B-Berry and I Look Back

by Dornford Yates

  “Shocking,” said Jonah.

  “Yes, it was a terrible scene.”

  “Tree was a fine producer?”

  “Very good indeed. Some of his Shakespearian productions were really lovely. He fell down sometimes, of course.”

  “Was he the best producer of his time?”

  I shook my head.

  “Of straight plays, I think Asche was the best producer before the first war. Before, mark you. His productions of The Taming of the Shrew, As You Like It, Count Hannibal and Kismet were as near perfect as anything I’ve seen. His production of Kismet made Knoblauch, who wrote the play. In Kismet the curtain rose upon a busy street scene in old Bagdad. And at every performance, before a word was spoken, the roars of applause kept rising and falling for as long as two minutes at a time. And then, when you thought they were over, they’d break out again. And the tribute was richly deserved. He had imagination, of course, but his attention to detail was infinite. But with the outbreak of war, he seemed to go to bits. Chu Chin Chow had a record run, but that was because there were a lot of scantily dressed ladies and the war was on. As a production, it was dreadful. The music was the best thing about it.” I got to my feet. “And now let’s redeem our promise and go to bed.”

  9

  “To return to Tree,” said Berry. “Was he a great actor?”

  “Undoubtedly,” said I. “The trouble was that, when he’d played a part for a week, he got bored with it. So, if you wanted to be sure of seeing Tree at his best, you had to go on one of the first few nights. Of course he played some parts which he should never have played. His Hamlet was fearful: it really gave you a pain. And his Benedick was frightening. Bourchier, who couldn’t bear Tree, asked me if I’d seen it. I said I was going next week. ‘Well, don’t go,’ said Bourchier, ‘unless you want to see a coloured hermaphrodite.’ And W S Gilbert said of his Hamlet that ‘it was funny without being vulgar’.”

  “What a shame,” said my sister, laughing.

  “Yes, it was in a way. But he did stick out his neck. For all that, Tree was a great man, and he did a great deal of good. On the whole, his productions were lovely.”

  “He couldn’t bear Bourchier, could he?”

  “No, indeed. A rehearsal was in progress at His Majesty’s when a tyre burst in Charles Street, outside. Everyone jumped at the noise. ‘I knew it would happen,’ said Tree. ‘That’s Bourchier’s head.’”

  “‘On the whole,’” said Berry.

  “Well, some were better than others. But he did slip up once, I remember. I can’t remember the play, which was not a success, but the scene was laid in some South Sea Island or other, no doubt a very beautiful spot. That great scene-painter Joseph Harker – the father of Gordon Harker – painted all the sets, as usual. I don’t think Tree ever went to anyone else. The first act and the last act were played in the same setting. This was upon some sea-shore. The back-cloth, a mighty bay, was very handsomely done, but, to everyone’s horror, there was a British man-of-war, painted into the back-cloth, apparently lying at anchor, quite close in.”

  “Good God,” said Berry, and everyone else cried out.

  “Yes, but there’s worse to come. The last act was played after the sun had gone down, and when the curtain rose, there was the cruiser lighted up.”

  As soon as he could speak –

  “I don’t believe you,” said Berry. “Not at His Majesty’s?”

  “It’s true,” I said laughing. “It wasn’t Harker’s fault, for he’d only done as he was told. Tree had demanded a cruiser, so Harker painted it in. I’ve no doubt he protested: but when Tree wanted something, he usually had his way. You may imagine the critics’ reactions, for, if they could get at Tree, they always did. It wasn’t very long before the first war, and Germany was growing insolent. One of the critics wrote, I have seen that cruiser before: and then the funny man showed it a sausage and it sank.”

  As the laughter subsided –

  “Well, anyone can tell you those things, but here is another tail-piece, which I don’t think most people know. Tree was upset by these criticisms and pretended, of course, that Harker was to blame. After the play had come off, which it very soon did, he spent a few days in the country. One afternoon he drove out in an open car. Except for one companion, he was alone. He was still very much depressed and refused to talk. Then the car breasted some rise, and there was a magnificent sunset – a most arresting sight. Tree called upon the chauffeur to stop: and the three of them sat in silence, contemplating the glorious spectacle. Tree touched his companion’s arm and pointed. ‘Harker at his worst,’ he said.”

