Blandings Castle and Elsewhere (8 page)

The Empress was feeding.

T
HE
Hon. Freddie Threepwood, married to the charming
daughter of Donaldson's Dog-Biscuits of Long Island City,
N.Y., and sent home by his father-in-law to stimulate the sale
of the firm's products in England, naturally thought right
away of his aunt Georgiana. There, he reasoned, was a woman
who positively ate dog-biscuits. She had owned, when he was
last in the country, a matter of four Pekes, two Poms, a Yorkshire
terrier, five Sealyhams, a Borzoi and an Airedale: and if that
didn't constitute a promising market for Donaldson's Dog-Joy
('Get your dog thinking the Donaldson way'), he would like to
know what did. The Alcester connection ought, he considered,
to be good for at least ten of the half-crown cellophane-sealed
packets a week.

A day or so after his arrival, accordingly, he hastened round to
Upper Brook Street to make a sales-talk: and it was as he was
coming rather pensively out of the house at the conclusion of the
interview that he ran into Beefy Bingham, who had been up at
Oxford with him. Several years had passed since the other, then
a third year Blood and Trial Eights man, had bicycled along
tow-paths saying rude things through a megaphone about Freddie's
stomach, but he recognized him instantly. And this in spite
of the fact that the passage of time appeared to have turned old
Beefers into a clergyman. For the colossal frame of this Bingham
was now clad in sober black, and he was wearing one of those
collars which are kept in position without studs, purely by the
exercise of will-power.

'Beefers!' cried Freddie, his slight gloom vanishing in the
pleasure of this happy reunion.

The Rev. Rupert Bingham, though he returned his greeting
with cordiality, was far from exuberant. He seemed subdued,
gloomy, as if he had discovered schism among his flock. His
voice, when he spoke, was the voice of a man with a secret
sorrow.

'Oh, hullo, Freddie. I haven't seen you for years. Keeping
pretty fit?'

'As a fiddle, Beefers, old man, as a fiddle. And you?'

'Oh, I'm all right,' said the Rev. Rupert, still with that same
strange gloom. 'What were you doing in that house?'

'Trying to sell dog-biscuits.'

'Do you sell dog-biscuits?'

'I do when people have sense enough to see that Donaldson's
Dog-Joy stands alone. But could I make my fatheaded aunt see
that? No, Beefers, not though I talked for an hour and sprayed
her with printed matter like a—'

'Your aunt? I didn't know Lady Alcester was your aunt.'

'Didn't you, Beefers? I thought it was all over London.'

'Did she tell you about me?'

'What about you? Great Scott! Are you the impoverished
bloke who wants to marry Gertrude?'

'Yes.'

'Well, I'm dashed.'

'I love her, Freddie,' said the Rev. Rupert Bingham. 'I love her
as no man ...'

'Rather. Quite. Absolutely. I know. All the usual stuff. And
she loves you, what?'

'Yes. And now they've gone and sent her off to Blandings, to
be out of my way'

'Low. Very low. But why are you impoverished? What
about tithes? I always understood you birds made a pot out of
tithes.'

'There aren't any tithes where I am.'

'No tithes?'

'None.'

'H'm. Not so hot. Well, what are you going to do about it,
Beefers?'

'I thought of calling on your aunt and trying to reason with
her.'

Freddie took his old friend's arm sympathetically and drew
him away.

'No earthly good, old man. If a woman won't buy Donaldson's
Dog-Joy, it means she has some sort of mental kink and it's no
use trying to reason with her. We must think of some other
procedure. So Gertrude is at Blandings, is she? She would be.
The family seem to look on the place as a sort of Bastille.
Whenever the young of the species make a floater like falling
in love with the wrong man, they are always shot off to Blandings
to recover. The guv'nor has often complained about it
bitterly. Now, let me think.'

They passed into Park Street. Some workmen were busy
tearing up the paving with pneumatic drills, but the whirring
of Freddie's brain made the sound almost inaudible.

'I've got it,' he said at length, his features relaxing from the
terrific strain. And it's a dashed lucky thing for you, my lad, that
I went last night to see that super-film, "Young Hearts Adrift,"
featuring Rosalie Norton and Otto Byng. Beefers, old man,
you're legging it straight down to Blandings this very afternoon.'

'What!'

