by A. J. Cronin
Sharp took his breath, modestly wiped his moustache with a clean handkerchief as though the mere mention of these words had polluted it. Then he went on:
‘As though what I have described were not enough, the most damning evidence, your worships, is contained in this same panel. Indeed, as you can see, from its lacerated condition, it has already provoked the righteous indignation of our citizenry. And well it might.’ He pointed ominously. ‘ We are not done with the obscene by any manner of means. Once again we are presented with yet another semi-garbed woman. And how do we find her? Being assaulted, licentiously, by members of the armed forces. In one word, though I hesitate to use it, your worships, it is rape. Incredible though it may seem to a Christian country, this shocking act is openly depicted, and to make it worse there is a child, watching, while they are struggling with her, on the ground.’
A murmur went through the court, and supported by it, Sharp switched his pointer adroitly to the last panel.
‘I have neither the wish nor the need to press this unsavoury demonstration, your worships. But consider, if only for a moment, this final saturnalia of noodity. Look at these male and female forms rising in a shameless, and shameful, state of nature from what apparently is a graveyard. Look, I beg of you, and before you look away, ask yourself if this ghastly portrayal does not in every sense of the word reek of corruption.’
Sharp laid down the pointer, drew himself up by his lapels.
‘Your worships, surely it is apparent that from first to last there exists in these works an attack, sometimes subtle, sometimes crude, but always diabolic, upon morality. Whether this arises through decadence, perversion, sheer malice, or barefaced pornography on the part of the defendant, it is not my position to say. I simply reiterate that the paintings are not only coarse, gross, hideous and unlovely, but under the meaning of the Act, are clearly indecent and obscene. The test of obscenity is whether this matter is of such a character as to corrupt those whose minds are open to such immoral influence, such as our children, young men and women, our wives and mothers. I submit, your worships, that you cannot have the least difficulty in coming to the conclusion that these productions satisfy in all respects the meaning of the legal word “obscene”, that they should be destroyed forthwith before they further pollute the fair air of our city, and their perpetrator punished to the full extent of the law.’
Amidst a murmur of applause, quickly suppressed, Sharp concluded his opening address. The sergeant who had seized the panels was then called, and gave formal evidence of what had taken place. When he had finished, the chairman of the bench, after consultation with his clerk, directed his gaze towards Stephen. He was a conscientious man, upright, precise, fair-minded, a local churchwarden and father of three unmarried daughters, who, while a stickler for procedure, prided himself upon the impartiality of his attitude upon the bench. And in this case, because of the public bias against the defendant, he was resolved to be more than usually considerate in his treatment of him.
His tone was moderate and helpful as he said:
‘You are not, I understand, legally represented and propose to conduct your case yourself.’
‘That is correct.’
Now that the moment was upon him, Stephen, who had endured the vicious attack of the prosecution with a pale and quivering cheek, gripped the guard rail of the dock tightly. If only because of his paintings, so unjustly maligned, and of all the desperate work he had put into them, he was resolved to offer a good account of himself.
‘Now, I must tell you that you are entitled to give evidence on oath in which case you may cross-examine; on the other hand, if you prefer, you may make a statement from where you stand.’
‘I will give evidence, sir,’ he said.
The sergeant led him to the witness-box, and with a peculiar tightness at the back of his throat and a heavy thumping about the heart, Stephen took the oath and faced the justices of the bench.
‘Be good enough to proceed.’
