B-Berry and I Look Back (25 page)

“How could it be?” said Jonah.

I shrugged my shoulders.

“Well, I’ve always had a great respect for Lord Goddard – or Rayner Goddard, as I remember him. And from all I hear and read – for I’ve never seen him on the Bench – he’s a first-rate Lord Chief and fully maintains the traditions of his high office. So I wrote to the fellow at once, pointing out that, as Lord Goddard was seventy-four years old when I wrote those words, to construe them as a reflection upon his lordship was fantastic.”

“So it was,” said Jonah.

I sighed.

“Letters like that show that, careful as an author may be, he never knows when something he’s written is going to be mis-read or misconstrued or misinterpreted.”

“Have you been corrected lately?”

“Once or twice. One fellow wrote and said that if I presumed to write books, I ought to know better than to write ‘receipt’ when I meant ‘recipe’.”

“I trust,” said Berry, “that you wiped the floor with him.”

“No, I didn’t do that. I simply said that I wrote ‘receipt’, because I happened to prefer that to ‘recipe’, but that in fact either word was as good as the other.”

“I know some people say ‘recipe’,” said Jill, “but I shouldn’t know how to spell it.”

“It’s Latin, my darling. And it means, ‘Take’. In the old days doctors always used to write their prescriptions in Latin and their prescriptions always began with the direction, ‘Recipe’, that is to say, ‘Take’.
Take two grains of calomel
etc. And so prescriptions came to be called ‘recipes’.”

“A slovenly derivation,” said Berry. “‘Receipt’ is the better form. And now that the word ‘prescription’ has displaced ‘recipe’, the latter should be retired. Have you got any more like that?”

“Not very many. ‘Different to’ is always cropping up – I mean, objections to that usage. Oh, one fellow wrote, saying that the ‘shoot’ in
Blind Corner
should have been spelt ‘chute’.”

“What did you say to him?”

I can’t remember. I think I said I preferred using English to French. But they mean no wrong, you know, and it shows that they take an interest.”

“Do they ever apologize? After you’ve written, I mean.”

“Sometimes. And handsomely, too. But the worst offenders don’t.”

“Years ago,” said Berry, “I read a book by a well-known novelist, which centred round an action for slander. I mean, that
was
the book – the slander, the preparation of the case, and finally the hearing in the Law Courts. And the plaintiff won her action. The slander was uttered at a sherry-party by one society girl of another. Very well and good. I’ve no doubt a lot of people enjoyed the book. And now for the slander. To the best of my recollection one girl said of the other that she was ‘a little snob’. Is that a slander, Boy?”

I shook my head.

“The matter would never have got past the Master. He would have struck out the action.
De minimis non curat Lex
is a time-honoured saying. ‘The Law does not concern itself with trifles.’ It’s not a slander to call somebody else a snob. Good God, if to say someone was a snob was to court an action for slander, everybody would be afraid to open his mouth. But I don’t suppose that occurred to most people who read the book.”

“All wrong,” said Berry. “At least, I think it is. An author of standing has a responsibility to his public. I know that’s your outlook.”

“Yes,” I said, “it is. So far as facts are concerned, one must be accurate: and where fiction is concerned, one must be reasonable. At least, that’s my idea.”

“Have you ever deliberately falsified the facts?”

“What a question!” said Daphne.

“I did once,” I said, laughing. “I hoped it would be considered that I was availing myself of what I think is called ‘an author’s licence’. In
Berry and Co
. I brought on the action of
Pleydell against Bladder
very much more quickly than it could have come to be heard.”

“That,” said Berry, “was excusable. To have put off the case for six months would have thrown the whole book out of gear.”

“I agree. I couldn’t have done it. The chapter would have had to go.”

“What is a slander?” said Berry. “And what is not? Can’t you give us an answer that we can all understand?”

“Well, before I try to answer, let me say this. I’m speaking, as they say, off the record. It’s more than forty years since I was at the Bar and to lay down the law of slander is beyond my power. But few of us have access to textbooks and I can give the general idea with more or less accuracy. Only, I don’t want somebody to read this and then, when they get a writ, to write to me and say, ‘This is all your fault.’”

