‘The book breaks through the British “stuffiness,” which condemns any frank work of art–and a good thing too!’ It is a good thing?”
“Yes. I hate Grundyism.”
“‘It is undoubtedly Literature.’ The word is written with a large L. Should you say it was?”
“Literature–yes. Not great literature, perhaps.”
“But it ought to be published?”
“I don’t see why not.”
“You know that it is not published in England?”
“Yes.”
“But it ought to be?”
“It isn’t everybody’s sort of book, of course.”
“Don’t evade the question, please. In your opinion ought this novel ‘Canthar’ to be published in England?… Take your time, Miss Ferrar.”
The brute lost nothing! Just because she had hesitated a moment trying to see where he was leading her.
“Yes, I think literature should be free.”
“You wouldn’t sympathise with its suppression, if it were published?”
“No.”
“You wouldn’t approve of the suppression of any book on the ground of mere morals?”
“I can’t tell you unless I see the book. People aren’t bound to read books, you know.”
“And you think your opinion generally on this subject is that of public men and ordinary citizens?”
“No; I suppose it isn’t.”
“But your view would be shared by most of your own associates?”
“I should hope so.”
“A contrary opinion would be ‘stuffy,’ wouldn’t it?”
“If you like to call it so. It’s not my word.”
“What is your word, Miss Ferrar?”
“I think I generally say ‘ga-ga.’”
“Do you know, I’m afraid the Court will require a little elaboration of that.”
“Not for me, Sir James; I’m perfectly familiar with the word; it means ‘in your dotage.’”
“The Bench is omniscient, my lord. Then any one, Miss Ferrar, who didn’t share the opinion of yourself and your associates in the matter of this book would be ‘ga-ga,’ that is to say, in his or her dotage?”
“Aesthetically.”
“Ah! I thought we should arrive at that word. You, I suppose, don’t connect art with life?”
“No.”
“Don’t think it has any effect on life?”
“It oughtn’t to.”
“When a man’s theme in a book is extreme incontinence, depicted with all due emphasis, that wouldn’t have any practical effect on his readers, however young?”
“I can’t say about other people, it wouldn’t have any effect on me.”
“You are emancipated, in fact.”
“I don’t know what you mean by that.”
“Isn’t what you are saying about the divorce of art from life the merest claptrap; and don’t you know it?”
“I certainly don’t.”
“Let me put it another way: Is it possible for those who believe in current morality, to hold your view that art has no effect on life?”
“Quite possible; if they are cultured.”
“Cultured! Do you believe in current morality yourself?”
“I don’t know what you call current morality.”
“I will tell you, Miss Ferrar. I should say, for instance, it was current morality that women should not have liaisons before they’re married, and should not have them after.”
“What about men?”
“Thank you; I was coming to men. And that men should at least not have them after.”
“I shouldn’t say that was CURRENT morality at all.”
In yielding to that satiric impulse she knew at once she had made a mistake–the judge had turned his face towards her. He was speaking.
“Do I understand you to imply that in your view it is moral for women to have liaisons before marriage, and for men and women to have them after?”
“I think it’s current morality, my lord.”
“I’m not asking you about current morality; I’m asking whether in YOUR view it is moral?”
“I think many people think it’s all right, who don’t say it, yet.”
She was conscious of movement throughout the jury; and of a little flump in the well of the Court. Sir Alexander had dropped his hat. The sound of a nose being loudly blown broke the stillness; the face of Bullfry K. C. was lost to her view. She felt the blood mounting in her cheeks.
“Answer my question, please. Do YOU say it’s all right?”
“I–I think it depends.”
“On what?”
“On–on circumstances, environment, temperament; all sorts of things.”
“Would it be all right for you?”
Marjorie Ferrar became very still. “I can’t answer that question, my lord.”
“You mean–you don’t want to?”
“I mean I don’t know.”
And, with a feeling as if she had withdrawn her foot from a bit of breaking ice, she saw Bullfry’s face re-emerge from his handkerchief.
“Very well. Go on, Sir James!”
“Anyway, we may take it, Miss Ferrar, that those of us who say we don’t believe in these irregularities are hypocrites in your view?”
