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It is, properly speaking, not my duty to form opinions of Mr Wooster's friends; more properly, it is my duty not to do so. If I sometimes fail in this respect, expressing my views only compounds the error. Nevertheless, given their character, I suspect I will be forgiven for disclosing that I have always found Mr. Little an amiable and kind-hearted gentleman, if a little absent, with an easy temperament that complements my employer's own. Their sympathetic natures were always the more welcome to me because kindness is not considered an essential attribute of the well-bred gentleman. If perhaps in spite — the more radical members of the Ganymede might say because —of his pedigree he was never destined to be what is termed a brilliant man, it was no insurmountable objection. I have known brilliant men, and found them to be no kinder than the rest.
Mr Little's kindness manifested itself in an unfortunate tendency to fall genuinely, intensely, and impermanently in love with spirited young ladies of the working classes. I was frequently called upon to extricate Mr. Little from the ashes of romance once the flame of passion had consumed itself, which, like a match, it generally did with breathless rapidity. It was usually so simple to remedy his difficulties that it would have been a greater exertion to decline than to assent, but assistance was rendered easier because the ladies' station was neither the reason he was drawn to them nor ever why he ceased to be attracted. Some men have a dark passion for those they consider beneath them, or a repulsed disregard. The emotion is in both cases frequently the same. Mr. Little, on the contrary, had a preference for capable young women —a thing far from universal — and his infatuations arose, I suspected, rather from the opportunity, however fleeting, to engage freely in pleasant conversation without the immediate and looming prospect of marriage. How rare this is within their own circle, Mr. Wooster will attest.
The extent to which Mr. Little associated the lack of pressure to enter into the married state with a fervent desire to do so was perhaps unusual, even extreme; but it may serve illustrate a hackneyed truth, namely that a horse will drink better when it is not led. It is my experience of service that among the upper orders of society, perhaps because of the strictures of class, the psychology of the individual— human even more so than equine — is sadly underrated. This ignorance extends, fortunately or unfortunately, depending on perspective, to Mr. Wooster's aunts. But I digress. I believe I had been attempting a defence of Mr. Little's romantic instincts, which, though unfocused, were not unsound. If, in their somewhat haphazard progress through the female population, they happened by chance on an inspired choice, I had no doubt his prospects of happiness were no worse, and possibly rather better, than that of any other young man of pleasant temper, ample leisure, and considerable wealth.
So it proved, in the end, with Rosie M. Banks, lately Mrs. Little. My astonishment at their liaison, when I first heard of it, was such that it almost registered on my face. Miss Banks — it is still her professional name — was, and is, a highly successful romantic novelist, whose success was built entirely on her own merits, and in the face of considerable prejudice against authoresses, popular genres, and combinations of the two. There were, as Mr. Wooster had put it, no flies on that filly; that such an able and enterprising woman, whose work I had long if secretly admired, should seriously wish to ally herself to a young man with no obvious intellectual gifts or inclinations seemed to me so unlikely that I wondered why she should do so, except perhaps as a temporary amusement in making her life resemble one of her plots.
The puzzlement was mine, not theirs, since the young couple gave every appearance of a deep and mutual attachment, and I was, in truth, more than a little jealous. Not for any romantic reason — or rather, not out of any romantic interest — but because Miss Banks' novels had an importance to me which neither she nor anyone else could be expected to divine. Apart from their literary merits — a simple style is by no means simple to achieve, and indeed alien to me — chief among the many attractions of Miss Banks' works to me was that they never conflated the desire for power with the desire for love. Off the page, such feelings are not always easy to distinguish. Thus I am ashamed to confess I hide my lighter reading from Mr. Wooster; it would not sit well with the mistaken impression of perfection he has of me. Though I did not lie to him when I said I was familiar with her oeuvre, as an aunt of mine possesses copies of all her works, I did not disabuse Mr. Wooster in the inference he drew from my aunt to me. In fact it ran from me to my aunt, who could never have afforded a series of new novels from a prolific — if admirably able — author, just as I sadly could not afford the space to house as many books as I wished.
I therefore found myself, like many a secret admirer, ardently wishing for a closer acquaintance with little prospect of success. In one sense my prospects were better that many, for it is a peculiarity of the valet's profession that he frequently spends hours in the intimate company of distinguished guests he would otherwise never have the opportunity of meeting. But in another they were worse, for I was honour-bound, by virtue of the same profession, to remain impassive and unspeaking when Mr. Little and Miss Banks visited, even when I might most wish to speak and act.
