“‘When we got there, the daughter received us and said that, to his distress, her father was not well enough to leave his bed: but he hoped very much that I would go up and see him, after I’d had some tea. So, of course, I did. Directly I saw him, I was sure that he’d never get up. He was very plainly failing… I stayed with him for a little, and we said the usual things. He was very insistent that I should see the pictures before we went: and he made me promise to ask his daughter to take us round the gallery.
“‘And so she did. And she told us about the portraits, as she went. We’d got down to George the Third, when damn it, there was the very old fellow I’d seen a week before. Coat, breeches, wig and cane, and the same whimsical face – I’d have known him anywhere. Fortunately, I held my tongue. “This,” says the daughter, “is William (or Samuel or some such name). And he’s always supposed to appear before one of us dies.”
“‘Well, of course, he had appeared – in the house which was his own home, when he was alive. Naturally, I said nothing. Ten days later, I think, her father died.
“‘Wasn’t that a queer business?’
“That’s the only ghost story I ever tell, and for me its virtue lies in the fact that it was related to me by the most unimaginative man I have ever met and a man who would see no sense in telling a lie. For all that, it’s hearsay. I cannot say that I’ve seen a spectre myself.”
“At any rate,” said my wife, “it’s very well worth putting in.”
“It’s hardly a side-light on history.”
“That doesn’t matter,” said I. “The discerning should find it of interest. In any event your own personality has been entirely subjected, if not suppressed. Which is more than I seem to do.”
“No one,” said Jill, “can talk about something they’ve seen without saying ‘I’. And if they try to do it, it’s awfully dull.”
“There’s a lot in that,” said Berry. “When I was of tender years, I saw a fat Royalty get stuck in a carriage’s door. I mean, people had to shove from behind – I saw it done. No, I shan’t say who it was, for she was a very good sort; and she took it awfully well and laughed like anything. The point is I saw it happen: and if I say as much, the incident seems more vivid than it would seem in oratio oblique? Is that right, partner?
“Perfectly right. Oratio recta is the more vivid of the two.”
“Translation, please,” said my sister.
“Straight speech, as opposed to bent: a speaker’s actual words as opposed to a report of what he said.”
“Take Treasure Island,” said Berry. “That work of art would lose quite half its charm if Jim didn’t tell it himself.”
Jill looked at me.
“Is that why you always do it?”
“In my romances? Yes. At least, I suppose it is. I started like that in Blind Corner, and never looked back.”
“Stevenson knew,” said Berry. “ For such tales, it is the right way. But, of course, it limits the narrator, because he can only report what he saw or heard. Don’t you find that embarrassing sometimes?”
“I can’t say I do,” said I. “But I know what you mean. I suppose I’ve got into the knack. Of course, one character sometimes reports to the narrator what he has done.”
“That’s perfectly natural. But Stevenson did get stuck.”
I laughed.
“I know. In Treasure Island the doctor takes over the tale. But Stevenson does it so beautifully that it does no damage at all.”
“You don’t always do it, Boy. Use the first person, I mean.”
“Oh, no. Not in most short stories – I don’t know why. And not in some of the others. This Publican, for instance. I couldn’t have done it there.”
“I hated This Publican,” said Jill.
“The best thing I ever did.”
“Rowena was so awful.”
“True to life, my darling.”
“Have you ever known a woman like that?”
“No. But she combined the worst characteristics of three women that I did know.”
“Which is your worst book?” said Berry.
“That answer I keep to myself.”
My sister addressed her husband.
“You are a brute,” she said.
“No, he’s not,” said I. “Some books must be weaker than others, as every writer knows.”
“An author can judge his own work?”
“If he can’t, he’s not a craftsman. If a silversmith makes a poor tankard, he knows it’s a bad one far better than anyone else. But he must be a silversmith.”
“Meaning…?”
“Many people who cannot write, write books today. For all I know, they think they’re terribly good. In fact, they’re beneath contempt.”