“Why can’t you be fair?”
He was looking at her now; and she didn’t like him any the better for it.
“I shall prove myself fair before I’ve done, Miss Ferrar.”
“You’ve got your work cut out, haven’t you?”
“Believe me, madam, it will be better for you not to indulge in witticism. According to you, there is no harm in a book like ‘Canthar’?”
“There ought to be none.”
“You mean if we were all as aesthetically cultured–as you.”–Sneering beast! – “But are we?”
“No.”
“Then there is harm. But you wouldn’t mind its being done. I don’t propose, my lord, to read from this extremely unpleasant novel. Owing apparently to its unsavoury reputation, a copy of it now costs nearly seven pounds. And I venture to think that is in itself an answer to the plaintiff’s contention that ‘art’ so called has no effect on life. We have gone to the considerable expense of buying copies, and I shall ask that during the luncheon interval the jury may read some dozen marked passages.”
“Have you a copy for me, Sir James?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“And one for Mr. Bullfry?… If there is any laughter, I shall have the Court cleared. Go on.”
“You know the ‘Ne Plus Ultra’ Play–Producing Society, Miss Ferrar? It exists to produce advanced plays, I believe.”
“Plays–I don’t know about ‘advanced.’”
“Russian plays, and the Restoration dramatists?”
“Yes.”
“And you have played in them?”
“Sometimes.”
“Do you remember a play called ‘The Plain Dealer,’ by Wycherley, given at a matinee on January 7th last–did you play in that the part of Olivia?”
“Yes.”
“A nice part?”
“A very good part?”
“I said ‘nice.’”
“I don’t like the word.”
“Too suggestive of ‘prunes and prisms,’ Miss Ferrar? Is it the part of a modest woman?”
“No.”
“Is it, toward the end, extremely immodest? I allude to the dark scene.”
“I don’t know about extremely.”
“Anyway, you felt no hesitation about undertaking and playing the part–a little thing like that doesn’t worry you?”
“I don’t know why it should. If it did, I shouldn’t act.”
“You don’t act for money?”
“No; for pleasure.”
“Then, of course, you can refuse any part you like?”
“If I did, I shouldn’t have any offered me.”
“Don’t quibble, please. You took the part of Olivia not for money but for pleasure. You enjoyed playing it?”
“Pretty well.”
“I’m afraid I shall have to ask the jury, my lord, to run their eyes over the dark scene in ‘The Plain Dealer.’”
“Are you saying, Sir James, that a woman who plays an immoral part is not moral–that would asperse a great many excellent reputations.”
“No, my lord; I’m saying that here is a young lady so jealous of her good name in the eyes of the world, that she brings a libel action because some one has said in a private letter that she ‘hasn’t a moral about her.’ And at the same time she is reading and approving books like this ‘Canthar,’ playing parts like that of Olivia in ‘The Plain Dealer,’ and, as I submit, living in a section of Society that really doesn’t know the meaning of the word morals, that looks upon morals, in fact, rather as we look upon measles. It’s my contention, my lord, that the saying in my client’s letter: ‘She hasn’t a moral about her,’ is rather a compliment to the plaintiff than otherwise.”
“Do you mean that it was intended as a compliment?”
“No, no, my lord.”
“Well, you want the jury to read that scene. You will have a busy luncheon interval, gentlemen. Go on, Sir James.”
“Now, Miss Ferrar–my friend made a point of the fact that you are engaged to a wealthy and highly respected Member of Parliament. How long have you been engaged to him?”
“Six months.”
“You have no secrets from him, I suppose?”
“Why should I answer that?”
“Why should she, Sir James?”
“I am quite content to leave it at her reluctance, my lord.”
Sneering brute! As if everybody hadn’t secrets from everybody!
“Your engagement was not made public till January, was it?”
“No.”
“May I take it that you were not sure of your own mind till then?”
“If you like.”
“Now, Miss Ferrar, did you bring this action because of your good name? Wasn’t it because you were hard up?”
She was conscious again of blood in her cheeks.
“No.”
“WERE you hard up when you brought it?”
“Yes.”
“Very?”
