Impressions of P.G.Wodehouse

by Leslie Havergal Bradshaw

Source:  The Captain, March 1910


How many Captain readers living in America, I wonder, saw the Old Fag’s
reply to “F.J.A.” in the August 1909 number?  At any rate, leaving the
question unanswered, I did.  The Old ‘Un said that P.G.Wodehouse, the great
Captain serialist, creator of Clowes, Trevor, Fenn, Silver, Kennedy, Sheen,
Mike, and finally the immortal Psmith, was in New York, getting local colour
for a new tale – a newspaper story in which the latter two would reappear.
Noticing simultaneously that there was a story by P.G. in the September
Ainslee’s (one of the leading American fiction magazines), I reasoned that
he was probably still in New York.  What was a chap to do?  There was
absolutely no doubt.  My course of action was shaped instanter.  With a
bound I dashed to the sanctum of the editor of Ainslee’s, and the upshot of
the subsequent interview was an epistle adressed to Mr. Wodehouse (then
summering in Maine), requesting the pleasure of an interview before he left
for England.  Two days later, a characteristic letter was laid out by our
solemn-faced office-boy on my desk, and, after reading it, I knew I was to
have an experience I had earnestly desired for years.  P.G.Wodehouse would
“look me up” directly he returned to the city.  Shortly afterwards, in the
early part of September, I had a letter something after this style: “As
Wilke Bard was saying when I left England, ‘I’m here if I’m wanted’.”
Needless to say, he was wanted, and that evening I rushed down to Mr.
Wodehouse’s hotel.  Arriving there, I met with the cheery message that he
was expecting me, and after a few seconds journey in the elevator (lift) I
shook hands with him on the roof.  He is just what I imagined: tall, big and
strong; is a young man, with dark hair, rather light blue eyes, a healthy
colour, and the most friendly, genial, likeable manner in the world.  As I
looked at him, I thought of Clowes, Trevor, Kennedy, Mike and Psmith all
rolled into one.  You know what I mean.  He has a big hand, and shakes with
you vigorously.  When conversing, his manner is quite, and rather thoughtful.
 It makes you feel that he is very carefully considering what you are
saying.  He has a very cheery laugh.  In fact, hackneyed as the word is,
“hearty”.  It is hearty.  To make any comment on his sense of humour is, of
course, unnecessary.  Every Captain reader knows how wonderful that is.  The
character of Psmith alone stamps P.G. as one of our greatest humourists.  He
has a pair of deep-set eyes which put you at your ease.  There is something
singularly cool and genial about them.  You feel that they see the humour of
things, and that their owner is a person who likes most people and whom most
people like.  I was so much interested in the man that I didn’t take any
notice of the way he was dressed, except that a handsome incogniti blazer
caught my eye.  One of the first things we discussed was writing.  Mr.
Wodehouse enjoys writing for The Captain immensely, and seemed greatly
pleased at the interest taken in his stories, - and also at the way Captain
readers detect little errors that occasionaly creep in.  He is very much
interested in music – and, I discovered, not altogether the kind that is
labelled “high-class.”  As readers of his public school stories can imagine,
he has a certain partiality for light composition of the “Mumblin’ Moss”
order.  He is fond of walking (especially in the rain), and takes long
tramps daily.  He even walks down the stairs at his hotel – a proceeding
which is simply amazing to the American mind.  Nobody here dreams of doing
anything but taking the elevator.  He is a clever boxer, and, as we are all
aware from his stories, knows a lot about the manly art.  I should imagine
from his build and the look in his eye, also, that he wouldn’t be the
choicest of intended victims for a hooligan; the latter mightn’t feel
particularly comfortable after an interview with him!  Regarding cricket, he
is, of course, both an enthusiast and an expert.  Although once a keen
Rugger player, he has of late become more interested in Soccer, until now, I
believe, he likes both games equally.  He did not mention hobbies, but his
chief one is doubtless reading.  He is unusually well-read and
well-informed.  But, after all, this is only to be expected, when we recall
the calibre of his writing.  There are a number of American journalists –
newspaper men and magazine writers – at the same hotel, and one of them told
me that Mr. Wodehouse has made a small reputation at the game of German
bowls.  Although playing it for the first time, he easily defeated their
champion by a substantial majority.  His victories are attributed to subtle
manipulations of the ball, resembling the break in cricket, which his
opponents are unable to duplicate.  The same man told me – and I have since
discovered it for myself – that P.G. has been nicknamed “Chickens” among the
writing fraternity mentioned.  This is from his book, “Love among the
Chickens,” which, in addition to appearing in England, ran serially in a
magazine here, came out in a book form later, and was the first thing to
bring him to the notice of the American editors.  I asked him which of his
books he considers the best.  Personally, I couldn’t decide.  They’re all
about equal, excepting, perhaps, the first two, “The Pothunters” and “A
Prefects Uncle,” are hardly up to the standard of The Captain serials.  The
latter began in 1903 with “The Gold Bat,” followed by “The Head of Kay’s,”
“The White Feather,”  “Jackson Junior,”  “The Lost Lambs,”  “The New Fold,”
and now “Psmith, Journalist.”  Finally, he said he thought he liked “The
Gold Bat” and “The Lost Lambs” as well as any.  I don’t suppose anyone will
be surprised to hear that Psmith is his favorite character.  So far P.G.’s
literary career has been remarkable.  His first book was published when he
was nineteen.  He has done some clever things for Punch and various London
magazines and newspapers.  He has already made a big reputation here as an
original humourist of the first water.  The best magazines, such as
Cosmopolitan, Colliers Weekly, &c., are printing his stories.  The former,
in fact, calls him “a second O.Henry.”  (O.Henry is considered to be the
greatest short story writer in America to-day.)  I had an awfully hard job
to tear myself away.  Even then it wasn’t through willingness to go, but
rather, fear of boring him.  However, my moral backbone stood the severe
test, and, like a self-sacrificing martyr, finally I did go.  But first he
gave me a cheery promise to look me up at my home a few days later.  Since
then I have seen him frequently and have been the recipient of much kindness
from him.  I may be accused of being too eulogistic.  To any such statement,
I reply (loftily): “If you chaps had been in my place, you’d have had a
frightful job to speak so temperately and moderately about him.”  Summing
up, then, I found P.G.Wodehouse O.K.  I expected a lot, but the expectations
were, if anything, exceeded.  Great as his stories are, their author is
greater.  He is a fine specimen of the public school man at his best.  As I
have discovered since meeting him for the first time, the keynote of his
character is generosity.  You can’t imagine how kind he is.  No wonder he
has made friends among the American magazine men so quickly!   (The Captain,
March 1910.)