You can’t talk for a minute about the works of P.G. Wodehouse without the phrase “quintessentially English” being deployed: Wodehouse’s short stories and novels are founded on bumbling aristocrats with names like Gussie Fink-Nottle and Bicky Bickersteth, high society gatherings in small villages and labyrinthine manor houses, uptight members of the clergy, and the crucial evasion of romantic attachments that would imperil the Edwardian bachelor lifestyle.

Wodehouse’s most famous characters are undoubtedly Jeeves and Wooster — a twentieth century, self-absorbed Holmes and Watson, if they were divided by class and Watson’s bloodline had gone through a few more generations of in-breeding — and they have had particular cultural resonance in terms of defining English-ness. The name ‘Jeeves’ has become synonymous with ‘English butler’ (though Jeeves is a valet), even to those who have never heard of the books. The makers of Ask Jeeves, the search engine founded in 1996, evidently thought the name had enough fame to make sense to a global audience, and no one seemed to mind that they’d been cast in the role of a hapless Bertie Wooster. Granada TV’s Jeeves and Wooster series doubtless didn’t obstruct Stephen Fry and Hugh Laurie on their journeys to ‘national treasure’ status either.

The English, in particular, but the Americans, too, are in love with this era. But what era is it exactly? Though he first appeared in a short story in about 1916, Wodehouse wrote all but one of the Jeeves novels physically distanced from England and Englishness: in 1934, the same year that fifty-two-year-old Pelham Grenville Wodehouse (now you know why he only used his initials) wrote his first full-length Jeeves novel, he and his wife, Ethel, moved to France. He visited England in June 1939 to collect his honorary doctorate of letters from Oxford University, but though he lived till he was ninety-three, he never returned to the UK again. He couldn’t. He was regarded as worse than a pariah: the country’s finest purveyor of whimsical, eccentric Englishness was a national traitor.

Wodehouse (right) at Oxford, after receiving his honorary doctorate in June 1939

Wodehouse in Wartime

It started well enough. After all, what could be more English than being a rich ex-pat? Life in Le Touquet, a small seaside town on the Channel, was happy and prolific for Wodehouse. But he and his wife were severely lacking in any Jeevesian foresight, or even the slightest common sense. On the eve of the Second World War, they were unconcerned. When it began, Wodehouse was merrily working away on a novel and didn’t want any disruption. Even as the German forces advanced into France, they continued to stay, despite being warned when the nearby Royal Air Base withdrew.

Finally, on 21st May 1940 (eleven days after Churchill replaced Chamberlain as Prime Minister), the Wodehouses decided it might be wise to leave. Their plan was to drive one thousand miles to Portugal, then fly to the US. Two miles into this mammoth journey, their car broke down. They went home and borrowed a car from a neighbour, but the roads were so full of refugees that progress was impossible. They returned home once more.

The very next day, the Germans occupied Le Touquet. Wodehouse had to report to them daily, then, after two months he was interned. Had he been a year and a bit older, he would have retained his (relative) freedom. Instead, like all other male enemy nationals under sixty, he was sent to prison. Ethel went to stay with friends.

A scene from Granada TV’s Jeeves and Wooster, starring Stephen Fry and Hugh Laurie

Internment for Wodehouse began in Lille, but before long he was moved to an SS-run prison in a former barracks in Liège, Belgium. In September 1940, the prisoners were moved again, this time to Tost in Upper Silesia (now Toszek in Poland).

It wasn’t until December 1940 that Wodehouse’s family and friends discovered his whereabouts, after a reporter from the Associated Press visited Tost and published an article in the New York Times. The lobbying to release him began and the pressure from influential Americans worked to an extent: Wodehouse wasn’t released, but he was provided with a typewriter. That he was content enough to write a novel, Money in the Bank, during his confinement, might give some insight into Wodehouse’s lack of engagement with the real or ideological battles that surrounded him.

Wodehouse wasn’t without understanding and empathy, though: he sent numerous postcards to his US agent (somehow managing to repeatedly avoid the censors and therefore harsh punishment), giving the names of various Canadians to whom five dollars should be sent. For many of these people, it was the first indication that their sons, brothers and husbands were alive.

