06 - Selected Short Stories - Rough-Hew Them How We Will

Episode Transcript

Speaker 1 (00:00):
Chapter six of the Man Upstairs. This is a LibriVox recording.
All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more
information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox dot org. Recording
by Mike Harris, The Man Upstairs by P. G. Woodhouse,
chapter number six, Roughhew Them How we Will. Paul Boyle

(00:25):
was a waiter. The word waiter suggests a soft voiced,
deft handed being, moving swiftly and without noise in an
atmosphere of luxury and shaded lamps. At Breden's Parisian Cafe
and restaurant in Soho, London, where Paul worked, there were
none of these things, and Paul himself, though he certainly
moved swiftly, was by no means noiseless. His progress through

(00:48):
the room resembled, in almost equal proportions the finish of
a marathon race, the star act of a professional juggler,
and a monologue by an earl's court side showman. Constant
to acquaintance rendered regular habitues callous to the wonder but
to a stranger. The sight of Paul tearing over the
difficult between tables course, his hands loaded with two vast

(01:10):
pyramids of dishes shouting as he went the mystic A
single word coming in a moment's cellar stakes I yes,
our coming, Ah. Was impressive to a degree for doing
far less exacting feats on the stage. Musical performers were
being paid fifty pounds a week. Paul got eighteen shillings ah.

(01:33):
But what a blessing his poverty properly considered. If Paul
had received more than eighteen shillings a week, he would
not have lived in an attic. He would have luxuriated
in a bed sitting room on the second floor, and
would consequently have missed what was practically a genuine north light.
The skylight which went with the attic was so arranged
that the room was a studio in miniature, And as

(01:54):
Paul was engaged in his spare moments in painting a
great picture, nothing could have been more fortunate for Paul,
Like so many of our public men, lived two lives
of duty. The sprinting, barking juggler of Bredon's Parisian Cafe
became the quiet follower of art. Ever since his childhood
he had had a passion for drawing and painting. He

(02:16):
regretted that fate had allowed him so little time for
such work. But after all, he reflected, all great artists
had had their struggles, so why not he Moreover, they
were now nearly at an end, an hour here, an
hour there, and every Thursday a whole afternoon, and the
great picture was with immeasurable distance of completion. He had
won through without models, without leisure, hungry, tired, he had

(02:40):
nevertheless triumphed a few more touches, and the masterpiece would
be ready for purchase, and after that all would be
plain sailing. Paul could forecast the scene so exactly the
picture would be at the dealers. Possibly one must not
be too sanguine, thrust away in some odd corner. The
wealthy connoisseur would come in. At first, he would not

(03:00):
see the masterpiece. Other more prominently displayed works would catch
his eye. He would turn from them in weary scorn.
And then Paul wondered how big the check would be.
There were definitely reasons why he wanted the money. Looking
at him as he cantered over the linoleum at Bredon's,
he would have said that his mind was on his work,

(03:21):
but it was not. So he took and executed orders
as automatically as the penny in the slot. Music box
in the corner took pennies and produced tunes. His thoughts
were of Jean le Broq, his co worker at Breton,
and a little cigar shop down Brixton Way, which he
knew was in the market at a reasonable rate. To
marry the former and own the latter was Paul's idea

(03:43):
of the earthly paradise, and it was the wealthy connoisseur,
and he alone, who could open the gates. Jeanne was
a large, slow moving Norman girl, stolidly handsome. One could
picture her in a demopis Or farmyard. In the clatter
and bustle of Bredon's Parisian cafe, she appeared out of place,

(04:04):
rather like a cow in a boiler factory to Paul,
who worshiped her with all the fervor of a little
man for a large woman. Her deliberate methods seemed all
that was beautiful and dignified to his mind. She lent
a tone to the vulgar whirlpool of gorging humanity, as
if she had been some goddess mixing in a Homeric battle.

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The whirlpool had other views, and expressed them one coarse
fibered brute. Indeed, once went so far as to address
to her the frightful words urry up there, totty, look snippy.
It was wrong, of course, for Paul to slip and
spill an order of scrambled eggs down the brute's coat sleeve.
But who, after all, can blame him? Among those who

(04:45):
did not see eye to eye with Paul in his
views on deportment and waitresses was Monsieur Breton himself, the
owner of the Perisian Cafe. And it was this circumstance
which first gave Paul the opportunity of declaring the passion
which was annoying him with the fierce fury of a
bread and customer gnawing a tough stake against time during
the rush hour. He had long worshiped her from afar,

(05:07):
but nothing more intimate than a good morning, Miss Jeanne
had escaped him, till one day, during a slack Spelly
came upon her in the little passage leading to the kitchen,
her face hidden in her apron, her back jerking with sobs,
her business's business. Paul had a message to deliver to
the cook, respecting two fried coffee on one stale. He
delivered it and returned. Jean was still sobbing ah moss.

