# The Red Book Magazine/Volume 44/Number 6/The Battle of Berkeley Square

Extracted from Red Book Magazine, April 1925, pp. 60–63, 92. Illustrations by Dudley Gloyne Summers may be omitted.
   RARELY does a book of fiction rank among the “best sellers” through two seasons. Yet such is the fortune of Mr. Arlen and of his “These Charming People” and “The Green Hat.” An immense new sale of them is now developing that seems likely to make doubly sure the success of this author’s forthcoming book of Mayfair stories. But you may read all Mr. Arlen’s new stories first in this magazine.
Illustration: Shirley herself had supervised the builders, decorators and plumbers. Poor Hugo!
The Battle of Berkeley Square
By Michael Arlen
ONE morning not long ago a gentleman was engaged in killing worms in the gardens of Berkeley Square, when it was forced on his attention that he had a pain. The pain, which was temporarily offensive, was in his side; but thinking at first that it was no more than a stitch, he dismissed it from his mind as a pain unworthy of the notice of an officer and a gentleman, and went on killing worms according to the directions on the tin. This was a large tin, and held at an angle in the gentleman’s right hand, a white powder issued therefrom and covered the pretty blades of grass, the while with his left hand he maneuvered a syringe in such a way that a brownish liquid was sprayed upon the ground. An entirely new and nasty smell was thus brought into the world; nor did there appear to be any such good reason for it as is generally brought forward on behalf of a smell, such as industry, agriculture, the culinary necessities of certain foods, or the general progress of civilization. However, mean though our gentleman’s physical position was, for he had to bend low so that not a blade of grass should escape his eagle eye, mentally he took his stand on a lofty ideal, and dismissing the stares of passers-by as unworthy of the notice of an officer and a gentleman, continued to misbehave according to the directions on the tin.
The chemist who had sold him the tin and the syringe had sworn a pharmaceutical oath to the effect that on sprinkling the grass with the powder and spraying it with the lotion, not a worm in Mayfair but would instantly arise from the bowels of the earth, powder its nose, inhale the scent, and die. Nor was the chemist’s prophecy in vain, for My Lord—this story is about a lord—had not been powdering and spraying for long when behold, a multitude of worms arose and passed away peacefully! Indeed, so great was the massacre that a Turkish gentleman who was passing by stood at attention during a five minutes’ silence—but that is quite by the way and has nothing to do with George Tarlyon’s pain, which was growing more offensive with every moment. He thought, however, that it was but an attack of lumbago, and dismissing it from his mind as a pain unworthy of the notice of an officer and a gentleman, went on killing worms because he wanted to stand well with a pretty girl he had met the night before at a party, who had said she was a socialist and that there were too many worms in Mayfair.
Major Cypress now enters the story, and the fact that this is a true story makes it all the more regrettable that therein the Major is presented in a tedious, not to say a revolting, light. Poor Hugo! About a year before these happenings, he had married Lord Tarlyon’s little sister Shirley, and lo, this morning he was looking so depressed that as he crossed the Square to the gardens, a taxi-driver in a hurry had not the heart to run him over! It will be delaying the story less than may seem apparent to readers of an impatient temper, if we now talk for a while of Hugo and Shirley. Shirley was a darling, and Hugo had no money above that which he earned, which was nothing; wherefore they lived in a garage in the Mews behind Berkeley Square, had breakfast late, went out for dinner and on to supper. The garage, however, was delightful. Shirley herself had supervised the builders, decorators and plumbers; and by the time rooms had been added, kitchens hollowed out, bathrooms punched in—by the time, in fact, the garage had been converted into a house, it had cost Hugo more borrow2d money than the lease of a mansion in Berkeley Square. Poor Hugo!
Every morning at about this hour he would emerge from the garage into the Mews, pat his tie straight in the gleaming flanks of the automobiles that were being washed to the accompaniment of song and rushing water, pass the time of day with a chauffeur or two, and walk into Berkeley Square, where, in the pursuit of his profession, he would loiter grimly by the railings of the gardens until the clocks struck twelve. The word “profession” in connection with Major Cypress doubtless needs some explanation. Hugo’s profession was the most ancient in the world bar none, that of an inheritor: he was waiting for his father to die.
