Work Text:
If you are acquainted with Mr Wooster's chronicles, in the tradition of which this narrative will follow, you will already know that my employer is not a light sleeper, nor an early riser. To find him at all innate before ten in the morning is a singularly rare occurrence, unless some trivial disaster is upon our cosy bachelors' nest.
You may also know that Mr Wooster is an exceptionally cheerful and optimistic gentleman, and even in the face of what appears to his eye extreme crisis, he is determined to keep a positive outlook on life. I have rarely seen him look downcast or worried, save for those occasions when he has become unwillingly – and unwittingly – engaged to a female he does not approve of.
Bearing both these facts in mind, I recall my surprise when I entered Mr Wooster's bedchamber one Friday morning and found him not only awake and sitting up, but frowning. I naturally reasoned something was amiss.
“Good morning, sir,” I said, and put his tea tray down in his lap. Mr Wooster always takes his tea and often some toast in bed before rising to a more substantial breakfast at the table, but as I presented him with his morning Darjeeling, he did not immediately reach for the cup, as is his wont.
“Is it, though, Jeeves?” he said, and my curiosity was piqued.
My employer is almost always at his cheeriest on mornings like that particular Friday morning, when the weather is clement and his tea is prepared exactly as he prefers it. He had been to a musical theatre show the previous evening with his friends, but did not seem to be suffering from the after-effects of alcohol. Lady Worplesdon had not called or telephoned, no telegrams were awaiting him (I have noticed a charming horror of early telegrams in my employer; one can only assume experience has taught him to regard the missives with healthy scepticism), and no untoward attentions from females had been directed at him for quite some time.
So what could possibly have my employer in such a peculiar mood?
“Well, sir, the weather is fine,” I replied to his mysterious enquiry. “Shall I draw your bath before I prepare breakfast?”
“Fine weather and fine breakfasts – and fine baths for that matter – are all well and good, Jeeves, but do they make this morning any better?” Mr Wooster asked, a finger raised in punctuation.
I cleared my throat politely. “Something seems to be troubling you, sir?”
I had been with Mr Wooster long enough to know he would not consider this a liberty, and it warmed me when he sighed and seemed about to confess his troubles to me. It is forthright of a man of my station, but I considered the bond between Mr Wooster and I to have progressed beyond mere employment. I regarded us as friends, if only in the loosest sense of the word.
“Something is, Jeeves. Important information weighs heavily on the Wooster mind. But I shall know what to do about it, I think, after my bath and some breakfast. What's on the menu this morning, Jeeves?” he asked.
“If you care to try it, sir, cold ham, also kippers, bacon, eggs and toast.”
Mr Wooster told me he would like to try the ham, and sipped his tea as I readied his bath. He was still frowning. Then I left him to his morning ablutions, and made my way to the kitchen in a state of some distraction.
Normally, Mr Wooster confided in me all his problems and dilemmas, however insignificant – even if his personal code of honour dictated he should not reveal intimate details about his friends, or even the ladies from whom he wanted to be ´rescued`, as he would say. Either this was a problem that did not require my input – something I found unlikely; every last one of Mr Wooster's schemes has backfired and forced him to leave the affair in my hands – or Mr Wooster did not want my opinion on the matter.
The latter option was not a pleasant one to contemplate. As I have already mentioned, I considered Mr Wooster a friend, if dearer to me than I am to him, and I am honoured that he trusts me so with his personal affairs and life. If he had decided he no longer wished to put this trust in me, would he no longer consider us anything more than master and valet? From almost the first moment I entered his employ, I had strived to become something more than a mere valet to Mr Wooster, and I had taken his easy confidence and highly vocal appreciation of me to mean he considered me as more than such.
I must digress, briefly, to explain why I had strived so to be more than just a valet to Mr Wooster. I believe there is a reason why my employer has been engaged so many times, and why he has such a large circle of friends and acquaintances. And this reason is also what drew me to him from the first of our ´adventures`, and has kept me faithfully by his side ever since, despite offers from more distinguished and, quite plainly, better paying gentlemen.
Mr Wooster is positively a gravity field. There is something compelling about my young gentleman; his persistently fine mood, his easy nature and trust in the good of man, his expressive face and his kind heart are only a few of the traits that draw men and women to him like the proverbial moths to the flame. Once one becomes acquainted with him, it is difficult not to admire Mr Wooster. True, he is not the brightest gentleman in London, though luckily not the dimmest one, either. And his firm belief that all will be well in the end can sometimes border on the naïve. But all things considered, I have never met a more charming and appealing man in my life.
