“Oh, no,” said I. “But – well, honour among thieves, you know. Dog mustn’t eat dog.”
“Supposing you’d only found out a week before your publication date?”
“Then it would have been too late to do anything. Thousands of copies would already have been distributed.”
“Very worrying, darling,” said Daphne.
“Just one of those things,” I said. “But I hope it doesn’t happen again.”
“He was worn out,” said Jill. “He was dictating straight on to the typewriter more than once. And cables too.”
“Had I been younger,” I said, “I shouldn’t have been so tired. But, when I’m up against time, high concentration takes its toll today. I used to take things in my stride, but I can’t any more.”
“You rose to the occasion,” said Jonah, refilling my glass.
“As you have done all your life.”
“Supposing,” said Berry, “supposing a book called Wash Out had a phenomenal success. That’s just the sort of title that the public would fall for today. Well, there we are – Wash Out. And then, six months later somebody else calls a book they’ve written Wash Out. Can’t the author of the original book do anything?”
I raised my eyebrows.
“I think he could,” I said. “I think he could get an injunction, for that would be, to my mind, a clear case of plagiarism. And plagiarism is so contemptible and disgusting an exercise that any proved plagiarist would get a very short shrift.”
“Have you ever suffered from it?”
“Once. But, if you’ll forgive me, I’d rather not talk about that.”
“Unheard of in the old days, of course.”
“Exactly. But the world was more scrupulous then.”
“Florence gets it in one. ‘This patent-leather scum that wouldn’t dream of stealing, but only lives by its wits.’”
“That,” said Jonah, “was a brilliantly pungent remark.”
“It’s so damned true,” said Berry. “Florence is among the godsends. No doubt about that.”
“Ah,” said I. “I wanted you to use that word.”
“It’s true,” said Daphne. “Already I find myself thinking, ‘What would Florence have said about this?’”
“That,” said Jonah, “is because, besides being damned amusing, she’s always right on the mark.”
“What did I tell you?” said Jill, slipping her arm under mine.
“You’re very good,” I said. “But not everyone will get her. You see, she’s a cook-housekeeper. And, as she herself proclaims, she knows her place. As such, today she’s a blackleg, or unbelievable. Now listen to this. Not very long ago, some film company toyed with the idea of buying the rights of Blind Corner. But they turned it down, ‘because’, they wrote, ‘it is felt that the audiences of today wouldn’t understand the servants’. Those were the words used.”
“God give me strength,” said Berry.
There was a little silence. Then –
“And Bridget and Fitch and Carson,” said Jonah. “And Carson, unless he’s blown it, is worth two thousand a year.”
There was another silence. Then –
“While we’re on it,” said Berry, “what films your romances would make.”
“It has occurred to me that films made from them would be better than some I have seen. But the film people don’t seem to think so.”
“Have you approached them?”
I shook my head.
“It’s for them to come to me.”
“But take Blood Royal. My God, what a splendid picture!”
“Yes, it would film very well.”
“All of them would – the romances, I mean. As they stand. The screen-writer would have nothing to do.”
I shrugged my shoulders.
“It’s just a matter of taste. After all, the film people are going to put up the money and take the risk. And they don’t, apparently, think the risk is good enough. I don’t agree with their decision, but I don’t blame them at all.”
“You’re very good about it,” said Daphne.
“My darling,” I said, “I can’t be anything else. My wares are for sale: if they don’t attract purchasers – well, that’s just too bad. After all, ‘the customer is always right’.”
“Well, I don’t get it,” said Jonah.
Something to my relief, they left it there.
“May I say,” said Berry, “how very much I appreciate the fact that on the back of your dust-covers there always appears something from your own pen.”
“That’s very good of you. I can’t remember how long I’ve been writing that. But I think the author’s the obvious person to do it.”
“How many authors do?”
