Whether in literature or in fine arts, we relate to characters when we find an inner connection. There could either be a similarity in personality traits, or in the challenges faced. When this happens, we laugh with the person. We cry with the person. We willingly suspend our own beliefs and virtually start living the life of the character.
As a member of the tribe of the so-called sterner sex, I confess I have shades of quite a few characters etched out by P G Wodehouse. These could be males, or even females.
Amongst males, when it comes to notions of chivalry and a chin up attitude towards the harsh slings and arrows of Fate, Bertie Wooster becomes my role model. When the summons arrive from someone higher up in the hierarchy, and the prospects of a severe dressing down cloud the horizon, I meekly surrender and follow the messenger…
Those of you who watch the career achievements of the Empress of Blandings with keen interest may already be aware that the silver medal in the Fat Pigs class at the one-hundred-and-seventy-fifth annual Shropshire Agricultural Show held in 2023 has been won by the Earl of Emsworth’s black Berkshire sow.
Very few people, however, are aware how near that fine specimen of the porcine species came to missing the coveted honour.
Now it can be told.
This brief chapter of Secret History may be said to have begun on the night of the 6th of February, when news trickled in that the Animal Welfare Board of India (an advisory body under the Ministry of Fisheries, Animal Husbandry and Dairying), in its infinite wisdom, had issued a diktat exhorting all the lovers of ‘Gau-mata’ (cow mother) to celebrate the upcoming Valentine’s Day as ‘Cow Hug Day’. It extolled the many virtues of this much-revered animal, describing it as the backbone of Indian culture and even claimed that hugging with cow will bring emotional richness to the hugger, thereby making their life happy and full of positive energy.
As luck would have it, starting on the 13th of February, Lord Emsworth was away to the metropolis for a trip which was supposed to last three days. He hated being in London, but when one has to be a worthy descendant of one’s ancestors and duty calls, one has to take the rough with the smooth.
While he was away, the Efficient Baxter hatched a juicy scheme in connivance with Lady Constance Keeble. An ingenious plan to boost the revenues of the Castle was unleashed. Learning from the unique initiative of the Government of India, a promotional poster went around on the social media announcing that, for a nominal charge, a person could walk into the Castle and hug the Empress on Valentine’s Day. As an exception, on the day, visitors were permitted to pose for a selfie with the regal animal. Of course, flash photography was not permitted, lest the Empress lose her sense of equanimity and sang froid.
Given the sound reputation of the Empress in the nearby counties, a good many people landed up on the day, and went back with big smiles on their faces, having just clicked a selfie of their having hugged the famous personality. Some even purchased different kinds of mementos, duly cast in ceramic and papier mâché, which were put up on sale on the occasion, depicting the Empress of Blandings in different poses. Special balloons shaped like her were eagerly lapped up by parents who were relentlessly pestered by their obdurate kids.
At the end of the day, Lady Constance Keeble was delighted when The Efficient Baxter reported back on the magnitude of collections made. She was chuffed that she could not only manage to pay the exorbitant power charges for an entire year of operations at the Castle, but also execute the much-delayed plans for repairs and upgradation of facilities for all its guests, visitors, and impostors.
On the 15th of February, Empress of Blandings, always a hearty and even a boisterous feeder, for the second time on record, declined all nourishment.
On the 16th of February, George Cyril Wellbeloved, the pigman in the employ of Lord Emsworth, sent a telegram to Lord Emsworth which caused many at the local post office to raise their eyebrows by at least a quarter of an inch. The communication read thus:
Empress refuses feeding. Urgent. Need doctor immediately.
Lord Emsworth made an urgent call to the veterinary surgeon, cut short his visit to London, and rushed back to the Castle.
And on the morning of the 17th of February, the doctor called in to diagnose and deal with this strange asceticism, was compelled to confess to Lord Emsworth that the thing was beyond his professional skill.
To recapitulate the events so far:
February 6 – ‘Cow Hug Day’ notification gets issued in India.
February 7 – The Efficient Baxter comes up with a revenue-generation model by declaring the upcoming Valentine’s Day as the ‘Empress Hug Day’.
February 8 – Lady Constance Keeble, anxious about the finances at the Castle, approves the plan.
February 9 – Unbeknown to Lord Emsworth, a poster promoting the gala event gets released on social media.
February 10 – The Animal Welfare Board of India issues a terse notification declaring that its appeal for celebration of Cow Hug Day on 14th February stands withdrawn. Rupert Baxter promptly reports this to Lady Constance Keeble. Nevertheless, both decide to go ahead with their plans.
February 13 – Lord Emsworth leaves for the metropolis.
February 14 – ‘Empress Hug Day’ gets celebrated.
February 15 – Empress lays off the vitamins.
February 16 – Veterinary surgeon gets summoned.
February 17 – Veterinary surgeon baffled.
Right.
The effect of the veterinary surgeon’s announcement on Lord Emsworth was overwhelming. As a rule, the wear and tear of our complex modern life left this vague and amiable peer unscathed. So long as he had sunshine, regular meals, and complete freedom from the society of his younger son Frederick, he was placidly happy. But there were chinks in his armour, and one of these had been pierced this morning. Dazed by the news he had received, he stood at the window of the great library of Blandings Castle, looking out with unseeing eyes.
