Berry Scene

by Dornford Yates

  “What, not at the ears?” said Berry.

  “No, no, at the mouth. D’you remember when I foamed, Algy? Because the words wouldn’t come? Hubert was playing his concerto… I had to go out, you know. I wanted to speak of mountains, riven by storm.”

  “The gorge was rising,” said Berry.

  “That’s right,” cried Boris. “That’s right. Emotion had taken charge. They had a terrible time with me. Oscar told me later I cried all night.”

  “That’s bowels,” said Berry. “You know. What you yearn with, The seat of all the emotions. When somebody kicks you, the bowels inform the brain. The brain instructs the tear ducts – and there you are. And now what about this offer. How do the bowels react?”

  Boris regarded Berry with starting eyes.

  At length—

  “I – I don’t quite know,” he stammered, wiping his brow. “At least – I mean, Algy feels very strongly that I oughtn’t to give them away.”

  “Of course you mustn’t,” said Berry. “It’d mean a major operation for one thing. And who would you give them to?”

  “I mean the pictures,” screamed Boris. “I mustn’t give the pictures away.”

  “There’s no reason on earth why you should. And I hope very much that you won’t – unless you give them to us.”

  “But that’s what you’re asking me to do.”

  “I beg your pardon,” said Berry.

  Boris squirmed.

  “You – you make it so difficult, dear. I’ve told you how it revolts me to talk about dross. I always feel so degraded. And I simply couldn’t haggle. But, you see, I must do myself justice. Of course, it doesn’t make sense, but Algy says that these daubs are worth at least fifty thousand…”

  Basing gave a short laugh.

  “I cannot answer,” he said, “for Mr Watchet’s experience in this particular field: but when I detest a certain class of work, I study neither the artists nor the prices their work will fetch. He finds these pictures detestable: I do not. And so I feel it likely that my opinion is worth rather more than his. And I tell you this, Mr Blurt – the figure of fifty thousand is quite absurd. I’m not going into details, because you have had a copy of my report. But this I will say – that only one of the portraits is an uncertain quantity. And that is the Holbein. The other eleven would make ten thousand pounds. I’m speaking roughly, of course: but thereabouts. The Holbein might make ten or it might make fifteen. It is possible that it would make twenty. But it won’t make a penny more.”

  “But that would be thirty thousand.”

  “If it were to make twenty – yes. But it might make only ten. I think, if you sold it at Christie’s that it would make fifteen.”

  “More like thirty-five,” blared Watchet. “Plenty of mugs about. An’ I don’ agree that the others are only worth ten. There’s a Gon-Gonzales Coques there.”

  “So the pamphlet says,” said Basing. “The pamphlet’s wrong. The portrait in question is not by Gonzales Coques, and it’s not very good. It’s worth about forty pounds, including the frame.”

  To Boris’ obvious consternation, Mr Watchet rose to his feet, swayed to an alcove and threw himself down on a couch.

  “Now you’ve upset him,” cried the former, clasping his hands. “Oh, dear, what shall I do? He feels so deeply, dear Algy. You see, he’s been given vision. He sees what we cannot see. And when his vision is questioned, he just curls up.”

  “I see,” said Berry gravely. “Will he take refuge in tears?”

  “Oh, I do hope he won’t. If only he relaxes at once…” Boris rushed to a nightmare cupboard, to pour out a quarter of a tumbler of Crème de Menthe. Then he minced to the alcove. “Drink this, dear,” he commanded.

  Mr Watchet stared upon the glass.

  “That’s right,” said Berry. “Pretend it’s a gall and wormwood and toss it off.” Somehow Mr Watchet complied. “And that ought to help his vision. In a quarter of an hour or so he’ll see all manner of things that we can’t see. Blue-based baboons’ll be nothing to what he descries.”

  Boris arranged the cushion and left his disgruntled friend.

  “I know you don’t mean it,” he said; “but Algy cannot appreciate blindness of heart. All he sees is a great, black cloud that is pressing him down. And then he gives way. The other night, at The Wash-Pot—”

  “Look here, Mr Blurt,” said Berry. “An adviser who cannot consider an opinion other than his own is of no use to anyone. He is of no use to me: but, what is more to the point, he is of no use to you. I don’t ask you to accept what Mr Basing says: but I do ask you to find someone with whom he can deal. Mr Basing is my expert. Why don’t you call in Peruke? He’s honest and very well known. And I am prepared to abide by what he says.”

