Bertie Without Jeeves...
Jun. 12th, 2019 02:59 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
cuddyclothes posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
give_satisfactionThis is an excerpt from "The Aunt And The Sluggard", an early P.G. Wodehouse story, on which "The Full House" (S3 eps) is based. Because of Mrs. Todd moving in, Bertie has to move to a hotel. This is a rumination on how suffering is good for a fellow.
As I stood in my lonely bedroom at the hotel, trying to tie my white tie myself, it struck me for the first time that there must be whole squads of chappies in the world who had to get along without a man to look after them. I’d always thought of Jeeves as a kind of natural phenomenon; but, by Jove! of course, when you come to think of it, there must be quite a lot of fellows who have to press their own clothes themselves, and haven’t got anybody to bring them tea in the morning, and so on. It was rather a solemn thought, don’t you know. I mean to say, ever since then I’ve been able to appreciate the frightful privations the poor have to stick.
I got dressed somehow. Jeeves hadn’t forgotten a thing in his packing. Everything was there, down to the final stud. I’m not sure this didn’t make me feel worse. It kind of deepened the pathos. It was like what somebody or other wrote about the touch of a vanished hand.
I had a bit of dinner somewhere and went to a show of some kind; but nothing seemed to make any difference. I simply hadn’t the heart to go on to supper anywhere. I just went straight up to bed. I don’t know when I’ve felt so rotten. Somehow I found myself moving about the room softly, as if there had been a death in the family. If I had had anybody to talk to I should have talked in a whisper; in fact, when the telephone-bell rang I answered in such a sad, hushed voice that the fellow at the other end of the wire said ‘Hullo!’ five times, thinking he hadn’t got me.
Then Jeeves comes by the hotel to drop off some luggage:
Next morning Jeeves came round. It was all so home-like when he floated noiselessly into the room that I nearly broke down.
I’ve often heard that fellows after some great shock or loss, have a habit, after they’ve been on the floor for a while wondering what hit them, of picking themselves up and piecing themselves together, and sort of taking a whirl at beginning a new life. Time, the great healer, and Nature adjusting itself and so on and so forth. There’s a lot in it. I know, because in my own case, after a day or two of what you might call prostration, I began to recover. The frightful loss of Jeeves made any thought of pleasure more or less a mockery, but at least I found that I was able to have a dash at enjoying life again. What I mean is, I braced up to the extent of going round the cabarets once more, so as to try to forget, if only for the moment.
The end is somewhat understated. Bertie is happy to be home and gives up a tie.
As I stood in my lonely bedroom at the hotel, trying to tie my white tie myself, it struck me for the first time that there must be whole squads of chappies in the world who had to get along without a man to look after them. I’d always thought of Jeeves as a kind of natural phenomenon; but, by Jove! of course, when you come to think of it, there must be quite a lot of fellows who have to press their own clothes themselves, and haven’t got anybody to bring them tea in the morning, and so on. It was rather a solemn thought, don’t you know. I mean to say, ever since then I’ve been able to appreciate the frightful privations the poor have to stick.
I got dressed somehow. Jeeves hadn’t forgotten a thing in his packing. Everything was there, down to the final stud. I’m not sure this didn’t make me feel worse. It kind of deepened the pathos. It was like what somebody or other wrote about the touch of a vanished hand.
I had a bit of dinner somewhere and went to a show of some kind; but nothing seemed to make any difference. I simply hadn’t the heart to go on to supper anywhere. I just went straight up to bed. I don’t know when I’ve felt so rotten. Somehow I found myself moving about the room softly, as if there had been a death in the family. If I had had anybody to talk to I should have talked in a whisper; in fact, when the telephone-bell rang I answered in such a sad, hushed voice that the fellow at the other end of the wire said ‘Hullo!’ five times, thinking he hadn’t got me.
Then Jeeves comes by the hotel to drop off some luggage:
Next morning Jeeves came round. It was all so home-like when he floated noiselessly into the room that I nearly broke down.
I’ve often heard that fellows after some great shock or loss, have a habit, after they’ve been on the floor for a while wondering what hit them, of picking themselves up and piecing themselves together, and sort of taking a whirl at beginning a new life. Time, the great healer, and Nature adjusting itself and so on and so forth. There’s a lot in it. I know, because in my own case, after a day or two of what you might call prostration, I began to recover. The frightful loss of Jeeves made any thought of pleasure more or less a mockery, but at least I found that I was able to have a dash at enjoying life again. What I mean is, I braced up to the extent of going round the cabarets once more, so as to try to forget, if only for the moment.
The end is somewhat understated. Bertie is happy to be home and gives up a tie.
no subject
Date: 2019-06-13 07:31 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2019-06-13 07:59 pm (UTC)Somehow all of this stuff has stayed here rather than going to indeedsir, don't ask me why. Stick around and explore!
ETA: You're welcome to start a super-intellectual discussion post or other here. We've sort of wandered away from the original mission. BUT WRITE SOME PORN,TOO!
no subject
Date: 2019-06-13 09:32 pm (UTC)Personally, I still am leaning toward thinking that it's not self-deprecating humor, that Bertie is actually supposed to be that naive and has literally no idea what poor/middle class people's lives are like and never thinks about it at all. I don't see a ton of evidence that he's aware of his own melodramaticness and isn't just unironically stating how he feels and what he's realized. Maybe if I re-read the series (it has been a while) I would see that he comes across as smarter than I remember and I would be giving him the benefit of the doubt. I read cuddyclothes's Orwell excerpt and that all makes sense to me and pretty much fits with how I've read the series - gentle, affectionate satire done very sympathetically. I just think in this case Bertie's revealing his ignorance/being a tad stupider than usual. But I can see it the other way too. Who knows! If only we could ask PGW.
Weirdly enough it's actually in the NSFW thread rather than the Lounge thread. I think it was supposed to be sexual but then we got philosophical instead. Check out the most recent bunch of comments at the end of this thread.