Safe Custody and Laughing Bacchante

by Dornford Yates

  “ ‘Improvise’?”

  “That’s right. They have to improvise. You never expected to leave the castle so soon; you never expected to have to leave Wagensburg. You were carrying weight enough, without being hunted like that. It mayn’t be as clean a job as you usually do, but I don’t believe anyone else would have ever got home.”

  Mansel picked up her hand and kissed it.

  “You’re very faithful,” he said.

  “Tell me one thing,” I said. “Friar was out of his depth in the countryside. But what was the matter with the police?”

  “The Boche was the matter,” said Mansel. “No doubt about that. You know as well as I that they hated his guts. With what result? That the moment his back was turned, they put up their feet. They never even trailed Friar. Had they taken that trifling precaution, they would have had the gems. When you were in that barn, you were at their mercy for more than an hour; and you were never touched. And two days before, when you were waiting for Bell, Kerrelin knew very well that you were somewhere about. He knew very well who’d made a mess of the Boche, for only a giant could have poked his face like that—I mean, I’ve had Bell’s report—But because he liked you and because he hated the Boche, he took no cognizance of it. And there’s the Boche for you. His spawn will work for him, but nobody else. Born to serve, he is the beggar on horseback, ‘playing such tricks before heaven as make the angels weep.’ Except by brute force, the Boche will never rule. No decent man will work for a beggar on horseback, a gimcrack laird. Look at the Kaiser—a shirt that was stuffed with saw-dust, a parody of a man. And he is typical. Austria is a gentleman; Germany is a cad. But the cad has acquired the power: and very soon the gentleman will go down. I very much doubt if the Ferrers’ will get their furniture out.”

  “Jonathan’s right,” said Jenny. “Germany is a cad. She is the cad of Europe, as England is the peer. Where are the gems, William? You haven’t told me yet.”

  I turned to look over my shoulder. The coast was clear.

  “In the parrot’s cage,” I whispered. “That’s why we let you suffer his evil tongue.”

  Jenny closed her eyes.

  “And I never guessed. But how did you do it, William? I mean, there’s nothing to show. And we bought the cage together . . .”

  I told her the truth.

  “That was terribly clever,” said Jenny. “I could not think why you brought me so rude a bird. But now I see. The customs fell for him, because of his wicked tongue. So they never thought of his cage.”

  “To Jonathan, all the glory. Such a ruse would never have entered my head.”

  “No glory,” said Mansel. “I’m rather ashamed of myself. But we had to be careful, Jenny, and that seemed the surest way.”

  “Fear,” said I.

  Mansel threw back his head and laughed.

  “I won’t say you’re wrong,” he said. “The great thing is—it came off.”

  Our voyage to Fowey was an idyll, the remembrance of which is joyous and always will be so. We “fleeted the time carelessly, as they did in the golden world.” The weather was always fair, and we had to ourselves the finest yacht on the seas. And the gems were under our hand, in the parrot’s cage.

  On our last night but one on board, when we had just turned in, Jenny went down on her knees and took my face in her hands.

  “My blessed darling,” she said, “it is the world to me to see you yourself again. When you came aboard, I was shaken, because of the look in your eyes. Before, when you have come back from one of these shows, for weeks you have talked in your sleep. This time you have not talked; but when, in the night, I have leaned over your bed, your eyes have been open, William, although you were fast asleep. And that I have never seen . . . But, for the last two nights, your eyes have been shut. Promise me, my darling, that never again will you undertake such a charge. If you must strain your body, that I can bear; for you can endure as can no man—not even Jonathan. But I cannot bear it—that you should strain your soul. Both of these things are mine—you gave them to me: but, while I will lend your body, I will not lend your soul.”

  “I promise you, Jenny,” I said. I put an arm round her neck. “To tell you the truth, it was the shock that did it—the shock of learning that the weights had been left behind. That was the most dreadful moment that I have ever known. It ‘murdered sleep,’ my darling. When I got back to Jade, I fell into a stupor, for many hours. Call it sleep, if you will; but it was not natural. For night after night after that, I rested and sometimes dozed; but until your arms were about me, I never slept. And now you have made me well.”

