As Berry and I Were Saying

by Dornford Yates

  “‘She had only just learned, by chance, that her former husband, whom she had had to divorce, was to come up at Maidstone for sentence on the following day. And she begged me, with tears, to go down and do what I could. “I can’t let him go down,” she kept crying. “I must do something to help. He must never know, of course: he must never dream that it’s me. But you must go down and do what you can to help him.”

  “‘Well, I was terribly busy, but she was up against time. If we’d had twenty-four hours, I could have helped her to get hold of somebody else. But it was too late for that. And so I said I’d go down – I hadn’t the heart to refuse a woman in such distress. Apparently, money was no object, so the fact that I’d have to go special presented no difficulty. “But,” I said, “you can’t instruct me like this. You must go through a solicitor – that’s a rule of the Bar.” “But there isn’t time,” she cried. “Besides, I don’t know one, except the ones I had: and I’d rather not go to them.” So I rang up George — and drove her straight to his house. I explained the matter to him and he said he’d act. There and then he gave me a back-sheet, and another one for young —: I wish I’d thought of you, but I didn’t know you’d be there. We got her to tell us something – give me some straw, I mean, with which I could make some bricks. Then I left her with George and his wife and went back to get my robes and leave a note for my clerk. And I left for Maidstone next day, by the early train.’

  “That was the end of Slade’s tale and this is the end of mine. I’ve read many better short stories, and so have you: but, for what it is worth, it’s true. I’ve told it out of order, but I saw the second act first.”

  “It’s terribly tragic,” said Daphne. “Had the wife married again?”

  “I can’t remember,” I said. “I don’t think so. Slade said she was most attractive: and I should say that he’d been an attractive man.”

  “What’s a back-sheet?” said Jill.

  “The outside sheet of a brief, with the name of the case and the name of the solicitor. It may contain no matter, but it is counsel’s warrant to appear in the case.”

  “Who,” said Berry, “was the Judge?”

  “I can’t remember. I have an idea it was Scrutton. I may be wrong.”

  “Scrutton was a good Judge?”

  “Very good indeed. And a magnificent lawyer. When he died, it rather upset me to see that The Times’ obituary notice suggested that his temper was short. I was sometimes before him, and I never found it so. He was always charming to counsel so far as I saw. And on one occasion, I was in a position to judge. The list had fallen in. That is to say that some case had been postponed or had been withdrawn. This case would have taken some time, so the next case wasn’t ready, and counsel got in quick and obtained permission for it to stand out of the list. The third case was still more unready, if I may put it that way. As for the fourth case – well, the witnesses were all over the country: they hadn’t even been warned. And the fourth case was in my Chambers. I had to go over and make the application. We had been caught right out, but The Law doesn’t care about that. Unless you can get round the Judge… It was just after the luncheon adjournment. They’d brought down a silk to try to get the third case postponed. And mine was the fourth. The silk had to fight damned hard, but he had his way. Well, the outlook for me was grim, for Scrutton was getting cross. I mean, his list was melting before his eyes. But I managed to make him laugh… So he did as I asked. Now a Judge whose temper was short would never have laughed.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” said Berry. “Your face under a wig was enough to make anyone laugh. And when you opened it—”

  “You filthy liar,” shrieked Jill. “Boy looked a love in a wig, and I’m not in the least surprised that the Judges were nice to him.”

  “There you are,” howled Berry. “‘A love.’ What did I say about women?” He pointed a shaking finger. “If she’d been on a jury, the ‘love’ would have had her vote. Merits of the case be damned.”

  “What about you?” shrieked Daphne. “You said you’d’ve given yours to the best-looking girl.”

  “So I would,” roared Berry. “No browbeating, blear-eyed hag would have put it over me. But that’s my case. Mix the sexes up, and justice goes by the board.” He took his handkerchief out, and dabbed at his face. “You must not outrage my emotions. Scratch the divine, and you get the censor of morals.”

  “A damned nice censor,” said Daphne.

