Berry Scene

by Dornford Yates

  Yours very truly,

  Jasper Lake.

  The bouquets belonged to Berry. It was Berry that linked the letter-box with the blind man.

  5

  In Which I Make Daphne a Present,

  and Berry Favours the Bold

  Ten years had gone by.

  The war was over and gone: Cousin Jill was married, and so was I: and many another change had taken place. No longer sure of the future, people laid hold upon the present with all their might: an Epicurean outlook was gaining ground.

  My sister, Berry and I were still in Town: Jill was in Italy: Adèle was in Boston: Jonah was ‘somewhere abroad’.

  My sister closed her engagement-book and picked up her cigarette.

  “It’s been great fun,” she said, “but I shall be very glad to sleep at White Ladies again.”

  “So,” said her husband, “shall I. Pomps and vanities are exacting things. To bed at three, and I’ve got to see Forsyth this morning – the Raby Trust. Moses’ bush isn’t in it.”

  “Moses’ bush?” said Daphne. “What ever d’you mean?”

  “Now don’t thwart me,” said her husband. “I’m not too good. Moses’ bush burned, but was not consumed. That’s why it isn’t in it. I’m burned up at both ends.”

  “How d’you feel really?”

  Berry regarded his wristwatch.

  “Ask me about five o’clock,” he said. “I may or may not know then. Weather forecast, laousy – with an a. Is there any coffee left?”

  As she refilled his cup—

  “The Raby Trust,” said Daphne. “How long will that go on?”

  “It’ll see me out,” said Berry. “The child’s at school.”

  My sister expired.

  “You must not consent,” she said, “to act any more.”

  “I won’t, my darling, I won’t. I’ve given my word to Forsyth. Why people pick upon me, I cannot conceive.”

  Others could. An exceptionally scrupulous Trustee, who charges nothing at all, is worth having.

  “Lunch?” said Daphne.

  Berry shook his head.

  “I must lunch at the Club. I promised to see Jo Carey. See you at Christie’s later.”

  “Perhaps,” said Daphne.

  My sister did not remind him that we had been sworn to attend a private view. In fact, her one idea was that Berry should not be there. We all disliked ‘modernist painting’; but Berry’s comments upon it were most embarrassing.

  To fortify our souls for the visit, we lunched at the Berkeley Grill.

  As we entered the gallery—

  “We needn’t stay long,” said Daphne. “Just once round. Oh, my God, there he is – with Lady Morayne. He would choose her.” Lady Morayne was at once outspoken and deaf. “Quick, Boy. Before he sees us.”

  But Berry’s eye was not dim.

  “Ah, there’s my wife and her brother. Lady Morayne and I were waiting for you. We want to share this repast – this luscious collation, conceived and served by the master squirts of Montmartre – telegraphic address, Slop-pail.”

  Lady Morayne let out a high-pitched laugh. Then she took Daphne’s arm.

  “My dear,” she said, “no one will look at the pictures as long as you’re here. And what possessed you to visit this outcrop of minds diseased? Kindness of heart, for a monkey.”

  “And you, Lady Morayne?”

  “I’ve come because I like getting angry. Before I’m through, I shall probably foam at the mouth. Never mind – we’ll go round together. What’s the name of this insult, Berry?”

  “Number Seven,” said Berry, opening his catalogue. “Here we are. Seven – Beyond the Mules.”

  “Beyond the what?”

  “Mules,” said Berry. “You know. Large, obstructive mammals. We used to have them in the war.”

  “Don’t be a fool,” said the lady. “What’s the title mean?”

  The inquiry was justified. The canvas was covered with dirty yellow paint, upon which a few unrecognizable objects were casting impossible shadows of great intensity. Between two square cocoanuts was lying a boomerang: what might have been the neck of a vulture was indicated by a pointing finger, such as one sometimes sees upon notice-boards: in the bottom left-hand corner was a crude representation of something which it would be charity to describe as garbage.

  Berry fingered his chin.

  “Beyond the Mules,” he murmured. “Well, I suppose we’ve outpaced them. We’re, so to speak, ahead. The mules will arrive later. That’s right. This is what the mules are going to find when they get here.”

  “Well, I hope they like it better than I do,” shrilled Lady Morayne. “So much rotten balderdash – that’s what it is.”

  “You must admit,” said Berry, “that the housework – I mean, the brush-work is very fine.”

  “Brush-work!” spat Lady Morayne. “The impudent felon that did it can’t even paint. And what’s that mess in the corner?”

  “That,” said Berry, “I associate with the mules.”

  “But you said they hadn’t got here.”