All doctors are agreed that waiting has a lowering effect on the mind; but this morning Major Cypress looked even more depressed than usual. And long he leaned against the railings watching his brother-in-law’s extraordinary behavior before opening his lips; then, a noise of a friendly nature being created, he waited patiently for an answer, which he did not get, and then turned his mind to other things.
“George,” he said at last, “you are behaving in a very peculiar way. What are you doing?”
Tarlyon’s answer was to approach him with a look of absent-minded savagery, cast a little of the powder over his trouser-leg, squirt him with the syringe, and continue with his labors. Poor Hugo!
“George,” said Major Cypress, disregarding the man’s rudeness, “I am depressed this morning. Guess why.”
“Hugo,” said Tarlyon bitterly, “I would be depressed every morning if I were you. Now please go away at once. These worms aren’t rising half so well since you came. And I have a pain in my side.”
“A pain, George? I thought you looked sick, but I didn’t like to say anything. What sort of a pain?”
“A hell of a pain,” said Tarlyon. “It gets me when I breathe.”
“I don’t wonder,” said Hugo. “I too have a pain, George. But my pain is in my heart.”
“I don’t want to hear about it,” snapped Tarlyon, “and I hope it gives you such a swelling in the feet that you can’t follow me about.”
“I shouldn’t wonder, George, if you had contracted pneumonia. You have been very liable to pneumonia ever since you took that bath on Armistice Day. Merely from the way your face has all fallen in, I should say pneumonia, quite apart from the fact that your breath is coming in painful gasps. Personally, I have been a martyr to kidney-trouble for some years, and I have not as yet had time to have pneumonia, but I know the treatment. I should advise pajamas, George.”
Tarlyon threw down the worm-killers and joined his friend. “I believe you’re right, Hugo. It hurts me to breathe. I must have pneumonia. What treatment would you advise?”
“Pajamas,” said Hugo. “Nice, new, amusing pajamas. You will be in bed at least six weeks with the violent form of pneumonia you’ve got, and it will be a comfort to you to think of your new pajamas.”
“Suppose I die!” Tarlyon muttered.
“I am supposing it, George. The pajamas will then revert to me.”
[Illustration: “My Lord,” said Mr. Haw, stepping forward three paces, “what sort of pajamas do you fancy?”]
Together they strode up the narrow defile of Berkeley Street toward Piccadilly, two tall men of grave mien and martial address: and though it was a cool morning, neither wore an overcoat, which is a polity of dress calculated to reveal, by the very action of a lounge-suit on the eye on a cool morning, the hardy frame of ships that pass in the night, and the iron constitution of publicans, winebibbers, chaps, guys, ginks or beaux. Nevertheless, such was the stress of the disorder within him that My Lord Viscount Tarlyon threw away his cigarette with a gesture of distaste and said: “Hugo, I am in pain. It gets me when I breathe.”
“Try not to breathe,” said Hugo. “In the meanwhile I will tell you why I am depressed. My wife—”
“Hugo, I am very hot. I do believe I am sweating!”
“You look awful, George. You have probably a very high temperature. Presently you will break out into a rash, owing to the unclean state of your blood brought about by your low habits. You cannot breakfast all your life off a gin-and-bitters and two green olives, and hope to get away with it. I am depressed, George, because my wife is presenting me with an heir.”
“It’s just cussedness, Hugo. I shouldn’t take any notice. Women are always the same, forever letting one in for some extravagance. Just take no notice, Hugo.”
“George, you don’t understand! She is in terrible pain, and I can’t bear it, old friend—I simply can’t bear it.”
“I’m sorry, Hugo—really, I am. Poor little Shirley! But I am feeling very ill myself. Call me an ambulance, Hugo.”
“Pajamas first, old man. Ah, here we are! Ho there, Mr. Hem! Ho there, Mr. Haw! Shop!”
FOR by this time our two gentlemen had reached the establishment of Messrs. Hem & Haw, gents’ shirtmakers, which is situated where the Piccadilly Arcade swoops falconlike into Jermyn Street, to be as a temptation to mugs in search of a manicure. Mr. Hem was a small man with a round face who was a tie-specialist, and Mr. Haw was a small man with a long face who was a shirt-specialist; both were accomplished students of gents’ lingerie in every branch and could, moreover, build a white waistcoat about a waist in a way that was a wonder to behold. By Royal Appointment, and rightly!
