The Duk Papers
part 1
Introduction of the Author.
"Author! Author!" yelled the gathered crowd at Mulliner's Wijnlokaal and there he entered Prof Mr W. Duk (pronounce Duk as Duck in Donald Duck, the c is silent), former professor at Leiden University and Amsterdam University. Nodding benevolent to all members he moved slowly through the limited space reaching at last his seat of honour next to the board. The only member of the committee for appointing the Greatest PGW Character was in our midst again.
Moreover he is also "The Oldest Member" of our Society. Some months ago the then oldest member passed away and in the meeting of October, 14, 2000 the board proposed to appoint Wim Duk as his successor, but .....he refused! His thesis was that all earlier oldest members were dead. If he accepted the nomination he would go over the edge also, so.....no way!
This problem was solved in the typical way of the Dutch PGWS.
The former oldest member was appointed "The Oldest Member" , no, not for life of course, but from here to eternity and because he (the former) was no longer with us, Wim Duk would act as his stand-in. This proposal was accepted by the freshman as well as by the members, even with acclamation.
At once Wim Duk produced the following acceptation of this special function:
As far as I understand The Oldest Member's duties, he-or she-must ruthlessly observe the following Ten Commandments:
-1. Never to move from his, or her, chair on the club terrace.
-2. Always to have a suitable drink at hand.
-3. Never to become a newt-fancier, let alone a teetotaller.
-4. Always to be prepared to offer advice nobody asked for.
-5. Never to say anything which could be used against him, or her.
-6. Always to pretend he, of she, is scratch at golf.
-7. Never to tell the truth, let alone the whole truth.
-8. Always to lend a patient ear to young people in love.
-9. Never to do anything which may be really useful.
10. Always to be ready to tell - and continue to tell - stories, regardless to earthquakes, tornadoes, nuclear explosions or people running away from him, or her, in sheer panic.
This most honorable member of our Society has written 12 chapters (!) about the topic of The Greatest PGW Character starting at the lowest level of creatures and using the technique of elimination. But the story has no happy end yet! We (and even the author himself probably) have not the foggiest who, which or what the Greatest PGW Character will be. More information will be brought forward by this outstanding committee.
Below you will find the complete text as first published in "Nothing Serious", the highly
praised magazine of the Wodehouse Society Netherlands!
Enjoy yourself!
Do you have any comments please use the email address of the PGW.
The greatest PGW character
A brief summary of the report presented to the PGWS by the one-man commission for scientific research
CHAPTER 1
§1. Terms of reference. The commission, established by a decree of forgotten date, consisted of Wim Duk, chairman and sole member. As a result of animated and profound discussions, in which all the members of the commission took part, its report was submitted on February 15th, 1997, in 'Mulliner's Wijnlokaal', General Headquarters of the P.G. Wodehouse Society, situated in the City of Amsterdam. The report, comprising XXVII Volumes with 123 Annexes and 666 Appendixes (a total of approximately 147 000 pages in small print), might be summarized as follows.
By virtue of the terms of reference, adopted by His Majesty, Hubert I, Ruler de iure as well de facto of the said Society, the commission was charged with examining the complicated question:
Who, which or what is the Greatest Character created by the late Sir Pelham Grenville Wodehouse?
The answer(s) to this question had to be based upon the results of scientific and exhaustive research. None of the Master's works ought to be overlooked; no avenue left unexplored. And this is exactly what the learned commission did not fail to do. In accordance with a fundamental rule, laid down by the Master himself, no footnote was allowed to annoy the hypothetical reader in any of the Volumes, Annexes and Appendixes.
§2. Lowest level. The commission thought it highly improbable that - even in the works of Sir Pelham - a really great character might be found below the level of the finny tribe (in the language of laymen: that of the fishes). Therefore, no more than a superficial survey of the world of crabs, shrimps and lobsters, beetles, mosquitos, flies and fleas, spiders, oysters, snails and worms, seemed necessary. As a matter of fact, only one of this creatures gave in a Wodehouse story (but even not an authentic one) evidence of any character at all. This exceptional creature appears in what the commission saw fit to call 'The mystery of the Prawns'.
Headnote (in stead of footnote). The Master never disclosed the secret behind that mystery. Although the Honourable Galahad Threepwood often referred to what he simply called the Story of the Prawns, he refused to tell us that story; such in striking contrast to his ordinary practice. Nonetheless, he made it clear to the meanest intellect what the story was about; viz. about the most discrediting exploit among the numerous semi-criminal acts committed by young Tubby Parsloe in the old Pelican days. Moreover, he proclaimed its inclusion in his own Memoirs. Recently, the fanciful president of our Swedish sister-society has made himself immortal by inventing a brilliant solution to the Mystery of the Prawns. Our commission gratefully adopted his solution.
