That Glimpse of Truth

by David Miller

Lord Emsworth’s mental and spiritual state was now such that not even the advent of his sister Constance could add noticeably to his discomfort.

  “Clarence, you look a perfect sight.”

  “I know I do. Who wouldn’t in a rig-out like this? Why in the name of goodness you always insist …”

  “Please don’t be childish, Clarence. I cannot understand the fuss you make about dressing for once in your life like a reasonable English gentleman and not like a tramp.”

  “It’s this top hat. It’s exciting the children.”

  “What on earth do you mean, exciting the children?”

  “Well, all I can tell you is that just now, as I was passing the place where they’re playing football – Football! In weather like this! – a small boy called out something derogatory and threw a portion of a coco-nut at it.”

  “If you will identify the child,” said Lady Constance warmly, “I will have him severely punished.”

  “How the dickens,” replied his lordship with equal warmth, “can I identify the child? They all look alike to me. And if I did identify him, I would shake him by the hand. A boy who throws coco-nuts at top hats is fundamentally sound in his views. And stiff collars …”

  “Stiff! That’s what I came to speak to you about. Are you aware that your collar looks like a rag? Go in and change it at once.”

  “But, my dear Constance …”

  “At once, Clarence. I simply cannot understand a man having so little pride in his appearance. But all your life you have been like that. I remember when we were children …”

  Lord Emsworth’s past was not of such a purity that he was prepared to stand and listen to it being lectured on by a sister with a good memory.

  “Oh, all right, all right, all right,” he said. “I’ll change it, I’ll change it.”

  “Well, hurry. They are just starting tea.”

  Lord Emsworth quivered.

  “Have I got to go into that tea-tent?”

  “Of course you have. Don’t be so ridiculous. I do wish you would realize your position. As master of Blandings Castle …”

  A bitter, mirthless laugh from the poor peon thus ludicrously described drowned the rest of the sentence.

  It always seemed to Lord Emsworth, in analysing these entertainments, that the August Bank Holiday Saturnalia at Blandings Castle reached a peak of repulsiveness when tea was served in the big marquee. Tea over, the agony abated, to become acute once more at the moment when he stepped to the edge of the platform and cleared his throat and tried to recollect what the deuce he had planned to say to the goggling audience beneath him. After that, it subsided again and passed until the following August.

  Conditions during the tea hour, the marquee having stood all day under a blazing sun, were generally such that Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego, had they been there, could have learned something new about burning fiery furnaces. Lord Emsworth, delayed by the revision of his toilet, made his entry when the meal was half over and was pleased to find that his second collar almost instantaneously began to relax its iron grip. That, however, was the only gleam of happiness which was to be vouchsafed him. Once in the tent, it took his experienced eye but a moment to discern that the present feast was eclipsing in frightfulness all its predecessors.

  Young Blandings Parva, in its normal form, tended rather to the stolidly bovine than the riotous. In all villages, of course, there must of necessity be an occasional tough egg – in the case of Blandings Parva the names of Willie Drake and Thomas (Rat-Face) Blenkiron spring to the mind – but it was seldom that the local infants offered anything beyond the power of a curate to control. What was giving the present gathering its striking resemblance to a reunion of sans-culottes at the height of the French Revolution was the admixture of the Fresh Air London visitors.

  About the London child, reared among the tin cans and cabbage stalks of Drury Lane and Clare Market, there is a breezy insouciance which his country cousin lacks. Years of back-chat with annoyed parents and relatives have cured him of any tendency he may have had towards shyness, with the result that when he requires anything he grabs for it, and when he is amused by any slight peculiarity in the personal appearance of members of the governing classes he finds no difficulty in translating his thoughts into speech. Already, up and down the long tables, the curate’s unfortunate squint was coming in for hearty comment, and the front teeth of one of the school-teachers ran it a close second for popularity. Lord Emsworth was not, as a rule, a man of swift inspirations, but it occurred to him at this juncture that it would be a prudent move to take off his top hat before his little guests observed it and appreciated its humorous possibilities.

