A
T the open window of the great library of Blandings Castle, drooping1 like a wet sock, as was his habit when he had nothing to prop2 his spine3 against, the Earl of Emsworth, that amiable4 and boneheaded peer, stood gazing out over his domain5.
It was a lovely morning and the air was fragrant6 with gentle summer scents7. Yet in his lordship’s pale blue eyes there was a look of melancholy8. His brow was furrowed9, his mouth peevish10. And this was all the more strange in that he was normally as happy as only a fluffy-minded man with excellent health and a large income can be. A writer, describing Blandings Castle in a magazine article, had once said: “Tiny mosses11 have grown in the cavities of the stones, until, viewed near at hand, the place seems shaggy with vegetation.” It would not have been a bad description of the proprietor12. Fifty-odd years of serene13 and unruffled placidity14 had given Lord Emsworth[p. 8] a curiously15 moss-covered look. Very few things had the power to disturb him. Even his younger son, the Hon. Freddie Threepwood, could only do it occasionally.
Yet now he was sad. And—not to make a mystery of it any longer—the reason of his sorrow was the fact that he had mislaid his glasses and without them was as blind, to use his own neat simile16, as a bat. He was keenly aware of the sunshine that poured down on his gardens, and was yearning17 to pop out and potter among the flowers he loved. But no man, pop he never so wisely, can hope to potter with any good result if the world is a mere18 blur19.
“It is I, your lordship—Beach.”
“Have you found them?”
“Not yet, your lordship,” sighed the butler.
“You can’t have looked.”
“I have searched assiduously, your lordship, but without avail. Thomas and Charles also announce non-success. Stokes has not yet made his report.”
“Ah!”
“I am re-despatching Thomas and Charles to your lordship’s bedroom,” said the Master of the Hunt. “I trust that their efforts will be rewarded.”
Beach withdrew, and Lord Emsworth turned to the window again. The scene that spread itself beneath him—though he was unfortunately not able to see it—was a singularly beautiful one, for the castle, which is one of the oldest inhabited houses in England, stands upon a knoll22 of rising ground at the southern end of the celebrated23 Vale of Blandings in the county of Shropshire. Away in the blue distance wooded hills ran down to[p. 9] where the Severn gleamed like an unsheathed sword; while up from the river rolling park-land, mounting and dipping, surged in a green wave almost to the castle walls, breaking on the terraces in a many-coloured flurry of flowers as it reached the spot where the province of Angus McAllister, his lordship’s head gardener, began. The day being June the thirtieth, which is the very high-tide time of summer flowers, the immediate24 neighbourhood of the castle was ablaze25 with roses, pinks, pansies, carnations26, hollyhocks, columbines, larkspurs, London pride, Canterbury bells, and a multitude of other choice blooms of which only Angus could have told you the names. A conscientious27 man was Angus; and in spite of being a good deal hampered28 by Lord Emsworth’s amateur assistance, he showed excellent results in his department. In his beds there was much at which to point with pride, little to view with concern.
Scarcely had Beach removed himself when Lord Emsworth was called upon to turn again. The door had opened for the second time, and a young man in a beautifully-cut suit of grey flannel29 was standing30 in the doorway31. He had a long and vacant face topped by shining hair brushed back and heavily brilliantined after the prevailing32 mode, and he was standing on one leg. For Freddie Threepwood was seldom completely at his ease in his parent’s presence.
“Hallo, guv’nor.”
“Well, Frederick?”
It would be paltering with the truth to say that Lord Emsworth’s greeting was a warm one. It lacked the note of true affection. A few weeks before he had had to pay a matter of five hundred pounds to settle certain racing33 debts for his offspring; and, while this had not actually dealt an irretrievable blow[p. 10] at his bank account, it had undeniably tended to diminish Freddie’s charm in his eyes.
“Hear you’ve lost your glasses, guv’nor.”
“That is so.”
“Nuisance, what?”
“Undeniably.”
“Ought to have a spare pair.”
“I have broken my spare pair.”
