ArtisticLicense 1 страница

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Rating: Mature

Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply

Category: M/M

Fandoms:

Jeeves& Wooster,
Jeeves - Wodehouse

Relationship: Reginald Jeeves/Bertram Wooster

Characters:

ReginaldJeeves,
BertramWooster,
CorkyCorcoran,
RockyTodd,
AgathaSpencer-Gregson,
OMC,
OFC

Published2010-02-01

Words: 23012

ArtisticLicense

darkeyedseer

Summary:

When Bertie helps out a Bohemian friend, he has no idea what he's really in for.

Well, the whole thing began because I was doing a favour for an old chum- or rather a relatively new chum- named Corky Corcoran.

I thought it was a favour but it turned out to be a great deal more than that, didn't it? But I'm jumping ahead and in media res-ing and that just confuses everyone, especially me.

Right, now where was I? Yes, I popped round old Corky's flat one afternoon to see what was what after the fiasco with the baby portrait. Old Corky had lost his allowence but gained a career as a comic artist as a result of that piece of canvas and oil, so I figured he wouldn't be in bad spirits.

" Bertie, you're exactly what I need! "

I'm often greeted in this manner and I can tell you that as good as it may sound, danger lurks therein.

" What ho, Corky! How's the old brush and easel? " I was hoping to sidestep the favour, not having Jeeves handy I wasn't all that confident. Of course, I was rather glad Jeeves wasn't handy when… but I'm doing it again. Sorry, let's back up a step.

" I need a model, Bertie. I want to go into the portrait trade for real this time. "

One hates to say less than stellar things about one's nearest and dearest so I did my best not to bring up the last disaster, " Sounds spiffy, who's the lucky beazel? "

Corky laughed, " Not a woman, a man. You, Bertie! You're absolutely perfect! "

I tried hard not to let it show, but inwardly I cringed. I cringed like a beaten puppy about to get the boot again. Really, to understand my horror, you need to have seen the baby portrait alluded to earlier. If 'alluded' is the word I want.

But Corky was a chum so I chomped the bit and decided to play his game, " Right ho? Are you sure? I'll bet I could convince Jeeves to sit for awhile. He's much more the fine art type. "

" No, no, it has to be you! I just need a few afternoons a week with you and I'll be painting the president in no time! "

What was I supposed to do, I ask you? It was really such a reasonable request. And it was in the Code of the Woosters, helping friends is really what it's all about, what?

" Now just strip down and lay on the bed. "

I must be starting to go deaf, I have an uncle who was deaf as a stone by the time he was my age. Of course, he ran a factory and spent more time on the floor than the rest of his employees put together.

" I'm sorry? "

Corky chuckled, " Bertie, this is art! Clothes just get in the way of your true form. "

I wanted to say my true form was quite happy being hidden, thank you very much. But then I realised he was the expert, and all those painting in the museums we went to on school trips, most of them were, well, bare.

And it isn't as though the Wooster form is shy. It's been seen in 'true form' by quite a few.

So I stripped down and lay on the bed. Corky then spent a good fifteen minutes arranging things, and me, into whatever shapes he thought necessary.

Modelling is dreadfully dull work; I very nearly drifted off a few times. The bed was surprisingly comfortable.

" You can take a nap if you want, Bertie. I'm just going to spend some time on values. "

With permission, I did doze off for a while and left him to his moral standards.

He woke me up some time later and asked me to take a bath.

I didn't have my rubber duck Benjamin, but I made do. All the while Corky was scribbling away.

He then arranged me on a chair with a surprisingly good book. It was a Sherlock Holmes and I quite forgot myself I was so intrigued.

Then I had a gasper and Corky seemed intent on drawing this as well. I started to think how bored he must be, but he seemed almost excited.

" O. K, Bertie that was great! I think that's all I can manage today; my hand feels like it's going to fall off. Can you come back tomorrow? "

I agreed, I figured a few days of this and old Corky wouldn't want to set eyes on me again until my next New York stay.

