B-Berry and I Look Back (17 page)

Jonah looked at me.

“Not very long ago,” he said, “I read two obituaries. Both caused me some surprise, for I had not thought that the men about whom they were written were so distinguished. I drew your attention to them. But you only smiled and said, ‘Some maxims should be amended’. Would you care to elaborate that statement?”

“There is,” I said, “a tendency today – there has been a tendency for some years for those who decide what should be said in obituary notices to make out that the deceased was much more eminent than in fact he was. This may be because those who are responsible for such notices are misinformed. In any event it is unfortunate, for such tributes are not only misleading, but, for those who know better, they bring the memory of the dead into contempt.

“Here perhaps I should say that, since there are always plenty of people ready to misrepresent the written word, I am well aware that many men die and are commended who deserve to the full the praise and commendation which their obituaries accord them. Some of them are done scant justice. But I am dealing with the cases of those men who, when they are dead, are represented to have been far more distinguished and brilliant than in fact they were. I have no desire to deprive the blessed dead of their laurels; but it is, I think, a very great mistake to proclaim that so-and-so was a very much more talented member of society than he was. Myself, I believe this to be nothing less than the result of what is called publicity. Some of those thus dealt with have courted and gained publicity, while alive, and are still borne on the bosom of that meretricious flood for a week or so after their death.

“Of course the old Latin maxim, ‘Speak nothing but good of the dead’ – that is the accurate translation – has much to answer for. Years ago someone suggested that it should be amended and that it should run, ‘Speak nothing but the truth of the dead’. But such an amendment is, perhaps, too drastic; for there is no reason why a dead man’s offences should be remembered. Indeed, they are better forgotten. But to declare that a man was a greater man than he was is provocative and manifestly undesirable.

“Three cases come to my mind.

“In the first case, I knew all about the man – as did many others – although I am glad to say that I never made his acquaintance. In the second, I only knew the man’s work. In the third, I was once able to study the man at close quarters, and the impression I formed has, as you will see, stayed with me to this day.

“Now for the first. Soon after I became a solicitor’s pupil, there was pointed out to me at the Old Bailey a ‘thieves’ lawyer’. In that and the following year I had many opportunities of observing him. He was, I should say, the leader of that disreputable cult. He was a man of little education and frequently dropped his h’s, when addressing the Court. Often enough, he appeared with no solicitor behind him and I have seen him myself in the hall of the Old Bailey touting for work. I have seen and heard him bullying his unfortunate witnesses and treating them as though they were dirt – not, of course, in court. What was, to my mind, worse than anything, in spite of the fact that he was a barrister of many years’ standing, he was grossly ignorant of some of the most elementary rules of law. His name was Abrahams: but this, no doubt for a very good reason, he changed early on by deed poll to that of – well, I’m not going to say what name he took, but it was a very honourable and distinguished old English name. He looked the rogue he was: but he had quite a good practice, because he always attacked the witnesses for the Crown, whether or no he had reason so to do. And that was what his clients wanted. If the ‘busy’ who had ‘shopped’ them was severely handled in the box, even if they were convicted, they felt they had had their money’s worth. So Abrahams prospered.

“Now in the nineteen-thirties he died, and I read his obituary in
The Times
. Who wrote it or authorized it, I have no idea. But it took up half a column and it made out that he was a most distinguished figure of the Criminal Bar. It mentioned several of the cases in which he was engaged and announced that he had led for the defence of —, for whose conviction he was solely responsible: it spoke in glowing terms of his great ability as an advocate and his excellence as a Criminal lawyer. Any layman reading it would have sighed for the passing of a great man. And in fact he was a disgrace to his profession, and he spent his life obtaining poor men’s money by false pretences.

“My second illustration is less valuable. I never knew the man, but he wrote one book which I greatly admired, which has always stood on my shelf. I have every reason to believe that he was a very nice man and he was, without doubt, accomplished. When he died, he was given an obituary notice, which occupied nearly a column. I have no doubt the praise which it bestowed upon him was richly deserved. But in the course of this tribute, the article declared that he was the inventor of a certain kind of jingle, something resembling a Limerick, which had been called after him. This interested me, for I had never heard one before. The writer of the notice quoted two of these jingles, to which he referred as ‘gems of wit’; he also used the word ‘brilliant’. Now for the Limerick, particularly the original Limericks written by Lear, I have always had a certain admiration. I think they are most entertaining, frequently very witty and always very well done. But these two jingles which were quoted and commended so handsomely were the most arrant rubbish. They certainly rhymed, but no attempt had been made to make them scan and that anyone with a sense of humour could have found them funny is more than I can believe. Wondering whether there was in them some virtue which had escaped me, I memorized them and tried them on three or four reasonably intelligent people, with quite painful results. I mean, they heard me out, and then stared upon me as though they thought that I had gone round the bend. I need hardly add that I never got the flicker of a smile.”