  “Oh, of course he’ll agree with you.”

  “Why should he? We haven’t approached him. You needn’t mention our names. Let him see the portraits and tell him the offer you’ve had.”

  “But he’ll want such a terrible fee, and I’m dreadfully poor. You see, I’m extending my premises. I’ve taken the place next door. At least, not next door – the one after. The grocer next door is so boorish. He wants to sublet, I know. But he’s being contrary, you know. And dreadfully personal. So Algy and I ignore him – I always think that’s best. And when he’s enfolded in art, I feel that he will respond.”

  “He’ll respond all right,” said Berry, “provided, of course, he can breathe. D’you mind if I open a window? Or will that affect his figs?”

  “Now you’re being naughty,” said Boris, wagging a forefinger. He raised his voice. “Can you stand an open window, Algy? Oh, he’s asleep. Now isn’t that wonderful? You know, I hardly dared hope…”

  In silence the window was opened, and Basing cleared his throat.

  “If you show him my card, Mr Blurt, Peruke will charge twenty-five guineas – or thereabouts.”

  “But it’s waste of money,” screamed Boris. “He’ll say the same.”

  “I think he will,” said Basing. “But he will be your adviser – which I am not.”

  “But Algy is my adviser.”

  “Is he still asleep?” said Basing.

  “I think so.”

  “Then listen to me. Mr Watchet’s opinion is worthless, compared with that of Peruke. Peruke is twice his age and has bought and sold old pictures for many years. You needn’t show him that pamphlet which Vandeleur Pleydell produced. Peruke won’t have to be told who painted what. The moment he sees those portraits, he’ll know who the seven are by. And he’ll know that the other five are of no account. And then he’ll appraise the lot. And please remember this – that he knows the state of the markets as no one else.”

  Boris looked furtively round.

  “I don’t think I can do it,” he whispered, fingers to mouth. “Algy would be so terribly, terribly hurt. Besides, he’s shown so much interest. And then he’s already in touch with a Mr Lemonbaum.”

  “Of Red Lion Square?”

  “That’s right” – brightly. “D’you know him?”

  But Basing was looking at Berry.

  “In that case,” he said, “I feel that we’re wasting our time.” He returned to Boris. “And you will be lucky, young man, if you see ten thousand pounds.”

  “What?”

  “Very fortunate,” said Basing. “Lemonbaum is one of the biggest blackguards that ever stepped. And you can tell him I said so. He’ll only smile.’

  Boris was plainly frightened.

  “You think,” he stammered, “you think I’ve made a mistake?”

  “That depends,” said Basing, “on how far you’ve gone.”

  “He’s going to see the pictures on Wednesday next.”

  “I see. Well, don’t let him take them.”

  “Oh, he’s only going to see them,” said Boris.

  “You’d better be there,” said Basing. “I’ll lay he comes with a van.”

  Berry got to his feet.

  “Understand this, Mr Blur
t. Once those pictures leave Broken Ash, the offer I’ve made is withdrawn.”

  Boris was down on his knees by Watchet’s side.

  “Wake up, Algy, wake up. I’ve terrible news.”

  With a fearful grunt, the other propped himself on an arm.

  “Wassamarrer?” he said.

  “Lemonbaum’s going to take my pictures away.”

  “Thassrigh’. On Wenssy. Bringum up to ’s office. ’Sall arrange.”

  “But I never said—”

  Mr Watchet had already relaxed.

  Boris was all of a twitter.

  “Now he had no right to do that. It’s most presumptuous. I never knew anything about it. And now Mr Lemonbaum – Oh, what shall I do?”

  Basing replied.

  “You’d better go down and stop him.”

  “How can I?” screamed Boris. “Supposing he’s like the grocer. And I can’t endure a scene. Any kind of difference upsets me terribly. It’s the opposition of wills. I’m all on edge already. And I’ve had such a tiring day.”

