The Problem with Mike

I was talking with my Wodehouse-mad uncle the other day and, as is our wont, we briefly glanced over the topic of our mutually adored author.  He asked how I was getting along in my quest (although I now know that he actually reads this blog, so Hello Uncle!) and I explained that my current course of action was to read all of the Psmith novels in one go.  There are about four in the series, depending on how one counts the first books, especially given that The Overlook Press decided to publish it in two volumes.  At the time, I had just finished Psmith in the City, and I remarked on the character of Mike.  I noted that, while he dominated the first couple of books, I was beginning to notice that he was taking a back seat to the wild antics of Psmith.

My uncle smiled, and told me that that would be the way of things for the next couple of novels.  I’m not surprised.  Mike is a lovely, solid character, insistent on both doing the right thing and the glory that is cricket.  The problem with a character like that is there is only so far you can go with him.  These overly principled types are all right for a while in a Wodehouse novel, usually as a comic foil, but I can begin to see that Wodehouse was feeling as though he was painting himself into a literary corner. 

Psmith is on the opposite end of the spectrum.  He has eccentricities that annoy other characters, and his presence dominates every landscape he inhabits, which is quite the feat given that I’m reading a book instead of watching a film adaptation.  For instance, Psmith wears a monocle at opportune moments in the plot that greatly vexes any authority figure.  He fixates on people that he is trying to win over like a bloodhound  and even goes so far as to track them down in the sanctum of their private clubs.  Mike, on the other hand, does not make himself a nuisance to his fellow man.  On at least two occasions, he has taken the blame for doing something he did not, if only to make the life of the actual perpetrator a little easier.  The impression that I’m given is that Wodehouse is in the middle of a balancing act, trying to figure out how much larger than life he can make his characters without upsetting the comic balance of his work.  One of the reasons that I think Bertie and Jeeves are so brilliant is that they both have defined characters which both test the limits of plausibility without shattering them.  Mike is more of the strong and silent type, which can be a lovely thing to have in one’s life, but not quite as entertaining in one’s literature. 

Wasted Efforts

After a series of adventures, I finally got my hands on a copy of Mike and Psmith, the successor to last month’s selection, Mike at Wyrkyn.  There is a lot of promise for the Psmith series, but thus far it has been revealed only in brief glimmers that emerge amidst the numerous accounts of cricket matches and the scheming that occurs around them.  Instead of writing even more about my adversarial relationship with the sporting world, I would like to address something that falls somewhat under the heading of current events.  This is quite a departure for this blog, since most of what I am reacting to was new over a century ago, but it has gotten up my ire.

For those of you who have been bored silly by the recent financial fiasco, never fear, this has nothing to do with it.  Instead, what I am concerned about is directly related to Wodehouse, and thus has escaped the notice of most of the national press.  It appears that the author’s heirs, not satisfied with the dosh brought in by over 90 books and other writings, decided that what the world really needed was yet another Jeeves and Wooster story.  They hired a well-known author, Sebastian Faulks, to pen the thing using Wodehouse’s voice. 

I have nothing against Mr. Faulks.  He apparently is adored by the masses.  Up to a point, I don’t mind taking older tales and putting some new spin on them.  For instance, I am very fond of the re-imagining  of Pride and Prejudice that is Bridget Jones’ Diary and took great delight in Baz Lurhman‘s Moulin Rouge.  However, I think that it is a bit of wasted effort to do things such as remake Carrie or Brideshead Revisited, when the originals are clearly classic pieces that deserve to be watched time and again.  Perhaps I draw the line at things which are mere re-treads and do not add anything to the cultural world (such as the reshoot of Psycho; what a waste of time and resources).

