Jeeves behind the line

[Note : words de cette couleur are in French in the original.]

- Yes, Sir.

How strange. I had very distinctly heard him say: "Yes, Sir". And it suddenly came to me that I had greatly misjudged William Shakespeare. Years earlier, when at school, we had studied a play of his that you may have heard about, called A Midsummer Night's Dream, and I had felt very much at the time, and had expressed myself strongly to that effect, that when writing this the poor man had gone off his rocket: I mean, trying to make believe that you could fall in love with a creature bearing the head of an ass. Even granted that some dirty job had been done at the crossroads by that mischievous spirit, Puck, this didn't hold water. Preposterous, I thought. And yet, here I was, probably the victim of that same spirit or gremlin, hearing "Yes, Sir" when the only thing Jeeves could have said was: "No, Sir". Of course, I should have known. Old Will knew what he was doing. Probably, it had all happened to him before.

- Egad, Jeeves! Do you? I ejaculated, however, instinctively.

- Indeed, Sir. In fact, that elegant cup which you may have seen standing on the mantel- piece in my room is precisely the cup awarded to the winner of the annual Junior Ganymede tournament, of which, if I may say as much without immodesty, I have been the winner the last four years, against fierce opposition.

So he must have said "Yes, Sir", after all. Or else I must be completely nuts, but even were such a contingency to occur, I could see hope dawning again among the damned of the earth, since I hold on no less an authority than Sir Roderick Glossop, or Roddy as his friends call him, the noted loony-doctor, that a man of unsound mind, as the thing is technically known, cannot marry any girl, not even Florence Craye. So whatever befell me, I could be considered as saved and heaven's Cherubim could more or less be said to be singing sweet melodies around me...

But let me begin according to the original chronology of events.

It really was a stupid mistake. If you remember the state of affairs when last seen, after my fate had hung in the balance somewhat longer than I would have signed for if I had had my say in the blasted business, self being much the boulevardier insouçiant, as opposed to the more adventurous type, the latter being more in style with my old chum Catsmeat Potter-Pirbright, who once went to a safari in Kenya to hunt the beasts of the jungle (a most eccentric idea, in my opinion, if you think that large animals of any conceivable species are available in great number in any Zoo, if you want to have a close look at them, although I don't have the foggiest why any decent chap would want to do that, except on a bet), and happy to settle with as little turmoil as possible in my life, Jeeves had finally managed to extract me from a considerably tangled situation in re Florence Craye, and it seemed firmly established that the last named - as hard-headed a female as ever was engaged to the last of the Woosters - had settled for Stilton Cheesewright as the soul and salt of her life, to marry with for better or, more likely, for worse.

This was so very gratifying that I didn't pay much attention to the fact that Stilton, apparently elated beyond his good sense, of which he had never had a very satisfying supply to begin with, as recently demonstrated by his choosing to be the village constable - the ultima causa, in effect, of the whole soup-ness -, had decided to run as conservative candidate against a very popular football player in a consistuency rather too lively for such a fathead. I was even steeped so deep in honesty, as the fellow said, to take advantage of the absence of the young couple to pay the unavoidable annual visit to my aunt Agatha, Florence's mother in law, and I recall that it was while sipping a thoughtful port in my room that the butler brought the fateful cable. The message went something like this, if I remember correctly (previous experiences having taught me that no cable will ever bring any good, I barely look at them nowadays, as it seems much better to call Jeeves immediately upon receiving one):
 

Pig-headed Cheesewright lost election. Stop.
Will be happy to be your wife. Stop.
Quiet marriage preferred. Stop.
Coming back next week. Love, Florence

 But I was not crushed to earth to be tramped upon in the dust by the passers-by, as might have been expected. This frightening blow found the Wooster fortitude adamant to resist the terrible ordeal. What la Craye didn't know, as I knew very well, was that Jeeves had just returned from two weeks holidays in Scotland, where he must have done the most vivid impression on the local salmons, probably entering in the memories of the young survivors as the most implacable of all hook-wielding fishermen to have come to them from the South for their doom. And moreover, in sharp contradistinction with the rather pointless practice favoured by those African safarists, he hadn't stuffed these impressive trophies of his to show off when back in the old home again, but I had received from him positive assurance that he had made a phosphorus-full feast of them all.