  “Nor they have,” said Berry. “They are going to have a surprise, aren’t they? I mean, talk about a home from home…”

  In desperation, Daphne urged Lady Morayne towards a dark green canvas, covered with yellow blobs.

  “And what,” said that lady, “is the name of this masterpiece?”

  “Number Ten,” said Berry. “Sugar.”

  “Did you say Sugar?”

  “I did. That’s what it says here.”

  “You know,” shouted Lady Morayne, “this is one long series of obscene libels. We all know what sugar looks like. What resemblance does anything there bear to that useful commodity?”

  “The green,” said Berry, “is a lawn – a b-beautiful sward.

  Upon this were playing some children, all of whom were sucking b-barley-sugar. Suddenly the school b-bell rings. Each child at once, er, parks its sugar against its return. They were still in school, when the artist—”

  “Fudge,” said Lady Morayne. “The thing’s a filthy outrage, and you know it as well as I. What’s that over there?”

  We advanced upon a large canvas, entitled Slender Thought.

  Upon a fantastic sunset were superimposed three bottles, tied together with tape. Beneath this, a kiosk was being approached by a naked, human leg. The remains of a kaleidoscope, a backdoor, a pair of trousers and an enormous eyebrow completed the work of art.

  “Slender Thought,” said Lady Morayne grimly. “And some damned fool is going to purchase that beastly drivel and hang it up on his wall. It’s only fit to floor a fowl-house with.”

  “That would be dangerous,” said Berry. “The chickens would be born with hare-beaks. Now if it was called Roofing Felt, we should know where we were.”

  “But that would be honest. You don’t expect honesty here. The whole thing is based upon fraud. Half a salmon on a pavement is honest – and usually very well done. But this is a ramp. This filth is produced by failures and foisted on fools. I’d rather have half a salmon on a flag-stone and hang it up m my hail than the whole of this gallery. There’s Adela Churt. Adela, isn’t this bestial?”

  The Dowager Countess of Churt was understood to concur.

  “It’s the war, my dear. Before the war it wouldn’t have been allowed. Well, Daphne, and why are you here? None of this will go with White Ladies.”

  “We’re not purchasers, Lady Churt. We’ve come to keep abreast of the times.”

  “There’s a winner here,” said Berry. “Oh, how d’you do, Lady Chart. Come and look at Dry Rot. I can’t think how they think of the names.”

  A moment later we were confronting a canvas, some four feet square. Yellow paint had been daubed upon this in elliptical whirls. The only objects were a tent-peg, entire, and the head and shoulders of a hot-water bottle.

  “You see,” said my brother-in-law, “it’s all disappeared. The artist has painted the absence of what was there. Most artists paint the
presence. You see what I mean. If this fellow painted your portrait, he’d wait till you’d gone. Then he’d paint the void which your presence fills. Once you’ve got it, it’s very simple.”

  “But where’s the dry rot?”

  “Gone,” said Berry. “I’m sorry. If we’d been here two years ago… But now we’re too late. The woodwork has disappeared. All that remains is a tent-peg, too hard for the worms to digest.”

  “And why the hot-water bottle?”

  “That’s very subtle,” said Berry. “One of the best worms, whose name was Sobstuff, was a martyr to sciatica. Reluctant to lose his services, the other worms—”

  “When I,” said Lady Morayne, “was of tender years, I used to play ‘Shops’. I used to take my doll’s tea service and fill the platters with berries and pebbles and pips. I remember it perfectly. And my mother used to come by and ask the price of the goods. That was a game – for a child of tender years. But this is no game. Adults are offering adults rubbish tricked out as art. Frames such as these have been set about old masters. Famous works have been hung in this gallery. And now these antics, which would offend a maniac – these contemptible scrawls which no pavement-artist would dare to perpetrate are displayed with honour and actually offered for sale. And not in vain. Because they are here, people are going to buy them. If they were offered horse-dung, they would refuse. But I’d rather have a shovel of horse-dung than ten of these.”

  “Lady Morayne,” said a voice, “is among the prophets.”

  Lady Morayne looked round and inclined her head.

  “I should have been less downright, had I known that Your Excellency was there.”

  “But I agree with you, Madame. But who are we, when the powers that be have determined that this is to be the vogue? Believe me, it is easier for a camel to enter the eye of a needle than for a rich fool to withstand the vogue. All these, er, productions will be sold. Prices that Velasquez never dreamed of will be paid for these meaningless daubs. Museums will compete for the honour of hanging them on their walls.”

  “Oh, I can’t bear it,” said Berry. “After all, sir—”

  The Ambassador set a hand upon his shoulder.

