As Berry and I Were Saying

by Dornford Yates

  “I’m sorry,” I said,” but I’d rather not answer that question. I had an idea that you’d ask it – you don’t miss much. But I beg that you’ll take it from me that we had no doubt.”

  “That’s interesting,” said Berry. “I’ll never ask you again, but I can’t think how you knew.”

  I shrugged my shoulders.

  “We just did,” I said.

  17

  “Last night,” said Daphne, “we had drama taken from life. Which was the most dramatic scene you ever wrote?”

  “I think the last scene in the life of Vanity Fair.”

  “I’m inclined to agree,” said Berry. “And the way in which it was observed was very neat. Isn’t there an orchestra’s gallery like that, concealed in the wall of a dining-room at Windsor?

  “Yes. That’s how I got the idea.”

  “Like the table that sank through the floor in Perishable Goods?”

  “Yes. I saw a table like that in the summer palace of Ludwig, the poor, mad King of Bavaria. At one time he took a dislike to having servants in the room. As he could hardly wait upon himself at dinner, he devised a table that sank through the floor at the end of every course.”

  “Slightly disconcerting,” said Berry. “Supposing one of his guests didn’t draw back his feet… And supposing you hadn’t finished your Tokay…”

  “Be quiet,” said Daphne. “Which would you say was your most moving scene?”

  “I think, perhaps, the end of Lower Than Vermin. But I’m no judge.”

  “I confess,” said Berry, “that hit me very hard. The forced conversation, each trying to cover up…and Philip’s last words were exactly what he would have said. It wasn’t a brilliant saying: but it was the one remark which such a man would have made.

  “You’re not a great writer by any means. I doubt if your stuff will live. But every one of your people is true to life. Dead true. And those who say that they aren’t, declare their ignorance. Take Ewart in Maiden Stakes – I’ve met the man. And the young men and maidens in And Five were Foolish etc. – I’ve met the lot.”

  “I’m half a writer and half a reporter,” I said.

  “Rogues, too?” said Jill.

  “Yes,” said I. “They weren’t on the job, when I saw them – so far as I know. I took them out of the bus, or the Tube, or the street, or the bar, and put them in Austria. I got to know them quite well – to recognize Bunch and Punter and Dewdrop and Rush.

  “Lots of reviewers have said that the well-to-do ‘Gadarenes’ – as I called them in Aesop’s Fable – that I have so often drawn, are unheard of…imaginary figures, belonging to a ‘never-never world’. The plain answer is that they know no better. If they had attended the opening night of the Palais Royal night-club outside Biarritz in about 1925, they would have seen dozens.”

  “By God, what a night!” said Berry. “George —’s party, wasn’t it?” I nodded. “Alfresco dancing on glass, which was lighted from underneath…to the very hell of a band…and the thunder of the Atlantic, breaking upon the headland about thirty paces away. I think we sat down to dinner sharp at eleven o’clock. What were the jewels worth – the jewels that we saw that night?”

  “More than three million sterling, I should say. But there you are. We were there, so we know. And at that particular time there were more than twenty night-clubs in and around Biarritz, and all of them paying their way. I don’t commend these things – I’m merely stating the fact. And a third of the people were English.”

  “It was outrageous,” said Daphne: “but I wouldn’t have missed it for worlds.”

  “I was at Irikli,” said Jill.

  “And much better off,” said Berry. “How did you think of the title And Five Were Foolish?”

  “As a matter of fact, I can tell you. A fellow was lunching with me – a most amusing bloke – and he would talk about my stuff. And he asked me how I came by my titles. And I said, ‘Oh, they just occur to me. It’s no good sitting down and trying to work one out. They just come into your head. Some ordinary expression, or quotation – “And five were foolish”, for instance. There you are. That will do very well for my new book.’ And that is how I chose it. The others came to me in much the same way: but that’s the only one whose arrival I actually remember.”

  “You saw the Spanish Grand Prix?”

