‘Objection, Your Honor,’ Barrett protested, ‘on the grounds of hearsay evidence.’
Judge Upshaw cleared his throat and addressed the District Attorney. ‘Mr Duncan, no proper foundation has been laid. The objection is sustained.’
Duncan was apologetic. ‘Very well, Your Honor.’ He returned
to the witness. ‘Mr Leroux, did you always publish mainly pornography?’
Christian Leroux appeared mildly offended. ‘No, that is not so. In the first few years, my list consisted mainly of very acceptable and scholarly literature. There were histories, biographies, art books, classical fiction.’
‘But soon your list was comprised, for the most part, of books that were obscene or pornographic in content?’
‘Yes, I regret to say.’
‘Why did you turn largely to this sort of publishing?’
Leroux gave the court a Gallic shrug. ‘Because we are often victims of life and the world. Let me put it another way. Sans argent l’honneur n’est qu’une maladie. You understand? It is from Jean-Baptiste Racine. Honor, without money, is a mere malady. True, a malady. And I wished to be well and healthy. Yet there is more. Permit me to elaborate -‘
‘Please go ahead.’
‘I was inspired to change the character and product of the Etoile Press by the overnight success of another publisher, the publisher of the Obelisk Press in Paris. It was this way. The owner of the Obelisk Press was a gentleman named Jack Kahane, a businessman from Manchester, England, a most colorful and tasteful gentleman. Mr Kahane had served in the Bengal Lancers. Also in the French Foreign Legion. In business, he was not successful. He was a failure. So he emigrated to France and in 1931 he founded the Obelisk Press to publish books that were not allowed to be published in England. He did so not only to rehabilitate his fortune, but to combat censorship and prudery. Mr Kahane, prior to his death in 1939, had dared to be the first to publish My Life and Loves, by Frank Harris, and Tropic of Cancer, by Henry Miller, of which Ezra Pound said, “At last an unprintable book that is fit to read.” It was Mr Kahane’s success, I repeat, that encouraged me to concentrate fully on pornography and obscenity. My motives were the same as Mr Kahane’s. To make a livelihood, for one thing. But perhaps more important, to see that the best literature that suffered suppression would see the light of day.’
‘Let me be sure that I understand you fully, Mr Leroux. Are you saying that all of the books you published were worthwhile literature and deserved to be published?’
‘No, no, not all. I brought out perhaps a dozen new titles every year, and at least half of these were not worthy to be called literature. I must confess, many were commissioned by me, were written to order by hack authors. I had learned that Petronius had written his Satyricon to titillate the Emperor Nero. I reasoned I could arrange for other writers to titillate the tourists. Of course, some of these, the filthier books the ones totally without merit, they were not commissioned. They just came to me, to my desk. But voila, the dirty ones without literary merit, they were necessary to support
the better ones and to support me.’
‘Can you name some of these dirty ones that had no literary merit ?’
‘Let me remember. There was one called The Hundred Whips. There was another called The Sex Life of Anna Karenina. Then - of course, it is only my opinion that it belongs in the same category -there was The Seven Minutes.’
‘The Seven Minutes’ repeated Duncan, half facing the jury. ‘This is the same book, The Seven Minutes, by J J Jadway, that is being charged as obscene in this court?’ ‘It is the same one.’
‘This was not one of your pornographic books that you would classify as among the best of the literature that was being suppressed?’ ‘No, never.’
‘It was -and this is offered only asyourpersonal opinion-oneof your dirty books without literary merit, published merely to make money?’
‘Yes, exactly, that is true. I knew from the first it was a low-grade book, the most vile, but there is every kind of taste and I thought it might sell. For me it was business. Besides, the author needed money, and I was always sympathetic toward authors. So I published this filth in order to earn enough to allow me to publish Aubrey Beardsley’s Under the Hill, which was pornography but not obscenity.’
‘Mr Leroux, you’ve just said you wished to publish something that was pornography but not obscenity. Most dictionaries con-siderthe two words as synonymous. Pornography is often defined as obscene literature. In this trial we are using the words synonymously, interchangeably. Yet are you saying that, in your opinion, there is a difference?’
