P G Wodehouse - Man Upstairs

by Man Upstairs

  There was a touch of mystery in the atmosphere which made him vaguely uneasy. When a fiery dragon is ravaging the countryside to such an extent that the C.Q.D. call has been sent out to the Round Table, a knight has a right to expect the monster to be the main theme of conversation. The tendency on his host's part was apparently to avoid touching on the subject at all. He was vague and elusive; and the one topic on which an honest man is not vague and elusive is that of fiery dragons. It was not right. It was as if one should 'phone for the police and engage them, on arrival, in a discussion on the day's football results.

  A wave of distrust swept over Agravaine. He had heard stories of robber chiefs who lured strangers into their strongholds and then held them prisoners while the public nervously dodged their anxious friends who had formed subscription lists to make up the ransom. Could this be such a case? The man certainly had an evasive manner and a smile which would have justified any jury in returning a verdict without leaving the box. On the other hand, there was Yvonne. His reason revolted against the idea of that sweet girl being a party to any such conspiracy.

  No, probably it was only the Earl's unfortunate manner. Perhaps he suffered from some muscular weakness of the face which made him smile like that.

  Nevertheless, he certainly wished that he had not allowed himself to be deprived of his sword and armour. At the time it had seemed to him that the Earl's remark that the latter needed polishing and the former stropping betrayed only a kindly consideration for his guest's well-being. Now, it had the aspect of being part of a carefully-constructed plot.

  On the other hand-here philosophy came to his rescue-if anybody did mean to start anything, his sword and armour might just as well not be there. Any one of those mammoth low-brows at the door could eat him, armour and all.

  He resumed his meal, uneasy but resigned.

  Dinner at Earl Dorm's was no lunch-counter scuffle. It started early and finished late. It was not till an advanced hour that Agravaine was conducted to his room.

  The room which had been allotted to him was high up in the eastern tower. It was a nice room, but to one in Agravaine's state of supressed suspicion a trifle too solidly upholstered. The door was of the thickest oak, studded with iron nails. Iron bars formed a neat pattern across the only window.

  Hardly had Agravaine observed these things when the door opened, and before him stood the damsel Yvonne, pale of face and panting for breath.

  She leaned against the doorpost and gulped.

  "Fly!" she whispered.

  Reader, if you had come to spend the night in the lonely castle of a perfect stranger with a shifty eye and a rogues' gallery smile, and on retiring to your room had found the door kick-proof and the window barred, and if, immediately after your discovery of these phenomena, a white-faced young lady had plunged in upon you and urged you to immediate flight, wouldn't that jar you?

  It jarred Agravaine.

  "Eh?" he cried.

  "Fly! Fly, Sir Knight."

  Another footstep sounded in the passage. The damsel gave a startled look over her shoulder.

  "And what's all this?"

  Earl Dorm appeared in the dim-lit corridor. His voice had a nasty tinkle in it.

  "Your-your daughter," said Agravaine, hurriedly, "was just telling me that breakfast would-"

  The sentence remained unfinished. A sudden movement of the earl's hand, and the great door banged in his face. There came the sound of a bolt shooting into its socket. A key turned in the lock. He was trapped.

  Outside, the earl had seized his daughter by the wrist and was administering a paternal cross-examination.

  "What were you saying to him?"

  Yvonne did not flinch.

  "I was bidding him fly."

  "If he wants to leave this castle," said the earl, grimly, "he'll have to."

  "Father," said Yvonne, "I can't."

  "Can't what?"

  "I can't."

  His grip on her wrist tightened. From the other side of the door came the muffled sound of blows on the solid oak.

  "Oh?" said Earl Dorm. "You can't, eh? Well. listen to me. You've got to. Do you understand? I admit he might be better-looking, but-"

  "Father, I love him."

  He released her wrist, and stared at her in the uncertain light.

  "You love him!"

  "Yes."

  "Then what-? Why? Well, I never did understand women," he said at last, and stumped off down the passage.

