10 - Selected Short Stories - The Man, The Maid, And The Miasma

Episode Transcript

Speaker 1 (00:00):
Chapter ten of The Man Upstairs and Other Stories. 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 ten, story number ten, The Man,

(00:22):
the Maid and the Miasma. Allough. This story is concerned
principally with the man and the Maid. The miasma pervades
it to such an extent that I feel justified in
putting his name on the bills. Webster's Dictionary gives the
meaning of the word miasma as an infection floating in
the air, a deadly exhalation, and in the opinion of

(00:44):
mister Robert Ferguson, his late employer, that description, though perhaps
a little too flattering, on the whole, summed up Master
Roland Bean pretty satisfactorily. Until the previous day he had
served mister Ferguson in the capacity of office boy. But
there was that about Master Bean which made it a
practically impossible for anyone to employ him for long. A

(01:07):
syndicate of Galahad Parsiphal and Marcus Aurelius might have done it.
But to an ordinary erring man, conscious of things done
which should not have been done, and other things equally
numerous left undone, he was just too oppressive. One conscience
is enough for any man. The employer of Master Bean

(01:29):
had to cringe before two. Nobody can last long against
an office boy whose eyes shine with quiet, respectful reproof
through gold rimmed spectacles, whose manner is that of a
middle aged saint, and who obviously knows all the plod
and punctuality books by heart, and orders his life by
their precepts. Master Bean was a walking edition of stepping

(01:53):
stones to success, millionaires who have never smoked, and young
man get up early. Galahad Parcival and Marcus Horelis, as
I say, might have remained tranquil in his presence, but
Robert Ferguson found the contract too large. After one month,
he had braced himself up and sacked the punctual plotter.

(02:14):
Yet now he was sitting in his office long after
the last clark had left, long after the hour at
which he himself was wont to leave, His mind 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
of Master Bean, because Master Bean was waiting for him

(02:35):
in the outer office, and he lingered on at his
desk after the day's work was done. For the same reason.
Worden brought to him earlier in the evening that Master
rollind Bean would like to see him. The answer to
that was easy, tell him, I'm busy. Master Bean's admirably
dignified reply was that he understood how great was the
pressure of mister Ferguson's work, and that he would wait

(02:57):
till he was at liberty. Liberty talk of the liberty
of the treed possum, but do not use the word
in connection with a man bottled up in his office
with Roland Bean guarding the only exit. Mister Ferguson kicked
the waste paper basket savagely. The unfairness of the thing
hurt him. A sacked office boy ought to stay sacked.

(03:18):
He had no business to come popping up again. Like
Banquo's ghost, it was not playing the game. The reader
may wonder what was the trouble why mister Ferguson could
not stalk out a brusquely dispose of his foe. But
then the reader has not employed Master Bean for a month.
Mister Ferguson had and his nerve had broken a slight

(03:39):
cough penetrated the door between the two offices. Mister Ferguson
rose and grabbed his hat. Perhaps a sudden rush, he
shot out with the tense concentration of one, moving towards
the refreshment room at a station where the train stops
for three minutes. Good evenings. Ah was the watchers of you. Hello, ah, Bean,
said mister Ferguson, flitting rapidly. Leave still here. I thought

(04:01):
you'd 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 a sort
of dull shock. So it was with mister Ferguson. He

(04:23):
stopped in his tracks and stared. The porter closed the
door at seven o'clock punctually, sir. It is now nearly
twenty minutes after the hour. Mister 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. Mister Ferguson digested this. I am

(04:47):
no longer in your employment, sir, said Master Bean respectfully.
But I hope that in the circumstances you will permit
me to remain here during the night. During the night,
it would enable me to sleep more comfortably then on
the stairs. But we can't stop here all night, said
mister Ferguson feebly. He had anticipated an unpleasant five minutes

(05:09):
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, showing the trivial subject of the prospective vigil,
in the hope that I might persuade you so to
reconsider your decision in regard to my dismissal. I can
assure you, sir, that I am extremely anxious to give satisfaction.

