Table of Contents
Praise for P.G. Wodehouse
About the Author
By the Same Author
Title Page
Copyright Page
Title
CHAPTER ONE 2
3
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE 2
3
CHAPTER FOUR 2
3
4
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX 2
CHAPTER SEVEN 2
3
4
5
6
CHAPTER EIGHT 2
3
4
CHAPTER NINE 2
3
4
5
CHAPTER TEN 2
3
CHAPTER ELEVEN 2
3
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN 2
3
4
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Extract: Aunts Aren't Gentlemen CHAPTER TWO
www.wodehouse.co.uk
P.G. Wodehouse
'The ultimate in comfort reading because nothing bad ever happens in P.G. Wodehouse land. Or even if it does, it's always sorted out by the end of the book. For as long as I'm immersed in a P.G. Wodehouse book, it's possible to keep the real world at bay and live in a far, far nicer, funnier one where happy endings are the order of the day' Marian Keyes
'You should read Wodehouse when you're well and when you're poorly; when you're travelling, and when you're not; when you're feeling clever, and when you're feeling utterly dim. Wodehouse always lifts your spirits, no matter how high they happen to be already' Lynne Truss
'P.G. Wodehouse remains the greatest chronicler of a certain kind of Englishness, that no one else has ever captured quite so sharply, or with quite as much wit and affection' Julian Fellowes
'Not only the funniest English novelist who ever wrote but one of our finest stylists. His world is perfect, his stories are perfect, his writing is perfect. What more is there to be said?' Susan Hill
'One of my (few) proud boasts is that I once spent a day interviewing P.G. Wodehouse at his home in America. He was exactly as I'd expected: a lovely, modest man. He could have walked out of one of his own novels. It's dangerous to use the word genius to describe a writer, but I'll risk it with him' John Humphrys
'The incomparable and timeless genius – perfect for readers of all ages, shapes and sizes!' Kate Mosse
'A genius . . . Elusive, delicate but lasting. He created such a credible world that, sadly, I suppose, never really existed but what a delight it always is to enter it and the temptation to linger there is sometimes almost overwhelming' Alan Ayckbourn
'Wodehouse was quite simply the Bee's Knees. And then some' Joseph Connolly
'Compulsory reading for any one who has a pig, an aunt – or a sense of humour!' Lindsey Davis
'I constantly find myself drooling with admiration at the sublime way Wodehouse plays with the English language' Simon Brett
'I've recorded all the Jeeves books, and I can tell you this: it's like singing Mozart. The perfection of the phrasing is a physical pleasure. I doubt if any writer in the English language has more perfect music' Simon Callow
'Quite simply, the master of comic writing at work' Jane Moore
'To pick up a Wodehouse novel is to find oneself in the presence of genius – no writer has ever given me so much pure enjoyment' John Julius Norwich
'P.G. Wodehouse is the gold standard of English wit' Christopher Hitchens
'Wodehouse is so utterly, properly, simply funny' Adele Parks
'To dive into a Wodehouse novel is to swim in some of the most elegantly turned phrases in the English language' Ben Schott
'P.G. Wodehouse should be prescribed to treat depression. Cheaper, more effective than valium and far, far more addictive' Olivia Williams
'My only problem with Wodehouse is deciding which of his enchanting books to take to my desert island' Ruth Dudley Edwards
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.
Some of the P.G. Wodehouse titles to be published by Arrow in 2008
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
P.G. WODEHOUSE
A Pelican at Blandings
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ISBN 9781409063506
Version 1.0
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Published by Arrow Books 2008
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First published in the United Kingdom in 1969 by Herbert Jenkins Ltd
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Version 1.0
A Pelican at Blandings
CHAPTER ONE
The summer day was drawing to a close and dusk had fallen on Blandings Castle, shrouding from view the ancient battlements, dulling the silver surface of the lake and causing Lord Emsworth's supreme Berkshire sow Empress of Blandings to leave the open air portion of her sty and withdraw into the covered shed where she did her sleeping. A dedicated believer in the maxim of early to bed and early to rise, she always turned in at about this time. Only by getting its regular eight hours can a pig keep up to the mark and preserve that schoolgirl complexion.
