Berry Scene

by Dornford Yates

  Dear Mrs Pleydell,

  I guess you’ll think me crazy, but I’m returning the picture-clock. I couldn’t sleep last night for thinking of what I’d done. If I’d gotten it out of the saleroom, well and good. But I’m darned if I’ll sack White Ladies to fix my apartment up. I’ll always remember the compliment you paid me. And don’t you go fretting about my losing your Holbein. Now that I know your home, I’ll always be proud to remember I helped to hang it there.

  Very sincerely,

  Coker Falk.

  What could we do? We sent him the best cigarette-case that we could buy, with Coker Falk from White Ladies written inside. Feeble enough, I know. But what could we do?

  9

  In Which Berry Keeps a Diary,

  and Tells Us a Fairy-Tale

  “Can we afford it?” said Daphne.

  “No,” said Berry, “we can’t. But we simply must get away. A change is the only thing. An absolute change. By sea to Lisbon, for instance. It should be nice there just now. And Estoril and Cintra should help us up. And then we can come back here in the middle of May. If we sell out the Collingwood holding…”

  “I entirely agree,” said I.

  “I feel you’re right,” said my sister. “Only we keep selling out.”

  “I know,” said Berry. “I know. That is the privilege of keeping White Ladies going as it has always gone. But I’m not going to keep the place up and live like a caretaker. And this isn’t extravagance. Jill’s been magnificent. But she stands in need of two things. Sunshine and pleasant surroundings to which she has never been. To be honest, I think we all need them. Her blow was ours.”

  So it was.

  We had all flown for ages. Piers, Jill’s attractive husband, had introduced us to the air. We found the element glorious, and used it whenever we could. Not that we were imprudent. The lines we used were lines that we knew we could trust. And then – Fate stretched out an arm…

  What happened will never be known. Enough that an aeroplane crashed, and that passengers, pilot and crew were instantly killed. And Piers and the Fauns among them…

  Mercifully Jill was with us, when the news came through. I took the telephone-message – I shall always believe that it took a year from my life: what is quite certain is that from that hour to this day I have never heard with composure the thresh of the telephone-bell.

  “The Spensers are in Lisbon,” said Jonah. “Rufus is doing some job at the Embassy there.”

  “Well and good,” said Berry. He turned to his wife. “Drop a line to Lettice and ask her to take us some rooms.”

  Ten days later we landed in Portugal.

  “My dears,” said Lettice, “I’ve got you a furnished house. Complete with servants, of course. You’ll be very much better there than at any hotel.”

  “God bless you,” said Berry. “Do the servants understand English?”

  “Not a word,” said Lettice. “But you’ll get on all right. I’ve arranged for an English girl to call twice a day. She’ll take and give your orders and make things smooth. This is Senhor Fernandes – he’s going to look after you. If you’ll give him your passports and checks, he’ll get your luggage through and put things straight with the International Police. Oh, and your keys, in case. And now let’s be getting along. Rufus couldn’t get down, but he’s sent his car.”

  It looked as though we were on velvet, and so it proved.

  The house was an Englishman’s house and was very well found. The servants were efficient and smiling, and Miss Perowne and Fernandes did more than we could have asked. Before the day was out, we had hired a most excellent car, and Rufus looked in that evening, to pay his respects…

  “The idea was this,” he said, “that you should be able to be quiet and to go as you please. Nobody knows you’re here, and nobody will. By the way, we’ve a cottage at Cintra we only use for weekends. It’s at your disposal for lunch, when ever you like. Just tell Miss Perowne to ring the house-keeper up the evening before.”

  “A little more,” said Daphne, “and I shall begin to cry. You and Lettice have been so wonderfully sweet.”

  “My dear,” said Rufus, “you’d do the same for us.” He turned to me. “By the way, you must sample the port. If it suits you, let me know, and I’ll get you some more. But it’s not on the wine-merchants’ lists.”

  “It was served after lunch,” said Berry. “These servants know their job. I think they must drink it in Heaven – it’s not of this world.”

  “Good,” said Rufus. “And if you should go away for a night or two, take your ration with you. I mean, it’ll travel all right, and you won’t get the same.”

  “He’s asking for trouble,” said Daphne. “Port always finds him out.”

  “Oh, this won’t hurt him,” said Rufus. “It’s tawny port. Down in Oporto, they drink two bottles a day.”