I was still considering how best to advance my cause when Miss Banks called at the flat one morning. A call in the morning was generally a call to me, since Mr. Wooster is not an early riser. I was not surprised so much to have guests — it is not unprecedented — as Miss Banks should be among them. Visitors who ask for me tend either to be young men of Mr. Wooster's acquaintance who, like wasps, find sticky situations easier to get into than out of, or those of his circle — Miss Byng, for instance — who do not scruple to seek others to do their bidding. I had not reckoned Miss Banks in either category.
It transpired, however, that she was working on a new novel, and desired advice on matters of service.
"Bingo and Bertie told me you enjoy my books, Jeeves. Why didn't you say so?"
"It would hardly have been proper, miss. When you dine here I am present in my professional capacity. It would be quite wrong for me to introduce any personal element while I am engaged in service."
"Well. I can't pretend I like it, but that's the part of their world you can help me with."
"Miss?"
"Jeeves, I'm sick of dukes and dairymaids. I mean, may nothing cloud their happiness, but I get so tired of churning out rich men loving poor girls because that's the acceptable kind of transgression. Or if I'm really desperate, poor girls loving rich men for a bit of relief."
My hand shook slightly as I arranged the flower on my employer's breakfast tray. Not all transgressions are equally unequal.
"Indeed, miss?"
"Oh, drop that."
"I doubt Mr. Wooster's breakfast would benefit by it, miss."
She smiled.
"Don't be ridiculous. Anyway, I'd like to try my hand at rich women loving poor men."
Ah. The stuff of divorce trials, which enjoyed, if enjoyed is the right word, a voracious readership.
"The papers consider that quite scandalous, miss."
"Exactly, Jeeves. Salaciously scandalous. The kind that sells."
"But — forgive me, miss; the newspaper angle is usually prurient, and I have never found your work to be so."
"That's exactly why I want your help. I don't mind luring them in by letting them think Lady Dearhart has it coming, but I'm not going to write comeuppance as a reward for love. I'm no hypocrite. So if I want them to keep reading, it has to be right. And that’s why I'm asking you."
"I have never loved a Lady, miss."
"Her loss, I suspect. But I can cobble together the love plot in my sleep. It's getting the servant's side of things right that troubles me."
"Your maids are most convincing, miss."
"Flatterer."
"They are. Half my cousins weep harder at your description of chilblains than at your depictions of love."
"Well. That was a service I didn't know I was performing. But maids are easy. Plenty of people have a skivvy, or are skivvies, and at a pinch I can scale one up all the way to a ladies' maid. But manservants are different. Big house stuff, outside my experience, and I'll get it wrong if I make it up. You see how I trip up with Richie's lot. And you're so polished. I wondered whether you might have worked in the right kind of place."
"I grew up in one, miss."
"Perfect. What are your terms?"
"You are assuming I have consented, miss."
"They did say you drive a hard bargain."
"You misunderstand me, miss. I do indeed find negotiation stimulating. But I shall have to ask Mr. Wooster first."
"For goodness' sake. Can't you do anything — "
"Shh. It doesn't work in the way you think, miss. I'll take Mr. Wooster in his breakfast now. And he'll say yes."
And so, over the course of I Fell for my Footman — "it's only a working title, Jeeves, you have no idea how tricky it is to hint at passion without sounding like a prude or a letch" — Rosie became that rarest and most precious thing, a friend. Not being a man given to intimate acquaintance, I consider it the greatest honour to count her among mine, and to be counted among hers. I consequently tried to suppress my reservations about her own choice, but she guessed easily enough. My congratulations on her engagement, though very proper for a valet, were not warm for a friend. While my employer serenaded Mr. Little's happiness with a selection of suggestive ditties, she came into the kitchen on the pretext of asking my advice on domestic matters.
"It will be alright, Jeeves."
"I hope so, Rosie."
"And I can take care of myself if it isn't."
"I don't doubt it, but for him — "
"I'll do my best for him if it gets bad. Are you worried for any reason I should know about?"
"No. No. He seems devoted to you. It's just — "
"He's fallen in love with half of London. I know. Do you think we haven't talked about it?"
Such openness with another was foreign to me. I polished a cake-fork to a mirror shine.
"You wonder what I see in him, don't you?"
"I wouldn't have put it that way."
"I know. You never do say what you mean."
I looked up. She wasn't angry, merely correct.
"He's the kindest man I know, Jeeves."
I did not contest this point. I had known Mr. Wooster longer than she had.
"And is that enough?"
"It's not just that, Jeeves. But yes, it is. He's good for me. He's good. Do you have any idea how rare that is?"
The fork was so shiny it squeaked. I put it down.
"Perhaps I do."
She smiled. It invited understanding.
"I'll say. Bertie's a dear."
But I could not understand.
"He is a most considerate employer."
"Oh Jeeves."
I selected a fresh fork.
"I am very fortunate. They will be missing you."
