Berry Scene

by Dornford Yates

  “Everything,” yelled Withyham. “Face-ache, ear-ache, head-ache and general agony. Why the devil can’t you stop that tune? There must be some way out, but how the hell can I find it with that filthy, hag-ridden racket splitting my brain?”

  “This ain’t nothin’,” said Hoby, “to wot she ort to do. Besides, you soon get used to it. Why—”

  “Used to it?” screamed Withyham. “Used to Hell?” He pulled himself together. “Look here.” He slapped his pocket. “Here’s twenty pounds in gold. If you can’t see your way to earning twenty pounds by taking a weekend off…”

  “Orright, orright,” said Hoby. “Gimme a chance. I’ll ’ave a word with Joey. You wait ’ere.”

  “Oh, – Joey,” said Withyham, as I began to withdraw.

  “Now then, naughty,” said Hoby. “An’ you ain’t got no call to talk about Joey like that. ’E’s a better man than you are. ‘Sides, ’e’s my partner, ’e is. ’E’s got to agree.”

  With that, he turned on his heel and walked back to the round-about.

  “Yes?” said Berry. “Is the sheep in the shambles?”

  “’E’s all washed up,” said Hoby. “An’ twenty quid in his pocket, a-burnin’ a ’ole in his leg. But I said it was up to you. I’m up ’ere now, a-tryin’ to bring you round. From the way ’e spoke of you, ’e don’t fency that.”

  Berry smiled a grim smile.

  “I’ll give him something to fancy, before I’m through.”

  “It’s up to you,” said Hoby. “’Ow long shall we keep ’im waitin’?”

  “Half an hour,” said Berry.

  “’Alf an hour?” cried Hoby. “Why, ’e won’t be ’ardly ’uman in ’alf an hour.”

  “So much the better,” said Berry. “I’ll learn the brute. And now let’s have some supper.’

  With a veal-and-ham pie and some beer, we did very well. Then Jonah raised the speed of the round-about, and, since the organ conformed, at least a cubit was added to the stature of Daisy Bell. A rogue elephant, possessed by devils, might have made some such noise, say, once or twice in the hour. But this never stopped. I shall never know how we stood it, and that is the truth.

  But Hoby was enchanted.

  “Wunnerful, ain’t she?” he said. “An’ this after seven years.”

  “And now for the strong stuff,” said Berry. “Off you go.”

  Once again Hoby advanced, and I followed him down to the fence.

  Withyham was squatting on the ground, with his fingers stopping his ears.

  As he approached the fence—

  “Joey won’t ’ave it,” cried Hoby. “I done my best, but you got acrost ’im some’ow, an’ ’e says ’e won’t come in. Goo’ night, mister. She’s runnin’ better now.”

  As we turned to go back, Withyham flung himself at the fence…

  “Stop,” he screamed. “Wait a moment.” We hung on our heel, and he stumbled up to our side. “What the hell d’you mean – ‘won’t have it’?”

  “Well, there’s nothin’ doin’,” said Hoby. “I’m on – I’ll give you that. Twenty quid’s twenty quid. But Joey’s my partner, and ’e won’t give ’is consen’. ’E don’ fency your money, mister. They’ve tole ’im some tale or other up at the inn.”

  “But, if you’re willing—”

  “Nothin’ doin’,” said Hoby, lifting a hand. “’E’s always bin square wiv me, an’—”

  “Where is he?” cried Withyham. “I’ll knock this blasted nonsense out of his head.”

  His boast was vain. Berry was very quiet, but very firm. He played the part to perfection – the part of the broken-down clown, that cracks his jokes for the fair, but is, in private, a simple, sad-faced being, whose zest for life is gone. And something more. A man of memories, to whom his childhood is precious, because he was happy then.

  “Many a time I’ve bin down Romany Lane, a-pickin’ the blackberries there with my sister, Mary Kate. An’ once Squire Ferrems comes by – on a great bay ’orse. An’ a belted groom be’ind ’im, like wot ’e always ’ad. An’ Mary Kate, she curtseys, and Squire, ’e offs with ’is ’at. ’E was gentleman, he was. An’ then ’e gives ’em a bob for ’em pretty face. Ah, them were the days… An’ now ’e’s gone, you’d go fer to shut it up.”

