A Biblical Romp by P.G. Wodehouse sort of
Now, I don’t know if you’ve ever had a cousin who took a perfectly good inheritance and blew it on fast camels and questionable wine, but if you have, you’ll sympathize with the situation in which young Reggie ben Wooster found himself.
It all started when young Lionel—dashing fellow, weak chin, and a penchant for reckless spending—decided he was rather too distinguished to loiter about in his father’s exceedingly dull household, where the servants outnumbered the amusements. Having read far too many scrolls on “finding oneself,” he waltzed up to his father and demanded his share of the family silver.
“Father, I want my inheritance now,” he said, with the sort of bravado one expects from a man who has never balanced a ledger in his life.
His father, being an indulgent old bally, handed him a purse full of shekels and sent him on his way, presumably with a vague hope that he might at least invest in something respectable—olive groves, perhaps, or a particularly good goat farm.
Instead, Lionel took the first chariot to the city, where he promptly acquainted himself with an establishment known as The Gilded Calf, a dubious drinking den frequented by revelers, wastrels, and at least three people who claimed to be the lost king of somewhere or other.
For a brief, golden spell, Lionel was the toast of the town. Banquets were held in his honor. Musicians composed rather embarrassing odes to his generosity. He even adopted a pet leopard, which turned out to be a terrible idea when it developed a taste for his best sandals.
Unfortunately, as so often happens when one’s primary skill set is spending rather than earning, the purse eventually lightened to the point of flimsiness. Soon, the creditors came knocking, and Lionel found himself in the awkward position of being stone broke, slightly hungover, and entirely out of favor with the city’s less forgiving moneylenders.
This, in itself, might not have been so bad, had it not coincided with a rather inconvenient famine. Suddenly, all his fine friends found urgent reasons to be elsewhere, and Lionel was left alone with nothing but a pile of unpaid bills and a particularly judgmental leopard.
With no alternative, he sought employment. The only job available? Pig herder.
Now, Lionel had never herded so much as a mildly confused sheep before, so the experience of tending an entire drove of unwashed swine was rather a blow to his dignity. Worse still, his employer, a man with the generosity of a particularly miserly Pharaoh, paid him in vague promises and the occasional moldy fig.
It was as he sat among the pigs, contemplating the tragic turn his fortunes had taken, that Lionel had what is known in theological circles as a blinding epiphany and in aristocratic circles as realizing one has made an absolute hash of things.
“My father’s servants eat better than I do!” he cried. “And none of them have to wrestle a pig for the last husk of grain!”
Thus, with nothing left to lose but his pride—which had, in any case, been severely battered by several pigs—Lionel resolved to return home, fling himself at his father’s mercy, and hope that the old man would at least let him sleep in the stable.
What he did not expect was for his father, upon seeing his bedraggled form cresting the hill, to come dashing toward him in a manner not unlike an enthusiastic greyhound.
“My boy!” cried his father, wrapping him in an embrace that smelled faintly of myrrh and sentimentality. “You have returned!”
“Well, yes,” Lionel admitted, brushing pig-related debris from his tunic. “I rather thought I might take up a position among your hired help.”
“Nonsense!” his father boomed. “You shall have a feast, the finest robes, and—” He clapped his hands. “Someone fetch the fatted calf!”
At this point, Lionel’s elder brother—let’s call him Eustace—entered the scene, looking like a man who had just discovered that his prize-winning vineyard had been trampled by an overly enthusiastic caravan.
“Father,” said Eustace, through clenched teeth, “I have labored diligently, tended the flocks, balanced the family accounts, and not once have you thrown a feast in my honor.”
His father beamed. “Ah, but my dear boy, you have always been here! Your brother was lost and now is found!”
Eustace made a strangled noise that suggested he was seriously considering relocating to a different household altogether. Lionel, sensing the potential for fraternal disaster, sidled up to him.
“Look, old chap,” he said. “I completely understand your point. But might I suggest that we enjoy the feast first and debate the finer theological implications later?”
