P G Wodehouse - Man Upstairs

by Man Upstairs

  Mr. Vince put this feeling into words for her. He had a maddening habit of discussing the progress of his courtship in the manner of an impartial lecturer.

  "I am making headway," he observed. "The fact that we cannot meet without your endeavouring to plant a temperamental left jab on my spiritual sola plexus encourages me to think that you are beginning at last to understand that we are affinities. To persons of spirit like ourselves the only happy marriage is that which is based on a firm foundation of almost incessant quarrelling. The most beautiful line in English poetry, to my mind, is, 'We fell out, my wife and I.' You would be wretched with a husband who didn't like you to quarrel with him. The position of affairs now is that I have become necessary to you. If I went out of your life now I should leave an aching void. You would still have that beautiful punch of yours, and there would be nobody to exercise it on. You would pine away. From now on matters should, I think, move rapidly. During the course of the next week I shall endeavour to propitiate you with gifts. Here is the first of them."

  He took a piece of paper from his pocket and handed it to her. It was a pencil-sketch, rough and unfinished, but wonderfully clever. Even Ruth could appreciate that-and she was a prejudiced observer, for the sketch was a caricature of herself. It represented her, drawn up to her full height, with enormous, scornful eyes and curling lips, and the artist had managed to combine an excellent likeness while accentuating everything that was marked in what she knew had come to be her normal expression of scorn and discontent.

  "I didn't know you were an artist, Mr. Vince," she said, handing it back.

  "A poor amateur. Nothing more. You may keep it."

  "I have not the slightest wish to keep it."

  "You haven't?"

  "It is not in the least clever, and it is very impertinent of you to show it to me. The drawing is not funny. It is simply rude."

  "A little more," said Mr. Vince, "and I shall begin to think you don't like it. Are you fond of chocolates?"

  Ruth did not answer.

  "I am sending you some to-morrow."

  "I shall return them."

  "Then I shall send some more, and some fruit. Gifts!" soliloquized Mr. Vince. "Gifts! That is the secret. Keep sending gifts. If men would only stick to gifts and quarrelling, there would be fewer bachelors."

  On the morrow, as promised, the chocolates arrived, many pounds of them in a lordly box. The bludgeoning of fate had not wholly scotched in Ruth a human weakness for sweets, and it was with a distinct effort that she wrapped the box up again and returned it to the sender. She went off to her work at the mont- de-piété with the glow of satisfaction which comes to those who exhibit an iron will in trying circumstances.

  And at the mont-de-piété there occurred a surprising incident.

  Surprising incidents, as Mr. Vince would have said, are the zero on the roulette-board of life. They pop up disturbingly when least expected, confusing the mind and altering preconceived opinions. And this was a very surprising incident indeed.

  Ruth, as has been stated, sat during her hours of work behind a ground-glass screen, unseen and unseeing. To her the patrons of the establishment were mere disembodied voices-wheedling voices, pathetic voices, voices that protested, voices that hectored, voices that whined, moaned, broke, appealed to the saints, and in various other ways endeavoured to instil into M. Gandinot more spacious and princely views on the subject of advancing money on property pledged. She was sitting behind her screen this morning, scribbling idly on the plotting-pad, for there had been a lull in the business, when the door opened, and the polite "Bon jour, monsieur," of M. Gandinot announced the arrival of another unfortunate.

  And then, shaking her like an electric shock, came a voice that she knew-the pleasant voice of Mr. Vince.

  The dialogues that took place on the other side of the screen were often protracted and always sordid, but none had seemed to Ruth so interminable, so hideously sordid, as this one.

  Round and round its miserable centre-a silver cigarettecase-the dreary argument circled. The young man pleaded; M. Gandinot, adamant in his official role, was immovable.

  Ruth could bear it no longer. She pressed her hands over her burning ears, and the voices ceased to trouble her.

  And with the silence came thought, and a blaze of understanding that flashed upon her and made all things clear. She understood now why she had closed her ears.