When Jeeves asked how my day went, I suddenly realized how odd it would sound if I tried to say, " Well, I toddled over to Corky's and spent five hours naked in his apartment while he dashed about drawing me from all angles. "

So what I said was, " Spiffing, Jeeves. How was yours? "

XXXXX

The next day he let me keep my clothes on at first. Posing in them felt odd, as if in a single day, being naked in this apartment was just how it should be done.

And when he told me to strip, I felt almost at home. It was easier now. I sat up in the bed and drank tea. I spent some time looking directly at Corky, as requested. I smiled on demand and laughed when he started telling me jokes.

The time flew by the second time. I thought surely he must be finished his practicing on me, I mean, how many ways can you draw one man?

But he asked me what I was doing tonight.

I told him about the play and dinner out and he asked to stop by before I left. Not to go with me, but before I left.

I offered to find him tickets but he had no interest in it.

" I just want to draw you in formal wear, Bertie. It will just take a few minutes. "

XXXXX

" Mr. Corcoran to see you, sir. " Jeeves announced before shimmering away to the kitchen.

I was at the piano and as I started to get up, Corky stopped me, " No! That's perfect, Bertie, just as you were. Play something. "

I gave a rather rousing rendition of Minnie the Moocher, by the time I finished so had Corky. His practicing must really be paying off now.

" So can you come by tomorrow? " He asked me as Jeeves emerged once more to assist him with his coat.

" Sure thing, old chum. Maybe you can meet me at the Pumpkin Club for lunch first? "

And meetings all arranged, he scarpered off and I put on my gloves. Jeeves came bearing my hat, " You've been spending a great deal of time with Mr. Corcoran lately, sir? Are you becoming more interested in the world of art? "

" Not as such, Jeeves. I'm just helping him practice. "

" I'm sorry, sir, I do not follow. How is it that you are helping Mr. Corcoran 'practice' his art? "

" He needs something to draw, doesn't he? He seems to think I'm the kind of thing he needs. I suspect I'm just the cheapest thing running, being free and all. "

" Sir, you do recall the incident-"

" With the baby, yes. I really hope he's improved a bit since then. Well, no matter. He's likely to be the only one to ever see the blasted things. Toodle pip, Jeeves! Have a good evening in. "

" A good evening to you, as well, sir. " But he looked like he had something on his mind.

XXXXX

When I rang up round Corky's place the next a. m., things progressed much as they had the two days before. I won't bore you with the details. In fact, I can pretty much just jump ahead through the next two weeks or so.

Every day I'd show up like a good chum and old Cork would spend several hours scrawling out images of yours truly, mostly without clothes on. Sometimes he'd tell me to think about something in particular, which seemed kind of a strange thing to suggest, but I'd play along.

After all, the cove had to get better at this painting mumbo jumbo. The world was drowning in starving artists. I fancied I was doing my bit to help out, and some of it was rather fun. Old Corky could tell really good wheezes and heard some great tales in Washington Square he was always willing to share.

And he'd often let me sit and read his whodunit library for hours on end. The man had every penny dreadful on the market, I'd swear to it.

In any case, Corky started out with sketchbooks and moved on to canvas in no time and one day he finally told me he had all the drawings he needed. I was almost sorry to stop coming by, but I was pleased he felt he'd improved enough to move on to better models and what not.

So it was actually a four or five months later, after I'd practically forgotten I'd ever let Corky so much as doodle in my presence, that I got a rather nasty shock.

He'd rung me up one afternoon all excited about some major art gallery showing his work in exhibition.

" This is IT, Bertie! I've made it at last! My days of kowtowing to rich relatives are over! I'm on easy street, I've got it made! Everything's coming up roses! You'll be sure to come, won't you? "

I promised I would swing round. Art is certainly not my forte, I'd rather a good concert or a play any day of the week, but one must support one's friends in all their endeavours. And obviously he'd improved if the Metropolitan Museum of Art was letting him hang his hat there, so to speak.

I asked Jeeves if he'd like to go with me, I was rather hoping if I had him to explain things I might look like less of an uncouth fool. These art types, you know, pride themselves on ripping twits like me to pieces. Not literally of course, just verbally. Like aunts, all of them.