And I don't know if you have ever found yourself taken in one of those little drizzle of rain that seem to come from nowhere during the summer after weeks of monotonous blue sky and shining sun. Rather disturbing, I mean, especially if you happen to be inaugurating a light suit full of Parisian diablerie, but refreshing; a welcome change about sums it up. Well, that such was more or less my own reaction to the above cable, which in other times would have struck Bertram Wooster like a tornado and left him as wrecked as any of those ancient cities, the destruction of which lesser prophets are always talking about rather freely, after the wrath of Good has finally descended upon them. A little péripétie, but not something you would cancel a diner for, certainly not with Jeeves so full of fish. It was therefore with a good deal of the old aristocratic hauteur that I rang for him.

- Jeeves, I said, after he had rallied round.

- Yes, Sir.

- This cable, I said, showing him Exhibit A, is from Lady Florence. Rummy.

- Indeed, Sir?

I exchanged knowing glances with him. We do not have to talk about these matters. In fact, we wouldn't dare do so, considering that this would be to speak lightly a woman's name, and our educations, as diverse as they are, are inflexibly rigid on that point. But Jeeves knew all about me and Florence Craye.

- Now Jeeves, all those salmons are certainly still fluttering in your veins. You must have a scheme. Take some time, ponder the matter, I will expect you soon.

- It won't be necessary, Sir. Indeed, I have a possible course of action to propose.

- A plan, you mean? Such as: "Do A, then B, then C, and then collect the cash"?

- Indeed, Sir. A plan that should bring matters to a satisfactory end.

- Because it is based on the psychology of the individual, certainly? I said, confident that this, as always when this king-size brain churns out one of his brilliant ideas, must be the case.

- Yes, Sir. I think success can not eschew us, the scheme being, as you say, based on the psychology of the individual, as well as in perfect congruence with ulterior circumstances.

- Uh ?

- What I want to convey to you, Sir, is that I will take advantage of Lady Florence's notorious distrust and disapproval of the Drones Club. If you recall a conversation you had with her about this matter during your previous engagement...

He didn't have to say more. I remembered very well. You could even say that a chill went through the old bones when I did. It was a ghastly memory. Forceful expressions had come from the mouth of the member of the noble sex, and when I had attempted to put a balanced word in defence of the cosy atmosphere and cheerful camaraderie of the Club, she had said something like: "I don't see anything interesting in such laziness and bad taste and disgusting orgies and outrageous behaviour. I shall expect that you discontinue your membership in this lair of debauch when we are married".

- So you think we can use this disapproval, or distrust, to good effect?

- Certainly, Sir, if you recall that the annual Drones Club Darts Tournament is to take place no later than next Wednesday. If you were to win this tournament, Sir, and send Lady Florence the cup awarded to the winner with some well-phrased note, I shall expect that a conclusion ensue in complete accord with your wishes.

- You mean, sending her the cup with something like, "Hello Florence, what do you think, I just won the tournament, what ho, what ho?"

- I was thinking rather of something along the lines of "Dear Belovèd..."

I winced. He should know better than to use expressions like that before the young master.

- Jeeves!

- Excuse me, Sir. I really thought it would be useful. However, you could say with little effectual loss: "Dear Florence, Please accept this cup as the first token of our new happiness, and rest assured that each year from now I will do all I can to make this blissful date an anniversary by winning this same trophy for you". A distinctly chivalrous gesture, Sir, in appearance, but which may not appeal to Lady Florence. As you are well aware, "Drones Club Darts Tournament" is very legibly engraved on the pedestal, alongside the name of the winner.

I had seen all in a flash. Very clever, I mean, but when in mid-season form, as I was today, I don't think there are many people who would grasp a scheme of Jeeves more swiftly than Bertram Wooster. It was all a ruse, and I was to feign, if feign is the word I want, to offer the cup as a love present to be renewed each year, most probably by winning the tournament after extensive visitations of its practice room, expecting that Florence would react strongly and get on her high horses, whereupon she would put an end to this silly engagement. I mused for some time, while Jeeves, assuming the aspect of a stuffed frog, waited confidently for the young master to comment on his effort.

- Yes, Jeeves, I said. I think this is a potential winner. You have once more outdone yourself.

- Thank you, Sir. I endeavour to give satisfaction, Sir.

