P. G. Wodehouse Archives - James E Hartley

Jeeves for President

“Modern Age is pleased to offer some relief that nonetheless has a measure of relevance. We asked some twenty of our friends and contributors to weigh in on the best choice for president—but not the best choice on the ballot this November. Instead, we asked them to choose the best character from all of creative literature for the role.”

An interesting exercise. The answers they got were a nice range of amusing to head-scratching, but that is part of the fun. George Bailey from It’s A Wonderful Life was a pretty good choice. (Curiously, Jimmy Stewarts’s more obvious role, Mr. Smith, did not get picked by anyone. Go figure.) Both Nero Wolfe and Archie Goodwin were chosen. From the Great Books, we get Cordelia, Odysseus, and Ignatius Reilly. Cult Heroes Frodo Baggins, Leia Organa, Ron Swanson, and Vito Corleone all made the list. Clever choices all.

Joseph Bottum came the closest to getting the right answer when he took the opportunity to channel Bertie Wooster who selected Monty Bodkin. That is exactly the sort of bloke Bertie would choose. But, Bertie is, shall we say, perhaps not the most perceptive chap.

None of the 20 contributors got the right answer, however. Step back and think about it and you too will realize, there is truly only one choice for President. Jeeves.

Now it is obvious why Jeeves did not immediately spring to mind. He is, after all, a gentleman’s gentleman, the behind the scenes, never ostentatious, easily forgotten figure. For the same reason, we do not generally go to the servant class to find our leaders. Servants are followers, not leaders, right? Do not let appearances deceive you.

Suppose there was a problem needing to be solved. A big problem. A tricky problem. Bertie Wooster has problems all the time. From “Episode of the Dog McIntosh”:

[Wooster] “Snap into it, then, without delay. They say fish are good for the brain. Have a go at the sardines and come back and report.”
[Jeeves] “Very good, sir.”
It was about ten minutes later that he entered the presence once more. “I fancy, sir –”
“Yes, Jeeves?’
“I rather fancy, sir, that I have discovered a plan of action.”
“Or scheme.”
“Or scheme, sir. A plan of action or scheme which will meet the situation.”

Problem solved in ten minutes. This is not an isolated case, of course. Over and over, when Wooster runs to trouble, Jeeves calmly finds a way out of the sticky situation. That is what you want in a President, isn’t it? Pick a major international crisis and imagine Jeeves at the table where people are frantically looking for a solution. How long will it take him to find the solution that leaves everyone happy and thinking the solution was their own idea? Twenty minutes? Thirty? Sure, maybe some problems will take a day.

But, Jeeves is not merely an inactive advisor. He has an agenda. He never fails to implement it. From “The Spot of Art,” Bertie has just finished telling his Aunt Dahlia that he cannot join her on her yacht because he must stay in town to woo the girl he wants to marry, an artist who just completed a rather garish portrait of Bertie.

Aunt Dahlia laughed. Rather a nasty laugh. Scorn in its timbre, or so it seemed to me.
“I shouldn’t worry,” she said. “You don’t suppose for a moment that Jeeves will sanction the match?”
I was stung.
“Do you imply, Aunt Dahlia,” I said – and I can’t remember if I rapped the table with the handle of my fork or not, but I rather think I did – “that I allow Jeeves to boss me to the extent of stopping me marrying somebody I want to marry?”
“Well, he stopped you wearing a moustache, didn’t he? And purple socks. And soft-fronted shirts with dress-clothes.”
“That is a different matter altogether.”
“Well, I’m prepared to make a small bet with you, Bertie. Jeeves will stop this match.”
“What absolute rot!”
“And if he doesn’t like that portrait, he will get rid of it.”
“I never heard such dashed nonsense in my life.”
“And, finally, you wretched, pie-faced wambler, he will present you on board my yacht at the appointed hour. I don’t know how he will do it, but you will be there, all complete with yachting-cap and spare pair of socks.”
“Let us change the subject, Aunt Dahlia,” I said coldly.