  Basing shrugged his shoulders.

  “It’s up to you, Mr Blurt. You have been warned.”

  Boris was wringing his hands.

  “But what can I do?”

  “You don’t want Lemonbaum to take them?”

  “Of course I don’t.”

  “And you don’t want a scene?”

  Boris stifled a scream.

  “Oh, I mustn’t. It’s bad for my heart. The other day, when the grocer was unsympathetic—”

  “Then give Major Pleydell permission to take those pictures away. That won’t mean that you’re selling the pictures to him. It will merely mean that they’re safe. I mean, you can trust Major Pleydell to take all care of the portraits he wants to buy. He will take them to White Ladies and lodge them there. If you sell to him, he will keep them. If you sell to somebody else, they will be at your disposal when ever you please.”

  Boris’ face was transfigured.

  “Oh, do do that for me, dear. It’s a perfectly sweet idea. And we won’t tell anyone.”

  “I’ll do it with pleasure,” said Berry. “I’m all for taking care of what I hope to possess.”

  “Well, that’s that,” said Basing. “But let this be a lesson to you. You see what Watchet’s worth. He’s damned near let you right down. Cut him right out, Mr Blurt. You’ve got a perfect excuse. And go to Peruke, as I say. Show him my card, and ask him to go to White Ladies, view the pictures and let you have a report.”

  “None of us will approach him,” said Berry. “The servants will show him in and will show him out.”

  Boris was savaging his thumb.

  “Will you say thirty thousand?” he said.

  “No,” said Berry, “I won’t. Mr Basing has said that my offer is very fair.”

  “It’s more than fair,” said Basing. “Peruke will bear me out.”

  “But Algy—”

  “—knows no more than you do,” said Basing. “He only pretends that he does. But for the pamphlet he’s read he wouldn’t dare open his mouth. If you like to put your fortune in the hands of a drunken impostor—”

  “Oh, hush. Supposing he hears you.”

  Basing turned away.

  “Listen,” said Berry. “Tomorrow afternoon the portraits will be at White Ladies, safe and sound. If you are content for them to stay there, I will write you a cheque for twenty-five thousand pounds. No deductions for commission, insurance or transport fees. But don’t forget two things. The first is this – I may withdraw that offer at my time.”

  “Oh, that’s not fair,” whined Boris.

  “Don’t be absurd,” said Basing. “D’you expect Major Pleydell to wait – and actually house your pictures, while you metaphorically hawk them, in the hope of improving upon the offer he’s made?”

  “The second thing’s this,” said Berry. “That I buy all the portraits, or none at all. Sell one to somebody else, and you can collect the rest the following day.”

  With that, he picked up his hat.

  “Oh, I do wish,” whimpered Boris, “I knew what to do.”

  Basing laid a card upon a table.

  “Fire Mr Watchet,” he said. “And go to Peruke.”

  In a somewhat uneasy silence, we made our way to Scotts.

  As we took our seats in an alcove—

  “I’m much obliged, Basing,” said Berry. “Nobody could have done more.”

  “I don’t know about that,” said Basing. “I think we’ve discredited Watchet and I think he will go to Peruke. The most pressing danger is Mr Lemonbaum.”

  “How so?” said I. “If we take the portraits away…”

  “That won’t stop him,” said Basing. “Lemonbaum is red-hot. And this is right down his street. He won’t be deterred by the fact that the portraits are gone. He’s got to be broken down, before he’ll let go. But I think you’re up to his weight. So let him come to White Ladies and butcher him there.”

  Berry fingered his chin.

  “I see,” he said slowly. “And how does one discourage a leper like Lemonbaum?”

  “Break his heart,” said Basing. “Wear him down with misunderstanding. A course of suppresio veri: and then suggestio falsi with all you’ve got.”

  “Aren’t you clever?” said Berry.

  Such communion was far beyond me, though Berry seemed satisfied. But when, later on, he purchased a second-hand ear-trumpet, I thought I could see the line which he was proposing to take.

  As arranged, we collected the portraits the following afternoon. Poor Emma, still in possession, was thankful to see them go. We warned her of Lemonbaum’s coming and bade her refer him to us.

