I rave about Psmith....
I have just found a fic which is Luna Lovegood/Mike Jackson (from Psmith books). Which is the most bizarre cross-over I can imagine but the story is short and sweet. How weird is that.
I am in the minority because it's not Blandings or Jeeves books that are my fave, it's Psmith ones (Mike, Mike and Psmith, Psmith in the City, Psmith Journalist, and Leave it Psmith).
Maybe because it's the best (IMO) blend of early Wodehouse, with gay (old sense of the term) young girls and smart young men, so there is genuine feeling there, and later Wodehouse, with its polished style and verbal play.
It's probably because I really like Mike (one of the rare normal Wodehouse characters. He is not brilliant and eccentric, nor an amiable nitwit) and because I adore Psmith, my favorite Wodehouse character hands down. Plus Eve Halliday, Psmith's eventual OTP, is probably my favorite Wodehouse female.
Jeeves & Wooster and Blandings books are superbly polished but the characters are either morons or clever Godlike dei ex machina. Which is fine, but I like caring for my characters and early Wodehouse people are a lot more 'human.'
Psmith is fully as clever and witty as any Wodehouse character but he also has a heart, which is an early Wodehouse thing. It's not just all amusing glib talk.
In fact, the only time I've ever felt any connection with 'real' world in Wodehouse was in Psmith in the City and Psmith Journalist. The only time I've seen any social indignation in Wodehouse is in PitC, when Mike and Psmith wander into the slums. Psmith is apalled at the conditions and that is how the whole book really gets going, isn't it? Him trying to bring down the slumlord through his rewamped paper. This being Wodehouse, it's all very funny and light of course, but still a huge rarity. I suppose that means Psmith is the only character in Wodehouse to possess a social conscience. Well, somewhat, and not to be mocked for it, I suppose. Later Wodehouse, after all, takes place in the delightful alternate universe entirely.
Psmith in the City is the only Wodehouse book that made me sad. It is in the beginning, where our POV character is Mike, Psmith's best friend, and always a more reality-bound character. Mike has found out he cannot go to college after all, and has to work because his family is in financial trouble. The scenes of Mike moving into his dingy joyless flat, and realizing his schooldays are all gone, and he has to work at a bank for the rest of his life, are the only time I felt sad in Wodehouse. I wonder how much of it was his own experience of having to give up going to college and having to write ledgers in a bank, seeping through. But then of course Psmith shows up and the world goes topsy-turvy in the right way again.
I think that is why I like Psmith so. He is funny, and sharp-tongued and fantastical. But he is an amazing friend and he does care, underneath the demeanor. In the very first book, Mike and Psmith, he does get Mike to reconcile with his new school and is totally willing to be expelled to protect him, but would never admit it. In Psmith in the City, he gets himself into the same bank with Mike, even though he certainly has no need to work, and makes him move in with him into his nice flat, and takes him out to theater and what not, something Mike could never afford on his own. And he ends up talking his father into paying for Mike's college education (!!!). And of course in Psmith Journalist, Mike needs no help, but he helps out the slum people instead. The last Psmith book (and the first I read, ironically), 'Leave it to Psmith' is once again the same. All the capers are utterly hilarious, but after all, he is doing all this craziness in order to get Mike some $$$ so Mike and Phyllis can buy the farm they want.
It's funny, because Eve and Psmith are both OK with being joyfully impecunious (Eve has always been so, and Psmith's father lost all his $$$ before he died) and adventurous, but Mike and Phyllis (who is Eve's friend) are both not at all and so they sort of take care of them...
I have seen a bunch of Mike/Psmith slash around and I suppose I can see that, but I adore Eve much too much to be into it myself.
Oh, and apparently, according to Wodehouse himself, after the last book: "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 can so see that.
This was really rambly and pointless...
Sample dialogue from Psmith in the City. If you don't want to read the books after this, I despair of you :)
Psmith, resting his elbows on the top of the barrier and holding his head between his hands, eyed the absorbed toiler for a moment in silence, then emitted a hollow groan.
