My Man Jeeves by Pelham Grenville Wodehouse (golden son ebook txt) 📕

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 first 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

foodstuffs. 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

effects. 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 fire, and went on, with her back

to me:

 

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

world for me?”

 

There! That’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 decided blighter.

 

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

 

“There’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?”

 

“The ‘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.

 

“There,” 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-painting. 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.

 

“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 affect 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 find 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 affected 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. Temperamental Clarence, being a

professional artist and consequently some streets ahead of the dad at

the game, saw flaws 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 trifle?”

 

“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. “There!” 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 effort. 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 mistake. 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.”

 

This 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 suffering. Suppose—suppose—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 compliment to him. Think!

One night thieves steal a splendid Romney; the 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 affair 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 fire 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—The 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 dining-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. The 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.

 

The first 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 affair, 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 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. The lights were on, and I was on the floor, 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