The Man Upstairs and Other Stories

by P. G. Wodehouse

  ROUGH-HEW THEM HOW WE WILL

  Paul Boielle was a waiter. The word 'waiter' suggests a soft-voiced,deft-handed being, moving swiftly and without noise in an atmosphere ofluxury and shaded lamps. At Bredin's Parisian Cafe and Restaurant inSoho, where Paul worked, there were none of these things; and Paulhimself, though he certainly moved swiftly, was by no means noiseless.His progress through the room resembled in almost equal proportions thefinish of a Marathon race, the star-act of a professional juggler, anda monologue by an Earl's Court side-showman. Constant acquaintancerendered regular habitues callous to the wonder, but to a stranger thesight of Paul tearing over the difficult between-tables course, hishands loaded with two vast pyramids of dishes, shouting as he went themystic word, 'Comingsarecominginamomentsaresteaksareyessarecomingsare!'was impressive to a degree. For doing far less exacting feats on thestage music-hall performers were being paid fifty pounds a week. Paulgot eighteen shillings.

  What a blessing is poverty, properly considered. If Paul had receivedmore than eighteen shillings a week he would not have lived in anattic. He would have luxuriated in a bed-sitting-room on the secondfloor; and would consequently have missed what was practically agenuine north light. The skylight which went with the attic was soarranged that the room was a studio in miniature, and, as Paul wasengaged in his spare moments in painting a great picture, nothing couldhave been more fortunate; for Paul, like so many of our public men,lived two lives. Off duty, the sprinting, barking juggler of Bredin'sParisian Cafe became the quiet follower of Art. Ever since hischildhood he had had a passion for drawing and painting. He regrettedthat Fate had allowed him so little time for such work; but after all,he reflected, all great artists had had their struggles--so why nothe? Moreover, they were now nearly at an end. An hour here, an hourthere, and every Thursday a whole afternoon, and the great picture waswithin measurable distance of completion. He had won through. Withoutmodels, without leisure, hungry, tired, he had nevertheless triumphed.A few more touches, and the masterpiece would be ready for purchase. Andafter that all would be plain sailing. Paul could forecast the scene soexactly. The picture would be at the dealer's, possibly--one must notbe too sanguine--thrust away in some odd corner. The wealthyconnoisseur would come in. At first he would not see the masterpiece;other more prominently displayed works would catch his eye. He wouldturn from them in weary scorn, and then!... Paul wondered how big thecheque would be.

  There were reasons why he wanted the money. Looking at him as hecantered over the linoleum at Bredin's, you would have said that hismind was on his work. But it was not so. He took and executed orders asautomatically as the penny-in-the-slot musical-box in the corner tookpennies and produced tunes. His thoughts were of Jeanne Le Brocq, hisco-worker at Bredin's, and a little cigar shop down Brixton way whichhe knew was in the market at a reasonable rate. To marry the former andown the latter was Paul's idea of the earthly paradise, and it was thewealthy connoisseur, and he alone, who could open the gates.

  Jeanne was a large, slow-moving Norman girl, stolidly handsome. Onecould picture her in a de Maupassant farmyard. In the clatter andbustle of Bredin's Parisian Cafe she appeared out of place, like a cowin a boiler-factory. To Paul, who worshipped her with all the fervourof a little man for a large woman, her deliberate methods seemed allthat was beautiful and dignified. To his mind she lent a tone to thevulgar whirlpool of gorging humanity, as if she had been some goddessmixing in a Homeric battle. The whirlpool had other views--andexpressed them. One coarse-fibred brute, indeed, once went so far as toaddress to her the frightful words, ''Urry up, there, Tottie! Lookslippy.' It was wrong, of course, for Paul to slip and spill an orderof scrambled eggs down the brute's coat-sleeve, but who can blame him?

  Among those who did not see eye to eye with Paul in his views ondeportment in waitresses was M. Bredin himself, the owner of theParisian Cafe; and it was this circumstance which first gave Paul theopportunity of declaring the passion which was gnawing him with thefierce fury of a Bredin customer gnawing a tough steak against timeduring the rush hour. He had long worshipped her from afar, but nothingmore intimate than a 'Good morning, Miss Jeanne', had escaped him,till one day during a slack spell he came upon her in the littlepassage leading to the kitchen, her face hidden in her apron, her backjerking with sobs.

  Business is business. Paul had a message to deliver to the cookrespecting 'two fried, coffee, and one stale'. He delivered it andreturned. Jeanne was still sobbing.

  'Ah, Miss Jeanne,' cried Paul, stricken, 'what is the matter? What isit? Why do you weep?'

  'The _patron_,' sobbed Jeanne. 'He--'

  'My angel,' said Paul, 'he is a pig.'