  “I know my world,” said Berry. “And why should I mince my words? Eve got away with the apple, because of sex appeal. And did us all in. ‘Looked a love in a wig.’ Ugh!”

  “So he did,” said Jill, stoutly.

  “My sweet, you’re, what is called, biased. For you, the sun, moon and stars rise and set in the small of Boy’s back. And that is as it should be. Any more about Maidstone?”

  I shook my head.

  “He has,” said Daphne. “A winner.”

  “I know what you mean,” said I, “but I’m not telling that.”

  “Libel?” said Berry.

  “No. But one of the principal parties is still alive: and I can’t wrap it up.”

  “You fell for her,” said Daphne.

  “As better men than I have. But it isn’t because of that.”

  “Let me wrap it up,” said Daphne. “Boy had an important dinner in Lowndes Square. And he was kept late at Maidstone, and missed his train. But a chauffeur gave him a lift in an empty car. Boy sat beside the chauffeur, talked to him all the way up and learned quite a lot. The chauffeur’s daughter had married a nobleman. He was terribly nice about it and, while he was pardonably proud, he stuck to his job. So he took Boy to Cholmondely Street. Boy had a bath and dressed and went off to Lowndes Square. And he took in the chauffeur’s daughter. How about that?”

  “Is that really true?” said Berry.

  “Yes,” said I. “I’d never met her before.”

  “Was she very lovely?” said Jill.

  “She had a lot to her, my sweet: but she couldn’t compare with you.”

  “Well, no one,” said Berry, “will ever believe that tale.”

  “All I can say is,” said Daphne, “that, when Boy got home that night, he came and sat on my bed and told me the truth. I’ve – wrapped it up, of course. But if I told it you naked, you’d get up and walk. I mean, mine is an understatement.”

  “Oh, well,” said Berry, “some people have all the luck.”

  9

  “I suppose,” said Berry, “everybody has forgotten the Scots comedy Bunty Pulls the Strings. It had a very long run not long before the first war. At The Haymarket.

  “Daphne and I went to see it with the Levels. It was a very wet night, and, after the show, the Levels’ car was not forthcoming, so young Charles went off to find it, whilst we others waited in the hall.

  “People were still coming out, for the house had been full; the Business Manager was standing in front of the Box Office, as they often used to do. I was quite close to him, when a fellow comes up, with his programme still in his hand. He was in evening dress and he looked an educated man. That he hailed from Yorkshire was clear, as soon as I heard his voice.

  “‘I say,’ he said, ‘this isn’t Macbeth, is it?’

  “The Business Manager stared.

  “‘No,’ he said. ‘It’s a Scotch comedy. Macbeth is running at His Majesty’s, over the way.’

  “‘Ah,’ says the other. ‘I thought it wasn’t Macbeth. I wanted to see Macbeth.’

  “Now I relate that incident, not so much for its intrinsic value – although, personally, I derive considerable entertainment from its memory – as for its extrinsic worth. I’ve no idea who the man was or what he was, except that he came from the North: but he was properly dressed and knew how to behave. In his own sphere, as like as not, he was a capable man. But without his own sphere, his intelligence was, let us say, limited. He had sat right through that play for nearly three hours: he had a programme which he had presumably read:
yet, though his suspicions were aroused, he felt he must have them confirmed: he had to be assured that what he had seen and heard was not in fact Shakespeare’s Macbeth.

  “Now when one has witnessed such an incredible display of incapacity by such a man, one is no longer surprised that his numerous inferiors are unable to perceive the respective virtues of ‘the blessing and the curse’ which are set before them, between which they are invited to choose on the occasion of a general election. And, of course, it follows, as the night the day, that to mislead them by the hundred thousand is the easiest thing in the world.

  “To my mind, this is not only the true explanation why so many million Britons consistently choose the curse, but one of the great tragedies of our time. For courage, enterprise, generosity and cheerfulness under misfortune, our race has no equal upon earth. Yet all these invaluable qualities are occasionally rendered useless by a lamentable poverty of mind.