Of course Aunt Dahlia is entirely correct. Now, if we are going to have a President with a plan who will never fail at implementing his plan, it is worth considering the man’s objective. What does Jeeves want? Civilized behavior. He abhors the vulgar and the uncultured actions of people for whom the triumphs of civilization mean nothing. It you are tired of social media spats and reality TV, then who is more likely to revive a spirit of decorum in the land?

How does Jeeves perform these amazing feats? Therein lies the ultimate reason you should vote for him. From “Jeeves and the Song of Songs,” Aunt Dahlia and Bertie have, once again, asked Jeeves to cut a Gordian Knot:

Aunt Dahlia blew in on the morrow, and I rang the bell for Jeeves. He appeared looking brainier than one could have believed possible – sheer intellect shining from every feature – and I could see at once that the engine had been turning over.
“Speak, Jeeves,” I said.
“Very good, sir.”
“You have brooded?”
“Yes, sir.”
“With what success?”
“I have a plan, sir, which I fancy may produce satisfactory results.”
“Let’s have it,” said Aunt Dahlia.
“In affairs of this description, madam, the first essential is to study the psychology of the individual.”
“The what of the individual?”
“The psychology, madam.”
“He means the psychology,” I said. “And by psychology, Jeeves, you imply –?”
“The natures and dispositions of the principals in the matter, sir.”
“You mean, what they’re like?”
“Precisely, sir.”
“Does he talk like this to you when you’re alone, Bertie?” asked Aunt Dahlia.
“Sometimes. Occasionally. And, on the other hand, sometimes not. Proceed, Jeeves.”

The psychology of the individual. Jeeves is not someone sitting on high ignoring the way we all think. He taps into the latent desires of the person and finds ways to speak to their inner soul. Want someone to sit down with Congressional leaders and hammer out important legislation? Jeeves is your guy.

What kind of person would you like for President? How about an always calm and collected intellectual who never sees the limelight but is perfectly happy to be the servant of the people? How about the person who is always the cool head in a crisis and finds a solution satisfactory to all the parties involved? How about a keen judge of character? How about the man who will nudge this land into a more civilized state, where people act in highly cultured ways?

It really isn’t a contest. Jeeves would be the best President ever.

What stops Jeeves from being President? (Well, aside from the inconvenient facts that he is British and fictional.) Jeeves would never run for President. People complain a lot about why we never see candidates with culture and intellect, and the exercise of imagining Jeeves as President reveals why we get the candidates we get. It isn’t being President that is the problem. It is what is involved in running for the office. Nobody like Jeeves would ever spend years on the campaign trail.

Nonetheless, you can join me in the Official Jeeves for President campaign. At a minimum, it might get more people reading Wodehouse, and that is a Goal Most Worthy.

Shop Local

One of the curiosities of any Age is the things that people assume are New. A generation arises and discovers phenomena that surely nobody before had ever seen. Those with a bit of knowledge of history know that there really is nothing new under the sun, but the shocked indignation or rejoicing at discovery about things which were ever thus continues apace.

Consider the complaints about Wal-Mart and Home Depot and Amazon destroying all the family businesses in your favorite town. Shop Local signs pop up all over town as people rally to keep the small concerns going while the Faceless Behemoths inexorably destroy the fabric of the community. When did these behemoths start destroying commerce? Well, obviously when Sam Walton began his Imperial Ambitions and Jeff Bezos took over the internet.

Or, maybe it was in 1905.

Everybody who has moved about the world at all knows Ring’s Come-one Come-all Up-to-date Stores. The main office is in New York. Broadway, to be exact, on the left as you go down, just before you get to Park Row, where the newspapers come from. There is another office in Chicago. Others in St. Louis, St. Paul, and across the seas in London, Paris, Berlin, and, in short, everywhere. The peculiar advantage about Ring’s Stores is that you can get anything you happen to want there, from a motor to a macaroon, and rather cheaper than you could get it anywhere else. England had up to the present been ill-supplied with these handy paradises, the one in Piccadilly being the only extant specimen.

