IS THIS DOCTOR WODEHOUSE?

New Zealand Herald, Volume LXXVI, Issue 23411, 29 July 1939, Page 11 (Supplement)

IS THIS DOCTOR WODEHOUSE?

"PRECISELY; SIR"

IV-v XFORD UNIVERSITY conI I ferrecl the honorary degree of .j\j/ Doctor of Literature on P. (j Wodehouse, the humorist, at its annual Encaenia —the first time that any humorist has been the recipient • + of such an honour at Oxford since Jlark Twain, writes Clair Price, a London correspondent of The New York Times. The degrees were conferred in Latin, as is Oxford's custom on such occasions, and it was 'accordingly a bit difficult for a mere outsider to follow the scenario. One is tempted to seek an idea of the proceedings in the works of Mr. Wodeslouse himself—in the story of how Augustus (Gussie) Fink-Nottle awarded Vhe'. prizes at the Market Snodsbury Grammar School. On that memorable occasion, when thoy uncorked Mr. FinkJfottle, his presentation speech proved Jo be ripe stuff: "Squares Things Up" "Bovs," said the affable Gussie, "I mean "indies and gentlemen and boys, 1 do not detain you long, but I propose on 'this occasion to feel compelled to say a few auspicious words. Ladies—and bovs and gentlemen —we have all listened with interest to the remarks of our friend here who forgot to shave this morning—l don't know his name, but then he didn't know jfljjje—Fitz-Wattle, I mean, absolutely absurd—which squares things up a bit —and we are all sorry that the Beverend What-ever-he-was-called should be dving of adenoids, but after all, here "to-day, gone to-morrow, and all flesh is as grass, and what not, but that wasn't what I wanted to say. "What I wanted to say was this—and I say it confidently—without fear of contradiction —I say, in short, I am happy to be here on this auspicious ■occasion and I take much pleasure in ikindly awarding the prizes, consisting of the handsome books you see laid out on .'the table. As Shakespeare says, there are sermons in books, stones in the running brooks, or, rather, the

other Way about, and there you have it in a nutshell." Unfortunately Gussie was not in the Sheldonian at Oxford to summon his large, bland and genially bald parent to the platform. Undoubtedly Gussie would have struck something of a new note at an Oxford Encaenia. But perhaps Oxford is not in Gussie's line, I mean, it isn't everyone . . . . j mean to say, Oxford. ..... Well, dash it, dons and all that. ... Eminent Adults In place of Gussie, it was the vicechancellor of the university avlio conferred the degrees. In place of the small, freckled scholars of Market Snodsbury in squeaking shoes, the beadles summoned into the Sheldonian a procession of eminent adults who were presented one by one to the vicechancellor with a succession of Latin speeches by the public orator. Among them, as already indicated, was Air. Wodehouse himself, arrayed, like the other candidates for degrees, in an academic gowiv of black with coloured bars on the sleeves. Jeeves, the greatest butler in the whole gallery of English fiction, with his "Precisely, sir," was there too, hovering discreetly somewhere in the background to make certain that his occasionally absent-minded parent was not wearing brown shoes with his unfamiliar black gown. Whether Jeeves' master, Bertie Wooster, was there seems doubtful. He may have got as far as the reception in the hall of Magdalen College, which began the day's proceedings, but he wouldn't have liked the looks of things. He would have felt that for once his parent had let him down. The old feudal spirit would have risen, and when the old feudal spirit of the Woosters rises, the Woosters put that spirit into words. Solemn Distinction "Bad show this, my dear old flesh and blood," he would have told his unusually academic , p;rrent, and presently he would have come to. a full stop amid the peaches and champagne which Oxford provides on these solemn occasions. On the whole, an Oxford doctorate does seein rather a solemn spot of dis-

That's what Jeeves might say to Bertie Wooster, now that Oxford has recognised his creator's achievements.

tinction with which to adorn as unsolemn a person as Mr. Wodehouse. For more than '2O years he has been faithful to Jeeves, Bertie Wooster and the more chinless and spatted aspects of feudalism. J*\nv writers have been more consistent, more diligent, more unpretentious. He may have nodded at times, hot he lias never departed an iota from his own line of goods, never had the slightest temptation to wander of! into the banalities of everyday reality. His life in Le Touquet, France, is lived remote from the huge hotels which cluster round the casino in the forest, and in any event, for nine months of the year lie has the whole place to himself. FTis house, Low Wood, lies well out 011 the edge of the forest where the Channel winds give a permanent slant to the trees. Only a golf course lies between »his lawns and the scrub-covered dunes which'serve him as a windbreak in the winters. Indeed, the times ho likes best are the winter afternoons when he can take one of his dogs for a long walk along the top of the dunes with a bite in the Channel wind and a whistle in the scrub, and coming homo to a roaring log fire in the grate, he can spill the sand out of his shoes and settle down to a book or an evening of work. Home in France At this time of the year his surroundings are a bit less boisterous. You first see Low Wood through a screen of trees, and find it, on a nearer view, to be a low, rambling house, with its walls covered with jasmine vines, and its gardens, in the English fashion, at the back. Only the absence of high, impenetrable hedges makes it seem not entirely English. You follow the path round to the back of the house, but instead of finding Jeeves awaiting yAi there, you find the two AVodehouse dogs. One, of course, is a Pekingese, Mr. Wodehouse being, as he once called somebody else, the perpetual vice-presi-dent of all Peke lovers. The other at present is a German Boxer with a weakness for leaping up and leaving wet paw marks* on otherwise immaculate white flannels. A man so surrounded by dogs and golf could not be unkind even if he wanted to be. All that is wrong with the place from his point of view, is that he has to send away for his books, for what a

man needs at 58, it appears, are two or three friends, an inexhaustible supply of books, and, of course, a Peke. . It should not be supposed that he is a Figaro who laughs to hide a breaking heart, or if he is, it is golf that has blighted his life and broken his liejjrt. He laughs because he enjoys laughing. Life has always been good to him. He was brought up on Rugby football and cricket, and at 58 he is a genial giant with a gleaming dome, a great gilt for companionship and two small grandchildren across the Channel in lvent. He is a fountain of perpetual youth because of the sheer physical health that is in him. Genial and Gentle When something occurs to remind him that he is not getting any younger, he sometimes wonders whether ideas will always flow as plentifully as they have done in the past, whether the time will come when Jeeves and Bertie "will begin to "date." But such movements are Tare. Much more often, sitting in his garden at Low Wood, his talk ranges lightly from pipe tobaccos to the technique of get-

ting oil at Hollywood. By a strango coincidence, it turned a few days ago to the state of humour in this year of grace. "Humour to-day," ho said, "seems to me to be too busy attacking something. Too many humorists have got red around the eyes. I started before the war, when the world was, if not tiie best of all possible worlds, at least a very good world, and everything in humour was genial and gentle. I have always stuck to that. Nothing ever goes very seriously wrong with the people in my stories, nothing more serious than the wrong kind of tie or odd spats. "But now humour has turned savage and we won't get over it, 1 suppose, until the world gets more settled. 1 can understand it, but I never could do it myself. These present-day humorists are all very certain of their own opinions. They are all so dead right. My. feeling has always been that people are not interested in my opinions, and that feeling is reinforced by the fact that I don't feel certain enough of my opinions myself to have any desire to air them."