Copyright & Information
The Berry Scene
First published in 1947
© Estate of Dornford Yates; House of Stratus 1947-2011
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
The right of Dornford Yates to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted.
This edition published in 2011 by House of Stratus, an imprint of
Stratus Books Ltd., Lisandra House, Fore Street, Looe,
Cornwall, PL13 1AD, UK.
Typeset by House of Stratus.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library and the Library of Congress.
EAN ISBN Edition
1842329669 9781842329665 Print
0755126866 9780755126866 Kindle
0755127072 9780755127078 Epub
This is a fictional work and all characters are drawn from the author’s imagination.
Any resemblance or similarities to persons either living or dead are entirely coincidental.
www.houseofstratus.com
About the Author
Born ‘Cecil William Mercer’ into a middle class Victorian family with many Victorian skeletons in the closet, including the conviction for embezzlement from a law firm and subsequent suicide of his great-uncle, Yates’ parents somehow scraped together enough money to send him to Harrow.
The son of a solicitor, he at first could not seek a call to the Bar as he gained only a third class degree at Oxford. However, after a spell in a Solicitor’s office he managed to qualify and then practised as a Barrister, including an involvement in the Dr. Crippen Case, but whilst still finding time to contribute stories to the Windsor Magazine.
After the First World War, Yates gave up legal work in favour of writing, which had become his great passion, and completed some thirty books. These ranged from light-hearted farce to adventure thrillers. For the former, he created the ‘Berry’ books which established Yates’ reputation as a writer of witty, upper-crust romances. For the latter, he created the character Richard Chandos, who recounts the adventures of Jonah Mansel, a classic gentleman sleuth. As a consequence of his education and experience, Yates’ books feature the genteel life, a nostalgic glimpse at Edwardian decadence and a number of swindling solicitors.
In his hey day, and as testament to his fine writing, Dornford Yates’ work often featured in the bestseller list. Indeed, ‘Berry’ is one of the great comic creations of twentieth century fiction; the ‘Chandos’ titles also being successfully adapted for television. Along with Sapper and John Buchan, Yates dominated the adventure book market of the inter war years.
Finding the English climate utterly unbearable, Yates chose to live in the French Pyrenées for eighteen years, before moving on to Rhodesia (as was), where he died in 1960.
‘Mr Yates can be recommended to anyone who thinks the British take themselves too seriously.’ - Punch
‘We appreciate fine writing when we come across it, and a wit that is ageless united to a courtesy that is extinct’ - Cyril Connolly
Dedication
To those who have done me the honour to ask me to write this book.
Tree
Prologue
At the beginning of his last term but one, Berry was removed to the Lower Sixth. Throughout his five years at Harrow, his interest in a classical education had not been marked, and of his new form-master and himself, I do not know which was the more surprised at his promotion.
After three days—
“Pleydell,” said the former, “until recently this form-room was tenanted by the Lower Shell. You’re sure you’re not under the impression that that lease is still running?”
“No, sir,” said Berry, sadly. “I’m afraid there’s no doubt about it.”
“About what?”
“That my dignity, sir, has been served at the expense of yours.”
From that moment, the two became friends.
His form-master was a man of the rarest wit, and, while Berry sat at his feet, the exchanges between the two were frequently worth hearing.
One morning Berry, who had been requested to translate a passage from Juvenal, stumbled through a line and a half and then stopped dead.
“Go on, Pleydell.”
Berry looked up apologetically.
“I’m sorry, sir, but the English equivalent of the next phrase has for the moment escaped me.”
“Can you construe?”
“I – I don’t believe I shall do the satirist justice this morning, sir. Tomorrow, perhaps…”
“The artistic temperament?”
“You’re very understanding, sir.”
“I am. You hoped for the best.”
“I still do, sir.”
“Optimist. Write it out twice.”
“Very good, sir.”
“And I know your cousin’s writing.”
Berry sighed.
“‘Put out the light,’” he murmured, “‘and then put out the light.’”
(The School had been addressed on Shakespeare the week before.)
“For that rejoinder, your punishment is – halved.”
“You’re very good, sir.”
“No. Only just. ‘And other fell on good ground.’”
On another occasion—
“You force me to the conclusion, Pleydell, that Plautus is not among your favourites.”
“I feel, sir, that he loses by, er, translation.”
“I see. Endeavour to subdue that emotion by writing out, instead of memorizing, the construe for tomorrow.”
“Yes, sir. A, er, free translation?”
“I must be able to recognize the passage. And you may add a short comparison of the audiences for which Plautus wrote and – What theatres do you patronize?”
“I’ve heard of the Gaiety, sir.”
“—and the audiences for which you have reason to believe that Mr George Edwardes caters.”
“Very good, sir.”
“And don’t underrate the intelligence of the former.”
“Nor its taste, sir?”
