The Dramatic Censorship

New Review, 1 October 1890, pages 354-362, 3,527 words

The rising journalist, dreaming of the notoriety of the magazines, generally chooses an attack on the Examiner of Plays as an attractive and telling entrance to his signed career, and the dramatist who would prove that his head is full of notions not quite so woolly as those he puts into his plays is also addicted to periodic attacks on this office. These not too formidable sets of antagonists have said little worth a word from anyone; but I find among them one dramatic critic whose opinions command respect, and it is, I confess, Mr. Archer’s presence in the enemy’s van that induces me to attempt the defence of that which I hope to show alone protects the drama from the blackmailer, the fool, the impropriety hunter, and the fanatic — from all sorts and sets of intrigues in which malice, envy, and revenge would be the chief incentives.

As it is not proposed to establish an absolutely free theatre, having authority to represent any play, no matter how libellous, treasonable, blasphemous, or obscene, it becomes at once clear that the abolition of the Dramatic Censorship means no more than the exchange of the opinion of an intelligent and unbiased individual —  one who, as I shall prove, represents public opinion more than fairly well — for that of twelve jurymen. It lies somewhat outside the intention of this article to discuss the qualifications of a dozen jurymen, mostly greengrocers, to decide delicate artistic questions; it is, however, pertinent to my purpose to consider the morbid morality of those who would seize gladly on the opportunity and undertake with zeal the task, of inquiring into the morals of places of public amusement. In England there exist — I know not where, but most assuredly there exist — folk who deem Mrs. Maybrick a martyr, and who would subscribe hundreds of pounds to get her out of prison so that they might have the pleasure of entertaining her with tea and endearing words. These selfsame folk would subscribe hundreds of pounds just as willingly to put some wretched singer into prison because he had on a public stage indulged in some little unseemly joke; and these selfsame folk have, in the prosecution of their aims towards the purification of society, succeeded in obtaining the committal to prison of the publisher of Zola’s novels, while they themselves were aiding and abetting the publication of obscene tracts — obscenity, forsooth, being deemed a legitimate weapon to use against Roman Catholics and Ritualistic opponents.

Not for a moment do I impugn the good faith of these strangely-minded people; they were, I have no doubt, and, for all I know, are still, acting to the best of their beliefs; but I do challenge all who are interested in the preservation of Art and Letters to the consideration of the question, and to decide if it would be wise to hand over an important branch of literature, a large industry in which hundreds of thousands gain their livelihood, to be made the pretty game of those whose brains accept the weird anomalies and fantastic contradictions which I have cited even as axioms of logic, even as concepts of pure reason. There is no folly, however flagrant and however detestable, that will not find adherents in England; England is honeycombed with faddists of every scent and hue; these succumb and disappear under the common-sense of the nation, but not before they have done great, and in some cases immedicable, mischief. For in England public opinion is notoriously hard to rouse; doubt and mistrust are the characteristics of the national mind. Hamlet is still the type and epitome of Englishmen. Doubt and mistrust engender hypocrisy, and hypocrisy is twin sister to the desire to appear better than we are. And to-day the desire to appear better than we are predominates. “The moral question” is therefore the weapon that is wielded with most effective results. The mistaken arrest of a flower-girl may cause the defeat of a Government; and the wise will make any sacrifice rather than be accused, justly or unjustly, of having spoken to a girl in an omnibus. Such charges are difficult to disprove, and even when disproved invariably leave the suspicion behind that in all probability they were true. We hurry from anyone whose morality has been called into question; the first paragraph that appears in the newspapers is the signal for general flight. That this unhealthy disposition of the public mind will pass away there can be but little doubt; but while it lasts it seems to me not a little humorous to propose the abolition of the Dramatic Censorship. I say humorous, for it is. impossible not to vision the consternation that the loosing of the impropriety hunters would cause among the theatrical managers. Imagine Augustus Harris summoned to discuss the length of his ballet-girls’ skirts, first at Bow Street and afterwards at the Old Bailey; and think, too, of Mr. Wyndham having to argue out the propriety of his low comedian’s jokes before a stolid jury of greengrocers, all burning to prove their moral sympathies to the world. Remember that our opinions of the morality of a book or play greatly depend upon whether any busybody has ever called the morality of that book or play into question; that a writ issued against a manager for allowing an immoral play to be performed would have the effect of emptying his theatre at least until the case was heard; that even if he won his case he would hardly be able to obtain damages from his aggressor. The moralist would plead that he had acted for the public benefit. It is, however, certain that no damages that any jury could give the manager would in any way compensate him for the evil that had been done to him. On being threatened with an action the manager would offer money, and if he were mistaken, and the aggressor was not a blackmailer, but a faddist, the manager would prejudice his case by his offer to bribe. The faddist who had just been elected to the County Council and was burning to distinguish himself would find the theatre an easy stepping-stone to fame.