(05:31):
If you would take me back and inform me how
I have fallen short, I would endeavor to improve. I
we can't stop here all night, interrupted mister Ferguson, bounding
from his chair and beginning to pace the floor without presumption. Sir,
I feel that if you were to give me another chance,
I should work to your satisfaction. I should endeavor. Mister
Ferguson stared at him in dumb horror. He had a

(05:54):
momentary vision of a sleepless night spent in listening to
a nicely polished speech for the defense. He was seized
with a mad desire for flight. He could not leave
the building, but he must get away somewhere and think.
He dashed from the room and raced up the dark stairs,
And as he arrived at the next floor, his eye
was caught by a thin pencil of light which proceeded

(06:15):
from a door on the left. No shipwrecked mariner on
a desert island could have welcomed the appearance of a
sail with greater enthusiasm. He bounded at the door. He
knew to whom the room belonged. It was the office
of one Blathwaite, and Blathwaite was not only an acquaintance
but a sportsman. Quite possibly there might be a pack

(06:36):
of cards on Blaithwaite's person to help pass the long hours,
and if not, at least he would be company in
his office. A refuge. He flung open the door without
going through the formality of knocking. Etiquette is not for
the marooned, I say, Blaithwaite, He began and stopped abruptly.
The only occupant of the room was a girl. I

(06:59):
beg your pardon, he said. I thought that they would.
He stopped again, his eyes dazzled with the light. Had
not seen clearly they did so now you, he cried.
The girl looked at him, first with surprise, then with
a cool hostility. There was a long pause. Eighteen months
had passed since they had parted, and conversation does not

(07:19):
flow easily after eighteen months of silence, especially if the
nature of the parting has been bitter and stormy. Ferguson
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 mister Blathwaite's secretary. I have been
here a fortnight. I've wondered if we should meet. I

(07:41):
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
that we're locked in? He said? He had expected wild
surprise and dismay. She merely clicked her tongue in an
annoyed manner. She said, what a nuisance I was locked

(08:02):
in only a week ago. He looked at her with
unwilling respect, the respect of the novice for the veteran.
She was nothing to him now, of course she had
passed out of his life, but he could not help
remembering that long ago, oh eighteen months ago. What he
admired most in her had been this same spirit, this game,
refusal to be disturbed by fate's blows. It braced him up.

(08:25):
He sat down and looked curiously at her. So you
left the stage, she said. I thought we agreed when
we parted not to speak to one another, said she coldly,
Oh did we? I thought it was only to meet
as strangers. It's the same thing, is it. I often
talked to strangers. What a bore they must think you,

(08:45):
she said, hiding one eighth of a yawn with the
tips of two fingers. I suppose, she went on with
faint interest. You talked to them in trains when they're
trying to read their paper. I don't force my conversation
on any one, don't you, she said, raising her eyebrows
and eat surprise. Only your company is is that it?
Are you alluding to the present occasion? Well, you have

(09:07):
an office of your own in this building, I believe
I have, then, why I am a perfect liberty said
with dignity to sit in my friend Blaithwaite's office if
I choose, I wish to see mister Blaithwaite on business.
He proved that she had established no corner. In raised eyebrows,
I fear, he said that I cannot discuss my affairs

(09:29):
with mister Blaithwaite's employees. I must see him personally. Mister
Blaithwaite 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've only
yourself to blame. If you'd been good and had gone
back to your office, I would have brought you down

(09:49):
some cake and cocoa. Cake and ko Ko said, he superciliously, Yes,
cake and coco. She snapped, It's all very well for
you to turn up your nose at the now, but
wait you thirteen hours of this in front of you.
I know what it is. Last time I had to
spend the night here. I couldn't get to sleep for hours.
When I did, I dreamed that I was chasing chocolate

(10:11):
eclaires round and round Trafalgar Square, and I never caught
them either. Long before the night was finished, I would
have given anything for even a dry biscuit. I made
up my mind I'd always keep something here in case
I ever got locked in again. Yes, smile, you'd better
why you can, he was smiling, but wanly. Nobody but