As he stood there, the door opened. Lord Emsworth turned, and having blinked once or twice, as was his habit when confronted suddenly with anything, recognized in the handsome and imperious-looking woman who had entered – his sister, Lady Constance Keeble. Her demeanour, unlike his own, betrayed the inner sense of gratification she was experiencing, having made a substantial contribution to the Castle’s coffers.
‘Clarence,’ she chipped in, ‘have you heard the good news?’
Lord Emsworth looked at her doubtfully.
‘What could be good these days? That man is an ass.’
As frequently happened to her when in conversation with her brother, Lady Constance experienced a swimming sensation in the head.
‘Will you kindly tell me, Clarence, in a few simple words, what you imagine we are talking about?’
‘I am talking about Smithers. Empress of Blandings is refusing her food, and Smithers says he can’t do anything about it. And he calls himself a vet!’
‘Then you haven’t heard? Clarence, Baxter, and I have managed to make a hefty collection on this Valentine’s Day. You no longer need to worry about our backlog of power bills and the critical repairs you were dreaming of carrying out at the Castle. Are you not happy?!’
‘And the Agricultural Show is already upon us!’
‘What on earth has that got to do with it?’ demanded Lady Constance, feeling a recurrence of the swimming sensation.
‘What has it got to do with it?’ said Lord Emsworth warmly. ‘My champion sow, with less than ten days to prepare herself for a most searching examination in competition with all the finest pigs in the county, starts refusing her food—’
‘Will you stop fussing over your insufferable pig and give your attention to something that really matters? I am trying to tell you that we have made a big pile of money while you were off to London to take care of some legal work.’
There was a silence. Brother and sister remained for a space plunged in thought. Lord Emsworth was the first to speak.
‘We’ve tried acorns,’ he said. ‘We’ve tried skim milk. And we have tried potato-peel. But, no, she will not touch them.’
Conscious of two eyes raising blisters on his sensitive skin, he came to himself with a start.
‘Pile of money, you say? How?’
Lady Constance spilled the beans. As she went on spilling the beans, the colour of her brother’s face started changing from a dull pink to a dark shade of red. His physical frame shuddered. His eyes, normally dull, looked like something out of an oxyacetylene blowpipe. As far as he was capable of being disturbed by anything that was not his younger son Frederick, he was disturbed. Somehow controlling his rage, he enquired.
‘Where is Rupert Baxter?’
‘He has gone off to the bank to deposit the amount we collected.’
‘I would surely like a word with him the moment he is back. If he thinks he can go about the place playing fast and loose with the Empress, exposing her to the trauma of getting hugged by all and sundry, and leading her to a mental state where she would refuse her daily quota of fifty-seven thousand and eight hundred calories, he is sorely mistaken. Absurd! Ridiculous! Did he think of seeking her consent before exposing her to such a preposterous arrangement?’
‘Clarence!’
Lord Emsworth blinked. Something appeared to be wrong, but he was convinced that he had struck just the right note – strong, forceful, dignified.
‘Eh?’
‘We had only worked for the overall good of the Castle.’
Lord Emsworth reflected.
‘But we have to take a strong line,’ he said firmly. ‘When it comes to her, I stand no nonsense. We have no right to deprive the Empress of her right to privacy. I am now going to the pigsty to see how to go about soothing her frayed nerves.’
There is no doubt that, given time, Lady Constance would have found and uttered some adequately corrosive comment on this imbecile suggestion; but even as she was swelling preparatory to giving tongue, Lord Emsworth looked wistfully at the door.
It was smoothly done. A twist of the handle, and he was where harmony prevailed. Galloping down the stairs, he charged out into the sunshine and rushed to the Empress’ abode. Each step that took him nearer to the sty where the ailing Empress resided seemed a heavier step than the last. He reached the sty, and, draping himself over the rails, peered moodily at the vast expanse of the pig within.
The imperial residence of the Empress of Blandings looked very snug and attractive in the mild sunlight. But beneath even the beautiful things of life there is always an underlying sadness. This was supplied in the present instance by a long, low trough, plainly full to the brim of succulent mash and acorns. The fast, obviously, was still in progress.
Not surprisingly, he found George Cyril Wellbeloved on duty there, wistfully viewing the untouched trough.
‘What does she convey, George?’
‘Sir, I have an impression that it is a matter of time before Reason returns to its throne.’
‘But time is what we do not have’, pointed out Lord Emsworth gloomily.
‘From what I could gather from her grunts and oinks, and also from her body language, she is quite upset at being exposed to so many hugs on a single day. However, she is also happy that she could spread some sweetness and light in the lives of the common public reeling under the impact of unemployment, inflation and the harsher slings and arrows of Fate which are the lot of the lower and the middle classes. She feels that by permitting people to hug her, she has contributed towards bringing about societal change and motivated many to choose the path of universal peace and harmony on a day which celebrates love.’
‘What a fine soul she has!’, quipped Lord Emsworth. ‘I wonder if she has caught the Indian craze of females of all kinds inwardly aspiring to attain what is euphemistically alluded to as Size Zero. But she has never entertained such ambitions. Those who keep a track of her dietary habits already know that she is a hearty and boisterous feeder. You know very well that she lives to feed, thus fulfilling her innate desire to drink deep from the fountain called Life. She has never cared about looking like a balloon with two ears and a tail. She lives a blissful life without bothering about her Size Infinity looks. I daresay all this hugging business has left her totally shaken and stirred, right from her snout to her tail.’
