And yet it seemed so dashed absurd. Consider the facts, if you know what I mean.
I mean to say, for years, right back to the time when I first went to school, this bulging relative had been one of the recognized eyesores of London. He was fat then, and day by day in every way has been getting fatter ever since, till now tailors measure him just for the sake of the exercise. He is what they call a prominent London clubman – one of those birds in tight morning-coats and grey toppers whom you see toddling along St James’s Street on fine afternoons, puffing a bit as they make the grade. Slip a ferret into any good club between Piccadilly and Pall Mall, and you would start half a dozen Uncle Georges.
He spends his time lunching and dining at the Buffers and, between meals, sucking down spots in the smoking-room and talking to anyone who will listen about the lining of his stomach. About twice a year his liver lodges a formal protest and he goes off to Harrogate or Carlsbad to get planed down. Then back again and on with the programme. The last bloke in the world, in short, who you would think would ever fall a victim to the divine pash. And yet, if you will believe me, that was absolutely the strength of it.
This old pestilence blew in on me one morning at about the hour of the after-breakfast cigarette.
‘Oh, Bertie,’ he said.
‘Hullo?’
‘You know those ties you’ve been wearing. Where did you get them?’
‘Blucher’s, in the Burlington Arcade.’
‘Thanks.’
He walked across to the mirror and stood in front of it, gazing at himself in an earnest manner.
‘Smut on your nose?’ I asked courteously.
Then I suddenly perceived that he was wearing a sort of horrible simper, and I confess it chilled the blood to no little extent. Uncle George, with face in repose, is hard enough on the eye. Simpering, he goes right above the odds.
‘Ha!’ he said.
He heaved a long sigh, and turned away. Not too soon, for the mirror was on the point of cracking
‘I’m not so old,’ he said, in a musing sort of voice.
‘So old as what?’
‘Properly considered, I’m in my prime. Besides, what a young and inexperienced girl needs is a man of weight and years to lean on. The sturdy oak, not the sapling.’
It was at this point that, as I said above, I saw all.
‘Great Scott, Uncle George!’ I said. ‘You aren’t thinking of getting married?’
‘Who isn’t?’ he said.
‘You aren’t,’ I said.
‘Yes, I am. Why not?’
‘Oh, well—’
‘Marriage is an honourable state.’
‘Oh, absolutely.’
‘It might make you a better man, Bertie.’
‘Who says so?’
‘I say so. Marriage might turn you from a frivolous young scallywag into – er – a non-scallywag. Yes, confound you, I am thinking of getting married, and if Agatha comes sticking her oar in I’ll – I’ll – well, I shall know what to do about it.’
He exited on the big line, and I rang the bell for Jeeves. The situation seemed to me one that called for a cosy talk.
‘Jeeves,’ I said.
‘Sir?’
‘You know my Uncle George?’
‘Yes, sir. His lordship has been familiar to me for some years.’
‘I don’t mean do you know my Uncle George. I mean do you know what my Uncle George is thinking of doing?’
‘Contracting a matrimonial alliance, sir.’
‘Good Lord! Did he tell you?’
‘No, sir. Oddly enough, I chance to be acquainted with the other party in the matter.’
‘The girl?’
‘The young person, yes, sir. It was from her aunt, with whom she resides, that I received the information that his lordship was contemplating matrimony.’
‘Who is she?’
‘A Miss Platt, sir. Miss Rhoda Platt. Of Wistaria Lodge, Kitchener Road, East Dulwich.’
‘Young?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘The old fathead!’
‘Yes, sir. The expression is one which I would, of course, not have ventured to employ myself, but I confess to thinking his lordship somewhat ill-advised. One must remember, however, that it is not unusual to find gentlemen of a certain age yielding to what might be described as a sentimental urge. They appear to experience what I may term a sort of Indian summer, a kind of temporarily renewed youth. The phenomenon is particularly noticeable, I am given to understand, in the United States of America among the wealthier inhabitants of the city of Pittsburgh. It is notorious, I am told, that sooner or later, unless restrained, they always endeavour to marry chorus-girls. Why this should be so, I am at a loss to say, but—’
I saw that this was going to take some time. I tuned out.