- But, I said, spotting immediately the little problem with my astute mind. This scheme of yours, Jeeves, calls upon a cup to be delivered with the note; miss the cup, all is lost. I mean, imagine sending the note without it, little good would come from it. "Poor Bertie, so romantic. He probably dreamed that he had a trophy for me", or words to that effect, would think Florence, and forget it immediately, or possibly she would conclude that the afternoon cocktail was to be held accountable for this and make a mental note to ban it thereafter from the Wooster diet.

- Certainly, Sir. As I said, it is of the essence that you win the tournament.

- Exactly what I mean, Jeeves. Just what I was about to say. I must win the tournament.

- Indeed, Sir. But you are quite the popular favourite this year, now that Mr. Pendlebury- Davenport has retired from active competition. The odds, if I remember correctly, were of the order of five to two in your favour.

- But don't you fear that in such conditions of stress, I could shake and twitter like an eel in front of the board, and generally be a complete loss?

- Certainly, Sir, this is an eventuality to take into account. You should definitely undertake the most rigorous training without delay. One week should be ample to fortify your spirit and prepare you adequately.

He was right. I have always manifested a certain partiality for darts as a pastime, and I can throw a volley of three with the best of them. In fact, if some concatenation of circumstances were to deprive me of my means of subsistence, I had always thought I had my chance in some of the greater American Circus.

- You're right, Jeeves. Go back to London as soon as possible and bring me back my special patented profiled darts, and the regulation board.

- Yes, Sir. Very well, Sir. Maybe I should travel under some faked purpose. I would advocate the utmost secrecy to avoid distressful interference from her Ladyship.

I nodded, and he shimmered out, his intelligent face shining brighter than ever.

I remember sipping again that same glass of port I was alluding to, and thinking rather jocularly that if Fate could not bring herself to do a little better than that next time, she should as well abandon all hope of bringing to earth the indomitable Wooster spirit, lest she break her teeth on it without as much as a bead of perspiration moistening the Wooster brow. Little did I know, that this was the merest avant-goût, and that the real thing would soon tear off its false whiskers and appear before me in all its gory horror and disreputable clothes.

Things went according to schedule until the last evening, the day before the Drones tournament. I had found myself even more than usually flamboyant behind the line. Four hours a day, under various inscrutable pretences, I retired to my room and exercised the wrist to no little extent. I found that this will of iron of mine stood me in good stead at this critical juncture, when my life could be shaken to the core if the dart strayed if only an eighth of an inch from the straight line.

But I was merely taking some rest before the fateful day, as recommended by Jeeves, with examples from the late Roman emperors and American presidents, when the butler knocked at my door, and when admitted informed me that Aunt Agatha would be calling soon.

Not a welcome information, you can imagine, considering that concentration and the highest ethereal thoughts were what the doctor had ordered. Even in the best of time - the occasion when I found her pearls in her hotel room in Roville while she was raving her best to have the maid thrown in jail for purloining it springs to mind - it is unheard of that Bertie concluded an interview with this rat-devouring Aunt without some great disturbance manifesting itself in the inner organs or the spine.

And little chance that this was an illusion, a mere fancy born of the mind of an overworked butler. Indeed, Aunt Agatha herself came in right behind him exhibiting, as she usually does, a barely disguised disgust for her nephew.

- Good evening, Bertie. I have received a letter from Florence and she informs me that she has decided to marry you. I don't know why I'm talking to you now instead of trying to change her mind, but she is a forceful girl and if she thinks she can do something with you, I can only say that I don't believe that it is possible, but if there is someone who can do it, I feel inclined to believe that she is that one.

- Oh, hullo Aunt Agatha, hullo, hullo. You shouldn't take so much trouble, really. I mean, do as you wish. What ho, what ho.

- Shut up. I have a few things to tell you. After all, I'm also her mother in law. She sat down on the nearest armchair, staring at me in striking likeness to that Medusa character Jeeves sometimes mentions, and I retreated a little, thinking how lucky I was that darts and board were safely hidden in the deepest drawer, right behind me. She wouldn't approve of a future husband playing darts in his room. She had not liked it when I was a boy, except as a ready mean of satisfying her sadistic instincts, and she is not a woman to change her mind and later take the broad, spacious, outlook, thinking that after all a nephew needs some kind of soothing hobby to abate the stress of modern life, and should not be censured or rebuked for that.

