“There are no circles so definite as that.”
“Always willing to learn, Miss Ferrar. But tell me, do you know what Sir Alexander’s Parliamentary friends think about conduct and morality?”
“I can guess. I don’t suppose there’s much difference.”
“Are you suggesting, Miss Ferrar, that responsible public men take the same light-hearted view of conduct and morals as you?”
“Aren’t you rather assuming, Sir James, that her view IS light-hearted?”
“As to conduct, my lord, I submit that her answers have shown the very light-hearted view she takes of the obligations incurred by the acceptance of hospitality, for instance. I’m coming to morals now.”
“I think you’d better, before drawing your conclusions. What have public men to do with it?”
“I’m suggesting, my lord, that this lady is making a great to-do about words which a public man, or any ordinary citizen, would have a perfect right to resent, but which she, with her views, has no right whatever to resent.”
“You must prove her views then. Go on!”
Marjorie Ferrar, relaxed for a moment, gathered herself again. Her views!
“Tell me, Miss Ferrar—we all know now the meaning of the word ‘stuffy’—are public men ‘stuffier’ than you?”
“They may say they are.”
“You think them hypocrites?”
“I don’t think anything at all about them.”
“Though you’re going to marry one? You are complaining of the words: ‘She hasn’t a moral about her.’ Have you read this novel ‘Can-thar’?” He was holding up a book.
“I think so.”
“Don’t you know?”
“I’ve skimmed it.”
“Taken off the cream, eh? Read it sufficiently to form an opinion?”
“Yes.”
“Would you agree with the view of it expressed in this letter to a journal? ‘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.”