P.G.’s genious lies in his use
of language. At the same time, his plots are so finely constructed that they
rank with literature’s masters; in a class with Shakespeare and Agatha
Christie. His light touch makes his
plots seem simple, yet they are subtle and inimitable, and – in the eyes of most
of the PG characters involved – tragic.
Here are samples of two P. G. plots on a
single theme. . . where Wodehouse’s ‘heros’ are, as usual, appearing to be
desperate losers. THE GREAT SERMON HANDICAP
This story begins with a sub-plot of
romance. Bertie Wooster meets an old girlfriend at a dinner party in the country, where a number of his young friends have been sent to cram for
their Oxford exams. One of them is
Bingo Little.
"Then tell me, Bertie, is he at all weak
in the head?"
"Weak in the head?"
"1 don't mean simply because he's a friend
of yours. But he's so strange in his manner.”
"How do you mean?"
"Well, he keeps looking at me so
oddly."
"Oddly, How? Give an imitation."
"I can't in front of all these
people,"
"Yes, you can. I'll hold my napkin
up."
"All right, then. Quick. There!"
Considering that she had only about a second and half to do it in, I
must say it was a jolly fine exhibition. She opened her mouth and eyes pretty
wide and let her jaw drop sideways, and managed to look so like a dyspeptic
calf that I recognised the symptoms immediately.
"Oh, that's all
right," I said. "No need to be alarmed. He's simply in love with
you."
"In love with me? Don't be
absurd."
"My dear old thing, you
don't know young Bingo. He can fall in love with anybody."
"Thank you!". . .
Bingo
becomes an ardent suitor who confides in Bertie:
I’m writing poetry if you must know, but I wish the dickens," said
young Bingo, not without some bitterness, "she had been christened
something except Cynthia. There isn't a dam word in the language it rhymes
with. Ye gods, how I could have spread myself if she had only been called
Jane!"
He produces a solution to this, but Bertie doesn’t want to listen to it
being read by a man in Bingo’s state.
In any case, there are far
greater challenges on the bumpy road of love. In this case the affair has a
neat, logica,’ surprise’ ending.
But back to the main plot:
"It's like this, Bertie," said
Eustace, settling down cosily. "As I told you in my letter, there
are nine of us marooned in this desert spot, reading with old Heppenstall.
Well, of course, nothing is jollier than sweating up the Classics when it's a
hundred in the shade, but there does come a time when you begin to feel the
need of a little relaxation; and, by Jove, there are absolutely no facilities
for relaxation in this place whatever. And then Steggles got this idea.
Steggles is one of our reading-party, and, between ourselves, rather a worm as
a general thing. Still, you have to give him credit for getting this
idea."
"What idea?"
"Well, you know how many parsons there are
round about here. There are about a dozen hamlets within a radius of six miles,
and each hamlet has a church and each church has a parson and each parson
preaches a sermon every Sunday. Tomorrow week - Sunday the twenty-third - we're
running off the great Sermon Handicap. Steggles is making the book. Each parson
is to be clocked by a reliable steward of the course, and the one that preaches
the longest sermon wins. Did you study the race-card I sent you?"
[The
note he had received read: ‘Rev. Josephh Tucker(Badgwick) scratch). . . Rev Alexander Jones (Upper Bingley) receives
three minutes; Rev. Francis Heppenstall (Twing), receives eight minutes. .
.’and so on until the very last: ‘Rev James Bates (Gandle-by-the Hill) receives
fifteen minutes.
"I
couldn't understand what it was all about."
"Why, you chump, it gives the
handicaps and the current odds on each starter. I've got another one here, in
case you've lost yours. Take a careful look at it. It gives you the thing in a
nutshell. Jeeves, old son, do you want a sporting flutter ?"
"Sir?" said Jeeves, who had just
meandered in with my breakfast. Claude explained the scheme. Amazing the way
Jeeves grasped it right off.
But he merely
smiled in a paternal sort of way. .
"Thank you, sir, I think not."
"Well, you're with us, Bertie, aren't
you?" said Claude, sneaking a roll and a slice of bacon. "Have you
studied that card? Well, tell me, does anything strike you about it?"