  “Before,” he said, “you are as old as I am now, you will see this putrid trash hanging under the same roof as Rembrandt, Watteau, Reynolds and the rest.”

  Under cover of the discussion, Daphne and I made a belated escape.

  Christie’s was not over-crowded. Though the furniture was fine, there was nothing sensational. Good prices were being paid.

  “Lot two hundred and three. The picture-clock.”

  The bidding began at five pounds, and I bought it for twenty-one.

  I gave my name and address to the auctioneer’s clerk.

  “ If I may, I’ll take it with me.”

  “Certainly, sir.”

  He nodded to one of the men, and the latter picked up my purchase and made his way to the stairs.

  As I rejoined my sister—

  “To be cleaned,” I said. “I don’t believe it’s been touched for fifty years. If we drive to Rodsham’s they can take the clock out, and—”

  “Tomorrow,” said Daphne. “Let’s take it home and have a look at it first.”

  “As you please, my darling.”

  Ten minutes later, we were regarding our spoil.

  The canvas was very dirty, but the painting had been well done. It was an English scene – the skirt of a little hamlet, whose decent inn was commanding a pleasant green: cows stood knee-deep in a horse-pond, with rising woods beyond: comfortable clouds rode in a pale-blue heaven, and, peering between the trees was the tower of the village church. And in the tower was a dial – a little silver dial the size of a two-shilling piece.

  Behind the canvas was the clock-case; and, when you lifted the frame, the face of the clock left the picture to stay with the works, for a hole had been cut in the painting, to fit the dial.

  The picture was not dated; nor was it signed. The clock was dated 1754. This had three gongs – two for the chimes, and one for the stroke of the hour. There was no key to wind it, but, when I let fall the hammers, the notes were sweet.

  “What fun,” said Daphne. “You know, I love conceits – the conceits of yesterday. They are so elegant. Of course, they got awful later. Remember that clock that played hymns – at six and nine?”

  “I do, indeed. Ormolu. A fearful thing. But it sold for ninety pounds.”

  “I know. The vogue, again. I’d rather have ninety pence. Never mind. I love my present.” She took my face in her hands. “You’re very good to your sister. Not all men are.”

  “Tout passe,” I quoted: “l’amitié reste.”

  Daphne kissed my nose.

  “I’d rather you’d said that, Boy, than anything else.”

  When Berry returned, we exhibited our acquisition.

  After a thorough inspection—

  “Lovely,” he said. “Dear old Bughaven. They’ll fairly swarm in that casing. We’d better hang it in the garage.”

  “Don’t be absurd,” said Daphne. “If there aren’t any now—”

  “How d’you know there aren’t any now? They only come out by night. There they are in those cracks, listening to all we’re saying—”

  “Rot,” said Daphne. “According to that, every old cupboard or picture—”

  “No, no. It’s the chimes,” said Berry. “Bugs are mad about music. Look at the barrel-organ. Always crammed with bugs. Hence its name.”

  “I don’t believe a word of it,” said Daphne. “And why – hence its name?”

  “Barrel-organ’s a corruption,” said Berry. “It was originally the bushel-organ. And bushel is itself a corruption of bug-shell. My sweet, it’s well known. All the great composers had to be regularly deloused. Why, when I was Beethoven’s fiancée—”

  “Later, darling,” said Daphne. “The Willoughbys specially asked us not to be late.”

  “What, Madge’s birthday? Tonight? Oh, I can’t bear it,” said Berry. “I felt like death today until after lunch.”

  “Only three more days,” said I.

  “Thank God for that,” said Berry. “What do we do it for?”

  “I couldn’t tell you,” I said. “I suppose because it’s the vogue.”

  “Hush,” said Berry. He stooped, to set an ear to the picture-clock. “‘Down in the crevice something jeered.’”

  After four hours’ sleep the next morning, I found a letter from Christie’s lying beside my plate.

  July, 1924.

  Sir,

  When yesterday’s sale was over, we were approached by a Mr Coker Falk, at present of 210 Mortimer Street, regarding the picture-clock, for which we enclose our account. This gentleman had intended to bid for this lot, but only reached our rooms after it had been sold. He desired us to give him your name and address. This, according to our practice, we declined to do; but he was so insistent that we ventured to undertake to give you his name and address, so that you could communicate with him, should you feel so disposed.

  We are, Sir,

  Your obedient servants…

  I did not feel so disposed – and enclosed a note with my cheque to that effect. Daphne liked her present, and no consideration should make me take it away. Indeed, despite Berry’s misgivings, she had already decided where it should hang – outside her room at White Ladies, so that its chimes could be shared with the rest of the floor.