She touched my shoulder lightly as she left. I did not pause to consider what she had meant.
Though it had evidently frustrated Rosie, this conversation reassured me on the subject of her and Mr. Little. Time progressed. The couple continued to show every appearance of devoted happiness, and I allowed myself to hope. I was therefore deeply saddened, though not greatly surprised, to find Mr. Little on my — that is, Mr. Wooster's — doorstep one fine spring afternoon, some few months after his marriage.
"I ah — hello Jeeves. Is Bertie in?"
Mr. Wooster was at the Drones, as we both very well knew, since it was a Friday, and Fridays meant dinner roll cricket, where Mr. Little, in Mr. Wooster's words, swung a "dashed enthusiastic baguette."
I put all thoughts of energetic batting from my mind, though I rather suspected baguettes might make a reappearance. Mr. Little's pretext was so pitiably thin, even for him, and his bypassing Mr. Wooster's intercession so unusual, that his troubles were indubitably of a marital nature, and, at least to him, serious. Spring was such a dangerous season. Perhaps that was why the image of intercession was suddenly seductive. Mr. Wooster would look so lovely in stained glass, and when the light caught him just so — A corner of my lip twitched. Pray for us indeed. If he was there, he might have noticed, but fortunately he was not.
"He is out, sir." A valet must be the master of the unwhole truth. "Perhaps you would care to come in and wait?"
"Oh yes, Jeeves.
"A cup of tea, sir?"
He really was nervous; his lips were parched, but he was shuffling from foot to foot, trapped between a fresh cup of tea, which would provide the necessary excuse to stay, and his last one, which was showing an unseemly haste to depart. "I regret I will be a few minutes preparing the tea, sir. Please make yourself comfortable in the meantime, sir. I believe you know the flat well, sir." A bit thick, perhaps; but with Mr. Little it did not always pay to be subtle.
When I returned he thankfully seemed to have eased himself, but he was still clearly at a loss for how he could ensure my continued presence on the strength of tea, a pretext entirely inadequate for what knew, but could not admit to knowing, would be an employerly absence on of several hours.
The art of service lies in making those above you think you are requesting permission to do, as a favour to yourself, what it is they truly want, while concealing your knowledge of their desires.
"Would you object, sir, if I did a little light mending in your presence? The light is so much better here in the afternoons."
"I, ah, not at all Jeeves." A horrible thought struck him. "I say, I'm not in your way, am I?"
"No, not at all, sir. In truth your company will be most welcome to me. Darning is a very soothing task, but it does not occupy the mind."
For all I flatter myself on my sagacity, I could not have anticipated what he said next.
"Oh, I quite understand, Jeeves. Rosie says she can't fathom how I like it, it's such a drag, but honestly I do."
"Indeed, sir?"
"Oh yes, Jeeves. I do all the mending at home and Rosie keeps me company. I — I don't suppose you've ever had pneumonia, Jeeves?"
"No, sir." The answer was yes, but he needn't know the circumstances.
"I'm not surprised. Must be the Viking spirit, what?"
"Exactly, sir." Maybe that was what had kept me alive.
"Well, I did, with the Spanish flu, you know, and I was terribly ill, and then terribly bored, and terribly weak, which makes a rotten cocktail shaken all together, I can tell you, and so the nurse taught me embroidery." Of course he had had a nurse when there were none to be had. There were nurses too, I remonstrated with myself, at the field hospital; there just so many of us there might as well not have been. "Socks aren't quite as fun, but much more useful. Rosie says it shows I might amount to something one day."
I smiled, which surprised him. "And how is Mrs. Little, sir?"
"Very well, very well, thank you, Jeeves. She sends her compliments."
I was certain she hadn't, but I let the kind lie pass. She undoubtedly would have had she known Mr. Little was here.
"Much appreciated, sir. Please return them. Sir, am I correct in presuming that your call—"
"To Bertie — "
"Of course, sir. To Mr. Wooster. Is of a purely social nature?"
"Oh, absolutely."
"I quite understand, sir."
"But, well, since I don't know where he is — "
"Yes, sir?" I deployed an encouraging smile. Though I rarely have occasion to use it, I have been told — not, so far, regrettably, by Mr. Wooster — that I can be very winning when I choose.
It worked, after a fashion. He gawped at me like a goldfish and forgot himself into honesty.
"I'm in the most dreadful trouble, Jeeves."
"I'm sorry to hear it, sir. With Mrs. Little, sir?"
"Well, not exactly, Jeeves — but yes."
This was opaque even by the low standards of the Drones. We might be some time.
"Perhaps a sock, sir?"
"Oh, rather, Jeeves. Thanks. I was worried you would be offended if I asked."
