P G Wodehouse - Man Upstairs

by Man Upstairs

  Wilson stepped aside.

  "My wife, sir," he said, apologetically, but with pride.

  "Your wife!"

  "We were married this morning, sir."

  The lady nodded cheerfully at Rollo. She was small and slight, with an impudent nose and a mass of brown hair.

  "Awfully glad to meet you," she said, cracking a walnut.

  Rollo gaped.

  She looked at him again.

  "We've met, haven't we? Oh yes, I remember. We met at lunch once. And you sent me some flowers. It was ever so kind of you," she said, beaming.

  She cracked another nut. She seemed to consider that the introductions were complete and that formality could now be dispensed with once more. She appeared at peace with all men.

  The situation was slipping from Rollo's grip. He continued to gape.

  Then he remembered his grievance

  "I think you might have let me know you weren't coming to supper."

  "Supper?"

  "I sent a note to the theatre this afternoon."

  "I haven't been to the theatre to-day. They let me off because I was going to be married. I'm so sorry. I hope you didn't wait long."

  Rollo's resentment melted before the friendliness of her smile.

  "Hardly any time," he said, untruthfully.

  "If I might explain, sir," said Wilson.

  "By George! if you can, you'll save me from a brainstorm. Cut loose, and don't be afraid you'll bore me. You won't."

  "Mrs. Wilson and I are old friends, sir. We come from the same town. In fact-"

  Rollo's face cleared.

  "By George! Market what's-its-name! Why, of course. Then she-?"

  "Just so, sir. If you recollect, you asked me once if I had ever been in love, and I replied in the affirmative."

  "And it was-"

  "Mrs. Wilson and I were engaged to be married before either of us came to London. There was a misunderstanding, which was entirely my-"

  "Jim! It was mine."

  "No, it was all through my being a fool."

  "It was not. You know it wasn't!"

  Rollo intervened.

  "Well?"

  "And when you sent me with the flowers, sir-well, we talked it over again, and-that was how it came about, sir."

  The bride looked up from her walnuts.

  "You aren't angry?" she smiled up at Rollo.

  "Angry?" He reflected. Of course, it was only reasonable that he should be a little-well, not exactly angry, but-And then for the first time it came to him that the situation was not entirely without its compensations. Until that moment he had completely forgotten Mr. Galloway.

  "Angry?" he said. "Great Scott, no! Jolly glad I came back in time to get a bit of the wedding-breakfast. I want it, I can tell you. I'm hungry. Here we all are, eh? Let's enjoy ourselves. Wilson, old scout, bustle about and give us your imitation of a bridegroom mixing a 'B. and S.' for the best man. Mrs. Wilson, if you'll look in at the theatre to-morrow you'll find one or two small wedding presents waiting for you. Three bouquets-they'll be a bit withered, I'm afraid-a bracelet, and a gold Billiken with ruby eyes. I hope he'll bring you luck. Oh, Wilson!"

  "Sir?"

  "Touching this little business-don't answer if it's a delicate question, but I should like to know-I suppose you didn't try the schedule. What? More the Market Thin-gummy method, eh? The one you described to me?"

  "Market Bumpstead, sir?" said Wilson. "On those lines."

  Rollo nodded thoughtfully.

  "It seems to me," he said, "they know a thing or two down in Market Bumpstead."

  "A very rising little place, sir," assented Wilson.

  Sir Agravaine

  A Tale of King Alfred's Round Table

  Some time ago, when spending a delightful week-end at the ancestral castle of my dear old friend, the Duke of Weatherstonhope (pronounced Wop), I came across an old black letter MS. It is on this that the story which follows is based.

  I have found it necessary to touch the thing up a little here and there, for writers in those days were weak in construction. Their idea of telling a story was to take a long breath and start droning away without any stops or dialogue till the thing was over.

  I have also condensed the title. In the original it ran, " 'How it came about that ye good Knight Sir Agravaine ye Dolorous of ye Table Round did fare forth to succor a damsel in distress and after divers journeyings and perils by flood and by field did win her for his bride and right happily did they twain live ever afterwards,' by Ambrose ye monk."

