The Duk Papers
part 2
CHAPTER 6
In our brief summary of the report submitted by the commission for scientific research (the 'Duk Papers'), two instalments appeared necessary for dealing with Wodehousian girls. They are rather numerous, you know, and we wish to treat all of them fairly; even those who would not recognize fairness if it were presented to them on a silver saucer, with watercress around it. After all, the PGWS has got a worldwide reputation for fairness and chivalry. Now we shall resume our quest, so as to find the Greatest Character created by the late Sir Pelham Grenville Wodehouse.
§ 8. Level of supergirls (= attractionists + sportivists). Laymen, perceiving that we label sportivists as 'supergirls', may be surprised. They can hardly believe that a girl ought to be called 'super' for no other reason than her carrying a tennis-racket or hockey-stick, and showing sturdy muscles. However, in a scientific terminology, the prefix 'super' does not express any admiration. That prefix has, indeed, virtually no meaning at all. Therefore, advanced scientists, like the members of our one-man-commission, see no harm in calling every sportivist a 'supergirl'. (The use of this label for attractionists will - we trust - meet no objections from laymen). Since Sir Pelham was pretty good in boxing and in cricket (as regards golf, his scorn of sixteen-handicap-men points to self-mockery), we might assume that he was in midseason form when he created sportivists. Be that as it may, fact is that only one sportivist managed to get an honourable mention. If you suppose this girl's name to be Gloria Salt, you are perfectly right. We all know her famous protest: Marrying a man as fat as Sir Gregory - to whom she was for a short time engaged - would amount to bigamy. Although no competent lawyer will sustain that protest (apart from his chins, the man had not yet really duplicated himself), the commission enjoyed it.
Her gorgeous outer crust caused not merely a fathead like Sir Gregory Parsloe-Parsloe, but even Orlo, Lord Vosper, to fall for her like a ton of bricks. The latter is surely a man who can pick and choose at will; a tennisplayer hitting the ball expertly at Wimbledon (Centre Court) and similar places. Moreover, his skilled tenor voice enabled him to sing sad love songs in a heart-breaking manner, when he mourned at the piano over his broken engagement with Gloria. It was broken - as you may remember - because of his 'poaching' (trespassing) when they were partners in mixed double. After having thrown her ring at his feet, if not to his well-chiselled head, Gloria rashly accepted Sir Gregory's soon regretted proposal. But immediately after her Parsloe-escapade, she and Orlo were happily engaged afresh. All's well that ends well.
Gloria's glorious looks would have ranged her absolutely in the attractionists class, if she had been nice. However, only a very partial biographer might use that epitheton in describing her character. A nice girl would never have wounded pride carry her away to such an extent as to break her engagement. On the contrary, she would have appreciated her bethrothed's chasing the ball on her own part of the lawn (or gravel) in order to prevent the disastrous defeat he foresaw on her off-day. She might even have gone as far as forcing herself to a dazzling smile, expressing love and admiration. But taking such trouble is far from Gloria Salt's policy.Sixt middle note. Speaking of nice girls, we certainly do not mean: good girls. If this subtle distinction is beyond the scope of your comprehension, we refer to what has been said about the spying bullfinch in our second instalment. To put is roughly: a nice girl you can have fun with.
Let us now look at the attractionists.For your convenience, we shall put those of them who may be regarded as more or less likely candidates for our golden medal, in alphabetical order. Doing so, we must eliminate all barmaids, chorus-girls, film-stars and parlourmaids, because they belong to separate species, different from that of the attractionists. This means that our alphabetical list cannot include April June, for that twofold Girl-of-the-Month appeared regularly on cinema-screens all over the world. (het kidkicking and kidnapping exploits have been depicted in Laughing Gas.) We deeply regret that the same scientific consideration obliges us to omit even a smashing chorus-girl like Sue Brown, as well as a superb parlourmaid like Elsie Bean.
Here follows the short list you were waiting for: (1) Penny Donaldson; (2) Eve Halliday; (3) Sally Painter; (4) Dr. Sally Smith; (5) Roberta Wickham. No doubt, some people will be disappointed when they look at this list. Many beautiful girls have, indeed, been left out. To name only one: Veronica Wedge, "lovely as a rose, dumb as a peahen". In reply to critics we say: Duly motivated amendments are welcome, but a total of 5 (we repeat: five), in stead of the sky, is the limit for this brief summary.
...Ad 1. Penny (short for Penelope) Donaldson is the younger daughter of an American manufacturer of dog biscuits. She and Jerry Vail, that amiable English writer of thrillers, crossing the Atlantic on the same ship, immediately fell in love. Who would mind that Jerry was penniless? Well, Lady Constance did. She was in a strong position to prevent a union that, in her opinion, would not suit the Donaldson family's social standing and financial interests. (Penny's multi-millionaire father had requested Her Ladyship to watch over his daughter's well-being as long as that girl stayed in England.)
Lady Constance selected Orlo, Lord Vosper, as Mr. Donaldson's future son-in-law. With a view to realizing her project, she imprisoned Penny at Blandings Castle. But you know the story. So we need not inform you about Penny's initiative and perseverance, befitting a Princess in a Dog Biscuit Empire. Aided and abetted by the resourceful Galahad, Jerry got the money he needed, and Penny became in due course Mrs. Vail. (Lord Emsworth approved, for she is sound on pigs.) Nobody will grudge that jewel of Anglo-American womanhood the honouralble mention our commission justly awarded her.
...Ad 2. Eve Halliday is the maiden name of Mrs. Psmith. (The P remains for ever silent). Perfect taste and sublime frivolity moved her to spend her very last money on the most magnificent and expensive hat ever created by a Hatter of Genius. There were no shillings left for an umbrella that could protect the hat against the showers of rain wetting the Westend of London. By 'borrowing', without its owner's knowledge, the only immaculate umbrella he could find at his club, Psmith enabled himself to be of assistance to Eve. (He did not yet know her then, but he fell in love at first sight.) We shall meet honourable mentioned Eve again, when we are going to examine the eternally young man who has been now for many decades her happy husband.
