“And what,” said Berry, “is the matter with people like that?”
“I can beat those two. D’you remember the drive to Bordeaux at the end of Jonah and Co.?”
“I do. John Prioleau wrote and asked your permission to include those pages in his Anthology of Travel. He said it was the finest—”
“He was very kind,” I said. “But I did take a lot of trouble. I covered that ground six times, to get it right. Anyway, Pau to Bordeaux, one hundred and fifty miles – and less than three hours to do it. That meant shifting – in 1922. Well, one fellow wrote me a heavily sarcastic letter, saying that he knew the road from Pau to Bayonne (Bayonne, not Bordeaux) and inquiring whether it was really necessary to drive quite so fast, to cover the sixty-seven miles in three hours. He’d mixed up his towns, of course.”
“Of course, people like that,” said Berry, “should be confined or removed. I mean, they cumber the earth.”
“They mean no harm,” I said. “But their zeal outruns their discretion. Others correct my grammar. I ought to know, they say, that you don’t say ‘different to’. But these are exceptions. More than once I have had a delightful letter, very gently pointing out a mistake. And I have been immensely obliged.”
Jill laid a hand on my arm.
“You’ve had one more than once that wasn’t too good.”
“I know what you mean. They’re not fan-mail, but blackmail. But they’re very rare. I had one once beginning, ‘Dear old Pal of long ago, Do you remember how we discussed the shape of Valerie French?’ Well I didn’t discuss the shape of Valerie French with anyone for the very good reason that I had no idea what its shape would be. Added to that, I don’t discuss my books. So I wrote back and said that it seemed to me that they had made a mistake. I received a threatening reply, demanding a share of the royalties which had accrued. This, I ignored. Then they began to cable – I was in France. The second cable ran, ‘Will not be responsible for tragedy which may occur.’ This was inconvenient. The butler took the cables and he was visibly impressed. So I rang up the Postmaster, who was a friend of mine. I explained what had happened and that I was being blackmailed. He quite understood. The French are realists. ‘Rest assured, Monsieur. You will receive no more cables from this outrageous source.’ Nor did I. I assume that he simply returned them, marked ‘Address unknown’.
“Regarding This Publican, I had an argument, which I shall always value, with an eminent Chancery Counsel who is now a High Court Judge. It’s dry as dust, so I won’t say what it was. He pointed out that I’d made a mistake in law. So I had. A judgment of Scrutton’s was against me. But I just scraped home, for Scrutton had given judgment in 1937, but my ‘mistake’ had been made in 1936.”
“That was a dirty one,” said Berry.
“I know,” said I. “But I had my back to the wall. He was the son of a very famous Counsel for whom I had the greatest respect. When he was raised to the Bench, I presumed upon our acquaintance and wrote and rejoiced with him. Nothing could have been kinder than his reply. I well remember his father at the Bar – a most distinguished lawyer, whose very word was law. It was said of him that, when a ‘case’ was sent to him for his opinion whether or no an appeal should be lodged, he was the only man who would dare to express no lengthy opinion, but simply write at the foot of the document, ‘The Court of Appeal (or The Divisional Court) will reverse this decision’, and sign his name. When I see my contemporaries, or even men younger than I am, raised to the Bench, it makes me feel very old. I remember the old Judges, and I always regarded them as ‘Most potent, grave and reverend signiors’, and now men younger than I am are taking their place. I remember Willes J, and that’s going back a long way. I remember Grantham’s riding down to the Law Courts on his grey: he always did that in the summer, all through the busy traffic right up to the doors. And if it was fine in the evening, he’d ride him back. Morning-dress, of course.
“And now let me finish with my fan-mail. The exceptions which I have mentioned only proved the rule. I have been more gratified and encouraged by the almost invariable kindness and goodwill shewn forth by my fan-mail than by the handsomest reviews which I have ever received. To reply to every letter has meant a lot of work and has taken a lot of time: but I’ve always been happy to do it – anyone would.”
“My gorge is rising,” said Berry. “Let’s go to bed. And yet – half a minute. Something you said just now flicked a memory into my mind. Bless my soul, what was it? I know it was valuable.”