Now all this is so very obvious and so very simple that I am constrained to apologise to my readers for having written it out. I will beg them to believe that I never should have done so if dramatists and critics were not in the habit of writing about the Censorship without considering the consequences of the changes they advocate. It may perhaps be argued — I say perhaps, but I hardly think that anyone having the slightest knowledge of the expenses and risks of theatrical enterprise would argue — that the verdict of a jury not being final, as is that of the Censorship, a play that had been decided against in a court of justice would be put up by another manager and the case fought over again in the law courts. Surely Mr. Archer must see that the play that a jury had agreed was blasphemous, immoral, or libellous, would be buried infinitely deeper than the play merely forbidden by the Censorship; the Censorship might be induced to alter his opinion, or changes that would satisfy him might be made in the text; at any rate, the play could be printed and read. But a play that a jury had condemned could hardly be printed. If the Censorship were abolished and the possibility of a trial at the Old Bailey allowed to startle the managerial mind, the English drama would become suddenly as if palsied, and pass rapidly into intellectual atrophy.

Art, as its history shows, is not killed, though it is curtailed and perhaps degraded by the arbitrary imposition of limitations. Jane Austen made art out of drawing-room gossip, and Banville has written exquisite poetry in all the most artificial forms of verse. What is it that Wordsworth says about nuns in their cells, weavers at their looms, and bees within the depths of foxglove bells? And did he not sow in the sonnet’s scanty plot of ground flowers immortally beautiful? But if art may flourish within the narrow ground of the sonnet, and exist in the crannies in which the triolet sprouts, it imperatively demands security as the first condition of its existence. The eclipse of art which endured from the fourth to the fourteenth century can surely be explained under no other supposition than that circumstances did not grant such security to the artist as is necessary for the production of works of art. If anything is plain, surely it is that security is as essential to the artist as water is to the fishes; and yet it would seem that there are folk, and presumably well-intentioned folk, who would deliberately introduce into artistic life the very element which the testimony of history and common-sense unite in condemning as being wholly destructive of it. The Dramatic Censorship gives us absolute security, and that is a boon for which I at least would make almost any sacrifice of liberty. To avoid the disgrace of seeing literature dragged into a police-court to be judged first by a magistrate, and then sent with a look of the felon on its face to be judged by a dozen ignorant grocers in the Old Bailey, I would willingly establish a Censorship of literature; and were that censor a man of letters — for instance, were he chosen from among the editors of the leading Reviews, I cannot for a moment entertain the thought that any case of flagrant injustice done would ever come before the public. We know very well what the Dramatic Censor will pass and what he won't pass, and no one dreams of writing plays that he won’t pass. “Ah, that is the unfortunate side, that is the very reason why we protest against the Censorship. Instead of writing the plays they are really minded to write, our dramatic authors only write those that they know will be licensed by Mr. Piggott.” But if Mr. Piggott represents public opinion, and I think that I shall be able to show that he represents public opinion very accurately indeed, surely it may be said that the duties of his office are ideally fulfilled. For why should anyone seek to represent plays in a public theatre that are in advance of public opinion? I confess I fail to see any reason either artistic or commercial. A book is different. With a book you court the judgment of an individual sitting at home in an easy chair, his legs stretched to the fire; so conditioned, the judgment of the average man is, of course, far worthier than the spontaneous verdict of a thousand people taken from all classes of society; the verdict upon a book is thought out separately in the first instance, and that verdict is probably modified, at all events reconsidered, in the light of a friend’s opinion on the book; a book may therefore make its way, educating the public little by little. But a play either pleases or displeases; the approval or disapproval of the house is expressed at once, and there is hardly any reconsideration of the verdict of the first-night audience. Of what advantage, then, would it be to anyone to represent plays that are known to be in advance of the public mind? Clearly, none whatever. If there are men who desire to write what are known as oeuvres de transition, and I sincerely trust there are many such, let them print their plays and so obtain the verdict of their friends and, if possible, that of the Press; the chef d’oeuvre soon makes itself known, and sooner or later, far sooner than is expected, the play will be tried in the presence of a select audience, and if it succeeds it will be produced in a more public manner.

