Sunset at Blandings

by P. G. Wodehouse

‘Then why this pessimistic outlook? Did she turn you down?’

  ‘I haven’t proposed.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I didn’t get the chance.’

  ‘I thought you were going to say you discovered you had some incurable disease and had been given two weeks to live, which would of course have spoiled the honeymoon. The trouble with you politicians,’ said Gaily, ‘is that you wrap up your statements to such an extent with double-talk that the lay mind needs an electric drill to get at the meaning. Tell me in a few simple words what the hell you’re talking about.’

  ‘I can tell you in one. Murchison.’

  ‘Who’s Murchison?’

  ‘My bodyguard.’

  ‘Have you a bodyguard?’

  ‘Sergeant E. B. Murchison. A Chancellor of the Exchequer has to have a bodyguard, assigned to him by Scotland Yard.’

  Gally shook his head.

  ‘You ought never to have let them make you Chancellor of the Exchequer, Jimmy. If I had known, I would have warned you against it. What does this fellow Murchison do? Follow you around?’

  ‘Wherever I go.’

  ‘You must feel like Mary with her lamb, though I doubt if anyone attached to Scotland Yard has fleece as white as snow. I begin to see now. Your style is necessarily cramped. If you pressed your suit and Diana proved cooperative, your immediate impulse would be to fold her in a close embrace, and you wouldn’t want a goggling detective looking on.’

  ‘Exactly. I’m a shy man.’

  ‘Are you?’

  ‘Very shy.’

  ‘That makes it worse. I’ve never been shy myself, but I can understand how you feel. No chance of you stiffening the sinews, summoning up the blood and having a pop at it regardless of Murchison?’

  ‘None.’

  ‘Then we must think of something else.’

  ‘I have thought of something else. I’m going to write her a letter.’

  ‘Outlining your sentiments?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Gally was not encouraging.

  ‘Dismiss the idea. A letter is never any good, especially if it’s from someone like you, most of whose adult life has been spent in politics. You’ve got so accustomed to exercising caution and not committing yourself that you simply aren’t capable of the sort of communication which hits a woman like a sock in the solar plexus and makes her say to herself, “Lord love a duck, this boy’s got what it takes. I must weigh this proposal of his carefully or I’ll be passing up the snip of a lifetime”.’

  James Piper finished his home-brew and heaved a sigh. ‘You make it all seem very hopeless, Gaily.’

  ‘Nothing is hopeless, if you have a Galahad Threepwood working for you,’ said Gally. ‘I have solved problems worse than yours in my time, so buck up and let us see that merry smile of yours that goes with such a bang in the House of Commons.’

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  THERE were times, it seemed to Gally some days after his heart to heart talk with James Piper at the Emsworth Arms, when the grounds and messuages of Blandings Castle came as near to resembling an enchanted fairyland as dammit. Strong hands had mowed the lawn till it gleamed in the sunlight, birds sang in the tree tops, bees buzzed in the flower beds. You would not be far wrong, he thought, if you said that all Nature smiled, as he himself was doing. His mood was mellow, its mellowness increased by the fact that, slipping adroitly from the table at the conclusion of lunch, he had secured the hammock under the cedar before the slower Florence could get at it. She came out of the house just after he had moved in, and it set the seal on his euphoria to note her thwarted look, comparable to that of baffled baronets in melodramas he had seen at the Lyceum and other theatres in his younger days. It was the keystone of his policy always, if possible, to show his sisters, with the exception, of course, of Diana, that they weren’t everybody.

  His strategy was effective. Florence took her book elsewhere. But he knew it was too much to expect that his siesta would remain undisturbed indefinitely. Nor did it. Scarcely had his eyes closed and his breathing become deeper, when a respectful finger poked him in the ribs and he woke to see Beach at his side.

  ‘Mr. Galahad,’ said Beach.

  ‘Ah, Beach, Beach,’ he replied, ‘I was having a lovely dream about backing a long shot for the Grand National and seeing it come in by a length and a half. Are you here just to have a chat?’

  ‘No, sir,’ said Beach, shocked. He would chat freely with Mr. Galahad in the seclusion of his pantry, but not on the front lawn. ‘A Mr. Smith has called, asking to see you.’

