Necessary Rhino Blandings

How was that, Miss Polk?

I'm not taking a photograph, Lord Emsworth.

I'm afraid y'all have to hold the pose a little longer.

Yes, yes, of course, totally understood.

-Guv'nor. Guv'nor.

-Frederick!

This is Miss Vanessa Polk. You'll never guess, but she's an artist.

She's come all the way from, erm...

San Antone.

Ah, very good, I know this one! That's in America.

It was when I left it, honey.

My daddy wrote your Aunt Constance.

Before I was born they used to have a thang?

She invited me to visit with y'all.

Miss Polk?

God bless America.

Specifically Texas.

I'm sure we have some in the medicine cupboard.

Lord Emsworth?

Oh... Guv'nor. Guv'nor... I came to tell you about Hannibal.

The elephant guy?

Sort of.

He was playing elephant polo when his father died, so the dukedom

went to his brother Alaric instead, which put H in a strop.

He wanted to be Hannibal Dunstable, y'see.

But now he has to be Lord Didcot, which sounds like something

you shout if you drop a hammer on your foot.

Batey Didcot is an absolutely ghastly man.

Worse than his brother. Pokering the furniture, roaring at the servants.

He was here last week, bullied me into selling him something or other.

Thank God he's gone.

-Well, no, he hasn't.

-Yes.

-He's back.

-No.

Where's the ruddy butler?!

And another thing!

Calypso Surprised. See it?

It's a fake. Bronzino, my Aunt Fanny. Look, it's signed by...

Cozzy somebody.

Bless my soul.

Never mind your soul, Emsworth.

I bought this off you for 50 quid and I want my money back.

Hannibal, whatever is all this noise?

Connie, I've been conned.

I'm not leaving this ruddy house till I have justice.

Morning all. Lovely morning.

It's a peach.

Um, where is Peach? I mean Beach?

He's on holiday, Guv'nor.

Oh... Did I really sell Batey Didcot a painting of Pinocchio Despised?

Beach would know.

I think you'll find he's on holiday.

If you ask me, Hannibal's losing what remains of his marbles.

Galahad, we did not ask you. What are you doing here?

I'm useful in a crisis.

-What crisis?

-Hannibal's off his nut.

For heaven's sakes! Lord Didcot is merely eccentric.

It's the living alone in that enormous house.

And his ridiculous feud with Alaric.

All he needs is a capable woman to marry him and sort him out.

Which is the reason I have invited Miss Polk.

What?

Dear Vanessa.

-I heard voices.

-Happens to me all the time.

Let us go somewhere less congested.

Yes...

Leave it now... Leave it.

So very, very kind of you to indulge Clarence by painting his pig.

You really mustn't take much trouble.

Oh, it's no trouble. I like to paint.

Now...we have staying with us a very old family friend.

Lord Didcot.

I mean one knows so many peers, but he is really rather special.

You smile?

Your nephew...

What has Freddie said, exactly?

That Mr Didcot was an old walrus

in trousers five sizes too small for his...

upper thighs.

Yes. Well, unfortunately Freddie was dropped on his head.

Oh! How terrible.

Yes, it will be.

I mean, it is true Lord Didcot is of a certain age

and also has a conservative manner.

The latter of which could be changed by a woman -

say, the daughter of a very old and dear friend...

To do what?

Hannibal's estate...

on which he lives alone, is considerably bigger than Blandings.

Do you follow?

-I guess...

-Good.

< ROARING AND CRASHING

It would be wise not to address him as Mr Didcot.

OK.

Furthermore,

my room has no poker! Where's the ruddy butler?

What? Yes, good point, where IS Beach?

He's on holiday.

Is he? Nobody tells me anything.

Hannibal, I should like you to meet Miss Polk.

Pleased to meet you, Lord Didcot.

Gad, a damned colonial.

Miss Polk is the daughter of JB Polk of Polk Furnishings.

Can't abide a woman in yellow. Also much too tall.

Carry on, see the geography of the house.

Polk. A single woman and many times a millionairess.

Mmm!

Let me show you the west wing.

We'll go through the dining room, into the conservatory.

Clarence, I've been here five minutes

and you haven't taken me to see the Empress.

Oh, my dear fellow, I do apologise. Come. Come. Most exciting news.

She's having her portrait painted.

Guv'nor, touching on the subject.

Mirabile dictu, I've got myself in a spot of bother.

I was a little flown with wine

and was moved to wager Catsmeat that I couldn't fit three billiards balls

in my mouth and give a tolerable rendition of La Marseillaise.

Hah. Haven't done that for years.

Now I owe him 100 smackers.

Hang on, Guv'nor, don't ooze off - I'm not on the sponge,

I have here a crash-hot commodity.

