Leave it to Psmith

This is another title that I should have done long ago....

Leave it to Psmith (1923) was, as far as I recall, the first Blandings story that I read. It was certainly the first Psmith novel I read; I think Mike and Psmith was the last, so that I read his saga more or less backwards.

Here are the opening couple of paragraphs, set in the no-nonsense Intertype Times. This title was first published in Penguin in 1953.

I have written about Psmith before, while discussing Psmith in the City and Psmith, Journalist. I'm not going to reread what I wrote then, but I feel sure I must have spoken of the strange attraction that this scion of Eton and Cambridge has. I am almost certain that I mentioned his appeal lies in his complete anarchist disrespect for the dull and authoritarian. If I did say that, I do think it is important to draw a distinction between Psmith and certain present day public figures in real life who might seem to bear a resemblance. Psmith's highly egged way of speaking has certainly had an influence on a certain generation, and I might safely and without disrespect mention Stephen Fry in this regard. The similarity holds good in his case, because the flamboyant language is there matched by a kind of integrity. In that there is a very stark contrast with Bori….. But no. I mustn't go there.

Leave it to Psmith is a slightly offbeat confection, Psmith being required to fill the role of Wodehousean romantic hero despite the fact that much of his charm lies in his complete indifference to normal emotion. He refuses to be ruffled. He never loses his unique unhinged eloquence. Psmith in love is as unimaginable as Sherlock Holmes in the same fix. However, Wodehouse does somehow makes it work, and with only one or two minor caveats this is a tale brilliantly told, a little masterpiece of the early-middle Wodehouse period.

If I do have one complaint, it is this. As part of the complicated imbroglio, Psmith is at Blandings masquerading as the poet Ralston "Across the Pale Parabola of Joy" McTodd. Psmith is in love with Eve Halliday, an old school buddy of the estranged Mrs McTodd. Psmith maintains his identity as McTodd even in conversation with Eve, and this results in his insistence that the marriage has broken down and that the absent Mrs McTodd is a violent alcoholic. It is an unpleasant and completely senseless lie, where it would have been simpler and sensibler just to say, "I am Psmith. Please keep my incognito." Would Eve really have forgiven him this cruel escapade as easily as she does in the book? Well, she does so, and Wodehouse almost makes it work, so I shouldn't repine.

The story is a variation on Wodehouse's recurring theme of "the theft that isn't really a theft" - though personally I have my doubts about Freddie Threepwood's cheerful assurance that "if a husband pinches anything from a wife, it isn't stealing." The theme goes back as early as Something Fresh (1915) and I wouldn't be surprised if it went earlier; and it goes at least as far forward as Company for Henry (1967) too, if not further. I may return to this fascinating matter at a later date.

Ionicus pulls out all stops for the cover, as he always did for Psmith. It appears to date from 1975. There is the slightest reminiscence of Joseph Wright of Derby in the single light source illuminating the faces from below. To the right, Psmith (here called Ronald Eustace Psmith, though we know from earlier episodes that he is actually Rupert) is holding forth and in control, as usual. Eve Halliday is appealing and 1920s-ish next to him. To the left are two career criminals, Edward Cootes and Aileen Peavey (prototypes of Soapy and Dolly Molloy from Sam the Sudden and other chronicles), though I'm not so sure Ionicus has made Cootes as tough as I would like. The composition is, as you can see, beautiful.

Uncle Fred in the Springtime / Service with a Smile

Uncle Fred in the Springtime (1939) is undoubtedly in the top rank of Wodehouse's novels. It is also the first to feature a visit by Frederick Altamont Cornwallis Twistleton, fifth Earl of Ickenham, otherwise known as Uncle Fred, to Blandings Castle.

If it were the cover of a Victorian penny dreadful, it would have the simple yet dramatic caption: "Mustard! Stop!" Even without knowing this, it is easy enough to see that Uncle Fred is trying to warn his old friend "Mustard" Pott not to drink the brandy, being, as it is, spiked with a knock-out drop. Uncle Fred has something of a military bearing, but is unmistakable. Mustard does not perhaps have all he might have of the Silver Ring Bookie about him, but that is mere splitting straws. This cover probably dates from 1972, to judge by the reprint dates, and it is vintage Ionicus, from the interior details (Blandings seems to favour paintings of the Impressionistic school in the Garden Suite; even the carpet is Pointillist) to the dapper correctness of the figures and the typical choice of a moment of drama from very late in the plot.

Here is the opening paragraph, set in Monotype Garamond, typical of the Wodehouses first published in Penguin in the 1950s (this was Penguin-published in 1954):

It is wonderful how, without having described anything very much, Wodehouse has drawn the reader in and made the said reader want to know more.

Having reread Uncle Fred in the Springtime a couple of weeks ago, I have been reminded how superbly it is written, especially in the first half. (In my opinion, there are slightly too many complications in the second half; but it is of course still wonderful.) There is in this book that carefree pre-War feeling which, perhaps, he was never quite able to touch again.

If I were to set down a few words about Uncle Fred, I would say just this. I love him as a character, and he is very funny, but I am very glad he is not my uncle. I always sympathise very much with his nephew Pongo in this respect.

I tend to think of Uncle Fred as a more or less constant visitor to Blandings, but on checking my facts I find that he only made two excursions to that balmy locale, the second in Service with a Smile (1961).

Here I must confess to some embarrassment. I used to have this copy, and I was convinced I still did. I hunted all round for it. But, at last, I have had to come to the conclusion that I must have sold it on - though not before taking a scan of the cover. As far as I can tell, it was first published in Penguin in 1966 and the Ionicus cover seems to date from about 1975. As I foolishly did not scan the reverse of the title page or the first page of the text there is nothing more I can tell you about the edition.

Wodehouse's novel itself is from that uncomfortable transition period in his late oeuvre when his imagination seemed to sag and he was attempting to recreate earlier glories, succeeding only in pale imitations. The prose always remained limpid and perfectly balanced, but somehow the zest was gone. In my opinion some of the still later books, from the mid-1960s onwards, found a new, relaxed style, with simpler plots and less straining for effect. These, then, are some of my excuses for not having kept hold of this particular book, which has such a wonderful cover. Another reason is that I was convinced I had already "done" it for the blog.

Here is our only sighting of the station of Market Blandings in the Ionicus portfolio. We are in a rural backwater, but there is still activity, and the porter has an excellent moustache. The character studies of Uncle Fred, Lord Emsworth and (if I mistake not) American tycoon James Schoonmaker are in every respect perfect. What all those parcels and crates are doing strewn negligently about the platform is more than I can say, but perhaps it is merely artistic licence.