Genre: Classics
Page Count: Carry On 273, Very Good 270
Publication Year: 1925 and 1930
Publisher: Carry On Herbert Jenkins, Very Good Doubleday, Doran
Special Notes: Each audiobook is about 7 hrs
Summary: Dash it all, if the butler hasn’t done it again.
Hullo, hullo, hullo! Back for more Jeeves, are you eh? Well, doesn’t this cook the bacon. I’ve just finished another round of audiobooks (narrated stupendously by Jonathan Cecil) and I’ve got a few things to say, don’t you know. If you’re bemused by this turn of voice, you can read my other Wodehouse review, what?
What on earth did Bertie do before Jeeves materialized on his doorstep? The chump gets sucked into such a fine array of humdingers and has a rather dried bean for a brain, it’s a wonder he’s managed to stay afloat for so long. Or is Bertie secretly a great thinker?
[Biffy is] As vague and woollen-headed a blighter as ever bit a sandwich. Goodness knows—and my Aunt Agatha will bear me out in this—I’m no master-mind myself, but compared with Biffy I’m one of the great thinkers of all time.
But it matters not what the state of Bertie’s brain is, for these short stories begin with the arrival of Jeeves, the legendary gentleman’s personal gentleman, who can right any mishap.
Some of these stories already toddled across the pages of the previous two books, which I skipped this time. I do feel the rest aren’t quite an unbridled rah-rah of romps as they could be, but it’s early days yet.
I’ve already hit upon Bertie’s lesser qualities, but never mind all that. He makes a superb narrator for the conundrums, kidnappings, and crazy relations he regularly encounters. The man knows how to tell a story to excite us modern folks. Despite the lump of lard he has for brains, he’s a genial fellow and can always be relied on to come to the aid of all distressed parties; whether he provides actual help or merely flounders about is part and parcel of his charm. I am still holding out for him to concoct his own successful corker scheme, but for now he’s got Jeeves.
And what hot stuff Jeeves is. He’s mild-mannered, reserved, and as cunning and precise as a deftly wielded pitchfork in a cramped barn. Bertie has his doubts on just how swell Jeeves’ mind is, but in his quiet and tactful way, Jeeves always gets the cream.
“I would always hesitate to recommend as a life's companion a young lady with quite such a vivid shade of red hair. Red hair, sir, in my opinion, is dangerous.”
I eyed the blighter squarely.
“Jeeves,” I said, “you're talking rot.”
“Very good, sir.”
“Absolute drivel.”
“Very good, sir.”
“Pure mashed potatoes.”
“Very good, sir.”
“Very good, sir—I mean very good Jeeves, that will be all,” I said.
And we even get a story from Jeeves’ perspective, which shows just how much of a blighter he can be.
As before, Bertie’s collection of friends really take the crumpet. It’s just one slippery slope after another, generally with a woman hallooing at the bottom. But no matter what frightful trouble they’re in or bungle it puts Bertie in, Jeeves is there with the getaway car. Or more aptly: scheme.
One thing I’ve come to admire about ol’ Wodehouse is the simplicity and cheerfulness of these quaint hullaballoos. Unlike some books, the description never strays into soul withering depths and his humor never fails to send me off on a right chuckle. They are the perfect jaunt for when you’re feeling rotten.
But now for more of the jolly bird’s own words:
It was one of those still evenings you get in the summer, when you can hear a snail clear its throat a mile away.
I had often wondered how those Johnnies in the books did it—I mean the fellows with whom it was the work of a moment to do about a dozen things that ought to have taken them about ten minutes. But, as a matter of fact, it was the work of a moment with me to chuck away my cigarette, swear a bit, leap about ten yards, dive into a bush that stood near the library window, and stand there with my ears flapping. I was as certain as I’ve ever been of anything that all sorts of rotten things were in the offing.
“The trouble is there isn’t any insanity in my family.”
“None?”
It seemed to me almost incredible that a fellow could be such a perfect chump as dear old Biffy without a bit of assistance.
As a rule the bright ideas you get overnight have a trick of not seeming quite so frightfully fruity when you examine them by the light of day.
I never met a man who had such a knack of making a fellow feel like a waste-product.
Biffy was jumping around like a lamb in springtime—and, what is more, a feeble-minded lamb.
It is difficult to bring off a penetrating glance out of the corner of your eye, but I managed it.
For when it is a question of a pal being in the soup, we Woosters no longer think of self; and that poor old Bingo was knee-deep in the bisque was made plain by his mere appearance—which was that of a cat which has just been struck by a half-brick and is expecting another shortly.
I suppose a burglar—I mean a real professional who works at the job six nights a week all the year round— gets so that finding himself standing in the dark in somebody else's bedroom means absolutely nothing to him.
I didn’t actually clutch the brow, but I did a bit of mental brow-clutching, as it were.
The hell-hound of the Law gave a sort of yelp, rather like a wolf that sees its Russian peasant getting away.
Unseen, in the background, Fate was quietly slipping the lead into the boxing-glove.
Whatever thick soup Bertie finds himself in next, I’ll be there to cheer the cove onwards.