On the English Butler

There once was a comfortable dependence on other people that made a society a real society. By society, everyone knows that I mean that herd of individuals living under the same common law with the same common goal and with the same common associations. Nowadays I hardly have anything that is in common with my neighbor. And that is a good thing for I would be the devil if I were like him.

But those age-old associations with people made a pleasant life. Take for example the English butler. (I hear they’re not as good as they once were, nor as common.) There was a man who was the pinnacle of human association. He represented—if Wodehouse presents him correctly—the paradigm of companionship. Much like a good old fashion collie, he was present whether one did or did not need him; he was there to offer advice whether one did or did not need advice; he was always ready to open the door when one did or did not need a door opened.

How I wish I could have one. In fact, if I could be a boy again, I dare say that I would not ask Santa Claus for the practical, no-nonsense things. No, I think I can do without the tank, the bazooka, the M-16, the handcuffs, the dinosaur, and that lot. I would ask for a gentleman’s gentleman—a Jeeves.

If I were the only boy to own one of those fine fellows, I would be the most envied boy in the sixty-six South Dakota counties. There I would stand, a lord among peasants. And I would be a lord because I have a Jeeves. I can picture myself on Christmas morning as a boy of seven with bucked teeth and freckles and tousled hair—I have lost the freckles.

While my siblings are unwrapping their gifts of baby dolls, guns, covered wagons, cowboys and Indians, ponies, and frying pans, I am cautiously eyeing my package which looks rather tall and straight as an arrow. I then carefully commence the unwrapping of the parcel. Of course, as is only proper, I start from the floor level and slowly uncover the blackest and shiniest set of shoes I have ever laid eyes on. Next my work begins to unveil a pair of smartly pressed pants and two hands ironed flat against the seams of those pants. Further upwards, a black coat with ivory black buttons reveals itself. And on and on I unwind the paper until finally a face—the features and expressions of which are sharp and emotionless, with the exception of a curious bend of the eyebrows every now and again—and a derby hat are bared before my bug-eyed siblings.

There is no question in my mind what I have before me. I have a butler—no, not a butler, a gentleman’s gentleman, a Jeeves. My brothers and sisters may have their tomahawks and pistols, but I have my Jeeves, Of course, he will say the first words.

“Goodmorning, sir. I hope you have slept well.”

“Remarkably odd, Jeeves,” I will reply, “Not only did I not sleep a wink, but I think I have kink in my neck.”

“Take two of these, sir, and a sip of this.” And with that, he will hand me two donuts and a cup of cocoa.

“Remarkable, Jeeves, simply remarkable. I have never felt better in all my life.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Of course, I shall keep him. One cannot give back or exchange gifts like this. Getting a Jeeves is almost as everlasting as marriage. One cannot return one’s wife to her parents and say, “I am sorry, Mr. and Mrs. Snutchcake, but your Ivy is as stiff as a board and packs a punch like a tornado. You will simply have to take her back. I bargained for something a little less like a baboon, but I got a gorilla.”

As you can see, that just doesn’t do. Returning a Jeeves would be about the same. “I am sorry, Santa Claus, but this Jeeves is quite obnoxious. He talks never and is simply a bore when it comes to having a good time like singing off key or throwing eggs at the postman. He turns off the radio and hands the postman my best towel. Furthermore, he actually has class, which is quite repulsive if you ask me.”

Having a Jeeves would be enormous fun. No brother, no sister, no other companion would be able to replace the irreplaceable—well, maybe a wife, but for now I will break in the Jeeves. If that works well, I might take on the greater challenge and order myself a wife.—As I said, he would be irreplaceable. Every time I found myself in a jam my Jeeves would get me out. It happens I’ve seen it in the movies.

One must remember, however, that having a Jeeves is not all games. But it does add some class to even the unclassiest of tasks. Even scooping the manure—notice, I’ve already develop a cleaner vocabulary. I could have said—anyhow, as I was saying, even scooping manure can suddenly have a strange appeal to it when Jeeves comes into play. I, of course, will still be doing the work. Oddly enough, cleaning animals’ pens are not on the Jeeves-can-do list. But he will open the door of the barn and hand me the pitchfork.

“What’s this, Jeeves?”

“I believe that natives call it a pitchfork, sir.”

“A pitchfork? Ha! What an odd name! And what, may I ask, am I to do with this contraption?”

“Scoop, sir.”

“Scoop, Jeeves? Scoop what?”

“Dung, sir.”

“Dung? You mean …”

“Indeed, sir. The stuff is also labeled, according to a book by McKenzie called Bob’s Rules of Agriculture and the Lot, manure, sir, or fertilizer or poop, as the more vulgar put it, or, as the sailors would say, …”

“Is this supposed to be fun, Jeeves?”

“No, sir. But the natives consider it to be so and do it quite often, sir. And your father was rather insistent that you do it too, sir. To some it is considered a hobby, if you care to look on the more optimistic side, sir.”

“Dash it all, Jeeves! I shall not care to look on the more optimistic side. But give the dashed pitchfork anyhow.”