“Boy was speaking of the Judges,” said Jill, “ and of Grantham riding down—”
“That’s right,” cried Berry. “God bless your pretty face. But for your wit, a truly glorious episode might have been lost. And this is history.
“None of you knew John Dimsdale. I knew him well. In more than one big Trust, he was my co-trustee. He was the best of fellows – a good deal older than me. I should say he was born about 1855. I know he was sent to Eton when he was nine. To the day of his death, he remained an Eton boy. Very merry, a vast appetite, preferred the pantomime to Shaw – and I’m damned if I blame him for that. Years ago I walked out of Fanny’s First Play. I object to paying to have my intelligence insulted. Of course it’s no good talking about the theatre today, because the public’s taste has changed. In about 1935 I was taken to a play in the West End which had had a phenomenal run. I had to sit through it, because I was a guest. But I give you my word that, had that play been produced before the first war, it wouldn’t have run ten days. It would have been shouted down on the first night. D’you remember when we went to The Gaiety in – oh, it must have been 1936?”
“Shall I ever forget it?” said Daphne. “I thought they’d ask you to leave.”
“Do you blame me?” said Berry. “I paid for our seats – eighteen shillings a stall. In the old days you paid half a guinea. The principal comedian, the star, entered—”
“Back to John Dimsdale,” said I.
Berry regarded me in silence.
Then–
“Perhaps you’re right,” he said.
“Well, John Dimsdale was a banker, for he came of banking stock. His bank was one of the best-known private banks, and its office was at 50 Cornhill, in the City of London. It was, of course, taken over years ago. John Dimsdale was born over the Bank, in the house in which his father lived and worked. So he was a true Cockney – a fact of which he was proud. (I do not have to tell you that a Cockney must have been born within sound of Bow Bells.) And it was John Dimsdale who told me the tale which I am now going to tell. And I can vouch for its truth, for John Dimsdale was incapable of telling a lie.
“In the winter, his father and mother always lived over the Bank: in the summer they moved to their country house in Essex, not then very far off. And every morning in the summer his father used to ride to Cornhill. He used to stable his horse at an inn which was close to the Bank, and there was always a stable-boy waiting for him, sitting on a bucket in the yard.
“Well, the years went by and his father began to grow old. He no longer lived over the Bank, and he left the business more and more to his partner and his sons. (The elder brother was Joseph, at one time MP for the City: and the partner was Fowler, also at one time MP for the City of London.) But, though he was growing old, he still used to come to the Bank, to keep an eye on things. He was sitting in his room one morning – and a very nice room it was, with two or three admirable Hogarths – when a Bank servant came in and asked if he would see the Lord Mayor. ‘Of course.’ So the Lord Mayor came in. ‘Well, my Lord Mayor,’ says Mr Dimsdale, ‘and what can I do for you?’ The Lord Mayor sat back and smiled. ‘Do you remember,’ he said, ‘how you used to ride up from Essex and stable your horse at The—?’ ‘Very well.’ ‘And how there was always a stable-boy told off to take your horse?’ ‘I can see him now,’ says Mr Dimsdale, ‘sitting on a bucket, waiting for me.’ ‘You were very good to that stable-boy, Mr Dimsdale.’ The old man opened his eyes. ‘I don’t know that I was,’ he said.
‘But he was a promising lad.’ ‘Well, I know you were,’ said the Lord Mayor. ‘You see, I was that stable-boy: and now it will give me great pleasure, Mr Dimsdale, if you will lunch with me at The Mansion House.’”
Jill cried out with delight.
“Berry, darling, it’s like a fairy-tale.”
“Isn’t it? Yet, it’s true. A true romance of the City: Dick Whittington over again. No shop-stewards then: but that didn’t stop the stable-boy: and it didn’t stop Lever, either, from making his famous name: and scores beside.”
“Didn’t Joseph Dimsdale later become Lord Mayor?”
“That’s right. After that, he was City Remembrancer for many years. And now, on that pretty note, let’s go to bed.”
“I agree,” said my sister, rising. “History is seldom sweet: but that’s a sweet tale.”
8
“The Oxford Group,” said I. “I feel you should deal with that.”