(10:33):
a professional fasting man could have looked unmoved into the
inferno she had pictured. Ah, but then he rallied cake,
he said, scornfully. She nodded grimly. Ko ko 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 work that I must finish. She

(10:56):
turned to her desk, leaving him to his thoughts. They
were not exhilarating. He'd maintained a brave front, but inwardly
he quailed. Reared in the country, he had developed at
an early age of fine, healthy appetite. Once, soon after
his arrival in London, he had allowed a dangerous fanatic
to persuade him that the secret of health was to
go without breakfast. His lunch that day had cost him

(11:18):
eight shillings, and only decent shame had kept the figure
as low as that. He knew perfectly well that long
ere the dawn of day, his whole soul would be
crying out for cake, squealing frantically for Coco. Would it
not be better to no a thousand times, no death,
but not surrender? His self respect was at stake. Looking back,

(11:40):
he saw that his entire relations with this girl had
been a series of battles of will. So far, though
he had certainly not 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.

(12:02):
Your groaning interrupts my work. I was not groaning. I
was singing, Oh, terribly sorry, not at all. Eight bars rest,
mister Ferguson, deprived of the solace of song. Filled in
the time by gazing at the toiler's back hair. It
set in motion a train of thought, an express train

(12:23):
bound for the land of yesterday. It recalled days in
the woods evenings on the lawn ever recalled sunshine, storm,
plenty of storm, minor tempests that burst from a clear sky,
apparently without cause, and the great final tornado. There had
been cause enough for that. Why was it, mused mister Ferguson,

(12:44):
that every girl in every country town, in every county
at England, who had ever recited curfew shall not ring
to night well enough to escape lynching at the hands
of a rustic audience, was seized with a desire to
come to London and go on the stage. He sighed,
Please don't snort, said a cold voice from behind the

(13:06):
back hair. And there was a train wreck in the
land of yesterday. Mister Ferguson, the only survivor, limped back
into the present. The present had little charm, but at
least it was better than the cakeless future. He fixed
his thoughts on it. He wondered how Master Bean was
passing the time, probably doing deep breathing exercises or reading

(13:29):
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 it produced in installments, all that
goes to make cake and cocoa. She did not speak
presently filling space. There sprang into being an odor, and
as it reached him, mister Ferguson stiffened in his chair,

(13:50):
bracing himself as for a fight to the death. It
was more than an odor. It was the soul of
the coco singing to him. His fingers gripped the arms
of the chair. This was the test. The girl separated
a section of cake from the parent body. She caught
his eye. You'd better go, she said. If you go now,
it's just possible that I may. Oh, but I forgot.

(14:13):
You don't like cocoa, No, said he resolutely. I don't.
She seemed now in the mood of the conversation. I
wonder why you came up here at all? She said, Well,
there's no reason why you shouldn't know. I came up
here because my late office boy is downstairs. Then why
should that send you up? You've never met him, or

(14:34):
you wouldn't ask. Have you ever had to face some
one who was 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 Ronald Bean was too new to be
assimilated immediately. It called for mediation. Was I like that?

(14:55):
He said, at last, almost humbly. Oh, you know you were.
Oh I'm not thinking only about your views on the stage.
It was everything. Whatever I did, you were there to disapprove,
like a like an aunt. She concluded triumphantly. You are
too good for everything. If only you would just once
have done something wrong. I think I'd have, but you couldn't.

(15:17):
You are simply perfect. A man will remain cool and
composed under many charges. Hint that his tastes are criminal,
and he will shrug his shoulders. But accuse him of goodness,
and you rouse the lion. Mister Ferguson's brow darkened. As
a matter of fact, he said, haughtily, I was to
have had supper with a chorus girl this very night.

(15:40):
How very appalling, she said 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 revery. Who is
this girl? She erer, and her name is Marie, Marie Templeton.

