Courts of Idleness

by Dornford Yates

  “More,” said Fairie bitterly. “I have removed all traces of the crime, perused the Sportsman we brought from England, and smoked a cigarette. Have I shaved!”

  “Well, I shan’t be long,” said his wife. “I must wash, you know.”

  With a groan Fairie returned to the balcony and, leaning his arms upon the warm rail, prepared to abandon himself to a luxurious contemplation of his surroundings.

  Half-past seven o’clock of an April morning may be a fair hour anywhere. In the Island of Rih it may be exquisite. There is a time for every place. The greenwood will look its best of a morning, so soon as the sun is up; this shadowed stream dreams on its way never so lazily as in the hot afternoon; your rolling moorland stretches into the purple distance, peerless at cock-crow, whilst at noontide deep meadows will blow most of all sweetly, the steady drone of insects hanging above them. Sundown, too, has a great following, Harlequin night and the moon’s witchery, maybe, the greatest of all. But, then, show me the alley, never so mean, that will not take on a look of elegance, clothed in that famous livery of black and silver. There is a time for every place. Seven-thirty o’clock in the morning is Rih’s time. At least, so you will maintain at half-past seven. At any other hour of the day you will be less certain, so often is Rih all glorious.

  Bill Fairie leaned there comfortably, awaiting his bath. Below him stretched the deep garden, heavy with the massed perfume of a thousand blossoms, which the first breeze of the day was beginning to dissipate. Beyond, the laughing bay and the ragged white of Starra glistened in the hot sun. Prospect and day alike were big with promise.

  The sudden sight of Broke in breeches and leggings, strolling gingerly along one of the polished paths, set Fairie thinking. By the time his cousin was within range he was ready.

  “Good morning, brother,” he said pleasantly. Robin started, slipped on the even cobbles, recovered himself with an effort, and looked up. “Where’s the meet?”

  “On the pier,” said Robin. “At half-past ten. Got your bicycle ready?”

  Fairie looked at him for a moment before replying.

  Then:

  “Seriously,” he said, “what is it? Had some bad news this morning?”

  Broke spread out his hands.

  “To be frank,” he said, “I propose to ride. To your blear eyes, I suppose, all horses look the same. As a matter of fact, the half-bred Arabs here are—”

  “If you’re going to be rude,” said Bill, “I shan’t lend you my pillion.”

  A quick rustle of silk, and there was Betty beside him on the balcony, all fresh and pink and white in a dainty kimono.

  “O-oh!” she cried delightedly, clapping her hands. “Look at our horseman.”

  “Hush!” said her husband. “They’re making a new film thing – ‘The Jockey’s Sweetheart, or A Tale of the Turf.’ That out there is the comic stableboy.” Here the soft sound of steps upon the path sent Betty flying into her bedroom. Making ready to follow her, Fairie nodded carelessly to his indignant cousin below. “Very well, Tom,” he added, raising his voice, “have the mare round at ten o’clock, and see that that martingale’s properly clean this morning.”

  As he disappeared, a ripple of laughter floated out of the room, and in its wake Betty’s voice, crying:

  “Never mind, Robin. You look very nice, and I envy you. Why didn’t I bring my habit?”

  “Probably for the same reason that induced your husband to leave his manners in England,” said Broke acidly.

  The next moment The White Hope was tapping him upon the shoulder.

  “Perhaps he knew they wouldn’t survive the Customs,” he said.

  It was the eminent lawyer’s footsteps that they had heard approaching.

  Half an hour later Fay Broke and her brother and Betty sat down to breakfast. Two tables away The White Hope was already dissecting passion fruit with all the precision of the law. Beyond him again the Fetterings – brother and sister – were engaged in deep converse; and Phyllis Fettering was wearing a fawn-coloured riding habit.

  “Where’s Bill?” said Robin, as they took their places.

  “Gone to buy the Gazette,” said Betty, glancing out of one of the tall windows, which opened on to the cool courtyard and the sunlit road beyond. “There he is, talking to Get Out and Get Under. Aren’t they dears?”