  For an instant the name conveyed nothing to Gally. Then memory stirred, and he sat up with enthusiasm.

  ‘Bring him along, Beach,’ he said. ‘Nobody you know, but he’s just the fellow I hoped would be calling,’ and he was on his feet and prepared to welcome Jeff when Beach produced him, which he did some moments later with what amounted to a flourish. Any friend of Mr. Galahad got the V.I.P. treatment from Beach. He then melted away as softly and gracefully as was within the power of a butler who would never see fourteen stone again, and Gally and Jeff were, as the former would have put it, alone and unobserved.

  ‘My dear boy,’ said Gally, ‘this is splendid. I was half afraid you would lose your nerve and not come.’

  ‘Nothing would have kept me away.’

  ‘You Smiths do not know what fear is?’

  ‘Only by hearsay. Nice place you have here.’

  ‘We like it. But there is a catch. I don’t know if you are familiar with the hymn about spicy breezes blowing o’er Ceylon’s isle?’

  ‘Where every prospect pleases and only man is vile.’

  ‘Exactly. However, it’s the women you have to watch out for, rather than the men. If you had a classical education, you will remember the Gorgon who used to turn people to blocks of ice[25] with a glance. My sister Florence, whom you will be meeting in a moment, is like that when offended.’

  ‘I can see the solution there. I won’t offend her.’

  ‘You have already done so. You have come to paint the Empress’s portrait, to be added to those in the family portrait gallery, and she is as sick as mud about it. When she is as sick as mud about anything she stiffens from the soles of her feet upwards and gives the offending party the sort of look the Gorgon used to give people. Being her brother and exposed to it from childhood, I am immune to this, but I always warn strangers to be sure to make their wills before getting together with her, just in case. Some people will tell you that she isn’t as bad as my sister Connie. How right Kipling was when he made that crack about the female of the species being more deadly than the male. Look at our family. My brother Clarence is as gentle a soul as ever said “What ho!” to a pig, and I, as you must have noticed already, am absolutely charming, but the only one of my sisters whom I would not be afraid to meet down a dark alley is Diana.’

  It would be idle to deny that these grave words gave young Mr. Smith a disagreeable sinking sensation in the neighbourhood of the third waistcoat button, but love conquers all, as someone once said, and he thought of Vicky and was strong again. He might be about to be turned into a block of ice, but the weather was warm and he would eventually thaw out again and see Vicky once more. He told Gally that his plans were unaltered, and Gally said it did him credit.

  ‘The great thing to bear in mind,’ said Gally, ‘is that sisters are sent into the world to try us and make us more spiritual. I attribute my own spirituality entirely to having been brought up in the same nursery as Connie and Hermione and Dora. It taught me fortitude and a sense of proportion. When I went out into the great world, I met a variety of tough eggs, but always I was able to say to myself “Courage, Galahad, this egg is unquestionably hard to cope with, but he isn’t Connie or Hermione or Dora!” You wouldn’t believe the things that went on in that nursery. My sister Hermione once laid me out cold with one blow of her doll Belinda. Am I scaring you?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Jeff.

  ‘You quail at the thought of
meeting Florence?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Jeff.

  ‘But you are prepared to go through it?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Jeff.

  ‘Good. Let us hope that this will be one of her good mornings,’ said Gally, and he took him to Beach and told Beach to take him to Lady Florence, which Beach did, and Gally returned to his hammock.[26]

  Before he could reach it he met Sir James Piper coming across the lawn and was pained to see his careworn aspect. Sir James was looking as an investor in some[27] company might have looked on learning that its managing director had left England without stopping to pack.

  ‘Stap my vitals, Jimmy,’ said Gaily, ‘you look like the Mona Lisa.[28] You remind me of the last time I saw you chucked out of the old Gardenia. The same wan expression as the hand of the Law closed on coat collar and trouser seat. What’s wrong? Or needn’t I ask?’

  ‘You needn’t.’

  ‘The same little trouble you were having when we chatted at the Emsworth Arms?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’ll give you a pep talk.’