...Ad 3. Sally Painter got a double honourable mention from our law-scorning commission for two criminal acts. True, the first one failed, the commission regretted to report, because her insipid betrothed, Pongo Twistleton-Twistleton, refused to obey her. (She had ordered him to smuggle jewelry into the United States under the suspicious eyes of custom officials, looking for smugglers, and chewing gum, at the Waterfront in New York City.) But the second one was a splendid success: She pushed the uniformed local constable into the greenish depth of a duck pond.
This act of revenge taught the zealous officer that he should not have arrested Lord Ickenham, let alone His Lordship's totally innocent nephew Pongo (the same as above), for something trivial on that memorable day of the dog-races. The late Aeschylos, Sophocles and Euripides would have applauded the cop's being pushed as a righteous intervention from the Olympic gods. But Sir Aylmer Bostock, that notorious Justice of the Peace, deemed thirty-days-without-the-option-of-a-fine adequate; for Sally as well as for Pongo.
...Ad 4. Dr. Sally Smith was an American M.D., practising in a London hospital. As soon as a series of complicated obstacles had been cleared, she married Bill Bannister, and moved with him to his farm in rural Britain (Woollam Chersey, if you wish to visit her). For two considerable merits she has been honourably mentioned. (1) The Master himself deemed this pretty golf player (handicap 6) worthy of becoming the principal character of a whole novel (Doctor Sally). (2) Neither the slightest trace of a foreign accent, nor any oddity in her behaviour betrays her Central- European origin. To tell you the truth: Sir Pelham did not really create her; she is the skilfully adapted and recreated character from a Hungarian play.
...Ad 5. We met Roberta ('Bobbie') Wickham already in connection with an Aberdeen terrier. She is a girl who can surely no more than Bertie Wooster's Aunt Dahlia be put off with a condescending honourable mention; albeit a double or a triple one. Here we have an extremely dangerous rival for every runner-up in the race for our Golden Medal. We may be sure that the Master was fond of her, and so are all of us. Her numerous contributions to the liveliness and madness of the PGW universe are intertwined with Bertie Wooster's and Mr. Mulliner's adventures. So we shall meet Bobbie again, and applaud her explosive schemes and subtle tricks, when those two gentlemen will be examined. Her high place on our Final List of Honours can then be definitely fixed.See you later, my friends, for an inspection of male human characters.
CHAPTER 7
Three instalments of this brief summary appeared necessary for surveying the mass of Wodehousian animals, and another three for inspecting the PGW female human world. Now we still have to look at the male human characters. As soon as we have finished that job, we can try to answer the question apt to break all Plumaddict brains: Who, which or what is the greatest Character created by the late Sir Pelham Grenville Wodehouse? This question may seem unanswerable, but the PGWS one-man-commission for scientific research did not recoil from tackling it. Neither do we.
§ 9. Level of lesser man. As we distinguish ladies, girls and supergirls, you might suppose that the male levels are those of lords, boys and superboys. This, however, would be a typical layman's error. Among Wodehousian boys, one may find a few almost-human creatures, but none of them is, really and unquestionably, in the full sense of that solemn word: human. We shall follow the distinction made by our learned commission: Lords, Young Men and Lesser Men. Stretching a point, the commission ranged all boys in a human class; albeit the lowest one. Not keen on digging out this inferior level, it put that job off to the very last volumes of this report. We, on the other hand, wish to dispose as quickly as possible of whatever may be found on the lowest human level. That's why in our summary, lesser men get precedence; not only to young men, but even to lords.
If you object that a man can be, at the same time, young as well as lordly or lesser, you are mistaken. It is impossible for lords and lesser men to enjoy the privileges of young men. We shall try to explain this scientific truth in three steps: (1) Male creatures (apart from genuine animals) under the age of eighteen are, by definition, lesser men. (2) Young men - viz. those who are still under forty; the age at which, as you must know, Life begins - can neither be noble, nor lesser. (3) As soon as a man reaches the age of forty, he has to make a choice: either becoming noble, or going back to lesser. And now, please, stop raising stupid objections.
In our previous instalments, we met already five lesser men. Putting them in alphabetical order, we remind you of Sir Watkyn Basset ( the sentimentalist Madeline's gruesome father), Sebastian Beach ( the butler with the bullfinch), Sir Aylmer Bostock (the beak who had Sally Painter and Pongo Twistleton-Twistleton locked up for thirty-days-without-the-option), Sir Roderick Glossop (the expensive loony doctor) and Sir Gregory Parsloe-Parsloe (the fat pig-breeding baronet). Now you will see that a man may be lesser, but nevertheless a not quite unlikely candidate for our Gold Medal.Seventh whatever note. How about the Honourable Galahad? In his late fifties, we can hardly put him on the level of young men. But calling him a lesser man would be obviously absurd. There is only one solution: we must range him with the lords. After all, his father was a Peer of the Realm, and his brother Clarence, though often looking like a mixture of a pigman and a tramp, inherited that noble rank.
As to Reginald Jeeves, we do not see any difficulty. It goes without saying that calling him 'lesser' would amount to sacrilege. Since he is invariably young (unshakable somewhere in his thirties) we find him on a lofty spot among Sir Pelham's young men. Does he, in the superior set of serious candidates for the Golden Medal, find himself at the very top, or just near it? That is the question; the only question regarding Jeeves.We counted exactly one thousand nine hundred and eighty nine lesser men, playing some part in one or more of Sir Pelham's works. All of them are meticulously examined in our report. Though readers of the illustrious unperiodical 'Nothing Serious' have got a worldwide reputation for patience, we shall not try to discover the limits of your indulgence. No more than a total of eleven exhibits drawn from the inferior level will make an appearance in this summary.