  Withyham could not shake him – but Withyham would not give way. He swore that the thing was nonsense, that he had not the slightest intention of closing Romany Lane, that he valued the rights of the people as much as any man. But he would not admit that there was a right of way – and we were afraid to press him, lest he should perceive the truth. Besides, we must have it in writing…

  For more than forty minutes, the play went on – Withyham shouting and raving, Hoby urging his partner to throw in his hand and Berry quietly rejecting all offers made. And all the time the round-about roared on its way, and Daisy Bell went raving into the night.

  And then another figure thrust its way on to the stage.

  The Prussian officer was never a sight for sore eyes: but take off his uniform and put him, instead, into ill-cut evening dress, and he looked the vulgar bully he always was.

  No one had seen him approaching, and the first thing the four of us knew was that a guttural voice was taking Withyham to task.

  Then we looked up and round, to see a repulsive figure, some five feet eight by three, with a head indecently shaven and a neck that bulged over his collar, as a tire that is down bulges over the rim of its wheel.

  “Den thousan’ tevils, Baron, vot vas this mean? If you gannot make cease this hell, order a garriage that I shall drive into Brooch.”

  Withyham was all to pieces.

  “Major, I beg you—”

  “Be zilent. Because I vas His Highness’ Gomptroller, I gome to your house to be sure that all vas fit for the Brince and Brincess to stay. And here is this goddam organ to blast the brains from their heads. An’ you ’ave declare it was over an hour and a half ago.” He dragged a watch from his pocket and dabbed at the dial. “Vive minutes I give you to cease it. Then I shall be driven to Brooch, to send a telegram. I gannot bermit that their Highnesses suffer the bains of Hell.”

  His eyes fast upon the Prussian, Berry jerked his head at

  Withyham, black in the face.

  “’E won’t see reason,” he said. “But you’re a gentleman.”

  Withyham’s face was a study, but Major von Blodgenbruck beamed.

  “The beasant vos discerning,” he purred. “Stob your organ, my vriend, and ye vill dalk.”

  As Berry nodded to Hoby—

  “The man’s not normal,” cried Withyham. “I tell you. Major—”

  The other lifted a hand.

  “Be zilent, blease. As His Highness’ Gomptroller–” The music stopped. “Observe. Before I vas here dwo minutes, the organ has ceased.”

  “Yes, but you’re a gentleman,” said Berry. “You wouldn’ take advantage of blokes because they was poor.”

  “No, my vriend,” smiled the Major. “That vas not my gountry’s way. I do not know who are your blokes, but all the boor of my gountry were so happy because the rich were so good.”

  “Ah,” said Berry. He looked at Withyham, by now the prey of emotions too deep for words. “But ’e’s a bloodsucker. An’ I don’ want bloodsuckers’ money.”

  “A bloodsucker?” said the Major.

  “That’s right,” said Berry. “Grinds the faces of the poor. ’E’s offered me twenty quid, but I wouldn’ take fifty from ’im ’Coz why? ‘Coz ’e’s a bloodsucker. But you’re a gentleman.” Leering with pleasure, the Major patted his arm. As though he was touched by an attention he had never been shown before, the hideous ghost of smile stole into Berry’s face. “’Spect, if the troof were known, you’ve a bigger estate than this.”

  The other swelled.

  “That vas so, my vriend. The Von Blodgenbrucks’ estates in Schwerin are many times larger than this: an’ all the beasants are so happy, because their dear master and mistress love them so much.”
>
  “That’s the style,” said Berry. “Live an’ let live.”

  “That vas my great gountry’s moddo.”

  “Itch Deen,” said Berry, and touched his hat – and von Blodgenbruck beamed and bowed, as though he were of the blood royal.

  “I can talk to you,” said Berry, “’cause you’re a gentleman.”

  “That vas why I am gome, my goot vriend. You vill say vot you blease.”

  “Well, now look ’ere,” said Berry. “Supposin’ acrost your estates there was a certing lane.”

  This was too much for Withyham.

  As an unruly torrent, the words foamed out of his mouth.

  “I protest against this, Major. The man’s insane. For nearly an hour I’ve been trying—”

  “Zilence!” barked the Major.