Eustace muttered something about deep injustice and the inefficiency of divine mercy, but at length allowed himself to be led inside, where the fatted calf—who, moments before, had been considering a long and satisfying retirement—was now being served with a delightful fig sauce.
And thus, as the musicians played and the wine flowed, Lionel reflected that while being a pig herder had been thoroughly dreadful, it had at least made a cracking good story.
And that, dear reader, is the moral of the tale: if one must make a complete mess of things, one should at least make it entertaining.
The Backstory of P.G. Wodehouse: The Master of Wit and Absurdity
Pelham Grenville Wodehouse—known to the world as P.G. Wodehouse—was born on October 15, 1881, in Guildford, England. From an early age, he showed a talent for humor, though he often lamented that his parents saddled him with a name more suited to a solicitor than a future literary genius.
A Rather Unconventional Childhood
Wodehouse’s upbringing was, in classic British fashion, one of benign neglect. His father, a colonial judge in Hong Kong, sent young Pelham back to England to be raised by a series of aunts—an experience that would leave him with a lifelong suspicion of formidable women in lace caps. His boarding school years at Dulwich College were far more enjoyable, and it was there that he discovered a knack for writing lighthearted tales that made his classmates chuckle rather than groan.
Banking and the Great Escape
As a young man, Wodehouse took a job at the Hong Kong and Shanghai Bank (now HSBC), which he quickly realized was a ghastly mistake. The banking world was no place for a man whose talents lay in describing the misadventures of bumbling aristocrats and their hyper-competent valets. So, in a move that surely baffled his employers, he abandoned financial security in favor of freelance writing—an act of heroic irresponsibility that would eventually pay off handsomely.
From Scribbler to Literary Giant
Wodehouse started off writing light fiction for schoolboy magazines before venturing into the world of musical theatre. He became a successful lyricist in New York, collaborating with the likes of Jerome Kern and George Gershwin, and even penning lyrics for Broadway hits such as Show Boat.
However, it was in his novels that Wodehouse found his true calling. Between the 1910s and the 1970s, he produced over 90 books, countless short stories, and articles—all dripping with his signature wit, absurd plots, and hilariously clueless upper-class protagonists. His most famous creations include:
- Bertie Wooster and Jeeves – The ultimate bumbling aristocrat and his unflappable, all-knowing valet.
- Lord Emsworth and Blandings Castle – A dreamland of eccentric lords, mischievous pigs, and thwarted engagements.
- Psmith – A monocle-wearing, endlessly confident young man who could talk his way out of anything.
A War-Time Blunder
Wodehouse’s otherwise charmed life took an unfortunate turn during World War II. While living in France, he was captured by the Germans and interned in a prison camp. Ever the humorist, he made the best of it by giving lighthearted radio broadcasts from Berlin, meant to reassure his fans that he was unharmed. Unfortunately, British authorities saw this as collaboration, and for years, Wodehouse lived under a cloud of suspicion—despite the fact that he was as politically threatening as a particularly amiable Labrador.
A Happy Ending in America
Disenchanted with Britain after the scandal, Wodehouse settled in the United States, where he became a U.S. citizen in 1955. He continued writing until the very end, typing away with the enthusiasm of a man who had never quite grown up. In 1975, just a few months before his death, he was knighted by Queen Elizabeth II, proving that Britain had finally forgiven him for the war-time misunderstanding.
He passed away on February 14, 1975, at the age of 93—his typewriter still warm, his wit undiminished, and the world forever indebted to him for making it a funnier place.
The Legacy of P.G. Wodehouse
Wodehouse’s works remain timeless, his humor undiminished by age. His sentences are musical, absurd, and perfectly constructed, like a symphony of silliness. His influence can be seen in Evelyn Waugh, Douglas Adams, and even Monty Python.
Most importantly, he gave us a world in which problems are never too serious, engagements can always be broken off, and Jeeves is always standing by with a miracle cure for life’s complications.
And really, what more could one ask for?
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