Mr Gregory, who was ruling a line in a ledger--most of the work in the Fixed Deposits Department consisted of ruling lines in ledgers, sometimes in black ink, sometimes in red--started as if he had been stung, and made a complete mess of the ruled line. He lifted a fiery, bearded face, and met Psmith's eye, which shone with kindly sympathy.
He found words.
'What the dickens are you standing there for, mooing like a blanked cow?' he inquired.
'I was groaning,' explained Psmith with quiet dignity. 'And why was I groaning?' he continued. 'Because a shadow has fallen on the Fixed Deposits Department. Comrade Jackson, the Pride of the Office, has gone.'
Mr Gregory rose from his seat.
'I don't know who the dickens you are--' he began.
'I am Psmith,' said the old Etonian,
'Oh, you're Smith, are you?'
'With a preliminary P. Which, however, is not sounded.'
'And what's all this dashed nonsense about Jackson?'
'He is gone. Gone like the dew from the petal of a rose.'
'Gone! Where's he gone to?'
'Lord's.'
'What lord's?'
Psmith waved his hand gently.
'You misunderstand me. Comrade Jackson has not gone to mix with any member of our gay and thoughtless aristocracy. He has gone to Lord's cricket ground.'
Mr Gregory's beard bristled even more than was its wont.
'What!' he roared. 'Gone to watch a cricket match! Gone--!'
'Not to watch. To play. An urgent summons I need not say. Nothing but an urgent summons could have wrenched him from your very delightful society, I am sure.'
Mr Gregory glared.
'I don't want any of your impudence,' he said.
Psmith nodded gravely.
'We all have these curious likes and dislikes,' he said tolerantly. 'You do not like my impudence. Well, well, some people don't. And now, having broken the sad news, I will return to my own department.'
'Half a minute. You come with me and tell this yarn of yours to Mr Bickersdyke.'
'You think it would interest, amuse him? Perhaps you are right. Let us buttonhole Comrade Bickersdyke.'
Mr Bickersdyke was disengaged. The head of the Fixed Deposits Department stumped into the room. Psmith followed at a more leisurely pace.
'Allow me,' he said with a winning smile, as Mr Gregory opened his mouth to speak, 'to take this opportunity of congratulating you on your success at the election. A narrow but well-deserved victory.'
There was nothing cordial in the manager's manner.
'What do you want?' he said.
'Myself, nothing,' said Psmith. 'But I understand that Mr Gregory has some communication to make.'
'Tell Mr Bickersdyke that story of yours,' said Mr Gregory.
'Surely,' said Psmith reprovingly, 'this is no time for anecdotes. Mr Bickersdyke is busy. He--'
'Tell him what you told me about Jackson.'
Mr Bickersdyke looked up inquiringly.
'Jackson,' said Psmith, 'has been obliged to absent himself from work today owing to an urgent summons from his brother, who, I understand, has suffered a bereavement.'
'It's a lie,' roared Mr Gregory. 'You told me yourself he'd gone to play in a cricket match.'
'True. As I said, he received an urgent summons from his brother.'
'What about the bereavement, then?'
'The team was one short. His brother was very distressed about it. What could Comrade Jackson do? Could he refuse to help his brother when it was in his power? His generous nature is a byword. He did the only possible thing. He consented to play.'
Mr Bickersdyke spoke.
'Am I to understand,' he asked, with sinister calm, 'that Mr Jackson has left his work and gone off to play in a cricket match?'
'Something of that sort has, I believe, happened,' said Psmith. 'He knew, of course,' he added, bowing gracefully in Mr Gregory's direction, 'that he was leaving his work in thoroughly competent hands.'
'Thank you,' said Mr Bickersdyke. 'That will do. You will help Mr Gregory in his department for the time being, Mr Smith. I will arrange for somebody to take your place in your own department.'
'It will be a pleasure,' murmured Psmith.
'Show Mr Smith what he has to do, Mr Gregory,' said the manager.
They left the room.
'How curious, Comrade Gregory,' mused Psmith, as they went, 'are the workings of Fate! A moment back, and your life was a blank. Comrade Jackson, that prince of Fixed Depositors, had gone. How, you said to yourself despairingly, can his place be filled? Then the cloud broke, and the sun shone out again. _I_ came to help you. What you lose on the swings, you make up on the roundabouts. Now show me what I have to do, and then let us make this department sizzle. You have drawn a good ticket, Comrade Gregory.'