  This was perfectly true. No conscientious judge of character could havedenied that Paul had hit the bull's eye. Bredin was a pig. He lookedlike a pig; he ate like a pig; he grunted like a pig. He had the lavishembonpoint of a pig. Also a porcine soul. If you had tied a bit of blueribbon round his neck you could have won prizes with him at a show.

  Paul's eyes flashed with fury. 'I will slap him in the eye,' he roared.

  'He called me a tortoise.'

  'And kick him in the stomach,' added Paul.

  Jeanne's sobs were running on second speed now. The anguish wasdiminishing. Paul took advantage of the improved conditions to slide anarm part of the way round her waist. In two minutes he had said as muchas the ordinary man could have worked off in ten. All good stuff, too.No padding.

  Jeanne's face rose from her apron like a full moon. She was tooastounded to be angry.

  Paul continued to babble. Jeanne looked at him with growing wrath. Thatshe, who received daily the affectionate badinage of gentlemen inbowler hats and check suits, who had once been invited to the WhiteCity by a solicitor's clerk, should be addressed in this way by awaiter! It was too much. She threw off his hand.

  'Wretched little man!' she cried, stamping angrily.

  'My angel!' protested Paul.

  Jeanne uttered a scornful laugh.

  'You!' she said.

  There are few more withering remarks than 'You!' spoken in a certainway. Jeanne spoke it in just that way.

  Paul wilted.

  'On eighteen shillings a week,' went on Jeanne, satirically, 'you wouldsupport a wife, yes? Why--'

  Paul recovered himself. He had an opening now, and proceeded to use it.

  'Listen,' he said. 'At present, yes, it is true, I earn but eighteenshillings a week, but it will not always be so, no. I am not only awaiter. I am also an artist. I have painted a great picture. For awhole year I have worked, and now it is ready. I will sell it, andthen, my angel--?'

  Jeanne's face had lost some of its scorn. She was listening with somerespect. 'A picture?' she said, thoughtfully. 'There is money inpictures.'

  For the first time Paul was glad that his arm was no longer round herwaist. To do justice to the great work he needed both hands forpurposes of gesticulation.

  'There is money in this picture,' he said. 'Oh, it is beautiful. I callit "The Awakening". It is a woodland scene. I come back from my workhere, hot and tired, and a mere glance at that wood refreshes me. It isso cool, so green. The sun filters in golden splashes through thefoliage. On a mossy bank, between two trees, lies a beautiful girlasleep. Above her, bending fondly over her, just about to kiss thatflower-like face, is a young man in the dress of a shepherd. At thelast moment he has looked over his shoulder to make sure that there isnobody near to see. He is wearing an expression so happy, so proud,that one's heart goes out to him.'

  'Yes, there might be money in that,' cried Jeanne.

  'There is, there is!' cried Paul. 'I shall sell it for many francs to awealthy connoisseur. And then, my angel--'

  'You are a good little man,' said the angel, patronizingly. 'Perhaps.We will see.'

  Paul caught her hand and kissed it. She smiled indulgently. 'Yes,' shesaid. 'There might be money. These English pay much money for pictures.'

  * * * * *

  It is pretty generally ad
mitted that Geoffrey Chaucer, the eminent poetof the fourteenth century, though obsessed with an almost Rooseveltianpassion for the new spelling, was there with the goods when it came toprofundity of thought. It was Chaucer who wrote the lines:

  The lyfe so short, the craft so long to lerne,Th' assay so hard, so sharpe the conquering.

  Which means, broadly, that it is difficult to paint a picture, but agreat deal more difficult to sell it.

  Across the centuries Paul Boielle shook hands with Geoffrey Chaucer.'So sharpe the conquering' put his case in a nutshell.

  The full story of his wanderings with the masterpiece would read likean Odyssey and be about as long. It shall be condensed.

  There was an artist who dined at intervals at Bredin's Parisian Cafe,and, as the artistic temperament was too impatient to be suited byJeanne's leisurely methods, it had fallen to Paul to wait upon him. Itwas to this expert that Paul, emboldened by the geniality of theartist's manner, went for information. How did monsieur sell hispictures? Monsieur said he didn't, except once in a blue moon. But whenhe did? Oh, he took the thing to the dealers. Paul thanked him. Afriend of him, he explained, had painted a picture and wished to sellit.

  'Poor devil!' was the artist's comment.

  Next day, it happening to be a Thursday, Paul started on his travels.He started buoyantly, but by evening he was as a punctured balloon.Every dealer had the same remark to make--to wit, no room.

  'Have you yet sold the picture?' inquired Jeanne, when they met. 'Notyet,' said Paul. 'But they are delicate matters, these negotiations. Iuse finesse. I proceed with caution.'

  He approached the artist again.

  'With the dealers,' he said, 'my friend has been a little unfortunate.They say they have no room.'

  '_I_ know,' said the artist, nodding.

  'Is there, perhaps, another way?'

