Berry Scene

by Dornford Yates

  A cat went out for a walk one day,

  With his hat on the back of his head:

  And everyone said,

  Oh, look at that cat,

  He shouldn’t do that,

  His head’s too fat

  And his face too flat,

  For a hat on the back of his head, his head,

  For a hat on the back of his head.

  You know, I think I shall have to do the Alphabet.

  A’s for Aunt Agatha

  All over ants:

  They ran up her legs

  And into her – vest:

  (I thought it was best

  To say ‘into her vest’:)

  They gave her no rest:

  But this was because

  She sat down on their nest.

  Well, here we go. Oporto tomorrow.

  April 19th.

  I forgot to say that Pony told us how to deal with the dogs. ‘Believe it or not,’ he said, ‘they only want to know where you’re going. If you’re going to Lisbon, shout “Lisbon”, and they’ll clear out.’ You know, it’s perfectly true. Yesterday afternoon, one started in, so we all of us yelled ‘Vizeu’, and off he went, with his tail right over his back. I tell you, it never fails. There’s nothing the matter with Oporto. How could there be? First we followed Arthur, saw where he crossed the Douro and put the wind up Soult. What a man. I’ll say be deserved to eat Soult’s dinner that night. Wasn’t it Soult who turned his back on him at the Louvre? And HM apologized. And Arthur said, ‘That’s all right, Sire. I’m used to that.’ But, what a beauty. After lunch we repaired to the lodge. There we were made free of the mystery of how port is done. I can think of many worse jobs. Strolling above the vats, you move in an aroma which has Coty beat to nothing. Clarence was right. Butt of malmsey or pipe of port – that is the perfect way to cross the Styx. And before we went, we each had a glass of nectar. And then we went shopping – and damned near bought the town. As we were going home, ‘Whatever’s that parcel?’ said Daphne. ‘Silk stockings,’ said I. ‘It’s all right. I wrote the cheque.’ ‘But I said six pairs,’ she said. ‘Six dozen,’ I said. ‘I heard you.’ ‘Six dozen pairs,’ she screams. ‘I must have been out of my mind.’ ‘No,’ said I. ‘Just nicely. I give you my word, you looked like the Queen of Sheba. Oporto was your wash-pot this afternoon.’ And Jill bought four Persian rugs and slept all the way back. Beginning to see why Pony’s so popular.

  April 20th.

  Arthur used to say there was only one road in Portugal – that from Lisbon to Pombal. Things have improved since then, but I’ll lay that much of that stretch has never been touched. Batalha has a fine abbey, but Rolica and Vimeiro are written in letters of gold in the book of Fate. We ate our lunch by Vimiera – cold mutton, of course – where Arthur pushed Junot’s face through the back of his head. Yet, he’d only three hundred horse and no transport at all. What a man. Home to tea, thank God. After a bath and a change, felt up to getting my hair trimmed. Taxi a congenital idiot, so couldn’t find Rufus’ place. Entered another which didn’t look too bad. I might have known. Portuguese only spoken – by two dozen butchers in white. And an armoury of clippers – to make the blood run cold. My particular torturer weighed about eighteen stone, and when I waved the clippers away, he fetched a razor with which to shave my neck. When I wouldn’t have that, he proposed to cut my eyebrows, while some hanger-on was barking to clean my shoes. In the end they fetched a bloke from over the way. ‘Yes, sir?’ he says in French. ‘Praise God,’ I said. ‘Will you kindly tell this artist to put all those clippers away? If he can’t use a comb and some scissors, I’ll go elsewhere. And if that wallah touches my shoes, I’ll call the police.’ Well, then they came to heel… A blessed evening at home, in front of a slow wood fire, suddenly blown to bits by Jonah’s impious suggestion that we should pay a visit to Spain. Oh, I can’t bear it. Only just back from a most exacting tour, and we’re to leave this haven and fare far worse. ‘Stay at Ciudad Rodrigo.’ Yes, that’s a good one. Rotten fish to eat, and bugs all over the place. Fifteenth-century sanitation – very interesting. But would they have it? No. What was good enough for Arthur was good enough for them. But how romantic. Lot of slobbering pantaloons, if you ask me. I mean, does the body count, or does it? So I pulled out the diapason. ‘Look here,’ I said. ‘Nothing has so ministered to my mind as treading in Arthur’s foot-prints and surveying the ground he hallowed by smearing Boney’s marshals, one by one. But up to now, it’s been in comparative comfort that we have done our stuff. We’ve had some trying days, but at least we’ve got in to a bath and a meal that you could consider without feeling physically sick. This latest obscenity ignores these valuable truths. First, we shall have a perfectly poisonous drive: then we shall cross the frontier – an operation which, if I know anything of Spain, will be attended by every circumstance of inconvenience, delay, insult and extortion: finally, we shall descend at a fourth-rate Spanish bodega – or whatever they call their bestial hostelries. Our rooms will be verminous; the sight and smell of the food will raise the gorge; the offices will be dangerous to health. If you must subdue the flesh, let’s do a museum a day, or suck bacalhao before breakfast, or–’ ‘You filthy brute,’ says Daphne, for that got under her skin. I pressed my advantage home. ‘My love,’ said I, ‘if you sleep at Ciudad Rodrigo. before you’re through you’ll sigh for a hunk of bad cod. And you don’t want a smother of warts all over your countenance.’ ‘Warts?’ screams Jill. ‘Warts,’ said I. ‘Evil exhalations corrupt good matter. When I was Oliver Cromwell–’ And there goes the telephone. Rufus. ‘Look here, Red Spenser,’ says I, ‘can we stay at Ciudad Rodrigo?’ ‘It has been done,’ says he, ‘but you won’t be the same.’ ‘Hold on,’ says I. ‘Here’s Daphne.’ After a minute or so, she asked the Spensers to lunch and put the receiver back. ‘Can I have some brandy?’ she said. ‘I don’t feel well. And you can have the game. We’re staying in Portugal.’

