Contents
About the Book
About the Author
Also by P.G. Wodehouse
Title Page
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Copyright
About the Book
A Blandings novel
Can the Empress of Blandings win the Fat Pigs class at the Shropshire Show for the third year running? Galahad Threepwood, Beach the butler and others have put their shirt on this, and for Lord Emsworth it will be paradise on earth. But a substantial obstacle lurks in the way: Queen of Matchingham, the new sow of Sir Gregory Parsloe Bart. Galahad knows this pretender to the crown must be pignapped. But can the Empress in turn avoid a similar fate?
In this classic Blandings novel, pigs rise above their bulk to vanish and reappear in the most unlikely places, while young lovers are crossed and recrossed in every room in Blandings Castle.
The author of almost a hundred books and the creator of Jeeves, Blandings Castle, Psmith, Ukridge, Uncle Fred and Mr Mulliner, P.G. Wodehouse was born in 1881 and educated at Dulwich College. After two years with the Hong Kong and Shanghai Bank he became a full-time writer, contributing to a variety of periodicals including Punch and the Globe. He married in 1914. As well as his novels and short stories, he wrote lyrics for musical comedies with Guy Bolton and Jerome Kern, and at one time had five musicals running simultaneously on Broadway. His time in Hollywood also provided much source material for fiction.
At the age of 93, in the New Year’s Honours List of 1975, he received a long-overdue knighthood, only to die on St Valentine’s Day some 45 days later.
Also by P. G. Wodehouse
JEEVES
The Inimitable Jeeves
Carry On, Jeeves
Very Good, Jeeves
Thank You, Jeeves
Right Ho, Jeeves
The Code of the Woosters
Joy in the Morning
The Mating Season
Ring for Jeeves
Jeeves and the Feudal Spirit
Jeeves in the Offing
Stiff Upper Lip, Jeeves
Much Obliged, Jeeves
Aunts Aren’t Gentlemen
UNCLE FRED
Cocktail Time
Uncle Dynamite
BLANDINGS
Something Fresh
Leave it to Psmith
Summer Lightning
Blandings Castle
Uncle Fred in the Springtime
Full Moon
Pigs Have Wings
Service with a Smile
A Pelican at Blandings
MULLINER
Meet Mr Mulliner
Mulliner Nights
Mr Mulliner Speaking
GOLF
The Clicking of Cuthbert
The Heart of a Goof
OTHERS
Piccadilly Jim
Ukridge
The Luck of the Bodkins
Laughing Gas
A Damsel in Distress
The Small Bachelor
Hot Water
Summer Moonshine
The Adventures of Sally
Money for Nothing
The Girl in Blue
Big Money
CHAPTER 1
BEACH THE BUTLER, wheezing a little after navigating the stairs, for he was not the streamlined young under-footman he had been thirty years ago, entered the library of Blandings Castle, a salver piled with letters in his hand.
‘The afternoon post, m’lord,’ he announced, and Lord Emsworth, looking up from his book – he was reading Whiffle on The Care Of The Pig – said: ‘Ah, the afternoon post? The afternoon post, eh? Quite. Quite.’ His sister, Lady Constance Keeble, might, and frequently did, complain of his vagueness – (‘Oh, for goodness sake, Clarence, don’t gape like that!’) – but he could on occasion be as quick at the uptake as the next man.
‘Yes, yes, to be sure, the afternoon post,’ he said, fully abreast. ‘Capital. Thank you, Beach. Put it on the table.’
‘Very good, m’lord. Pardon me, m’lord, can you see Sir Gregory Parsloe?’
‘No,’ said Lord Emsworth, having glanced about the room and failed to do so. ‘Where is he?’
‘Sir Gregory telephoned a few moments ago to say that he would be glad of a word with your lordship. He informed me that he was about to walk to the castle.’
Lord Emsworth blinked.
‘Walk?’
‘So Sir Gregory gave me to understand, m’lord.’
‘What does he want to walk for?’
‘I could not say, m’lord.’
‘It’s three miles each way, and about the hottest day we’ve had this summer. The man’s an ass.’