(16:03):
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 married and has two of the sweetest children.
That grandmother is devoted to them. Hasn't she ever mentioned
them to you? She poured herself out another cup of cocoa.

(16:27):
Conversation again languished. I suppose you're very fond of her,
she said at length, I am 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 am just going to bring you a
poor little office boy up here. He must be missing you.

(16:48):
He sprang up, but she had gone. Leaning over the banisters,
he heard a door open below, then a short conversation,
and finally footsteps climbing the stairs. It was pitch dark
on the landing. He stepped aside. Then they passed without
seeing him. Master Bean was discoursing easily on koco. The
processes whereby it was manufactured, and the remarkable distances which

(17:09):
natives of Mexico had covered with it as their only food.
The door opened, flooding the landing with light, and mister Ferguson,
stepping from ambush, began to descend the chairs. The girl
came to the banisters. Mister 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

(17:31):
has a fund of useful information on all subjects, he
went on. After a while, she returned to the room
and closed the door. Mister Ferguson went into his office
and sat down. There was once a person in the
name of Simeon Stylites, who took up a position on
top of a pillar and stayed there, having no other
engagements for thirty years. Mister Ferguson, who had read Tennyson's

(17:54):
perm on the subject, had until to night, looked upon
this as a pretty good thing, reading the lines thrice
ten years, thrice multiplied by superhuman pangs in hunger and
in thirsts, fevers and colds, in kaufs, aches, stitches, ulcerous throes,
and cramps. Patient on this tall pillar, I have borne rain, wind, frost, heat, hail,

(18:20):
damp and sleet and snow. He had gathered roughly as
it were that Simeon had not been comfortable, mister Ferguson
had pitied him. But now sitting in his office chair,
he began to wonder what the man had made such
a fuss about. He suspected him of having had a
touch of the white feather in him. It was not
as if he had not had food. He talked about

(18:42):
hungers and thirsts. But he must have had something to eat,
or he could not have stayed the court. Very likely,
if the truth were known, there was somebody below who
passed him up regularly supplies of cake and cocoa. He
began to look on Simion as an overrated amateur. Sleep
refused to come to him. It got as far as

(19:03):
his feet, but no farther. He rose and stamped to
restore the circulation. It was at this point that he
definitely condemned simeon stylites as a sybaritic fraud. If this
were one of those realistic Zolaesque stories, I would describe
the crick in the back that would but let us
hurry on. It was some six hours later. He had

(19:23):
no watch, But the numbers of aches, stitches, not to
mention cramps that he had experienced could not possibly have
been condensed into a shorter period that this manly spirit snapped.
Let us not judge him too harshly. The girl upstairs
had broken his heart, ruined his life, and practically compared
him to Roland Bean and his pride should have built

(19:44):
up an impassable wall between them. But she had cake
and cocoa. In similar circumstances, King Arthur would have groveled
before Gwenevere. He rushed to the door and tore it open.
There was a startled exclamation from the darkness outside. I
hope I didn't disturb you, said a meek voice. Mister
Ferguson did not answer. His twitching nostrils were drinking in

(20:08):
a familiar 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
a man's life too sacred for words. The wonder of
the thing that struck him dumb an instant before, and
he had had but a desperate hope of winning these
priceless things from her at the cost of all his

(20:30):
dignity and self respect. He had been prepared to secure
them through a shower of biting taunts, a blizzard of razor,
like I told you so. Yet here he was draining
the cup and still able to hold his head up,
look the world in the face, and call himself a man.
His keen eye detected a crumb on his coat sleeve.
This retrieved and consumed, he turned to her, seeking explanation.

(20:55):
She was changed. The battle gleam had faded from her eyes.
She seemed scared and subdued. Her manner was of one,
craving comfort and protection. That awful boy, she breathed, Bean, said,
mister Ferguson, picking a crumb off the carpet. He's frightful. Oh,
I thought you might get a little tired of him.