  It was a pretty snappy title for those times, but we have such a high standard in titles nowadays that I have felt compelled to omit a few yards of it.

  We may now proceed to the story.

  The great tournament was in full swing. All through the afternoon boiler-plated knights on mettlesome chargers had hurled themselves on each other's spears, to the vast contentment of all. Bright eyes shone; handkerchiefs fluttered; musical voices urged chosen champions to knock the cover off their brawny adversaries. The cheap seats had long since become hoarse with emotion. All round the arena rose the cries of itinerant merchants: "Iced malvoisie," "Score-cards; ye cannot tell the jousters without a score-card." All was revelry and excitement.

  A hush fell on the throng. From either end of the arena a mounted knight in armour had entered.

  The herald raised his hand.

  "Ladeez'n gemmen! Battling Galahad and Agravaine the Dolorous. Galahad on my right, Agravaine on my left. Squires out of the ring. Time!"

  A speculator among the crowd offered six to one on Galahad, but found no takers. Nor was the public's caution without reason.

  A moment later the two had met in a cloud of dust, and Agravaine, shooting over his horse's crupper, had fallen with a metallic clang.

  He picked himself up, and limped slowly from the arena. He was not unused to this sort of thing. Indeed, nothing else had happened to him in his whole jousting career.

  The truth was that Sir Agravaine the Dolorous was out of his element at King Arthur's court, and he knew it. It was this knowledge that had given him that settled air of melancholy from which he derived his title.

  Until I came upon this black-letter MS. I had been under the impression, like, I presume, everybody else, that every Knight of the Round Table was a model of physical strength and beauty. Malory says nothing to suggest the contrary. Nor does Tennyson. But apparently there were exceptions, of whom Sir Agravaine the Dolorous must have been the chief.

  There was, it seems, nothing to mitigate this unfortunate man's physical deficiencies. There is a place in the world for the strong, ugly man, and there is a place for the weak, handsome man. But to fall short both in features and in muscle is to stake your all on brain. And in the days of King Arthur you did not find the populace turning out to do homage to brain. It was a drug in the market. Agravaine was a good

  deal better equipped than his contemporaries with grey matter, but his height in his socks was but five feet four; and his muscles, though he had taken three correspondence courses in physical culture, remained distressingly flaccid. His eyes were pale and mild, his nose snub, and his chin receded sharply from his lower lip, as if Nature, designing him, had had to leave off in a hurry and finish the job anyhow. The upper teeth, protruding, completed the resemblance to a nervous rabbit.

  Handicapped in this manner, it is no wonder that he should feel sad and lonely in King Arthur's court. At heart he ached for romance; but romance passed him by. The ladies of the court ignored his existence, while, as for those wandering damsels who came periodically to Camelot to complain of the behaviour of dragons, giants, and the like, and to ask permission of the king to take a knight back with them to fight their cause (just as, nowadays, one goes out and calls a policeman), he simply had no chance. The choice always fell on Lancelot or some other popular favourite.

  The tournament was followed by a feast. In those brave days almost everything was followed by a feast. The scene was gay and animated. F
air ladies, brave knights, churls, varlets, squires, scurvy knaves, men-at-arms, malapert rogues-all were merry. All save Agravaine. He sat silent and moody. To the jests of Dagonet he turned a deaf ear. And when his neighbour, Sir Kay, arguing with Sir Percivale on current form, appealed to him to back up his statement that Sir Gawain, though a workman-like middle- weight, lacked the punch, he did not answer, though the subject was one on which he held strong views. He sat on, brooding.

  As he sat there, a man-at-arms entered the hall.

  "Your majesty," he cried, "a damsel in distress waits without."

  There was a murmur of excitement and interest.

  "Show her in," said the king, beaming.

  The man-at-arms retired. Around the table the knights were struggling into an upright position in their seats and twirling their moustaches. Agravaine alone made no movement. He had been through this sort of thing so often. What were distressed damsels to him? His whole demeanour said, as plainly as if he had spoken the words, "What's the use?"