  While this cryptic conversation was in progress, Agravaine, his worst apprehensions realized, was trying to batter down the door. After a few moments, however, he realized the futility of his efforts, and sat down on the bed to think.

  At the risk of forfeiting the reader's respect, it must be admitted that his first emotion was one of profound relief. If he was locked up like this, it must mean that that dragon story was fictitious, and that all danger was at an end of having to pit his inexperience against a ravening monster who had spent a lifetime devouring knights. He had never liked the prospect, though he had been prepared to go through with it, and to feel that it was definitely cancelled made up for a good deal.

  His mind next turned to his immediate future. What were they going to do with him? On this point he felt tolerably comfortable. This imprisonment could mean nothing more than that he would be compelled to disgorge a ransom. This did not trouble him. He was rich, and, now that the situation had been switched to a purely business basis, he felt that he could handle it.

  In any case, there was nothing to be gained by sitting up, so he went to bed, like a good philosopher.

  The sun was pouring through the barred window when he was awoke by the entrance of a gigantic figure bearing food and drink.

  He recognized him as one of the scurvy knaves who had dined at the bottom of the room the night before-a vast, beetle-browed fellow with a squint, a mop of red hair, and a genius for silence. To Agravaine's attempts to engage him in conversation he replied only with grunts, and in a short time left the room, closing and locking the door behind him.

  He was succeeded at dusk by another of about the same size and ugliness, and with even less conversational élan. This one did not even grunt.

  Small-talk, it seemed, was not an art cultivated in any great measure by the lower orders in the employment of Earl Dorm.

  The next day passed without incident. In the morning the strabismic plug-ugly with the red hair brought him food and drink, while in the evening the non-grunter did the honours. It was a peaceful life, but tending towards monotony, and Agravaine was soon in the frame of mind which welcomes any break in the daily round.

  He was fortunate enough to get it.

  He had composed himself for sleep that night, and was just dropping comfortably off, when from the other side of the door he heard the sound of angry voices.

  It was enough to arouse him. On the previous night silence had reigned. Evidently something out of the ordinary was taking place.

  He listened intently and distinguished words.

  "Who was it I did see thee coming down the road with?"

  "Who was it thou didst see me coming down the road with?"

  "Aye, who was it I did see thee coming down the road with?"

  "Who dost thou think thou art?"

  "Who do I think that I am?"

  "Aye, who dost thou think thou art?"

  Agravaine could make nothing of it. As a matter of fact, he was hearing the first genuine cross-talk that had ever occurred in those dim, pre-music-hall days. In years to come dialogue on these lines was to be popular throughout the length and breadth of Great Britain. But till then it had been unknown.

  The voices grew angrier. To an initiated listener it would have been plain that in a short while words would be found inadequate and the dagger, that medieval forerunner of the slap-stick, brought into play. But to Agravaine, all inexperienced, it came as a surprise when suddenly with a muffled thud two bodies fell against the door. There was a scuffling noise, some gro
ans, and then silence.

  And then with amazement he heard the bolt shoot back and a key grate in the keyhole.

  The door swung open. It was dark outside, but Agravaine could distinguish a female form, and, beyond, a shapeless mass which he took correctly to be the remains of the two plug-uglies.

  "It is I, Yvonne," said a voice.

  "What is it? What has been happening?"

  "It was I. I set them against each other. They both loved one of the kitchen-maids. I made them jealous. I told Walt privily that she had favoured Dickon, and Dickon privily that she loved Walt. And now-"

  She glanced at the shapeless heap, and shuddered. Agravaine nodded.

  "No wedding-bells for her," he said, reverently.

  "And I don't care. I did it to save you. But come! We are wasting time. Come! I will help you to escape."

  A man who has been shut up for two days in a small room is seldom slow off the mark when a chance presents itself of taking exercise. Agravaine followed without a word, and together they crept down the dark staircase until they had reached the main hall. From somewhere in the distance came the rhythmic snores of scurvy knaves getting their eight hours.

  Softly Yvonne unbolted a small door, and, passing through it, Agravaine found himself looking up at the stars, while the great walls of the castle towered above him

  "Good-bye," said Yvonne.

