House That Berry Built

by Dornford Yates

We followed our invisible hostess into the house.

  As we took our seats—

  “You see,” said a very smart lady, “I have a shop in Paris: but this is my holiday home. Every year I come here for three months. But it is furnished from my shop, and if it is all sold tomorrow – well, then I shall get some more down, to take its place.”

  “But it all looks so lovely,” said Jill. “I mean, it would be such a shame to break it up.”

  “Madame,” said the other, “antiquaires have to live. And if they are true antiquaires, they have to learn to harden their hearts. I am now past the stage of hating to part with nice things. All that concerns me is that they go to a proper home, where people will care for them as I have and show them as they should be shown.”

  It was perfectly clear to me that, while ‘antiquaires have to live’, it would not be this lady’s fault if she failed to survive.

  As though to confirm this impression—

  “And now,” she said, “I shall leave you and take my small dog for a run. Customers like to look at things by themselves. I shall be back in ten minutes, and then I will answer whatever questions you please. But you must come back tomorrow, for things look different by day.”

  Before we could protest, she was gone.

  “Oh, Boy,” breathed Jill. “Those stalls…in the gallery…”

  “Those corner-cupboards,” I said, “in the little drawing-room.”

  The best thing there was a set of tapestry chairs. These were not in use, but stood in a little chamber beyond two wrought-iron gates. Outside a museum, I had not seen such a set. They were not, of course, for us; but when I had looked upon them my heart sank down. Madame Yvonne Martigny – the name was on one of her cards – was one of the great antiquaires. You had to have money to deal in such pieces as those.

  I was still looking at them, when our hostess returned.

  “Ah, Monsieur observes my set of tapestry chairs. I should not have them here really. They make the house smack of the shop. But there is no money in Paris, and they have cost me so much that I cannot hold on to them long.”

  “What do you ask for them, Madame?”

  “Eight hundred pounds.”

  “I don’t think that’s dear,” I said; “but they’re not for people like us.”

  “Of course they are not. Who has eight hundred pounds to spend in such a fashion today? If I sell them at all, they will go to America. But in fact they are not expensive. Eight years ago I could have sold those chairs for two thousand pounds.”

  “I love those stalls,” said Jill.

  Madame Martigny smiled.

  “You should not have told me so. I would have let those go for thirty pounds. But now that I know that you like them, I double the price.”

  “Oh, dear,” said Jill.

  “Mademoiselle – I refuse to call you ‘Madame’ – I was but showing you the tricks of my trade. They are yours for twenty-five pounds. But do not sit in one; for, if you do, I shall give them to you for nothing. Your beauty against that background…”

  I began to have great respect for the great antiquaires.

  We purchased the stalls and the chest – and promised to return the next day.

  So we did – after tea…with the others. Berry ran riot, as I had known he would. Madame Martigny and he got on like a house on fire. But if she was a business woman, he was a business man. Honours, I think, were even. But he made us all feel ashamed. When she asked ten pounds, he smiled and looked into her eyes and offered her four. But she smiled back and said ‘Eight’ – and he paid her six.

  “I don’t say they’re not worth it,” he’d say, “but put them up to auction and see what you’d get.”

  “Monsieur is telling me.”

  “Very well then. I am offering more than the market price – and a great deal more than you paid. No, if I buy all this, you must help me out.”

  I think we both did very well.

  We bought the corner-cupboards, as well as the candlestick. We bought a pair of tallboys – a very rare thing: rare, because they were really period stuff. We bought a binnacle – a fine old fellow that had weathered some wicked seas. And we bought a fine chaise longue – the only comfortable one in which I have ever sat.

  “And now,” said Berry, “to show that there’s no ill will, if you’ll let me telephone, I’ll do my very best to sell those chairs.”

  “What do you mean?” said Daphne.

  “Van Heusen’s at Biarritz. I saw it in the paper today. I met him two years ago, and he’s mad about tapestry chairs.” He turned to Madame Martigny. “I don’t know what you’re asking, but that’s a very fine set. Shall I say thirteen hundred pounds?”