‘Definitely. Even though I may have employed the words as synonyms, there is a fine shade of difference between them, I believe. A pornographic book most often will depict sex naturally, healthily, realistically, and while it may arouse lustful thoughts and desires, its main purpose is to show a full picture of man’s nature and life. An obscene book, on the other hand, is an aphrodisiac and nothing else. It depicts only sex, no other side of life, just sex and more sex, with its entire purpose being to inflame a reader’s morbid interest through fantasized sex.’
‘Well, then, by your literary standards, The Seven Minutes was -wait, let me rephrase - Did you consider the Jadway book to be a work of honest pornography ?’
‘I did not. Casanova’s memoirs, Frank Harris’ autobiography, even one work by Mark Twain, were honest pornography. Jad-way’s book was not of that class. It was obscene and no more.’
‘Then you believe the Jadway book to be a totally obscene work, and nothing more?’
‘Yes. Obscene. Nothing more. A prose aphrodisiac. Nothing else. I have no doubt about that. The author knew it. His mistress, who was his agent, knew it. I knew it. It was a commercial enterprise for all of us, with no redeeming purpose. Today, looking back, I am ashamed of what I helped perpetuate. Today, by this confession of truth, perhaps I can make reparation and cleanse my soul.’
‘We understand and appreciate that, Mr Leroux.’
At the defense table, Zelkin had Barrett’s ear. ‘Our witness is a sanctimonious prick,’ he whispered, ‘and so is our D.A.’
Surprised at his partner’s blunt language, which revealed the depth of his anger, Barrett nodded his agreement, and unhappily turned his attention back to the witness box.
‘Mr Leroux,’ said Duncan, ‘can you now tell us, in your own words, sparing us nothing, how you came to publish The Seven Minutes and of your relationship with the author and his agent?’
‘Yes. I will relate only what I can recollect clearly and what is true.’ Leroux rubbed his veiny nose, squinted up at the ceiling, and then resumed speaking. ‘Late in the year 1934, an attractive young lady appeared in my office in the Rue de Berri and identified herself as Miss Cassie McGraw. She was an American girl of Irish descent. She had come to Paris several years earlier from the American Middle West, to be an artist, and she had lived in the St-Germain-desPres section of the Left Bank ever since. There she had met another American expatriate, and they had become friends. Later she admitted to me they were lovers. This other expatriate, her lover, was J J Jadway. He had rebelled against his father, who was an important Catholic, and against his New England strictness of upbringing, and, leaving his parents and two younger sisters behind, he had fled to Paris. He was determined to live as a bohemian, and to write, and as a writer to liberate not only himself but all of literature. Unfortunately, he was one of those writers so familiar to publishers who talk writing but do not write. Because he was weak and frustrated, he drank and took to drugs -‘
‘Pardon me, Mr Leroux. What you are speaking of now is not hearsay, not knowledge acquired second hand?’
This I heard first hand, directly from the lips of J J Jadway himself, in times when he was in despair, and I heard it again from Miss McGraw herself when I saw her after Jadway’s death.’
‘Mr Leroux, since anything you may have heard from Cassie McGraw, who was Jadway’s mistress as well as his agent, would be re
garded as hearsay evidence, and therefore not admissible in this courtroom, let us confine ourselves strictly to what you heard from J J Jadway first hand. How many times did you speak with him?’
‘Four times.’
‘You spoke to Jadway four times ? Were these lengthy conversations ? By that I mean, did the conversations go on for more than -well, let’s say for more than a few minutes?’
‘Always longer. Once, when he was very drunk - by his own admission - he told me the whole story about Cassie and himself and how the book came to be written. He told me that after he took Cassie in and she became his mistress, she tried to rehabilitate him. She thought he had great creative gifts. And she wanted him to write. But he would not or could not. Then, he confessed, when they were having an impoverished winter, hungry, starving, cold, soon to be evicted from their dwelling, Cassie McGraw told Jad-way that if he would not write to earn them some bread, then let him earn money some other way or she would have no choice but to leave him. So Jadway said to her, as he reported it to me, “All right, I’ll make us some money, plenty of money. I’ll do what Cleland did. I’ll write the dirtiest book that’s ever been written, dirtier than his, and that should make it sell.’ Then, according to Jadway, he sat down, driven by his need for money, supported by absinthe, and he wrote The Seven Minutes in three weeks.’