To such an observation the well-trained butler, however sympathetic, does not reply ‘Whoopee!’ or ‘You said it, pal!’ Beach merely allowed his upper lip to twitch slightly by way of indication that his heart was in the right place, and Lord Emsworth fell into a reverie. He was thinking about Sir Gregory Parsloe-Parsloe, Bart, of Matchingham Hall.
To most of us, casual observers given to snap judgements, the lot of an Earl dwelling in marble halls with vassals and serfs at his side probably seems an enviable one. ‘A lucky stiff,’ we say to ourselves as we drive off in our charabanc after paying half a crown to be shown over the marble halls, and in many cases, of course, we would be right.
But not in that of Clarence, ninth Earl of Emsworth. There was a snake in his Garden of Eden, a crumpled leaf in his bed of roses, a grain of sand in his spiritual spinach. He had good health, a large income and a first-class ancestral home with gravel soil, rolling parkland and all the conveniences, but these blessings were rendered null and void by the fact that the pure air of the district in which he lived was polluted by the presence of a man like Sir Gregory Parsloe – a man who, he was convinced, had evil designs on that pre-eminent pig, Empress of Blandings.
Empress of Blandings was the apple of Lord Emsworth’s eye. Twice in successive years winner in the Fat Pigs class at the Shropshire Agricultural Show, she was confidently expected this year to triumph for the third time, provided – always provided – that this Parsloe, who owned her closest rival, Pride of Matchingham, did not hatch some fearful plot for her undoing.
Two years before, by tempting him with his gold, this sinister Baronet had lured away into his own employment Lord Emsworth’s pig man, the superbly gifted George Cyril Wellbeloved, and it was the opinion of the Hon. Galahad Threepwood, Lord Emsworth’s younger brother, strongly expressed, that this bit of sharp practice was to be considered just a preliminary to blacker crimes, a mere flexing of the muscles, as it were, preparatory to dishing out the real rough stuff. Dash it all, said Galahad, reasoning closely, when you get a fellow like young Parsloe, a chap who for years before he came into the title was knocking about London without a bean in his pocket, living God knows how and always one jump ahead of the gendarmerie, is it extravagant to suppose that he will stick at nothing? If such a man has a pig entered for the Fat Pigs contest and sees a chance of making the thing a certainty for his own candidate by nobbling the favourite, he is dashed well going to jump at it. That was the view of the Hon. Galahad Threepwood.
‘Parsloe!’ he said. ‘I’ve known young Parsloe since we were both in the early twenties, and he was always so crooked he sliced bread with a corkscrew. When they saw Parsloe coming in the old days, strong men used to wince and hide their valuables. That’s the sort of fellow he was, and you can’t tell me he’s any different now. You watch that pig of yours like a hawk,
Clarence, or before you know where you are, this fiend in human shape will be slipping pineapple bombs into her bran mash.’
The words had sunk in, as such words would scarcely have failed to do, and they had caused Lord Emsworth to entertain towards Sir Gregory feelings similar to, though less cordial than, those of Sherlock Holmes toward Professor Moriarty. So now he sat brooding on him darkly, and would probably have gone on brooding for some considerable time, had not Beach, who wanted to get back to his pantry and rest his feet, uttered a significant cough.
‘Eh?’ said Lord Emsworth, coming out of his coma.
‘Would there be anything further, m’lord?’
‘Further? Oh, I see what you mean. Further. No, nothing further, Beach.’
‘Thank you, m’lord.’
Beach withdrew in that stately, ponderous way of his that always reminded travellers who knew their Far East of an elephant sauntering through an Indian jungle, and Lord Emsworth resumed his reading. The butler’s entry had interrupted him in the middle of that great chapter of Whiffle’s which relates how a pig, if aiming at the old mid-season form, must consume daily nourishment amounting to not less than fifty-seven thousand eight hundred calories, these calories to consist of barley meal, maize meal, linseed meal, potatoes, and separated buttermilk.
But this was not his lucky afternoon. Scarcely had his eye rested on the page when the door opened again, this time to admit a handsome woman of imperious aspect in whom – after blinking once or twice through his pince-nez – he recognized his sister, Lady Constance Keeble.