  “Brilliant,” said Jonah.

  “Sorry,” said Jill, “I’m not there.”

  “It’s very subtle, my darling. What Tree meant was that, if Harker had rendered that sunset, all the critics would have said it was overdone.”

  “That,” said Berry, “was very quick. But you’ve said before that most of his wit was studied.”

  “That’s quite true. Very different to that of Paul Rubens. I’ll tell you of him in a minute. I haven’t quite done with Tree. I didn’t know him very well, but he was always very nice to me. When he came up to Oxford to see the pageant, I asked him to lunch with me first. During luncheon he inquired how we were going to get to the pageant-ground. ‘I’ve ordered a hansom,’ I said. ‘It’s such a lovely day. Could we have a landau?’ ‘Of course,’ I said. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I’ll give the order at once.’ So I went off to telephone. (In those great days, it was as easy as that. You could have a special train for less than fifty pounds.) When we took our seats in the carriage, Tree turned to me. ‘I have visited Oxford many times, but never yet have I seen a good-looking girl.’ ‘I can believe you,’ I said. ‘But, then, Oxford’s a monastery.’ So it was in those days. ‘There must be one,’ said Tree, beginning to look about him. ‘After all, Sodom and Gomorrah could produce just one good man.’ I began to grow uneasy. Tree was in a mischievous mood. Sure enough, ‘If I should see one,’ he said, ‘I shall rise and take off my hat.’ ‘I beg,’ I said, ‘that you’ll do nothing of the kind.’ ‘Oh, but I shall,’ said Tree. ‘That’s why I wanted a landau.’ Well, we got down The High all right, though we had to go very slowly because of the crowds. I need hardly say he was recognized right and left. But he spotted a winner, as we were going over Magdalen Bridge. She was in some scene in the pageant and was wearing mediaeval dress. ‘There you are,’ cried Tree and, steadying himself on my shoulder, got to his feet. Then he swept off his hat with a most magnificent gesture, brought the hat back to his heart and bowed as low as he could. I had to laugh, but I never was so much embarrassed. As he sat down, ‘Probably down for the day,’ he said. ‘Perhaps she’ll be on the train. D’you think she’ll know me again?’ ‘I imagine so,’ I said. ‘She’ll talk about this for years.’ ‘D’you really think so?’ said Tree, as pleased as Punch.

  “One more memory of this really great man at play. He asked to luncheon a man whom he wanted to please. Luncheon in the Carlton Grill. He ordered very special food and a particularly rare wine. To his dismay, his guest’s reception of the hors d’oeuvres showed that he was no gourmet and that a cut off the joint at Simpson’s and a tankard of beer would have served him just as well. Tree was in agony. To see such superb dishes devoured as if they were provender drove him half out of his mind. Then the wine was served. God knows what wine it was or how much it was worth. But their glasses were filled with every reverence. Tree’s guest, who was thirsty, seized his glass which he plainly proposed to drain. This was too much. With a stifled scream, Tree caught his arm. ‘Don’t drink it all at once,’ he cried.”

  “But how do you know this?” said Jonah, wiping his eyes.

  “I knew the guest,” I said. “He was one of Tree’s backers. And he was, very unkindly, pulling Tree’s leg.”

  “Poor Tree,” said Jill. “What a shame!”

  “It was. A damned shame. But Tree did ask for it sometimes.”

 
“How was it that some of the actor-managers sometimes produced such bad plays?”

  “That’s a question on which I never can make up my mind. They didn’t often do it: but the fact that they did it at all surprised me very much. I’m not talking of failures, for many a good play has failed. I’m talking of rotten plays. (And, if you please, I am talking of things as they were before the first war. For a rotten play then was doomed: it didn’t run for two years, as they do today.) I have seen some plays put up on the West End stage that almost any one of us here could have predicted would fail. But the management couldn’t see it. Sometimes, I think, the big shot saw a part for himself which he liked so well that he could see no further. Sometimes I’ve wondered whether such a play was put up out of obstinacy – just because somebody else had ventured to say it was no good. It has occurred to me that such plays were put on, because they were the best they could find and, if nothing had been put on, the theatre would have been standing idle. But none of those reasons seem to me good enough. The fact remains that these highly intelligent men did on occasion go to very great expense to produce a play that you or I could have told them was no damned good. Fortunately for their pockets and for those of their backers, such an occurrence was rare; but that it did happen is beyond argument.”

