P G Wodehouse – Man Upstairs

A cold glitter might have been observed in Annette’s eyes.

“Mr. Sellers,” she said, smoothly, “had to work very hard himself before he reached his present position. You know his work, of course?”

For the first time Beverley seemed somewhat confused.

“I-er-why-” he began.

“Oh, but of course you do,” she went on, sweetly. “It’s in all the magazines.”

Beverley looked at the great man with admiration, and saw that he had flushed uncomfortably. He put this down to the modesty of genius.

“In the advertisement pages,” said Annette. “Mr. Sellers drew that picture of the Waukeesy Shoe and the Restawhile Settee and the tin of sardines in the Little Gem Sardine advertisement. He is very good at still life.”

There was a tense silence. Beverley could almost hear the voice of the referee uttering the count.

“Miss Brougham,” said Sellers at last, spitting out the words, “has confined herself to the purely commercial side of my work. There is another.”

“Why, of course there is. You sold a landscape for five pounds only eight months ago, didn’t you? And another three months before that.”

It was enough. Sellers bowed stiffly and stalked from the room.

Beverley picked up a duster and began slowly to sweep the floor with it.

“What are you doing?” demanded Annette, in a choking voice.

“The fragments of the wretched man,” whispered Beverley. “They must be swept up and decently interred. You certainly have got the punch, Miss Brougham.”

He dropped the duster with a startled exclamation, for Annette had suddenly burst into a flood of tears. With her face buried in her hands she sat in her chair and sobbed desperately.

“Good Lord!” said Beverley, blankly.

“I’m a cat! I’m a beast! I hate myself!”

“Good Lord!” said Beverley, blankly.

“I’m a pig! I’m a fiend!”

“Good Lord!” said Beverley, blankly.

“We’re all struggling and trying to get on and having hard luck, and instead of doing what I can to help, I go and t-t-taunt him with not being able to sell his pictures! I’m not fit to live! Oh!”

“Good Lord!” said Beverley, blankly.

A series of gulping sobs followed, diminishing by degrees into silence. Presently she looked up and smiled, a moist and pathetic smile.

“I’m sorry,” she said, “for being so stupid. But he was so horrid and patronising to you, I couldn’t help scratching. I believe I’m the worst cat in London.”

“No, this is,” said Beverley, pointing to the canvas. “At least, according to the late Sellers. But, I say, tell me, isn’t the deceased a great artist, then? He came curveting in here with his chest out and started to slate my masterpiece, so I naturally said, ‘What-ho! ‘Tis a genius!’ Isn’t he!”

“He can’t sell his pictures anywhere. He lives on the little he can get from illustrating advertisements. And I t-taunt-”

“Please!” said Beverley, apprehensively.

She recovered herself with a gulp.

“I can’t help it,” she said, miserably. “I rubbed it in. Oh, it was hateful of me! But I was all on edge from teaching one of my awful pupils, and when he started to patronise you-”

She blinked.

“Poor devil!” said Beverley. “I never guessed. Good Lord!”

Annette rose.

“I must go and tell him I’m sorry,” she said. “He’ll snub me horribly, but I must.”

She went out. Beverley lit a pipe and stood at the window looking thoughtfully down into the street.

It is a good rule in life never to apologise. The right sort of people do not want apologies, and the wrong sort take a mean advantage of them. Sellers belonged to the latter class. When Annette, meek, penitent, with all her claws sheathed, came to him and grovelled he forgave her with a repulsive magnanimity which in a less subdued mood would have stung her to renewed pugnacity. As it was, she allowed herself to be forgiven, and retired with a dismal conviction that from now on he would be more insufferable than ever.

Her surmise proved absolutely correct. His visits to the new-comer’s studio began again, and Beverley’s picture, now nearing completion, came in for criticism enough to have filled a volume. The good humour with which he received it amazed Annette. She had no proprietary interest in the painting beyond what she acquired from a growing regard for its parent (which disturbed her a good deal when she had time to think of it); but there were moments when only the recollection of her remorse for her previous outbreak kept her from rending the critic. Beverley, however, appeared to have no artistic sensitiveness whatsoever. When Sellers savaged the cat in a manner which should have brought the S.P.C.A. down upon him, Beverley merely beamed. His long-sufferingness was beyond Annette’s comprehension.