“Proceed,” said Berry.

“Well, I can say this – that for an action to lie, the statement complained of must be grave. In the book we were discussing, if the defendant had declared that the plaintiff was a drunkard, that would have been slanderous. I think the line must be drawn by common sense. Supposing a fellow says of a grocer in town, ‘Don’t you deal with —. He gives short measure,’ that is a slander: but if he buys that grocer’s car and says later, ‘You know — swindled me over that car’, that is not slander.”

“Oh, I give up,” said Daphne.

“I’m sorry, my sweet. The distinction is very difficult to define. But I’m sure you can see that if you could be run for slander if you said that so-and-so was a snob, or lived for food, or didn’t know how to treat servants, or was mutton dressed lamb – well, life wouldn’t be worth living, would it?”

“Not for my sex,” said Daphne.

“Bear with me,” said Berry. “Supposing you said of a bloke that he ‘lifted his elbow’?”

“That would depend on whether he had a profession and, if so, what it was. If you said it of a butcher, it would not be slanderous: but if you said it of a surgeon, it would.

“Then again no action will lie if the words complained of are what is called ‘vulgar abuse’. That you can understand. If A backs into B’s new car and does fifty pounds’ worth of damage, as like as not the shortcomings which B attributes to A in the presence of several bystanders will be unprintable. But that is not slander. Whether or no a statement is slanderous very often depends upon the circumstances of the case. If somebody said of a bachelor member of the Bar that he took out a different girl every night of his life, that might not be true, but it wouldn’t be slanderous: but if the same statement was made of a clergyman who was married, it would. For obvious reasons, of course. Finally, to return to our starting point, when you consider the truly slanderous statements of which what is called ‘gossip’ is very largely composed, you will appreciate why an action brought by a girl because someone called her ‘a snob’ could never have got as far as a Queen’s Bench Judge.”

“Well, thank you very much,” said Berry. “I can’t say I’m very much wiser, but I do see the points you’ve made. I take it that such cases are rare.”

“Very rare. For one thing the tale-bearer is usually most reluctant to come to Court. And a reluctant witness is no damned good. They’ll always break down in cross-examination, even if they come up to their proof. Libel, of course, is a very different matter. If it’s printed, as it usually is, it’s far more serious and the printed word speaks for itself.”

“When,” said Jill, “you say ‘come up to their proof’, what do you mean?”

“Well, in the brief which is sent to counsel, there are copies of the statements which the witnesses he is to call have made to the solicitors. Such statements are called ‘proofs’. Sometimes, when a witness is in the box, he declines to go as far as he did in the privacy of the solicitor’s office. Well, that can be very awkward for the counsel concerned. And if the witness actually goes back on his proof, then counsel can hand the proof to the Judge and ask his permission to treat the witness as what is called ‘a hostile witness’. And if the Judge gives his consent, he can cross-examine him, just as if he’d been called by the other side. I’ve known it done. But it’s never any good. If a witness lets you down, you must let him go. At least, that’s my opinion.”

“Is that your last word?” said Berry.

I nodded.

“Then I’ll take over.” He sat back and closed his eyes. “Speaking,” he declared, “as one whose portion has been unbridled slander for many years, who, of natural love and affection, has always refrained from seeking redress from the Courts, I trust – though without much confidence – that you four will now reconsider the propriety of subjecting your elder and better—”

The remainder of the period was not unnaturally lost, and, when order had been restored, we went to bed.

“I’ve remembered one thing,” I said, “which happened to me, as an author, a long time ago, before the first war. I was writing
The Brother of Daphne
, and the short tales of which that consists were appearing one by one in
The Windsor Magazine
. As I think I’ve said before, I then had no idea that they’d ever be collected and published in volume form. They didn’t appear every month, for I was then at the Bar and I hadn’t much time to spare. Still, people seemed to like them and my name was getting known.

