The Little Walls

by Winston Graham

  Martin put in quietly: ‘‘ I’ve always, believed that, psycho-analysis was all my I.’’

  Missing the joke, Sanbergh. Said bitterly: ‘‘ But surely that is the chief aim of psychiatry, to take away the sense of guilt—and one of the reasons why it is so popular. Someone said once that if God didn’t exist it would be necessary to invent him. In the twentieth century that would be truer of Freud.’’

  ‘‘Well, and isn’t that a good thing, Charles dear?’’ said Mme Weber. ‘‘Surely what our forebears suffered from more than anything was this sense of guilt. It ruined their lives. Devastatin’. I know it ruined my mother’s. She lived under a constant cloud of sin. I shall never be sufficiently grateful to Sigmund for selling off all the hair-shirts at a cut price.’’

  White was looking at Sanbergh. ‘‘I didn’t know you were anti-Freudian, Charles. In the States I’m custom-arily a voice crying in the wilderness.’’

  ‘‘So you are likely to be in most countries,’’ said Sanbergh; ‘‘for it is such a comfortable philosophy, so much more comfortable than religion.’’

  Jane Porringer said: ‘‘It’s never sounded particularly comfortable to me.’’

  ‘‘Well, it is, my dear, it is. Because aren’t we told that what we do comes from urges in our subconscious, and that for these we are not responsible? They tell us that as soon as we are made aware of the causes of our conflicts, then we don’t any longer answer to them. No effort on our part is needed. That’s a great line today, isn’t it. No effort.’’ Sanbergh’s eyes went round the table, met mine with a smoky gleam. ‘‘ Indeed, they say we must not fight what is within us because that causes the repression we’re trying to avoid. We sit back and the analyst unravels the string. By giving way to our impulses we do away with further conflict. By letting our children root in the dirt and wreck our homes and copulate at an early age, we lay the foundations for a settled generation in the future.’’

  ‘‘For an unsettled generation,’’ the Master of Kyle was heard to say, ‘‘ and we’ve had two, three of those already.’’

  ‘‘Personally I don’t see what’s wrong with an unsettled generation,’’ said Martin, his eyes down, peeling a peach, ‘‘whether it’s the outcome of Freud or common sense. That’s a reversion to natural conditions again.’’

  ‘‘More likely a reversion to anarchy,’’ said Sanbergh.

  ‘‘Well, if you call it that Why not?’’

  ‘‘I think there are reasons why not,’’ said Sanbergh, ‘‘but I think you’re right in supposing it is coming. Because once we feel we’re not at root responsible for our actions, or at least for yielding to the desires that prompt the actions, then it’s an end to the meaning of good and evil as we’ve always understood them, and an end to moral law as an influential force.’’

  ‘‘I think we should maybe invent a new mythology,’’ said Mme Weber. ‘‘Eve ate the apple in Eden and discovered the knowledge of Good and Evil. But somebody now has eaten a grapefruit in Freud’s garden, and that has anæsthetised us from the after-effects. Divertin’.’’

  Martin said: ‘‘ Mme Weber, you’re one of the most enlightened women I’ve ever met.’’

  ‘‘That’s not enlightenment’’ said Sanbergh, ‘‘that’s naughtiness.’’

  ‘‘Really, Charles …’’

  Martin put down his knife. ‘‘But seriously, isn’t it time we all came awake to what’s happening. Isn’t it time we stopped picking endlessly over the ruins of our late civilisation and realised that a new one is already on its way up. People talk about a second Renaissance. Well, maybe you can call it that if you want a comfortable phrase. But what’s happening with us is not the birth of new art forms, it’s the birth of new moral forms—whether we like It or not. The old prohibitions mean nothing any longer. Not a damned thing.’’

  I watched him. ‘‘The old prohibitions?’’ I said gentry.

