I looked at Berry.
“U and Non-U. I think you should deal with that.”
Berry wrinkled his nose.
“A distasteful subject,” he said. “I wonder what Samuel Johnson would have said. Never mind. The thing is this. Oh, and let me say, by way of preface, that
Noblesse Oblige
is probably the finest motto in the world, but it is worn in the heart alone…”
To my great regret, I must omit the remainder of his estimate, which was, I think, as valuable as it was severe. And when, in conclusion, he ‘remembered’ what Samuel Johnson would have said – ‘Sir, a vulgarity of speech may be observed; but only the…’ – it goes to my heart to suppress such pungency.
When he had finished –
“Admirable,” said Jonah. “You are more articulate than our parents would have been. To my mind, the cheerful collection and promulgation of things which we were always most careful to leave unsaid shows almost more vividly than anything else how far we have come in the last fifty years. I still recall with acute embarrassment an incident which occurred when I was up at Oxford. I was in somebody’s rooms when his scout came in quietly, to see to the fire. As, the job done, he stood up, ‘Well, George,’ said my host, ‘did you get your partridges?’ ‘No, sir,’ said the scout, smiling; ‘but I did better than that. Mr Beechey gave me a nare.’ To my horror, my host failed to get it. ‘A nare?’ he said. ‘What the devil’s a nare?’ The servant grew slowly red and I could have sunk through the floor. Somehow I found my voice. ‘George,’ I said, ‘you’re very fortunate. Jugged hare is an excellent dish.’ ‘So it is, sir,’ said George and left the room. When I looked at my host, his eyes were still tight shut. ‘Oh, my God,’ he wailed… You see, according to his lights, he had done the unspeakable thing.” He sighed. “But there you are. Times change.”
It seemed best to leave it there.
“Last night,” said Berry, “you mentioned Lord Justice Rigby. I happen to know something about him, which I don’t think you’ll find in the books. Tell us what you know of him first.”
“I know very little,” I said, “except that he was a very fine lawyer and did very well at the Bar. This, in spite of the fact that he cared for no man and was always rather uncouth. He was unmarried and lived in considerable style. His two attractive nieces kept house for him. One of them, Ruth Rigby, married the Theobald Mathew of my day. I never met her, but I met her sister, Edith, once. I did hear it said that, when her sister had gone, her life was not too easy, for her uncle, who was never considerate, grew more exacting with age. She kept her eyes upon her duty, but she should and could have married long before she did. But I’ve little doubt that the Judge discouraged swains. And now you go on.”
“It’s a curious tale,” said Berry. “But it is perfectly true.
“About the middle of the last century there was a curate of the name of Rigby at a little village in Kent. As was sometimes the way in those days, the Vicar was never there, so the curate acted as Vicar for year after year. He was a quiet, well-mannered man and was very much liked. He was
persona grata
with the Squire and his family and was a constant visitor at The Hall. That he should always lunch there on Sundays was an understood thing.
“Now the Squire had been called to the Bar, but, being wealthy and preferring the country to the town, he never practised, but did his duty in the village and minded his considerable estate. For all that, he was deeply interested in the Law and all to do with it. Before he reached middle age he was attacked by the illness called ‘Poor Man’s Gout’, that is to say, a gout which he had inherited, but had himself neither promoted nor encouraged. Indeed, he was always a most abstemious man. So it was rather hard that he should be a victim of what proved to be a most painful, trying and, presently, fatal disease. As a result of this affliction he found himself forced to lead a very sedentary life, spending most of his time in his well-found library and less and less in his meadows and hop-gardens. So it came to pass that he devoted many hours to the study of law, reading the reports in
The Times
and watching the careers of members of the Bar who were his contemporaries.
“One Friday evening his wife received a note from the curate, saying that his younger brother was coming to spend the weekend with him and asking if he might bring him to luncheon on Sunday. Of course the lady said yes, and at the appropriate hour the two brothers arrived.
“To the family’s great surprise, the young man’s manners were as rough as his brother’s were smooth. He was awkward and taciturn – by no means an easy guest. Mother and daughter on his right hand and on his left found entertaining him very uphill work. But from the opposite end of the table the Squire was watching the youth, and when the meal was over, he bade him follow him into the library.
“When they were seated –
“‘How old are you?’ said the Squire.
“The youth replied – ‘Nineteen.’
