House That Berry Built

by Dornford Yates

  And then came the day when the marble stair was hung.

  The brothers had advised us beforehand.

  Henri spoke for them both.

  “Specialists, of course, will do it: but it is an operation which should be observed. Mesdames and Messieurs will enjoy it. Myself I have seen it three times. But I shall be there on Wednesday, because it takes me by storm.”

  That we all paraded on Wednesday, I need not say.

  The three lowest steps had been laid. They had no support. Risers and treads simply jutted into the semicircular wall. They were five feet long, and they jutted into the wall to the depth of an inch. They were set in with plaster: and plaster joined together the risers and treads.

  The fourth riser was fitted. We saw it laid. Then the specialist chipped out his niche, and his helpers lifted the fourth step and guided it into place. The specialist plastered it in. It took him, perhaps, two minutes to do this work. He adjusted it to his liking and wiped the spare plaster away. And then he walked up the stair and stood on that step.

  I do not expect to be believed, but we all of us saw him do it. He must have weighed thirteen stone, but the step never budged. And the step itself must have weighed a hundredweight.

  “But why doesn’t it collapse?” said Daphne, putting a hand to her head.

  The brothers, Jean and Henri, laughed and laughed.

  “Madame, we cannot tell you, and we are builders ourselves. It is an art beyond ours. But the specialist only smiles and talks about stresses and strains.”

  “But it doesn’t look safe,” said Jill.

  “Yet I have seen one such in a block of flats at Paris. It was the common staircase which everyone used. It had to carry four or five people at once. And pianos were carried up it. And yet it moved no more than if it had been cut from the living rock.”

  “And the balustrade?” said Daphne.

  “That is nearly ready, Madame. It looks most charming. Madame’s design is really exquisite.”

  “I copied it,” said Daphne. “The credit must go to a smith who died many years ago. I don’t even know his name, but he knew his job.”

  This was the truth. Daphne had found a picture of an elegant balustrade that once had guarded a balcony belonging to Bloomsbury Square. How or where she found it, I do not know. But she had reproduced it with great success.

  The stairway was done the next day, and two days later the gallery had been paved.

  The roof was now on the garage: but the timber had been soaked in the process, and Joseph would not put up the ceiling until it was thoroughly dry. Neither would he render the walls of the house itself.

  “What’s he mean – ‘render’?” said Jill.

  “‘Cover with a skin of strong mortar.’ The whole of the house and the garage are going to be rendered twice. We don’t want hot weather for that: but we mustn’t have heavy rain. A Scotch mist would be ideal.”

  “I like the stone. I’m sorry it’s going to be covered.”

  “It won’t be covered on the terrace – the front of the house. At least, the ground floor won’t. The ground-floor is going to be pointed and stay as it is. But the skin is a great protection. A house which is really well rendered will never be damp.”

  Strangely enough, the weather changed the next day and before the week was out, the house had been rendered once.

  Next week it was rendered again and the moment the mortar was dry, the carpenters arrived with the shutters and window-frames. These had already received two coats of paint. The third would be administered, when they had been set in place.

  As soon as the frames were in, the windows were glazed: and the moment the glass was in, men came from a neighbouring town to lay the floors.

  The house began to look like a house: and the rooms began to look huge.

  The ‘service’ steps which ran from the house to the drive – to the left of the house as you faced it – were now in use. There were eighty-four, and the last twelve made you think. They passed by the guard-room door, and here was a pleasant landing, on which, if you pleased, you could rest. This was really, a miniature terrace, and a balustrade was to guard it – a balustrade of wrought-iron, like that of the stair within.

  Joseph was determined to lay the front steps himself.

  “They are most important, Monsieur. The ‘service’ steps are nothing. The peasants are well accustomed to climbing the side of a house. But Madame and Miladi are not. Their ascent must be made as easy as ever we can. The steps must be broad and low, and the flags must be perfectly laid. No rain must rest upon them. That is why I shall do it myself. And while I am doing that, the masons will build the parapet of the terrace. So, though I shall be engaged, I shall still be at hand and so shall be able to see that the work is properly done.”