  My wife was counting—upon the loveliest fingers I ever saw.

  “Tonight at sea, tomorrow at Fowey, but we shall sleep aboard, and the day after that, at home.” She sat back on her heels. “I’ve simply loved this, William. The voyage out was very quiet, but I was never dull. The Captain was very polite, and I used to go up on the bridge, and sometimes he would allow me to take a turn at the wheel. But all the time I knew I was coming to you. And then we got to Trieste—and then . . . you came . . . Then I got to know Colette—she is the sweetest thing, William; if I had to choose her a surname, I’d call her ‘Loyal.’ And now we’ve come back together, you and Jonathan and I. It’s been as perfect as any dream could be. It’s been like the old days, my darling, when I was a little girl. But Maintenance is our home. With Bell and Sarah and all the others about us . . . the meadows below the terrace and the rookery in the elms . . . the fire in the library and the scent of pot-pourri on the stairs . . . the precious smell of the stables, and Romford and Ringlet, lying down in their boxes—and not getting up when they see that it’s you and me..

  I lifted her off the floor and into my arms.

  “There’s no one like you, Jenny—I’ve told you that before. There never was anyone like you. You’d charm a—I really believe you could turn that swine of a parrot into an honest bird.”

  Jenny kissed me.

  Then she laid her cheek against mine.

  “He’s very much better,” she said. “You see, I’ve been teaching him English; that’s the way to make him forget his French. And he’s getting on. This morning, all on his own, he said, ‘I love Colette.’ ”

  “You wicked girl,” I said.

  Jenny gurgled with laughter and brushed my cheek with her lips.

  The next morning, while she was bathing, I visited the bird. (He dwelt, under constant supervision, in a stateroom two doors from ours. By day the door was locked; by night, either Bell or Carson slept by his side.)

  “Well,” I said, “you viper, and what do you know?”

  The parrot looked at me.

  Then—

  “Adam and Eve,” he said. And then, “We both like lions.” It was about three weeks later that Mansel showed me a letter which must be set out.

  SECRET

  My dear Mr. Ferrers,

  The trustees feel—and they hope very much that you will agree with them—that the acquisition by the museum of this incomparable collection should not be announced, nor should the gems be displayed for two or three years.

  When once it is made, such an announcement will cause a worldwide sensation, and though the trustees may refuse to disclose your name, the press of more than one nation will be sure to use every endeavor to come by the truth. This, just now, would not be so hard to pick up; and if it were published, apart from anything else, Austria would, under pressure, request the return of the gems. But after two or three years, the scent should be cold.

  I feel that I must repeat that the trustees hope very much that you will understand and agree with their point of view.

  Until they are to be displayed, the gems will lie in a strongroom which is being specially built. They will, of course, be open to your inspection at any time.

  Believe me,

  Yours most truly,

  The wisdom of this proposal, nobody could have denied; and I think we were all relieved that our somewhat pregnant secret wa
s to be still preserved. But in his reply, Ferrers made it quite clear that Mansel and I must be admitted, too, to visit and examine the treasure whenever we pleased; “for,” he said, “but for the courage, endurance, and resource of these two gentlemen, the gems would not be lying in your museum today.”

  Which was uncommonly handsome, as Mansel and I agreed.

  Colette married Palin before September was out, and in November he brought his bride to Wiltshire, as Jenny had begged he would do. That was a great reunion, and Mansel came down from London, to make it greater still.

  Colette being gone, Jasper disbanded the troupe and became the host of an inn in the South of France. And a splendid host he made, as I can testify.

  The reformation of Custom—for so we named the parrot—was soon complete; I never saw a parrot so quick to learn, but I think this was due to Jenny who talked to him as to an equal, a privilege which the bird most plainly prized.

  John Ferrers declined the peerage he might have had; “for, for one thing,” he said, “others deserve that honor far more than I, and for another, if I am to be a lord, then my cousin must be one, too, for the gems belonged to us jointly, and what I have done, I have done in both our names.”