Among the lesser men we already met, Beach is the only one without the handle 'Sir' to his name. Such modesty befits a perfect butler; which he is. Sir Pelham tells us that Beach started his career as a streamlined young footman. But this portly lover of port has been, straight from his entry into the PGW world, a man bearing all the outward semblance of an obese highpriest, whose "waistcoat swelled like the sail of a racing yacht". On one occasion only, he came out of character. No, that was not when Lady Constance ordered him to eject a sack full of rats, smuggled into Blandings by the Honourable Freddie. That young man - employed by his father-in-law (Mr. Donaldson, the Dog Biscuit Emperor) - was eager to demonstrate what wonderful results you may expect if you are wise enough to feed your rat-hunting dog every day Donalson's Dog Joy. On that occasion, Beach did not call a footman to do the dirty work for him. Realizing that a Perfect Butler will take the rough with the smooth, he removed the rats without raising an eyebrow for so much as a tenth of an inch.
Once only, he could not control his feelings. In stead in keeping his mirth within the dignified boundaries of a rudimental smile, he then exploded in a burst of roaring laughter as noisy as Honoria Glossop's. Perusing the manuscript of the Honourable Galahad's reminiscences, he was struck by the Story of the Prawns. he got the real stuff, you know; not the Swedish counterfeit we summarized in our first instalment.
Shall we offer the Golden Medal to Beach? We need not comtemplate this, because he would politely refuse the honour. Gold for the aristocracy, silver for the middle class, and bronze for the rest. Such are his principles; which we must respect. But he will be happy with a most honourable mention.
In the row of lesser men, Sir Gregory Parsloe-Parsloe does not await his turn. Using his physical weight, he has put himself at the front. We hope you will not underrate this bulging baronet. Even the Threepwood brothers, Clarence and Galahad, acknowledge his soundness on pigs. He may be an unethical importer of Kentish sows, but he knows exactly how to make them even fatter then himself. Once upon an extremely hot day, when he reluctantly obeyed the ruthless slimming orders from his short-time betrothed (Gloria Salt), he walked all the way up from Matchingham Hall to Blandings Castle, with painful blisters on his substantial feet. That feat alone might almost justify a golden medal from our PGW Society.
The Honourable Galahad will not agree with us. According to him, Sir Gregory ('Tubby') filled his (Galahad's) dog Towser to the brim with steak-and-onions. This treat reduced that animal to a total loss in the, heavily betted on, rat-hunting match against its rival, the Parsloe dog. But Galahad cannot submit any legally acceptable evidence for this accusation. And we smile indulgently at his contention that Tubby would not shrink from tampering with his own grandmother, if that old lady were an obstacle for her fat descendant's schemes. In none of Sir Pelham's works, you will solid support for the assumption that Tubby ever had any kind of grandmother.
Our commission thinks better of Sir Gregory. It awarded him a most honouralble mention; in particular for his dealings with his gifted pigman, George Cyril Wellbeloved, whom he lured away from Lord Emsworth's service by offering that son-of-the-soil princely wages. (If you forgot that great characters are quite different from good characters, there is something wrong with your memory.) Desirous to keep this beer-and-spirits-loving pigman on the alert for any attempt to pignapping from the Blandings quarter, Sir Gregory banned him from all local pubs, and condemned him to an absolute teetotaller's ascetism.
But Wellbeloved (whose nose was broken in the course of a political discussion for his preaching communist views) evaded his employer's ban. At Blandings Castle, Beach - executing strict orders from the Honourable Galahad - served him such huge quantities of alcoholic liquids as would have made any ordinary man blind drunk for the (short) rest of his life. Not so our Georg Cyril. This nominal teetotaller even managed to return (zigzaggingly) to Matchingham Hall on his bycicle. Back on his basis, he permitted himself to read - over his employer's hippopotamic shoulder - the letter in which Gloria Salt offered her fiancé the raspberry. His immortal comment on the contents of that letter, as well as his volatile allegiance (he became afresh Lord Emsworth's pigman), secured for G.C. Wellbeloved an honourable mention from our learned commission.
We shall now look at the knighted lesser men. Among the Wodehousian knights, Sir Roderick Glossop is undoubtedly the most interesting one. Whatever judgement may be passed on his bushy eyebrows and the bald dome of his egghead, he has got surprising features. Now we do not think of his willingness to order a strait jacket whenever he observes some oddity or eccentricity in your behaviour. There is, indeed, no reason for being surprised of his preferring strait jackets to cowboyish garments like blue jeans. After all, Sir Roderick does not pretend ever to have been, or wished to become, a cowboy.
Neither are we surprised of his strong objections against Bertie Wooster's entering his bedroom in the small hours. As Bertie had no other reason for his intrusion than the desire to cause a leak in the hotwater-bottle used by Sir Roderick's son Tuppy (who, however, happened to sleep elsewhere), even a better man than the knighted psychiatrist - honourably mentioned by our commission - might have disapproved. (Bertie, who fostered a smouldering grudge against Tuppy Glossop, had not been informed of the change of bedrooms. But Roberta Wickham, who had suggested to puncture Tuppy's hotwater-bottle, was very well aware of the new sleeping arrangements.)Eighth whatever note. The incident confirmed Sir Roderick's professional opinion about Bertie's mental health. That opinion was founded, inter alia, on the score of cats we met in our first instalment. Their presence in Bertie's apartment had not escaped the psychiatrist's notice when he sat there at the lunchtable. In this case, his examination was, however, not as thorough as in that of the poet suspected to be the playboy 'Broadway Willie'. For the purpose of secretly observing that alleged wholesale-lover in the house of his host, Sir Roderick served there temporarily as a bushy-eyebrowed bald-domed butler. (See: Jeeves in the Offing.)
Even Sir Roderick's courting Myrtle, Lady Chuffnell - though this involved taking her subhuman young son on his stride - is in itself not amazing. What really surprised us, were the extremes to which this elderly widower was prepared to go. Just to entertain her revolting young, and so - indirectly - please Lady Chuffnell, he blackened his face and hands thoroughly with the best shoe-polish money can buy. To restore his ordinary appearance, he needed a full pound of butter; but all butter happened to be consumed for other purposes. Besides, Sir Roderick was ejected from Her Ladyship's house after his beating the foresaid young, who had annoyed him to the core. Then he found himself in the open air, looking more like a lowland-gorilla than like a human negro. Having fraternized with Bertie Wooster - who was, though for other reasons, intensely blackened too - he spent the night somewhere stealthily as a squatter; probably in company with lice and mice.(See: Thank you, Jeeves)
Seven other lesser men appear on our waiting-list. Since their examination clearly exceeds the limits of this instalment, we beg you to await Nothing Serious' next issue, in an uncertain future.