“Not many, I think. I really don’t know why. The idea is – or should be – not so much to commend the book, as to give the public an idea of what it’s about. And the author is – or should be – best qualified to do this.” I began to laugh. “To be honest, I believe the reviewer reads it more faithfully than the prospective purchaser. It helps the reviewer quite a lot, if he’s pressed for time.”
“Dedication and preface?” said Jonah.
“I don’t think those are read by one per cent. They just get down to the book. Very natural, you know.”
“One thing you’ve never told us,” said Berry, “and that is – supposing one wants to get into some court when a case is being heard, how does one do it?”
“You mean, how does a layman do it, if he isn’t concerned in the case?”
“Yes. Assume he finds himself near the Royal Courts of Justice or the Old Bailey, with an hour to waste and thinks he’ll go in and sit down and listen to a case. How does he get in?”
“Well, in the Royal Courts of Justice, unless the court is crowded, it’s easy enough – at least, it used to be. There’ll be a tipstaff on the doors, but if you look respectable and you say you’d just like to go in or you’re interested in the case, he’ll make no difficulty. But you must be properly dressed. If the court is crowded, unless you happen to see some solicitor or counsel that you know, you probably won’t get in. Of course, there’s always the public gallery, but that’s not a pleasant place and it’s usually full.
“They’re more strict at the Old Bailey. They have police on the doors there, and, unless he is vouched for, a layman won’t get in.”
“People of note seem to get in to hear murder trials.”
“I know. The City Lands Committee have a right to certain seats in the Judge’s Court, and if you know a Sheriff or someone, he’ll give you a note or a pass to be admitted to them. In my time, to my way of thinking, this practice was sometimes abused. I’ve seen well-known actors and actresses in those seats at a murder trial. Well, that was just idle curiosity on their part, together with a desire for publicity. Myself, I think it was also very bad form. After all, the prisoner was on trial for his life and, if I had been he, I should have resented it bitterly.”
“It was inexcusable,” said Jonah.
“Things got better before I left the Bar. I rather think the Lord Chief had something to do with that.”
“If you wanted to listen to a case at the Old Bailey today, what would you do?”
“I should go in by the private door which Judges and Counsel use and up in the lift. I should stop at the Court floor and have a word with the police-officer on the door of the Judge’s Court. If I failed with him, I should send in my card to the Clerk of Arraigns, with a few words on it saying that I was an old hand.”
“Dirty work,” said Berry.
“Rubbish,” said Daphne. “D’you mean to tell me that, after all the hours Boy’s spent in that very court—”
“He’d be taking an unfair advantage.”
“Yes, you wouldn’t, would you?” said Jill.
“Certainly not. I should send for the Judge’s clerk and say that his lordship would wish me to be given a seat on the bench.”
Jonah began to shake with laughter.
/> “The silly thing is,” he said, “I’ve no doubt you’d be given one – and asked to lunch afterwards.”
“I should hope so,” said Berry. “Why should I go empty away?”
No one of us felt equal to answering this question, so Daphne said ‘Outrageous’ and left it there.
“Idiosyncrasies,” said Jonah. “Didn’t Kipling always write with a very special ink?”
“Indeed, he did. And he used a special nib. And he wrote upon special paper, made up into special pads. But that was in no way a pose. Kipling had a master brain; and in order to comfort his genius and give it every chance, he found it best to humour its special demands.”
“Your sub-conscious brain is less exacting?”
“Happily it is. All I ask is a pen or liquid pencil that writes easily and plenty of white quarto paper of good quality. Oh, and a typewriter, upon which I can roughly transcribe my longhand every now and then. But if I had a brain like Kipling’s, I can’t believe you’d consider any demand too high.”
“I shouldn’t,” said Jonah. “He was a very great man.”
“The last of the giants,” I said. “His work will see out Time.”
12
I looked at Berry.
“U and Non-U. I think you should deal with that.”
Berry wrinkled his nose.
