“I agree,” said Berry. “The change was fantastic. It was more than a change: it was a transformation. The private house was transformed, when electric light came in.”
“Ices at Gunter’s?” said Jonah.
“I know what you mean,” said Berry, “but I can’t remember it.”
“What does he mean?” said Jill.
“In the old days, my sweet – in the seventies and eighties, I mean, it was the fashion in the summer to drive in the Park – Hyde Park, in the afternoon. That fashion prevailed till at least 1910. But in the old days, if the weather was hot, after a drive the coachman would be told to proceed to Gunter’s in Berkeley Square. There he would berth the carriage as close to Gunter’s as was convenient under the trees and a waitress from Gunter’s would bring his ladies ices which they devoured where they were. I always think it must have been a pretty picture: all the fine equipages, the attractive surroundings, the bright sunshine and the frocks and parasols, the grooms standing to their horses and the waitresses flitting to and fro.” He sighed. “You can’t get away from the fact that the most beautiful Rolls cannot compare with a handsome barouche or landau and a pair of well-matched, good-looking horses. That was a sight for sore eyes. And there’s another thing I never saw, but which constantly happened in London when I was very young. That was Her Majesty Queen Victoria driving down Rotten Row. Hers was, of course, the only carriage permitted to use it.”
“Didn’t she have postilions?”
“Indeed, she did. Four horses, two outriders in front and two grooms behind, and an equerry riding on either side. And her people loved it. That was always her way in London, if ever she wished to go out. Myself, I think it was very right and proper, in those great days.”
“The price of the novel,” said Jonah.
I shook my head.
“Prohibitive,” I said, “is the only word. Before the first war the price of a new novel, whether it was written by Kipling or written by me, was four and six. Between the wars the price was seven and six. Today it is fifteen shillings. So much for the new novel. As for what is called the Library edition – that is to say, reprints of the original in a cheaper form – I’ve watched the price from three and six in 1944 to eight and six in 1956.
“Well, people can’t afford to pay such prices for fiction. That’s why my books will very shortly be published in paper-backed form.”
“No!” cried everyone.
“It’s a fact. I never thought I should see it, but it’s a fact. They’ll be well turned out, you know. Nice print and the rest. And that will bring them within the reach of the very many people who simply cannot afford eight and sixpence today.”
“But this book—”
“Oh, no. Only such books as appear in the Library edition will be published as paper-backs. And the Library edition will always be obtainable. But here is a prophecy. It’s my belief that within a very few years, even new novels will cease to be published in cloth.”
“As in France?” said Daphne.
“Yes. Of course they’ll be better turned out. Larger print, better paper, nicer covers. And they will cost more – perhaps about seven and six. But, if things go on as they have, I’m sure it’ll come.”
“All your books are in print?”
“Oh, yes. Owing to a shortage of paper, I think one or two ran out just after the war. But only for two or three months. But thousands of people can’t afford them today – not even some libraries. Only the other day I got a letter from a fan, telling me of a retired Colonel who had been advised to read my books. So off he went to a public library.”
“Oh dear,” said Jill.
“Yes, my darling, it hurts. A distinguished soldier couldn’t afford eight and six. And when he got to the library all my books were out, except a very worn copy of RED IN THE MORNING – and that was due to be rebound, but not replaced. You see, the library couldn’t afford eight and six, either.”
“Heart-breaking,” said Daphne.
“Yes,” I said, “it’s tragic. I don’t say my books are any good, but they take people out of themselves. Some of my books make them laugh. And they can be re-read. But thousands of people can’t read them, because of their price.
“So the paper-backed edition will do something: at least, I hope it will. Mark you, it’s not all philanthropy. We’re out to maintain the sales as best we can.”
“My memory,” said Berry, “is growing more and more capricious. I can only suppose it’s old age. Still, I’ve just remembered one thing that I’ve always meant to ask you. The incomparable Fowler of
Modern English Usage
. When did he die?”
“In 1933, at the age of seventy-four.” I hesitated. “‘There was a man.’ Despite his wonderful contribution to English Literature – for he also wrote
The King’s English
and
The Concise Oxford Dictionary
, a truly brilliant achievement – he lived and died a very, very poor man. So poor that his life was tragic; but he refused to see it that way. Though he couldn’t afford many of what most people would consider the necessaries of life, he was always cheerful and glad to be alive.
“When the first great war broke out, he was fifty-five. He enlisted instantly, and before October was old he was not only out in France, but in the front line. There he presently attracted the attention of some senior officer, who gave orders that he was to leave the line and stay with the transport. A day or two later he was back in the trenches again. Once more he was discovered; and this time he was transferred to a labour battalion which was miles behind the lines. He fought to get back to the trenches, but all in vain. So at last he wrote in and said that he had enlisted to kill Germans, but that if all they were going to let him do was to make roads, he felt that he had better return to his work as a lexicographer. Accordingly, he was discharged. But you’ve got to hand it to Fowler – at fifty-five.”