“It would have been more becoming to say, ‘Nineteen, sir,’ for his host was three times his age. But the Squire only smiled.
“‘And what are you proposing to do?’
“‘What can I do,’ cried the youth, ‘but take a post as a clerk?’
“‘Why d’you say that?’
“‘Because I’ve no money at all, and I’ve got to live.’
“‘What do you want to do?’
“The young man’s eyes lighted.
“‘I want to go to the Bar. I’ll get there somehow…one day.’
“The Squire considered his guest. Then he picked up
The Times
.
“‘You see that leader,’ he said. ‘Read it to me aloud.’
“The youth did as he said.
“‘Now give me the paper back.’ The youth complied. “‘Now tell me what you remember of the leader you have just read.’
“The youth repeated the leader,
word for word
.
“‘Very good,’ said the Squire. ‘And now you shall go to the Bar. I’ll pay your fees and allow you a hundred a year for the next five years.’
“And that was how Lord Justice Rigby came to go to the Bar.”
“What a lovely tale,” said Jill.
“It’s perfectly true,” said Berry. “I’m not going to say how I know, but I know it’s the absolute truth.”
“The Squire knew his world,” said Jonah. “Nine men out of ten would have written John Rigby off. But the Squire saw the fire of genius glowing under the slack.”
“I hope he was grateful,” I said.
“He was indeed,” said Berry. “He could never discharge such a debt, but to the day of his death he was one of the family’s Trustees.”
“One thing,” said Daphne, “I’ve never understood is why reviewers persist in classing your work with Buchan’s.”
I smiled.
“I’ve never understood it, either.”
Berry took up the running.
“I can see no resemblance whatever between any book that Buchan wrote and any book of yours. Now, if they said Anthony Hope…”
“I agree. There’s far more resemblance there. He began with
The Dolly Dialogues
and I began with
The Brother of Daphne
. He went on to write that immortal book,
The Prisoner of Zenda
, followed by
Rupert of Hentzau
, and I wrote
Blood Royal
, followed by
Fire Below
. So there is a definite resemblance between his work and mine. But Buchan’s books bear no resemblance to any of his or mine. At least, if they do, I can’t see it.”
“Criticism,” said Berry. “How far can a reviewer go – and keep within the law?”
“The true answer is – all lengths.”
“Are you speaking as a lawyer?”
“I am.”
“But what about malice?”
“So long as the reviewer does not attack the character of the author, he can be as malicious as he likes – with impunity.”
“D’you mean to say that, if some reviewer who, you knew, was your enemy, wrote of one of your books, ‘I cannot advise my readers to buy this book. If they do, they will be wasting their money’ – do you mean to say that you could do nothing?”
“Nothing.”
“Even if you could prove that he had reason to hate you?”
“Not even then. The author is entirely defenceless.”
“Supposing he said, ‘Only a wash-out could have written this book’?”
“That would be an attack on the man. So an action against him would lie. But whether the author would win it is very questionable. You see, he would have to prove that, as a result of this statement, he had suffered damage, which would be very difficult. And, if he did win it, the damages he would receive – if they were ever paid – would in no way compensate him for the trouble, waste of time and expense which he had been caused.”
“The law is at fault,” said Jonah. “If an author can prove malice, he should be able to make a reviewer pay.”
“I agree,” said I. “But don’t forget that malice is very hard to prove.
“I remember such a case. It was a long time ago and it attracted much attention. The book in question was the biography of an administrator of repute and it had been written by, I think, a soldier who had known him well and had for several years been a member of his staff. It was reviewed in a well-known periodical. And now mark this. The man who wrote the review was a permanent member of the periodical’s staff; but he never, in the ordinary way, wrote the reviews.
“The review which he wrote was savage. He tore the book to shreds. More. It suggested that the book had been written by the author to glorify himself. Finally, it suggested that the author’s personal record was not as creditable as it might have been.
“Well, this was too much, and the author of the book took proceedings. To my mind, he had a good case; and when it was proved that he and the reviewer were enemies of long standing – well, most people thought that it would only be a matter of what damages he was awarded.
“I was in court for a while and I saw the reviewer in the box, and a very poor figure he cut. For all that, he won his case, and the author had to pay all the costs.”
“Never!” cried Daphne.
“It’s a fact.”
“How abominably unjust,” said Jonah.