  ‘‘Yes, Philip. A man who takes up a moral stand on this principle or that, merely because his grandfather or his great-grandfather believed it, is like someone reading the Riot Act in a Mississippi flood. There’s no magic in a thing because other people have thought it. The only magic is in thinking for ourselves. In the last twenty years all the barriers have gone down in the physical world. Now it’s the turn of the moral do-nots, the mental do-nots that get in a man’s way at every other step. They’re going, and it’s time they went! We just have to start thinking afresh if we don’t want to die in the mud like the megatherium and the dinosaur.’’

  There was a sub-tone in Martin’s voice that made it different from the rest of the talk, that undertone of passion that can creep in when a man gets on his pet subject. Or perhaps it was even more than that.

  The Master of Kyle looked up, like an old dog whose bone has been touched. ‘‘It’s not a question of what your father thought or of what your grandfather thought, Martin—it’s what has been agreed among men for thirty centuries. There are some values that are absolute—or as near as can be in this world. If a man doesn’t perceive them, he’s a fool. If he perceives them and ignores them, he’s a knave. There aren’t two ways of thinking about it.’’ He withdrew under his lids again.

  Martin said: ‘‘It was agreed among men for centuries that the sun revolved round the earth—until Copernicus made them think different. If we——’’

  ‘‘Yes,’’ I interrupted before he could go on, ‘‘this is a nice talking point for a Sunday half-hour. But it’s all pretty vague and generalised, isn’t it? I’d like to get down to particular cases for a change, if we could.’’ I smiled at Mme Weber. ‘‘Martin Coxon, for instance, argues for a return to anarchy and the rest—but he does it chiefly for the sake of argument. Don’t you, Martin?’’

  Coxon’s sombre eyes met mine for a second. Then he bent over his peach.

  ‘‘Don’t you, Martin?’’I said.

  He looked up. ‘‘ No. No, I think it’s an inevitable trend.’’

  ‘‘A general trend,’’ I said.

  ‘‘Well, yes. General certainly. World wide.’’

  ‘‘Not world wide yet. There are many who set their faces against it. But I agree with you that the danger’s there. Now what are we, who do set our faces against it, to do? We can’t deal with general trends, but we can with particular cases—sometimes.’’

  ‘‘What do you mean?’’ said Leonie quickly.

  As she spoke Martin turned his head to look at her, and I saw the light falling across his face in the way Pangkal had described. I saw his face as if seeing it for the first time, the little bumps between the eyebrows, the full bottom lip drawn in in the middle.

  I said: ‘‘Well, there are quite a few men who really disagree with the rules the rest of us accept. They’re not psychopaths or abnormal in any recognisable way. They’ve no twisted childhood, no case history to explain it—there’s no apparent reason for them to be different from their next-door neighbours. Yet they become criminals apparently from deliberate choice. What are we going to do about them?’’

  After a minute Hamilton White said: ‘‘I still think you ought to particularise a bit more.’’

  I began to answer him and then stopped. Suddenly I saw the way before me open wide, and I saw where it was leading and wasn’t yet ready for it. If there was going to be a reckoning between Martin and me, it couldn’t begin here. And unless I was prepared for that, it would be crazy to say what I’d intended to say. I went on quickly, covering up: ‘‘Well, what of the murderer, the man who suddenly, and after an apparently normal life, kills somebody coldly and quite deliberately and often almost without motive. Where does he come into the picture?’’

  It seemed to me then a terribly tame ending, but no one apparently noticed it. Perhaps this was because Charlotte Weber took up the running.

  ‘‘Dear boy, those are the people the psychiatrists are most use to. People who commit murder usually haven’t, for some reason, been able to adapt themselves. As children they haven’t found the
mselves able to cope, and the sense of inferiority has driven them to seek compensation in revolt. That’s Adler’s theory—or somebody’s, my memory isn’t what it was. But ifs usually the beginning of all the trouble, and the outcome is split personalities and wish fulfilments and the rest.’’

  Sanbergh made a comical face. ‘‘There we go, you see. A man murders because he is seeking compensation in revolt. It isn’t his fault, it is his father and mother who are to blame. But if you asked the social reformer he will say, no, no, it is not the mother and father; it all happened because of the conditions in which the man lived. Then again the biologist will say it is nothing of the kind, he has simply inherited too many of the wrong genes from an ancestor. Anything to take the blame off the man who has done it.’’

