 1940. I won't say that Mr. Wooster and I failed to see it coming; the writing, as they say, was certainly on the wall. In all honesty, I cannot properly explain why it was that we did not heed the warnings. Mr. Wooster, of course, can be excused, for foresight has never been his strong-suit. But as for myself, I cannot begin to give any kind of proper explanation. The best I can offer is that I had been lulled into complacency by Mr. Wooster's influence.
You see, we knew the Germans were invading, but, quite honestly, it didn't seem as though it would be much of a problem. We were given word, of course, that all British subjects should return to the homeland, but since that still wasn't precisely an option for us, due to our personal domestic arrangement and Britain's stringent laws on such matters, we rather carelessly elected to take our chances in France.
Mr. Wooster would probably say that we were between an r. and an h. p.
When the Germans arrived, they tracked us down easily enough. At that point, everyone in the area knew there was a member of the British aristocracy living amongst them; Mr. Wooster has never been a discreet soul, which was, of course, why we were obliged to move to Paris in the first place. The soldiers came knocking on our door rather late in the evening – although, fortunately, before we had actually retired. I answered and six uniformed men swept me aside. One spoke English with a harsh accent; the others remained silent. He demanded to know Mr. Wooster's full name and pedigree. Mr. Wooster did not see the danger and proceeded as demanded. I myself was powerless to stop him, even as the full weight of understanding crashed upon my head. The moment Mr. Wooster mentioned that his uncle was Lord Yaxley, I knew how truly idiotic we had been. Being the close relative of one of the foremost personages in Britain he became an attractive bargaining chip for the German side. Worse still was the frightful fact that since the family title was open to heirs general, Mr. Wooster's status as eldest male offspring left him next in line to inherit. They would detain him, God knew where. Grill him for information, perhaps. Subject him to privations and strife, and it was entirely my fault.
I was meant to protect him and care for him, and in his hour of greatest need, I failed him.
It was that very night, not half an hour after they practically broke down our door, that they bound his hands and made to drag him away. I threw myself thoughtlessly in front of the door.
“Leave him!” I cried, and the one who spoke English laughed. “At least take me as well,” I begged, but the grim man laughed even harder.
“And what do we want from you?” he asked. “You are nothing. You will stay here under observation, and if you try anything I'll shoot you where you stand. We can't waste our resources feeding and housing a servant.”
I think I must nearly have taken some rash action, but a word from Mr. Wooster stopped me short. I shall never forget those words, so long as I may live.
“Jeeves,” he said, his voice light and calm and unconcerned. “Relax, old boy. It's not as though I haven't been in the dock before. It wouldn't do to get yourself killed over a little matter like this. Keep out of trouble, and get home if you can. I'll be with you the minute this little war of theirs is over.” He flashed that darling smile at me, and they whisked him out the door.
I lingered in Paris for a few days more. However, I came to understand from certain friends that Mr. Wooster had been taken away in a bus almost immediately, and that no one had any information as to his intended destination. There was, in short, nothing that I could do, save to obey his final command and hope that he could somehow uphold his end. Though I was technically under observation, my guards could not have been extremely attentive, for escape was as simple as walking out the door.
I took advantage of an American cargo ship; still neutral, America's merchants were doing swift business in the area of war-clogged Europe, and though I resented their opportunism, in this case I was also grateful for it. I do not need to tell you that it cost, as they say, a bundle. However, this was not an issue, as Mr. Wooster had left me in possession of his bank information. I do not mean to say that I spent his money freely; such a transgression would never have crossed my mind. It was only in such a situation – one that I might rightly term an emergency – that such flagrant spending of Mr. Wooster's private capital was forgivable. What I am trying to say is that I was certain he would have encouraged me.
I found my melancholy way to London, feeling every moment that I was the gravest failure. My level of distress and personal misgivings were such that I never once considered securing a position in another household. I returned instead to the old flat that we had shared for so long (at that time miraculously unoccupied, and even still containing several of our own pieces of furniture) and endeavored to maintain it in the manner to which both Mr. Wooster and myself had grown accustomed. I did not call on old friends, but led a solemn, solitary life. I was ashamed.
My time alone in our flat was a strange and haunting experience. Every corner of the place held some poignant memory for me. I have mentioned before that I am rather a sentimental man, more so than I might seem to the casual observer. Well, at this time in my life, my romanticism and sentimentality ignited my heart and I went up in a conflagration sufficient in size to reduce all of London to smoldering cinders.
There is a corner where we have always kept our various alcoholic beverages. After restocking our supply, I decided to pour myself a brandy, as I sometimes did when I was certain that my duties for the day were finished. As I did so, however, I was suddenly and strangely transported back to a day and an event that I had nearly forgotten.
It was a night in July, 1933. I had been in Mr. Wooster's service some eight years by then, and what fantastically eventful years they were! I have not yet mentioned the fact that Mr. Wooster is exceptionally prone to complications in his personal life. I don't quite know why, but it seems that, in his younger days, Mr. Wooster was to be seen running for his life across the grounds of some country estate with a furious man waving some sort of blunt instrument close behind at least three times a year. It was exciting, frightening, exhilarating, and, if I may say so, supremely satisfying to scramble after him with quickly formulated impromptu plans for his salvation. He was always so grateful afterward.
On this particular night, I was pouring myself a restorative to celebrate our safe return from Steeple Bumpleigh and the horrid affair with Lady Craye and Mr. Stilton. I had decanted Mr. Wooster into his bed some time earlier, and intended to join him there when I had had said restorative and perhaps a few moments of informative reading. Mr. Wooster, as it happens, had other plans however, for as I was pouring the drink, he crept out behind me so silently I honestly did not become cognizant of his presence until he place his hands about my waist. I jumped a little and spilled a drop or two, and Mr. Wooster crowed appreciatively into my ear.
“I say! I've gone and given you a fright! Never thought I'd get the best of you.” He let his tone drop precipitously for that last sentence and kissed me soundly on the cheek. I paused in my movements to appreciate the sensation.
“Now, now,” he murmured, “go on and have your drink. Don't let me stop you. You're off the clock, as they say, what?”
“Never, sir,” I said.
“What rot. I say you are, and if I can't dictate such things, then who can? We might not currently be a-bed, but we are most certainly after hours, so drink your bally b. and s. I can wait right here.” He tightened his grip about my waist and settled his chin upon my shoulder.
“Would you like some, sir?”
“No, Reginald,” he said with weight, “I would not.”
I took his meaning. “Forgive me, Bertram.”
“Dash it, love! Stop all this apologizing and drink your bally booze.”
I drank as ordered, and when I'd finished I twisted in his arms to face him. He kissed me properly then, and though he had done the same some ten thousand times, the experience had never yet lost its stirling shine.
When at last we parted he put an unsteady hand upon my cheek and gazed into my dark eyes with his own polished sapphires. Oh Heaven, have there ever been such perfect eyes?
“I want to thank you, old thing,” he said quietly. “You were brilliant. I do hope you enjoyed your fishing. I'm sorry I didn't let you have more of it.”