But, as I said, there was no danger of her chancing upon those precious darts, and I could manage a decently stiff upper lip.

Has it ever entered your mind how little some words really express the real thing? Take the word "Ah" for instance. Not at all the same thing when thrust upon you by a constable when you are trying to disentangle yourself of his helmet during Boat-Race night, than when emitted by a friendly guest when sighting his host ambling along with the bottle of port. And the reason I am bringing this up at this moment is that it is quite the same thing with the word "scream". There are screams and screams, and one is not the other. I am something of an expert on the subject, having uttered many more screams in my life than mere good health requires. Some are suitable to send an innocent nephew running for his life through the window, and some are suitable to attract the general public's attention toward a fire that happens to be breaking out. Some chill the bones and freeze the blood, as exemplified in many a goose-flesher, and some are uttered upon being hit on the head by a blunt instrument. So if I merely state now that Aunt Agatha screamed, and that I must have jumped a little above two feet in the air, the faithful reader may well frown, and look to me aghast, not quite aware of the actual significance of the fact.

But when I have told you that the cry proceeding from Aunt Agatha's lisps seemed distinctly to belong to the hit-upon-the-head-with-a-blunt-instrument kind, you will understand why I jumped up and looked at her with a mild surprise, as it were. Asked whether there could exist any soul dauntless enough to dare come out in the open and strike Aunt Agatha on the head with a b. i., I would have firmly denied that such a mortal could be found in the land, and I guess that even among Zulu warriors, people made of significantly tougher stuff than we are, you would have been hard put to find a man for the job. And as I looked now in her direction I could see her standing again, red in the face like a ripe tomato, holding what were undoubtedly very sharp darts which, if I didn't know better, I would certainly have believed to be my own special profiled ones. What must have happened was obvious, and in her demeanour she evinced no intention to make any prisoner while investigating this offence.

- Who put these things on my chair? You, Bertie!

I saw immediately that firm words had to be spoken now, or there would be no stopping this outraged Aunt in her ruthless enterprise of tearing Bertram Wooster limb from limb. Accordingly, I managed some hauteur, though not much, and ejaculated:

- Most definitely no!

She eyed me as if wondering whether she should immediately throw the bally things back at me, aiming for the eyeballs, and I gulped rather awkwardly, when someone knocked at the door and, like the US Cavalry, Jeeves entered the room.

I emitted a sizeable sigh of relief. Aunt Agatha would not dare behead me and drink my blood in front of Jeeves; personal grudges she keeps private and acts not on them with strangers in our midst. Very convenient, I have found, these social conventions.

- Has something happened, Sir? inquired Jeeves.

- Yes, indeed; would you know where these objects come from? I said.

I tried to point nonchalantly in the general direction of the darts, rather like a French aristocrat dismissing a servant. Not a great success, I think and probably, had such an aristocrat been among the present, he would have commented disparagingly on the gesture, but the best I could.

Jeeves, his old imperturbable self, looked at the pointed instruments.

- I regret, Sir, but I am unable to provide informations as to the original whereabouts of these darts. Indeed, it is news to me to darts are to be found anywhere on the premises of her Ladyship's house.

Such words were sweet to the Wooster ears. I don't know if Jeeves was born like that or if it's another of his tricks, but there is a balm in his speech to heal the wounds of the spirit. Even Aunt Agatha, I could see, was mollified, if mollified is the word I want. So the spine solidified to some extent, and I could speak without shaking.

- Probably they must belong to the blasted Edwin. Young boys are very much into darts these days. They love the feeling.

I was alluding to her stepson Edwin, the most frightful feret-faced Boy Scout ever to wear khaki shorts, a danger to men and beast in front of whom the bravest of men quiver like jelly.

- Edwin? said Aunt Agatha, rather bluntly. Certainly not. I have strictly forbidden that any potentially dangerous toy enter the house.

I raised a dubious eyebrow. Her claim seemed to me to be utter nonsense. Edwin had already exercised his cricket bat upon the head and shoulders of many an honest citizen, and I had witnessed him put fire to a cottage with canon powder. Besides, he had the most unnerving habit of saying "Coo!" just behind your back when you did not expect him to be anywhere near you.

- But I will ask him myself, however.

She rang, and asked the butler to bring Edwin immediately. While waiting, I fidgeted with my cuff-links, still recovering. Then Edwin entered, looking pestilential as ever. I eyed him with disgust.