  Poverty is an acid which reacts differently on differing natures. It had reduced Mr. Eugene Warden's self-respect to a minimum. Ruth's it had reared up to an abnormal growth. Her pride had become a weed that ran riot in her soul, darkening it and choking finer emotions. Perhaps it was her father's naive stratagems for the enmeshing of a wealthy husband that had produced in her at last a morbid antipathy to the idea of playing beggar-maid to any man's King Cophetua. The state of mind is intelligible. The Cophetua legend has never been told from the beggar-maid's point of view, and there must have been moments when, if a woman of spirit, she resented that monarch's somewhat condescending attitude, and felt that, secure in his wealth and magnificence, he had taken her grateful acquiescence very much for granted.

  This, she saw now, was what had prejudiced her against George Vince. She had assumed that he was rich. He had conveyed the impression of being rich. And she had been on the defensive against him accordingly. Now, for the first time, she seemed to know him. A barrier had been broken down. The royal robes had proved tinsel, and no longer disguised the man she loved.

  A touch on her arm aroused her. M. Gandinot was standing by her side. Terms, apparently, had been agreed upon and the interview concluded, for in his hand was a silver cigarettecase.

  "Dreaming, mademoiselle? I could not make you hear. The more I call to you, the more you did not answer. It is necessary to enter this loan."

  He recited the details and Ruth entered them in her ledger. This done, M. Gandinot, doffing his official self, sighed.

  "It is a place of much sorrow, mademoiselle, this office. How he would not take no for answer, that young man, recently departed. A fellow-countryman of yours, mademoiselle. You would say, 'What does this young man, so well-dressed, in a mont-de-piété?' But I know better, I, Gandinot. You have an expression, you English-I heard it in Paris in a café, and inquired its meaning-when you say of a man that he swanks. How many young men have I seen here, admirably dressed-rich, you would say. No, no. The mont- de-piété permits no secrets. To swank, mademoiselle, what is it? To deceive the world, yes. But not the mont-de-piété. Yesterday also, when you had departed, was he here, that young man. Yet here he is once more to-day. He spends his money quickly, alas! that poor young swanker."

  When Ruth returned home that evening she found her father in the sitting-room, smoking a cigarette. He greeted her with effusion, but with some uneasiness-for the old gentleman had nerved himself to a

  delicate task. He had made up his mind to-night to speak seriously to Ruth on the subject of her unsatisfactory behaviour to Mr. Vince. The more he saw of that young man the more positive was he that this was the human gold-mine for which he had been searching all these weary years. Accordingly, he threw away his cigarette, kissed Ruth on the forehead, and began to speak.

  It had long been Mr. Warden's opinion that, if his daughter had a fault, it was a tendency towards a quite unnecessary and highly inconvenient frankness. She had not that easy tact which he would have liked a daughter of his to possess. She would not evade, ignore, agree not to see. She was at times painfully blunt.

  This happened now. He was warming to his subject when she interrupted him with a question.

  "What makes you think Mr. Vince is rich, father?" she asked.

  Mr. Warden was embarrassed. The subject of Mr. Vince's opulence had not entered into his discourse. He had carefully avoided it. The fact that he was thinking of it and that Ruth knew that he was thinking of it, and that he knew that Ruth knew, had nothing to do with the case. The question was not in order, and it embarrassed him.

&n
bsp; "I-why-I don't-I never said he was rich, my dear. I have no doubt that he has ample-"

  "He is quite poor."

  Mr. Warden's jaw fell slightly.

  "Poor? But, my dear, that's absurd!" he cried. "Why, only this evening-"

  He broke off abruptly, but it was too late.

  "Father, you've been borrowing money from him!"

  Mr. Warden drew in his breath, preparatory to an indignant denial, but he altered his mind and remained silent. As a borrower of money he had every quality but one. He could not conceal his operations from his daughter. He had come to look on her perspicacity in this matter as a sort of second sight. It had frequently gone far to spoiling for him the triumph of success.

  "And he has to pawn things to live!" Her voice trembled. "He was at the mont-de-piété to-day. And yesterday too. I heard him. He was arguing with M. Gandinot-haggling-"

  Her voice broke. She was sobbing helplessly. The memory of it was too raw and vivid.