“It was perfectly sufficient, sir. Bertram.”
“Soon I'll take you somewhere fine, with superb fishing, and you can have a week of it, if you like. A month.”
“I assure you, I had as much fishing as I desired. It was a sincere pleasure to aid you in your time of need.”
“Just let me know where it is you want to go, and I'll take you there. So long as it isn't back to Steeple Bumpleigh, of course. I shouldn't be surprised if they put up fliers all about town with yours truly pictured and the words 'Dead or Alive' scrawled beneath my chin.”
“Bertram–”
“I do want to make it up to you, my darling. I know I was frightfully selfish. I can't give you much, I know. I'm not such great companionship for one such as yourself. I feel sometimes that I'm more of a parrot than a man, what? I try to be clever for you but I always get the words mixed up. It can't be very fulfilling for you. But I can take you about and such. Take you abroad, I mean. Or I could buy you something. Whatever you want. You know that.”
“I do know that,” I attempted to interject, but Mr. Wooster was off and running, as they say. He did this from time to time. He had himself convinced, I am sorry to say, that I was too good for him. I had spent years trying to convince him that it was he who was too good for me.
“It's only that I love you so dashed much. You know that, don't you, old boy? I can't stand the thought that I am standing between you and something you want. If, in my more pigheaded moments, I deny you something, you know, don't you, that you need only ask at some later date when I am less in the soup or less generally surly and I'll do an about face on the matter. I forget, sometimes, how relentlessly tedious living with me must be, and I–”
“Bertram,” I said firmly. His mouth clicked shut. “You deprive me of nothing that is essential, and I am wise enough to know that every whim of a willful man such as myself should not be granted. Furthermore, even if you were to forbid me ever to fish again, I would count that as regrettable, but preferable to losing your sweet presence in my life. The hours I spend with you I look upon as sort of a perfumed garden, a dim twilight, and a fountain singing to it. You and you alone make me feel that I am alive. Other men it is said have seen angels, but I have seen thee and thou art enough.”
Mr. Wooster was silent for a moment. At last he let out a breath and said, “Dashed good, old egg. Is that yours?”
I smiled a little wistfully. “Would that it were, sir. Bertram. It is George Moore. Though I may not be able to capture my feelings precisely as he does, rest assured that his words speak for me more perfectly than I can speak for myself.”
Mr. Wooster stopped his fretting for the night, instead opting to drag me to bed.
It was a good memory, if bittersweet. It cut me to the quick to recall how uncertain he was with me, how convinced he was of his inferiority, how terrified of losing me.
I lost myself in the memory while it lasted, but when it faded and I found myself standing alone, rooted to the same spot but with seven years gone inexorably by, I admit that I wept more bitterly than I have ever done.
Months passed me by. Bombs fell on London, but they happened to pass me by as well. Even as all of our old friends and acquaintances left the city – one by one – to find refuge in the country where we once had gamboled and fished and played golf, I remained, the thought in my feverish, half-crazed mind being that when Mr. Wooster returned to England, he would not know how to find me unless I stayed right there.
Indeed, it was nearly a year and a half before I heard any news from Mr. Wooster. Even then, it was not, as I had rashly hoped, in the form of personal correspondence. In fact, it came in the most impersonal manner possible: I read his name in the newspaper. It was the headline on the front page one morning; I believe I nearly perished when I saw it, it came as such a shock.
“B.W. Wooster: Traitor,” the headline read. My heart pounded at such a rate I became light-headed. There must be some mistake, I thought to myself, but I was obliged to steady my heart rate with a few deep breaths before continuing.
It seemed that Mr. Wooster's unmistakable voice had been heard on the radio, broadcasting on a German station from the city of Berlin, telling humorous anecdotes about his stay in a German prison.
My mind began to work furiously at once. Of course, he was known across the western world for his humorous and light-hearted memoirs; it stood to reason that a German broadcasting company might want to hire him to lighten everyone's spirits. Dear Mr. Wooster was a kindly soul; it would not have occurred to him that his little stories would be taken so seriously at the home front. He was not a traitor, I told myself. He was merely a fool. A darling, generous fool who was not capable of understanding the fury that his naïve generosity would generate. Mr. Wooster was a man who did not believe in enemies; he wanted to make all of mankind smile.
These self-centered, warlike Englishman were more foolish than he! They called him a traitor for his kindness, a demon for his generosity. They were not fit to lick his boots, yet they would condemn him.
In a rage I tore the newspaper to shreds, and then, though I am ashamed to admit it, I lay myself down and wept on the floor, for that single headline had sealed Mr. Wooster's fate forever. Whether he survived the war or not, he would never return to England. Even his closest friends would burn him at the stake.
It grew only worse after that. Articles appeared day after day, thoroughly decimating his character. Former fiancées wrote letters to the editor in droves calling him a womanizer who played with women's hearts and tempted them to improprieties. Old friends with whom he had attended school gave radio broadcasts proclaiming that he had always been a coward who never spent so much as a single hour on the rugby field. Lord Bittlesham recalled the time he had claimed to be the novelist Rosie M. Banks for uncertain – but certainly nefarious – reasons. Reporters delved into his past and revealed that he had failed to fight in the Great War, entirely ignoring that fact that none of his peers had fought either. All that I can say in regards to these charges is that if all men were more like Bertram Wooster – with fewer politics and more humor – there would have been no wars for him to evade.
And then it became even worse, if such a thing is possible. The press raised the possibility that he had gone to France specifically to act as a Nazi agent to help bring Paris down from the inside. Reporters flocked to my door; I refused to speak to them. How could I clear his name? The real reason we were in France was no less scandalous.
The cry went up that this traitorous, cowardly Wooster should be disgraced once and for all. His books were banned, his friendship renounced by all who had known him. Fortunately I had transferred his accounts to an American bank the very day I read the first headline, and so that, at least, was safe. Had I failed in that regard, I have no doubt that every penny would have been reclaimed.
All the while, my poor, beloved fool went on giving his little broadcasts. Week after week he sent them out; occasionally I even heard them. It became a practice for London pubs to play them, and the populace would jeer him and abuse him at every pause.
This continued for a little more than a year, at the end of which the broadcasts finally went silent. No one was certain what had become of him, but the general consensus was that they hoped he had been executed, so as to save our own government the trouble.
By this time it was 1943. I had not seen him in three years, and since I now knew his return to England was impossible, I resolved to give up the old flat at last and booked passage to America where, I hoped, the people would care less about Mr. Wooster's perceived treachery.
Such proved to be the case, and for the next several years, I never heard his name mentioned. You will understand when I say that under the circumstances, this silence was welcome. Even two and three years after the war's end, I dreaded the day when I might hear his name on someone's lips, certain as I was that I would learn of his death, either at the hands of the Germans or British. It was preferable then for me to continue on in ignorance, maintaining the faint, and, frankly, idiotic hope that he still existed somewhere in the world.