The creature in question was an oversized shrimp; in fishermen's Latin called a 'prawn'. It demonstrated its character in brave resistance against being swallowed by an individual of a low (if any) moral standing, like Tubby Parsloe. As soon as Tubby picked his prey, the prawn jumped from his fork, and took cover in the brassière of a young lady, sitting next to Tubby. Without even pretending any hesitation, the disfiguring blot on the landscape of British aristocracy immediately tried (in vain) to retrieve the prawn by grasping on, and below, the spot where it had sought shelter. This act of indecent assault was, in his opinion, absolutely justified, because the prawns had cost him a fortune: a penny a piece, or more. He could not afford the loss of any of them, so he protested. To be fair, we must admit that this was not quite unlikely, since the incident occurred in his destitute days: years before he came into the title, and became the pig-snatching bulging baronet, Sir Gregory Parsloe-Parsloe. With due respect, however, for both points of view - viz. the prawn's and Tubby's - we can scarcely, on the basis of the evidence available, jump to the conclusion that the golden medal for the Greatest PGW Character should be awarded to this remarkable outsized shrimp. So much for the lowest level.
§3. Level of coldblooded vertebrates. Now we arrive at the slightly more promising region of the finny tribe. Actually, we found two fishes mentioned individually, and with some real traces of sympathy, in authentic Wodehouse stories (not merely in Swedish counterfeits). But we must face the undeniable fact that the Master was not fond of fish. On various occasions he referred to young men with a face like a fish; a description hardly to be regarded as a compliment. Probably, he shared the hostile attitude, expressed by Psmith (the P is silent) when that versatile young man advertised his services: "Crime not objected to. Provided it has nothing to do with fish."
The first specimen we have in mind is the male codfish "who suddenly found himself the father of a million little cod-fishes, and cheerfully decided to love them all". A good-natured fish, and an excellent father, no doubt. But more than such a praiseworthy decision is needed for admission to the exclusive class of candidates coming under serious consideration for our highest trophy. The other one was already very dead, when he of she (its sex is unknown) drew our scientific attention. It lay on the carpet in Bertie Wooster's bedroom, in company of a score of greedy cats from all parts of Mayfair. When Bertie entered that room, the cats - twenty or more, with one single thought - jumped out of the open window, instantly and simultaneously. The remains of the fish consisted of a wacking big head, an extremely long backbone and a surprisingly large tail. From its head protruded the copula of a cold cyclopic eye, "staring up at me", Bertie tells us, "austerely, as if it required a written explanation and apology".
Undoubtedly a strong character, that fish, when it was alive. However, we are not prepared to spend money on a golden medal to be put on a corpse, let alone a skeleton. We shall climb a step higher in the Animal Kingdom, and look for possible candidates among the coldblooded vertebrates living on dry land in the incomparable Wodehouse world. One of them is known to us by his Christian name: Cuthbert; a snake of unknown species, slimy and wriggling. Cuthbert was, we regret to say, a promiscuous animal. He used to creep, or sneak, between sheets of several people, regardless of age and sex. From this recorded fact we may deduce that Cuthbert never committed an act of discrimination, as defined in our Penal Code. Apart from that virtue, little has been revealed about his character. No reliable source confirms his following the example of his colleague, who addressed and seduced Eve in the Garden of Eden. On the contrary, Cuthbert never spoke either a true or a false word. He confined himself to frequent rapid movements with his long elastic twin-tongues in all directions, and an occasional hissing. Even if this disturbing noise expressed nothing but friendly feelings, we do not feel free to recommend Cuthbert for a medal, albeit only a bronze one. By lack of any other serious candidate in the realm of our coldblooded dumb friends, we ascend now to the warmblooded ones; at first to the birds.
CHAPTER 2
In our previous issue, we published a brief summary of the introductory part of a report (informally called 'the Duk papers') dealing with the enigmatic question: 'Who, which or what is the Greatest Character created by the late Sir Pelham Grenville Wodehouse?' Candidates were found among the prawns, the fishes and the snakes; but none of them succeeded in qualifying. Their arguments could not convince us, whatever merits they might boast or brag of. For the real thing we had to ascend to a higher level in the Animal Kingdom. This step we shall take now.