Of course it did. It had struck me the moment I
looked at it.
"Why, it's a sitter for old
Heppenstall," I said. "He's got the event sewed up. There isn't a
parson in the land who could give him eight minutes. Your pal Steggles must be
an ass, giving him a handicap like that. Why, in the days when I was with him,
old Heppenstall never used to preach under half an hour, and there was one
sermon of his on Brotherly Love which lasted forty-five minutes if it lasted a
second. Has he lost his vim lately, or what is it?"
"Not
a bit of it," said Eustace. "Tell him what happened, Claude."
"Why,"
said Claude, "the first Sunday we were here, we all went to Twing church,
and old Heppenstall preached a sermon that was well under twenty minutes. This
is what happened. Steggles didn't notice it, and the Rev. didn't notice it
himself, but Eustace and I both spotted that he had dropped a chunk of at least
half-a-dozen pages out of his sermon-case as he was walking up to the pulpit.
He sort of flickered when he got to the gap in the manuscript, but carried on
all right, and Steggles went away with the impression that twenty minutes or a
bit under was his usual form. The next Sunday we heard Tucker and Starkie, and
they both went well over the thirty-five minutes, so Steggles arranged the
handicapping as you see on the card. You must come into this, Bertie."
The more I studied the scheme, the better it
looked.
"How about it, Jeeves?" I said.
Jeeves
smiled gently, and drifted out.
Bertie
is persuaded by his pals to fund the entire syndicate betting on a ‘dead
certainty’. . . The, in the run-up to
the Great Sermon Handicap, crisis follows on crisis. Here’s just one of them:
“Bertie, we're sunk. The favourite's blown
up."
"No !"
"Yes. Coughing in his stable all last
night."
"What !"
"Absolutely! Hay-fever."
[There had been a hint of it earlier, when
the odds on the Rev. went down when it was rumoured that he had hay-fever and
was spotted taking big chances by strolling in the paddock behind the Vicarage
in the early mornings.But later the betting had eased, and the punters’
confidence had returned.]
"Oh, my sainted aunt!"
"The doctor is with him now, and it's only a question of minutes
before he's officially scratched. . .What shall we do?"
. . .I had to grapple with the thing for a
moment in silence.
"Eustace."
"Hallo ?"
"What can you get on G. Hayward?"
"Only four-to-one now. I think there's
been a leak, and Steggles has heard something. The odds shortened late last
night in a significant manner."
"Well, four-to-one will
clear us. Put another fiver all round on G.
Hayward for the syndicate. That'll bring us out on the
right side of the ledger."
. . .Not being
one of the official stewards, I had my choice of churches next morning (when
the Handicap was run). Naturally I
didn't hesitate. The only drawback to going to Lower Bingley was that it was
ten miles away, which meant an early start, but I borrowed a bicycle from one
of the grooms and tooled off. I had only Eustace's word for it that G. Hayward
was such a stayer, and it might have been that he had showed too flattering
form at that wedding where the twins had heard him preach; but any misgivings I
may have had disappeared the moment he got into the pulpit. Eustace had been
right. The man was a trier. He was a tall, rangy-looking greybeard, and he went
off from the start with a nice, easy action, pausing and clearing his throat at
the end of each sentence, and it wasn't five minutes before I realised that
here was the winner. His habit of stopping dead and looking round the church at
intervals was worth minutes to us, and in the home stretch we gained no little
advantage owing to his dropping his pince-nez and having to grope for them. At
the twenty-minute mark he had merely settled down. Twenty-five minutes saw him
going strong. . .
Later:
. . . The report from Lower Bingley has just got in.
G. Hayward romps home."
"I knew he would. I've just come from
there."
"Oh, were you there? I went
to Badgwick. Tucker ran a splendid race, but the handicap was too much for him.
Starkie had a sore throat and was nowhere. Roberts, of Fale-by-the-Water, ran
third. Good old G. Hayward!" said Bingo, affectionately, and we strolled
out on to the terrace.
"Are all the returns in, then?" I
asked.
