B-Berry and I Look Back

by Dornford Yates

  “How very sweet of him,” said Jill.

  I nodded.

  “You may imagine my rapture… But that was the only wig-block I ever saw in use except, as Berry said, in a shop-window. In fact, I think the wig-box – a japanned case, always used in my time – was much better; for if the wig was left out, it got dusty.”

  Daphne looked up.

  “Tell me, darling, have you ever regretted that, after the war, you didn’t go back to the Bar?”

  “Never for one moment, my sweet. Mark you, I wouldn’t have missed the five years I had at the Bar for anything. I enjoyed them enormously and the experience I gained has been invaluable. But until, if at all, he becomes a big shot at the Bar, a barrister’s life is seldom as good as many people believe. I think I’ve said that before, but here is one reason, to which I don’t think I’ve referred, why it may not appeal to a sensitive man. And that is the everlasting competition.

  “I don’t mean the battles in court: they’re almost always friendly and rather fun. I mean the competition in the market of the Bar. This is unavoidable, for the Bar is a personal profession. A brief is delivered at your chambers with your name on it. That means that you have been selected out of quite a number of counsel who are equally available. You can’t conceal this good fortune. It’s known in your chambers and your clerk mentions it to other clerks. In the end you have to advertise it by carrying your brief in your hand and, of course, appearing in court. Well, your fellows at the Bar are human and quite a lot of them feel that they ought to have had that brief and that they would have done it better than you will. As like as not, they’re right: but you were selected. Sometimes the feeling is very thinly veiled. Well, you can call that the dust of the arena and say that it should be ignored. But, while I entirely agree, all I know is that I was heartily glad to see the last of it. Of course this only happens when you’re trying to build up a practice at the Bar. But that may well take ten years.”

  “You speak feelingly,” said Jonah.

  “Well, I did meet it once or twice and I found it extremely distasteful. Notably in the Crippen case. There was no question of a brief there; but to act as Travers Humphreys’ junior throughout, to work on the case with him in chambers and appear with him first in the Coroner’s Court, then at Bow Street and, finally, at the Old Bailey was, of course, a great privilege. And there was a great deal of feeling in his chambers about it. Still, I had come back from my holiday ten days before anyone else, and I was well down in the saddle when they did appear. Besides, it was a matter of etiquette that the ‘devil’ who first got his hands on the brief should see that case through. So there was nothing to be said or done – although an attempt to supplant me was actually made. But Humphreys rejected it.”

  “How very unpleasant,” said Daphne.

  “Well, there you are,” I said. “When one comes up against that, one’s impulse is to withdraw: but if you want to get on, you mustn’t do that. I expect there are other professions which have the same disadvantage for a sensitive man: but I can’t think of one – except, perhaps, the stage. A solicitor’s position is quite different. He is usually a member of a firm. And in any event he doesn’t have to parade the fact that he has been instructed, as the barrister must. And so there is no feeling, except perhaps in the case of rival firms in a country town.

  “You mustn’t think I don’t know that a lot of eyebrows were raised – to put it mildly – when, as a novelist, I began to make my name: but I never saw them raised. And that is everything. The writer who keeps to himself and leads his own quiet life is very fortunate. He is competing, of course; but he doesn’t meet his competitors: then again there’s plenty of room for all; and because A’s book is a success, it doesn’t follow that B’s book won’t be bought. And A doesn’t know how B’s doing – I mean, what his income is: but at the Bar there’s no such secrecy, and everyone knows very well how his fellow is getting on.

  “Finally, let me say this. Remembering what a steep ladder success at the Bar is to climb, there is very little jealousy. At least, there was very little in my day. My fellows were on the whole very generous. But when you did meet it, it set your teeth on edge.”

  “What,” said Berry, “what about promotion to the Bench?”

  “You mean that one day fellow ‘silks’ are calling John Doe ‘Johnnie’ and the next day they have to call him ‘My lord’?”

  “That,” said Berry, “is exactly what I mean.”

