THE PLUM-CAKE

People living on this planet can be divided into two: those who swear by Wodehouse and those who do not care much for his writing. I am an unabashed fan of his and have read probably more than two dozen of his books of fiction. Having said that, I must confess that it is just a sampling of the Wodehouse smorgasbord: the prolific story-teller had authored nearly a hundred novels while pursuing his buzzing career as playwright and lyricist on Broadway and penning innumerable poems.

Rather than pick up new titles, I would‌ prefer to go back to old favorites of mine. I am fond of Mulliner, the boozy old bore who refuses to shut up, Rupert Psmith (The 'P' is silent, 'as in phthisis, psychic, and ptarmigan') and the unforgettable, but forgetful, Lord Elmsworth. But it is the timeless tales of Bertie and his valet, Jeeves that I regularly return to. Blame it on the resistance to try something new, though you know that Wodehouse just cannot let you down.

It was in short stories that Bertie and Jeeves made their debut. Soon, like Laurel and Hardy or Holmes and Watson or Dennis and Joey or Tintin and Snowy, they became indissolubly and lastingly linked in the public imagination. The two characters coalesced and the pair became touchstones and reference points.

In addition to their appearance in over thirty short stories, there are nearly a dozen full-length Bertie and Jeeves novels. Whether one takes the first of the novels (Thank You, Jeeves - 1934) or the last (Aunts Aren’t Gentlemen - 1974) or any in between, one can perceive a striking consistency of tone and outlook, a reassuring immutability. They are full of appealing redundancies and there are far too many expedient repeats, too many hand-me-down plot devices and overlong one-liners. Like, we are reminded over and over again about the sole professional accomplishment of Bertie ('When Aunt Dahlia was running that ‘Milady’s Boudoir’ paper of hers, I contributed to it an article, or piece as we writers call it, on What the Well-Dressed Man is Wearing.')

Did I say immutability? Yes, I did! I hasten to correct myself. In 'Right Ho, Jeeves', Bertie was once bold enough to declare that Jeeves had 'lost his form' and wanted his 'plugs decarbonised'. Over time, their relationship becomes subtler: the quiet Jeeves becomes more imposing and Bertie more reverent towards him. And then Jeeves is able to wield overarching influence even over the questionable sartorial preferences of his master, having disapproved of 'purple socks, pink silk ties, white dinner jacket, yellow shirt, green trousers and straw hat'.

In the Bertie-and-Jeeves stories, we are caught up in an inexhaustible cycle: Bertie (Bertram Wilberforce Wooster) 'lands in the soup', which is just another way of saying that this rich, insouciant bachelor feels that he is being railroaded into marriage or forced to do something that she feels will enhance the prestige of the family. It is a gag that never spoils.

Though Bertie is not financially dependent on Aunt Agatha, he feels compelled, particularly in the early stories, to obey her wishes, as he has been intimidated by her since he was young. She has never liked Jeeves, whom she calls Bertie's keeper, for she thinks that Bertie is too dependent on him. She disapproves of Bertie talking to Jeeves about private matters. On one occasion when she hears Bertie ask Jeeves for advice, she tells Jeeves to leave and then scolds Bertie, making remarks to him about 'what she thought of a Wooster who could lower the prestige of the clan by allowing menials to get above themselves.'

It is the impeccable Jeeves - in fact, he barely has a first name (revealed after more than 50 years to be Reginald) - who rescues his feckless master, all without tearing, or even crumpling, leave alone tearing, the social fabric. The brain of the 'gentleman's gentleman' is so massive that it bulges the back of his head. He is so discreet that he 'moves from point to point with as little uproar as a jelly-fish'. He is unflappable and the totem of imperturbability ('I shot a glance at Jeeves. He allowed his right eyebrow to flicker slightly, which is as near as he ever gets to a display of the emotions.')

The idle Bertie is fond of a post-lunch cocktail. And a pre-lunch cocktail. Eye-openers and nightcaps, pick-me-ups and settle-me-downs - he quaffs them all. He spends his evenings in the Drones Club sipping b-and-s with friends with nicknames like Pongo and Oofy and Catsmeat. Their world is, by and large, insulated and the outside hardly impinges. Political, social and economic upheavals like the Great Depression and the World War hardly penetrate the walls of their world though some unwelcome global news item does at time creep into the narrative.

Wodehouse served up a remarkably smooth verbal stew of rather lumpy elements: English slang, American slang, literary allusions, needless abbreviations, mixed metaphors and fussily precise details about trivialities. But much of his appeal lies in the outlandish similes, particularly those drawn from the natural world: 'She looked like a tomato struggling for self-expression'; 'Uncle Tom, who always looked a bit like a pterodactyl with a secret sorrow'; 'She uttered a sound rather like an elephant taking its foot out of a mud hole in a Burmese teak forest'.

'This insidious but good-humoured subversion of the language, conducted with straight-faced aplomb,' Shashi Tharoor says, 'appeals most of all to a people who have acquired English, but rebel against its heritage.' One could not agree with him more.

The tongue-in-cheek digs of Wodehouse at the British nobility with double-barrelled surnames like Fotheringay-Phipps (pronounced 'Funghy Fipps') and Fink-Nottle, and nicknames like Chuffy and Tuppy are so delectable. How dull life would have been without Plum!