“My Lord,” said Mr. Hem, stepping forward two paces and standing smartly at ease, “what can we do for you this morning? These new ties have just come in. They are charming.”
“Mr. Hem,” said Lord Tarlyon, “you know very well that I detest new ties. I can think of nothing more common than wearing a new tie. Observe my tie, Mr. Hem. I have worn it six years. Observe its rugged grandeur. Where is Mr. Haw this morning?”
“My Lord,” said Mr. Haw, stepping forward three paces and bowing smartly from his self-made waist, “what sort of pajamas do you fancy?”
“What varieties have you this morning, Mr. Haw?”
“We have many, My Lord. Pajamas can be used for various purposes.”
“You shock me, Mr. Haw. I am not, however, going to Venice just yet. I merely want some pneumonia pajamas.”
“In crêpe-de-chine, My Lord?”
“Your innuendoes are amazing, Mr. Haw. I am not that kind of man. A homely quality of antiseptic silk will do very well, I think. Yes, I will have a dozen in black silk.”
“I say, George,” said Hugo, “black is very lowering. Make it white, Mr. Haw. They revert to me, you see.”
“Black, Mr. Haw. I fight death with his own weapons. Send the pajamas at once, and put them down to my account.”
“Certainly, My Lord. You will have them at once.”
“Mr. Hem,” said Lord Tarlyon, “and you, Mr. Haw, I have had forty years’ experience of owing money and never yet met such simple faith as yours. I am touched. Let me assure you that my executors will repay your courtesy, if only in kind. Good day, Mr. Hem, and you, Mr. Haw. Don’t, by the way, send these pajamas to my house, as the bailiffs are in, which is why I went out in the dewy dawn and caught this pneumonia. Send them to Major Cypress’.”
“But you can’t have pneumonia in my place, George!” cried Hugo. “If you should die, it will depress my wife, and that will have an effect on my unborn heir’s character.”
“He will be lucky, Hugo, if he has a character at all, from what I know of you. Mr. Hem, and you, Mr. Haw, you might telephone to some doctors to come round instantly to Major Cypress’ garage, as there will shortly be a nice new pneumonia of two cylinders on view there. Hugo, call me a taxi at once. I cannot have pneumonia all over Jermyn Street.”
“I don’t care where you have it,” said Hugo bitterly, “so long as you don’t let the last agonies of your lingering death disturb my wife.”
BUT Hugo need have had no fear, for never was a sick man quieter than Lord Tarlyon, the way he lay with closed eyes among the damp, dark clouds of fever, the way he would smile now and then as if at a joke some one was whispering to him from a far distance. Indeed the nurse said to the doctor: “I never saw a man appear to enjoy pneumonia so. He is not fighting it at all, Doctor. Are you sure he will not die?” That is what the nurse said to the doctor; and the doctor looked grave and punched Tarlyon in the lungs with a telephone arrangement, but Tarlyon took no notice at all, still smiling to himself at the thought that in his life he had done every silly thing in the world but die of pneumonia in a converted garage, and maybe he would do that presently, and the cup of folly be drained to the dregs. And every now and then Hugo would come in and take a glass of the iced champagne by Tarlyon’s bed and look depressed, saying that Shirley was in anguish and that he couldn’t bear it.
Then one day, or maybe it was one night, Tarlyon seemed to awake from a deep sleep that had taken him to a far distance, and from that far distance, what should he seem to be seeing but two shadows bending over his bed, and the calm shadow. of the nurse near by! “Now, what are they doing?” he thought and he tried to speak, and he could not; but from a far distance he could hear one of the shadows saying: “You called me in not a moment too soon, Dr. Chill. Lord Tarlyon’s is an acute case of appendicitis. Weak as he is, it is imperative that we operate at once.”
Now Tarlyon recognized the shadow that had spoken for Ian Black, the great surgeon, and a great friend of his since the distant days when he had operated on Tarlyon’s unhappy dead wife Virginia, she who had lived for pleasure and found pain. And Tarlyon spoke out in a dim voice and said:
“Ian Black, much as I like having you about, you must not operate on me for appendicitis in this house. Remember, I am staying with Hugo, and I came to stay with him on the distinct understanding that I was to have only pneumonia. Not a word was said between us about appendicitis, and I am sure Hugo would be annoyed at my abusing his hospitality; so kindly put that beastly knife away.”