Of course, the mere mention of any such feelings of warm admiration on my behalf would be inappropriate. Mr Wooster is a gentleman and I am a valet, not to mention the fact that even the purest form of Greek love is forbidden by law in our day. Nor had I ever really considered Mr Wooster for a paramour; of course I had toyed with the idea, but my regard for him was – mostly – admiring and affectionate. I cared for him.
So far, our situation had suited me perfectly. Mr Wooster was generous and accommodating beyond what would be expected of a gentleman of his standing, he refused to marry and thus upset the comfortable status quo we lived in, and seemed to accept our somewhat unusual level of intimacy with ease and trust. I was more than content to consider him a dear friend and help him organize his life.
Until that strange Friday morning, when Mr Wooster frowned rather than smiled. I was still suspicious that something was amiss, but performed my duties in the kitchen as I waited for Mr Wooster to bathe and dress, as if nothing was different from any other morning. Agitated assumptions were, I knew, not necessarily suitable estimations when dealing with a man like my employer, and the problem he had mentioned might amount to nothing. I decided not to worry before the problem was laid before me, as I felt certain it eventually would be.
“Jeeves,” my employer said, at last seated at the breakfast table, “I have decided to become a Socialist.”
It took all my willpower and years of training not to utter a highly unseemly bark of laughter. Mr. Wooster, a socialist? One could even hear the capital S in his speech as he declared his political intentions, and it struck me that perhaps he had misunderstood the meaning of the word.
“Perhaps you mean capitalist, sir?”
“No, no, Jeeves, a Socialist. Good heavens, no, I couldn't possibly be a capitalist! Those cruel, greedy, faithless creatures of crime? Good Lord, no! I intend to join the maroon march through Europe,” Mr. Wooster said, and he sounded quite pleased with himself.
“Indeed, sir?” I asked, hesitant to break with decorum and speak derisively of a scheme of Mr. Wooster's. I have noticed his tendencies to feel quite unappreciated whenever a slight is made against his mental prowess, and I did not want to cause him distress.
“Rather. I'm going to start right here in the old homestead, Jeeves, with you,” he declared. He sounded as if he'd just discovered a cure for the scarlet fever himself.
A distinct feeling of discomfort filled me. I remembered well our disastrous lunch with Mr. Little's socialist then-fiancé and her cronies, and for a moment I feared that Mr. Wooster would insist on calling me Comrade Jeeves and eat sardines for every meal. I even feared that he would grow a beard to imitate the scruffy, worn look of the most fervent supporters of the working class movement.
“And what changes will take place, sir? I would greatly appreciate it if I were notified so that I may change our schedule and routines to accommodate any... repercussions,” I said. I felt somewhat disturbed and made certain to let this be audible in my voice. I believe Mr. Wooster refers to this as my soupy tone of voice.
“Well, you won't need to change a thing if you don't want to, Jeeves, because you will no longer be my valet,” said Mr. Wooster.
Icy fear gripped my heart. Dismissal? Mr. Wooster, that kind-hearted gentleman who had increased my wages numerous times to avoid some other gentleman enticing me away from his service – dismiss me? The thought was shockingly unwelcome, and I realized in a heartbeat that I had become more emotionally dependent upon Mr. Wooster than I had previously thought.
“Am I to consider myself dismissed, sir?” I asked, trying not to sound too ´soupy`.
“Oh, no, Jeeves! I mean, you won't be my valet anymore, but you'll be my teacher for a while, what? You'll show me how to make tea and all sorts of household business, until I can manage without a valet,” Mr. Wooster said, and it was apparent on his honest face that the prospect was not a tempting one to him.
He had never so much as managed to put the water to boil without setting fire to a dish towel.
“Sir, if I may...”
“You're wondering what all this is about, no doubt,” Mr. Wooster said, looking up at me with determined blue eyes. I was hopelessly weak when he looked at me with those eyes.
“Well, Jeeves, I'll tell you. You recall that I toddled round to the theatre with a few of the lads last night, correct?”
“Yes, sir,” I replied, and refilled his teacup.
He thanked me and took a sip before continuing his tale. “Well, Jeeves, have you ever seen a corking show called the Twopenny Opera?”
I was hesitant to even answer. “The Threepenny Opera, sir. I have read the play in its entirety in the original German. It is quite... artistic, sir.”