Deprived of her society, which he had been enjoying since shortly after lunch, Clarence, ninth Earl of Emsworth, the seigneur of this favoured realm, pottered dreamily back to the house, pottered dreamily to the great library which was one of its features, and had just pottered dreamily to his favourite chair, when Beach, his butler, entered bearing a laden tray. He gave it the vague stare which had so often incurred the censure —'Oh, for goodness sake, Clarence, don't stand there looking like a goldfish'—of his sisters Constance, Dora, Charlotte, Julia and Hermione.
'Eh?' he said. 'What?' he added.
'Your dinner, m'lord.'
Lord Emsworth's face cleared. He was telling himself that he might have known that there would be some simple explanation for that tray. Trust Beach to have everything under control.
'Of course, yes. Dinner. Quite. Always have it at this time, don't I? And recently been having it here, though I can't remember for what reason. Why am I having dinner in the library, Beach?'
'I gathered that your lordship preferred not to share the meal in the dining-room with Mr. Chesney.'
'Mr. who?'
'Mr. Howard Chesney, m'lord, Mr. Frederick's friend from America.'
The puzzled frown that had begun to gather on Lord Emsworth's forehead vanished like breath off a razor blade. Once more Beach with that lucid brain of his had dispelled the fog of mystery which had threatened to defy solution.
'Ah yes, Mr. Howard Chesney. Mr. Howard Chesney, to be sure, Mr. Frederick's friend from America. Are they feeding him, do you know?'
'Yes, m'lord.'
'I wouldn't want him to starve.'
'No, m'lord.'
'Is he having his dinner?'
'Mr. Chesney went to London by the afternoon train, m'lord, planning, I understand, to return tomorrow.'
'I see. So he'll probably dine there. At a restaurant or somewhere.'
'Presumably, m'lord.'
'The last time I dined in London was with Mr. Galahad at a place in one of those streets off Leicester Square. He said he had a sentimental fondness for it because it was one he had so often been thrown out of in his younger days. It was called something or other, but I forget what. That stuff smells good, Beach. What is it?'
'Leg of lamb, m'lord, with boiled potatoes.'
Lord Emsworth received the information with a gratified nod. Good plain English fare. How different, he was thinking, from the bad old era when his sister Constance had been the Fiihrer of Blandings Castle. Under her regime dinner would have meant dressing and sitting down, probably with a lot of frightful guests, to a series of ghastly dishes with French names, and fuss beyond belief if one happened to swallow one's front shirt stud and substituted for it a brass paper-fastener.
'And,' Beach added, for he was a man who liked to be scrupulously accurate, 'spinach.'
'Capital, capital. And to follow?'
'Roly-poly pudding, m'lord.'
'Excellent. With plenty of jam, I hope?'
'Yes, m'lord. I instructed Mrs. Willoughby—'
'Who is Mrs. Willoughby?'
'The Cook, m'lord.'
'I thought her name was Perkins.'
'No, m'lord, Willoughby. I instructed her to be careful that there was no stint.'
'Thank you, Beach. Are you fond of roly-poly pudding?'
'Yes, m'lord.'
'With plenty of jam?'
'Yes, m'lord.'
'It's quite essential, I always feel. Unless there is lots of jam roly-poly pudding is not worth eating. All right. Bring it when I ring, will you?'
'Very good, m'lord.'
Left alone, Lord Emsworth attacked his good plain English fare with gusto, musing as he did on the stupendous improvement in conditions at the castle since his sister Constance had married that American fellow James Schoonmaker and gone to live in New York. Providence, moreover, never niggardly when attending to the welfare of a deserving man, had seen to it that there was no danger of any of his other sisters taking her place. At their last meeting he had so deeply offended Hermione that they were no longer on speaking terms, and as for Dora, Charlotte and Julia, they never left London except to go to fashionable resorts on the Riviera and in Spain. The peril of a visit from any of them was so remote that it could be dismissed, and it is scarcely to be wondered at that by the time Beach brought in the roly-poly pudding he was in so euphoric a frame of mind that he would probably not have noticed it if there had been a shortage in the accompanying jam. His brother Galahad had once said that it had been a mistake to have sisters and that they ought to have set their faces against it at the outset, but almost as good as no sisters were sisters who kept their distance.