  Two bullocks, these if you please, that were used to draw a swaying sledge over the cobbles. In this one carro always the four drove after dinner to the Casino and home again. Fairie had marked down driver and animals at the first, and straightway retained them.

  Fay nodded.

  “I love their great patient eyes,” she said.

  “Give me their horns,” said her brother. “So sympathetic.”

  “Dear idiot,” said his sister, “where are you going to ride?”

  “Oh, just round about, I suppose, over the hills. And you? What are you going to do?”

  “I don’t see why we shouldn’t go up the mountain,” said Betty. “I dare say Surrey Fettering’ll come,” she added carelessly.

  “Of course,” said Robin. “Hullo, Bill, old pal. Had a good bath?”

  The gentleman so addressed laid a bunch of violets beside his wife’s plate before replying. Then:

  “Hush!” he said. “That hideous incident is now closed. Let me share with you the two compelling, if solitary, items of news with which the English column of the Rih Gazette is this morning bursting.” He took his seat and spread the flimsy sheet carefully in front of him. “In the first place, you will be petrified to learn that, ‘Bearing the Ramsgate postmark, and dated September 9th, 1901, a postcard from her mother has just been delivered to a domestic servant at Wapping.’ The second and last sensation comes from New York. If we may believe our eyes, ‘The Newburn and Hatfield Railway Company is shortly to be dissolved under the Anti-Trust Law.’ Now you know. I may add that I paid fifty reis for this issue on the off-chance that some distorted racing news might have wormed its way into print.”

  “My dear,” said Betty, “you don’t seem to realize that we are out of the world for a little, and it’s no use trying to keep in touch. Personally, I just don’t want to.”

  “Nor I,” said Fay. “But I’m all for going up the mountain today.”

  Fairie laid down his knife and looked at her.

  “What new blasphemy is here?” he said. “Go up the mountain? This isn’t the Pentateuch.”

  “Just the day for it,” said Broke, with a grin. “If I wasn’t riding—”

  “Yes,” said his cousin grimly. “Yes. I can just see you climbing on a day like this. Always did make a playground of the Alps, didn’t you?” He turned to his wife. “My dear, you know that I can never stand heights. That’s why I never sit in the dress circle.”

  “Nonsense,” said Betty. “You go up in a train thing all the way and then toboggan down. They say the view’s lovely.”

  Her husband wiped his forehead before replying. “At least,” he said, “the Gazette will profit. The proceedings at the inquest should make absorbing reading.” He turned to Robin. “You’ll know this shirt again, won’t you? I mean to say, you’ll have to identify the bodies, and if my face isn’t recognizable, or they can’t find my head or anything—”

  The White Hope stopped, on his way out, to pay his respects to Betty and Fay. With one consent they appealed for his support of their case. He heard them out gravely. Then:

  “I am with you,” he said simply. “Mr Fairie’s apprehension is baseless.”

  “But this tobogganing stunt?” said Bill.

  “A mild affair, believe me, and rather delectable.”

  “See what you’re going to miss,” said Betty, turning to Broke.

  The latter raised his eyebrows. Before he could reply:

  “And yet,” said the man of law, “were I twenty years younger, and some haughty barb fretting for me at the gates—”

  “You’d give the mountain a miss,” said Broke. The White Hope glanced in the dir
ection of Phyllis Fettering.

  “Speaking impersonally,” he said, “much would depend on whether anyone, and, if so, who, had brought a habit with them.”

  “That,” said Bill, “is fair comment. Incidentally, we hope that you will dine with us tonight. Without prejudice, I mean.”

  The eminent KC beamed.

  “It will be a privileged occasion,” he said.

  It was nine o’clock when Phyllis Fettering and Broke rode out of the courtyard. Into Starra and up through the little town they passed, till there was more space between the dwellings, and the gardens spread wider and deeper behind their random walls.

  Starra’s ways are cobbled, every one of them. Not a back street, not an alley that is not paved with old black cobble-stones, small and close-set, worn smooth and polished by the traffic of many rolling years. There is no sound because of them, for of wheeled traffic there is none at all in the island, save only the panting cars, and they, on rubber tires, run quietly enough. For the rest, carts, wagons, and chaises alike sway to and fro on well-greased runners, sure-footed oxen drawing them. The pace is not of the hottest, but in Rih there is no hastening.