  After much tribulation, Olivia and he and Palin contrived to bring to England rather more than half of the contents of Hohenems, including, to our surprise, most of the beautiful silver which Palin had shown to Friar. (By Mansel’s advice, the hall-marks were filled with wax and the silver was suffered to tarnish, till all its beauty was gone; then it was packed with a number of kitchen vessels and battered electroplate; so nearly all escaped. But some very fine candelabra, which could not be so disguised, were stopped by the customs and sent to a Salzburg bank.) Two of the rarest pieces, the Ferrers’ insisted on giving to Mansel and me. We were very loth to accept them, because we felt they had given enough away, but they declared that, if we would not have them, then they should follow the gems; so an exquisite salver by Lamerie lies in our hall. And, to my great content, they sent Colette a pearl necklace to wear on her wedding day.

  Now safes are not built in a day—or even a month, and Christmas was drawing near when I had a note from John Ferrers, to say that the gems were in place. So it came about that, one brave December morning, almost six months to a day since Mansel and I had left for Austria, Jenny and I were taken down to the vaults. And there, in a brand-new strongroom, all to themselves, cleverly lighted by hidden electric lamps, the gems which had cost us so dear were lying on fawn-colored velvet, beneath a sheet of plate glass.

  Though we knew little of gems, both of us gasped. To say that they filled the eye conveys nothing at all. The brain itself was staggered by such a majestic sight. Had there been half a dozen, we must have been deeply impressed, for no one, however benighted, could ever have failed to remark the size and splendor of the stones and the almost incredible cunning with which they had been carved. And here were not six, but one hundred and twenty-seven flawless stones . . . the vast majority bigger than any that I had seen . . . and every one carved by a master, a sculptor in miniature . . . And when I say “master,” I mean it. The men that carved those jewels knew more than their mystery. Humanity herself looked out of those precious stones. Humanity grave and learned, Humanity wanton and gross, Humanity bold and brutal, Humanity gentle and sweet. Laughter and tears and horror, pride and wisdom and hate, courage and love and remorse—half the emotions we know were there portrayed. I beg that you will not ask me how it was done, for no man, I think, could answer a question like that. How did the men of the East produce their ivory balls “laborious orient ivory, sphere in sphere”? But there the wonder was lying, before our eyes.

  The deputy curator was speaking.

  “I have, I may say, a life-long acquaintance with gems, but never had I imagined such glorious workmanship. The carving of precious stones is extremely rare. In all my life I have only seen four examples. And they in no way compared with the least of these. My theory is that Pope Alexander the Sixth just swept the board. By hook or by crook he garnered what sculptured gems there were. And here is his collection, as gorgeous today as it was when he amassed it.” He shook his head. “I am glad I have lived to see it, and that’s the truth.

  “It was in a bad way when it came. The gems had been drenched with water, the cotton wool about them was full of sand. Whoever handled them can have had no idea of what they were worth.”

  “They—they weren’t damaged?” said Jenny.

  “Mercifully, no. The elements cannot damage such things as these. Violence alone can do that. Cleaned and polished, they might have come straight from the bench.”

  “Did you do that?” said Jenny.

  Our friend inclined his head.

  “I shared the honor, madam.”

  “They do you the greatest credit. May we look round?”

  “Of course. Mr. Chandos is one of the three who have that privilege.”

  Side by side, very slowly, we passed about the case, feasting our eyes upon perfection—upon stones of incredible splendor, wrought by the kiss of the chisel into yet more incredible works of art.

  Beneath each gem was a label.