“That’s a true saying,” said Berry. “What I don’t understand is why the publisher takes such filthy tripe. He’s the retailer, and the retailer must know. Bauble and Levity wouldn’t accept a dud tankard.”
“I know,” said I, “but some retailers would.”
“Listen,” said Daphne. “You said just now that you could judge your own work. Don’t you care what reviewers say?”
“I care very much. Whether it’s good or bad, I value an honest review. So long as they’re honest, I value the bad ones most. I can’t pretend I enjoy them, but – well, to more than one unknown reviewer, I owe a great debt; for he has picked out some fault to which I was blind, and I’ve taken very good care not to – What d’you do with a fault? ‘Commit’ it?”
“‘Serve’,” said Berry.
“‘Commit’ must serve. Not to commit it again. Punch made me wince once; but, even while I was smarting, I was immensely obliged.”
“‘Honest’?” said Jill.
“Sorry,” I said. “But I’m bound to put that in. But malice can be instantly recognized and should be ignored. I don’t think you got much in the old days, but now the reviewer by profession seems to be rather rare. Nowadays all sorts review books – very often, I fear, authors. And that, for obvious reasons, is utterly wrong.”
“Dog eating dog?” said Berry.
“It can amount to that. And now let me please say this – reviewers as a whole have been far kinder to me than I have deserved. Of the debt I owe them, I am extremely conscious. They have, of course, helped my sales; but, what is of much more importance, they have encouraged me. Only a very few have been malicious. When they are, I summon the memory of things which real reviewers have said. St John Ervine and, for all I said about authors, Compton Mackenzie himself, though he can’t have known it was I. And Punch and The Spectator. Those are reviews that matter, when all is said and done.”
“Oh, I know,” said Daphne, “you mentioned This Publican just now. That was founded on a theory I know you hold – that a man who looks like another will be found to have the same nature.”
“That, I have always maintained; and on very many occasions I’ve proved it true. I was taught it by a fellow of Jesus, who all his life had studied his fellow men. He was one of the founders of the OUDS, and Arthur Bourchier once told me that he was the finest amateur actor that he had ever known. To say he was of the old school is nothing at all. He might have stepped straight out of Dickens: face, manner, clothes – everything about him was forty years out of date. He was a survival of a forgotten time. Anyway, he taught me that theory, and I’ve always proved it true. Over and over again. You know a man called A. Ten years later, perhaps, you meet a man called B. And B resembles A very closely indeed. If you can watch B, you’ll find he has the same nature, the same characteristics, the same outlook. If A was a gambler, B will gamble, too. If A was very particular about his clothes, B will be very particular about his. If A had a violent temper, B will have one, too. And so on. If B reminds you of A, and is not exactly like him, his ways will resemble A’s in a lesser degree. I mean, if you didn’t trust A, you’d be wiser not to trust B. Thanks to John Morris – that was the old don’s name – ever since I was at Oxford I’ve studied my fellow me
n: but the six years I had of the law gave me a splendid chance of observation. Witnesses, jurymen, Judges, counsel – there was always someone to study, and so I was never dull. I mean, you can do in court what you cannot do in a restaurant or a club.”
“Just as well,” said Berry, “you never had any briefs.”
“I had to do something while waiting for my case to be reached.”
“The big shot’s cases had to wait upon him.”
“You are a beast,” said Jill.
“He’s within his rights,” said I. “My practice was very slight. But, unless you were pushed or had a big chance and grasped it, the Bar was always a very steep ladder to climb. I once saw a man seize his chance.”
That’s rare,” said Berry. “Who was it?”
“It involves a story,” said I.
Berry got to his feet and filled my glass.
As he replenished his own–
“Is that very touching gesture understood?”
“Yes,” said I, “and here’s your very good health.”
“Here’s yours,” said Berry. “And now we must have some more.”
“You’ll both have gout,” said Daphne.
“What the hell?” said her husband. “ Carry on.”