§4. Level of Avifauna. Scrutinizing Sir Pelham's works, one meet many interesting birds. Since we are proceeding in a strictly scientific way, we wish to define, first of all, what is to be understood by the technical term 'bird'. Only warmblooded feathered creatures, having wings in stead of arms, a beak fulfilling the function of lips and hands, and no nose to speak of, are covered by that term. Thus we get rid of the vast majority of Bertie Wooster's friends and foes on whom he bestowed the courtesy title of 'bird'. This holds out, even though we - in order to avoid the exclusion of all male birds - do not insist on the ability of laying eggs.
Needless to say why mastership in the art of flying must not be required. Such a rash and unreasonable restriction would put all chickens (even those with Love among them) in a very doubtful position. Moreover, it would certainly rule out whole legions of lovely staggerers and seasoned swimmers, like the penguins, along with rapid runners, like the ostriches and casuaries. Worst of all: the large Australian bird of three letters, beginning with E, that tested the intellect of ever so many Wodehousian crossword-addicts, and drove most of them mad, would find itself unable to qualify. We shall never impose arbitrary rules, requiring all birds to float through the air with the greatest of ease, like the daring young man on the flying trapeze.
In this brief summary, we cannot do more than touch upon a very small portion of the numerous birds thoroughly examined in the full report. However, we shall alleviate your feelings of fustration by revealing the final results: After prolonged and sometimes heated discussions in the bosom of our one-man-commission, no bird was deemed worthy of the golden medal for the Greatest PGW Character. But three of them got a well-deserved 'honourable mention'; viz. in alphabetical order: (1) a bullfinch; (2) a taciturn parrot; (3) a vociferant one.
Ad 1. You know, of course, the bullfinch. It was owned by Lord Emsworth's portly butler, Sebastian Beach, "a dignified procession of one" (the butler; not the bullfinch). That bird used to mourn in brooding silence as long as Beach was away from his pantry; but as soon as it heard the elephantic footsteps of his beloved master, it "burst out in liquid song". However, if you suppose this touching feature to constitute sufficient grounds for awarding a honourable mention, you underrate the high standards upheld by our commission.
The bullfinch's policy in matters of silence and song was, indeed, duly taken into account, and booked as an asset; but the decisive factor for its being honourably mentioned was found in its remarkable talent for spying. By the way: great characters have little, if anything, in common with good characters. Regarded from a moralist's point of view, the bird was a total loss; or, as Bertie Wooster would put it, a wash-out. No honest man will appreciate a spy gathering information for the benefit of the Powers of Darkness, like that sinister baronet, Sir Gregory Parsloe-Parsloe. Such a spy was the bullfinch. Knowing this, Beach put a carpet or cloth over the bird's cage, obviously so as to prevent its overhearing the conversation, whenever the resourceful Honorable Galahad, visiting his pantry, called all good men to come to the aid of the Party; more precisely: to attend a conference in re Empress of Blandings, in connection with the Parsloe menace.
Ad 2. To refresh your memory: the taciturn parrot had its toenails clipped by Lord Ickenham on one of the many occasions when that Peer of the Realm operated succesfully as an impostor. You don't see the point? Use your brains, such as they are. In none of the Master's works, you will find any scrap of evidence suggesting that this parrot was an idiot, unable to distinguish an amateur clipper from a professional. Nevertheless, the bird did not protest when His Lordship - an amateur; even a beginner, lacking all desirable previous practice - started to steer the clipping scissors.
Now you might argue that Lord Ickenham was a genius, who could deceive any parrot gifted with no more than ordinary intellectual powers. But such a theory cannot satisfy serious scientific thinkers. Although not every member of our commission has got the status of an ornithological specialist, we are well aware of the abysmal difference between the modus operandi of amateurs (geniuses included) and that of professionals in the clipping business. Only one explanation is tenable in face of the established facts: The parrot, looking at the noble impostor, recognized instinctively a kind and kindred soul, spreading sweetness and light. He (or she) wished to save that soul, in stead of betraying it. For this reason, awarding a honourable mention was fair and logical.
Ad 3. The vociferant parrot started its career in a Wodehouse story as a Voice from the Tomb. You remember the young man who - for reasons much too complicated to be pointed out in this brief summary - committed the felony of breaking and entering, 'thereby' ( a police report would state officially) 'effecting an entry into a private dwelling', from where the residents were absent; at least, so he thought. Incompatible, however, with this optimistic hypothesis seemed to him the question, put in a sharp and rasping voice, and echoing in the dark hall where he stayed illegaly: 'Who's there?!'
