As Berry and I Were Saying (20 page)

“Why did you write
Lower Than Vermin
? I mean, that was down a street which you’d never taken before.”

“I’ll tell you. I waited a year or two for somebody else to write it, by which I mean, to write a similar book: somebody whose position was more important than mine. But nobody did. And so I decided to do it; for I felt that, before it was too late, some author of standing ought to place upon record the truth about the old days, which, because they know no better, today the young revile. Indeed, they are so instructed. They are taught, by fellow-travellers – for they can be nothing else – fellow-travellers older than they, that the old days were wicked days, when the rich oppressed the poor, when no one who was not well-born had a chance of making good, when Great Britain did robbery with violence on nations weaker than she. I have heard such a fellow-traveller, whose name is by no means unknown, declare such things on the broadcast – and he was only a year or two younger than I. We know that such things are lies, and the fellow-travellers who tell them, know that they are lies. We know that the England of our youth was a happy, prosperous land, where most men, high and low, were well content with their lot. And so, before it was too late, I determined to set down the truth.

“Whether this did any good, I shall never know. But I had a great many letters, thanking me for the book. I only received one letter which disapproved of the picture which I had drawn. Two letters, from different countries, whose writers were English-bred, said the same thing. They said, ‘
Lower Than Vermin
should be made compulsory reading in every school’. So, at least, they got my idea. And now I’ve talked more than enough about my own stuff. I can’t think how I’ve written thirty books to date. It seems such a lot, somehow. But many authors, of course, have written far more than that.”

“I am credibly informed,” said Berry, “that some authors set themselves an allotted task. This is always to write five thousand words a day – or three or four or six. And this, they faithfully do.”

“So I believe,” said I. “Trollope, I know, did that: and so did Arnold Bennett. And so has done many another, for all I know. Now Trollope and Arnold Bennett were both great men: and I can only suppose that they could control their gifts. For I could never do that.

“In the first place I never employ the yard-stick. When I get up from my table, I’ve no idea at all how many words I have written since I sat down. When I’ve finished a tale, I’ve no idea of its length. I know that it’s not too short; but no more than that. As a matter of fact, my short stories were always rather long. But they just worked out that way. The book or the tale decides – it’s nothing to do with me. They are all eventually measured, but that’s my publisher’s job.

“In the second place, I never could engage to write so much a day. I’ve always worked pretty hard, but one day the book will go, and another day it won’t. And I cannot possibly force it: the stuff wouldn’t be worth reading if I did. Setting yourself to write so many pages a day is much like writing to order: such as can do it – and turn out stuff worth reading, as Trollope and Bennett did, command my admiration: I don’t know how they do it, and that’s the truth.”

“Bear with me,” said Berry. “What about dictation?”

I laughed.

“The man who can dictate fair prose is a
rara avis
indeed. I think it likely that Winston Churchill can. So, possibly, can Somerset Maugham. But, then, they probably do it, if they do, as Thackeray did. Thackeray had a magnificent memory. He would stroll in Kensington Gardens, composing his work as he went. And, when he came home, he would dictate the passages he had composed. But wash out the superman, and you may safely say that stuff which is dictated is never fair prose.”

“One thing more. You always write your stuff in longhand first?”

“Always. After I’ve done a few pages, I move to the typewriter. On that I knock out what I’ve written any old way. I don’t care what it looks like, so long as it is in type. You see, when I write, I’m always throwing back – reading over what I have written: when this is in type, it’s very much easier to read. When I’ve copied what I have written, I sometimes go on composing and typing as I compose. But never for very long. After a page, perhaps, I come back to the longhand again.

“When I’ve done about a chapter, I revise it, that is to say, I cut the typescript about – in longhand, of course. Alter and prune and add, till it looks like nothing on earth. But I keep it legible: for, when the book is finished, the fair copy’s made from that.”

“So the typescript is really your original manuscript?”

“I suppose it is.”

“And he tears them up,” said Jill.

“He’s not going to tear up this one,” said Berry. “It’ll probably be sold at Sotheby’s for an enormous sum.” He sighed. “I suppose it’ll go to America. It can’t be helped. And now let’s go on Circuit for quarter of an hour.”

“That’s right,” said my sister. “Brooch and The Assizes. I used to love to see The Red Judge go by.”

“So did I. They’re a bit of the old world, Her Majesty’s Justices in Eyre.”

“What does that mean?” said Jill.