“I can bear you out,” said Berry. “I was one of your ‘reasonably intelligent’ guinea-pigs.”

“I beg,” I said, “that you won’t repeat your comments. They certainly satisfied me that my estimate of the jingles was good, but they were rather forcible. The point is that in that obituary notice they were hailed as brilliant and unforgettable flashes of the genius of a great man at play.

“Now what effect did this obituary notice have upon me – a very ordinary member of the reading public? Some of the admiration I had always had for the deceased evaporated. And I felt that, if whoever had written that notice was seeking to glorify the dead man’s memory, he had more than failed. Indeed, I am inclined to believe that, for many people, he brought it into contempt.

“The third case is rather different. I shall have to be careful here, for I have no desire to shatter any illusions. After all, these are only examples of misrepresentation of the truth by those who probably know no better. I mean that they approach the wrong sources of information. But this is – or was – an outrageous case. And I think publicity was to blame here. Be that as it may, I cannot declare the whole truth. If I did, you’d go through the roof: but the man would be immediately identified.

“Not long before the first War, I was invited to attend some rehearsals of an important Shakespearian production in the West End. I had come to know the Actor-Manager concerned, when I was President of the OUDS, and he knew that it would interest me to watch the building-up of the play. And so I did attend – and found the exercise extremely interesting. Naturally enough, I went to the first night…

“Now on that night, after the first act I left my seat in the stalls and when the curtain rose on the second act I stood for some minutes at the back of the dress-circle, to see how the performance looked and sounded from there. I was just about to return to my seat below, when the Business Manager, who was passing, asked me to have a drink. So we entered the bar, which led out of the promenade at the back of the dress-circle. There I saw five men, all in evening dress. One of the four was seated upon a high stool, up against the bar: the other four seemed to be his admirers, for they were standing about him, hanging, so to speak, upon his lips and behaving as sycophants behave. Them, I cannot remember at all: for I had eyes, as they had, only for the man on the stool. So vivid was the impression that, though nearly fifty years have passed, I can see him now. Fat, pasty-faced, languid, he resembled a white slug. He was most elegant. He was exquisitely dressed – in full evening dress, of course – from his perfectly ironed silk hat to his patent-leather shoes. His pudgy hands were white and manicured: his button-hole was a dream: his ebony cane belonged to the books. His demeanour was that of languid contempt. He never smiled; occasionally vouchsafed a word, which was received with rapturous laughter by his squires; sipped his drink.

“‘My God,’ I whispered, ‘what’s that?’

“The Business Manager looked at me and smiled.

“‘Don’t you know who that is?’ he said.

“‘I’ve no idea,’ I said. ‘I’ve never seen it before and I hope to God I never see it again.’

“The Business Manager laughed softly. Then he breathed the name in my ear.

“It was that of a very well-known critic – who had been appointed by the periodical that paid him to attend the first night and criticize the play. And there he was in the bar, exuding his loathsome airs and graces, playing to his contemptible gallery, a revolting sight. He reminded me irresistibly of Coles Willing’s description of Oscar Wilde – fat, pasty-faced, languid…

“Not long after I saw him on that first night, he left England…

“And now mark this. When that man died and was gathered, I suppose, to his fathers, article after article appeared in the Press, all speaking of his ‘charm’, his ‘perfect demeanour’ and ‘gentle modesty’. One paper said that he was shy. And that man was a fat, white slug, preferring to sleek himself in the adulation of his decadent disciples to doing his duty and earning the money which he was presently paid.”

“How revolting!” said Daphne.

“I’m with you,” said Jonah. “I find it most offensive. God knows I desire to think no ill of the dead: but misrepresentation of fact like that makes the gorge rise.”

“I know. It shouldn’t, of course. I think what gets us under the ribs is that so many really fine men, whose names deserve to be remembered, are often dismissed with half a dozen lines.”

Berry lifted his head.

“‘Sweet are the uses of
advertisement
.’”

“Yes, that is the truth. These fellows advertise themselves and have their reward. But the man who does not pose, who shuns advertisement, who does his duty – well, he, too, has his reward: but I fancy it is of more value than a write-up in the public prints. And allow me to say that of this particular case, I haven’t told you the half – because I wish to suppress the man’s identity. And when I say the half, I mean it.”

“Oscar Wilde,” said Jonah. “We know the sordid story; but he was before our time.”