  The action was not, however, necessary. Even as he raised his hand a rock cake, singing through the air like a shell, took it off for him.

  Lord Emsworth had had sufficient. Even Constance, unreasonable woman though she was, could hardly expect him to stay and beam genially under conditions like this. All civilized laws had obviously gone by the board and Anarchy reigned in the marquee. The curate was doing his best to form a provisional government consisting of himself and the two school-teachers, but there was only one man who could have coped adequately with the situation and that was King Herod, who – regrettably – was not among those present. Feeling like some aristocrat of the old régime sneaking away from the tumbril, Lord Emsworth edged to the exit and withdrew.

  Outside the marquee the world was quieter, but only comparatively so. What Lord Emsworth craved was solitude, and in all the broad park there seemed to be but one spot where it was to be had. This was a red-tiled shed, standing beside a small pond, used at happier times as a lounge or retiring-room for cattle. Hurrying thither, his lordship had just begun to revel in the cool, cow-scented dimness of its interior when from one of the dark corners, causing him to start and bite his tongue, there came the sound of a subdued sniff.

  He turned. This was persecution. With the whole park to mess about in, why should an infernal child invade this one sanctuary of his? He spoke with angry sharpness. He came of a line of warrior ancestors and his fighting blood was up.

  “Who’s that?”

  “Me, sir. Thank you, sir.”

  Only one person of Lord Emsworth’s acquaintance was capable of expressing gratitude for having been barked at in such a tone. His wrath died away and remorse took its place. He felt like a man who in error has kicked a favourite dog.

  “God bless my soul!” he exclaimed. “What in the world are you doing in a cow-shed?”

  “Please, sir, I was put.”

  “Put? How do you mean, put? Why?”

  “For pinching things, sir.”

  “Eh? What? Pinching things? Most extraordinary. What did you – er – pinch?”

  “Two buns, two jem-sengwiches, two apples and a slicer cake.”

  The girl had come out of her corner and was standing correctly at attention. Force of habit had caused her to intone the list of the purloined articles in the singsong voice in which she was wont to recite the multiplication-table at school, but Lord Emsworth could see that she was deeply moved. Tear-stains glistened on her face, and no Emsworth had ever been able to watch unstirred a woman’s tears. The ninth Earl was visibly affected.

  “Blow your nose,” he said, hospitably extending his handkerchief.

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

  “What did you say you had pinched? Two buns …”

  “… Two jem-sengwiches, two apples and a slicer cake.”

  “Did you eat them?”

  “No, sir. They wasn’t for me. They was for Ern.”

  “Ern? Oh, ah, yes. Yes, to be sure. For Ern, eh?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “But why the dooce couldn’t Ern have – er – pinched them for himself? Strong, able-bodied young feller, I mean.”

  Lord Emsworth, a member of the old school, did not like this disposition on the part of the modern young man to shirk the dirty work and let the woman pay.

  “Ern wasn’
t allowed to come to the treat, sir.”

  “What! Not allowed? Who said he mustn’t?”

  “The lidy, sir.”

  “What lidy?”

  “The one that come in just after you’d gorn this morning.”

  A fierce snort escaped Lord Emsworth. Constance! What the devil did Constance mean by taking it upon herself to revise his list of guests without so much as a … Constance, eh? He snorted again. One of these days Constance would go too far.

  “Monstrous!” he cried.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “High-handed tyranny, by Gad. Did she give any reason?”

  “The lidy didn’t like Ern biting ’er in the leg, sir.”

  “Ern bit her in the leg?”

  “Yes, sir. Pliying ’e was a dorg. And the lidy was cross and Ern wasn’t allowed to come to the treat, and I told ’im I’d bring ’im back somefing nice.”

  Lord Emsworth breathed heavily. He had not supposed that in these degenerate days a family like this existed. The sister copped Angus McAllister on the shin with stones, the brother bit Constance in the leg … It was like listening to some grand old saga of the exploits of heroes and demigods.

  “I thought if I didn’t ’ave nothing myself it would make it all right.”

