Galahad at Blandings

by P. G. Wodehouse

‘I wonder Clarence,’ he said, ‘if you remember a girl called Daphne Littlewood? And don’t think I’m changing the subject, because she is definitely germane to the issue.’

  There were very few things that Lord Emsworth ever remembered. This was not one of them.

  ‘Daphne Littlewood? No, I do not.’

  ‘Tall, dark, handsome girl with a formidable personality, not unlike Connie in appearance. In fact, except that she has different coloured eyes and hair she could go on and play Connie without make-up. She married a rather celebrated historian named Winkworth. She’s a widow now with a small and repulsive son and runs a fashionable girls’ school. They think a lot of her in educational circles, so much so that she was made a Dame in the last Birthday Honours, a thing that’s never likely to happen to you or me. I often wonder who had the idea of calling these women Dames. Probably an American. There’s nothing like a dame, he told them, and they agreed with him, and so the order came into being. But I’m wandering from my subject. You’ve really forgotten Daphne?’

  ‘Completely.’

  ‘Strange. Twenty years ago the bookies were taking bets that you’d get engaged to her.’

  ‘Impossible!’

  ‘That’s how the story goes.

  ‘It is inconceivable that I should have contemplated such a thing.’

  ‘You say that now, but you know what your memory is like. For all you know, you may have wooed her ardently — sent her flowers, written in her confession book, pressed her hand in a conservatory during a dance … No,’ said Gally on reflection, ‘I doubt if even in your prime you would have been as licentious as that. Well, anyway, that’s who Daphne Winkworth is, and you’ll find her at Blandings when we get there.’

  ‘What!’

  ‘With her son Huxley. Hermione invited them.’

  ‘Good God!’

  ‘I was afraid it would upset you, and I’m sorry to say that that’s not all. The worst is yet to come.

  Gally paused. He was very fond of Lord Emsworth and hated to upset him, and he knew that what he was about to say would make his eyes, like stars, start from their spheres and also cause his knotted and combined locks, if you could call them that, to part and each particular hair — there were about twenty of them — to stand on end like quills upon the fretful porpentine. He shrank from saying it, but it had to be said. Impossible to allow the poor dear old chap to arrive at Blandings unwarned.

  ‘Hold on to your chair Clarence, for you’re going to get a nasty shock. Has Hermione brought Dame Daphne Winkworth to Blandings because they’re old friends? No. Because she enjoys the society of little Huxley Winkworth? No. Then why, you ask.

  I’ll tell you. It’s because she remembers that old romance and hopes it may flare up again. I’m not absolutely certain of my facts, mind you, and it may be that I am alarming you unnecessarily, but from something Egbert let fall when I was talking to him last night I received the distinct impression that she’s planning to marry you off this season.

  ‘What!’

  ‘And Daphne, I gather, is all for it. She feels that little Huxley needs a father.’

  Lord Emsworth had sunk back in his chair and was looking like the Good Old Man in old-fashioned melodrama when the villain has foreclosed the mortgage on the ancestral farm. There was not a great deal of flesh on his angular form, but what there was was creeping. Over in a corner of the grill-room a luncher was dealing with madrilene soup. It quivered beneath his spoon, but not so wholeheartedly as Lord Emsworth was quivering.

  He knew Hermione. His sister Constance had always been able to dominate him and force him into courses against which his whole nature rebelled, like wearing a top hat and a stiff collar at the school treat, and Hermione had twice Constance’s determination and will to win. If Galahad was right, the peril that threatened him was appalling and never before had his diving duck technique been so sorely needed. But would even the elusiveness of the diving duck be enough to save him?

  ‘You can’t be sure, Galahad,’ was all he could find to say.

  ‘I told you I wasn’t, but Egbert’s remarks seemed to me capable of only one interpretation, and I strongly urge you, old man, to be alert and on your guard. Only ceaseless vigilance can save you. Don’t let her get you alone in the rose garden or on the terrace by moonlight. If she starts talking about the dear old days, change the subject. On no account pat little Huxley on the head and take him for walks. And above all be wary if she asks you to read her extracts from the Indian Love Lyrics after dinner. The advice I would give to every young man starting out in life, and that includes you, though of course it’s some time since you started, is to avoid the Indian Love Lyrics like poison. I remember poor Puffy Benger, a great pal of mine in the Pelican days, getting irretrievably hooked just because in a careless moment he allowed a girl to lure him into reading Pale Hands I Loved Beside The Shalimar to her. And I myself… Ah,’ said Gally, breaking off as he saw the waiter approaching the table. ‘Coffee at last. You’ll probably need a drop of brandy in yours, Clarence.’

