“Nor I,” said Berry. “She was an ill-fated ship.”
“They boasted that she was unsinkable. So Nature stretched out an arm.”
“It does look like that,” said Jonah…
“Before the Titanic sailed, it had been announced that the White Star Line was having a sister ship built and that she was to be called the Gigantic. But if the ship was built, the name was changed.”
My sister shuddered.
“Give us something less dreadful, darling, before we turn in.”
“I know,” said Jonah. “Books. How and when did books begin?”
I put a hand to my head.
“Well, the very first books, I believe, were written on tablets of lead.”
“That must have been fun,” said Berry. “I wonder how many tons The Odyssey weighed?”
“Be quiet,” said everyone.
“But about 500 BC papyrus came in. Papyrus was a reed, and strips of it were soaked and pasted together to make a sort of paper. This was rolled round a stick. Still, books which were so made were inconvenient to handle and easily damaged. And then at last somebody thought of sheepskin or parchment. This was a great step forward, for parchment is indestructible and you can write on both sides: and leaves of parchment were cut and stitched together, just as is done with the books of today.”
“Was there any publishing?”
“In Cicero’s time there was – say about 50 BC. Cicero went to a publisher called Atticus, and Atticus paid Cicero a royalty on every copy of his books which he sold.”
“Every copy,” said Berry, thoughtfully.
I smiled.
“Yes, they really were copies then. When the author had delivered his manuscript the publisher dictated it to a whole army of scribes. If the edition consisted of a thousand copies, as it sometimes did, this was an exhausting procedure for all concerned: and I need hardly say that the copies produced were often full of mistakes. This used to infuriate Cicero, who felt unable to read and correct one thousand copies himself: but he did sometimes revise copies which his friends had bought.”
“Booksellers?” said Jonah.
“Yes, there were booksellers then. They used to hang up a list of the books they had for sale outside their doors. And there were libraries, too.”
“And all books were hand-written?” said Jill.
“Yes, indeed. Printing didn’t come in till the fifteenth century – into Europe, any way. I always find it strange that some monk who was fed up with copying didn’t get the idea before.”
“Quite so,” said Berry, thoughtfully. “All the same, it might be argued today that the discovery of printing was not altogether for the good of the human race.”
18
“One incident, I remember,” said Berry, “which shows forth with remarkable accuracy the outlook of the Boche.”
“Oh dear,” said Daphne.
“It’s not revolting,” said Berry. “It’s not even bestial. But it shows the infinite pains which the Boche will take – the very great inconvenience to which he will put himself in order to achieve something, which cannot possibly advance his interests, so long as its achievement will cause another being distress.
“The incident belongs to the very last days of the first great war. The Boche was on the run, being hounded out of France: and we were hard on his heels. What had been his old front-line was miles away, and German units which had been comfortably housed for years had to clear out of their ‘homes’ and run for their lives.
“One such unit – some headquarters, of course – had been installed in a pleasant country-house – a château, the French would have called it. Any way, it was a handsome residence of some importance and many years old. It had all the amenities of an agreeable country home, and I have little doubt that the Boches who lived there were very comfortable.
“Now they had to leave in some haste, and so, no doubt to their annoyance, they were prevented from ruining the residence. A few minutes after they had gone, the new tenants, British troops, took possession. First on the scene was a British cavalry regiment: and there this was ordered to stay for twenty-four hours. They had been going all out, and the horses needed a rest.
“Now it happened that the French liaison officer attached to that particular regiment had known the château well in other and better days and he was delighted to find that little irreparable damage had been done. The house had been fouled, of course, and would have to be cleaned, fumigated and redecorated from bottom to top. And the furniture would have to be scrapped. But it was not a ruin, for the Boche had been pressed for time.
