Honeysuckle Cottage is a short ghost story by P.G. Wodehouse, written in 1925.
Yes, by all means go back and read that sentence again. Sir Pelham Grenville Wodehouse, KBE., creator of the feather-brained Bertie Wooster and his sagacious valet, Jeeves; ditto of the immaculate and loquacious Psmith; the feeble-minded Lord Emsworth and the Blandings Castle set, and many more familiar and comic characters much beloved by the British public in the early part of the 20th century, has here written a rather effective ghost story. In fact Ludwig Wittgenstein apparently thought Honeysuckle Cottage was the funniest thing he had ever read. (However, as far as philosophers as a breed are concerned, I’m not sure whether or not we should deduce anything concrete about their sense of humour from this.)
Our hero is one James Rodman, a writer of sensational crime fiction, who has inherited a pretty cottage from his aunt Leila. Leila J. Pinckney had also been a writer of some renown, but of a very different type from her nephew: the “Squashily Sentimental” sort James gloomily informs us. It would have been the last thing in his mind to live permanently in the revoltingly named “Honeysuckle Cottage”, but for one catch. His aunt had left him the cottage, plus 5 thousand pounds, but only on condition that he live in the cottage for 6 months out of every year. Should he fail to do this, then he would forfeit the £5000.
What transpires is a ridiculous romp of a story with some of P.G. Wodehouse’s most endearing types: the bluff sergeant major, the doe-eyed girl, the confirmed bachelor, the stiff young fogey … and not forgetting the essential dogs: roguish, disreputable and fierce, or petite, yappy and ridiculous. All are enclosed in a brief frame story so that Honeysuckle Cottage is nominally a story in the “Mr. Mulliner” series. It is also in “Ghostly”, a collection edited by Audrey Niffenegger in 2015, with one of her line drawings to accompany it.
Here is one of my favourite parts of this story, giving just a flavour of the exasperated hero’s continuing complaints:
“She spent her time sitting in a chair of the sun-sprinkled porch, and James had to read to her - and poetry, at that; and not the jolly, wholesome sort of poetry the boys are turning out nowadays either - good honest sort of stuff about sin and gas works and decaying corpses - but the old-fashioned kind with rhymes in it, dealing almost exclusively with love. The weather moreover continued superb. The honeysuckle cast its sweet scent on the gentle breeze; the roses over the path stirred and nodded; the flowers in the garden were lovelier than ever; the birds sang their little throats sore.”
Immensely silly; inimitably P.G. Wodehouse. Read it fast, or read it out loud, and enjoy the fun.