Something Fresh is the first book about the
inhabitants of Blandings Castle. It is
not, however, the first Blandings novel I have read. Lord Emsworth and his prize pig, the Empress
of Blandings, are far from being novel acquaintances. It was very strange then to have him
introduced for the first time. As a
character in this book, he had the tendency to float off to the side. He is not a major presence in the other
books, his being does not loom large as, say, as one of the Wooster aunts. However, in the later books he is made to be a
more sympathetic character; in this book, I felt as though having set him up as
a dotty old man with a scatty mind, that Wodehouse wrote himself into a
corner. Perhaps part of this lack of
motivating force behind the character is that his grand passion, the Empress
herself, has yet to arrive upon the scene.
There needs to be something driving a character, even one who is
perceived to be away with the fairies most of the time. When Wodehouse introduced the pig, it
probably felt as though everything clicked into place.
I had a situation recently where I encountered earlier
manifestations of people I know quite well in the current day, and it reminded
me of my encounter with Lord Emsworth in this novel. Reading the book, I felt as though I was
meeting someone I had already met for the first time, and that everything had
not been developed. It must be the sort
of thing that time-travelers are subjected to, if that really exists. My parents’ 40th wedding
anniversary occurred last month. As part
of the celebrations, I put together a large photo montage documenting them
through the years. I had a good laugh
looking at the many stages and phases that my parents’ hair went through,
documenting my father’s glorious long locks from the 70’s that skimmed his
shoulders to today, where he has what can probably most politely be termed a
streamlined look. My mother was not
immune to the whims of the ages, as I was reminded that she was afflicted with
a perm for a good portion of the Regan years.
Despite these follicular changes, it was very evident that they were my
parents, even in their more youthful, carefree incarnations.
The oddest part of it was looking at pictures of me during
my first year of life, and then comparing them with pictures of my son from the
same time of his life. We share the same
chubby round face, blue eyes and bow-shaped lips. It is almost like seeing a Xerox, but of course,
a closer inspection revealed the differences, much the same as reading further
into the Blandings series shows the development of Lord Emsworth’s
personality. My son’s nose is entirely
different, and I’m convinced he either stole it from my father or his. Then there are the differences in temperament
and interests. For instance, in his
short life he has already shown more interest in balls used for athletic
purposes than I have in my almost four decades on this planet. He also has a merry twinkle that I’m certain
skipped my generation. Yet there are
bits of myself that I do recognize in him, and help me to understand him and
not be so anxious about his development.
Catching up with Lord Emsworth after initially meeting him
mid-stream was a little confusing. After
I finished the book, I found myself appreciating how Wodehouse went about
modifying him, and finally hitting upon his eureka moment that led to the
Emsworth that is more instantly recognizable by Wodehouse nuts (or are we
fanatics, or perhaps there is an established collective noun that I don’t know:
a gaga of Wodehouse aficionados?).
Getting to know who my son is has a similar feel to it as I see bits of
me in him, although ultimately I don’t have the knowledge that he’ll definitely
turn out like either of his parents, or develop an overwhelming mania for
porcine development for that matter.
Life is not as easily scripted as a book, and thank goodness for that.
