The Man Upstairs and Other Stories
'Go right on,' said Beverley, cordially. 'Don't mind me; it's all for
my good.'
'Well, in a word, then, it is lifeless. Neither the child nor the cat
lives.'
He stepped back a pace and made a frame of his hands.
'The cat now,' he said. 'It is--how shall I put it? It has
no--no--er--'
'That kind of cat wouldn't,' said Beverley. 'It isn't that breed.'
'I think it's a dear cat,' said Annette. She felt her temper, always
quick, getting the better of her. She knew just how incompetent
Sellers was, and it irritated her beyond endurance to see Beverley's
good-humoured acceptance of his patronage.
'At any rate,' said Beverley, with a grin, 'you both seem to recognize
that it is a cat. You're solid on that point, and that's something,
seeing I'm only a beginner.'
'I know, my dear fellow; I know,' said Sellers, graciously. 'You
mustn't let my criticism discourage you. Don't think that your work
lacks promise. Far from it. I am sure that in time you will do very
well indeed. Quite well.'
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
patronizing 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 patronize 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 apologize. 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 newcomer'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.
She began to admire him for it.
To make his position as critic still more impregnable, Sellers was now
able to speak as one having authority. After years of floundering, his
luck seemed at last to have turned. His pictures, which for months had
lain at an agent's, careened like crippled battleships, had at length
begun to find a market. Within the past two weeks three landscapes and
an allegorical painting had sold for good prices; and under the
influence of success he expanded like an opening floweret. When
Epstein, the agent, wrote to say that the allegory had been purchased
by a Glasgow plutocrat of the name of Bates for one hundred and sixty
guineas, Sellers' views on Philistines and their crass materialism and
lack of taste underwent a marked modification. He spoke with some
friendliness of the man Bates.
'To me,' said Beverley, when informed of the event by Annette, 'the
matter has a deeper significance. It proves that Glasgow has at last
produced a sober man. No drinker would have dared face that allegory.
The whole business is very gratifying.'
Beverley himself was progressing slowly in the field of Art. He had
finished the 'Child and Cat', and had taken it to Epstein together with
a letter of introduction from Sellers. Sellers' habitual attitude now
was that of the kindly celebrity who has arrived and wishes to give the
youngsters a chance.
Since its departure Beverley had not done much in the way of actual
execution. Whenever Annette came to his studio he was either sitting in
a chair with his feet on the window-sill, smoking, or in the same
attitude listening to Sellers' views on art. Sellers being on the
upgrade, a man with many pounds to his credit in the bank, had more
leisure now. He had given up his advertisement work, and was planning a
great canvas--another allegorical work. This left him free to devote a
good deal of time to Beverley, and he did so. Beverley sat and smoked
through his harangues. He may have been listening, or he may not.
Annette listened once or twice, and the experience had the effect of
sending her to Beverley, quivering with indignation.
'Why do you _let_ him patronize you like that?' she demanded. 'If
anybody came and talked to me like that about my music, I'd--I'd--I
don't know what I'd do. Yes, even if he were really a great musician.'
'Don't you consider Sellers a great artist, then, even now?'
'He seems to be able to sell his pictures, so I suppose they must be
good; but nothing could give him the right to patronize you as he
does.'
'"My learned friend's manner would be intolerable in an emperor to a
black-beetle,"' quoted Beverley. 'Well, what are we going to do about
it?'
'If only you could sell a picture, too!'
'Ah! Well, I've done my part of the contract. I've delivered the goods.
There the thing is at Epstein's. The public can't blame me if it
doesn't sell. All they've got to do is to waltz in in their thousands
and fight for it. And, by the way, talking of waltzes--'
'Oh, it's finished,' said Annette, dispiritedly. 'Published too, for
that matter.'
'Published! What's the matter, then? Why this drooping sadness? Why
aren't you running around the square, singing like a bird?'
'Because,' said Annette, 'unfortunately, I had to pay the expenses of
publication. It was only five pounds, but the sales haven't caught up
with that yet. If they ever do, perhaps there'll be a new edition.'
'And will you have to pay for that?'
'No. The publishers would.'
'Who are they?'
'Grusczinsky and Buchterkirch.'
'Heavens, then what are you worrying about? The thing's a cert. A man
with a name like Grusczinsky could sell a dozen editions by himself.
Helped and inspired by Buchterkirch, he will make the waltz the talk of
the country. Infants will croon it in their cots.'
'He didn't seem to think so when I saw him last.'
'Of course not. He doesn't know his own power. Grusczinsky's shrinking
diffidence is a by-word in musical circles. He is the genuine Human
Violet. You must give him time.'
'I'll give him anything if he'll only sell an edition or two,' said
Annette.
The outstanding 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. Sellers' 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.