Oliver Ring fixed that in 1905. The sleepy town of Wrykyn, notable mostly for the nearby boarding school, was one of the first English towns to witness the arrival of the American chain.

The sensation among the tradesmen caused by the invasion was, as may be imagined, immense and painful. The thing was a public disaster. It resembled the advent of a fox in a fowl-run. For years the tradesmen of Wrykyn had jogged along in their comfortable way, each making his little profits, with no thought of competition or modern hustle. And now the enemy was at their doors. Many were the gloomy looks cast at the gaudy building as it grew like a mushroom. It was finished with incredible speed, and then advertisements began to flood the local papers.

Yes, despite the fact that this could be an NPR story of a small town in 21^st Century, it was written over a century ago by that noted economic reporter, P.G. Wodehouse.

The story “An International Affair” is one of the Wodehouse’s early schoolboy tales. The lads at the boarding school take note of the new improved store and, not surprisingly flock to it. The Hero of our tale, Dunstable, laments this sad state of affairs.

“You see they advertise a special ‘public-school’ tea, as they call it. It sounds jolly good. I don’t know what buckwheat cakes are, but they ought to be decent. I suppose now everybody’ll chuck Cook’s and go there. It’s a beastly shame, considering that Cook’s has been a sort of school shop so long. And they really depend on the school. At least, one never sees anybody else going there. Well, I shall stick to Cook’s. I don’t want any of your beastly Yankee invaders. Support home industries. Be a patriot. The band then played God Save the King, and the meeting dispersed. But, seriously, man, I am rather sick about this. The Cooks are such awfully good sorts, and this is bound to make them lose a tremendous lot. The school’s simply crawling with chaps who’d do anything to get a good tea cheaper than they’re getting now. They’ll simply scrum in to this new place.”

Again, you could take that speech right out of this story, switch “Cook’s” to the name of your local haunt, and use it the next time you want to complain about the Large Retail Establishment de jour.

Dunstable’s friend is stoically resigned to failure. “‘Well, I don’t see what we can do,’ said Linton, ‘except keep on going to Cook’s ourselves. Let’s be going now, by the way. We’ll get as many chaps as we can to promise to stick to them. But we can’t prevent the rest going where they like. Come on.’”

Now you can decide. On the one hand we have Cook’s owned and staffed by wonderful people who provide excellent service with a smile. On the other hand, you have this Giant American Conglomerate, owned by a rapacious individual with no sense of beauty and managed by a cad. If you aren’t convinced, Dunstable tales to the manager, asking if maybe they could leave a bit of business for Cook’s. The reply: “‘One moment, sir,’ said the man from the States. ‘Let me remind you of a little rule which will be useful to you when you butt into the big, cold world. That is, never let sentiment interfere with business. See? Either Ring’s Stores or your friend has got to be on top, and, if I know anything, it’s going to be We.’”

For those of you rooting for Cook’s, fear not. Dunstable is a clever lad. He poisons a bunch of his classmates who dine at Ring’s and the Headmaster then prohibits anyone from the school from ever eating at Ring’s again. The moral? All is fair in love and war? Perhaps it should come with the warning: “Kids, Don’t Try This at Home.”

P.G. Wodehouse is, to put it mildly, a comic genius. But, he was also a keen observer of society, which was one the reasons his comedy hits home so often. Tales of Wrykyn and Elsewhere is a collection of his early stories before he hit his comic stride. If you want a snapshot of the antics of boys plotting against headmasters, there are plenty of quaint stories herein.

