“The review which he wrote was savage. He tore the book to shreds. More. It suggested that the book had been written by the author to glorify himself. Finally, it suggested that the author’s personal record was not as creditable as it might have been.
“Well, this was too much, and the author of the book took proceedings. To my mind, he had a good case; and when it was proved that he and the reviewer were enemies of long standing – well, most people thought that it would only be a matter of what damages he was awarded.
“I was in court for a while and I saw the reviewer in the box, and a very poor figure he cut. For all that, he won his case, and the author had to pay all the costs.”
“Never!” cried Daphne.
“It’s a fact.”
“How abominably unjust,” said Jonah.
“But what happened?” said Berry.
“I cannot remember,” I said. “I know there was a jury, all right. But I am inclined to think that the reviewer got home on a point of law. The author couldn’t prove damage, or something.”
“How the hell could he prove damage in such a case?”
“Exactly. But that’s what I said just now. Of course he had suffered damage. A lot of people, probably, decided not to purchase the book. Others, as like as not, looked askance at him in his Club. But how could he prove these things? So you see.”
“In fact, unless he could produce, for instance, a solicitor who would swear that, after reading that review, the author’s godfather had cut him out of his Will, he could not possibly succeed?”
“I couldn’t put it better,” I said.
“What a blasted scandal!”
“I think it’s wicked,” said Jill.
“It really means,” said Jonah, “that the author is at the mercy of any unscrupulous man?”
“That’s what it amounts to.” I sighed. “Malice can be trying: but I always bear in mind that reviews can seldom make or destroy a book.”
“You’re awfully good,” said Daphne. “Some reviews you’ve shown me have sent the blood to my head.”
“My sweet,” I said, “you must remember, first, that the malicious review, which, I confess, I sometimes receive, is something I never received before the late war; and, secondly, that some – I repeat some – of those who review books today have neither the standing nor the background of the reviewers of other days. Such people allow their feelings to over-ride their duty, which is to review upon its merits every book that comes into their hands.”
“But why should they feel malicious towards you? What harm have you done them?”
“My darling, I write of what used to be known as ‘the upper class’. And the portraits I paint of them are true to life. Their servants, for instance, are devoted. They may be poor, as were Coridon and Niobe: but nothing can alter the fact that they were well bred. And that is what inflames such ‘reviewers’ against my work.”
“Shocking,” said Jonah. “Because today you present ‘the upper class’ in a good light, they regard your work as subversive propaganda and make every effort to discourage its perusal.”
I nodded.
“Finally, let me refer to one review which I recently received. It was written by a distinguished man. Whether he reviewed books before the late war, I don’t know: but that he was of ‘the old school’ is indisputable. It was a more handsome review than I think I deserved. But that is beside the point – which is that his review opened with these words — That Dornford Yates has lost none of his old magic, no just man can deny; and that is the truth.
“‘No just man can deny.’
“Can you imagine such words being written before the late war? Why, then, did this reviewer write them?”
“Because he knew,” said Berry. “Knew of and resented this malice.”
“That’s my belief.”
“And he was of ‘the old school’?”
“For that, I can vouch.”
“Then why beat about the bush? It’s the same old answer – with knobs on. You write so convincingly of ‘the upper class’ that your books give ‘the new school’ a violent inferiority complex. Well, you can’t expect them to take that lying down, can you?”
When we had recovered from this broadside –
“That show on the wireless,” said Jill.
“Yes, that was a funny business.”
“It was an outrage, darling.”
“I don’t suppose it was – I really don’t know.”
“What do you mean?” said Berry.
“Something disparaging was said. But I don’t know what it was or when it was said. Please let me leave it there.”
“Well, I don’t know,” said Berry, “but from what you say the author seems to me to get a raw deal. If somebody wrote to the papers saying that such and such a grocer sold bad figs, the papers wouldn’t publish the letter, and if they did, both they and the writer of the letter would be taken to court forthwith. But the wares which the author sells can be condemned, whether they deserve it or no, with impunity.”