  As he said, so he did.

  He laid the front steps in ten days. He had two men to help him but every single step he adjusted and laid himself. They ran down straight to the foot of Hadrian’s Wall: there was a little landing, as on the other side: and then they curled down to the garage to splay out on to the apron beside a waiting car. They were low and most easy to tread, and I cannot understand to this day how he managed with ninety-three. It sounds a great many, of course. It is a great many. But the effort required to climb them was really extremely slight. Even Berry admitted this.

  “He’s laid more than steps. He’s laid a hell of a ghost. I don’t see how he’s done it, but that is beside the point. That flight might have been a nightmare. I don’t pretend I’m not glad to get to the top; but I’m not exhausted. I haven’t even perspired. And he’s managed to give the swine a certain allure. You feel inspired to climb them… Not so with the ‘service’ steps. We shan’t be troubled with hawkers. And I’ll lay the butcher leaves the fish in the drive.”

  The parapet surrounding the terrace was nearly done. Its actual height was decided by Berry himself. It was to be coped with specially chosen flagstones, three inches thick; and one of these was brought up and laid on the unfinished wall. Then Berry leaned upon it and looked at the lovely view.

  “Too low,” he said shortly. “Another two inches, I think.”

  The flag was removed and another two inches were added to the height of the parapet. Then the flag was put back.

  Berry tried it again.

  “One more inch,” he said.

  The procedure was repeated.

  “Now that’s just right,” said Berry. “On that you can lean at your ease. It’s just right for the folded arms. Ideal for meditation.” He glanced at us, standing behind. “No protrusion of the buttocks, I trust?”

  “You won’t be arrested,” said Jonah, “if that’s what you mean.”

  Berry turned to Joseph.

  “My cousin, the Captain, mocks me.”

  “And that, without cause,” said Joseph. “Myself, I wholly approve the trouble which Monsieur has taken to get the height right. After all, the parapet will be there for a thousand years; but this little exercise has taken a short half hour. Before buying a pair of shoes, Monsieur will take the precaution of trying them on. And what is a pair of shoes, beside this parapet?”

  “And the soap-niche?” said Berry.

  “It is justly famous already. Lavarini can talk about nothing else. The marble floor, so scooped, was a great idea. I had thought and thought – to no purpose. But Monsieur arrived. I see Miladi smiling – and so I have to smile, too. But Monsieur mocks himself. He mentions only his soap-niche. He does not mention the appointments throughout the house. It is he who has measured himself exactly where each shall go. Every light, every mirror and shelf; it is he who has judged and measured and marked the spot: servants’ quarters and all, that all may be just as it should be for everyone. Miladi’s pier-glass, for instance, will hang two inches lower than that of mon Capitaine. But there! I can never declare the joy that I have had in helping to build this house. No detail has seemed unimportant in Mesdames’ and Messieurs’ eyes. They have stood not behind, but bes
ide me in all I have done. And when I am very old, I shall always remember that.”

  The parapet was not completed. Its wings were built and, roughly, four-fifths of its length – that is to say, the length of Hadrian’s Wall – but a gap was left in the middle, because the scaffold was there which led to the crane. When we had done with the crane, then the gap would be closed.

  On the second day of June we had left Pau for Bel Air, and though we were leaving a really luxurious flat, we were more than happy to sleep among the mountains again. In the last twelve months we had spent so much time in high places that, when we went down, we missed them, body and soul. Of this there can be no question. Mountains can be compelling. They can get hold of a man, as can no other country I know. After all, the old gods lived there; nymphs inhabited their groves; Artemis hunted in their forests; and Amaryllis’ footprints embroidered the dew that overlaid their lawns. That lovely lease is up: horn and laughter and echo are heard no more: but tenants like those must have larded their haunts with magic and have magnified the mansions that lodged them, when earth was young. For proof of this, match me the silence of mountaintops. It is not of the world: it passes all understanding: it is, for me, the presence… And I think that those who have felt it will bear me out.