I did not care for the chaotic final scene, nor did I agree with all the political undercurrents of that play. Though I was not adverse to Kurt Weil's somewhat experimental music, I felt Bertolt Brecht demanded too much of his audience – and especially of an audience like my employer. His strange mood that morning seemed a little less strange after his mention of that play.
“You saw it last night, sir?”
“I did, Jeeves. And Jeeves, it was dashed uncanny, but the chap who played the first beggar – you know, the one who's been roughed around by that Peachum chap – he could have been your twin. He looked so much like you that for a moment I thought you had become a stage actor in my absence. And there he was, being represented... reprehended...”
“Repressed, sir?” I volunteered.
“That's the baby, yes. This chap, looking exactly like you, was being repressed by the capitalist – and that's me, isn't it? I'm the idle aristocrat with too much of the ready and not a single day's work to my name. I am, well, I'm part of the stranded gentry!” Mr. Wooster exclaimed, apparently having worked himself into quite an emotional state.
“Do you mean the landed gentry, sir?” I enquired, never capable of not gently correcting my employer's little linguistic missteps. “That would not be an accurate description, sir, as you do not own land.”
“Well, perhaps not exactly. But Jeeves, I'm suppressing you!”
Mr. Wooster's strange behaviour became as transparent as our newly cleaned windows. He had not fully understood all that he had seen, and now was ashamed about a perceived injustice towards me. I fought the distinct urge to smile at him.
I am certain Mr. Wooster and his friends had never intended to attend to that particular performance; had anyone informed them in advance that it was of a serious, political nature, the young gentlemen would in all probability have gone to the moving pictures instead. But Mr. Wooster had somehow ended up seeing the Threepenny Opera, and was a little confused as to its significance.
“I can assure you, sir, that I am not being suppressed in any capacity,” I said, certain now that I would be able to ease my employer's mind and explain matters to him in a more comprehensible manner.
“But Jeeves,” he said, and now he was biting his lip like a nervous boy. “You do all the work around here, and you constantly pull me out of the soup, and you have to solve all sorts of problems for half the Drones and my family, too. I drag you around with me to New York and France at the drop of a hat, and I... I buy horrible neckwear just to assert my authority!”
This last came as a wailed confession, as if my master believed I truly did not know this.
“Yes, sir,” I began, but Mr. Wooster was not assuaged.
“I make all the decisions round here, Jeeves, and you only have one evening off every week! You're twice the man I am; dash it, you're twice anyone I know! You should be running parliament and raking in the ready, not running around the Wooster abode ironing shirts and making tea and listening to my noise at the piano,” Mr. Wooster said, and by this point he looked positively distressed.
I was surprised, and yet moved, at his consideration. My employer was truly worried on my behalf, and seemed full of plans to change our situation in my favour.
Bertram Wooster is a nobleman. Not in the sense that he owns a title or an comes from an old family with large funds – though I pay much attention to etiquette, I have never truly cared for a man's heritage or social status. No, Mr. Wooster is perhaps the only true nobleman I know; a man of Arthurian nobility. He is pure of heart, courageous, generous and kind beyond measure. His is truly a noble soul.
And so, when he perceived an injustice – though I could perceive it as no such thing – he sought to right it. This nobility of Mr. Wooster's, perhaps my favourite trait in him, has often gotten him into trouble before, especially where women are concerned. This time, however, it only made me admire him more.
“Sir, I must insist that you do not worry yourself about this. The monetary remunerations for the work I perform are ample; I am paid to do my work. I am quite happy with my station, sir,” I assured him.
“But that's because you haven't tried being Prime Minister,” Mr. Wooster insisted. “You wouldn't even let me buy you a new bookshelf for Christmas, Jeeves, because you're so repressed! Something must be done about this sitch, or you and I will never be equals!”
At that word, all my thought processes paused and stopped. Equals, said Mr. Wooster. He wanted us to be equals. Did he mean in the political sense of the word? Did he truly long for the revolution that would make all men equal? Or did he mean, in a more specific sense of the word, that he wanted me to be his equal?
“Sir...” I began, and faltered. It had been years since I had been lost for words; at least a decade. And yet, that simple little word – equals – robbed me utterly of my substantial vocabulary. I cleared my throat and discreetly wet my lips.
“Do you consider yourself a revolutionary, sir?”
“Well, perhaps not,” my employer had to admit after a few seconds. “It's not easy, what, to long for some blighter to cut the heads off all the well-off chaps and drench the streets with their blood and whatnot. Sounds deuced unpleasant, if you ask me. But there is this equality business, Jeeves, which ought to be attended to. And unless I become a Socialist, well, I just don't know how I'll make us equals, Jeeves!”
