The Man with Two Left Feet and Other Stories

- By P. G. Wodehouse
Font Size
English writer (1881–1975) "Wodehouse" redirects here. For other uses, see Wodehouse (disambiguation). Wodehouse in 1930 Sir Pelham Grenville Wodehouse, KBE (/ˈwʊdhaʊs/ WOOD-howss; 15 October 1881 – 14 February 1975) was an English writer and one of the most widely read humorists of the 20th century. His creations include the feather-brained Bertie Wooster and his sagacious valet, Jeeves; the immaculate and loquacious Psmith; Lord Emsworth and the Blandings Castle set; the Oldest Member, with stories about golf; and Mr Mulliner, with tall tales on subjects ranging from bibulous bishops to megalomaniac movie moguls. Born in Guildford, the third son of a British magistrate based in Hong Kong, Wodehouse spent happy teenage years at Dulwich College, to which he remained devoted all his life. After leaving school he was employed by a bank but disliked the work and turned to writing in his spare time. His early novels were mostly school stories, but he later switched to comic fiction. Most of Wodehouse's fiction is set in his native United Kingdom, although he spent much of his life in the US and used New York and Hollywood as settings for some of his novels and short stories. He wrote a series of Broadway musical comedies during and after the First World War, together with Guy Bolton and Jerome Kern, that played an important part in the development of the American musical. He began the 1930s writing for MGM in Hollywood. In a 1931 interview, his naive revelations of incompetence and extravagance in the studios caused a furore. In the same decade, his literary career reached a new peak. In 1934 Wodehouse moved to France for tax reasons; in 1940 he was taken prisoner at Le Touquet by the invading Germans and interned for nearly a year. After his release he made six broadcasts from German radio in Berlin to the US, which had not yet entered the war. The talks were comic and apolitical, but his broadcasting over enemy radio prompted anger and strident controversy in Britain, and a threat of prosecution. Wodehouse never returned to England. From 1947 until his death he lived in the US, taking dual British-American citizenship in 1955. He died in 1975, at the age of 93, in Southampton, New York, one month after he was awarded a knighthood of the Order of the British Empire (KBE). Wodehouse was a prolific writer throughout his life, publishing more than ninety books, forty plays, two hundred short stories and other writings between 1902 and 1974. He worked extensively on his books, sometimes having two or more in preparation simultaneously. He would take up to two years to build a plot and write a scenario of about thirty thousand words. After the scenario was complete he would write the story. Early in his career Wodehouse would produce a novel in about three months, but he slowed in old age to around six months. He used a mixture of Edwardian slang, quotations from and allusions to numerous poets, and several literary techniques to produce a prose style that has been compared to comic poetry and musical comedy. Some critics of Wodehouse have considered his work flippant, but among his fans are former British prime ministers and many of his fellow writers. Life and career[edit] Early years[edit] Wodehouse was born in Guildford, Surrey, the third son of Henry Ernest Wodehouse (1845–1929), a magistrate resident in the British colony of Hong Kong, and his wife, Eleanor (1861–1941), daughter of the Rev John Bathurst Deane. The Wodehouses, who traced their ancestry back to the 13th century, belonged to a cadet branch of the family of the earls of Kimberley. Eleanor Wodehouse was also of ancient aristocratic ancestry.[1] She was visiting her sister in Guildford when Wodehouse was born there prematurely.[2] St Nicolas, Guildford, where Wodehouse was christened The boy was baptised at the Church of St Nicolas, Guildford,[3] and was named after his godfather, Pelham von Donop.[4] Wodehouse wrote in 1957, "If you ask me to tell you frankly if I like the name Pelham Grenville Wodehouse, I must confess that I do not. ... I was named after a godfather, and not a thing to show for it but a small silver mug which I lost in 1897."[5][n 1] The first name was rapidly elided to "Plum", the name by which Wodehouse became known to family and friends.[6] Mother and son sailed for Hong Kong, where for his first two years Wodehouse was raised by a Chinese amah (nurse), alongside his elder brothers Peveril (1877–1951) and Armine (1879–1936).[7][n 2] When he was two, the brothers were brought to England, where they were placed under the care of an English nanny in a house adjoining that of Eleanor's father and mother.[4] The boys' parents returned to Hong Kong and became virtual strangers to their sons. Such an arrangement was then normal for middle-class families based in the colonies.[9] The lack of parental contact, and the harsh regime of some of those in loco parentis, left permanent emotional scars on many children from similar backgrounds, including the writers Thackeray, Saki, Kipling and Walpole.[10] Wodehouse was more fortunate; his nanny, Emma Roper, was strict but not unkind, and both with her and later at his different schools Wodehouse had a generally happy childhood.[11][12] His recollection was that "it went like a breeze from start to finish, with everybody I met understanding me perfectly".[12] The biographer Robert McCrum suggests that nonetheless Wodehouse's isolation from his parents left a psychological mark, causing him to avoid emotional engagement both in life and in his works.[13] Another biographer, Frances Donaldson, writes, "Deprived so early, not merely of maternal love, but of home life and even a stable background, Wodehouse consoled himself from the youngest age in an imaginary world of his own."[2] In 1886 the brothers were sent to a dame-school in Croydon, where they spent three years. Peveril was then found to have a "weak chest";[14] sea air was prescribed, and the three boys were moved to Elizabeth College on the island of Guernsey. In 1891 Wodehouse went on to Malvern House Preparatory School in Kent, which concentrated on preparing its pupils for entry to the Royal Navy. His father had planned a naval career for him, but the boy's eyesight was found to be too poor for it. He was unimpressed by the school's narrow curriculum and zealous discipline; he later parodied it in his novels, with Bertie Wooster recalling his early years as a pupil at a "penitentiary ... with the outward guise of a prep school" called Malvern House.[15] Cheney Court, Ditteridge, a large 17th-century house near Box in Wiltshire,[16] was one of Wodehouse's homes while his parents were living in Hong Kong. His grandmother died in 1892, after which he was largely brought up by his aunts, including the writer Mary Bathurst Deane,[17] the original of Bertie Wooster's fictional Aunt Agatha.[18][19] In 1955, Wodehouse wrote "Aunt Agatha is definitely my Aunt Mary, who was the scourge of my childhood."[20] Throughout their school years the brothers were sent to stay during the holidays with various uncles and aunts from both sides of the family. In the Oxford Dictionary of National Biography, Iain Sproat counts twenty aunts and considers that they played an important part not only in Wodehouse's early life, but, thinly disguised, in his mature novels, as the formidable aunts who dominate the action in the Wooster, Blandings, and other stories. The boys had fifteen uncles, four of whom were clergymen. Sproat writes that they inspired Wodehouse's "pious but fallible curates, vicars, and bishops, of which he wrote with friendly irreverence but without mockery".[21] He has the most distorted ideas about wit and humour; he draws over his books and examination papers in the most distressing way and writes foolish rhymes in other people's books. Notwithstanding he has a genuine interest in literature and can often talk with enthusiasm and good sense about it. — Dulwich College report on Wodehouse, 1899.[22] At the age of twelve in 1894, to his great joy, Wodehouse was able to follow his brother Armine to Dulwich College.[23] He was entirely at home there; Donaldson comments that Dulwich gave him, for the first time, "some continuity and a stable and ordered life". He loved the camaraderie, distinguished himself at cricket, rugby and boxing, and was a good, if not consistently diligent, student.[24] The headmaster at the time was A. H. Gilkes, a respected classicist, who was a strong influence on Wodehouse.[2] In a study of Wodehouse's works, Richard Usborne argues that "only a writer who was himself a scholar and had had his face ground into Latin and Greek (especially Thucydides) as a boy" could sustain the complex sequences of subordinate clauses sometimes found in Wodehouse's comic prose.[25][n 3] Wodehouse's six years at Dulwich were among the happiest of his life: "To me the years between 1894 and 1900 were like heaven."[26] In addition to his sporting achievements he was a good singer and enjoyed taking part in school concerts; his literary leanings found an outlet in editing the school magazine, The Alleynian.[27] For the rest of his life he remained devoted to the school. The biographer Barry Phelps writes that Wodehouse "loved the college as much as he loved anything or anybody".[28] Reluctant banker; budding writer: 1900–1908[edit] Cover of Wodehouse's first published novel, 1902 Wodehouse expected to follow Armine to the University of Oxford, but the family's finances took a turn for the worse at the crucial moment. Ernest Wodehouse had retired in 1895, and his pension was paid in rupees; fluctuation against the pound reduced its value in Britain. Wodehouse recalled, "The wolf was not actually whining at the door and there was always a little something in the kitty for the butcher and the grocer, but the finances would not run to anything in the nature of a splash".[29][n 4] Instead of a university career, in September 1900 Wodehouse was engaged in a junior position in the London office of the Hongkong and Shanghai Bank. He was unsuited to it and found the work baffling and uncongenial. He later wrote a humorous account of his experiences at the bank,[31] but at the time he longed for the end of each working day, when he could return to his rented lodgings in Chelsea and write.[32] At first he concentrated, with some success, on serious articles about school sports for Public School Magazine. In November 1900 his first comic piece, "Men Who Missed Their Own Weddings", was accepted by Tit-Bits.[33] A new magazine for boys, The Captain, provided further well-paid opportunities, and during his two years at the bank, Wodehouse had eighty pieces published in a total of nine magazines.[34] Wodehouse in 1904, aged 23 In 1901, with the help of a former Dulwich master, William Beach Thomas, Wodehouse secured an appointment—at first temporary and later permanent—writing for The Globe's popular "By the Way" column. He held the post until 1909.[35] At around the same time his first novel was published—a school story called The Pothunters, serialised incomplete in Public School Magazine in early 1902, and issued in full in hardback in September.[36] He resigned from the bank that month to devote himself to writing full-time.[37][n 5] Between the publication of The Pothunters 1902 and that of Mike in 1909, Wodehouse wrote eight novels and co-wrote another two. The critic R. D. B. French writes that, of Wodehouse's work from this period, almost all that deserves to survive is the school fiction.[39] Looking back in the 1950s Wodehouse viewed these as his apprentice years: "I was practically in swaddling clothes and it is extremely creditable to me that I was able to write at all."[40] From his boyhood Wodehouse had been fascinated by America, which he conceived of as "a land of romance"; he "yearned" to visit the country, and by 1904 he had earned enough to do so.[41] In April he sailed to New York, which he found greatly to his liking. He noted in his diary: "In New York gathering experience. Worth many guineas in the future but none for the moment."[42] This prediction proved correct: few British writers had first-hand experience of the US, and his articles about life in New York brought him higher than usual fees.[43] He later recalled that "in 1904 anyone in the London writing world who had been to America was regarded with awe and looked upon as an authority on that terra incognita. ... After that trip to New York I was a man who counted. ... My income rose like a rocketing pheasant."[44] There are pleasant little spots my heart is fixed on, Down at Parkhurst or at Portland on the sea, And some put up at Holloway and Brixton, But Pentonville is good enough for me. — From Wodehouse's first lyric for a stage show, 1904.[45] Wodehouse's other new venture in 1904 was writing for the stage. Towards the end of the year the librettist Owen Hall invited him to contribute an additional lyric for a musical comedy Sergeant Brue.[46][n 6] Wodehouse had loved theatre since his first visit, aged thirteen, when Gilbert and Sullivan's Patience had made him "drunk with ecstasy".[49] His lyric for Hall, "Put Me in My Little Cell", was a Gilbertian number for a trio of comic crooks, with music by Frederick Rosse;[50] it was well received and launched Wodehouse on a career as a theatre writer that spanned three decades.[51] Although it made little impact on its first publication, the 1906 novel Love Among the Chickens contained what French calls the author's first original comic creation: Stanley Featherstonehaugh Ukridge.[52] The character, an amoral, bungling opportunist, is partly based on Wodehouse's Globe colleague Herbert Westbrook. The two collaborated between 1907 and 1913 on two books, two music hall sketches, and a play, Brother Alfred.[53][n 7] Wodehouse would return to the character in short stories over the next six decades.[55] In early 1906 the actor-manager Seymour Hicks invited Wodehouse to become resident lyricist at the Aldwych Theatre, to add topical verses to newly imported or long-running shows. Hicks had already recruited the young Jerome Kern to write the music for such songs. The first Kern-Wodehouse collaboration, a comic number for The Beauty of Bath titled "Mr [Joseph] Chamberlain", was a show-stopper and was briefly the most popular song in London.[56] Psmith, Blandings, Wooster and Jeeves: 1908–1915[edit] Psmith, drawn by T. M. R. Whitwell for first edition of Mike (1909) Wodehouse's early period as a writer came to an end in 1908 with the serialisation of The Lost Lambs, published the following year in book form as the second half of the novel Mike.[57] The work begins as a conventional school story, but Wodehouse introduces a new and strikingly original character, Psmith,[58] whose creation both Evelyn Waugh and George Orwell regarded as a watershed in Wodehouse's development.[57] Wodehouse said that he based Psmith on the hotelier and impresario Rupert D'Oyly Carte—"the only thing in my literary career which was handed to me on a silver plate with watercress around it".[59] Wodehouse wrote in the 1970s that a cousin of his who had been at school with Carte told him of the latter's monocle, studied suavity, and stateliness of speech, all of which Wodehouse adopted for his new character.[59][n 8] Psmith featured in three more novels: Psmith in the City (1910), a burlesque of banking; Psmith, Journalist (1915) set in New York; and Leave It to Psmith (1923), set at Blandings Castle.[61] In May 1909 Wodehouse made his second visit to New York, where he sold two short stories to Cosmopolitan and Collier's for a total of $500, a much higher fee than he had commanded previously.[62] He resigned from The Globe and stayed in New York for nearly a year. He sold many more stories, but none of the American publications offered a permanent relationship and guaranteed income.[35] Wodehouse returned to England in late 1910, rejoining The Globe and also contributing regularly to The Strand Magazine. Between then and the outbreak of the First World War in 1914 he revisited America frequently.[63] Wodehouse was in New York when the war began. Ineligible for military service because of his poor eyesight, he remained in the US throughout the war, detached from the conflict in Europe and absorbed in his theatrical and literary concerns.[2] In September 1914 he married Ethel May Wayman, née Newton (1885–1984), an English widow. The marriage proved happy and lifelong. Ethel's personality was in contrast with her husband's: he was shy and impractical; she was gregarious, decisive and well organised. In Sproat's phrase, she "took charge of Wodehouse's life and made certain that he had the peace and quiet he needed to write".[21] There were no children of the marriage, but Wodehouse came to love Ethel's daughter Leonora (1905–1944) and legally adopted her.[64][n 9] My Man Jeeves, 1920 edition Wodehouse experimented with different genres of fiction in these years; Psmith, Journalist, mixing comedy with social comment on slum landlords and racketeers, was published in 1915.[66] In the same year The Saturday Evening Post paid $3,500 to serialise Something New, the first of what became a series of novels set at Blandings Castle.[67] It was published in hardback in the US and the UK in the same year (the British edition being retitled Something Fresh).[54] It was Wodehouse's first farcical novel; it was also his first best-seller, and although his later books included some gentler, lightly sentimental stories, it was as a farceur that he became known.[68] Later in the same year "Extricating Young Gussie", the first story about Bertie and Jeeves, was published.