The Man Upstairs and Other Stories

by P. G. Wodehouse

  THE MAN, THE MAID, AND THE MIASMA

  Although this story is concerned principally with the Man and the Maid,the Miasma pervades it to such an extent that I feel justified inputting his name on the bills. Webster's Dictionary gives the meaningof the word 'miasma' as 'an infection floating in the air; a deadlyexhalation'; and, in the opinion of Mr Robert Ferguson, his lateemployer, that description, though perhaps a little too flattering, onthe whole summed up Master Roland Bean pretty satisfactorily. Until theprevious day he had served Mr Ferguson in the capacity of office-boy;but there was that about Master Bean which made it practicallyimpossible for anyone to employ him for long. A syndicate of Galahad,Parsifal, and Marcus Aurelius might have done it, but to an ordinaryerring man, conscious of things done which should not have been done,and other things equally numerous left undone, he was too oppressive.One conscience is enough for any man. The employer of Master Bean hadto cringe before two. Nobody can last long against an office-boy whoseeyes shine with quiet, respectful reproof through gold-rimmedspectacles, whose manner is that of a middle-aged saint, and whoobviously knows all the Plod and Punctuality books by heart and ordershis life by their precepts. Master Bean was a walking edition of_Stepping-Stones to Success, Millionaires who Have Never Smoked_,and _Young Man, Get up Early_. Galahad, Parsifal, and MarcusAurelius, as I say, might have remained tranquil in his presence, butRobert Ferguson found the contract too large. After one month he hadbraced himself up and sacked the Punctual Plodder.

  Yet now he was sitting in his office, long after the last clerk hadleft, long after the hour at which he himself was wont to leave, hismind full of his late employee.

  Was this remorse? Was he longing for the touch of the vanished hand,the gleam of the departed spectacles? He was not. His mind was full ofMaster Bean because Master Bean was waiting for him in the outeroffice; and he lingered on at his desk, after the day's work was done,for the same reason. Word had been brought to him earlier in theevening, that Master Roland Bean would like to see him. The answer tothat was easy: 'Tell him I'm busy.' Master Bean's admirably dignifiedreply was that he understood how great was the pressure of MrFerguson's work, and that he would wait till he was at liberty.Liberty! Talk of the liberty of the treed possum, but do not use theword in connexion with a man bottled up in an office, with Roland Beanguarding the only exit.

  Mr Ferguson kicked the waste-paper basket savagely. The unfairness ofthe thing hurt him. A sacked office-boy ought to stay sacked. He had nobusiness to come popping up again like Banquo's ghost. It was notplaying the game.

  The reader may wonder what was the trouble--why Mr Ferguson could notstalk out and brusquely dispose of his foe; but then the reader has notemployed Master Bean for a month. Mr Ferguson had, and his nerve hadbroken.

  A slight cough penetrated the door between the two offices. Mr Fergusonrose and grabbed his hat. Perhaps a sudden rush--he shot out with thetense concentration of one moving towards the refreshment-room at astation where the train stops three minutes.

  'Good evening, sir!' was the watcher's view-hallo.

  'Ah, Bean,' said Mr Ferguson, flitting rapidly, 'you still here? Ithought you had gone. I'm afraid I cannot stop now. Some other time--'

  He was almost through.

  'I fear, sir, that you will be unable to get out,' said Master Bean,sympathetically. 'The building is locked up.'

  Men who have been hit by bullets say the first sensation is merely asort of dull shock. So it was with Mr Ferguson. He stopped in histracks and stared.

  'The porter closes the door at seven o'clock punctually, sir. It is nownearly twenty minutes after the hour.'

  Mr Ferguson's brain was still in the numbed stage.

  'Closes the door?' he said.

  'Yes, sir.'

  'Then how are we to get out?'

  'I fear we cannot get out, sir.'

  Mr Ferguson digested this.