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Jean cried, Paul, stricken, What is the matter, what is it?
Why do you weep the petron? Sobbed Jane. He he
my enjure, said Paul, He is a pig. This was
perfectly true. No conscientious judge of character could have denied
that Paul had hit the bull's eye Breadon was a pig.

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He looked like a pig. He ate like a pig.
He grunted like a pig. He had the lavish enbonpois
of a pig. Also a poor kind soul. If you
had tied a bit of blue ribbon round his neck,
you could certainly 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

(06:14):
kick him in the stomach, added Paul. Chan's sobs were
running on second speed. Now the anguish was diminishing. Paul
took advantage of the improved conditions to slide an arm
part of the way round her waist. In two minutes,
he had said as much as the ordinary man could
have worked off. In ten all good stuff too, no patting.
Jean's face rose from her apron like a full moon.

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She was too astounded to be angry. Paul continued to babble.
Jean looked at him with growing wrath that she, who
received daily the affectionate badendage of gentlemen in bona hats
and checked suits, who had once been invited to the
White city by a solicitor's clock, should be addressed in
this way by a waiter. It was too much, She

(06:58):
threw off his hand. Wretched little man, she cried, stamping angrily.
My angel, protested Paul. Jean uttered a scornful laugh. You,
she said, there are a few more withering marks than you.
Spoke in a certain way. Jean spoke it just that way,
Paul wilted on. Eighteen sheddings a week. Went on, Jean satirically,

(07:22):
you would suppout a wife. Yes, what, Paul recovered himself.
He had an opening now and proceeded to use it. Listen,
he said, at present, yes, it is true, I am
but eighteen shillings a week. But it will not always
be so. No. I am not only a waiter, I
am also an artist. I've painted a great picture for
a whole year I have worked, and now it is ready.
I will sell it and then my angel. Jean's face

(07:47):
had lost some of its scorn. Jean was listening with
some respect a picture. She said thoughtfully, there is money
and pictures. For the first time, Paul was glad that
his arm was no longer round her waist to do
justice to the great work, he needed both hands for
purposes of gesticulation. There is money in this picture, he said. Oh,
it is beautiful. I call it the Awakening. It's a

(08:10):
woodland scene. I come back from my work, where hot
and tired. A mere glance at that wood refreshes me.
It's so cool, so green. The sun filters in golden
splashes through the foliage. On a mossy bank. Between two trees,
lies a beautiful girl asleep above her, bending fondly over her,
just about to kiss that flower like face. Is a

(08:31):
young man in the dress of a shepherd. At the
last moment, he has looked over his shoulder to make
sure that there is nobody 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 za,
cried Jean. There is there is, cried Paul, I shall
sell it from many francs to a wealthy connoisseur. And then,

(08:51):
my angel, you ay good deedle man, said the angel patronizingly.
Perhaps bitteretre we will see. Paul caught her hand and
kissed it. She smiled indulgently. Yes, she said, that might
be money. These English pay much money for pictures. It
is pretty generally admitted that Jeffrey Chaucer, the eminent poet

(09:12):
of the fourteenth century, though obsessed with an almost rose
of Veltian passion for the new spelling, was there with
the goods when it came to profundity of thought. It
was Chaucer who wrote the lines the life so short,
the craft so long to learne, the essay so hard,
so sharp a the conquering, which means broadly that it's
difficult to paint a picture, but a great deal more

(09:34):
difficult to sell it. Across the centuries, Paul Bowl shook
hands with Geoffrey Chaucer, so sharper the conquering for his
case in a nutshell. The full story of his wanderings
with a masterpiece would read like an odyssey, and be
about as long it shall definitely be condensed. There was

(09:55):
an artist who died at intervals at Breton's Parisian cafe,
and as the artistic temperament was too impatient to be
suited by Jean's leisurely methods, it had failed to Paul
to wait upon him. It was to this expert that Paul,
emboldened by the geniality of the artist's manner, went for information.
How did Monsieur sell his pictures? Monsieur said he didn't,

(10:19):
except once in a blue moon. But when he did,
oh oh, he took the thing to the dealers. Paul
thanked him. A friend of him, he explained, had painted
a picture and wished to sell it. Poor devil, was
the artist's comment. Next day, it happened to be a Thursday,
Paul started on his travels. He started buoyantly, but by
evening he was as a punctured balloon. Every dealer had