‘From something in Uncle George’s manner, Jeeves, as he referred to my Aunt Agatha’s probable reception of the news, I gather that this Miss Platt is not of the noblesse.’
‘No, sir. She is a waitress at his lordship’s club.’
‘My God! The proletariat!’
‘The lower middle classes, sir.’
‘Well, yes, by stretching it a bit, perhaps. Still, you know what I mean.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Rummy thing, Jeeves,’ I said thoughtfully, ‘this modern tendency to marry waitresses. If you remember, before he settled down, young Bingo Little was repeatedly trying to do it.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Odd!’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Still, there it is, of course. The point to be considered now is, What will Aunt Agatha do about this? You know her, Jeeves. She is not like me. I’m broad-minded. If Uncle George wants to marry waitresses, let him, say I. I hold that the rank is but the penny stamp—’
‘Guinea stamp, sir.’
‘All right, guinea stamp. Though I don’t believe there is such a thing. I shouldn’t have thought they came higher than five bob. Well, as I was saying, I maintain that the rank is but the guinea stamp and a girl’s a girl for all that.’
‘“For a’ that”, sir. The poet Burns wrote in the North British dialect.’
‘Well, “a’ that”, then, if you prefer it.’
‘I have no preference in the matter, sir. It is simply that the poet Burns—’
‘Never mind about the poet Burns.’
‘No, sir.’
‘Forget the poet Burns.’
‘Very good, sir.’
‘Expunge the poet Burns from your mind.’
‘I will do so immediately, sir.’
‘What we have to consider is not the poet Burns but the Aunt Agatha. She will kick, Jeeves.’
‘Very probably, sir.’
‘And, what’s worse, she will lug me into the mess. There is only one thing to be done. Pack the toothbrush and let us escape while we may, leaving no address.’
‘Very good, sir.’
At this moment the bell rang.
‘Ha!’ I said. ‘Someone at the door.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Probably Uncle George back again. I’ll answer it. You go and get ahead with the packing.’
‘Very good, sir.’
I sauntered along the passage, whistling carelessly, and there on the mat was Aunt Agatha. Herself. Not a picture.
A nasty jar.
‘Oh, hullo!’ I said, it seeming but little good to tell her I was out of town and not expected back for some weeks.
‘I wish to speak to you, Bertie,’ said the Family Curse. ‘I am greatly upset.’
She legged it into the sitting-room and volplaned into a chair. I followed, thinking wistfully of Jeeves packing in the bedroom. That suitcase would not be needed now. I knew what she must have come about.
‘I’ve just seen Uncle George,’ I said, giving her a lead.
‘So have I,’ said Aunt Agatha, shivering in a marked manner. ‘He called on me while I was still in bed to inform me of his intention of marryin
g some impossible girl from South Norwood.’
‘East Dulwich, the cognoscenti inform me.’
‘Well, East Dulwich, then. It is the same thing. But who told you?’
‘Jeeves.’
‘And how, pray, does Jeeves come to know all about it?’
‘There are very few things in this world, Aunt Agatha,’ I said gravely, ‘that Jeeves doesn’t know all about. He’s met the girl.’
‘Who is she?’
‘One of the waitresses at the Buffers.’
I had expected this to register, and it did. The relative let out a screech rather like the Cornish Express going through a junction.
‘I take it from your manner, Aunt Agatha,’ I said, ‘that you want this thing stopped.’
‘Of course it must be stopped.’
‘Then there is but one policy to pursue. Let me ring for Jeeves and ask his advice.’
Aunt Agatha stiffened visibly. Very much the grande dame of the old régime.
‘Are you seriously suggesting that we should discuss this intimate family matter with your manservant?’