Having studied the question in its general bearings, let us glance — for a glance will suffice — at it in detail. Has the Censorship ever forbidden the representation of a chef d'oeuvre or even of a first-rate piece of literary workmanship? For information I turn to Mr. Archer’s exhaustive essay. Mr. Archer goes back to the very beginnings of the Censorship. He makes much fuss over the fact that a political lampoon called Polly was forbidden in 1730; and hence he wends his way through a host of forgotten farces out of which some past Censorship cut a few political allusions. As he approaches the modern stage Mr. Archer grows more and more irate with the Censorship for passing certain jokes which Mr. Archer denominates as gross. Mr. Archer is especially angry with Confusion, an eccentric comedy in which a man thinks that his wife, to whom he has been married two months, is the mother of a baby. The basket which he thinks contains the baby contains a pug dog and the secret is, naturally, not allowed to leak out till the end of the third act. From the criticism published in his book, About the Theatre, it seems clear that if fate had placed Mr. Archer in the Censorship shoes he would have forbidden this play. By so doing, Mr. Archer would have placed himself entirely at variance with public taste, for the comedy in question ran five hundred nights and no one except Mr. Archer ever dreamed of seeing evil in it. Mr. Archer is also very wrath with a farce called The Man with Three Wives, and in support of his view he quotes some of the dialogue: —  

Mother (in tears): “My poor child! My poor child!”

Father: “Come, I suppose she is my child too.” (Laughter.) ..

Mother (pensively): “I suppose so.” (Great laughter.)… “My child! A husband is not a mother!”

Father: “No, nor a father — at least not always.” (Shrieks of laughter.)

I should not have thought that such stuff would excite an impure thought in the obscenest ape that nature ever thrust into being, nor would any intelligent Censor deem it worth the ink that it would cost to erase the passage; he would let it pass just as we let pass the ordinary inanities of life. But Mr. Archer would have suppressed this passage. Yet the passage received the approbation of the public, and no one expects or desires more from the Censor than that he should license those and only those plays that do not flagrantly violate the public mind in matters moral, religious, and political. Mr. Archer would probably argue that were there no Censorship the public mind would be more alert. On this point I agree with Mr. Archer. By doing away with the Licenser of Plays and asking the public to be its own Censorship of morals, we should deliver England over to unlimited prurient consideration of things that it would be healthier not to brood over. Purity does not consist in seeing nastiness in everything. Some months ago the Pall Mall had to warn its readers that we were approaching perilously near the time when it would be “seriously asked if young ladies really did undress before going to bed, and if sea-bathing was still tolerated on certain parts of the coast.”

Men once demanded leave to protect their religions and beliefs, and we know with what results; now they ask leave to protect their morals; and as men agree no more regarding the moral than they do regarding the religious question, the artist is obliged to cry, “Save me from them,” and a Censorship has been given him. The Censor is the policeman that prevents every fanatic and thief in Christendom from breaking into the artist’s house. The Censorship allows Mr. Archer the privilege of venting his arguments on marriage; and I notice with thankfulness that that ancient institution has survived a three weeks’ run of Nora at the Novelty. The Censorship allows those to laugh who want to laugh at certain phases in married life, and I notice, and again with thankfulness, that that ancient institution has survived five hundred nights of jokes as well as it survived twenty-one nights of argument.