Pointless asking me about money, Frederick.

Your mother was the man for all that.

But I am totally strapped for the necessary rhino!

Oh...

Ah! Lord Didcot?

Yes?

I have come into possession of this rather splendid picture of a horsey.

You may wish to purchase it.

Get out of my way. I want to purchase Vanessa whatserface.

And I've not finished with Emsworth.

Oh...

Lord Emsworth? Can you look at her like you know she's boss?

She IS boss.

Thus?

All right! We're off to the races!

Races? Emsworth?

You're not thinking of entering that ruddy pig in the Derby again?

Heard about that from m'brother, God rot and damn his ruddy soul.

-They're just having their picture done, you goon.

-What?

It's kind of a... marriage portrait.

Oh, my God!

Didcot, if there's a fatuous conclusion to be leapt to,

you'll leap it.

Gah!

This is yet another instance of Emsworth's egregious pottiness

and mendacity.

Don't think you can get away from me by slithering orf to be

with your porcine floozy.

Miss Polk, look at this ruddy piece of junk he made me buy.

Did you ever see such an outrageous fake?

Rooked me rotten.

I'm hanging the damn thing where it belongs.

Now... Miss Polk.

HE CHUCKLES

You're a bit of a dolly, aren't you?

Will you excuse me? I just have to...

not talk to you.

Today's cock, Hannibal. Tomorrow's feather duster.

That'll learn him.

He is the most unpleasant specimen.

Dreadful. Apart from Batey Didcot, Miss Polk, how do you like Blandings?

I like it just fine.

I expect you're accustomed to far superior plumbing, food,

transportation and teeth.

Oh, I'm not unacquainted with hardship.

Really, I wonder why.

I knew your father - he's a very good egg, old JB.

But he's never had a moment's hardship in his life.

Never had a daughter, either.

So. OK. Do I pack my bag?

Don't be preposterous. No. Tell me your secret, Vanessa?

Is your name really Vanessa?

-Vanessa...Gruber.

-Enchanted.

JB hired me to paint his portrait. We got on pretty well.

I was a little down in the dumps at the time so he fixed me

this trip to England, to have some fun.

"Let's tell my old pal Connie I'm your daddy," he said.

"She'll lap you up."

Would I be close to the mark in assuming you haven't two beans to your name?

I play a little blackjack, to keep the coyote from the door.

But I dropped a packet in Pasadena.

I'm broke, Gally.

Sad to hear it, but join the club.

Huh. Listen. There's something bothering me.

My animal magnetism. Don't be alarmed. I'll switch it off.

Now, sit here and tell me your troubles.

< That picture the one that foolish man threw away...

< It's the real thing.

< Good God, it must be worth a fortune!

< You bet. Hundreds of thousands.

CLANKING

Let us continue this fascinating conversation outside.

There are too many hairy old ears in these walls.

Hundreds of thousands...

WHISTLING

Right.

HE GROWLS

She's only just arrived and already your uncle has her cornered.

I suppose you admire that.

Frederick, what do you want?

I wanted to propose to you.

Er, make you a proposition!

As long as it's nothing to do with painting, art or artists.

I've had a basinful.

How interesting that fine art should be the sujet du jour,

because I happen to have this rather glorious picture of a horsey.

< LAUGHTER

Will you please go out there

and tell your uncle I wish to speak to him at once?

Damn right.

We need to talk.

Oh, phooey.

I refuse to discuss...miss you with the likes of...Polk.

No intention of discussing the female

I plan to cart orf from this dump.

I'm talking about art.

Ha! Art.

Scarcely a subject for this turpentine community.

No. Philistine community.

My boy.

Aunt Constance would like...

Aunts can wait. What about this dismal crasher Didcot?

We can't have him bellowing about the place, terrorising your father.

I ask this rhetorically, for I already have the answer.

What do we do?

Leave Miss Polk alone.

My dear boy, I believe you hold a torch for her.

Excellent! I salute your taste and judgment.

It makes it even simpler for us to have our cake and lie in it.

Freddie, do you trust me

-to take charge of your sentimental education?

-Hmm...

This is the bit where you say, "Yes, uncle."

Yes, uncle.

-Good, here's the plan. Hannibal must propose to Vanessa, tonight.

-Mmm...

Don't moo at me - I didn't say marry. I said propose.

The formal offer is all.

To this end you must make love to Vanessa yourself, assiduously

and publicly. Right under the twitching nostrils of your aunt.

Go to it.

Right!

Ah... Connie,

have you seen Miss erm...

Ah, there she is.

With Frederick. They're getting on like a horse on fire.

House. And it is a conflagration you must stamp out.