‘In the first place I wish to deny, with all the emphasis of which I am capable, the charge that has been brought against me. I have never painted with such a base object as to titillate obscene-minded people. My approach to art has always been serious. And in this instance it was more serious than ever before. The definite animating purpose of these panels was a sincere and profound desire to symbolise one of the greatest tragedies affecting mankind. It was a major effort attempted on the grand scale. And how has it been judged? By taking little pieces from each picture, as one might take words out of their context in a page, and assuming them to be representations of the whole. No method of evaluation could be more absurd, more unjust. If you would come with me round the National Gallery I could assemble various component parts from the masterpieces there into an entity which I have no doubt would shock you to the core. I must therefore submit, with due respect, that the ordinary standard of taste, whether of a police sergeant or of a common informer, is not a competent one. Perhaps my work is difficult to understand. Nevertheless, there are those whose critical faculties and personal achievements enable them to interpret and properly appraise such new movements in the plastic arts. In support of my case, I propose to call Mr Richard Glyn, an exhibitor at the Royal Academy, who is now in court.’
Immediately, Sharp jumped up.
‘Your worships, I protest. If it were permitted to call such witnesses as Mr Glyn, will you consider what volume of evidence I might have called from eminent persons who might hold contrary opinions? Clearly such a hearing would extend for weeks.’
The magistrates considered, then, after talking with their clerk, slowly nodded agreement.
‘We cannot allow Mr Glyn to be called,’ the chairman ruled. ‘The calling of evidence on purely artistic grounds is quite inadmissible.’
‘But,’ exclaimed Stephen, ‘how else can you judge a work of art?’
‘It is perfectly immaterial whether or not these are works of art,’ the magistrate said reprovingly – he did not like to be interrogated. ‘The most beautiful picture in the world could be obscene.’
Staggered by this masterpiece of logic, Stephen for a moment was speechless.
‘Then I may not call Mr Glyn in evidence?’
‘No.’
At this point a massive figure rose from the front row of the gallery and leaned over the rail, chin thrust pugnaciously forward above the knotted red scarf.
‘If I am not to be called, at least I will be heard.’
‘Silence in court.’
‘I will be silent only after I have spoken. In my considered opinion these panels are aesthetic creations of the first rank. In their realism and breadth of treatment they rival the work of Daumier. In their rhythm and dramatic form they are fit to be compared with the finest creations of El Greco. Only a vulgar and dirty mind could regard them as indecent.’
‘Officer, remove that man.’
‘I’m going,’ said Glyn, moving up to the door. ‘If I stay, I’ll say something obscene.’ He went out.
The sensation produced by this outburst lasted for several minutes. When it subsided the chairman, seriously provoked, looked up at the gallery.
‘If such a disturbance occurs again I shall immediately commit the person creating it to prison for contempt of court.’ He turned to Stephen. ‘Will you continue?’
‘If I am not permitted to call witnesses in support of my contention, I can only repeat it.’
‘Is that all?’ Suppressing his irritation, the magistrate again proffered assistance. ‘ Surely you have something more to produce in your defence?’
‘No.’
When Stephen said this, Sharp got to his feet, without haste, as though he meant to be upon them a considerable time.
‘With your permission, your worships.’ Anchoring one hand on a lapel, he bent his head reflectively, then raised it abruptly, fixed his gaze on Stephen.
‘In all that you have said, you have not once told us why you felt obliged to incorporate in thes
e panels no less than six stark-naked figures, four of which are female.’
‘I did so for various reasons, one being the beauty of the nude human form.’
‘But surely you don’t contend that the naked figure should be completely revealed?’
‘If it is to be naked, it must be revealed.’
‘Don’t deliberately misunderstand me. Doesn’t modesty demand that certain parts should always be kept covered?’
‘If that were so, how could we take a bath?’
Sharp’s eyes sparked.
‘Ill-timed humour won’t help you.’
‘I assure you I feel far from humorous. I am merely attempting to show how ridiculous is your attitude, which seems to me nothing more or less than a survival of Victorian prudery. It is the same spirit that caused Manet’s Déjeuner sur l’Herbe to be spat at and execrated because it depicted two nude women seated on the grass. All the supreme artists have painted from life. Goya’s great painting La Maja shows the Duchess of Alba reclining on a couch without a stitch of clothing. No doubt it would horrify you. Olympia would be to you a shocking nude. You forget that it is the lightly draped figure that is lewd and suggestive. Nature pure and unadorned is never obscene. The symbolism, the dramatic content of my panels demanded this nudity. But it is a chaste nudity and not the salacious, half-hidden variety that you seem to prefer and which I regard as fit only to adorn the walls of brothels.’
