P G Wodehouse - Man Upstairs

by Man Upstairs

  He went downstairs and out into the street. He thought hard as he walked. He would kill himself, but how?

  His preoccupation was so great that an automobile, rounding a corner, missed him by inches as he crossed the road. The chauffeur shouted angrily at him as he leapt back.

  Paul shook his fist at the retreating lights.

  "Pig!" he shouted. "Assassin! Scoundrel! Villain! Would you kill me? I will take your number, rascal. I will inform the police. Villain!"

  A policeman had strolled up and was eyeing him curiously. Paul turned to him, full of his wrongs.

  "Officer," he cried, "I have a complaint. These pigs of chauffeurs! They are reckless. They drive so recklessly. Hence the great number of accidents."

  "Awful!" said the policeman. "Pass along, sonny."

  Paul walked on, fuming. It was abominable that these chauffeurs-And then an idea came to him. He had found a way.

  It was quiet in the Park. He had chosen the Park because it was dark and there would be none to see and interfere. He waited long in the shadow by the roadside. Presently from the darkness there came the distant drone of powerful engines. Lights appeared, like the blazing eyes of a dragon swooping down to devour its prey.

  He ran out into the road with a shout.

  It was an error, that shout. He had intended it for an inarticulate farewell to his picture, to Jeanne, to life. It was excusable in the driver of the motor that he misinterpreted it. It seemed to him a cry of warning. There was a great jarring of brakes, a scuttering of locked wheels on the dry road, and the car came to a standstill a full yard from where he stood.

  "What the deuce-" said a cool voice from behind the lights.

  Paul struck his chest and folded his arms.

  "I am here," he cried. "Destroy me!"

  "Let George do it," said the voice, in a marked American accent. "I never murder on a Friday; it's unlucky. If it's not a rude question, which asylum are you from? Halloa!"

  The exclamation was one of surprise, for Paul's nerves had finally given way, and he was now in a heap on the road, sobbing.

  The man climbed down and came into the light. He was a tall young man with a pleasant, clean-cut face. He stopped and shook Paul.

  "Quit that," he said. "Maybe it's not true. And if it is, there's always hope. Cut it out. What's the matter? All in?"

  Paul sat up, gulping convulsively. He was thoroughly unstrung. The cold, desperate mood had passed. In its place came the old feeling of desolation. He was a child, aching for sympathy. He wanted to tell his troubles. Punctuating his narrative with many gestures and an occasional gulp, he proceeded to do so. The American listened attentively.

  "So you can't sell your picture, and you've lost your job, and your girl has shaken you?" he said. "Pretty bad, but still you've no call to go mingling with automobile wheels. You come along with me to my hotel, and to-morrow we'll see if we can't fix up something."

  There was breakfast at the hotel next morning, a breakfast to put heart into a man. During the meal a messenger dispatched in a cab to Paul's lodgings returned with the canvas. A deferential waiter informed the American that it had been taken with every possible care to his suite.

  "Good," said the young man. "If you're through, we'll go and have a look at it."

  They went upstairs. There was the picture, resting against a chair.

  "Why, I call that fine," said the young man. "It's a cracker-jack."

  Paul's heart gave a sudden leap. Could it be that here was the wealthy connoisseur? He was wealthy, for he drove an automobile and lived at an expensive hotel. He was a connoisseur, for he had said that the picture was a cracker-jack.

  "Monsieur is kind," murmured Paul.

  "It's a bear-cat," said the young man, admiringly.

  "Monsieur is flattering," said Paul, dimly perceiving a compliment.

  "I've been looking for a picture like that," said the young man, "for months."

  Paul's eyes rolled heavenwards.

  "If you'll make a few alterations, I'll buy it and ask for more."

  "Alterations, monsieur?"

  "One or two small ones." He pointed to the stooping figure of the shepherd. "Now, you see this prominent citizen. What's he doing!"

  "He is stooping," said Paul, fervently, "to bestow upon his loved one a kiss. And she, sleeping, all unconscious, dreaming of him-"

  "Never mind about her. Fix your mind on him. Willie is the 'star' in this show. You have summed him up accurately. He is stooping. Stooping good. Now, if that fellow was wearing braces and stooped like that, you'd say he'd burst those braces, wouldn't you?"

