Just Because: 'Summer Lightning'

Wrong season, I know. But this little book is by one of my ~ no, scratch that ~ my favorite go-to author when I want a chuckle, the great P.G. Wodehouse (1881-1975), creator of the dexterous and proficient Jeeves and, of course, the perpetually bemused Bertie Wooster. It is British humor at its very best, IMHO. Not the Benny Hill, Monty Python's Flying Circus kind, but the  ... well, the P.G. Wodehouse, To the Manor Born kind. It's very particular and charmingly self-deprecating and perfectly illustrated by the man himself in the first paragraph of his preface to this tome, in which he unabashedly states the following:

   "A certain critic—for such men, I regret to say, do exist—made the nasty remark about my last novel that it contained 'all the old Wodehouse characters under different names.' He has probably by now been eaten

by bears, like the children who made mock of the prophet Elisha: but if he still survives he will not be able to make a similar charge against Summer Lightning. With my superior intelligence, I have outgeneralled the man this time by putting in all the old Wodehouse characters under the same names. Pretty silly it will make him feel, I rather fancy." ... See what I mean?

CHAPTER 1

Trouble Brewing at Blandings

I

Blandings Castle slept in the sunshine. Dancing little ripples of heat-mist played across its smooth lawns and stone-flagged terraces. The air was full of the lulling drone of insects. It was that gracious hour of a summer afternoon, midway between luncheon and tea, when Nature seems to unbutton its waistcoat and put its feet up.
   In the shade of a laurel bush outside the back premises of this stately home of England, Beach, butler to Clarence, ninth Earl of Emsworth, its proprietor, sat sipping the contents of a long glass and reading a weekly paper devoted to the doings of Society and the Stage. His attention had just been arrested by a photograph in an oval border on one of the inner pages: and for perhaps a minute he scrutinized this in a slow, thorough, pop-eyed way, absorbing its every detail. Then, with a fruity chuckle, he took
a penknife from his pocket, cut out the photograph, and placed it in the recesses of his costume.

   At this moment, the laurel bush, which had hitherto not spoken, said "Psst!"
   The butler started violently. A spasm ran through his ample frame.
   "Beach!" said the bush.
   Something was now peering out of it. This might have been a wood-nymph, but the butler rather thought not, and he was right. It was a tall young man with light hair. He recognized his employer's secretary, Mr. Hugo Carmody, and rose with pained reproach. His heart was still jumping, and he had bitten his tongue.
   "Startle you, Beach?"
   "Extremely, sir."
   "I'm sorry. Excellent for the liver, though. Beach, do you want to earn a quid?"
   The butler's austerity softened. The hard look died out of his eyes.
   "Yes, sir."
   "Can you get hold of Miss Millicent alone?"
   "Certainly, sir."
   "Then give her this note, and don't let anyone see you do it. Especially—and this is where I want you to follow me very closely, Beach—Lady Constance Keeble."
   "I will attend to the matter immediately, sir."
   He smiled a paternal smile. Hugo smiled back. A perfect understanding prevailed between these two. Beach understood that he ought not be giving his employer's niece surreptitious notes: and Hugo understood that he ought not to be urging a good man to place such a weight upon his conscience.
   ...