  “I will let them go for that.”

  “I bet you will,” said Berry, and picked up the telephone…

  We did not see Van Heusen. He visited Freilles on Friday; but we had already left.

  On Sunday a letter arrived.

  Friday evening.

  DEAR MONSIEUR PLEYDELL,

  My chairs are sold. Monsieur Van Heusen has bought them for twelve hundred and fifty pounds. The things which you bought have been very carefully packed and will leave here tomorrow, travelling by road. I have written to Paris to send you an English tall-case clock. It is by Vulliamy, and keeps most excellent time. This with my compliments. Consider it, please, a token of gratitude.

  Cordially yours,

  YVONNE MARTIGNY.

  There was no harm done. Van Heusen’s income was two million sterling a year.

  16

  In Which We Enter Gracedieu,

  and Jonah and I Assist an Unfortunate Dog

  The painting was over and done, and the floors had been scraped. And now they were being oiled, before they were waxed. And when those things had been done, we could enter in.

  All the service cupboards were white. They had been painted, while we were away at Freilles. The walls of the offices were white, except for the kitchen’s: these were done in pale blue – to discourage the flies. The servants’ bedrooms were yellow, woodwork and all. Jill’s bedroom was painted white, but all the others were painted powder-blue, woodwork and all. And all the rest of the house took its tone from the marble stair. The galleries were done in a lighter shade than the rooms. To describe this particular hue is very hard. I think perhaps ‘peach’ is as near as I can get.

  For all of this, the credit was Daphne’s alone. And few, I think, could have chosen so very well. For the whole of one day she sat in the gallery, while sample after sample was painted upon the wall.

  “Add a little white,” she would say, “and the merest trifle of blue.”

  And ten minutes later—

  “No. That’s not right. We shall have to start again. Now this time…”

  The thing is she knew what she wanted and knew that what she wanted was right. The result was admirable. Till then I had never perceived that a house can be made or marred, according to the colour in which its walls are hung.

  “The day after tomorrow,” said Berry. “I wasn’t far out.”

  Nor was he. He had planned for August the tenth, and today was August the ninth.

  “Nothing from Bordeaux?” said my sister.

  “Not a blasted word. I shall have to wire again. The stuff from Freilles is in the guard-room, waiting to be unpacked. The tall-case clock is at Nareth: Carson is going to get it this afternoon. The stuff from Asen is coming tomorrow at ten o’clock. The stuff from England ought to be here by noon.”

  “Will the floors be ready?”

  “Yes. It takes no time to oil them. That will be done this morning. And the men will begin to wax them this afternoon. They’ve got four men to do it, which means that they should be through tomorrow before midday.”

  The fence about the property was up; the cars were standing in the garage; and all that Joseph could do was almost done. His staff had shrunk to five. Four of these were clearing the mortar which had fallen down from the scaffold to the foot of Had
rian’s Wall. When this had been done, fine earth would be strewn there instead, and presently sown. Joseph himself and Pepito were up on the roof, replacing four or five tiles, which had been cracked by the hammer, when they were nailed into place…

  At six o’clock that evening Bordeaux replied.

  Your telegram not understood no van received from England for your address.

  We wired to London the next morning at eight o’clock.

  The post arrived at nine – with a letter from Bordeaux.

  August 5th.

  SIR,

  We have the pleasure to inform you that we are holding at your disposal one large furniture-van and contents. On receipt of your esteemed instructions, this will proceed to Pau by road. There it will pick up three packers from the Maison Barouche, afterwards proceeding to your address at Lally.

  We should appreciate twenty-four hours’ notice, not only for ourselves, but for the Maison Barouche, by letter or telegram.

  We beg that you will accept the expression of our most distinguished sentiments.

  Société des Organisations Internationales.

  “God give me strength,” said Berry. “When was that letter posted?”