Truly the creation is full of wonders. I fished in the work basket and passed him the appropriate paraphernalia and a particularly well-worn right. If he hastened its demise, it was no great loss.
"Much obliged, sir". I waited until he had settled, then ventured a guess on what his trouble was, because it was what his trouble had always been.
"It is quite common, a few months after the honeymoon, sir, for there to — " I inserted a deliberate pause — "Is there perhaps — any cooling in your affections, sir?
"Dash it, no, Jeeves. No. I love her like the blazes. But that's the trouble, you see."
"Not entirely, sir, I confess —"
"I can't show her."
"If you will permit me saying so, sir, I thought you were most properly affectionate when you visited together only last week."
"Propriety's not the problem. I mean, I'm dashed glad that's all alright, but — "
He broke off. I was suddenly very, very cold.
"Do I understand you struggle to demonstrate your regard — "
I, too, found myself lost for words. I am, at least in Mr. Wooster's experience, never lost for words.
"I think you do, Jeeves."
I swallowed hard.
"Intimately, sir?"
"Intimately."
I was unspeakably grateful to be sitting down, and have my work, in a way I had not intended. I had been a great fool. I thought I had known all his troubles, because he had only ever brought me one. Given Mrs. Little's merits, a cooling of the affections might be easily steered to renewal, if necessary repeatedly; but any stranger called upon to advise on the relations between a man and his wife teetered on the edge of disaster; the footholds of propriety were slippery and small, however great one's knowledge of the terrain. My knowledge, and my footholds, were non-existent.
"Does Mrs. Little know you are here, sir?"
"No. Of course not."
Salvation. "Then I am afraid, sir, that it would be improper for us to continue."
"Christ, Jeeves, do you really think I would discuss my wife in bed with a stranger? "
I am afraid the answer before this evidence to the contrary would have been yes. Perhaps I had underestimated him. I had never known Mr. Little so upset as to utter even the mildest oath to a servant. We were bogged down in each other's awkwardness until a thought rambled through him and pulled us out of the mire.
"I mean, not in bed with a stranger, that would be — "
It could be many things, or so I had read, depending on the gentleman. And indeed the lady. This situation called for a noncommittal
"Quite, sir."
It sufficed, as it universally does.
"I love her, you know."
"I am sorry, sir. It is plain you do. It is merely somewhat difficult to discuss matters of a delicate nature concerning two people — "
"Ah no, Jeeves." He perked up disconcertingly. "You see, this doesn't concern two people."
"Sir, a marriage surely, by its definition — "
"No, no, Jeeves. You don't understand. The problem is me."
He looked at me. I looked at him. I could hardly invite him to continue. And then, being the man he is, he blurted everything out at once.
"It's me, Jeeves. I go off like a rocket before I can get anywhere near her. She hasn't even touched me half the time. Or— much of the time at all, to be honest. I — she — we would both like to. Very much. More than touch, I mean. But it's rather trying after a while, don't you know, when it happens every time and you can't do anything for her and you can't stop it or help yourself? So we still haven't. And every time we try it gets harder, so we've started not trying, but then we try to pretend to each other we're not trying not to try because it hurts to admit we're not trying when we both want to, if you catch my meaning, and then the longer we don't try the harder it becomes when we do —" he dissolved into a nervous snicker. "Oh dear. Hard's hardly the best word, is it?"
Well. He was the one that said it.
"I — I see, sir."
"Gosh, I see what you mean, Jeeves. It's surprisingly h-" — I offered him my most level gaze while he composed himself — "dashed difficult to talk without saying things you shouldn't, or putting them in a way you ought not to put —"
"Not at all, sir. It is most helpful to have a complete picture of any dilemma, sir."
He glanced up from what were, to my growing surprise, consistently accomplished stitches.
"Does Bertie ever tell you you're really quite funny, Jeeves?"
I often wished he would.
"I rather think he believes I would not take it as a compliment, sir."
"Well, he's silly if he doesn't. He really should."
I couldn't think of what to say, so I cleared my throat. Mr. Wooster is wont, however fondly, to liken this to a bleating sheep. Sheep are not romantic creatures.
"Forgive me, sir, but these are very intimate matters. Is there no friend, perhaps, who would be better placed — "
"Jeeves, half the Drones think confidence is a kind of pear."
Sir, most of the time it's a trick.
"And Bertie's a brick, Jeeves, but he'd run for the hills. You've seen what he gets like with girls when they're more real than ideal. Besides, I know there's nothing he knows that I don't."
This was a sadly accurate assessment.
"Nevertheless, sir, though I am flattered —"
I pondered whether bricks could be fetching. They cannot run, of course.
"Dash it, Jeeves, you know everything."
How little he knew.
