It was his experience that almost any communication from Freddie indicated trouble. Lord Emsworth was not the man to exhibit the vultures gnawing at his heart to a babbler like the Hon. He replied, though it hurt him to do so, that everything at Blandings was excellent. Goodreads helps you keep track of books you want to read.

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Wodehouse was born in 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 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. Some of the P. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author's and publisher's rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly. The least slackening of vigilance and the thing has gripped him.

He writes a story. Another story dealing with the same characters occurs to him, and he writes that. He feels that just one more won't hurt him, and he writes a third. And before he knows where he is, he is down with a Saga, and no cure in sight. This is what happened to me with Bertie Wooster and Jeeves, and it has happened again with Lord Emsworth, his son Frederick, his butler Beach, his pig the Empress and the other residents of Blandings Castle.

In a word, once a man who could take it or leave it alone, I had become an addict. The stories in the first part of this book represent what I may term the short snorts in between the solid orgies. From time to time I would feel the Blandings Castle craving creeping over me, but I had the manhood to content myself with a small dose. And so on. The final section of the volume deals with the secret history of Hollywood, revealing in print some of those stories which are whispered over the frosted malted milk when the boys get together in the commissary.

It fell on green lawns and wide terraces, on noble trees and bright flower-beds. It fell on the baggy trousers-seat of Angus McAllister, head-gardener to the ninth Earl of Emsworth, as he bent with dour Scottish determination to pluck a slug from its reverie beneath the leaf of a lettuce.

It fell on the white flannels of the Hon. Freddie Threepwood, Lord Emsworth's second son, hurrying across the water-meadows. It also fell on Lord Emsworth himself and on Beach, his faithful butler. They were standing on the turret above the west wing, the former with his eye to a powerful telescope, the latter holding the hat which he had been sent to fetch.

This dashed thing doesn't work. It's all black. Is there a cap? So there is. Take it off, Beach. He twiddled and adjusted, and the satisfaction deepened. That's capital. Beach, I can see a cow. Might be two yards away. All right, Beach. Shan't want you any longer. Lord Emsworth continued gazing at the cow. The ninth Earl of Emsworth was a fluffy-minded and amiable old gentleman with a fondness for new toys.

Although the main interest of his life was his garden, he was always ready to try a side line, and the latest of these side lines was this telescope of his. Ordered from London in a burst of enthusiasm consequent upon the reading of an article on astronomy in a monthly magazine, it had been placed in position on the previous evening.

What was now in progress was its trial trip. Presently, the cow's audience-appeal began to wane. It was a fine cow, as cows go, but, like so many cows, it lacked sustained dramatic interest.

Surfeited after awhile by the spectacle of it chewing the cud and staring glassily at nothing, Lord Emsworth decided to swivel the apparatus round in the hope of picking up something a trifle more sensational. And he was just about to do so, when into the range of his vision there came the Hon.

White and shining, he tripped along over the turf like a Theocritan shepherd hastening to keep an appointment with a nymph, and a sudden frown marred the serenity of Lord Emsworth's brow.

He generally frowned when he saw Freddie, for with the passage of the years that youth had become more and more of a problem to an anxious father. Unlike the male codfish, which, suddenly finding itself the parent of three million five hundred thousand little codfish, cheerfully resolves to love them all, the British aristocracy is apt to look with a somewhat jaundiced eye on its younger sons.

And Freddie Threepwood was one of those younger sons who rather invite the jaundiced eye. It seemed to the head of the family that there was no way of coping with the boy.

If he was allowed to live in London, he piled up debts and got into mischief; and when you jerked him back into the purer surroundings of Blandings Castle, he just mooned about the place, moping broodingly. Hamlet's society at Elsinore must have had much the same effect on his stepfather as did that of Freddie Threepwood at Blandings on Lord Emsworth. And it is probable that what induced the latter to keep a telescopic eye on him at this moment was the fact that his demeanour was so mysteriously jaunty, his bearing so intriguingly free from its customary crushed misery.

Some inner voice whispered to Lord Emsworth that this smiling, prancing youth was up to no good and would bear watching. The inner voice was absolutely correct. Within thirty seconds its case had been proved up to the hilt. Scarcely had his lordship had time to wish, as he invariably wished on seeing his offspring, that Freddie had been something entirely different in manners, morals, and appearance, and had been the son of somebody else living a considerable distance away, when out of a small spinney near the end of the meadow there bounded a girl.

And Freddie, after a cautious glance over his shoulder, immediately proceeded to fold this female in a warm embrace. Lord Emsworth had seen enough. He tottered away from the telescope, a shattered man. One of his favourite dreams was of some nice, eligible girl, belonging to a good family, and possessing a bit of money of her own, coming along some day and taking Freddie off his hands; but that inner voice, more confident now than ever, told him that this was not she.