A noticeably thinner Wodehouse (right), being interviewed by AP reporter Angus Thuermer at Tost, Upper Silesia, on 24th December, 1940

It took until midway through the next year for the focus of senior Nazis to swivel around to the eccentric author. Wodehouse was due to be released in October 1941 on his 60th birthday, but four months early, on 21st June, two Gestapo agents interrupted his game of cricket and gave him ten minutes to pack his bags.

Release for Wodehouse took the form of a night train to Berlin before being settled in the Adlon hotel, right opposite the Brandenburg Gate. He paid for the stay himself, out of his German royalties.

The reason for his early release is now obvious: though it had been reasonably well-received in the United States, the December 1940 article had not been a good look for Wodehouse: the headline had read, ‘Wodehouse Works at New Book in Padded Cell at German Camp - Held at Former Asylum, Writer Is in Good Spirits - Diet Develops “Admiration” for the Potato - He Declines Favors’. Coming round to the delights of the German potato whilst incarcerated might have tickled readers of a Wodehouse novel, but in a camp where winter conditions had been so difficult that some had died by suicide, and to an audience with a growing awareness of wartime hardships, it hit the wrong note. The use of ‘favors’ also suggested that Wodehouse was unfairly receiving perks.

It’s easy to imagine Bertie Wooster in the same position: a Victorian-raised high-society bachelor who has been trained not to complain grossly understates the harshness of his experiences to comical effect (c.f. the 1963 novel, Stiff Upper Lip, Jeeves). In the context of war, however, this tone was a huge error, and Wodehouse was about to compound it, purely because he had no concept of the place of propaganda.

The Germans were officially alerted to Wodehouse being a political naïf and therefore of potential use for lowering British morale. An early ‘release’ would earn Wodehouse’s gratitude, and therefore some favours.

The cover of the 1st edition of Stiff Upper Lip, Jeeves

The Notorious Broadcasts

The morning after arriving in Berlin, Wodehouse was isolated and credulous enough to believe that bumping into two acquaintances he’d made in New York and Hollywood was a happy accident. In a letter written much later, demonstrating his obliviousness to wartime politics, Wodehouse said, ‘I ran into a man named [Raven von] Barnikow, one of my oldest friends . . . I had never looked on him as a German at all, as he was so entirely American.’

The other man had been sent by the German Foreign Office to manipulate him, and apparently it was extremely easy to do so. Wodehouse had talked of how frustrated he was that he had received so many letters from Americans, but had no way to reply. In his own words, ‘[Werner] Plack asked me if I would like to broadcast to America. I said “Yes”, and he said he could have me brought to his office next day to arrange details.’

That night, Wodehouse began writing his five broadcasts, all of which were to be humorous accounts of his experiences in incarceration. A few days later, he accepted payment of 250 marks and recorded his work onto wax discs.

Never had Wodehouse been in greater need of a Jeeves. There was no one available with any political nouse to guide him. His American agent sent a cable that merely read, ‘HOPE BROADCASTS WILL BE OF SUCH NATURE AS TO PROMOTE VALUE OF NOVEL,’ perhaps reflecting the mood of a country that had yet to enter the war, and hopelessly unaware that that was the reason why Germany was going to target the USA with its Wodehousean propaganda.

Wodehouse was so unaware of the implications of taking payment for chirpy radio broadcasts from Germany that he sent a telegram to his American friends, urging them to listen.

The five broadcasts were aired under the title How to be an Internee Without Previous Training and went out on 28 June, 9, 23 and 30 July and 6 August. They were full of whimsical descriptions of camp conditions and a slightly mocking tone towards his captors. He’d given much the same speeches to his inmates, previously:

‘A short time ago they had a look at me on parade and got the right idea; at least they sent us to the local lunatic asylum. And I have been there forty-two weeks. There is a good deal to be said for internment. It keeps you out of the saloon and helps you to keep up with your reading. The chief trouble is that it means you are away from home for a long time. When I join my wife I had better take along a letter of introduction to be on the safe side.’

