Crusader's Tomb

  At the outset the reaction of these citizens was one of stupefaction. The panels, in theme and execution, contradicted everything they had expected, offended against the ordinary, set the normal at defiance, rode rough-shod over all their inherent ideas and traditions. They were scandalised, at a single glance. Then gradually, as they peered into the compositions, elements were discerned which seemed unquestionably to violate the decencies of patriotism, religion, and above all, morality.

  Objection was concentrated upon a detail of that panel flagrantly exhibited in the window. Too late staid shopkeepers and sober merchants forbade their wives and daughters to view the soft flesh tints, drooping breasts and braced limbs of a peasant woman who, half stripped of her clothing, struggled ineffectually against the erotic embraces of a band of soldiers.

  The sense of outrage grew, civic conscience was aroused, and the press – always the guardian of the people – went into action. Two news-sheets served the district: the County Gazette and the Charminster Chronicle. In the Chronicle, published on Wednes-. day, an editorial appeared, its caption: AN OUTRAGE ON OUR FAIR CITY. Three days later, the Gazette outdid its rival with a front-page leader under the title: SALACIOUS ART.

  Observing the rise of public feeling which, though he had predicted it, far surpassed his expectation, Tryng experienced a mixed emotion. He had been well treated by the press, indeed, the committee, through influences which he clearly recognised, was presented as a board of upright citizens whose confidence and magnanimity had been sadly betrayed. But though personally exonerated, he was conscious, as the storm grew, of a sense of compunction towards Claire, who, after all, was an equal victim in the affair. Then, on the Monday following the Gazette article, at a forenoon meeting of the Rural Council, where the topic of the hour was freely discussed, a word let drop by Sharp alarmed him. He went home to his cutlet in a mood of concern, and meditating while he stripped the bone, decided to act. At two o’clock he took up the telephone, got through to Broughton Court.

  ‘Hello, hello. Might I speak to Mrs Desmonde?’

  ‘Who is speaking?’

  ‘Admiral Reginald Tryng.’

  ‘I’m afraid my wife is engaged at present.’

  ‘Oh, it’s you, Geoffrey. Nice to hear your voice, my dear fellow. I should have recognised it. Are you well?’

  ‘Quite. What can I do for you?’

  ‘Well … as a matter of fact it was Claire I rather wished to have a word with … over this, er, matter of the exhibition. But if she’s not available, may I speak with you?’

  After the barest pause:

  ‘Naturally.’

  ‘Then I do feel, seriously, in the light of something I heard today, that it’s imperative your cousin be made to close the exhibition and clear out with his confounded daubs … without a moment’s delay. I don’t wish to say more over the telephone but … you get my meaning …’

  ‘I think I do.’

  ‘Good. And you might convey my best regards to your wife. I quite realise that when she asked me to get your cousin the job, she had not the slightest idea what we were in for … poor girl.’

  A silence.

  ‘Well … I’m ringing off, then, Geoffrey. Good-bye, and good luck.’

  Geoffrey came away from the telephone white with rage. Hadn’t the week been damnable enough without this! While his suspicions had undoubtedly been active, they had never envisaged anything so damaging to his self-esteem. Still, he must keep cool. In the hall he stood collecting himself, then, with an expression carefully blank, went slowly upstairs. Usually he tapped upon the door of his wife’s sitting-room – now he went directly in.

  Claire was sitting idly by the window, her favourite seat, with an open book upon her knee, and there were circles under her eyes as though she had not slept.

  ‘You’re busy?’ he asked casually.

  ‘Yes … no, not particularly.’

  ‘What’s this you’ve got?’ With a sweep of his arm he took up the book – it was entitled The Post-Impressionists. ‘Ha! You’ve shown quite an interest in art lately!’

  ‘Have I?’

  ‘So it would appear.’ He lounged on the edge of the sofa. ‘By the way, when are we to see your new pictures?’

  ‘What pictures?’

  ‘The two you purchased in London.’

  She had turned even paler and now she glanced away and did not answer.

  ‘Don’t you remember? Charity, wasn’t it? Charming title. And In the Olive Grove?’

  Knowing that he was baiting her, she forced herself to look at him.

  ‘They are being kept for me at present.’

  ‘But why deny us the delight of seeing them? After all, they must have cost you quite a bit.’ His tone lost its heavy satire, hardened suddenly. ‘Why did you subsidise that fellow?’

  ‘I liked the paintings.’

  ‘I don’t believe it. The blighter can’t paint for little apples. Yet you flung away four hundred on him, when I – we need every penny we’ve got for … for the upkeep of the place. And not content with that’ – his temper got the better of him, he stood up, the words came with a rush – ‘behind my back, you cadged and touted around to get him this Memorial job, which of course he promptly botched, letting down the people who had backed him, and making you the talk of the county. Why the devil did you do it?’

  ‘I merely wished to help him,’ she answered in a low voice. What could a man like Geoffrey know of the cravings of the heart?

  ‘Have you been seeing him?’

  ‘Only once … for a few minutes in the public street.’

  ‘I don’t believe you. You’re carrying on with him.’

  ‘No, Geoffrey.’