‘Indeed, sir.’
‘It fails me as to how you permitted her getting exposed to such a traumatic experience.’
‘Lady Keeble instructed me to give the Empress a nice bath for the occasion, sir. Mr. Baxter asked me to make a temporary enclosure for people who came over and waited for a long time to do the honours. I merely followed my orders, sir.’
Lord Emsworth drew himself up and adjusted his pince-nez. He felt filled with a cool masterfulness. He felt strongly tempted to fire the pig man. But an inner voice reminded him of the impending competition due to take place in a few days. He also recalled his having had to eat humble pie in respect of Angus McAllister when a favourite pumpkin had to win a prize.
‘Orders, eh, what, what, what? How many times do I have to remind you that when it comes to the Empress’ welfare, you take orders only from me. No one else, and I repeat no one else, is permitted to do so. If you do not see eye to eye with me in this matter, Cyril, say so and we will discuss what you are going to do about it. I value your services highly, Cyril, but I will not be dictated to in my own Castle in any matter, especially anything pertaining to the Empress. Do I make myself clear?’
George Cyril Wellbeloved stood aghast. He thought he had done an outstanding job by following his instructions. He knew the unpredictable temper of Lord Emsworth and wondered if he was about to get sacked. He disliked the idea very much. Blandings Castle was in his bones. Elsewhere, he would feel as if he were in exile.
‘Indeed, sir’, said the pig man sheepishly.
‘You know you have a way of saying, “Indeed, sir,” which gives the impression that it’s only your feudal sense which prevents you from substituting the words, “Says you!”’
‘Is that so, sir?’
‘But how are going to get her to start feeding again? Being an expert at pig rearing, surely you can resolve this issue without further delay? We run the serious risk of her losing out on a medal at the upcoming Shropshire Agricultural Show and instead being relegated to the mean obscurity of merely an ‘Honourably Mentioned.’
‘Sir, I have a suggestion for you to consider. You may remember the time when I was arrested by police constable Evans of Market Blandings for being drunk and disorderly at the Goat and Feathers. I was then jugged for fourteen days without the option of a fine.’
‘What has that got to do with this?’, Lord Emsworth enquired, blinking his eyes. The agony of having to rejig his memory cells showed on his face.
‘But you had then managed to persuade the Empress to approach the trough?’, he said, brightening up a wee bit.
“Oh, is it?” said Lord Emsworth, and paused awhile in thought. He had a vague recollection that someone had once told him to do something – what, he could not at the moment recall – about someone of that name.
Beach was duly summoned to resolve the mystery. He reminded his employer rather frigidly that his previous attempts at pig-calling in his company, duly aided by Angela, had failed to deliver the goods. He went on to point out that what had eventually brought home the bacon then was a pig-call made by James Belford.
The expression on Lord Emsworth’s face was that of a drowning man who sees a lifeline. He fumbled in his trouser pockets and, duly aided and abetted by Beach, could locate his smart phone. He lost no time in getting James on the line. Once the preliminary greetings had been exchanged, the challenge was brought to James’ notice.
‘Most people don’t know it, but I had it straight from the lips of Fred Patzel, the hog-calling champion of the Western States. It is a traditional call which all pigs instantly recognize and respond to. Can I get to speak to your pig-man on the line? I shall explain it to him.’
‘Splendid idea,’ said a cheered-up Lord Emsworth, handing over the instrument to Cyril Wellbeloved.
After a brief exchange, Cyril repeated what he was told.
‘Pig-hoo-o-o-o-ey!’
‘Nothing like it,’ James said. ‘You want to begin the “Hoo” in a low minor of two quarter notes in four-four time. From this build gradually to a higher note, until at last the voice is soaring in full crescendo, reaching F sharp on the natural scale, and dwelling for two retarded half-notes, then breaking into a shower of accidental grace-notes.’
Cyril went on practising the same till the time James approved of the outcome. The call was terminated, with Lord Emsworth offering profuse thanks to James and even inviting him and Angela to visit the Castle sometime soon.
The moment of reckoning had finally arrived.
Resting his hands on the rail before him, Cyril swelled before their eyes like a young balloon. The muscles on his cheekbones stood out, his forehead became corrugated, his ears seemed to shimmer. Then, at the very height of the tension, he let it go, as advised.
Slowly, fading off across hill and dale, the vast bellow died away. And suddenly, as it died, another, softer sound succeeded it.A sort of gulpy, gurgly, plobby, squishy, wofflesome sound, like a thousand eager men drinking soup in a foreign restaurant. And, as he heard it, Lord Emsworth uttered a cry of rapture.
The Empress was feeding.
The rest, as they say, is history.
Regrettably, both the unique ideas – whether that of a ‘Cow Hug Day’ or of a ‘Pig Hug Day’ – now remain consigned to a dustbin. Perhaps the ideas were a little ahead of their times. Were these to ever get revived, Valentine’s Days in future would witness disgruntled denizens experiencing a surge of positive energy and an inner glow of joy and satisfaction. Physical contact with a member of another species could work wonders for the psychology of an individual. Such initiatives would surely enthuse people to choose a more peaceable and wholesome approach to life, while keeping them away from such inane acts of mischief as aggression against some movies, coffee shops, fashionable retail outlets and even shops selling potatoes, tomatoes, and cucumbers.