  April 29th.

  I like Lisbon more and more. A taxi down to Rossio, and then a stroll. The patterned pavements are delightful. A coarse mosaic of marble, black and white. These things matter. You can say they don’t, but they do. Beauty always counts. The proportions of Black Horse Square and the Avenida are really handsome. More mail. Touching letter from a bloke we let down lightly two months ago. Honoured Sir, Come out last week and done wot you said. No chance of a job not on your life but I sticks around and makes myself useful and after two days the farmer sends for me. Did you strap this mare he says. That’s right, sir, I says civil. Good enough he says carry on. I’ll start you at twenty-five bob. Easy as that. Had to let you know sir because its all thanks to you. Yours very respectfully, George Bailiwick. What can one say? Dear George, What could be better? Well, fifty bob, I suppose. But you’ll soon be getting that. The great thing is, it’s come off. Good luck and God bless. Yours sincerely, BP. A very suspicious twinge in my left knee. Gorblime. It can’t be the port. Not tawny. Oh, I can’t bear it. And Pony drinks a bottle a day. Great argument about The Times jigsaw. I mean crossword. Provost of Eton said to do it while he boils his egg. All I can say is he must like his eggs damned hard. Trying to pull a fast one, if you ask me. Why, the anagram’s enough to see most people through lunch. And listen to this. Six down–’ Even he had something to eat off.’ And Four across–’ I should have said it was aching, but they declined.’ You know, that’s an obscene libel. I think I’ll set one one day. Five across – ‘Tell auntie.’

  May 7th.