“‘Eyre’ ’s the old word for ‘Circuit’. There are two Judges, sometimes. But the ‘churching’ of the Judge, the state coach with its footmen on the tail-board, the escort, the trumpeters, and The Judge’s Lodging – these are all old institutions and stand for dignity. They’re very picturesque and very valuable. One day, I suppose, they will go the way of the Grand Jury: and that will be that. But I shall regret their passing.

“In my hearing a member of the Bar once scoffed at the state which is kept by Her Majesty’s Justices in Eyre. He was – well, senior to me, so I held my tongue. I remember his saying that he was once engaged in a case which lasted three days – I think, at Lewes. So he stayed in the town. One day, when the Court had risen, he went for a walk. And he fell in with the Judge – Mr Justice Day. The Judge confided to him that he had left the court by an unobtrusive door, in order to avoid being driven back in the coach: and declared his relish at the thought of the coach and its attendant ‘flunkeys’ awaiting his coming in vain. That the narrator relished this distasteful reminiscence was very clear. Later, he was raised to the Bench, and I used to wonder what he made of it all.”

“It doesn’t sound a very good appointment.”

I shrugged my shoulders.

“I think he did all right. And here let me pay a tribute, in case I forget.

“Nobody ever hears of The Clerk of Assize. He is really the Clerk of Arraigns, and each Circuit has its own Clerk. If he discharges his office with ability, he can become a most important man. It was generally recognized in my day that Arthur Denman of the South Eastern Circuit was the finest Clerk of Assize that ever was seen. Dignity personified, he truly distinguished his most ancient office. His wisdom was infinite, and his address superb. He was severe – I never saw him smile – and most punctilious. More than one Judge feared him: the Bar certainly did.

“Almost the first case in which I appeared alone was heard at the Maidstone Assize. I was frightened out of my life, but I managed to struggle through. When the case was over, Denman beckoned to me. He was sitting below the Judge, so I went and sat down by his side.

“‘Please never again let me see you address the Court with a hand in your pocket.’

“‘I’m very sorry,’ I said. ‘It was unintentional.’

“‘Perhaps. But it was highly disrespectful. All right.’

“I suppose some people would have resented this rebuke. But I did not; for Denman was qualified to administer it. I never got to know him – I don’t think any member of the Bar ever did. But we knew one another in Court. And I have much to thank him for. He was, of course, the author of
Denman’s Digest
, a most admirable work.

“The other outstanding personality of the South Eastern Circuit was the Circuit Butler, Smither. He was a splendid servant – the servant of the Bar. He had an inherent dignity, which was compelling. He was always on duty, looking after members of the Bar who were staying the night in the town, and attending other members who were returning by train. He’d carry their robes to the station and get them a seat. And things like that. All sorts of little matters were dealt with by Smither. We always got on very well. Once or twice, if a Judge fell sick, and a Commissioner of Assize came down to do his work, Smither would seek me out and ask me to give him lunch. Why he chose me, I don’t know: but, of course, I was very much flattered and very pleased. I only hope the Commissioner enjoyed it as much as I did: but I rather doubt that.”

“What did the other members of the Bar think about it?”

“I’ve no idea. They never seemed to mind. Perhaps it was an honour which they were glad to escape.”

“Were you ‘The Junior’?”

“Oh, no. ‘The Junior’ was Gerald Dodson, now Recorder of London – and, I believe, a first-rate Recorder, too.”

“To bed,” said Daphne, rising. “It’s terribly late.”

“Not my fault,” said Berry. “Your fool of a brother will talk.”

“Rot,” said Jill. “You’re always egging him on.”

“I must confess,” said Berry, “to a certain squalid curiosity of which I am heartily ashamed. And he seems to be able to satisfy it. But I’m going to tread it under. I will encourage no more of these grisly memories. Some may be side-lights on history: but the glare they cast is sordid.”

“They’re better,” said Jill, “than the stuff you want shoved in.

“‘Stuff,’” said Berry. “‘Stuff.’ God give me strength. You’re a very naughty little girl, and tomorrow you shan’t sit up. ‘Stuff.’ Their intrinsic value apart, drawn from the precious cask of wisdom unrefreshed, the memories I have vouchsafed are literature. Walkup’s in all their glory were not arrayed like one of these.”

“To bed,” said I, laughing, “before he says anything worse.”

“Tell us some more,” said Daphne, “of Madame la Comtesse de B—.”