  “Just now you mentioned Paul Rubens.”

  “Yes. He had a very quick wit. He was an Old Stager, and I met him at Canterbury. The men used to stay at The Fountain; and night after night we would sit up to all hours while Paul Rubens moved between the supper-table and the piano, playing and telling his tales.”

  “He was very talented,” said Berry. “I would sooner listen to his light music than to that of many of his successors.”

  I nodded.

  “His early death was a tragedy. Apart from his brilliant work, he was the life and soul of any company he kept. And he was very modest. He had an immense fund of side-splitting anecdotes in which, according to him, his brother played the lead. I was always quite sure that it wasn’t his brother at all – that it was himself. But that was Paul Rubens’ way.

  “His sister was a close friend of Mrs Willie James, who was one year a member of a house-party at Sandringham. She suggested to the King and Queen that the Rubens should be asked down for two nights to help in some amateur theatricals. Their Majesties agreed and the visit was arranged. Paul Rubens’ account of their adventure into such exalted society was one of the funniest tales I have ever heard. Their troubles began at Wolferton Station, for, by some mistake, no carriage had been sent to meet them and the station-master had not been warned to expect them. The latter flatly refused to believe that the three had been invited to stay at Sandringham House, and it took them twenty minutes to persuade him to allow Rubens’ sister to use his telephone. I should have said that it was a bitterly cold night and that there was at the station no transport of any kind. At last the station-master gave way and the sister was connected to Mrs Willie James. ‘Is that you, Eva?’ she said. ‘Oh my Gawd,’ said the station-master. ‘Bill, light the fire in the waiting-room.’ Well, it was all like that…

  “One very quick back-answer has always stuck in my mind. (He told it of his brother, of course, but I shall tell it of him.) One evening he dined at his father’s table. It was a party, and, since one of the guests had dropped out, an odd man that the family knew had been asked to take his place. Paul and his brother couldn’t bear the stand-in, who was a sycophant. When the women had left the table, the sycophant seated himself beside Paul and began to do his stuff. ‘Devilish good port, this, my boy.’ ‘Yes,’ said Paul Rubens, ‘I think the governor’s changed his grocer.’”

  As the laughter subsided–

  “Darling,” said Jill, “What’s a sycophant?”

  “A toady or parasite, my sweet. And now I’ve remembered a quick one of Darling’s. I wasn’t in the case, but I happened to be in court. It was a motor-car case, and the plaintiff was a nice old fellow who lived in the country and believed that roads were made for equipages and regarded motor cars and all who used them with the most violent hatred and contempt. He was quite rabid on the subject; besides, his four-wheeled dog-cart had been hit by a motor car. Under cross-examination, he became so excited that his tongue ran away with him. ‘I tell you,’ he cried, ‘that I have seen much murder done by drivers of motor cars.’ Darling leaned down from the Bench. ‘What, many murders?’ he said. ‘Many murders, my lord,’ cried the witness. Darling sat back. ‘Ah, well,’ he said. ‘Some people have all the luck.’”

  “George Alexander?” said Jonah.

  “I never met him.” I said. “Frankly, I never understood why he had the success he had. To my mind, he was not a great actor. He was quite good in a society play, but his rendering of Rudolf in The Prisoner of Zenda was dreadful. And that is by no means a difficult part to play.”

  “Ellen Terry?”

  “There was no one like her. There’s been no one like her since. She was incomparable.”

  “Is it a fact that she never could remember her lines?”

  “That’s putting it rather high. But neither she nor anyone else ever knew when she was going to break down – or, as they call it on the stage, dry up. Her failing was most disconcerting and used to drive Irving mad. It was never in the same place. I heard her do it once. The first intimation I had was her agonized aside, ‘Oh, what do I say? What do I say?’ Then somebody gave her her words and she recovered at once.