  To Cintra by Estoril. Coast road. Reached the Spensers’ cottage alive. Lunch quite admirable. Never ate better sardines. Understand you ought to keep them for five years in box. Later we ventured to prove a private road. Unpardonable, of course: but this one has always beckoned, and we shall soon be gone. Forest at first, and then a most lovely prospect of land and sea. Stopped and got out. Surroundings ideal for meditation. The others strolled on. Woke to find an old fellow sitting beside me, smoking a cigarette, with his hat tipped over his
eyes. I pulled myself together and did what I could in French. When I was through, ‘Let us speak English,’ he said. ‘My grandmother was English, but I am Portuguese. My name is—, and you have done me the honour to make me your host.’ We would pick a dukedom to gate-crash. ‘You’re very forgiving,’ I said, and gave him my name. ‘I’m afraid there are others,’ I added. ‘They’re trespassing, too.’ ‘Not trespassing,’ says the Duke. ‘No English can trespass here. I will tell you why. More than once, your great Duke of Wellington stayed here, as my great-grandfather’s guest. The old house has gone, so I cannot show you his rooms; but you shall have tea on the terrace on which he used to sit. And you can never trespass where that great gentleman passed.’ Would you believe it? And there the others came up. Talk about the Gathering of the Fans… Before five minutes were gone, we were changing hats. What an afternoon. Tea on a lovely terrace, commanding the glorious prospect that Arthur viewed. And the old boy full of the dope that his grandfather handed down. The latter was only ten, when Arthur was here: and Arthur played football with him, down on the lawn below. He remembered Hill very well, and some of the Staff. Years later he stayed at Strathfieldsaye. And there was the musical box which Arthur had sent out from England and had given to him for Christmas, 1810. As good as ever today, it played for us. It was very moving to hear it – as Arthur himself had heard it, a long time ago. Our host’s great-grandmother was always concerned, because Arthur would eat so little. But he would only laugh and say most people ate too much. That his officers worshipped him was always clear. Before we left, the old fellow gave us a map. It was a very old map, but Arthur had always said it was very good. The centre of Portugal. And on it Arthur had market the Lines of Torres Vedras with his own hand. This was too precious a possession for us to accept. But our host would have it so. ‘That you may remember,’ he said, ‘this afternoon.’ ‘How could we forget it?’ says Daphne. ‘How could we ever forget such kindness as yours?’ The old fellow bowed. ‘You have made me very happy. Please make me happier still.’ And so it will hang at White Ladies, framed in gilt.

  May 11th.

  Our last day. Lettice and Rufus dined with us last night. Entirely thanks to them, we have been able to relax. Exactly what we needed. All miles better, and – God be praised – Jill is herself again. Pity Adèle couldn’t come: though she might have got bored with Arthur, who can’t mean the same to her. Packing. Daphne swears she’s not going to declare her stockings. There’s the woman for you. Actually proposing to smuggle half a gross. Well, a gross, really. I mean it’s yelling for trouble. Anything small, of course. But silk in bulk, no thank you. Besides, I don’t think it’s right. Not a risk like that. A last stroll down the Avenida and round about. A pair of earrings for Daphne, and a little fob watch for Jill. They can wear them. Au revoir, Lisbon. You’ve done us proud.

  Nearly six months had gone by, and, after a very quiet summer we were spending a week in Town. People were very kind. ‘Dine with us very quietly and say who you’d like to be there. Or, if you would rather not, may we come and see you?’ Of such is understanding. That we should take sherry in Charles Street was natural enough. Punch and Athalia Fairfax asked some of our oldest friends.

  “Of course I’ll come to White Ladies,” cried Lady Plague. “For a long weekend this autumn. Soon it will be too late, for, when I become a nuisance, I shall stay put.”

  “Nuisances,” said Berry, “are born. Like fools and bores. You can’t become a nuisance.”

  “I can physically. Dribbling and diets and being helped out of chairs.”

  “When Lady Plague dribbles,” said Berry, “one listens for Drake’s Drum. And England will be in peril, when you are helped out of your chair.”

  “Very specious,” said Lady Plague. “But I’m getting on. Mr Forsyth, of course, is ageless. Thirty years ago he looked exactly the same.”

  “There are times,” said Forsyth, “when I feel full of years. I’m growing tired of progress. It was rather fun at first, but now it has gathered speed. Our standard of living is growing absurdly high. But the finer arts are dying. If you are to cultivate them, you get left behind.”

  “He’s right,” said Berry. “Who ever found him wrong? We went to a play last night that had run for over a year. I was not only bored, but shocked. Thirty years ago that play would have been shouted down.”

  “Can’t have it both ways,” said Jonah. “And England is looking up.”

  “That’s true,” said Elizabeth Larch. “Contentment is coming back.’

  “I quite agree,” said Simon. “I haven’t been here for six months, and I notice a very big change.”

  “The slow belly is less obtrusive?”

  “Yes,” said Forsyth, “it is. And Lady Larch is right. Contentment is lifting its head. That is beyond all price. I’d sooner see England content than England great. We are great still, of course. But not so great as we were. I think we’re less – exacting. Perhaps it’s as well.”