“One day I received a ‘reply paid’ telegram from, let us say, the Lake District. It had been directed to me c/o my publishers, who were then in Salisbury Square, and they sent it at once to my chambers by special messenger. It was the longest telegram I have ever received in my life – four or five pages in length – from a man I had never seen, of whom I had never heard. I still have that telegram somewhere. I wish that I had it here, for its burden was unbelievable. But I know you’ll believe my report.

“Now this was what the telegram said. (I naturally can’t remember it word for word; but it was the kind of message which you never forget, and I know that I’m not far out.)

“
I have for some time been deeply in love with a most attractive young lady who for some reason did not look favourably on my suit stop the set in which she and I move are ardent admirers of your work and it suddenly occurred to me that if I were to tell her in strict confidence that I was really the author of your stories and was concealing my identity under the pseudonym Dornford Yates this might persuade her to promise to be my wife stop accordingly a day or two later after swearing her to secrecy I told her that in fact I was Dornford Yates with the happy result that the lady was so delighted that there and then she consented to be my wife stop most unfortunately she did not keep her promise to tell no one what I had told her but told a great friend of hers who has never liked me and this evil-disposed woman actually went so far as to write to your publishers and ask if what I had said was true stop they naturally replied that it was not and in triumph she showed their letter to my betrothed who despite my entreaties and my assurances that the publishers were only obeying my instructions to conceal my identity immediately broke off our engagement stop Mr Yates I implore your help in this matter which means so much to me what I want you to do is to answer this telegram just saying that it is perfectly true that I am the author of the stories which appear under your name for if you will do this her friend will be discredited and she will again consent to be my wife it will mean nothing to you but all my happiness depends on your reply
.

“Then followed his name and address.

“I remember that, soon after the telegram reached me, the Editor of
The Windsor Magazine
rang me up and asked me very politely how I proposed to reply. (He admitted later that he was afraid lest the young and inexperienced author should yield out of kindness of heart to the sender’s impudent appeal.) I’m not sure, but I think we discussed the matter – should I ignore the telegram or should I send a curt refusal to do as the fellow asked? At this distance of time, I can’t be sure which I did: but I think we agreed that it was better to reply, sharply refusing his request. And that was the end of the matter, so far as I was concerned.

“Now, as I have said before, I know of more than one case in which men – and in one case a woman – have told their acquaintances that they were, in fact, Dornford Yates: but that is the only case in which the impostor has actually requested that I should support the lie. Indeed, for barefaced effrontery, I have always felt that that telegram was unbeatable.”

“I remember it, darling,” said Daphne. “You showed me the wire. I think it was rather longer than your version.”

“I’m greatly relieved,” I said, “for, to be perfectly honest, it is an incredible tale.”

“Boy,” said Jonah, “we’ve known you too long and too well to disbelieve what you say. But it’s more than incredible: it’s unimaginable. The man must have been besotted.”

“And what of the girl?” said Berry. “She must have been raving mad.” Before Jill could protest, “Seriously,” he added, “are you sure that it wasn’t a plant?”

“Made with some cock-eyed idea of presently cashing in on any money I made? I don’t think so. You see the production of his telegram would have been the answer to any such attempt. Then, again, I could produce my manuscripts. Oh no. It was genuine enough. But it just shows the lengths to which some people will go to obtain their heart’s desire. And, damn it, that’s made me think of another case. Not nearly so gross, but it bears a certain similarity which you will immediately perceive.” I put a hand over my eyes. “Bear with me a moment, while I go over the facts.”

There was a little silence. Then I lifted my head.

“I’ve got it straight now…

“Now this happened much later on – in the nineteen-thirties, I think. A woman, of whose existence I had never dreamed, wrote to me from London and addressed her letter to White Ladies. Fortunately for me, I was out of England at the time: her letter was forwarded. It was very well and naturally written and one or two things she said were amusingly put.