  CHAPTER 4

  I

  It was a little past two o’clock when Gally helped a still stupefied Lord Emsworth into the car, adjusted his legs, which always tended to behave like the tentacles of an octopus when he rode in any conveyance, and started on the homeward journey, easing his way through the London traffic with practised skill. At five, Beach, ably assisted by two footmen, served tea in the amber drawing-room of Blandings Castle, and the company awaiting the wanderer’s return settled down to keep body and soul together with buttered toast, cucumber sandwiches and cake. Lady Hermione Wedge officiated at the tea pot. Colonel Egbert Wedge stood supporting his shoulderblades against the mantelpiece over the fireplace. Dame Daphne Winkworth sat very upright on what looked an uncomfortable chair and her son Huxley perched on a footstool as near as he could get to the gate-leg table where the food was. Wilfred Allsop was not present. He was making a point, when possible, of avoiding Dame Daphne’s society. Hers, as Gally had said, was a formidable personality. It had been so even in her youth, and many years of conducting a large school for girls had increased its intensity, giving her an imperious air calculated to intimidate all but the toughest. The thought that before many weeks had passed he would become a member of her staff, permanently under that eye of hers, never failed to induce in Wilfred a sinking feeling.

  Sandy Callender came in with a slip of paper in her hand.

  ‘The post office has just telephoned this telegram, Lady Hermione,’ she said.

  ‘Oh, thank you, Miss Callender. It is from Tipton, Egbert,’ said Lady Hermione as the door closed behind Lord Emsworth’s conscientious secretary. ‘He has arrived in London and will be coming here tomorrow. Tipton,’ she explained to Dame Daphne, ‘is the charming young American who is marrying Veronica.’

  ‘Splendid chap,’ said Colonel Wedge, whose spirits always rose when he thought of his future son-in-law’s millions.

  ‘Yes, we are devoted to dear Tipton. Veronica, of course, adores him.’

  ‘Love at first sight,’ said Colonel Wedge. ‘Very romantic.’

  ‘He has been in New York, looking after his business interests. He inherited a great deal of money from an uncle.’

  ‘Chester Tipton. Chet, they called him. Galahad used to know him.’

  ‘I wonder if Clarence and he met when he was over there.’

  ‘We must ask him. Ah, that must be Clarence now.

  A tooting had made itself heard from the direction of the front door, and presently footsteps sounded outside. It was not, however Lord Emsworth who entered, but Beach. His presence surprised Lady Hermione.

  ‘Was that the car, Beach?’

  ‘Yes, m’lady.’

  ‘Then where is Lord Emsworth?’

  ‘His lordship desired me to say that he would be delayed a few moments, as he has gone to see his pig, m’lady,’ said Beach and, his mission accomplished, withdrew.

  Dame Daphne seemed puzzled.

  ‘
Where did he say Clarence had gone?’

  ‘To see his pig,’ said Lady Hermione, speaking the final word as if it soiled her lips.

  ‘Prize pig. Empress of Blandings it’s called,’ Colonel Wedge explained. ‘Clarence is crazy about it.’

  ‘That pig needs exercise,’ said Huxley, speaking thickly through a mouthful of cake. He was a small, wizened, supercilious boy with a penetrating eye, who had inherited some of the qualities of both his parents — from his mother that air of hers of calm superiority, from his father the sardonic manner which had made him so unpopular in the Common Room of his college at Cambridge. ‘Too fat. I’m going to let it out of the sty and make it run.’

  And with the feeling that there was no time like the present, he left the room. It had occurred to him that at this hour Monica Simmons might be off somewhere having her cup of tea, and her absence was vital to his plans. He had a wholesome fear of that well-muscled girl, and her statement at their last meeting that if she caught him hanging around the Empress’s boudoir again, she would skin him alive had not failed to make an impression on him. It was only when he was halfway down the stairs that he remembered that Lord Emsworth was at the sty, and he decided to give the thing up for the moment. It would, he saw, be necessary to bide his time.