There was just one small crumpled rose leaf. His younger son Frederick, now employed in a firm in Long Island City, N.Y., which manufactured dog biscuits, had most unnecessarily sent this chap Chesney to him with a letter of introduction and he had had to ask him to stay, but he had neutralized the man's menace by cleverly having all his meals in the library and in between meals keeping out of his way. A host can always solve the problem of the unwanted guest if he has a certain animal cunning and no social conscience.
He finished the roly-poly pudding to the last speck of jam and took his coffee to the arm-chair in which he always reclined when in the library. It was within easy reach of the shelf of pig books which were his main source of mental refreshment. Selecting one of these, he became immersed, and it was not for some considerable time that his attention was diverted from its magic pages. What diverted it was the sound, plainly audible through the open window, of a car drawing up at the front door. It alarmed him, and when shortly afterwards Beach appeared, he addressed him in a voice that shook with pardonable anxiety. Callers at the castle had been infrequent since Connie's departure, but he knew that they still lurked in near-by lairs and it was possible that in spite of his efforts he had not entirely stamped out the neighbourly spirit he so deplored.
'Was that a car, Beach?'
'Yes, m'lord.'
'If it's someone for me, say I'm in bed.'
'It is her ladyship, m'lord.'
'Eh? What? What ladyship?'
'Lady Constance, m'lord.'
For one awful moment Lord Emsworth thought he had said 'Lady Constance'. In the moment which succeeded it he realized that he had, and he quivered with natural resentment. In the long years during which Beach had been to him more a crony than a butler he had never detected in him a disposition to try to be funny, but it now seemed plain that the man was in the grip of the spirit of whimsy, and he burned with justifiable indignation. Too bad of the fellow to come bursting in like this and saying things like that, presumably as some sort of crude practical joke. Might have given one heart failure.
Then the mist before his eyes cleared and he saw the look in the eyes that met his. It was a look in which sadness, understanding and pity were blended; the look of one who knew how grave was the announcement he had made; of one who fully appreciated how his employer must be feeling and who, had their social relations permitted of it, would have p
atted him on the head and urged him to bear up like a man, for these things are sent to try us and make us more spiritual.
It convinced Lord Emsworth. He no longer felt that he had been cast in the role of straight man supporting a butler who was playing for laughs. Hideous though the truth was, it could not be evaded.
'Where is she?'
'In the amber drawing-room, m'lord. Her ladyship is accompanied by a Miss Polk—from her voice, I gather, of American origin.'
The pig book had long since fallen from Lord Emsworth's nerveless hand, as had the pince-nez from his nose. He reeled the latter in at the end of their cord.
'I suppose I had better go down,' he said in a low, toneless voice, and with faltering steps made for the door. Beach, who sometimes read historical novels, though he preferred Rex Stout and Agatha Christie, was reminded of an apprehensive aristocrat in the days of the French Revolution on his way to the tumbril.
2
Precisely as stated Lady Constance was in the amber drawing-room, sipping sherry and looking as formidable and handsome as ever. All Lord Emsworth's sisters were constructed on the lines of the severer type of Greek goddess, except Hermione, who looked like a cook, and Connie in particular was remarkable for aristocratic hauteur and forcefulness of eye. One felt immediately on seeing her that there stood the daughter of a hundred earls, just as when confronted with Lord Emsworth one had the impression that one had encountered the son of a hundred tramp cyclists. He was wearing at the moment patched flannel trousers, a ragged shirt, a shooting coat with holes in the elbows and bedroom slippers. These, of course, in addition to the apprehensive look always worn by him when entering this formidable woman's presence. From childhood onward she had always dominated him, as she would have dominated Napoleon, Attila the Hun and an all-in wrestling champion.
'Oh, there you are, Clarence,' she said, and her eye told him more plainly than words could have done that he had failed to satisfy her fastidious taste in the matter of dress. 'I want you to meet my friend Vanessa Polk, who was so kind to me on the boat. This is my brother Clarence, Vanessa,' said Lady Constance with that touch of the apologetic which always came into her voice when she introduced him to visitors. Don't go blaming me, it seemed to say, it's not my fault.
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