  “Well, I never moved in those circles, but it is my belief that the change in estate was perfectly accepted. After all, big men were concerned, and it would have been very bad form to have revealed any feeling they might have had. Still, there were cases in which such behaviour did them great credit, for I know of more than one appointment which was deeply resented.”

  “Darling,” said Daphne, “I know you’ve had one thing in Punch. I think you might have had many, if you had pleased.”

  “I don’t know about that,” I said. “I’m proud to be able to say that I once contributed to Punch and that my contribution appeared before the first war. It was a very slight sketch. But soon after that war I offered Punch a very much better one – which Punch turned down.”

  “Why?” said Berry.

  I shrugged my shoulders.

  “The painful presumption is that Punch thought less of it than I did.” I hesitated. “As a matter of fact, when it had been returned, I offered it to the Editor of The Windsor Magazine. I offered it to him with some diffidence, for I had written it for Punch and it wasn’t the sort of contribution that a magazine prints. Still, when next I saw the Editor, he said he would be glad to use it if we could agree a fee.

  “‘Well, now that you’ve said that,’ I said, ‘before we go any further, I think you ought to know that I offered this to Punch and they turned it down.’

  “Arthur Hutchinson inclined his head.

  “‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘But that doesn’t affect me at all. May I know who turned it down?’

  “‘E V Lucas,’ I said. ‘As of course you know, Owen Seaman is sick and Lucas is editing Punch until his return.’

  “The Editor laughed.

  “‘As well for us,’ he said. ‘Owen Seaman would never have turned this down. But Lucas has no sense of humour.’”

  “Very interesting,” said Jonah. “Did you offer Punch anything else?”

  I shook my head.

  “By that time, you see, I was writing full length books; and any short tales which I wrote I wrote with a view to their collection into a volume. But Punch could only use a very short sketch.”

  “Was Punch a close borough?”

  “In the old days it was. That was natural enough. Punch had its own permanent staff; and if a paper has that, then that staff must be employed. Still, Punch did accept contributions if they were really worth while.”

  “I imagine,” said Berry, “that Punch must have received no end of ‘voluntary contributions’ in its day. Most of them, of course, completely valueless.”

  “I imagine so, too. Which reminds me… W S Gilbert is said to have encountered Burnand, then Editor of Punch. ‘Tell me, Burnand,’ he said, ‘don’t you get a lot of jokes sent to the Punch Office?’ ‘Any number,’ said Burnand. ‘Then,’ said Gilbert, ‘why don’t you put them in?’”

  “Oh, very nice,” said Jonah. “And Gilbert all over.”

  “And whenever I feel, as I sometimes do, that the Punch of today is less attractive than was the Punch of yesterday, I always remember Burnand’s reply to someone who expressed that view. ‘You know, Burnand,’ said someone, ‘Punch isn’t what it used to be.’ Quick as a flash, ‘It never was,’ said Burnand.”

  “There’s a lot in that,” said Jonah.

  My sister looked at me.

  “Wouldn’t you have liked to be on the staff of Punch?”

  “Once upon a time, perhaps. It used to be a great honour to sit at The Punch Table. But it was an honour for which I could never have qualified. You
see, I am not a journalist. I have never been able to write to order, as a journalist must: and to render a humorous trifle once a week without fail would have been beyond my power. I simply couldn’t have done it.”

  “You never let The Windsor Magazine down.”

  “I know. Still, that only appeared once a month. All the same… The first chapter of Anthony Lyveden appeared in print before I had finished the third. When I think of that now, it makes me go hot all over. But I never thought about it then. I think the truth is that the Editor, Arthur Hutchinson, knew me better than I knew myself. Never once in our long association did he so much as hint that he would be glad to receive my next chapter or short tale. With the happy result that I never thought about writing to time, which might easily have been fatal. I owe a great deal to that good man. I often feel that I must have been a sore trial to him; for, though I didn’t realize it at the time, he was as wise as I was foolish.”