In this treatise, we summarize the 147 000 pages (in small print) of the report submitted by the PGWS one-man-commission for scientific research. That report may have escaped your attention. So we'd better tell you once more that it deals with the fundamental question: Who, which or what is the Greatest Character created by the late Sir Pelham Grenville Wodehouse? Numerous Wodehousian animals (one skeleton included) and female human beings, as well as four male ones, have already been examined. Now we shall descend to a subset of the lowest human set.
§9 bis. Sublevel of minor lesser men. In Volume XXVI, p. 137-194, of the commission's report, you will find a closely reasoned argument which proves the following thesis: "The major lesser men created by Sir Pelham are in alphabetical order: Sebastian Beach, Sir Roderick Glossop, Sir Gregory Parsloe-Parsloe and George Cyril Wellbeloved. All other Wodehousian lesser men are minor." From this final judgement, there lies no appeal. The Oldest Member, Mr. Mulliner and, a fortiori, that couple of beastly beaks, Bassett and Bostock, as well as many others, must resignedly acquiesce (Jeeves' expression) or just curl up (Bertie Wooster's translation).
Ninth note. Where, in the PGW universe, a man's age has been left uncertain, the commission granted him the benefit of the doubt. This may explain why blokes like the Efficient Baxter, the rat Pilbeam and the dictator Spode (Duce of the Black Shorts Party, but in his secret spare time vendor of ladies' underwear) have been put on the level of young men, in stead of that of lesser men. On the other hand, no policeman has been upgraded to 'young man', whatever his probable age may be.
We enjoy the Oldest Member's golf stories, but we know scarcely anything more about the movings of his mind than about those which made the snake Cuthbert creep, or sneak, between other people's sheets. One of his features is generally known: you need a squadron of tanks to stop him after his announcement "This reminds me of ..." The Oldest Member has got this feature in common with the Honourable Galahad Threepwood and with Mr. Mulliner; both renowned as racounteurs, too.
In our commission's bosom lures the suspicion that the anonymous Oldest Member is identical with the Master himself. His habit of sitting, drinking and talking on the clubhouse terrace, in stead of showing his alleged skill at the links, does not seem incompatible with Sir Pelham's own achievements in the pastime called, by its Scottish devotees, something like 'ghuwlf'. Since this suggestion borders on defamation of character, calumny, libel and slander, the commission was in a hurry to mention the Oldest Member honourably.
The number of Mr. Mulliner's cousins, nephews, nieces and more distant relatives is, for all practical purposes, what mathematicians call 'infinite'; at least, so we deduce from his stories. Each one of these relatives moves in a mysterious way his, or her, wonders to perform; even at Hollywood, of all places. Thanks to Mr. Mulliner, we know everything about inlaws, executives, senior and junior yesmen, vice-yesmen, nodders, vice-nodders, secretaries and hey-you's in film-companies. Moreover, Mr. M. introduced us to interesting female filmstars, like Honoria Burwash and Minna Nordstrom (both already mentioned) as well as to many male ones, like the brute gorilla who was co-starring in a series of Tarzan movies. That breast-drumming ape escaped from his cage and snatched a baby from its perambulator, on the premises of the film-company involved (MGM, actually; though Mr. M. preferred a fancy name). This kidnapping act was just a publicity-stunt, Yet, all sirens blew while the gorilla took the baby to the top of a two-dimensional Roman building, used for a Ben Hur epos. There he met a young man ( a nephew of Mr. M.'s, naturally) who had just fled to the same top. When the ape raised the question how to refresh a snatched baby's nappy, the startled young man observe: "You speak very good English, for a gorilla". The ape's modest reply ("Oh, Old Oxford, you know") revealed that his wild gorella-nature was merely an artificial skin deep. This explains why we could not find him on the level of mammals.
Some of the male characters MR. M. introduced us to, will be inspected in our following instalments. Now we shall briefly comment on a vivid female character he told us about: Roberta Wickham. True, that redhaired runner in the race for our Gold Medal is not a lesser man. (On the contrary; as the fellow said who - when drooping at the railing of a rolling ship in the Atlantic - was asked if he had lunched). But her being one of Mr. m.'s countless nieces may justify her snappy reappearance in this instalment of our summary. What Mr. Mulliner tells us about Roberta Wickham must be true. Like the late George Washington's, his mind is such, that it cannot produce lies. Besides, in the case of that overwhelming girl, we have got two independent and most reliable witnesses: Bertram Wilberforce Wooster, esq., and Mr. Reginald Jeeves. Their depositions confirm exactly Mr. Mulliner's statements.
Our verdict on Roberta Wickham (mistress of the snake Cuthbert as well as of Bartholemew, the Aberdeen terrier) reads as follows: 'At the drop of a hat you fall in love with her. But neither a hat, nor any other garment is really required; because she is, in the Master's own words, "a one-girl beauty chorus".' You would have maried this 'phantom of delight' ( as the late poet Wordsworth put it), if she had accepted you, in stead of presenting you a smiling raspberry. Still, some day you may read an advertisement in The Times, informing you of your engagement to her. Such announcements do not mean, however, she is as yet going to marry you. They are simply parts of a subtle scheme; a web she wove to catch somebody else (whom Lady Wickham, her fastidious mother, deemed unsuitable). Mr. Mulliner was, of course, honourably mentioned by our commission; but he does not owe this distinction to his stories. In spite of the famous formula '(said Mr. Mulliner)', it is obvious that every story has been dictated to him by the Master. He got the honourable mention for his courteous behavior towards Miss Postlethwaite, that splendid jewel in the crown of The Anglers' Rest. That chaste barmaid may be not as well informed as Mr. M. about nodders, vice-nodders and other liabilities on the pay-rolls of film-companies, but she knows her business. Without consulting any note, she can recite the names of all ex-wives and ex-husbands of all filmstars. Many of those stars would be at a loss, when asked to do no more than telling us the names of their own ex-spouses.