Notes:
Based on the story of the same name by P. G. Wodehouse.
The Guardian Angels who preside over the affairs of yours truly recently enabled a short trip to Netherlands. Other than a wonderful meeting with some fans of P G Wodehouse in Amsterdam, one could also visit Zaanse Schans and Rotterdam.
Of tilting at windmills
Zaanse Schans in Netherlands is best known for its collection of well-preserved historic windmills and houses. Built from 1576 AD onwards, these windmills have been used for multiple purposes. Claude Monet was so impressed that he came up with several paintings depicting these.
From 1961 to 1974 old buildings from all over the Zaanstreek were relocated to the area, so as to preserve this unique architectural heritage and to promote this as a unique open air museum of windmills, old houses and traditional crafts.
While crossing the windswept bridge over the river Zaan, one is captivated by the panoramic view of windmills. One could be excused…
I learn from reliable sources that some time back, David Bennett, a resident of the USA, has had his ailing human heart replaced by a porcine one.
Of course, I wish David all the very best. May he remain in the pink of health for a long time to come and keep vanquishing any cardiac Goliath he comes across. May he even develop such traits as having an insatiable appetite and a penchant for rollicking in the mud. May he relish his moments as a Pig-hearted person of eminence and remain a metaphor for medical triumph amongst the Homo sapiens.
Some of you may know that the kidneys of my species have already been transplanted amongst humans, thereby enabling them to live a wee bit longer. Few others may recall that the first insulin used to treat a diabetic patient was derived from one amongst us. Assorted chemicals used in vaccines and medicines are formulated from different organs of ours. Speak of items ranging from gelatin and anti-coagulants to digestive supplements, and you will find us contributing to the general well being of all humans.
Those who do not mind their stomachs being treated as a graveyard of the animal kingdom would be aware that my species yields ham, bacon, spar ribs, loins, sides, shoulders, trotters and even heads. We add a unique allure to the pleasures of the table, something which can only be overcome by those who have nerves of chilled steel.
But the latest development is worrisome. Given the innate greed of humans, the time is not far off when an entrepreneur in the mould of Ukridge would start pig farming in a big way, specializing in supplying genetically modified pigs which would be ready-to-use for the heart transplant industry.
I accept that our hearts are more readily acceptable by the human frame. Also, that we are easy to raise since we happen to be open to devouring all kinds of nourishment. Besides, we have a rather healthy litter size and lesser gestation periods. But the prospect of being reared in bulk in a genetically modified mode merely for our organs to be harvested so the human race may lead a happier life leaves me shaken from my snout to my tail.
This is the nightmare which is making me lose my sleep these days. Soon, I intend to follow the fine example set by Mahatma Gandhi and start refusing my daily quota of 57,800 calories. This time, I am determined not to get swayed by a call of ‘pig-hoo-o-o-o-ey’ and give up my protest. Pepping me up without addressing my genuine concerns on the subject of xenotransplantism, the art and science of using animal organs for human purposes, will just not work.
I do hope Lord Emsworth would rise to the occasion and order Rupert Baxter to start an intense campaign on social media against any such onslaught on me and my kind. The Shropshire Agricultural Show is just coming up and I am certain he would like me to win a prize without fail.
If this does not happen, the development has to be faced by those of the porcine species with an upper stiff lip. I wonder why we can’t have wings.
(PS: Am sorry to note that David survived only two months after his surgery. RIP.)
Yet another medical practitioner who wishes to remain anonymous specializes in the realm of diet and nutrition. Like all good doctors, he advises those who have been disappointed in love to eat frugally. Fail to do this, and the result is as inevitable as the climax of a Greek tragedy. No man, however gifted his gastric juices, can go on indefinitely brooding over a lost love and sailing into the starchy foods simultaneously. If so, indigestion grips him soon enough, making him consult a physician like the one alluded to here.
His solutions to cure a soul in torment may sound drastic, but are invariably effective. He is apt to put one on a diet comprising nothing else but the juice of an orange.
He may advise the patient thus: ‘Precisely. Take your orange. Divide it into two equal parts. Squeeze on a squeezer. Pour into a…
The placid streets of the village of Market Blandings were adorned on this June afternoon by a jaunty figure in a pale grey suit and matching derby hat and by his companion, somewhat less well-attired, in patched tweed and a battered straw boater.
The natty dresser dabbed his brow with a silk handkerchief, for the day was warm. Beach, the butler who had driven them down from Blandings Castle, had opted to remain at the Emsworth Arms for a cool one, while Galahad, for it was he, and his brother Clarence, the ninth Earl of Emsworth, strolled off to the tobacconist.
“I had a letter from young Ronnie the other day,” said Gally.
“Ah, yes, Ronnie. Yes, indeed. Ronnie who? “ asked Lord Emsworth courteously.
“Your nephew Ronnie. Ronald Overbury Fish. You know, Clarence- Julia’s boy— pink face, married Sue Brown, prettiest girl in three counties.”
Allow us to welcome you belatedly to this wonderful world on a special day,
When you turn one and fans in different continents are celebrating Plum;
For this is the day he decided to hand in his dinner pail,
Leaving a rich legacy of joy, should we ever become glum.
Unbeknown to you, you have brought happiness in many lives,
Not only to that of your parents and immediate family members;
But also to the lives of fans suffering from Corona-induced blues,
You brought hope to a sick planet and kept aglow joyful embers.