One of my colleagues broke the news to me about the “new Wodehouse” in the office last week.  I had wanted to think that it was a bad dream, until this month’s Vanity Fair made its way into my postbox.  There, among the stories of the new influential groups of people, was an excerpt.  I told myself that I had to read the entire thing before I allowed myself to form an opinion.  The sad thing is that, about half a page into it, I really could not force myself to go on.  To be honest, it’s not horrible.  But that’s the problem.  There was a lot of dead dialogue with soulless descriptions and, occasionally, a moment when Mr. Faulks remembered that Wodehouse was a pithy comic genius and wrote accordingly.  Vintage Wodehouse fizzes off of the page.  The language sparkles, but one cannot detect the effort that must have been poured into each and every word.  Mr. Faulks’ effort, on the other hand, feels belabored, almost as if one were watching a play and the backstage business at the same time.  It’s distracting, and leads me to the eternal question: why?

Athletic Pursuits

I am not an eager reader of books involving athletic pursuits.*  Unlike most of the populace, the Qudditch scenes in the Harry Potter books were not my favorite.  I have to admit that, unlike many other literary sporting scenes, there was often some plot exposition in them.  I feel the same about battle scenes.  Many is the time that military historians have bored the socks off of me with descriptions of troop movements and the like.  I find myself caring less about where a certain battalion went and more about what the ultimate outcome was.  This is one of the reasons why I like the Game of Thrones.  The few battle scenes are from the point of view of one character, which is quite helpful.  More often than not, you hear about the outcome of a certain battle that had been set up, rather than tediously reliving every swish of every sword.

One of the things that I had to come to terms with in my pursuit of reading all of Wodehouse is that quite a few books involve cricket, rugby, and/or golf.  Boxing and horse racing have also been pertinent to some plots, though to a lesser degree.  Mercifully, I know the basic rules of cricket and rugby, and I also know that rugby at the time was referred to as football (given that the Brits now call soccer football, it can all become quite confusing).  In fact, I’m really pleased that if these are the sports I must contend with, at least I’m reading about something I know.  The same cannot be said about American football.  I’ve spent years trying to get my head around the concept of a down, and it’s only just now seeming as though I might begin to understand. 

Mike at Wyrken, which was September’s Wodehouse, starts out with a cricket-mad family.  It only gets worse from there, as the entire book hinges around important school-related cricket matches.  The accounts of wickets falling are mercifully short, because, let me tell you, we’re dealing with a sport that involves tea breaks, so we’re not talking about events that are action-packed.  Cricket is a languid, meditative sport, and I think even Wodehouse wanted to skip to the end.

This book is the first in the Psmith series (I know nothing about the titular character).  The odd thing is that, from what I could tell, Psmith does not make an appearance.  The original book was split into two, this one and Mike and Psmith, which is now winging its way to me courtesy of Amazon.  My intention is to read the entire series now, although I have to double-check that Overlook has published them all.  Hopefully, not all of them will involve cricket, although I did notice that one of the later books featured a boxing match on the cover, so I’m not out of the woods yet. 

*It’s probably not surprising that I don’t spend my free time sitting around watching sports.  In my defense, I do enjoy a good game, but there has to be something on the line, such as an historic win, to grab my attention.  For instance, I found the Patriot‘s 2001 season to be particularly epic, almost operatic in its drama, and I did keep tabs on the young Tom Brady that year.  That being said, I must admit that I heard about the Red Sox winning the World Series in 2005 on the news that night as I was drifting off to sleep (I used to sleep with my radio on, but that’s another story.  I blame Stephen King.).

Fifty Shades of Jeeves

The last Jeeves and Wooster novel of the summer, Ring for Jeeves, did not involve the latter character at all.  In light of The Servant Shortage following the Second World War, Bertie has decided to take a course to learn how to fend for himself should the unimaginable happen and he is bereft of any sort of household help.  Jeeves agrees to act as valet for William Belfry, ninth Earl of Rowcester, a younger friend of Wooster and henceforth called Bill.  What most impressed me about this novel is that we are shown another side of the gentleman’s gentleman.  Since Bill is among the increasing population of house-rich and money poor gentility, the two embark on a gambling syndicate that is mostly successful (a great deal of the novel deals with the one notable failure).  Part of this plan involves the dignified Jeeves dressing up in an outfit that involves a rather loud suit and false whiskers.  We have seen Jeeves dress up before, but the description of the costume he dons for this endeavor almost beggars belief.  One gets the impression that he rather enjoys the subterfuge and living life by his wits.  Seeing Jeeves in this manner made me wonder if he was beginning to find life with Bertie to be a little too comfortable.  After all, he is always trying to get his employer to travel, be it on a round the world cruise or a junket to New York.  There is an adventurous streak in Jeeves that cannot be ignored

