The Winged Pig: Foreshadowing in Wodehouse
mimus
Blandings, I think. I believe you met when you were here in the summer."
He moved aside to allow his guest an uninterrupted view of the superb
animal. The Duke advanced to the rail, and there followed a brief
silence-- on Lord Emsworth's side reverent, on that of the Duke austere.
He had produced a large pair of spectacles from his breast pocket and
through them was scrutinizing the silver medalist in a spirit only too
plainly captious and disrespectful.
"Disgusting!" he said at length.
Lord Emsworth started violently. He could scarcely believe he had heard
aright.
"What!"
"That pig is too fat."
"Too fat?"
"Much too fat. Look at her. Bulging."
"But my dear Alaric, she is supposed to be fat."
"Not as fat as that."
"Yes, I assure you. She has already been given two medals for being fat."
"Don't be silly, Clarence. What would a pig do with medals? It's no good
trying to shirk the issue. There is only one word for that pig-- gross.
She reminds me of my Aunt Horatia, who died of apoplexy during Christmas
dinner. Keeled over half-way through her second helping of plum pudding
and never spoke again. This animal might be her double. And what do you
expect? You stuff her and stuff her and stuff her, and I don't suppose
she gets a lick of exercise from one week's end to another. What she
wants is a cracking good gallop every morning, and no starchy foods. That
would get her into shape."
Lord Emsworth had recovered the pince-nez which emotion had caused, as it
always did, to leap from his nose. He replaced them insecurely.
"Are you under the impression," he said, for when deeply moved he could be
terribly sarcastic, "that I want to enter my pig for the Derby?"
The Duke had been musing. He had not liked that nonsense about pigs being
given medals and he was thinking how sad all this was for poor Connie.
But at these words he looked up sharply. An involuntary shudder shook
him, and his manner took on a sort of bedside tenderness.
"I wouldn't, Clarence."
"Wouldn't what?"
"Enter this pig for the Derby. She might not win, and then you would have
had all your trouble for nothing. What you want is to get her out of your
life. And I'll tell you what I'll do. Listen, my dear Clarence," said
the Duke, patting his host's shoulder, "I'll take this pig over-- lock,
stock and barrel. Yes, I mean it. Have her sent to my place-- I'll wire
them to expect her-- and in a few weeks' time she will be a different
creature. Keen, alert, eyes sparkling. And you'll be different, too.
Brighter. Less potty. Improved out of all knowledge . . . ."
. . . .
"Shall I tell you about Emsworth?"
"Do."
"Here are the facts. He's got a pig, and he's crazy about it."
"The good man loves his pig."
"Yes, but he doesn't want to run it in the Derby."
"Does Emsworth?"
"Told me so himself."
Lord Ickenham looked dubious.
"I doubt if the Stewards would accept a pig. You might starch its ears
and enter it as a greyhound for the Waterloo Cup, but not the Derby."
"Exactly. Well, that shows you."
"It does indeed."
. . . .
The Empress of Blandings was a pig who took things as they came. Her
motto, like Horace's, was nil admirari. But, cool and even aloof though
she was as a general rule, she had been a little puzzled by the events of
the day. In particular, she had found the bathroom odd. It was the only
place she had ever been in where there appeared to be a shortage of food.
The best it had to offer was a cake of shaving-soap, and she had been
eating this with a thoughtful frown when Mr. Pott joined her. As she
emerged now, she was still foaming at the mouth a little and it was
perhaps this that set the seal on Lord Bosham's astonishment and caused
him not only to recoil a yard or two with his eyes popping but also to
pull the trigger of his gun.
In the confined space the report sounded like the explosion of an arsenal,
and it convinced the Empress, if she had needed to be convinced, that this
was no place for a pig of settled habits. Not since she had been a slip
of a child had she moved at anything swifter than a dignified walk, but
now Jesse Owens could scarcely have got off the mark more briskly. It
took her a few moments to get her bearings, but after colliding with the
bed, the table and the armchair, in the order named, she succeeded in
setting a course for the window . . . .
< _Uncle Fred in the Springtime_
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tinmi...@hotmail.com
smeeter 11 or maybe 12
mp 10
mhm 29x13
Run away! run away!
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