  Medusa, looking out of a ruby—and out of an emerald, too; Cupid and Psyche, smiling upon each other—from two enormous sapphires, set side by side; Hera and Dionysus—the latter’s eyebrows were raised and he looked excessively bored; pious Aeneas and Ovid, with a wicked look on his face; Ariadne and gross Silenus, a little more than “just nicely”—the work of some superman; Nero in emerald, cheek by jowl with a ruby from which Euripides was lifting a plaintive face; Paris and Menelaus, with, peering between them “the face that launched a thousand ships”; Pallas Athene, disdainful, and Aphrodite, demure—this was especially lovely, and I can see it now; Alexander the Great and Aristophanes; Cleopatra and Horace—the latter smiling upon some reminiscence; Hephaestus, his eyes looking sideways, and Homer, blind; Odysseus, with drooping eyelids; Andromache, in sapphire, stony with grief; a Yawning Boy and Cicero, very precise; the Minotaur and Vespasian; Pontius Pilate and Sappho and Numa Pompilius; Pan, consumed with laughter, in emerald green, and Proserpine in sapphire, wearing a listless air; Jeremiah and Circe, her pupils up to her eyelids—a brilliant interpretation of Homer’s sorceress; Cyclops, in ruby, staring, and Cyclops in sapphire, blind; Juvenal—and Judas, in ruby, the picture of haggard guilt; and, greatest wonder of all, a most magnificent diamond, cut into the head of Hermes, wearing his winged hat.

  I whispered in Jenny’s ear.

  “You see that one called Bacchante, third row and two from the left?”

  “Yes, I’ve got it, William.”

  “That’s the only one that I’ve ever seen before. We were packing them into the Rolls, and Jonathan unwrapped it and put it into my hand.”

  The curator was watching us closely.

  “One of these interests you?”

  “All of them interest me. I was drawing my wife’s attention to the Bacchante. The one cut out of a ruby. I—think it’s wonderful.”

  “Forgive me if I’m mistaken. I thought I heard you say that you’d seen it before.”

  “As a matter of fact, I have.”

  The curator stared.

  “Where did you see it, Mr. Chandos?”

  “In the greenwood,” I said. “A man put it into my hand.” The curator smiled.

  “A vision, perhaps.”

  “Let’s say—an incarnation.”

  The curator raised his eyebrows.

  “You may be right, Mr. Chandos. If you are, it was some time ago. These gems have been off the map for over four hundred years.”

  “Then I must be mistaken,” I said. I peered very close. “The lighting is very good, but daylight would be better still. Of course, I saw mine in the daylight. My Bacchante had a dimple, the most bewitching feature you ever saw.” The curator stared at me, and the color drained out of his face.

  “How—how did you know?” he breathed. “I’ve tried for hours
to place it so that the dimple showed.”

  “What a shame,” said Jenny. “Mr. Curator, my husband is pulling your leg. As you said just now, the gems were off the map. But he is one of the men who put them on it again.”

  We became personæ gratæ. The curator asked no questions and so was told no lies. But for more than an hour he made us free of the lore which he had mastered, and magnified for us both the lovely miracle.

  “No expert on earth,” he said, “could ever appraise this collection; as well appraise Westminster Abbey—‘Rock bottom,’ ‘sale room,’ ‘cost price’—such expressions lose their meaning within these walls. Who can appraise virtue? And virtue went out of their authors into these documents. Who can appraise history? And history, tradition, romance are shown forth by these matchless gems. That emerald Medusa belonged to Beatrice d’Este; those heads of Helen and Hector, to Lorenzo the Magnificent; that glorious diamond Hermes, to a Doge of Venice; that head of Pliny to one of the dukes of Milan; Odysseus was brought to Michelangelo, who took it straight to the Pope; Cæsare Borgia gave that Faun to his father in 1501; and so on. . . In my time I have seen many treasures—of jewels, of painting, of sculpture, of silver and gold; but never in all my dreams have I imagined a splendor such as this case presents.”

  He was right, of course. But for me the expression “cost price” will never lose its meaning, so far as those gems are concerned; for the cost price of their removal—and nothing else—was four men’s lives, and, very nearly, five.

  At the last, he opened the case, took out the glowing Bacchante and laid it in Jenny’s palm.

  “Now you can see the dimple your husband saw. Think of the fearless hand that held the chisel that dug it; think of the eyes that saw it before it was dug; and think of the heart behind them. Hand and eye and heart have been dust for centuries; but the dimple will always remember that brilliant partnership. Myself, I cannot conceive a fairer monument.”