  ‘Crazy,’ said Colonel Wedge, continuing his remarks. ‘Let me tell you an incident that happened when we were here a year or two ago. I came back late one night from a Loyal Sons Of Shropshire dinner in London and went for a stroll in the grounds to stretch my legs after the long train journey, and I was passing the Empress’s sty when something I had taken for a suit of overalls hanging on the rail suddenly reared itself up, and it was Clarence. Gave me no end of a start. I asked him what he was doing there at that time of night — it was about twelve o’clock —and he said he was listening to his pig. And what was the pig doing, as I said to Hermione when I talked it over with her later? Singing? Reciting Gunga Din? Not at all. It was just breathing and Clarence was listening to it — courting lumbago, as I told him.’

  There had been a frown on Lady Hermione’s face as this anecdote proceeded. She was not pleased with her husband for telling a story which might well make Lord Emsworth’s destined bride dubious as to the advisability of linking her lot with a man who went out at midnight to listen to pigs breathing. It seemed to her that Dame Daphne was pursing her lips as she might have pursed them in her study at school, had she been informed by an undermistress that Angela and Phyllis had been found smoking cigarettes behind the gymnasium.

  ‘All it was doing,’ said Colonel Wedge, driving home his point in case it might have been missed, ‘was breathing. You remember what I said to you, old girl? “Old girl,” I said to you, “we’ve got to face it, Clarence is dotty.”‘

  ‘Nothing of the kind,’ said Lady Hermione sharply, and would have gone on to add that what her brother needed was a wife who would put a stop to all this fussing over a ridiculous pig, when Lord Emsworth made his belated appearance.

  ‘Ah, Hermione,’ he said. ‘Ah, Egbert. Quite, quite.’

  Lady Hermione regarded him austerely. Considering that he was returning from travels which had involved facing all the perils of New York and two ship’s concerts, at one of which he had had to take the chair, her greeting might have been more affectionate.

  ‘So here you are at last, Clarence. We had almost given you up. You remember Daphne Winkworth who used to be Daphne Littlewood?’

  ‘Oh, quite. Yes, quite,’ said Lord Emsworth.

  He spoke with splendid fortitude. There was nothing in his manner or his voice to show that the sight of this woman was making him feel like the hero of a novel of suspense trapped in an underground den by the personnel of the Black Moustache gang. Your English aristocrat learns to wear the mask.

  ‘Daphne is staying with us till her school re-opens.

  ‘Quite.’

  Feeling possibly that if not checked he would go on saying ‘Quite’ for the rest of the evening, Lady Hermione asked him coldly if he would like some tea and with a final ‘Quite’ and a ‘Tea? Tea? Yes, that would be capital, capital’ he sat down and began to sip. Colonel Wedge offered him a hospitable cucumber sandwich.

  ‘Glad to see you again, Clarence,’ he said. ‘You’ve caught me just in time. I’m off tomorrow.

  A quick gleam of hope shone on Lord Emsworth’s darkness. ‘Hermione, too?’ he said, feeling that things were looking up. ‘Good Lord, no. Hermione isn’t coming with me. I shall only be away a day or two. My godmother in Worcestershire, it’s her birthday the day after tomorrow, and I always have to be with her for that. Sort of a royal command.’

  ‘Oh?’ said Lord Emsworth, his hopes shattered.

  He was feeling bewildered. Eyeing Dame Daphne furtively over his cup, he found it incredible that even twenty years ago, when he was younger and sprightlier than he was today and presumably capable of feats of daring now beyond him, he could have contemplated getting engaged to so forbidding a woman.

  And the thought of actually marrying her made him feel that instead of the cucumber sandwich at which he was nibbling he was swallowing butterflies. He was willing to respect Dame Daphne Winkworth, to wish her continued success in her chosen career and to recommend her seminary to parents with daughters requiring education, but that was as far as he was prepared to go.

  He was roused from the coma into which he had fallen by the sound of Dame Daphne’s voice. She was saying that she had letters to write. With an unusual glimmering of the social sense he rose and opened the door for her.

  ‘Strange,’ he said, returning to his chair. ‘Galahad assures me that she and I were acquainted many years ago, but I can honestly say I didn’t know her from Eve. What did you tell me her name used to be?’