You dispelled our manner of death-where-is-thy-sting-fullness,
Keeping us safe indoors, devouring the works of the Master;
Reveling in the antics of those who lived almost a century back,
Keeping our sanity intact, building immunity, recovering faster.
In Plumsville, Death is surely not a dreaded phenomenon,
On the contrary, it confers wealth, castles and titles upon heirs;
Hiring Jeeves or Anatole, buying white jackets with brass buttons,
But not behaving like an American millionaire, putting on airs.
Your first year on this planet was a tough year indeed,
When many of us lost our clear vision of 20:20;
Plum’s works kept us afloat, giving us hope of a brighter future,
We have survived to the day and can read these lines aplenty.
A stern look from you and the virus would have gone into hiding,
Like a rhino retreating upon seeing a White hunter with a shotgun;
Enthused, we also took it head on, savouring our enforced isolation,
Relishing opportunities for introspection and having fun.
Like Bertie Wooster, you may approve of our chin up attitude,
Deploying nerves of chilled steel, surviving a sudden lockdown;
Oh, how we craved renting a cottage in the countryside,
Free of the fear of an Edwin the Scout who may burn it down.
Lest we may contract the dreaded virus,
We had to let go of Anatole, God’s gift to our gastric juices;
A Laura Pyke type diet regime we had to follow,
Partaking immunity boosting foods, sans any dietary excuses.
Many unopened books adorning our shelves we could go through,
Improving our intellect with tomes dished out by brainy coves;
Curled up in a corner with a tissue restorative by our side,
While affianced couples connected over internet, cooing like turtle doves.
Never in our lives did we imagine watching so many flicks,
Many inane, some average and few so very well made;
Homemakers turned creative and tried myriad recipes,
Prompting many of us to don a figurative skirt and chip in with due aid.
The pleasures of offline shopping sprees had to be given up,
Instead, online shopping alone saved the day for many of us;
With the giant wheels of commerce temporarily shut down,
A revival of the environment turned out to be a big plus.
Some rarely seen birds trooped in, giant butterflies fluttering,
The bees were active, flora and fauna flourished, sky was azure;
Flowers bloomed with gaiety, greener trees swayed gently,
Nature was bountiful; the air one breathed was pure.
Those in metros were severely hit, spinsters all alone and forlorn,
Musicals like ‘Hamilton’ and ‘Pretty Woman’ were sorely missing;
Engagements and nuptials had to be postponed, wedding plans trimmed,
Couples had a tougher time, unsure of even an act like kissing.
You have brought great joy into the lives of your parents,
As you grow, you shall surely return their nurturing ways;
They are bringing you up with lots of love and care,
Your innocent smiles and hugs brightening their days.
May your intellect be always one up on that of Jeeves,
Your investigative skills as sharp as those of Baxter the efficient;
In culinary skills, may you surpass Anatole, in smartness, Psmith,
A heart that bleeds for its pals may also be sufficient.
When it comes to heartily gorging on your daily nourishment,
The Empress could already learn a few things from you;
As to keeping the enthusiasm of a big sister under check,
Clarence could imbibe you, proving worthy in his ancestors’ view.
Your crawling skills would soon evolve into brisk walking ones,
If ever you get besotted with a Hollywood diva in your pre-teen days,
Like Thos, you may walk six miles to fetch the Sporting Times for Bertie,
Aspiring to win the Good Conduct competition, winning Greta Garbo’s praise.
You shall grow to be like a Hercules with nerves of chilled steel,
With abundant milk of human kindness coursing through your veins;
Following the Code of the Woosters with alacrity and aplomb,
Handling overbearing aunts, using Esmond Haddock’s tact and brains.
You chose to be born on a very special day,
Resurrecting the spirit of Plum, of whom your grandmother is a fan;
May your own life be full of light, sweetness and joy,
As long as a benevolent and humorous sun keeps cheering up man.
(Master John Jasper happens to be the grandson of Lucy Smink, a fan of P G Wodehouse Down Under. This impromptu composition is addressed to him. Permission of the family to publish it here is gratefully acknowledged.)
The placid streets of the village of Market Blandings were adorned on this June afternoon by a jaunty figure in a pale grey suit and matching derby hat and by his companion, somewhat less well-attired, in patched tweed and a battered straw boater.
The natty dresser dabbed his brow with a silk handkerchief, for the day was warm. Beach, the butler who had driven them down from Blandings Castle, had opted to remain at the Emsworth Arms for a cool one, while Galahad, for it was he, and his brother Clarence, the ninth Earl of Emsworth, strolled off to the tobacconist.
“I had a letter from young Ronnie the other day,” said Gally.
“Ah, yes, Ronnie. Yes, indeed. Ronnie who? “ asked Lord Emsworth courteously.
“Your nephew Ronnie. Ronald Overbury Fish. You know, Clarence- Julia’s boy— pink face, married Sue Brown, prettiest girl in three counties.”
“Ah yes, Ronnie, of course Ronnie. And how is he?”
“Very well. In fact, from hints he dropped, I fancy there may be a little Sue or Ronnie on the way.”
“The way here?” Clarence asked in alarm. “The summer has so far been remarkably quiet and free of pests, er guests.”
“No, no, a little bundle, to be brought by the stork in a number of months, you know… never mind, Clarence. The point is, he may need some extra income and wants to buy out his partners in the onion soup bar.”