“But what happened?” said Berry.
“I cannot remember,” I said. “I know there was a jury, all right. But I am inclined to think that the reviewer got home on a point of law. The author couldn’t prove damage, or something.”
“How the hell could he prove damage in such a case?”
“Exactly. But that’s what I said just now. Of course he had suffered damage. A lot of people, probably, decided not to purchase the book. Others, as like as not, looked askance at him in his Club. But how could he prove these things? So you see.”
“In fact, unless he could produce, for instance, a solicitor who would swear that, after reading that review, the author’s godfather had cut him out of his Will, he could not possibly succeed?”
“I couldn’t put it better,” I said.
“What a blasted scandal!”
“I think it’s wicked,” said Jill.
“It really means,” said Jonah, “that the author is at the mercy of any unscrupulous man?”
“That’s what it amounts to.” I sighed. “Malice can be trying: but I always bear in mind that reviews can seldom make or destroy a book.”
“You’re awfully good,” said Daphne. “Some reviews you’ve shown me have sent the blood to my head.”
“My sweet,” I said, “you must remember, first, that the malicious review, which, I confess, I sometimes receive, is something I never received before the late war; and, secondly, that
some
– I repeat
some
– of those who review books today have neither the standing nor the background of the reviewers of other days. Such people allow their feelings to over-ride their duty, which is to review upon its merits every book that comes into their hands.”
“But why should they feel malicious towards you? What harm have you done them?”
“My darling, I write of what used to be known as ‘the upper class’. And the portraits I paint of them are true to life. Their servants, for instance, are devoted. They may be poor, as were
Coridon
and
Niobe
: but nothing can alter the fact that they were well bred. And that is what inflames such ‘reviewers’ against my work.”
“Shocking,” said Jonah. “Because today you present ‘the upper class’ in a good light, they regard your work as subversive propaganda and make every effort to discourage its perusal.”
I nodded.
“Finally, let me refer to one review which I recently received. It was written by a distinguished man. Whether he reviewed books before the late war, I don’t know: but that he was of ‘the old school’ is indisputable. It was a more handsome review than I think I deserved. But that is beside the point – which is that his review opened with these words —
That Dornford Yates has lost none of his old magic, no just man can deny; and that is the truth.
“‘No just man can deny.’
“Can you imagine such words being written before the late war? Why, then, did this reviewer write them?”
“Because he knew,” said Berry. “Knew of and resented this malice.”
“That’s my belief.”
“And he was of ‘the old school’?”
“For that, I can vouch.”
“Then why beat about the bush? It’s the same old answer – with knobs on. You write so convincingly of ‘the upper class’ that your books give ‘the new school’ a violent inferiority complex. Well, you can’t expect them to take that lying down, can you?”
When we had recovered from this broadside –
“That show on the wireless,” said Jill.
“Yes, that was a funny business.”
“It was an outrage, darling.”
“I don’t suppose it was – I really don’t know.”
“What do you mean?” said Berry.
“Something disparaging was said. But I don’t know what it was or when it was said. Please let me leave it there.”
“Well, I don’t know,” said Berry, “but from what you say the author seems to me to get a raw deal. If somebody wrote to the papers saying that such and such a grocer sold bad figs, the papers wouldn’t publish the letter, and if they did, both they and the writer of the letter would be taken to court forthwith. But the wares which the author sells can be condemned, whether they deserve it or no, with impunity.”
“That’s perfectly true. But you must remember this – that the author invites the Press to review his book; but the grocer does not ask the Press to consider his figs.”
“Yes, I see that,” said Jonah. “But such an invitation does not confer a licence to be malicious.”
“I know. But, as I have said before, I have really been very lucky. Taking it by and large, the Press have been very kind. I’ve had hundreds of handsome reviews: so it ill becomes me to complain if I get a few ugly ones. And you must remember that I’m getting out of date. Most of my work is today period stuff. To the present generation, the life we led at White Ladies seems almost mediaeval. And millions of them have been taught that such a life was as wrong as that which the Barons led in the time of Henry the First. Their teachers know that it wasn’t, but that is beside the point. I think perhaps I’d better stop there.”
“I think so, too, darling,” said Daphne.
“After all,” said Jonah, “many appear in
Who’s Who
, but few—”
“I know,” I said. “I’m very honoured.”