[n 10] These stories introduced two sets of characters about whom Wodehouse wrote for the rest of his life. The Blandings Castle stories, set in an English stately home, depict the attempts of the placid Lord Emsworth to evade the many distractions around him, which include successive pairs of young lovers, the machinations of his exuberant brother Galahad, the demands of his domineering sisters and super-efficient secretaries, and anything detrimental to his prize sow, the Empress of Blandings.[70] The Bertie and Jeeves stories feature an amiable young man-about-town, regularly rescued from the consequences of his idiocy by the benign interference of his valet.[71] Broadway: 1915–1919[edit] Morris Gest, Wodehouse, Guy Bolton, F. Ray Comstock and Jerome Kern, c. 1917 A third milestone in Wodehouse's life came towards the end of 1915: his old songwriting partner Jerome Kern introduced him to the writer Guy Bolton, who became Wodehouse's closest friend and a regular collaborator. Bolton and Kern had a musical, Very Good Eddie, running at the Princess Theatre in New York. The show was successful, but they thought the song lyrics weak and invited Wodehouse to join them on its successor. This was Miss Springtime (1916), which ran for 227 performances—a good run by the standards of the day. The team produced several more successes, including Leave It to Jane (1917), Oh, Boy! (1917–18) and Oh, Lady! Lady!! (1918), and Wodehouse and Bolton wrote a few more shows with other composers.[72][n 11] In these musicals Wodehouse's lyrics won high praise from critics as well as fellow lyricists such as Ira Gershwin.[74] Unlike his original model, Gilbert, Wodehouse preferred the music to be written first, fitting his words into the melodies.[75] Donaldson suggests that this is the reason why his lyrics have largely been overlooked in recent years: they fit the music perfectly, but do not stand on their own in verse form as Gilbert's do.[76] Nonetheless, Donaldson adds, the book and lyrics for the Princess Theatre shows made the collaborators an enormous fortune and played an important part in the development of the American musical.[77] In the Grove Dictionary of American Music Larry Stempel writes, "By presenting naturalistic stories and characters and attempting to integrate the songs and lyrics into the action of the libretto, these works brought a new level of intimacy, cohesion, and sophistication to American musical comedy."[78] The theatre writer Gerald Bordman calls Wodehouse "the most observant, literate, and witty lyricist of his day".[79] The composer Richard Rodgers wrote, "Before Larry Hart, only P.G. Wodehouse had made any real assault on the intelligence of the song-listening public."[80] 1920s[edit] In the years after the war, Wodehouse steadily increased his sales, polished his existing characters and introduced new ones. Bertie and Jeeves, Lord Emsworth and his circle, and Ukridge appeared in novels and short stories;[n 12] Psmith made his fourth and last appearance;[n 13] two new characters were the Oldest Member, narrating his series of golfing stories,[83] and Mr Mulliner, telling his particularly tall tales to fellow patrons of the bar at the Angler's Rest.[84] Various other young men-about-town appeared in short stories about members of the Drones Club.[n 14] Wodehouse's signature, undated The Wodehouses returned to England, where they had a house in London for some years, but Wodehouse continued to cross the Atlantic frequently, spending substantial periods in New York.[2] He continued to work in the theatre. During the 1920s he collaborated on nine musical comedies produced on Broadway or in the West End, including the long-running Sally (1920, New York), The Cabaret Girl (1922, London) and Rosalie (1928, New York).[86] He also wrote non-musical plays, including The Play's the Thing (1926), adapted from Ferenc Molnár, and A Damsel in Distress (1928), a dramatisation of his 1919 novel.[87] Though never a naturally gregarious man, Wodehouse was more sociable in the 1920s than at other periods. Donaldson lists among those with whom he was on friendly terms writers including A. A. Milne, Ian Hay, Frederick Lonsdale and E. Phillips Oppenheim, and stage performers including George Grossmith Jr., Heather Thatcher and Dorothy Dickson.[88] Hollywood: 1929–1931[edit] There had been films of Wodehouse stories since 1915, when A Gentleman of Leisure was based on his 1910 novel of the same name. Further screen adaptations of his books were made between then and 1927,[n 15] but it was not until 1929 that Wodehouse went to Hollywood where Bolton was working as a highly paid writer for Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer (MGM). Ethel was taken with both the financial and social aspects of Hollywood life, and she negotiated a contract with MGM on her husband's behalf under which he would be paid $2,000 a week.[90] This large salary was particularly welcome because the couple had lost considerable sums in the Wall Street Crash of 1929.[91] The actual work is negligible. ... So far, I have had eight collaborators. The system is that A. gets the original idea, B. comes in to work with him on it, C. makes a scenario, D. does preliminary dialogue, and then they send for me to insert Class and what-not. Then E. and F., scenario writers, alter the plot and off we go again. — Wodehouse on working in Hollywood.[92] The contract started in May 1930, but the studio found little for Wodehouse to do, and he had spare time to write a novel and nine short stories. He commented, "It's odd how soon one comes to look on every minute as wasted that is given to earning one's salary."[92] Even when the studio found a project for him to work on, the interventions of committees and constant rewriting by numerous contract authors meant that his ideas were rarely used. In a 2005 study of Wodehouse in Hollywood, Brian Taves writes that Those Three French Girls (1930) was "as close to a success as Wodehouse was to have at MGM. His only other credits were minimal, and the other projects he worked on were not produced."[93] Wodehouse's contract ended after a year and was not renewed. At MGM's request, he gave an interview to The Los Angeles Times. Wodehouse was described by Herbert Warren Wind as "politically naive [and] fundamentally unworldly",[94] and he caused a sensation by saying publicly what he had already told his friends privately about Hollywood's inefficiency, arbitrary decision-making, and waste of expensive talent. The interview was reprinted in The New York Times, and there was much editorial comment about the state of the film industry.[95] Many writers have considered that the interview precipitated a radical overhaul of the studio system,[96] but Taves believes it to have been "a storm in a teacup", and Donaldson comments that, in the straitened post-crash era, the reforms would have been inevitable.[97] Wind's view of Wodehouse's naïveté is not universally held. Biographers including Donaldson, McCrum and Phelps suggest that his unworldliness was only part of a complex character, and that in some respects he was highly astute.[98] He was unsparing of the studio owners in his early-1930s short stories set in Hollywood, which contain what Taves considers Wodehouse's sharpest and most biting satire.[99] Best-seller: 1930s[edit] During the 1930s Wodehouse's theatrical work tailed off. He wrote or adapted four plays for the West End; Leave it to Psmith (1930), which he adapted in collaboration with Ian Hay, was the only one to have a long run.[n 16] The reviewer in The Manchester Guardian praised the play, but commented: "It is Mr Wodehouse's own inimitable narrative comments and descriptions in his own person of the antics of his puppets that one misses. They cannot be got into a play and they are at least half the fun of the novels."[101] In 1934 Wodehouse collaborated with Bolton on the book for Cole Porter's Anything Goes (Porter wrote his own lyrics), but at the last minute their version was almost entirely rewritten by others at the instigation of the producer, who disliked the original script.[n 17] Concentrating on writing novels and short stories, Wodehouse reached the peak of his productivity in this decade, averaging two books each year, and grossing an annual £100,000.[105][n 18] His practice of dividing his time between Britain and America caused Wodehouse difficulties with the tax authorities of both countries. Both the UK Inland Revenue and the US Internal Revenue Service sought to tax him as a resident.[n 19] The matter was settled after lengthy negotiations, but the Wodehouses decided to change their residential status beyond doubt by moving to France, where they bought a house near Le Touquet in the north.[108] There is no question that in making Mr P.G. Wodehouse a doctor of letters the University has done the right and popular thing. Everyone knows at least some of his many works and has felt all the better for the gaiety of his wit and the freshness of his style. — The Times on Wodehouse's honorary doctorate, June 1939[109] In 1935 Wodehouse created the last of his regular cast of principal characters, Lord Ickenham, otherwise known as Uncle Fred, who, in Usborne's words, "leads the dance in four novels and a short story ... a whirring dynamo of misrule".[110] His other books from the decade include Right Ho, Jeeves, which Donaldson judged his best work, Uncle Fred in the Springtime, which the writer Bernard Levin considered the best, and Blandings Castle, which contains "Lord Emsworth and the Girl Friend", which Rudyard Kipling thought "one of the most perfect short stories I have ever read".[21] Other leading literary figures who admired Wodehouse were A. E. Housman, Max Beerbohm and Hilaire Belloc;[21] on the radio and in print Belloc called Wodehouse "the best writer of our time: the best living writer of English ... the head of my profession".[111] Wodehouse regarded Belloc's plaudit as "a gag, to get a rise out of serious-minded authors whom he disliked".[112][n 20] Wodehouse was never sure that his books had literary merit as well as popular appeal, and, Donaldson suggests, must have been overwhelmed when the University of Oxford conferred an honorary doctorate of letters on him in June 1939.[114][n 21] His visit to England for the awarding ceremony was the last time he set foot in his native land.[116] Second World War: internment and broadcasts[edit] At the start of the Second World War Wodehouse and his wife remained at their Le Touquet house, where, during the Phoney War, he worked on Joy in the Morning.[117] With the advance of the Germans, the nearby Royal Air Force base withdrew; Wodehouse was offered the sole spare seat in one of the fighter aircraft, but he turned down the opportunity as it would have meant leaving behind Ethel and their dog.[118] On 21 May 1940, with German troops advancing through northern France, the Wodehouses decided to drive to Portugal and fly from there to the US. Two miles from home their car broke down, so they returned and borrowed a car from a neighbour; with the routes blocked with refugees, they returned home again.[119] The Citadel of Huy, where Wodehouse was imprisoned in 1940 The Germans occupied Le Touquet on 22 May 1940 and Wodehouse had to report to the authorities daily.[118] After two months of occupation the Germans interned all male enemy nationals under 60, and Wodehouse was sent to a former prison in Loos, a suburb of Lille, on 21 July; Ethel remained in Le Touquet.[120][121] The internees were placed four to a cell, each of which had been designed for one man.[122] One bed was available per cell, which was made available to the eldest man—not Wodehouse, who slept on the granite floor.[123] The prisoners were not kept long in Loos before they were transported in cattle trucks to a former barracks in Liège, Belgium, which was run as a prison by the SS.[124] After a week the men were transferred to Huy in Liège Province, where they were incarcerated in the local citadel. They remained there until September 1940, when they were transported to Tost in Upper Silesia (then Germany, now Toszek in Poland).[125][n 22] Wodehouse's family and friends had not had any news of his location after the fall of France, but an article from an Associated Press reporter who had visited Tost in December 1940 led to pressure on the German authorities to release the novelist. This included a petition from influential people in the US; Senator W. Warren Barbour presented it to the German ambassador. Although his captors refused to release him, Wodehouse was provided with a typewriter and, to pass the time, he wrote Money in the Bank. Throughout his time in Tost, he sent postcards to his US literary agent asking for $5 to be sent to various people in Canada, mentioning his name. These were the families of Canadian prisoners of war, and the news from Wodehouse was the first indication that their sons were alive and well. Wodehouse risked severe punishment for the communication, but managed to evade the German censor.[126] I never was interested in politics. I'm quite unable to work up any kind of belligerent feeling. Just as I'm about to feel belligerent about some country I meet a decent sort of chap. We go out together and lose any fighting thoughts or feelings. — Wodehouse, in his Berlin broadcasts.[127] On 21 June 1941, while he was in the middle of playing a game of cricket, Wodehouse received a visit from two members of the Gestapo. He was given ten minutes to pack his things before he was taken to the Hotel Adlon, a top luxury hotel in Berlin. He stayed there at his own expense; royalties from the German editions of his books had been put into a special frozen bank account at the outset of the war, and Wodehouse was permitted to draw upon this money he had earned while staying in Berlin.[128] He was thus released from internment a few months before his sixtieth birthday—the age at which civilian internees were released by the Nazis.[129] Shortly afterwards Wodehouse was, in the words of Phelps, "cleverly trapped" into making five broadcasts to the US via German radio, with the Berlin-based correspondent of the Columbia Broadcasting System.[130] The broadcasts—aired on 28 June, 9, 23 and 30 July and 6 August—were titled How to be an Internee Without Previous Training, and comprised humorous anecdotes about Wodehouse's experiences as a prisoner, including some gentle mocking of his captors.[21][131] The German propaganda ministry arranged for the recordings to be broadcast to Britain in August.[132] The day after Wodehouse recorded his final programme, Ethel joined him in Berlin, having sold most of her jewellery to pay for the journey.[133] Aftermath: reactions and investigation[edit] The reaction in Britain to Wodehouse's broadcasts was hostile, and he was "reviled ... as a traitor, collaborator, Nazi propagandist, and a coward",[21] although, Phelps observes, many of those who decried his actions had not heard the content of the programmes.[133] A front-page article in The Daily Mirror stated that Wodehouse "lived luxuriously because Britain laughed with him, but when the laughter was out of his country's heart, ... [he] was not ready to share her suffering. He hadn't the guts ... even to stick it out in the internment camp."[134] In the House of Commons Anthony Eden, the Foreign Secretary, regretted Wodehouse's actions.[135] Several libraries removed Wodehouse novels from their shelves.[21] Duff Cooper, 1941 On 15 July the journalist William Connor, under his pen name Cassandra, broadcast a postscript to the news programme railing against Wodehouse. According to The Times, the broadcast "provoked a storm of complaint ... from listeners all over the country".[136] Wodehouse's biographer, Joseph Connolly, thinks the broadcast "inaccurate, spiteful and slanderous";[137] Phelps calls it "probably the most vituperative attack on an individual ever heard on British radio".[138][n 23] The broadcast was made at the direct instruction of Duff Cooper, the Minister of Information, who overruled strong protests made by the BBC against the decision to air the programme.[136] Numerous letters appeared in the British press, both supporting and criticising Wodehouse. The letters page of The Daily Telegraph became a focus for censuring Wodehouse, including one from Wodehouse's friend, A. A. Milne; a reply from their fellow author Compton Mackenzie in defence of Wodehouse was not published because the editor claimed a lack of space.[141][n 24] Most of those defending Wodehouse against accusations of disloyalty, including Sax Rohmer, Dorothy L. Sayers and Gilbert Frankau, conceded that he had acted stupidly.[142] Some members of the public wrote to the newspapers to say that the full facts were not yet known and a fair judgment could not be made until they were.[143] The management of the BBC, who considered Wodehouse's actions no worse than "ill advised", pointed out to Cooper that there was no evidence at that point whether Wodehouse had acted voluntarily or under compulsion.[144] When Wodehouse heard of the furore the broadcasts had caused, he contacted the Foreign Office—through the Swiss embassy in Berlin—to explain his actions, and attempted to return home via neutral countries, but the German authorities refused to let him leave.[145][146] In Performing Flea, a 1953 collection of letters, Wodehouse wrote, "Of course I ought to have had the sense to see that it was a loony thing to do to use the German radio for even the most harmless stuff, but I didn't. I suppose prison life saps the intellect."[147] The reaction in America was mixed: the left-leaning publication PM accused Wodehouse of "play[ing] Jeeves to the Nazis", but the Department of War used the interviews as an ideal representation of anti-Nazi propaganda.