So I put on my formal best and Jeeves and I popped off, fashionably late as to avoid spending the entire night staring at modern art. If anything gives me the shudders, it's that stuff. I don't even pretend to understand it. When people like Lady Florence Craye ask my opinion of an example of it, some large red square on a black canvas, I just sort of stutter something about squares being my favourite shapes after circles and toddle off for a gasper.

So we arrived well into the shindig, I suppose, looking back, the title of the show might have given me a clue.

In huge banners all over the place: Bruce Corcoran's 'The English Gentleman Series'.

But it didn't.

I've never been one accused of being quick on the uptake, so to speak.

And I suppose, looking back, the stares and the whispering also might have alerted me that all was not oojah-cum-spiff in the world of Wooster.

But sadly, I was still taken totally by surprise.

And you have to understand the depth of my surprise. If 'depth' is the word, I'm seeking. Because it really was like someone had come up and belted me one in the abdominals. And I know what I'm talking about here because Stilton Cheesewright did just that one fine spring day at Eton.

He never did it again because Mickey… well, that's a story for another time.

Anyway, if you had walked in to this crowded museum and were greeted by a wall-sized painting of yourself in the altogether, you'd be a little taken aback too, what?

I looked at Jeeves, instinctively seeking his… his thingness to make all the bad of the world go away.

He looked as if he'd been struck in the back of the head with a stout tree limb.

And it just got so very much worse from there. Because, as you clever and astute readers must have noticed (I didn't, but I'm a twit of the highest order, now aren't I? ) the word 'series' was included in the title of the show.

And so it was, in fact, a 'series', featuring one B. W. Wooster in every conceivable position without so much as a stitch on.

Well, if we're going for specifics, I think there were three or four where I was actually dressed. Three of four out of twenty-six isn't a very high percentage, though, is it? I'll have to ask Jeeves, but I'm confident it's a pretty low number on the scale.

In any case, it was rather like those nightmares you have, well I had, when you're in school and you realize you've forgotten to put trousers on and you need to demonstrate an algebra problem at the blackboard. That horrible combination of exposure and maths, dreadful, isn't it? As if each weren't bad enough on its own.

Anyway, it was like a nightmare standing in this crowded (and it was VERY crowded) room and everywhere I looked there I was naked as the day I was born. And everyone else was looking as well.

Now I've never been what I'd call shy, but there's a bit of a difference from showering with the lads and having Jeeves serve me in the bath to having permanent replications of one's nudity up on walls in high class institutions, isn't there?

Neither Jeeves nor I got a chance to recover before Corky flung an arm around my shoulder, " Isn't it grand, Bertie? We've sold every single piece AND all the prints in the first thirty minutes. I kept the print numbers low, you need to make it a real collector's item, you know? Only a hundred and fifty prints a piece. Bertie, I'm officially set! "

I think my mouth flapped up and down in that way that makes Aunt Agatha compare me to a cod fish. An hour later I got the disturbing number from Jeeves of three thousand nine hundred. Three thousand images of… of… the mind still boggles, I'm sorry but words failed me utterly in trying to complete that thought. I would really like to find the evil bloke who invented the concept of 'prints' and give him what for.

I couldn't come up with a single sentence so he just prattled on oblivious to my intense distress.

" They love this sort of thing; it's all avantgarde but still classic. I managed to hit every damn art market somehow. They love you, Bertie, they can't get enough. I'd had so many requests you wouldn't believe it! Especially for the ones in the bath, and the ones of you reading, and the ones at the piano, and that lady over there promised me two thousand dollars if I did one of you dressed for cricket. She's an ex-pate and wants it for her foyer. Say you'll do it, Bertie? It'll only take a few afternoons. Great, now I need to go and talk to my agent. I have an agent! Isn't that unbelievable? So I'll see you later, O. K? "

It's probably fortunate that he left then because I was starting to come out of my shock and may have gone for his throat. It's hard to say what one might do in these sorts of trying times.