“A feature of the property was the English kitchen-garden. This was an acre in size and was comfortably walled all round: and even on that November morning it made an agreeable pleasance. The liaison officer strolled round it with the second-in-command. The latter was enthusiastic. ‘This is superb,’ he said, ‘and by Jove, they’ve kept it well.’ The other shrugged his shoulders. ‘It suited their stomachs,’ he said. ‘But what espaliers!’ cried the second-in-command, pointing to the great fruit-trees splayed out upon the walls. ‘Never in my life have I seen such magnificent trees.’ ‘Aren’t they superb?’ said the other. ‘The Count was most proud of them. How old would you say they were?’ ‘Heaven knows,’ said the other. ‘I’m no authority. But what magnificence!’ ‘The fruit they bore was far too much for the house, and the Count used to send his neighbours baskets full day after day.’ ‘I can well believe it,’ said the other. His brows drew into a frown. ‘That one doesn’t look too good.’
“It was the first to die. That very morning, before the Boche cleared out, the last thing he did was to saw through every espalier three inches above the ground.”
My sister covered her face and Jill cried out.
“Well there you are,” said Berry. “For the truth of that tale, I can vouch, for the liaison officer told it me with tears in his eyes. It shews forth the outlook of the Boche. When an army is in retreat – not to say flight – with the enemy close behind, there are, as you may imagine, a thousand things to be done, and every single soldier is either on the move or working all out. Yet, pressed for time as they were, with the British hard on their heels, men were detailed to commit that cruel, abominable waste. It served no military purpose. It was done in hatred and malice, to injure the innocent man they had forced to be their host for more than four years. But that is the Boche. More. It will always be the Boche. That cruel and beastly outlook is bred in the bone: and it is ineradicable.
“I don’t suppose that everyone who reads it will believe this tale. A young man I met, who had seen the Belsen film, assured me that it was faked, ‘to put the Germans in a bad light’. And some, who do believe, will maintain that the outlook of the Boche has changed. But we know better.”
“But what is the matter with them?” said Daphne.
“It’s inherent vice,” said Jonah. “The blood is dangerous. And Berry is perfectly right. Those who read these words will say that they are untrue. But they are not untrue. People are unable to believe them because such wickedness is ‘not dreamed of in their philosophy’.”
There was a little silence. Then –
“Oh, I know,” said Berry. “Curtis Bennett. Or would you rather not?”
I raised my eyebrows.
“I can tell you as much as I know – for what that is worth.”
“If you please.”
“Derek Curtis Bennett, QC, who died in 1956, was the son of Henry Curtis Bennett, QC, who was at the Bar with me, and the grandson of Curtis Bennett, who was for some years the third magistrate at Bow Street and later Chief Magistrate for a little while.
“I’ll deal with the grandfather, first.
“When I was a solicitor’s pupil, I was frequently before him, so I had many opportunities of observing him as a magistrate and as a man. As a magistrate, he was adequate, but undistinguished. He was disliked by his colleagues – that I know for a fact.”
“Who were his colleag
ues?” said Jonah.
“Sir Albert de Rutzen, the Chief Magistrate, and Marsham, the second magistrate at Bow Street. Curtis Bennett was certainly in a different class to them. He was never natural on the bench, as they were: he seemed to be striving for effect: and he loved publicity. Not very grave faults, perhaps, but ill becoming a magistrate. And Muskett never cared about appearing before him. He often had to, of course – nearly all the militant suffragist cases seemed, to Curtis Bennett’s delight, to come his way. But if a summons had to be applied for, and Muskett was to do the case, the police always applied to Sir Albert or Marsham, so that the case would be heard by one of them. Mead of Marlborough Street was another magistrate before whom Muskett would never appear, if he could help it. He was a remarkable man – Mead; and an efficient magistrate. But he was most damnably rude. And Cluer was rude, too. But they were the only three that Muskett disliked.”
“If I may say so,” said Jonah, “Mead was much more than rude: he was deliberately offensive. And, with respect, I don’t agree that he was efficient.”
I laughed.
“I’d forgotten,” I said, “that you had suffered at his hands.”
“Once only,” said Jonah, “but that was more than enough.”
“Let’s have it,” said Berry.
