More Plums
Benny Green
Af-ter years of shilly-shallying, Penguin appear to be embarked at last On the very necessary reduction of the vast Wodehouse oeuvre into the conveniently portable uniformity of a pleasantly designed paperback edition. The new Wodehouses have been appearing in batches, of four, and as at the last count there were roughly a hundred of the old ones, it is now at least conceivable that the complete set might be in the reader's arms in the forseeable future. The latest quartet have no doubt been slipped in on the pretext of ' holiday reading,' but although any excuse is better than none for increasing Wodehouse's availability, the truth is that he has always been holiday reading, no matter what the calendar might say, a point proved once again by the irresistible blandishments of one of the four newcomers, Uhridge.
It has of course been an axiom of the Higher Criticism for years now that each of the ten 1.1kridge stories is better than the other nine, but what is so odd about Wodehouse is that each time.he is re-read, the text reveals fresh felicities. On making re-acquaintance with Ukridge, for instance, I notice for the first time the neat jux'Iaposition of social forces in ' the Debut of Battling Billson ' and 'The Return of Battling Billson.' 'In the debut, Billson behaves like Han imbecile before the customers of Wonderland in the East End, whereas in the return, he behaves like an imbecile before the patrons of the Universal Sporting Club, an establishment so sepulchral that when a result is announced, Wodehouse describes it in the following terms:
. . this portion of the service came to an end and the priest announced that Nippy Coggs was the winner. A reverent murmur arose for an instant from the worshippers, Nippy Coggs disappeared into the vestry, and after a pause of a few minutes, I perceived the familiar form of Battling Billson coming up the aisle.
This is the tale in which there occurs that unforgettable description of the man forcibly ejected from a public house who "did a sort of backwards foxtrot across the pavement," and all that can be said against this kind of comic vision is that it tends to transform the gourmet into a glutton; in spite of all resolutions to the contrary, I was into Uhridge and out the other end within a couple of hours and ready to start on the next of the new issues, Heavy Weather, a work whose byzantine complexity wauld be enough to give Einstein a headache. I can understand that,a reading rate of this kind might cause the prospective holidaymaker nvs' givings. It is not hard to envisage a situation where the traveller. having insulated himself against the horrors of the voyage with a layer of Wodehouse, finds that be' fore his ordeal is half over he has exhausted the supply. ObviouslY the best insurance is larger doses of the drug, which means heftier editions. And that raises the issue of Barrie and Jenkins, whose campaign to put Wodehouse into neatly collated packages is very nearly keeping pace with the Pen' guin crusade. Having produced omnibuses devoted to Jeeves and Mr Mulliner, Barrie and Jenkins have followed up with the Golfing stories, all thirty-one of them, and the worthiness of the operation can best be conveyed by the tone of Wodehouse's preface. Afte,1 plaintively inquiriing, " Where 15 the mashie now, where the cleek. the spoon and the baffy?," he goes on: In my youth, when the tiadmintOTI Book was a comparatively new publi' cation, a ation,gooloied took you had to that b o Scottish, preferably with a name like Sandy McHoots or Jock Auchte muchty . . . Of such as these th,t bard has said. ' Hech thrawfu ra tie rorkie, wr thecht ta' croonie claw perhead and fash wi unco' pawkie. And where are they now?
There is absolutely no point in, attempting to analyse that type 0' passage, because apart from the fact that it simply defies analysis: the time spent wrestling with ?I would be better devoted to react' ing more Wodehouse. And it is pleasing to report that buying hi.5 books is very much easier than it once was. Why? Well, it seems his work has been subject to the same mar; ket slump which afflicts all deau writers. It needs to be rernetu: bered that during the last via' Wodehouse was murdered h,Y what Compton Mackenzie cali (in the new Barrie and Jenkins tribute, Homage to Wodehouse) 3„ bunch of "self-righteous nitwits, and has now survived the oc. casion of his own assassination long enough to enjoy the spectacle of his own revival. As to the, relationship between his worlu and reality, it may be worth me; tioning that during the last war ' possessed, and indeed still do,
of uncles
brace whose long careers as backers of three', legged racehorses had convince them the sensible thing to do W,a5 to go into business as boll*" makers. This they did, and it w3s not long before the day carn,e when they leaned over my grat°. mother's wireless set shouting ely couragement to the horses rneh; tioned in a Two Thousand GL''' neas commentary. It was not on usual for members of my family(' scream advice to racing colt': mentators in this way, but who' made this occasion unusual W8,5, that the two partners were eac" screaming encouragement to different runners. It is revealing measure this pale reality agaillsi the multi-coloured processes ° the creative imagination as re' vealed by Wodehouse in his ridge pearl, 'The Long Arm 0' Looney Coote.'
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