As Berry and I Were Saying

by Dornford Yates

  “Quite perfect,” said Daphne.

  Berry looked round.

  “Let me put,” he said, “an oratorical question. That means, let me say, a question which requires no answer. What would you do without me? Everything of value in this rotten book is being furnished by that dazzling and inestimable faculty – my mother-wit. And now I provide the title. While you were all scouring your brain-pans—”

  “Boy said it first,” said Jill.

  “Give me air,” cried Berry, excitedly. “Open the window, someone. ‘Boy said it first.’ Of course he did. But out of his vomit, I plucked this…”

  For the next forty-five seconds Daphne and Jill dealt with him faithfully.

  “It’s disgusting,” my sister concluded. “Some filthy allusion is constantly on your tongue.”

  “It’s all emotion,” said Berry. “That child-wife, sitting there, saw fit to plunge a plough-share into my bowels. They’re the seat of the emotions, you know. The Sainted Paul—”

  “That’s quite enough,” said his wife.

  “All right, all right,” said Berry. “Invade the liberty of the subject. Throttle free speech. And what’s the Old Bailey done?”

  “Not tonight,” said I. “I can give you a memory of Bow Street.”

  “Proceed.”

  “It occurred before I was ‘called’, while I was a solicitor’s pupil in Bedford Row. One Monday morning I reached the office, as usual, just before half-past nine. And I met the senior partner just going out. This was most unusual, for, in the ordinary way, he never reached the office before a quarter to ten.

  “He smiled at my surprise.

  “‘Trouble at Bow Street,’ he said. And then, ‘I shan’t want you.’

  “I never know what it was that made me say, ‘Mayn’t I come?’ Never before had I questioned what Muskett said. I just felt I’d better go.

  “Muskett looked faintly surprised, for his word was law. Then he said, ‘Oh, well, you can if you like.’

  “So I turned and fell in beside him. We walked to Holborn, there to pick up a cab.

  “‘I have no papers,’ said Muskett. ‘I only know it’s a case of assaulting the police. A pretty bad one, I gather. In Leicester Square. The Commissioner’s very angry. They rang me up at my house.’

  “His words set me thinking. I had been out of London that Saturday night. It wasn’t ‘Boat-race Night’. All the same, I had seen disorder in Leicester Square…”

  “‘Boat-race Night,’” said Berry. “Those were the days. I’ve been chucked out of The Empire on ‘Boat-race Night.’ And, as they threw you out, they chalked your back: so that, when you returned, they could see if you were one of the blokes of whom they were tired.”

  “Do you treasure that memory?” said his wife.

  “Yes,” said Berry, “I do. I used to recall it when I was up on the Bench – and temper justice with mercy, because I knew. I was never blind, you know: never more than just nicely. But what an evening it was. Now they climb up Eros – do their best to destroy an exquisite work of art. If that had been done in my day, the squirt that did it would damned near have lost his life. Shall we continue now?”

  “You interrupted,” said Daphne.

  “Nonsense,” said her husband. “I accepted an invitation to enrich a statement of fact. I did so lavishly – to be rent, as the swine were rent. No, that’s wrong. As the mugs were rent by the swine, when they cast their pearls before them. You know, I can’t help feeling—”

  “Go on, Boy.”

  “Well, we got to Bow Street about a quarter to ten. The bench was empty: the Magistrate would not sit before ten o’clock. As we took our seats, an Inspector appeared and said that ‘the statements were on the way’. Muskett shrugged his shoulders. ‘Show me the charge-sheet,’ he said.

  “He looked at the charge-sheet. Then he gave it to me.

  “One Stephen Close, clerk, was charged with being drunk and disorderly and with assaulting the police. On Saturday night, of course.

  “‘My God,’ I said, ‘I know him. The fellow’s a friend of mine. We were at Oxford together. And he isn’t a clerk at all. He’s doing well at the Bar.’

  “Muskett said nothing. Just then the statements arrived. As he read them, he passed them to me. It was, as he had said, ‘a pretty bad case’. Stephen had been chucked out of The Empire. Well, that was all right – er, quite nice people were. But he had resented this treatment, and, since he was fighting drunk, the chuckers-out had been reinforced by the police. Stephen had laid out three policemen – one was still sick – and it had taken five more to get him down. He had to be strapped to a stretcher, before they could get him away. An immense crowd had gathered to watch this disgraceful scene and traffic had been interrupted…

  “As I handed the statements back, ‘Your friend’s luck,’ said Muskett, ‘is out today. Marsham is sitting. And you know what Marsham is.’