As I mentioned before, there was a great deal of whispering going on around us. I suppose being recognized was inevitable. When I overheard one lady (and understand I use the term in its loosest possible sense) whisper to another her wonderment over the scale of everything and whether or not it was accurate, I wanted to shout, 'Yes, it's all bally well ACCURATE! If anything, it's TOO accurate for my tastes, thank you very much! '

But I decided discretion really was the better part of valour and fled.

I found myself in a deserted wing of the museum surrounded by my previously ascribed horror, modern art.

I lit up a gasper and decided there really was something to it after all. At least no one's clothes were off, for example.

Of course, it was debatable whether or not there were any people in the stuff at all, but still, a big improvement in my books.

I wished I'd thought to grab Jeeves when I kicked up dust, but he always manages to find me anyway. Maybe even at that very moment he's putting that marvellous brain to work and finding a way to fish me out of the soup.

Or, at the very least, prevent any one I know ever finding out about this.

A fresh wave of horror struck when I thought of Aunt Agatha. This was most definitely worse than vaudeville, wasn't it? Though I doubt she'd listen if I told her I didn't mean to end up like this.

It's awfully hard to end up in vaudeville and not mean to. There's a joke in there somewhere, I'll bet. Too bad I was far too distraught to think of it.

XXXXX

I was very pleased at the invitation to accompany my employer to the Metropolitan Museum of Art; I sincerely hoped self-improvement might be on the agenda. I knew of course we were going primarily to see Mr. Corcoran's exhibition, but I could hardly imagine that holding my interest for long, considering his previous endeavours.

Oh, how little I knew.

I recalled, of course, several months previous, Mr. Wooster spending some time sitting for Mr. Corcoran, of course. I dreaded the possible outcome, a regrettable cubist portrait perhaps? One that Mr. Wooster might feel obligated to display around the flat?

In any case, I did not connect Mr. Wooster's volunteered time for 'practice' as he had put it, with what the MET was going to allow on their walls. In fact, I was more than surprised such a respected institution would willingly house Mr. Corcoran's efforts.

I received an inkling of warning when the banners cheerfully informed us the show was called 'The English Gentleman Series'. But nothing could have possibly prepared me for what was to come.

I feel I should elaborate here so my reactions can be fully appreciated. I have less than appropriate feelings for my employer. They are strong and of a romantic nature. They could also get me arrested and imprisoned or possible sectioned and placed in an asylum of the kind run by Sir Glossop.

That being said, the sight of Mr. Wooster painted on a six foot high, four foot wide canvas completely nude rather undid me.

It seems that I have vastly, vastly underestimated Mr. Corcoran's skill as an artist.

It was so beautiful it took my breath away completely. Every aspect of Mr. Wooster was delicately, perfectly, marvellously recreated, from the fine boned beauty of his face, to the long, lean elegance of his body. His expression was one of sleepy pleasure, as if he'd just woken up and was pleased at where he was.

The casual sprawl of limbs, the half-lidded gaze, the slightly tousled hair, and these things rendered me speechless. It is said an artist's goal is to recreate life itself. Well, Mr. Corcoran succeeded beyond any capability I'd seen before. In fact, it looked as though any moment the painted Mr. Wooster might yawn and stretch and reach for the tea tray.

I don't know how long I stood there, drinking it in. I was dimly aware of Mr. Corcoran himself speaking to my employer to my left, but I could not spare a moment's attention nor pull my gaze away.

I studied every detail, every bit of shadow and light. The painting was monochromatic, only in black, white, and grays, but Mr. Corcoran had still managed to achieve the depth of Mr. Wooster's eyes. He'd caught every fleck; in fact, there was a distinctive gleam in them.

When I finally came back to myself, it was because a lady beside me remarked, " I just can't pick a favourite! They're all so lovely, aren't they? I do like the one where he's smoking, though. "

My heart skipped a beat and I turned and realized the entire room was festooned with images of my beloved. I shakily moved through the crowd to another wall and actually saw the painting the woman had mentioned.