(10:41):
the same remark to make to Wit. No room have
you sold as a picture, inquired Jean when they met.
Not yet, said Paul. But there are delicate matters, these negotiations.
I use finesse. I proceed with caution. He approached the
artist again with the dealers. He said my friend has

(11:03):
been a little unfortunate. They say they have no room.
I know, said the artist, nodding. Is there perhaps another way?
And what sort of picture is it? Inquired the artist.
Paul became enthusiastic. Ah, monsieur, it is beautiful. It is
a woodland seen a beautiful girl. Oh oh oh. Then
he had better try the magazines. They might use it

(11:25):
for a cover. Paul thanked him effusively. On the following Thursday,
he visited divers art editors. The art editors seemed to
be in the same unhappy condition as the dealers. Overstalked
was their cry the picture, said Jean on the Friday morning.
Is it so not yet, said Paul. But always but

(11:49):
my angel, Bah, said Jean, with a toss of her
large but shapely head. By the end of the month,
Paul was fighting in the last ditch, wandering disconstantly among
those who dwell in outer darkness and have grimy thumbs.
Seven of these in all he visited on that black Thursday.
In each of the seven rubbed the surface of the

(12:09):
painting with a grimy thumb, snorted and dismissed him. Sick
and beaten, Paul took the masterpiece back to his skylight room.
All that night he lay awake, thinking it was a
weary bundle of nerves that came to the Parisian cafe
next morning. He was late in arriving, which was good
in that it delayed the inevitable question as to the
fate of the picture, but bad in every other respect.

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Monsieur Breden, squatting behind the cash desk, grunted fiercely at him,
and worse, John, who, owing to his absence, had had
to be busier than suited. Her disposition was distant and haughty.
A murky gloom settled upon Paul. Now. It so happened
that Monsieur Bredon, when things went well with him, was
wont to be filled with a ponderous amiability. It was

(12:55):
not often that this took a practical form, though it
is on record that in an exuberant moment he once
gave a small boy a happening. More frequently, it merely
led him to soften the poor kine austerity of his demeanor.
To day 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 of the

(13:15):
side tables. Except for a belated luncher at the end
of the room. The place was empty. It was one
of the hours when there was a lull in the
proceedings at the Parisian Cafe. Paul was leaning wrapped in
the gloom against the wall. Zhon was waiting on the proprietor.
Mister Bredon finished his meal and rose. He felt content

(13:38):
all was well with the world. As he lumbered to
his desk, he passed Zon. He stopped. He wheezed a compliment.
Then another Paul, from his place by the wall, watched
with jealous fury. Mensir Bredon chocked Zon under the chin.
As he did so, the belated luncher called waiter, but

(13:59):
Paul was otherwise engaged. His entire nervous system seemed to
have been stirred up with a pole. With a hoarse cry,
he dashed forward. He would destroy this pig who chucked
his jan under the chin. The first intimation Monsieur Bredon
had of the declaration of war was the impact of
a French roll on his ear. It was one of

(14:21):
those nobbly, chunky rolls with sharp corners, almost as deadly
as a piece of shrapnel. Monsieur Bredon was incapable of jumping,
but he uttered a howl, and his vast body quivered
like a stricken jelly. A second roll, whizzing by, slapped
against the wall. A moment later, a cream bun burst
in sticky ruin on the proprietor's left eye. The belated

(14:44):
luncher had been anxious to pay his bill and go,
but he came swiftly to the conclusion that this was
worth stopping on for. He leaned back in his chair
and watched. Monsieur Bredan had entrenched himself behind the cash desk,
peering nervously at Paul through the cream, and Paul, pouring
for abuse in his native tongue, was brandishing a chocolate declare.

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The situation looked good to the spectator. It was spoiled
by Jean, who seized Paul by the arm and shook him,
adding her own voice to the babble. It was enough.
The Eclaire fell to the floor. Paul's voice died away,
his face took on again its crushed, haunted expression. The
voice of Monsieur Bredon, freed from competition, rose shrill and wrathful.