  With a somewhat dazed air Paul said that he thought he would. Till now he had not looked at the figure from just that view-point.

  "You'd say he'd bust them?"

  "Assuredly, monsieur."

  "No!" said the young man, solemnly, tapping him earnestly on the chest. "That's where you're wrong. Not if they were Galloway's Tried and Proven. Galloway's Tried and Proven will stand any old strain you care to put on them. See small bills. Wear Galloway's Tried and Proven, and fate cannot touch you. You can take it from me. I'm the company's general manager."

  "And I'll make a proposition to you. Cut out that mossy bank, and make the girl lying in a hammock. Put Willie in shirt-sleeves instead of a bath-robe, and fix him up with a pair of the Tried and Proven, and I'll give you three thousand dollars for that picture and a retaining fee of four thousand a year to work for us and nobody else for any number of years you care to mention. You've got the goods. You've got just the touch. That happy look on Willie's face, for instance. You can see in a minute why he's so happy. It's because he's wearing the Tried and Proven, and he knows that however far he stoops they won't break. Is that a deal?"

  Paul's reply left no room for doubt. Seizing the young man firmly round the waist, he kissed him with extreme fervour on both cheeks.

  "Here, break away!" cried the astonished general manager. "That's no way to sign a business contract."

  It was at about five minutes after one that afternoon that Constable Thomas Parsons, patrolling his beat, was aware of a man motioning to him from the doorway of Bredin's Parisian Café and Restaurant. The man looked like a pig. He grunted like a pig. He had the lavish embonpoint of a pig. Constable Parsons suspected that he had a porcine soul. Indeed, the thought flitted across Constable Parson's mind that, if he were to tie a bit of blue ribbon round his neck, he could win prizes with him at a show.

  "What's all this?" he inquired, halting.

  The stout man talked volubly in French. Constable Parsons shook his head.

  "Talk sense," he advised.

  "In dere," cried the stout man, pointing behind him into the restaurant, "a man, a-how you say?-yes, sacked. An employé whom I yesterday sacked, to-day he returns. I say to him, 'Cochon, va!' "

  "What's that?"

  "I say, 'Peeg, go!' How you say? Yes, 'pop off!' I say, 'Peeg, pop off!' But he-no, no; he sits and will not go. Come in, officer, and expel him."

  With massive dignity the policeman entered the restaurant. At one of the tables sat Paul, calm and distrait. From across the room Jeanne stared freezingly.

  "What's all this?" inquired Constable Parsons. Paul looked up.

  "I, too," he admitted, "I cannot understand. Figure to yourself, monsieur. I enter this café to lunch, and this man here would expel me."

  "He is an employé whom I-I myself-have but yesterday dismissed," vociferated M. Bredin. "He has no money to lunch at my restaurant."

  The policeman eyed Paul sternly.

  "Eh?" he said. "That so? You'd better come along."

  Paul's eyebrows rose.

  Before the round eyes of M. Bredin he began to produce from his pockets and to lay upon the table bank-notes and sovereigns. The cloth was covered with them.

  He picked up a half-sovereign.

  "If monsieur," he said to the policeman, "would accept this as a slight consolation for the inconvenience which this foolish person here has ca
used him-"

  "Not half," said Mr. Parsons, affably. "Look here"-he turned to the gaping proprietor-"if you go on like this you'll be getting yourself into trouble. See? You take care another time."

  Paul called for the bill of fare.

  It was the inferior person who had succeeded to his place as waiter who attended to his needs during the meal; but when he had lunched it was Jeanne who brought his coffee.

  She bent over the table.

  "You sold your picture, Paul-yes?" she whispered. "For much money? How glad I am, dear Paul. Now we will-"

  Paul met her glance coolly.

  "Will you be so kind," he said, "as to bring me also a cigaratte, my good girl?"

  The Man Who Disliked Cats

  It was Harold who first made us acquainted, when I was dining one night at the Café Britannique, in Soho. It is a peculiarity of the Café Britannique that you will always find flies there, even in winter. Snow was falling that night as I turned in at the door, but, glancing about me, I noticed several of the old faces. My old acquaintance, Percy the bluebottle, looking wonderfully fit despite his years, was doing deep-breathing exercises on a mutton cutlet, and was too busy to do more than pause for a moment to nod at me; but his cousin, Harold, always active, sighted me and bustled up to do the honours.