  “Well, something had to be done. When Stephen and I were at Oxford, I knew him very well. Though a year senior to me, he’d always been very friendly, and I liked and admired his style. We’d done odd things together. We’d chanced the proctors and visited Abingdon Fair. One night, coming back from the theatre, he was attacked by five toughs. It was he that did the damage, for he was immensely strong and he knew how to hit: but I set my back against his and gave as good as I got. He laid three out, and the other two took to their heels. And now he was at the Bar and was doing well. I hadn’t seen him lately, for The Temple was off my beat. But Stephen did all things well. The man had drive. And he was abstemious. But, if he did drink too much, the man was dangerous. The liquor went to his fists.

  “As fast as I could, I poured this out to Muskett. And all the time I was talking, Muskett fingered his chin. When I had done, ‘Well, I won’t press it,’ he said. ‘But I can’t alter the facts. You’d better see the Inspectors in charge of the case.’

  “I was off in a flash.

  “Those men were terribly good. The moment I said that he was a friend of mine, they looked at one another and said, ‘Oh, well.’ I said, ‘He’s one of the best. He’s at the Bar and he’s doing terribly well. If the Magistrate sends him to jail, he’ll be disbarred. So if you could tone it down…’

  “‘That’s all right, sir,’ said one. ‘And he did come round to the station on Sunday afternoon. And said he was sorry. I’ll bring that out.’

  “‘You’re very good,’ I said. ‘I tell you he’s one of the best, but when the drink is in him, he just goes mad.’

  “‘And there you’re right, sir. He half killed one of my men. But, if he’s a friend of yours…’

  “Then an usher called for silence. As I slid back to Muskett’s side, the Magistrate took his seat.

  “Marsham was really a splendid magistrate. He was a great gentleman. In his youth he had gained his Blue – for cricket, I think. He was a member of a well-known County family, always distinguished for the example it set. He was a good lawyer and he knew his world. He had no need of money, and his job was not congenial to such a man: but he thought it his duty to do it, and so he did. He did it terribly well. But he was a stickler for good behaviour. For the poor, he would make allowance. For a man who should have known better, none at all. Noblesse oblige. Muskett was perfectly right, when he said Stephen’s luck was out.

  “At once the case was called and Stephen entered the dock. I dared not look at him, but I had seen him see me as he was brought into Court. Muskett rose and said he appeared for the police. And Stephen pleaded guilty.

  “Then Muskett presented the case…

  “Now Muskett was a just man, and he always presented his cases extremely well. The militant suffragists, for instance, sent him half out of his mind, but he always presented their cases without emotion. He was stern, but scrupulously fair. In Stephen’s case, he knew his client was angry – I mean, the Commissioner of Police. For that reason he had been sent for. In the ordinary case of assault, the police-inspectors managed the matter themselves: a
part from what Muskett might say, his mere appearance declared the gravity of the case. Yet, upon this occasion, he far more than kept his word. ‘I won’t press it.’ His short address to the Magistrate could hardly have been bettered by some counsel briefed for the defence. Yet Muskett had never been at Oxford and had never had any of those things we call advantages. So his gesture was handsome, indeed. And he made it for my sake. And the two inspectors played up. They slurred the assaults and they mentioned that Stephen had come to the station on Sunday, to say how sorry he was.”

  “That’s too easy,” said Berry. “Besides, they all do that. Don’t tell me that weighed with Marsham.”

  “I quite agree. But it showed they were trying to help. Stephen, of course, said nothing. Then the case was closed, and Marsham sat back in his chair. And then he let go. I’ll say he dressed Stephen down. With a tongue like a pickled rod, he lashed him right and left. Right up to the last, I thought he’d send him to jail. But he didn’t. Twenty-five pounds and costs – and Stephen was clear.

  “Well, that was all right: but, as Arthur would have said, it was a damned nice thing – the nearest run thing you ever saw in your life. And if, on that Monday morning, I had been one minute later in reaching Bedford Row; if some strange intuition, for which I cannot account, had not bid me ask Muskett to let me come, Stephen would have gone down for a month or six weeks. And had he been sent to prison, he must have been disbarred.”