  'What sort of a picture is it?' inquired the artist.

  Paul became enthusiastic.

  'Ah! monsieur, it is beautiful. It is a woodland scene. A beautifulgirl--'

  'Oh! Then he had better try the magazines. They might use it for acover.'

  Paul thanked him effusively. On the following Thursday he visiteddivers art editors. The art editors seemed to be in the same unhappycondition as the dealers. 'Overstocked!' was their cry.

  'The picture?' said Jeanne, on the Friday morning. 'Is it sold?'

  'Not yet,' said Paul, 'but--'

  'Always but!'

  'My angel!'

  'Bah!' said Jeanne, with a toss of her large but shapely head.

  By the end of the month Paul was fighting in the last ditch, wanderingdisconsolately among those who dwell in outer darkness and have grimythumbs. Seven of these in all he visited on that black Thursday, andeach of the seven rubbed the surface of the painting with a grimythumb, snorted, and dismissed him. Sick and beaten, Paul took themasterpiece back to his skylight room.

  All that night he lay awake, thinking. It was a weary bundle of nervesthat came to the Parisian Cafe next morning. He was late in arriving,which was good in that it delayed the inevitable question as to thefate of the picture, but bad in every other respect. M. Bredin,squatting behind the cash-desk, grunted fiercely at him; and, worse,Jeanne, who, owing to his absence, had had to be busier than suited herdisposition, was distant and haughty. A murky gloom settled upon Paul.

  Now it so happened that M. Bredin, when things went well with him, waswont to be filled with a ponderous amiability. It was not often thatthis took a practical form, though it is on record that in an exuberantmoment he once gave a small boy a halfpenny. More frequently it merelyled him to soften the porcine austerity of his demeanour. Today,business having been uncommonly good, he felt pleased with the world.He had left his cash-desk and was assailing a bowl of soup at one ofthe side-tables. Except for a belated luncher at the end of the roomthe place was empty. It was one of the hours when there was a lull inthe proceedings at the Parisian Cafe. Paul was leaning, wrapped in thegloom, against the wall. Jeanne was waiting on the proprietor.

  M. Bredin finished his meal and rose. He felt content. All was wellwith the world. As he lumbered to his desk he passed Jeanne. Hestopped. He wheezed a compliment. Then another. Paul, from his place bythe wall, watched with jealous fury.

  M. Bredin chucked Jeanne under the chin.

  As he did so, the belated luncher called 'Waiter!' but Paul wasotherwise engaged. His entire nervous system seemed to have beenstirred up with a pole. With a hoarse cry he dashed forward. He woulddestroy this pig who chucked his Jeanne under the chin.

  The first intimation M. Bredin had of the declaration of war was theimpact of a French roll on his ear. It was one of those nobbly, chunkyrolls with sharp corners, almost as deadly as a piece of shrapnel. M.Bredin was incapable of jumping, but he uttered a howl and his vastbody quivered like a stricken jelly. A second roll, whizzing by,slapped against the wall. A moment later a cream-bun burst in stickyruin on the proprietor's left eye.

  The belated luncher had been anxious to pay his bill and go, but hecame swiftly to the conclusion that this was worth stopping on for. Heleaned back in his chair and watched. M. Bredin had entrenched himselfbehind the cash-desk, peering nervously at Paul through the cream, andPaul, pouring forth abuse in his native tongue, was brandishing achocolate eclair. The situation looked good to the spectator.

  It was spoiled by Jeanne, who seized Paul by the arm and shook him,adding her own voice to the babel. It was enough. The eclair fell tothe floor. Paul's voice died away. His face took on again its crushed,hunted expression. The voice of M. Bredin, freed from competition, roseshrill and wrathful.

  'The marksman is getting sacked,' mused the onlooker, diagnosing thesituation.

  He was right. The next moment Paul, limp and depressed, had retired tothe kitchen passage, discharged. It was here, after a few minutes, thatJeanne found him.

  'Fool! Idiot! Imbecile!' said Jeanne.

  Paul stared at her without speaking.

  'To throw rolls at the _patron_. Imbecile!'

  'He--' began Paul.

  'Bah! And what if he did? Must you then attack him like a mad dog? Whatis it to you?'

  Paul was conscious of a dull longing for sympathy, a monstrous senseof oppression. Everything was going wrong. Surely Jeanne must betouched by his heroism? But no. She was scolding furiously. SupposeAndromeda had turned and scolded Perseus after he had slain thesea-monster! Paul mopped his forehead with his napkin. The bottom haddropped out of his world.

  'Jeanne!'

  'Bah! Do not talk to me, idiot of a little man. Almost you lost me myplace also. The _patron_ was in two minds. But I coaxed him. Afine thing that would have been, to lose my good place through yourfoolishness. To throw rolls. My goodness!'