  “Nothing?” Lord Emsworth started. “Do you mean to tell me you have not had tea?”

  “No, sir. Thank you, sir. I thought if I didn’t ’ave none, then it would be all right Ern ’aving what I would ’ave ’ad if I ’ad ’ave ’ad.”

  His lordship’s head, never strong, swam a little. Then it resumed its equilibrium. He caught her drift.

  “God bless my soul!” said Lord Emsworth. “I never heard anything so monstrous and appalling in my life. Come with me immediately.”

  “The lidy said I was to stop ’ere, sir.”

  Lord Emsworth gave vent to his loudest snort of the afternoon.

  “Confound the lidy!”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

  Five minutes later Beach, the butler, enjoying a siesta in the housekeeper’s room, was roused from his slumbers by the unexpected ringing of a bell. Answering its summons, he found his employer in the library, and with him a surprising young person in a velveteen frock, at the sight of whom his eyebrows quivered and, but for his iron self-restraint, would have risen.

  “Beach!”

  “Your lordship?”

  “This young lady would like some tea.”

  “Very good, your lordship.”

  “Buns, you know. And apples, and jem – I mean jam-sandwiches, and cake, and that sort of thing.”

  “Very good, your lordship.”

  “And she has a brother, Beach.”

  “Indeed, your lordship?”

  “She will want to take some stuff away for him.” Lord Emsworth turned to his guest. “Ernest would like a little chicken, perhaps?”

  “Coo!”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

  “And a slice or two of ham?”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

  “And – he has no gouty tendency?”

  “No, sir. Thank you, sir.”

  “Capital! Then a bottle of that new lot of port, Beach. It’s some stuff they’ve sent me down to try,” explained his lordship. “Nothing special, you understand,” he added apologetically, “but quite drinkable. I should like your brother’s opinion of it. See that all that is put together in a parcel, Beach, and leave it on the table in the hall. We will pick it up as we go out.”

  A welcome coolness had crept into the evening air by the time Lord Emsworth and his guest came out of the great door of the castle. Gladys, holding her host’s hand and clutching the parcel, sighed contentedly. She had done herself well at the tea-table. Life seemed to have nothing more to offer.

  Lord Emsworth did not share this view. His spacious mood had not yet exhausted itself.

  “Now, is there anything else you can think of that Ernest would like?” he asked. “If so, do not hesitate to mention it. Beach, can you think of anything?”

  The butler, hovering respectfully, was unable to do so.

  “No, your lordship. I ventured to add – on my own responsibility, your lordship – some hard-boiled eggs and a pot of jam to the parcel.”

  “Excellent! You are sure there is nothing else?”

  A wistful look came into Glady’s eyes.

  “Could he ’ave some flarze?”

  “Certainly,” said Lord Emsworth. “Certainly, certainly, certainly. By all means. Just what I was about to suggest my – er – what is flarze?”

  Beach, the linguist, interpreted.

  “I think the young lady means flowers, your lordship.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. Flarze.”

  “Oh?” said Lord Emsworth. “Oh? Flarze?” he said slowly. “Oh, ah, yes. Yes. I see. H’m!”

  He removed his pince-nez, wiped them thoughtfully, replaced them, and gazed with wrinkling forehead at the gardens that stretched gaily out before him. Flarze! It would be idle to deny that those gardens contained flarze in full measure. They were bright with Achillea, Bignonia Radicans, Campanula, Digitalis, Euphorbia, Funkia, Gypsophila, Helianthus, Iris, Liatris, Monarda, Phlox Drummondi, Salvia, Thalictrum, Vinca and Yucca. But the devil of it was that Angus McAllister would have a fit if they were picked. Across the threshold of this Eden the ginger whiskers of Angus McAllister lay like a flaming sword.

  As a general rule, the procedure for getting flowers out of Angus McAllister was as follows. You waited till he was in one of his rare moods of complaisance, then you led the conversation gently round to the subject of interior decoration, and then, choosing your moment, you asked if he could possibly spare a few to be put in vases. The last thing you thought of doing was to charge in and start helping yourself.