'By the first train after lunch. I've got the whole thing planned
out. In this super-film, "Young Hearts Adrift," a poor but
deserving young man was in love with the daughter of rich
and haughty parents, and they took her away to the country so
that she could forget, and a few days later a mysterious stranger
turned up at the place and ingratiated himself with the parents
and said he wanted to marry their daughter, and they gave their
consent, and the wedding took place, and then he tore off his
whiskers and it was Jim!'

'Yes, but ...'

'Don't argue. The thing's settled. My aunt needs a sharp
lesson. You would think a woman would be only too glad to
put business in the way of her nearest and dearest, especially
when shown samples and offered a fortnight's free trial. But no!
She insists on sticking to Peterson's Pup-Food, a wholly inferior
product – lacking, I happen to know, in many of the essential
vitamins – and from now on, old boy, I am heart and soul in your
cause.'

'Whiskers?' said the Rev. Rupert doubtfully.

'You won't have to wear any whiskers. My guv'nor's never
seen you. Or has he?'

'No, I've not met Lord Emsworth.'

'Very well, then.'

'But what good will it do me, ingratiating myself, as you call
it, with your father? He's only Gertrude's uncle.'

'What good? My dear chap, are you aware that the guv'nor
owns the country-side for miles around? He has all sorts of
livings up his sleeve – livings simply dripping with tithes – and
can distribute them to whoever he likes. I know, because at one
time there was an idea of making me a parson. But I would have
none of it.'

The Rev. Rupert's face cleared.

'Freddie, there's something in this.'

'You bet there's something in it.'

'But how can I ingratiate myself with your father?'

'Perfectly easy. Cluster round him. Hang on his every word.
Interest yourself in his pursuits. Do him little services. Help him out of
chairs.... Why, great Scott, I'd undertake to ingratiate myself with Stalin
if I gave my mind to it. Pop off and pack the old toothbrush, and I'll go
and get the guv'nor on the 'phone.'

At about the time when this pregnant conversation was
taking place in London, W.1, far away in distant Shropshire
Clarence, ninth Earl of Emsworth, sat brooding in the library of
Blandings Castle. Fate, usually indulgent to this dreamy peer,
had suddenly turned nasty and smitten him a grievous blow
beneath the belt.

They say Great Britain is still a first-class power, doing well
and winning respect from the nations: and, if so, it is, of course,
extremely gratifying. But what of the future? That was what
Lord Emsworth was asking himself. Could this happy state of
things last? He thought not. Without wishing to be pessimistic,
he was dashed if he saw how a country containing men like Sir
Gregory Parsloe-Parsloe of Matchingham Hall could hope to
survive.

Strong? No doubt. Bitter? Granted. But not, we think, too
strong, not – in the circumstances – unduly bitter. Consider the
facts.

When, shortly after the triumph of Lord Emsworth's preeminent
sow, Empress of Blandings, in the Fat Pigs Class at the
eighty-seventh annual Shropshire Agricultural Show, George
Cyril Wellbeloved, his lordship's pig-man, had expressed a
desire to hand in his portfolio and seek employment elsewhere,
the amiable peer, though naturally grieved, felt no sense of
outrage. He put the thing down to the old roving spirit of the
Wellbeloveds. George Cyril, he assumed, wearying of Shropshire,
wished to try a change of air in some southern or eastern
country. A nuisance, undoubtedly, for the man, when sober, was
beyond question a force in the piggery. He had charm and
personality. Pigs liked him. Still, if he wanted to resign office,
there was nothing to be done about it.

But when, not a week later, word was brought to Lord Emsworth
that, so far from having migrated to Sussex or Norfolk or
Kent or somewhere, the fellow was actually just round the corner
in the neighbouring village of Much Matchingham, serving
under the banner of Sir Gregory Parsloe-Parsloe of Matchingham
Hall, the scales fell from his eyes. He realized that black
treachery had been at work. George Cyril Wellbeloved had sold
himself for gold, and Sir Gregory Parsloe-Parsloe, hitherto
looked upon as a high-minded friend and fellow Justice of the
Peace, stood revealed as that lowest of created things, a lureraway
of other people's pig-men.

And there was nothing one could do about it.

Monstrous!

But true.

So deeply was Lord Emsworth occupied with the consideration
of this appalling state of affairs that it was only when
the knock upon the door was repeated that it reached his
consciousness.