The whole point of the match was that it should be with Lord Didcot.

That is all very modern and I dare say commendably open-minded,

but on Frederick's behalf...

Give me strength.

I am not suggesting that Freddie should marry Hannibal.

I'm glad you've reconsidered.

What if there'd been a daughter? She might have had a moustache

and a big roary voice going ugh-ugh-ugh...

You just break it up.

Hannibal, I did not make myself clear.

It is imperative that you marry Miss Polk.

You will find the arrangement agreeable and convenient,

and it will make you less choleric.

I'm not choleric.

I'm famous for my ruddy sunny disposition.

Damn and blast you, woman!

< LAUGHTER

Oh, Lord, he's useless!

Listen to me, Hannibal.

I want you to go out there and stop this conversation.

What conversation?

What?

Potty as a hatful of pixies.

You want to know something on the QT about Calypso?

Do I know a cutie called Calypso?

Er...

Aha, Miss Polk.

There you are.

Thought you might care to take a stroll.

The park here is pretty tawdry compared to mine.

Didcot, Miss Polk is working.

And I call that a damned indignity.

Totty like her didn't ought to have to work.

God's ruddy trousers, Emsworth, Blandings is a temple to barbarity.

And when are you going to cough up my 50 quid?

Just pay him, Clarence. Just pay him. This whole ghastly rigmarole

is making me bilious. Get your cheque book.

Connie.

Where is Beach?

Climping.

Well, well. Does he climp, or is he...

being climped?

-He's on holiday.

-Oh.

Lord Emsworth, we were speaking earlier about the painting in the...

So, my dear, eh?

HE CHUCKLES

Argh!

Oh. I'm so sorry.

I seem to have stuck my fork into your hand.

Idiot. Can't even squeeze a girl's knee under the table...

Oh!

Ooh!

A gift from me to you.

How do you do that?

A trick I picked up in the Kalahari.

-An establishment on Dover Street.

-Ah.

You and I, young man. We share an interest.

Not her, you imbecile. The horse.

How much do you want for it?

I'll give you half that.

Connie? Connie, can we speak?

Yes, of course. As long as it's not about art.

The whole subject brings me out in hives.

Talk to me, then. Talk to me about anything. Hives. Bees.

I once had a bumblebee in a matchbox.

I called him Hammy. I'd always wanted a hamster, you see.

You have such beautiful eyes.

I am going to bathe my temples with eau de Cologne.

Miss Polk must marry Batey Didcot. I entirely agree.

You're scheming. Why?

Hannibal has become intolerable. Have you established

whether or not the old warthog actually wants to marry her?

I'm certain of it.

So am I. But he's too self-obsessed, crass and idle to ask.

He should trust to the pen.

Your pen.

KNOCK ON DOOR

Darling.

Oh, my God!

If you think you can beat me down with that kind of pansy flimflam,

then you're savagely mistaken.

I'll give you 300 for the piece, take it or leave it.

Didcot, I cannot permit you to describe my beloved as a piece.

I'm talking about the ruddy horse, you snivelling amoeba.

I see we are at cross porpoises... purposes...

Just shut up and listen. 300. Cash.

Damn and blast you, man - concentrate! Stop thinking about

the wretched American girl, she's out of your puny league.

We shall discover, Didcot, whose leg is puny.

KNOCK ON DOOR

Now look here, you ruddy beef-faced walrus...

Ah, Beach! Oh...

Now, listen to me.

I want you to get Hannibal and bring him to my room, now.

Constance. There are limits.

-Oh, for heaven's sakes, you're such a booby!

-I can't allow...

Stop speaking. I cannot, with propriety, possibly go to his room.

You must bring him to mine. I need to dictate to him.

SNORING

Didcot? Erm...

Just a minute...

Didcot...

I...er...

Sorry...

Oh, dear...

-Sorry, so clumsy...

-CLANKING

Ah, this looks promising...

Didcot, are you in here?

ARRGGH!

Where are you, you filthy sewer?

Ah, Didcot, there you are.

Anything you need?

What I need, Emsworth,

is for you to stop acting the goat in my bathroom. How Connie manages...

Connie! Yes, yes.

-She wishes to lord it over you, in her bedroom.

-What?!

Not the precise phrase, but she wishes to talk to you. Hmm?

When you've finished with that poker

would you return it to the drawing room? There's a good fellow.

Nighty-night. Yes.

Gute nacht. Bonne nuit.

Now, Hannibal, I am concerned.

You lay siege to Vanessa in entirely the wrong way.

You make no progress whatsoever.

I want you to write a letter, proposing marriage.

What foaming lunacy is this? I've never written a letter in m'life.

For once, you will do as you are told. Now sit.