“That’s perfectly true. But you must remember this – that the author invites the Press to review his book; but the grocer does not ask the Press to consider his figs.”
“Yes, I see that,” said Jonah. “But such an invitation does not confer a licence to be malicious.”
“I know. But, as I have said before, I have really been very lucky. Taking it by and large, the Press have been very kind. I’ve had hundreds of handsome reviews: so it ill becomes me to complain if I get a few ugly ones. And you must remember that I’m getting out of date. Most of my work is today period stuff. To the present generation, the life we led at White Ladies seems almost mediaeval. And millions of them have been taught that such a life was as wrong as that which the Barons led in the time of Henry the First. Their teachers know that it wasn’t, but that is beside the point. I think perhaps I’d better stop there.”
“I think so, too, darling,” said Daphne.
“After all,” said Jonah, “many appear in Who’s Who, but few—”
“I know,” I said. “I’m very honoured.”
14
“I have here,” said Berry, “a little monograph which I have composed upon that romantic structure which was for many years the wonder of Europe, Old London Bridge. But it mustn’t go into the memoir.”
“Why not?” said Jill.
“Because it’s too choice. That it should rub shoulders with the Old Bailey is unthinkable. A niche in the Poets’ Corner would be more appropriate. I mean, you wait till you hear it.”
“If it isn’t any better,” said Daphne, “than your stuff about Trustees, I entirely agree. Keep it for the Poets’ Corner.”
“Quite so,” said Berry. “And when you’ve heard it, you’ll go on your bended knees and beg for its inclusion in this most vulgar production, which may never see the light.”
“Pray proceed,” said Jonah. “Old London Bridge is part of the history of England, and it’s stuffed so full of romance that I don’t think you can have gone wrong.”
Berry was bristling.
“Am I to interpret that statement as an assurance that, when I have cast before you my pearls, you will not turn and rend me?”
“Sorry,” said Jonah, laughing. “What I really meant was that you are the very man to deal with this wonderful fabric as it deserves. There’s never been anything like it in all the world.”
Something mollified, Berry picked up his manuscript. After a moment or two, he began to read.
“Old London Bridge was the first stone bridge of importance built in the British Isles: it stood for more than six hundred years; and for more than five hundred of those years it was the only bridge over the Thames in the London district. Except at Lambeth, there was no recognized ferry – and that was avoided by the more prudent, for the ferry-boat frequently sank, on one occasion with the coach of his Grace the Lord Archbishop of Canterbury. It follows that for more than five centuries, virtually all the traffic to and from
London, desirous of crossing the Thames, used Old London Bridge.
“The Bridge owed its being entirely to the devotion and energy of a determined priest, whose name deserves to be remembered. Peter de Colechurch was solely responsible for its conception, for obtaining the necessary funds and for its construction for twenty-nine years. Unhappily, that great man died four years before it was completed: but completed it was in the year 1209, in the reign of King John; and so well and truly was it built that, in spite of the occasional ravages of fire and water, it was never out of service for more than a few days for more than six centuries.
“When we consider the elaborate calculations which precede the construction of a comparatively minor bridge today, to build a stone bridge more than nine hundred feet long over a tidal river towards the end of the twelfth century was an astounding achievement; and when we remember that, through all those years, that bridge stood fast against the constant, angry thrust of a mighty head of water, a man may be forgiven for wondering whether the progress of which we are so proud, rests indeed upon foundations as sure.
“Now, lest I should be found guilty of the vulgar sin of exaggeration, before I proceed, I must justify two statements which I have just made. First, the width of the Thames at this point was nine hundred feet: but of this distance the nineteen piers of the bridge, with their protective armour, took up six hundred feet; so that when the bridge was completed, the river found itself deprived of two-thirds of the room which it was accustomed to take. With the result that it became no less than a ponderous weir, and the business of ‘shooting the Bridge’ in a wherry became well-known as a most hazardous exercise.