A footnote: the collection also includes a rather amusing pair of stories from St Asterisk’s mocking Sherlock Holmes. Truth be told, it is surprising that Wodehouse never developed this theme into a full length novel. In the stories Wotsing (who is obviously Watson) is the superior intellect, wryly observing the Holmes stand-in (Burdock Rose), who constantly looks for ridiculously complicated explanations of incredibly simple occurrences. The characters are underdeveloped, and both stories are short. But, if you imagine a story with a larger-than-life Uncle Fred-like figure as Sherlock Holmes, you can see the possibility here.

The Worst Wodehouse Novel

P. G. Wodehouse is one of the greatest writers of all time. He has over 100 books to his credit. There are endless web pages devoted to telling you which are the best Wodehouse books.

But, what is the worst Wodehouse book?

My current candidate for that (dis)honor: Not George Washington.

One of Wodehouse’s early books (1907), co-authored with Herbert Westbrook, it is an autobiographically informed fictional account of a struggling writer seeking to make his way in the world.

It is a story with four narrators, none of whom is really all that interesting, with a plot that just barely holds together, mostly serving to introduce an even larger set of not very interesting people.

Even the title is odd; George Washington is never mentioned in the book; I suspect the title refers to Washington’s reputation for never telling a lie, but even that guess is a bit tenuous.

But, you don’t have to take my word for the fact that this book is not really very good.

Robert McCrum in his truly excellent Wodehouse biography (cleverly entitled Wodehouse: A Life) notes that Not George Washington is “now a very rare book,” a fact which has been corrected by the Overlook Press reissuing it as part of their Collector’s Wodehouse.

McCrum first explains the autobiographical nature of the novel—James Orlebar Cloyster is Wodehouse; Julian Eversleigh is Westbrook.

McCrum then notes this:

The plot turns on [Cloyster’s] cunning plan to maximize the sale of his writing by persuading four complete strangers to put their names to his work.

Obviously, this book is so bad that McCrum, writing a biography of Wodehouse, could not be bothered to actually read the novel. That summary is wrong, completely wrong.

1. Cloyster’s plot to have others publish his works under their names had absolutely nothing to do with maximizing sales. The point of the plan was to makes sure that Cloyster’s fiancée would not find out he was a successful writer because he had decided he didn’t want to marry her after all.

2. Cloyster persuaded three, not four, people to put their names on his work. There are even chapters with the titles “The First Ghost,” “The Second Ghost,” and “The Third Ghost,” so it doesn’t take much more than a glance at the table of contents to realize there is no fourth ghost. (I suspect McCrum got the fourth person from the fact that Cloyster eventually published his fiancée’s play under his own name.)

3. None of the three people Cloyster involved in his plot were “complete strangers” or even less-than-complete strangers. Cloyster’s relationships with all three are discussed at length in earlier chapters.

In other words, McCrum’s summary isn’t even ball-park close.

It would be impossible, literally impossible, to read the novel and write the summary in McCrum’s biography of Wodehouse. Indeed, it is hard to figure out how McCrum even got his “summary.” (If anyone knows, I would love to hear how this happened. Maybe I should write him to ask.)

When I recommended Wodehouse, I used to tell people it didn’t really matter which book they picked up first—they are all great.

This was not ever precisely true; Wodehouse’s earliest books were tales of life in English boarding schools; but until Psmith enrolled at Wrynken, the books are not Wodehousian. But, at least the school stories are charming in their own way.

After reading Not George Washington, however, I can never again pretend that all Wodehouse books are worth reading. This particular book is only worth reading if you are obsessed with reading every volume in The Collector’s Wodehouse.

Fiction Posing as Nonfiction

“Writing enters into us when it gives us information about ourselves we’re in need of at the time we’re reading.”

Reality Hunger, by David Shields.

I liked the book for reasons that have nothing to do with the author’s main thesis, but that isn’t the sort of thing that would bother Shields in the least since part of his thesis is that I probably shouldn’t agree with his primary thesis.

