MY MAN JEEVES

  Have you ever been turned down by a girl who afterwards mar-

  ried and then been introduced to her husband? If so you’ll under-

  stand how I felt when Clarence burst on me. You know the feeling.

  First of all, when you hear about the marriage, you say to yourself, “I

  wonder what he’s like.” Th

  en you meet him, and think, “Th

  ere must

  be some mistake. She can’t have preferred this to me!” Th

  at’s what I

  thought, when I set eyes on Clarence.

  He was a little thin, nervous-looking chappie of about thirty-

  fi ve. His hair was getting grey at the temples and straggly on top.

  He wore pince-nez, and he had a drooping moustache. I’m no Bom-

  bardier Wells myself, but in front of Clarence I felt quite a nut. And

  Elizabeth, mind you, is one of those tall, splendid girls who look like

  princesses. Honestly, I believe women do it out of pure cussedness.

  “How do you do, Mr. Pepper? Hark! Can you hear a mewing

  cat?” said Clarence. All in one breath, don’t you know.

  “Eh?” I said.

  “A mewing cat. I feel sure I hear a mewing cat. Listen!”

  While we were listening the door opened, and a white-haired

  old gentleman came in. He was built on the same lines as Clarence,

  but was an earlier model. I took him correctly, to be Mr. Yeardsley,

  senior. Elizabeth introduced us.

  “Father,” said Clarence, “did you meet a mewing cat outside? I

  feel positive I heard a cat mewing.”

  “No,” said the father, shaking his head; “no mewing cat.”

  “I can’t bear mewing cats,” said Clarence. “A mewing cat gets

  on my nerves!”

  “A mewing cat is so trying,” said Elizabeth.

  “I dislike mewing cats,” said old Mr. Yeardsley.

  Th

  at was all about mewing cats for the moment. Th

  ey seemed

  to think they had covered the ground satisfactorily, and they went

  back to pictures.

  We talked pictures steadily till it was time to dress for dinner.

  At least, they did. I just sort of sat around. Presently the subject of

  picture-robberies came up. Somebody mentioned the “Monna Lisa,”

  and then I happened to remember seeing something in the evening

  paper, as I was coming down in the train, about some fellow some-

  where having had a valuable painting pinched by burglars the night

  before. It was the fi rst time I had had a chance of breaking into the

  conversation with any eff ect, and I meant to make the most of it.

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  P. G. WODEHOUSE

  Th

  e paper was in the pocket of my overcoat in the hall. I went and

  fetched it.

  “Here it is,” I said. “A Romney belonging to Sir Bellamy

  Palmer—”

  Th

  ey all shouted “What!” exactly at the same time, like a chorus.

  Elizabeth grabbed the paper.

  “Let me look! Yes. ‘Late last night burglars entered the residence

  of Sir Bellamy Palmer, Dryden Park, Midford, Hants—’”

  “Why, that’s near here,” I said. “I passed through Midford—”

  “Dryden Park is only two miles from this house,” said Eliza-

  beth. I noticed her eyes were sparkling.

  “Only two miles!” she said. “It might have been us! It might

  have been the ‘Venus’!”

  Old Mr. Yeardsley bounded in his chair.

  “Th

  e ‘Venus’!” he cried.

  Th

  ey all seemed wonderfully excited. My little contribution to

  the evening’s chat had made quite a hit.

  Why I didn’t notice it before I don’t know, but it was not till

  Elizabeth showed it to me after dinner that I had my fi rst look at the

  Yeardsley “Venus.” When she led me up to it, and switched on the

  light, it seemed impossible that I could have sat right through dinner

  without noticing it. But then, at meals, my attention is pretty well

  riveted on the foodstuff s. Anyway, it was not till Elizabeth showed

  it to me that I was aware of its existence.

  She and I were alone in the drawing-room after dinner. Old

  Yeardsley was writing letters in the morning-room, while Bill and

  Clarence were rollicking on the half-size billiard table with the

  pink silk tapestry eff ects. All, in fact, was joy, jollity, and song, so

  to speak, when Elizabeth, who had been sitting wrapped in thought

  for a bit, bent towards me and said, “Reggie.”

  And the moment she said it I knew something was going to

  happen. You know that pre-what-d’you-call-it you get sometimes?

  Well, I got it then.

  “What-o?” I said nervously.

  “Reggie,” she said, “I want to ask a great favour of you.”

  “Yes?”

  She stooped down and put a log on the fi re, and went on, with

  her back to me:

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  MY MAN JEEVES

  “Do you remember, Reggie, once saying you would do anything

  in the world for me?”

  Th

  ere! Th

  at’s what I meant when I said that about the cheek of

  Woman as a sex. What I mean is, after what had happened, you’d

  have thought she would have preferred to let the dead past bury its

  dead, and all that sort of thing, what?

  Mind you, I had said I would do anything in the world for her.