  Mr. Warden stood motionless. Many emotions raced through his mind, but chief among them the thought that this revelation had come at a very fortunate time. An exceedingly lucky escape, he felt. He was aware, also, of a certain measure of indignation against this deceitful young man who had fraudulently imitated a gold-mine with what might have been disastrous results.

  The door opened and Jeanne, the maid-of-all-work, announced Mr. Vince.

  He entered the room briskly.

  "Good evening!" he said. "I have brought you some more chocolates, Miss Warden, and some fruit. Great Scott! What's the matter?"

  He stopped, but only for an instant. The next he had darted across the room, and, before the horrified eyes of Mr. Warden, was holding Ruth in his arms. She clung to him.

  Bill, the fox-terrier, over whom Mr. Vince had happened to stumble, was the first to speak. Almost simultaneously Mr. Warden joined in, and there was a striking similarity between the two voices, for Mr. Warden, searching for words, emitted as a preliminary to them a sort of passionate yelp.

  Mr. Vince removed the hand that was patting Ruth's shoulder and waved it reassuringly at him.

  "It's all right," he said.

  "All right! All right!"

  "Affinities," explained Mr. Vince over his shoulder. "Two hearts that beat as one. We're going to be married. What's the matter, dear? Don't you worry; you're all right."

  "I refuse!" shouted Mr. Warden. "I absolutely refuse."

  Mr. Vince lowered Ruth gently into a chair and, holding her hand, inspected the fermenting old gentleman gravely.

  "You refuse?" he said. "Why, I thought you liked me."

  Mr. Warden's frenzy had cooled. It had been something foreign to his nature. He regretted it. These things had to be managed with restraint.

  "My personal likes and dislikes," he said, "have nothing to do with the matter, Mr. Vince. They are beside the point. I have my daughter to consider. I cannot allow her to marry a man without a penny."

  "Quite right," said Mr. Vince, approvingly. "Don't have anything to do with the fellow. If he tries to butt in, send for the police."

  Mr. Warden hesitated. He had always been a little ashamed of Ruth's occupation. But necessity compelled.

  "Mr. Vince, my daughter is employed at the mont-de-piété, and was a witness to all that took place this afternoon."

  Mr. Vince was genuinely agitated. He looked at Ruth, his face full of concern.

  "You don't mean to say that you have been slaving away in that stuffy-Great Scott! I'll have you out of that quick. You mustn't go there again."

  He stooped and kissed her.

  "Perhaps you had better let me explain," he said. "Explanations, I always think, are the zero on the roulette- board of life. They're always somewhere about, waiting to pop up. Have you ever heard of Vince's Stores, Mr. Warden? Perhaps they are since your time. Well, my father is the proprietor. One of our specialities is children's toys, but we haven't picked a real winner for years, and my father when I last saw him seemed so distressed about it that I said I'd see if I couldn't whack out an idea for something. Something on the lines of the Billiken, only better, was what he felt he needed. I'm not used to brain work, and after a spell of it I felt I wanted a rest. I came here to recuperate, and the very first morning I got the inspiration. You may have noticed that the manager of the monte-de-piété here isn't strong on conventional good looks. I saw him at the casino, and the thing flashed on me. He thinks his name's Gandinot, but it isn't. It's Uncle Zip, the Hump-Curer, the Man Who Makes You Smile."

  He pressed Ruth's hand affectionately.

  "I lost track of him, and it was only the day before yesterday that I discovered who he was and where he was to be found. Well, you can't go to a man and ask him to pose as a model for Uncle Zip, the Bill, the fox-terrier, over whom Mr. Vince had happened to stumble, was the first to speak. Almost simultaneously Mr. Warden joined in, and there was a striking similarity between the two voices, for Mr. Warden, searching for words, emitted as a preliminary to them a sort of passionate yelp.

  Mr. Vince removed the hand that was patting Ruth's shoulder and waved it reassuringly at him.

  "It's all right," he said.

  "All right! All right!"

  "Affinities," explained Mr. Vince over his shoulder. "Two hearts that beat as one. We're going to be married. What's the matter, dear? Don't you worry; you're all right."

  "I refuse!" shouted Mr. Warden. "I absolutely refuse."