“She said that her daughter was engaged to a most desirable young man. To contrive this engagement, she had left her humble lodgings and had taken an expensive, furnished house in a fashionable square. She had engaged good servants to run it and had lived there in style – on credit. At first the young man’s parents had viewed the match with distaste; but when they had seen the handsome manner in which the girl’s mother lived, they had withdrawn their objections and given their consent. And now Nemesis was knocking at the door – with the wedding-day still a fortnight away. The house-agents were demanding the rent. The servants were pressing for their wages and threatening to leave. Tradesmen were refusing to deliver until their bills had been paid. Almost worst of all, the telephone was about to be cut off. She believed that with two hundred pounds she could just keep things going until the marriage took place. After that, of course – the deluge. But that didn’t worry her at all.
She desired me to remit this sum to her without delay
. I mean, it was essential, otherwise everything would crash. Could I possibly telegraph the money?

“I replied shortly, saying that I was not prepared to lend her money for any purpose, much less to subscribe to false pretences which could only come back on her child. When she got my letter, she cabled, virtually demanding the sum. When I took no notice, she cabled again, warning me that my failure to comply with her request would result in tragedy. And that was the last I heard of her.

“The two cases have this in common – that on each occasion I was desired to assist the petitioner to bring to a successful issue his or her deliberate deception of a third party. I mean they made no bones about it. In the first case, the girl was to be led to believe that she was about to marry the budding author for whose work she had a great regard: in the second, the man and his parents were to be sure that his fiancée had (or would have) plenty of money, when in fact she was penniless. I can only suppose that each of the suppliants perceived something in my work which suggested that I should sympathize with an attempt to obtain what they wanted by false pretences.”

“How,” said Berry, “did the lady propose to pay you back?”

“That question did not arise. I rather think that virtue was to be its own reward.”

“Astounding,” said Jonah. “Two hundred pounds down the drain…to a woman you’d never heard of…to maintain the shabby deception which she is practising upon the parents of her future son-in-law. And when you decline to play, she resents it.”

“I think,” said Daphne, “that her case was worse than the first. In the first case you were approached by a callow, lovesick youth: in the second, by a sophisticated woman of the world who did know how to behave.”

“I agree,” said Berry. “Both petitions were grossly impertinent and both were shameless. But while the first was lunatic, the second was designing. The second was a determined attempt to obtain your assistance to commit a misdemeanour.”

“So was the first,” said Jonah.

Berry looked at him. Then –

“By God, you’re right,” he said. “At least, I think you are. What does Boy say?”

“Neither of the petitioners,” I said, “could have been prosecuted for false pretences – if the marriages had come off. In other words, both were within the law. But, judged by respectable people, both attempts were indecent.”

“When the truth was discovered, could either marriage have been dissolved?”

“No, indeed,” said I.

“Wicked,” said Berry. “Have you got any more like that?”

I shook my head.

“All authors get begging letters – at least, I suppose they do. I’ve had very few of them. Four or five perhaps – in forty-five years. I fell for the first one, of course: but when the writer returned for a second helping, I saw that I’d made a mistake and hardened my heart. And now it’s your turn.”

“Sorry,” said Berry, “but I can remember no more. It’s not for want of trying. I’ve flogged my memory. So now it’s up to you.”

“I’m almost through,” I said. “In fact, this next reminiscence will be my last. As no doubt you surmise, it belongs to the Law. But it had to do with the Bench, and not with the Bar.

“More than once I’ve mentioned The Clerk of Assize. Each Circuit – I think there are seven – has its own Clerk of Assize. For all I know, things have changed in the last forty years; but in my day the post of Clerk of Assize was greatly coveted. Whoever was to fill it had to be a Barrister-at-Law. The salary was worth having and the expense account was handsomely furnished. And the Clerk of Assize was a very important man. He ruled the Circuit: so far as the Circuit was concerned, his word was law. And the Judges deferred to him. After all, the Red Judge passed, but the Clerk of Assize went on.

“Now how was the Clerk of Assize appointed? I’ll tell you. When a Clerk of Assize retired or died, his successor was appointed by the Judge who was going that Circuit at the time or was to go that Circuit the next time it was opened. In other words, the post was in his gift. Now a Judge can choose which Circuit he wishes to go: but if two Judges apply for the same Circuit, then the senior Judge has his way. Only no Judge can go the same Circuit twice running.