  ‘‘The biologist is nearest right,’’ said Hamilton White. ‘‘If you go on endlessly dealing a pack of cards, sooner or later someone is going to get a straight flush and someone else a pair of deuces. It’s the only explanation for the type of apparently senseless crime that Philip means. And such things do happen. They’ve come my way.’’

  Martin took a bite of his peach. ‘‘ The crime you call senseless is probably only senseless to you—because you see it as something abnormal and out of line. But crime is just as biologically normal to some people as walking down a street. Murder can be an expression of a man’s personality. So perhaps can suicide—only in that case he’s like the bee and allowed only one sting. You don’t probe into the reasons why a child is born with a desire to play the piano or stigmatise him when he fulfils it. Nor do you if he wants to become, a doctor—or a pathologist who spends his time among the dead—or a butcher, who is always slaughtering animals—or an airman who may be asked to throw fire on a city. No, those professions are all right because they come inside the bogus rules that some old men in the past set up. But step outside them—not always to commit murder but to live your life as you believe it ought to be lived—and you become the prey not only of the police but of every pet psychiatrist and phoney reformer who’s looking for another victim. It’s they who should be locked away in asylums, and I believe they will be when humanity comes of age.’’

  Da Cossa smiled. ‘‘That is a very interesting proposition. But it all boils down to the same thing, does it not that a man’s behaviour is determined by circumstances and events over which he has little or no control? There are mental deficients, moral deficients, physical deficients. All should be treated alike. You don’t blame me, I trust or wish to lock me up because I was born with a club-foot.’’

  Sanbergh said: ‘‘A man can be locked up for what he does with his club-foot. So you can blame or praise a man for the use he makes of any disability.’’

  Da Cossa said nastily: ‘‘ I do not think I should like you to be my judge.’’

  Sanbergh stared at him. ‘‘I have no desire to be one for anybody. I’ve lived my life and been no angel. But I still believe in sin, which is behaviour injurious to the individual. And I still believe in crime, which is behaviour injurious to society. Call them what new names you like, I don’t believe a person’s responsibility for what he does can be evaded.’’

  She’d been in the garden with Martin. When she came back her face was flushed and her stammer was more noticeable. Afterwards I saw her slip out of the room, and a few minutes later I followed her. There was no one in the hall, but as I got to the foot of the stairs she came down.

  Three steps from the bottom she stopped.

  I said: ‘‘I want to apologise for getting in your light so much in the last few days.’’

  She half smiled, but looked past me towards the door. ‘‘I thought we’d gone into that this morning.’’

  ‘‘This is the postscript’’

  ‘‘Well, have you decided to write off the—the search for——’’ She didn’t finish.

  ‘‘Yes,’’ I said. ‘‘I have.’’

  That brought her head up. ‘‘Really, Philip? If you …’’

  I didn’t like the look of relief in her eyes. ‘‘Partly, anyway. I’m going back to Holland for a couple of days. I’ve had a letter from the Dutch inspector who was in charge of the case. Read it if you like.’’

  I gave her the letter from Tholen which had been forwarded by Arnold. I could follow her eyes as she read it.

  “Dear Mr. Turner,

  We are now in the possession of fresh data in reference to your brother’s death. This I cannot send to you fully because it is confidential and better that such information is .not all commit to paper. If you find the convenience to come to Holland again, I shall give you this information by personal word and so help to dear up the perplexity of your mind.

  If it is not the convenience for you to come, pray let me know and I shall try to write you what I can.

  ‘‘Yours very truly, J. J. Tholen.’’

  She handed the letter back.

  ‘‘I wonder what that means.’’

  ‘‘It’s what I’m going to find out.’’

  ‘‘Yes. Yes, of course. Well I hope——’’ Again she didn’t finish.

  ‘‘That it means nothing at all?’’

  ‘‘No. I hope that everything will go well.’’

  ‘‘Thanks. In the meantime I’ll leave Martin Coxon here to look after you.’’