Grimly, Berry surveyed the end of his cigar.
Then –
“There is,” he said, “The Oxford Movement and there is Oxford Clay. There is also The Oxford Manner, which I once asked A E Housman to define. He said, without any hesitation, ‘It is an infinite superiority, which we are much too well-bred to show, which is nevertheless apparent.’ I thought that was very good. All three belong to Oxford. The Oxford Movement began with a sermon preached at the University Church: Oxford Clay lies under Oxford: the Oxford Manner is attributed to past members of the University. So all three belong to Oxford and have a clear right to bear her famous name.
“But the Oxford Group – which is now, I understand, a Limited Company – was different. It had no more to do with Oxford than had the Balkis Brigade.”
“Whatever was the Balkis Brigade?”
“The Queen of Sheba’s mounted monkey band. I think there’s a bas-relief of the drum-goat in the British Museum.”
“I don’t remember it,” I said.
“Well, they won’t let you see it unless you’ve got your gas-mask on. To return to the Oxford Group.”
Berry then spoke for six minutes without repeating himself. When he threw himself back in his chair.
“I hope you feel better,” said Daphne.
“He won’t in a minute,” said I. “That’s going to be cut.”
“Cut?” screamed Berry. “Cut? But you invited me to—”
“Sorry,” I said, “but I warned you. For your opinions I have a deep respect; but I have an even deeper respect for the law of the land. I feel very strongly about the Oxford Group; but the very great pleasure which I should derive from your cross-examination would in no way compensate me for the unpleasantness of a writ for libel and its inevitable consequences. Besides, Sir Alan Herbert did what he could; and where he failed, I doubt if we should succeed.”
“I entirely agree,” said Daphne, “–for what that’s worth.”
“Oh, all right,” said Berry. “Have it your recreant way. Delete a superb appreciation. Deprive the world of a passage worthy of Cicero. And what would Samuel Johnson have said of the Oxford Group? After all, he was at Pembroke… And now, before I forget, Boy made a statement last night which seemed to require a foot-note. ‘Not fan-mail, but blackmail.’ What did he mean by that?”
“I was speaking loosely,” I said.
“A vile and bestial failing, which you have no right to indulge at any time, least of all when—”
“You never do it, do you?” said Daphne.
“Never,” said Berry. “The spring of my conversation rises from ‘the well of English undefyled’.”
“What about your blue-based baboons?”
“Dan Chaucer would have loved them,” said Berry. “I’m not sure they don’t appear in The Wife of Bath’s Tale.”
“Spare us the quotation,” I said. “I don’t suggest that Chaucer would not have done them full justice, but his was an outspoken age.”
“Perhaps you’re right,” said Berry. “And now what about the blackmail?”
“The object of the individual who suggested that she had contributed to the writing of Valerie French was to obtain money from me. The idea was to bluff me into paying up, to avoid the unpleasantness which would follow a letter to my publishers or even the issuing of a writ. Letter and writ would, as we both knew, be founded on a thumping lie: but to expose this would have been tiresome and not at all to my taste. I’ve only had two such letters. But authors have to be careful. H G Wells wasn’t once, and it cost him three thousand pounds.
“Some woman wrote to him from Canada, alleging that one of his books was really hers. She alleged that she had sent him the typescript of a book which she had written and had asked him for his opinion upon it. That he had never replied or returned her MS; that about a year later, to her immense surprise, she had picked up a book of his, to find that it was her book, substantially the same as when it had left her hands. Wells ignored or forgot the letter. The next thing he knew was that heavy damages had been awarded against him in a Canadian court. Horrified, he instructed his solicitors. They wrote at once to their agents in the Dominion, instructing them to lodge an appeal. At very great inconvenience, Wells had to go over himself. He won the appeal hands down, but the plaintiff was a woman of straw and hadn’t a penny with which to pay his costs. And that little flurry cost him three thousand pounds.
“What she had done was to buy a copy of his latest book and copy it out on a typewriter, making alterations here and there. Of this, she produced a carbon copy to the Court, alleging that she had sent the original to Wells. As the case was undefended, it went by default. So authors do have to be careful.”