  “We must go to Oporto,” said Berry. “I’ve always wanted to visit that holy town.”

  “Inform me first,” said Rufus, “and I’ll tell you where to stay.”

  Our visit lasted six weeks, and was one of the rare occasions on which Berry kept a diary of any kind. Why he did it, I never knew: but, since it is far more vivid than anything I can write down, I have no hesitation in setting some of it out.

  All Fools’ Day, 1935.

  Lisbon. What a night. Bed and board, synonymous terms. Not that I mind horse-hair, but why compress the stuff till all possibility of resilience has disappeared? Only fly in the grease. Fly? Stag-beetle. I mean, what about bed-sores? ‘By the twitching of my hams. Something wicked this way scrams.’ To say that this morning was worthy of the glorious company which today commemorates is nothing. Seldom, if ever, have the time-honoured rites been more handsomely observed. Daphne and Boy, of course. Talk about trumpets sounding. They’ll find a clown-band playing when they come to the other side. Even now I can hardly record it. No ink can do it justice, but I’m out of blood and tears. I think perhaps Durer could have drawn it – The Martyrdom of St Bertram…devils with smoking snouts, leering and hailing their prey. The thing was this. Jonah drives us down town in one blinding flash. Said we were late, or something – quite untrue. He drops us three at the Bank and then goes off with Jill, to read the lines of Torres Vedras, wot Arthur did. We’d take a taxi back. Well, there’s nothing the matter with Lisbon. I like the place. Never saw the past fit into the present so well. And all is gaiety and vacation of spirit. We strolled about for two hours, forgetting time. I was glad to see Rossio again – I was to have been burned there in 1546: but they hadn’t got my size in sanbenitos, so they had a bull-fight, instead. And I had a beer in the Avenida – both superb. If I’d known what was coming, I’d have had two double brandies… Since it was now past noon, we thought we’d go home. So we stopped a taxi – one of what I call ‘the forgotten cabs’. Arthur probably forgot it in 1812. But you could still get in. And then the axe fell. My nearest and dearest couldn’t remember our address. Knew it was Number Six, but didn’t know the name of the street. ‘Number Six, Lisbon.’ I mean, can you beat it? Talk about blue-based baboons – with claw-and-ball feet. No idea of the way: no idea of the district: didn’t know the name of the people whose house it is. And there was I, in urgent need of a restorative, confused by the hurly-burly of a strange city and deprived by the criminal negligence of those I love of that right which even the fowls of the air enjoy – that of returning to my own dunghill. When I recovered consciousness, they were endeavouring to appease the driver who was pardonably unable to appreciate why his orders were withheld. Considering that he knew no English and they knew no Portuguese, progress was on the slow side. Then we returned to our street – figuratively, of course. Daphne said that it had a funny name. I offered her Comic Cut, but she said that was wrong. Boy said it was a long name and he thought it began with an S. When I said that, when I last saw it, there were two BF’s in it, their attitude became hostile. Then the driver returned to the charge. I knew his name was Garlic the moment he opened his m
outh. Finally, having yelled ‘British Embassy’ in every known tongue, except, of course, Portuguese, Garlic made a noise like a sink, added ‘OK’ and let in what had been his clutch. I pass over the next few moments. I seem to think it was Regulus who was introduced into a barrel which was then allowed to descend a punishing hill. Enough that I am now qualified to appreciate his emotions during that momentous descent. We reached the Embassy, to find that Rufus was out. But the porter was dutiful. Not that we disclosed our dilemma – it was too shame-making. But he told gossip Garlic to drive to the Spensers’ flat and said that we’d double his fare if he’d only go slow. Of course we drew blank again – Lettice was lunching out. I said we must do the same – I was feeling faint: but Daphne declared that the servants wouldn’t understand. When I ventured to say that I considered my health of more importance than the understanding of my staff, my wife and her brother, omitting no circumstance of calumny, indulged in the foulest abuse. Then we drove back to the Bank, with some half-baked idea of endeavouring to recapture the way by which Jonah had rushed us two hours and a half before. Garlic wasn’t in on this, and his efforts to perform a duty, the nature of which was unavoidably suppressed, were not so much distracting as conducive to insanity. Between his outbursts, Daphne said there was a sixteenth-century fountain which she’d know if she saw it again: Boy said we’d passed a house with a Doric portico: when I asked if it had a Renaissance cesspool, they vouchsafed no reply, and when I actually recognized a dust-cart, they were incredibly offensive. And then, at five minutes to one, we ran into Jonah and Jill… Still, out of evil comes good. My betrayal was infamous; but Jill’s blessed laughter was very cheap at the price.