“Secondly, I must refer to the time-honoured ditty, London Bridge is Broken Down. Nobody knows the date of this Nursery Rhyme, which seems to give the lie to what I said a moment ago. But we are both right. In the reign of Edward the First, when the Bridge was only seventy-three years old, London was visited by a frost so hard that the Thames was frozen to a considerable depth. This frost was ended by a thaw so sudden that the ice broke up into great blocks which were swept down stream on to the Bridge. Before this fearful battery, no less than five of the twenty arches gave way: but repairs were soon set on foot, while the gaps were immediately closed by temporary structures, so that traffic over the Bridge should not be interrupted. Now it is interesting to learn that a still more severe frost nearly three hundred years later occasioned no damage at all. I find that strange – that a bridge should give way at the age of seventy-three, yet stand fast at the age of three hundred and fifty-six. Now there is a French proverb which says, Cherchez la femme. Let us obey it. When the Bridge was seven years old, King John died and was succeeded by his son Henry the Third. The latter’s Queen was Eleanor of Provence, whose beauty was undeniable, whose insatiable avarice soon made her the most unpopular royal personage in Europe. On one occasion, when her barge was about to pass – presumably at slack water – beneath the Bridge, the citizens some thirty feet above were quite unable to ignore this glorious opportunity of indicating their impatience of her shortcomings, and Her Majesty was pelted with rotten eggs and other traditional emblems of disapproval. Piqued by these attentions, the lady bided her time, and, shortly before her husband’s death, she induced him to award to her all the revenues and even the custody of Old London Bridge. As a result of this infamous transaction, for nearly ten years all the money which should have gone to the maintenance of the Bridge went into her privy purse: and, when the sudden thaw came in 1282, the Bridge was in no condition to withstand the pressure of the ice. Still, out of evil came good. On the collapse of the arches, the new King, Edward the First, immediately revoked the Queen Mother’s grant, and, from that time on, the revenues of the Bridge always remained its personal property.
“And now for the surface of the bridge.
“It was the surface of Old London Bridge that made it the wonder of Europe, that would make it a wonder of the world today. For Old London Bridge was a street. It was a narrow street, for the roadway was only twelve feet wide, and there were no pavements. But on either hand there were houses – houses three storeys high, for the whole of its length. The ground floor was nothing but shops: above, were the parlours and kitchens; on the second floor were the bedrooms, while the servants slept in the attics, above again. And every house was as different as were the signboards that swung above the shops below. In the fourteenth century there were one hundred and thirty-eight shops on London Bridge. Now the whole width of the bridge was only twenty feet. Of these, as I have said, twelve were devoted to the roadway or street. It follows that there remained but four feet of the surface on either side to receive the houses and shops. Their builders rose to an occasion which would have defeated many less valiant souls. Every house was projected some ten feet beyond the flanks of the bridge, and these projections were supported by shores of timber which sprang from the bases of the piers. Upon the inside, the houses frequently overhung the street: and in some cases they were deliberately joined together by a chamber which was built on the second floor across the Street and was either shared by or divided between the occupants of the respective dwellings. In these two lines of houses, there were three breaks. One, near the middle of the bridge, was known as The Square: this was certainly the only spot at which two wagons, moving in opposite directions, could pass. The second break, nearer the Surrey side, was filled by a drawbridge, which could be raised to allow a small vessel to pass or to deny the passage of the Bridge itself to an enemy. The third break, almost at the end of the Bridge on the Surrey side, accommodated The Great Stone Gate, which was one of the gates of the City of London and was shut at night. It was above this gate that, for many years, the heads of traitors were exposed upon the ends of pikes, as an example of the wages of sin, to the discouragement of all those who might be contemplating high treason.