'Come in,' he said hollowly.

He hoped it was not his niece Gertrude. A gloomy young
woman. He could hardly stand Gertrude's society just now.

It was not Gertrude. It was Beach, the butler.

'Mr Frederick wishes to speak to your lordship on the
telephone.'

An additional layer of greyness fell over Lord Emsworth's
spirit as he toddled down the great staircase to the telephone
closet in the hall. It was his experience that almost any communication
from Freddie indicated trouble.

But there was nothing in his son's voice as it floated over the
wire to suggest that all was not well.

'Hullo, guv'nor.'

'Well, Frederick?'

'How's everything at Blandings?'

Lord Emsworth was not the man to exhibit the vultures gnawing
at his heart to a babbler like the Hon. Freddie. He replied,
though it hurt him to do so, that everything at Blandings was
excellent.

'Good-oh!' said Freddie. 'Is the old doss-house very full up at
the moment?'

'If,' replied his lordship, 'you are alluding to Blandings Castle,
there is nobody at present staying here except myself and your
cousin Gertrude. Why?' he added in quick alarm. 'Were you
thinking of coming down?'

'Good God, no!' cried his son with equal horror. 'I mean
to say, I'd love it, of course, but just now I'm too busy with
Dog-Joy'

'Who is Popjoy?'

'Popjoy? Popjoy? Oh, ah, yes. He's a pal of mine and, as you've
plenty of room, I want you to put him up for a bit. Nice chap.
You'll like him. Right-ho, then, I'll ship him off on the three-fifteen.'

Lord Emsworth's face had assumed an expression which
made it fortunate for his son that television was not yet in
operation on the telephone systems of England: and he had
just recovered enough breath for the delivery of a blistering
refusal to have any friend of Freddie's within fifty miles of the
place when the other spoke again.

'He'll be company for Gertrude.'

And at these words a remarkable change came over Lord
Emsworth. His face untwisted itself. The basilisk glare died out
of his eyes.

'God bless my soul! That's true!' he exclaimed. 'That's certainly
true. So he will. The three-fifteen, did you say? I will send
the car to Market Blandings to meet it.'

Company for Gertrude? A pleasing thought. A fragrant,
refreshing, stimulating thought. Somebody to take Gertrude
off his hands occasionally was what he had been praying for
ever since his sister Georgiana had dumped her down on
him.

One of the chief drawbacks to entertaining in your home a
girl who has been crossed in love is that she is extremely apt to go
about the place doing good. All that life holds for her now is the
opportunity of being kind to others, and she intends to be kind if
it chokes them. For two weeks Lord Emsworth's beautiful
young niece had been moving to and fro through the castle
with a drawn face, doing good right and left: and his lordship,
being handiest, had had to bear the brunt of it. It was with the
first real smile he had smiled that day that he came out of
the telephone-cupboard and found the object of his thoughts
entering the hall in front of him.

'Well, well, well, my dear,' he said cheerily. 'And what have
you been doing?'

There was no answering smile on his niece's face. Indeed,
looking at her, you could see that this was a girl who had
forgotten how to smile. She suggested something symbolic out
of Maeterlinck.

'I have been tidying your study, Uncle Clarence,' she replied
listlessly. 'It was in a dreadful mess.'

Lord Emsworth winced as a man of set habits will who has
been remiss enough to let a Little Mother get at his study while
his back is turned, but he continued bravely on the cheerful note.

'I have been talking to Frederick on the telephone.'

'Yes?' Gertrude sighed, and a bleak wind seemed to blow
through the hall. 'Your tie's crooked, Uncle Clarence.'

'I like it crooked,' said his lordship, backing. 'I have a piece of
news for you. A friend of Frederick's is coming down here tonight
for a visit. His name, I understand, is Popjoy. So you will
have some young society at last.'

'I don't want young society.'

'Oh, come, my dear.'

She looked at him thoughtfully with large, sombre eyes.
Another sigh escaped her.

'It must be wonderful to be as old as you are, Uncle Clarence.'

'Eh?' said his lordship, starting.

'To feel that there is such a short, short step to the quiet tomb,
to the ineffable peace of the grave. To me, life seems to stretch
out endlessly, like a long, dusty desert. Twenty-three! That's all
I am. Only twenty-three. And all our family live to sixty.'