Somewhat early in his career, P.G. Wodehouse decided to spice up the sleepy school serial he was writing by introducing "Psmith", a character based on the son of Richard D'Oyly Carte, whom his cousin had met at Winchester College. Rupert D'Oyle Carte, according to Wodehouse's cousin, was always impeccably dressed, wore a monocle, and was known for replying to questions about his health with a tragic "Sir, I grow thinnah and thinnah."
I know all this because I read Wodehouse's introduction to Mike and Psmith, which is technically only the second half of this book repackaged. (The book comprises two separate stories, the first of which was republished as Mike at Wrykyn.) I read several chapters into Mike and Psmith, liked it in a half-hearted way (mostly was disappointed that it wasn't more Jeeves and Wooster), then realized that it was only the second half of a complete book and, being a purist, decided to begin at the beginning. And I think it's only through reading the entire volume that the reader can truly appreciate what a literary crapshoot Wodehouse is taking--intentionally or not--by letting Psmith invade the second act.
So, from the beginning: Young Michael Jackson (really!), better known as "Mike", is shipped off to Wrykyn, the school attended by his older brothers, all of whom are renowned cricket enthusiasts. Mike himself, who lives and breathes cricket, is a natural. He ends up subbing for absent players a lot, and eventually gains some kind of position on the team. Along the way, characters engage in various schoolboy stunts. Hushed meetings are held in dormitories, a young upstart convinces the entire school to go on strike, and certain of the student body sneak out at risk of expulsion and haunt the grounds after-hours.
In other words, it's the quintessential British school story. If it reads like Harry Potter without the magic, that's because Harry Potter was written as a magical take on books like Mike. (To the modern reader, cricket may prove more mysterious even than Quidditch.) Wodehouse's literary ability is in evidence, though not in full bloom--he comes off as a lesser Mark Twain, commenting wryly on the politics of schoolboyism. Reason is very much on its throne--nothing happens that wouldn't happen in reality, and no one's allowed to engage in the kind of Blandings Castle-esque hijinks that would become the author's forte later on. Then, too, the stakes never get much higher or more poetic than the occasional "caning" or "writing lines". A few boys teeter on the brink of being expelled, and one likable chap goes over, but you never really care, at least not in the way you do when Bertie Wooster is in panic mode and it's vital for Jeeves to intervene.
In attempting to analyze Mike himself, I can only say that he is what he is. Wodehouse didn't want to create a saint or a scholar, or even a comedian; he wanted a boy who could play a good game of cricket, because in a school story that's all that really matters. "Except on the cricket field, where he was a natural genius, he was just ordinary", the narration in the second half remarks, and rightly. "He resembled ninety percent of other members of English public schools."
But curiously, as the same passage takes care to point out, he does have one standout quality: "He was always ready to help people. And when he set himself to do this, he was never put off by discomfort or risk." Then there's the incident in which he throws a carry-on bag out a window at a train station, assuming someone left it when he got off the train--only to be accosted by the owner, who's still on board after all. Perhaps Bertie Wooster really is in development, hidden under the habit of a sullen, and by all accounts ordinary, cricket ace.
Be that as it may, it's not until the second half--a separate story entirely--that things get fun. Several years have passed and Mike, now clothed in glory as a veteran of Wrykyn cricket, is forced, to his horror, to switch to a small private school on account of his failing grades. Enter Psmith. And cue Reason, if not totally being dethroned, at least taking a beating and being declared unfit for service.
As the only character Wodehouse ever drew directly from real life, Psmith represents the perfect transitional figure between the realistic school stories and the far-fetched comedy stories for which he became famous. My theory is that before Psmith Wodehouse still found himself hampered by the reigns of reality, and hearing his cousin's story gave him permission to unleash the absurdity of which he was capable on the world. Later he would cheerily admit that he didn't give a hang for realism in his writing, but in Mike he implies that it still had a hold on him. What right had any reader to call a nutcase like Psmith unrealistic if he was based on a real person? "The advice I give to every young man starting life is 'never confuse the unusual with the impossible'," says Psmith--and the subtext whispers, Unlikely though I seem, I really could exist.
Dicken's Mrs. Fezziwig was one vast substantial smile; Psmith is one vast substantial wink. He and his author seem to have an understanding. Eerily enough, he's divined that he's in a school story, and sees somewhat dissatisfied with his lot. (Meeting Mike for the first time: "Are you the Bully, the Pride of the School, or the Boy who is Led Astray and takes to Drink in Chapter Sixteen?") But more subtle (psubtle?) is the use of the silent P he's affixed to his name. He humbly requests that everyone spell it this way in writing. It's rarely brought up again, but the issue persists: everyone else, including Mike, refers to him as "Smith" in dialogue, but he himself always uses the "P"--and so does Wodehouse. See? The author understands.
Another aspect of the wink--that monocle. What starts as a stereotypical bit of eccentricity becomes a trademark aspect of Psmith's character: he makes a point of digging it out of his pocket to inspect people, establishing over and over that he's not a part of the story, but is merely there to enjoy the view. Pippi Longstocking, as I wrote in my review of that book, was the only character in her story--everyone else was an audience member. Psmith is equally out-there, his schoolmates as unremarkable as Pippi's friends, and yet it's Psmith who plays the audience to all the other characters. He regards everyone and everything with a condescending smile and a barrage of commentary. But no one ever comments on him--beyond a few stray acknowledgements of the oddness ("You are a chap!" a giggling boy named Jellicoe reiterates, and one feels that it takes far less than Psmith to impress him), he merely coexists. Neither a figure of awe nor an outcast, he is comfortably and casually mad, and his schoolmates treat him in the same way they treat Mike. While delighted to have a friend at his new school, Mike himself scarcely gives a moment's thought to Psmith's quirks. It's as if a character from a sitcom moved into a slice-of-life series without making waves. This is a refreshing approach to the whole concept of the outlandish outsider, in my opinion--after all, do we really need to be told how to react to Psmith? It's the reader's job to gape, laugh and cheer, not Mike's.
The rest can be guessed at, but it has to be read to be enjoyed. Much cricket is played, a study is stolen, a small mystery is set afoot, and, in a delightfully quiet running gag, a mantlepiece is leaned on. (Some moments, without being laugh-out-loud funny, are just little gems--as Mike and another boy poise on the brink of a fight, Psmith stares at the mirror and eloquently laments the state of his health.) And, without spoiling anything, our commentator does eventually break out of his glass box and get his hands messy with the story, with enjoyable results.
This relates to aspect three of the wink: Psmith, oddly enough, is the ultimate ally. Many Wodehouse fans on the internet mourn the absence of a Jeeves in their lives, and I don't doubt that he'd be useful--he's usefulness incarnate. But when you're in a new place, when things look gray and boring, when reality is reality and when you want, not omniscient intervention, but merely someone in the same situation as yourself--someone who likes you and is on your side--Psmith is your man. Psmith in the City elaborates on this, and I might review it another time.
In the meantime, I think I'll lean on a mantlepiece. Talk to you later.