  “Oh, yes. You’ve got to see it, to do a tale like Maiden Stakes. But that account is dead accurate. In fact, I saw the race twice – once before I wrote the tale, and once a few years later: and I remember thinking I wouldn’t have changed a word. And I saw it from the point I described, the point at which Gyneth was standing, watching the cars go by.”

  “Each time?”

  “Each time. It was a spot in a million from which to watch such a race.”

  “Talking of San Sebastian, what about the Casino in Jonah and Co?”

  “I went twice to San Sebastian to get that picture right. It wasn’t so easy as it looked. And I did once see Zero turn up seven times in ten spins. At Madeira, I think. I was on it the last four times, and we broke the Bank.”

  “Your places are real?”

  “A great many are. I could show you the site of Jezreel in She Fell Among Thieves. I tell you, I’m half a reporter. I report what I’ve seen and heard.”

  “You ‘hold the mirror up to Nature’?”

  “That is what I have always tried to do.”

  “Will you tell me this?” said Daphne. “Why do so many writers report ‘the sordid side’?”

  “I can’t imagine,” said I. “Sometimes they do it very well. And reviewers seem to love it. The more sordid the tale, the higher their commendation. I could have done it, of course. I’ve seen ‘the sordid side’ again and again. But I can see no object in presenting it in fiction. Life’s sad and hard enough, without adding some sordid picture, to wring men’s hearts.”

  “By God, I’m with you,” said Berry. “But, as you most justly say, the viler the picture presented, the better are the reviews. Anyone would suppose that reviewers lived in squalor and never saw anything else. Which is, of course, absurd. Look at the sales of —. And that masterpiece opened with one of the most revolting incidents that a man can ever have conceived.”

  “Don’t talk about it,” said Daphne. “I wish I could forget it. I never read any further, but the memory makes me feel sick.”

  Jill put in her oar.

  “Could you have written that, darling?”

  “Of course I could, my sweet. As could any writer who knows his job. But it wouldn’t have amused me to write it. Frankly, I should have been ashamed to set such things down. Much of this book will be sordid; but then it is, none of it, fiction. Every statement is true. If I was to tell the stark truth of the Crippen case, I had to paint a very sordid picture – no doubt about that. But, when you are writing fiction, you don’t have to do the same. The ‘mirror’ reflects fair things, as well as foul.”

  “I know one thing,” said Jill, “that some reviewers say that always annoys you.”

  I smiled.

  “I know what you mean, my darling. But not for long. You see, for me to be annoyed is just what they want.”

  “When they say that Berry’s family always scream with laughter at everything he says.”

  “That’s right. But such statements are made of malice. I’m afraid there’s no other word.”

  “They’re completely false,” said Daphne.

  “They’re simply lies,” said Jill.

  “That shows them to be malice,” said I. “If the accusation – for that is what it is – were true, I should be guilty of a very offensive fault – a sick-making fault. That is why the accusation is made – in the hope of prejudicing potential purchasers of the book.”

  “It ought to be actionable. If they told lies about some tooth-paste, to put people off they’d have to pay damages.”

  “I entirely agree,” said Berry. “And, speaking wholly objectively, I don’t think you do it enough. If someo
ne makes an unquestionably side-splitting remark, it is natural for those within earshot to laugh: if they don’t, it’s unnatural.”

  “I agree. For that reason, I did it occasionally – as unobtrusively as possible – in my earlier books. But a very pleasant review of one of them – I think it appeared in Punch – suggested that it was a mistake. That ruling, I at once accepted: and, since then, I don’t think I’ve done it ten times in four hundred thousand words. And when I have done it, I’ve done it deliberately, for the reason you’ve just advanced – namely, that it would be manifestly unnatural for those present not to laugh. Laughter at a predicament, as distinct from a saying, is, of course, different. I have to mention that; for, if a predicament is entirely ludicrous, not to declare that the witnesses found it so would be to suggest that they were inhuman.”

  “Allow me to say,” said Berry, “that I think you take it very well. I mean, malice enrages me.”

  I shrugged my shoulders.

  “I can’t do anything,” said I. “And if I allow it to annoy me, I’m simply playing their game.”