‘Absolutely. Jeeves will find the way.’
‘I have always known that you were an imbecile, Bertie,’ said the flesh-and-blood, now down at about three degrees Fahrenheit, ‘but I did suppose that you had some proper feeling, some pride, some respect for your position.’
‘Well, you know what the poet Burns says.’
She squelched me with a glance.
‘Obviously the only thing to do,’ she said, ‘is to offer this girl money.’
‘Money?’
‘Certainly. It will not be the first time your uncle has made such a course necessary.’
We sat for a bit, brooding. The family always sits brooding when the subject of Uncle George’s early romance comes up. I was too young to be actually in on it at the time, but I’ve had the details frequently from many sources, including Uncle George. Let him get even the slightest bit pickled, and he will tell you the whole story, sometimes twice in an evening. It was a barmaid at the Criterion, just before he came into the title. Her name was Maudie and he loved her dearly, but the family would have none of it. They dug down into the sock and paid her off. Just one of those human-interest stories, if you know what I mean.
I wasn’t so sold on this money-offering scheme.
‘Well, just as you like, of course,’ I said, ‘but you’re taking an awful chance. I mean, whenever people do it in novels and plays, they always get the dickens of a welt. The girl gets the sympathy of the audience every time. She just draws herself up and looks at them with clear, steady eyes, causing them to feel not a little cheesey. If I were you, I would sit tight and let Nature take its course.’
‘I don’t understand you.’
‘Well, consider for a moment what Uncle George looks like. No Greta Garbo, believe me. I should simply let the girl go on looking at him. Take it from me, Aunt Agatha, I’ve studied human nature and I don’t believe there’s a female in the world who could see Uncle George fairly often in those waistcoats he wears without feeling that it was due to her better self to give him the gate. Besides, this girl sees him at meal-times, and Uncle George with head down among the food-stuffs is a spectacle which—’
‘If it is not troubling you too much, Bertie, I should be greatly obliged if you would stop drivelling.’
‘Just as you say. All the same, I think you’re going to find it dashed embarrassing, offering this girl money.’
‘I am not proposing to do so. You will undertake the negotiations.’
‘Me?’
‘Certainly. I should think a hundred pounds would be ample. But I will give you a blank cheque, and you are at liberty to fill it in for a higher sum if it becomes necessary. The essential point is that, cost what it may, your uncle must be released from this entanglement.’
‘So you’re going to shove this off on me?’
‘It is quite time you did something for the family.’
‘And when she draws herself up and looks at me with clear, steady eyes, what do I do for an encore?’
‘There is no need to discuss the matter any further. You can get down to East Dulwich in half an hour. There is a frequent service of trains. I will remain here to await your report.’
‘But, listen!’
‘Bertie, you will go and see this woman immediately.’
‘Yes, but dash it!’
‘Bertie!’
I threw in the towel.
‘Oh, right-ho, if you say so.’
‘I do say so.’
‘Oh, well, in that case, right-ho.’
I don’t know if you have ever tooled off to East Dulwich to offer a strange female a hundred smackers to release your Uncle George. In case you haven’t, I may tell you that there are plenty of things that are lots better fun. I didn’t feel any too good driving to the station. I didn’t feel any too good in the train. And I didn’t feel any too good as I walked to Kitchener Road. But the moment when I felt least good was when I had actually pressed the front-door bell and a rather grubby-looking maid had let me in and shown me down a passage and into a room with pink paper on the walls, a piano in the corner and a lot of photographs on the mantelpiece.
Barring a dentist’s waiting-room, which it rather resembles, there isn’t anything that quells the spirit much more than one of these suburban parlours. They are extremely apt to have stuffed birds in glass cases standing about on small tables, and if there is one thing which gives the man of sensibility that sinking feeling it is the cold, accusing eye of a ptarmigan or whatever it may be that has had its interior organs removed and sawdust substituted.
