Perhaps too much Wodehouse is not a good thing? As opposed to dipping into a collection of tales from time to time, Lord Emsworth Acts for the Best is my second collection of stories by The Master in as many months, and although I could scarcely have believed it, that may have been too much. Which is a pity, as I've so many of his books still to get through. This volume collects the disparate tales of the pig-loving denizen of Blandings Castle, which stretch over about thirty years, and this too could be the problem. "The Crime Wave at Blandings," perhaps the best-known tale included, is of course a corker, but I'd already read it in my previous outing (Wodehouse on Crime, q.v.), so it was, in a sense, too soon. But that familiarity wasn't, I regret to report, the only problem.
My feeling of overload has the unpleasant effect of rendering a couple of the stories to chime somewhat hollowly on the old shell-like. The three earliest stories, "The Custody of the Pumpkin," "Lord Emsworth Acts for the Best," and "Pig-Hoo-o-o-o-ey," are unquestionable classics, three of the finest. But after this point, the quality wavers. Thus, "Lord Emsworth and the Girl-Friend" seems overlong, although Clarence does finally put his foot down with Connie, which is sterling stuff. And most awkward is "Birth of a Salesman," a tale which first saw print in book form in 1950, which puts the 9th Earl so far out of his element (specifically on Wodehouse's later-in-life home turf of Long Island, NY) as to render him almost completely unrecognisable. "Sticky Wicket at Blandings," the final story of the collection, sees the characters again ageing and changing, although it does contain the welcome appearance of Clarence's scandalous brother, Galahad.
Maybe it is simply that by forcing the characters to progress in time, even if only by a decade or so, they are removed from that safe bubble of time, that pocket universe which is forever faintly Edwardian, and lose some of their charm. Although New York and Long Island are of course fictional locations, the fact that they masquerade as somewhere real and that Wodehouse actually puts Emsworth on the spot is a jar. An enormous jar, full of pickled whatsits, in fact. Or perhaps the problem with the volume is simply that Wodehouse anthologies can be too much of a good thing. Whatever it is, there are some excellent stories in this volume. Read it for those, and judge for yourself.
In the meantime, I'm off to potter around my roses, under a sky which is always blue, to the sound of a nearby tennis match, the buzz of summer insects, and the hint of mischief in the air.