The Politeness of Princes, and Other School Stories — A Reader’s Guide

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Authors: Wodehouse, P. G. (Pelham Grenville), 1881-1975 Digital Source: Project Gutenberg Gutenberg Release Year: 2005 First Publication Year: Not confirmed

Key Word: Schools -- Fiction Target Reader: Readers of public-domain and historical texts

Book Edition: Project Gutenberg digital edition Book Language: en

Edition facts

Words 26,278

Reading time 115 min

Text sections 4

For The Politeness of Princes, and Other School Stories — A Reader’s Guide, the stored edition analysis reports 26,278 words, 1 hr 55 min estimated reading time, and 4 detected text sections.

The text analysis averages about 11.8 words per sentence, while the detected sections provide another way to judge how the source is divided.

Project Gutenberg metadata also associates the work with “Schools -- Fiction,” connecting these edition facts with the source record’s subject description.

Source: Project Gutenberg record #8178

In these early school stories, P. G. Wodehouse sharpens his comic voice through precise diction, ironic narration, and dialogue that reveals character. The collection showcases his emerging skill in balancing farce with genuine affection for his boy-heroes.

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File: pg8178

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Chapple did not deny it. He stood on one foot and smiled a propitiating smile. So far Mr. Seymour was entitled to demand a cigar or cocoanut every time.

The housemaster walked to the window, looked out, returned to the mantelpiece, and shifted the position of a china vase two and a quarter inches to the left. Chapple, by way of spirited repartee, stood on the other leg and curled the disengaged foot round his ankle. The conversation was getting quite intellectual.

"You will write out----"

"Sir, please, sir----" interrupted Chapple in an "I-represent-the defendant-m'lud" tone of voice.

"It's awfully hard to hear the bell from where I sleep, sir."

Owing to the increased numbers of the house this term Chapple had been removed from his dormitory proper to a small room some distance away.

"Nonsense. The bell can be heard perfectly well all over the house."

There was reason in what he said. Herbert, who woke the house of a morning, did so by ringing a bell. It was a big bell, and he enjoyed ringing it. Few sleepers, however sound, could dream on peacefully through Herbert's morning solo. After five seconds of it they would turn over uneasily. After seven they would sit up. At the end of the first quarter of a minute they would be out of bed, and you would be wondering where they picked up such expressions.

Chapple murmured wordlessly in reply. He realised that his defence was a thin one. Mr. Seymour followed up his advantage.

"You will write a hundred lines of Vergil," he said, "and if you are late again to-morrow I shall double them."

This, he felt, was a crisis. He had been pursuing his career of unpunctuality so long that he had never quite realised that a time might come when the authorities would drop on him. For a moment he felt that it was impossible, that he could not meet Mr. Seymour's wishes in the matter; but the bull-dog pluck of the true Englishman caused him to reconsider this. He would at least have a dash at it.

"I'll tell you what to do," said his friend, Brodie, when consulted on the point over a quiet pot of tea that afternoon. "You ought to sleep without so many things on the bed. How many blankets do you use, for instance?"

"I don't know," said Chapple. "As many as they shove on."

It had never occurred to him to reckon up the amount of his bedclothes before retiring to rest.

"Well, you take my tip," said Brodie, "and only sleep with one on. Then the cold'll wake you in the morning, and you'll get up because it'll be more comfortable than staying in bed."

This scientific plan might have worked. In fact, to a certain extent it did work. It woke Chapple in the morning, as Brodie had predicted; but it woke him at the wrong hour. It is no good springing out of bed when there are still three hours to breakfast. When Chapple woke at five the next morning, after a series of dreams, the scenes of which were laid mainly in the Arctic regions, he first sneezed, then he piled upon the bed everything he could find, including his boots, and then went to sleep again. The genial warmth oozed through his form, and continued to ooze until he woke once more, this time at eight-fifteen. Breakfast being at eight, it occurred to him that his position with Mr. Seymour was not improved. While he was devoting a few moments' profound meditation to this point the genial warmth got in its fell work once again. When he next woke, the bell was ringing for school. He lowered the world's record for rapid dressing, and was just in time to accompany the tail of the procession into the form-room.

"You were late again this morning," said Mr. Seymour, after dinner.

"Yes, sir. I overslebbed myselb, sir," replied Chapple, who was suffering from a cold in the head.

Things had now become serious. It was no good going to Brodie again for counsel. Brodie had done for himself, proved himself a fraud, an idiot. In fine, a rotter. He must try somebody else. Happy thought. Spenlow. It was a cold day, when Spenlow got left behind. He would know what to do. _There_ was a chap for you, if you liked! Young, mind you, but what a brain! Colossal!