I have shown that the autocracy of a Dramatic Censor is an artistic necessity. The question remains whether he exercises his power wisely — that is to say, whether he represents the public mind. I have shown that the public was with the Censor on many of the points that Mr. Archer elects to dispute with him. Let us take all the points he raises, one after the other. Mr. Archer says the Censor would have refused to license the Promise of May had it not been by the Laureate. Possibly this is so; and by refusing to license it he would again have placed himself on the side of the public, for the representation of the play met with no public support, and it occasioned violent scenes in the theatre. What more does Mr. Archer wish for? The Censor represented the public mind when he said Yes, and also when he would have said No had it been possible for him to have said No. I waive all consideration of the Censor’s refusal to license the Cenci,for the play came to him condemned, possibly by his predecessors, certainly by public opinion, as being unfit for representation in a public theatre. The only case in which the Censor forbade the performance of a chef d'oeuvre on his own responsibility was when he refused to license Mr. Arthur Matherson’s adaptation of Les Lionnes Pauvres. Les Lionnes Pauvres is certainly one of the very finest samples of modern dramatic work. A great theme is conceived and executed with genius, with a strange, blank crudeness which nothing save genius could effect; nor is this quality manifested merely in scattered lines or occasional scenes, but it is apparent from the beginning of the play to the end. True it is that the theme is un-English, but I do not mean thereby that the immorality of Les Lionnes Pauvres is unknown in England; the facts are merely the immoralities that European civilisation produces; but the observation of those facts, their arrangement, and their colouring are essentially French. Mr. Archer speaks of Mr. Matherson’s translation; Mr. Matherson was not a sufficiently accomplished literary artist to translate this play —  he adapted it. And how would a writer of Mr. Matherson’s ability adapt this play? He would change the Champs Elysées to Curzon Street, he would give the characters English names, he would disgrace Augier’s beautiful dialogue with raw colloquialisms, slipshod English, stereotyped expressions, and these he would set side by side with inadequately translated passages. I bought the play, and found it to consist of such work as I have described. It was horribly unreadable. The original crudity, I should say the original violence of the story, saved only by its exquisite balance of dialogue, appeared in the English text at once repulsive, unreal, and ludicrous. It is beside the question, but I cannot refrain from saying that the Censorship in this instance earned the gratitude of all men of letters for having saved a great dramatic work from scandal and shocking mutilation.

Mr. Archer’s diatribe against the Dramatic Censorship was written before the Vizetelly prosecutions, and having regard to these he possibly now sees reason to alter the views which he so fully expressed in his book About the Theatre. But, strange to say, these prosecutions have not silenced other writers; and, as I have said, anyone wishing to pose as a thinker on literary subjects attacks the Censorship. Possibly their articles do not endanger the permanency of the office, but it seemed to me, nevertheless, not undesirable that someone should demonstrate how necessary a Dramatic Censorship is in England. This I have done; and I have now only to assure my readers that I deplore that the right of free printing should have been lost, that none should have seen the far-reaching consequences of having introduced restrictions into what should be the first and inalienable right of every free country. I hold these opinions not because I deem morals of no importance, but because I am certain that it is life, and not books or plays, that corrupts. A book exerts infinite sway over our mental, little over our physical nature. A book may alter a devout Protestant into a confirmed Atheist, but no book or play could affect the senses as deeply as immodest words or even glances. This is my opinion. I believe it to be strictly true, but I do not expect it to be accepted as true. The nineteenth century, alas! believes as implicitly in the power of a book to corrupt as the fifteenth century believed in the power of old women to fly through the air on broomsticks. Two centuries hence the former belief will be as dead as the latter is to-day.

Argument is of no immediate avail; time alone can cure. In the meantime an intelligent Censorship will preserve the artist against folly, ignorance, and pruriency.

GEORGE MOORE.