“Tough luck! And lost the other?”
“And, as you say, lost the other.”
“Have you looked for the bally things?”
“I have.”
“Must be somewhere, I mean.”
“Quite possibly.”
“Where,” asked Freddie, warming to his work, “did you see them last?”
“Go away!” said Lord Emsworth, on whom his child’s conversation had begun to exercise an oppressive effect.
“Eh?”
“Go away!”
“Go away?”
“Yes, go away!”
“Right ho!”
The door closed. His lordship returned to the window once more.
He had been standing there some few minutes when one of those miracles occurred which happen in libraries. Without sound or warning a section of books started to move away from the parent body and, swinging out in a solid chunk34 into the room, showed a glimpse of a small, study-like apartment. A young man in spectacles came noiselessly through and the books returned to their place.
The contrast between Lord Emsworth and the[p. 11] new-comer, as they stood there, was striking, almost dramatic. Lord Emsworth was so acutely spectacle-less; Rupert Baxter, his secretary, so pronouncedly spectacled. It was his spectacles that struck you first as you saw the man. They gleamed efficiently35 at you. If you had a guilty conscience, they pierced you through and through; and even if your conscience was one hundred per cent. pure you could not ignore them. “Here,” you said to yourself, “is an efficient young man in spectacles.”
In describing Rupert Baxter as efficient, you did not overestimate36 him. He was essentially37 that. Technically38 but a salaried subordinate, he had become by degrees, owing to the limp amiability39 of his employer, the real master of the house. He was the Brains of Blandings, the man at the switch, the person in charge, and the pilot, so to speak, who weathered the storm. Lord Emsworth left everything to Baxter, only asking to be allowed to potter in peace; and Baxter, more than equal to the task, shouldered it without wincing40.
Having got within range, Baxter coughed; and Lord Emsworth, recognising the sound, wheeled round with a faint flicker41 of hope. It might be that even this apparently42 insoluble problem of the missing pince-nez would yield before the other’s efficiency.
“Baxter, my dear fellow, I’ve lost my glasses. My glasses. I have mislaid them. I cannot think where they can have gone to. You haven’t seen them anywhere by any chance?”
“Yes, Lord Emsworth,” replied the secretary, quietly equal to the crisis. “They are hanging down your back.”
“Down my back? Why, bless my soul!” His lordship tested the statement and found it—like all Baxter’s statements—accurate. “Why, bless my soul,[p. 12] so they are! Do you know, Baxter, I really believe I must be growing absent-minded.” He hauled in the slack, secured the pince-nez, adjusted them beamingly. His irritability43 had vanished like the dew off one of his roses. “Thank you, Baxter, thank you. You are invaluable44.”
And with a radiant smile Lord Emsworth made buoyantly for the door, en route for God’s air and the society of McAllister. The movement drew from Baxter another cough—a sharp, peremptory45 cough this time; and his lordship paused, reluctantly, like a dog whistled back from the chase. A cloud fell over the sunniness of his mood. Admirable as Baxter was in so many respects, he had a tendency to worry him at times; and something told Lord Emsworth that he was going to worry him now.
“The car will be at the door,” said Baxter with quiet firmness, “at two sharp.”
“Car? What car?”
“The car to take you to the station.”
“Station? What station?”
Rupert Baxter preserved his calm. There were times when he found his employer a little trying, but he never showed it.
“You have perhaps forgotten, Lord Emsworth, that you arranged with Lady Constance to go to London this afternoon.”
“Go to London!” gasped46 Lord Emsworth, appalled47. “In weather like this? With a thousand things to attend to in the garden? What a perfectly48 preposterous49 notion! Why should I go to London? I hate London.”
“You arranged with Lady Constance that you would give Mr. McTodd lunch to-morrow at your club.”
“Who the devil is Mr. McTodd?”
“The well-known Canadian poet.”
[p. 13]“Never heard of him.”