“What about people saying they’re you?” said Jill.
“Don’t be silly,” said Berry. “People don’t go about defaming themselves.”
“Two have – to my knowledge,” said I.
“What ever d’you mean?” said Daphne.
“They pretended,” said Jill, “that they were ‘Dornford Yates’.”
“That’s insanity,” said Berry. “The asylums are full of people who think they’re Jack the Ripper or Gandhi’s goat.”
“I’m inclined to agree,” said I. “It must be a form of mania. But these people were at large. And they were believed. Those in whom they confided went about saying they knew me, for what that was worth.”
“More mania,” said Berry.
“Rubbish,” said Daphne. “How would you like it if somebody started using your name and address?”
“Don’t be indecent,” said Berry.
“There you are. And you’ve got nothing to lose.”
“Or blasphemous. Wasn’t it Carson who said, ‘Never submit to blackmail’?”
“I believe he did. I imagine a good many counsel have given that sound advice. But you don’t have to be a lawyer to issue a precept like that.”
“Were you ever concerned in a case?”
“I can’t remember that I was. But a few months before I became a solicitor’s pupil, the firm I was with defended in one such case, and the clerks were still full of it. It was a famous – infamous victory. The King against Robert Sievier.”
“By God,” said Berry, “that was a hell of a case.”
“It was that,” said I. “It was a hell of a case.
“Everyone knew Bob Sievier. He was a blackguard: but he had a way with him, and he was a popular man. He ran The Winning Post, a most entertaining weekly paper, resembling The Sporting Times. The Sporting Times was considerably higher class. It was always called ‘The Pink ’Un’, for it was printed on rose-coloured sheets. The Winning Post was printed on yellow. The main difference between them was, that you didn’t mind being seen with ‘The Pink ’Un’, but you did with The Winning Post.
“Well, every week The Winning Post had a column called, I think, ‘Potted Personalities’. Anyway, it was something like that. And it featured, as a rule, some well-known racing man. And whoever wrote it didn’t mince his words.
“Now in 1908, the famo
us house of Joel was very well known – not only in the City, but on the Turf. There were two brothers, Solly and Jack; and both were immensely rich. For Solly, I cannot answer, but Jack was said to have a past. Everybody knew that. Including Sievier. One day Sievier went to see Jack at his office in Lombard Street – or wherever it was. He knew him, of course, very well. ‘What d’you want with me?’ said Jack Joel. ‘I’ll tell you,’ says Sievier. ‘Next week I’m going to pot you. I’ve got the proof here. Would you like to read it, Jack?’ Jack Joel read it. Then he looked up. ‘Don’t be a fool,’ he said. ‘You can’t print this.’ ‘Can’t I?’ says Sievier. ‘You wait.’ ‘Well, I’d rather you didn’t,’ says Joel. ‘Yes, I didn’t think you’d like it,’ says Sievier. ‘If you want the type distributed, it’ll cost you five hundred pounds.’ ‘This is blackmail,’ says Joel. Sievier shrugged his shoulders. ‘Today is Monday,’ he said. ‘We go to press on Friday. It’s up to you.’ ‘Come back at this time on Wednesday. I’ll think it over and give you my answer then.’ ‘I’ll be with you,’ says Sievier, and takes his leave.
“Well, Jack Joel thinks things over and rings up Scotland Yard. As a result, on Wednesday his office was enriched by the presence of Chief Inspector Drew and his sergeant, whose name I forget. These men were not to be seen, but they were there. Bob Sievier keeps his appointment. ‘Well, Jack,’ he says, ‘have you thought the matter over?’ ‘Yes,’ says Joel, ‘I have.’ He pulls out the proof. ‘And now let’s get this straight. This article goes into your paper as it stands, unless I pay you the sum of five hundred pounds?’ ‘That’s right.’ ‘But if I pay you the sum of five hundred pounds, the article won’t appear and the type will be broken up.’ ‘I couldn’t put it better,’ says Sievier. ‘Right,’ says Joel, and sits back. Then Drew appears with his sergeant, arrests Sievier on the spot and charges him with blackmail.
As Berry and I Were Saying Page 12