“A distasteful subject,” he said. “I wonder what Samuel Johnson would have said. Never mind. The thing is this. Oh, and let me say, by way of preface, that Noblesse Oblige is probably the finest motto in the world, but it is worn in the heart alone…”
To my great regret, I must omit the remainder of his estimate, which was, I think, as valuable as it was severe. And when, in conclusion, he ‘remembered’ what Samuel Johnson would have said – ‘Sir, a vulgarity of speech may be observed; but only the…’ – it goes to my heart to suppress such pungency.
When he had finished –
“Admirable,” said Jonah. “You are more articulate than our parents would have been. To my mind, the cheerful collection and promulgation of things which we were always most careful to leave unsaid shows almost more vividly than anything else how far we have come in the last fifty years. I still recall with acute embarrassment an incident which occurred when I was up at Oxford. I was in somebody’s rooms when his scout came in quietly, to see to the fire. As, the job done, he stood up, ‘Well, George,’ said my host, ‘did you get your partridges?’ ‘No, sir,’ said the scout, smiling; ‘but I did better than that. Mr Beechey gave me a nare.’ To my horror, my host failed to get it. ‘A nare?’ he said. ‘What the devil’s a nare?’ The servant grew slowly red and I could have sunk through the floor. Somehow I found my voice. ‘George,’ I said, ‘you’re very fortunate. Jugged hare is an excellent dish.’ ‘So it is, sir,’ said George and left the room. When I looked at my host, his eyes were still tight shut. ‘Oh, my God,’ he wailed… You see, according to his lights, he had done the unspeakable thing.” He sighed. “But there you are. Times change.”
It seemed best to leave it there.
“Last night,” said Berry, “you mentioned Lord Justice Rigby. I happen to know something about him, which I don’t think you’ll find in the books. Tell us what you know of him first.”
“I know very little,” I said, “except that he was a very fine lawyer and did very well at the Bar. This, in spite of the fact that he cared for no man and was always rather uncouth. He was unmarried and lived in considerable style. His two attractive nieces kept house for him. One of them, Ruth Rigby, married the Theobald Mathew of my day. I never met her, but I met her sister, Edith, once. I did hear it said that, when her sister had gone, her life was not too easy, for her uncle, who was never considerate, grew more exacting with age. She kept her eyes upon her duty, but she should and could have married long before she did. But I’ve little doubt that the Judge discouraged swains. And now you go on.”
“It’s a curious tale,” said Berry. “But it is perfectly true.
“About the middle of the last century there was a curate of the name of Rigby at a little village in Kent. As was sometimes the way in those days, the Vicar was never there, so the curate acted as Vicar for year after year. He was a quiet, well-mannered man and was very much liked. He was persona grata with the Squire and his family and was a constant visitor at The Hall. That he should always lunch there on Sundays was an understood thing.
“Now the Squire had been called to the Bar, but, being wealthy and preferring the country to the town, he never practised, but did his duty in the village and minded his considerable estate. For all that, he was deeply interested in the Law and all to do with it. Before he reached middle age he was attacked by the illness called ‘Poor Man’s Gout’, that is to say, a gout which he had inherited, but had himself neither promoted nor encouraged. Indeed, he was always a most abstemious man. So it was rather hard that he should be a victim of what proved to be a most painful, trying and, presently, fatal disease. As a result of this affliction he found himself forced to lead a very sedentary life, spending most of his time in his well-found library and less and less in his meadows and hop-gardens. So it came to pass that he devoted many hours to the study of law, reading the reports in The Times and watching the careers of members of the Bar who were his contemporaries.
“One Friday evening his wife received a note from the curate, saying that his younger brother was coming to spend the weekend with him and asking if he might bring him to luncheon on Sunday. Of course the lady said yes, and at the appropriate hour the two brothers arrived.
“To the family’s great surprise, the young man’s manners were as rough as his brother’s were smooth. He was awkward and taciturn – by no means an easy guest. Mother and daughter on his right hand and on his left found entertaining him very uphill work. But from the opposite end of the table the Squire was watching the youth, and when the meal was over, he bade him follow him into the library.