The Germans had wanted the programmes to appeal to the average listener in the US and it was also paramount that Wodehouse did not come across as pro-German so that they could be seen as kind and fair in their treatment of the writer. However, his comments were a little too ambivalent. Where was the patriotism you’d expect of a bumbling English eccentric?

‘In the days before the war I had always been modestly proud of being an Englishman, but now that I have been some months resident in this bin or repository of Englishmen I am not so sure. ... The only concession I want from Germany is that she gives me a loaf of bread, tells the gentlemen with muskets at the main gate to look the other way, and leaves the rest to me. In return I am prepared to hand over India, an autographed set of my books, and to reveal the secret process of cooking sliced potatoes on a radiator. This offer holds good till Wednesday week.’

The broadcasts hadn’t been supervised much, and the Germans decided to send Wodehouse away from Berlin and the press in case he said something the Americans couldn’t tolerate. However, they did realise what impact the recordings might have in Britain and set about broadcasting them regularly, giving the impression that Wodehouse was working with them and that more transmissions would be coming soon.

A news article was released at the same time, exacerbating the situation. Wodehouse stated, ‘I never was interested in politics. I'm quite unable to work up any kind of belligerent feeling. Just as I'm about to feel belligerent about some country I meet a decent sort of chap. We go out together and lose any fighting thoughts or feelings.’

Britain lost its nut.

Wodehouse the Traitor

Given Wodehouse’s naivety and his enthusiasm, the response must have been a shock for him: his books were removed from library shelves; a condemnatory speech attacking him followed a BBC radio broadcast, accusing him of utter treachery (‘I have come to tell you tonight of the story of a rich man trying to make his last and greatest sale—that of his own country,’ it began); newspaper letters pages overflowed with insults and defences; and Antony Eden, the foreign secretary, expressed ‘regret’ in the Commons ‘that Mr. Wodehouse has lent his services to the German propaganda machine.’ Wodehouse was utterly dismayed, and anxious about his future.

Some of the worst criticism came from Wodehouse’s one time cricketing pal, the author A.A. Milne, who wrote letters to the Daily Telegraph:

‘Irresponsibility in what the papers call “a licensed humorist” can be carried too far; naïveté can be carried too far. Wodehouse has been given a good deal of licence in the past, but I fancy that now his licence will be withdrawn.’

His letters took a personal, scathing tone, too:

‘[Wodehouse] has encouraged in himself a natural lack of interest in “politics”—“politics” being all the things grown-ups talk about at dinner when one is hiding under the table. Things, for instance, like the last war, which found and kept him in America; and postwar taxes, which chased him back and forth across the Atlantic.’

Wodehouse at 23, a political innocent then and always, apparently

Wodehouse the Innocent

Milne had a bit of a point. Wodehouse had spent most of the First World War in New York — he was ineligible for any kind of military activity due to his poor eyesight — and while there, he fell in love with the US and particularly with Broadway, writing plays and lyrics for stage musicals. He thus found himself completely removed from wartime concerns, while, back in Europe, the man on whom he had based his fictional valet was stuck in the trenches. Percy Jeeves was a popular cricketer for Warwickshire, and Wodehouse had watched him play in 1913. In July 1916, he was killed at the Battle of the Somme, aged 28.

But Wodehouse really did seem to be that innocent. Instead of being very worried about the very real war around him, Wodehouse’s concern — in a passage that even bothered the Germans — was ‘whether the kind of England I write about will live after the war — whether England wins or not, I mean.’

Of this passage, George Orwell, bizarrely one of Wodehouse’s biggest defenders, wrote that Wodehouse wondered this, ’not realising that they were ghosts already.’ The England that featured in Wodehouse’s stories weren’t even of the 1920s: ‘the period was really the Edwardian age, and Bertie Wooster, if he ever existed, was killed round about 1915.’ Perhaps, like Percy Jeeves, he perished on the Western Front in a war that changed England forever — a change that America-obsessed Wodehouse seemed not to notice.