“No. But this is not a licence to submit an obscene libel.”
“Certainly not, sir. Only…”
“Only what?”
“Were débutantes admitted to Plautus’ plays, sir? I mean, I believe they go to the Gaiety.”
There was a little silence. Then—
“I feel,” said the form-master, “that this comparison had better not be drawn. The possibilities are too grave. Let’s play for safety and have a hundred lines of Virgil, instead.”
Once, when Berry’s written translation of the death of Patroclus proved disappointing—
“There is a saying, Pleydell, that Homer sometimes nods.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I have yet to hear it suggested that some of his work was done when he was in his cups. Yet, that is the inference to be drawn from your handiwork.”
“I must admit, sir, that I found this particular passage a little less straightforward than usual.”
“Don’t spare him. Say incoherent, and have done with it.”
“I hesitate to presume, sir. I mean…”
“Go on.”
“I’ve always understood that he was a great master, sir.”
“Well, you’ve shown him up today, haven’t you?”
“Not him, sir. Myself.”
“That’s better. When you perceive a mote in Homer’s eye, look immediately fo
r the beam in your own. It’ll save time – and labour.”
An agonized look leapt into Berry’s eyes.
“I won’t fail to remember that, sir.”
“You’ll make a mental note of it?”
“I have, sir.”
“Good. But I feel that such a note should be reinforced.”
“With respect, sir, I believe that to be unnecessary.”
“Do you, indeed? Well, I’ll back your belief: but I warn you that, should it prove to be ill founded, the belated reinforcement will be a work of some magnitude.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Not at all. I’ve made my bet safe.”
One day we were desired to draw from memory a map of the Mediterranean. When our efforts had been examined—
“Pleydell.”
“Sir?”
“I said ‘A map of the Mediterranean.’”
“Yes, sir.”
“Are you of the impressionist school?”
“Er – yes, sir.”
“Then it’s my fault. I should have made it clear that I wanted an old-fashioned map. Do me one this afternoon – in colour.”
“Very good, sir. Any colours I like?”
“Except scarlet. And you might show the voyages of St Paul. That will remind you of the existence of an island called Malta.”
“Of course, sir. That was where the snake did it on him.”
“That’s right. And he did it on the snake. As a matter of fact, The Authorized Version puts it rather better. You might make two copies of the verses in question and add them to the map. Any more reminiscences?”
“No, sir.”
And once again—
“It would be idle to pretend, Pleydell, that the memorizing of Greek verse was your strong point.”
“I respectfully agree, sir.”
“What are we going to do about it?”
“May I suggest, sir, that I should be permitted to perform some other labour, instead?”
“Such as?”
“Anything, sir. I’d cheerfully pick oakum.”
“That would be premature. Besides, we must stick more or less to the curriculum.”
“A series of articles, sir, on the less obvious advantages of a classical education?”
“So be it. But be careful. Scurrility will meet with a very short shrift. You must render unto Caesar the things that are Caesar’s.”
“It shall be done, sir.”
After a week—
“I find this article a little equivocal, Pleydell. You must beat down Satan under your feet.”
“Believe me, I’m scourging myself, sir.”
“You don’t believe all you say?”
“Not all, sir.”
“Lay on more heartily. Help thou thine unbelief. Hang it, man. A classical education has been commended by my betters for hundreds of years. We can’t all be wrong.”
Berry looked at his form-master.
“That’s very true, sir.”
After another week—
“This rings more true, Pleydell.”
“I, er, hoped it would, sir.”
“Good. You’re beginning to focus the picture?”
“By standing back, sir. I – oughtn’t to come too close.”
“A respectful distance?”
“Very respectful, sir.”
“That’s all I ask.”
To this day, Berry will commend a grounding in polite letters with all his might.
1
In Which I Drive Daphne to Brooch on Midsummer Day,
and Berry Gives Evidence
The day was Midsummer Day – and fairly deserved its name.
Breakfast had been served upon the terrace, for all the winds were still; and the meal refreshed the spirit as well as the flesh. This was natural. The cool, sweet air was laced with the scent of flowers: still overlaid with dew, the lawn was quick with magic – a sparkling acre of velvet that filled the eye: full-dressed, the peerage of timber stood still as statuary: and the great sun was in his dominion, arraying all foliage with splendour, gilding clipped yew and warming chiselled stone, and lending the lovely distance the delicate shimmer of heat.
As I watched, the spell was broken. A woodpecker fluttered to the lawn, and the boughs of a chestnut dipped to the swing of a squirrel at play.
My sister tilted her head and raised her voice.
“Do hurry up, darling. There’s a letter for you from Jonah. We want to see what it says.”
Berry’s voice floated down from the bedroom above.