  The furniture in our flat had shown that it was well made of seasoned wood, and we had visited the factory and had placed the kind of order which factories like to receive. We needed beds and bedding: we needed a dining-room table and dining-room chairs; we needed dressing-tables and chests of drawers. Every piece was made to our order, of oak or walnut or rosewood, just as we said. For such wood and such workmanship, the price was remarkably low, and we were very much tempted to order more than we did. But we did not want to live with nothing but modern stuff: so we bought what we had to have, proposing to furnish slowly, looking for things in the sale-room and gradually acquiring some things that cannot be made today. The goods that we had in England were being sent out; and, with them, the linen and silver which we had kept.

  So I come to the balusters, which once had graced Waterloo Bridge.

  Their arrival had been greeted with rapture. Daphne and Jill had embraced me, Jonah had made me a present and Berry had sworn to remember me in his Will. But when it came to deciding where they should stand… For six months they had waited by the garage, because we could not agree where they would look best. The question was raised on an average twice a week, and discussion grew more bitter as time went on.

  “They should go with grass,” said Jonah. “You can’t get away from that.”

  “Your mind’s diseased,” said Berry. “They’ve gone without grass for over a hundred years.”

  “Jonah’s quite right,” said Daphne. “On the bridge it never mattered, because they were part of a scheme. But we’ve only got six. And we can’t possibly build upon them: they’ve got to stand by themselves.”

  “That’s what I say,” said Berry. “Turn them into sundials and shove them about the place.”

  “You can’t have six sundials,” said Jill. “Besides they shouldn’t be scattered.”

  “I quite agree,” said I. “The eye should run from one to the other.”

  “And what about the nose?” said Berry. “Where’s that going to run? All over them I suppose.”

  “You really are filthy,” said Jill.

  “It isn’t my fault,” said Berry. “I’ve not been the same since I slept in that wagon lit. You know. When I had that blanket that somebody’d been—”

  “You would bring that up,” said Daphne.

  “Don’t confuse me with my predecessor. Incidentally, I’m perfectly sure that that was a ramp.”

  “What was?” said Jill.

  “The, er, magic blanket. I gave the conductor ten francs to give it to somebody else. Well, there’s an income there. He can probably count on fifteen francs a night.”

  “I should like to see them,” said Daphne, “along the edge of the lawn. But they wouldn’t show up from below, because from that angle you’d get the wall behind them.”

  “What wall?” said Berry.

  “The wall of the terrace above.”

  “They should stand against green,” said I. “And, if we can do it, on green. Three would look very charming, planted about the ledge at the foot of the bluff.”

  “I know they would,” said my sister. “But what of the other three?”

  With a fine inconsistency–

  “You can’t possibly split them,” said Berry. “They’d better all stand in a ring – to the west of the house. A little, alfresco temple, in honour of that fine old English god, Siwian.”

  “Siwian?” said Jill. “I never heard of him.”

  “Oh, you must have,” said Berry. “Macaulay’s Brays of Home.

  For Ferro loves the concrete,

  And plaster loves the lime,

  And Siwian loves the septic-tank

  And runs there all the time.

  “Of course, just as Woden’s Day has become Wednesday, so Siwian’s Day has become Sewage Eve. That’s when they used to play grab-griffin and sardines in the good old style. I remember, when I was Nell Gwynne, Sam Pepys bet me a silver warming-pan—”

  “Quite so,” said Daphne. “And now supposing we returned to the balusters. For some reason or other, the idea of a temple to drainage doesn’t appeal to me.”

  “Then do as I said at first and range them all in a line by the side of the road.”