  He had finished his game of touch-last with my right ear, and was circling slowly in the air while he thought out other ways of entertaining me, when there was a rush of air, a swish of napkin, and no more Harold.

  I turned to thank my preserver, whose table adjoined mine. He was a Frenchman, a melancholy-looking man. He had the appearance of one who has searched for the leak in life's gaspipe with a lighted candle; of one whom the clenched fist of Fate has smitten beneath the temperamental third waistcoat-button.

  He waved my thanks aside. "It was a bagatelle," he said. We became friendly. He moved to my table, and we fraternized over our coffee.

  Suddenly he became agitated. He kicked at something on the floor. His eyes gleamed angrily.

  "Ps-s-st!" he hissed. "Va-t'en!"

  I looked round the corner of the table, and perceived the restaurant cat in dignified retreat.

  "You do not like cats?" I said.

  "I 'ate all animals, monsieur. Cats especially." He frowned. He seemed to hesitate.

  "I will tell you my story," he said. "You will sympathise. You have a sympathetic face. It is the story of a man's tragedy. It is the story of a blighted life. It is the story of a woman who would not forgive. It is the story-"

  "I've got an appointment at eleven," I said.

  He nodded absently, drew at his cigarette, and began:-

  I have conceived my 'atred of animals, monsieur, many years ago in Paris. Animals are to me a symbol for the lost dreams of youth, for ambitions foiled, for artistic impulses cruelly stifled. You are astonished. You ask why I say these things. I shall tell you.

  I am in Paris, young, ardent, artistic. I wish to paint pictures. I 'ave the genius, the ent'usiasm. I wish to be disciple of the great Bouguereau. But no. I am dependent for support upon an uncle. He is rich. He is proprietor of the great Hotel Jules Priaulx. My name is also Priaulx. He is not sympathetic. I say, "Uncle, I 'ave the genius, the ent'usiasm. Permit me to paint." He shakes his head. He say, "I will give you position in my hotel, and you shall earn your living." What choice? I weep, but I kill my dreams, and I become cashier at my uncle's hotel at a salary of thirty-five francs a week. I, the artist, become a machine for the changing of money at dam bad salary. What would you? What choice? I am dependent. I go to the hotel, and there I learn to 'ate all animals. Cats especially.

  I will tell you the reason. My uncle's hotel is fashionable hotel. Rich Americans, rich Maharajahs, rich people of every nation come to my uncle's hotel. They come, and with them they have brought their pets. Monsieur, it was the existence of a nightmare. Wherever I have looked there are animals. Listen. There is an Indian prince. He has with him two dromedaries. There is also one other Indian prince. With him is a giraffe. The giraffe drink every day one dozen best champagne to keep his coat good. I, the artist, have my bock, and my coat is not good. There is a guest with a young lion. There is a guest with an alligator. But especially there is a cat. He is fat. His name is Alexander. He belong to an American woman. She is fat. She exhibits him to me. He is wrapped in a silk and fur creation like an opera cloak. Every day she exhibits him. It is "Alexander this" and "Alexander that," till I 'ate Alexander very much. I 'ate all the animals, but especially Alexander.

  And so, monsieur, it goes on, day by day, in this hotel that is a Zoological Garden. And every day I 'ate the animals the more. But especially Alexander.

  We artists, monsieur, we are martyrs to our nerves. It became insupportable, this thing. Each day it became more insupportable. At night I dream of all the animals, one by one-the giraffe, the two dromedaries, the young lion, the alligator, and Alexander. Especially Alexander. You have 'eard of men who cannot endure the society of a cat-how they cry out and jump in the air if a cat is among those present. Hein? Your Lord Roberts? Precisely, monsieur. I have read so much. Listen, then. I am become by degrees almost like 'im. I do not cry out and jump in the air when I see the cat Alexander, but I grind my teeth and I 'ate 'im.

  Yes, I am the sleeping volcano, and one morning, monsieur, I have suffered the eruption. It is like this. I shall tell you.