  “When Winston Churchill, who admittedly saved the world – and please think what that means – was dismissed from the great office which he had distinguished as it had never been distinguished before, at the very climax of his almost supernatural success, the effect of his dismissal upon the Continent – not to say, the world – was exactly what might have been expected. Myself, I can only vouch for France and Portugal. France, more jealous than ever, greeted the news with the most profound contempt. Portugal, always most friendly, was simply stupefied. But the Continental nations are no fools. And the poorest peasant in France would have shown more common sense than did millions of Englishmen.

  “And so I come back to the hall of The Haymarket Theatre, on that wet night. Outside his own sphere, that Yorkshireman was deficient in common sense. If I hadn’t heard his words, I never would have believed that a man of that standing could possibly be such a fool. But, bearing that incident in mind, can anyone be surprised that, once they leave their sphere, his inferiors in standing display even less intelligence?”

  “I’m not sure you’re not right,” said I. “By the way, Winston Churchill. He came down to Harrow to lecture after the Boer War. He’d just been elected for Oldham. I can see him now – a slim figure in morning dress, with thick, auburn hair. I don’t have to say that his lecture was terribly good, and the school fairly ate it up. We all stood up and clapped as he left the dais. I was then in the Lower Sixth and was sitting behind the Headmaster, Joseph Wood. As Churchill walked off, he turned to us and said, ‘There goes another Harrow Prime Minister.’”

  “I must have been sick,” said Berry. “I don’t remember that. Or I may have left – my memory’s growing dim. But Joseph Wood was a winner – the last of the great Headmasters of Harrow School.”

  “So he was,” said I. “In every way. Whether he was receiving the King and Queen of England or a new boy, his address was above reproach. I’ve seen him do both, and I know. He was of the old school. Nobody cares any more, so I won’t waste time: but I’d like to relate one little, insignificant matter that meant a great deal to me.

  “At the end of every term there was a prize-giving. The school repaired to Speech-room at five o’clock. And such as had won prizes walked up to the dais and received them, while all their fellows clapped. Those who were to go up, took care to be properly dressed: but those who weren’t, didn’t bother, but came as they were. At the end of my third term, I attended this rout. I had won no prize, so I never changed. Half-way through the worry, to my concern and dismay, Wood called my name. Well, there was nothing for it. I hadn’t won a prize, but somebody thought I had, so I had to go up. And so I did. I don’t say that I was dirty, but I think I probably was. My boots weren’t clean, and I wasn’t properly dressed. With twelve hundred eyes upon me, I made my dreadful journey, up to the dais and back. And returned with a prize, to which I had no more right than had one of the servants that swept the Speech-room’s floor. A mistake had been made. For the rest of the session, I tried to think what to do. I mean, the book burned my hands. So when it was over, in fear and trembling I made my way back to the dais. All the masters were there, as well as Wood. I went up to my form master, a painfully pompous man. He’d married a lovely wife, who was very rich. And he couldn’t get over that. Haltingly, I explained the position. He took the book from me, and turned to Wood. ‘Ah, Headmaster,’ he said, ‘there seems to have been some mistake. This, ah, boy is not entitled to a prize. And so he’s brought the book back.’ Wood took the book from his hands and looked at me. He was point-device, as ever: but I was probably dirty and certainly under-dressed. I never felt so much ashamed. But Wood looked upon me and smiled. Then he gave me the book again. ‘Take it back, my boy,’ he said, smiling. ‘You’ll be worth it one day.’”

  “There spoke a great gentleman,” said Berry…

  And that is no more than the truth.

  “A little while back,” said my sister, “you mentioned His Majesty’s Theatre. That was Beerbohm Tree.”

  “Let Boy take over,” said Berry. “He knew him well.”