During this time I settled myself comfortably in New York, where he and I had passed a few merry years two decades earlier. I found a nice flat for myself, initially paying with Mr. Wooster's money, until I procured employment at a restaurant on Fifth Avenue. It was not the sort of respectable position that one might expect from me; however I was not interested in officially leaving my position as Mr. Wooster's personal gentleman, whether he was living or not. I had long since decided that I was to be his for the remainder of my life. The job, therefore, was more for my own mental health than anything else. After five years of complete seclusion, I craved human society.
I made friends in New York; it is not difficult for me, if I am inclined to do so. After hours my fellow waiters and waitresses would take in a show here and there, or go to a bar with live music. Sometimes I would entertain them at my flat, and they would whistle and make remarks about how very nice it was.
“Where in God's name do you get your money?” my closest friend James asked me once.
I shrugged evasively and told him it had been left to me by my wife, who had died during the war. This was, after all, mostly true. James – who is brazen and daring and rather foolishly open about his own untraditional proclivities – arched an eyebrow at me and said, “A wife? You never struck me as the marrying kind.” It seemed to me to be an insensitive remark, and I told him so.
“I apologize, and I'm very sorry for your loss. But you will never convince me that the fellow was your wife.”
Set my jaw firmly and said no more on the subject. I believe that James took this as proof that his suspicions were correct.
Of course, they were. And though I held out against his remarks and hints for over a year, one night he wrested the truth from me.
It was July 24th, 1947, the twenty-first anniversary of the day that I went into Mr. Wooster's service, and I was, understandably, morose. Seven years, and still no word from Mr. Wooster. By all accounts, he had simply disappeared, and the light of the world along with him.
James, who was a sociable and caring soul, detected my dissatisfaction, though no one else could, and he suggested that we should both go out for a drink or two after work. I was lonesome and so I consented, and that night I drank more than I have in my entire life. For there I was: fifty-three years old, and alone in the world. A gentleman's gentleman without a gentleman. A widower without having had a spouse, grieving without so much as a grave to visit. So I drank, and as the din in the bar was all-encompassing, I poured my soul out to my new friend, whose own forthrightness in talking of his relationship with one Edward – a sailor currently out of town – lead me to believe that he could be trusted. He did not let me down. He listened with a sympathetic ear, and when I had told the entire story, he smiled reflectively.
“I read his books, you know,” he told me. “I adore them. And, I must admit, I always suspected that you might just be that Jeeves. I hoped to God you were. I'm glad to know I was right; it's a real honor to know you.”
“Thank you,” I murmured brokenly.
“I'll tell you something else, friend,” he said, leaning forward. “The reason I loved those books so much wasn't because they were funny or well-written – though they were, of course. But the reason I really loved them was because when I read them, I could feel the love that was in them. I could feel how much he loved you, and how very much you loved him in return. I was jealous, reading those books! Reggie, I've got to tell you this now. Bertram Wooster saved my life. I was nothing before I read those books, Reggie. Nothing at all. And I'll tell you why. Because I was in love with a man – with Edward, who was just a friend of mine then. I loved him so I could barely stand it. But I didn't know that there were other men like me; I just thought I was a madman who was doomed to be lonely and miserable. But then I read those books about Jeeves and– Well, about you, and it was subtle, mind you! I don't think many people would pick up on it if they weren't looking for it everywhere, if you know what I mean. But I felt that love, plain as day, and I said to myself, 'If they can do it, then dammit, so can I!' I was dying, and your Mr. Wooster saved me. So I hope you can be happy about that, at least. Even if those idiots back in England don't appreciate him, there are two men here in New York who thank him everyday for his love and his bravery.”
You'll understand my emotional state at this juncture when I say that at that moment, I actually embraced him as I have never embraced anyone in my life, save Mr. Wooster himself.
Though I never could completely forgive myself for my failure at the moment of crisis on that day in Paris, I did eventually learn to live with myself. Mr. Wooster, James assured me, would never want me to squander my life in regret, and of course, that was undeniably true. If I could do anything for him now, it would have to be by living well and honoring, to the best of my ability, the faith and love he had bestowed upon me during our time together. Who was I, after all, but a mere man, and what hope had I – or we – ever had against the entire German army? I could not continue to despise myself indefinitely, when Mr. Wooster, I knew, could scarcely suffer the slightest injury to my person or insult to my character.
I concluded that I would continue to serve Mr. Wooster in my heart, be he alive or dead. As Emily Bronte once so eloquently stated:
“No later light has lightened up my heaven,
No second morn has ever shone for me;
All my life's bliss from thy dear life was given,
All my life's bliss is in the grave with thee.
But, when the days of golden dreams had perished,
And even Despair was powerless to destroy,
Then did I learn how existence could be cherished,
Strengthened, and fed without the aid of joy.”
I had failed him, yes. I had failed utterly and entirely, and thus I had been the ruin of us both. But regardless, I was alive, and I knew from experience that possibilities abound so long as we continue to draw breath. What I mean to say is this: hope still flickered within me; hope that Mr. Wooster lived, and that somehow he would keep his promise to return to me.
Tune in soon for Bertie's version of the story!
Title: Wooster at War, part 1 of 3
Total Word Count: 8,342
Pairing: Jeeves/Bertie
Rating: PG
Summary: Bertie makes a terrible mistake during WWII, and Jeeves is powerless to help him.
Disclaimer: Jeeves and Wooster belong to PG Wodehouse, not me. "Wodehouse At War" belongs to Iain Sproad, not me.
Though I am loathe to admit it, there was a time when I lost faith in my own abilities.
Perhaps you cannot understand the import of this statement if you are not aware of the circumstances under which I was raised. You see, from the first I was tutored in omnipotence. That isn't to say that we were religious fanatics, or that we dabbled in black magic. My father did not believe in true omnipotence; he did, however, believe that determination and confidence could affect an essentially identical outcome.
“If you look like you can conquer the world,” he told me, “then everyone will believe that you can. If they believe it, then they will everything in their power to ensure that you do.”
To the uninitiated, these might sound like the words of some bloodthirsty politician or steel magnate. My father was no such man. He was a butler in a remote country estate. We have always been in service, and, as my father used to say, it is through service that we obtain our own sort of glory.
My father crafted me into a flawless servant, and so it was that I was drawn, in my own independence, to seek the perfect employer. It is here that my father and I parted ways, philosophically, for in his mind, the perfect employer was the most powerful, the most influential, the most likely to go down in the history books as a shining beacon of the age.
All I have ever wanted, conversely, was to serve the man with the kindest heart. It took me thirty years to find him. To my everlasting shame, it took me only fifteen years to lose him. It was then that my self-confidence first began to waver. But I am getting ahead of myself.
