Newsgroups: bit.listserv.words-l
Date:         Tue, 8 Sep 1992 16:43:58 +0200
From:         torkel@SICS.SE
Subject:      Re: Bertie Wooster 2
Comments: To: English Language Discussion Group <WORDS-L@uga.cc.uga.edu>
              08 Sep 92 08:57:49 -0400. <9209081303.AA18826@sics.se>

  >>By the way, has anybody here read a rather curious and interesting
  >>book called "William, or More Loved than Loving"?

  >Er, no.  Why?


  Well, there is a vague connection with Bertie Wooster. This little book
first appeared in 1933. Here is a chapter.


                     FINDING MYSELF


"I was in great difficulty when I first left school and entered the big
social world," said William - "the world of luncheon parties, dinner parties,
tennis and tea parties, cocktail parties, and house parties. Having been
brought up by my parents in a simple, old-fashioned style, told to work and
play hard and to do my best in and out of school, to tell the truth and be
manly and so on, in places where merit was assessed by marks and examinations,
I was plunged, at the age of eighteen, into a world in which entirely
different values obtained. At that simple age I still wanted to be a
credit to my parents, but I was bewildered and in doubt. I wanted to be
popular - but how? I heard people praised for their charm, for wit, for
kindness of heart, for amiability, for gaiety - for good looks even (what
unheard of attributes!) and abused for the lack of them. Had I any of these
qualities? What a toss up! And if not, could I acquire them? Charm? Could
I acquire that? Kindness of heart! How was that to be attained? And was I
good looking? Though for the past two years I had already been taking an
interest in my face, peering at it anxiously in the glass from all angles,
I really could not pass judgment on it. And there it was, a face to be
taken with me everywhere, buffeted unmercifully by all who liked to comment
upon it, favourable or otherwise. Indeed, the whole of me was like a
storm-tossed ship, knowing not which way to go nor how to behave.

  "Thank goodness there was Eric. Eric was a boy rather older than myself,
who had already made a certain number of friends in London. He was of an
affectionate and upright disposition, and very fond of me, and I found in
him a temporary refuge from the storm. Seeing that he made a good
impression upon everyone he met, I resolved to copy him. I tried also to
be upright and affectionate. He always spoke well of everyone, and I too
said how nice everyone was. I spoke especially well of Eric himself, and he,
of course, was very kind to me, taking me about with him and introducing
me to the people he knew. But I soon grew tired of saying how nice everyone
was. I couldn't put much spirit into the words, and more and more did I
begin to feel stabs of irritation against my friends, to which I dared not
give vent. One day I found myself at a house part without Eric. My hostess
said, 'I asked Eric for this week-end, but he has gone to stay with Mrs.
X' (that worldly woman whom I mentioned earlier); 'I don't know what we
shall do without him.' A dull anger rose within me, which I was too
weary to suppress. 'Eric is always so thoughtful and unselfish that I can
only think he has absented himself to try us for the good of our characters,'
I said nastily. 'This is the end of me as a social success,' I thought, but
to my surprise everyone laughed. 'Evidently I am witty,' I said to myself,
and thenceforth faced life with new courage. I became witty and maledictory
to everyone about everyone else, enjoying myself a great deal more than
before, and making other people much fonder of me. Especially was I now
sarcastic about Eric, who, of course, still sang my praises as he had
always done. It was a most satisfactory arrangement. Indeed, the whole world
seemed a much happier place since my discovery, and round about me was
sunshine and laughter all day long.

  "But you appreciate the difficulty which beset me at first. I was reading
the other day the memoirs of someone called Sir Henry Newbolt, in which he
describes how, for ten long years, he slaved at an uncongenial task, unwilling
to cast it aside until he had made certain that his poetic talent was
sufficient to earn him distinction in literature. It was the same with me.
I had to be certain I was clever before I could safely resign all claim
to goodness of heart.

  "At this point I can hear some people, Eric among them, coming up and
saying to me: 'I think, William, you underrate yourself; you know you really
have a very kind heart.' But no, I am not deceived. I realise quite well
that I do not care much about anyone.
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