This embarrassing - and unanswered - question was repeated a couple of times. But then the Voice, "changing the subject", suggested: 'Have a nut'; by that turn of phrase revealing itself as a parrot with some sense of humour. Since manifestations of humour should be encouraged, in particular among parrots, policemen and politicians, we had no scruples to overcome for awarding the vociferant parrot a honourable mention.
And now we shall enter the immense Wodehouse world of creatures generally classified still higher than those at the level of avifauna. But wait a minute; or , rather, until Nothing Serious' next issue, whenever that may appear.
CHAPTER 3
We summarize a report (the 'Duk Papers') dealing with the question: 'Who, which or what is the Greatest Character created by the late Sir Pelham Grenville Wodehouse?' If you skipped our previous instalments, you missed a lot of useful information about a fugitive prawn, a fertile codfish, a fishy skeleton, a promiscuous snake, a spying bullfinch, a taciturn parrot and a vociferant one. True, none of those creatures (even not the skeleton) was deemed worthy of the golden medal for the greatest PGW character. The possibilities of detecting likely candidates accumulate, however, as we shall now ascend to the highest level in the Animal Kingdom.
§5. Level of mammals. Some mammals ar human, or almost-human, whereas others are not. For the moment, we may neglect the sophisticated distinction between 'human'and 'almost-human'. Even so, we have to sort out the genuine animals, without offending any of them by classifying him or her as (almost) human. Our commission for scientific research spent several months on this intricate problem.
Finally, it found an elegant solution: You must be an animal if either (1) you are not deaf, and yet unable to recognize Bertie Wooster's singing in the bathroom as his murdering Sunny Boy, or (2) you are deaf, but not blind, and yet incapable of pointing out why the odds are a hundred to one (and no takers) against Oofy Prosser's winning a male beauty contest. In the unfortunate case of your being blind as well as deaf, the decision must depend on your ability, or lack of ability, to distinguish a soufflé prepared by Anatole ("God's gift to the gastric juices") from a broken egg.
Now we know where we are. But in trying to survey the multitude of Wodehousian mammals, you get lost. Unless guided by a superior intellect (like ours; if we may humbly say so), you cannot make a choice. All monkeys, donkeys, dogs, pigs, and other mammals, conjured up before our dazzled eyes in one or more of the Master's works, are of absorbing interest. Each of them is surely a Great Character. How could you tell which of them must be the greatest one? What scientific methods would you apply for weighing the merits of a sow in the shape of a captive balloon, as against those of an Aberdeen terrier capable of stunning a strong and resourceful man like Jeeves?
For the application of advanced methods in solving our perplexing problem, you'd better trust the learned commission. Its members are by no means prone to the ridiculous errors of laymen. If, for instance, you think that some pekinese should, at the very least, be honourably mentioned, you are wrong. The commission ruthlessly disqualified all little canine Chinamen appearing huffily in a Wodehouse story. Obvious reasons motivated this disqualification: Sir Pelham did not create the pekinese; he copied them after the numerous haughty and naughty exhibits which raised hell in his own kennel. Besides, our commission agrees with the opinion held by every respectable dog: Those yapping, yelping miniatures ought to be regarded as rugs that do not know their proper place; rather than a real animals.
Two decent dogs received, indeed, an honourable mention: a mongrel and a terrier. The mongrel's pedigree was, naturally, not quite up to standard. By calling his mother frivolous, one uses an understatement; she had not the faintest idea about the identity of the mongrel's father. "You've a score of fathers", she used to bark, whenever the mongrel saw fit to pester her with futile questions on this taboo topic. She did not even bother to give him a Christian name (nor, for that matter, a pagan one); but he is generally known by his nick-name: 'The Mixer'.
The shortness of blue blood in The Mixer's sturdy veins did not cause an inferiority complex in his truly sound mind. He had outstanding social talents ( hence his nickname), which he demonstrated not only in the company of his colleagues, but also among human beings. Above all, he was a great philosopher. He did not grudge pedigree dogs their alleged beauty and lofty social standing. On the contrary, he pitied them: "You know how those prize-ribbon dogs are. Their heads are so swelled; they have to go into their kennels backwards". If such wisdom does not justify a honourable mention, we are curious to know what kind of justification might be adequate.
