“I am bringing an action against Queensberry, Frank,” he began gravely, “for criminal libel.  He is a mere wild beast.  My solicitors tell me that I am certain to win.  But they say some of the things I have written will be brought up against me in court.  Now you know all I have written.  Would you in your position as editor of The Fortnightly come and give evidence for me, testify for instance that ‘Dorian Gray’ is not immoral?”

“Yes,” I replied at once, “I should be perfectly willing, and I could say more than that; I could say that you are one of the very few men I have ever known whose talk and whose writings were vowed away from grossness of any sort.”

“Oh!  Frank, would you?  It would be so kind of you,” he cried out.  “My solicitors said I ought to ask you, but they were afraid you would not like to come:  your evidence will win the case.  It is good of you.”  His whole face was shaken; he turned away to hide the tears.

“Anything I can do, Oscar,” I said, “I shall do with pleasure, and, as you know, to the uttermost; but I want you to consider the matter carefully.  An English court of law gives me no assurance of a fair trial or rather I am certain that in matters of art or morality an English court is about the worst tribunal in the civilised world.”

He shook his head impatiently.

“I cannot help it, I cannot alter it,” he said.

“You must listen to me,” I insisted.  “You remember the Whistler and Ruskin action.  You know that Whistler ought to have won.  You know that Ruskin was shamelessly in fault; but the British jury and the so-called British artists treated Whistler and his superb work with contempt.  Take a different case altogether, the Belt case, where all the Academicians went into the witness box, and asserted honestly enough that Belt was an impostor, yet the jury gave him a verdict of L5,000, though a year later he was sent to penal servitude for the very frauds which the jury in the first trial had declared by their verdict he had not committed.  An English law court is all very well for two average men, who are fighting an ordinary business dispute.  That’s what it’s made for, but to judge a Whistler or the ability or the immorality of an artist is to ask the court to do what it is wholly unfit to do.  There is not a judge on the bench whose opinion on such a matter is worth a moment’s consideration, and the jury are a thousand years behind the judge.”

“That may be true, Frank; but I cannot help it.”

“Don’t forget,” I persisted, “all British prejudices will be against you.  Here is a father, the fools will say, trying to protect his young son.  If he has made a mistake, it is only through excess of laudable zeal; you would have to prove yourself a religious maniac in order to have any chance against him in England.”

“How terrible you are, Frank.  You know it is Bosie Douglas who wants me to fight, and my solicitors tell me I shall win.”