The story, I suppose, could be said to begin in the April 1936, when Mr. Wooster first declared his intentions to move us away to Paris. It was a cool morning, with a hint of winter still lingering about the edges of the air. Mr. Wooster had thrown the window open the night before, complaining of a stifling heat that, to my mind, did not actually exist outside himself. I remember that as I opened my eyes, the first pale ribbons of dawn were just gracing the horizon, and a chill breeze oozed softly through our quarters. It was six in the morning; my usual rising hour. As always – or at least, as it had been for nine years, at that point – the chief difficulty of the morning lay in extricating myself from the possessive grip of the young master's arms. From the very first shared night, so long before, he had evinced a need so vast and unfathomable I could not bear to refuse him. Of course, my initial moment of acquiescence was expedited by the fact that I had no desire to refuse him. Though he did not know it at the time, I had been his longer than he had known of my existence.
So then perhaps the story begins earlier still, in 1925, when I was in service in the household of the Earl of Worplesdon. Mrs. Gregson came to call, accompanied by her somewhat wayward nephew, about whom there was much prattle and speculation in the servants' halls. I heard his name seven or eight times before my curiosity was sufficiently galvanized to question the under butler Andrews, who was, at that time, a close friend.
“Oh, you haven't heard of Bertram Wooster?” he asked.
“I have heard the name,” I countered, “but I do not know its significance.”
“Well, it's all old news, really,” Andrews dallied. “You're a young fellow yet; I shouldn't expect you to know the story. It's really awfully silly that we still talk about it at all. But then, I suppose a good story should last a lifetime. And Bertram Wooster is one of the better stories you can find.”
“I am agog to learn,” I said, feigning disinterest, as is my way.
“Real tragedy, it is,” Andrews told me. “He was the second child of Mr. and Mrs. Arnold Wooster. There's an older sister who lives in some foreign clime. The mother, it seems, had a difficult time carrying young Mr. Wooster, Mr. Bertram Wooster, that is, and never quite recovered. She died of pneumonia when the lad was five or so. By that time the sister was off at school, but the elder Mr. Wooster decided to do the brave thing and raise his boy himself, rather than send him off to some female relation, though he had plenty to spare. He was a generous, kind-hearted man, by all accounts. Well loved by his servants, some of whom still circulate. However, fate cares not for merit. When young Bertram was nine years old, his generous father elected to take him on a train journey away from London; I can't say quite where. They were on the platform, preparing to board their train, when the elder Mr. Wooster slipped and tumbled head first down onto the tracks. I've heard it said that the boy tried to save his father, but the train started up and nothing could be done. They say that no one could stop the boy's screaming for hours.
“Well, after that, of course, the poor lad went away into an institution for a year or so. His elders despaired of him; thought he'd never recover. But they released him halfway through his tenth year, and his money and position secured him a place at Eton, where he scraped by. Now he's just finished up at Oxford, and they say he's doing better than anyone could have expected. But he still isn't... well, quite right, so they say. He's something of a wastrel; no ambition, no direction, no purpose. His family thinks him hopeless. All except one childless uncle, who, out of charity or pity, has named him the soul heir to his vast fortune. Once the uncle goes – and his health is none too stable – young Mr. Wooster will be pretty well set for life. He'd be set for a dozen lives, in fact. So there really aren't any worries on that score. Still, it's pretty well universally understood that he has no potential. A waste of air, I've heard him called.”
I admit the story stirred me. I have always had a weakness for a tragic tale, especially if it involves a prominent family. I wondered that I had never heard it before. But of course it would not be spoken of lightly, even in intimate circles. Nevertheless, I felt a powerful curiosity in connection with the young man.
“Is he mean-spirited?” I asked, hoping he was not. But how could he be otherwise?
“Not at all, surprisingly enough. He came to call here for a few weeks after his Michaelmas term a few years back. What I recall was that he possessed a rather wild quality, as if he was some sort of feral beast. But though he can be trying, and his intellect leaves much to be desired, the fact remains that you simply cannot find a kinder soul. Even so, he goes through valets quick as you please. He can't keep them. I don't blame them, of course. A lad like that, with no direction, no possibility of greatness in him. No pride to be had by association with him. And to top all that, you'd probably have to tie his shoelaces for him! It would be more like nursemaiding than valeting. A situation like that is bad for the nerves, wouldn't you say?”
I didn't precisely answer. I may have nodded, or perhaps even murmured a soft sound, but my thoughts were vastly distant, swiftly conceptualizing my chimerical future serving this gallant casualty of the world. I would work for this man. I would be his valet. I would protect him and guide him and, yes, control him. He would be in constant awe of me, and I would never leave him.
This sudden leap of faith and lack of logic should not be quite so surprising as it may seem. In my youth, my sister imperiously informed me that I was a, quote, “hopeless romantic.” She never spoke a single word of greater veracity. All of my deepest held beliefs inevitably possess a flair of quixotic irrationality. It is not that I am in any way unrealistic; I have seen this world's unsatisfactory face, and I know as well as anyone how prosaic life can be. However, it is my humble opinion that a successful servant must have at least a touch of romance in his heart and mind, else how could he, in good faith, spend his lifetime happily polishing shoes and pouring tea? I have ever endeavored to be an exemplary servant, and, to my mind, a certain amount of sentimentality is essential. We are meant, after all, to give our lives to our gentlemen. Could you do so if you did not permit yourself to imagine him as some sort of demi-god? Heaven knows that I could not.
Of course, all of my musings were mere flights of fancy for the time being, and I believed that they would remain so. However, when I actually saw him upon his arrival the next day, the deal, as they say, was sealed. Though I have always been a master at hiding my proclivities from my friends and acquaintances, there is no hiding them from myself. From the moment I first beheld those sparkling blue eyes and that thin, angelic face, I was a smitten schoolboy. I watched him almost hungrily as he tripped his careless way through the gardens, his entire torso turning to follow the progress of a swiftly winging bird. He had another valet at the time, but the man was entirely unsuitable: harsh, short-tempered, and, if I may say so, somewhat untrustworthy. From that day, I wanted nothing more than to protect and shelter Bertram Wooster from whatever troubles fate or God or the Devil himself might choose to throw his way.
That night I telephoned every agency in London and informed them that if a Mr. Bertram Wooster came in at any point requesting a new valet, I should be informed immediately, as I had decided to take the job. This procedure is a little uncommon, but I was not willing to leave this alliance up to chance.
I was in his employment a little above a year later, after that same iniquitous valet stole his socks.
And that, I swear to Heaven, was all that I ever expected. I did not expect to become his trusted confidant. I did not expect for us to grow to be close friends. I did not expect that he would gradually begin to prefer my company to that of his erstwhile favorite companions. And I certainly did not expect that he would come home one night, thoroughly inebriated, and pull me desperately into his bed.
But there we were. April, 1936. Ten years in his service, nine in his arms. Six o'clock in the morning on what should have been an ordinary day, but when I turned my head to gaze at him – as I always loved to do in the earliest mornings – his bright blue eyes were gazing back at me.
“Reg,” he whispered. He insisted on using my Christian name in bed, just as I insisted he use my surname everywhere else.
“Sir?” I inquired. I did not show my surprise at his uncharacteristic early consciousness.