We shall not rouse your atavistic passions by dwelling for more than a second on the beaks of Bassett and Bostock. The former proclaimed that he "put it across the criminal classes when they started getting above themselves". Bertie Wooster is, in his opinion, a sinister member of these classes: a felon specializing in larceny (more precisely, in stealing umbrellas and cowcreamers) with a sideline in high treason (lifting, or trying in vain to lift, policeman's helmets from their parent skulls). As regards the Bostock beak, who is looking "like an owl with a dash of weasel blood in him", our commission noted with regret his failure to get himself devoured by cannibals or crocodiles. He had - the commission added - ample opportunity for bringing about such a sensational happy ending, when he used to annoy African natives as a Colonial Governor.Tenth note. After having liberated Africa from his un warranted presence, this ex-Governor usurped the status of owner of Ashendon Manor, a Stately Home of England, really belonging to his nephew, Bill Oakshott. He then got ill-advised elevation to knighthood and magistratical functions. Do not confuse him, by the way, with that other jungle-polluter: the explorer, big-game-hunter and super-bore, Major Brabazon Plank. A deep relief was generally felt on the occasion when this Plank found himself check-mate, and "relapsed into a sandbagged silence".
Three minor lesser men, not yet inspected, scorn each other in our waiting-room. The most redoubtable one of them has got red hairs in common with Bobbie Wickham; but nothing else. ("You have to count his legs to make sure he is not a mule"). Apart from some spluttered abuse in Gaelic, no word passes his pursed lips (just visible through a narrow split in his facial hairs). The spluttered abuse is directed against his employer (Clarence, ninth Earl of Emsworth) who banned his project for repaving the Blandings Yew Alley: dry and clean gravel to replace damp and dirty moss.
At the only recorded heroic moment in his life, Lord Emsworth reminded his tyrannic Head-Gardener, Angus Mac Allister, of the fact that the time-honoured Yew Alley is a celebrated feature of the Castle's Gardens. Its maintenance requires, in His Lordship's opinion, better ideas than may occur to a man laying-out Glasgovian recreation-grounds. We shall meet Mac Allister - the stubborn, forbidding and highly talented tender of trees, shrubs and flowers - soon again; not on the bonny, bonny banks of Loch Lomond, but on the rolling parklands of Blandings. For the moment, we take leave of him; singing Auld Lang Syne, and awarding him an honourable mention.
The second one to those three waiting lesser men deputized (over a short and tragical interlude) for Jeeves, in Bertie Wooster's service. Having spent 48 hours on incessantly consuming a variety of beers and spirits, this inadequate deputy believed ( erroneously) that the Devil was busy murdering Bertie. Then the man took two drastic steps. (1) He provided himself with a butcher's knife, intended to be used for killing Bertie, whose blackened face made him suppose this was the Devil. (2) He set fire on the cabin temporarily inhabited by Bertie, who - being an optimist - hoped to improve, in that cosy abode, the noises he elicited from his banjolele.
The killing of Bertie was prevented by a local cop who, although slow in the uptake, stood no nonsense. The arson, on the other hand, took his natural course. When the clouds of smoke had drifted away, nothing but ashes could be identified. Bertie escaped, but the banjolele was swallowed by some musical flames (Jeeves applauding). To get the record straight: the tooting deputy ( a chap who called himself Brinkley) was sacked on the spot, and Jeeves returned to Bertie ( who never touched any banjolele again).
The last of the lesser men we admitted to this summary, has just given up all hope of spotting the large Australian bird, hidden in three blank squares of the Daily Mail's crossword-puzzle. He (the man; not the bird) is the Standard PGW Cop; always unable to spot anything. His name is immaterial; it may be Dobbs, Dobson, Potter, Sgt. Voules, or whatever you think sounds well. All Wodehousian members of the Force are basically the same: unerringly arresting innocent suspects. In Britain, they start their useless investigations with the formal question: "Wot's all this?", and they invariably wind up with: "Pass along, please. Shoudn't block a public thoroughfare". Abroad, they are even worse: sloshing you with a massive baton in New York; babbling a foreign language in Paris and Cannes. Still, our commission awarded Contable Dobbs an honourable mention, because he believed to have been struck by lightning as a penalty for his atheistic comment on the prophet Ionah's submarine voyage. (Actually, he was hit by a missile from Jeeves' hands). The rest is silence; as the late poet Shakespeare made Hamlet rightly observe.
But mark this, my friends: Silence never lasts any longer than the time between two Nothing Serious' issues.
Only one out of every twenty million people on Earth will find his or her name and address on Nothing Serious' mailing list. All others must desperately look for a derelict copy of that unperiodical, or pinch some non-derelict one. If you are a pincher, you may have missed the preceding instalments of this summary. Then you need elucidating footnotes. We, however, must avoid footnotes at all costs; and our need is greater than yours. Nothing can be done about it, except giving away our subject matter; viz. the momentous question: Who, which or what is the Greatest Character created by the late Sir Pelham Grenville Wodehouse?
§ 11. Level of lords. Having examined eleven lesser men (four major, seven minor), we now jump to the lordly level. The very densely populated level of Wodehousian young men will be inspected in a more or less distant future, weather permitting. Just for your information: A man is a 'lord' as soon as he has ripened to the age of forty, and got his names and titles properly (not merely in condescending small print) in Debrett. But we have more to say about lordliness.
If Her Majesty were good ( or ill-advised) enough to elevate you, a lesser man, to the venerable rank of Bishop of the Established Church, you are entitled to sit in the House of Lords, among the 'Lords Spiritual', and under the watchful eyes of the Lord Chancellor on the Woolsack. Provided you hire a fitting fancy-dress at Moss Brothers', neither Bluemantle, nor Rouge Croix will object when you are going to assist at the ceremonial Opening of Parliament. In this hypothetical case, we need not consult Debrett. Your lordly status has then been established beyond reasonable doubt.
