“Some kind of propaganda, I presume.” There was a sudden stiffening of the vicar’s tone.
“It may be so. The aim of the play is to heal the wounds of the world, so I suppose it is a kind of propaganda. But it may interest you to know that Christiansen, the great Scandinavian poet and dramatist, has already prepared a version for the Stockholm state theater, that Hjalmars is doing the same for Denmark, Van Roon for Holland, and that it has been banned in London.”
“Ah!” said Mr. Perry-Hennington. And then with a show of fight which amused Brandon, he added, “Wisely, no doubt.”
“In other words, the Censor of Stage Plays has completely justified his existence.”
“I’m afraid I can’t offer an opinion on that point,” said the vicar, slowly renewing his dignity.
“Only the pen of a Swift or a Voltaire could do justice to that sublime individual. Here we have a country whose proud boast is that it alone among European states is really free, which is sacrificing its young men by the million in order to overthrow Prussianism, imposing such fetters upon intellectual liberty that one can only gasp.”
“Rightly no doubt.” Of late deadly blows had been aimed at the vicar’s mental security, but there was still a kick in the old Adam. “In intellectual matters absolute freedom becomes anarchy, and that would be intolerable, even in a democratic country. The state is bound to devise a means of holding it in check. Of this play I know nothing, nor am I competent to speak of plays in general, but prima facie the government is fully justified in suppressing it. No good thing can come out of Babylon.”
“Or in other words out of Wellwood Asylum.”
“One does not go quite so far as to say that,” said the vicar thoughtfully.
“An interesting admission!”