  “Which reminds me that the only time I ever saw Muskett gravelled was when he was cross-examining a daughter of hers. (You will remember that I was once his pupil and that he was the Solicitor to the Commissioner of Police.) The lady – would it have been Miss Ailsa Craig? – had been subpoenaed by the Militant Suffragists to give evidence on their behalf at Bow Street. I need hardly say that the evidence which she had been summoned to give was utterly irrelevant. However, she looked very charming, very faintly reminiscent of her mother and absurdly out of place. When she had given her evidence, Muskett rose to cross-examine. ‘What time was this, Miss Craig?’ With a charming smile, ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said, ‘but, you know, I can’t appreciate time.’ I began to laugh, but Muskett seemed utterly dazed. He kept looking at her and then at the Magistrate. And then at last he sat down and turned to me. ‘What the devil’s the woman mean?’ he said. Then he saw I was laughing and laughed himself.”

  “You know,” said Daphne, laughing, “you did have a lot of fun.”

  “I did, indeed, my darling. Far more than I deserved.”

  “Pity you didn’t keep a diary.”

  I wrinkled my brow.

  “It would be useful now: but I’m far too lazy for such an exercise.”

  “Most people are,” said Berry. “I did once – for a month; but I was truly thankful to lay the swine down. Self-discipline’s all very well: but the effort of writing up one’s diary is formidable indeed. Thank God Sam Pepys did it – though how such a lad contrived to keep it going for ten full years, I never shall understand. Evelyn, of course, was exactly the sort of bloke who would keep a diary. But not Sam Pepys.

  “I remember once, many years ago, lunching with the old squire of a little village in Kent. When luncheon was over, we sat in the library. I’d just been staying at Ruth with Nicholas John and, when the old fellow heard that, he got all excited because he had known his mother, when she was a little girl. Then he rose and passed to a bookcase. He took down three or four volumes, all handsomely bound in calf, and after a little search, he found the entry he sought. ‘Drove over to —, and lunched with the —s. An excellent luncheon; roast goose, stuffed with onion farce, and apple sauce: cold steak and kidney pie; plum pudding. Miss Fanny much perturbed by the loss of a favourite cat…’ and a lot more of the same sort of stuff. Miss Fanny was the future Duchess. I think there were more than fifty volumes, all of which he had composed in the sweat of his face. Well, I don’t know, but where are those volumes now? And I’m perfectly sure that he never read them himself.”r />
  “I think,” said Jonah, “that the old fellow deserved full marks, for he made a considerable effort for many years. Supposing those volumes survived a world catastrophe – to be found five thousand years later… They’d be invaluable. I admit that, as like as not, they have already been pulped. But that is not his fault. He made his effort, poor man. And if Pepys and Farington and Greville hadn’t made their efforts, how very much poorer the world would be today.”

  “I withdraw,” said Berry. “You’re perfectly right. The diarist does a duty which nine out of ten of us cannot be bothered to do. We can talk about being too tired or not having the time. But that won’t wash. Pepys was pretty busy; but he always made the time – and ruined his sight by writing up ‘his journal’ night after night.” He sighed. “That old squire was a better man than I am – and that’s the truth.”

  “Eleanor Carson,” said Jill.

  “True again,” said Berry. “Consider the very great pleasure her diary presently gave to Vivien and Pip. And they were contemporaries.” He looked at me. “By the way, how’s the new book?”

  “I can’t complain,” I said.

  “Darling,” said Jill, “you know it’s going strong. Do let them hear the first part.”

  “Why not?” said Berry. “Then if it’s no good, we’ll tell you and you needn’t go on. How many parts will it consist of?”

  “Only two,” I said. “The first is told in the first person, and the second in the third.”

  “That’s rather interesting. Has it ever been done before?”

  “I really don’t know. I expect so. The tale goes straight on. The first part ends on a Thursday afternoon, and the second begins the next morning at eight o’clock.”

  “Why did you change over?”

  I shrugged my shoulders.

  “The same old answer,” I said. “I never saw the change coming. I did as I was told. But please don’t dress this up. I’m sure that a lot of authors have written in just the same way. As I’ve said before, I know that Kipling did.”