The terrier, on the other hand, could show an immaculate pedigree. His fierce Caledonian looks were in perfect harmony with the grey City of Aberdeen, where his glorious ancestors came from. Although handicapped by a dense curtain of woolly hairs, hanging in front of his eyes, he chased - just by looking through a gap in that curtain - not only Bertie Wooster, but even Jeeves to the top of a cupboard. Then this formidable dog (called Bartholomew) stood motionless on his owner's bed, from which foothold he inspected both his prisoners grimly, like an uncompromising Scottisch presbyter spotting sin. For the benefit of uninitiated novices in the PGW universe, we may observe that Bartholomew belonged to Roberta Wickham; a very charming girl with ominous red hairs and highly explosive schemes: a ticking bom in disguise. Bertie and his nominal valet - actually his mentor, if not his master - had invaded her bedroom in search of an important document; though Jeeves was sceptical from the outset. He suspected - correctly, of course - that she was much too clever to hide such a valuable thing in her room, in stead of simply keeping it on her person, next to her spotless skin. (Needless to add that she had got hold of the document by means of a knavish trick). Any dog that can outmarshal Jeeves, and keep him in durance vile until his humiliating rescue by young Roberta, is worthy of a very honourable mention. Compare the dog Bartholomew to the furious swan that chased a pompous Cabinet Minister, along with Bertie Wooster, to the slippery roof of a summerhouse; where, in a persisting rainstorm, they had to await further developments. Spreading a dextrously manipulated raincoat over its telescoping neck was the simple ruse Jeeves applied to put that swan out of action. Now you will understand why this silly bird got no mention at all when we were looking at the level of avifauna.
In the commission's report, about 500 mammals, created by the Master, got an entry varying from 10 to 10000 words. But the merits of the Empress of Blandings could not be exposed in less than 200000 (about 400 pages). "Scarcely sufficient", Lord Emsworth would have remarked, if he had been acquainted with the long word 'sufficient'. We, however, are compelled to surpass even that regrettable brevity.
So we must skip a lot of horses; even the countless noble mares and stallions Bingo Little put his borrowed money on. Bingo was reduced to sticking a long Assyrian beard to his cheeks and chin, so as to escape his creditors, whenever he had omitted to consult Jeeves. This well-informed authority could have told him that his favourite horse would get mixed up in the next race, because its stable was unsound, or its jockey corrupt to a more than usual extent.
Only a few reverent words about the Empress will be added to our comments on PGW mammals. Winning, three times in succession, the silver medal for the fattest pig in Shropshire and neighbouring counties, is a feat you will find very hard to imitate; whatever your weight may be. But the commission's exacting standards require additional merits for piling gold upon porcine silver. Might the wise and sober words, allegedly spoken by the Empress herself on the occasion of her third triumph, be put on the scales to her advantage?
Unfortunately, they may not. Our commission denounced those words as apocryphal. They are nothing but pure fiction - a poetic license, so an indulgent critic might say - made up by a lyrical local reporter. Let us, then, postpone judgment. The Empress is indissolubly connected with Lord Emsworth. So we shall come back to her when that dreamy Peer appears on our agenda.
But many male and female characters precede, even in our brief summary, the noble victim of severe sisterly suppression. Be patient, my dear friends.
CHAPTER 4
Looking for the Greatest Character created by the late Sir Pelham Grenville Wodehouse, one should never neglect the Animal Kingdom. After all, many of our dumb friends (Mr. Olivier B. Bommel, the Cheshire Cat, Moby Dick, Mo-ther-the-Goose, Winnie-the-Pooh, to name only a few) got considerable fame. No wonder, then, that our learned commission, exploring thoroughly the Master's works so as to discover his Greatest Character, started with an examination of the mass of Wodehousian animals. The commission's scientific findings and considerations in the realm of Fauna have been summarized in the previous instalments of this treatise. If you skipped those instalments, you did so on your own risk. Now we shall look at the various levels of human beings; ladies first, of course.
§6. Level of ladies. Reluctant to leave the Animal Kingdom, our commission selected, as the first human characters to be examined, two ladies one might easily confuse with some specimen of Fauna. Connoisseurs will now immediately come to think of Bertie Wooster's forbidding Aunt Agatha. That Iron Lady is, indeed, closely related to birds of prey; more precisely: to the vultures. She mastered the art of killing rats with her bare teeth. In case of a scarcity of rats, she can even survive on a diet of broken bottles. Rumour has it that barbed wire was used to fortify her skin. On none of these points, any vulture would venture to compete with her.