  “Some of them would eat out of my hand,” said Miss Fettering. “They would really.”

  They were talking about deer.

  “Naturally,” said Robin. “I myself would eat large quantities of food out of your hand. Afterwards I should lick—”

  “Only dry bread, you know.”

  “Husks,” said Robin laconically. “Out of your hand.”

  “He is tame, isn’t he?” said Phyllis, with a maddening lift of her straight eyebrows. “And now–” She hesitated and reined up her horse. Clearly she was uncertain of the way. For a moment she glanced up a steep path rising between soft-coloured walls. “No,” she murmured, “it wasn’t that one. And yet—”

  Broke’s eyes never left her face. This was very thoughtful and grave for the moment, steady-eyed. The straight nose, the curve of her soft lips, her faultless chin, made up a profile to wonder at. Kissed of the sun, her delicate skin had taken on the look of health which that great lover alone can give his darlings – a favour precious indeed, though some will have none of it. Yet such kisses may be taken in all honour by royalty and ragamuffin alike, neither can they breed regrets nor any heartache, nor even an odd memory, which might not be there to smart, could we but call back Time.

  “We’ll try it, anyway,” said Phyllis suddenly, turning her horse’s head to the path. “You’ll have to forgive me if I’m wrong. By the way, you don’t know where I’m taking you to yet, do you?”

  “I am in your hands,” said Broke.

  “I thought you were going to eat out of them.”

  “Ah,” said Robin, “but I propose to rise to that occasion. Excuse me,” he added, “but just look at the sunlight on that wall there, and then think of any English seaside resort at this moment. Of course, the grey light effects at Blackpool will be – er – effective. Lunch under the pier there on Easter Monday will be a festive meal. Wind E to NE. Some showers, some—”

  “‘Oh, to be in England now that April’s there,’” said Miss Fettering.

  Broke frowned.

  “A charming sentiment,” he said. “But old Browning wasn’t taking any himself. When he wrote that, he was in Italy. Enthusiasts would style that an accident: I should call it a precaution.”

  Phyllis Fettering laughed. Then:

  “Has he had much to make him cynical?” she said.

  “I protest,” said Robin aggrievedly. “I do hereby protest. Mine is an approving nature. I’m always getting lost in Admiration.”

  “Where’s that?” said Phyllis.

  “Where? Why, in Thought. You must know the great city of Thought, with all her parishes, Memory, Wonderment, Melancholy, Awe, and the rest. Don’t you ever go there?”

  “I think so. Tell me about it.”

  Broke shook his head.

  “If you know it, there’s nothing to tell. Only I’m rather fond of going there and wandering about its broad, silent streets. It has three great quarters, you know – Past, Present, Future and – and lots of parishes. Past I know well. Sometimes I lose my way though,” he added reflectively. “It grows so quickly, you see, and if I’m looking for some special—”

  “Lost again? You said just now you were always getting lost—”

  “In Admiration, my dear. Same thing. Still, most of that parish lies in Present. For instance, I’m lost in present admiration of your throat. I love throats.”

  “From the way you speak anyone would think you collected them.”

  “So I do,” said Robin. “Keep them in the south wing of a little gallery I have in Bond Street, Past, W. Yours will have a room to itself.”

  “Thanks awfully. I suppose you saw ‘The Blue Bird’?”

  “If you accuse me of plagiarism—”

  “I am congratulating you upon your memory.”

  Broke glanced at her. She was looking straight between her horse’s ears, her chin ever so slightly tilted and a faint smile on her lips. After a pause:

  “Your name,” he said, “is Mockery. Upon the hills of Rih you flout—”

  “The dreamer who was kind and shared his dreams with a friend.” She turned a glowing face to him, and for a second a little hand rested on his arm. “You mustn’t take me too seriously.”

  “You darling,” said Robin. As he spoke, her horse broke into a trot.

  Five minutes later they halted before the high painted gates of a garden whose villa seemed to stand far back from the road.

  Miss Fettering turned to Broke.