“I was only one of many,” said Jonah, “for I know that Mead’s name was a byword just after the first great war. Be that as it may, early one afternoon I was stopped by keepers in Regent’s Park for exceeding twenty miles an hour. They said I was going twenty-five, as I think I was. It was just about one o’clock. The broad road was empty – mine was the only car in sight. The pavements were empty, too: only three pedestrians were in sight. I pointed out these facts to the keepers, who admitted that they were true. I asked them to acquaint the magistrate with them, if they got the chance. This, they promised to do.
“Well, I was summoned to appear at Marylebone Police Court. I went blithely enough. As I came to the door, I asked one of the police who was sitting. When I heard his reply, I got the shock of my life.
“‘Mr Mead, sir,’ he said. ‘But he sits at Marlborough Street,’ I said. ‘That’s right, sir. But he’s taking the duty here today.’ Sheer misfortune, of course: but there you are.
“There were about six of us – all charged with exceeding the speed-limit in Regent’s Park. The case of a nice-looking fellow was taken first. I can’t remember his name; but we’d had a word together, before Mead took his seat. ‘D’you think he’d believe me if I said I was a chauffeur?’ he said. ‘I don’t think I should,’ I said, ‘but you never know. Why do you ask?’ ‘You’ll soon see,’ he said. Here Mead took his seat. After one or two applications, my friend’s name was called and he stood in front of the dock. The charge was read out. ‘Guilty or not guilty?’ snapped Mead. ‘Guilty,’ said my friend. A park-keeper entered the box and stated the facts. He was said to have been doing twenty-four miles an hour. ‘Owner-driver or chauffeur?’ snapped Mead. ‘Owner-driver,’ said my friend. ‘Fined four pounds,’ said Mead. ‘Next.’
“Now the next offender was a chauffeur. More. He happened to be the chauffeur of some people I knew. More. Less than a fortnight before, on my way with them to the theatre, he had driven us down Park Road at seventy miles an hour. And I had protested to my hostess. ‘He’ll smash you up one day,’ I said. ‘I know he will,’ she replied. ‘But, except for this failing, he’s really terribly good. He’s summoned once a week, but he’ll never learn.’
“Well, he pleaded guilty, looking the while the picture of innocence. He had been driving in the park at thirty-two miles an hour. ‘Chauffeur, aren’t you?’ says Mead. ‘Yes, sir.’ ‘Which means, of course, that you have to do as you’re told. Fined fifteen shillings. Next.’
“That was me. I pleaded guilty and the park-keeper said his piece. He didn’t say that the park was empty and, as he was about to step down, I asked if I might ask a question. ‘No,’ snapped Mead. ‘You’ve pleaded guilty. Owner-driver or chauffeur?’ ‘Owner-driver,’ I said. ‘Fined four pounds,’ said Mead. And that was that.
“Well, comparing those three sentences, I decline to agree that Mead was efficient. In the first place, I find it impossible to believe that he did not realize that a chauffeur’s fine was always paid by his employer. In the second place, my friend and I were each fined more than five times as much as the chauffeur, although our speed was considerably less than his. Thirdly, I think I had a clear right to ask the park-keeper a question, provided I was not disputing my guilt.”
“You certainly had,” I said.
“Fourthly,” said Jonah, “I think the fines Mead imposed upon my friend and myself were out of all proportion to the offence.”
“I entirely agree.”
“Fifthly, to ask us whether we were owner-drivers or chauffeurs was meant to be rude.”
“Undoubtedly,” I said.
“Finally, if you can give me a finer example of ‘one law for the rich and another for the poor’, I’d like to hear it.”
“Jonah,” I said, “you have all my sympathy. At Marlborough Street, summonses were always applied for when Denman was sitting, because Muskett couldn’t bear Mead. We were only before him two or three times, and Mead always improved the occasion by being intolerably rude. Still, rudeness is not incompatible with efficiency. And he did deal with his work with commendable dispatch. And I don’t think he was ever taken to the Divisional Court. According to his lights, he did his duty for very many years: and that is the kindest way in which to remember him.