“A lion-heart,” said Berry, “that deserved the Order of Merit, if ever a man did.”
“I couldn’t agree with you more. But I don’t think he got as much as an MBE.”
“I think, when he died,” said Jill quietly, “he was given the GFS.”
We all looked at her.
“What’s the GFS, darling?” said Daphne.
“It’s not given on earth,” said Jill. “It’s always pos – , pos – What’s the word I want, Boy?”
“Posthumous?” I said.
“That’s right. Posthumous. ‘Well done, good and faithful servant’.”
There was a little silence. Then –
“Good for you, darling,” said Berry, uncertainly.
“Jewellery,” said Daphne
“Ah,” said Berry. “A fascinating theme. Reminiscent of
Safe Custody
and
Cost Price
.” He looked at me. “Your descriptions of the jewels were superb. I admit that they carried me away. But when I came down to earth, I found myself gasping at my credulity. I could just swallow the dimple – a very charming conceit: but the diamond head of Hermes was rather hard to digest. You did spread yourself rather, you know. I confess that I wallowed in the contemplation of such magnificence: and, with the exception of the head of Hermes, given the stone and the craftsmen, the thing was possible. And you were very cunning. ‘Pope Alexander the Sixth just swept the board. By hook or by crook he garnered what sculptured jewels there were.’ That silenced criticism.”
“I loved it,” said Jill. “And nobody said he was wrong.”
“They couldn’t,” said Berry. “Because he might have been right. But that’s not the only reason. In fact the main reason was because the ignorance of the average English man and woman about jewels is quite remarkable. And they are such lovely things.
“And when I say ignorance, I mean it. The Frenchwoman knows to a franc the value of the jewels which she wears. The American woman runs her pretty close. But very few Englishwomen have any idea at all of the value of the jewels they possess. Now that’s a very attractive quality: but in these unhappy days I venture to think it a mistake. For jewels are valuable, and times are hard.
“Often enough, it’s like this. A woman inherits a ring which she has always admired. She values it for its associations. And she thinks – is perfectly sure that it’s a very good ring. But that is the sum of her knowledge. Possibly, that is enough. And yet, I think it’s a pity that she shouldn’t know rather more of the stones which she likes so much, which she is so pleased to wear.”
“But how can she do that?” said Daphne.
“Well,” said Berry, “her best way would be to buy this book. Another way would be to ask a reputable jeweller to value the jewel for insurance and to give her a signed valuation. But then she’d only know its value. Whereas if she were to read what I am about to say…
“There are only four precious stones – the diamond, the emerald, the ruby and the sapphire. Others, such as the opal, garnet and amethyst are near-precious. And others are semi-precious, such as the topaz and aquamarine. Not everyone will agree with that classification: but I think it’s accurate today. Before the first war, the stones I have called near-precious were called semi-precious stones. But, in all that I say this evening I’m dealing with precious stones.
“First, as regards their shape…
“The oldest style of cutting is the Cabochon style: that is to say the stone is so cut that it stands up out of its setting in the shape of a polished hump. I can’t believe that a diamond so cut could be attractive; but emeralds, rubies and sapphires are sold
en cabochon
today. (In the very old days garnets were almost invariably cut like that, and the red garnet, so cut, was known for years as a carbuncle; from which, of course, the affliction takes its name.) Myself, I admire them greatly. One of my earliest recollections is that of an old lady one of whose rings was a star-sapphire
en cabochon
: she would lay her fingers in mine and tell me to find the star, for you couldn’t see it from every angle; and I would peer until I could see it – a lovely sight. It was a flaw, of course, and I don’t suppose the stone was particularly valuable: but it gave me infinite pleasure, as it did her.
“Then came the Table style of cutting. This was very unenterprising and did nothing to show off the stones.
“Then came the Rose style of Cutting. This still survives in the case of very small diamonds which are of little value. Indeed, they are always known as Rose diamonds.
“Finally came the Brilliant style of cutting, which truly deserves its name. This rapidly became so general that, as we all know, the word ‘brilliant’ is often used as a synonym for a diamond today. It displays a stone – particularly a diamond – as can no other style; and quite five-sixths of all precious stones are now so cut.
“Still, there is now the Step style of cutting, which we all know, for which I have never cared. It’s more often used in the case of coloured stones than that of diamonds. Flat top, square or oblong. When large and square, sometimes vulgarly compared to a postage stamp.
“So much for the different styles of cutting. Now for the size and weight…
“An easy thing to remember is that a brilliant-cut diamond, weighing ten carats, is almost exactly the size of a threepenny bit. (It looks considerably larger, but that is its actual size.) The trouble is that you very rarely see a diamond as large as that. It is, in fact, enormous and, if a fine stone, of immense value. So far as I can remember, I’ve only been able to consider one once: and that was in the window of Van Cleef and Arples’ shop in the
Place Vendôme
. It really was a most magnificent sight. Still, if you bear in mind that a threepenny bit means ten carats, it does give you something to go on. A stone of five carats makes a superb solitaire. In fact, solitaires of one or two carats are more usually seen today.”