“Ah, just so, good for him. Good for him.”
“In order to become sole proprietor of the onion soup bar he naturally needs some capital,” said Galahad, “and as you surely are aware, it would be a good investment, Clarence. Late night revelers and after-theatre crowds are always clamouring for onion soup, and young Ronnie has turned out, unlikely as it may seem, to be a canny businessman. Of course with Sue by his side, the world’s his oyster, or rather his onion, I might say. The world’s his onion,” he repeated, rather louder. “Ha, ha. Anyway, shall I tell him you are good for the money?”
Gally was glad to see that Lord Emsworth was fingering his chin and wrinkling the brow in concentration. It was not always easy to capture his full attention.
“Onions. Yes, hmm. Onions. Do you know, Galahad,” he said, swimming up suddenly from his brown study, “My veterinarian Banks has been advising me, and very strongly, I might add, against feeding the Empress onions. Onions of any sort, mark you. And yet, Whiffle, in The Care of the Pig, most clearly states that onions are not at all detrimental to pigs, if lightly boiled first. Lightly boiling them appears to remove any toxicity whatsoever!” He brooded a moment. “Banks is an ass. I shall take a strong line with him in this matter.”
“My sainted aunt, Clarence! You haven’t heard a word I’ve said.” Gally removed his pince nez and used them to rap Clarence sharply on the head. “Now listen, and forget about that blasted pig for a moment! Who is more important, your nephew Ronald or the Empress?”
Lord Emsworth regarded him with surprise. “The Empress, of course.”
“Clarence!”
“Well, really Galahad, I have…several nephews. Quite a few, I fancy. But there is only one Empress.”
“And I yield to no one in my appreciation of her many admirable qualities,” said Galahad, “but she is, after all is said and done, just a pig.”
Lord Emsworth started so violently that his glasses fell from his nose to dangle freely from their chain. “Just a pig! The Empress is a thoroughbred, an aristocrat, dash it, descended on both maternal and paternal side from prize-winning porcine pedigrees. She has three times won the silver medal in the fat pigs class at the Shropshire agricultural show and there is no reason why she may not win a fourth, no matter what drivel that fellow Banks says about onions in her diet. She is certainly not just any pig.”
“A pig is, in the end, a pig, Clarence. Yes, she is a good pig, a large pig, but a pig by any other name would smell as sweet.” Galahad paused. “Well perhaps not quite that, but I’m sure there are plenty of other pigs that, if fed properly for awhile, could match her girth and magnificence.”
“I beg to differ, Galahad, Lord Emsworth said stiffly, “I beg to differ indeed. Few other pigs match her lineage, precious few, if any.”
“All right. How about this? If I can take a pig, a common local young pig from the village here or its environs, and, given six weeks to feed it up, nurture it, and make it a match for the Empress in girth, you will cut Ronnie a sizeable cheque.”
“Certainly. I agree to your proposal. There is surely no chance of you doing it, none at all, but I give you leave to try. If you manage to turn a plebian local animal into something resembling my prize pig (and I scoff at the idea), I will not only give Ronald the money, but I will… I will eat my hat!” he finished hotly.
“That I will not require, Clarence. But after we obtain our tobacco, let us go to a nearby farm with the purpose of purchasing a pig.”
**********
Five and one half weeks later, the Honourable Galahad Threepwood and the Castle’s butler, Beach, stood gazing morosely at a pig rooting contentedly in a ramshackle pen behind the abandoned garden shed. More precisely, Gally was gazing morosely— he would have described Beach as wearing his customary demeanour, that of a stuffed frog.
“No use sugar-coating it, Beach,” he said, screwing his black-rimmed monocle more firmly into his eye. “This pig, though certainly day after day, in every way, it’s been getting fatter and fatter, is nowhere near in the Empress’s class.”
“I have not neglected a single feeding, sir,” said Beach. “Despite it having added considerably to my regular duties, I have carried comestibles amounting to approximately 57,800 daily calories in starches, proteins and additional roughage to the animal. As far as I can tell, it has consumed them all.”
“I don’t doubt it, Beach. I don’t doubt it. Be that as it may, this porker is never going to win Ronnie the money for his onion soup bar. What is worse, Clarence will be able to crow over me for making that silly bet. “
The butler nodded mournfully. He was fond of Mr. Ronald Fish, and his wife Sue Brown had made a strong impression on his susceptible heart.
“Too bad, too bad, sir. Poor Mr. Ronald. He will be disappointed, I fear. Perhaps he can acquire the money from some other source.” Beach stood a moment in a grave silence. “Ah, well. I must return to the house, sir. Tea will be served on the terrace in approximately twenty minutes, if you require sustenance.”
“Damn the terrace, and damn tea!” Beach turned back as Galahad, removing his hat and slapping it on the railing of the pen, burst into impassioned speech. “I won’t accept defeat this easily. Did my ancestors at Agincourt, when faced with a few bloodthirsty foes, turn and go home for tea? Pshaw! Besides, you know I never touch tea, not after what happened to my old pal Buffy Struggles. Gave up cocktails for the foul stuff after attending a temperance lecture and the poor fellow was dead within a week!”
“Dear me!”
“Absolutely. Run over by a hansom cab in Piccadilly Circus. No,” he mused, “what we are going to do-“
“We, sir?” the butler quavered.