  The crowd at the door parted, and through the opening came a figure at the sight of whom the expectant faces of the knights turned pale with consternation. For the new-comer was quite the plainest girl those stately halls had ever seen. Possibly the only plain girl they had ever seen, for no instance is recorded in our authorities of the existence at that period of any such.

  The knights gazed at her blankly. Those were the grand old days of chivalry, when a thousand swords would leap from their scabbards to protect defenceless woman, if she were beautiful. The present seemed something in the nature of a special case, and nobody was quite certain as to the correct procedure.

  An awkward silence was broken by the king.

  "Er-yes?" he said.

  The damsel halted.

  "Your majesty," she cried, "I am in distress. I crave help!"

  "Just so," said the king, uneasily, flashing an apprehensive glance at the rows of perturbed faces before him. "Just so What-er-what is the exact nature of the-ah-trouble? Any assistance these gallant knights can render will, I am sure, be-ah-eagerly rendered."

  He looked imploringly at the silent warriors. As a rule, this speech was the signal for roars of applause. But now there was not even a murmur.

  "I may say enthusiastically," he added.

  Not a sound.

  "Precisely," said the king, ever tactful. "And now-you were saying?"

  "I am Yvonne, the daughter of Earl Dorm of the Hills," said the damsel, "and my father has sent me to ask protection from a gallant knight against a fiery dragon that ravages the countryside."

  "A dragon, gentlemen," said the king, aside. It was usually a safe draw. Nothing pleased the knight of that time more than a brisk bout with a dragon. But now the tempting word was received in silence.

  "Fiery," said the king.

  Some more silence.

  The king had recourse to the direct appeal. "Sir Gawain, this Court would be greatly indebted to you if-"

  Sir Gawain said he had strained a muscle at the last tournament.

  "Sir Pelleas."

  The king's voice was growing flat with consternation. The situation was unprecedented.

  Sir Pelleas said he had an ingrowing toe-nail.

  The king's eye rolled in anguish around the table. Suddenly it stopped. It brightened. His look of dismay changed to one of relief.

  A knight had risen to his feet. It was Agravaine.

  "Ah!" said the king, drawing a deep breath.

  Sir Agravaine gulped. He was feeling more nervous than he had ever felt in his life. Never before had he risen to volunteer his services in a matter of this kind, and his state of mind was that of a small boy about to recite his first piece of poetry.

  It was not only the consciousness that every eye, except one of Sir Balin's which had been closed in the tournament that afternoon, was upon him. What made him feel like a mild gentleman in a post- office who has asked the lady assistant if she will have time to attend to him soon and has caught her eye, was the fact that he thought he had observed the damsel Yvonne frown as he rose. He groaned in spirit. This damsel, he felt, wanted the proper goods or none at all. She might not be able to get Sir Lancelot or Sir Galahad; but she was not going to be satisfied with a half-portion.

  The fact was that Sir Agravaine had fallen in love at first sight. The moment he had caught a glimpse of the damsel Yvonne, he loved her devotedly. To others she seemed plain and unattractive. To him she was a Queen of Beauty. He was amazed at the inexplicable attitude of the knights around him. He had expected them to rise in a body to clamour for the chance of assisting this radiant vision. He could hardly believe, even now, that he was positively the only starter.

  "This is Sir Agravaine the Dolorous," said the king to the damsel. "Will you take him as your champion?"

  Agravaine held his breath. But all was well. The damsel bowed.

  "Then, Sir Agravaine," said the king, "perhaps you had better have your charger sent round at once. I imagine that the matter is pressing-time and-er-dragons wait for no man."

  Ten minutes later Agravaine, still dazed, was jogging along to the hills, with the damsel by his side.

  It was some time before either of them spoke. The damsel seemed preoccupied, and Agravaine's mind was a welter of confused thoughts, the most prominent of which and the one to which he kept returning being the startling reflection that he, who had pined for romance so long, had got it now in full measure.

  A dragon! Fiery withal. Was he absolutely certain that he was capable of handling an argument with a fiery dragon? He would have given much for a little previous experience of this sort of thing. It was too late now, but he wished he had had the forethought to get Merlin to put up a magic prescription for him, rendering him immune to dragon-bites. But did dragons bit? Or did they whack at you with their tails? Or just blow fire?