  He did not know whether or not she spoke the truth. Actually, he had little doubt as to her body, but he wanted, also, to preserve the ownership of her mind. He took a swift turn up and down the room, then came and stood before her.

  ‘I suppose it was you encouraged him to set up this damned exhibition.’

  ‘I did not encourage him. But I can understand why he did it.’

  ‘Indeed.’ He glared at her.

  ‘Don’t you see, Geoffrey, that if an artist believes in his work he must stand up for it? That’s why the Salon des Refusés was started … and painters like Manet and Degas and Lautrec whose work was jeered at in the beginning but who afterwards were recognised as great … they all exhibited there.’

  ‘You’re well primed,’ he sneered. ‘At least these fellows didn’t set off a blasted scandal.’

  ‘But they did,’ she said quickly. ‘When Manet, Gauguin and Van Gogh exhibited their early works, there was a dreadful outcry. People mobbed round the paintings, shouting that it was an outrage, an insult to the public … there was almost a riot. And now … these pictures are acknowledged masterpieces.’

  Her quiet tone, her use of these foreign and unfamiliar names, infuriated him. He went forward and gripped her arm.

  ‘I’ll give your precious genius masterpieces. When I get my hands on him I’ll break his neck.’

  ‘Would that help?’

  Her eyes, resting on him with a strange look, made him relinquish his grasp.

  ‘So you’re not in love with him.’

  She did not answer but got up and moved slowly towards the door. As it closed behind her, inexpressibly goaded, he called out: ‘What you need is a good beating.’

  She gave no sign of having heard.

  Alone, Geoffrey stood with clenched fists, his face dark with anger, thinking. One thing was clear – something must be done, and soon, if the name of Desmonde were not to be dragged further in the mud. Frowning, he repressed an impulse to wreak immediate violence upon his cousin – he would reserve that satisfaction for another day. Should he go and try to put some backbone into Bertram – induce him to post his blackguard son to Canada, or some other distant colony? No, they were too far under the weather there, the Rector was no better than a broken reed; as for Caroline, he had already su
spected that she was hand in glove with Claire. Finally, he decided to confer with his parents, and, going again to the telephone, he called the number of Simla Lodge.

  It was his father who answered and, cutting across Geoffrey’s preliminary remarks, abruptly declared:

  ‘I was on the point of ringing you. Shall you be in this afternoon? I want to see you.’

  ‘Is it about a certain matter?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then I’ll definitely expect you. Bring the Mater along.’

  ‘Your Mother cannot come. But I shall be over within the hour.’

  Waiting in the billiard-room, in a flurry of impatience, Geoffrey smoked endless cigarettes, tried a few shots, missed, cursed, and gave up, went to the window a score of times. At last the little Standard, with the Union Jack upon the bonnet, swung round the tall rhododendrons that masked the curve of the drive. General Desmonde entered quickly, wearing, to Geoffrey’s surprise, his garden clothes, long mackintosh, and gum boots. His blue eyes were frosty, the very rain drops on his moustache had a glacial gleam.

  ‘It’s good to see you, sir. Let me take your wet coat. Can I get you a drink?’

  ‘Yes. A stiff whisky and soda, my boy. Pour one for yourself.’

  At the tantalus Geoffrey mixed the drinks, handed a full tumbler to his father, who took it off, standing, at a draught.

  ‘Claire is well, I trust.’

  ‘Yes … quite all right.’

  ‘That is a relief.’

  His father’s manner was puzzling, but Geoffrey drove straight ahead.

  ‘This art show of that fellow is getting out of hand. We must have it closed.’

  ‘The exhibition is already closed, Geoffrey.’

  ‘What …?’

  A bar of stillness throbbed in the room. The General put down his empty glass.

  ‘The Chief Constable of the County called on me after lunch. He was quite sympathetic about it, apologetic actually … the Charminster authorities have taken the matter out of his hands … but he felt that they had no other course than to confiscate these “works of art”.’

  ‘I should think so!’

  ‘He also indicated that he would do his best to spare your wife the worst of the publicity.’

  ‘What publicity?’

  ‘Your cousin,’ said General Desmonde, dropping every word as though it polluted his clean-cut lips, ‘was taken this morning to the Charminster Police Station and formally charged with exhibiting an obscene picture.’

  ‘Oh, no sir … my God!’

  ‘He is to be brought before the justices on Monday week’ – the General’s voice was hard as stone.

  Chapter Ten

  The Charminster Sessions House, where the case was to be heard, was filled to the point of suffocation. Seldom before had that ancient building with its semi-circular gallery and high domed ceiling been so crowded, not only with the solid citizens of the community, but also the rank and quality of the County. To Stephen, standing in the court with a kind of sick impatience, a stolid sergeant beside him, it seemed as if he were surrounded, enclosed by a wall of faces. Impossible to recognise anyone in that misty assembly. He knew, thank Heaven, that none of his own family were present, but Richard Glyn was there, and the knowledge gave him a sense of support.

  Suddenly, at an order, the hum of conversation ceased. The magistrates entered, and with appropriate solemnity took their seats on the bench. Then, after a moment’s pause, Stephen’s name was called, the sergeant led him to the dock, and the proceedings began. Stephen felt his nerves quiver as the clerk of the court, in a flat, rather sing-song voice began to read from the paper in his hand.