  I admit that. But it was a distinctly pre-Clarence remark. He hadn’t

  appeared on the scene then, and it stands to reason that a fellow

  who may have been a perfect knight-errant to a girl when he was

  engaged to her, doesn’t feel nearly so keen on spreading himself in

  that direction when she has given him the miss-in-baulk, and gone

  and married a man who reason and instinct both tell him is a de-

  cided blighter.

  I couldn’t think of anything to say but “Oh, yes.”

  “Th

  ere’s something you can do for me now, which will make me

  everlastingly grateful.”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Do you know, Reggie,” she said suddenly, “that only a few

  months ago Clarence was very fond of cats?”

  “Eh! Well, he still seems – er – interested in them, what?”

  “Now they get on his nerves. Everything gets on his nerves.”

  “Some fellows swear by that stuff you see advertised all over

  the—”

  “No, that wouldn’t help him. He doesn’t need to take anything.

  He wants to get rid of something.”

  “I don’t quite fellow. Get rid of something?”

  “Th

  e ‘Venus,’” said Elizabeth.

  She looked up and caught my bulging eye.

  “You saw the ‘Venus,’” she said.

  “Not that I remember.”

  “Well, come into the dining-room.”

  We went into the dining-room, and she switched on the lights.

  “Th

  ere,” she said.

  On the wall close to the door – that may have been why I hadn’t

  noticed it before; I had sat with my back to it – was a large oil-paint-

  ing. It was what you’d call a classical picture, I suppose. What I

  mean is – well, you know what I mean. All I can say is that it’s funny

  I hadn’t noticed it.

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  P. G. WODEHOUSE

  “Is that the ‘Venus’?” I said.

  She nodded.

  “How would you like to have to look at that every time you sat

  down to a meal?”

  “Well, I don’t know. I don’t think it would aff ect me much. I’d

  worry through all right.”

  She jerked her head impatiently.

  “But you’re not an artist,” she said. “Clarence is.”

  And then I began to see daylight. What exactly was the trouble

  I didn’t understand, but it was evidently something to do with the

  good old Artistic Temperament, and I could believe anything about

  that. It explains everything. It’s like the Unwritten Law, don’t you

  know, which you plead in America if you’ve done anything they want

  to send you to chokey for and you don’t want to go. What I mean is,

  if you’re absolutely off your rocker, but don’t fi nd it convenient to be scooped into the luny-bin, you simply explain that, when you said

  you were a teapot, it was just your Artistic Temperament, and they

  apologize and go away. So I stood by to hear just how the A.T. had

  aff ected Clarence, the Cat’s Friend, ready for anything.

  And, believe me, it had hit Clarence badly.

  It was this way. It seemed that old Yeardsley was an amateur

  artist and that this “Venus” was his masterpiece. He said so, and he

  ought to have known. Well, when Clarence married, he had given

  it to him, as a wedding present, and had hung it where it stood with

  his own hands. All right so far, what? But mark the sequel. Tem-

  peramental Clarence, being a professional artist and consequently

  some streets ahead of the dad at the game, saw fl aws in the “Venus.”

  He couldn’t stand it at any price. He didn’t like the drawing. He didn’t like the expression of the face. He didn’t like the colouring. In

  fact, it made him feel quite ill to look at it. Yet, being devoted to his

  father and wanting to do anything rather than give him pain, he had

  not been able to bring himself to store the thing in the cellar, and

  the strain of confronting the picture three times a day had begun to

  tell on him to such an extent that Elizabeth felt something had to

  be done.

  “Now you see,” she said.

  “In a way,” I said. “But don’t you think it’s making rather heavy

  weather over a trifl e?”

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  MY MAN JEEVES

  “Oh, can’t you understand? Look!” Her voice dropped as if she

  was in church, and she switched on another light. It shone on the

  picture next to old Yeardsley’s. “Th

  ere!” she said. “Clarence painted

  that!”

  She looked at me expectantly, as if she were waiting for me to

  swoon, or yell, or something. I took a steady look at Clarence’s ef-

  fort. It was another Classical picture. It seemed to me very much like

  the other one.

  Some sort of art criticism was evidently expected of me, so I

  made a dash at it.

  “Er – ’Venus’?” I said.

  Mark you, Sherlock Holmes would have made the same mis-

  take. On the evidence, I mean.

  “No. ‘Jocund Spring,’” she snapped. She switched off the light.

  “I see you don’t understand even now. You never had any taste about

  pictures. When we used to go to the galleries together, you would

  far rather have been at your club.”

  Th

  is was so absolutely true, that I had no remark to make. She

  came up to me, and put her hand on my arm.

  “I’m sorry, Reggie. I didn’t mean to be cross. Only I do want

  to make you understand that Clarence is suff ering. Suppose – sup-

  pose – well, let us take the case of a great musician. Suppose a great

  musician had to sit and listen to a cheap vulgar tune – the same

  tune – day after day, day after day, wouldn’t you expect his nerves to

  break! Well, it’s just like that with Clarence. Now you see?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “But what? Surely I’ve put it plainly enough?”

  “Yes. But what I mean is, where do I come in? What do you

  want me to do?”