My heart swelled with a surge of affection for Mr. Wooster. He was prepared to put himself through some substantial measure of discomfort to ease mine, or what discomfort he believed I experienced. And as I felt sadly tempted to smile at him – something which I had never done in the two years I had served him – I admitted to myself that I was more than a little taken with Mr. Wooster. That his plan inspired such warmth in me, rather than contempt for the inconstancy of young men's convictions, finally convinced me of my own affections.
But while I was pondering my infatuation with my employer, said employer was looking fearfully up at me. I cleared my throat once more and began to ease Mr. Wooster's concerns.
“Mr. Wooster,” I said, “I can assure you that you do not need to concern yourself. I have the liberty to leave at will. It is my choice to remain in your service, sir, and I am satisfied in my current position. I am... happy, sir.”
My employer sighed. “I'm just worried, Jeeves, that you'll feel like that beggar chappie and resound me for repressing you.”
“Do you perhaps mean resent, sir?”
“Oh, that's right, I do mean resent,” Mr. Wooster said with a nod.
I had never seen my employer quite this distressed, nor this serious-minded. He seemed preoccupied. I drew in a slight breath that I am certain Mr. Wooster did not notice. Perhaps it was time to take a step I had thus far never contemplated – to ask Mr. Wooster an uninvited personal question.
“May I ask, sir, why it is so important to you that we be equals?”
“Because I –” Mr. Wooster exclaimed, but suddenly cut himself off and looked away, his always expressive face flushing a deep red. His eyes widened and he stared at something to his left. He sighed again. “Do you think Mr. Dalloway carries that manifested thingummy?”
I had serious doubts as to whether Mr. Dalloway, the bookseller from whom Mr. Wooster purchased his mystery novels, would have any copies of Marx' Communist Manifesto in his shop. I was also curious as to where Mr. Wooster had heard of Karl Marx at all.
“You seem quite knowledgeable of the communist movement, sir,” I commented, once again refilling his teacup. I hoped to coax a little more information out of him, and Mr. Wooster is always quite loquacious when he is drinking his tea.
“There was this chap at the show that Gussie was at school with once,” Mr. Wooster said, reaching in his pocket for his cigarette case. “The chap, I mean; don't see how anyone can be at school with a show. He, I mean Gussie's chum, is one of these revolutionary chappies. Gussie asked him back to the club after the show and he told us all about the, um, scarlet revolution.”
“Was he the man who explained the political meaning of the play to you, sir?” I asked, wondering how Mr. Wooster had managed to entertain a radical political element for any length of time. He was, after all, very much a member of the aristocracy, and was prone to expressing his boredom after only short comments upon matters any more serious than the latest developments of the racing tracks.
“He was, Jeeves, and a dashed clever fellow, too. Or so Gussie said; I don't think Oofy could stand the chap. But then, Oofy's head will be the first to go when the burgundy flags start waving on the battlements or whatsits,” Mr. Wooster said, sounding worried. “I say, I shan't like to see my friends and relations have to flee the country. But Smith – that's Gussie's friend – said that we'll all be better off in the end.”
“Smith, sir?” I asked. I couldn't recall Mr. Wooster every mentioning any Smiths among his acquaintances at the Drones club, and I admit I was worried that this was yet another stranger who would get my kind-hearted employer into an unfortunate situation.
“Yes, and it's the rummiest thing, but Jeeves, he writes his name with a P. P-Smith, or something like that. He advised that I should begin by calling you Comrade.”
Had I not had such control over my emotions, I would have laughed. A gentleman who spelled his name with a silent P fell, in my opinion, into the same category as ladies who spelt their name with an intrusive W. He must have romanticised notions of what communism was, if he had suggested to Mr. Wooster that the latter address me as Comrade.
I felt it was time to take my confused employer firmly into hand. “Did this gentleman say anything concerning any upcoming revolution, sir?”
Mr. Wooster frowned. “Well, no, but I recall those chums of Bingo's and their rum talk. This P-Smith chap only said that for the good of mankind, we ought to redistribute something and leave whatsit to the proletariat. You seem to represent the latter, Jeeves, if I understood him right. And he told me about this manifested book, which is apparently a spiffing guide to Communism. Well, and he explained the finer points of the show; I admit I was rather confused as to why that Peachum chap wouldn't leave you, I mean, your double alone.”
“Well, sir,” I began, “I am certain that Mr. Smith's ideas are quite philanthropic. However, you need not concern yourself with these matters. If I may say so, you are a kind and generous man, and it is not the likes of you, sir, who create the need for social reform in some societies.”