It was also interesting to view Jeeves through the eyes of another master.  While Bill Rowcester obviously enjoys he fruits of Jeeves’ brain, especially when it comes to rescuing him from his financial woes, there are times when he finds the valet to be a little tedious.  The instances when Jeeves quotes from literature are presented as tedious moments, not a breathless example of the man’s superior brain as is so often the case when he is with Bertie.  Rowcester always bids Jeeves to hurry up with his point, and not to linger with some literary exposition.  Bertie never does this.  He usually makes a favorable remark after Jeeves presents a quotation, or follows it up with some of his own experiences with the literary figure in question.  Through Bill’s eyes, Jeeves comes off as ever so slightly ponderous.

There is, of course, a change in how Bertie himself views Jeeves in the novels.  Early on, the lay about has only buckets of admiration for his valet; he hangs upon every word and is utterly reliant on him.  This changes in the later novels.  Hang lived around d Jeeves for a while Bertie becomes a bit more confident in his own abilities.  He dissuades his friends form consulting Jeeves convinced that he can also present a clever way out of a seemingly hopeless predicament.  Of course, these plans fail miserably and Bertie is forced to turn to Jeeves.  Between these two older men, there is a sense of respect that is not as present between Bill and Jeeves.  As this book was written in 1953, it is yet another reminder that the world is slowly changing, even in the rarefied Wodehouseian universe. 

The Master and the Bard

There came a point during my reading of Joy in the Morning when I really thought that Wodehouse was pulling my leg.  The speed with which engagements were created and then broken, then mended, only the be split assumer again, is simply astounding.  As a reader, I was constantly left wondering if the plot machinations would end in such a way that things would end as they started; with two couples happily betrothed, and with our hero Bertie devoid of any obligation to don the sponge bag trousers* and present himself at a church.

It then struck me that this was not the first time that I was presented with multiple romantic situations gone higgledy-piggedly.  Many many many years ago, when I was young and dinosaurs were known to roam the neighborhoods, I was Helena in my high school’s production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream.  Granted, fairies have not been known to drug any Wodehouse characters (although Jeeves has slipped a mickey or two when the situation calls), but the romantic alacrity is comparable.  In fact, that thread runs through a great many of the Bard’s works, and not simply the comedies.  Indeed, Romeo, at the beginning of that teenaged tragedy, was enamored of the fair Rosalind, not Juliet.  The trope probably even predates Shakespeare, who was a great hoarder of plots and is unlikely to have been the literary progenitor of the implausibly fast and complicated romance. 

Marching through history, I note that the trope continued on through the works of Austen.  I am not terribly au fait with contemporary popular so-called women’s literature, but I would suspect that it persists up until this day.**  I believe that there is something about the human psyche that yearns for sudden complete love and adoration, because goodness knows that’s much easier than trawling around the likes of Match.com looking for your dream-rabbit.  Humans also possess the ability to mock their deepest desires, hence the fact that sudden romance and its perils are often the subject of mockery.  As a species, we have an awfully cruel streak when it comes to bare emotion. 

Wodehouse himself acknowledged that silliness of it all in this book, as he said on page 152: “You can’t go by what a girl says, when she’s giving you the devil for making a chump out of yourself.  It’s like Shakespeare.  Sounds well, but does not mean anything.” Or, in the words of Puck, “What fools these mortals be!”

*Short of perusing the internet (which is a tedious proposition on the commuter rail.  There is an internet connection, and in times of desperation I have accessed it, but it keeps insisting on either being slow or nonexistent.) I have no idea what sponge bag trousers are, or how they came to have that name.  I can only assume they are the trousers that are properly donned with a morning coat. 

**Granted, there are a couple of hundred years between now and the Georgian period.  My defense is that, as a trained historian, the time span is a mere eye-blink in the annals of mankind.