Nihil humani a nobis alienum - no human feature has been denied to us - the commission confessed when it refused, from sheer sympathy with Bertie, to award Aunt Agatha the honourable mention she undoubtedly deserves. However, no excuse was found for grudging that honour in the case of Lady Julia, the other one of the two first examined human beings. Her special link with the fauna consists in fact of nothing more than her husband's family name: Fish. Since her maiden name is Julia Threepwood, she is not in a position to deny that the honourable Galahad can, if he wishes (which he does not) boast of being her very own brother. So can, for that matter, Clarence, ninth Earl of Emsworth; at least when that absentminded Peer remembers - or, rather, is compellingly reminded of - her sisterly existence.
The reasons for Lady Julia's claim on being honourable mentioned need no detailed elucidation. Everybody knows how well she came out of the intellectual struggle with Lord Tilbury, the man who makes even the sun shut up, whenever that heavenly body dares to penetrate his office without due appointment. The queenly beautiful Lady Julia rushed in where angels fear to tread, when she claimed for her young (Ronald, the last of the Fishes) a job in Lord Tilbury's vast publishing empire. In a quiet off-hand way, she inflicted a fine series of direct verbal hits, thereby putting the stunned tycoon metaphorically on the floor - knocked down and out - where he got no shadow of a chance to organize his defence.
Among her numerous sisters, Lady Constance - relict of the late Colonel Joe Keeble; but now the loving spouse of the living multimillionaire James Schoonmaker - surely excels. Though we can scarcely sympathize with her views on top hats, sows (Lady Constance is unsound on pigs), friendly relations with neighbours like Sir Gregory ( the bulging baronet who, in happier days, could not afford the loss of a single prawn), the Efficient Baxter (whom she likes!), hospitality (to be offered to all members of the upperclass, millionaires and fashionable poets, but never to Galahad's relations) - yet we appreciate her majestic qualities. In particular, we applaud her recommending, in a long telephonic monologue to Sir Gregory, the daily consumption of Slimm-O; a wholesome potion, by preference to be purchased in bottles of the Large Economy Size.
As it turned out, a tremendous quantity of this slimming medicine was swallowed by the champion sow - 'Queen of Matchingham' - which Sir Gregory (notorious for his scorn of Ethical Codes) had stealthily imported from Kent. That colossal pig's fatal greediness paved the way for the Empress of Blandings, who steadily and stubbornly prepared her world-famous Third Victory. Having thus, through her recommendation to the fat pig-breeding baronet, promoted the lawful interests of the Blandings sow, Lady Contance is certainly worthy of the honourable mention our commission was happy to bestow on her.In a concurring opinion, a member of the one-man-commission pointed out that there are more reasons for mentioning Lady Constance honourably. He referred to the occasion when Her Ladyship could not resist the temptation offered by Beach (who happened to stoop at that moment) to point an airgun at the bulging butler's bottom. True, she missed, from a short distance, her enormous target; but her intention was endearing. (Her failure caused causic comment from her brother Clarence, who - using the same airgun - hit the lean Baxter's buttocks more than once splendidly, from a long distance.)
However, a quite different woman clearly heads the field of ladylike candidates for our golden medal: Aunt Dahlia.That robust lady - happily married to Uncle Tom Travers, proud owner of the ugliest cowcreamer ever produced - has been copied in a Dutch parliamentary undersecretary. It is tempting to compare the many merits these two ladies might boast of, but we must confine ourselves her to a minuscule portion of what Bertie Wooster has told us about Aunt Dahlia, his favourite - though somewhat ruthless - relative.
We are well acquainted with Mrs. Travers' vocal force. Her voice was trained in her fox-hunting days, when she rebuked ill-advised hounds which chose to chase rabbits. It is generally known that she can "call the cattle home over the sand of Dee". So we can imagine Bertie's agony whenever Aunt Dahlia calls him by telephone at the gastly hour of 10 A.M. She usually opens the conversation with the roaring and insinuating question: "Are you sober?!".Only one reply to this question is adequate. Bertie, so it seems, never found it. Our commission learned that reply from Dorothy Sayers (in Busman's Honeymoon). According to her, Lord Peter Wimsey put the same question, at about the same hour (violating Aunt Dahlia's copyright), to a reporter from The Times. That journalist replied immediately, and to the point: "Unfortunately, yes!" It is, by the way, amazing how easily you can knock out a pompous person by surprising him or her with Aunt Dahlia's question. Cabinet ministers, members of Parliament, presentators of TV talk shows and other menaces to the public welfare give rarely evidence of an amusing presence of mind. Just try those tiresome fellows out, whenever you get the opportunity.