  ‘Never mind her name,’ said Lady Hermione tartly. ‘Clarence, you really are impossible.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Going off like that instead of coming here when you arrived.’

  ‘But I wanted to see my pig.’

  ‘No manners whatever. I could see that Daphne was offended. Anyone would have been. I hope you will take the trouble to be more polite to Tipton.’

  ‘Eh?’

  A telegram has come from Tipton saying that he will be here tomorrow.’

  ‘Who is Tipton?’

  ‘Oh, Clarence! Tipton Plimsoll is the man who is marrying Veronica.’

  ‘Who—’ Lord Emsworth began, but was able to save himself in time. ‘Yes, yes, of course. Your daughter Veronica, you mean. Quite.’

  ‘Did you see anything of Tipton when you were in New York?’ asked Colonel Wedge.

  An ‘Eh? What? No, I didn’t’ was trembling on Lord Emsworth’s lips, when recollection flooded in on him. Plimsoll. Tipton Plimsoll. Of course, yes. It all came back to him.

  ‘No, we didn’t meet,’ he said, ‘but he rang me up one night on the telephone. Nice fellow, I thought. Rather a husky voice, but very civil. Too bad he’s lost all his money.

  II

  It was not often that Lord Emsworth’s obiter dicta attracted any close attention. People when he spoke were inclined either not to listen to him at all or if his remarks did reach their ears, to dismiss them as unworthy of their notice. But not even Gally, telling the latest good story to an admiring circle at the Pelican Club, could have gripped his audience more surely than he with these few simple words had done.

  There fell upon the room a silence of the kind usually described as stunned. Eyes widened, jaws dropped. Then the Wedges, colonel and wife, spoke simultaneously.

  ‘Done what?’ cried the colonel.

  ‘Lost his money?’ cried Lady Hermione.

  ‘Yes, didn’t you know?’ said Lord Emsworth, mildly surprised. ‘I’d have thought he would have told you. He’s completely destitute. He’s selling apples.’

  Lady Hermione clutched her forehead, Colonel Wedge his moustache.

  Apples?’ said Lady Hermione in a low voice.

  ‘How do you mean, apples?’
said Colonel Wedge.

  Lord Emsworth saw that he would have to do some careful explaining.

  According to Galahad, that is what everybody in America is doing now. I could not quite follow what he was telling me, but as far as I could gather there has been what is called a crash on the Stock Exchange. What that is I’m afraid I don’t know, but apparently it is something that causes people to lose money, and when they have lost all their money, they sell apples. Oddly enough, though most people like them, I have never been very fond of apples. Still, they are said to keep the doctor away, so no doubt there is a market for them. I suppose your friends tell you how much to charge. I wouldn’t know myself, but Tipton has probably found someone who understands these things. One would sell them by the pound, I imagine, but— ‘Clarence!’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Where did you hear this?’ ‘Hear what?’

  About Tipton losing his money.

  ‘He told me himself. I remember the conversation quite distinctly. It took place, as I say, on the telephone. All these New York hotels have telephones in the bedrooms. You order your meals through them. A very obliging housemaid told me that. She said that if I wanted let us say breakfast, all I had to do was to pick up the telephone and ask for Room Service, and she was perfectly right, too. I tried it several times and always with success. Did you know that when you order tea in America, they bring it to you in little bags?’

  Lady Hermione did not strike her brother with a bludgeon, but this was simply because she had no bludgeon.

  ‘Clarence!’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Stop rambling!’

  ‘Yes, tell us about this conversation you had with Tipton,’ said Colonel Wedge.

  ‘I am telling you,’ said Lord Emsworth, aggrieved. As I was saying, it took place on the telephone. It was very late at night, and I had gone to bed, and suddenly the telephone rang and a voice said “Is that Lord Emsworth?” No, I’m wrong. It said “Hello” and then it asked if I was Lord Emsworth. Of course I was, so I said so and it said it was sorry to disturb me at this time of night. “Quite all right, my dear fellow,” I said. As a matter of fact, I wasn’t asleep. Somebody else had woken me a short while before, another mysterious voice. It wanted to know if I was the Oil of Emsworth, and when I said I was, it rang off Rather odd, I thought, but I suppose that sort of thing is happening all the time in America. Very strange country.’