"What _I_ should do," said Spenlow, "is this. I should put my watch on half an hour."

"What 'ud be the good of that?"

Continue Reading →

P. G. Wodehouse’s early school stories, collected here from 1905–1910, already display the verbal precision and comic timing that would define his later work. The narrator’s tone is arch but never cruel, sliding from mock-heroic to deadpan with ease. In “The Politeness of Princes,” Chapple’s speciality is “being late for breakfast”—not occasionally, but “not once or twice, but every day.” The phrasing is deliberately legalistic, as if chronicling a crime. Wodehouse builds comedy through understatement: Chapple “had it weak in the first round” against conscience, but Mr. Seymour proves “more powerful than Conscience.” The dialogue is clipped and formal, with housemasters speaking in “the horrid, abrupt way housemasters have.” These stories reward attention to word choice and structural repetition.

The Specialist’s Diction

Wodehouse often defines his characters by a single obsessive trait, announced with mock-seriousness. Chapple’s lateness is a “speciality” in an “age of the specialist.” The narrator treats it as a profession: Chapple “enters into private treaty with Herbert” for hot food, while the amateur late-breakfaster merely “slinks in” and bolts dry bread. The contrast is drawn through verbs—sidled, lurked, scramble—that physicalize character. In “Shields’ and the Cricket Cup,” the narrator notes that a boy “had cheek enough for eighteen,” a colloquial exaggeration that becomes a running joke. Wodehouse’s diction is precise: a letter is “composed for dignity combined with lucidity,” and a fight is described via boxing jargon from Rodney Stone. The vocabulary is never random; each word serves the comic effect.

Dialogue as Duel

Conversations in these stories are often miniature battles, with pauses and repetitions marking the rhythm. In “An International Affair,” Spencer and Thomas exchange staccato lines: “Hullo!” / “Hullo!” / “I say.” / “What’s up?” The eight-bar rest after an awkward apology is a musical cue, borrowed from score notation. Wodehouse uses formal letter-writing as a comic set piece: Spencer’s reply to Mrs. Shearne is a model of “dignity combined with lucidity,” returning a postal order because “he doesn’t see why he should have it.” The letter cites a boxing move from Rodney Stone and signs off with “One enclosure.” The father and brother reply in kind, approving “treatment on these lines occasionally.” The dialogue is never naturalistic; it is stylized combat, with each line advancing the joke.

The Narrator’s Ironic Distance

Wodehouse’s narrator stands at a cool remove, reporting absurdity without indignation. Chapple’s attempt to build a “handy model steam-engine out of a reel of cotton and an old note-book” is noted as evidence of “a giant brain”—the praise is undercut by the futility of the project. The narrator uses legal and commercial language for trivial matters: Chapple is “informed” that Mr. Seymour “would like to have a friendly chat.” The phrase “painful case of G. Montgomery Chapple, bachelor” mimics a case study. In “The Autograph Hunters,” the narrator observes that “Conscience had but a poor time” with Chapple, personifying an abstraction only to dismiss it. This ironic distance prevents sentimentality; the boys are foolish but not condemned.

Recurring Motifs: Food, Postal Orders, and Physical Comedy

Several motifs recur across the collection, linking the stories. Food is a marker of character: Chapple wants his breakfast “hot and fresh,” while the amateur late-breakfaster bolts dry bread. Postal orders circulate as comic currency—Spencer returns one, only to receive it back with another. Physical comedy is precise: a black eye, a whack in the mouth, “beans also, particularly in the wind.” The fight in “An International Affair” is refereed by W. G. Phipps, a name that sounds like a cricket umpire. Wodehouse describes violence with the detachment of a sports commentator. These recurring details—food, money, mild violence—anchor the comedy in the material world of the school, where status is measured in buns and postal orders.

These stories reward a reader who listens for the exact word and the pause between lines. Wodehouse’s early style is already a machine of comic precision, but it runs on affection for its subjects. The boys are never merely ridiculous; their formal letters and awkward handshakes are treated with a warmth that undercuts the irony. Pay attention to how the narrator shifts from mock-heroic to deadpan, and how dialogue is scored like music. The pleasure is in the details.

There’s a particular gentleness in Wodehouse’s early school stories, a fondness for his muddling boys that softens the sharp wit. I found myself thinking of that quiet warmth while revisiting the second volume of The Caxtons, where family affection carries a similar, unhurried weight. It's a different world, yet the same gentle pulse of home. The Caxtons: A Family Picture — Volume 02 — Reading Companion feels like a familiar hand on the shoulder.