Freddie would not sneak off in this furtive fashion to meet eligible girls, nor could he imagine any eligible girl, in her right senses, rushing into Freddie's arms in that enthusiastic way. No, there was only one explanation. In the cloistral seclusion of Blandings, far from the Metropolis with all its conveniences for that sort of thing, Freddie had managed to get himself entangled. Seething with anguish and fury, Lord Emsworth hurried down the stairs and out on to the terrace.

Here he prowled like an elderly leopard waiting for feeding-time, until in due season there was a flicker of white among the trees that flanked the drive and a cheerful whistling announced the culprit's approach. It was with a sour and hostile eye that Lord Emsworth watched his son draw near.

He adjusted his pince-nez, and with their assistance was able to perceive that a fatuous smile of self-satisfaction illumined the young man's face, giving him the appearance of a beaming sheep. In the young man's buttonhole there shone a nosegay of simple meadow flowers, which, as he walked, he patted from time to time with a loving hand.

The villain of the piece halted abruptly. Sunk in a roseate trance, he had not observed his father. But such was the sunniness of his mood that even this encounter could not damp him. He gambolled happily up. He searched in his mind for a pleasant topic of conversation — always a matter of some little difficulty on these occasions. He drew a step nearer, looking like the man who smothered the young princes in the Tower. Freddie started convulsively. He appeared to be swallowing with difficulty something large and jagged.

Girl, guv'nor? He paused. I've been meaning to tell you about that, guv'nor. Oh, yes, indeed! All most absolutely correct-o! Nothing fishy, I mean to say, or anything like that. Aggie's short for Niagara. Her people spent their honeymoon at the Falls, she tells me. She's American and all that.

Rummy names they give kids in America,' proceeded Freddie, with hollow chattiness. I ask you! Full of beans. You'll love her. And where did you meet her? The information, he perceived, could no longer be withheld, and he was keenly alive to the fact that it scarcely fell into the class of tidings of great joy. She's come over to England for a visit, don't you know, and is staying with the old boy. That's how I happened to run across her.

He had had many unpleasant visions of his son's future, but they had never included one of him walking down the aisle with a sort of cousin of his head-gardener. Having ranged the grounds for some minutes, he ran his quarry to earth at the entrance to the yew alley.

The head-gardener turned at the sound of his footsteps. He was a sturdy man of medium height, with eyebrows that would have fitted a bigger forehead. These, added to a red and wiry beard, gave him a formidable and uncompromising expression. Honesty Angus McAllister's face had in full measure, and also intelligence; but it was a bit short on sweetness and light.


Blandings Castle and Elsewhere : (Blandings Castle)

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Blandings Castle and Elsewhere

A Blandings collection The ivied walls of Blandings Castle have seldom glowed as sunnily as in these wonderful stories - but there are snakes in the rolling parkland ready to nip Clarence, the absent-minded Ninth Earl of Emsworth, when he least expects it. But first of all there is the vexed matter of the custody of the pumpkin. Skipping an ocean and a continent, Wodehouse also treats us to some unputdownable stories of excess from the monstrous Golden Age of Hollywood. 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". He is widely recognised as the greatest 20th-century writer of humour in the English language. Perhaps best known for the escapades of Bertie Wooster and Jeeves, Wodehouse also created the world of Blandings Castle, home to Lord Emsworth and his cherished pig, the Empress of Blandings. For the latest books, recommendations, offers and more.


Blandings Castle

Blandings Castle and Elsewhere is a collection of short stories by P. The first six stories all take place at the book's namesake Blandings Castle ; they are set some time between the events of Leave it to Psmith and those of Summer Lightning Lord Emsworth of Blandings Castle is depicted as a gentleman farmer, growing prize pumpkins and especially concerned with his prize pig, Empress of Blandings; he is also concerned with his nieces and nephews as well as the love life of his younger son Freddie Threepwood. The last five are narrated by Mr Mulliner and are set in Hollywood among the movie studios that Wodehouse knew from his time as a screenwriter in —


Blandings Castle is a recurring fictional location in the stories of British comic writer P. Wodehouse , being the seat of Lord Emsworth Clarence Threepwood, 9th Earl of Emsworth , home to many of his family and the setting for numerous tales and adventures. The stories were written between and The series of stories taking place at the castle, in its environs and involving its denizens have come to be known as the "Blandings books", or indeed, in a phrase used by Wodehouse in his preface to the reprint of the first book, "the Blandings Castle Saga". In a radio broadcast on 15 July , Evelyn Waugh said: "The gardens of Blandings Castle are that original garden from which we are all exiled. Blandings Castle, lying in the picturesque Vale of Blandings, Shropshire , England, is two miles from the town of Market Blandings , home to at least nine pubs, most notably the Emsworth Arms. The tiny hamlet of Blandings Parva lies directly outside the castle gates and the town of Much Matchingham , home to Matchingham Hall , the residence of Sir Gregory Parsloe-Parsloe , is also nearby.

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