(21:15):
What has he been doing talking? I feel battered. He's
like one of those awful encyclopedias that give you a
sort of dull leaden feeling in your head directly you
open them quite Do you know how many tons of
water go over in Niagara Falls every year? No? He does.
I told you he had a fund of useful information.

(21:36):
The purpose and tenacity books insist on it. That's how
you catch your employer as I. One morning, the boss
suddenly wants to know how many horse hair sofas there
are in Brixton, the number of pins that would reach
from London Bridge to Waterloo. You tell him, and it
takes you into the partnership. Later you become a millionaire. Ah,
but I haven't thanked you for the cocoa. It was fine.

(21:59):
He waited for the retort, but it did not come.
A pleased wonderment filled him. Could these things really be thus?
And it isn't only what he says? She went on,
I know what you mean about him now, it's his
accusing manner. I've tried to analyze that manner. I believe
it's the spectacles. It's frightful. When he looks at you,

(22:20):
you think of all the wrong things you've ever done
or ever wanted to do. Oh does he have that
effect on you? He said, excitedly. What that's exactly describing
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

(22:43):
did he shifted his chair forward. It was all my fault,
he said, I mean, what happened. It wasn't it wasn't it? Yes,
it was. I want to tell you something. I don't
know if it will make any difference now, but I
should like you to know it. It's this. I w
aaltered a good deal since I came to London for
the better. I think I'm a pretty poor sort of

(23:05):
specimen still, but at least I don't imagine I can
measure life with a foot rule. I don't judge the
world any longer by the standards of a country town.
London has knocked some of the corners off me. I
I don't think you'd find me the beans i'vee any longer.
I don't disapprove of other people much now, not as
a habit. I find I have enough to do keeping
myself up to the mark. I want to tell you

(23:27):
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 came to London. I used to think
the universe had been invented just to look on and
wave its hat while I did great things. London has
put a large piece of cold ice against my head,
and the swelling has gone down. I'm not the girl
with ambitions any longer. I just want to keep employed,

(23:49):
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 known each other. Don't you think we'd better
get better acquainted? He said? There was a respectful tap
at the door. Come in, snapped mister Ferguson. Well, behind

(24:12):
the gold rimmed spectacles of master Bean, they're shown a
softer look than usual, a look rather complacent than disapproving.
I must apologize, sir, for intruding upon you. I am
no longer in your employment, but I do hope that
in the circumstances you will forgive my entering your private office.
Thinking over our situation just now, an idea came to me,
by means of which I fancy we might be enabled

(24:34):
to leave the building. What it occurred to me, sir,
that by telephoning to the nearest police station. Good heavens,
cried mister 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 about four in the morning. Master Bean

(24:56):
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. Your watch is wrong, No, sir,
I am very careful to keep it exactly right. I
do not wish to run any risk of being unpunctual.
Half past ten, cried mister Ferguson. Why we're in heaps

(25:18):
of time to look in at the Savoy for supper.
This is great. I'll phone them to keep a table supper.
I thought she stopped. What's that? Thought? One? 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 a Miss temple to help Miss templeton
her His face cleared. There isn't such a person. I

(25:41):
invented her. I had to when you accused me of
being like our friend the Miasma legitimate self defense. I
do not wish to interrupt you, sir, when you are busy,
said Master Bean. But come and see me to morrow morning,
said mister Ferguson, Bob said the girl as the first
threatening mutters from the orchestra, herald an imminent store of melody.

(26:04):
When that boy comes to morrow, what are you going
to do? Call up the police. No, but you must
do something. We shouldn't have been here if it hadn't
been for him. You know that's true, he pondered. I've
got it. I'll get him a job with Rakes and Courtney.
Why Rakes and Courtney, because I have a pull with them,

(26:25):
But principally, said mister Ferguson, with a devilish grin, because
they live in Edinburgh, which, as you are doubtless who
wears 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 I ever? Just then the
orchestra broke out. End of story number ten, The Man,

(26:45):
the Maid and the Miasma recording by Mike Harris