[145] The broadcasts, in point of fact, are neither anti- nor pro-German, but just Wodehousian. He is a man singularly ill-fitted to live in a time of ideological conflict, having no feelings of hatred about anyone, and no very strong views about anything. ... I never heard him speak bitterly about anyone—not even about old friends who turned against him in distress. Such temperament does not make for good citizenship in the second half of the Twentieth Century. — Malcolm Muggeridge, discussing Wodehouse's wartime broadcasts from Germany.[148] The Wodehouses remained in Germany until September 1943, when, because of the Allied bombings, they were allowed to move back to Paris. They were living there when the city was liberated on 25 August 1944; Wodehouse reported to the American authorities the following day, asking them to inform the British of his whereabouts.[149] He was subsequently visited by Malcolm Muggeridge, recently arrived in Paris as an intelligence officer with MI6.[150] The young officer quickly came to like Wodehouse and considered the question of treasonable behaviour as "ludicrous"; he summed up the writer as "ill-fitted to live in an age of ideological conflict".[151] On 9 September Wodehouse was visited by an MI5 officer and former barrister, Major Edward Cussen, who formally investigated him, a process that stretched over four days. On 28 September Cussen filed his report, which states that in regard to the broadcasts, Wodehouse's behaviour "has been unwise", but advised against further action. On 23 November Theobald Matthew, the Director of Public Prosecutions, decided there was no evidence to justify prosecuting Wodehouse.[152][153][n 25] In November 1944 Duff Cooper was appointed British ambassador to France[154] and was provided accommodation at the Hôtel Le Bristol, where the Wodehouses were living. Cooper complained to the French authorities, and the couple were moved to a different hotel.[155] The Wodehouses were subsequently arrested by French police and placed under preventive detention, despite no charges being presented. When Muggeridge tracked them down later, he managed to get Ethel released straight away and, four days later, ensured that the French authorities declared Wodehouse unwell and put him in a nearby hospital, which was more comfortable than where they had been detained. While in this hospital, Wodehouse worked on his novel Uncle Dynamite.[156] While still detained by the French, Wodehouse was again mentioned in questions in the House of Commons in December 1944 when MPs wondered if the French authorities could repatriate him to stand trial. Eden stated that the "matter has been gone into, and, according to the advice given, there are no grounds upon which we could take action".[157] Two months later, Orwell wrote the essay "In Defence of P.G. Wodehouse",[n 26] where he stated that "it is important to realise that the events of 1941 do not convict Wodehouse of anything worse than stupidity".[159] Orwell's rationale was that Wodehouse's "moral outlook has remained that of a public-school boy, and according to the public-school code, treachery in time of war is the most unforgivable of all the sins", which was compounded by his "complete lack—so far as one can judge from his printed works—of political awareness".[160] On 15 January 1945 the French authorities released Wodehouse,[161] but they did not inform him, until June 1946, that he would not face any official charges and was free to leave the country.[162][n 27] American exile: 1946–1975[edit] Having secured American visas in July 1946, the Wodehouses made preparations to return to New York. They were delayed by Ethel's insistence on acquiring suitable new clothes and by Wodehouse's wish to finish writing his current novel, The Mating Season, in the peace of the French countryside.[164] In April 1947 they sailed to New York, where Wodehouse was relieved at the friendly reception he received from the large press contingent awaiting his arrival.[165] Ethel secured a comfortable penthouse apartment in Manhattan's Upper East Side, but Wodehouse was not at ease. The New York that he had known before the war was much changed. The magazines that had paid lavishly for his stories were in decline, and those that remained were not much interested in him. He was sounded out about writing for Broadway, but he was not at home in the post-war theatre;[n 28] he had money problems, with large sums temporarily tied up in Britain,[167] and for the first time in his career he had no ideas for a new novel.[168] He did not complete one until 1951.[162] Wodehouse remained unsettled until he and Ethel left New York City for Long Island. Bolton and his wife lived in the prosperous hamlet of Remsenburg, part of the Southampton area of Long Island, 77 miles (124 km) east of Manhattan. Wodehouse stayed with them frequently, and in 1952 he and Ethel bought a house nearby. They lived at Remsenburg for the rest of their lives. Between 1952 and 1975 he published more than twenty novels, as well as two collections of short stories, a heavily edited collection of his letters, a volume of memoirs, and a selection of his magazine articles.[n 29] He continued to hanker after a revival of his theatrical career. A 1959 off-Broadway revival of the 1917 Bolton-Wodehouse-Kern Leave It to Jane was a surprise hit, running for 928 performances, but his few post-war stage works, some in collaboration with Bolton, made little impression.[170] For Mr Wodehouse there has been no fall of Man; no 'aboriginal calamity'. His characters have never tasted the forbidden fruit. They are still in Eden. The gardens of Blandings Castle are that original garden from which we are all exiled. ... Mr Wodehouse's idyllic world can never stale. He will continue to release future generations from captivity that may be more irksome than our own. He has made a world for us to live in and delight in. — Evelyn Waugh, 1961[171] Although Ethel made a return visit to England in 1948 to shop and visit family and friends, Wodehouse never left America after his arrival in 1947.[172] It was not until 1965 that the British government indicated privately that he could return without fear of legal proceedings, and by then he felt too old to make the journey.[173] The biographers Benny Green and Robert McCrum both take the view that this exile benefited Wodehouse's writing, helping him to go on depicting an idealised England seen in his mind's eye, rather than as it actually was in the post-war decades.[174] During their years in Long Island, the couple often took in stray animals and contributed substantial funds to a local animal shelter.[175][n 30] In 1955 Wodehouse became an American citizen,[176] though he remained a British subject, and was therefore still eligible for UK state honours. He was considered for the award of a knighthood three times from 1967, but the honour was twice blocked by British officials.[177][n 31] In 1974 the British prime minister, Harold Wilson, intervened to secure a knighthood (KBE) for Wodehouse, which was announced in the January 1975 New Year Honours list.[177][179] The Times commented that Wodehouse's honour signalled "official forgiveness for his wartime indiscretion. ... It is late, but not too late, to take the sting out of that unhappy incident."[179] The following month Wodehouse entered Southampton Hospital, Long Island, for treatment of a skin complaint. While there, he suffered a heart attack and died on 14 February 1975 at the age of 93. He was buried at Remsenburg Presbyterian Church four days later. Ethel outlived him by more than nine years; Leonora had predeceased him, dying suddenly in 1944.[180] Writing[edit] See also: P. G. Wodehouse bibliography and P. G. Wodehouse short stories bibliography Technique and approach[edit] When in due course Charon ferries me across the Styx and everyone is telling everyone else what a rotten writer I was, I hope at least one voice will be heard piping up, 'But he did take trouble.' — Wodehouse on Wodehouse, 1957[181] Before starting a book Wodehouse would write up to four hundred pages of notes bringing together an outline of the plot; he acknowledged that "It's the plots that I find so hard to work out. It takes such a long time to work one out."[182] He always completed the plot before working on specific character actions.[183] For a novel the note-writing process could take up to two years, and he would usually have two or more novels in preparation simultaneously. After he had completed his notes, he would draw up a fuller scenario of about thirty thousand words, which ensured plot holes were avoided, and allowed for the dialogue to begin to develop.[184] When interviewed in 1975 he revealed that "For a humorous novel you've got to have a scenario, and you've got to test it so that you know where the comedy comes in, where the situations come in ... splitting it up into scenes (you can make a scene of almost anything) and have as little stuff in between as possible." He preferred working between 4 and 7 pm—but never after dinner—and would work seven days a week. In his younger years, he would write around two to three thousand words a day, although he slowed as he aged, so that in his nineties he would produce a thousand. The reduced speed in writing slowed his production of books: when younger he would produce a novel in about three months, while Bachelors Anonymous, published in 1973, took around six months.[182][185] Although studies of language production in normal healthy ageing show a marked decline from the mid-70s on, a study of Wodehouse's works did not find any evidence of a decline in linguistic ability with age.[186] Wodehouse believed that one of the factors that made his stories humorous was his view of life, and he stated that "If you take life fairly easily, then you take a humorous view of things. It's probably because you were born that way."[182] He carried this view through into his writing, describing the approach as "making the thing a sort of musical comedy without music, and ignoring real life altogether".[187] The literary critic Edward L. Galligan considers Wodehouse's stories to show his mastery in adapting the form of the American musical comedy for his writings.[188] Wodehouse would ensure that his first draft was as carefully and accurately done as possible, correcting and refining the prose as he wrote, and would then make another good copy, before proofreading again and then making a final copy for his publisher.[183] The English Heritage blue plaque for Wodehouse at 17 Dunraven Street, Mayfair, in the City of Westminster Most of Wodehouse's canon is set in an undated period around the 1920s and 1930s.[189] The critic Anthony Lejeune describes the settings of Wodehouse's novels, such as the Drones Club and Blandings Castle, as "a fairyland".[190] Although some critics thought Wodehouse's fiction was based on a world that had never existed, Wodehouse affirmed that "it did. It was going strong between the wars",[182] although he agreed that his version was to some extent "a sort of artificial world of my own creation".[191] The novels showed a largely unchanging world, regardless of when they were written,[189][190] and only rarely—and mistakenly in McCrum's view—did Wodehouse allow modernity to intrude, as he did in the 1966 story "Bingo Bans the Bomb".[192] When dealing with the dialogue in his novels, Wodehouse would consider the book's characters as if they were actors in a play, ensuring that the main roles were kept suitably employed throughout the storyline, which must be strong: "If they aren't in interesting situations, characters can't be major characters, not even if you have the rest of the troop talk their heads off about them."[182][193] Many of Wodehouse's parts were stereotypes,[188] and he acknowledged that "a real character in one of my books sticks out like a sore thumb."[191] The publisher Michael Joseph identifies that even within the stereotypes Wodehouse understood human nature, and therefore "shares with [Charles] Dickens and Charles Chaplin the ability to present the comic resistance of the individual against those superior forces to which we are all subject".[194] Much of Wodehouse's use of slang terms reflects the influence of his time at school in Dulwich, and partly reflects Edwardian slang.[195] As a young man he enjoyed the literary works of Arthur Conan Doyle and Jerome K. Jerome, and the operatic works of Gilbert and Sullivan.[196] Wodehouse quotes from and alludes to numerous poets throughout his work. The scholar Clarke Olney lists those quoted, including Milton, Byron, Longfellow, Coleridge, Swinburne, Tennyson, Wordsworth and Shakespeare.[197] Another favoured source was the King James Bible.[197][198] Language[edit] Illustration from the 1910 novel A Gentleman of Leisure In 1941 the Concise Cambridge History of English Literature opined that Wodehouse had "a gift for highly original aptness of phrase that almost suggests a poet struggling for release among the wild extravagances of farce",[199] while McCrum thinks that Wodehouse manages to combine "high farce with the inverted poetry of his mature comic style", particularly in The Code of the Woosters;[195] the novelist Anthony Powell believes Wodehouse to be a "comic poet".[200] Robert A. Hall Jr., in his study of Wodehouse's style and technique, describes the author as a master of prose,[38] an opinion also shared by Levin, who considers Wodehouse "one of the finest and purest writers of English prose".[201] Hall identifies several techniques used by Wodehouse to achieve comic effect, including the creation of new words through adding or removing prefixes and suffixes, so when Pongo Twistleton removes the housemaid Elsie Bean from a cupboard, Wodehouse writes that the character "de-Beaned the cupboard". Wodehouse created new words by splitting others in two, thus Wodehouse divides "hobnobbing" when he writes: "To offer a housemaid a cigarette is not hobbing. Nor, when you light it for her, does that constitute nobbing."[38] Richard Voorhees, Wodehouse's biographer, believes that the author used clichés in a deliberate and ironic manner.[202] His opinion is shared by the academic Stephen Medcalf, who deems Wodehouse's skill is to "bring a cliché just enough to life to kill it",[203] although Pamela March, writing in The Christian Science Monitor, considers Wodehouse to have "an ability to decliché a cliché".[204] Medcalf provides an example from Right Ho, Jeeves in which the teetotal Gussie Fink-Nottle has surreptitiously been given whisky and gin in a punch prior to a prize-giving:  'It seems to me, Jeeves, that the ceremony may be one fraught with considerable interest.' 'Yes, sir.' 'What, in your opinion, will the harvest be?' 'One finds it difficult to hazard a conjecture, sir.' 'You mean imagination boggles?' 'Yes, sir.' I inspected my imagination. He was right. It boggled.[203] The stylistic device most commonly found in Wodehouse's work is his use of comparative imagery that includes similes. Hall opines that the humour comes from Wodehouse's ability to accentuate "resemblances which at first glance seem highly incongruous". Examples can be seen in Joy in the Morning, Chapter 29: "There was a sound in the background like a distant sheep coughing gently on a mountainside. Jeeves sailing into action", or Psmith, Chapter 7: "A sound like two or three pigs feeding rather noisily in the middle of a thunderstorm interrupted his meditation."[38] Hall also identifies that periodically Wodehouse used the stylistic device of a transferred epithet, with an adjective that properly belongs to a person applied instead to some inanimate object. The form of expression is used sparingly by Wodehouse in comparison with other mechanisms, only once or twice in a story or novel, according to Hall.[205] "I balanced a thoughtful lump of sugar on the teaspoon." —Joy in the Morning, Chapter 5 "As I sat in the bath-tub, soaping a meditative foot ..." —Jeeves and the Feudal Spirit, Chapter 1 "The first thing he did was to prod Jeeves in the lower ribs with an uncouth forefinger." —Much Obliged, Jeeves, Chapter 4 Wordplay is a key element in Wodehouse's writing. This can take the form of puns, such as in Jeeves and the Feudal Spirit, when Bertie is released after a night in the police cells, and says that he has "a pinched look" about him.[38] Linguistic confusion is another humorous mechanism, such as in Uncle Dynamite when Constable Potter says he has been "assaulted by the duck pond". In reply, Sir Aylmer, confusing the two meanings of the word "by", asks: "How the devil can you be assaulted by a duck pond?"[38] Wodehouse also uses metaphor and mixed metaphor to add humour. Some come through exaggeration, such as Bingo Little's infant child who "not only has the aspect of a mass murderer, but that of a mass murderer suffering from an ingrown toenail", or Wooster's complaint that "the rumpuses that Bobbie Wickham is already starting may be amusing to her, but not to the unfortunate toads beneath the harrow whom she ruthlessly plunges into the soup."[206] Bertie Wooster's half-forgotten vocabulary also provides a further humorous device. In Jeeves and the Feudal Spirit Bertie asks Jeeves "Let a plugugly like young Thos loose in the community with a cosh, and you are inviting disaster and ... what's the word? Something about cats." Jeeves replies, "Cataclysms, sir?"[38] Reception and reputation[edit] Literary reception[edit] Wodehouse's early career as a lyricist and playwright was profitable, and his work with Bolton, according to The Guardian, "was one of the most successful in the history of musical comedy".[207] At the outbreak of the Second World War he was earning £40,000 a year from his work, which had broadened to include novels and short stories.[208] Following the furore ensuing from the wartime broadcasts, he suffered a downturn in his popularity and book sales; The Saturday Evening Post stopped publishing his short stories, a stance they reversed in 1965, although his popularity—and the sales figures—slowly recovered over time.