  “I hope and believe,” said Berry, “that he sought you out forthwith and stood you the finest dinner that Scotts could serve. Three dozen oysters apiece, a succulent tournedos, Stilton to follow, and all washed down with champagne.”

  “Steady,” said I. “I deserved no credit at all. If I hadn’t done what I could, I should have been a sweep of the vilest sort. To Muskett, the credit: because I pleaded for Stephen, he risked his employer’s wrath. And to the police: they had every right to be cross: because I asked them to do so, they toned their evidence down.”

  “The fact remains,” said Berry, “that if you hadn’t gone all out – done your best with Muskett and done your best with the police, Master Stephen Close would have been sent to jail. Is that so, or not?”

  “Oh, yes,” said I. “You can’t get away from that. With Marsham on the bench, he wouldn’t have had a hope.”

  “Hard labour?”

  “Without a doubt. I think he’d have got six weeks.”

  “And been disbarred?”

  “Automatically.”

  “His career finished, as soon as it had begun?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you were the deus ex machina?”

  “I happened to be cast for that role.”

  “Doesn’t one dine and wine a friend in need?”

  I shrugged my shoulders.

  “It didn’t work out like that.”

  “How did it work out? As students of human nature, let’s hear the truth.”

  “Ten days later,” I said, “I attended a conference. This was in Paper Buildings. On my way back to the office, I ran straight into Stephen by Inner Temple Hall. We naturally stopped, for I hadn’t seen him since. ‘Hullo, Stephen,’ I said. He looked me up and down. ‘I suppose you expect me,’ he said, ‘to thank you for saving my life.’ I confess that my smile faded: but though I was off my balance, I managed to keep my head. ‘You’re wrong,’ I said. ‘I expect nothing of you. But I can tell you this – that, if I hadn’t been there, you wouldn’t be here in The Temple talking to me. You would be stitching mail-bags in Wormwood Scrubs.’ Then I stepped to one side and left him.”

  Jill’s hand stole into mine.

  “For years I couldn’t fathom behaviour so gross. And then one day I got it. ‘Neither a borrower, nor a lender be; For loan oft loses both itself and friend.’ Shakespeare is always right. As you know, there are many men who, if you lend them money, will hate you for the rest of your life. Why? Because they know that they are beholden to you. And there you have it. As a result of my interference, Stephen was beholden to me. And that, he could not forgive.”

  “Words fail me,” said my sister.

  “I’m glad of that. I’d rather you didn’t comment. Besides, it’s ancient history. All this happened quite forty years ago.”

  “‘Forty years on,’” said Berry. “‘Loved the ally with the heart of a brother.’ Never mind. I trust what Marsham said appeared in the press.”

  “I can’t remember,” I said. “The police toned it so much that the case wasn’t splashed. But about that, I do nothing. How it is today, I don’t know: but in those days to approach a reporter was to cut your throat.”

  “What d’you mean?” said Jill.

  “The reporter’s sense of duty was very high. He was trusted by his paper to report what he thought his paper should know. And any attempt to induce him to leave something out was an attempt to make him betray his trust. Incidentally, it showed him at once that, though he might have ignored it, this matter was ‘news’. And so you went down the drain. And now let us edit my report.”

  “Of course,” said Daphne, “of course it must all go in. It is a true short story. It’s very bitter, I know. But it has a terrible punch. If you had written that up, any Editor would have paid you a hundred pounds.”

  “I don’t know about that.”

  “What were you paid by The Windsor, when every month they published a tale by you?”

  “I clambered up to more than I think I deserved.”

  “And America?”

  “They didn’t take every one. For those they took, they paid a very good price.”

  “You never employed an agent?”

  “I had to in America. In England I never did.”

  “Copyright?” said Berry.

  “I had to be careful about that in the United States.

