A Viscount Speaks

Lord Emsworth's pot

What ho, fellows!

By jove, dining with Lord Emsworth can be a trying experience!  I wrote previously about the Lord's peculiar eating habits, but his lavatory habits are even stranger.  The two of us attended a fund-raising luncheon in the village earlier today, and had a jolly old time supping port and munching beef and snorting snuff.  The event was flowing along quite merrily when Lord Emsworth suddenly bellowed "POT!"  Well, no one knew quite what he meant, and an earnest young waitress came running along and said: "I'm sorry, My Lord, but pot is illegal.  I can bring some more snuff though, if you'd like?"

"No, you silly mare!  PISSPOT!" shouted the Lord.

The poor girl was thoroughly startled but duly went off and returned with a sizeable bronze pot.  Lord Emsworth then stood up, dropped his trousers, and proceeded to urinate into said pot in full view of everyone.  This process went on for some time because Lord Emsworth had obviously stored up a great deal of fluid.  It was the most extraordinary spectacle.  Finally, the torrent dried to a trickle, and the Lord returned to his chair and re-started his conversation with Mrs Tilly Brodett, the church organist.

I shouldn't like to recommend this approach to loo etiquette, but it certainly has the virtue of efficiency.

Yours, etc
Viscount Crouchback

Lord Emsworth grows ever more peculiar

Chaps,

Is is so terribly difficult to converse with Lord Emsworth these days.  He has become so frightfully absent-minded that one never quite knows what turn the conversation will take next.  I dined with him yesterday for luncheon at a splendid little restaurant near us in Sussex.  The conversation turned to London, and what a ghastly, oikish place it was. 

"I seldom visit London nowadays.  London does not attract me. The country - the fields - the woods - the birds..." said Lord Emsworth. 

"Quite so" I said.  "A horrible place.  But will you be going up for Wimbledon this year?"

However, Lord Emsworth failed to respond because something across the room seemed to attract his attention and his voice trailed off.  He inspected this for some time with bland interest, then turned to me once more.

"What was I saying, Crouchback?"

"London, old top."

"London!  London?  Horrible place!  What about London?"

"We were speaking of the attractions of life in the country".

"Oh, yes, yes, yes!  Oh, yes, yes! Oh, yes - to be sure.  Do you ever go to the country, Crouchback?"

"We are in the country now, old bean.  These are the glorious English shires in which we sit".   

Again, whatever was the attraction across the room once more exercised its spell.  Lord Emsworth concentrated himself on it to the exclusion of all other mundane matters.  Presently he came out of his trance again.

"What were you saying, Crouchback?"

"I said that we are in the country now, Emsworth."

"Eh?  We are?"

"Yes, old top."

"For what?"

Well, I had to scratch my head at that one.  Why were we in the country?  I did not know.  We simply live there.  However, Lords Emsworth was off again.  He had called over a waiter - a young French chappie - and was speaking to him with quiet urgency. 

"Young man, who is the gentleman over by the window - the gentleman in the brown suit?"

"That is Mr. Simmonds, your lordship.  He moved to the area last year."

"I never saw a man take such large mouthfuls.  Did you ever see a man take such large mouthfuls, Crouchback?"

I had to admit that no, I had never seen a man take such large mouthfuls.  Lord Emsworth takes rather large mouthfuls himself, as I have mentioned before, but the appetite of Mr. Simmonds was truly prodigious.

"That man," went on Lord Emsworth, "is digging his grave with his teeth.  Digging his grave with his teeth, Crouchback!  Do you take large mouthfuls, Crouchback?"

"No."

"Quite right.  Very sensible of you, Crouchback - very sensible of you.  Very sen... What was I saying, Crouchback?"

"About not taking large mouthfuls, old bean."

"Quite right - quite right!  Never take large mouthfuls, Crouchback.  Never gobble.  Have you any children, Crouchback?"

"Come on now, old top, you know very well that I have children.  You dined with them only last week".

"Ah, yes, yes.  Well, I hope you teach them not to gobble.  They pay for it in later life.  Americans gobble when young and ruin their digestions.  My American friend, Mr. Peters, suffers terribly from indigestion."

"An American?"

"Ah, what?  Oh, an American, yes.  They all seem to be millionaires in America.  Wish I knew how they managed it.  Honestly, I hope. Mr. Peters is an honest man, but his digestion is bad.  He used to bolt his food.  You don't bolt your food, I hope, Crouchback?"

"No; I am most careful."

"The late Mr. Gladstone used to chew each mouthful thirty-three times.  Deuced good notion if you aren't in a hurry".

Then Lord Emsworth called over the waiter and asked for some cheese.  He proceeded to engage the waiter in further discussion about Mr. Simmonds and then asked: "Tell me, garcon, have I eaten my cheese?"

"Not yet, your lordship. I was about to send for it."

"Never mind.  Bring the bill instead.  I remember that I have an appointment.  I must not be late."

"Shall I take the fork, your lordship?"

"The fork?"

"Your lordship has inadvertently put a fork in your coat pocket."

Lord Emsworth felt in the pocket indicated, and produced a silver-plated fork.  He regarded it with surprise; then he looked wonderingly at me. 

"Crouchback, I'm getting absent-minded. Have you ever noticed any traces of absent-mindedness in me before?"

"Oh, no, old top."