  There was a pause. For the first time Agravaine found himself examining the exact position of affairs. After his sojourn in the guarded room, freedom looked very good to him. But freedom meant parting from Yvonne.

  He looked at the sky and he looked at the castle walls, and he took a step back towards the door.

  "I'm not so sure I want to go," he said.

  "Oh, fly! Fly, Sir Kinght!" she cried.

  "You don't understand," said Agravaine. "I don't want to seem to be saying anything that might be interpreted as in the least derogatory to your father in any way whatever, but without prejudice, surely he is just a plain, ordinary brigand? I mean it's only a question of a ransom? And I don't in the least object-"

  "No, no, no." Her voice trembled. "He would ask no ransom."

  "Don't tell me he kidnaps people just as a hobby!"

  "You don't understand. He-No, I cannot tell you. Fly!"

  "What don't I understand?"

  She was silent. Then she began to speak rapidly. "Very well. I will tell you. Listen. My father had six children, all daughters. We were poor. We had to stay buried in this out-of-the-way spot. We saw no one. It seemed impossible that any of us should ever marry. My father was in despair. Then he said, 'If we cannot get to town, the town must come to us.' So he sent my sister Yseult to Camelot to ask the king to let us have a knight to protect us against a giant with three heads. There was no giant, but she got the knight. It was Sir Sagramore. Perhaps you knew him?"

  Agravaine nooded. He began to see daylight.

  "My sister Yseult was very beautiful. After the first day Sir Sagramore forgot all about the giant, and seemed to want to do nothing else except have Yseult show him how to play cat's cradle. They were married two months later, and my father sent my sister Elaine to Camelot to ask for a knight to protect us against a wild unicorn."

  "And who bit?" asked Agravaine, deeply interested.

  "Sir Malibran of Devon. They were married within three weeks, and my father-I can't go on. You understand now."

  "I understand the main idea," said Agravaine. "But in my case-"

  "You were to marry me," said Yvonne. Her voice was quiet and cold, but she was quivering.

  Agravaine was conscious of a dull, heavy weight pressing on his heart. He had known his love was hopeless, but even hopelessness is the better for being indefinite. He understood now.

  "And you naturally want to get rid of me before it can happen," he said. "I don't wonder. I'm not vain.... Well, I'll go. I knew I had no chance. Good-bye."

  He turned. She stopped him with a sharp cry.

  "What do you mean? You cannot wish to stay now? I am saving you."

  "Saving me! I have loved you since the moment you entered the Hall at Camelot," said Agravaine.

  She drew in her breath.

  "You-you love me!"

  They looked at each other in the starlight. She held out her hands.

  "Agravaine!"

  She drooped towards him, and he gathered her into his arms. For a novice, he did it uncommonly well.

  It was about six months later that Agravaine, having ridden into the forest, called upon a Wise Man at his cell.

  In those days almost anyone who was not a perfect bone-head could set up as a Wise Man and get away with it. All you had to do was to live in a forest and grow a white beard. This particular Wise Man, for a wonder, had a certain amount of rude sagacity. He listened carefully to what the knight had to say.

  "It has puzzled me to such an extent," said Agravaine, "that I felt that I must consult a specialist. You see me. Take a good look at me. What do you think of my personal appearance? You needn't hesitate. It's worse than that. I am the ugliest man in England."

  "Would you go so far as that?" said the Wise Man, politely.

  "Farther. And everybody else thinks so. Everybody except my wife. She tells me that I am a model of manly beauty. You know Lancelot? Well, she says I have Lancelot whipped to a custard. What do you make of that? And here's another thing. It is perfectly obvious to me that my wife is one of the most beautiful creatures in existence. I have seem them all, and I tell you that she stands alone. She is literally marooned in Class A, all by herself. Yet she insists that she is plain. What do you make of it?"

  The Wise Man stroked his beard.

  "My son," he said, "the matter is simple. True love takes no account of looks."

  "No?" said Agravaine.

