Berry Scene

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.

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

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

To those who have done me the honour to ask me to write this book.

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 for 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.