It was another monochromatic Mr. Wooster sitting naked on a window seat looking out. He was caught in the middle of puffing a cigarette. His cheeks were hollowed, highlighting his bone structure. His lips were puckered sweetly around the filter. Smoke seemed to actually be drifting around him. There was something riveting about it, the grace and utter lack of inhibition in the act somehow made you very aware, despite his state of undress, that he was indubitably of noble blood.

The third painting was Mr. Wooster in a bath, the steam rising from the water. Perfect droplets adorned his exposed chest and shoulders and I had to blink several times because I was certain the ones on his neck were dripping further down. This was a unique trick of photo-like realism that had me captivated. His eyes were closed and he was smiling in relaxation.

I'd often been privileged to have seen him this way and I was once again taken aback at how perfectly Mr. Corcoran had rendered it. The only flaw was the absence of Benjamin, Mr. Wooster's rubber duck.

There was another of him reading a volume of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, he was clearly absorbed in the book completely, the tip of his tongue sticking out of the side of his mouth in concentration.

There was a long canvas divided into three parts, the first held Mr. Wooster with his eyes closed and lost in musical ecstasy. The second was of his hands, long fingered and expressive, on the keyboard of the piano in a chord pattern, perfectly arched as they always were and looking ready to skip across the keys. The third was Mr. Wooster singing. All three featured him in formal evening wear.

I found only two others of him actually dressed, and another in a state of dishabille.

I feel any words I may ever write on this subject will simply never do it justice; this art must be viewed to be properly appreciated.

But I do try, I cannot help myself.

I came at last to a full color portrait; Mr. Wooster was sitting up in bed, the covers obscuring him almost completely below the waist, with the exception of one elegant protruding foot. His upper body was bare and he was sipping tea, carefully holding the saucer. His eyes were looking directly out and… I can't imagine how Mr. Corcoran had managed to get the exact shade of blue, but it is absolutely correct. Bright and full of good humour, these eyes gaze out at the viewer and hold them in place, enraptured.

The next featured him sleeping, face relaxed in dreams, his thumb suspiciously close to his mouth. I've often observed this and wondered if he had been a thumb sucker as a young child. Old habits can haunt one into adulthood in slightly milder versions. In any case it was, and has always been, absolutely endearing. He was curled in the fetal position around a pillow and this has often made me speculate on what it would be like to share Mr. Wooster's bed. I suspect he would enjoy both holding another and being held. I believe I would also enjoy both of these things, should they ever come to pass.

I pulled myself from hopeless fantasy, men such as myself must be very careful about how they are perceived by others and the slightest hint of impropriety can mean disaster. I have not touched another man, my one and only experience of a Uranian nature occurred when I was twelve in the barn of the Winchester estate where I was working as a footboy. The other boy was older, he kissed me suddenly, hard enough to split my lower lip. Then he punched me soundly in the nose and snarled that he 'wasn't no shirt lifter' and ran off.

It was a less than pleasant experience, but exciting in a way that my attempts with the female of the species were most decidedly not.

I'd had brief infatuations over the years with both servants and gentlemen, but not one even compares to my feelings for my dear Mr. Wooster. I have loved him practically since I first laid eyes on him and that love has only deepened and grown over the past year we've now spent together.

In fact, I believe it is nearly impossible not to love Mr. Wooster if you know him to any real extent. But I digress, there are still other feasts of a visual nature for me to attempt to describe.

There was an image, the first I'd seen where Mr. Wooster's face is not entirely visible, he is lying on a bed again, his posterior on delightful display. His arms are propped up at the elbows holding a paperback. His legs are caught in such a position that one knows they were swinging, a child-like movement advertising his enthusiasm.

Once more I marvelled at how the artist had captured my employer's charm and personality, different facets of them showed in each work. I felt like I could examine these pictures for hours and not surprisingly I was not the only one who felt this way, the room was crowded and the crowd only seemed to swell.

I found another jewel in a six panelled full colour of Mr. Wooster fully clothed and dancing. Each block was a different step or movement and running one's eyes across it gave the impression of a living image. This was the only piece I could see that wasn't entirely realistic, it had a surreal colour quality in the background to illustrate the music. The first was bright red, the second bright yellow, the third bright blue, the fourth bright green, the fifth bright purple and the sixth bright orange.

