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Title: Jeeves Muses on De Profundis
Author: Cicero
Fandom: Jeeves and Wooster
Pairing: Jeeves/Wooster
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Jeeves muses on De Profundis
Email Address: Cicerothewriter@livejournal.com
Categories: Drama
Feedback notes: Any kind of feedback will be appreciated, even if you just write me a one-line email telling me that you've read the story, and I will be happy.
Warnings: Oscar Wilde references. If this cliche gets your goat, then do not read.
Notes: I know that the edition I have is not the edition that was originally published after Wilde's death, but since I don't know where to find a copy of this first edition, and because it probably doesn't matter in the long run, I'm sticking to the complete, modern version. I also haven't read Wodehouse's story narrated by Jeeves, so my own Jeeves is based on the one from Bertie's POV and the Granada series.
Disclaimer: I don't own them. Wodehouse does. I am writing this for fun, not profit.

Living with Mr. Wooster is quite the most exhilarating experience in which I have been privileged to take part. He is a most congenial man. I might even make so bold as to point out his sweet nature, which does have the unfortunate tendency to make him a target for less scrupulous people. I have even used his nature to my own advantage, as much as it pains me, but as the great playwright Oscar Wilde once said, "The real fool is he who does not know himself."

Mr. Wilde has taken up some of my nightly thoughts, the time spent to myself when Mr. Wooster is abed and dreaming whatever it is that the innocent dream, which are usually occupied with idle thoughts of my master. I allow myself the freedom then so that I might control myself more readily during the day. About a fortnight ago, the bookseller down the street, an amiable acquaintance of mine, had obtained a copy of De Profundis. Knowing my veiled interest on this very topic, he rang the flat. When I arrived, he had the parcel wrapped and waiting. I returned to the flat with Mr. Wooster still at his club, and sat it unopened on my nightstand until I might be able to concentrate.

That night I read it three times, and the next day Mr. Wooster commented on my inattentiveness. I begged his forgiveness, and he waved as if he could physically fan away my regret.

"Think nothing of it, Jeeves." Here he paused, most curiously, before adding, "Just hoping you're not catching some fever. I need you in top form in case Ms. Craye returns."

I noted in myself an increasing desire to gnash my teeth whenever the lady's name is mentioned, due not only in part because of her unending desire to marry Mr. Wooster, but also the way in which she treats him, as if repeatedly kicking a helpless dog.

"There is nothing physically wrong with me, sir. However, I do appreciate your concern."

Mr. Wooster, who had been smiling brightly at me, dimmed visibly. "Nothing physical, you say? Well, jolly good for that, old thing, but that still leaves something wrong. I don't know what I could do to cheer up, but consider me at your disposal." His countenance brightened again, probably due to the slightly larger than normal smile that was gracing my face.

"I assure you, sir. I am quite all right."

"As you say, Jeeves," he said, obviously not believing me. Instead he strode purposefully over to the piano, and said, "How about a song, Jeeves? Maybe it'll lighten the atmosphere a touch."

I nodded, and he began a rousing rendition of some tune while I prepared the evening repast.

My melancholy was brought on by the admissions of Mr. Wilde in his work, and two in particular. Despite my usual opinion that logic and rationality are the most important traits in a man, I had often found myself wistfully thinking about a relationship of such as were idealized by the Greeks (whether or not these were meted out historically is another matter) and thought that it was epitomized in Mr. Wilde's relationship with Lord Douglas.

To know that Mr. Wilde spent time in prison harassed and ignored, then afterwards abandoned in Paris to die is not pleasant. The death of illusion is never pleasant, and often fatally destructive, though it can be helpful or even healing, as if one has torn away the dead flowers so that new buds may sprout.

The second admission was that Lord Douglas depleted his talent to the point of nonexistence. A true and good love should allow for talent and expression of thought and feeling. It was an inspiration that I recognized earlier that day while listening to Mr. Wooster's full tones in harmony with his swift fingers caressing the ivory keys of the piano. I would rather listen to his joyous singing rather than have his natural temperament repressed by my or another's disapproval. His openness was a rare and glorious treasure, and I intend to see it unharmed by the inhabitants of this world.

Since that day when I bought this sad letter, I have become even more appreciative of the special relationship that exists between Mr. Wooster and myself. He does not stifle me. Instead, my intellect soars whenever he is near or is the center of my thoughts. My brain and body are energized by his problems, his eccentricities, and his clever mind. His unique outlook stirs my own, and without him - as I discovered a long time ago during that most disturbing musical interlude - I am cast adrift.

His every little movement, the way his head tilts slightly when he comes across a problem, his propensity to stay close by me physically, his ready grins and serious frowns, are all precious to me, and I would not change them for all the riches of the east.

Someday I pray that he will come to the same conclusion.



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