"I — am afraid the advice I shall be able to offer will only be of the most general nature, sir."
"Bertie always says you're far too modest."
There was that problem again. I wish Mr. Wooster would not see me as perfect. It prevents him seeing the truth.
"No, sir, it is true. If only for — propriety's sake." That old lie again. "I — I am not a married man, Mr. Little. I cannot pretend to know what — "
"I believe I've said far too modest already, Jeeves."
I realised that his natural tendency to self-absorption, understandably exacerbated by distress, might in this situation have certain advantages. I permitted myself a small breath of relief. This turned out, fittingly for the circumstances, to be precipitate.
"And it gets worse, you see."
"Worse, sir?" I could hardly bear to contemplate.
"Worse. Because it was easier with boys."
"Boys, sir?" My voice rarely betrays me, but he must have heard the chill gust whistle through the question. He looked up again, very carefully, from the sock I had entrusted to him. I wished guiltily I had known to give him something more complicated. His needlework really was excellent.
"Do you disapprove, Jeeves?"
"That rather depends on the circumstances, Mr. Little."
Cold understanding slowly stilled his gentle eyes.
"At school, Jeeves. With other lads. Good Lord, surely you didn't think — "
"It is not my business to think, sir."
He smiled. It was the least likely thaw I believe I have yet effected.
"Jeeves, that is the most ridiculous thing you have ever said."
I smiled back. "Thank you, sir." His needle still hovered. "And no, sir. Where two are willing, I do not disapprove."
He looked at me oddly once more. Surely I could not have mis-stepped so soon again.
"Jeeves, have you ever been to a boarding school?"
"I was a page at a girls' school for a time, sir. I cannot recommend it."
He shuddered.
"No, well, that sounds about the same from an inmate's point of view. But not a boys' school?"
"No, sir."
"That would explain things. I mean, we were all willing enough, but —"
"Ah. Not always two, sir?"
"No. Sometimes considerably more."
"Most enlightening, sir." To an extent. A thirst for knowledge is a blessing and a curse.
"If you will forgive me asking, sir, how — "
"You won't object to the necessary detail, Jeeves?"
"I have not so far, sir."
"Well, we'd have dorm competitions sometimes. In the dark. Or if you were braver, where you could all see each other. Comradely spirit, less lonely and so on. Who'd last longest, who'd go farthest, that kind of thing. I never won the former, but I scooped the latter a couple of times— I was very proud, I can tell you, competition was stiff —"
I gazed him down again. "I can imagine, sir."
"Hmm. Imagination's an incredible thing, isn't it, Jeeves? Anyway, I still have a prize for it somewhere, I think."
I decided not to dwell on the less surprising aspects of his academic career, and concentrated on the unwittingly relevant.
"Forgive me, sir, but — do I understand your experience of — release has thus far been accumulated largely through manual autostimulation?"
He boggled slightly.
"Jeeves, you astonish me."
Had I insulted his manliness? People can be so sensitive in these matters.
"Sir?"
"Somehow it sounds even filthier when all the words are theoretically entirely clean."
"Ah. I apologise, sir. Would you prefer — "
"No, you're right. I'd mainly just tossed myself off before Rosie. Though — "
Well, in a sense it was a good sign. Not every gentleman would be comfortable being so frank. Mr Wooster, for instance — but I must not let Mr. Little slip away.
"Mainly, sir?"
"Er— yes. Mainly."
"And the exceptions so far were with — other boys, sir?"
"You could say that."
Well. Boys or young men, it did not matter.
"And in those circumstances, sir, this difficulty did not trouble you to the same degree?"
"Oh. I see." For some reason, he looked relieved. "Well, actually, it did. I was always terribly quick —"
Again, I could well imagine. I tried not to.
"That is admirably honest, sir. If you will forgive me, was there any act apart from —" I lacked the easy frankness of his words —"self-pleasure where you found it easier to sustain your enjoyment?"
"I er, well —" he suddenly had the queerest look on his face, and stalled. "I am not sure I should say any more, Jeeves."
"There is no obligation, sir."
Which somehow reassured him. It was a mixed blessing.
"There was — " he looked most uncomfortable — "there was one chap who was awfully good about it. He said he — "
Mr. Little was frozen again.
I gave my darning mushroom a good twist. "That he loved you anyway?"
"You're not shocked, Jeeves?"
"Not in the least, sir."
I had never come so close to admitting. Sunk in his own distress, Mr. Little seemed oblivious to it. I was utterly thrilled.
"Well, yes. That he loved me — not even anyway, Jeeves, he really was incredibly good about it — and that I pleased him as I was. And that we could try a few things if it bothered me, but that it wouldn't bother him if I didn't want to."
"And did you want to, sir?"