2
He eyed her apprehensively, like some rat of the underworld cornered by G-men. Painful experience had taught him that visits from Connie meant trouble, and he braced himself, as always, to meet with stout denial whatever charge she might be about to hurl at him. He was a great believer in stout denial and was very good at it.
For once, however, her errand appeared to be pacific. Her manner was serene, even amiable.
‘Oh, Clarence,’ she said, ‘have you seen Penelope anywhere?’
‘Eh?’
‘Penelope Donaldson.’
‘Who,’ asked Lord Emsworth courteously, ‘is Penelope Donaldson?’
Lady Constance sighed. Had she not been the daughter of a hundred Earls, she would have snorted. Her manner lost its amiability. She struck her forehead with a jewelled hand and rolled her eyes heavenward for a moment.
‘Penelope Donaldson,’ she said, speaking with the strained sweetness of a woman striving to be patient while conversing with one of the less intelligent of the Jukes family, ‘is the younger daughter of the Mr Donaldson of Long Island City in the United States of America whose elder daughter is married to your son Frederick. To refresh your memory, you have two sons – your heir, Bosham, and a younger son, Frederick. Frederick married the elder Miss Donaldson. The younger Miss Donaldson – her name is Penelope – is staying with us now at Blandings Castle – this is Blandings Castle – and what I am asking you is … Have you seen her? And I do wish, Clarence, that you would not let your mouth hang open when I am talking to you. It makes you look like a goldfish.’
It has already been mentioned that there were moments when Lord Emsworth could be as quick as a flash.
‘Ah!’ he cried, enlightened. ‘When you say Penelope Donaldson, you mean Penelope Donaldson. Quite. Quite. And have I seen her, you ask. Yes, I saw her with Galahad just now. I was looking out of the window and they came past. Going for a walk or something. They were walking,’ explained Lord Emsworth, making it clear that his brother and the young visitor from America had not been mounted on pogo-sticks.
Lady Constance uttered a sound which resembled that caused by placing a wet thumb on a hot stove lid.
‘It’s too bad of Galahad. Ever since she came to the castle he has simply monopolized the girl. He ought to have more sense. He must know that the whole point of her being here is that I wanted to bring her and Orlo Vosper together.’
‘Who –?’
‘Oh, Clarence!’
‘What’s the matter now?’
‘If you say “Who is Orlo Vosper?”, I shall hit you with something. I believe this vagueness of yours is just a pose. You put it on simply to madden people. You know perfectly well who Orlo Vosper is.’
Lord Emsworth nodded intelligently.
‘Yes, I’ve got him placed now. Fellow who looks like a screen star. He’s staying here,’ he said, imparting a valuable piece of inside information.
‘I am aware of it. And Penelope seems to be deliberately avoiding him.’
‘Sensible girl. He’s a dull chap.’
‘He is nothing of the kind. Most entertaining.’
‘He doesn’t entertain me.’
‘Possibly not, as he does not talk about pigs all the time.’
‘He’s unsound on pigs. When I showed him the Empress, he yawned.’
‘He is evidently very much attracted by Penelope.’
‘Tried to hide it behind his hand, but I saw it. A yawn.’
‘And it would be a wonderful marriage for her.’
‘What would?’
‘This.’
‘Which?’
‘Oh, Clarence!’
‘Well, how do you expect me to follow you, dash it, when you beat about the bush like – er – like someone beating about the bush? Be plain. Be clear. Be frank and straightforward. Who’s marrying who?’
Lady Constance went into her wet-thumb-on-stove routine again.
‘I am merely telling you,’ she said wearily, ‘that Orlo Vosper is obviously attracted by Penelope and that it would please Mr Donaldson very much if she were to marry him. One of the oldest families in England and plenty of money, too. But what can he do if she spends all her time with Galahad? Still, I am taking her to London tomorrow, and Orlo is driving us in his car. Something may come of that. Do listen, Clarence!’
‘I’m listening. You said Penelope was going to London with Mr Donaldson.’
‘Oh, Clar-ence!’
‘Or rather with Vosper. What’s she going to London for in weather like this? Silly idea.’
‘She has a fitting. Her dress for the County Ball. And Orlo has to see his lawyer about his income tax.’