“Yes,” said Berry. “She’s ‘Off-the-Record’ history, if anyone ever was. I only saw her once, but I’ve never forgotten her. She was long past her prime, but her mighty personality hit you between the eyes.”

“She was a throw-back,” said I, “to another age. Her ancestors were English, and sailed for Virginia when Cromwell killed the King. She married young and spent most of her life in Europe. She was immensely rich in her own right: so was the man she married: and when he died, he left her everything. So when I knew her, money had ceased to count. She had an apartment in Paris, a mansion in Dresden, two lovely
châteaux
in France and a castle in Austria. Of the
châteaux
in France, one was modern and one was very old. The latter was sixteenth century, quite unspoiled: there were fireplaces there into which a car could have passed: much of its plenishing was the lovely English furniture which her forefathers had taken to Virginia in the seventeenth century. She seldom used that house, but she moved between her other residences, as she felt inclined. All were luxurious beyond belief. The servants were trained to a hair: and the table she always kept was such as I never sat to anywhere else. Her castle in Austria was more than forty miles from the nearest town, but her meals were the meals you’d hope for in Grosvenor Square: at breakfast four kinds of new bread were always served. Don’t ask me how it was done, for I’ve not the faintest idea. But that was the way she lived.”

“That castle,” said Jill, “was
Wagensburg
in
Blind Corner
.”

“Yes. The description is very close. But there was no great well, nor, so far as I know, an
oubliette
. But it wasn’t called
Wagensburg
. That was the name of a castle not very far away.

“Madame de B— loved a house-party – not a large one, you know. Six or eight. And she always desired her guests to do as they pleased. But they had to be present at meals and—”

“I feel,” said Berry, “that that order was cheerfully obeyed.”

“–on one thing she insisted: that was that every night, before we went to bed, we should come to her private salon, to bid her good night. You see, when she left the table, she took the women with her and went upstairs. And, when the men left the table, they went to the smoking-room. (You could smoke there, or in your bedroom: but nowhere else.) After a while, she sent the women to bed: and when the men came up, she was quite alone.”

“An autocrat,” said my sister. “I shouldn’t think the women enjoyed their stay.”

“Not altogether, perhaps. If you remember, I told you she had no use for her sex. However, when we appeared, she was always alone. And then she’d make us sit down and she would begin to talk. Very soon we were conversing, and her contribution was so brilliant that it improved our own. You’ve seen a great actor or actress lift up a play, so that the rest of the company never acted so well. Well, it was just like that. I’ve sat there till two in the morning… All she said was so striking and her wit was so quick and so rare, that, however tired you might be, your weariness fell away, and soon you were talking and laughing as if it was eight, instead of eleven o’clock.

“You could hardly name some eminent figure of her day whom she had not met: she could take you behind the scenes of Court after Court: and her personal magnetism held you as, I quite believe, it had held any number of far bigger men.

“She had an astonishing drive: the consummation she desired, she almost always achieved. She was a most curious mixture of good and ill. She could be quite merciless: withstand her, and she would show you no pity. I’ve mentioned the play-boy before. He’d been her familiar friend: but he’d given her great offence, and she meant to send him down. Yet, she could show a kindness, very rarely encountered in this rough world.

“I remember one summer evening in Austria. I was sitting on the terrace with her about seven o’clock. And far away on the opposite side of the Save which ran below, we saw a cottage on fire. We could do nothing about it, for, though it wasn’t much more than a mile from where we stood, that was as the crow flies: you had to drive several miles before you came to a bridge. But Madame de B— was very greatly distressed. Then she called a servant and sent for her maid and a car. ‘Poor people,’ she said, ‘poor people. They’re so very poor, the peasants: their home is all they’ve got. I must make them a present at once.’ I begged her to let me go, for she hated driving by night, and to get to the scene of the fire would take a long time. ‘No,’ she said firmly, ‘they’ll think much more of it, if I take it myself.’ ‘Tomorrow morning, Madame.’ ‘Boy,’ she said, ‘use your brain. I wish to spare those peasants a sleepless night.’ And go she did. I don’t know what she gave them – probably more than enough to build a new home. Dinner was very late, for it was fully two hours before she got back. But that night her eyes were shining.

“I remember I said to her once, ‘Madame, you have a strange heart. One half of it is of butter: the other half is of steel.’ She laughed. ‘You’re perfectly right,’ she said. ‘Don’t come up against the steel.’”