“I was staying with the —s, near Ipswich, when I was sixteen. I was one of four boys in the house, and the weather was simply vile. After three days, Lady — was beside herself and I fancy she told Sir George that if he didn’t get us out, she’d go herself. And then he had a brain-wave. The Assizes at Ipswich were on, and he drove us in and put us in the Magistrates’ box. I think we all enjoyed it – I know I did. For the case was the Peasenhall murder, a cause célèbre of its day. A village girl had been murdered – Rose Harsent, by name, and the village blacksmith stood accused of the crime. A young man, called Ernest Wild, was counsel for the defence. Child as I was, I could see how well he did it. Henry Fielding Dickens led for the Crown. And the Judge was old ‘Long Lawrance’, as he was always called. Wild made his name in that case, and he never looked back. Years after, I was his junior: and I told him that I had been there. ‘Rot,’ says he. ‘You weren’t born.’ ‘I was: I remember you well.’ ‘What was the blacksmith like?’ ‘He was a great, big fellow, with a clipped black beard. And he never stopped stroking his beard the whole day long.’ ‘Good enough,’ says Wild. ‘You were there. But you shouldn’t have been. D’you know that fellow always remembers my birthday?’ ‘So he damned well ought to,’ said I. Wild laughed. ‘Perhaps you’re right,’ he said. ‘But where are the nine?’ Not long after that, Wild became Recorder of London: and his old opponent, Henry Dickens, was made Common Serjeant. So the young took precedence of the old.”
“Was Wild a good Judge?”
“Not outstanding. He didn’t live very long.”
“And ‘Long Lawrance’?”
“He was very sound and very popular. Towards the end, he began to grow very deaf: but he learned the lip language and hardly missed a thing. He was a great character. Being deaf, he was unable to hear his own voice, and he used to say things which he meant for his Marshal’s ear, which were clearly heard by everyone else in court. He was not the best of lawyers, as he well knew. One day at Lewes, Marshall Hall was before him and was pressing a point of law. Now Marshall was a great advocate, but he was a worse lawyer than ‘Long Lawrance’ was: so we were all enjoying ourselves. Upon this particular point, the Judge was against Marshall Hall and told him so. But Marshall Hall persisted. At last ‘Long Lawrance’ got cross. ‘Mr Marshall Hall,’ he said, ‘don’t waste the time of the Court. I have told you that I am against you.’ And then he added in what, I suppose, he intended to be an undertone, ‘I may be a — fool, but I’m against you.’ There was, naturally, a roar of laughter, and Marshall Hall collapsed.”
“That’s of value,” said Berry. “A touch of nature, you know. Hadn’t Marshall Hall the unfortunate reputation of getting across the Judge?”
“Yes, he had. More than once I was his junior, and he was always very kind to me. But I’m sure he’ll forgive me for saying that that reputation was not altogether undeserved. But he was a very fine advocate and he had a big success. He was tall and broad and a very handsome man: and he had the most splendid presence of anyone at the Bar.”
“Who was the best of them all?”
“Rufus Isaacs. Danckwerts was the finest lawyer of Bench or Bar. But Rufus Isaacs was the most brilliant advocate. He towered above his fellows. He had a great charm of manner – an irresistible charm. Juries could not withstand it. Then, again, he had an incredible memory. I never remember his referring to a note.
“The first time I ever saw him, I was still at school. Coles Willing took me to see a Trial at Bar. That is a very rare thing. It is the hearing of a criminal case in the Royal Courts of Justice, which are of course Civil Courts.”
“Why and when?” said Berry.
“When there is reason to think that, by such a transfer, justice will be better served. In this particular case, The King against Whitaker Wright—”
“This is history,” said Berry. “Whitaker Wright.”
“Well, he was up for fraud. He’d been very active in the City, and his advisers felt that it would be impossible to empanel a jury at the Old Bailey which was not prejudiced. But in the Law Courts they could have ‘a special jury’ to try the case. And the Crown agreed.