  April 3rd.

  Midnight. Ought to go to bed, but sofa more considerate. This climate’s all right. Estoril – yes. But prefer Cintra. A party of Boches at Estoril throwing their weight about. Enough to defile the Taj Mahal. God, how I hate that race. And I don’t like all this German business at all. Find it most sinister. Seems as though we were determined to furnish some future Gibbon with an even finer material than that with which Rome furnished Edward. I can hear the opening sentences rolling out. True to their traditions, the German people preferred to reject the substance of a friendship which they in no way deserved for the shadow of a dominion for which they were even less qualified. To this end, they chose, for their director, an alien artisan, who was said to have achieved the rank of corporal in the war of 1914, but had failed to distinguish the profession of a painter’s labourer. Oh, hell and all devils, doesn’t anyone know the Boche? I haven’t set foot in his filthy country since the war: but can the gorilla change his knobs? And what ever would Arthur have said?

  April 7th.

  Cintra. Lunch at the Spensers’ cottage, and very nice, too. With no desire to be sick-making, must confess that Cintra grows on you. This was our third visit: and we shall go again. One leaves the car and strolls in surroundings which are superb. The view from the gallery outside the castle would be more arresting if the drop which immediately confronts you were rather less dire. I went all bugbears at once, and when Daphne and Jill leaned over, my large intestine – well, I couldn’t see it on the flags, but the impression that I had lost it was overwhelming. It must have been a very near thing. Before I had recovered, a covey of tourists arrived, in charge of a guide. I was listening to him indicating the lines of Torres Vedras, when a Yank turned to blare in my ear. ‘Say, who’s this guy, Torres Vedras?’ ‘The first Portuguese martyr,’ I said, ‘to be eaten of worms. When the worms were through, they used them as bait. And that’s where they put the lines out. They got about four million fish in two hours, so they called it a day and canonized the old boy. There’s a painting by Orlando Basusto in the Ministry of Marine. Torres Vedras and the Worms. It’s not supposed to be shown, but you know what five dollars’ll do.’ He wrote it all down, but when I looked round the others had disappeared. When I found them again, Daphne said I ought to be prosecuted. But I believe that fools should be fed. And I’ll lay Arthur would have laughed. Well, I ought to know. When I was Picton, I saw him four days out of five. I remember the handle came off my umbrella at Badajoz. We floated home, dined early and went to a flick. All in English, God bless them. And then we sat under the trees and drank some beer. Give me the ever-open bar. With the ever-open bar, nobody ever gets tight. And that’s a true saying, Sob-Stuff, whether you like it or no.

  April 10th.

  Showery, so dealt with mail. This includes pompous letter from complete stranger who seems to have fallen foul of the level-crossing keeper at Mockery Dale. Writes to me, as Chairman of the Riding Hood Bench, demanding vengeance. Must be deranged. Know what I should like to reply, but better not. Finally, Major Pleydell presents his compliments to Mr Groansmith and begs to inform him that he has mistaken the functions of a Justice of the Peace. His confession should be addressed, preferably by word of mouth, to a Clerk in Holy orders, who, provided that he is satisfied that Mr Groansmith’s regret is sincere, will indicate the nature of the penance which the latter should perform. Took Jill to look at the coaches – Museu dos Coches. A most entertaining company. That monarchs were monarchs in their day, nobody can deny. Never have I seen gathered together so many gorgeous monuments of pomp and circumstance. And rough and tumble, too. The sluggish liver must have been almost unknown. Delighted to recognize the vehicle in which I used to progress when I was Luisa de Guzman. Parade State – self, two maids of honour, six lap-dogs, two parrots, a monkey and a black page. More than once, I remember, in August, we had to have a window down. And when a linch-pin came out, it was grievous bodily harm. I mean, four hundred pounds of maid of honour à flot would make a gorilla think. So to tea in the Rua —. Jill, looking a million ducats, cynosure of all eyes. Tea-shop the last word. Crammed to suffocation and right up to date – tables the size of writing pads and no room to put your hat, umbrella, feet or anything that is yours. Hot chocolate a dream: really worth drinking: guaranteed to make you feel sick as a dog in half an hour. Talking of dogs, charming Irish Terrier at next table displays an embarrassing interest in my shoes. Jill thinks it must be first time he’s seen such a good-looking pair. Not so sure. Feel it to be more likely that I’ve stepped in something. As we’re leaving, a wallah rolls up with some roses – exquisite blooms. Jill bows very gracefully and says that there’s some mistake – she’s ordered no flowers. Wallah explains in French that they’re ‘from the Management’. Jill smiles and takes them. ‘Thank you very much. But you mustn’t do this again. Otherwise, I can’t come to your café. And I should like to come back.’ A clear sky, so we stroll. Encounter Lettice who takes us into her car. Her Sealyham also among the prophets. No room for doubt now. Hope it’s only rotten fish.