"Well, it's deuced peculiar! I have no recollection whatsoever of placing that fork in my pocket . . . Garcon, I want a taxicab!"  He glanced round the room, as though expecting to locate one by the fireplace.

"The porter will whistle one for you, your lordship."

"So he will, by George!  So he will!  Good day, Crouchback."

"You're off?"

"Yes, I have an appointment".

And with that the old bird ambled benevolently to the door, leaving me to dine alone for the remainder of luncheon.  The height of rudeness, really, but one can't hold it against the poor chap. 

Yours, etc
Viscount Crouchback

The local villagers are driving me to distraction

By jove, some of the villagers around here are frightfully insolent.  I ran into Lord Emsworth in the pub yesterday - just popped in for a quick brandy after Mass - and, naturally enough, we exchanged good natured Easter greetings upon seeing each other:

"What ho!" I said.

"What ho!" he said.

"What ho! What ho!" I said.

"What ho! What ho! What ho!" he said.

"By golly, you look pink and fresh and rested, what?" I said.

"Well I'll be deuced if you don't look dashed healthy yourself, old top!" he said.

And then just as we were warming up, a fat matron from the council estate, who was lingering behind Lord Emsworth in the doorway, exclaimed in her local dialect: "Are you two chinless wonders gonna stand there shouting "what ho?" all day or I can get in 'ere and get myself a swift half?"

Well, I had never been so insulted.  I was thoroughly pipped, and I don't mind admitting it.   So much so, indeed, that I was tempted to give the bally woman a jolly good whack with my cane.  However, my good breeding asserted itself and I politely, but coldly, moved away from the doorway so that this grotesque proleterian could quench her thirst. 

Later, I quietly but sternly informed the publican that I would not darken his doorway again so long as this creature was permitted entry.  He consented to bar her.  I expect him to keep his word.  

Yours, etc
Viscount Crouchback

On servants' etiquette

My fellow noblemen,

The Baron raises an interesting point.  How does one keep one's servants in order in this rude age?  I find it extraordinarily difficult.  There was a most upsetting incident last night when the Earl of Emsworth's valet attempted to enter the dining room before the groom of the chambers!  The latter was frightfully upset and attempted to box the valet around the ears, but I quickly deduced that the poor boy was not being insolent but simply did not know any better, and so I separated them with my cane and gave the young man a quick lesson in etiquette.

"My dear boy", I said, "you come after the butler, the housekeeper, the groom of the chambers, my valet, Lady Crouchback's maid and Frederick Crouchback's valet - and absolutely not before any of them!"

"Oh" he said. "Then I'm not very high up, am I?"

"It could be worse, my dear boy.  At least you get to enter the dining room.  The kitchen maids and scullery maids are only permitted to eat in the kitchen.  The chauffeurs, footmen, under-butler, pantry boys, hall boy, odd man and stewards' room footman take their meals in the servants' hall, waited on by the hall boy.  The stillroom maids have breakfast and tea in the stillroom, and dinner and supper in the hall.  The housemaids and nursery maids have breakfeast and tea in the housemaid's sitting room, and dinner and supper in the hall.  The head housemaid ranks next to the head stillroom maid.  The laundry maids have a place of their own near the laundry, and the head laundry maid ranks above the head housemaid.  The chef has his meals in a room of his own in the kitchen..."

His eyes glazed over at this point so I gave him a quick whack with the cane to wake him up for my conclusion, which was: "So really, boy, it could be considerably worse and you should count yourself jolly fortunate".

Assuredly, servants nowadays are certainly not what they used to be.

Yours, etc

Viscount Crouchback

P.S. I must add, though, that you are not to consider me rigid in matters of etiquette.

The Earl of Emsworth

What ho, chaps,

I just dined with the Earl of Emsworth.  He is the most extraordinary glutton.  I have never known anyone shovel such enormous mouthfuls of food.  He even brought his own ancient, over-sized fork in order to enable him to pile more food into his mouth than would have been permitted by a Crouchback fork.

"Old top", I said to him, "you do know that eating such extraordinary mouthfuls is no good for one's digestion?"

"Really, old fruit?  I had no idea, what?"

"Certainly.  The late Mr Gladstone chewed every mouthful thirty five times before swallowing, what?"

"Really?  How extraordinary".

"Certainly".

"But wasn't Gladstone a liberal?"

"A liberal?"

"Yes, old fruit.  Not one of us, was he?"

"No. He wasn't a Tory, what?"

"Well, there you have it then.  I certainly do not plan to mimic a liberal.  I would rather die of indigestion to be perfectly frank, old top".  

Well I'll be deuced, I thought to myself.  The old bird has out-foxed me.  And so I contented myself with watching him for the rest of the meal.  It was the most extraordinary sight: like watching a wild beast devour its prey on one of Attenborough's nature programmes.  In fact, it was so extraordinary that I plan to invite the Earl again soon just so that I can watch him again.  One confronts such raw animal instinct too seldom in life.

Yours, etc

Viscount Crouchback

Dinner at Le Gavroche yesterday evening

What Ho, chaps.

Going to dinner in London is so much more pleasant these days.  No longer do ancient families from the shires have to tolerate the vulgar antics of nouveau riche Russians and other peculiar characters.

A pleasant calm has descended: serving staff are considerably more attentive, the atmosphere is considerably more mellow, and the social status of one's fellow diners is considerably higher.

Had not my investments collapsed in value, I should almost be glad of the recession.

Yours, etc.

Viscount Crouchback