  The post-mark showed that it was posted on August the ninth.

  “Written on Friday, posted on Tuesday and denied by wire the same day. How the hell this country survives, I do not know.”

  London’s reply arrived at eleven o’clock.

  Van received by Société des Organisations at Bordeaux on July thirty-first

  Another violent wire was sent to Bordeaux.

  Reference your letter numbered K/351 dated August 5th posted August 9th stop so carry out your orders that the van reaches Pau tomorrow at ten o’clock stop it must be here two hours later stop if the van is not here by midday I shall inform London and advise them to cancel your agency stop acknowledge.

  This telegram was not acknowledged and the van was not at Lally by noon the following day. Nor was it there at one. Nor at two.

  At a quarter past two we telephoned to Bordeaux.

  Berry spoke and I held the spare receiver.

  “Is that Bordeaux?” said Berry.

  “You are mad,” said a voice. “I am not wanting Libourne. I have cancelled—”

  “Blast what you’ve cancelled,” said Berry. “Is that Bordeaux?”

  “You are on the wrong line, Monsieur. Kindly get off at once.”

  “Is that the Société des Organisations?”

  “Yes. But—”

  “Don’t argue with me. Refer instead to your letter K/351 dated August the fifth.”

  “Have you finished?” asked the Exchange.

  “No, I haven’t,” roared Berry. “At this rate I shan’t have finished for half an hour. Are you there, Société des Organisations?”

  “Kindly replace your receiver. I do not want Libourne. In any event, I shall not pay for the call.”

  “This isn’t Libourne,” yelled Berry. “Will you refer to the letter I mentioned just now?”

  “What letter?” said the other.

  “K/351,” howled Berry, “of August 5th.”

  “Patience, Monsieur. I shall connect you at once with the department concerned.”

  “Have you finished?” asked the Exchange.

  “No, I haven’t,” screamed Berry. “I’ll let you know when I have. I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll let you into the secret. I’ll put the receiver back. And when you find I’ve cut off, you’ll know that I’ve done.”

  “Is that Libourne?” said a voice.

  “My God,” said Berry. “I didn’t know there was such a place.”

  “I have been trying to get you, Libourne, for three hours.”

  “Get this,” said Berry. “I am not Libourne. I never have been Libourne, and, by the grace of God, I never shall be Libourne. I am speaking from Lally in the Basses Pyrénées. My name is Major Pleydell.”

  “Oh, yes. Enchanted, Monsieur. About your van. We have no news of it yet. I wired you yesterday.”

  “But it’s there,” yelled Berry. “You’ve got it. You’ve had it for days.”

  “Monsieur is mistaken. We await the van with impatience.”

  “Refer to your letter K/351. In that you admit—”

  “Have you finished?” asked the Exchange.

  “God in his heaven!” cried Berry. “No, I have not. Can you construe the negative? NO!”

  “We have no such letter, Monsieur, upon our files. For that I can vouch. The fault is no doubt with London. The moment—”

  “Look here,” said Berry. “That letter was signed by you. It reached me yesterday morning at nine o’clock. I immediately telegraphed you, ordering you to arrange that the van should reach Lally not later than noon today.”

  “The wire is before me, Monsieur. But the van is not here.”

  “Then why did you say that it was?”

  “Have you finished?” asked the Exchange.

  “Not yet, sweetheart,” said Berry. “When you hear me vomit, then you can cut me off.”

  “How long,” said a voice, “am I to wait for Libourne?”

  “Several weeks, I hope,” said Berry. “Will you refer to that letter, you black-livered fool?”

  “Patience, Monsieur. What letter?”

  “The letter I referred to, you idiot. In which you declare that the van is awaiting my instructions.”

  “Monsieur, I have before me your very clear telegram. To that I replied on Monday—”

  “I’m going to read your letter. Listen to this.”

  “Have you finished?” asked the Exchange.

  Squinting with emotion, Berry mastered his voice.