  April 16th.

  Here we are at Bussaco, where Arthur stayed. I wish I was at Lisbon, where I reside. I mean, why rush about? Lisbon and its environs are quite good enough for me. Talk about blue-based baboons. Too many villages on these roads. And dogs. You know. Beat the car, bite the wheel and bark. How Jonah saves their lives, I’ve no idea. Of course they mean no wrong, but it shortens your life. Of his wisdom Rufus declared that, if we’re to visit Oporto, we’d better do so from here. And Coimbra and Vizeu. The way to see this country is to have a private train. The roads leave much to be desired, and if you sleep outside Lisbon, you’ve got to watch your step. This evening we staggered about the battlefield. I did in a pair of shoes and Daphne fell down. But it all began to come back. Happily able to clear up a puzzling point. Massena knew his onions, so why attack the ridge when he might have turned Arthur’s flank? You can say his maps were wrong, but that’s no answer, because they always were. Fancy a French map of Portugal. Give me strength. ‘I’m inclined to agree,’ says Jonah. ‘What do you know?’ Well, Arthur rode up to me, with his field-glass under his arm. ‘Tom,’ he said, ‘there’s Massena…in the carriage with yellow wheels. Now it’s most important that he shouldn’t get ideas. You’ve got a carrying voice and you never repeat y
ourself.’ A nod’s as good as a wink. By the time my version of his parentage had been translated to Massena, two interpreters were under arrest and the Marshal could think of nothing but getting me down. So he went for the ridge, and Arthur hit him for six. As we got back to the hotel, a car drives up with a bang, and out gets Pony Skene. One of the old school, Pony – without the tie. Up at Magdalen together, a year or two back. Pony was always important, but now he’s a very big noise. The seats of the mighty are in his dining-room. But he’d time to thank his chauffeur, before he came up to put his arms round my neck. Diplomats be damned: it’s blokes like Pony Skene that make the world go round. He knows why we’re here; so he’s not going to ask us out: but he thinks, when we visit Oporto, we might see over his lodge. And very nice, too.

  April 18th.

  Yesterday Coimbra, today Vizeu. Sleepy, little, old town – Vizeu. I liked it well. We left the car in a garage and took to our feet. The greatest courtesy shown us on every side. For all that, I shan’t be the same. I mean, the lane was steep, about one in four, and there was a girl walking up, with a bath on her head. A full-size, porcelain-lined bath. And nobody took any notice, except to get out of the way. And it takes two damned strong men to move such a thing: and it took six men at White Ladies to get one up the stairs, And there was this girl, with one of the things on her head. And for all she seemed to care, it might have been a box of cigars. You know, if Jill hadn’t been with me, I should have suppressed the vision. As it was, I never felt more like a milk and soda in all my life. I suppose they’re like that in Vizeu: but I hadn’t the slightest desire to meet a child with a steam-roller under his arm. So we repaired to a café and split a bottle of beer. Suddenly Jill gives a squeal – one of her old-time squeals: and it did my heart good. ‘What d’you know, sweetheart?’ I said – and then I saw. You know, that town’s not safe. A tumbril was coming towards us, drawn by a mule. And, as I live, the mule was completely clothed. Two pairs of trousers, a coat and a hell of a hat. But trousers. Two pairs, of the best sail-cloth… I suppose the general idea was to thwart the flies. But what about heart failure? I’ll say I had a double brandy. I mean, you never know. Supposing Puss-in-Spats had rolled up and asked for a light. Which reminds me of that dear old lay—