“I trust you didn’t,” said Daphne.

“I tried my best not to,” said I. “But one of her relatives did, whilst I was there. He was about my age – say twenty-eight. He resented something she’d said or something she’d done – and he had a mean mind. He knew that she slept very sound: and he knew that every night sandwiches were set by her side, in case she should wake in the night and wish for some food.”

“Splendid,” said Berry. “That’s the way to live. I wish she’d asked me to stay. And a decanter of port?”

“No. She was most abstemious. The next morning, when her maid called her, remnants of one of the sandwiches lay on the floor. It had been partially eaten. She told me about it, and I suggested a rat. At once she sent for her maid. When the maid came, she told her to take me to her bedroom. When I came back, ‘Still think it’s a rat?’ she said. ‘No, Madame, I don’t.’ Her bedroom lay in the tower. No rat could ever have gained it, except from within. The floors and the ceiling were sound, and the door was of oak. ‘Frederick did it,’ she said. ‘Perhaps he’ll do it again. But he won’t do it thrice.’ I dared say nothing, but there was doom in her voice.

“The following morning, at breakfast, she turned to me. I was on her right and Frederick on her left. ‘Boy,’ she said, ‘a very strange thing happened two nights ago. One of my sandwiches was eaten… A rat, no doubt. But I am a heavy sleeper, and I never heard a thing. But it left an unpleasant impression. I don’t like vermin about me, while I’m asleep. I thought he might come last night. But he didn’t. If he had, he wouldn’t have gone away.’

“‘You were ready for him, Madame?’

“‘No. But the sandwiches were. I put enough strychnine in each to kill a bull.’”

“My God,” said Daphne. “And Frederick?”

“I thought he was going to faint. He turned the most dreadful green that I have ever seen. Then he begged to be excused and left the room. Madame de B— looked at me. ‘Well, what about it?’ she said. ‘Madame,’ I said, ‘words fail me. Supposing…supposing he’d come last night…’ The Countess shrugged her shoulders. ‘In that case,’ she said, ‘he would have been buried on Thursday. But the world would have been no poorer. He’s got a small mind.’ She looked at me very hard with those keen, grey eyes. ‘You think I’m bluffing, Boy. Have you finished? Then come with me.’ She led the way to her salon. There she unlocked a bureau. There was a small plate of sandwiches. She lifted one and opened it. The crystals were there all right. I swallowed. ‘You believe in rough justice, Madame.’ She nodded. ‘Yes. To do as he did was great presumption. It was also impertinent. Those are failings, Boy, which I have always deplored.’ And if Frederick had broken a leg that same afternoon, she’d have summoned a surgeon from Salzburg and nursed him herself.

“Well, there you are. She showed me once again that it takes all sorts to make a world. But she was a notable woman – born out of date. She could discuss any subject with high intelligence. She always spoke much bettet enough strychnine in each to kill a bull.’”

“My God,” said Daphne. “And Frederick?”

“I thought he was going to faint. He turned the most dreadful green that I have ever seen. Then he begged to be excused and left the room. Madame de B— looked at me. ‘Well, what about it?’ she said. ‘Madame,’ I said, ‘words fail me. Supposing…supposing he’d come last night…’ The Countess shrugged her shoulders. ‘In that case,’ she said, ‘he would have been buried on Thursday. But the world would have been no poorer. He’s got a small mind.’ She looked at me very hard with those keen, grey eyes. ‘You think I’m bluffing, Boy. Have you finished? Then come with me.’ She led the way to her salon. There she unlocked a bureau. There was a small plate of sandwiches. She lifted one and opened it. The crystals were there all right. I swallowed. ‘You believe in rough justice, Madame.’ She nodded. ‘Yes. To do as he did was great presumption. It was also impertinent. Those are failings, Boy, which I have always deplored.’ And if Frederick had broken a leg that same afternoon, she’d have summoned a surgeon from Salzburg and nursed him herself.

“Well, there you are. She showed me once again that it takes all sorts to make a world. But she was a notable woman – born out of date. She could discuss any subject with high intelligence. She always spoke much better than I can write; and her sense of humour was outstanding. I’ve seen her laugh till the tears ran down her cheeks.”

“I do hope,” said Berry, “ that Frederick saw the humour of that episode.”

“I’m afraid he didn’t,” said I. “For two or three days after that, sandwiches were served at half-past eleven o’clock – and handed round. You should have seen Frederick’s face. I didn’t take any, either: but I wanted to burst with laughter, when they appeared.”