I am in the minority because it's not Blandings or Jeeves books that are my fave, it's Psmith ones (Mike, Mike and Psmith, Psmith in the City, Psmith Journalist, and Leave it Psmith).
Maybe because it's the best (IMO) blend of early Wodehouse, with gay (old sense of the term) young girls and smart young men, so there is genuine feeling there, and later Wodehouse, with its polished style and verbal play.
It's probably because I really like Mike (one of the rare normal Wodehouse characters. He is not brilliant and eccentric, nor an amiable nitwit) and because I adore Psmith, my favorite Wodehouse character hands down. Plus Eve Halliday, Psmith's eventual OTP, is probably my favorite Wodehouse female.
Jeeves & Wooster and Blandings books are superbly polished but the characters are either morons or clever Godlike dei ex machina. Which is fine, but I like caring for my characters and early Wodehouse people are a lot more 'human.'
Psmith is fully as clever and witty as any Wodehouse character but he also has a heart, which is an early Wodehouse thing. It's not just all amusing glib talk.
In fact, the only time I've ever felt any connection with 'real' world in Wodehouse was in Psmith in the City and Psmith Journalist. The only time I've seen any social indignation in Wodehouse is in PitC, when Mike and Psmith wander into the slums. Psmith is apalled at the conditions and that is how the whole book really gets going, isn't it? Him trying to bring down the slumlord through his rewamped paper. This being Wodehouse, it's all very funny and light of course, but still a huge rarity. I suppose that means Psmith is the only character in Wodehouse to possess a social conscience. Well, somewhat, and not to be mocked for it, I suppose. Later Wodehouse, after all, takes place in the delightful alternate universe entirely.
Psmith in the City is the only Wodehouse book that made me sad. It is in the beginning, where our POV character is Mike, Psmith's best friend, and always a more reality-bound character. Mike has found out he cannot go to college after all, and has to work because his family is in financial trouble. The scenes of Mike moving into his dingy joyless flat, and realizing his schooldays are all gone, and he has to work at a bank for the rest of his life, are the only time I felt sad in Wodehouse. I wonder how much of it was his own experience of having to give up going to college and having to write ledgers in a bank, seeping through. But then of course Psmith shows up and the world goes topsy-turvy in the right way again.
I think that is why I like Psmith so. He is funny, and sharp-tongued and fantastical. But he is an amazing friend and he does care, underneath the demeanor. In the very first book, Mike and Psmith, he does get Mike to reconcile with his new school and is totally willing to be expelled to protect him, but would never admit it. In Psmith in the City, he gets himself into the same bank with Mike, even though he certainly has no need to work, and makes him move in with him into his nice flat, and takes him out to theater and what not, something Mike could never afford on his own. And he ends up talking his father into paying for Mike's college education (!!!). And of course in Psmith Journalist, Mike needs no help, but he helps out the slum people instead. The last Psmith book (and the first I read, ironically), 'Leave it to Psmith' is once again the same. All the capers are utterly hilarious, but after all, he is doing all this craziness in order to get Mike some $$$ so Mike and Phyllis can buy the farm they want.
It's funny, because Eve and Psmith are both OK with being joyfully impecunious (Eve has always been so, and Psmith's father lost all his $$$ before he died) and adventurous, but Mike and Phyllis (who is Eve's friend) are both not at all and so they sort of take care of them...
I have seen a bunch of Mike/Psmith slash around and I suppose I can see that, but I adore Eve much too much to be into it myself.
Oh, and apparently, according to Wodehouse himself, after the last book: "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 can so see that.
This was really rambly and pointless...
Sample dialogue from Psmith in the City. If you don't want to read the books after this, I despair of you :)
Psmith, resting his elbows on the top of the barrier and holding his head between his hands, eyed the absorbed toiler for a moment in silence, then emitted a hollow groan.
Mr Gregory, who was ruling a line in a ledger--most of the work in the Fixed Deposits Department consisted of ruling lines in ledgers, sometimes in black ink, sometimes in red--started as if he had been stung, and made a complete mess of the ruled line. He lifted a fiery, bearded face, and met Psmith's eye, which shone with kindly sympathy.
