P G Wodehouse – Man Upstairs

“I’ll give him anything if he’ll only sell an edition or two,” said Annette.

The astounding thing was that he did. There seemed no particular reason why the sale of that waltz should not have been as small and as slow as that of any other waltz by an unknown composer. But almost without warning it expanded from a trickle into a flood. Grusczinsky, beaming paternally whenever Annette entered the shop-which was often-announced two new editions in a week. Beverley, his artistic growth still under a watchful eye of Sellers, said he had never had any doubts as to the success of the thing from the moment when a single phrase in it had so carried him away that he had been compelled to stamp his applause enthusiastically on the floor. Even Sellers forgot his own triumphs long enough to allow him to offer affable congratulations. And money came rolling in, smoothing the path of life.

Those were great days. There was a hat…

Life, in short, was very full and splendid. There was, indeed, but one thing which kept it from being perfect. The usual drawback to success is that it annoys one’s friends so; but in Annette’s case this drawback was absent. Sellar’s demeanour towards her was that of an old-established inmate welcoming a novice into the Hall of Fame. Her pupils-worthy souls, though bone-headed-fawned upon her. Beverley seemed more pleased than anyone. Yet it was Beverley who prevented her paradise from being complete. Successful herself, she wanted all her friends to be successful; but Beverley, to her discomfort, remained a cheery failure, and worse, absolutely refused to snub Sellers. It was not as if Sellers’ advice and comments were disinterested. Beverley was simply the instrument on which he played his songs of triumph. It distressed Annette to such an extent that now, if she went upstairs and heard Sellers’ voice in the studio, she came down again without knocking.

One afternoon, sitting in her room, she heard the telephone-bell ring.

The telephone was on the stairs, just outside her door. She went out and took up the receiver.

“Halloa!” said a querulous voice. “Is Mr. Beverley there?”

Annette remembered having heard him go out. She could always tell his footstep.

“He is out,” she said. “Is there any message?”

“Yes,” said the voice, emphatically. “Tell him that Rupert Morrison rang up to ask what he was to do with all this great stack of music that’s arrived. Does he want it forwarded on to him, or what?” The voice was growing high and excited. Evidently Mr. Morrison was in a state of nervous tension when a man does not care particularly who hears his troubles so long as he unburdens himself of them to someone.

“Music?” said Annette.

“Music!” shrilled Mr. Morrison. “Stacks and stacks and stacks of it. Is he playing a practical joke on me, or what?” he demanded, hysterically. Plainly he had now come to regard Annette as a legitimate confidante. She was listening. That was the main point. He wanted someone-he did not care whom-who would listen. “He lends me his rooms,” wailed Mr. Morrison, “so that I can be perfectly quiet and undisturbed while I write my novel, and, first thing I know, this music starts to arrive. How can I be quiet and undisturbed when the floor’s littered two yards high with great parcels of music, and more coming every day?”

Annette clung weakly to the telephone box. Her mind was in a whirl, but she was beginning to see many things.

“Are you there?” called Mr. Morrison.

Yes. What-what firm does the music came from?”

“What’s that?”

“Who are the publishers who send the music?”

“I can’t remember. Some long name. Yes, I’ve got it. Grusczinsky and someone.”

“I’ll tell Mr. Beverley,” said Annette, quietly. A great weight seemed to have settled on her head.

“Halloa! Halloa! Are you there?” came Mr. Morrison’s voice.

“Yes?”

“And tell him there are some pictures, too.”

“Pictures?”

“Four great beastly pictures. The size of elephants. I tell you, there isn’t room to move. And-”

Annette hung up the receiver.

Mr. Beverley, returned from his walk, was racing up the stairs three at a time in his energetic way, when, as he arrived at Annette’s door, it opened.