Paper. Pen.

Write thus.

"My darling angel..."

Oh, this is bilge.

WRITE IT.

Priceless. Priceless.

Claude. Claude. Come here.

Her ladyship has roused you from her bed.

You will find that she wishes you to give a letter to Miss Polk.

I will relieve you of the burden of this mission.

Just give the letter to me.

I think you may have dropped ten shillings.

Good man.

Any other business...

Angel, I can barely stand...

500. My last, final offer.

You drive a hard bargain, Threepwood, and I admire you for it.

But if you don't give me the horse, I'm going to smash your face in.

Oh...I shall get it directly. It's in the bin.

What's in the bin?

Nothing. You confuse me, Didcot, with this talk of bins.

Return to your room and I shall retrieve the horsey

from the very special place I wedged it. Left it.

-Claude, well done. Splendid fellow.

-What?

Nephew. Is your tender soul ready for part two of your education?

Er... Which was the first?

Freddie!

It is a far, far... thing...that I do.

I shall do it better.

You do it pretty well already, honey.

Right.

Oh!

One horsey.

And er...

We agreed 500 big ones, I believe?

HE CHUCKLES

Ha!

Now, Didcot, attend me well.

I am in possession of your letter to Miss Polk.

And I happen to know she is not a millionaire's daughter.

She is an impostress. Impostrix.

She is penniless.

But, naturally, you will honour your written offer of marriage?

Bring me a poker.

I shall not.

I want to drag out your intestines like spaghetti.

What you want, Didcot,

and what you get, are two mutually extruding elephants.

Now, if you don't marry Miss Polk, you'll be in breach of promise

and vilified as an utter stoat.

My advice to you, therefore, is to pay the lady off.

I am content to broker the transaction. And I recommend cash.

The sum of 500 has a familiar weight.

HE GROWLS

ROARING

Sotheby's. NOW!

What's the haul?

£1,000.

Tippety-top! I tick your paper and mark it alpha plus.

-Now shall I help you with the arithmetic?

-Oh, please.

100 quid to Catsmeat. Ten bob for me.

That leaves £899.10.

-How much has your father been subbing you over the years?

-Oh...

Call it 500.

I want you to go and give it to him.

Now, the rest you must blow on Vanessa.

Whisk her back to London and buy her a slap-up dinner

and dance at the Pink Pussy, every night this week.

-Uncle Gally...

-Yes?

When I grow up, can I be like you?

Who knows, my boy? We can but guide you thither.

If the sun shines on you in youth,

you grow up knowing it's been put there for that express purpose.

Ah...

Ah! Guv'nor!

Right...

Brace yourself.

Something very extraordinary is about to happen.

Guv?

Am I hallucinating, or did you just come to my bedroom

and give me a vast amount of money?

Guv'nor, I did.

-Are you sure it wasn't the other way around?

-No, no.

How extraordinary.

Oh! Vanessa, good morning.

I trust you slept after the disturbances of the evening.

Oh, I slept like a hairy bear.

You weren't...disturbed again?

By someone delivering a letter?

Morning.

Whatever has gone wrong, Galahad, I blame you.

Perfectly reasonable and entirely expected. Now hear this.

Vanessa, if you have beans, spill 'em now.

Very well. Freddie. That small picture in oils of a horse.

Oh, Lord, don't say you want it.

I just flogged it to Hannibal for 500 quid.

-What?!

-I never wanted it.

I knew when I painted it the other day that it was garbage.

That's why I threw it in a trash can in Green Park.

That IS where you found it?

-Outstanding! But this is the good bit. Clarence.

-What?

The picture of Calypso, sir. It's by Agnolo di Cosimo.

Cozzy who?

The painter generally known as Bronzino.

Oh, I've got a Bronzino!

Chubby girl, lolling about on a lilo. Do you know it, Connie?

Oh, God.

Yes, Lord Emsworth. It's worth a very great deal of money indeed.

Well, I never.

On the subject of money. I have to come clean.

I am not JB Polk's daughter. I am not a millionairess.

Fact is... I'm pretty much a bum.

Not entirely sure that word translates. Bum.

Clarence. Here is the situation.

Hannibal paid a fortune for a pile of codswallop -

no offence, Vanessa - and Sotheby's is about to bray in his face.

You, on the other hand, have a nice picture of a roly-poly popsy

worth untold gold.

I'd say it's time to burst joy's grape against our palate fine!

Absolutely! Hurrah! Whose grape?

-Joy's.

-Joy, you are most welcome at Blandings, my dear.

Why, thank you, Lord Emsworth.

I am going to my room.

Are you, Connie? As you wish.

We shall miss you.

Oh, God...

Has anyone seen Beach?