“Wait a moment. Something else about Mead has just occurred to me. I was before him, I suppose, five or six times in all: but never once was I able to see his eyes. Even sitting with Muskett at the solicitors’ table, which was well below the bench yet very close, and looking up, I never saw his eyes. I don’t think anyone ever did: for they were always hooded. I will swear that there was never more than an eighth of an inch – if that – of the eyes themselves to be seen.”
“Quite right,” said Jonah. “Now that you mention that, I remember it well. Looking upon him, you might have thought he was blind.”
“Yes indeed. I have never seen any other man, who was not blind, so hood his eyes. It was, I suppose, a mannerism, for I never saw him use glasses, even to read. But that mannerism and the fact that he never smiled did lend him, let us say, an unsympathetic air.
“Which reminds me of Horace Smith who sat at Westminster Police Court. He was benevolence itself. He was very cheerful, invariably wore a frock-coat and had a white beard. He always made me think of Father Christmas.
“And now let’s get back to Bow Street. All the courts, except Bow Street, have two magistrates: but Bow Street has (or had) three, because of the amount of work at that, the principal Police Court of the Metropolis. I can’t remember the days upon which each sat; but I do remember that Curtis Bennett sat on Saturdays and Sir Albert on Mondays. And now please bear in mind that I said that Curtis Bennett had a weakness for publicity or advertisement.
“As you know, from the word ‘go’, the Crippen case was headline news. Well, Crippen was arrested in Canadian waters and presently brought back to England on board a liner whose name I forget. Extradition cases are always taken at Bow Street. Now when a prisoner has been extradited, he is brought directly to Bow Street and, if the Court is sitting, is immediately brought before the Magistrate, who hears evidence of arrest and then orders a remand. And once having been before that Magistrate, his case can be dealt with by no other Magistrate: in other words, the Magistrate before whom he first appears must deal with his case. If the Court is not sitting, then the prisoner is held, I think in the cells at Bow Street, until the next sitting of the Court.
“Well, it seemed pretty clear that Curtis Bennett, who was mad to get the case, would have his heart’s desire; for the liner was due to reach Liverpool on Saturday morning and the boat-train would almost certainly reach London before the Court at Bow Street rose. On Saturdays the Court
usually rose earlier than usual, for there was not so much work as on ordinary days. All the same, unless the liner was delayed, Crippen would certainly reach Bow Street while Curtis Bennett was there. (This, I may say, to our disgust, for we would much have preferred that Sir Albert or Marsham should take the case.)
“Well, the liner was delayed – by fog in the Mersey. Not for very long: but the boat-train left Liverpool very late… Sitting at Bow Street, Curtis Bennett was beside himself. His list was almost finished, but Crippen had not arrived. And he knew that he should have arrived, if the train was running to time. I wasn’t there, of course, but I was afterwards told that Bennett wasted time in the most barefaced way. He did everything he could think of to keep the Court in session. The Chief Clerk, the ushers and the police were simply wild: but until the Magistrate rose, they had to stay where they were. And then at last Curtis Bennett threw in his hand and left the bench. Half an hour later Crippen reached Bow Street, was held over the weekend and brought up on Monday morning before Sir Albert de Rutzen.
“Now that reminiscence is true. And it is, I think, revealing: for the office of a Bow Street Magistrate is an office of great importance and responsibility: but such behaviour was beneath the dignity of the youngest Justice of the Peace.”
Berry spoke with some warmth.
“I entirely agree.”
“With such an example before him, it is not surprising that his son, Henry Curtis Bennett, should have displayed the same weakness. And thanks to the publicity he courted, he did obtain a reputation, among laymen, which I don’t think he truly deserved. He was quite a good fellow, but by no means in the front rank. He never, for instance, approached Marshall Hall – still less Charles Gill. He was capable; but no more than that. His ability was limited. His manner was bluff and hearty and he was popular. He did a lot of work for the AA – that was how he made his name. The fact that he bore the same name as his father helped him, of course. He was eventually appointed Chairman of – well, they used to be known as the Newington Sessions: but I think they’re called something else now.
B-Berry and I Look Back Page 18