[209] Cover of Wodehouse's 1903 novel A Prefect's Uncle Wodehouse received great praise from many of his contemporaries, including Max Beerbohm, Rudyard Kipling, A. E. Housman[21] and Evelyn Waugh—the last of whom opines, "One has to regard a man as a Master who can produce on average three uniquely brilliant and entirely original similes on each page."[210] There are dissenters to the praise. The writer Alan Bennett thinks that "inspired though his language is, I can never take more than ten pages of the novels at a time, their relentless flippancy wearing and tedious",[211] while the literary critic Q. D. Leavis writes that Wodehouse had a "stereotyped humour ... of ingenious variations on a laugh in one place".[212] In a 2010 study of Wodehouse's few relatively serious novels, such as The Coming of Bill (1919), Jill the Reckless (1920) and The Adventures of Sally (1922), David Heddendorf concludes that though their literary quality does not match that of the farcical novels, they show a range of empathy and interests that in real life—and in his most comic works—the author seemed to lack. "Never oblivious to grief and despair, he opts in clear-eyed awareness for his timeless world of spats and woolly-headed peers. It's an austere, almost bloodless preference for pristine artifice over the pain and messy outcomes of actual existence, but it's a case of Wodehouse keeping faith with his own unique art."[213] The American literary analyst Robert F. Kiernan, defining "camp" as "excessive stylization of whatever kind", brackets Wodehouse as "a master of the camp novel", along with Thomas Love Peacock, Max Beerbohm, Ronald Firbank, E. F. Benson and Ivy Compton-Burnett.[214] The literary critic and writer Cyril Connolly calls Wodehouse a "politicians' author"—one who does "not like art to be exacting and difficult".[215][n 32] Two former British prime ministers, H. H. Asquith and Tony Blair, are on record as Wodehouse aficionados, and the latter became a patron of the Wodehouse Society.[2] Seán O'Casey, a successful playwright of the 1920s, thought little of Wodehouse; he commented in 1941 that it was damaging to England's dignity that the public or "the academic government of Oxford, dead from the chin up" considered Wodehouse an important figure in English literature.[216] His jibe that Wodehouse was "English literature's performing flea" provided his target with the title of his collected letters, published in 1953.[216] McCrum, writing in 2004, observes, "Wodehouse is more popular today than on the day he died", and "his comic vision has an absolutely secure place in the English literary imagination."[217] Honours and influence[edit] The proposed nominations of Wodehouse for a knighthood in 1967 and 1971 were blocked for fear that such an award would "revive the controversy of his wartime behaviour and give currency to a Bertie Wooster image of the British character which the embassy was doing its best to eradicate".[178] When Wodehouse was awarded the knighthood, only four years later, the journalist Dennis Barker wrote in The Guardian that the writer was "the solitary surviving English literary comic genius".[208] After his death six weeks later, the journalist Michael Davie, writing in the same paper, observed that "Many people regarded ... [Wodehouse] as he regarded Beachcomber, as 'one, if not more than one, of England's greatest men' ",[218] while in the view of the obituarist for The Times Wodehouse "was a comic genius recognized in his lifetime as a classic and an old master of farce".[219] In September 2019 Wodehouse was commemorated with a memorial stone in Westminster Abbey;[220] the dedication was held two days after it was installed.[221] Since Wodehouse's death there have been numerous adaptations and dramatisations of his work on television and film;[21][222] Wodehouse himself has been portrayed on radio and screen numerous times.[n 33] There are several literary societies dedicated to Wodehouse. The P.G. Wodehouse Society (UK) was founded in 1997 and has over 1,000 members as at 2015.[228] The president of the society as at 2017 is Alexander Armstrong;[229] past presidents have included Terry Wogan and Richard Briers.[230] There are also other groups of Wodehouse fans in Australia, Belgium, France, Finland, India, Italy, Russia, Sweden and the US.[228] As at 2015 the Oxford English Dictionary contains over 1,750 quotations from Wodehouse, illustrating terms from crispish to zippiness.[231] Voorhees, while acknowledging that Wodehouse's antecedents in literature range from Ben Jonson to Oscar Wilde, writes: [I]t is now abundantly clear that Wodehouse is one of the funniest and most productive men who ever wrote in English. He is far from being a mere jokesmith: he is an authentic craftsman, a wit and humorist of the first water, the inventor of a prose style which is a kind of comic poetry.[232] Notes, references and sources[edit] Notes[edit] ^ P. G. von Donop's middle name was George. It is unclear why Grenville was chosen for Wodehouse. The academic Sophie Ratcliffe speculates that Eleanor Wodehouse chose it because of her liking for literary heroes. Sir Richard Grenville is the hero of Tennyson's The Revenge; among the names Eleanor gave her other sons were Peveril from Scott's Peveril of the Peak and Lancelot from Tennyson's Idylls of the King.[4] ^ A younger brother, Richard, was born in 1892. He "hardly featured in Wodehouse's life", according to the biographer Robert McCrum, living for most of his life in India and then China, and making a modest reputation as an amateur cricketer.[8] ^ Usborne cites as an example a sentence from Money in the Bank (1942): "With the feeling, which was his constant companion nowadays, for the wedding was fixed for the fifth of July and it was already the tenth of June, that if anybody cared to describe him as some wild thing taken in a trap, which sees the trapper coming through the woods, it would be all right with him, he threw a moody banana skin at the loudest of the sparrows, and went back into the room."[25] ^ McCrum finds Ernest Wodehouse's decision inconsistent with the financial facts: he calculates that Ernest's income, currency fluctuations notwithstanding, would comfortably have allowed him to send two sons to Oxford.[30] ^ Wodehouse primarily wrote under the name P.G. Wodehouse, but occasionally used other names, including P. Brooke-Haven, Melrose Grainger, Pelham Grenville, J. Plum, J. Walker Williams, C.P. West, Henry William-Jones and Basil Windham.[38] ^ The piece had been running at the Strand Theatre since June;[47] it was common practice for musical comedies to be refreshed with new material during their runs.[48] ^ The two books were Not George Washington (1907) and The Globe By the Way Book (1908).[54] ^ In the opinion of Carte's daughter, Dame Bridget D'Oyly Carte, the schoolboy described to Wodehouse was not her father, who was shy and taciturn, but his more outgoing elder brother Lucas.[60] ^ Leonora took Wodehouse's surname until she married Peter Cazalet in 1932.[65] ^ In this story Bertie's surname is evidently not Wooster but Mannering-Phipps, and Jeeves is not yet the omniscient deus ex machina he was soon to become in subsequent stories.[69] ^ The shows by the trio at the Princess and other New York theatres had runs varying from 475 performances for Oh, Boy! to 48 for Miss 1917.[73] ^ In The Inimitable Jeeves (1923) and Carry on Jeeves (1925); Leave it to Psmith (1923, a Blandings novel despite its title); and Ukridge (1924).[81] ^ In Leave it to Psmith (1923).[82] ^ Among the members of this fictional Mayfair club are Psmith, Bertie Wooster, two of Mr Mulliner's nephews and Lord Emsworth's younger son, Freddie Threepwood. Fifty other young male Wodehouse characters are also identified as members.[85] Wodehouse published two collections of short stories about the escapades of various Drones: Young Men in Spats (1936) and Eggs, Beans and Crumpets (1940). Members of the club feature in other collections, including A Few Quick Ones (1959) and Plum Pie (1966).[85] ^ They included the feature films Uneasy Money (1918), A Damsel in Distress (1919), The Prince and Betty (1919), Piccadilly Jim (1920), Their Mutual Child (1920, from the novel published in the UK as The Coming of Bill), and The Small Bachelor (1927).[89] ^ It ran for 156 performances; Who's Who co-written with Bolton ran for 19 performances; Good Morning. Bill for 78; and The Inside Stand for 50.[100] ^ Bolton and Wodehouse's original book was set on a shipwrecked ocean liner; shortly before the Broadway opening a shipping disaster off the coast of New Jersey caused the deaths of 138 passengers and crew members. The producer decided that the plot would seem in bad taste in the circumstances, and was evidently glad of the pretext to jettison the original book, with which he was unhappy.[102] For the London production in 1935 Wodehouse revised the dialogue and rewrote some of Porter's lyrics, substituting British topical references for the original American ones.[103][104] ^ The average weekly industrial wage in Britain in 1938 was equal to £180 a year.[106] Wodehouse's income was more than 500 times as much. ^ The two countries had not at that time reached the agreement that income tax is payable in one country or the other, but not in both.[107] ^ Among those to whom Wodehouse referred was Hugh Walpole. Wodehouse wrote to a friend, William Townsend, "I can't remember if I ever told you about meeting Hugh when I was at Oxford getting my D.Litt. I was staying with the Vice-Chancellor at Magdalen and he blew in and spent the day. It was just after Hilaire Belloc had said that I was the best living English writer. It was just a gag, of course, but it worried Hugh terribly. He said to me, 'Did you see what Belloc said about you?' I said I had. 'I wonder why he said that.' 'I wonder,' I said. Long silence. 'I can't imagine why he said that,' said Hugh. I said I couldn't, either. Another long silence. 'It seems such an extraordinary thing to say!' 'Most extraordinary.' Long silence again. 'Ah, well,' said Hugh, having apparently found the solution, 'the old man's getting very old.'"[113] ^ The Observer suggested that Jeeves should receive an honorary MA at the same time.[115] ^ Wodehouse found the local countryside monotonous, and wrote, "There is a flat dullness about the countryside which has led many a visitor to say 'If this is Upper Silesia, what must Lower Silesia be like?'."[125] ^ A third biographer, Benny Green, calls it "one of the most scurrilous personal attacks in the history of English journalism",[139] while McCrum describes it as "breathtakingly intemperate, a polemic unique in the annals of the BBC".[140] ^ Mackenzie said he had "an old-fashioned prejudice against condemning a man unheard"; he added that "I feel more disgusted by Mr Milne's morality than by Mr Wodehouse's irresponsibility."[141] ^ Neither Cussen's report or Matthew's decision was communicated to Wodehouse; they were not released to the public until 1980.[153] ^ The article was published in the July edition of Windmill magazine.[158] ^ A 2013 drama produced by BBC 4 titled Wodehouse in Exile looked at the circumstances surrounding Wodehouse's wartime experience and the subsequent reaction.[163] ^ He wrote to Bolton, "Apparently you have to write your show and get it composed and then give a series of auditions to backers, instead of having the management line up a couple of stars and then get a show written for them."[166] ^ Respectively, A Few Quick Ones (1958), Plum Pie (1966), Performing Flea (1953), Bring on the Girls! (1954, jointly with Guy Bolton) and Over Seventy (1957).[169] ^ The Wodehouses contributed $35,000 to the "Bide-a-Wee" shelter, and it would have received $300,000 in Wodehouse's will had it not been for a change in its managerial regime of which the Wodehouses disapproved.[175] ^ On both occasions the block was at the behest of the British ambassador to the US, Sir Patrick Dean in 1967 and his successor Lord Cromer in 1971.[178] ^ Alongside Wodehouse, Connolly listed light music, Mickey Mouse, the Oxford Book of Verse and the works of Edgar Wallace and Mary Webb.[215] ^ On screen he has been played by Peter Woodward in Wodehouse on Broadway (BBC, 1989);[223] and Tim Pigott-Smith in Wodehouse in Exile (BBC, 2013).[224] On radio he has been played by Benjamin Whitrow (BBC, 1999);[225] and twice by Tim McInnerny (BBC, 2008[226] and 2010).[227] References[edit] ^ Jasen, p. 2; and Donaldson, pp. 39–40 ^ a b c d e f Donaldson, Frances. (1986) "Wodehouse, Sir Pelham Grenville" Archived 13 June 2015 at the Wayback Machine, Oxford Dictionary of National Biography archive, Oxford University Press, retrieved 25 April 2015 (subscription or UK public library membership required) ^ "Surrey's Famous people", Visit Surrey, retrieved 25 April 2015 ^ a b c Wodehouse and Ratcliffe, p. 30 ^ Wodehouse, Over Seventy, p. 46; also, slightly reworded, in author's preface to 1969 reissue of Something Fresh, p. 2 ^ McCrum, p. 9 ^ McCrum, p. 14 ^ McCrum, pp. 23–24; and "Richard Wodehouse" Archived 10 June 2015 at the Wayback Machine, Cricinfo, retrieved 27 April 2015 ^ Donaldson, p. 43 ^ Donaldson, p. 43 (Kipling); Hart-Davis, p. 20 (Walpole); and Usborne, p. 43 (Thackeray and Saki) ^ Jasen, p. 5 ^ a b Wodehouse, Over Seventy, p. 16 ^ McCrum, pp. 16–17 ^ Wodehouse, quoted in Jasen, p. 8 ^ Jaggard (1967), p. 104 ^ Historic England. "Cheyney Court (1285230)". National Heritage List for England. Retrieved 31 January 2022. ^ Easdale, Roderick (2014). The Novel Life of P. G. Wodehouse, p. 40 ^ "Box People and Places: The Shadow of Mary Deane", boxpeopleandplaces.co.uk, accessed 9 March 2024 ^ Kemp, Sandra, ed. (1997) Edwardian Fiction: An Oxford Companion (Oxford University Press), p. 92 ^ Murphy, N. T. P. (2015), The P. G. Wodehouse Miscellany, p. 12 ^ a b c d e f g h i Sproat, Iain. (2010) "Wodehouse, Sir Pelham Grenville (1881–1975)", Oxford Dictionary of National Biography, Oxford University Press, retrieved 24 April 2015 (subscription or UK public library membership required) ^ Donaldson, p. 52 ^ McCrum, p. 24 ^ Jasen, p. 17 ^ a b Usborne, p. 26 ^ Wodehouse, Performing Flea, Letter of 7 March 1946, p. 135 ^ Jasen, p. 18 ^ Phelps, p. 63 ^ Wodehouse, Over Seventy, p. 19 ^ McCrum, p. 37 ^ Wodehouse, Over Seventy, pp. 19–21, and 24–27 ^ Donaldson, p. 57 ^ Jasen, pp. 22–23 ^ Jasen, p. 25 ^ a b Jasen, p. 45 ^ McCrum, pp. 52–53 ^ McCrum, p. 47 ^ a b c d e f g "P(elham) G(renville) Wodehouse", Contemporary Authors, Gale, retrieved 6 May 2015 (subscription required) ^ French, p. 18 ^ Wodehouse, Performing Flea, Letter of 27 August 1946, p. 138 ^ McCrum, p. 68 ^ Quoted in Jasen, p. 32 ^ Jasen, pp. 32–33 ^ Wodehouse, Over Seventy, p. 38 ^ McIlvaine, p. 267 ^ Jason, p. 34; Green (1981), p. 98; and McCrum, p. 70 ^ Gaye, p. 1538; and "Strand Theatre", The Times, 15 June 1904, p. 7 ^ Napper, p. 38 ^ McCrum, p. 30 ^ McCrum, p. 70; and Wodehouse and Ratcliffe, p. 55 ^ Jasen, p. 36; and Green (1981), p. 247 ^ French, p. 31 ^ French, p. 32; Jasen, pp. 42–43, 274 and 278; and "Savoy Theatre", The Times, 9 April 1913, p. 10 ^ a b McCrum, p. 504 ^ Usborne, p. 96 ^ Jasen, p. 36 ^ a b McCrum, p. 83 ^ French, p. 38 ^ a b Wodehouse, The World of Psmith, p. v ^ Donaldson, p. 85 ^ Usborne, p. 237 ^ Jasen, pp. 44–45 ^ Donaldson, p. 92 ^ Jasen, p. 56 ^ McCrum, p. 213 ^ McCrum, p. 91 ^ Wodehouse and Ratcliffe, p. 94 ^ Usborne, p. 17 ^ Usborne, p. 103; and Wodehouse, P.G. "Extricating Young Gussie", The Man With Two Left Feet and Other Stories (1917), Project Gutenberg, retrieved 28 April 2015 ^ Usborne, pp. 117–118 ^ Usborne, pp. 173–175 ^ Hischak, Thomas. "Princess Theatre Musicals" Archived 12 June 2015 at the Wayback Machine, The Oxford Companion to the American Musical, Oxford University Press, 2008 (subscription required) ^ Donaldson, pp. 357–358 ^ Donaldson, p. 111 ^ Jasen, pp. 68–69 ^ Donaldson, pp. 111–112 ^ Donaldson, p. 110 ^ Stempel, Larry. "Wodehouse, P.G.", The Grove Dictionary of American Music, Oxford Music Online. Oxford University Press, retrieved 7 May 2015 (subscription required) ^ Bordman, Gerald. "Jerome David Kern: Innovator/Traditionalist", The Musical Quarterly, 1985, Vol. 71, No. 4, pp. 468–473 ^ Jasen, p. 76 ^ Donaldson, pp. 351–352 ^ Usborne, p. 91 ^ Usborne, p. 166 ^ Usborne, p. 167 ^ a b Jaggard pp. 46–49 ^ Donaldson, pp. 358–359 ^ Donaldson, p. 359 ^ Donaldson, p. 128 ^ Taves, p. 123 ^ Taves, p. 127 ^ McCrum, pp. 183, 186 and 214 ^ a b Wodehouse and Donaldson, Letter of 26 June 1930, p. 125 ^ Taves, p. 131 ^ Wind, p. 29 ^ Taves, p. 137 ^ Donaldson, p. 143 ^ Taves, p. 137 and Donaldson, p. 143 ^ Donaldson, p. xiv; McCrum, p. 305; and Phelps, p. 22 ^ Taves, p. 138 ^ Donaldson, p. 360 ^ "Wodehouse on the Stage", The Manchester Guardian, 30 September 1930, p. 15 ^ McCrum, pp. 227–228 ^ Green (1980), p. 12 ^ "Benito Mussolini" Archived 1 July 2017 at the Wayback Machine, The New York Times, 21 August 1994 ^ Donaldson, pp. 252–253; and Usborne, p. 24 ^ "Industrial Wages" Archived 15 March 2015 at the Wayback Machine, Hansard, 21 February 1956, Vol. 549, cols. 177–179 ^ Donaldson, p. 153 ^ Jasen, p. 139 ^ "The Encaenia", The Times, 22 June 1939, p. 17 ^ Usborne, p. 127 ^ Belloc, p. 5 ^ Hart-Davis, p. 403 ^ Wodehouse, Performing Flea, Letter of 1 August 1945, p. 128 ^ Donaldson, p. 161 ^ "The Universities", The Observer, 28 May 1939, p. 15 ^ Green (1981), p. 247 ^ McCrum, pp. 267–270 ^ a b Green (1981), p. 181 ^ McCrum, pp. 272–273 ^ McCrum, pp. 276–277 ^ Phelps, pp. 208, 212 ^ Jasen, p. 174 ^ Connolly, p. 84 ^ Jasen, p. 175 ^ a b Connolly, p. 88 ^ Phelps, pp. 209–210; and Green (1981), pp. 182–183 ^ Orwell, p. 288 ^ McCrum, pp. 301–302 ^ Green (1981), p. 182 ^ Phelps, p. 211 ^ Connolly, p. 91; and Phelps, p. 211 ^ McCrum, p. 320 ^ a b Phelps, p. 212 ^ "The Price is ?", The Mirror, 28 June 1941, p. 1 ^ "Mr P.G. Wodehouse (Broadcasts, Germany)" Archived 12 June 2015 at the Wayback Machine, Hansard, 9 July 1941, Vol. 373, cols 145–146 ^ a b "The Government Changes", The Times, 22 July 1941, p. 4 ^ Connolly, p. 92 ^ Phelps, pp. 212–213 ^ Green (1981), p. 184 ^ McCrum, p. 317 ^ a b Phelps, pp. 215–216 ^ McCrum, p. 315 ^ "Letters to the Editor", The Times, 19 July 1941, p. 5 ^ Donaldson, p. 242 ^ a b Connolly, p. 93 ^ Phelps, p. 216 ^ Wodehouse, Performing Flea, Letter of 11 May 1942, p. 115 ^ Connolly, pp. 95–96 ^ Connolly, p. 93; and Phelps, p. 219 ^ Green (1981), p. 202 ^ McCrum, p. 344 ^ Phelps, p. 220 ^ a b McCrum, p. 346 ^ Ziegler, Philip. (2004) "Cooper, (Alfred) Duff, first Viscount Norwich (1890–1954)", Oxford Dictionary of National Biography archive, Oxford University Press, retrieved 12 June 2015 (subscription or UK public library membership required) ^ McCrum, p. 347 ^ McCrum, p. 348; and Connolly, pp. 97–99 ^ "Mr P.G. Wodehouse" Archived 12 June 2015 at the Wayback Machine, Hansard, 6 December 1944, Vol. 406, cols 499–502 ^ Orwell, p. 299 ^ Orwell, p. 289 ^ Orwell, p. 296 ^ Green (1981), p. 203 ^ a b McCrum, p. 358 ^ Wilson, Benji. "Wodehouse in Exile", BBC Four, 26 March 2013, telegraph.co.uk ^ Jasen, pp. 205–206 ^ McCrum, p. 362 ^ Jasen, p. 210 ^ Donaldson, p. 298 ^ McCrum, p. 363 ^ Usborne, p. 238 ^ Jasen, pp. 241 and 275; and Wodehouse and Ratcliffe, p. 472 ^ Wodehouse and Ratcliffe, p. 472 ^ McCrum, p. 368 ^ Donaldson, p. 340 ^ Green (1981), p. 230 ^ a b Donaldson, p. 306 ^ Jasen, p. 234 ^ a b Reynolds, Paul. "Officials blocked Wodehouse honour" Archived 30 June 2006 at the Wayback Machine, BBC, 15 August 2002 ^ a b "Wodehouse denied a knighthood by Wooster", The Daily Telegraph, 16 August 2002, p. 4 ^ a b "A Very Happy New Year Double", The Times, 2 January 1975, p. 13 ^ McCrum, pp. 342 and 415–417 ^ Wodehouse, Over Seventy, p. 23 ^ a b c d e Clarke, Gerald, "P.G. Wodehouse, The Art of Fiction No. 60" Archived 14 August 2015 at the Wayback Machine, The Paris Review, Winter 1975 ^ a b Wodehouse, P.G., Interview, Punch, May 1966, p. 654 ^ Voorhees (1966), p. 168 ^ Voorhees (1966), pp. 168–169 ^ Cotter, Paul E.; Wilkinson, Catherine; Canavan, Michelle; O'Keeffe, Shaun T. (August 2011). "Language change with aging in Pelham Grenville Wodehouse and George Bernard Shaw". Journal of the American Geriatrics Society. 