(15:28):
The marksman is getting sacked. Mused the onlooker, diagnosing the situation.
He was ripe. The next moment, Paul, limp and depressed,
had retired to the kitchen passage, discharged. It was here,
after a few minutes that Jean found him. Fool, idiot, imbecile,
said Jean. Paul stared at her without speaking, to throw

(15:49):
rose as if patron imbecile? He he bah, and what
if he did? Must you then attack him like a
mad dog? What is it to you? All was conscious
of a dull longing for sympathy, a monstrous sense of oppression.
Everything was going wrong. Surely Zoon must be touched by
his heroism. But no, she was scolding furiously. Suppose Andromeda

(16:13):
had turned and scolded Purses after he had slain the
sea monster. Paul mopped his forehead with his napkin the
bottom and dropped out of his word zone. Bah, do
not talk to me, idiot of a little man. Almost
you lost me by place. Also, Sir Petron was in
two minds, but I coaxed him. I find thing that

(16:34):
would have been to lose my good place through your
foolishness to throw rolls my goodness. She swept back into
the room again, leaving Paul still standing by the kitchen door.
Something seemed to have snapped inside him. How long he
stood there he did not know. But presently from the
dining room came calls of waiter, and automatically he felt

(16:56):
once more into his work. As an actor takes up
his A stranger would have noticed nothing remarkable. Enemy bustled
to and pro with undiminished energy. At the end of
the day, Monsieur Breton paid him his eighteen shillings with
a grunt, and Paul walked out of the restaurant a
masterless man. He went to his attic and sat down
on the bed. Propped up against the wall was the picture.

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He looked at it with unseeing eyes. He stared dully
before him. Then thoughts came to him with a rush,
leaping and dancing in his mind like imps in hades.
He had a curious sense of detachment. He seemed to
be watching himself from a great distance. This was the end.
The little imps danced and leaped, and then one separated
itself from the crowd to grow bigger than the rest.

(17:42):
To pirouette more energetically, he rose. His mind was made up.
He would kill himself he went downstairs and out into
the street. He thought hard as he walked, 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 shouted angrily at him.

(18:05):
As he leapt back. Paul shook his fist at the
retreating lights pig. He shouted, assassin, scoundrel, villain, would you
kill me? I will take your number, Rascal, I will
inform the police. Villain. A policeman had strollen up and
was eyeing him curiously. Paul turned to him, full of
his wrong officer, he tried to have a complaint these

(18:26):
pigs of chauffeurs. They are reckless. They drive so recklessly,
hence the great number of accident. Awful, said the policeman
pass along Sonnay. Paul walked on, fuming it was abominable
that these chauffeurs. And then an idea came to him.
He had found a way. It was quiet in the park.

(18:47):
He had chosen the park because it was dark and
there will be none to see. In interfear, he waited
long in the shadow by the roadside, presently from the
darkness there came the distant drone of powerful engines. Lights
appeared like the blazing eyes of Aragon, swooping down to
devour its prey. He ran out into the road with
a shout. It was an error, that shout. He had

(19:08):
intended it for an inarticulate farewell to his picture, to
Jean to life. It was excusable to the driver of
the motor that he misinterpreted it. It seemed to him
a cry of warning. There was a great jarring of brakes,
a scuttering of locked wheels on the dry road, and
the car came to a standstill a few full yard

(19:28):
from 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, Paul cried, destroy me. Eh,
let George do it, said the voice, in a market
American accent. I never murdered on a Friday. It's unlucky.

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If it's not a rude question, which asylum are you from? Hallo.
The exclamation was one of surprise, for Paul's nerves had
finally given way, and he was now in a heat
on the road. Sobbing, the man climbed down and came
into the light. He was a tall young man with
a pleasant, clean cut face. He stopped and shook Paul

(20:09):
quit that. He said, maybe it's not true, and if
it is, there's always hope. Cut it out. What's the
matter all in? Paul sat up, gulping convulsively. He was
thoroughly unstrung. The cold, desperate mood had passed. In its
place came the old feeling of desolation. He was a
child aching for sympathy. He wanted to tell his troubles.

(20:32):
Punctuating his narrative with many gestures and an occasional gulp,
he proceeded to do so, and the American listened attentively.
So you can't sell your picture, and you've lost your job,
and your girl has shaken you, he said, yeah, you
know that's pretty bad. But still you've no call to
go mingling with automobile wheels. You come along with me
to my hotel and tomorrow we'll see if we can't

(20:53):
fix something up. Well. There was breakfast at the hotel
the next morning, a breakfast to put heart into a man.
During the meal, a messenger dispatched in the cab to
Paul's lodgings, returned with the canvas. A deferential waiter informed
the American 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 a look at it.