“Not worse than I have been before.”
“I put it to you that you owed a great deal of money, and were hard pressed.”
“If you like.”
“I’m glad you’ve admitted that, Miss Ferrar; otherwise I should have had to prove it. And you didn’t bring this action with a view to paying some of your debts?”
“No.”
“Did you in early January become aware that you were not likely to get any sum in settlement of this suit?”
“I believe I was told that an offer was withdrawn.”
“And do you know why?”
“Yes; because Mrs. Mont wouldn’t give the apology I asked for.”
“Exactly! And was it a coincidence that you thereupon made up your mind to marry Sir Alexander MacGown?”
“A coincidence?”
“I mean the announcement of your engagement, you know?”
Brute!
“It had nothing to do with this case.”
“Indeed! Now when you brought this action did you really care one straw whether people thought you moral or not?”
“I brought it chiefly because I was called ‘a snake.’”
“Please answer my question.”
“It isn’t so much what I cared, as what my friends cared.”
“But their view of morality is much what yours is–thoroughly accommodating?”
“Not my fiance’s.
“Ah! no. He doesn’t move in your circle, you said. But the rest of your friends. You’re not ashamed of your own accommodating philosophy, are you?”
“No.”
“Then why be ashamed of it for them?”
“How can I tell what THEIR philosophy is?”
“How can she, Sir James?”
“As your lordship pleases. Now, Miss Ferrar! You like to stand up for your views, I hope. Let me put your philosophy to you in a nutshell: You believe, don’t you, in the full expression of your personality; it would be your duty, wouldn’t it, to break through any convention–I don’t say law–but any so-called moral convention that cramped you?”
“I never said I had a philosophy.”
“Don’t run away from it, please.”
“I’m not in the habit of running away.”
“I’m so glad of that. You believe in being the sole judge of your own conduct?”
“Yes.”
“You’re not alone in that view, are you?”
“I shouldn’t think so.”
“It’s the view, in fact, of what may be called the forward wing of modern Society, isn’t it–the wing you belong to, and are proud of belonging to? And in that section of Society–so long as you don’t break the actual law–you think and do as you like, eh?
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“Yes. I hate Grundyism.”
“‘It is undoubtedly Literature.’ The word is written with a large L. Should you say it was?”
“Literature–yes. Not great literature, perhaps.”
“But it ought to be published?”
“I don’t see why not.”
“You know that it is not published in England?”
“Yes.”
“But it ought to be?”
“It isn’t everybody’s sort of book, of course.”
“Don’t evade the question, please. In your opinion ought this novel ‘Canthar’ to be published in England?… Take your time, Miss Ferrar.”
The brute lost nothing! Just because she had hesitated a moment trying to see where he was leading her.
“Yes, I think literature should be free.”
“You wouldn’t sympathise with its suppression, if it were published?”
“No.”
“You wouldn’t approve of the suppression of any book on the ground of mere morals?”
“I can’t tell you unless I see the book. People aren’t bound to read books, you know.”
“And you think your opinion generally on this subject is that of public men and ordinary citizens?”
“No; I suppose it isn’t.”
“But your view would be shared by most of your own associates?”
“I should hope so.”
“A contrary opinion would be ‘stuffy,’ wouldn’t it?”
“If you like to call it so. It’s not my word.”
“What is your word, Miss Ferrar?”
“I think I generally say ‘ga-ga.’”
“Do you know, I’m afraid the Court will require a little elaboration of that.”
“Not for me, Sir James; I’m perfectly familiar with the word; it means ‘in your dotage.’”
“The Bench is omniscient, my lord. Then any one, Miss Ferrar, who didn’t share the opinion of yourself and your associates in the matter of this book would be ‘ga-ga,’ that is to say, in his or her dotage?”
“Aesthetically.”
“Ah! I thought we should arrive at that word. You, I suppose, don’t connect art with life?”
“No.”
“Don’t think it has any effect on life?”
“It oughtn’t to.”
“When a man’s theme in a book is extreme incontinence, depicted with all due emphasis, that wouldn’t have any practical effect on his readers, however young?”
“I can’t say about other people, it wouldn’t have any effect on me.”