59 (8): 1567–1568. doi:10.1111/j.1532-5415.2011.03531.x. PMID 21848833. ^ Easdale, p. 111 ^ a b Galligan, Edward L. "P.G. Wodehouse Master of Farce", Sewanee Review, 1985, pp. 609–617 (subscription required) ^ a b Marsh, Pamela (21 December 1967). "The World of Wodehouse", The Christian Science Monitor 60 (23): 11, quoted in Pavlovski and Darga, p. 334 ^ a b Lejeune, Anthony (11 December 1995). "Jeeves's England", National Review: 132, quoted in Pavlovski and Darga, p. 333 ^ a b Wodehouse and Donaldson, p. 144 ^ McCrum, pp. 407 and 501 ^ Jasen, p. 166 ^ Joseph, Michael. "P.G. Wodehouse", The Bookman, June 1929, p. 151 ^ a b McCrum, Robert. "Wodehouse and the English Language" Archived 17 June 2015 at the Wayback Machine, Oxford Today, 5 May 2011 ^ McCrum, Robert, "The Wodehouse Jacquerie" Archived 16 March 2016 at the Wayback Machine, The American Scholar, Summer 2000, pp. 138–141 (subscription required) ^ a b Olney, Clarke. "Wodehouse and the Poets" Archived 7 March 2016 at the Wayback Machine, The Georgia Review, Winter 1962, pp. 392–399 (subscription required) ^ Vesterman, William "Plumtime in Nevereverland, The Divine Comedy of P. G. Wodehouse", Raritan: A Quarterly Review, Rutgers, The State University of New Jersey, Summer 2005, pp. 107–108 ^ Sampson, pp. 977–978 ^ Voorhees (1966), p. 173 ^ Levin, Bernard. "As Jeeves would have said: Perfect music, Sir", The Times, 18 February 1975, p. 14 ^ Voorhees (1966), p. 165 ^ a b Medcalf, Stephen (1976). "The Innocence of P.G. Wodehouse" in The Modern English Novel: The Reader, the Writer and the Work, quoted in Pavlovski and Darga, p. 338 ^ Marsh, Pamela (21 December 1967). "The World of Wodehouse", The Christian Science Monitor 60 (23): 11, quoted in Pavlovski and Darga, p. 335 ^ Hall, Robert A. Jr. "The Transferred Epithet in P.G. Wodehouse", Linguistic Inquiry, Winter 1973, pp. 92–94 (subscription required) ^ Voorhees (1966), pp. 166–167 ^ "PG Wodehouse dies aged 93", The Guardian, 17 February 1975, p. 7 ^ a b "A funny thing happened on the way ...: Dennis Barker on the official rehabilitation of P.G. Wodehouse", The Guardian, 2 January 1975, p. 11 ^ White, p. 289 ^ Wodehouse and Ratcliffe, p. 27 ^ Bennett, p. 356 ^ Leavis, p. 263 ^ Heddendorf, David. "When Plummie Met Sally—The Other P.G. Wodehouse", Sewanee Review, Vol. 118, No. 3, Summer 2010, pp. 411–416, Project MUSE. (subscription required) ^ Leonardi, Susan J. "Frivolity Unbound" Archived 13 June 2015 at the Wayback Machine, MFS Modern Fiction Studies, Vol. 37, No. 2, Summer 1991, pp. 356–357, Project MUSE (subscription required) ^ a b Connolly, p. 99 ^ a b O'Casey, Sean, quoted in "Sean O'Casey caustic on Wodehouse", The Argus, Melbourne, 9 July 1941, p. 1 ^ McCrum, p. 417 ^ "Wodehouse—the man who wrote musical comedy without music", The Observer, 16 February 1975, p. 3 ^ "P.G. Wodehouse", The Times, 17 February 1975, p. 14 ^ "PG Wodehouse commemorated with Westminster Abbey plaque". Financial Times. 20 September 2019. Archived from the original on 10 December 2022. Retrieved 22 September 2019. ^ "Westminster Abbey Honours P G Wodehouse". Westminster Abbey. 20 September 2019. Retrieved 22 September 2019. ^ Connolly, p. 117 ^ Taves, Brian (2006). P. G. Wodehouse and Hollywood: Screenwriting, Satires and Adaptations. London: McFarland & Company. p. 8. ISBN 978-0-7864-2288-3. ^ "Wodehouse in Exile". BBC Four. BBC. Retrieved 1 August 2020. ^ "Afternoon Play: Plum's War". BBC Genome: Radio Times. BBC. Retrieved 1 August 2020. ^ "Tony Staveacre – Wodehouse in Hollywood". BBC Radio 4. Retrieved 1 August 2020. ^ "How To Be An Internee With No Previous Experience". BBC Radio 4. Retrieved 1 August 2020. ^ a b Murphy, N. T. P. (2015). The P. G. Wodehouse Miscellany. Stroud, Gloucestershire: The History Press. pp. 183–185. ISBN 978-0750959643. ^ Kidd, Patrick (21 March 2017). "Alexander Armstrong: I discovered Wodehouse and was never homesick at boarding school again". The Times. Retrieved 1 August 2020. ^ "What ho, Mr President!". The P G Wodehouse Society (UK). Retrieved 1 August 2020. ^ McCrum, Robert. "P.G. Wodehouse in the OED" Archived 7 July 2015 at the Wayback Machine, Oxford University Press, retrieved 2 June 2015 ^ Voorhees (1985), pp. 341–342 Sources[edit] Belloc, Hilaire (2012) [1939]. "Introduction". In P.G. Wodehouse (ed.). Weekend Wodehouse. London: Arrow Books. ISBN 978-0-09-955814-9. Bennett, Alan (2006) [2003]. Untold Stories. London: Faber and Faber. ISBN 978-0-571-22831-7. Connolly, Joseph (1987) [1979]. P.G. Wodehouse. London: Thames and Hudson. ISBN 978-0-500-26027-2. Donaldson, Frances (1983) [1982]. P.G. Wodehouse: A Biography. London: Futura. ISBN 978-0-7088-2356-9. Easdale, Roderick (2014). The Novel Life of P.G. Wodehouse. Luton, UK: Andrews. ISBN 978-1-78333-828-3. French, R.D.B. (1966). P.G. Wodehouse. Writers and Critics. Edinburgh and London: Oliver and Boyd. OCLC 899087471. Gaye, Freda, ed. (1967). Who's Who in the Theatre (fourteenth ed.). London: Sir Isaac Pitman and Sons. OCLC 5997224. Green, Benny (1981). P.G. Wodehouse: A Literary Biography. London: Pavilion. ISBN 978-0-19-281390-9. Green, Stanley (1980) [1976]. Encyclopedia of the Musical Theatre. New York: Da Capo Press. ISBN 978-0-306-80113-6. Hart-Davis, Rupert (1997) [1952]. Hugh Walpole. Stroud, UK: Sutton. ISBN 978-0-7509-1491-8. Jaggard, Geoffrey (1967). Wooster's World. London: Macdonald. OCLC 2192308. Jasen, David A. (1975). P.G. Wodehouse: A Portrait of a Master. London: Garnstone. ISBN 978-0-85511-190-8. Leavis, Queenie (1968). Fiction and the Reading Public. London: Chatto and Windus. OCLC 800020590. McCrum, Robert (2004). Wodehouse: A Life. London: Viking. ISBN 978-0-670-89692-9. McIlvaine, Eileen (1990). P.G. Wodehouse: A Comprehensive Bibliography and Checklist. New York: J. H. Heineman. ISBN 978-0-87008-125-5. Murphy, N.T.P. (1987) [1986]. In Search of Blandings. Harmondsworth, UK: Penguin. ISBN 978-0-14-010299-4. Napper, Lawrence (2010). "British Gaiety". In Steven Cohan (ed.). The Sound of Musicals. London: British Film Institute. ISBN 978-1-84457-347-9. Orwell, George (2000). Essays. London: Penguin Books. ISBN 978-0-14-118306-0. Pavlovski, Linda; Darga, Scott T., eds. (2001). "P.G. Wodehouse". Twentieth-Century Literary Criticism, Vol. 108. Detroit: Gale Research. ISBN 978-0-7876-4568-7. Phelps, Barry (1992). P.G. Wodehouse: Man and Myth. London: Constable. ISBN 978-0-09-471620-9. Sampson, George (1941). The Concise Cambridge History of English Literature. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. OCLC 254919621. Taves, Brian (Summer 2005). "P.G. Wodehouse and Hollywood". Southern California Quarterly. 87 (2): 123–169. doi:10.2307/41172259. JSTOR 41172259. (subscription required) Usborne, Richard (1976). Wodehouse at Work to the End. London: Barrie and Jenkins. ISBN 978-0-214-20211-7. Voorhees, Richard (1966). P.G. Wodehouse. New York: Twayne. OCLC 1079135. Voorhees, Richard (1985). "P.G. Wodehouse". In Stayley, Thomas F. (ed.). Dictionary of Literary Biography: British Novelists, 1890–1929: Traditionalists. Detroit: Gale. ISBN 978-0-8103-1712-3. White, Laura M. (2009). "P.G. Wodehouse". In St. Pierre, Paul Matthew (ed.). Dictionary of Literary Biography: Twentieth-Century British Humorists. Detroit: Gale. ISBN 978-0-7876-8170-8. Wind, Herbert Warren (1981). The World of P.G. Wodehouse. London: Hutchinson. ISBN 978-0-09-145670-2. Wodehouse, P.G. (1957). Over Seventy. London: Herbert Jenkins. OCLC 163761062. Wodehouse, P.G. (1953). Performing Flea: A Self-Portrait in Letters. London: Herbert Jenkins. OCLC 1231262. Wodehouse, P.G. (1979) [1915]. Something Fresh. Harmondsworth, UK: Penguin. ISBN 978-0-14-005035-6. Wodehouse, P.G. (1974). The World of Psmith. London: Barrie and Jenkins. ISBN 978-0-214-20000-7. Wodehouse, P.G. (1990). Frances Donaldson (ed.). Yours, Plum: The Letters of P.G. Wodehouse. London: Hutchinson. ISBN 978-0-09-174639-1. Wodehouse, P.G. (2013). Sophie Ratcliffe (ed.). P.G. Wodehouse: A Life in Letters. London: Arrow. ISBN 978-0-09-951479-4. External links[edit] Archives at LocationLibrary of CongressSourceP. G Wodehouse collection, 1906-1977 How to use archival material P. G. Wodehouse at Wikipedia's sister projects Media from CommonsQuotations from WikiquoteTexts from WikisourceData from Wikidata Official P.G. Wodehouse website Works by P. G. Wodehouse at Project Gutenberg Works by P. G. Wodehouse in eBook form at Standard Ebooks Works by or about P. G. Wodehouse at Internet Archive P. G. Wodehouse collection at One More Library Works by P. G. Wodehouse at LibriVox (public domain audiobooks) P. G. Wodehouse at Curlie P.G. Wodehouse Archive[permanent dead link] on loan to the British Library The Wodehouse Society The P. G. Wodehouse Society (UK) Transcripts of Wodehouse's Berlin Broadcasts Clarke, Gerald. "P. G. Wodehouse, The Art of Fiction No. 60". The Paris Review. Retrieved 2 August 2017. "P. G. Wodehouse: An English Master of American Slang" from The American Legion Weekly, 24 October 1919 Orwell, George "In Defence of P. G. Wodehouse" vteP. G. Wodehouse Bibliography Short stories Characters Locations Songs Series Jeeves Blandings Castle Psmith Uncle Fred Mr. Mulliner Oldest Member Drones Club Ukridge School stories Novels The Pothunters A Prefect's Uncle The Gold Bat William Tell Told Again The Head of Kay's Love Among the Chickens The White Feather Not George Washington The Swoop! Mike A Gentleman of Leisure Psmith in the City The Prince and Betty The Little Nugget Psmith, Journalist Something Fresh Uneasy Money Piccadilly Jim A Damsel in Distress The Coming of Bill Jill the Reckless The Girl on the Boat The Adventures of Sally Leave It to Psmith Bill the Conqueror Sam the Sudden The Small Bachelor Money for Nothing Summer Lightning Big Money If I Were You Doctor Sally Hot Water Heavy Weather Thank You, Jeeves Right Ho, Jeeves The Luck of the Bodkins Laughing Gas Summer Moonshine The Code of the Woosters Uncle Fred in the Springtime Quick Service Money in the Bank Joy in the Morning Full Moon Spring Fever Uncle Dynamite The Mating Season The Old Reliable Barmy in Wonderland Pigs Have Wings Ring for Jeeves Jeeves and the Feudal Spirit French Leave Something Fishy Cocktail Time Jeeves in the Offing Ice in the Bedroom Service with a Smile Stiff Upper Lip, Jeeves Frozen Assets Galahad at Blandings Company for Henry Do Butlers Burgle Banks? A Pelican at Blandings The Girl in Blue Much Obliged, Jeeves Pearls, Girls and Monty Bodkin Bachelors Anonymous Aunts Aren't Gentlemen Short storycollections Tales of St. Austin's The Man Upstairs The Man with Two Left Feet My Man Jeeves Indiscretions of Archie The Clicking of Cuthbert The Inimitable Jeeves Ukridge Carry On, Jeeves The Heart of a Goof Meet Mr Mulliner Mr Mulliner Speaking Very Good, Jeeves Mulliner Nights Blandings Castle and Elsewhere Young Men in Spats Lord Emsworth and Others Eggs, Beans and Crumpets Nothing Serious A Few Quick Ones Plum Pie Posthumouslypublished books The Uncollected Wodehouse Sunset at Blandings The Swoop! and Other Stories The Eighteen-Carat Kid and Other Stories A Man of Means Plum Stones The Luck Stone Tales of Wrykyn and Elsewhere Musicals The Beauty of Bath Nuts and Wine Oh, Boy! Leave It to Jane The Riviera Girl Miss 1917 Oh, Lady! Lady!! The Girl Behind the Gun Kissing Time Oh, My Dear! Sally The Cabaret Girl The Beauty Prize Oh, Kay! Show Boat Rosalie The Three Musketeers Anything Goes Plays The Play's the Thing Good Morning, Bill Leave It to Psmith Come On, Jeeves Autobiographies Bring On the Girls! Performing Flea Over Seventy AdaptationsFilm A Gentleman of Leisure (1915) Uneasy Money (1918) A Damsel in Distress (1919) Piccadilly Jim (1919) The Prince and Betty (1919) Oh, Lady, Lady (1920) Their Mutual Child (1920) A Gentleman of Leisure (1923) The Clicking of Cuthbert (1924) The Golden Butterfly (1926) The Small Bachelor (1927) The Cardboard Lover (1927) Oh, Kay! (1928) Brother Alfred (1932) The Passionate Plumber (1932) Leave It to Me (1933) Summer Lightning (1933) Anything Goes (1936) Piccadilly Jim (1936) Thank You, Jeeves! (1936) Step Lively, Jeeves (1937) A Damsel in Distress (1937) Thunder and Lightning (1938) Her Cardboard Lover (1942) Anything Goes (1956) The Girl on the Boat (1961) By Jeeves (2001) Piccadilly Jim (2004) Television The World of Wooster (1965–67) The World of Wodehouse (1967–68) Wodehouse Playhouse (1975–78) Jeeves and Wooster (1990–93) Heavy Weather (1995) Blandings (2013–14) Radio What Ho! Jeeves (1973–81) Blandings (1985–92) Stage Jeeves (later By Jeeves) (1975/1996) Jeeves and Wooster in Perfect Nonsense (2013) A Damsel in Distress (2015) vteP. G. Wodehouse's JeevesShort stories "Extricating Young Gussie" (1915) My Man Jeeves (1919) The Inimitable Jeeves (1923) Carry On, Jeeves (1925) Very Good, Jeeves (1930) "Jeeves Makes an Omelette" (1958) "Jeeves and the Greasy Bird" (1965) List of short stories Novels Thank You, Jeeves (1934) Right Ho, Jeeves (1934) The Code of the Woosters (1938) Joy in the Morning (1946) The Mating Season (1949) Ring for Jeeves (1953) Jeeves and the Feudal Spirit (1954) Jeeves in the Offing (1960) Stiff Upper Lip, Jeeves (1963) Much Obliged, Jeeves (1971) Aunts Aren't Gentlemen (1974) Characters Jeeves Bertie Wooster Aunt Dahlia Aunt Agatha Gussie Fink-Nottle Madeline Bassett Roderick Spode Bingo Little Florence Craye Bobbie Wickham Tuppy Glossop Honoria Glossop Roderick Glossop Rosie M. Banks Catsmeat Potter-Pirbright Major Plank Daphne Winkworth List of characters Related Come On, Jeeves (1952) Reggie Pepper AdaptationsFilm Thank You, Jeeves! (1936) Step Lively, Jeeves! (1937) Television The World of Wooster (1965–67) Jeeves and Wooster (1990–93) Episodes Characters Stage Jeeves (later By Jeeves) (1975/1996) Jeeves and Wooster in Perfect Nonsense (2013) Other What Ho! Jeeves (1973–81) Please, Jeeves (2008–14) List of adaptations vteP. G. Wodehouse's Blandings CastleNovels Something Fresh (1915) Leave It to Psmith (1923) Summer Lightning (1929) Heavy Weather (1933) Uncle Fred in the Springtime (1939) Full Moon (1947) Pigs Have Wings (1952) Service with a Smile (1961) Galahad at Blandings (1964) A Pelican at Blandings (1969) Sunset at Blandings (1977) Short stories Blandings Castle and Elsewhere (1935) "The Custody of the Pumpkin" "Lord Emsworth Acts for the Best" "Pig-hoo-o-o-o-ey" "Company for Gertrude" "The Go-Getter" "Lord Emsworth and the Girl Friend" Lord Emsworth and Others (1937) "The Crime Wave at Blandings" Nothing Serious (1950) "Birth of a Salesman" Plum Pie (1966) "Sticky Wicket at Blandings" Main characters Lord Emsworth Lady Constance Keeble Galahad Threepwood Freddie Threepwood Sebastian Beach Empress of Blandings Rupert Baxter Sir Gregory Parsloe Other characters Uncle Fred Pongo Twistleton Psmith Percy Pilbeam Lord Tilbury Roderick Glossop Daphne Winkworth Monty Bodkin AdaptationsFilm Leave It to Me (1933) Summer Lightning (1933) Thunder and Lightning (1938) Television The World of Wodehouse (1967) Heavy Weather (1995) Blandings (2013–14) Other Leave It to Psmith (play) (1930) Blandings (radio series) (1985–92) List of adaptations vteCole Porter, Guy Bolton and P. G. Wodehouse's Anything GoesAdaptations Anything Goes (1936 film) Anything Goes (1956 film) Songs "I Get a Kick Out of You" "All Through the Night" "You'd Be So Easy to Love" "You're the Top" "It's De-Lovely" "Anything Goes" "Let's Misbehave" Albums 1989 London Cast Recording Authority control databases International FAST ISNI VIAF National Norway Chile Spain France BnF data Catalonia Germany Italy Israel Finland Belgium United States Sweden Latvia Japan Czech Republic Australia Greece Korea Croatia Netherlands Poland Portugal Vatican Academics CiNii Artists MusicBrainz People Deutsche Biographie Trove Other SNAC IdRef