“The revenues of which I have spoken were, of course, provided by the rents of the houses and shops, which, for more than one reason, were much in demand. For one thing, life upon the Bridge was healthy, and its inhabitants were seldom the victims of the epidemics to which the City itself was often subject: for another, the fact that the Bridge had to be used by virtually everyone who crossed the Thames brought much custom to the shops; and, for another, Old London Bridge was continually the scene of the splendid passage of the great.
“I have no time to recite the many gorgeous spectacles seen at close quarters on the Bridge, or to name the Kings and Queens and Princes, the famous captains and statesmen, the prelates and embassies that passed in pomp and circumstance along its narrow street: enough that such as dwelled there lived cheek by jowl with great occasions.
“And now let us stroll the length of that wonderful thoroughfare: but we must walk very slowly, for we shall take five hundred years to cover those three hundred yards. Still, in our passage, we shall encounter four famous personages, each of whom must have used Old London Bridge. Two of them will need no introduction: of the others, one has stepped out of the pages of Chaucer and the other out of the paintings of William Hogarth.
“As we leave Fish Street Hill, three things strike us at once. The first is the swinging signboards on either side of the street, all bravely painted and every one declaring, usually by a symbol, the nature of the goods for sale in the shop below. I have not time to name them all – they were so many: but there were booksellers, haberdashers, linen-drapers, grocers, goldsmiths, glovers, butchers, hair-dressers, fishmongers, hosiers and, of course, taverners, all plying their trade on London Bridge. The second thing that strikes us is the steady roar of the water pouring through the archways beneath our feet. And the third thing is the colour of the busy street. This is afforded by the clothing of those who use it – reds and blues and greens and yellows, crimson and violet, scarlet and gold – some bright and some faded, but all filling the eye and making glad the heart of man.
“Here comes a pack-horse, laden with bales and led by a mounted servant, whose master, the merchant himself, is
riding behind. Their faces are alight with relief, for Genoese velvet commands a high price and the country roads are dangerous. Next, with leisurely stride, comes a man-at-arms, fresh from the wars in France: a merry-faced, nut-brown man, in his coat of chain-mail and bright steel cap, a straight sword by his side and a painted long-bow on his back. He is bound for a house in the City where he is known and will be welcome. And here is a lady on horseback whom we have met before. And, as Kipling would say, she is a notable woman. She has just left Dan Chaucer, the poet, at The Tabard Inn, for she has ridden with him from Canterbury and, after a day or two in London, she will ride down to the West Country. Her servants, before and behind, have little duty to do, for the lady, though smiling, has a masterful air, and he would be a bold man that took an unwelcome liberty. Her magnificent wimple of fine linen is most elaborate, and, indeed, she is expensively dressed, with love-knots upon her frock, as becomes a lady who has buried five husbands. Indeed, it is quite clear that, as Chaucer says, the famous Wife of Bath could be excellent company.
“As we pass on, the colour grows more pronounced, but clothes are becoming fantastic and inconvenient. There goes a man with a liripipe three feet long: and here is a true dandy, in parti-coloured hose, with the toes of his long, soft shoes chained up to his knees. A few more paces, and the colour is fading again, and clothes are becoming more fashioned and more becoming. And there, a little way ahead, we see the first ruff…
“How many scores of times must Shakespeare have crossed the Bridge? For the Globe Theatre was at Southwark, and his favourite tavern, The Mermaid, stood in Cheapside. Coming slowly towards us is the quietly dressed figure, with the fresh, linen collar and the unmistakable face – high forehead, straight nose, delicately pointed beard and those magnificent eyes. Here is no dreamer. Intensely human himself, all mankind is his study, and, as he walks, how vigilant is his gaze. He misses nothing in that crowded street, for all is fish that comes to Shakespeare’s net. We have rubbed shoulders with one of the very best fellows that ever called for wine, who is modest to a fault, whose wisdom and understanding are not of this world, whose ear is tuned to catch the music of the spheres, whose name liveth for evermore.
B-Berry and I Look Back Page 14