But at that very moment Hugo came in and took a glass of iced champagne and looked depressed, saying that his wife was in terrible anguish and that he couldn’t bear it, and that the whole garage was strewn with doctors murmuring among themselves, but as to a spot of appendicitis, said Hugo, poor old George could go ahead and make himself quite at home and have just what he liked. Whereupon Tarlyon at once closed his eyes again, for he could not bear the doctors’ faces so close to his own, and then they put something over his mouth, and he passed away, thinking: “That’s all right.” But it could not have been quite all right, he thought on waking suddenly, for though he could not see very well, he could hear quite distinctly, and the voice of Dr. Chill was saying:
“My dear Mr. Black, I am sorry to have to say this, but I certainly do not consider this among your most successful operations. My patient’s pulse is entirely arrested, and I am afraid there is now no hope. Are you sure, Mr. Black, that the coroner will think you were quite wise to operate when he was in so low a condition? And I am sure that you are not at all wise to sew up that wound with the sponge still inside.”
“Oh, shut up!” said Mr. Black, for he was a short-tempered man much addicted to overbidding at bridge. Tarlyon did not hear any more, for he went off again; but when he awoke this time, he did not feel the after-effects of chloroform, did not feel anything at all except that he was very weak and had a tummy-ache. The room seemed much lighter, too, than when he last saw it, and many more people were in it; and then he heard a squealing noise and thought: “Good God, I’ve had a baby!” And he tried to speak but could not; he tried hard, but all he could achieve was a sort of mewing noise similar to the squealing noise, and then the blood simply rushed to his head with rage, for there was Hugo’s tiresome face bending over him, and there were Hugo’s tiresome eyes simply running with tears.
TARLYON tried to turn his head away in disgust at the loathsome sight, but could not move, and then he went almost raving mad, for Hugo was trying to kiss him! Tarlyon tried to swear and failed for the first time in his life; whereupon he made to raise his hand to catch Hugo a clout on the ear, but all he did was to pat Hugo’s cheek, which the foul man took for a caress encouraging him in his damp behavior. But in raising his hand, Tarlyon did at least achieve something, for he saw that his hand had changed considerably during his illness—it must have, for it was now a frail and milk-white hand with a diamond ring on the third finger, so that he thought in despair: ‘“Good God, I’ve died under the operation and been born again as an Argentine!”
[Illustration: One evening he managed to get into the room in Tarlyon’s black pajamas, saying to the fat nurse, “I must just kiss her once.”]
Hugo never left the bedside until at last the doctor got him by the scruff of the neck, and, with silent cheers from Tarlyon, hurled him from the room. But even as he went through the door, he turned his repulsive damp face toward Tarlyon and blew him a kiss, and then the fattest nurse Tarlyon had ever seen shoved a bundle under his nose and said in an idiotic voice which he supposed was meant to be cheering: “There, there, my dear, it’s a little boy you’ve got now. Isn’t he a duck, fat as a peach and all!” Bits of the bundle were then pulled about, and Tarlyon was shown what he considered was the most depressing little boy he had ever seen, with its face all wrinkled up, and an entirely bald head of an unpleasant color. Tarlyon’s first impression was that the little boy must have been drinking too much to get that color, and he tried to wave the bundle away, but he was quite helpless; he could not move nor utter, and the fat nurse shoved the wretched little boy’s bald head against his mouth so that he simply had to kiss it, as he had not the strength to bite it. And all the while everyone in the room was smiling idiotically as though some one had just done something clever, so that, speechless as he already was, he became doubly speechless with rage and thought to himself: “This is what comes of having pneumonia in a garage!”
Not for minutes—it seemed for years—was the full terror of what had actually happened revealed to him. He must have been making a face of some sort, for the fat nurse brought a mirror and held it to him, saying: “There, there, don’t fret. See how well you look!” And the face that George Tarlyon saw in the mirror was the face of his little sister Shirley, a pretty little white face with cheeky curled lips and large gray eyes and a frantic crown of curly golden hair. Tarlyon tried to stammer, “Some awful mistake has been made,” but not a word would come; and for very terror at what had happened, he closed his eyes that he might—even as though he verily was Shirley—sob in peace.