He took on a pained expression which melted my heart. “No, no,” he said, “I beg you, old thing. At this moment, you must not call me sir.”
“I apologize,” I said softly. He had been making this same request of me for nearly a decade, and it was brutally difficult for me to make the adjustment. I did hate to disappoint him with such regularity.
“I wish you wouldn't. Apologize, I mean. Now listen here, Reg. I've made up my mind. London isn't any place for us. It... Well, it isn't safe, dash it! Too many people into our business, what?”
“Indeed...” I bit off the word “sir” just before it formed on my lips. Nine years, and I still didn't dare become casual. Regardless of our arrangement, Mr. Wooster was still my employer, and, which is more, my social better. His ancestors fought in the Crusades, so they say. Mine may very well have polished their saddles. It pleased me to regard him so highly, to set him on a pedestal, as they say. More than that, it was necessary. Understand: he was my very world.
“Don't 'Indeed' me. You know it's true! Why, it's really only a matter of time before... Before... Well, I know you don't need me to do the whole s. and d. for you. We've got to go to Paris, and that's final.”
I will not say that the news was entirely unpleasant to me. I have always appreciated Paris. But his manner was desperate, his tired eyes wide. He was terrified, and though I had a reasonable idea of what, I did not know why the matter had so furiously and abruptly come to a head. I'll admit that when I do not know something, especially something so urgent regarding the young master himself, I begin to feel rather nervous.
“Sir,” I murmured, then caught myself. “Bert–”
“Give it up and say what you're thinking,” he said, uncharacteristically short.
I obeyed. “If I may inquire, whatever has precipitated this abrupt decision?”
He squinted at me in the early sunshine. I knew that look; he was trying to decide if he should tell me the truth. He agonized about honesty quite regularly. I often wondered if I should spare him the trouble by informing him that I knew that he was faltering. He always chose honesty in the end, anyway.
He did not let me down.
“I'm afraid I've gotten myself – both of us, really – quite in the soup. I received a note at the club last night. Some cruel-hearted chappie says he's got the goods on us, if you catch my meaning. Says he's got proof! Some photograph or something. I hate to think what it could be. But he wants ten thousand, you see. I suppose I could manage such a thing, but one hates to give in to these shady coves, what?”
“Indeed,” I said. My heart was pounding, but I kept my visage calm. Mr. Wooster needed me to be calm.
“It rather encourages them, don't you know?” He gave a light chuckle, and it melted my heart to hear it. He tried so to be brave. He didn't know how brave he truly was.
“So anyhow, I gave it a good bit of thought, and then I legged it back home to you, determined to give it a night's sleep to ruminate, you know, and all that.”
“Yes.”
“And now that I've had a good hour or two – can't imagine I managed any more – I've quite made up my mind. Unless, that is, you've any suggestions of your own?”
Here I was obliged to fail him. I did not have another solution. Indeed, I could see no sure safe route except the one that he had suggested; go to Paris, where they do not care about such things. Go to Paris, where one can live without fear at last.
I had nothing to say, so I merely kissed him. It felt so insufficient I wanted to weep with shame. But no. Paris was a good plan. It was the only option, really. So I kissed him in despair but with a modicum of hope, and then I extricated myself from his arms and I went to bathe and dress and prepare his breakfast.
When we had both broken our fast, he gave me a quick smile and said that he was going to the club, to bid all the old lads farewell.
“I'll just tell them we're headed for New York again. How does that sound? They won't expect us back for months, or years. We'll be safe and sound in Paris when they think we're in a bally boat halfway across the Atlantic. You pack up then, Jeeves. Whatever you can manage. We'll have to leave most of it behind, don't you know. No matter. Only things, eh?”
“Indeed, sir.”
He smiled at me fondly. “My hat then, if you please.”
We were in Paris the very next morning. We found ourselves a suitable flat, in what might be called the less reputable section of the city. We weren't vacationing after all, but exiled, and under cover. Those first months were, as I recall, a pleasant enough time, considering the circumstances. Mr. Wooster has always had a bright and sunny disposition, the result being that even the most troublesome trials have an air of carefree frivolity to them. He is, in a sense, beyond the reach of true catastrophe, provided he successfully evades marriage to any female. Of that prospect he is thoroughly petrified. Any other sting, however, generally fails to excite him to any great degree.
Indeed, this was the characteristic that impressed me most upon first meeting him. My own experiences have caused me to be more melancholic and brooding than I should really like to be. My father was a stern sort, my mother morose. Both, I think, were silently pining for something rather better than the hand that they had been dealt. Perhaps they envied the seemingly carefree lords and ladies who drifted in and out of our own Lordship's halls. Or perhaps they simply didn't know how to be anything but sorrowful. I would not be surprised if such were the case, since I was once that way myself. I have always had a tendency to think of life as being a burden to be borne. But then, I have never suffered as Mr. Wooster has, so perhaps he is better equipped to appreciate the beauty of life, wherever it may be found. I am not certain. All I know for sure is that Mr. Wooster has looked death square in the face and come out smiling.
I asked him once, in the darkest hour of the night, when, at times, I am very nearly what you might call relaxed, how it was that he could find such joy in life when he had seen such horrors. I shall never forget his typical reply.
“Eh?” he said, his voice momentarily muffled by the pillow. “Horrors? What?”
“I am referring to your father's unfortunate fate.”
“Oh! Yes. Bally business, that. What were you asking me?”
“I suppose that I was attempting to inquire whether that event haunts you in any way.”
“Oh, rather. Not the sort of thing anyone likes to see, is it? But I don't think on it too much, no. What's the use, eh?”
Normally I would have registered my consternation with a questioning, “Sir?” but of course I wasn't ever to call him by that title when we were in bed. He liked me to call him Bertram, but that never settled well, either. So generally I refrained from calling him anything. In this case, I remained silent. He continued after a moment.
“What I mean is, things just jolly well happen, whether you expect them to or not. And you can either let them tie you up in knots, or you can say, 'Ah well. Right ho,' and keep a-going, as the fellow said. You've only got about seventy five years here, and that's if you're dashed lucky, so why shouldn't you have a nice time of it and enjoy yourself? What I'm saying is, if you're going about feeling as if you're suffering great hardships all the time, well, then you're just, well... suffering. What?”
He drifted off to sleep shortly after that, but I remained awake long into the night, as I often do. In that instance, I was musing on Mr. Wooster's intelligence, or lack thereof. There were times when he seemed to be the simplest child. Nevertheless, hidden within his naivete and obtuseness, there was an impressive philosophic wisdom. Perhaps he lacked the verbosity to express himself eloquently, but that did not detract from the intelligence and true beauty of his meaning.
There is an unfortunate tendency among the general mass of humanity to dismiss with disgust the most precious and beautiful treasures if they come wrapped in drab paper or packed into an unappealing crate. I suppose that that is what I felt when I first saw his true nature; I felt that I had uncovered a rare gift, an incalculable fortune, and, what is more, a gift and a fortune that had been lying in plain sight for twenty five years. To this day it is almost enough to bring me to tears when I think of how abysmally my dear Mr. Wooster had been treated by all, even friends and family, who should have been the first to care for him and value him. For some inscrutable reason, it seemed that there was no one in the world but myself who was capable of seeing past his buffoonery and his lack of direction and ambition and into the soul of the man whom I would earnestly and unabashedly title the best I have ever known.