There were three of these cases in the parlour of Wistaria Lodge, so that, wherever you looked, you were sure to connect. Two were singletons, the third a family group, consisting of a father bullfinch, a mother bullfinch, and little Master Bullfinch, the last-named of whom wore an expression that was definitely that of a thug, and did more to damp my joie de vivre than all the rest of them put together.
I had moved to the window and was examining the aspidistra in order to avoid this creature’s gaze, when I heard the door open and, turning, found myself confronted by something which, since it could hardly be the girl, I took to be the aunt.
‘Oh, what-ho,’ I said. ‘Good morning.’
The words came out rather roopily, for I was feeling a bit on the stunned side. I mean to say, the room being so small and this exhibit so large, I had got that sensation of wanting air. There are some people who don’t seem to be intended to be seen close to, and this aunt was one of them. Billowy curves, if you know what I mean. I should think that in her day she must have been a very handsome girl, though even then on the substantial side. By the time she came into my life, she had taken on a good deal of excess weight. She looked like a photograph of an opera singer of the ’eighties. Also the orange hair and the magenta dress.
However, she was a friendly soul. She seemed glad to see Bertram. She smiled broadly.
‘So here you are at last!’ she said.
I couldn’t make anything of this.
‘Eh?’
‘But I don’t think you had better see my niece just yet. She’s just having a nap.’
‘Oh, in that case—’
‘Seems a pity to wake her, doesn’t it?’
‘Oh, absolutely,’ I said, relieved.
‘When you get the influenza, you don’t sleep at night, and then if you doze off in the morning – well, it seems a pity to wake someone, doesn’t it?’
‘Miss Platt has influenza?’
‘That’s what we think it is. But, of course, you’ll be able to say. But we needn’t waste time. Since you’re here, you can be taking a look at my knee.’
‘Your knee?’
I am all for knees at their proper time and, as you might say, in their proper place, but somehow this didn’t seem the moment. However, she carried on according to plan.
‘What do you think of that knee?’ s
he asked, lifting the seven veils.
Well, of course, one has to be polite.
‘Terrific!’ I said.
‘You wouldn’t believe how it hurts me sometimes.’
‘Really?’
‘A sort of shooting pain. It just comes and goes. And I’ll tell you a funny thing.’
‘What’s that?’ I said, feeling I could do with a good laugh.
‘Lately I’ve been having the same pain just here, at the end of the spine.’
‘You don’t mean it!’
‘I do. Like red-hot needles. I wish you’d have a look at it.’
‘At your spine?’
‘Yes.’
I shook my head. Nobody is fonder of a bit of fun than myself, and I am all for Bohemian camaraderie and making a party go, and all that. But there is a line, and we Woosters know when to draw it.
‘It can’t be done,’ I said austerely. ‘Not spines. Knees, yes. Spines, no,’ I said.
She seemed surprised.
‘Well,’ she said, ‘you’re a funny sort of doctor, I must say.’
I’m pretty quick, as I said before, and I began to see that something in the nature of a misunderstanding must have arisen.
‘Doctor?’
‘Well, you call yourself a doctor, don’t you?’
‘Did you think I was a doctor?’
‘Aren’t you a doctor?’
‘No. Not a doctor.’
We had got it straightened out. The scales had fallen from our eyes. We knew where we were.
I had suspected that she was a genial soul. She now endorsed this view. I don’t think I have ever heard a woman laugh so heartily.
‘Well, that’s the best thing!’ she said, borrowing my handkerchief to wipe her eyes. ‘Did you ever! But, if you aren’t the doctor, who are you?’
‘Wooster’s the name. I came to see Miss Platt.’
‘What about?’
This was the moment, of course, when I should have come out with the cheque and sprung the big effort. But somehow I couldn’t make it. You know how it is. Offering people money to release your uncle is a scaly enough job at best, and when the atmosphere’s not right the shot simply isn’t on the board.