Mr. Wooster was clearly demonstrating one of the latest modern dances, his form the epitome of coordination and grace. His eyes were dancing right along with the rest of him somehow. I remember setting out the very outfit in which he was clad. It was a dove gray suit with a pale pink shirt and pocket handkerchief. The tie was gray with pink stripes. Mr. Wooster always looks very attractive in pastel shades, especially pink and blue. Blue, however is a powerful weapon on Mr. Wooster so I try to use it sparingly and only on occasions where looking especially lovely could benefit the situation.

It brings out his eyes to such a startling degree that it imbues them with the ability to arrest another in their tracks. It has softened even Mrs. Spencer-Gregson one on least one instance. So it must be conserved so as to keep its potency at its highest possible levels.

When I approached the portrait of Mr. Wooster laughing I had to stop a few feet away. It was larger than life size, you see, so to appreciate it properly a certain distance was required. I racked my mind for memories of my employer laughing, were those specific little creases accurate? I knew that was the exact way his nose crinkled. His eyes positively sparkled through the squint and there was such a feeling of easy joy about him, I felt my heart clench.

I began to feel pity for all these other people here enjoying these pictures. This was all they got to have of my beloved Mr. Wooster. I had the priviledge of seeing him like this (or very much like this. He spends considerably less time nude that this work would lead you to expect) every day. I get to HEAR the laughter, and on a few occasions actually cause it.

Mr. Corcoran and Mr. Wooster had obviously been playing chess in the next one I came to, and Mr. Wooster's expression nearly made me laugh out loud. It was the very same woe-be-gone look he often gave me after telling me about his latest accidental engagement. Only, it's the game board he gazing at as though it has hurt his feelings most dreadfully. His body language gives the impression of an over all slump, his delicate shoulder blade is most certainly bowing inward. If Mrs. Spencer-Gregson were to witness this posture she would snap out, " Bertie! For Heaven's sake, sit up straight! "

In the next, he appeared most seriously thoughtful. He was sprawled casually in a chair by the window and gazing out of it. A cigarette burns down in one hand, a rather long column of ash gathering. He looks as though he is contemplating the nature of the universe or the meaning behind all of mankind.

There is a tragic quality to my employer's face that mostly goes unnoticed simply because he is almost always smiling and sunny. When he is serious, he certainly looks it. I've often thought he should be on the stage, despite the stage fright he has demonstrated in the past. His looks would lend themselves very well to both comedy and drama.

I wondered very much about what he was thinking.

XXXXX

I came to another series of three where Mr. Wooster was consuming an ice cream in a walk-away cone. The center image had him licking the dripping confection from his fingers and I must say I lost my breath for a moment. It was an innocent image on the surface, creamy vanilla treat being eaten with enthusiasm. No doubt Mr. Wooster would find nothing at all wrong with posing for it, even nude. But for me, and indeed for many of the viewers around me, it clearly carried other implications.

I'd never really had the occasion to study my employer's tongue before, for example.

The next image was clearly one of the first ever recorded, despite its placement. Mr. Wooster looks quite shy and a soft blush colours his cheeks, his smile is soft and almost self-depreciative. He is in a state of dishabille, clearly undressing and not feeling quite comfortable with the concept. It was charming and, despite how much of him is still covered, was easily one of my favourites. Although, as the lady I had overheard remarked, it was very difficult to choose.

He was playing a tin penny whistle, seated on the bed with his legs folded beneath him in the next one. His earnest expression was familiar and brought an immediate smile to my lips. I have no doubt he was succeeding in producing a simple tune, my employer is very musically gifted. Of course, I've no doubt he was attempting 'Forty-Seven Ginger-Headed Sailors' or similar and not something a bit more traditional. I've heard him play Bach, Beethoven, and Brahms on the piano (as extremely rare as the situation is) and he plays classical styles with an effortless beauty that would make weaker men weep.

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