- Edwin! cried Aunt Agatha. Do these darts belong to you?

- Coo! he said, causing me to start visibly, and I felt with a pang of regret that the darts were wasted in Aunt Agatha's hand, when I could have made good use of them.

- It's Bertie's darts, the blighter continued. I found them in his drawer; I thought he must have lost them, so I put them at some place where he could find them, as an Act of Kindness. I was two weeks behind in my daily Acts of Kindness.

- Bertie's darts? Well, will you please leave Bertie and me alone, Jeeves, and bring Edwin along with you? I would like a few words with him in private, said Aunt Agatha, sternly.

- Very well, M'lady.

I stared at the door until it closed, feeling quite like that fellow Daniel must have felt when left in the pit with the lions. I had exchanged a glance with Jeeves, and could see that he sympathised with the young master, but there was nothing he could do, though never was I more in sore need of a quick scheme to take me out of the soup. Chivalry, I mean, precludes any rough job on the person of a woman. A hard rule to live by, but life is not one long sweet song, and I could have mused philosophically on this and other similar matters, had not Aunt Agatha held me with her glittering eyes, self being paralysed and unable to move or think. Spiders, I believe, and snakes, do the same with their preys, except that they use some kind of poison, which makes it a lot easier.

I wonder if you have ever had the occasion to meet a survivor of some horrendous shipwreck just being rescued after two or three weeks spent on a small raft among sharks and without clear water to drink. Haggard-looking, if you see what I mean. Unhealthy. Quite unequal to a cosy chat. Shaky and fever-stricken. A wretched soul and a nervous wreck if ever there was one. Which makes it a rather good representation of Bertram Wooster when emerging from that single interview with Aunt Agatha. I don't think I was able to utter a single word until the following day when Jeeves had brought me back to the old flat and safely locked the doors behind me.

- Gory, I said, if I remember rightly.

- Quite so, Sir. A most unfortunate circumstance, Sir. If you will allow me, Sir, I will go and prepare some strengthening beverage.

- One of your specials?

- Indeed, Sir.

- I will accompany you, if you don't mind. I wouldn't want to be alone in a million years. Aunt Agatha may have followed us, with some footnote in mind to add to her recent observations.

- If you wish, Sir. This way, Sir.

Well, you can't deny that the good fellow tried everything. Not without some success, I must say. By mid-morning, I could eat a light breakfast, and if all food turned to ashes in my mouth, at least I didn't look at the kippers as if they were made of plastic or other inorganic materials unfit for human consumption. But to what avail? Eating and drinking is fine, but could I stand in the Drones Club in front of a considerable crowd and throw the dart in the bull's eye? No good judge of men, being afforded a glimpse of the prospective champion, would have invested a penny on him. "Hopeless", he would meditate. "Ruined". As I glimpsed through the window after this light meal, I could see that the sun was shining, the sky was blue and spring was at its prime.

- April, I said to Jeeves, is a cruel month.

- Indeed, Sir, it could be said to be the cruellest month. Breeding lilacs out of the dead land, mixing memory and desire, stirring dull roots with spring rain. Winter kept us warm, covering earth in forgetful snow, feeding a little life with dried tubers.

- Nicely put, Jeeves. Yours?

- No, Sir. The poet Eliot expresses himself in his poem, "The Waste Land".

- Strange, I said in a melancholy tone, I always thought this was some kind of cooking recipe, what with all this stirring and mixing. But I can see his point. Pretty bitter, I mean. Must have gone through a rough day when he wrote this. I remember Florence mentioned it once.

This evocation of Florence caused me to shudder violently. Jeeves looked at me, and I could see he was quite perturbed himself, his left eyebrow raised somewhat more than an eighth of an inch. Florence had made no mystery of her will to dismiss him when married. I brooded some more, then the bell rang and I did another of my sitting jumps. Not quite as brilliant as I can do, since I was more or less deprived of the vital fluid, but impressive nevertheless. Jeeves vanished and these tremors I was hinting at intensified. Lord Baskerville, when confronted with the hound from hell, would not have outshaken me. Jeeves entered again, and I regained some composure. His intelligent, feudal face, told eloquently of his stern resolve to stand by Bertram to his last stand. No Aunt, I thought, could hope to outmanoeuvre him to come and persecute me.