“In my day Channell J and ‘Long Lawrance’, two of the very best, were senior Judges; and it became an understood thing for several years that those two Judges took the Western Circuit in turn. No other Judge ever went it. It was reserved for them.

“Now why was this? Not because they liked it, although, to my mind, it is the pleasantest Circuit to go. The two of them went that Circuit because the Clerk of Assize was getting on. He was really elderly. And as Channell had two sons at the Bar and ‘Long Lawrance’ had one, each wanted to be in at the death.”

“Really!” said Daphne.

“I know,” I said, laughing. “I admit that it has it’s grim side: but it was a jest in The Temple and bets were laid as to which of the two would win. Of such is patronage.

“At last, to Lawrance’s annoyance, the old fellow died while Channell was doing his stuff; and Channell’s elder son was appointed Clerk of Assize. (He was a very nice fellow, but rather delicate and, to everybody’s regret, he didn’t live very long.) It was really a barefaced business, for Channell and Lawrance had gone that Circuit for years. And the old Clerk must have known why.”

“It makes me smile,” said Daphne; “but it makes me feel rather ashamed.”

“My darling, so it does me. Waiting for the dead man’s shoes. What is more, I’ll tell you this. I knew Channell very well, and I’ll lay any money you like that he felt ashamed, too. But he wanted to help his son, and what on earth was the point of his standing aside when another and junior Judge was waiting to take his place? ‘Long Lawrance’ was tougher than Channel!, and I don’t suppose he gave the matter a thought.”

“A valuable memory,” said Berry. “And most entertaining. Her Majesty’s Judges endeavour to improve the occasion. And I don’t blame them at all. Only a fool, as you say, would have stood aside. And now one more.”

“Sorry,” I said. “I’ve pumped my memory dry.”

“D’you mean that’s all?” said Daphne.

“I’m afraid so, my sweet. I can’t say yet if there’ll be enough for a book.”

“What did you say?” said Berry.

“I said that I didn’t know if there’d be enough for a book. If there is—”

“D’you mean to say that you’re actually contemplating the possibility of suppressing all we have composed in the sweat of our face? And what about
Old London Bridge
?”

I shrugged my shoulders.

“We cannot give the public short measure.”

“Darling,” said Daphne, “I’m sure this will make a book which is longer than many I’ve read.”

“I know,” I said. “Some books, especially novels, are today extremely short. But I’ve always given good measure.
Ne’er Do Well
, I know, was not a long book – and it worried me very much. But that was how the story came out, and after a lot of reflection I let it go.”

“Darling,” said Jill, “if you’d put in
The Tempered Wind
—”

“I can’t do that,” I said.

The others sat up.

“What’s this?” said Jonah.

Jill shrugged her pretty shoulders.

“He’s going through all he’s written and tearing it up. It’s simply grievous, Jonah.”

“Much better
I
should do it,” I said.

“I appreciate that,” said Berry. “But what is
The Tempered Wind
?”

I smiled.

“
The Tempered Wind
,” I said, “affords a perfect example of the failure of a book to take charge.”

“What do you mean?” said Daphne.

“Well, over the years I’ve had a great many requests that I should turn again to
Etchechuria
: or, in other words, that I should write a sequel to
The Stolen March
. In the end, against my better judgment, I sought to comply – by writing
The Tempered Wind
. Well, as usual, the book took charge; and everything went like a train till
Etchechuria
was reached. It was hard to get there, of course. Wild country, no track to follow, the compass playing up. Still, two men and a girl did it – by the skin of their teeth. I think that up to that moment the adventure rang very true. But once the three had arrived, the subconscious brain stopped dead. Try as I would, I simply could not recapture the carefree inconsequence of life ‘within The Pail’. The conscious brain struggled on, but what I wrote was laboured… In desperation, I made a short story of the book. But makeshifts are no damned good.”