Students of the folk-lore of the United States of America are no doubt familiar with the quaint old story of Clarence MacFadden. Clarence MacFadden, it seems, was 'wishful to dance, but his feet wasn't gaited that way. So he sought a professor and asked him his price, and said he was willing to pay. The professor' (the legend goes on) 'looked down with alarm at his feet and marked their enormous expanse; and he tacked on a five to his regular price for teaching MacFadden to dance.'
I have often been struck by the close similarity between the case of Clarence and that of Henry Wallace Mills. One difference alone presents itself. It would seem to have been mere vanity and ambition that stimulated the former; whereas the motive force which drove Henry Mills to defy Nature and attempt dancing was the purer one of love. He did it to please his wife. Had he never gone to Ye Bonnie Briar-Bush Farm, that popular holiday resort, and there met Minnie Hill, he would doubtless have continued to spend in peaceful reading the hours not given over to work at the New York bank at which he was employed as paying-cashier. For Henry was a voracious reader. His idea of a pleasant evening was to get back to his little flat, take off his coat, put on his slippers, light a pipe, and go on from the point where he had left off the night before in his perusal of the BIS-CAL volume of the Encyclopaedia Britannica-making notes as he read in a stout notebook. He read the BIS-CAL volume because, after many days, he had finished the A-AND, AND-AUS, and the AUS-BIS. There was something admirable-and yet a little horrible-about Henry's method of study. He went after Learning with the cold and dispassionate relentlessness of a stoat pursuing a rabbit. The ordinary man who is paying instalments on the Encyclopaedia Britannica is apt to get over-excited and to skip impatiently to Volume XXVIII (VET-ZYM) to see how it all comes out in the end. Not so Henry. His was not a frivolous mind. He intended to read the Encyclopaedia through, and he was not going to spoil his pleasure by peeping ahead.
It would seem to be an inexorable law of Nature that no man shall shine at both ends. If he has a high forehead and a thirst for wisdom, his fox-trotting (if any) shall be as the staggerings of the drunken; while, if he is a good dancer, he is nearly always petrified from the ears upward. No better examples of this law could have been found than Henry Mills and his fellow-cashier, Sidney Mercer. In New York banks paying-cashiers, like bears, tigers, lions, and other fauna, are always shut up in a cage in pairs, and are consequently dependent on each other for entertainment and social intercourse when business is slack. Henry Mills and Sidney simply could not find a subject in common. Sidney knew absolutely nothing of even such elementary things as Abana, Aberration, Abraham, or Acrogenae; while Henry, on his side, was scarcely aware that there had been any developments in the dance since the polka. It was a relief to Henry when Sidney threw up his job to join the chorus of a musical comedy, and was succeeded by a man who, though full of limitations, could at least converse intelligently on Bowls.
Such, then, was Henry Wallace Mills. He was in the middle thirties, temperate, studious, a moderate smoker, and-one would have said-a bachelor of the bachelors, armour-plated against Cupid's well-meant but obsolete artillery. Sometimes Sidney Mercer's successor in the teller's cage, a sentimental young man, would broach the topic of Woman and Marriage. He would ask Henry if he ever intended to get married. On such occasions Henry would look at him in a manner which was a blend of scorn, amusement, and indignation; and would reply with a single word:
It was the way he said it that impressed you. But Henry had yet to experience the unmanning atmosphere of a lonely summer resort. He had only just reached the position in the bank where he was permitted to take his annual vacation in the summer. Hitherto he had always been released from his cage during the winter months, and had spent his ten days of freedom at his flat, with a book in his hand and his feet on the radiator. But the summer after Sidney Mercer's departure they unleashed him in August. It was meltingly warm in the city. Something in Henry cried out for the country. For a month before the beginning of his vacation he devoted much of the time that should have been given to the Encyclopaedia Britannica in reading summer-resort literature. He decided at length upon Ye Bonnie Briar-Bush Farm because the advertisements spoke so well of it.
Ye Bonnie Briar-Bush Farm was a rather battered frame building many miles from anywhere. Its attractions included a Lovers' Leap, a Grotto, golf-links-a five-hole course where the enthusiast found unusual hazards in the shape of a number of goats tethered at intervals between the holes-and a silvery lake, only portions of which were used as a dumping-ground for tin cans and wooden boxes. It was all new and strange to Henry and caused him an odd exhilaration. Something of gaiety and reckless abandon began to creep into his veins. He had a curious feeling that in these romantic surroundings some adventure ought to happen to him.
At this juncture Minnie Hill arrived. She was a small, slim girl, thinner and paler than she should have been, with large eyes that seemed to Henry pathetic and stirred his chivalry. He began to think a good deal about Minnie Hill. And then one evening he met her on the shores of the silvery lake. He was standing there, slapping at things that looked like mosquitoes, but could not have been, for the advertisements expressly stated that none were ever found in the neighbourhood of Ye Bonnie Briar-Bush Farm, when along she came. She walked slowly, as if she were tired. A strange thrill, half of pity, half of something else, ran through Henry. He looked at her. She looked at him. 'Good evening,' he said. They were the first words he had spoken to her. She never contributed to the dialogue of the dining-room, and he had been too shy to seek her out in the open. She said 'Good evening,' too, tying the score. And there was silence for a moment. Commiseration overcame Henry's shyness. 'You're looking tired,' he said. 'I feel tired.' She paused. 'I overdid it in the city.' 'It?' 'Dancing.' 'Oh, dancing. Did you dance much?' 'Yes; a great deal.' 'Ah!' A promising, even a dashing start. But how to continue? For the first time Henry regretted the steady determination of his methods with the Encyclopaedia. How pleasant if he could have been in a position to talk easily of Dancing. Then memory reminded him that, though he had not yet got up to Dancing, it was only a few weeks before that he had been reading of the Ballet.
'I don't dance myself,' he said, 'but I am fond of reading about it. Did you know that the word "ballet" incorporated three distinct modern words, "ballet", "ball", and "ballad", and that ballet-dancing was originally accompanied by singing?' It hit her. It had her weak. She looked at him with awe in her eyes. One might almost say that she gaped at Henry. 'I hardly know anything,' she said. 'The first descriptive ballet seen in London, England,' said Henry, quietly, 'was "The Tavern Bilkers", which was played at Drury Lane in-in seventeen-something.' 'Was it?' 'And the earliest modern ballet on record was that given by-by someone to celebrate the marriage of the Duke of Milan in 1489.' There was no doubt or hesitation about the date this time. It was grappled to his memory by hoops of steel owing to the singular coincidence of it being also his telephone number. He gave it out with a roll, and the girl's eyes widened. 'What an awful lot you know!' 'Oh, no,' said Henry, modestly. 'I read a great deal.' 'It must be splendid to know a lot,' she said, wistfully. 'I've never had time for reading. I've always wanted to. I think you're wonderful!' Henry's soul was expanding like a flower and purring like a well-tickled cat. Never in his life had he been admired by a woman. The sensation was intoxicating.
Silence fell upon them. They started to walk back to the farm, warned by the distant ringing of a bell that supper was about to materialize. It was not a musical bell, but distance and the magic of this unusual moment lent it charm. The sun was setting. It threw a crimson carpet across the silvery lake. The air was very still. The creatures, unclassified by science, who might have been mistaken for mosquitoes had their presence been possible at Ye Bonnie Briar-Bush Farm, were biting harder than ever. But Henry heeded them not. He did not even slap at them. They drank their fill of his blood and went away to put their friends on to this good thing; but for Henry they did not exist. Strange things were happening to him. And, lying awake that night in bed, he recognized the truth. He was in love.
After that, for the remainder of his stay, they were always together. They walked in the woods, they sat by the silvery lake. He poured out the treasures of his learning for her, and she looked at him with reverent eyes, uttering from time to time a soft 'Yes' or a musical 'Gee!' In due season Henry went back to New York. 'You're dead wrong about love, Mills,' said his sentimental fellow-cashier, shortly after his return. 'You ought to get married.' 'I'm going to,' replied Henry, briskly. 'Week tomorrow.' Which stunned the other so thoroughly that he gave a customer who entered at that moment fifteen dollars for a ten-dollar cheque, and had to do some excited telephoning after the bank had closed. Henry's first year as a married man was the happiest of his life. He had always heard this period described as the most perilous of matrimony. He had braced himself for clashings of tastes, painful adjustments of character, sudden and unavoidable quarrels. Nothing of the kind happened. From the very beginning they settled down in perfect harmony. She merged with his life as smoothly as one river joins another. He did not even have to alter his habits. Every morning he had his breakfast at eight, smoked a cigarette, and walked to the Underground. At five he left the bank, and at six he arrived home, for it was his practice to walk the first two miles of the way, breathing deeply and regularly. Then dinner. Then the quiet evening. Sometimes the moving-pictures, but generally the quiet evening, he reading the Encyclopaedia-aloud now-Minnie darning his socks, but never ceasing to listen. Each day brought the same sense of grateful amazement that he should be so wonderfully happy, so extraordinarily peaceful. Everything was as perfect as it could be. Minnie was looking a different girl. She had lost her drawn look. She was filling out. Sometimes he would suspend his reading for a moment, and look across at her. At first he would see only her soft hair, as she bent over her sewing. Then, wondering at the silence, she would look up, and he would meet her big eyes. And then Henry would gurgle with happiness, and demand of himself, silently: 'Can you beat it!' It was the anniversary of their wedding. They celebrated it in fitting style. They dined at a crowded and exhilarating Italian restaurant on a street off Seventh Avenue, where red wine was included in the bill, and excitable people, probably extremely clever, sat round at small tables and talked all together at the top of their voices. After dinner they saw a musical comedy. And then-the great event of the night-they went on to supper at a glittering restaurant near Times Square.
There was something about supper at an expensive restaurant which had always appealed to Henry's imagination. Earnest devourer as he was of the solids of literature, he had tasted from time to time its lighter face-those novels which begin with the hero supping in the midst of the glittering throng and having his attention attracted to a distinguished-looking elderly man with a grey imperial who is entering with a girl so strikingly beautiful that the revellers turn, as she passes, to look after her. And then, as he sits and smokes, a waiter comes up to the hero and, with a soft 'Pardon, m'sieu!' hands him a note.
The atmosphere of Geisenheimer's suggested all that sort of thing to Henry. They had finished supper, and he was smoking a cigar-his second that day. He leaned back in his chair and surveyed the scene. He felt braced up, adventurous. He had that feeling, which comes to all quiet men who like to sit at home and read, that this was the sort of atmosphere in which he really belonged. The brightness of it all-the dazzling lights, the music, the hubbub, in which the deep-throated gurgle of the wine-agent surprised while drinking soup blended with the shriller note of the chorus-girl calling to her mate-these things got Henry. He was thirty-six next birthday, but he felt a youngish twenty-one.
A voice spoke at his side. Henry looked up, to perceive Sidney Mercer. The passage of a year, which had turned Henry into a married man, had turned Sidney Mercer into something so magnificent that the spectacle for a moment deprived Henry of speech. Faultless evening dress clung with loving closeness to Sidney's lissom form. Gleaming shoes of perfect patent leather covered his feet. His light hair was brushed back into a smooth sleekness on which the electric lights shone like stars on some beautiful pool. His practically chinless face beamed amiably over a spotless collar. Henry wore blue serge. 'What are you doing here, Henry, old top?' said the vision. 'I didn't know you ever came among the bright lights.' His eyes wandered off to Minnie. There was admiration in them, for Minnie was looking her prettiest. 'Wife,' said Henry, recovering speech. And to Minnie: 'Mr Mercer. Old friend.' 'So you're married? Wish you luck. How's the bank?' Henry said the bank was doing as well as could be expected. 'You still on the stage?' Mr Mercer shook his head importantly. 'Got better job. Professional dancer at this show. Rolling in money. Why aren't you dancing?' The words struck a jarring note. The lights and the music until that moment had had a subtle psychological effect on Henry, enabling him to hypnotize himself into a feeling that it was not inability to dance that kept him in his seat, but that he had had so much of that sort of thing that he really preferred to sit quietly and look on for a change. Sidney's question changed all that. It made him face the truth. 'I don't dance.'
'For the love of Mike! I bet Mrs Mills does. Would you care for a turn, Mrs Mills?' 'No, thank you, really.' But remorse was now at work on Henry. He perceived that he had been standing in the way of Minnie's pleasure. Of course she wanted to dance. All women did. She was only refusing for his sake. 'Nonsense, Min. Go to it.' Minnie looked doubtful. 'Of course you must dance, Min. I shall be all right. I'll sit here and smoke.' The next moment Minnie and Sidney were treading the complicated measure; and simultaneously Henry ceased to be a youngish twenty-one and was even conscious of a fleeting doubt as to whether he was really only thirty-five. Boil the whole question of old age down, and what it amounts to is that a man is young as long as he can dance without getting lumbago, and, if he cannot dance, he is never young at all. This was the truth that forced itself upon Henry Wallace Mills, as he sat watching his wife moving over the floor in the arms of Sidney Mercer. Even he could see that Minnie danced well. He thrilled at the sight of her gracefulness; and for the first time since his marriage he became introspective. It had never struck him before how much younger Minnie was than himself. When she had signed the paper at the City Hall on the occasion of the purchase of the marriage licence, she had given her age, he remembered now, as twenty-six. It had made no impression on him at the time. Now, however, he perceived clearly that between twenty-six and thirty-five there was a gap of nine years; and a chill sensation came upon him of being old and stodgy. How dull it must be for poor little Minnie to be cooped up night after night with such an old fogy? Other men took their wives out and gave them a good time, dancing half the night with them. All he could do was to sit at home and read Minnie dull stuff from the Encyclopaedia. What a life for the poor child! Suddenly, he felt acutely jealous of the rubber-jointed Sidney Mercer, a man whom hitherto he had always heartily despised.
The music stopped. They came back to the table, Minnie with a pink glow on her face that made her younger than ever; Sidney, the insufferable ass, grinning and smirking and pretending to be eighteen. They looked like a couple of children-Henry, catching sight of himself in a mirror, was surprised to find that his hair was not white. Half an hour later, in the cab going home, Minnie, half asleep, was aroused by a sudden stiffening of the arm that encircled her waist and a sudden snort close to her ear. It was Henry Wallace Mills resolving that he would learn to dance.
Being of a literary turn of mind and also economical, Henry's first step towards his new ambition was to buy a fifty-cent book entitled The ABC of Modern Dancing, by 'Tango'. It would, he felt-not without reason-be simpler and less expensive if he should learn the steps by the aid of this treatise than by the more customary method of taking lessons. But quite early in the proceedings he was faced by complications. In the first place, it was his intention to keep what he was doing a secret from Minnie, in order to be able to give her a pleasant surprise on her birthday, which would be coming round in a few weeks. In the second place, The ABC of Modern Dancing proved on investigation far more complex than its title suggested.