(21:15):
They went upstairs. There was the picture resting against a chair.
Why I call that fine, said the young man. It's
a crackerjack. Paul's heart gave a sudden leap. Could it
be that here was the wealthy connoisseur. He was wealthy,
for he drove an autobile and lived in an expensive hotel.
He was a connoisseur, for he had said that the

(21:35):
picture was crackerjac. 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 for months.
Paul's eyes rolled heavenwards. If you'll make a few alterations,

(21:57):
I'll buy it and ask for more alterations. Monsieur, ah,
one or two small ones. He pointed to the stooping
figure of the shepherd. Now you see this prominent citizen.
What's he doing? Why he is stooping, said Paul, fervently,
to bestow upon his loved one a kiss. And she's
sleeping all unconscious, dreaming of it. I never mind about her.

(22:19):
Fix your mind on him. Willie is the star in
the show. You've summed him up accurately. He is stooping, stooping. Good. 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 there, Paul said that he thought he would,
till now he had not looked at the figure from

(22:41):
just that viewpoint, you'd say he'd bust them, well, assured him. Monsieur, No,
said the young man, solemnly, tapping him earnestly on the chest.
That's where you're wrong. Not if they were Galloways tried
and proven. Galloways tried and proven. We'll stand any old
strain you care to put on em. See small bills.

(23:01):
Where Galloway is tried and proven, and fate cannot touch you.
You can take it from me. I'm the company's general manager. Indeed, Monsieur,
and I'll make a proposition to you. Cut out that
mossy bank and make the girl lying in a hammock.
Put William shirt sleeves instead of a bath robe, and
fix him up with a pair of the tried and proven.

(23:23):
And I'll give you three thousand dollars for that picture,
and a retaining fee for four thousand a year to
work for us and nobody else for any number of
years you care to mention. You've got the goods, You've
got just the touch. That happy look on Willie's face
for instant. You can see in a minute why he's
so happy. It's because he's wearing the tried and proven
and he knows that however far he stoops, they won't break.

(23:46):
Is that a deal? Paul's reply left no room for doubt.
Seizing the young man firmly round the waist, he kissed
him with extreme fervor on both cheeks. Here here, break away,
cried the astonished general manager. That's snoway to sign a
business contract. It was about five minutes after one that
afternoon that Constable Thomas Parson's patrolling his beat was aware

(24:09):
of a man motioning to him from the doorway of
Breton's Parisian Cafe and Restaurant. The man looked like a
pig he grunted like a pig. He had the lavish
m bompois of a pig. Constable Parsons suspected that he
had a poor kine's soul. Indeed, the thought flitted across
Constable Parson's mind that if he were to tie a

(24:30):
bit of blue ribbon round his neck, he could win
prizes with him at a show. Eh, what's all this?
He inquired, halting. The stout man talked volubly in French.
Constable Parsons shook his head. Talk sense, he advised. In there,
cried the stout man, pointing behind him into the restaurant.

(24:50):
A man e e, how you say yes? Sacked an
employee whom I yesterday sacked? To day he returns. I
said to him, couchon va, what's that? I say, pig go?
How you say yes? Pop off? I say, pigue pop off?
But he no, no, he sits and will not go.

(25:11):
Come in, officer and expel him with a massive dignity.
The policeman entered the restaurant. At one of the tables,
sat Paul calm and distrained from across the room. Jean
stared freezingly. All right, what's all this? Inquired constable Parsons.
Paul looked up. I too, Paul admitted, I cannot understand.

(25:35):
Figure to yourself, Monsieur, I enter this cafe to lunch in.
This man here whould expel me. He he is an
employee whom I I myself have, But yesterday dismissed, postiferated
Monsieur Breddon, he has no money to lunch at my restaurant.
The policeman eyed Paul sternly. Eh, eh, that sir, you'd

(25:57):
better come along. Paul's eyebrows rose before the round eyes
of Monsieur Breton. He began to produce from his pockets
and to lay upon the table bank notes and sovereigns.
The cloth was covered with them. Paul picked up a
half sovereign. If Monsieur, he said to the policeman would

(26:17):
accept this as a slight consolation for the inconvenience which
this foolish person here has caused you, not half, said
mister Parson's affably. Look here, He turned to the gaping proprietor.
If you go on like this, you'll be get yourself
into troubles. Eh, you'll take care. Another time, Paul called
for the bill of fare. It was the inferior person

(26:39):
who had succeeded to his place as waiter, who attended
to his needs during the meal, But when he had lunched,
it was Jean who brought his coffee. She bent over
the table. You've sold your picture, poor, yes, she whispered,
fel much money. How glad I am, dear poor. Now
we will, Paul met her glance coolly. Will you be

(27:01):
so kind, he said as to bringing me also a cigarette,
my good girl. End of story number six. Rough hew
them how we will. Recording by Mike Harress