“Most certainly we. I shall need you for this next phase of the plan, or Plan B, as it were. Now, I have heard that Sir Gregory Parsloe-Parsloe down the road at Matchingham Hall is boarding a prize pig in the hopes of mating his own pig, Pride of Matchingham, to it. Clarence has never seen that sow, so we, or more accurately you, will sneak over in the dead of night and borrow it. We will then present it to Clarence in the place of this pig, and he will have to admit that we have won the bet. You can leave old Parsloe this smaller sow for a couple of days, just to confuse him.”
Beach was trembling all over like a jelly in a brisk wind. “But sir…”
“But me no buts, butler! Would you want to be the one to dash that young Fish’s hopes and dreams? Or cause Sue’s starry blue eyes to fill bravely but despairingly with unshed tears? Surely the Beach I have known practically from a lad would not be the man to allow fear of a simple pig-swap to dash the food from the mouth of Sue and Ronnie’s first-born, or soon-to-be born, child?”
“Mrs. Ronald is expecting, Mr. Galahad?” Beach drew a deep breath and a look of noble sacrifice passed over his large face, causing his chins to quiver. “Tell me what I need to do, sir.”
**********
“I would never have credited it, Galahad. It seems a miracle, but you have done it!” Lord Emsworth shook his head wonderingly two days later. You have taken a common farmyard sow, even perhaps a somewhat scrawny sow, and transformed her into a magnificent creature. I do not say she is the equal of the Empress, but you have certainly won your point.”
He took another turn around the large, placid animal that a rather pale and haunted-eyed Beach had led by a rope out into the stable-yard.
“Yes, she is a very fine animal indeed. I will be happy to add her to the Castle’s livestock. She will not by any means do us shame.”
“Er, as to that, Clarence,” Galahad said hastily, “I have promised her back to the farmer from whom we bought her. It seems her litter-mates in his pig-sty have been missing her. Pining away in fact, and refusing their food.”
“Egad, that is most worrisome, Galahad.” The Earl of Emsworth took one last covetous look at the sow. “Pigs will not thrive if they do not ingest their regular daily nutrients. Wolff-Lehmann is very clear on that in his book on the subject. Perhaps you’d better bring her back to the farm after all.”
“And that cheque for Ronald? Your nephew Ronald, that is, for his onion soup business.”
“Ah yes.” A slight shadow crossed Lord Emsworth’s face. “Exactly how much was he needing, Galahad?”
Galahad told him and the ninth earl winced.
“But look at the bright side, Clarence. Ronnie will be so busy with the increased responsibilities of his business and his growing family that he will have no time at all to make pleasure trips down to Blandings. And as our sister Julia will soon be presented with a grandchild in London, she will surely remain in the metropolis as well.”
“Er, for quite some time, do you think, Galahad?”
“Indefinitely, I’m sure.”
“Ah, well, that’s… too bad, of course, and all that. However, the pressures of business and family, yes, certainly. Let them know we quite understand if they stay away…, er, quite some time. Er… indefinitely, as you say.”
With the look of one who sees the sun coming out from behind the clouds, Lord Emsworth turned towards the house. “Come see me in the library in ten minutes, Galahad. I will be writing that cheque.”
(Permission to post this piece here is gratefully acknowledged.)
Yet another medical practitioner who wishes to remain anonymous specializes in the realm of diet and nutrition. Like all good doctors, he advises those who have been disappointed in love to eat frugally. Fail to do this, and the result is as inevitable as the climax of a Greek tragedy. No man, however gifted his gastric juices, can go on indefinitely brooding over a lost love and sailing into the starchy foods simultaneously. If so, indigestion grips him soon enough, making him consult a physician like the one alluded to here.
His solutions to cure a soul in torment may sound drastic, but are invariably effective. He is apt to put one on a diet comprising nothing else but the juice of an orange.
He may advise the patient thus: ‘Precisely. Take your orange. Divide it into two equal parts. Squeeze on a squeezer. Pour into a glass … or cup,’ he added, for he was not the man to be finicky about small details, ‘and drink.’
(The Juice Of An Orange; Blandings Castle… and elsewhere)
Laura Pyke
When it comes to maintaining your digestive system in the pink of its health, yet another dietary expert, Laura Pyke, could assist you. Some may consider her to be a food crank but she is a professional who thinks most of us not only eat too much but also too quickly. She recommends a diet comprising only parsnips and other greens. Alcohol, she maintains, corrodes the stomach tissues.
She is apt to gaze at you like a high priestess imparting instructions to her favourite, though erring, disciple, while describing the manner in which you are ruining the lining of your stomach when you keep eating stuff lacking in fat-soluble vitamins. She would speak freely of proteins, carbohydrates, and the physiological requirements of the average individual.
When you shift to any of her diet plans, your immunity levels are bound to go up, thereby reducing the probability of getting afflicted with viruses of any kind.
It is always wiser to consult her either online or by physically popping up at her clinic, if you have the permission of the concerned authorities. Inviting her to your home, even if she happens to be an old school chum of your spouse, is best avoided.
(Jeeves and the Old School Chum; Very Good, Jeeves)
Buck-u-Uppo
Wilfred Mulliner, a brother of Mr Mulliner, is a chemist and is the inventor of various creams, lotions, and tonics, known in the trade as Mulliner’s Magic Marvels.