Bishops believe that statues of their former headmasters are considerably less revolting if painted bright pink. When they see such a dreary object in their old schoolyard, they (1) provide themselves with a set of brushes and excellent paint, (2) await the darkness of the small hours, (3) consume a pint of an animating potion (trademark: Buck-U-Uppo), and (4) fulfil their iconoclastic mission. Some of them, carried away by artistic inspiration, leave their bishop's hat on the head of the painted statue, as a finishing touch. Awareness of this picturesque episcopal habit made the Church of Scotland grimly decide: We shall have no bishops at all.Eleventh note. That consideration of parsimony played some part in the anti-episcopal decision, taken by the Scottisch ecclesiastical authorities, is merely English gossip. We admit, however, that the standard Scotsman can scarcely be called a reckless spender. He is, indeed, compelled to take care of his pence, because the English made each wee bit of dram intolerably expensive, by imposing excessive excise-duties.
Some sceptical people might dare to doubt the truthfulness of what we told about the nocturnal exploits of Bishops in the Church of England. Such disbelief (characteristic of laymen) lies below the level of our attention. We cold-shoulder our uneducated critics, referring them to 'The Bishop's Move', published in Meet Mr. Mulliner. That gifted raconteur's brother, Wilfred Mulliner, - a chemist of genius - invented Buck-U-Uppo.Archbishops do not appear in any of the Master's works. True, couples who wish to marry in a hurry, are reminded of the rule that they must tip the Archbishop of Canterbury, so as to get a special licence. As regards the Archbishop of York: either that northern prelate does not like rush-weddings, or his licenses are useless. Anyhow, Sir Pelham nowhere mentions the Yorkshire dignitary. However, we need not bother about arch-episcopal details. In the race for our Golden Medal, all elderly members of the Anglican clergy are clearly hors de concours. Some bishops may have the required staying power, but none of them has got the will to win.
Dukes (with or without e behind the letter k) are something special. If you address a duke by saying politely 'Milord', you get no reply. He does not understand you were addressing him; Good Gracious, no. Every duke is Your or His Grace, regardless of his real graciousness, if any. Nonetheless, we put all dukes on a level with mere marquises, earls, viscounts and barons, because they are all simply Pears of the Realm, having a seat and a vote (each of them one only) in the House of Lords. Neither Sir Pelham, nor even Tony Blair, ever dreamt of creating a third House of Parliament: the House of Dukes.Twelfth note. Oh, yes, we know very well we simplified the complicated state of affairs, when we said they are all Peers. You cannot catch us so easily. Let us take, for instance, the case of Lord Bosham; more precisely: George, Viscount Bosham. In his case, 'Lord', 'Viscount', and 'Bosham' are just fictions. Being the elder son of Clarence, ninth Earl of Emsworth, he got a courtesy title. As long as his immortal father is alive, neither Bluemantle, nor Croix Rouge, and certainly not the Lord Chancellor, will tolerate Bosham's impudently taking a seat in the House of Lords. So he is as yet by no means a Peer of the Realm, but rather - as Richard Usborne puts it - "triumphantly, the most blithering idiot in the whole rich Wodehouse canon".
Talking of Dukes, we stumble at a man lying near to our commission's heart, although nobody else seems to like him very much: Alaric, Duke of Dunstable. Even Lady Constance has to strain her perfect breeding to remain patient, in stead of ordering Beach to call a couple of muscular footmen and have His Grace thrown out of Blandings Castle. He will stay there as a self-invited guest for periods approaching Eternity. Yet, outstaying his welcome is the least of his excesses.
Invading Lady Constance's boudoir, without so much as a formal knock, interrupting every phrase she utters, calling her 'potty' ( no personal offence meant; since all women are, in His Grace's opinion, foggy between the ears) and reading her letters to her American admirer, were some of his usual pastimes at Blandings. He once shocked Lord Emsworth from top to toe by his critical observation, that the Empress was much too fat for human consumption; and he wounded His Lordship still more terribly, when he suggested to have that porker transported to his own sty, for a slimming-cure. Only Lord Emsworth's almost-human grandson, young George, likes him to a certain extent. That boy is fascinated by the extraordinary way His Grace blows and moves his formidable moustache.
The Duke of Dunstable is not a man easy-to-please. He has got plently to complain about: his bedroom (even the Blue Room, designed for Royalty visiting Blandings), all of his fellow- guests and every Threepwood, along with the anonymous singer (Mac Allister?) who roused him with the larks, roaring the bonny, bonny banks of Loch Lomond through his open window. But all of this is a trifle, as compared to the blow inflicted on His Grace by Inimical Powers at Blandings, when they frustrated a very profitable deal with Lord Tilbury, involving the pignapping and illegal sale of the Empress.
Our commission hesitated to brush the Duke of Dunstable off with an honourable mention. At first sight, he seemed a to likely candidate for the Golden Medal. But finally he was just most honourably mentioned, because some of his rivals proved themselves on the long run absolutely superior. You may guess who those (male and female) rivals were. This is a secret, not to be disclosed before the publication of our last instalment.
The man who now calls himself Lord Tilbury was - before he got his title as a reward for his financial support of the Party-in-Power - simply George Pyke. Although knocked out by Lady Julia, as we saw in our fourth instalment, we can hardly put him down as a weakling. There is really hard stuff in this new member of the Peerage. George, first Baron of Tilbury, knows exactly what kind of pulp lowbrow British citizens wish to swallow, and sees to it that his Mammoth Publishing Company provides conscientiously for their want, through a variety of illiterary weeklies and monthlies, each sold to millions of addicts.
Even books are not despised by that company. True, manuscripts will be normally returned to their authors, without having been read, but Lord Tilbury allows for exceptions. Some books, however well-written, seem to him saucy enough to have interesting market-value. He considered, e.g., Galahad Threepwood's scandalous Reminiscences beforehand a smashing bestseller. So we can imagine his consternation and indignation, when that honourable gentleman, who had signed a cast-iron contract guaranteeing Mammoth's exclusive rights of publication, informed him flatly that he could forget it, as the author did no longer want to have his memoirs published.