  She swept back into the room again, leaving Paul still standing by thekitchen door. Something seemed to have snapped inside him. How long hestood there he did not know, but presently from the dining-room camecalls of 'Waiter!' and automatically he fell once more into his work,as an actor takes up his part. A stranger would have noticed nothingremarkable in him. He bustled to and fro with undiminished energy.

  At the end of the day M. Bredin paid him his eighteen shillings with agrunt, and Paul walked out of the restaurant a masterless man.

  He went to his attic and sat down on the bed. Propped up against thewall was the picture. He looked at it with unseeing eyes. He stareddully before him.

  Then thoughts came to him with a rush, leaping and dancing in his mindlike imps in Hades. He had a curious sense of detachment. He seemed tobe watching himself from a great distance.

  This was the end. The little imps danced and leaped; and then oneseparated itself from the crowd, to grow bigger than, the rest, topirouette more energetically. He rose. His mind was made up. He wouldkill himself.

  He went downstairs and out into the street. He thought hard as hewalked. 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 shoutedangrily at him as he leapt back.

  Paul shook his fist at the retreating lights.

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

  A policeman had strolled up and was eyeing him curiously. Paul turnedto 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 ofaccidents.'

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

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

  * * * * *

  It was quiet in the Park. He had chosen the Park because it was darkand there would be none to see and interfere. He waited long in theshadow by the roadside. Presently from the darkness there came thedistant drone of powerful engines. Lights appeared, like the blazingeyes 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 inarticulatefarewell to his picture, to Jeanne, to life. It was excusable to thedriver of the motor that he misinterpreted it. It seemed to him a cryof warning. There was a great jarring of brakes, a scuttering of lockedwheels on the dry road, and the car came to a standstill a full yardfrom 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. 'Inever 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 finallygiven 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 manwith a pleasant, clean-cut face. He stopped and shook Paul.

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

  Paul sat up, gulping convulsively. He was thoroughly unstrung. Thecold, desperate mood had passed. In its place came the old feeling ofdesolation. He was a child, aching for sympathy. He wanted to tell histroubles. Punctuating his narrative with many gestures and anoccasional gulp, he proceeded to do so. The American listenedattentively.

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

  * * * * *

  There was breakfast at the hotel next morning, a breakfast to put heartinto a man. During the meal a messenger dispatched in a cab to Paul'slodgings returned with the canvas. A deferential waiter informed theAmerican 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 alook 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 wealthyconnoisseur? He was wealthy, for he drove an automobile and lived in anexpensive hotel. He was a connoisseur, for he had said that the picturewas a crackerjack.

  '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, 'formonths.'

  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 theshepherd. 'Now, you see this prominent citizen. What's he doing!'

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

  'Never mind about her. Fix your mind on him. Willie is the "star" inthis show. You have summed him up accurately. He is stooping. Stoopinggood. 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 nowhe 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 andProven. Galloway's Tried and Proven will stand any old strain you careto put on them. See small bills. Wear Galloway's Tried and Proven, andfate cannot touch you. You can take it from me. I'm the company'sgeneral manager.'

  'Indeed, monsieur!'

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

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

  'Here, break away!' cried the astonished general manager. 'That's noway to sign a business contract.'

  * * * * *

  It was at about five minutes after one that afternoon that ConstableThomas Parsons, patrolling his beat, was aware of a man motioning tohim from the doorway of Bredin's Parisian Cafe and Restaurant. The manlooked like a pig. He grunted like a pig. He had the lavish_embonpoint_ of a pig. Constable Parsons suspected that he had aporcine soul. Indeed, the thought flitted across Constable Parsons'mind that, if he were to tie a bit of blue ribbon round his neck, hecould win prizes with him at a show.

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

  The stout man talked volubly in French. Constable Parsons shook hishead.

  'Talk sense,' he advised.

  'In dere,' cried the stout man, pointing behind him into therestaurant, 'a man, a--how you say?--yes, sacked. An employe whom Iyesterday sacked, today he returns. I say to him, "Cochon, va!"'

  'What's that?'

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

  With massive dignity the policeman entered the restaurant. At one ofthe tables sat Paul, calm and distrait. From across the room Jeannestared 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 cafe to lunch, and this man here would expelme.'

  'He is an employe 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 pocketsand to lay upon the table bank-notes and sovereigns. The cloth wascovered with them.

  He picked up a half-sovereign.

  'If monsieur,' he said to the policeman, 'would accept this as a slightconsolation for the inconvenience which this foolish person here hascaused him--'

  'Not half,' said Mr Parsons, affably. 'Look here'--he turned to theg
aping proprietor--'if you go on like this you'll be getting yourselfinto 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 whoattended to his needs during the meal; but when he had lunched it wasJeanne who brought his coffee.

  She bent over the table.

  'You sold your picture, Paul--yes?' she whispered. 'For much money? Howglad 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 cigarette, mygood girl?'