I suppose, then, that I must infer that I am blessed.
Of course, there was evidence to suggest his carefree demeanor was a ruse. How could it not be, to some extent? Once a month or so he would wake me, weeping and thrashing in his sleep. From time to time he would even cry out unintelligibly, as though wracked with agonizing pain. At these times I held him grimly, never certain as to the best way to proceed. Always I considered waking him to save him from whatever ghoulish nightmares plagued his sleeping mind, but one fearful thought stayed my hand: what if waking him in the middle should cause him to remember his ordeal? If I permitted him to continue sleeping, he generally woke five or seven hours later without even slightest recollection of the event. It was, I eventually decided, some subconscious coping mechanism that his brain had devised in order to allow him to live a relatively normal life, in light of his traumatic childhood. If it enabled him to continue to be the cheerful man I so desperately adored, then so be it.
So our time in Paris was pleasant enough, as indeed, all things are when Mr. Wooster is present. We traveled often to the country, and when winter set in we talked and sang and read our books, perfectly content. Life gives us what it gives us, after all. As Mr. Wooster would say, why shouldn't we take it with a smile? With Mr. Wooster, life itself was reason enough to celebrate.
In all, we passed nearly four merry years in France, years marred only by my personal and unspoken resentment at the fact that none of Mr. Wooster's so-called friends and relations made any attempt to track him down. Even the Travers family, who supposedly cared for him the most, seemed to spare him not a thought in his absence. But they were pleasant times nonetheless. I would not have traded those four precious years for the world.
Of course, we all know what happened to France in general and Paris especially in the year 1940. I won't say that Mr. Wooster and I failed to see it coming; the writing, as they say, was certainly on the wall. In all honesty, I cannot properly explain why it was that we did not heed the warnings. Mr. Wooster, of course, can be excused, for foresight has never been his strong-suit. But as for myself, I cannot begin to give any kind of proper explanation. The best I can offer is that I had been lulled into complacency by Mr. Wooster's influence.
You see, we knew the Germans were invading, but, quite honestly, it didn't seem as though it would be much of a problem. We were given word, of course, that all British subjects should return to the homeland, but since that still wasn't precisely an option for us, due to our personal domestic arrangement and Britain's stringent laws on such matters, we rather carelessly elected to take our chances in France.
Mr. Wooster would probably say that we were between an r. and an h. p.
When the Germans arrived, they tracked us down easily enough. At that point, everyone in the area knew there was a member of the British aristocracy living amongst them; Mr. Wooster has never been a discreet soul, which was, of course, why we were obliged to move to Paris in the first place. The soldiers came knocking on our door rather late in the evening – although, fortunately, before we had actually retired. I answered and six uniformed men swept me aside. One spoke English with a harsh accent; the others remained silent. He demanded to know Mr. Wooster's full name and pedigree. Mr. Wooster did not see the danger and proceeded as demanded. I myself was powerless to stop him, even as the full weight of understanding crashed upon my head. The moment Mr. Wooster mentioned that his uncle was Lord Yaxley, I knew how truly idiotic we had been. Being the close relative of one of the foremost personages in Britain he became an attractive bargaining chip for the German side. Worse still was the frightful fact that since the family title was open to heirs general, Mr. Wooster's status as eldest male offspring left him next in line to inherit. They would detain him, God knew where. Grill him for information, perhaps. Subject him to privations and strife, and it was entirely my fault.
I was meant to protect him and care for him, and in his hour of greatest need, I failed him.
It was that very night, not half an hour after they practically broke down our door, that they bound his hands and made to drag him away. I threw myself thoughtlessly in front of the door.
“Leave him!” I cried, and the one who spoke English laughed. “At least take me as well,” I begged, but the grim man laughed even harder.
“And what do we want from you?” he asked. “You are nothing. You will stay here under observation, and if you try anything I'll shoot you where you stand. We can't waste our resources feeding and housing a servant.”
I think I must nearly have taken some rash action, but a word from Mr. Wooster stopped me short. I shall never forget those words, so long as I may live.
“Jeeves,” he said, his voice light and calm and unconcerned. “Relax, old boy. It's not as though I haven't been in the dock before. It wouldn't do to get yourself killed over a little matter like this. Keep out of trouble, and get home if you can. I'll be with you the minute this little war of theirs is over.” He flashed that darling smile at me, and they whisked him out the door.
I lingered in Paris for a few days more. However, I came to understand from certain friends that Mr. Wooster had been taken away in a bus almost immediately, and that no one had any information as to his intended destination. There was, in short, nothing that I could do, save to obey his final command and hope that he could somehow uphold his end. Though I was technically under observation, my guards could not have been extremely attentive, for escape was as simple as walking out the door.
I took advantage of an American cargo ship; still neutral, America's merchants were doing swift business in the area of war-clogged Europe, and though I resented their opportunism, in this case I was also grateful for it. I do not need to tell you that it cost, as they say, a bundle. However, this was not an issue, as Mr. Wooster had left me in possession of his bank information. I do not mean to say that I spent his money freely; such a transgression would never have crossed my mind. It was only in such a situation – one that I might rightly term an emergency – that such flagrant spending of Mr. Wooster's private capital was forgivable. What I am trying to say is that I was certain he would have encouraged me.
I found my melancholy way to London, feeling every moment that I was the gravest failure. My level of distress and personal misgivings were such that I never once considered securing a position in another household. I returned instead to the old flat that we had shared for so long (at that time miraculously unoccupied, and even still containing several of our own pieces of furniture) and endeavored to maintain it in the manner to which both Mr. Wooster and myself had grown accustomed. I did not call on old friends, but led a solemn, solitary life. I was ashamed.
My time alone in our flat was a strange and haunting experience. Every corner of the place held some poignant memory for me. I have mentioned before that I am rather a sentimental man, more so than I might seem to the casual observer. Well, at this time in my life, my romanticism and sentimentality ignited my heart and I went up in a conflagration sufficient in size to reduce all of London to smoldering cinders.
There is a corner where we have always kept our various alcoholic beverages. After restocking our supply, I decided to pour myself a brandy, as I sometimes did when I was certain that my duties for the day were finished. As I did so, however, I was suddenly and strangely transported back to a day and an event that I had nearly forgotten.
It was a night in July, 1933. I had been in Mr. Wooster's service some eight years by then, and what fantastically eventful years they were! I have not yet mentioned the fact that Mr. Wooster is exceptionally prone to complications in his personal life. I don't quite know why, but it seems that, in his younger days, Mr. Wooster was to be seen running for his life across the grounds of some country estate with a furious man waving some sort of blunt instrument close behind at least three times a year. It was exciting, frightening, exhilarating, and, if I may say so, supremely satisfying to scramble after him with quickly formulated impromptu plans for his salvation. He was always so grateful afterward.