Duncan held up his hand. ‘One moment, Mr Leroux. I’d like you to explain one thing. You referred to the name Cleland. You quoted Jadway as remarking that he’d do what Cleland dida he’d write the dirtiest book ever written, one even dirtier than Cleland’s. Can you tell us who this Cleland was?’
‘John Cleland?’ Leroux said with surprise. ‘Why, he was the foremost writer of obscenity in history, until Jadway came along Cleland was -‘
Barrett came to his feet. ‘Your Honor, objection! The question is completely irrelevant.’
‘Your Honor -‘ Duncan protested.
‘Mr Duncan,’ said Judge Upshaw, ‘do you wish to be heard on this objection?’
‘Yes, Your Honor, I do.”
‘Approach the bench.’
Immediately, in an undertone, the District Attorney tried to outline the relevancy of his question about John Cleland. The witness Leroux, he pointed out, had personally been acquainted with the author of the book on trial. Since the motivations of an author were relevant to learning whether a book had any redeeming social importance, it would be valuable to know that the author had once admitted he had undertaken the writing of the book only for money, and that he had intended to make the book dirtier than anything Cleland had ever written. Since many jurors might not have heard of Cleland, it was vital to elicit information about Cleland in order to reveal exactly what Jadway had in mind while preparing The Seven Minutes.
Judge Upshaw had a question. Just what kind of information did the District Attorney expect to bring out about Cleland? Duncan replied that the witness, who was learned about this genre of literature, no doubt would explain John Cleland’s background. Cleland had come from a good English family and had been well
educated. After leaving school, he had first served as British consul in Smyrna. He had then been employed by the East India Company in Bombay, but after a quarrel with his employers, he had returned to England. Bankrupt at the age of forty, Cleland had been thrown into debtor’s prison. In order to get out of jail, he had written Memoirs of a Woman of Pleasure - the book popularly known as Fanny Hill - for a publisher who had paid him twenty guineas for this obscene work. When the book had become a best seller in 1749, Cleland had been brought before the Privy Council in London to receive his sentence, his punishment. Fortunately for Cleland, a relative of his, the Earl of Granville, had been president of the Privy Council. Granville had suspended punishment and awarded Cle’and a pension of one hundred pounds a year with the provision that he turn his talents to more respectable writings. Cleland later penned two more mildly erotic books, and some scholarly studies on the English language before his death in France at the age of eighty-two. All through history, Cleland’s name had been synonymous with obscenity. Since he had produced Fanny Hill only to get out of debtor’s prison, with no motive other than to save his neck, it would be useful to learn that Jadway had once confessed to Christian Leroux that he intended to manufacture an obscene novel exactly as Cleland had done.
Barrett’s own plea, defending his objection, was curt and to the point. This trial concerned one issue and one issue alone, he said -whether an Oakwood bookseller had or had not sold an obscene book. Admittedly, Jadway’s motives in preparing that book were a factor in judging obscenity under the law. But any discussion of another author’s motives amounted to no more than gossip. Such information was absolutely irrelevant to the central issue of the trial.
Without hesitation, Judge Upshaw sustained Barrett’s objection. Testimony concerning John Cleland was not relevant to the case being tried.
‘You may proceed with your examination, confining yourself to what is material to this case, Mr Duncan,’ the judge concluded.
With the bench conference ended, the court reporter returned to his desk, Barrett went back to his table, and a chastened Elmo Duncan once more confronted Christian Leroux, who had been waiting in the witness box.
‘Mr Leroux,’ said the District Attorney, ‘let us dwell a bit longer on J J Jadway’s motive for writing The Seven Minutes. He told you that he would write the dirtiest book that’s ever been written. But did the author, Jadway, ever speak of any other reason for writing this book - any reason or motive beyond the commercial one?’