  Mr. Vince lowered Ruth gently into a chair and, holding her hand, inspected the fermenting old gentleman gravely.

  "You refuse?" he said. "Why, I thought you liked me."

  Mr. Warden's frenzy had cooled. It had been something foreign to his nature. He regretted it. These things had to be managed with restraint.

  "My personal likes and dislikes," he said, "have nothing to do with the matter, Mr. Vince. They are beside the point. I have my daughter to consider. I cannot allow her to marry a man without a penny."

  "Quite right," said Mr. Vince, approvingly. "Don't have anything to do with the fellow. If he tries to butt in, send for the police."

  Mr. Warden hesitated. He had always been a little ashamed of Ruth's occupation. But necessity compelled.

  "Mr. Vince, my daughter is employed at the mont-de-piété, and was a witness to all that took place this afternoon."

  Mr. Vince was genuinely agitated. He looked at Ruth, his face full of concern.

  "You don't mean to say that you have been slaving away in that stuffy-Great Scott! I'll have you out of that quick. You mustn't go there again."

  He stooped and kissed her.

  "Perhaps you had better let me explain," he said. "Explanations, I always think, are the zero on the roulette- board of life. They're always somewhere about, waiting to pop up. Have you ever heard of Vince's Stores, Mr. Warden? Perhaps they are since your time. Well, my father is the proprietor. One of our specialities is children's toys, but we haven't picked a real winner for years, and my father when I last saw him seemed so distressed about it that I said I'd see if I couldn't whack out an idea for something. Something on the lines of the Billiken, only better, was what he felt he needed. I'm not used to brain work, and after a spell of it I felt I wanted a rest. I came here to recuperate, and the very first morning I got the inspiration. You may have noticed that the manager of the monte-de-piété here isn't strong on conventional good looks. I saw him at the casino, and the thing flashed on me. He thinks his name's Gandinot, but it isn't. It's Uncle Zip, the Hump-Curer, the Man Who Makes You Smile."

  He pressed Ruth's hand affectionately.

  "I lost track of him, and it was only the day before yesterday that I discovered who he was and where he was to be found. Well, you can't go to a man and ask him to pose as a model for Uncle Zip, the

  Hump-Curer. The only way to get sittings was to approach him in the way of business. So I collected what property I had and waded in. That's the whole story. Do I pass?"

  Mr. Warden's frosty demeanour had gradually th
awed during this recital, and now the sun of his smile shone out warmly. He gripped Mr. Vince's hand with every evidence of esteem, and after that he did not seem to know what to do. Eventually he did what was certainly the best thing, by passing gently from the room. On his face, as he went, was a look such as Moses might have worn on the summit of Pisgah.

  It was some twenty minutes later that Ruth made a remark.

  "I want you to promise me something," she said. "Promise that you won't go on with that Uncle Zip drawing. I know it means ever so much money, but it might hurt poor M. Gandinot's feelings, and he has been very kind to me."

  "That settles it," said Mr. Vince. "It's hard on the children of Great Britain, but say no more. No Uncle Zip for them."

  Ruth looked at him, almost with awe.

  "You really won't go on with it? In spite of all the money you would make? Are you always going to do just what I ask you, no matter what it costs you?"

  He nodded sadly.

  "You have sketched out in a few words the whole policy of my married life. I feel an awful fraud. And I had encouraged you to look forward to years of incessant quarrelling. Do you think you can manage without it? I'm afraid it's going to be shockingly dull for you," said Mr. Vince, regretfully.

  Archibald's Benefit

  Archibald mealing was one of those golfers in whom desire outruns performance. Nobody could have been more willing than Archibald. He tried, and tried hard. Every morning before he took his bath he would stand in front of his mirror and practise swings. Every night before he went to bed he would read the golden words of some master on the subject of putting, driving, or approaching. Yet on the links most of his time was spent in retrieving lost balls or replacing America. Whether it was that Archibald pressed too much or pressed too little, whether it was that his club deviated from the dotted line which joined the two points A and B in the illustrated plate of the man making the brassy shot in the Hints on Golf book, or whether it was that he was pursued by some malignant fate, I do not know. Archibald rather favoured the last theory.