“Lady Constance has long been a great admirer of his work. She wrote inviting50 him, should he ever come to England, to pay a visit to Blandings. He is now in London and is to come down to-morrow for two weeks. Lady Constance’s suggestion was that, as a compliment to Mr. McTodd’s eminence51 in the world of literature, you should meet him in London and bring him back here yourself.”
Lord Emsworth remembered now. He also remembered that this positively52 infernal scheme had not been his sister Constance’s in the first place. It was Baxter who had made the suggestion, and Constance had approved. He made use of the recovered pince-nez to glower53 through them at his secretary; and not for the first time in recent months was aware of a feeling that this fellow Baxter was becoming a dashed infliction54. Baxter was getting above himself, throwing his weight about, making himself a confounded nuisance. He wished he could get rid of the man. But where could he find an adequate successor? That was the trouble. With all his drawbacks, Baxter was efficient. Nevertheless, for a moment Lord Emsworth toyed with the pleasant dream of dismissing him. And it is possible, such was his exasperation55, that he might on this occasion have done something practical in that direction, had not the library door at this moment opened for the third time, to admit yet another intruder—at the sight of whom his lordship’s militant56 mood faded weakly.
“Oh—hallo, Connie!” he said, guiltily, like a small boy caught in the jam cupboard. Somehow his sister always had this effect upon him.
Of all those who had entered the library that morning the new arrival was the best worth looking at. Lord[p. 14] Emsworth was tall and lean and scraggy; Rupert Baxter thick-set and handicapped by that vaguely57 grubby appearance which is presented by swarthy young men of bad complexion58; and even Beach, though dignified, and Freddie, though slim, would never have got far in a beauty competition. But Lady Constance Keeble really took the eye. She was a strikingly handsome woman in the middle forties. She had a fair, broad brow, teeth of a perfect even whiteness, and the carriage of an empress. Her eyes were large and grey, and gentle—and incidentally misleading, for gentle was hardly the adjective which anybody who knew her would have applied59 to Lady Constance. Though genial60 enough when she got her way, on the rare occasions when people attempted to thwart61 her she was apt to comport62 herself in a manner reminiscent of Cleopatra on one of the latter’s bad mornings.
“I hope I am not disturbing you,” said Lady Constance with a bright smile. “I just came in to tell you to be sure not to forget, Clarence, that you are going to London this afternoon to meet Mr. McTodd.”
“I was just telling Lord Emsworth,” said Baxter, “that the car would be at the door at two.”
“Thank you, Mr. Baxter. Of course I might have known that you would not forget. You are so wonderfully capable. I don’t know what in the world we would do without you.”
The Efficient Baxter bowed. But, though gratified, he was not overwhelmed by the tribute. The same thought had often occurred to him independently.
“If you will excuse me,” he said, “I have one or two things to attend to . . .”
“Certainly, Mr. Baxter.”
The Efficient One withdrew through the door in[p. 15] the bookshelf. He realised that his employer was in fractious mood, but knew that he was leaving him in capable hands.
Lord Emsworth turned from the window, out of which he had been gazing with a plaintive63 detachment.
“Look here, Connie,” he grumbled64 feebly. “You know I hate literary fellows. It’s bad enough having them in the house, but when it comes to going to London to fetch ’em . . .”
He shuffled65 morosely66. It was a perpetual grievance67 of his, this practice of his sister’s of collecting literary celebrities68 and dumping them down in the home for indeterminate visits. You never knew when she was going to spring another on you. Already since the beginning of the year he had suffered from a round dozen of the species at brief intervals69; and at this very moment his life was being poisoned by the fact that Blandings was sheltering a certain Miss Aileen Peavey, the mere thought of whom was enough to turn the sunshine off as with a tap.
“Can’t stand literary fellows,” proceeded his lordship. “Never could. And, by Jove, literary females are worse. Miss Peavey . . .” Here words temporarily failed the owner of Blandings. “Miss Peavey . . .” he resumed after an eloquent70 pause. “Who is Miss Peavey?”
“My dear Clarence,” replied Lady Constance tolerantly, for the fine morning had made her mild and amiable, “if you do not know that Aileen is one of the leading poetesses of the younger school, you must be very ignorant.”