Many of you may recall the following creams, lotions, and tonics invented by Wilfred Mulliner which are specifically mentioned in various narratives dished out by P G Wodehouse.
Mulliner’s Raven Gypsy Face Cream.
Snow of the Mountains Lotion
Mulliner’s Buck-U-Uppo
Mulliner’s Reduc-o, the recognized specific for obesity. Available in the form of tablets (3d the tin) or liquid (5s6p a flask).
Mulliner’s Ease-o, cures the most stubborn case of lumbago in six days.
Of these, Buck-u-Uppo is a tonic invented ‘primarily with the object of providing Indian Rajahs with a specific (concoction) which would encourage their elephants to face a tiger of the jungle with a jaunty sang-froid.’ It works directly on the corpuscles. The dose for an adult elephant is a teaspoonful mixed with the elephant’s morning mash. If consumed by Home sapiens in glassfuls, it makes them far more confident and assertive, making them succeed in life, whether personally or professionally.
In these times, when work-from-home is the norm, spouses who get persuaded to try a small dose of this concoction may not venture out to paint statues pink. Bishops may refrain from frequenting nightclubs dressed in Sinbad the Sailor costumes.
But long term pending projects at home, such as mowing a lawn, clearing snow off the driveway, garage cleaning, painting a room blue while awaiting the arrival of the stork to deliver the next baby, spending quality time with family members, wearing skirts for a change, tidying up the fridge, doing dishes and mopping the floor, would get attended to with much enthusiasm and aplomb; much to the delight of the party of the other part which had since long given up nagging of the party of the first part on such issues and had instead decided to take a spiritual view of things.
(Buck-U-Uppo features in three Mulliner stories: ‘Mulliner’s Buck-U-Uppo’, ‘The Bishop’s Move’ and ‘Gala Night’.)
Dentists I. J. Zizzbaum, B K Burwash and the like
Merry laughs and gay quips make Doctor I. J. Zizzbaum the life and soul of the party at the annual dentists’ convention. But this does not guarantee his behavior when approached in his white-coat-upholstered professional role.
If his trade rival B K Burwash, who is also in the business of teeth management, has landed a prize catch in the form of a celebrity client like Joey Cooley, the 12-year-old movie star and darling of all American mothers, you could find him to be a gloomy cove, appearing like a dentist with a secret sorrow. This could leave you shuddering even more while seated in his pin-cushioned dentists’ chair.
Dr B K Burwash has a reassuring smile and is rather used to handling celebrity clients who could amount to free advertisement worth about a thousand dollars in the olden days, besides the heavy fee he pockets even otherwise.
Then we have the dentist in Shrewsury who wishes to render his services anonymously.
(Laughing Gas, Leave it to Psmith)
Some of the Veterenians
Dr Smithers is a veterinary surgeon who gets called in to investigate the sudden onset of asceticism upon the Empress of Blandings after her keeper Cyril Wellbeloved goes out of action, so much so that she, a hearty feeder, starts refusing any form of nourishment. Somehow, he is baffled by this sudden change in her dietary habits.
(Blandings Castle, elsewhere)
Banks is yet another vet who gives a clean bill of health to the Empress even when she refuses to accept a potato offered by Lord Emsworth.
(Pelican at Blandings)
Webber is another vet who gets called in when the Empress ends up gobbling Gally’s memoirs.
(Heavy Weather)
Lord Emsworth may have a poor opinion of all these gentlemen. However, we learn from reliable sources that they are capable persons who can bring relief and succor to many of the species known to mankind.
Augustus Whiffle
Residents of Plumsville would fondly recall the dietary requirements of the Empress of Blandings, as prescribed by Whiffle, an authority on all matters porcine. According to him, her daily nourishment should not be less than fifty-seven thousand eight hundred calories, these calories consisting of barley meal, maize meal, linseed mail, potatoes and separated buttermilk.
In order to assist vets and pet owners of all kinds, Augustus Whiffle (or Whipple), the well-known author of Lord Emsworth’s favourite book, The Care of the Pig, has been roped in to promptly dish out his advice on handling pets of other species as well, covering dogs, cats, horses, cows, lions and the like. This, it is hoped, will cheer up pet owners and exert a soothing influence on them when they suspect their pets to be suffering physically in any way. Moreover, the communication gap between a white hunter and a lion which has just been shot, as to whether the latter is dead or alive, could become a thing of the past.
An elderly man with a thin, reedy voice, Mr Whipple is a member of the Athenaeum club and is so impressed by what he hears of the Empress of Blandings. Our office has already contacted Lord Emsworth to request his permission to enable his wish to be fulfilled. We hope a gesture of this kind would enthuse Mr Whipple to churn out his advice in respect of other species without much delay.
(Blandings Castle, elsewhere)
It is hoped that the steps taken by us would assist humans as well as members of other species to attain the highest possible level of health. WHO would keep making its unique contribution towards promoting health, keeping the world safe from pandemics and serving the vulnerable, with measurable impact for people at country level. As always, we are individually and collectively committed to put these values into practice.
Notes
Illustrations of some of the characters have been dished out by Suvarna Sanyal, a retired (but not at all tired) banker who has a flair for dealing with figures. Illustration of the E of B courtesy the www.
Inputs from the following fans of PGW are gratefully acknowledged:
ashokbhatia 