Mike and Psmith, P. G. Wodehouse [ereader ebook TXT] 📗
- Author: P. G. Wodehouse
Book online «Mike and Psmith, P. G. Wodehouse [ereader ebook TXT] 📗». Author P. G. Wodehouse
PREFACE
In Evelyn Waugh's book Decline and Fall his hero, applying for a post as a schoolmaster, is told by the agent, "We class schools in four grades—leading school, first-rate school, good school, and school." Sedleigh in Mike and Psmith would, I suppose, come into the last-named class, though not quite as low in it as Mr. Waugh's Llanabba. It is one of those small English schools with aspirations one day to be able to put the word "public" before their name and to have their headmaster qualified to attend the annual Headmaster's Conference. All it needs is a few more Adairs to get things going. And there is this to be noted, that even at a "school" one gets an excellent education. Its only drawback is that it does not play the leading schools or the first-rate schools or even the good schools at cricket. But to Mike, fresh from Wrykyn (a "first-rate school") and Psmith, coming from Eton (a "leading school") Sedleigh naturally seemed something of a comedown. It took Mike some time to adjust himself to it, though Psmith, the philosopher, accepted the change of conditions with his customary equanimity.
This was the first appearance of Psmith. He came into two other books, Psmith in the City and Psmith, Journalist, before becoming happily married in Leave It to Psmith, but I have always thought that he was most at home in this story of English school life. To give full play to his bland clashings with Authority he needs to have authority to clash with, and there is none more absolute than that of the masters at an English school.
Psmith has the distinction of being the only one of my numerous characters to be drawn from a living model. A cousin of mine was at Eton with the son of D'Oyly Carte, the man who produced the Gilbert and Sullivan operettas, and one night he told me about this peculiar schoolboy who dressed fastidiously and wore a monocle and who, when one of the masters inquired after his health, replied "Sir, I grow thinnah and thinnah." It was all the information I required in order to start building him in a star part.
If anyone is curious as to what became of Mike and Psmith in later life, I can supply the facts. Mike, always devoted to country life, ran a prosperous farm. Psmith, inevitably perhaps, became an equally prosperous counselor at the bar like Perry Mason, specializing, like Perry, in appearing for the defense.
I must apologize, as I did in the preface to Mike at Wrykyn, for all the cricket in this book. It was unavoidable. There is, however, not quite so much of it this time.
P.G. Wodehouse.
1 — MR. JACKSON MAKES UP HIS MIND
If Mike had been in time for breakfast that fatal Easter morning he might have gathered from the expression on his father's face, as Mr. Jackson opened the envelope containing his school report and read the contents, that the document in question was not exactly a paean of praise from beginning to end. But he was late, as usual. Mike always was late for breakfast in the holidays.
When he came down on this particular morning, the meal was nearly over. Mr. Jackson had disappeared, taking his correspondence with him; Mrs. Jackson had gone into the kitchen, and when Mike appeared the thing had resolved itself into a mere vulgar brawl between Phyllis and Ella for the jam, while Marjory, recently affecting a grown-up air, looked on in a detached sort of way, as if these juvenile gambols distressed her.
"Hello, Mike," she said, jumping up as he entered, "here you are—I've been keeping everything hot for you."
"Have you? Thanks awfully. I say ..." His eye wandered in mild surprise round the table. "I'm a bit late."
Marjory was bustling about, fetching and carrying for Mike, as she always did. She had adopted him at an early age, and did the thing thoroughly. She was fond of her other brothers, especially when they made centuries in first-class cricket, but Mike was her favorite. She would field out in the deep as a natural thing when Mike was batting at the net in the paddock, though for the others, even for Joe, who had played in all five Test Matches in the previous summer, she would do it only as a favor.
Phyllis and Ella finished their dispute and went out. Marjory sat on the table and watched Mike eat.
"Your report came this morning, Mike," she said.
The kidneys failed to retain Mike's undivided attention. He looked up interested. "What did it say?"
"I didn't see—I only caught sight of the Wrykyn crest on the envelope. Father didn't say anything."
Mike seemed concerned. "I say, that looks rather rotten! I wonder if it was awfully bad. It's the first I've had from Appleby."
"It can't be any worse than the horrid ones Mr. Blake used to write when you were in his form."
"No, that's a comfort," said Mike philosophically. "Think there's any more tea in that pot?"
"I call it a shame," said Marjory; "they ought to be jolly glad to have you at Wrykyn just for cricket, instead of writing beastly reports that make father angry and don't do any good to anybody."
"Last Christmas he said he'd take me away if I got another one."
"He didn't mean it really, I know he didn't! He couldn't! You're the best bat Wrykyn's ever had."
"What ho!" interpolated Mike.
"You are. Everybody says you are. Why, you got your first the very first term you were there—even Joe didn't do anything nearly so good as that. Saunders says you're simply bound to play for England in another
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