"I er — yes. We — I found I could last a little longer if he — "
"I will not be shocked, sir."
"If he — when he put his finger inside me. I couldn't — if he was lying on top of me it was too exciting. But with a finger there was nothing on top to — I mean, it was much slower. Enough to bring him off with my hand as well, usually."
I stitched on calmly. I was most impressed by how this blithe recollection of the most intimate acts stirred nothing in me.
"Do you still see this gentleman, sir?"
He gave me what Mr. Wooster would describe as a very rummy look.
"Of course not, Jeeves. Not like that. I'm married."
I forced the needle through the heel so hard it caught fast in the wood underneath.
"Marriage can be a name for many things, sir."
Too late, I realised I had made a serious implication, and that it would be difficult for Mr. Little to say anything without appearing to protest excessively.
"I love Rosie, Jeeves." It was as I feared. "No, don't look at me like that. I do. In lots of ways. If we hadn't stopped before I met her I would have when I did. Dash it, when I think of all the lies spoken at the altar, and I didn't utter a single one. She's the best possible company. I wonder if half of couples even like each other. And if they do in one way it doesn't imply they do in another, but the with my body bit is true for me as well. Well. It would be if I could." I wondered whether to correct his listing thoughts, but he righted himself." I've always liked girls as well. Just not just girls. But I chose her. I could never — " and he surprised himself even as he said it — "not if she didn't say yes. With — with anyone, for that matter."
"May I congratulate you and Mrs. Little again, sir." I was close to tears. As I have mentioned, I am extremely fond of Mrs. Little; to hear the sincerity she deserved from the lips of such an otherwise flighty man — "your affection is most touching, and sadly rare. I am most sorry to hear of the distress the difficulty you are experiencing has introduced to a loving marriage."
"You're not laughing at me, Jeeves." He sounded almost like he wished I had been.
"No, sir." For I assuredly was not. "Involuntary desire of any kind can be most distressing."
"You can say that again."
"Particularly when it interferes with joy one wishes to give another, sir."
"Amen to that, Jeeves. It's as if you understand."
Relief fought with disappointment. I had confessed everything, and passed completely unnoticed.
"As you say, sir."
I thought it time to steer him back to safer waters.
"Forgive me, sir, but have you considered talking to Mrs. Little?"
"About the other chap, you mean?"
"You must judge whether that would help her as well as yourself, sir. I meant — more about what might assist your … mutual enjoyment, sir."
Perhaps it was the drain of pretending what the source of my reluctance to dispense advice was, but I was finding it very hard to predict at what he would take offence.
"Dash it, Jeeves, I can't very well ask her to do that."
"To talk, sir?"
"No, no, the thing with — the thing that helped."
Perhaps, if I had had more experience, I would not have asked the incredibly obvious question.
"Why not, sir?"
"It — she's a decent girl, Jeeves, it isn't done."
"If you will permit me, sir, you are a very decent man."
"Very kind of you, Jeeves, but what — "
"And you have done that."
Despite his earlier professions to the contrary, he looked at me as if I was a prize idiot.
"It's not the same for girls."
I regret to say I almost sighed.
"Mr. Little, your wife is a popular, and may I say very talented, romantic novelist. Her published views on convention are well-known. Do you not think she might be privately willing to discuss anything that —"
"I hardly think I've missed the passage in Only a Factory Girl where Doris whisks Lord Whatshisname to ineffable bliss through the tradesmen's entrance, Jeeves, do you?"
Well, two people could be furious. If you knew any factory girls, I thought, you might be surprised. I almost said so.
"It is a popular form of contraception in — either direction, sir, where other means are unavailable."
He stared. I stared. We both backed down again.
"Really, Jeeves?"
"Yes, sir. Really."
"Well. She does hate to see a girl in trouble. Even on paper. Though I suppose it would be dashed difficult to get it past the censors."
"Perhaps she might welcome the challenge, sir."
"Is that a dare, Jeeves?"
"I could not say, sir. But I look forward to reading her latest work, as always."
We were on smiling terms again.
"Perhaps some of the other possibilities, then, sir?"
"I — I don't know what else might work for me, Jeeves.
Good Lord. There was a certain kind of ignorance only Eton could buy. I wondered why people who had paid the price for it persisted so keenly in indebting their offspring.
"I believe you said you were able to satisfy your partner manually, sir."
"Well, yes, and —"
I knew all I needed to.
"Orally, sir?"
"Er, quite."
"You could offer to please her in that — indeed in either of those ways, sir."
He gave me the oh no it's not done look again.
"I hate to say it, Jeeves, but —"
"It's not done, sir?"
"Well, that too. More to the point, she hardly has the bits."
I made what I hope was not too sheepy a sound.
