The Forsyte Saga, Volume 2 (71 page)

‘What does it mean?'

‘Strait-laced, my lord.'

‘I see. Well, he's asking you if you're stuffy?'

‘No, my lord. I hope not.'

‘You hope not. Go on, Sir James.'

‘Not being stuffy, you wouldn't be exactly worried if somebody said to you: “My dear, you haven't a moral about you”?'

‘Not if it was said as charmingly as that.'

‘Now come, Mrs Maltese, does such an expression, said charmingly or the reverse, convey any blame to you or to your friends?'

‘If the reverse, yes.'

‘Am I to take it that the conception of morality in your circle is the same as in – my lord's?'

‘How is the witness to answer that, Sir James?'

‘Well, in your circle are you shocked when your friends are divorced, or when they go off together for a week in Paris, say, or wherever they find convenient?'

‘Shocked? Well, I suppose one needn't be shocked by what one wouldn't do oneself.'

‘In fact, you're not shocked?'

‘I don't know that I'm shocked by anything.'

‘That would be being stuffy, wouldn't it?'

‘Perhaps.'

‘Well, will you tell me then – if that's the state of mind in your circle; and you said, you know, that your circle is less free and easy than the plaintiff's – how it is possible that such words as “she hasn't a moral about her” can have done the plaintiff any harm?'

‘The whole world isn't in our circles.'

‘No. I suggest that only a very small portion of the world is in your circles. But do you tell me that you or the plaintiff pay any–?'

‘How can she tell, Sir James, what the plaintiff pays?'

‘That
you
, then, pay attention to what people outside your circle think?'

Soames moved his head twice. The fellow was doing it well. And his eye caught Fleur's face turned towards the witness; a little smile was curling her lip.

‘I don't personally pay much attention even to what anybody
in
my circle thinks.'

‘Have you more independence of character than the plaintiff, should you say?'

‘I dare say I've got as much.'

‘Is she notoriously independent?'

‘Yes.'

‘Thank you, Mrs Maltese.'

Foskisson down, Bullfry up!

‘I call the plaintiff, my lord.'

Soames uncrossed his legs.

IN THE BOX

M
ARJORIE
F
ERRAR
stepped into the Box, not exactly nervous, and only just ‘made-up'. The papers would record a black costume with chinchilla fur and a black hat. She kissed the air in front of the book, took a deep breath, and turned to Mr Bullfry.

For the last five days she had resented more and more the way this case had taken charge of her. She had initiated it, and it had completely deprived her of initiative. She had, in fact, made the old discovery, that when the machinery of quarrel is once put in motion, much more than pressure of the starting button is required to stop its revolutions. She was feeling that it would serve Alec and the lawyers right if all went wrong.

The voice of Mr Bullfry, carefully adjusted, soothed her. His questions were familiar, and with each answer her confidence increased, her voice sounded clear and pleasant in her ears. And she stood at ease, making her figure as boyish as she could. Her performance, she felt, was interesting to the Judge, the jury, and all those people up there, whom she could dimly see. If only ‘that little snob' had not been seated, expressionless, between her and her Counsel I When at length Mr Bullfry sat down and Sir James Foskisson got up, she almost succumbed to the longing to powder her nose. Clasping the Box, she resisted it, and while he turned his papers, and hitched his gown, the first tremor of the morning passed down her spine. At least he might look at her when he spoke!

‘Have you ever been a party to an action before, Miss Ferrar?'

‘No.'

‘You quite understand, don't you, that you are on your oath?'

‘Quite.'

‘You have told my friend that you had no animus against Mrs Mont. Look at this marked paragraph in
The Evening Sun
of October 3rd. Did you write that?'

Marjorie Ferrar felt exactly as if she had stepped out of a conservatory into an east wind. Did they know everything, then?

‘Yes; I wrote it.'

‘It ends thus: “The enterprising little lady is losing no chance of building up her ‘salon' on the curiosity which ever surrounds any buccaneering in politics.” Is the reference to Mrs Mont?'

‘Yes.'

‘Not very nice, is it – of a friend?'

‘I don't see any harm in it.'

‘The sort of thing, in fact, you'd like written about yourself?'

‘The sort of thing I should expect if I were doing the same thing.'

‘That's not quite an answer, but let me put it like this: The sort of thing your father would like to read about. you, is it?'

‘My father would never read that column.'

‘Then it surprises you to hear that Mrs Mont's father did? Do you write many of these cheery little paragraphs about your friends?'

‘Not many.'

‘Every now and then, eh? And do they remain your friends?'

‘It's not easy in Society to tell who's a friend and who isn't.'

‘I quite agree, Miss Ferrar. You have admitted making one or two critical – that was your word, I think – remarks concerning Mrs Mont, in her own house. Do you go to many houses and talk disparagingly of your hostess?'

‘No; and in any case I don't expect to be eavesdropped.'

‘I see; so long as you're not found out, it's all right, eh? Now, on this first Wednesday in October last, at Mrs Mont's, in speaking to this gentleman, Mr Philip – er – Quinsey, did you use the word “snob” of your hostess?'

‘I don't think so.'

‘Be careful. You heard the evidence of Mrs Ppynrryn and Mrs Maltese. Mrs Maltese said, you remember, that Mr Forsyte – that is Mrs Mont's father – said to you on that occasion: “You called my daughter a snob in her own house, madam – be so kind as to withdraw; you are a traitress.” Is that a correct version?'

‘Probably.'

‘Do you suggest that he invented the word “snob”?'

‘I suggest he was mistaken.'

‘Not a nice word, is it – “snob”? Was there any other reason why he should call you a traitress?'

‘My remarks weren't meant for his ears. I don't remember exactly what I said.'

‘Well, we shall have Mr Forsyte in the Box to refresh your memory as to exactly what you said. But I put it to you that you called her a snob, not once but twice, during that little conversation?'

‘I've told you I don't remember; he shouldn't have listened.'

‘Very well! So you feel quite happy about having written that paragraph and said nasty things of Mrs Mont behind her back in her own drawing-room?'

Marjorie Ferrar grasped the Box till the blood tingled in her palms. His voice was maddening.

‘Yet it seems, Miss Ferrar, that you object to others saying nasty things about you in return. Who advised you to bring this action?'

‘My father first; and then my fiancé.'

‘Sir Alex MacGown. Does he move in the same circles as you?'

‘No; he moves in Parliamentary circles.'

‘Exactly; and he wouldn't know, would he, the canons of conduct that rule in your circle?'

‘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 whatsoever 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
Canthar?'
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 tiling, too !” Is it 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 I 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 sympathize with its suppression if it were published?'

‘No.'

‘You wouldn't approve of the suppression of any book on the ground of there 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 anyone, 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?'

‘Æsthetically.'

‘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 clap-trap; 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.'