  'I am no longer in your employment, sir,' said Master Bean,respectfully, 'but I hope that in the circumstances you will permit meto remain here during the night.'

  'During the night!'

  'It would enable me to sleep more comfortably than on the stairs.'

  'But we can't stop here all night,' said Mr Ferguson, feebly.

  He had anticipated an unpleasant five minutes in Master Bean's company.Imagination boggled at the thought of an unpleasant thirteen hours.

  He collapsed into a chair.

  'I called,' said Master Bean, shelving the trivial subject of theprospective vigil, 'in the hope that I might persuade you, sir, toreconsider your decision in regard to my dismissal. I can assure you,sir, that I am extremely anxious to give satisfaction. If you wouldtake me back and inform me how I have fallen short, I would endeavourto improve, I--'

  'We can't stop here all night,' interrupted Mr Ferguson, bounding fromhis chair and beginning to pace the floor.

  'Without presumption, sir, I feel that if you were to give me anotherchance I should work to your satisfaction. I should endeavour--'

  Mr Ferguson stared at him in dumb horror. He had a momentary vision ofa sleepless night spent in listening to a nicely-polished speech forthe defence. He was seized with a mad desire for flight. He could notleave the building, but he must get away somewhere and think.

  He dashed from the room and raced up the dark stairs. And as he arrivedat the next floor his eye was caught by a thin pencil of light whichproceeded from a door on the left.

  No shipwrecked mariner on a desert island could have welcomed theappearance of a sail with greater enthusiasm. He bounded at the door.He knew to whom the room belonged. It was the office of one Blaythwayt;and Blaythwayt was not only an acquaintance, but a sportsman. Quitepossibly there might be a pack of cards on Blaythwayt's person to helppass the long hours. And if not, at least he would be company and hisoffice a refuge. He flung open the door without going through theformality of knocking. Etiquette is not for the marooned.

  'I say, Blaythwayt--' he began, and stopped abruptly.

  The only occupant of the room was a girl.

  'I beg your pardon,' he said, 'I thought--'

  He stopped again. His eyes, dazzled with the light, had not seenclearly. They did so now.

  'You!' he cried.

  The girl looked at him, first with surprise, then with a coolhostility. There was a long pause. Eighteen months had passed sincethey had parted, and conversation does not flow easily after eighteenmonths of silence, especially if the nature of the parting has beenbitter and stormy.

  He was the first to speak.

  'What are you doing here?' he said.

  'I thought my doings had ceased to interest you,' she said. 'I am MrBlaythwayt's secretary, I have been here a fortnight. I have wonderedif we should meet. I used to see you sometimes in the street.'

  'I never saw you.'

  'No?' she said indifferently.

  He ran his hand through his hair in a dazed way.

  'Do you know we are locked in?' he said.

  He had expected wild surprise and dismay. She merely clicked her tonguein an annoyed manner.

  'Again!' she said. 'What a nuisance! I was locked in only a week ago.'

  He looked at her with unwilling respect, the respect of the novice forthe veteran. She was nothing to him now, of course. She had passed outof his life. But he could not help remembering that long ago--eighteenmonths ago--what he had admired most in her had been this same spirit,this game refusal to be disturbed by Fate's blows. It braced him up.

  He sat down and looked curiously at her.

  'So you left the stage?' he said.

  'I thought we agreed when we parted not to speak to one another,' saidshe, coldly.

  'Did we? I thought it was only to meet as strangers.'

  'It's the same thing.'

  'Is it? I often talk to strangers.'

  'What a bore they must think you!' she said, hiding one-eighth of ayawn with the tips of two fingers. 'I suppose,' she went on, with faintinterest, 'you talk to them in trains when they ar
e trying to readtheir paper?'

  'I don't force my conversation on anyone.'

  'Don't you?' she said, raising her eyebrows in sweet surprise. 'Onlyyour company--is that it?'

  'Are you alluding to the present occasion?'

  'Well, you have an office of your own in this building, I believe.'