On this particular night, I was pouring myself a restorative to celebrate our safe return from Steeple Bumpleigh and the horrid affair with Lady Craye and Mr. Stilton. I had decanted Mr. Wooster into his bed some time earlier, and intended to join him there when I had had said restorative and perhaps a few moments of informative reading. Mr. Wooster, as it happens, had other plans however, for as I was pouring the drink, he crept out behind me so silently I honestly did not become cognizant of his presence until he place his hands about my waist. I jumped a little and spilled a drop or two, and Mr. Wooster crowed appreciatively into my ear.
“I say! I've gone and given you a fright! Never thought I'd get the best of you.” He let his tone drop precipitously for that last sentence and kissed me soundly on the cheek. I paused in my movements to appreciate the sensation.
“Now, now,” he murmured, “go on and have your drink. Don't let me stop you. You're off the clock, as they say, what?”
“Never, sir,” I said.
“What rot. I say you are, and if I can't dictate such things, then who can? We might not currently be a-bed, but we are most certainly after hours, so drink your bally b. and s. I can wait right here.” He tightened his grip about my waist and settled his chin upon my shoulder.
“Would you like some, sir?”
“No, Reginald,” he said with weight, “I would not.”
I took his meaning. “Forgive me, Bertram.”
“Dash it, love! Stop all this apologizing and drink your bally booze.”
I drank as ordered, and when I'd finished I twisted in his arms to face him. He kissed me properly then, and though he had done the same some ten thousand times, the experience had never yet lost its stirling shine.
When at last we parted he put an unsteady hand upon my cheek and gazed into my dark eyes with his own polished sapphires. Oh Heaven, have there ever been such perfect eyes?
“I want to thank you, old thing,” he said quietly. “You were brilliant. I do hope you enjoyed your fishing. I'm sorry I didn't let you have more of it.”
“It was perfectly sufficient, sir. Bertram.”
“Soon I'll take you somewhere fine, with superb fishing, and you can have a week of it, if you like. A month.”
“I assure you, I had as much fishing as I desired. It was a sincere pleasure to aid you in your time of need.”
“Just let me know where it is you want to go, and I'll take you there. So long as it isn't back to Steeple Bumpleigh, of course. I shouldn't be surprised if they put up fliers all about town with yours truly pictured and the words 'Dead or Alive' scrawled beneath my chin.”
“Bertram–”
“I do want to make it up to you, my darling. I know I was frightfully selfish. I can't give you much, I know. I'm not such great companionship for one such as yourself. I feel sometimes that I'm more of a parrot than a man, what? I try to be clever for you but I always get the words mixed up. It can't be very fulfilling for you. But I can take you about and such. Take you abroad, I mean. Or I could buy you something. Whatever you want. You know that.”
“I do know that,” I attempted to interject, but Mr. Wooster was off and running, as they say. He did this from time to time. He had himself convinced, I am sorry to say, that I was too good for him. I had spent years trying to convince him that it was he who was too good for me.
“It's only that I love you so dashed much. You know that, don't you, old boy? I can't stand the thought that I am standing between you and something you want. If, in my more pigheaded moments, I deny you something, you know, don't you, that you need only ask at some later date when I am less in the soup or less generally surly and I'll do an about face on the matter. I forget, sometimes, how relentlessly tedious living with me must be, and I–”
“Bertram,” I said firmly. His mouth clicked shut. “You deprive me of nothing that is essential, and I am wise enough to know that every whim of a willful man such as myself should not be granted. Furthermore, even if you were to forbid me ever to fish again, I would count that as regrettable, but preferable to losing your sweet presence in my life. The hours I spend with you I look upon as sort of a perfumed garden, a dim twilight, and a fountain singing to it. You and you alone make me feel that I am alive. Other men it is said have seen angels, but I have seen thee and thou art enough.”
Mr. Wooster was silent for a moment. At last he let out a breath and said, “Dashed good, old egg. Is that yours?”
I smiled a little wistfully. “Would that it were, sir. Bertram. It is George Moore. Though I may not be able to capture my feelings precisely as he does, rest assured that his words speak for me more perfectly than I can speak for myself.”
Mr. Wooster stopped his fretting for the night, instead opting to drag me to bed.
It was a good memory, if bittersweet. It cut me to the quick to recall how uncertain he was with me, how convinced he was of his inferiority, how terrified of losing me.
I lost myself in the memory while it lasted, but when it faded and I found myself standing alone, rooted to the same spot but with seven years gone inexorably by, I admit that I wept more bitterly than I have ever done.
Months passed me by. Bombs fell on London, but they happened to pass me by as well. Even as all of our old friends and acquaintances left the city – one by one – to find refuge in the country where we once had gamboled and fished and played golf, I remained, the thought in my feverish, half-crazed mind being that when Mr. Wooster returned to England, he would not know how to find me unless I stayed right there.
Indeed, it was nearly a year and a half before I heard any news from Mr. Wooster. Even then, it was not, as I had rashly hoped, in the form of personal correspondence. In fact, it came in the most impersonal manner possible: I read his name in the newspaper. It was the headline on the front page one morning; I believe I nearly perished when I saw it, it came as such a shock.
“B.W. Wooster: Traitor,” the headline read. My heart pounded at such a rate I became light-headed. There must be some mistake, I thought to myself, but I was obliged to steady my heart rate with a few deep breaths before continuing.
It seemed that Mr. Wooster's unmistakable voice had been heard on the radio, broadcasting on a German station from the city of Berlin, telling humorous anecdotes about his stay in a German prison.
My mind began to work furiously at once. Of course, he was known across the western world for his humorous and light-hearted memoirs; it stood to reason that a German broadcasting company might want to hire him to lighten everyone's spirits. Dear Mr. Wooster was a kindly soul; it would not have occurred to him that his little stories would be taken so seriously at the home front. He was not a traitor, I told myself. He was merely a fool. A darling, generous fool who was not capable of understanding the fury that his naïve generosity would generate. Mr. Wooster was a man who did not believe in enemies; he wanted to make all of mankind smile.
These self-centered, warlike Englishman were more foolish than he! They called him a traitor for his kindness, a demon for his generosity. They were not fit to lick his boots, yet they would condemn him.
In a rage I tore the newspaper to shreds, and then, though I am ashamed to admit it, I lay myself down and wept on the floor, for that single headline had sealed Mr. Wooster's fate forever. Whether he survived the war or not, he would never return to England. Even his closest friends would burn him at the stake.
It grew only worse after that. Articles appeared day after day, thoroughly decimating his character. Former fiancées wrote letters to the editor in droves calling him a womanizer who played with women's hearts and tempted them to improprieties. Old friends with whom he had attended school gave radio broadcasts proclaiming that he had always been a coward who never spent so much as a single hour on the rugby field. Lord Bittlesham recalled the time he had claimed to be the novelist Rosie M. Banks for uncertain – but certainly nefarious – reasons. Reporters delved into his past and revealed that he had failed to fight in the Great War, entirely ignoring that fact that none of his peers had fought either. All that I can say in regards to these charges is that if all men were more like Bertram Wooster – with fewer politics and more humor – there would have been no wars for him to evade.