Lord Tilbury's attention is not uniquely directed to his publishing empire. He has, at least, one hobby: breeding pigs. Since every pigbreeder, in Britain as well as abroad, dreams of getting a sow like the Empress of Blandings, the former George Pyke languished for that triple silver medal winner. Now it happened that his ex-secretary, - the notorious ambitionist Lavender Briggs, had joined Lord Emsworth's staff as His Lordship's chief-harasser and plenipotentiary administrator (Lady Constance's choice, of course). That girl wanted money to start a dactylo-secretarial service, operating on the open market. Not handicapped by scruples interfering with profitable transactions, she was prepared - for a substantial fee, naturally - to have the Empress added to Lord Tilbury's porcine collection in Buckinghamshire.
But there were wheels within wheels, utterly complicating this sordid affair. Two of these wheels were the accomplices Lavender needed for the pignapping, as an unavoidable preliminary measure to be taken before the Empress could be actually delivered at Lord Tilbury's sty. They presented no serious problems to the energetic ambitionist. The first accomplice (G.C. Wellbeloved) could be bribed for a modest amount, and the other one she hoped to persuade by blackmail for no money at all. So far, so good; or, as a moralist might say: so bad.
The really complicating wheels were: (1) a rival; viz. His Grace, the Duke of Dunstable, who wished to sell the pignapped Empress, for several thousands of the best, to the publishing tycoon, preferably without paying any fee at all to the girl Lavender; (2) a tremendously resourceful and ruthlessly operating Hostile Force; viz. Frederick Altamont Cornwallis, fifth Earl of Ickenham (whom we met already as a succesful clipper of parrotic toenails). Well, all this is much too complicated for our brief summary. Sort it out for yourself, please, by consulting Service with a smile. We merely add that our commission, by way of an afterthought, mentioned Lavender Briggs as yet honourably. The same distinction was, indeed, awarded to her ex-employer, Lord Tilbury.It is wishful thinking, my friends, if you suppose we have now done with the lords. The loftiest lords are still in store. They occupy a special level.
Scores of lords play a more or less prominent part in Wodehousian stories. Most of them are small fry, as compared to the bishops, the duke and the baron examined in our previous instalment. However, we found an outstanding trio, whose staying power is enormous. (A PGW character's staying power is measured by counting the occasions he/she appears in the Master's works.) Unless you are an uninitiated novice in the study of Wodehousiology, you know those three lordly men. Each of them is a most serious candidate for the golden medal to be awarded to the Greatest Character created by the late Sir Pelham Grenville Wodehouse. This trio will now be inspected.
§ 12. Level of lofty lords. One of the three men appearing on this elevated level, has got the authentic right to be called 'honourable'. His father's title and fortune (apart from a few crumbs) were inherited by his elder brother, Clarence. As far as we understand the subtle rules of feudal law, they awarded him a kind of mock compensation by calling him an honourable man. ("That is precisely what Antonio called the murderer Brutus, Sir; according to the late poet Shakespeare", Jeeves might observe for Bertie Wooster's benefit.) Be that as it may, in our seventh instalment we decided to make the Honourable Galahad an honorary lord. And his loftiness cannot be seriously disputed by any reader of Nothing Serious.
The two others are unquestionably genuine lords: Clarence, ninth Earl of Emsworth, and Frederick Altamont Cornwallis, fifth Earl of Ickenham. First of all, we shall examine the latter nobleman; already on various occasions referred to, with due respect, in our summary. Those of our students whose minds are up to standard, may now refresh themselves and order their favourite drink at the bar of the Anglers' Rest, whilst we are filling three gaps in the memories of their less fortunate colleagues. (1) The first time we met Lord Ickenham, was in our second instalment, when he clipped the toenails of a taciturn parrot. (2) In our sixth instalment he had been arrested for something trivial; probably a little practical joke, enlivening the dograces he honoured by his attendance. (3) Finally, he took energetic steps against a conspiracy to pignap the Empress of Blandings: a complicated whole of criminal acts, in which the Duke of Dunstable, Lord Tilbury and Lavender Briggs were involved. Even our dullest pupils may remember this shocking affair, since it was related in our previous instalment.
If your Knowledge of theScripture equals Bertie Wooster's, you know what the Queen of Sheba said to King Salomon: "The half hath not been told to Me." She was not in a position to read our second, sixth and ninth instalments. Otherwise, she might have remarked: "Ninety nine percent of Lord Ickenham's exploits has Thou not told to Me." Then we should have admitted: "Your Black and Beautiful Majesty is damned right." Apart from his fine moustache, which was overlooked, Lord Ickenham has been accurately described by Richard Usborne; as follows: "... in his middle sixties, with iron-grey hair, a slim, youthful figure, an American wife (always off-stage) who tries to keep him under control ('American girls try to boss you. It's part of their charm') and a stately home, with far to many nude statues in it". None of those statues - we may add - has ever been painted (or dressed) by a bishop; which proves a selective episcopal taste.Thirteenth note. At Lord Ickenham's wedding, there was not yet any question of his becoming an earl. (He survived six heirs who had precedence.) As Britain offered him little prospect of wealth, he had come over to the USA, where he started his colourful career as a cowboy. One of his many American friends was James Schoonmaker, whose daughter we shall meet in a later instalment. She liked to be soaped from head to heel by the future lord. Do not misunderstand us; she was still a baby in those days. Her father found himself then merely on the first step to the multi-millions enabling this widower to win Lady Constance. He had just mastered a trick, indispensable for, and characteristic of , tycoons (said Lord Ickenham): he could move his cigar from left to right, and the other way round, using his lips only.
The countless complicated operations brilliantly conducted by Lord Ickenham ('Uncle Fred' to his nephew and victim, Pongo Twistleton-Twistleton) remain untold in this brief summary. We just sum them up, quoting: "...in the course of a chequered career, he had frequently been guilty of actions which would have caused a three-card-trick man to purse his lips and shake his head." You may guess the high place, on our Final List of Honours, allocated to Lord Ickenham.