  'I have.'

  'Then why--'

  'I am at perfect liberty,' he said, with dignity, 'to sit in my friendBlaythwayt's office if I choose. I wish to see Mr Blaythwayt.'

  'On business?'

  He proved that she had established no corner in raised eyebrows.

  'I fear,' he said, 'that I cannot discuss my affairs with MrBlaythwayt's employees. I must see him personally.'

  'Mr Blaythwayt is not here.'

  'I will wait.'

  'He will not be here for thirteen hours.'

  I'll wait.'

  'Very well,' she burst out; 'you have brought it on yourself. You'veonly yourself to blame. If you had been good and had gone back to youroffice, I would have brought you down some cake and cocoa.'

  'Cake and cocoa!' said he, superciliously.

  'Yes, cake and cocoa,' she snapped. 'It's all very well for you to turnup your nose at them now, but wait. You've thirteen hours of this infront of you. I know what it is. Last time I had to spend the nighthere I couldn't get to sleep for hours, and when I did I dreamed that Iwas chasing chocolate _eclairs_ round and round Trafalgar Square.And I never caught them either. Long before the night was finished Iwould have given _anything_ for even a dry biscuit. I made up mymind I'd always keep something here in case I ever got locked inagain--yes, smile. You'd better while you can.'

  He was smiling, but wanly. Nobody but a professional fasting man couldhave looked unmoved into the Inferno she had pictured. Then he rallied.

  'Cake!' he said, scornfully.

  She nodded grimly.

  'Cocoa!'

  Again that nod, ineffably sinister.

  'I'm afraid I don't care for either,' he said.

  'If you will excuse me,' she said, indifferently, 'I have a little workthat I must finish.'

  She turned to her desk, leaving him to his thoughts. They were notexhilarating. He had maintained a brave front, but inwardly he quailed.Reared in the country, he had developed at an early age a fine, healthyappetite. Once, soon after his arrival in London, he had allowed adangerous fanatic to persuade him that the secret of health was to gowithout breakfast.

  His lunch that day had cost him eight shillings, and only decent shamehad kept the figure as low as that. He knew perfectly well that longere the dawn of day his whole soul would be crying out for cake,squealing frantically for cocoa. Would it not be better to--no, athousand times no! Death, but not surrender. His self-respect was atstake. Looking back, he saw that his entire relations with this girlhad been a series of battles of will. So far, though he had certainlynot won, he had not been defeated. He must not be defeated now.

  He crossed his legs and sang a gay air under his breath.

  'If you wouldn't mind,' said the girl, looking up.

  'I beg your pardon?'

  'Your groaning interrupts my work.'

  'I was not groaning. I was singing.'

  'Oh, I'm sorry!'

  'Not at all.'

  Eight bars rest.

  Mr Ferguson, deprived of the solace of song, filled in the time bygazing at the toiler's back-hair. It set in motion a train ofthought--an express train bound for the Land of Yesterday. It recalleddays in the woods, evenings on the lawn. It recalled sunshine--storm.Plenty of storm. Minor tempests that burst from a clear sky, apparentlywithout cause, and the great final tornado. There had been cause enoughfor that. Why was it, mused Mr Ferguson, that every girl in everycountry town in every county of England who had ever recited 'Curfewshall not ring tonight' well enough to escape lynching at the hands ofa rustic audience was seized with the desire to come to London and goon the stage?

  He sighed.

  'Please don't snort,' said a cold voice, from behind the back-hair.

  There was a train-wreck in the Land of Yesterday. Mr Ferguson, theonly survivor, limped back into the Present.

  The Present had little charm, but at least it was better than thecakeless Future. He fixed his thoughts on it. He wondered how MasterBean was passing the time. Probably doing deep-breathing exercises, orreading a pocket Aristotle. The girl pushed back her chair and rose.