  ‘I haven’t time for any pep talks. I’m playing croquet[29] with Diana. She’s waiting for me now.’

  It is always pleasant for a man of good will to be given the chance of bringing the roses back to the cheeks of a stricken friend, and Gally lost no time in availing himself of this one.

  ‘Croquet!’ he cried. ‘Then, my dear fellow, what on earth are you making heavy weather about? Don’t you know that there is no surer way to a woman’s heart than that footling game? At least there usedn’t to be when I was ass enough to swing a mallet in my youth. In those days eighty per cent of betrothals took place on the croquet lawn. The opportunities for whispering words of love into shell-like ears are endless. If I hadn’t been sent to South Africa, where they didn’t play, I should have been engaged half a dozen times before I was twenty-five. So buck up, Jimmy. Go ahead and fear nothing. I see you bringing off a sensational triumph.’

  ‘With Murchison looking on?’

  Gally’s enthusiasm waned perceptibly.

  ‘I’d forgotten Murchison,’ he said.

  ‘I hadn’t,’ said Sir James. ‘I never do.’

  It was shortly after he had passed on to keep his tryst, with E. B. Murchison following in his footsteps like King Wenceslaus’s page, that Gaily, back in the hammock and thinking happily how comfortable Florence would have been if she had got there first, was roused from his musings by the arrival of Vicky.

  Vicky was looking bewildered, as if strange things had been happening around her which she felt that only Gally with his greater wisdom could explain. Though she was not hopeful that even Gally would be able to find an explanation for what was weighing on her mind at the moment except the unwelcome one that that mind was tottering.

  ‘Gally,’ she said, ‘do you think you can see things that aren’t there?’

  ‘Do you mean ghosts? Clarence’s pig man claims to have seen the White Lady of Blandings one Saturday night as he was coming out of the Emsworth Arms at closing time. One cannot, however, dismiss the theory that he was pie-eyed at the time. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Because I’ve just seen Jeff.’

  ‘Ah, yes.’

  ‘Is that all you can say?’

  ‘You were bound to see him some time, now that he’s here.’

  ‘He’s here?’

  ‘Yes, I got him the job of painting the Empress. ‘Vicky uttered what in a girl less attractive would have been a squeal. She was conscious of a weakness about the knees. Her grandmother in similar circumstances would have swooned.

  ‘Gally,’ she said, ‘I think I’m going to collapse on you.’

  ‘Come along. Plenty of room.’

  ‘Or shall I just gaze at you with adoring eyes?’

  ‘Whichever you prefer. When you meet him, by the way, you must remember to address him as Mister Smith. He is here strictly incognito.’

  ‘I’ll remember.’

  ‘Well, mind you do.’

  ‘Don’t be afraid I’ll let the side down. I’ve read lots of secret service stories and I know the procedure. I will now,’ said Vicky, ‘gaze at you with adoring eyes.’

  She was proceeding to do so, when a figure, well-knit though inclining to stoutness, appeared on the lawn. Sir James Piper, closely followed by Sergeant E. B. Murchison.

  ‘Hullo,’ said Gally as his old friend reached the hammock. ‘Finished your croquet already?’

  Sir James hastened to dispel any idea he may have had that that leisured pastime had been affected by the modern craze for speed.

  ‘We haven’t begun yet.’

  ‘What’s the trouble?’

  ‘Daphne wanted her large hat.’

  ‘I don’t wonder. The sun is very sultry and we must avoid its ultry-violet rays, as the song says.[30] Well, I won’t keep you. Don’t forget what I told you.’

  ‘What did you tell him?’ Vicky asked as Sir James resumed his quest for large hats.

  ‘To push croquet to its logical conclusion.’

  ‘Whatever that means.’

  ‘I will explain when it’s cooler.’

  ‘Explain now.’

  ‘It’s quite simple. He’s in love with your Aunt Diana, and I was pointing out to him … Ah, here he is, complete with hat. You’ve got that Mona Lisa look again, Jimmy. What’s wrong?’

  ‘Nothing’s exactly wrong, but I wish Brenda would mind her own business. She’s sent my secretary down here in case, she says, I need him.’