‘Income tax!’ cried Lord Emsworth, staring like a war horse at the sound of the bugle. Pigs and income tax were the only two subjects that really stirred him. ‘Let me tell you –’
‘I haven’t time to listen,’ said Lady Constance, and swept from the room. These chats with the head of the family nearly always ended in her sweeping from the room. Unless, of course, they took place out of doors, when she merely swept away.
Left alone, Lord Emsworth sat for a while savouring that delicious sense of peace which comes to men of quiet tastes when their womenfolk have said their say and departed. Then, just as he was about to turn to Whiffle again, his eye fell on the pile of correspondence on the table, and he took it up and began glancing through it. And he had read and put aside perhaps half a dozen of the dullest letters ever penned by human hand, when he came upon something of quite a different nature, something that sent his eyebrows shooting up and brought a surprised ‘Bless my soul!’ to his lips.
It was a picture postcard, one of those brightly coloured picture postcards at which we of the intelligentsia click our tongues, but which afford pleasure and entertainment to quite a number of the lower-browed. It represented a nude lady, presumably Venus, rising from the waves at a seashore resort with a cheery ‘I’m in the pink, kid’ coming out of her mouth in the form of a balloon, and beneath this figure, in a bold feminine hand, were the words ‘Hey hey, today’s the day, what, what? Many happy returns, old dear. Love and kisses. Maudie.’
It puzzled Lord Emsworth, as it might have puzzled an even deeper thinker. To the best of his knowledge he was not acquainted with any Maudie, let alone one capable of this almost Oriental warmth of feeling. Unlike that beau sabreur and man about town, his brother Galahad, who had spent a lifetime courting the
society of the breezier type of female and in his younger days had never been happier than when knee deep in barmaids and ballet girls, he had always taken considerable pains to avoid the Maudies of this world.
Recovering his pince-nez, which, as always in times of emotion, had fallen off and were dangling at the end of their string, he slipped the card absently into his pocket and reached out for his book. But it was too late. The moment had passed. What with butlers babbling about Parsloes and Connies babbling about Vospers and mystery women sending him love and kisses, he had temporarily lost the power to appreciate Whiffle’s smighty line.
There was only one thing to be done, if he hoped to recover calm of spirit. He straightened his pince-nez, and went off to the piggeries to have a look at Empress of Blandings.
3
The Empress lived in a bijou residence not far from the kitchen garden, and when Lord Emsworth arrived at her boudoir she was engaged, as pretty nearly always when you dropped in on her, in hoisting into her vast interior those fifty-seven thousand and eight hundred calories on which Whiffle insists. Monica Simmons, the pig girl, had done her well in the way of barley meal, maize meal, linseed meal, potatoes, and separated buttermilk, and she was digging in and getting hers in a manner calculated to inspire the brightest confidence in the bosoms of her friends and admirers.
Monica Simmons was standing at the rail as Lord Emsworth pottered up, a stalwart girl in a smock and breeches who looked like what in fact she was, one of the six daughters of a rural vicar, all of whom had played hockey for Roedean. She was not a great favourite with Lord Emsworth, who suspected her of a lack of reverence for the Empress. Of this fundamental flaw in her character she instantly afforded ghastly proof.
‘Hullo, Lord Emsworth,’ she said. ‘Hot, what? Have you come to see the piggy-wiggy? Well, now you’re here, I’ll be buzzing off and getting my tea and shrimps. I’ve a thirst I wouldn’t sell for fifty quid. Cheerio.’
She strode off, her large feet spurning the antic hay, and Lord Emsworth, who had quivered like an aspen and was supporting himself on the rail, gazed after her with a smouldering eye. He was thinking nostalgically of former custodians of his pig supreme – of George Cyril Wellbeloved, now in the enemy’s camp; of Percy Pirbright, George Cyril’s successor, last heard of in Canada; and of Edwin Pott, who, holding portfolio after Percy, had retired into private life on winning a football pool. None of these would have alluded to Empress of Blandings as ‘the piggy-wiggy’. Edwin Pott, as a matter of fact, would not have been able to do so, even had he wished, for he had no roof to his mouth.