“I don’t mean that. I know she writes poetry. I mean who is she? You suddenly produced her here like a rabbit out of a hat,” said his lordship, in a tone of strong resentment71. “Where did you find her?”
[p. 16]“I first made Aileen’s acquaintance on an Atlantic liner when Joe and I were coming back from our trip round the world. She was very kind to me when I was feeling the motion of the vessel72. . . . If you mean what is her family, I think Aileen told me once that she was connected with the Rutlandshire Peaveys.”
“Never heard of them!” snapped Lord Emsworth. “And, if they’re anything like Miss Peavey, God help Rutlandshire!”
Tranquil73 as Lady Constance’s mood was this morning, an ominous74 stoniness75 came into her grey eyes at these words, and there is little doubt that in another instant she would have discharged at her mutinous76 brother one of those shattering come-backs for which she had been celebrated in the family from nursery days onward77; but at this juncture78 the Efficient Baxter appeared again through the bookshelf.
“Excuse me,” said Baxter, securing attention with a flash of his spectacles. “I forgot to mention, Lord Emsworth, that, to suit everybody’s convenience, I have arranged that Miss Halliday shall call to see you at your club to-morrow after lunch.”
“Good Lord, Baxter!” The harassed79 peer started as if he had been bitten in the leg. “Who’s Miss Halliday? Not another literary female?”
“Miss Halliday is the young lady who is coming to Blandings to catalogue the library.”
“Catalogue the library? What does it want cataloguing for?”
“It has not been done since the year 1885.”
“Well, and look how splendidly we’ve got along without it,” said Lord Emsworth acutely.
“Don’t be so ridiculous, Clarence,” said Lady Constance, annoyed. “The catalogue of a great library like this must be brought up to date.” She moved[p. 17] to the door. “I do wish you would try to wake up and take an interest in things. If it wasn’t for Mr. Baxter, I don’t know what would happen.”
And with a beaming glance of approval at her ally she left the room. Baxter, coldly austere80, returned to the subject under discussion.
“I have written to Miss Halliday suggesting two-thirty as a suitable hour for the interview.”
“But look here . . .”
“You will wish to see her before definitely confirming the engagement.”
“Yes, but look here, I wish you wouldn’t go tying me up with all these appointments.”
“I thought that as you were going to London to meet Mr. McTodd . . .”
“But I’m not going to London to meet Mr. McTodd,” cried Lord Emsworth with weak fury. “It’s out of the question. I can’t possibly leave Blandings. The weather may break at any moment. I don’t want to miss a day of it.”
“The arrangements are all made.”
“Send the fellow a wire . . . ‘unavoidably detained.’”
“I could not take the responsibility for such a course myself,” said Baxter coldly. “But possibly if you were to make the suggestion to Lady Constance . . .”
“Oh, dash it!” said Lord Emsworth unhappily, at once realising the impossibility of the scheme. “Oh, well, if I’ve got to go, I’ve got to go,” he said after a gloomy pause. “But to leave my garden and stew81 in London at this time of the year . . .”
There seemed nothing further to say on the subject. He took off his glasses, polished them, put them on again, and shuffled to the door. After all, he reflected, even though the car was coming for him at two, at[p. 18] least he had the morning, and he proposed to make the most of it. But his first careless rapture82 at the prospect83 of pottering among his flowers was dimmed, and would not be recaptured. He did not entertain any project so mad as the idea of defying his sister Constance, but he felt extremely bitter about the whole affair. Confound Constance! . . . Dash Baxter! . . . Miss Peavey . . .
The door closed behind Lord Emsworth.