IT was for Shirley even more than for himself that he was distracted with grief, for he realized only too well what must have happened: Shirley, the poor darling, must have been having terrible trouble—and all for that foul Hugo’s wretched heir with the bald head—while he had died of pneumonia-cum-appendicitis in the next room. His soul having left his body,—while Ian Black and Dr. Chill were still arguing about it,—he had, or it had, wandered about between the two rooms for a while, and then, while Shirley wasn’t looking, had slipped into her body and expelled her soul into the outer darkness.
That his supposition was only too accurate was presently proved beyond all doubt. Hugo had managed to sneak into the room again, and when Tarlyon opened his eyes, he looked at Hugo beseechingly for news—whereupon the wretched man at once kissed him. But Tarlyon must have looked so furious, even with Shirley’s pretty face, that the fat nurse at once stopped Hugo from clinching; and when Tarlyon again looked beseechingly toward the wall of the room in which he had had pneumonia, Hugo nodded his head cheerfully and said: “Yes, he’s dead; poor old George! Doctor said he would have lived if he hadn’t been such a hard drinker. Poor old George! They are embalming him in Vichy water at the moment.”
Tarlyon lost count of time, of days and nights; he lost count of everything but the number of his discomforts and fears. He spent hours with closed eyes enumerating the terrors in store for him as a woman, as a pretty woman, as Hugo’s wife. It would be no use his saying that he was not really Shirley but her brother George, for people would only think he was mad. Of course, he would divorce Hugo as soon as he was better; it was too revolting to have Hugo’s face shoved close to his own on the slightest provocation. Heavens, how well he now understood the many ways in which men can infuriate women! And then, chief among the terrors of his new life, must be the bringing up of that awful baby with the bald head.
As it was, he was seeing a great deal too much of it—the fat nurse would always be bringing it to him and pushing it at him; but as to taking it into bed with him, Tarlyon wasn’t having any, not even for the look of the thing when his mother came into the room. For one day his mother did come, and she in deep mourning for his death, and she stood above him with sad eyes, and as she held the wretched baby, she whispered: “Poor George! How he would have loved his little nephew!” Fat lot she knew, poor old mother! But always it was Hugo and his repellently affectionate face who was the last straw. One evening he managed to get into the room in his pajamas, in Tarlyon’s pajamas, in Tarlyon’s black pajamas, and saying to the fat nurse, “I must just kiss her once,” furtively approached the bed. But Tarlyon was ready, and now he was just strong enough to lash out at Hugo as he bent down—
“Hi!” said Ian Black’s voice. “Steady there, you Tarlyon!”
Tarlyon said something wicked, and Ian Black said: “You'll be all right soon. But don’t land me on the head again with that hot-water bottle, else I'll operate on you for something else. And I haven't left a sponge inside you, either. Hullo, here’s Hugo with a smile like a rainbow!”
“I should think so!” cried Hugo. “I’ve got a son! What do you know about that!”
“Everything,” gasped Tarlyon wearily. “He’s bald.”
“Bald be blowed, George! All babies are bald. In my time I was the baldest baby in Bognor, and proud of it. He’s a wonder, I tell you.”
“He’s awful!” sighed Tarlyon. “Go away, Hugo, go away! I'll explain later, but at the moment I am so tired of your face! And don’t dare to try to kiss Shirley more than once a day.”
THE rest of this story is not very interesting, and nothing more need be said but that George Tarlyon nowadays never kisses a woman without first making certain that she wants to be kissed, which is quite a new departure in the relations between men and women, and one to be encouraged as leading to a better understanding and less waste of temper between the sexes. As to the bald baby, he now has some hair of that neutral color which parents call golden, and four teeth, and is learning to scream beautifully. His parents show off his scream with pride. They think he is marvelous. Maybe he is. Maybe all babies are. But it is certain that all women are, by reason of what they put up with from men in one way and another. That is what George Tarlyon says, and if he does not speak on the matter with authority, then this is not a true story and might just as well not have been written, which is absurd.
“The Hand and the Flower,” another and even more attractive story by the inimitable Michael Arlen, will appear in an early issue.
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1929.
The longest-living author of this work died in 1956, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 67 years or less. This work may be in the public domain in countries and areas with longer native copyright terms that apply the rule of the shorter term to foreign works.
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