‘No, never. Jadway’s Muse was a cash register.’
There was laughter throughout the court. Several jurors smiled understandingly. Leroux appeared pleased. Judge Upshaw was less amused, and he rapped his gavel sharply.
‘Mr Leroux,’ said Duncan, as soon as order was restored, ‘what kind of commercial success did The Seven Minutes have after you published it in 1935?’
‘Not as much success as we had hoped,’ replied Leroux. ‘Cleland’s publisher was said to have profited to the amount of ten thousand pounds. I am afraid I made less than one twentieth of that sum. At first there was some optimism. My initial printing was five thousand copies. This sold out in a year. I ordered another press run of five thousand copies. But the sales slowed down and eventually stopped. I think that was after the Vatican placed the book on the Index. I never did sell the last copies of that second printing.’
‘The Seven Minutes was officially condemned by the Catholic Church?’
‘The year after publication. And not by the Catholic Church alone. It was also condemned by the Protestant clergy throughout Europe and to a lesser extent in America, where the title was not as well known.’
‘Mr Leroux, didn’t Jadway’s death coincide with the condemnation of the Church?’
‘Not precisely. The book was condemned in 1936. Jadway died early in 1937.’
‘Do you know what led to Jadway’s death?’
T know what I was told by Cassie McGraw, who witnessed his death. You wish to know what led to it ? I will -‘
Vigorously, Barrett voiced his objection on the grounds that the question was irrelevant, and involved a response based on hearsay.
Briskly Judge Upshaw sustained the objection.
With a frown, the District Attorney accepted the rebuff, and turned away from the witness briefly, to stare over the heads of the spectators.
Wondering whether his opponent was lost in thought or searching for someone in the court, Barrett glanced over his shoulder. As he did so, he saw a formidable woman rise from her isle seat in the last row and start for the exit. Instantly Barrett recognized the woman. She was Olivia St Clair, president of the Strength Through Decency League. Observing her, Barrett became curious. Had her departure been a coincidence? Or had she received some kind of signal from Duncan? Then Barrett entertained a dark suspicion. Moments ago, the circumstances of Jadway’s death had been refused admission in this court of law. Were Dunc
an and Mrs St Clair preparing to enter these facts in the more permissive court of public opinion?
On hearing the District Attorney address the witness again, Barrett returned his attention to the examination.
‘Mr Leroux,’ Duncan was saying, ‘Do you still own any rights to The Seven Minutes ?’
‘No. From the day of Jadway’s suicide, I wanted to be rid of the book. I could find no buyer. Then, a few years ago, an American
came to me in Paris. He had heard of The Seven Minutes. He was a publisher of obscene material in New York. He wished to buy my rights to the book. I sold them to him at once, gladly. I practically gave it away. I was relieved to have it out of my life. I have been relieved ever since. Such books destroy all whom they touch, and I want no part of them again.’
“Thank you very much, Mr Leroux,’ said Duncan. He looked up at the bench. T have no further questions, Your Honor.’
As the District Attorney, his expression reflecting self-satisfaction, returned to the prosecution table, Judge Upshaw addressed the defense.
‘You may cross-examine, Mr Barrett.’
‘Thank you, Your Honor,’ said Barrett. Gathering together the notes that he and Zelkin had made, he said in an undertone, ‘Abe it’s not going to be easy. I don’t know whether I can pull this one out.’
Zelkin uttered one word. ‘Try.’
Rising with his handful of papers, Barrett made his way past the jury to the witness box. The French publisher, arms crossed complacently on his chest, jade cufflinks shining in the light of the overhead fluorescent lights, waited with equanimity.
‘Mr Leroux,’ Barrett began casually, ‘let me take you back to the time when you first received the J J Jadway manuscript from Cassie McGraw.’ He consulted his notes. ‘You told People’s counsel that the time was “late in the year 1934.” Correct?’
‘Yes, correct.’
‘Can you be more exact ? Do you recall the exact date, or at least the week, when Miss McGraw appeared with the manuscript ?’
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