  “I – er – …” said Lord Emsworth.

  He stopped. In a sudden blinding flash of clear vision he had seen himself for what he was – the spineless, unspeakably unworthy descendant of ancestors who, though they may have had their faults, had certainly known how to handle employees. It was “How now, varlet!” and “Marry come up, thou malapert knave!” in the days of previous Earls of Emsworth. Of course, they had possessed certain advantages which he lacked. It undoubtedly helped a man in his dealings with the domestic staff to have, as they had had, the rights of the high, the middle and the low justice – which meant, broadly, that if you got annoyed with your head-gardener you could immediately divide him into four head-gardeners with a battle-axe and no questions asked – but even so, he realized that they were better men than he was and that, if he allowed craven fear of Angus McAllister to stand in the way of this delightful girl and her charming brother getting all the flowers they required, he was not worthy to be the last of their line.

  Lord Emsworth wrestled with his tremors.

  “Certainly, certainly, certainly,” he said, though not without a qualm. “Take as many as you want.”

  And so it came about that Angus McAllister, crouched in his potting-shed like some dangerous beast in its den, beheld a sight which first froze his blood and then sent it boiling through his veins. Flitting to and fro through his sacred gardens, picking his sacred flowers, was a small girl in a velveteen frock. And – which brought apoplexy a step closer – it was the same small girl who two days before had copped him on the shin with a stone. The stillness of the summer evening was shattered by a roar that sounded like boilers exploding, and Angus McAllister came out of the potting-shed at forty-five miles per hour.

  Gladys did not linger. She was a London child, trained from infancy to bear herself gallantly in the presence of alarms and excursions, but this excursion had been so sudden that it momentarily broke her nerve. With a horrified yelp she scuttled to where Lord Emsworth stood and, hiding behind him, clutched the tails of his morning-coat.

  “Oo-er!” said Gladys.

  Lord Emsworth was not feeling so frightfully good himself
. We have pictured him a few moments back drawing inspiration from the nobility of his ancestors and saying, in effect, “That for McAllister!” but truth now compels us to admit that this hardy attitude was largely due to the fact that he believed the head-gardener to be a safe quarter of a mile away among the swings and roundabouts of the Fête. The spectacle of the man charging vengefully down on him with gleaming eyes and bristling whiskers made him feel like a nervous English infantryman at the Battle of Bannockburn. His knees shook and the soul within him quivered.

  And then something happened, and the whole aspect of the situation changed.

  It was, in itself, quite a trivial thing, but it had an astoundingly stimulating effect on Lord Emsworth’s morale. What happened was that Gladys, seeking further protection, slipped at this moment a small, hot hand into his.

  It was a mute vote of confidence, and Lord Emsworth intended to be worthy of it.

  “He’s coming,” whispered his lordship’s Inferiority Complex agitatedly.

  “What of it?” replied Lord Emsworth stoutly.

  “Tick him off,” breathed his lordship’s ancestors in his other ear.

  “Leave it to me,” replied Lord Emsworth.

  He drew himself up and adjusted his pince-nez. He felt filled with a cool masterfulness. If the man tendered his resignation, let him tender his damned resignation.

  “Well, McAllister?” said Lord Emsworth coldly.

  He removed his top hat and brushed it against his sleeve.

  “What is the matter, McAllister?”

  He replaced his top hat.

  “You appear agitated, McAllister.”

  He jerked his head militantly. The hat fell off. He let it lie. Freed from its loathsome weight he felt more masterful than ever. It had just needed that to bring him to the top of his form.

  “This young lady,” said Lord Emsworth, “has my full permission to pick all the flowers she wants, McAllister. If you do not see eye to eye with me in this matter, McAllister, say so and we will discuss what you are going to do about it, McAllister. These gardens, McAllister, belong to me, and if you do not – er – appreciate that fact you will, no doubt, be able to find another employer – ah – more in tune with your views. I value your services highly, McAllister, but I will not be dictated to in my own garden, McAllister. Er – dash it,” added his lordship, spoiling the whole effect.