  “It makes me feel sick,” said Daphne. “Let’s have a fair reminiscence – to wash out the taste.”

  “When I was at Harrow,” said I, “I got to know Herbert Channell, the son of the Judge. As I think I’ve told you before, Channell used sometimes to write to his son in Greek. Herbert was younger than I. His father, an Old Harrovian, was always cheered on the steps. But Herbert was ashamed of his dress, as children will be. As a matter of fact, he always looked very nice, in grey morning dress and, always, a grey top-hat. Ten years later, when I was in Brick Court, Herbert arrived as a pupil, and he and I became friends. He never had any work, and I don’t know how he’d have done it, if he had: for he didn’t take to the Law. But he was most entertaining. We used to lunch together and we would walk home together often enough. To his distinguished father, he must, I fear, have proved a disappointment: his friends were more fortunate. Whenever his father went circuit, Herbert would disappear; for he always marshalled his father, wherever he went.

  “Now a Judge’s Marshal was a very nice thing to be. I don’t have to tell you I’ve been one, but I think my week with Channell might be set down. The Marshal is a kind of equerry: I fancy he is a survival of the days when the King himself used to go on Assize. The Marshal is in constant attendance upon the Judge. At meals, he takes the head of the table – at breakfast, for instance, he pours out the coffee and tea. When the Judge is on the Bench, the Marshal always sits on his left, and he walks behind the Judge in any procession formed. He takes his Judge out for walks, when the work is done; and he travels with the Judge from town to town. He answers official invitations addressed to the Judge. And he used to swear the Grand Jury – no easy task. For doing all this, he got three guineas a day.

  “One Sunday afternoon, when Channell was on Assize – he was taking the Western Circuit – Herbert rang me up. It was in the summer, I know, though I can’t be sure of the year. ‘Listen, Boy,’ he said. ‘I’ve had to come back. I’ve a carbuncle on my neck, and it’s giving me hell. My father wants you to go down and take my place. Can you do it?’

  “‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I can. I mean, I’ve got nothing on.’

  “‘I’ll be all right in a week, the doctor says. But if you can take my place, my father will be much obliged.’

  “‘I will,’ I said. ‘Where is he?’

  “‘At Winchester. With Coleridge, as the second Judge. The Assize there opens tomorrow, and my father’s taking the crime. That means you must swear the Grand Jury. I’ve got the oaths here.’

  “‘I’ll come round and see you,’ I said.

  “I’d never been a Marshal before.

  “I went round and saw Herbert, who gave me the dope – more or less. He also gave me a card, on which were printed the oaths.

  “‘Only three things,’ he said. ‘The first is this. Never call him ‘Sir’, for he can’t bear that. The second is, never ride in the coach, for he can’t bear the Marshal in the coach – I don’t know why. And the third is that you must not read the oaths. That he will not allow. You must learn them by heart.’

  “With my eyes on the card–

  “‘Good God,’ said I.

  “There were two oaths. The first was addressed to the foreman, and it was one hundred and twenty-six words long. One hundred and twenty-six. The second oath was shorter. This was addressed to the other members of the Grand Jury, and had to be repeated twenty-two times. But the foreman’s oath was the devil.

  “‘It can’t be done,’ I said. ‘I never could learn repetition. It’s now nearly half-past four: and I’ve got to administer it tomorrow at ten o’clock.’

  “‘You’ve got to do it,’ said Herbert. ‘He’s counting on you. But he will never forgive you, if you go and read the oath.’

  “I won’t say what I said that time, but Herbert only laughed.

  “Well, I couldn’t go down that night, so on Monday morning I caught the early train. That was due at Winchester at five and twenty past nine. The Judges had to be ‘churched’, so they would reach the Castle just about ten o’clock. And there I must be to receive them. I should have just nice time.

  “I knew what to do on arrival – go straight to the Judge’s room and write a note. This, to the foreman of the Grand Jury, asking him, as soon as the Judge had taken his seat, to rise and request the Judge that he and his fellows should be sworn in the old-fashioned way. For the new way would take about three times as long. Then I must send the note off and repair to the Castle’s doorway, to meet the Judge.