And then it became even worse, if such a thing is possible. The press raised the possibility that he had gone to France specifically to act as a Nazi agent to help bring Paris down from the inside. Reporters flocked to my door; I refused to speak to them. How could I clear his name? The real reason we were in France was no less scandalous.
The cry went up that this traitorous, cowardly Wooster should be disgraced once and for all. His books were banned, his friendship renounced by all who had known him. Fortunately I had transferred his accounts to an American bank the very day I read the first headline, and so that, at least, was safe. Had I failed in that regard, I have no doubt that every penny would have been reclaimed.
All the while, my poor, beloved fool went on giving his little broadcasts. Week after week he sent them out; occasionally I even heard them. It became a practice for London pubs to play them, and the populace would jeer him and abuse him at every pause.
This continued for a little more than a year, at the end of which the broadcasts finally went silent. No one was certain what had become of him, but the general consensus was that they hoped he had been executed, so as to save our own government the trouble.
By this time it was 1943. I had not seen him in three years, and since I now knew his return to England was impossible, I resolved to give up the old flat at last and booked passage to America where, I hoped, the people would care less about Mr. Wooster's perceived treachery.
Such proved to be the case, and for the next several years, I never heard his name mentioned. You will understand when I say that under the circumstances, this silence was welcome. Even two and three years after the war's end, I dreaded the day when I might hear his name on someone's lips, certain as I was that I would learn of his death, either at the hands of the Germans or British. It was preferable then for me to continue on in ignorance, maintaining the faint, and, frankly, idiotic hope that he still existed somewhere in the world.
During this time I settled myself comfortably in New York, where he and I had passed a few merry years two decades earlier. I found a nice flat for myself, initially paying with Mr. Wooster's money, until I procured employment at a restaurant on Fifth Avenue. It was not the sort of respectable position that one might expect from me; however I was not interested in officially leaving my position as Mr. Wooster's personal gentleman, whether he was living or not. I had long since decided that I was to be his for the remainder of my life. The job, therefore, was more for my own mental health than anything else. After five years of complete seclusion, I craved human society.
I made friends in New York; it is not difficult for me, if I am inclined to do so. After hours my fellow waiters and waitresses would take in a show here and there, or go to a bar with live music. Sometimes I would entertain them at my flat, and they would whistle and make remarks about how very nice it was.
“Where in God's name do you get your money?” my closest friend James asked me once.
I shrugged evasively and told him it had been left to me by my wife, who had died during the war. This was, after all, mostly true. James – who is brazen and daring and rather foolishly open about his own untraditional proclivities – arched an eyebrow at me and said, “A wife? You never struck me as the marrying kind.” It seemed to me to be an insensitive remark, and I told him so.
“I apologize, and I'm very sorry for your loss. But you will never convince me that the fellow was your wife.”
Set my jaw firmly and said no more on the subject. I believe that James took this as proof that his suspicions were correct.
Of course, they were. And though I held out against his remarks and hints for over a year, one night he wrested the truth from me.
It was July 24th, 1947, the twenty-first anniversary of the day that I went into Mr. Wooster's service, and I was, understandably, morose. Seven years, and still no word from Mr. Wooster. By all accounts, he had simply disappeared, and the light of the world along with him.
James, who was a sociable and caring soul, detected my dissatisfaction, though no one else could, and he suggested that we should both go out for a drink or two after work. I was lonesome and so I consented, and that night I drank more than I have in my entire life. For there I was: fifty-three years old, and alone in the world. A gentleman's gentleman without a gentleman. A widower without having had a spouse, grieving without so much as a grave to visit. So I drank, and as the din in the bar was all-encompassing, I poured my soul out to my new friend, whose own forthrightness in talking of his relationship with one Edward – a sailor currently out of town – lead me to believe that he could be trusted. He did not let me down. He listened with a sympathetic ear, and when I had told the entire story, he smiled reflectively.
“I read his books, you know,” he told me. “I adore them. And, I must admit, I always suspected that you might just be that Jeeves. I hoped to God you were. I'm glad to know I was right; it's a real honor to know you.”
“Thank you,” I murmured brokenly.
“I'll tell you something else, friend,” he said, leaning forward. “The reason I loved those books so much wasn't because they were funny or well-written – though they were, of course. But the reason I really loved them was because when I read them, I could feel the love that was in them. I could feel how much he loved you, and how very much you loved him in return. I was jealous, reading those books! Reggie, I've got to tell you this now. Bertram Wooster saved my life. I was nothing before I read those books, Reggie. Nothing at all. And I'll tell you why. Because I was in love with a man – with Edward, who was just a friend of mine then. I loved him so I could barely stand it. But I didn't know that there were other men like me; I just thought I was a madman who was doomed to be lonely and miserable. But then I read those books about Jeeves and– Well, about you, and it was subtle, mind you! I don't think many people would pick up on it if they weren't looking for it everywhere, if you know what I mean. But I felt that love, plain as day, and I said to myself, 'If they can do it, then dammit, so can I!' I was dying, and your Mr. Wooster saved me. So I hope you can be happy about that, at least. Even if those idiots back in England don't appreciate him, there are two men here in New York who thank him everyday for his love and his bravery.”
You'll understand my emotional state at this juncture when I say that at that moment, I actually embraced him as I have never embraced anyone in my life, save Mr. Wooster himself.
Though I never could completely forgive myself for my failure at the moment of crisis on that day in Paris, I did eventually learn to live with myself. Mr. Wooster, James assured me, would never want me to squander my life in regret, and of course, that was undeniably true. If I could do anything for him now, it would have to be by living well and honoring, to the best of my ability, the faith and love he had bestowed upon me during our time together. Who was I, after all, but a mere man, and what hope had I – or we – ever had against the entire German army? I could not continue to despise myself indefinitely, when Mr. Wooster, I knew, could scarcely suffer the slightest injury to my person or insult to my character.
I concluded that I would continue to serve Mr. Wooster in my heart, be he alive or dead. As Emily Bronte once so eloquently stated:
“No later light has lightened up my heaven,
No second morn has ever shone for me;
All my life's bliss from thy dear life was given,
All my life's bliss is in the grave with thee.
But, when the days of golden dreams had perished,
And even Despair was powerless to destroy,
Then did I learn how existence could be cherished,
Strengthened, and fed without the aid of joy.”
I had failed him, yes. I had failed utterly and entirely, and thus I had been the ruin of us both. But regardless, I was alive, and I knew from experience that possibilities abound so long as we continue to draw breath. What I mean to say is this: hope still flickered within me; hope that Mr. Wooster lived, and that somehow he would keep his promise to return to me.
Tune in soon for Bertie's version of the story!