I feel that perhaps I should insist that the Brilliant style of cutting makes a stone look larger than it is, and that a stone of five carats looks just about as large as a threepenny bit and a stone of ten carats much larger. It isn’t really; but it looks as if it was. So if you see a stone which you are ready to swear is the size of a threepenny bit, its weight is probably five carats. And that in all conscience is rare enough today.”
“What is a carat?” said Jill.
“Well, the ancients used to weigh precious stones against seeds; and that, I believe, is the origin of the word. A carat’s about the weight of a grain of corn.
“For many years the diamond has taken pride of place. Myself, I think that’s as it should be. A white or blue-white diamond is, to my mind, incomparable: but the slightest tinge of yellow will spoil the stone. Its value is determined by its colour and its size. Such value rises very steeply indeed. I mean, if you have two stones of equal quality – one weighing one carat and the other two carats, the second may be worth twenty times as much as the first.
“Next, I think, comes the emerald – a lovely stone. But its colour must be deep and rich. Flawless emeralds are rare.
“Then comes the ruby. The Burmese or ‘pigeon’s blood’ ruby is the best. A very beautiful stone: but really large ones are rare.
“And then the sapphire, which can be very lovely, but is, I believe, difficult so to set that the stone looks its best. Myself, I prefer the dark sapphire; but the light are popular. Like emeralds, sapphires are very often flawed.”
“Imitations,” said Jonah.
“The coloured precious stone can be imitated with success. The imitation ruby is, I believe, the easiest to produce, and the emerald the most difficult. I know that before the first war thousands of imitation rubies were shipped from England to the East, where they were sold to eager tourists as the real thing. But to imitate the diamond with success is quite impossible. A very little practice or comparison of the diamond with paste will enable anyone to tell the real from the false almost at a glance.” He hesitated. “Here perhaps I may say that some ladies who possess and wear fine jewels never seem to think about keeping them clean. Indeed, I have seen a diamond necklace so dirty that, if I hadn’t known it was real, I might have been uncertain. Jewels, like everything else, get dirty. But all that is needed to clean them are a little surgical spirit, a very fine soft brush and a little cedar-wood dust. As for settings, platinum is now very expensive, but is always worth paying for. There is nothing to compare with it.”
“You’ve said nothing of pearls,” said Jill, pouting.
(By Piers’ expressed desire, my wife was to hold and to wear the famous Padua pearls for so long as she lived.)
“My sweet, they are not precious stones. They stand entirely alone. They are not comparable with other jewellery. And a glorious rope like yours will diminish anything. There is a purity – a refinement about pearls, with which no stone can compete. At least, that’s my idea.”
“Imitation pearls,” said Jonah.
“Easy,” said Berry, “as we have reason to know. I mean, to tell at a glance is very difficult. And no one on earth – not even the finest expert – can tell you which is a natural and which a cultured pearl. The only thing to do is to have the necklace X-rayed.
“When the cultured pearl really got going, after the first great war, the market value of the ordinary true pearl necklace came down with a run. Since then, it has climbed again, though I really don’t know why.
“To go back to where I began…
“I remember an instance of natural ignorance.” He looked at Daphne. “D’you remember Lady Bagot?”
“Very faintly,” said my sister. “She must have died about 1906.”
“In 1905,” said Berry. “And she had named me as one of her executors. She had little jewellery of her own: the Bagot sapphires, of course, were family jewels. What she had, she left to Derry. I had to see it, of course. There was a nice pearl necklet, which Sir Anthony had valued at eighty pounds.
“I remember that I looked at Derry, who was showing me the stuff.
“‘Where d’you get that figure from?’ I said.
“‘That’s what they’re insured for,’ he said.
“‘Good enough,’ I said.
“So it was – for probate.
“That figure was duly accepted and the Will was presently proved.
“Then I advised Derry to go to —’s and ask them to value that necklet. ‘Don’t say anything. Just ask for a valuation.’
“He took my advice.
“—’s valued that necklet at more than nine hundred pounds.
“So you see…I’m perfectly sure there are hundreds of elderly people in England today, whose jewellery is worth a great deal more than they think. If they were to take it to a first-class London jeweller and ask him to value it ‘for insurance’, they would get a true idea of what it was worth. And then, if they wanted to sell it, they wouldn’t be done down. But I may be imagining things.”
“I don’t think you are,” said Daphne. “But you haven’t said how they should sell them. That’s what most people don’t know.”
“Well, anything that is valued at over fifty pounds can quite well be sold at Christie’s. The commission they charge is not high; and as it’s an open market, nobody can be done down. If it’s valued at less than fifty, they can choose a smaller firm. But they should never sell except in an open market; for a jeweller, as he would put it, ‘has got to live’. Yes, but you’ve got to live too, haven’t you? And seventy pounds goes further than forty-five.”