  29

  “Last night,” I said, “I was speaking of competition at the Bar and of the fact that the dust of the arena is, on occasion, er, noticeable. So it is – or was. But it is right and proper to observe that many members of the Bar were very kind and helpful to younger men. Of such kindness I have, I’m glad to say, remembered a notable example which heartily deserves to be recorded – and I’m ready to lay any money that this particular story has never been told. I’m sorry to say I didn’t witness what happened myself, but it was reported to me by a member of the Bar who was in court at the time.

  “The Divisional Court was sitting. Danckwerts the Great had just disposed of one case. (I use the word ‘dispose’, for it is appropriate to the man. In the ordinary way, the Bench ‘disposes’ of such cases as come before it. But Danckwerts QC was the finest lawyer of Bench or Bar and he did ‘dispose’ of those cases in which he was engaged.) As he was due to appear in the next case but one, he did not leave the court, but sat where he was: for the Divisional Court, which consists of two Judges, deals with points of law which don’t, as a rule, take long. And so it came to pass that Danckwerts was sitting in court, when a very young counsel was speaking and doing his very best: but he had a ‘silk’ against him and the Bench was not treating him well. He was standing just behind Danckwerts, who turned and regarded him. That probably made him more nervous, for to argue in the presence of so tremendous a personality was embarrassing. Then Danckwerts looked at an usher, and the usher came to his side. Danckwerts pointed to the shelves of Reports with which the court was lined and told the usher to bring him one of the books. The usher hastened to obey. The great lawyer opened the volume, found the case he desired, slewed himself round on his seat, handed the book to the youth and pointed to certain lines. With an apologetic look at the Bench, the young man stopped speaking and applied himself to the words… After a moment, Law Report in hand, he raised a confident face. ‘If I may remind your lordships of the decision in…’ It was a case on all fours with his. The volume was passed to the Bench, and Danckwerts sat smiling grimly, as the two Judges studied the ruling which they were bound to observe. So, thanks to that timely assistance, the young man won hands down.

  “Now that was a very kind gesture, made by a giant to a pygmy, for which I can vouch. And please spare a thought for the brain that not only remembered the case, but remembered the very year in which it had been decided, and so was able to indicate the requisite volume of all those hundreds with which the court was lined.”

  “Magnificent,” said Jonah. “Superb. What a very great lawyer he was.”

  “A head and shoulders,” said I, “above anyone else.”

  “Who were the Judges who were putting it across the young counsel?”

  “I’ve no idea. I’ve no doubt my informant told me, but I have forgotten now. In that respect, I was fortunate, for the Bench was almost always very kind to me. I remember one occasion when I had to do a case for the head of my chambers at very short notice in the Mayor’s Court. This is a very ancient civil court and sits at Guildhall. Its procedure is peculiar, the pleadings are antique, and, as I’d never been there before, I was clean out of my depth. Talk about floundering… But Judge Rentoul was sitting. As a friend of his son, I’d more than once dined at his house and he recognized me. To my immense relief and the fury of my opponent, he took the case out of my hands, just giving me cues now and then which I couldn’t mistake, and eventually decided in my favour. Of course I didn’t dare thank him, but I hope he saw the look of dog-like devotion which inhabited my eyes. He was very human, Rentoul: I know that he had his faults, but he did very well on the Bench and he never forgot a friend.”

  “Quite so,” said Berry, “quite so. You’ll forgive me for saying that I have some sympathy for your opponent. No doubt it’s misplaced, but I know how I should have felt. I suppose you’d call that ‘the dust of the arena’. All I can say is I should think he was damned near choked.”

  “I confess that I didn’t feel too easy. But I’ve no doubt justice was done. Rentoul saw that I was weighted out and, er, put things right. As did Danckwerts.”

  Berry regarded me.

  “You’ve shut my mouth,” he said.

  30

  “Hallmarks,” said Daphne.

  “Fascinating things,” said Berry. “And most romantic. They’re rather faint sometimes. Been polished away.”

  “I never can read them,” said Jill. “I get as far as the Lion and then I’m done.”