We merely mention in passing Aunt Dahlia's inspired decision to attach Anatole, a cook of genius, to her domestic staff, and her readiness to double his wages ( paid by her parsimonious husband) any time this temperamental Frenchman finds a pretext for giving notice. In this brief summary, only one of her countless other virtues can be brought to your attention. We now think of her publishing Milady's Boudoir; an unprofitable magazine, demurringly financed by Uncle Tom. In her capacity as editor, she offered Bertie ample space in that periodical for pointing out his advanced views in What the well-dressed man is wearing. If you do not perceive the far-reaching consequences of her editorial forethought, just peep at our last instalment (as soon as that will be published).
It stands to reason that there can be no question of putting Aunt Dahlia off with a mere honourable mention. She belongs surely to the sublime set of serious candidates for the highest honour we may offer.So one must do in her case what was done in that of the Empress: postpone judgment until all other members of that set have been evaluated.
No middle-aged or elderly lady, created by the Master, has got solid grounds for fostering any hope to be put on an equal footing wiht Mrs. Dahlia Travers, née Wooster. Indeed, only one of Esmond Haddock's platoon of aunts - Dame Daphne Winkworth, the poetess who wrote the first (crude) version of A-hunting we will go - came as far as being honourably mentioned by our critical commission. But we still have to face the band, troop or horde of Wodehousian girls. Now doubt you will acknowledge the necessity of two separate instalments for the difficulties involved in judging those extremely diverging female characters.So long, my friends!
CHAPTER 5
This is the fifth instalment of the summarized Duk Papers. If even now you do not yet know what those papers are about, you'd better have your head examined. Sir Roderick Glossop might be able - and, for a proper fee, ready - to cure you. Anyhow, we can hardly go as far as repeating, just for your benefit, the portions of the summary which have been published in our preceding instalments. So we shall simply continue our learned comments on the eternal question: Who, which or what is the Greatest Character created by the late Sir Pelham Grenville Wodehouse? Candidates were discovered in various regions of the Animal Kingdom, as well as among (more or less) ladylike human beings. Having finished our brief survey of the level of ladies, we now descend to:
§ 7. Level of girls. Like the word 'bird' in our second instalment, the term 'girl' is used in a strictly scientific sense.
No female member of the aristocracy will be called a girl, unless she is unmarried, untitled and well under the age of forty. (Otherwise she is, naturally, a 'lady'.) However, all women not belonging to the aristocratic upperclass are - by definition - 'girls'. Rather confusing for laymen, perhaps; but such is science.
A casual observer might, on the level of girls, perceive no more than five species. Listed in alphabetical order, these species are: (1) the ambitionists (or 'career-girls'), recognizable by horn-rimmed spectacles and an aversion from small talk; (2) the attractionists, very conspicuous, but virtually invisible when crowded - as at most time they are - by male admirers; (3) the educationists, forever endeavouring to improve you, and urging you to read books one would not touch with a ten-feet pole; (4) the sentimentalists, loving moonlight as well as other romantic phenomena, and continually babbling baby talk; (5) the sportivists, carrying hockey-sticks, tennis-rackets or similar instruments, and showing muscular limbs. Since all members of or one-man-commission are male, they might be - we must confess - a trifle biased in favour of the second species.
But that fivefold classification is clearly far from complete. Let us, for instance, consider the Wodehousian barmaids. We can scarcely squeeze the into any of those five species. Even as far as they are ambitious (aspiring to run their own bars, or to be selected for film or TV), they do not scorn small talk, and they seldom wear hornrimmed spectacles. If you classify them all as attractionists, you forget the features making them a separate species. Barmaids excel in serving drinks to the thirsty. In this respect, they differ strikingly from the run-of-the-mill attractionists. Moreover, they are patient listeners, always ready to pay attention to the confessions, lies, dreams, nightmares and crazy opinions, inflicted on them by their clients. Now you will understand why our commission mentioned two outstanding representatives of the British barmaid-trade honourably and respectfully: Miss Postlethwaite, chastely serving behind the bar in the Angler's Rest, along with Maudie Stubbs, née Beach, who in her youth adorned the Criterion.Fourth middlenote. No; the commission did not forget that Maudie - relict of the late Mr. Stubbs, private detective - in riper years consented to marry as yet Sir Gregory, of all people.Technically, she is now Lady Parsloe-Parsloe (and that fat baronet has to address Beach, the butler, as his 'Uncle Sebastian'). It was, however, deemed fair and befitting to cover all this with the cloak of charity.