  “All was well – except for the foreman’s oath. I knew the other all right: but I was afraid of the foreman’s. I’d sat up half the night, trying to learn the thing; and sometimes I could say it, and sometimes I broke down. All the way down, I kept on reading it over and saying it to myself. Suddenly I found, with a shock, that the train was behind its time. We were nearing Winchester, but we were ten minutes late. And the train was slowing down. We reached the skirts of the city at twenty to ten. And there the train came to a halt. Before this new contretemps, I forgot all about the oath. But I had the sense to do one thing. I found a scrap of paper, and scribbled my note to the foreman. Then I hung out of the window and stared up the line.

  “There were two silks in my carriage. One, I think, was Charles – one of the best of fellows, who later became a Judge.

  “‘What’s your trouble?’ he said. ‘They can’t begin without us.’

  “‘Oh, can’t they?’ I said. ‘I’m the Judge’s Marshal.’

  “‘The devil you are,’ says Charles. ‘You’re going to be late.’

  “We pulled up to Winchester’s platform at seven minutes to ten.

  “I fairly fell out of the train, and there was the Judge’s valet, standing upon one leg. I guessed it was he, because of his frantic demeanour.

  “‘Are you from the Judge?’ I cried.

  “‘Yes, sir. Are you the Marshal? I’ve got a fly.’

  “There were no taxis in those days.

  “I left my luggage to him, and the fly-man whipped up his horse.

  “As we came to the Castle, I saw the coach coming up.

  “I fell out of the fly and ran into the echoing hall.

  “I tore off my hat and coat – it was raining hard – and thrust them upon a policeman. ‘Take those to the Judges’ room.’ Then I gave my note to another. ‘Take that to the Grand Jury bailiff. The foreman’s to have it at once.’ He only stared. ‘I’m the Marshal,’ I said. ‘Do as I say.’

  “He turned and ran off. As he did so, the fanfare rang out.

  “I whipped to the open doorway and stood to one side.

  “The coach was there. The High Sheriff was getting out. When the Judges had descended, a little procession was formed. The High Sheriff, in blue and silver, bearing his wand, and the Judges, robed and wearing their full-bottomed wigs. I noticed Coleridge’s Marshal, standing, facing me, on the other side of the steps. W
e let the procession pass and fell in behind. So we passed through the hall to the Judges’ corridor. There Channell turned to me and put out his hand. ‘I think you’re Pleydell,’ he said. ‘Do you know the oath?’

  “For half an hour, I had forgotten the oath.

  “‘Yes, sir – Judge.’

  “‘Come along.’

  “The moment his back was turned, I whipped the card from my pocket and glanced at the print. As we passed a door which was open, I saw my coat on a chair. This, then, was the Judges’ room. I pitched the card in, as I passed. I had to get through it now.

  “But before I came up to Becher’s, another fence had to be cleared. I had no means of knowing if the foreman had had my note.

  “The Judge passed on to the Bench, and I followed behind.

  “The Grand Jury was up on its feet. The Judge bowed to the Grand Jury, and the Grand Jurors bowed back. Then we all sat down.

  “I got to my feet and chanced it.

  “Looking straight at the foreman –

  “‘I think, sir,’ I said, ‘you have a request to make.’

  “He rose and looked at me. Then, to my great relief –

  “‘If you please,’ he said, ‘the Grand Jury would like to be sworn in the old-fashioned way.’

  “I glanced at Channell, who nodded.

  “Then I administered the oath. I think that a merciful Providence guided my tongue, for I never faltered and I never made a mistake. And then I swore his fellows, twenty-two times. And then I sank down in my stall, by the Judge’s side.

  “Channell leaned over to me.

  “‘I’m much obliged, Pleydell,’ he said. ‘I have never heard the oaths better administered.’

  “I don’t know what I replied. But I remember thinking, ‘If only you knew the truth.’

  “Then he charged the Grand Jury. This, with the natural dignity which characterized all he did. That was the first occasion on which I had heard this done, for no one, except the Marshal, was allowed in Court.”