"All except
Gandle-by-the-Hill. But we needn't worry about Bates. He never had a chance. By
the way, poor old Jeeves loses his tenner. Silly ass!"
"Jeeves? How do you mean?"
"He came to me this
morning, just after you had left, and asked me to put a tenner on Bates for
him. I told him he was a chump and begged him not to throw his money away, but
he would do it."
"I beg your pardon, sir.
This note arrived for you just after you had left the house this morning."
Jeeves had materialised from
nowhere, and was standing at my elbow.
"Eh? What? Note?"
. "The Reverend Mr. Heppenstall's butler
brought it over from the Vicarage, Sir. It came too late to be delivered to you
at the moment."
Young
Bingo was talking to Jeeves like a father on the subject of betting against the
form-book. The yell I gave made him bite his tongue in the middle of a
sentence.
"What the dickens is the matter?" he
asked, not a little peeved. "
“We're dished! Listen to this!" I read him
the note:
"The
Vicarage,
"Twing,
Glos.
"Mr dear Wooster,
"As you may have heard, circumstances over which I have no control
will prevent my preaching the sermon on Brotherly Love for which you made such
a flattering request. I am unwilling, however, that you shall be disappointed,
so, if you will attend divine service at Gandle-by-the-Hill this morning, you
will hear my sermon preached by young Bates, my nephew. I have lent him the
manuscript at his urgent desire, for, between ourselves, there are wheels
within wheels. My nephew is one of the candidates for the headmastership of a
well-known public school, and the choice has narrowed down between him and one
rival.
"Late yesterday evening James received private information that the
head of the Board of Governors of the school proposed to sit under him this
Sunday in order to judge of the merits of his preaching, a most important item
in swaying the Board's choice. I acceded to his plea that I lend him my sermon
on Brotherly Love, of which, like you, he apparently retains a vivid
recollection. It would have been too late for him to compose a sermon of
suitable length in place of the brief address which - mistakenly, in my opinion
- he had designed to deliver to his rustic flock, and I wished to help the boy.
"Trusting
that his preaching of the sermon will supply you with as pleasant memories as
you say you have of mine, I remain,
"Cordially
yours,
"F.
Heppenstall.
"P.S.
The hay-fever has rendered my eyes unpleasantly weak for the time being, so I
am dictating this letter to my butler, Brookfield, who will convey it to
you."
I don't know when I've experienced a more massive
silence than the one that followed my reading of this cheery epistle. Young
Bingo gulped once or twice, and practically every known emotion came and went
on his face. Jeeves coughed one soft, low, gentle cough like a sheep with a
blade of grass stuck in its throat, and then stood gazing serenely at the
landscape. Finally young Bingo spoke.
"Great Scot!" he whispered, hoarsely.
"An S.P. job!"
"I believe that is the technical term,
sir," said Jeeves.
"So you had inside information, dash
it!" said young Bingo.
"Why, yes, sir," said Jeeves.
"Brookfield happened to mention the contents of the note to me when he
brought it. We are old friends."
Bingo registered grief, anguish,
rage, despair, and resentment.
"Well, all I can say,"
he cried, "is that it's a bit thick! Preaching another man's sermon! Do
you call that honest? Do you call that playing the game?"
"Well, my dear old
thing," I said, "be fair. It's quite within the rules. Clergymen do
it all the time. They aren't expected always to make up the sermons they preach.
Jeeves coughed again, and fixed
me with an expressionless eye.
"And
in the present case, sir, if I may be permitted to take the liberty of making
the observation, I think we should make allowances. We should remember that
the securing of this headmastership meant everything to the young couple.
"Young couple! What young couple?"
"The Reverend James Bates,
sir, and Lady Cynthia. I am informed by her ladyship's maid that they have been
engaged to be married for some weeks provisionally, so to speak; and his
lordship made his consent conditional on Mr. Bates securing a really important
and remunerative position."
Young Bingo turned a light green. . .
So there are the bones of the recounting of The Great Sermon
Handicap. But only the bones. To
appreciate the subtleties - and the
drama of it - one needs to savour the full story. Find a Jeeves book – the
latest is P.G. Wodehouse’s The World of Jeeves
(Hutchinson 2007) .