The chairman, thinking of his three daughters, frowned his disapproval.
‘I must ask you to moderate your language.’
‘No doubt, your worships, it was the voice of experience referring to such places.’ Sharp’s sneer faded, his tone was grim as he turned again to Stephen. ‘I will not admit that it is pure and modest to portray for public exhibition the private parts of the human anatomy. I suggest to you that it is obscene.’
‘Then why are they so exhibited in the great galleries of the world? In the Prado alone you will find a score of statues, by masters such as Michelangelo and Donatello, in which what you are pleased to call the “private parts” are publicly displayed.’
Sharp did not pursue the argument, but went on to his next question. ‘I believe a moment ago in describing your work you used the word “chaste”. Now tell me, would you consider the violation of a woman a chaste act?’
‘Not for the violator.’
‘Yet you must admit that in your paintings you have portrayed the act of … rape … if I may use the word …’
‘So far as I am concerned you may use the word.’
‘Thank you for your kind permission. It is, however, an unpleasant word.’
‘It is in the dictionary.’
‘And has a most unpleasant meaning. Will you be good enough to tell the court why you chose to use this quite unmentionable subject?’
‘It may be that I was guided by precedent.’
‘What precedent, sir?’
‘The old Italian painters, as you have so classically defined them, and for whom you entertain such admiration and respect – they used it constantly.’
‘Do you expect us to believe that?’
‘I expect nothing from you but ignorance and prejudice. Nevertheless, it is the truth. Titian, for example, one of the oldest of the old Italians – he lived to be ninety-nine and, although he was an artist, received a magnificent funeral – used the subject repeatedly, most notably of all in The Rape of Europa. Then there is The Rape of the Sabine Women, one of the world’s most famous paintings. And again, The Carrying Off of Psyche, by Prud’hon. These canvases hang in the Louvre, which, since doubtless you have visited there, you may agree to be a fairly reputable gallery. If one takes the subject of The Ravishment of Danaë alone, this was treated by Titian, Correggio and Rembrandt, who, while not an old Italian, was nevertheless a painter of some distinction and who painted Danaë as a woman lying, undressed and completely uncovered, on her bed.’
There was a silence. Sharp looked uneasy and, with a spot of colour in his cheek, glanced towards the bench for support. The chairman, after conferring with his fellow-magistrates, looked across his spectacles at Stephen.
‘Who is this Danaë to whom you refer?’
‘The daughter of King Acrisius.’
‘And she was the victim of … er … such a violation?’
‘Yes.’
‘By whom?’
Unfortunately Stephen saw a chance to score. With a chilly smile he answered:
‘Jupiter … descending in a shower of gold.’
A titter arose from the back of the gallery, but Glyn, now positioned in the crowded doorway and watching intently, did not smile. He saw the magistrate redden with displeasure and knew that Stephen was prejudicing his case. Sharp was quick to seize advantage.
‘Your worships, I submit that such historical tomfoolery has nothing to do with the present case. To get back to the point,’ he turned to Stephen, ‘you admit you painted this particularly scene deliberately?’
‘Deliberately? Do you imagine it got there by accident?’
‘Mr Desmonde,’ the chairman interposed severely, ‘I must warn you that I find the tone of your answers most unseemly.’
‘Then I am in character, your worship, for that apparently is the charge against me.’
‘Proceed, Mr Sharp.’
‘Your worship, I am trying to get from the accused a direct reply as to why he brought in this particular scene of rape.’
‘Will you answer, sir?’
‘Because I wished to emphasise the brutalities and horrors that are inseparable from any war, yet are glossed over and forgotten, or worse still glorified in the name of patriotism.’
‘Am I to understand that you blame such enormities on our own men?’