  “Not yet, Goo-goo,” he sighed. “Don’t rush the rising gorge.”

  With that, he read the letter.

  “Well, what about that?” he demanded.

  “Is that Libourne?” said a voice. “I have tried to receive Libourne for—”

  “For your information,” said Berry, “your call to Libourne was cancelled some time ago.”

  “But that is absurd,” said the other. “And who are you?”

  “By the time I’m through with you, you’ll know who I am. And I hope and believe you’ll shortly be eaten of worms.”

  “Of what?” shrieked the other.

  “Of worms,” roared Berry, “you flat-footed, blue-based baboon.”

  “I am not a baboon,” howled the other. “Much less blue as to my seat. You describe yourself, Monsieur. I will not endure—”

  “Is that Libourne?” said Berry.

  As the choking scream died away, Berry rang off.

  He was wiping the sweat from his face, when Jill’s clear voice rang out.

  “It’s here! It’s here! It’s turning into the drive.”

  We ran through the library and on to the terrace beyond.

  A large, yellow furniture-van was proceeding towards the garage: Joseph was backing before it, beckoning it on.

  That night we slept in our home – twelve months and a half since Berry had ‘turned the first sod’. It was a great experience. Things were not straight, of course: but the linen was aired, and the china and glass were washed. So we lay in our own beds and drank our morning tea from the service we knew so well. Everything worked very well, down to the bells and the fountain, which, because we forgot all about it, was playing all night. It was not a very long night: except for the servants, no one was in bed before two. But even Berry was down to breakfast at nine.

  One great adventure was over: another was about to begin.

  “Monsieur,” said Joseph that morning, “behold! I have had my reward. Many a time at dawn I have taken the Nareth road, to observe the house from the opposite side of the valley. One always likes to see how one’s building looks. And last night, at eleven o’clock, I took that same road again. You see, I knew it would be lighted: and, as it was very warm and you had so much to do, I thought that perhaps the shutters would not be closed. Well, they were op
en, Monsieur, and every light was on. I can never tell you, Monsieur, of the splendour that met my eyes. It made the most lovely picture high up on the mountainside. I could not leave it, Monsieur. I stood there for more than an hour. Mesdames and Messieurs must drive out one night to see it; else they will lose the pleasure that others take in their home.”

  Two days later we said goodbye to that good and faithful servant, who had done all things well.

  It was Jill who spoke for us all.

  With his hand in hers—

  “We shall miss you terribly, Joseph. You see, you belong to the house. And so you always will, as long as we’re here. But you must come and see us, whenever you can. We shall always feel it natural to see you here, because it is thanks to you that we have such a lovely home.”

  Tea was served on the terrace on Sunday afternoon.

  “Is anyone,” said Daphne, “thinking of going to Pau?”

  “Where is Pau?” said Berry. “My feet are still off the earth.”

  “You’re hopeless,” said Daphne.

  “I shall never leave here,” said Berry. “I should like to be buried on the ledge at the foot of the bluff. I’m through with pomps and vanities. I told Nobb so yesterday morning. And he said he quite understood.”

  “Nobb?” said his wife. “D’you mean you’ve been talking to Nobb?”

  “Why shouldn’t I talk to Nobb? He’s made me damned good shoes for thirty-five years. Besides, he’s a friend of mine.”

  “You actually rang up London, to order a pair of shoes?”

  “Two pairs,” said Berry. “And what’s the telephone for? We had a long talk. There he was in St James’s Street, and here was I in the heart of the Pyrénées. I could hear the taxis passing. And then I knew I had chosen the better part. And that reminds me. I’m not sure I’m going to die. I may be translated. So if you can’t find me one day… And I rang up the Army and Navy. They’ve got some things to lie on, out in the open air. The assistant was most understanding. He doesn’t know this part, but he’s been to Tours.”

  “Of course we shall be ruined,” said Daphne. “Still, I may as well contribute. I’ll ring up Helen tonight.”