"Anatomically, I believe, sir, you are only partially correct. Are you familiar with the anglerfish, sir?"
"Now look here — "
"I am in no way likening Mrs. Little to any deep marine species, sir. Perhaps the comparison is not entirely fortunate."
"I should say so. And indeed hope not. Aren't they blasted ugly creatures?"
"As I said, sir, a most unfortunate comparison. I do apologise. And indeed wholly inaccurate even in the manner the parallel occurred. I meant only that in mammals — including humans, sir — females commonly possess smaller homologues of the male appendage."
"Homo-what, Jeeves?"
"Equivalents, sir."
"It would have to be very much smaller."
"Yes, sir."
"I have not seen it."
Given what he had revealed so far, that was entirely obvious.
"No, sir. I believe it is best located by — exploring with the lady's cooperation, sir. And, I understand — somewhat less vigorously than men are commonly able to enjoy, sir."
He boggled again. Perhaps that was why the anglerfish —
"You really do know everything, don't you, Jeeves?"
"Not in the least, sir." If only he knew how little.
"Then how on earth — "
"I believe you are too young to have served in the war, sir?"
"Yes." Thank God and I am unworthy struggled in his countenance, as they commonly do in those of his class and generation. I felt so much older than these men in truth not greatly younger than myself. I did not envy them. If they had been there, and lived to think, they would have thought differently. But they were here because they had not.
"I was not. Soldiers can be incredibly … crude, sir."
As can housemaids, I thought, though I suspected his delicate little world would collapse if I told him so. I had never thought to be grateful for the pain they had caused me.
"Do you think she would really enjoy — "
"I should recommend asking her, sir."
"Ah. Yes. Quite."
A pause.
"But surely a chap ought to — "
I cut him off before he could attempt to make me deliver the chastisement he believed he deserved.
"Mr Little, there is a great deal of ill in this world through men fighting themselves to do what they believe they ought against their own good inclinations."
"Well, if you put it like that, Jeeves — "
"Not every problem is a failing, sir."
I decided, as a peace offering, to return to what Mr. Little narrowly and firmly believed, namely that his excessive eagerness was the only obstacle to their mutual satisfaction, which would consequently be achieved if the obstacle were removed. There were multiple fallacies in this chain of reasoning, but logical fallacies — I dismissed the leering homophone — were something to save for the long winter nights. Ah, Mr. Wooster. How I missed the long, cosy winter nights together in our flat. His flat. How I longed for —
"Your hand works for you, I believe, sir, as well as — as well as rectal stimulation."
"I've already told you, I couldn't possibly — "
"But we have not discussed hands in detail, sir."
I had netted another boggle.
"Even if Mrs. Little does not enjoy your hand, sir, she may be agreeable — "
"You mean, if she — "
"Precisely, sir."
"I say. Do you really think she would?"
I considered my impressions of the recent Mrs. Little.
"I cannot be certain, sir, but — "
"Yes?" His eagerness was endearing.
"I think it highly likely."
"I say."
"Very apposite, sir."
"But, ah, Jeeves — "
"Yes, sir?"
"Aren't you forgetting that by that time — "
"The cock may already have crowed once, as it were, sir?"
I had succeeded in shocking him.
"That is blasphemous, Jeeves."
"Yes, sir."
"And obscene."
"Entirely, sir."
"Most offensive."
"Undoubtedly, sir."
"I am disgusted."
"As you say, sir."
"Congratulations, Jeeves. I never knew you had a Drone in you."
The gamble had paid off.
"If I may, sir, you are a young man, and — "
"Might crow more than once?"
"Admirably put, sir."
"But, ah —" well, his young man's doggedness was indeed in evidence. Why it translated into an inability to think the least bit for himself —
"Yes, sir?"
"If it's still too exciting?"
"You could —employ a tried and tested method, sir."
"You mean we both have hands, Jeeves?"
"Very astute, sir."
"But I could hardly — I mean with her there — could I?"
It was the first thing I had said that made him shuffle in his seat. Well well well. We faced each other manfully.
"Jeeves, if you say why not again —"
"Perhaps it would help if I put the case in favour, sir?"
"Perhaps."
Apart from that you'd obviously like to, I thought, and continued "Sir, if I may confide in you…"
The skill is in making them think you are in their debt. But oh, I had grown bold.
"Carry on Jeeves."
"I have sometimes faced… similar difficulties, sir."
"You, Jeeves?" He was truly astonished; flabbergasted; he dropped the sock.
"Yes, sir." It was true. In a sense. It mattered not which situations, or situation, it concerned in my experience. Or what that experience was. Wasn't. He pressed on.
"And that — helped you, Jeeves?"