The quotation at the outset is from his book, though he would frown on the fact that I put it in quotation marks and am noting the source.

Part of his thesis is that I should just steal everything I want to use—plagiarism is not a crime in Shields’ world—it is something to be done proudly.

(Students: Don’t try this at home. Really. Do not plagiarize. Shields is wrong.)

Shield’s primary thesis, for those who are interested, is that the rash of “memoirs,” some fake, some not, are the best thing going in literature—after all, all writing is fiction and so fake memoirs are fiction masquerading as reality because after all reality is nebulous anyway, but we all want more reality and…well, I could keep going, but his argument is deliberately opaque and wandering and probably self-contradictory and Shields likes it that way, thank you very much, so to start trying to carp about the idea that it is impossible to summarize a book which Shields would not want summarized in the first place is one of those things not to be done, especially since Shields would undoubtedly be quite happy that the book generated a tediously long “Sentence” (Shields is also not a fan of grammatical stricture) which just wanders all over in an attempt to capture a meditation, or dare I say compose an essay (essai) about something which may or may not be what Shields was discussing. Suffice it to say; Shields’ book was fun to read—nice style—all numbered paragraphs—he, like Nietzsche, likes apothegms.

Wandering, tangential ruminations about things. I liked it. (Hard to believe, I know.)

The absence of plot leaves the reader room to think about other things.
Every man’s work—whether it be literature or music or pictures or architecture or anything else—is always a portrait of himself.
Nothing is going to happen in this book.
I am quite content to go down to posterity as a scissors-and-paste man.
If you want to write serious books, you must be ready to break the forms.

That is more David Shields. Or, really, more David Shields plagiarizing other people.

Maybe I agree with those things. Emphasis on maybe.

I recently read Wodehouse, Big Money. That is true. Does that mean that what I am about to write about it is also true?

It’s trivially easy to write in cryptic epigrams.

It’s even easier to read cryptic epigrams.

Maybe you learned something from reading that last paragraph. Maybe I just said something about myself. Is this paragraph an autobiography?

Big Money is about as formulaic a Wodehouse novel as there ever was. Then again, I suppose that could be written about every Wodehouse novel. You could write the entire plot by the end of the second chapter and you wouldn’t have missed a thing.

That is, of course, the beauty of Wodehouse. One part of me stands aside his books simply admiring his ability to take a perfectly predictable plot with perfectly predictable jokes and turn it into yet another masterpiece. The lack of variety is part of the very joke woven into the novel.

“The male mind did not appear to be able to grasp immediately that a woman doctor need not of necessity be a gargoyle with steel-rimmed spectacles and a washleather complexion.” I am not at all sure why that quotation was just put in at this point. Which is, in a nutshell, the problem with reading David Shields. If he is right, then it makes no difference what follows what and in what order it all comes and how it is all phrased. It doesn’t even matter if that is really a quotation from Big Money or a different Wodehouse novel. Shields is a literary nihilist. Wodehouse is not.

I enjoyed reading both Wodehouse and Shields. Yet, only one of them is saying something True. And it is the writer of fiction.

Big Money reminds us once again that life is a comedy; it is full of improbable events and the only proper reaction to living in this vale of tears is to laugh and laugh and laugh. Any other way leads to madness.

Shields, despite being funny, has forgotten to laugh. He takes this whole writing business far too seriously. He wants writing to dig deep and expose one’s soul in some sort of autobiographical auto-da-fe, all the while arguing that there is really no way to do so. Again, despite being funny, Shields has written a very grim book.

If my library was not ordered alphabetically, I would put Shields’ Reality Hunger next to Burton’s The Anatomy of Melancholy in the hopes that the latter would somehow teach the former that a book with nary a joke in sight is both funnier and a better picture of the human soul than the funny book with the nihilistic view of life and literature.

Come to think of it—this idea of ordering the books in my office by determining which books really should get together for a talk over coffee has staggering implications. Where would Big Money go?