  ‘Stephen Sieur Desmonde, you are charged with committing a public nuisance in that you did on March seventeenth on the ground floor of premises situated at 5 Cornmarket Street in the city of Charminster, being at that time the lessor and occupier of the said premises, wilfully exhibit three obscene pictures or panels; and you are further summonsed under Section 1 of the Obscene Publications Act 1857 to show cause why the said pictures or panels, which, upon a complaint being made to the justices, were seized and brought before the court upon a warrant issued under the said Section of the said Act, should not be destroyed.’

  As the clerk concluded, every eye was directed towards the three panels conspicuously displayed in the well of the court.

  ‘Do you plead Guilty or Not Guilty?’ the clerk asked.

  ‘Not Guilty,’ Stephen replied in a low voice.

  For a moment, the public’s gaze turned upon Stephen, but almost immediately the focus of attention switched to the figure of the prosecuting solicitor rising to address the bench. It was Arnold Sharp.

  ‘Your worships,’ he began, in a subdued, almost regretful tone, ‘if I may at the outset inject a personal note, I need not say with what distress, under the circumstances, I undertake this present task. But in my position as solicitor to the City Council, I have no alternative but to accept and carry out my duty.’

  ‘Proceed, please.’ The remark came, briefly, from the bench.

  Sharp, holding the lapels of his morning coat, bowed.

  ‘The facts, your worships, relating to the commissioning of these panels are too well and widely known to require recapitulation. Upon certain recommendations and the most solemn personal assurances, perhaps, also, because of the esteem in which his family has always been held, the work was entrusted to the defendant. It was, considering the object of the Memorial, a sacred trust. I pass over the feelings of the committee when they discovered in what manner the commission was executed, or how their wise and well-intentioned efforts to hush up the catastrophe were opposed. I simply ask you to examine, without prejudice, how despicably that sacred trust has been betrayed. The evidence is there, in open court – these so-called works of art – confronting all of us.’

  Sharp paused and gazed frowningly at the panels.

  ‘In the interests of decency it is not my purpose to dwell intimately and at length upon the nature of these pictures. Nevertheless, since justice must be served, I am obliged to indicate the essential features which have led this charge to be professed’

  Taking up the pointer with which he had previously armed himself, Sharp stepped forward. A ripple of anticipation went over the spectators as he tapped the panel Aftermath.

  ‘Here,’ he said, ‘amidst a scene of destruction that is far from edifying, is the naked, full-length form of a woman, which, we are informed by the accused, represents the figure of Peace. Now we are neither prejudiced nor narrow-minded. In its proper place, such as the old historical Italian paintings, we have no objection to the nude, especially if it be, as in the work of the great painters, suitably draped. Stephen, listening with compressed lips, checked a bitter smile. ‘But this particular female is not draped, and is done with such voluptuous intent, and such intimate detail in the particular parts, it is enough to raise the blush of shame on the cheek of the innocent beholder.’

  Sharp paused and turned to the adjoining panel.

  ‘In this next atrocity – and I think the word is justified, your worships – we are presented with what purports to be a field of battle, with our troops, their uniforms are quite distinct, engaged in combat with the enemy. Although we are concerned with the question of indecency, in passing let me draw your attention to the manner in which our own boys are depicted as lying dead and wounded in the trenches, as if, in effect, they were losing the war, instead, thank God, of winning it. But let that go – what I want you to look at first of all is these three great foul-looking creatures, half human and half bird, hovering over the troops on our side. Now we all know about the Angels of Mons that appeared, clearly visible, to our gallant boys and helped them to victory over the Huns. If we had been favoured, here, with the reproduction of this beautiful celestial vision, showing the angels, shimmering in white, with their outspread wings, it would have been a glorious and edifying spectacle. But instead, we get these horrible freaks. And my point is t
his, your worships. With that same indecency that marks every stroke of his brush, the defendant has turned the human half of these vultures into naked women, with that identical definition of bare bosom and torso, right down into the feathers, that can only spring from a prurient and decadent mind. Why, I ask your worships, if it was not through sheer moral perversion, did the defendant have to invent these meaningless female monstrosities?’

  At this point, from the gallery, a loud voice, which Stephen recognised as Glyn’s, was raised in sudden, angry protest.

  ‘Have you never heard of the Harpies mentioned by Homer in the Odyssey, you ignorant ass?’

  Sensation. The chairman of the bench rapped angrily, and, failing to discover the offender, declared:

  ‘If any such disturbance occurs again I shall immediately order the court to be cleared.’

  When order was restored Sharp, somewhat out of countenance at the interruption, resumed more acidly than before.

  ‘I have not yet finished with this picture. Here, your worships, in the background, but still plainly visible – if you can bear to observe it – there is depicted three individuals, two male, one female, in the process of being shot by a firing-squad. A hideous subject at any time, though sometimes necessary in time of war, and in this instance made more revolting through the fact that the three potential corpses, barring a few rags, are practically in a state of nature. So much so, that although done very small, it is possible to determine the sex to which they belong.’