Mr. Wooster wrinkled his nose. “I'm not sure I understood that, Jeeves.”
I drew a deep breath and decided to take a leap of faith. Though it may have been hope playing tricks on my mind, I imagined I could sense in Mr. Wooster a reflection of what I felt for him. Perhaps our status quo had outlived its purposefulness. I put a hand on Mr. Wooster's shoulder, something I have never done with any of my employers.
“If you would like me to be your equal, sir, I would be honoured to consider myself such. But I am not adverse to feeling inferior to you. You are the best man of my acquaintance.”
Mr. Wooster leaned into my hand; I could feel the slight pressure of his willowy form. “You... you'll make me blush like a schoolgirl, Jeeves, if you keep saying rot like that.”
“I am in earnest, sir,” I said softly, giving his shoulder a gentle squeeze. It was as far as I dared go; save the members of my immediate family, I had never shown anyone this much affection. But his wide, worried blue eyes as he told me that he wanted us to be equals had given me a surge of courage that I did not know I possessed.
I wanted his gentle heart to know that I did not wish him to change anything for me. I wanted him to know how deeply I had fallen for him, but until I was certain whether he returned the sentiments or not, I could do nothing more than to gently guide him in the right direction. I would not push him.
“Well... could I at least convince you to run for Parliament, Jeeves?” Mr. Wooster asked, looking up at me. A faint flush did, indeed, tint his cheeks charmingly.
“I regret not, sir. I imagine I shall be much happier to remain in your employ,” I said, and tried to hold back my ever-growing smile. It was disturbing to find that the more Mr. Wooster talked, the more my lips desired to curve upwards.
His eyes met mine, blue, wide and utterly unguarded, and his eyebrows raised in surprise.
“Jeeves,” he said, his voice quite shocked. “Are you... smiling?”
I admit to feeling much too happy for my usual, calm expression, and yet I tried very hard to retain it. “No, sir. That would be inconceivable.”
“But you are, dash it! Jeeves, I am flabbergasted! You, the marvel of all marvels, are smiling like a common mortal!” he exclaimed, and suddenly he was laughing quite openly, though still blushing in the most disarming manner.
I ached to laugh with him, share in his infectious joy, but I refrained. It would not be proper. Instead I watched him laugh brilliantly, and my heart swelled until I felt quite unable to hide it any longer. My employer is the only man – the only person – who has ever made me feel so.
“I've made quite an ass of myself again, haven't I?” he asked as his chuckles finally subsided. “And I only wanted to, well...”
I looked directly into his eyes, for one brief moment ignoring all I had learned in my professional training. Had I been a more sentimental man, I would have said that I willed him to read in my eyes all that I felt for him.
“What did you want, sir?”
My young master sighed deeply and looked away, fastening his gaze on the remains of his meal. “I suppose I wanted you to not be my valet, Jeeves. Your feudal spirit is fine when the occasion calls for it, but it forms a dashed unpleasant wall between us, my good man. I had rather hoped that my becoming a Socialist would tear it down, as it were.”
This was all my overflowing heart could take. I lifted one hand to cup Mr. Wooster's cheek, turning his face gently towards me. Then I allowed the smile that had been trying to break out on my face, to manifest and curve my lips slightly upward. I smiled down at him, allowing every last defence to fall.
“Thank you, sir. I appreciate the sentiment.”
Mr. Wooster launched himself at me, then, knocking over his chair as he threw his arms around my neck and pressed his lips to mine. I cannot say I had not anticipated the move, but I had not imagined it would occur at such speed and was very nearly knocked down myself.
“Oh, Jeeves!” Mr. Wooster murmured against my lips, his voice pleasantly hoarse. “Or should I call you Comrade?”
I tasted his lips briefly before replying. His extraordinary gravitational pull was much too great to resist. “No, sir. I quite enjoy being inferior to you, in name if not in practice.”
“Right ho,” my young master sighed, nothing short of a boyish grin on his face. “Socialism can go hang. So if the young master ordered you to proceed to the settee for a longish afternoon necking session...”
“My feudal spirit would not hesitate for a second to comply, sir.”
“Then go to, Jeeves!”
“Yes, sir.”
And I am quite proud to say that I never hesitated in following his orders, not until we were both – quite some time later – lying together on the settee, tangled in our rumpled and somewhat soiled clothing. Feudal spirit or not, a valet does not allow his gentleman to fall asleep in his best pinstriped suit.