  Not only at that time am I the martyr to nerves, but also to toothache. That morning I 'ave 'ad the toothache very bad. I 'ave been in pain the most terrible. I groan as I add up the figures in my book.

  As I groan I 'ear a voice.

  "Say good morning to M. Priaulx, Alexander." Conceive my emotions, monsieur, when this fat, beastly cat is placed before me upon my desk!

  It put the cover upon it. No, that is not the phrase. The lid. It put the lid upon it. All my smothered 'atred of the animal burst forth. I could no longer conceal my 'atred.

  I rose. I was terrible. I seized 'im by the tail. I flung him-I did not know where. I did not care. Not then. Afterwards, yes, but not then.

  Your Longfellow has a poem. "I shot an arrow into the air. It fell to earth, I know not where." And then he has found it. The arrow in the 'eart of a friend. Am I right? Also was that the tragedy with me. I flung the cat Alexander. My uncle, on whom I am dependent, is passing at the moment. He has received the cat in the middle of his face.

  My companion, with the artist's instinct for the "curtain," paused. He looked round the brightly-lit restaurant. From every side arose the clatter of knife and fork, and the clear, sharp note of those who drank soup. In a distant corner a small waiter with a large voice was calling the cook names through the speaking- tube. It was a cheerful scene, but it brought no cheer to my companion. He sighed heavily and resumed.

  I 'urry over that painful scene. There is blooming row. My uncle is 'to-tempered man. The cat is 'eavy cat. I 'ave thrown 'im very hard, for my nerves and my toothache and my 'atred 'ave given me the giant's strength. Alone is this enough to enrage my 'ot-tempered uncle. I am there in his hotel, you will understand, as cashier, not as cat-thrower. And now, besides all this, I have insulted valuable patron. She 'ave left the hotel that day.

  There are no doubts in my mind as to the outcome. With certainty I await my congé. And after painful scene I get it. I am to go. At once. He 'ave assured the angry American woman that I go at once.

  He has called me into his private office. "Jean," he has said to me, at the end of other things, "you are a fool, dolt, no-good imbecile. I give you good place in my hotel, and you spend your time flinging cats. I will 'ave no more of you. But even now I cannot forget that you are my dear brother's child. I will now give you one thousand francs and never see you again."

  I have thanked him, for to me it is wealth. Not before have I ever had one thousand francs of my own. I go out of the hotel. I go to a café and order a bock. I smoke a cigarette. It is necessary that I think out plans. Shall I with my one thousand francs rent a studio i
n the Quarter and commence my life as artist? No. I have still the genius, the ent'usiasm, but I have not the training. To train myself to paint pictures I must study long, and even one thousand francs will not last for ever. Then what shall I do? I do not know. I order one other bock, and smoke more cigarettes, but still I do not know.

  And then I say to myself, "I will go back to my uncle, and plead with him. I will seize favourable opportunity. I will approach him after dinner when he is in good temper. But for that I must be close at hand. I must be-what's your expression?-'Johnny-on-the-spot.' "

  My mind is made up. I have my plan.

  I have gone back to my uncle's hotel, and I have engaged not too expensive bedroom. My uncle does not know. He still is in his private office. I secure my room.

  I dine cheaply that night, but I go to theatre and also to supper after the theatre, for have I not my thousand francs? It is late when I reach my bedroom.

  I go to bed. I go to sleep.

  But I do not sleep long. I am awakened by a voice.

  It is a voice that says, "Move and I shoot! Move and I shoot!" I lie still. I do not move. I am courageous, but I am unarmed.

  And the voice says again, "Move and I shoot!" Is it robbers? Is it some marauder who has made his way to my room to plunder me?

  I do not know. Per'aps I think yes.

  "Who are you?" I have asked.

  There is no answer.

  I take my courage in my 'ands. I leap from my bed. I dash for the door. No pistol has been fire. I have reached the passage, and have shouted for assistance.

  Hotel officials run up. Doors open. "What is it?" voices cry.

  "There is in my room an armed robber," I assure them.

  And then I have found-no, I am mistaken. My door, you will understand, is open. And as I have said these words, a large green parrot comes 'opping out. My assassin is nothing but a green parrot.

  "Move and I shoot!" it has said to those gathered in the corridor. It then has bitten me in the 'and and passed on.