"Metaphorically, sir." If he knew what my fine language meant. I drag it out for hours because I hold it in for months. "I mean, sir, that pleasure can feel inevitable when it is not."
"Mine is pretty inevitable, Jeeves."
"That encapsulates the issue, sir."
"I bally well know what the issue is, Jeeves. Riddles won't help me."
"You wish me to be more direct, sir?"
He looked up again, with a quizzical kindness that melted me. I looked, hard, at his needle and thread.
"If — if you can, Jeeves. I think it's easier for me."
"N— no, sir. Yes, sir. I mean that it is not so much your hand as the control it gives you. Would you say, sir, that with your hand you are able to tell the difference between feeling pleasure — perhaps great pleasure — and the feeling of pleasure approaching an — unstoppable end?"
"You mean can I tell the difference between gosh, this is good, and gosh, this is so good, I think I shall die, and gosh, I shall die, right this minute, and see you at the funeral?"
"A vivid description, sir."
"Er— yes. It is easiest that way."
"Well, sir — I would suggest practising telling the difference together. I suggested your hand because you are used to it, sir. The method does not matter so much as realising you need only proceed to the third stage because you wish it."
"You mean I can learn to control when I can't?"
"Not in a disciplinarian sense, sir. Not forbid anything, it only makes things —"
He quirked. "Harder, Jeeves?"
"Harder."
"You mean — when I'm too close — Rosie and I could — "
"Pause a little, sir, till the feeling recedes. You might — " I no longer cared I was speaking from the experience of the imagination— "you might talk to her, or hold her, or offer her pleasure, or anything that maintains the stimulus you have without adding to it dangerously, sir. Something pleasant for both of you."
"Oh, I say."
Envy was not what I had expected to feel.
"Jeeves — when you say you — is it common?"
Such are the perils of establishing commonality on difference. I offered him what reassurance I could.
"I believe it is not unusual, sir. Often speed is a response acquired because it is helpful in certain circumstances, sir."
I thought again of the contradictions of the war. The coarse bragging combined with the belief, often in the same men, that to want company was a weakness. The ways in which they broke. The lonely, unacknowledged rustle of men begging themselves to be quiet and quick. Men who loved their sweethearts buying time by the quarter hour from half-starved women with whom they shared neither language nor attraction. How arrogantly I had judged them. How arrogantly I had judged all of them.
"You mean that because I mainly did things myself and in secret and in a big hurry I'm not used to it being alright to take as long as I want to with someone else?"
I had to give him credit for this formulation; it was all his own.
"I — that is an excellent hypothesis, sir."
"So with time and p — practice?"
"Very probably, sir."
And with that, Mr. Little had exhausted his courage.
"I say, Bertie is taking an awfully long time wherever he's got to, isn't he?"
"I entirely concur, sir. A particularly gripping test match, perhaps, sir."
My expression, when he stared at it, was entirely innocent.
"Perhaps I should go when I have finished this sock."
"It is most kind of you to stay until then, sir." I am never one to waste an opportunity. "Perhaps, sir, if you are willing, you might show me how you have darned yours? I have been admiring your technique all afternoon, sir. Your mending is quite invisible."
If, at the beginning of his visit, I had not expected Bingo Little to instruct me in the finer points of Swiss darning any more than I had thought to spend it learning of his most personal problems and proclivities, it was, nevertheless, a rewarding conclusion to the afternoon.
I ushered him into his coat and hat, as pleased and relieved as he was. As I said, he is really a decent man. I had seen him slip a generous gratuity — they think it shows gratitude — into my mending, apparently unobserved, so that this courtesy would not offend me. I repaid him by pretending not to notice. I was, however, deeply gratified when he turned at the threshold to shake my hand.
"Thank you, Jeeves."
"It is no trouble, sir."
If not strictly true, appearances must be maintained.
He grinned. "Can I tell them?"
I was baffled for an instant.
"Sir?"
"That crowing expression. At the club. I think they would enjoy it."
I suppressed a shudder and decided to take this, as offered, as a compliment.
"Thank you, sir. You are quite correct." He was. The thought of Mr. Wooster laughing merrily along to some priapic perversion of Poor Cock Robin disconcerted me enough to make the contrivance of worry for what came next superfluous. "You won't say where you heard it, sir?" Be in their debt, as I said.
"Oh. Perhaps not, in case they realise — "
"Perhaps not, sir."
"But it really is a topping phrase."
I dropped my voice conspiratorially. A corridor is a corridor.
"Risqué remarks are often shared anonymously, sir."
"I say, Jeeves, you really are a marvel."
"Thank you, sir."
And with that, he went. I turned back, and mended very hard, and increasingly invisibly, until it was time to prepare Mr. Wooster's supper.