“Had she any Borgia blood?”

“Say, rather, Medici. She had an eye to a jewel.”

“I can still see her pearls,” said Berry. “They were the very biggest I ever saw. They weren’t a rope, like Jill’s; but every one was the size of Jill’s centre pearl.”

I nodded.

“They were more astounding than lovely. They were strung twice a month. Two attempts had been made to steal them: after the second, she wore them day and night. And Borgia isn’t fair. She never had that outlook. And she was strictly moral – almost strait-laced. She would neither countenance nor relate a tale which was so much as tinged with impropriety. Only once did I ever hear her break that rule, and then she was relating an historical fact.”

“Let’s have it,” said Berry. “Let’s have it. ‘A great lady’s lapse.’”

“She was speaking of a lady who was in the direct succession to one of the greatest thrones. Of that particular Court, the etiquette was almost inconveniently rigid. She certainly found it so. From being frowned upon, her conduct began to give rise to grave anxiety. At last she was summoned before what I will call a Privy Council. She came gaily. The Monarch himself addressed her. ‘Madame,’ he said, ‘I conjure you to tell this Council the truth. Who is the father of your coming child?’ The lady smiled. ‘Sir,’ she said, ‘I haven’t the faintest idea.’”

“What ever happened?” said Jill.

“If you’ll forgive me, my darling, I’ll leave it there. Madame de B— was very illuminating on the Kaiser’s mentality. ‘He has always had the outlook of a vain-glorious and ignorant child. No one can tell him anything, because he always knows. And he must always be right. Let a man prove him wrong, and that man is doomed; for out of his own mouth, he stands convicted of
lèse-majesté
. The Kaiser has come to believe that he is indeed the All-Highest, who can say and do no wrong. His
entourage
regards him with supreme contempt. But no one stands up to him, for no one has any desire to cut his own throat. His everyday behaviour is incredibly puerile. His idea of humour is painful – and very often vulgar – to a degree. Let me give you two trifling examples…

“‘Well-born children were sometimes invited to the palace, to play with his sons. They liked the Kaiserin. She has no brain, but she is motherly. Then the Kaiser would appear. He would stride to some hapless boy, take him by the shoulders and shake him. “What do you mean,” he would cry, “by having such a big back-side?” Then he would look round for the laughter, which, of course, always came.’”

“If,” said Berry, “we had a vomitorium, I should repair there forthwith.”

“Be quiet,” said Daphne. “It’s quite revolting enough.”

“Her second example was this. ‘It is well-known,’ she said, ‘that, if he commands a force at the Army Manoeuvres, that force must always win. What is not so well known is that the Kaiser always breakfasts with the enormous Staff. Everyone has to be standing by his place, when the Kaiser comes in. Then he will take his seat, and breakfast is served. His breakfast always consists of two sponge-cakes and a glass of milk. One sponge-cake he will eat – and wash it down with the milk. Whilst he is doing this, he will cut the other sponge-cake into ten or twelve cubes. Then he will rise to his feet, and everyone does the same. Then he will call the name of a general or colonel at random and pitch a cube in his direction. This, the man will endeavour to catch in his helmet. If he succeeds, the Kaiser applauds his skill: if he fails, as, of course, he usually does, the Kaiser loads him with ridicule, calling him “Butterfingers” and the like. And so on, till the cubes are all gone. Then the Kaiser puts on his own helmet: and that, of course, is the signal to leave the Mess. A sponge-cake and a glass of milk do not take long to consume, and nine out of ten of his staff get next to no breakfast at all. But that does not concern him. Consideration is not among his failings. And it probably does them no harm, for most are too fat.’”

“And that imitation mountebank,” said Berry, “who would have been rejected by the meanest circus, was the Emperor of Germany. I saw him only three times – always, of course, on parade. He was, first and last, an actor: but the rottenest actor on earth could never have failed in the part he had to play. The last time I saw him, he was driving through Regent’s Park. I was in a car, which had stopped, to see him go by. He was in a victoria and pair – a royal carriage, of course – with the Kaiserin by his side, looking exactly like a cheerful, old fashioned cook, and their daughter, with her back to the horses on the occasional seat. He was perfectly dressed – of course, by Savile Row: a grey frock-coat suit, and, I think, a grey top hat. He had an excellent figure and looked very well. That was in 1911, just three years before the war. And now go on, please.”