  “As your host, I must request you to remember—”

  “I vas here as His Highness’ Gomptroller. As such you will blease to submit all arrangements to me. Their Highnesses did graciously consent tomorrow to come to your house. Until they shall go on Monday, I vas in charge. As such, I am to deal with this matter.” He returned to Berry. “Go on, my goot vriend.”

  For a moment I thought that Withyham was going to fall down in a fit. Then he lurched to the crazy staircase, sat himself down on a step and put his head in his hands.

  Berry reopened his case.

  “Supposin’ acrost your estates there was a certing lane.”

  “What sort of lane, my vriend?”

  “A country lane, for ’orses an’ carts an’ cows. An’ supposin’ for fifty years poor blokes – wot you call peasan’s – ’ad always used that lane… An’ supposin’ – jus’ supposin’ – one day you got tired o’ your estates an’ sold ’em to somebody else. Well, ’e wouldn’ ’ave no right to shut up that lane.”

  “No, indeed, my vriend. If the neighbours—”

  “That’s right – neighbours.”

  “If the neighbours vere using that lane for, say, dwenty years, they would ’ave gain a servitude – I vas not know how you call it…”

  “Right o’ way,” said Berry.

  “That vas true. Right of way. They would ’ave gain a right of way to use it for always. That vas the law.”

  Berry pointed excitedly at Withyham.

  “Well, that’s wot ’e done. He’s shut up Romany Lane. This ain’t ’is property, reely. Not by rights. It belonged to Mr Ferrers – Ferrers of Bluecoat, ’e was. An’ he was a gentleman, like you. An’ all the neighbours always used Romany Lane. An’ now ’e shuts up the lane, wot ’e ain’t got no right to do. ‘S a right o’ way, an’ ’e knows it. An’ if ’e’ll put that in writin’, I’ll take ’is twenty quid.”

  “Vot vas he to write, my vriend?”

  “The troof,” cried Berry. “That’s all. That ’e knows there’s a right o’ way down Romany Lane. I’ve pen an’ ink ’ere, I ’ave; an’ I bin a clurk in my time, an’ I’ll draw the paper out. An’ if ’e’ll sign it, I’ll take ’is twenty quid an’ we’ll shut up shop.”

  “You vos say that if he will do this – sign your little baber, you vill not blay your organ till Monday noon?”

  “That’s right,” said Berry. “Must ’ave it in writin’; because ’e’s not like you. You’re a gentleman, you are. But then you’re a-goin’ on Monday. We can stop our organ. But then, as soon as you’re gone, ’e’ll shut up the lane again. No, no. Gotter ’ave it in writin’.”

  “An’ that is all that you ask?”

  “An’ twenty quid – golding sovereigns. ’E’s promised that. Got ’em in his pocket, ’e says.”

  The Major patted Berry’s shoulder.

  “Write out your baber, my vriend, an’ bring it to me.”

  Berry looked at Withyham.

  “Name o’ Mocket, ain’t it? Basil Mocket, weren’t you, afore they shoved you up?”

  Ready to burst with indignation, Withyham made no reply, but averted his gaze.

  As Berry shambled into the shadows—

  “I’m damned if I’ll sign it,” said Withyham, and got to his feet.

  “There you are,” said Hoby, and turned and ran.

  But before he could reach the machinery, Jonah engaged the gears.

  The next few moments were crowded.

  Von Blodgenbruck was storming at Withyham, and Withyham was storming back. I caught the words ‘scrap of paper’ and ‘Court of Law’. Both were raving like madmen, while the round-about swirled beside them and Daisy Bell was trumpeted into the night.

  Before the words ‘insult to Royalty’, Withyham broke down.

  “All right, all right,” he wailed. “Give me the blasted paper and stop this god-awful row.”

  As Hoby reappeared, I pulled the signal cord.

  “The Baron vill zign,” said the German. “Vere vas my vriend?”

  Hoby went off for Berry, and host and guest stood waiting in a silence too big for words.

  Presently Withyham looked round: but I was in the shadows and not to be seen.

  “You will take charge of it,” said Withyham.

  “That vas mos’ proper,” said the other, closing one eye.

  After another two minutes, Berry returned with his paper, and Hoby came after, bearing the pen and ink.

  Von Blodgenbruck inspected the document, grunting at the end of a line.

  “That vas in order,” he said, and read it aloud.