- The Reverend H. P. Pinker, Sir, he said.

This Reverend H. P. (Stinker) Pinker is one of my oldest chums. As good an egg as ever wore an ecclesiastical collar, in fact, and were it not for his disconcerting habit of breaking small and valuable objects when in the same room, he would certainly rise to great heights in the Church. Odd, this fault of his, as this man of God is also a most devastating Rugby player, and no man alive has ever seen him losing his grip on the field, of either the ball or some ill-advised opponent trying to pass him by to score what I think is called a try. Shyness, perhaps, but I know many a shy and stuttering lad who would get rid of the distressing habit in a flash, were they built on the lines of Stinker Pinker, and able to fell an ox with their bare hand.

But at this juncture, with the soul all shattered and mostly on the leave, his arrival brought a cry of joy to my lips. Spiritual help could do what no amount of kippers or even of Jeeves's pick-me-ups could possibly do. Once more, the Wooster spirit would be rise from the grave and daunt his enemies.

- Bertie old chap! said Stinker, beaming, his face full of a force not of this World.

- Stinker! I exclaimed.

- Jeeves has told me all. Keep hope, for the Lord is thy Shepherd, and thou shalt not want.

I am pretty sure he acted with the best intentions then. I mean, I can picture him thinking: "All this talk is well and good, but Bertie needs more. He needs reassurance and sympathy, and positive proofs thereof. Physical contact is of the essence. I will take both his hands in mine and with this I will convey my feelings to him".

Anyway, he came to me, and grasped my hands with visible emotion and great force. Soon I heard a distinct noise, like some twig cracking under your foot during a walk among fallen leaves and what-not in autumn, and I felt a sharp pain in one of the fingers of my right hand.

When confronted with unfortunate developments and forebodings of a dark fate hanging above the Wooster bean, it is my invariable practice to try and find the beamy side of the circumstances. In this case, I reflected, after proper ministration and attention had been given by nurses and doctors to my broken little finger, that at least false hopes could not be entertained any more, and there wouldn't be any ghastly suspense ending in silence and misery tonight at the Drones. Not much comfort to get from that, of course, but you know what I mean.

- Jeeves, I said. Should I cross the Ocean and vanish in the vastness of the plains of the West?

- This wouldn't be suitable, Sir. Very taxing, I gather, the life of a fugitive. Lady Florence...

I gasped for breath.

- Please don't use that name, Jeeves. Should it be absolutely necessary to mention this person, be so kind as to use some innocent and transparent allusion.

- Very well, Sir. I was saying that Aunt Agatha's step-daughter would certainly follow your tracks with cold determination.

- Yes, you are right, so I guess, there goes the last of the Woosters to his doom.

- Yes, Sir.

He didn't seem to be much distracted. I eyed him sternly. Was there something on his mind?

- Jeeves, I said. Speak up. What are you thinking about.

- I was thinking that, were someone to win the tournament tonight and give you the trophy, we could proceed with the scheme as originally conceived.

- You mean, someone disguised as Bertram?

- No, Sir, the subterfuge would hardly pass unheeded among your acquaintances of the Drones Club.

- But even if Bingo Little or Gussie Fink-Nottle would agree to relinquish the cup to save the Wooster soul, their name, and not the proud name of Bertram, would be engraved on the pedestal, thereby making it ineffective and useless as a token of love.

It seemed the man had been rocking hard on his foundations behind that impressive facade, and was quite down. Not a nice sight for his devotees, I must say. I lowered the head.

- Perhaps you are not fully abreast, Sir, of the content of Rule F of the Drones Club tournament?

I raised the head again. Bertram was nonplussed.

- What do you mean, Rule F? What Rule F?

- Rule F of the Drones Club Darts Tournament, Sir, specifies that a gentleman's personal gentleman can represent his master behind the line. Very feudal, though rarely put into practice.

- You mean, you could play and my name would appear on the cup?

- Indeed, Sir. Precisely so.

I still didn't see what good there was in that idea. Quite commendable from him, certainly, this proposition, but not even Jeeves could win without throwing some darts, and could he play darts? Certainly no. Ludicrous. I thought I had better put it bluntly to him and make him see the light, distressing as the hard truth would be for this great man.

- But do you play darts, Jeeves? That is of the essence.

- Yes, Sir.

But I think we have now come back to the beginning...

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