  “I can’t say I knew him well, but I met him several times. As President of the OUDS, I saw quite a lot of the Stage. Tree was a poseur: but he was most entertaining. And he was a beautiful actor – if he felt so inclined. For some strange reason, he gloried in playing the fool. Arthur Bourchier loathed him, and he loathed Bourchier back. The things they said of each other… Bourchier founded the OUDS and I came to know him well. He was a fine actor, too, though he sometimes played parts which didn’t suit him too well. I knew Harry Irving best. He was an awfully nice man. Not the actor his father was, but terribly good. And he always gave all he’d got. After playing Louis the Eleventh, he’d hardly the strength to speak. And Henry Ainley, I knew. There was a glorious actor, that went to bits. The son of a miner, he was. And he spoke Shakespeare’s lines as they’ve never been spoken since. I’m glad to say that I saw Forbes-Robertson’s Hamlet and Waller’s Henry the Fifth. A fine judge told me they rivalled Salvini’s Othello. I daresay they did. I can only say that they were the real thing. Of those great rôles, the renderings I have seen since, were just – well, amateur acting: no more than that. But Forbes-Robertson and Waller were trained: and they don’t train actors today. Before the first war, an actor learned how to move and to speak his lines. For years he slaved in the provinces, learning to do these things. And then, when he could do them, he came to the West End. But they cut out the learning today. I don’t know that I blame them. As like as not, people wouldn’t notice the difference. And yet, I don’t know. Harry (H B) Irving used to present his father’s great melodrama, The Lyons Mail. And a damned fine play it was. When I saw it at Oxford in 1906, or thereabouts, he still had in his company some of the old actors whom Sir Henry himself had schooled. The parts which they played were their original parts. Of course they were minor parts, but never before or since have I seen such finished performances. I mean, they stood right out. Each one was a work of art.”

  “Wasn’t Compton Mackenzie up with you?”

  “No. I was up with Compton Mackenzie. I had that privilege. We played together in Aristophanes’ Clouds, and The Times said of him that he looked as though he stepped off a Greek vase. So he did. He was the son of a famous actor, Edward Compton, another of the old school, who moved so beautifully that he could play Charles Surface when he was over sixty.”

  “You said you knew no authors, or Berry did.”

  “Nor I do. I lost touch with Compton Mackenzie before he began to write his famous books. I always find it hard to choose between his first three, for, each in its way, is the most perfect thing. It’s strange to remember today that, when Carnival was published, an important library banned it from its shelves. I also knew that master, Hector Munro. He’s better known as ‘Saki’. There was a brilliant man. His early death was a tragedy: but, comparatively little as he wrote, his name will always live. His wit had a polish you never see today. He was over forty when the first war came. He enlisted instantly, consistently refused a Commission, and was killed at Beaumont-H
amel in 1916.”

  “I remember,” said Daphne, “your learning your part in The Clouds. How many lines had you?”

  “About six hundred. It was damned near the end of me. But, then, I’ve never had a good memory. They had them in the old days, you know. Wood, of Harrow, told me that, when he was a boy at Manchester Grammar School, every night he was set two hundred lines of either Greek or Latin to learn by heart: this, in addition to his other work: and he used to learn the stuff as he walked four miles to school.”

  “Incredible,” said Berry.

  “You met some famous men, when you played in The Clouds.”

  “I did, indeed. Sir Hubert Parry, who wrote the music. He was very kind to me: my voice began to give in, and he put me on oysters and stout. I always thought of him as Sir Toby Belch. He was so gay and merry: but he was very handsome in all he did. And Hugh Allen was the conductor. I used to sit in the organ-loft with him, when he played at New College Chapel. He used to shove in the stops with his head. He was afterwards conductor of The Bach Choir. And A D Godley was the Public Orator of Oxford. A wonderful brain, and he looked just like a sheep. Charles Oman, I met later. And Dion Clayton Calthrop, a most attractive man. And Byam Shaw – he looked just like a bookie who’s had a good day: and Mrs Byam Shaw might have stepped off a mantelpiece of Dresden China. All these I met at Oxford. And Rudyard Kipling, too. I had to look after him, and I was frightened to death. But he seemed more frightened of me. I couldn’t get over that. Then there was Carter of Christchurch: a great connoisseur of old silver, he had the most biting wit. And he didn’t care what he said.”