  She went to a small cupboard in the corner of the room, and from itproduced in instalments all that goes to make cake and cocoa. She didnot speak. Presently, filling Space, there sprang into being an Odour;and as it reached him Mr Ferguson stiffened in his chair, bracinghimself as for a fight to the death. It was more than an odour. It wasthe soul of the cocoa singing to him. His fingers gripped the arms ofthe chair. This was the test.

  The girl separated a section of cake from the parent body. She caughthis eye.

  'You had better go,' she said. 'If you go now it's just possible that Imay--but I forgot, you don't like cocoa.'

  'No,' said he, resolutely, 'I don't.'

  She seemed now in the mood for conversation.

  'I wonder why you came up here at all,' she said.

  'There's no reason why you shouldn't know. I came up here because mylate office-boy is downstairs.'

  'Why should that send you up?'

  'You've never met him or you wouldn't ask. Have you ever had to facesomeone who is simply incarnate Saintliness and Disapproval, who--'

  'Are you forgetting that I was engaged to you for several weeks?'

  He was too startled to be hurt. The idea of himself as a Roland Beanwas too new to be assimilated immediately. It called for meditation.

  'Was I like that?' he said at last, almost humbly.

  'You know you were. Oh, I'm not thinking only about your views on thestage! It was everything. Whatever I did you were there to disapprovelike a--like a--like an aunt,' she concluded triumphantly. 'You weretoo good for anything. If only you would, just once, have donesomething wrong. I think I'd have--But you couldn't. You're simplyperfect.'

  A man will remain cool and composed under many charges. Hint that histastes are criminal, and he will shrug his shoulders. But accuse himof goodness, and you rouse the lion.

  Mr Ferguson's brow darkened.

  'As a matter of fact,' he said, haughtily, 'I was to have had supperwith a chorus-girl this very night.'

  'How very appalling!' said she, languidly.

  She sipped her cocoa.

  'I suppose you consider that very terrible?' she said.

  'For a beginner.'

  She crumbled her cake. Suddenly she looked up.

  'Who is she?' she demanded, fiercely.

  'I beg your pardon?' he said, coming out of a pleasant reverie.

  'Who is this girl?'

  'She--er--her name--her name is Marie--Marie Templeton.'

  She seemed to think for a moment.

  'That dear old lady?' she said.' I know her quite well.'

  'What!'

  '"Mother" we used to call her. Have you met her son?'

  'Her son?'

  'A rather nice-looking man. He plays heavy parts on tour. He's marriedand has two of the sweetest children. Their grandmother is devoted tothem. Hasn't she ever mentioned them to you?'

  She poured herself out another cup of cocoa. Conversation againlanguished.

  'I suppose you're very fond of her?' she said at length.

  'I'm devoted to her.' He paused. 'Dear little thing!' he added.

  She rose and moved to the door. There was a nasty gleam in her eyes.

  'You aren't going?' he said.

  'I shall be back in a moment. I'm just going to bring your poor littleoffice-boy up here. He must be missing you.'

  He sprang up, but she had gone. Leaning over the banisters, he heard adoor open below, then a short conversation, and finally footstepsclimbing the stairs.

  It was pitch dark on the landing. He stepped aside, and they passedwitho
ut seeing him. Master Bean was discoursing easily on cocoa, theprocesses whereby it was manufactured, and the remarkable distanceswhich natives of Mexico had covered with it as their only food. Thedoor opened, flooding the landing with light, and Mr Ferguson, steppingfrom ambush, began to descend the stairs.

  The girl came to the banisters.

  'Mr Ferguson!'

  He stopped.

  'Did you want me?' he asked.

  'Are you going back to your office?'

  'I am. I hope you will enjoy Bean's society. He has a fund of usefulinformation on all subjects.'

  He went on. After a while she returned to the room and closed the door.

  Mr Ferguson went into his office and sat down.