  “No one but an expert,” said Berry, “can read the date which they tell without consulting a book – unless, of course, he’s got a very old-fashioned memory. I mean, how many ordinary human beings, who are interested in old silver, could tell you the date-letter for 1782? Not one in a thousand. But, so far as Georgian silver is concerned, if you can remember two dates, you’ll get a long way. Only two dates.”

  “Please go on,” said everyone.

  “Well, up to the end of the year 1784, all Georgian silver bore only four hallmarks. These were the Leopard’s Head, the Lion Passant, the Date Letter and the Maker’s Mark. But in 1785 another hallmark was added – namely the King’s Head. So that after 1784 the number of hallmarks on Georgian silver is five. And that is the first date to remember – 1784.

  “The second date to remember is 1823, for after 1823 the Leopard’s Head was uncrowned. Till then, it had always worn a crown. So that the appearance of the Leopard’s Head uncrowned shows that that particular piece of silver was assayed after 1823.

  “Manifestly, if you can remember those two dates, you can get quite a long way. Five marks means ‘later than 1784’: the Leopard’s Head uncrowned means ‘later than 1823’.”

  “I take it,” said I, “that what you have said applies to silver assayed in London.”

  “Yes,” said Berry. “To silver assayed in the provinces, I cannot speak. But as five-sixths of the silver assayed seems to have been assayed in London, it’s near enough.”

  “I entirely agree.”

  My sister was regarding my wife.

  “What a good thing, darling,” she said, “we didn’t buy that skewer.”

  Berry looked up.

  “What skewer?” he said.

  “It was in the Red Cross sale we went to today. Two of the hallmarks were clear, but the others were worn. But I know there were only four.”

  “Only four?” screamed Berry. “How much did they want for it?”

  “Thirty shillings,” said Daphne. “But you said—”

  “I said that if there were only four marks, that meant that the silver was assayed before 1785.”

  Daphne’s hand flew to her lip.

  “Oh dear,” she said. “I’ve got it the wrong way round. I was mixing it up with the Leopard.”

  Jonah and I were laughing, but Berry had his hands to his head.

  “God give me strength,” he wailed. “I’ve done more harm than good. What was the skewer’s condition?”

  “Lovely,” said Jill. “It wanted cleaning, of course.”

  “What
were the marks you could see?”

  “Well, the Lion was clear. That’s how we knew it was silver.” Berry covered his eyes. “And it had two initials together.”

  “That’s right,” said Daphne. “They were beautifully clear. Would that be the Maker’s Mark?”

  “Yes,” said Berry, “it would. Er, what were the initials?”

  Daphne regarded Jill.

  “T C,” said my wife.

  Berry stifled a scream.

  “A good-looking skewer by Tom Chawner…assayed not later than 1784…offered for thirty shillings…and you turned it down… It’d fetch ten guineas at Christie’s. Besides, I wanted a skewer to open my letters with.”

  There was a dreadful silence.

  Then –

  “We’ll go again tomorrow,” said Daphne. “Tell me the dates again.”

  “Just go and buy it,” said Berry. “Don’t worry about any dates. I don’t want you to turn it down because the Leopard is crowned.” He sighed. “Don’t bother about what I said. Forget the dates. Only remember this – that anything with ONLY four hallmarks is worth having, because that means that it was assayed before… Oh dear, there we go again. Well, never mind. Just absorb the fact that anything with ONLY four hallmarks is worth having.”

  “That’s much simpler,” said Daphne.

  Shortly before luncheon on the following day she and Jill returned with Tom Chawner’s skewer. They had also purchased the most hideous and revolting cream jug that I have ever seen. When this was produced to Berry, he stared upon it in horror and then averted his gaze.

  “Remove that vessel,” he said. “I don’t doubt it’s ‘A Present from Margate’, but it makes me feel physically sick.”

  “Well, we didn’t like it,” said Jill, “but it’s only four marks.”

  This was quite true. But it had been assayed in 1895. And the duty mark of the Sovereign’s Head was abolished in 1890, after a run of more than a hundred years.

  My sympathies lay with Berry. One cannot think of everything. After all, he had said ‘Georgian silver’.