  ‘Well, don’t you? I would have thought he was the very chap you would want to have around if any weighty thoughts occurred to you. You’d look pretty silly if an idea for balancing the budget occurred to you and you forgot it because there was nobody to take it down in his notebook.’

  ‘I’m supposed to be on holiday.’

  ‘You mustn’t think so much of holidays, Jimmy. Life is stern and earnest. You ought to be floating loans or whatever it is you do in your job, and a secretary is essential. However, as you seem determined to live for pleasure alone, I will leave you to your croquet.’

  ‘The last thing I want is Claude Duff following me about with his note book. It’s bad enough having Murchison. But two of them!’

  Words failed Sir James and he passed on, and Gally was so moved that he sat up in the hammock and dropped his eyeglass.

  ‘Claude Duff!’ he exclaimed. ‘Oh my fur and whiskers!’

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘Ruin stares us in the eyeball.’

  ‘Because Claude Duff is here?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because,’ said Gaily, ‘he is an intimate friend of your Jeff and will undoubtedly call him by his real name in front of Florence the moment they meet.’

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  THE SUN was shining as brightly as ever, the birds and bees respectively singing and buzzing with undiminished vigour, but Vicky did not notice them. Her whole attention was monopolized by her Uncle Galahad, who had turned misty and was flickering like an old-time silent picture.

  ‘Oh, Gally,’ she wailed. ‘Oh, Gally!’

  He had no comfort to offer. It was with a sombre look on his face that he retrieved the eyeglass which was dancing on the end of its string.

  ‘You may well say “Oh, Gally”,’ he said. ‘I wouldn’t blame you if you made it something stronger.’

  ‘This is frightful!’

  ‘The situation has certainly started to deteriorate.’

  ‘He’ll be thrown out.’

  ‘On his ear. “Chuck this man as far as he’ll go, and I want to see him bounce twice”, Florence will say to the hired help. Unless I have an inspiration.’

  ‘Oh, do try.’

  ‘I am trying, and I think I’m getting the glimmering of an idea. But I shall need a few minutes’ solitude if I am to develop it. I can’t possibly plot and plan with you having conniption fits at my elbow. Leave me, child, I would be alone. Trot off and pick fl
owers.’

  ‘How long?’

  ‘Short stalks.’

  ‘I mean how long do you want to be alone?’

  ‘Call it a quarter of an hour.’

  ‘Will that be enough?’

  ‘It should be.’

  ‘You’re wonderful, Gally.’

  ‘I always was from my earliest years. It’s a gift.’

  Vicky was one of those girls who are anxious to help. She gave Gally twenty minutes instead of the quarter of an hour he had specified. When she returned to the hammock, she found him so obviously pleased with himself that it was unnecessary to ask questions. She thrilled with relief and for the first time was able to appreciate the efforts of the sun, the birds and the bees, which all this while had been giving of their best.

  ‘I’ve got it,’ said Gaily. ‘The solution turned out to be a very simple one. I shall see Claude before he meets Jeff and I shall tell him the tale.’

  ‘You’ll do what?’

  ‘Tell him the tale.’

  ‘I don’t follow you, Mr. Threepwood.’

  ‘You don’t know what is meant by telling the tale?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then in order to explain I shall have to take you back to my impecunious youth, when I combined a taste for wagering on horses with an inability to spot which of the contestants was going to finish first. In a word I was one of the mugs and in constant debt to turf accountants who liked one to settle one’s obligations with the minimum of delay. Fortunately I was born with the gift of persuasive eloquence. Mug though I was, I could tell a tale. When at my best, I could make bookies cry and sometimes lend me a flyer to be going along with.’

  ‘What used you to say to them?’

  ‘It wasn’t so much what I said as the tone of voice. I had the same knack Sarah Bernhardt had of tearing the heart strings.’

  ‘I hope you were ashamed of yourself.’

  ‘Oh, bitterly.’

  ‘You must have been a very disreputable young man.’

  ‘So I was often told by my nearest and dearest. I was one of those men my mother always warned me against.’

  ‘Well, it’s lucky you’re such a low character. A saintly uncle wouldn’t have been much use in the present crisis. I suppose, when you tell the tale, you deviate from the truth a lot?’