  “This,” she said, “is the Quinta Viola. No one lives here but an old gardener, who is given a trifle to keep the garden from becoming a wilderness. Would you like to see it?”

  “Please.”

  Then put your hand up under that wisteria and ring the bell. The old man will know it’s me, because no one else rings. You can’t reach the bell unless you’re mounted, because there’s only an inch or two of the chain left.”

  Robin moved to the spot she indicated and felt under the purple tassels. The next moment the jangle of an old bell came faintly from the direction of the house.

  In silence they sat waiting till they heard a shuffle of steps beyond the gates. Then one of these swung open, and an old man stood uncovered while they rode within. Under the shadow of tall trees about the drive, that swept to the villa’s entrance, they dismounted, giving the reins to a bare-legged urchin, who received them with a shy smile. Then:

  “This way,” said Phyllis, stepping towards a broad path that clearly led into the depths of the garden.

  Out of the tall trees’ shadow they passed into the hot sunshine, a glowing riot of colour on either hand, and so to where the path ran between the faded pillars of a long corridor. At the entrance to the latter Phyllis Fettering stopped.

  “Isn’t that beautiful?” she said.

  The corridor might have been hewn through a hill of living blossom. Here, not content to make a gorgeous canopy, a bougainvillea streamed down the sides of the pergola, staining with scarlet the snowy fabric of screens that clustering roses made, while further along the gaudy yellow of bignonias hung down beside a purple arras of wisteria, now in its full beauty. Framed in the far mouth of the corridor was a distant headland with the white surf beating about it, and a glimpse of the sparkling ocean beyond.

  For a moment they stood looking at the picture. Then:

  “Appearances,” said Robin, “are deceptive. I thought the gate we came in by was made of wood. I now realize that it was made of ivory.”

  Beyond the corridor, steps led down to a little flagged terrace facing the sea, with white clumps of daisies and large-flowered violets all about it, while over an old stone seat leaned a great pink peach tree in full bloom, so that seat and terrace alike were littered with delicate peach-blossom.

  With almost the air of a proprietress, Phyllis sat down. Pleasedly she watched Robin l
ooking slowly about him. At length:

  “What a wonderful place!” he said. “I suppose this is my lady’s bower, where she sighs and works tapestry on off-days. I can hardly believe I’m awake. Do you mind pinching my left ear – low down on the lobe?”

  Sitting down, he placed his head at a convenient angle. With a smile Miss Fettering flicked his ear with her glove.

  “Wake up,” she said. “If this is my bower, I desire to be amused. Perhaps I’m asking too much.”

  “There was once,” said Robin, “an old king, and he had one daughter, who was the apple—”

  “Of his eye,” said Miss Fettering. “I know this one.”

  “Not at all. She was the apple-women’s delight, because she lived on apples. She and her father were very happy and proud of their home, which was full of beautiful things. They had a gold telephone and a cuckoo clock and one of the finest collections of picture postcards in the country.

  “One day, just as they were finishing breakfast, the telephone went.

  “‘I’ll answer it,’ said the Princess, for the King had just put a large piece of trout into his mouth.

  “When she asked who it was:

  “‘I’m the Chief of the Police,’ said a man’s voice. ‘I want to speak to the King.’

  “‘I’m afraid you can’t just now,’ said the Princess. ‘His mouth’s full.’

  “‘What of?’ said the voice.

  “‘Trout,’ said the Princess. ‘Can I give him a message?’

  “‘Take him by the throat at once,’ said the voice. ‘He mustn’t swallow, whatever happens. That stuff is poisoned. Goodbye.’

  “‘Goodbye,’ said the Princess. Then she replaced the gold receiver and took her father firmly by the throat.

  “It took some time to make him understand the position, and several servants had to be called in to hold his arms and legs, but at length he began to realize that the trout was poisoned. After a very painful scene, order was restored. The King used up most of the mouth-wash in the castle before lunch, and the remains of the trout were given to the poor with the other scraps.

  “The beggar who got the trout counted himself lucky, ate it, and was not one penny the worse. The King, however, expired at luncheon before he had emptied his tankard.