“For more than one reason, it was, as you clearly remember, a memorable case. In the first place, Whitaker Wright was a very big noise and he lived for several years in a very big way and, when he fell, he fell with a very big crash. In the second place, throughout the case, the Judge displayed a very definite bias against the accused. 1 always found this strange, for Bigham was a very good Judge – he later became Lord Mersey and President of the Probate, Divorce and Admiralty Division. In the third place, Rufus Isaacs, as Attorney General, led for the Crown. Fourthly, within ten minutes of having been found guilty and sentenced to penal servitude, Whitaker Wright died by his own hand. Poison. Fifthly, after his death they found upon him a fully loaded revolver, with which he might very well have shot Bigham dead.
“I’ll deal with those points in a minute. And now let’s go back. Coles Willing took me into a court which was crammed. Isaacs was on his feet, summing up for the Crown. He impressed me immediately. He had a charming manner and a delightful voice. I could see him well and, though he was dealing with figures and date after date, he never once glanced at a note. (They used to say of him that, such was his power of concentration, he could ask a question in cross-examination with the answer he had in view six questions ahead. He was certainly very much feared, and many a case was settled, when the other side learned that Isaacs had been retained.) I don’t know how long we’d been there, when I saw the Judge raise his eyes to look at the clock. Isaacs saw him, too, and immediately stopped. ‘Your lordship is thinking of adjourning?’ ‘I think so, Mr Attorney. I think you’ll be some time yet.’ ‘I’m afraid I shall, my lord.’ ‘Very well. Until two o’clock.’ Then the Judge left the Bench, and Whitaker Wright stood up.
“I hadn’t seen him till then, for he was in the well of the court. And he turned to look at the clock, so I saw him well. His face was the colour of cigar-ash, and the sneer lines, as they are called, looked as if they had been drawn by a finger dipped in blue chalk. Any one must have been sorry for such a man. About twenty-four hours later, the jury found him guilty and the Judge sent him down.
“Now, had he been at the Old Bailey, he would have been in the charge of warders, and warders know their stuff. But they don’t have warders at the Law Courts: so the tipstaves looked after him, and looking after prisoners was not in their line. Consequently, each morning, when he surrendered to his bail, he was never searched. Warders might not have found the poison, but they would have found the revolver. Consequently, again, when, after his sentence, he desired to visit the lavatory, a tipstaff took him there – and waited outside. So Whitaker Wright took his pois
on without any fuss. Now the Judge may have been in no danger. Whitaker Wright may have thought of shooting himself. The fact remains that, because there was no dock, he sat where suitors sit – in the well of the court. There was no tipstaff with him, and the Judge was twelve feet away. And he must have deeply resented the bias which Bigham showed. However, he didn’t do it, though a good many people thought it was in his mind.”
“Otherwise, Bigham was a good Judge?”
“A first-rate Judge. Strangely enough, on one other famous occasion, he put a foot wrong. That was at the Old Bailey…
“A shocking case of child-cruelty came to be tried. What was more shocking still was that the woman indicted was gently born and bore an honourable name. The hearings in the police court had been very naturally splashed, and feeling all over England was running very high. I may be wrong, but I think the case was transferred to the Old Bailey, because it was felt that in her own County the prisoner could not have had a fair trial.
“Well, she went down: but, instead of sending her to jail, Bigham imposed a fine of fifty pounds. On the face of it, such a sentence was absurd, for it was a very bad case. What may have been in his mind was that the publicity the case had received had finished the accused, that her honourable name was now mud and that she could never again show her face in any company that knew who she was. Be that as it may, the indignation of the public knew no bounds, and the old cliché of there being one law for the rich and another for the poor was on every poor person’s lips. For that reason alone, such a sentence was mischievous. She was tried, I think, in December, and the Drury Lane Pantomime opened on Boxing Day. In this there was a good song which a clever girl sang very well. ‘I don’t want to be a lady.’ The last lines of every verse landed a different punch, and the last of all ran:
‘And if justice can be downed
‘At the price of fifty pound,
‘Well, I wouldn’t be that lady if I could.’”
“That was pretty hot,” said Berry.
“I heard it,” said I. “And the roars of applause with which it was received had to be heard to be believed. But, except for those two lapses, Bigham made an excellent Judge.”
As Berry and I Were Saying Page 5