These two facts were the ruin of the literary method, for, while it was possible to study the text and the plates at the bank, the home was the only place in which he could attempt to put the instructions into practice. You cannot move the right foot along dotted line A B and bring the left foot round curve C D in a paying-cashier's cage in a bank, nor, if you are at all sensitive to public opinion, on the pavement going home. And while he was trying to do it in the parlour of the flat one night when he imagined that Minnie was in the kitchen cooking supper, she came in unexpectedly to ask how he wanted the steak cooked. He explained that he had had a sudden touch of cramp, but the incident shook his nerve.
After this he decided that he must have lessons. Complications did not cease with this resolve. Indeed, they became more acute. It was not that there was any difficulty about finding an instructor. The papers were full of their advertisements. He selected a Mme Gavarni because she lived in a convenient spot. Her house was in a side street, with a station within easy reach. The real problem was when to find time for the lessons. His life was run on such a regular schedule that he could hardly alter so important a moment in it as the hour of his arrival home without exciting comment. Only deceit could provide a solution. 'Min, dear,' he said at breakfast. 'Yes, Henry?' Henry turned mauve. He had never lied to her before. 'I'm not getting enough exercise.' 'Why you look so well.' 'I get a kind of heavy feeling sometimes. I think I'll put on another mile or so to my walk on my way home. So-so I'll be back a little later in future.' 'Very well, dear.' It made him feel like a particularly low type of criminal, but, by abandoning his walk, he was now in a position to devote an hour a day to the lessons; and Mme Gavarni had said that that would be ample. 'Sure, Bill,' she had said. She was a breezy old lady with a military moustache and an unconventional manner with her clientele. 'You come to me an hour a day, and, if you haven't two left feet, we'll make you the pet of society in a month.' 'Is that so?' 'It sure is. I never had a failure yet with a pupe, except one. And that wasn't my fault.' 'Had he two left feet?' 'Hadn't any feet at all. Fell off of a roof after the second lesson, and had to have 'em cut off him. At that, I could have learned him to tango with wooden legs, only he got kind of discouraged. Well, see you Monday, Bill. Be good.' And the kindly old soul, retrieving her chewing gum from the panel of the door where she had placed it to facilitate conversation, dismissed him.
And now began what, in later years, Henry unhesitatingly considered the most miserable period of his existence. There may be times when a man who is past his first youth feels more unhappy and ridiculous than when he is taking a course of lessons in the modern dance, but it is not easy to think of them. Physically, his new experience caused Henry acute pain. Muscles whose existence he had never suspected came into being for-apparently-the sole purpose of aching. Mentally he suffered even more.
This was partly due to the peculiar method of instruction in vogue at Mme Gavarni's, and partly to the fact that, when it came to the actual lessons, a sudden niece was produced from a back room to give them. She was a blonde young lady with laughing blue eyes, and Henry never clasped her trim waist without feeling a black-hearted traitor to his absent Minnie. Conscience racked him. Add to this the sensation of being a strange, jointless creature with abnormally large hands and feet, and the fact that it was Mme Gavarni's custom to stand in a corner of the room during the hour of tuition, chewing gum and making comments, and it is not surprising that Henry became wan and thin.
Mme Gavarni had the trying habit of endeavouring to stimulate Henry by frequently comparing his performance and progress with that of a cripple whom she claimed to have taught at some previous time. She and the niece would have spirited arguments in his presence as to whether or not the cripple had one-stepped better after his third lesson than Henry after his fifth. The niece said no. As well, perhaps, but not better. Mme Gavarni said that the niece was forgetting the way the cripple had slid his feet. The niece said yes, that was so, maybe she was. Henry said nothing. He merely perspired. He made progress slowly. This could not be blamed upon his instructress, however. She did all that one woman could to speed him up. Sometimes she would even pursue him into the street in order to show him on the side-walk a means of doing away with some of his numerous errors of technique, the elimination of which would help to make him definitely the cripple's superior. The misery of embracing her indoors was as nothing to the misery of embracing her on the sidewalk. Nevertheless, having paid for his course of lessons in advance, and being a determined man, he did make progress. One day, to his surprise, he found his feet going through the motions without any definite exercise of will-power on his part-almost as if they were endowed with an intelligence of their own. It was the turning-point. It filled him with a singular pride such as he had not felt since his first rise of salary at the bank. Mme Gavarni was moved to dignified praise. 'Some speed, kid!' she observed. 'Some speed!' Henry blushed modestly. It was the accolade. Every day, as his skill at the dance became more manifest, Henry found occasion to bless the moment when he had decided to take lessons. He shuddered sometimes at the narrowness of his escape from disaster. Every day now it became more apparent to him, as he watched Minnie, that she was chafing at the monotony of her life. That fatal supper had wrecked the peace of their little home. Or perhaps it had merely precipitated the wreck. Sooner or later, he told himself, she was bound to have wearied of the dullness of her lot. At any rate, dating from shortly after that disturbing night, a lack of ease and spontaneity seemed to creep into their relations. A blight settled on the home.
Little by little Minnie and he were growing almost formal towards each other. She had lost her taste for being read to in the evenings and had developed a habit of pleading a headache and going early to bed. Sometimes, catching her eye when she was not expecting it, he surprised an enigmatic look in it. It was a look, however, which he was able to read. It meant that she was bored.
It might have been expected that this state of affairs would have distressed Henry. It gave him, on the contrary, a pleasurable thrill. It made him feel that it had been worth it, going through the torments of learning to dance. The more bored she was now the greater her delight when he revealed himself dramatically. If she had been contented with the life which he could offer her as a non-dancer, what was the sense of losing weight and money in order to learn the steps? He enjoyed the silent, uneasy evenings which had supplanted those cheery ones of the first year of their marriage. The more uncomfortable they were now, the more they would appreciate their happiness later on. Henry belonged to the large circle of human beings who consider that there is acuter pleasure in being suddenly cured of toothache than in never having toothache at all. He merely chuckled inwardly, therefore, when, on the morning of her birthday, having presented her with a purse which he knew she had long coveted, he found himself thanked in a perfunctory and mechanical way. 'I'm glad you like it,' he said. Minnie looked at the purse without enthusiasm. 'It's just what I wanted,' she said, listlessly. 'Well, I must be going. I'll get the tickets for the theatre while I'm in town.' Minnie hesitated for a moment. 'I don't believe I want to go to the theatre much tonight, Henry.' 'Nonsense. We must have a party on your birthday. We'll go to the theatre and then we'll have supper at Geisenheimer's again. I may be working after hours at the bank today, so I guess I won't come home. I'll meet you at that Italian place at six.' 'Very well. You'll miss your walk, then?' 'Yes. It doesn't matter for once.' 'No. You're still going on with your walks, then?' 'Oh, yes, yes.' 'Three miles every day?' 'Never miss it. It keeps me well.' 'Yes.' 'Good-bye, darling.' 'Good-bye.' Yes, there was a distinct chill in the atmosphere. Thank goodness, thought Henry, as he walked to the station, it would be different tomorrow morning. He had rather the feeling of a young knight who has done perilous deeds in secret for his lady, and is about at last to receive credit for them.
Geisenheimer's was as brilliant and noisy as it had been before when Henry reached it that night, escorting a reluctant Minnie. After a silent dinner and a theatrical performance during which neither had exchanged more than a word between the acts, she had wished to abandon the idea of supper and go home. But a squad of police could not have kept Henry from Geisenheimer's. His hour had come. He had thought of this moment for weeks, and he visualized every detail of his big scene. At first they would sit at their table in silent discomfort. Then Sidney Mercer would come up, as before, to ask Minnie to dance. And then-then-Henry would rise and, abandoning all concealment, exclaim grandly: 'No! I am going to dance with my wife!' Stunned amazement of Minnie, followed by wild joy. Utter rout and discomfiture of that pin-head, Mercer. And then, when they returned to their table, he breathing easily and regularly as a trained dancer in perfect condition should, she tottering a little with the sudden rapture of it all, they would sit with their heads close together and start a new life. That was the scenario which Henry had drafted.
It worked out-up to a certain point-as smoothly as ever it had done in his dreams. The only hitch which he had feared-to wit, the non-appearance of Sidney Mercer, did not occur. It would spoil the scene a little, he had felt, if Sidney Mercer did not present himself to play the role of foil; but he need have had no fears on this point. Sidney had the gift, not uncommon in the chinless, smooth-baked type of man, of being able to see a pretty girl come into the restaurant even when his back was towards the door. They had hardly seated themselves when he was beside their table bleating greetings. 'Why, Henry! Always here!' 'Wife's birthday.' 'Many happy returns of the day, Mrs Mills. We've just time for one turn before the waiter comes with your order. Come along.' The band was staggering into a fresh tune, a tune that Henry knew well. Many a time had Mme Gavarni hammered it out of an aged and unwilling piano in order that he might dance with her blue-eyed niece. He rose. 'No!' he exclaimed grandly. 'I am going to dance with my wife!' He had not under-estimated the sensation which he had looked forward to causing. Minnie looked at him with round eyes. Sidney Mercer was obviously startled. 'I thought you couldn't dance.' 'You never can tell,' said Henry, lightly. 'It looks easy enough. Anyway, I'll try.' 'Henry!' cried Minnie, as he clasped her. He had supposed that she would say something like that, but hardly in that kind of voice. There is a way of saying 'Henry!' which conveys surprised admiration and remorseful devotion; but she had not said it in that way. There had been a note of horror in her voice. Henry's was a simple mind, and the obvious solution, that Minnie thought that he had drunk too much red wine at the Italian restaurant, did not occur to him. He was, indeed, at the moment too busy to analyse vocal inflections. They were on the floor now, and it was beginning to creep upon him like a chill wind that the scenario which he had mapped out was subject to unforeseen alterations.
At first all had been well. They had been almost alone on the floor, and he had begun moving his feet along dotted line A B with the smooth vim which had characterized the last few of his course of lessons. And then, as if by magic, he was in the midst of a crowd-a mad, jigging crowd that seemed to have no sense of direction, no ability whatever to keep out of his way. For a moment the tuition of weeks stood by him. Then, a shock, a stifled cry from Minnie, and the first collision had occurred. And with that all the knowledge which he had so painfully acquired passed from Henry's mind, leaving it an agitated blank. This was a situation for which his slidings round an empty room had not prepared him. Stage-fright at its worst came upon him. Somebody charged him in the back and asked querulously where he thought he was going. As he turned with a half-formed notion of apologizing, somebody else rammed him from the other side. He had a momentary feeling as if he were going down the Niagara Rapids in a barrel, and then he was lying on the floor with Minnie on top of him. Somebody tripped over his head. He sat up. Somebody helped him to his feet. He was aware of Sidney Mercer at his side. 'Do it again,' said Sidney, all grin and sleek immaculateness. 'It went down big, but lots of them didn't see it.' The place was full of demon laughter. * * * * * 'Min!' said Henry. They were in the parlour of their little flat. Her back was towards him, and he could not see her face. She did not answer. She preserved the silence which she had maintained since they had left the restaurant. Not once during the journey home had she spoken. The clock on the mantelpiece ticked on. Outside an Elevated train rumbled by. Voices came from the street. 'Min, I'm sorry.' Silence.
'I thought I could do it. Oh, Lord!' Misery was in every note of Henry's voice. 'I've been taking lessons every day since that night we went to that place first. It's no good-I guess it's like the old woman said. I've got two left feet, and it's no use my ever trying to do it. I kept it secret from you, what I was doing. I wanted it to be a wonderful surprise for you on your birthday. I knew how sick and tired you were getting of being married to a man who never took you out, because he couldn't dance. I thought it was up to me to learn, and give you a good time, like other men's wives. I-' 'Henry!' She had turned, and with a dull amazement he saw that her whole face had altered. Her eyes were shining with a radiant happiness. 'Henry! Was that why you went to that house-to take dancing lessons?' He stared at her without speaking. She came to him, laughing. 'So that was why you pretended you were still doing your walks?' 'You knew!' 'I saw you come out of that house. I was just going to the station at the end of the street, and I saw you. There was a girl with you, a girl with yellow hair. You hugged her!' Henry licked his dry lips. 'Min,' he said huskily. 'You won't believe it, but she was trying to teach me the Jelly Roll.' She held him by the lapels of his coat. 'Of course I believe it. I understand it all now. I thought at the time that you were just saying good-bye to her! Oh, Henry, why ever didn't you tell me what you were doing? Oh, yes, I know you wanted it to be a surprise for me on my birthday, but you must have seen there was something wrong. You must have seen that I thought something. Surely you noticed how I've been these last weeks?' 'I thought it was just that you were finding it dull.' 'Dull! Here, with you!' 'It was after you danced that night with Sidney Mercer. I thought the whole thing out. You're so much younger than I, Min. It didn't seem right for you to have to spend your life being read to by a fellow like me.' 'But I loved it!' 'You had to dance. Every girl has to. Women can't do without it.' 'This one can. Henry, listen! You remember how ill and worn out I was when you met me first at that farm? Do you know why it was? It was because I had been slaving away for years at one of those places where you go in and pay five cents to dance with the lady instructresses. I was a lady instructress. Henry! Just think what I went through! Every day having to drag a million heavy men with large feet round a big room. I tell you, you are a professional compared with some of them! They trod on my feet and leaned their two hundred pounds on me and nearly killed me. Now perhaps you can understand why I'm not crazy about dancing! Believe me, Henry, the kindest thing you can do to me is to tell me I must never dance again.' 'You-you-' he gulped. 'Do you really mean that you can-can stand the sort of life we're living here? You really don't find it dull?' 'Dull!' She ran to the bookshelf, and came back with a large volume. 'Read to me, Henry, dear. Read me something now. It seems ages and ages since you used to. Read me something out of the Encyclopaedia!' Henry was looking at the book in his hand. In the midst of a joy that almost overwhelmed him, his orderly mind was conscious of something wrong. 'But this is the MED-MUM volume, darling.' 'Is it? Well, that'll be all right. Read me all about "Mum".' 'But we're only in the CAL-CHA-' He wavered. 'Oh, well-I' he went on, recklessly. 'I don't care. Do you?' 'No. Sit down here, dear, and I'll sit on the floor.' Henry cleared his throat. '"Milicz, or Militsch (d. 1374), Bohemian divine, was the most influential among those preachers and writers in Moravia and Bohemia who, during the fourteenth century, in a certain sense paved the way for the reforming activity of Huss."' He looked down. Minnie's soft hair was resting against his knee. He put out a hand and stroked it. She turned and looked up, and he met her big eyes. 'Can you beat it?' said Henry, silently, to himself.