  There were a dozen such points that he would have liked to have settled before starting. It was silly to start out on a venture of this sort without special knowledge. He had half a mind to plead a forgotten engagement and go straight back.

  Then he looked at the damsel, and his mind was made up. What did death matter if he could serve her?

  He coughed. She came out of her reverie with a start.

  "This dragon, now?" said Agravaine.

  For a moment the damsel did not reply. "A fearsome worm, Sir Knight," she said at length. "It raveneth by day and by night. It breathes fire from its nostrils."

  "Does it!" said Agravaine. "Does it! You couldn't give some idea what it looks like, what kind of size it is?"

  "Its body is as thick as ten stout trees, and its head touches the clouds."

  "Does it!" said Agravaine thoughtfully. "Does it!"

  "Oh, Sir Knight, I pray you have a care."

  "I will," said Agravaine. And he had seldom said anything more fervently. The future looked about as bad as it could be. Any hopes he may have entertained that this dragon might turn out to be comparatively small and inoffensive were dissipated. This was plainly no debilitated wreck of a dragon, its growth stunted by excessive fire-breathing. A body as thick as ten stout trees! He would not even have the melancholy satisfaction of giving the creature indigestion. For all the impression he was likely to make on that vast interior, he might as well be a salted almond.

  As they were speaking, a dim mass on the skyline began to take shape.

  "Behold!" said the damsel. "My father's castle." And presently they were riding across the drawbridge and through the great gate, which shut behind them with a clang.

  As they dismounted a man came out through a door at the further end of the courtyard.

  "Father," said Yvonne, "this is the gallant knight Sir Agravaine, who has come to-" it seemed to Agravaine that she hesitated for a moment.

  "To tackle our dragon?" said the father. "Excellent. Come right in."

  Earl Dorm of the Hills was a small, elderly man, with what Agravaine considered a distinctly furtive air about him. His eyes were too close
together, and he was over-lavish with a weak, cunning smile. Even Agravaine, who was in the mood to like the whole family, if possible, for Yvonne's sake, could not help feeling that appearances were against this particular exhibit. He might have a heart of gold beneath the outward aspect of a confidence-trick expert whose hobby was dog-stealing, but there was no doubt that his exterior did not inspire a genial glow of confidence.

  "Very good of you to come," said the earl.

  "It's a pleasure," said Agravaine. "I have been hearing all about the dragon."

  "A great scourge," agreed his host. "We must have a long talk about it after dinner."

  It was the custom in those days in the stately homes of England for the whole strength of the company to take their meals together. The guests sat at the upper table, the ladies in a gallery above them, while the usual drove of men-at-arms, archers, malapert rogues, varlets, scurvy knaves, scullions, and plug- uglies, attached to all medieval households, squashed in near the door, wherever they could find room.

  The retinue of Earl Dorm was not strong numerically-the household being, to judge from appearances, one that had seen better days; but it struck Agravaine that what it lacked in numbers it made up in toughness. Among all those at the bottom of the room there was not one whom it would have been agreeable to meet alone in a dark alley. Of all those foreheads not one achieved a height of more than one point nought four inches. A sinister collection, indeed, and one which, Agravaine felt, should have been capable of handling without his assistance any dragon that ever came into the world to stimulate the asbestos industry.

  He was roused from his reflections by the voice of his host.

  "I hope you are not tired after your journey, Sir Agravaine? My little girl did not bore you, I trust? We are very quiet folk here. Country mice. But we must try to make your visit interesting."

  Agravaine felt that the dragon might be counted upon to do that. He said as much.

  "Ah, yes, the dragon," said Earl Dorm, "I was forgetting the dragon. I want to have a long talk with you about that dragon. Not now. Later on."

  His eye caught Agravaine's, and he smiled that weak, cunning smile of his. And for the first time the knight was conscious of a curious feeling that all was not square and above-board in this castle. A conviction began to steal over him that in some way he was being played with, that some game was afoot which he did not understand, that-in a word-there was dirty work at the cross-roads.