“You are emancipated, in fact.”
“I don’t know what you mean by that.”
“Isn’t what you are saying about the divorce of art from life the merest claptrap; and don’t you know it?”
“I certainly don’t.”
“Let me put it another way: Is it possible for those who believe in current morality, to hold your view that art has no effect on life?”
“Quite possible; if they are cultured.”
“Cultured! Do you believe in current morality yourself?”
“I don’t know what you call current morality.”
“I will tell you, Miss Ferrar. I should say, for instance, it was current morality that women should not have liaisons before they’re married, and should not have them after.”
“What about men?”
“Thank you; I was coming to men. And that men should at least not have them after.”
“I shouldn’t say that was CURRENT morality at all.”
In yielding to that satiric impulse she knew at once she had made a mistake–the judge had turned his face towards her. He was speaking.
“Do I understand you to imply that in your view it is moral for women to have liaisons before marriage, and for men and women to have them after?”
“I think it’s current morality, my lord.”
“I’m not asking you about current morality; I’m asking whether in YOUR view it is moral?”
“I think many people think it’s all right, who don’t say it, yet.”
She was conscious of movement throughout the jury; and of a little flump in the well of the Court. Sir Alexander had dropped his hat. The sound of a nose being loudly blown broke the stillness; the face of Bullfry K. C. was lost to her view. She felt the blood mounting in her cheeks.
“Answer my question, please. Do YOU say it’s all right?”
“I–I think it depends.”
“On what?”
“On–on circumstances, environment, temperament; all sorts of things.”
“Would it be all right for you?”
Marjorie Ferrar became very still. “I can’t answer that question, my lord.”
“You mean–you don’t want to?”
“I mean I don’t know.”
And, with a feeling as if she had withdrawn her foot from a bit of breaking ice, she saw Bullfry’s face re-emerge from his handkerchief.
“Very well. Go on, Sir James!”
“Anyway, we may take it, Miss Ferrar, that those of us who say we don’t believe in these irregularities are hypocrites in your view?”
“Why can’t you be fair?”
He was looking at her now; and she didn’t like him any the better for it.
“I shall prove myself fair before I’ve done, Miss Ferrar.”
“You’ve got your work cut out, haven’t you?”
“Believe me, madam, it will be better for you not to indulge in witticism. According to you, there is no harm in a book like ‘Canthar’?”
“There ought to be none.”
“You mean if we were all as aesthetically cultured–as you.”–Sneering beast! – “But are we?”
“No.”
“Then there is harm. But you wouldn’t mind its being done. I don’t propose, my lord, to read from this extremely unpleasant novel. Owing apparently to its unsavoury reputation, a copy of it now costs nearly seven pounds. And I venture to think that is in itself an answer to the plaintiff’s contention that ‘art’ so called has no effect on life. We have gone to the considerable expense of buying copies, and I shall ask that during the luncheon interval the jury may read some dozen marked passages.”
“Have you a copy for me, Sir James?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“And one for Mr. Bullfry?… If there is any laughter, I shall have the Court cleared. Go on.”
“You know the ‘Ne Plus Ultra’ Play–Producing Society, Miss Ferrar? It exists to produce advanced plays, I believe.”
“Plays–I don’t know about ‘advanced.’”
“Russian plays, and the Restoration dramatists?”
“Yes.”
“And you have played in them?”
“Sometimes.”
“Do you remember a play called ‘The Plain Dealer,’ by Wycherley, given at a matinee on January 7th last–did you play in that the part of Olivia?”
“Yes.”
“A nice part?”
“A very good part?”
“I said ‘nice.’”
“I don’t like the word.”
“Too suggestive of ‘prunes and prisms,’ Miss Ferrar? Is it the part of a modest woman?”
“No.”
“Is it, toward the end, extremely immodest? I allude to the dark scene.”
“I don’t know about extremely.”
“Anyway, you felt no hesitation about undertaking and playing the part–a little thing like that doesn’t worry you?”
“I don’t know why it should. If it did, I shouldn’t act.”
“You don’t act for money?”
“No; for pleasure.”
“Then, of course, you can refuse any part you like?”