  * * * * *

  There was once a person of the name of Simeon Stylites, who took up aposition on top of a pillar and stayed there, having no otherengagements, for thirty years. Mr Ferguson, who had read Tennyson'spoem on the subject, had until tonight looked upon this as a prettygood thing. Reading the lines:

  ...thrice ten years,Thrice multiplied by superhuman pangs,In hunger and in thirsts, fevers and colds,In coughs, aches, stitches, ulcerous throes, and cramps,...Patient on this tall pillar I have borne.Rain, wind, frost, heat, hail, damp, and sleet, and snow,

  he had gathered roughly, as it were, that Simeon had not beencomfortable. He had pitied him. But now, sitting in his office-chair,he began to wonder what the man had made such a fuss about. Hesuspected him of having had a touch of the white feather in him. It wasnot as if he had not had food. He talked about 'hungers and thirsts',but he must have had something to eat, or he could not have stayed thecourse. Very likely, if the truth were known, there was somebody belowwho passed him up regular supplies of cake and cocoa.

  He began to look on Simeon as an overrated amateur.

  Sleep refused to come to him. It got as far as his feet, but nofarther. He rose and stamped to restore the circulation.

  It was at this point that he definitely condemned Simeon Stylites as asybaritic fraud.

  If this were one of those realistic Zolaesque stories I would describethe crick in the back that--but let us hurry on.

  It was about six hours later--he had no watch, but the numbers ofaches, stitches, not to mention cramps, that he had experienced couldnot possibly have been condensed into a shorter period--that his manlyspirit snapped. Let us not judge him too harshly. The girl upstairs hadbroken his heart, ruined his life, and practically compared him toRoland Bean, and his pride should have built up an impassable wallbetween them, but--she had cake and cocoa. In similar circumstancesKing Arthur would have grovelled before Guinevere.

  He rushed to the door and tore it open. There was a startledexclamation from the darkness outside.

  'I hope I didn't disturb you,' said a meek voice.

  Mr Ferguson did not answer. His twitching nostrils were drinking in afamiliar aroma.

  'Were you asleep? May I come in? I've brought you some cake and cocoa.'

  He took the rich gifts from her in silence. There are moments in aman's life too sacred for words. The wonder of the thing had struck himdumb. An instant before and he had had but a desperate hope of winningthese priceless things from her at the cost of all his dignity andself-respect. He had been prepared to secure them through a shower ofbiting taunts, a blizzard of razor-like 'I told you so's'. Yet here hewas, draining the cup, and still able to hold his head up, look theworld in the face, and call himself a man.

  His keen eye detected a crumb on his coat-sleeve. This retrieved andconsumed, he turned to her, seeking explanation.

  She was changed. The battle-gleam had faded from her eyes. She seemedscared and subdued. Her manner was of one craving comfort andprotection. 'That awful boy!' she breathed.

  'Bean?' said Mr Ferguson, picking a crumb off the carpet.

  'He's frightful.'

  'I thought you might get a little tired of him! What has he beendoing?'

  'Talking. I feel battered. He's like one of those awful encyclopediasthat give you a sort of dull leaden feeling in your head directly youopen them. Do you know how many tons of water go over Niagara Fallsevery year?'

  'No.'

  'He does.'

  'I told you he had a fund of useful information. The Purpose andTenacity books insist on it. That's how you Catch your Employer's Eye.One morning the boss suddenly wants to know how many horsehair sofasthere are in Brixton, the number of pins that would reach from LondonBridge to Waterloo. You tell him, and he takes you into partnership.Later you become a millionaire. But I haven't thanked you for thecocoa. It was fine.'

  He waited for the retort, but it did not come. A pleased wondermentfilled him. Could these things really be thus?

  'And it isn't only what he says,' she went on. 'I know what you meanabout him now. It's his accusing manner.'

  'I've tried to analyse that manner. I believe it's the spectacles.'

  'It's frightful when he looks at you; you think of all the wrong thingsyou have ever done or ever wanted to do.'

  'Does he have that effect on you?' he said, excitedly. 'Why, thatexactly describes what I feel.'