Current Page: 1

Word Lists:

Text : a book or other written or printed work, regarded in terms of its content rather than its physical form

Stodgy : dull and uninspired

Vim : energy; enthusiasm

Clientele : clients collectively

Accolade : an award or privilege granted as a special honor or as an acknowledgment of merit

Tango : a ballroom dance originating in Buenos Aires, characterized by marked rhythms and postures and abrupt pauses.

Introspective : characterized by or given to introspection

Ballet : an artistic dance form performed to music using precise and highly formalized set steps and gestures. Classical ballet, which originated in Renaissance Italy and established its present form during the 19th century, is characterized by light, graceful, fluid movements and the use of pointe shoes.

Cage : a structure of bars or wires in which birds or other animals are confined

Mauve : of a pale purple color

More...

Additional Information:

Rating: A Words in the Passage: 6498 Unique Words: 1,668 Sentences: 510
Noun: 1513 Conjunction: 518 Adverb: 429 Interjection: 15
Adjective: 470 Pronoun: 808 Verb: 1237 Preposition: 783
Letter Count: 27,711 Sentiment: Positive / Positive / Positive Tone: Neutral (Slightly Conversational) Difficult Words: 1090
EdSearch WebSearch
Questions and Answers

Please wait while we generate questions and answers...

Ratings & Comments

Write a Review
5 Star
0
0
4 Star
0
0
3 Star
0
0
2 Star
0
0
1 Star
0
0
0

0 Ratings & 0 Reviews

Report an Error