We mentioned the Honourable Galahad Threepwood already so often, that we lost count. He has got many features in common with Lord Ickenham. They are both colouring life in the PGW world brightly; endeavouring to spread 'sweetness and light', and promoting the interests of young people, in love with unsuitable partners. 'Uncle Fred' is in particular famous as a cunning impostor, and as an 'artful dodger' (Charles Dickens would say) from his wife's vigilance. On the other hand, we acknowledge as Galahad's foremost feature: his fondness of telling anecdotes, inter alia about members of the old Pelican club in the gay nineties (the Victorian ones; not ours).Fourteenth note. Quite a few of his anecdotes are, we note with regret, only hinted at. One of these is the story of the prawns (see our first instalment). Some anecdotes he will break off abortively, when he realizes, too early, they are unfit for mixed company; like the one about the salesman and the striptease dancer. However, signals of impatience, or of lack of interest, very seldom put him out.
Being on the short side, Galahad is not quite as impressive as Lord Ickenham, but regarded from a mental point of view, the match nicely. Pompous people grudge Galahad his remarkable fitness, the result of a misspent life. They denounce it as an outrageous injustice, seeing a man who always thought it bad form to turn in before three o'clock A.M.; who, moreover, believes that a bottle of whiskey a day keeps the doctor away - a man, in short, who should have had the liver of the century, but who, nonetheless, in his late fifties, enjoys a repulsively radiant health. Once, when he was still an infant, his little sister Constance saved him from drowning. Now, at moments when he irritates here even more than in the main, she wonders why she had not allowed Nature to take its course.
At Blandings, Galahad - following Lord Ickenham's example - passes his consulting hours in a hammock. (In the open British air? Sure. Except at night, there is nearly always lovely sunshine at Blandings.) When nobody finds occasion to consult or to pester him, he will lie and ponder, planning the strategical moves and tactical operations intended to solve the little amorous and/or financial problems of young people in need of his oral and moral support. Such problems do not arise in his own case, since he is a confirmed bachelor; virtually penniless, but with a genial brother rolling in the right stuff.Fifteenth note. Well, a confirmed bachelor to a certain extent. In his youth, when he found himself "kneedeep in pretty chorus girls and barmaids", he fell in love with a very nice girl, far from irresponsive to his gallant attentions. As she was on the chorus line, and so - per definitionem - unfit to become an earl's daughter-in-law, Galahad was shipped off to South-Africa by his Victorian father, who knew exactly how to handle such affairs. Although Galahad met his past lover's (and, Lady Constance presumed, his own) lovely daughter, he was not as lucky as Sir Gregory. That pig-breeding baronet married as yet the girl Maudie, whom he would have married at a much younger age, if she had not then awaited him, in vain, at a registrar's office, whilst he, by mistake, waited for her at a similar office elsewhere.
Many interesting details of Galahad's past are lost for ever, because of the Empress of Blandings swallowed the manuscript of his explosive Memoirs. Somebody had dropped that document in her sty, and she did not read, but eat it. Though this well-nourished sow preferred potatoes to paper, she was - like Beach - prepared to take the rough with the smooth. Still, we know enough about the Honourable Galahad to fix his place on our final list. Which place? Guess, wait and see.
Now we shall look at his brother, Clarence, ninth Earl of Emsworth. Even learned Wodehousiologists are inclined to underrate this noble lord.True, he is absent-minded; and as far as his mind happens to be present, it is "capable of accommodating but one thought at a time - if that." So, when he had bought a telescope, he believed to have been swindled, as he could see nothing at all through the blasted toy; until Beach drew his attention to the cap at the front of the instrument, and obligingly removed it.
There are, however, hidden depths in the ninth earl. He has proved himself capable of earning his bread in various professions. (1) As a beggar. When he is drooping like a wet sock at the castle gate, with holes in the elbows of his shabby shooting jacket, all charitable strangers, coming to see Blandings on Visitors Day, give him a halfcrown, or sixpence at least, along with the advice: "Don't spend it on drink." (2) As a gunman. Anybody who can hit the lean Baxter on a vital spot from a long distance, with nothing more than a child's airgun, will have no trouble finding a well-paid job as Al Capone's bodyguard of chief-killer. (3) As a salesman.
In the United States, where Lord Emsworth saw his sister Constance being wedded to James Schoonmaker, he was anxious to show his younger son Freddie, now Crown Prince in Donaldson's Dog Joy Empire, that he was, at least, as good in selling as that irritating stripling. This, he demonstrated triumphantly. Within twenty minutes after having started his short salesman's career, he sold - to one single buyer - twenty sets of a twenty-volume encyclopedia of sports, written-off by its publisher as the worst sales-resistant work of reference ever printed. (A hint of unintended blackmail helped Lord Emsworth in speedily concluding this wholesale transaction.) In grand style, he had it booked as an achievement of the poor girl who had, feebly, tried to sell him a set of the same encyclopedia. Furthermore, we remind you of his merits as mixer of salads (expertly blending chopped medical bandage, and drops of his own blood, with other ingredients), cultivator of pumpkins (first prize) and pigbreeder (three silver medals). He is not so good in stealing (scarabs from J. Preston Peters; flowers from Hyde Park; scullery from the Senior Conservative Club). However, as he pockets his booties just in an absent-minded way, he does not aim at lasting results.Sixteenth note. At moments of emotion, Lord Emsworth will urge us to bless his soul. It deserves all blessings at our disposal, for his is a most endearing soul. A man who is by nature far from a hero, but all of a sudden challenges his fearce headgardener firmly, just because a little girl from Whitechapel has put her warm hand in his, trusting him silently to protect her against the charging Mac Allister - such a man exceeds the limits of light comedy. His apologetic words to that girl, Gladys, when he had ordered Beach to add a bottle of port to the presents for her little brother, Ernie, were simply: "Nothing special, you know. Just drinkable". These words, in this context, could only be put in Lord Emsworth's mouth by an author of genius. (With our apologies for breaking the strict rule, that anything serious shall never be inserted in Nothing Serious.)
More about Lord Emsworth will be said in our last instalment. We give no secret away by announcing that even Lord Ickenham and the Honourable Galahad will have to give way, when he is going to occupy the place on our final list earmarked for this great PGW character.
Skipping all minor (= one-novel or one-story) Wodehousian lords, we now find the level - or, rather, the set of sublevels - of young men on our agenda.