Our space and time are regrettably limited. So we can not stop and stare at fascinating species - overlooked by superficial observers - like those of chorus-girls and parlourmaids. (As the Honourable Freddie Threepwood expertly pointed out, you unmask a female detective trying to pass as a parlourmaid, by simply looking under your bed. If that part of the floor has been swept, you may be sure she is a detective.) However, neglecting all female Wodehousian film-stars - likewise a separate species - would be an intolerable omission.
Now we may remind you of Honoria Burwash. If we did not recoil from offending pigs, we would say: What the Empress of Blandings is in the midst of the sows, is Honoria ('the Empress of Molten Passion') among the film-actresses. She might, perhaps, have imitated that prize pig's ample lines, if cunning Hollywoodian lawyers had not prevented such a development by inserting rigid and ruthless weight-clauses in her contract. Those clauses prescribed a diet consisting merely of orange juice. No meat, no bread, no alcohol; nothing but the juice from pressed oranges.
Honoria did not enjoy this diet. After a fortnight in which the sole item on her menu had been that bright soft drink, she ran amok. Like a roaring and devouring tigress, she leapt to Mr. Jacob Schnellenhammer's private office (a firmly defended sanctuary), sowing panic on her terrible way. Even the most ferocious tigress was outdone when she came along the props shed, where a glittering Roman sword drew her furious attention. She stopped, just for a split second, and then continued her crusade with unsheathed sword. Sirens blew; a signal causing all senior and junior yesmen, vice-yesmen, nodders, vice-nodders and lower underlings, employed in the stricken film company, to take cover at a safe place. (Their Commander-in-Chief - Mr. J.S. Himself - found asylum in a cupboard.)
You know the outcome: In the tycoon's sanctuary, Honoria was brutally tamed by a young man suffering from the same diet; in his case a medical in stead of a legal prescription. But what shall we do with that Superdiva? Our commission, afraid of her vindictive sword, and preferring life and health to heroic death, proposed to appease her by means of a silver medal (embellished with a coloured picture of an orange) for The Greatest PGW Motion Picture Female Character.Fifth middlenote. In a dissenting opinion, a member of the one-man-commission argued that such a medal should rather be awarded to Minna Nordstrom, whose mastership in the art of blackmailing film tycoons he admired. His colleagues raised the futile objection that the Federal Law prohibiting the sale and purchase of alcoholic liquor - ignored by the blackmailed tycoons - has been abolished. However, they had to admit that Mr. Schnellenhammer might very well find fresh reasons for his indignant protest (uttered when Minna threatened to call the police): There is something rotten in the United States "if a free-born American cannot bribe the police of his own country".
Whatever ends or goals the ambitionists may pursue, certainly not the qualifications required for winning our golden medal. So we'd better save space and time by skipping the bossy females who, in a secretarial or similar capacity, harass virtually defenceless people like the ninth Earl of Emsworth. (But we cannot avoid dealing briefly with one of them, when we have to examine Lord Tilbury's stratagems, in connection with the schemes of his ambitious ex-secretary, Lavender Briggs.)
Slightly more promising, regarded from our point of view, are the sentimentalists. Who would dare to deny that the neck wreathed by the daisy chain for the Perfect Sentimentalist, is the neck of Madeline Bassett? As she is saddled with a father (Sir Watkyn) in the shape of a magistrate who would, if he could, condemn every prisoner-at-the-bar to the gallows; with a little brother far below the modest rank of almost-human; with a teetotalling newt-fancier and a Black Shorts Dictator as her subsequent fiancés - we can, in view of these awful impediments, hardly blame her for her very eccentric ideas about stars, fairies and Bertie Wooster. Mercy, that "droppeth like the gentle rain from Heaven upon the Earth beneath" (if we may aptly quote Shakespeare and Jeeves), caused our soft-hearted commission to mention this Bassett girl honourably. (She is, to be sure, rather handsome.)
Postponing our comments on attractionists and sportivists, we shrink from touching the educationists. Honoria Glossop, the acknowledged Champion Educationist - not to be confused with the other Honoria, the sword-swinging hungry tigress - could by no means strain the Quality of Mercy from the shuddering commission. True, her father (Sir Roderick, the famous loony-doctor) is at his worst moments scarcely any better than the Bassett beak. But he does not provide his highbrow daughter with an excuse for her perverse sense of humour, that makes her bursts of laughter sound like the Scottish Express going through a tunnel. Old Roderick, you know, has really attractive sides, as we shall prove in a later instalment.
Thanks for your attention, my friends. The attractionists and sportivists will be examined next time.