“If I did, I shouldn’t have any offered me.”
“Don’t quibble, please. You took the part of Olivia not for money but for pleasure. You enjoyed playing it?”
“Pretty well.”
“I’m afraid I shall have to ask the jury, my lord, to run their eyes over the dark scene in ‘The Plain Dealer.’”
“Are you saying, Sir James, that a woman who plays an immoral part is not moral–that would asperse a great many excellent reputations.”
“No, my lord; I’m saying that here is a young lady so jealous of her good name in the eyes of the world, that she brings a libel action because some one has said in a private letter that she ‘hasn’t a moral about her.’ And at the same time she is reading and approving books like this ‘Canthar,’ playing parts like that of Olivia in ‘The Plain Dealer,’ and, as I submit, living in a section of Society that really doesn’t know the meaning of the word morals, that looks upon morals, in fact, rather as we look upon measles. It’s my contention, my lord, that the saying in my client’s letter: ‘She hasn’t a moral about her,’ is rather a compliment to the plaintiff than otherwise.”
“Do you mean that it was intended as a compliment?”
“No, no, my lord.”
“Well, you want the jury to read that scene. You will have a busy luncheon interval, gentlemen. Go on, Sir James.”
“Now, Miss Ferrar–my friend made a point of the fact that you are engaged to a wealthy and highly respected Member of Parliament. How long have you been engaged to him?”
“Six months.”
“You have no secrets from him, I suppose?”
“Why should I answer that?”
“Why should she, Sir James?”
“I am quite content to leave it at her reluctance, my lord.”
Sneering brute! As if everybody hadn’t secrets from everybody!
“Your engagement was not made public till January, was it?”
“No.”
“May I take it that you were not sure of your own mind till then?”
“If you like.”
“Now, Miss Ferrar, did you bring this action because of your good name? Wasn’t it because you were hard up?”
She was conscious again of blood in her cheeks.
“No.”
“WERE you hard up when you brought it?”
“Yes.”
“Very?”
“Not worse than I have been before.”
“I put it to you that you owed a great deal of money, and were hard pressed.”
“If you like.”
“I’m glad you’ve admitted that, Miss Ferrar; otherwise I should have had to prove it. And you didn’t bring this action with a view to paying some of your debts?”
“No.”
“Did you in early January become aware that you were not likely to get any sum in settlement of this suit?”
“I believe I was told that an offer was withdrawn.”
“And do you know why?”
“Yes; because Mrs. Mont wouldn’t give the apology I asked for.”
“Exactly! And was it a coincidence that you thereupon made up your mind to marry Sir Alexander MacGown?”
“A coincidence?”
“I mean the announcement of your engagement, you know?”
Brute!
“It had nothing to do with this case.”
“Indeed! Now when you brought this action did you really care one straw whether people thought you moral or not?”
“I brought it chiefly because I was called ‘a snake.’”
“Please answer my question.”
“It isn’t so much what I cared, as what my friends cared.”
“But their view of morality is much what yours is–thoroughly accommodating?”
“Not my fiance’s.
“Ah! no. He doesn’t move in your circle, you said. But the rest of your friends. You’re not ashamed of your own accommodating philosophy, are you?”
“No.”
“Then why be ashamed of it for them?”
“How can I tell what THEIR philosophy is?”
“How can she, Sir James?”
“As your lordship pleases. Now, Miss Ferrar! You like to stand up for your views, I hope. Let me put your philosophy to you in a nutshell: You believe, don’t you, in the full expression of your personality; it would be your duty, wouldn’t it, to break through any convention–I don’t say law–but any so-called moral convention that cramped you?”
“I never said I had a philosophy.”
“Don’t run away from it, please.”
“I’m not in the habit of running away.”
“I’m so glad of that. You believe in being the sole judge of your own conduct?”
“Yes.”
“You’re not alone in that view, are you?”
“I shouldn’t think so.”
“It’s the view, in fact, of what may be called the forward wing of modern Society, isn’t it–the wing you belong to, and are proud of belonging to? And in that section of Society–so long as you don’t break the actual law–you think and do as you like, eh?
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