“Coles Willing saw him,” I said. “With another man, he went to one of his lectures – to have a look at him. He told me that Wilde was a perfectly beastly sight – in a word, he looked what he was. Beginning his lecture, he spoke these memorable words.
If I were not beautiful, I should die
. When he said that, with one consent Coles Willing and his companion rose and left the hail. I remember Coles saying, ‘I thought I was going to be sick.’”

“Am I right in saying that he was given a chance to clear out?”

“I’ve heard that he was. I’ve heard that, when the warrant for his arrest had been issued, he was told that if he left England within twenty-four hours, the warrant would stay on the file. That is to say, that unless he returned to England, it would not be executed. The idea, of course, was to avoid the hideous scandal which the case provoked.”

“But he wouldn’t go?”

I shook my head.

“He had the effrontery to maintain that he had done no wrong. During his trial, he lounged in the dock, reading – or pretending to read – a book of poems, and ignoring – or pretending to ignore – the irrefutable and revolting evidence which was being given against him.”

“And that poisonous blackguard,” said Berry, “will have his statue yet.”

“I can’t believe it,” said Daphne.

“He will,” said Berry. “You see.”

“To be honest,” said I, “I’m not sure he isn’t right.”

“Darling,” said Jill. “I know QCs are called ‘silks’, because they’re said to wear a silk gown. But are their gowns really silk?”

“I’m sure they aren’t today: I don’t think they were in my time – as a rule, at any rate. Probably a QC had a silk gown which he kept to wear on special occasions. Any way, his gown was cut differently to that worn by the Junior Bar, but the great difference was that the QC wore a special coat. For some strange reason, I can’t remember this very well, but I think it resembled the coat worn with Court Dress. And if ever the Court was in mourning, the QC always wore lawn cuffs on the sleeves of his coat, and mourning bands, instead of the ordinary bands. I think the Junior Bar used to wear mourning bands, too: I know that I did.

“As I expect you know, the original band, which was worn by Henry the Eighth, was a linen collar and the forerunner of the ruff. It presently gave its name to the band-box, in which varieties of such collars were carried and kept. Naturally, with the coming of the ruff, the band-box became very large and, to a well-dressed man, a most important piece of baggage. But some of the collars were ‘falling collars’ and the bands worn by the Bar are derived from them.”

“A few nights ago,” said Berry, “you mentioned a barrister called Boyd as being in Travers Humphreys’ chambers. Didn’t he become a Metropolitan Police Magistrate?”

“Yes, he did. I think it was what he wanted, and I was very glad. He was a very nice, quiet, earnest man, rather soldierly in appearance, for he had a clipped moustache.”

“Surely that’s wrong for Counsel?”

“Well, I think it’s a mistake. It doesn’t look well with a wig. But there’s no rule about it. Phillimore J had one.”

“He would,” said Berry.

I laughed.

“He was rather trying,” I said. “He was a cold-blooded Puritan – and that was that. But Ellis Hume-Williams QC wore a moustache. So, I think, did Shearman J. And Fletcher-Moulton LJ. But, personally, I never thought it looked right.”

“Didn’t Scrutton have a beard?”

“You’re perfectly right. He did; and so did Ridley. But somehow a beard didn’t look as wrong as a moustache by itself. But I can’t commend it. Bench and Bar should be clean-shaven. At least, that’s my idea.”

“Last night,” said Jonah, “you mentioned a case of a fellow whose name was Abrahams, changing his name. Anybody can do that I believe.”

“Any British subject can. He executes what is called a Deed Poll and advertises the fact in the
Gazette
. That’s all.”

“And he can take any name he likes?”

I nodded.

“Which,” said Berry, “is iniquitous. Everyone knows that such licence is constantly abused. There are genuine cases, such as where the last male of his line doesn’t want the name to die out and stipulates that, if his daughter is to inherit his property, her husband must change his name to that which she bore before she married him. But how often does that happen? Yet names are being changed all the time, simply because men think it will benefit them financially to sail under false colours. And they are usually right. I mean, if your true name is Stunkenstein, provided you are a naturalized British subject, you can change it to Howard or Cavendish by a stroke of the pen: and nobody can deny that, for most people, ‘Messrs. Howard and Cavendish’ will inspire more confidence than ‘Messrs Bahnhof and Stunkenstein’.”

“Outrageous,” said Daphne.

“So it is,” said Jonah. “The law should clearly be changed. What does Boy say?”