“I know. So do I. I am devoured by curiosity. But I’m going to tread it under. Instead, I’m going to concentrate upon the suspension of my half-hose. Two confections confront me – one in smouldering amber and one in reseda green. Now, if my trousers come down—”
“If you don’t come down in two minutes…”
The protasis went unanswered; but fifty seconds later Berry appeared upon the terrace, perfectly groomed.
“Do be quick,” said Daphne.
Her husband frowned.
“The empty stomach,” he said, “must always take pride of place. Once the pangs of hunger have been assuaged—”
“By your leave,” said I…
I gave the letter to Daphne, who opened and read it aloud.
23rd June, 1907.
Dear Berry,
I’ve arranged for a car, with a chauffeur, for us to try. Hired the two for one month. If the vehicle suits us, we order a similar car. If it doesn’t, we don’t.
We shall, of course, be unpopular. Sir Anthony will denounce our decision and will declare that we are letting the neighbourhood down. But he’ll have a car himself in two years’ time. You see. Speed has a convenience which nobody can deny: and cars don’t have to be cared for, as horses have. Of course they are going to kill the romance of the road, rather as gunpowder killed the romance of the battlefield. But that is the price of progress.
Well, there we are. I feel at once ashamed and excited. It is going to be a remarkable experience – taking familiar roads at forty-five miles an hour.
Expect me, then, on Monday, complete with car. I shall hope to arrive for lunch, but we may be delayed.
Yours ever,
Jonah.
There was a guilty silence.
Then—
“There you are,” said Berry. “What did I say? That long-nosed viper left here on the strict understanding that he was surreptitiously to investigate the possibilities of good and evil which might result from our acquisition of an automobile. He was then to return to this mansion and submit his report. Does he observe those crystal-clear instructions? No. And now we’re all in the swill-tub up to the waist.”
“I feel quite frightened,” said Daphne. “What ever will everyone say?”
Berry continued his complaint.
“‘Forty-five miles an hour!’ And the day before yesterday I subscribed to the imposition of substantial fines upon no less than five motorists for covering a measured mile in less than three minutes of time.”
(Berry had lately been appointed a Justice of the Peace.)
“That’s all right,” said my sister. “You can ask where the traps are, and we can give them a miss.”
“And supposing we’re caught outside our area?”
“You won’t be summoned,” said I. “Unless you propose to drive.”
“Oh, nor I shall,” said Berry. “Then that’s all right. And if they take my name, I shall say I was being abducted. All the same, it’s going to be awkward. On the Bench, I mean, as soon as the news gets round. The Colonel’s nose will increase in crimson and purpure. He may even foam at the ears – I mean, the mouth.”
“Let him,” said Daphne boldly. “Why shouldn’t we have a car?”
“Oh, I know that bit,” said Berry. “But you haven’t got to consort with the bigoted fool. He says it’s a breach of one’s duty towards one’s neighbour. And when you remember the dust, I’m not sure he isn’t right.”
There was another silence.
“We must use the thing early,” said Daphne. “Before other people are up. It’s light at five now.”
Berry pushed away his plate and covered his eyes.
“I wish you wouldn’t say these things,” he said. “I know it’s just thoughtlessness, but idle words like those are bad for my heart. Fancy rising at four in the morning for the privilege of raving about a cheerless countryside, through lifeless villages, past promising pubs that are straitly shut and barred, with a herd of indignant milch-cows round every bend. Oh, no. We’ve done it now – or, rather, Jonah has. We shall have to brazen it out.”
“We can’t tell the Dean,” said I. “He’d turn us out of the house.”
Always, on Midsummer Day, we lunched at the Deanery, Brooch – a very pleasant engagement, which we were happy to keep. The Dean was a human prelate and, though very much older, a distant cousin of ours. He was also intensely conservative.
Berry addressed his wife.
“Which reminds me, if you must have the mail-phaeton, then Boy can drive. I’ve split three new pairs of gloves, holding those greys. And my arms were half out of their sockets on Monday night. I’ll take the dog-cart – Rainbow was properly mouthed.”
“The greys,” said I, “are short of exercise.”
“Well, I’m not,” said Berry, passing his cup. “And when I am, I’ll take it – in some conventional way. Bowls, for instance. But I won’t be dismembered.” Daphne’s hand flew to her mouth. “Yes, you may laugh, you siren. You just sit still and radiate sex-appeal: but I have to hold the swine.”
“I’m s-sorry, darling,” wailed Daphne. “But, Boy, if you could hear him. He talks to the greys just as if they were naughty children, and on the way home he told them a fairytale.”
“I was seeking to divert them,” said Berry: “in the hope of saving our lives. They’ve only got one idea – that is to out-strip the phaeton. And they did seem to listen – till Order noticed a haystack a couple of fields away. Oh, and who called them Law and Order. If he’d called them Battle and Murder, he’d have been nearer the mark. Anyway, I’ve got to see Merton. So I’ll go by Dimity Green and be there as soon as you.”
Berry Scene Page 1