  “We’re getting tired,” said Berry. “Our reign has been very long. We’ve taught every other nation how to behave, and, as a result, are hated as no other power has been hated since Time began.”

  “And trusted,” said Lady Plague. “Let’s drink our health.”

  We did so cordially.

  “And White Ladies?” said Punch.

  “Stands where it did,” said Berry. “You must come and see for yourself.”

  “Some Sunday?” said Athalia.

  “Make it a weekend,” said Daphne.

  “A Sunday would be better,” said Punch. “Just now I’m up to the neck.”

  “Foreign affairs?” said Jonah.

  Punch nodded.

  “Dear, dear,” said Berry. “So much for the Zoo at Geneva. Never mind. Think of the unemployment, if they were to close it down. Thousands of blue-based baboons, all short of a job.”

  “I knew there was something,” said Lady Plague. “What’s all this about psychology?”

  “The wonder of the age,” said Berry. “Like halma and chewing-gum. No more inhibitions, no more hydrophobia, no more surplusage. The elixir of life at three or five guineas a time. It used to be ninepence a bottle at all the principal fairs; but now it’s gone up.”

  “But is there anything in it?”

  “There’s a lot of money in it,” said Berry. “I’ve a very good mind to have a stab myself. Look in my eyes, Lady Plague.”

  Lady Plague complied.

  “Just as I thought,” said Berry. “Your reflexes are turbulent. But that’s not all. The chiasmic pollux is fluting, and that we must check. You see, that leads to arthritis. Let me explain. Turbulence is a condition occasioned by failure to relax. If the turbulence is permitted to become constant, the chiasmic pollux balloons, because it is overworked. That affects the diaphragm costive, and, after a little, fluting is bound to set in. Now you don’t want arthritis, do you? So I should advise twelve treatments at seven guineas a time.”

  “And the treatments?”

  “You learn to relax,” said Berry. “You lie on a couch in a dark room, while I go out and get my hair cut.”

  “Thank you,” said Lady Plague. “Mr Forsyth, what do you say?”

  The lawyer raised his eyebrows.

  “There are plenty of rogues,” he said, “in every walk of life. The practice of psychology, which I have seen defined as the science of the nature of the soul, offers a fair field to the impostor. I mean, he mayn’t come off, but he can’t be caught out. My personal feeling is that the professional psychologist should be superfluous. The village priest, the family lawyer, the general practitioner – if they are not psychologists, they are no good at their jobs. You can extend the list indefinitely. ‘The study of mankind is man.’ Of course it’s a sign of the times. If we go on like this, we shall have professional sympathizers.”

  “That’s right,” said Berry. “Your aunt leaves all she’s got to the Barley Water Boys, and you take a course of comfort at two guineas a time.”

 
“My dears,” said Daphne, “listen. Elizabeth’s got great news. She and Dick are building the perfect house.”

  “Gorgeous,” said Berry. “I’ve always wanted to build. Something quite slight, you know, with a couple of priest’s holes and a hectic tank.”

  “Tell them, Elizabeth,” said Daphne.

  “Well, it’s down in Wiltshire,” said the lady. “The thing is this. Uncle George has sold Bay Morreys for what he could get. But, before he sold, he gave Dick and me five acres – five acres of the park. Now the mansion is being pulled down, and we’ve bought enough material to build a very small house. Of course we’re frightfully lucky. The man who bought it ’s a builder and terribly nice. He could easily sting us, but he doesn’t. And it does save transport, because we are on the spot. There are times when I feel quite ashamed, but he only laughs. Walls of beautiful stone, flags for the terrace – you never saw such things, a perfectly lovely staircase and parquet floors. The ballroom will easily floor the whole of the house.”

  “What a dream,” said Jonah.

  “It’s like a dream,” said Elizabeth. “Beautiful old stuff for nothing at all. And it’s all because we’re only five minutes’ run. But the builder’s a lamb – he picks out the best for us.”

  “Can’t we come and see it?” said Daphne. “It must be wonderful.”

  “It is rather,” said Elizabeth. “I mean, every room is panelled, and so’s the hall. It’s very tiny, of course: but it’s really old. And we’ve got the stable clock – he made us a present of that,”