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1
drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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prop
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| vt.支撑；n.支柱，支撑物；支持者，靠山 | |
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spine
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| n.脊柱，脊椎；(动植物的)刺；书脊 | |
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amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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domain
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| n.(活动等)领域，范围；领地，势力范围 | |
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fragrant
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| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
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scents
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| n.香水( scent的名词复数 )；气味；（动物的）臭迹；（尤指狗的）嗅觉 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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furrowed
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| v.犁田，开沟( furrow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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peevish
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| adj.易怒的，坏脾气的 | |
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mosses
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| n. 藓类, 苔藓植物 名词moss的复数形式 | |
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proprietor
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| n.所有人；业主；经营者 | |
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13
serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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placidity
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| n.平静，安静，温和 | |
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curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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simile
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| n.直喻，明喻 | |
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yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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blur
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| n.模糊不清的事物；vt.使模糊，使看不清楚 | |
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dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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axis
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| n.轴，轴线，中心线；坐标轴，基准线 | |
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knoll
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| n.小山，小丘 | |
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celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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ablaze
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| adj.着火的，燃烧的；闪耀的，灯火辉煌的 | |
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carnations
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| n.麝香石竹，康乃馨( carnation的名词复数 ) | |
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conscientious
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| adj.审慎正直的，认真的，本着良心的 | |
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hampered
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| 妨碍，束缚，限制( hamper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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flannel
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| n.法兰绒；法兰绒衣服 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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prevailing
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| adj.盛行的；占优势的；主要的 | |
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racing
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| n.竞赛，赛马；adj.竞赛用的，赛马用的 | |
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chunk
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| n.厚片，大块，相当大的部分（数量） | |
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efficiently
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| adv.高效率地，有能力地 | |
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overestimate
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| v.估计过高，过高评价 | |
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essentially
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| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
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technically
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| adv.专门地，技术上地 | |
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amiability
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| n.和蔼可亲的，亲切的，友善的 | |
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wincing
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| 赶紧避开，畏缩( wince的现在分词 ) | |
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flicker
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| vi./n.闪烁，摇曳，闪现 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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irritability
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| n.易怒 | |
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invaluable
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| adj.无价的，非常宝贵的，极为贵重的 | |
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peremptory
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| adj.紧急的，专横的，断然的 | |
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46
gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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appalled
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| v.使惊骇，使充满恐惧( appall的过去式和过去分词)adj.惊骇的；丧胆的 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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49
preposterous
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| adj.荒谬的，可笑的 | |
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50
inviting
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| adj.诱人的，引人注目的 | |
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eminence
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| n.卓越，显赫；高地，高处；名家 | |
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52
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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53
glower
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| v.怒目而视 | |
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54
infliction
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| n.（强加于人身的）痛苦，刑罚 | |
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55
exasperation
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| n.愤慨 | |
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56
militant
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| adj.激进的，好斗的；n.激进分子，斗士 | |
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57
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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58
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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61
thwart
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| v.阻挠，妨碍，反对；adj.横(断的) | |
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62
comport
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| vi.相称，适合 | |
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63
plaintive
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| adj.可怜的，伤心的 | |
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grumbled
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| 抱怨( grumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 发牢骚； 咕哝； 发哼声 | |
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shuffled
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| v.洗（纸牌）( shuffle的过去式和过去分词 )；拖着脚步走；粗心地做；摆脱尘世的烦恼 | |
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66
morosely
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| adv.愁眉苦脸地，忧郁地 | |
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grievance
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| n.怨愤，气恼，委屈 | |
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68
celebrities
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| n.（尤指娱乐界的）名人( celebrity的名词复数 )；名流；名声；名誉 | |
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intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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70
eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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72
vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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73
tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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ominous
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| adj.不祥的，不吉的，预兆的，预示的 | |
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stoniness
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| 冷漠，一文不名 | |
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mutinous
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| adj.叛变的，反抗的；adv.反抗地，叛变地；n.反抗，叛变 | |
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onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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juncture
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| n.时刻，关键时刻，紧要关头 | |
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79
harassed
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| adj. 疲倦的，厌烦的 动词harass的过去式和过去分词 | |
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80
austere
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| adj.艰苦的；朴素的，朴实无华的；严峻的 | |
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81
stew
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| n.炖汤，焖，烦恼；v.炖汤，焖，忧虑 | |
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82
rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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