“When they were seated –
“‘How old are you?’ said the Squire.
“The youth replied – ‘Nineteen.’
“It would have been more becoming to say, ‘Nineteen, sir,’ for his host was three times his age. But the Squire only smiled.
“‘And what are you proposing to do?’
“‘What can I do,’ cried the youth, ‘but take a post as a clerk?’
“‘Why d’you say that?’
“‘Because I’ve no money at all, and I’ve got to live.’
“‘What do you want to do?’
“The young man’s eyes lighted.
“‘I want to go to the Bar. I’ll get there somehow…one day.’
“The Squire considered his guest. Then he picked up The Times.
“‘You see that leader,’ he said. ‘Read it to me aloud.’
“The youth did as he said.
“‘Now give me the paper back.’ The youth complied. “‘Now tell me what you remember of the leader you have just read.’
“The youth repeated the leader, word for word.
“‘Very good,’ said the Squire. ‘And now you shall go to the Bar. I’ll pay your fees and allow you a hundred a year for the next five years.’
“And that was how Lord Justice Rigby came to go to the Bar.”
“What a lovely tale,” said Jill.
“It’s perfectly true,” said Berry. “I’m not going to say how I know, but I know it’s the absolute truth.”
“The Squire knew his world,” said Jonah. “Nine men out of ten would have written John Rigby off. But the Squire saw the fire of genius glowing under the slack.”
“I hope he was grateful,” I said.
“He was indeed,” said Berry. “He could never discharge such a debt, but to the day of his death he was one of the family’s Trustees.”
13
“One thing,” said Daphne, “I’ve never understood is why reviewers persist in classing your work with Buchan’s.”
I smiled.
“I’ve never underst
ood it, either.”
Berry took up the running.
“I can see no resemblance whatever between any book that Buchan wrote and any book of yours. Now, if they said Anthony Hope…”
“I agree. There’s far more resemblance there. He began with The Dolly Dialogues and I began with The Brother of Daphne. He went on to write that immortal book, The Prisoner of Zenda, followed by Rupert of Hentzau, and I wrote Blood Royal, followed by Fire Below. So there is a definite resemblance between his work and mine. But Buchan’s books bear no resemblance to any of his or mine. At least, if they do, I can’t see it.”
“Criticism,” said Berry. “How far can a reviewer go – and keep within the law?”
“The true answer is – all lengths.”
“Are you speaking as a lawyer?”
“I am.”
“But what about malice?”
“So long as the reviewer does not attack the character of the author, he can be as malicious as he likes – with impunity.”
“D’you mean to say that, if some reviewer who, you knew, was your enemy, wrote of one of your books, ‘I cannot advise my readers to buy this book. If they do, they will be wasting their money’ – do you mean to say that you could do nothing?”
“Nothing.”
“Even if you could prove that he had reason to hate you?”
“Not even then. The author is entirely defenceless.”
“Supposing he said, ‘Only a wash-out could have written this book’?”
“That would be an attack on the man. So an action against him would lie. But whether the author would win it is very questionable. You see, he would have to prove that, as a result of this statement, he had suffered damage, which would be very difficult. And, if he did win it, the damages he would receive – if they were ever paid – would in no way compensate him for the trouble, waste of time and expense which he had been caused.”
“The law is at fault,” said Jonah. “If an author can prove malice, he should be able to make a reviewer pay.”
“I agree,” said I. “But don’t forget that malice is very hard to prove.
“I remember such a case. It was a long time ago and it attracted much attention. The book in question was the biography of an administrator of repute and it had been written by, I think, a soldier who had known him well and had for several years been a member of his staff. It was reviewed in a well-known periodical. And now mark this. The man who wrote the review was a permanent member of the periodical’s staff; but he never, in the ordinary way, wrote the reviews.
B-Berry and I Look Back Page 13