Professional cricketer, Percy Jeeves, whose name Wodehouse thought was perfect for his fictional valet

While detractors branded Wodehouse a Nazi sympathiser and claimed to spot fascist tendencies in his books, Orwell was matter of fact: ‘There are no post-1918 tendencies at all.’ This fact, and defences from Dorothy L. Sayers and others, didn’t stop the backlash, which went on and on. Crazily, Wodehouse had an idea of ‘reaffirming his loyalty’ by returning to England, but it was probably for the best that the Germans didn’t let him leave. His novels were banned entirely in Northern Ireland, and some were pulped. There were murmurings about treason.

Fry and Laurie in a still from the Jeeves and Wooster TV series

It wasn’t until September 1943, when Berlin was being raided on a nightly basis, that Wodehouse was allowed to go to occupied Paris, where he was still kept under supervision. He and Ethel were still there for the liberation of Paris in August 1944. The MI6 officer there decided Wodehouse was merely ‘ill-fitted to live in an age of ideological conflict’, but he was formally investigated by an MI5 officer over a number of days in September. In his report, the officer stated that Wodehouse had been ‘unwise’, but saw no need for further action.

Angry MPs in the UK declared their frustration vociferously in the Commons, even as late as December 1944. At that point, Wodehouse had been arrested and detained by the French police, but without any charge. One MP wondered why Wodehouse hadn’t been brought back to Britain for internment or trial. Eden replied to this, and to other questions, that ‘there is no question of trial, and no question of charge.’ This was unsatisfactory: various MPs accused Wodehouse of ‘Quisling activities’ and ‘trading with the enemy’, though they were told again and again that there were no grounds for any charges.

Wodehouse in Exile

Wodehouse and Ethel arriving in New York in 1947. He never left America.

In June 1946, Wodehouse was finally told he would face no charges and could leave France. In April the following year, he and Ethel set sail for New York. Though their reception was friendly, Wodehouse was uncomfortable, and it wasn’t until 1951 that he completed another novel. Once they settled in Long Island, though, he found his groove again: from 1952 on, he wrote more than twenty novels (six of which were Jeeves and Wooster stories), two short story collections, a collection of letters, and a volume of memoirs.

Though Wodehouse remained a British subject, he became an American citizen in 1955. He hadn’t left the country since he’d arrived in 1947. Attempts to award him a knighthood were blocked repeatedly during the late sixties, but in 1975, Harold Wilson succeeded in securing it. Wodehouse’s knighthood was announced in January 1975, signalling ‘official forgiveness for his wartime indiscretion.’ Wodehouse was 93. He died the next month, on Valentine’s Day.

Wodehouse’s disgrace has all sorts of modern ties: cancel culture, media-stoked pile-ons, the black and white thinking that comes from emotional reactions and being badly informed, misinformation campaigns, and the ongoing, difficult conversation about Englishness and what it means to be loyal or patriotic.

The cast of the Jeeves and Wooster and Blandings Castle book series are believed to capture an idea of England at a certain point in time, and some village green Conservatives (and many others) look to these cultural portrayals of England as a touchstone for weighing up The State of The Country Today.

In reality, Wodehouse’s England existed for a brief moment, and then it became a piece of simplified set-dressing that enabled the antics of his comic creations. It seems a strange thing for people to hanker after a fictional world so strongly that it informs their politics, and stranger still when that world is founded upon such a regressive idea of society (Jeeves is described as having ‘an expression of quiet intelligence combined with a feudal desire to oblige’).

Wodehouse himself would have found that hilarious, though I wonder to what extent he really knew that the England of his novels was a fiction when he was writing Aunts aren’t Gentlemen, his last Jeeves and Wooster novel, after thirty-five years of separation.

A land around Blandings Castle: a fictional England?

Links and Sources

The first mention of Wodehouse in the Commons, July 1941

A more protracted argument in the Commons, December 1944

George Orwell’s essay, In Defence of Wodehouse, is fantastic and makes me wonder why I bothered writing this at all instead of just linking the the essay. In my defence, you might enjoy it even more now you’ve got all the context.

A. A. Milne’s scathing response

PG Wodehouse: a Life in Letters, edited by Sophie Ratcliffe

Wodehouse may have been pardoned for wartime stupidity, but it should be noted that there is evidence that he held some horrendous antisemitic beliefs that he didn’t hold back in expressing.