“I’ve felt that for many years: and I’ve never understood why the point has never been raised by some private member. I mean, it’s extremely simple. Anyone who desires to change his name should have to appear before some Court and present his case for so doing. If the Court considers that his reasons for so doing are good, then permission will be granted. The Court would, of course, have the right to approve or disapprove the name which he proposed to take. And he would have to pay the costs of such procedure. It is as simple as that. In plain language, for many years a privilege has been abused and it is high time that such an abuse was abated.”

“Would you have stayed in Travers Humphreys’ chambers had there been room?”

“Not on your life. Nothing would have induced me to practise at the Criminal Bar.”

“That’s rather severe.”

“I don’t mean to be severe. It’s a question of taste. Many better men than I have stuck to the Criminal Bar until they retired or were promoted. But for two full years I had a close-up of the work, and to spend the best years of one’s life in such an atmosphere was to my mind unthinkable. I’ve related some sordid cases, but, believe me, they were the cream. The depths of iniquity to which man can sink are unbelievable.

“Well, somebody’s got to do it, and somebody thinks it worth while. But it wasn’t down my street. You must have a special outlook to practise at the Criminal Bar. How Bodkin contrived to do it, I never knew, for he was a sensitive man. The experience I had was very valuable. It opened my eyes and it made me very careful. But that was more than enough. In a word, I was glad to get out.”

“Is money the attraction?”

“Oh dear, no! The Criminal Bar is very badly paid. At least, it was in my time. If you had the good fortune to be appointed Counsel to the Treasury at the Old Bailey – well, you had a safe job: but the Treasury is notoriously stingy and the fees were by no means high. Still, Treasury Counsel were allowed to accept some briefs for the defence. Not all, of course. They would not, for instance, have been allowed to defend Crippen. And they had to obtain permission in every case. A Treasury Counsel who had shown himself really able, such as Bodkin, did do a certain amount of private work. And that reminds me of a little case which I had forgotten.

“In the spring or early summer of 1909, a well-known peer of the realm came down the steps of the Carlton Club and asked the Commissionaire to call a taxi. The Commissionaire signalled to the cab-rank and a taxi drew up at once to the foot of the steps. This meant, of course, that the taxi was facing West, for the Canton Club used to stand on the South side of Pall Mall. The Commissionaire opened the door: as the peer was about to enter the cab, he hung on his heel, as usual, and gave the driver the address.

“‘Fifteen Berkeley Square.’

“Well, that was easy enough. Straight on along Pall Mall, up St James’s Street, in and out of Piccadilly and up Berkeley Street. But, instead of taking this direct and obvious way, the driver turned his cab round and began to drive East instead of West.

“For a moment the peer didn’t notice what the driver had done: but when he saw Regent Street on his left and Waterloo Place on his right, he leapt to his feet and put his head out of the window.

“‘Where are you going?’ he cried. ‘I said Berkeley Square.’

“‘What if you did?’ said the driver. ‘I know my way.’

“‘Damn it, man,’ cried the peer. ‘You’re driving East!”

“The driver brought his cab to the kerb and pulled down his flag.

“‘You can get out,’ he said. ‘If you think you can swear at me, you’re – well wrong.’

“In a silence big with emotion, the peer got out. Then he slammed the door and looked round for another cab.

“As he signalled to one to stop, he found his late driver by his side.

“‘What about my fare?’

“‘I’m not paying you any fare,’ said the peer.

“‘I’ll see about that,’ said the driver. ‘What’s your name?’

“The peer handed him his card. As he entered the second taxi –

“‘I’ll summons you,’ shouted the other.

“He was as good as his word. He applied for a summons at Marlborough Street. This was duly served at the Carlton Club. The peer instructed Wontner and Sons and they briefed Bodkin for the defence. The magistrate who heard the case was Denman, a very nice man.

“Well, the result may be imagined.

“The taxi-driver said his piece, and Bodkin rose to cross-examine. The driver was truculent. When asked why, when he was told to drive to Berkeley Square, he drove in the opposite direction, he replied, ‘That’s my business.’ When asked whether, in such circumstances, he was surprised that his fare should emphatically protest, he replied that if a man, just because he was a lord, thought he had a right to swear at everyone else, he was mistaken. The peer gave evidence. The driver, in cross-examination, asked him whether he thought it right to refuse to pay his fare. The peer replied that, when a fare, who was being driven the wrong way, was ordered out of a cab, he thought only a fool would pay the fare on the clock. It was proved that no streets were up and that the way from the Carlton Club to Berkeley Square was as I have said.

“In the circumstances, it is not surprising that the summons was dismissed with costs. These, the peer did not demand. But Bodkin’s fee, I remember, was twenty guineas.”

“What a monstrous show!” said Berry.