  “The thing was this. By the Berne convention, all countries on earth agreed that if a book was copyrighted in one country, the copyright should be honoured by all others. That meant that, once a book was published in England or France or Germany – where you will, that book could not be published elsewhere without the author’s permission for ten years. This virtually secured his right to royalties for as long as he lived – and for fifty years thereafter. I say ‘all countries’. Only the United States refused to come in. By such a refusal they stood to gain a great deal. Their output’s appeal to Europe was very slight; but Europe’s output often appealed to them. And they had a colossal public. So, to save your copyright in America, your book had to be published in the United States within one year. And this wasn’t always easy, for publishers wouldn’t play. If they waited a year, they knew that they’d get it for nothing. And so they usually did. Only when he feared competition, would a publisher take a book, and thereby stake his claim. The royalties he paid were beggarly. But what could the author do? Jerome K Jerome wrote that classic Three Men in a Boat. America waited until one year had elapsed. And then they pirated it. If Jerome had had a royalty on every copy sold, he would have been a dollar millionaire. But he never received one penny, and died a poor man. Things are much better now, but they used to be very bad.”

  “You wrote nothing during the War.”

  “Never a line. During the first war, I mean. I had neither inclination nor opportunity. Some people managed to do it – I never knew how. And now, by George, it’s your turn.”

  “Tomorrow,” said Daphne, rising. “I can’t say I’m tired; but it’s nearly one, and I have an engagement to keep at half past nine.”

  “Not a perm?” said I.

  “For my sins.”

  “How any woman,” said Berry, “can—”

  “Yes, I know that bit,” said his wife. “The blue-based baboons wouldn’t do it.”

  “Of course they wouldn’t,” said Berry. “When they require de-lousing…”

  The hurricane of indignation was, I think, justified.

  6

  “In remembering Oxford,” said Berry, “I find it peculiarly difficult to obse
rve our excellent rules. My own personality becomes immediately obtrusive. I shall, therefore, confine myself to an episode which no one but I can relate, for the other participant is dead. Many would dismiss it as a coincidence. But that, I am unable to do. And I don’t think you’ll do it, either. God knows, I am no moralist. I’m sure you’ll support me there. But I should be, I think, a strange man, if, having subscribed to this business, I thought agnosticism the only creed.

  “And now for a brief introduction to this most true report.

  “It seemed good to my elders and betters – for I belong to a school that allowed that there might be men who were better than they – that I should take pains to acquire an Honours Degree. This was, of course, so much tripe, for an Honours Degree is of just about as much use as a—”

  “Now do be careful,” said Jill.

  “–flute in a fanfare. I didn’t dare put it like that, for I was afflicted with respect, a vile and malignant malady, now very nearly unknown. I think Lord Dunghill touches for it – I can’t be sure. He used to run the dockers’ strikes. When he’d lost five million working hours, they shoved him up. Still, I pointed out more than once that academic distinction was not a line of country which I could ride and that it was but the froth upon the tankard of life. But they thought otherwise. In return for a handsome allowance, I had to undertake so to satisfy the examiners that they would award me a class. I made immediate inquiry which was the easiest school. And everybody said ‘Law’. And so I turned to Law. But I had many calls upon my time, and I must confess that lectures bored me stiff. The text-books, I couldn’t stomach: I don’t think they were compiled by understanding men. When I’d still one year to go, I took to a coach. And Cousins was one of the best, as you can testify.”

  “That’s very true,” said I. “Learned, efficient, human. And he was very modest. It never occurred to him that he was a brilliant man.”

  “Well, things got steadily worse. With my last year, my engagements seemed to increase, yet Time maintained his steady, inexorable pace. I wrote down all Cousins said, but I couldn’t read what I’d written, and, when I could, it didn’t seem to make sense. Now there was a bloke, Roy —, of BNC: and he and I and some others were in the same desperate state. And it came to our knowledge that Cousins had taken an inn in Cornwall for the whole of the Easter recess. And that there he proposed to throw a reading-party… Now we’d read about reading-parties in lady-novelists’ works: and I’m sure Dean Farrar must have had one in his ‘Tale of College Life’. Till now, we hadn’t fallen for the ultra-gorgeous prospect they seemed to present: but ‘Schools’, as we used to call them, were drawing unpleasantly near, and we felt we must cling to Cousins in whom were all our hopes. So down to Cornwall we went towards the end of March. We didn’t do so badly. The weather was set fair and we all got as fit as fleas. Out and about all day. And the village rose to the occasion. I used to strike for the blacksmith – and his wife and his pretty daughters would give us tea.”