* *
*
THE PURITY OF THE TURF
Here is a second
tale in the omnibus: Bertie and Bingo and the boys never learn. But this time
they listen to Jeeves.
In the tale that immediately follows the parson’s
handicap, the boys try to recoup their losses on the Girls’ Egg and Spoon
Race. It is a more complicated plot
than the last, in that there are many events – from the Choir Boys Handicap and
Fathers Hat Trimming Contest to the Mixed Potato Race. All Ages. There is also
much apparent – and hidden – self-interest in the outcome of these competitive
village events.
The punters are losing all their money to the bookie,
that creep Steggles, until . . .
Drama builds as all schemes, all estimates, all bets go
wrong. The only happy character at the
fete seems to be the Rev Heppenstall who beams: “I am delighted , my dear
Wooster, at the way you young men are throwing yourselves into the spirit of
this little festivity of ours”.
The plot weaves its erratic and unpredictable course
until the denouement, which is:
Class will tell. Thirty yards from the tape,
the red-haired kid tripped over her feet and shot her egg on to the turf. The
freckled blonde fought gamely, but she had run herself out half-way down the
straight, and Sarah Mills came past home on a tight rein by several lengths, a
popular winner. The blonde was second. A sniffmg female in blue gingham beat a
pie-faced kid in pink for the place-money, and Prudence Baxter, Jeeves's long
shot, was either fifth or sixth, I couldn't see which.
And then I was carried along with the crowd to where old Heppenstall was
going to present the prizes. I found myself standing next to the man Steggles.
"Hallo, old chap!" he
said, very bright and cheery. "You've had a bad day, I’m afraid."
I looked at him with silent
scorn. Lost on the blighter, of course.
"It's not been a good
meeting for any of the big punters," he went on. "Poor old Bingo
Little went down badly over that Egg and Spoon Race."
I hadn't been meaning to chat
with the fellow, but I was startled.
"How do you mean "badly?" I
said. "We - he only had a small bet on." "I don't know what you
caIl small. He had thirty quid each way on the Baxter kid."
The landscape reeled before me.
"What!"
"Thirty quid at ten to one. I thought he
must have heard something, but apparently not. The race went by the form-book
all right."
I was trying to do sums in my head. I was just in the middle of working
out the syndicate's losses, when old Heppenstall's voice came sort of faintly
to me out of the distance. He had been pretty fatherly and debonair when
ladling out the prizes for the other events, but now he had suddenly grown all
pained and grieved. He peered sorrowfully at the multitude.
"With regard to the Girls' Egg and Spoon Race, which has just
concluded," he said, "I have a painful duty to perform. Circumstances
have arisen which it is impossible to ignore. It is not too much to say
that I am stunned."
He gave the populace about five seconds to wonder why he was stunned,
then went on.
"Three years ago, as you are
aware, I was compelled to expunge from the list of events at this annual
festival the Fathers' Quarter-Mile, owing to reports coming to my ears of
wagers taken and given on the result at the village inn and a strong suspicion
that on at least on one occasion the race had actually been sold by the
speediest runner. That unfortunate occurrence shook my faith in human nature, I
admit, but still there was one event at least which I confidently expected to
remain untainted by the miasma of Professionalism. I allude to the Girls' Egg
and Spoon Race. It seems, alas, that I was too sanguine."
He stopped again, and wrestled with his
feelings.
"I
will not weary you with the unpleasant details. I will merely say that before
the race was run a stranger in our midst, the manservant of one of the guests
at the Hall - I will not specify with more particularity -approached several of
the competitors and presented each of them with five shillings on condition
that they-er-finished. A belated sense of remorse has led him to confess to me
what he did, but it is too late. The evil is accomplished, and retribution must
take its course. It is no time for half-measures. I must be firm. I rule that
Sarah Mills, Jane Parker, Bessie Clay, and Rosie Jukes, the first four to pass
the winning-post, have forfeited their amateur status and are disqualified, and
this handsome work-bag, presented by Lord Wickhammersley, goes, in consequence,
to Prudence Baxter. Prudence, step forward!" |