  "You two are affinities. Therefore, to you the outward aspect is nothing. Put it like this. Love is a thingummybob who what-d' you-call-its."

  "I'm beginning to see," said Agravaine.

  "What I meant was this. Love is a wizard greater than Merlin. He plays odd tricks with the eyesight."

  "Yes," said Agravaine.

  "Or, put it another way. Love is a sculptor greater than Praxiteles. He takes an unsightly piece of clay and moulds it into a thing divine."

  "I get you," said Agravaine.

  The Wise Man began to warm to his work.

  "Or shall we say-?"

  "I think I must be going," said Agravaine. "I promised my wife I would be back early."

  "We might put it-" began the Wise Man perseveringly.

  "I understand," said Agravaine, hurriedly. "I quite see now. Good-bye."

  The Wise Man sighed resignedly.

  "Good-bye, Sir Knight," he said. "Good-bye. Pay at ye desk."

  And Agravaine rode on his way marvelling.

  The Goal-keeper and Plutocrat

  The main difficulty in writing a story is to convey to the reader clearly yet tersely the natures and dispositions of one's leading characters. Brevity, brevity-that is the cry. Perhaps, after all, the play- bill style is the best. In this drama of love, football (Association code), and politics, then, the principals are as follows, in their order of entry:-

  Isabel Rackstraw (an angel).

  The Hon. Clarence Tresillian (a Greek god).

  Lady Runnymede (a proud old aristocrat).

  Mr. Rackstraw (a multi-millionaire City man and Radical politician).

  More about Clarence later. For the moment let him go as a Greek god. There were other sides, too, to Mr. Rackstraw's character, but for the moment let him go as a multi-millionaire City man and Radical politician. Not that it is satisfactory; it is too mild. The Radical politics of other Radical politicians were as skim-milk to the Radical politics of Radical Politician Rackstraw. Where Mr. Lloyd George referred to the House of Lords as blithering backwoodsmen and asinine anachronisms, Mr. Rackstraw scorned to be so guarded in his speech. He did not mince his words. His attitude towards a member of the peerage was th
at of the terrier to the perambulating cat.

  It was at a charity bazaar that Isabel and Clarence first met. Isabel was presiding over the Billiken, Teddy- bear, and Fancy Goods stall. There she stood, that slim, radiant girl, bouncing Ardent Youth out of its father's hard-earned with a smile that alone was nearly worth the money, when she observed, approaching, the handsomest man she had ever seen. It was-this is not one of those mystery stories-it was Clarence Tresillian. Over the heads of the bevy of gilded youths who clustered round the stall their eyes met. A thrill ran through Isabel. She dropped her eyes. The next moment Clarence had made his spring; the gilded youths had shredded away like a mist, and he was leaning towards her, opening negotiations for the purchase of a yellow Teddy-bear at sixteen times its face value.

  He returned at intervals during the afternoon. Over the second Teddy-bear they became friendly, over the third intimate. He proposed as she was wrapping up the fourth golliwog, and she gave him her heart and the pracel simultaneously. At six o'clock, carrying four Teddy-bears, seven photograph frames, five golliwogs, and a billiken, Clarence went home to tell the news to his parents.

  Clarence, when not at the University, lived with his father and mother in Belgrave Square. His mother had been a Miss Trotter, of Chicago, and it was on her dowry that the Runnymedes contrived to make both ends meet. For a noble family they were in somewhat straitened circumstances financially They lived, simply and without envy of their richer fellowcitizens, on their hundred thousand pounds a year. They asked no more. It enabled them to entertain on a modest scale. Clarence had been able to go to Oxford; his elder brother, Lord Staines, into the Guards. The girls could buy an occasional new frock. On the whole, they were a thoroughly happy, contented English family of the best sort. Mr. Trotter, it is true, was something of a drawback. He was a rugged old tainted millionaire of the old school, with a fondness for shirt-sleeves and a tendency to give undue publicity to toothpicks. But he had been made to understand at an early date that the dead-line for him was the farther shore of the Atlantic Ocean, and he now gave little trouble.