“The taxi-driver,” said Jonah, “was before his time. If this affair had taken place forty years later, he would probably have won his case.”

“I give,” said Daphne, “full marks to the peer for going through with it.”

“I agree,” said I. “It was most unpleasant for him and very expensive. That little flurry cost him the best part of thirty pounds. But he felt that to submit to such abominable behaviour was all wrong.”

“What,” said Berry, “were your impressions?”

“Myself,” said I, “I think that the taxi-driver was a communist. I think he decided to offend a member of the Carlton Club. For that reason he went on that rank. For that reason he drove in the opposite direction to Berkeley Square. For that reason he applied for his summons. Indeed, I can see no other explanation. Denman, who was very gentle with everyone, dressed him down properly.”

“He should,” said Berry, “have lost his licence.”

“I daresay he did. The police were very particular in those days. And taxi-drivers were almost invariably very civil. Which reminds me of the case of a fellow in the Grenadier Guards. When war broke out in 1914, he was afraid that he might be killed and his widow left badly off. So he bought a couple of taxis and gave them to her. I was told that they brought her in twelve hundred pounds a year. Of course by no means all drivers had their own cabs: but they got a good percentage and people were generous with their tips. And if a driver was obliging, it paid him hand over fist.”

“To return to what we were saying – I take it the biggest money was made at the Common Law Bar?”

“Curiously enough,” said I, “it wasn’t. I don’t say that Rufus Isaacs and F E Smith, who were both Common Lawyers, didn’t head the list in their time; but, on the whole, the biggest fortunes were made at the Parliamentary Bar. This was a very close borough, and its citizens, being jealous, were very few. Their names were seldom heard and they argued before Committees of the House of Lords. Their work was devastatingly dull, which is, perhaps, why they were so well paid. They never appeared for individuals but only for ‘bodies’, so that their clients were not paying them out of their own pockets. Let me give you an instance. If some Town Council wanted to scrap its trams and use trolley buses instead, some other body of standing might oppose this idea and prefer to stick to the trams. Then counsel of the Parliamentary Bar were instructed and they had it out before a Committee of the House of Lords. For some reason or other, on one occasion, Harker was given a junior brief in one such case, and, as it went on for ages, more than once I devilled for him. I had nothing to do but listen, and I found it terribly hard to stay awake. I don’t think witnesses were ever called: all the evidence was by affidavit. I may be wrong there. I can’t remember the name of the leader of the Parliamentary Bar in my time, but he was briefed in this particular case and I heard him speak. I didn’t think he was particularly brilliant, but his tongue was that of a ready talker and it was obvious that he was
persona grata
in their lordships’ eyes. He was certainly very convincing and occasionally humorous. It was clear that he and the Chairman – I think, Lord Newton – got on very well. Well, it’s a great thing to be liked by the Bench before which you are appearing. I don’t suggest for one moment that any favouritism was shown, but if I could see that he was popular, so could solicitors. So far as I can remember, there were only two or three other ‘silks’ at the Parliamentary Bar and as time never seemed to be an object, there was plenty of work for all. And I always understood that the fees were very high.

“At the Common Law bar, the really big money came from commercial cases – two companies, or very big firms, at variance, and money no object at all. Those were the cases in which the inimitable Rufus Isaacs, with his magnificent brain and memory and his astounding flair for figures, came into his own. Some of those cases used to go on for three weeks – and Isaacs would be in two or three at the same time. And that was the way to make ten thousand a month.”

“Terrific,” said Jonah.

“But, mark you, Rufus Isaacs earned his money. Think of passing from court to court, each time leaving behind you all the figures and dates and intricate circumstances of one case and immediately assimilating a precisely similar mass of particulars relating to another. Only a giant’s brain could do a thing like that.”

“It makes my brain reel,” said Daphne.

“At least,” said Jonah, “no machine could do that.”

“Am I right in saying,” said Berry, “that counsel would sometimes undertake never to leave a case?”

“Yes. The fee had to be substantially increased in the case of a busy man, for it might well mean that he had to refuse other briefs. And it would never happen if the case was to last for some time. I don’t suppose that Isaacs ever did it; but lesser men would. I mean, if you wanted Rufus Isaacs, you had to take him on his own terms. And people thought themselves lucky to get him on those. And so they were. I’m proud to have seen him at work. He was a very great barrister.”

“You spoke of cases that lasted for three weeks. How long did The Tichborne Case last?”

“That was phenomenal. The civil case lasted more than a hundred days and the criminal case about a hundred and fifty. The plaintiff was in the box for twenty-two days and the Lord Chief Justice took nearly a month to sum up.”