  Hoby took it from him, laid it down on a step and dipped the pen in the ink…

  With bulging eyes, Withyham signed it, and Berry and Hoby subscribed their names as witnesses. Withyham made no attempt to read their signatures.

  That sheet from an exercise-book is lying before me now. The shaky copper-plate writing is easy enough to read.

  I, Basil Mocket, Baron Withyham, do hereby solemnly declare that to the best of my belief the British public has a right of way along Romany Lane, because, before ever I bought the Bluecoat estate, Romany Lane had never been closed for at least twenty-five years.

  Withyham.

  August, 1907.

  Witnessed by:

  Bertram Pleydell JP

  Walter Hoby, Showman.

  Hoby was looking at Withyham.

  “Twenty quid, wasn’t it?” he said.

  In a thick voice, Withyham replied.

  “I’ll pay you on Monday,” he said.

  “No, you don’t,” said Hoby. “’Oby’s Steam Round-Abouts always keeps its word.”

  Withyham hesitated.

  “On the strict understanding,” he said, “that you don’t play that organ again before Tuesday next—”

  “Strike me dead,” said Hoby.

  Withyham counted the gold into his palm.

  Von Blodgenbruck put out his hand.

  “And I shall charge myself with that baber. Give it to me, my vriend.”

  “Not on yer life,” said Berry. He folded up the sheet and stowed it away. “I never did fency Germans. An’ I seen your shape before – in a German band. Play the cornet – he used to. An’ steal the pennies out of a blin’ man’s pail. They got ’im at las’, red-’anded, an’ down ’e goes for six months. You been in prison, ain’t yer?”

  “Me in prison?” screamed the Major, and Withyham let out a hoot.

  “Look at yer ’ead,” jeered Berry. “Yer can’t fool me. ‘The Caounty Crop’, we call it… Estates in Swerring, I don’t think. You go back to your band – an’ try to run straight, like what the Magistrate said.”

  With that, he turned to the staircase, mounted the crazy steps, dived beneath a dragon and disappeared.

  “There you are,” shrieked Withyham. “That’s what yot get for interfering. That’s what I get for—”

  But his guest had no ears to hear.

  His eyes and arms upraised, in a loud and shaking voice, he dealt with all English peasants, root and branch. (He had abandoned English as now inadequate: but Jonah told us later all that he said.) He spoke of treachery and insult, of dogs and the wages of sin
, and he vowed the most shocking vengeance when once Der Tag should dawn. Then he turned upon Withyham and rent him, and Withyham yelled “Speak English” and rent him back. Then he stamped off, shouting for a carriage, and, after a moment’s hesitation, Withyham fell in behind.

  I followed, to see them out, and so was made free of a tailpiece, which I should have been sorry to miss.

  Because of his agitation, the German failed to remember that the fence had been tarred and had begun to climb it before its horrid condition reminded him of that fact. With screams of rage, he descended, to seek the spot at which he had climbed it before; for there he had hung a carpet, to save his hands and his clothes. As Withyham’s lantern showed, the carpet which he had chosen was a very fine Persian rug, and, since he had laid this face downward upon the tar, it was fair to assume that much of its value was gone.

  This typically German procedure was more than Withyham could bear.

  With a choking scream, he caught the man by the arm.

  “Face downward,” he yelled. “And that’s a museum piece.”

  “An’ vot of my trousers?” roared the German. “Vot of my beautiful suit? I ’ave pay three pounds for this suit at the biggest store in Berlin.”

  He shook off Withyham’s hand and turned to heave himself up.

  His reply was, no doubt, the straw that broke the camel’s back.

  Offered a perfect target, careless of what might befall, Withyham thrust the top of his lantern against the German’s seat…

  To this day Daphne swears that she heard the yells from the farm: and the others came running, to see what the matter might be. I cannot pretend that it rivalled Daisy Bell, but I never would have believed that any one human being could make so fearful a noise.

  Be that as it may, the Major rose into the air, and then fell heavily almost at Withyham’s feet. And his host whipped over the fence and, taking the carpet with him, stumbled towards the house.

  When we left him, the German, still roaring, was trying to crawl through the fence: but his bulk and the tar were against him, and I think that he would have done better to scale it at once.

  Half an hour had gone by, and we were seated at supper at Ightham’s farm.