  “I want you to steal the ‘Venus.’”

  I looked at her.

  “You want me to—?”

  “Steal it. Reggie!” Her eyes were shining with excitement. “Don’t

  you see? It’s Providence. When I asked you to come here, I had just

  got the idea. I knew I could rely on you. And then by a miracle this

  robbery of the Romney takes place at a house not two miles away.

  It removes the last chance of the poor old man suspecting anything

  and having his feelings hurt. Why, it’s the most wonderful compli-

  ment to him. Th

  ink! One night thieves steal a splendid Romney; the

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  P. G. WODEHOUSE

  next the same gang take his ‘Venus.’ It will be the proudest moment

  of his life. Do it to-night, Reggie. I’ll give you a sharp knife. You

  simply cut the canvas out of the frame, and it’s done.”

  “But one moment,” I said. “I’d be delighted to be of any use to

  you, but in a purely family aff air like this, wouldn’t it be better – in

  fact, how about tackling old Bill on the subject?”

  “I have asked Bill already. Yesterday. He refused.”

  “But if I’m caught?”

  “You can’t be. All you have to do is to take the picture, open one

  of the windows, leave it open, and go back to your room.”

  It sounded simple enough.

  “And as to the picture itself – when I’ve got it?”

  “Burn it. I’ll see that you have a good fi re in your room.”

  “But—”

  She looked at me. She always did have the most wonderful

  eyes.

  “Reggie,” she said; nothing more. Just “Reggie.”

  She looked at me.

  “Well, after all, if you see what I mean – Th

  e days that are no

  more, don’t you know. Auld Lang Syne, and all that sort of thing.

  You follow me?”

  “All right,” I said. “I’ll do it.”

  I don’t know if you happen to be one of those Johnnies who

  are steeped in crime, and so forth, and think nothing of pinching

  diamond necklaces. If you’re not, you’ll understand that I felt a lot

  less keen on the job I’d taken on when I sat in my room, waiting to

  get busy, than I had done when I promised to tackle it in the din-

  ing-room. On paper it all seemed easy enough, but I couldn’t help

  feeling there was a catch somewhere, and I’ve never known time pass

  slower. Th

  e kick-off was scheduled for one o’clock in the morning,

  when the household might be expected to be pretty sound asleep,

  but at a quarter to I couldn’t stand it any longer. I lit the lantern

  I had taken from Bill’s bicycle, took a grip of my knife, and slunk

  downstairs.

  Th

  e fi rst thing I did on getting to the dining-room was to open

  the window. I had half a mind to smash it, so as to give an extra bit

  of local colour to the aff air, but decided not to on account of the

  noise. I had put my lantern on the table, and was just reaching out

  for it, when something happened. What it was for the moment I

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  MY MAN JEEVES

  couldn’t have said. It might have been an explosion of some sort or

  an earthquake. Some solid object caught me a frightful whack on

  the chin. Sparks and things occurred inside my head and the next

  thing I remember is feeling something wet and cold splash into my

  face, and hearing a voice that sounded like old Bill’s say, “Feeling

  better now?”

  I sat up. Th

  e lights were on, and I was on the fl oor, with old Bill

  kneeling beside me with a soda siphon.

  “What happened?” I said.

  “I’m awfully sorry, old man,” he said. “I hadn’t a notion it was

  you. I came in here, and saw a lantern on the table, and the window

  open and a chap with a knife in his hand, so I didn’t stop to make

  inquiries. I just let go at his jaw for all I was worth. What on earth

  do you think you’re doing? Were you walking in your sleep?”

  “It was Elizabeth,” I said. “Why, you know all about it. She said

  she had told you.”

  “You don’t mean—”

  “Th

  e picture. You refused to take it on, so she asked me.”

  “Reggie, old man,” he said. “I’ll never believe what they say

  about repentance again. It’s a fool’s trick and upsets everything. If I

  hadn’t repented, and thought it was rather rough on Elizabeth not to

  do a little thing like that for her, and come down here to do it after

  all, you wouldn’t have stopped that sleep-producer with your chin.

  I’m sorry.”

  “Me, too,” I said, giving my head another shake to make certain

  it was still on.

  “Are you feeling better now?”

  “Better than I was. But that’s not saying much.”

  “Would you like some more soda-water? No? Well, how about

  getting this job fi nished and going to bed? And let’s be quick about

  it too. You made a noise like a ton of bricks when you went down

  just now, and it’s on the cards some of the servants may have heard.

  Toss you who carves.”

  “Heads.”

  “Tails it is,” he said, uncovering the coin. “Up you get. I’ll hold

  the light. Don’t spike yourself on that sword of yours.”

  It was as easy a job as Elizabeth had said. Just four quick cuts,

  and the thing came out of its frame like an oyster. I rolled it up. Old

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  P. G. WODEHOUSE

  Bill had put the lantern on the fl oor and was at the sideboard, col-

  lecting whisky, soda, and glasses.

  “We’ve got a long evening before us,” he said. “You can’t burn

 

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