  The affinities looked at one another.

  She was the first to speak.

  'We always did think alike on most things, didn't we?' she said.

  'Of course we did.'

  He shifted his chair forward.

  'It was all my fault,' he said. 'I mean, what happened.'

  'It wasn't. It--'

  'Yes, it was. I want to tell you something. I don't know if it willmake any difference now, but I should like you to know it. It's this.I've altered a good deal since I came to London. For the better, Ithink. I'm a pretty poor sort of specimen still, but at least I don'timagine I can measure life with a foot-rule. I don't judge the worldany longer by the standards of a country town. London has knocked someof the corners off me. I don't think you would find me the Bean typeany longer. I don't disapprove of other people much now. Not as ahabit. I find I have enough to do keeping myself up to the mark.'

  'I want to tell you something, too,' she said. 'I expect it's too late,but never mind. I want you to hear it. I've altered, too, since I cameto London. I used to think the Universe had been invented just to lookon and wave its hat while I did great things. London has put a largepiece of cold ice against my head, and the swelling has gone down. I'mnot the girl with ambitions any longer. I just want to keep employed,and not have too bad a time when the day's work is over.'

  He came across to where she sat.

  'We said we would meet as strangers, and we do. We never have knowneach other. Don't you think we had better get acquainted?' he said.

  There was a respectful tap at the door.

  'Come in?' snapped Mr Ferguson. 'Well?' Behind the gold-rimmedspectacles of Master Bean there shone a softer look than usual, a lookrather complacent than disapproving.

  'I must apologize, sir, for intruding upon you. I am no longer in youremployment, but I do hope that in the circumstances you will forgivemy entering your private office. Thinking over our situation just nowan idea came to me by means of which I fancy we might be enabled toleave the building.'

  'What!'

  'It occurred to me, sir, that by telephoning to the nearestpolice-station--'

  'Good heavens!' cried Mr Ferguson.

  Two minutes later he replaced the receiver.

  'It's all right,' he said. 'I've made them understand the trouble.They're bringing a ladder. I wonder what the time is? It must be aboutfour in the morning.'

  Master Bean produced a Waterbury watch.

  'The time, sir, is almost exactly half past ten.'

  'Half past ten! We must have been here longer than three hours. Yourwatch is wrong.'

  'No, sir, I am very careful to keep it exactly right. I do not wish torun any risk of being unpunctual.'

  'Half past ten!' cried Mr Ferguson. 'Why, we're in heaps of time tolook in at the Savoy for supper. This is great. I'll pho
ne them to keepa table.'

  'Supper! I thought--'

  She stopped.

  'What's that? Thought what?'

  'Hadn't you an engagement for supper?'

  He stared at her.

  'Whatever gave you that idea? Of course not.'

  'I thought you said you were taking Miss Templeton--'

  'Miss Temp--Oh!' His face cleared. 'Oh, there isn't such a person. Iinvented her. I had to when you accused me of being like our friend theMiasma. Legitimate self-defence.'

  'I do not wish to interrupt you, sir, when you are busy,' said MasterBean, 'but--'

  'Come and see me tomorrow morning,' said Mr Ferguson.

  * * * * *

  'Bob,' said the girl, as the first threatening mutters from theorchestra heralded an imminent storm of melody, 'when that boy comestomorrow, what are going to do?'

  'Call up the police.'

  'No, but you must do something. We shouldn't have been here if ithadn't been for him.'

  'That's true!' He pondered. 'I've got it; I'll get him a job withRaikes and Courtenay.'

  'Why Raikes and Courtenay?'

  'Because I have a pull with them. But principally,' said Mr Ferguson,with a devilish grin, 'because they live in Edinburgh, which, as youare doubtless aware, is a long, long way from London.'

  He bent across the table.

  'Isn't this like old times?' he said. 'Do you remember the first time Iever ki--'

  Just then the orchestra broke out.