  Later, I drove to Rodsham’s and had the clock taken out. There they said at once that the timepiece was French. “And a very nice piece of work, sir. When once it’s cleaned, you’ll find it’ll go very well.” I arranged to let them know when the picture was hung: then they would send down a man to put back the clock.

  Then I drove to the picture-liner’s, and left the canvas there. This was to be sent to White Ladies in ten days’ time.

  From there I walked to the Club, to be joined by Berry about a quarter-past twelve.

  “Give me a drink,” he said
. “A triple brandy, or something. I’ve just left a friend of yours.”

  “Has he proved so exhausting?” said I.

  “Exhausting?” said Berry. “He’s corrosive. He eats you away.” Here a waiter appeared. “Two dry martinis, Latham, and make them strong.”

  “A friend of mine?” said I.

  “That’s right,” said Berry. “A Mr Coker Falk. He’s after Bughaven.”

  “Good God,” said I. “But how—”

  “I’ve no idea,” said Berry. “And I can’t face any questions. I’m not myself. I can make a dying deposition, and that is all. I tell you, the man’s vitriolic. Twenty minutes with him, and your brain is scarred.”

  “Twenty minutes?”

  “It may have been more,” said Berry. “And I wasn’t fit to go out, except in an ambulance.”

  Here the cocktails arrived.

  As I laid the money down—

  “Have one of these,” I said.

  “I’m going to have both,” said Berry. “When I think—”

  “All right. And another one, Latham. And now let’s have it, brother. I want to know.”

  Berry emptied one glass and lighted a cigarette.

  “About half-past eleven,” he said, “I left the house. I can’t remember where I was going – that’s Coker’s fault. Oh, I know. I was going to have my hair cut. Damn it, I had an appointment. That’s what Coker does – he stuns your brain. Well, I left the house and walked straight into his arms. Of course he thought I was you, and was off like a rogue. He began with a poor imitation of Deborah’s song. He, Coker Falk, had circumvented Christie’s, who, poor fish, had refused to give him your address. That, be said, was always the way. America was the locomotive, and England was the trucks: and when the trucks withstood the locomotive, they found themselves pushed around. Look at the war. England and France had tried to beat Germany for four years, and the United States had beaten her in four months. That was because America got down to things. He then told me what he would do to Christie’s, if he was the Managing Director. He spoke of Bargain Basements and Ladies’ Rooms. Finally he seized the lapel of this excellent coat and said he was going to have the picture-clock. He said he’d never wanted anything so much in all his life, and when Coker Falk felt that way, the angels watched their step. There he paused for breath: so I said, that while I fully appreciated his outlook, unless both his god-parents were of German extraction, the acquisition of British nationality was a matter of some difficulty. I added that trout-streams were, however, available at a price and that if he made a noise like a lipstick outside the back door of Lambeth Palace, His Grace would serve him after closing time and before the mast. Before he had recovered from this counter-attack, I urged him to release my coat, as it had been left me by a hot-drop forger who had died of bubonic plague. I followed this request with an invitation – which he immediately accepted – to lunch with me today at the old Bailey at one o’clock. He certainly let go my lapel, but when I sought to be gone, he fell into step beside me and started again. He said I could have Lambeth Palace and the trout-streams. All he wanted of me was the picture-clock. He said it was ‘just poitry’ – the cutest operational gadget he’d ever seen. He was going to take it to Chunkit – that’s his home town – and hang it right up in his parlour and then ask the folks to step in. He said the noise they’d make would be heard in Dayton and that, when it said its piece, they’d just pass out. I said that was fine. Then I pointed out that I hadn’t been near Christie’s for a fortnight and had never purchased or possessed such a thing as a picture-clock. This statement appeared to afford him infinite mirth, for he made a noise like a hooter, slammed me upon the back, pitched a penny into the gutter and then spat upon it with remarkable accuracy. That, he said, was for my bluff. When he did that at Chunkit, folks put the storm-shutters up. And then he was really off. He’d got to have that clock. He’d write me a cheque on the Farmer’s Glory Bank that’d make what I’d paid Christie’s look like a tag in a five-cent bargain-sale. Reminiscence, prophecy and metaphor foamed from his lips. He wouldn’t let me speak and he wouldn’t let me go, and, when I stopped a taxi, he followed me in. I don’t wonder he gets what he wants. If the clock had been mine, he’d have had it – and that’s the truth. You’ve got to stop him somehow, or you’ll go raving mad.