  “But,” cried Jill, “they wouldn’t mean anything there. If they carried lamps or something, that would be different: but just in a row they’d look silly.”

  “What would they mean if you shoved three round the ledge?”

  “There,” said I, “they’d suggest a belvedere. I don’t suppose you’d get it; but that would be the impression on those who had eyes to see.”

  “How rude,” said Berry. “Besides, what slobbering tripe! Why the whole damned place is a b-blasted b-belvedere.”

  “What if it is?” shrieked Daphne. “It doesn’t look like one. Don’t you want our home to look nice? Considering it can be seen for about five miles… We’ve got to do landscape-gardening.”

  “She’s perfectly right,” said Jonah. “We can have a bed of violets, because they give us pleasure: but the lay-out here has got to be good to look at. I hold that to be our duty. We can’t let such scenery down.”

  “Then plant trees,” said Berry. “You’ll get a damned sight further with two or three blubbering elms than with half a dozen swag-bellied pedestals, short of their funeral urns.”

  This slander provoked indignation, and we were all dealing with Berry who was, I need hardly say, invoking his blue-based baboons, when Therèse appeared and stood waiting for the tumult to die.

  “And I tell you this,” said Berry. “They’d know what to do with those bird-stands. They’d tell you where to put them. Yes, Therèse?”

  “Someone is asking for Monsieur. It is the Sarrats of Besse. He is the burly roadman – Monsieur will have seen him about.”

  As Berry got to his feet—

  “What do they want?” he said.

  “I do not know, Monsieur. I have no idea at all. But they are a decent couple. They have no children and they keep very much to themselves. Madame will remember the girl – a very pretty creature, who always smiles.”

  “Of course,” said my sister. “We had a long talk one day. She comes from Argèles.”

  “Madame is right. That is she. And she has such a pretty garden – the best in Besse.”

  I followed Berry on to the terrace.

  Sarrat spoke haltingly.

  “Monsieur will forgive us, but we were wondering if Monsieur would care to purchase another field.”

  Berry smiled.

  “To be perfectly honest,” he said, “I think we have bought enough land.”

  The man looked down, and his wife took up the running on his behalf.

  “Monsieur knows best, of course. But we do not ask v
ery much. It is not a very valuable meadow – we know that well. Still, it is pleasing to look at and will be no discredit to Monsieur’s property. Besides, it lies next to the meadows which Monsieur purchased first. It is the one touching the road, with the old, stone trough which is fed by the grotto above.”

  The elegant meadow…which Jill and I so much desired.

  “It is very pretty,” I said. “The water keeps it so green. But what are you asking? We honestly had not thought of buying another field.”

  “That is understood, Monsieur. The thing is this. We have already three meadows – very useful fields on the road above. My husband is always busy, mending the roads; but I can deal with them and they suit us well. And in the summer he helps me, when he has finished his work. But this meadow is far from them, and I cannot manage it, too. And so we let it each year – let it for next to nothing, for half the price of its hay. And that is unprofitable. If Monsieur would care to have it, to round his property, we will sell it to Monsieur for fifty pounds.”

  Its market value was thirty. But this was the fairest dealing which we had met. Though I could not help liking the Sarrats, I remembered de Moulin’s words. Had we sought to buy that meadow ten months before, I was sure that they would have asked us two hundred pounds.

  I looked at Berry and nodded.

  “All right,” he said. “If we can have immediate possession. You see, we’re arranging to have the property fenced.”

  “Monsieur can enter tomorrow. We had sold the hay to Lafitte, but now he cannot cut it, and so it is back on our hands.”

  “Very well,” said Berry. “My cousin will bring some stamped paper, and we’ll make the Agreement out.”

  I fetched a pen and stamped paper and wrote out the vital words. I was getting quite good at such things. Then we all four signed the sheet and Berry called for wine.

  “This year’s hay,” he said, “should belong to you. D’you think you can manage to take it?”