  We did not hang the portraits – that would have been premature. We put them into a spare room and stood them against the walls. The Holbein and the Van Dyck were laid upon neighbouring beds. As we were leaving the chamber, Berry looked round the improvised gallery. Then he addressed our forbears.

  “Mesdames, Messieurs,” he said, “we shall do our best.”

  Then he followed me out of the room and locked the door.

  The next day, at three o’clock, came Mr Lemonbaum.

  All was ready for his coming, for Emma had rung us up when the dealer left Broken Ash. He was to be received in the garden – to be exact, in the heart of the baby maze. Such surroundings, we felt, would be against him. I think they were.

  I watched the fellow emerge from the front of his elegant van. His air was confident. But when I saw him again, he had thrown away his cigar and had his hat in his hand.

  Berry received him alone, ear-trumpet in hand. Daphne and I were in waiting, two paces away – the hedge of the baby maze was four feet thick.

  “This way, if you please,” said William. And then, “Mr Lemonbaum, sir.”

  As the footman turned to withdraw, I strolled into sight.

  Before the dealer could speak, Berry had opened fire.

  “You’re wasting your time,” he snapped. “I’m not going to sell.”

  Mr Lemonbaum started, and a hand went up to his head.

  Then—

  “But the pictureth aren’t yourth,” he said.

  “No, I don’t,” said Berry. “Besides, he’s going abroad.”

  The dealer stared upon Berry, as though he were not of this world. Then, with a manifest effort, he wreathed his face into a smile.

  “I think perhapth,” he lisped, “you didn’t quite catch what I thaid.”

  “I never use them,” said Berry. “I find the heads come off.” He addressed me in French. “This gentleman wants a match.”

  As I produced a box—

  “Catch,” screamed Lemonbaum. “He didn’t catch what I thaid.”

  “Then why didn’t you say so?” said Berry. “And it’s no good addressing him. He only speaks French.”

  There was an awkward silence.

  Then Lemonbaum pointed to the trumpet.

  “Perhapth if you uthed that, thir…”

  “Not
yet,” said Berry. “They don’t come out till dusk. D’you want me to use the trumpet? I hear you perfectly well. But I will, if you like.”

  With that, he put the thing to his ear.

  Its mouth was rather too high for Mr Lemonbaum. Twice he put out a hand, as though to lower the horn; but each time his courage failed him, and Berry was looking away. At last he stood a-tiptoe and said his piece.

  “I’ve come for the pictureth,” he blared.

  “Certainly not,” said Berry. “I hate the stuff. Nasty, vulgar habits. And what d’you think this is? A general store?”

  The dealer gathered himself. Then he repeated his statement with all his might.

  “Mixture?” said Berry. “What mixture?”

  “Pictureth,” screamed the other. “P for Perthy.”

  “Have you, indeed?” said Berry. “What ever time did you start?”

  “No, no, NO. I’ve come to collect the portraitth. The portraitth from Broken Ath.”

  “‘Smoking Flax’?” said Berry. “I don’t remember the name. It’s quite a good title, though. Who is it by?”

  “BROKEN ASH,” yelled the dealer. “I’ve come from BROKEN ASH.”

  “Broken Ash?” said Berry. “I thought there was some mistake. This is White Ladies. Broken Ash is about—”

  “The portraitth,” howled Lemonbaum, dancing. “I’ve come to collect the portraitth for Mr Blurt.”

  “Well, you can go that way,” said Berry. “But I always go by Bloodstock. It’s more direct.”

  Mr Lemonbaum wiped the sweat from his face and neck. Then, with bolting eyes, he returned to the charge.

  “I am here,” he began…

  “Of course I can,” said Berry. “You don’t have to use this trumpet. I told you just now – I can hear you perfectly well.”

  Mr Lemonbaum turned away and let out a noise which resembled a camel’s bark.

  “That’s the buck toad calling,” said Berry. “You’re very lucky to hear it. The doe you can hear all the time. But the buck is rare.”

  The dealer took a deep breath. Then he lugged out a pocketbook and, after peering a moment, plucked a sheet of note-paper out of its folds.