‘Are they any different from other men? Is it always the enemy who is the butcher and barbarian?’
‘You mention the enemy. But you didn’t get too near them in the war?’
‘No.’
‘Didn’t have the plain guts, I suppose?’
‘To be an artist one must have some courage.’
‘Courage for what?’
‘To sustain the world’s universal contempt.’
‘Is this relevant, Mr Sharp?’ One of the magistrates intervened. ‘Mr Desmonde is not on trial for cowardice.’
‘Your worship,’ exclaimed Sharp, ‘the defendant’s war, or should I say peace, record is well known and speaks for itself. At your behest I will not further impose it upon the court. However,’ to Stephen again, ‘I will ask you this. What right have you to impose on our quiet, God-fearing community this perverted attitude of yours?’
‘It is not only mine. Many others have created works that were protests against war – Callot and Delacroix. In literature, Tolstoi, Vereshchagen, Zola. The same essential viewpoint was expressed by Goya in his Desastres de la Guerre.’
‘Goya, a French painter, I presume?’
‘Spanish, if I may correct you.’
‘It amounts to the same thing. You seem devoted to these foreigners.’
‘That is because unfortunately there have been so few great British painters.’
‘You except yourself, naturally.’
‘I believe I have considerable talent. Otherwise I should not have undertaken the supremely arduous life of the artist, with all its despairs and privations, nor for that matter placed myself in the position where I have to suffer your cheap sneers.’
‘Cheap? They may cost you more than you think. Instead of attempting to make a martyr of yourself, try to keep to the point. You mentioned the word “horrors”. Why did you introduce such things?’
‘Why?’ Stephen, weary and harassed, like a hare hemmed in by a pack of hounds, was growing careless. ‘I wanted to shock people into a permanent resistance to war.’
‘And you adopted very shocking means. Were you surprised at the reaction you got?’
‘When I was working I was oblivious to all but the effort of creation. Now, however, I am no
t surprised. Every period of aesthetic innovation and endeavour has suffered from public malignity. All the greatest and most significant changes in the history of art have been ushered in through mass demonstrations of ridicule and ignorance. But I regret nothing that I have done. I would do it all over again.’
Sharp smiled grimly.
‘Your worships, I will leave you with that unrepentant statement from the defendant. I think I need not add to it.’
He resumed his seat amidst applause which was immediately suppressed. The chairman shuffled his papers, and looked across his glasses at Stephen in a manner now far from sympathetic.
‘Have you anything more to say? You may address the court if you wish.’
‘There is much that I could say. But it would be futile. I shall not say it.’
Suddenly exhausted, with a splitting headache, he felt he must rest, but as he made to sit down the sergeant, with a tap on the shoulder, indicated that he must stand.
After consulting the notes on the bench before him, and exchanging a few words with the other members of the bench and his clerk, the chairman, in dead silence, gave judgement.
‘We have,’ he said, ‘listened with extreme attention and, bearing in mind the unseemly interruptions that have occurred, with extraordinary patience, to the arguments put before us. We have also studied the relevant pictorial evidence with unusual care. Now, we cannot regard it as cogent to reason that because these productions are magnificent works of art they cannot be, under the meaning of the Act, obscene. In the first place, who shall finally determine whether or not they are magnificent? Their creator is an obscure artist, quite unknown in his own country. He is no Constable, no Landseer. He is not Sir Joshua Reynolds. And so far as ordinary taste is concerned, the taste for instance of an ordinary citizen like myself, these works are not masterpieces. Indeed, in their general violence of colour and composition, in their lack of elegance and refinement, they fall, in my opinion, lamentably short of masterpieces. And in the second place, as I have already been at pains to indicate, even if they were masterpieces they could still be obscene. For a picture, though it be painted with the most consummate skill, could, if it related to a lewd or lascivious subject, be an offence against the Act. To coin a phrase, it would be a masterpiece of obscenity.