He found words.
'What the dickens are you standing there for, mooing like a blanked cow?' he inquired.
'I was groaning,' explained Psmith with quiet dignity. 'And why was I groaning?' he continued. 'Because a shadow has fallen on the Fixed Deposits Department. Comrade Jackson, the Pride of the Office, has gone.'
Mr Gregory rose from his seat.
'I don't know who the dickens you are--' he began.
'I am Psmith,' said the old Etonian,
'Oh, you're Smith, are you?'
'With a preliminary P. Which, however, is not sounded.'
'And what's all this dashed nonsense about Jackson?'
'He is gone. Gone like the dew from the petal of a rose.'
'Gone! Where's he gone to?'
'Lord's.'
'What lord's?'
Psmith waved his hand gently.
'You misunderstand me. Comrade Jackson has not gone to mix with any member of our gay and thoughtless aristocracy. He has gone to Lord's cricket ground.'
Mr Gregory's beard bristled even more than was its wont.
'What!' he roared. 'Gone to watch a cricket match! Gone--!'
'Not to watch. To play. An urgent summons I need not say. Nothing but an urgent summons could have wrenched him from your very delightful society, I am sure.'
Mr Gregory glared.
'I don't want any of your impudence,' he said.
Psmith nodded gravely.
'We all have these curious likes and dislikes,' he said tolerantly. 'You do not like my impudence. Well, well, some people don't. And now, having broken the sad news, I will return to my own department.'
'Half a minute. You come with me and tell this yarn of yours to Mr Bickersdyke.'
'You think it would interest, amuse him? Perhaps you are right. Let us buttonhole Comrade Bickersdyke.'
Mr Bickersdyke was disengaged. The head of the Fixed Deposits Department stumped into the room. Psmith followed at a more leisurely pace.
'Allow me,' he said with a winning smile, as Mr Gregory opened his mouth to speak, 'to take this opportunity of congratulating you on your success at the election. A narrow but well-deserved victory.'
There was nothing cordial in the manager's manner.
'What do you want?' he said.
'Myself, nothing,' said Psmith. 'But I understand that Mr Gregory has some communication to make.'
'Tell Mr Bickersdyke that story of yours,' said Mr Gregory.
'Surely,' said Psmith reprovingly, 'this is no time for anecdotes. Mr Bickersdyke is busy. He--'
'Tell him what you told me about Jackson.'
Mr Bickersdyke looked up inquiringly.
'Jackson,' said Psmith, 'has been obliged to absent himself from work today owing to an urgent summons from his brother, who, I understand, has suffered a bereavement.'
'It's a lie,' roared Mr Gregory. 'You told me yourself he'd gone to play in a cricket match.'
'True. As I said, he received an urgent summons from his brother.'
'What about the bereavement, then?'
'The team was one short. His brother was very distressed about it. What could Comrade Jackson do? Could he refuse to help his brother when it was in his power? His generous nature is a byword. He did the only possible thing. He consented to play.'
Mr Bickersdyke spoke.
'Am I to understand,' he asked, with sinister calm, 'that Mr Jackson has left his work and gone off to play in a cricket match?'
'Something of that sort has, I believe, happened,' said Psmith. 'He knew, of course,' he added, bowing gracefully in Mr Gregory's direction, 'that he was leaving his work in thoroughly competent hands.'
'Thank you,' said Mr Bickersdyke. 'That will do. You will help Mr Gregory in his department for the time being, Mr Smith. I will arrange for somebody to take your place in your own department.'
'It will be a pleasure,' murmured Psmith.
'Show Mr Smith what he has to do, Mr Gregory,' said the manager.
They left the room.
'How curious, Comrade Gregory,' mused Psmith, as they went, 'are the workings of Fate! A moment back, and your life was a blank. Comrade Jackson, that prince of Fixed Depositors, had gone. How, you said to yourself despairingly, can his place be filled? Then the cloud broke, and the sun shone out again. _I_ came to help you. What you lose on the swings, you make up on the roundabouts. Now show me what I have to do, and then let us make this department sizzle. You have drawn a good ticket, Comrade Gregory.'