  She kept here eyes down.

  ‘‘That’ll be fun.’’

  ‘‘Yes, he’s very good fun.’’

  ‘‘Are you going to tell this inspector about me?’’

  ‘‘I haven’t decided. But I don’t think so.’’

  ‘‘Surely you should.’’

  ‘‘It depends what he has to say.’’

  ‘‘I’m still puzzled why you’re telling me this, Philip. Haven’t I yet convinced you that I’m in the enemy’s camp?’’

  ‘‘No.’’

  She was silent, rubbing her finger along the side of the banister. I said: ‘‘One thing. I wish you’d promise me one thing while I’m away.’’

  ‘‘What?’’

  ‘‘You may think this pretty cheap … but I have to risk it. I never knew your husband; but I think he must have been a nice fellow.’’

  She didn’t speak.

  ‘‘And I imagine you had the sort of feeling for him that you haven’t quite had for anyone since.’’

  ‘‘Well?’’

  ‘‘Well … would it be a good thing to think of that?’’

  She came down two more steps until our heads were level. Her hand was still on the banister but I didn’t touch it.

  ‘‘It’s queer you should say that.’’

  ‘‘Why?’’

  ‘‘I’ve been thinking rather a lot about Tom today.’’ She hesitated.

  ‘‘Go on.’’

  ‘‘It’s too difficult to explain now.’’

  ‘‘I’d like to know.’’

  ‘‘We must go in——’’

  ‘‘No.’’ I put a hand on her arm now.

  It was like touching a restive young animal. I thought she was going to push me away, but suddenly her mood changed. ‘‘ It’s impossible to say in two words, Philip … You see, when he died—when Tom and Richard died I was in hospital. I’d been taken away from home rather ill but not desperately ill. Tom and Richard were all right, I was the sick one. It wasn’t until three weeks later that they told me. I couldn’t believe it. When I went home I kept waiting … I’d not even seen Tom ill for one day. It was just as if they’d both disappeared into air …’’ Her nostrils flexed. ‘‘Of course the house and stuff were sold—I couldn’t go on living there—and after a time I realised about Richard. A four-month-old baby—that’s somebody you’ve hardly got to know. But what I’m telling you all this for is to say that I’ve never quite understood about Tom. I knew what had happened—went about my ordinary life. But at the back of my mind …’’

  ‘‘You’ve always had a half feeling that somewhere he was still alive …’’

  ‘‘Yes. Yes, that’s exactly i
t.’’

  After a minute I said: ‘‘ When I mentioned your husband just now—perhaps you can guess why I did——’’

  ‘‘Yes, perhaps.’’

  ‘‘Forget it. I still perfer to fight with some holds barred.’’

  She put her hand on top of mine for a second and then moved past me.

  I said: ‘‘All the same, I wish I could help you, Leonie.’’

  ‘‘Perhaps you already have.’’

  ‘‘As progress, I rate that the high-water mark so far.’’

  ‘‘I’m sorry …’’

  ‘‘Don’t take it back now.’’

  ‘‘I wasn’t going to.’’

  She walked towards the door of the living-room. I followed her.

  She stopped and said: ‘‘What I wanted to say and haven’t said so far is that today”—she looked at me thoughtfully—‘‘ today I’ve realised fully for the first time about Tom. It’s …’’ Her eyes were large and brilliant and seemed to reflect more light than there was in the hall. ‘‘It’s like realising, at the same time, that something vitally important to you is both better and worse than you thought’’

  When I walked home with Martin a half moon was nearly setting and looked as if its other half had been broken up and distributed as largesse over the water. It was difficult now acting it out, but vitally important that I should. I told him how utterly at sea I felt knowing now that Sanbergh was not Buckingham, that I felt I’d been chasing a complete will-o’-the-wisp and that all was to do again. The only ray of light anywhere was Tholen’s letter, and this I showed him. He read it under a lamp, puckering his eyes.

  When he finished he said: ‘‘I know—I told you. The rest of this damned jig-saw is still in Amsterdam. It stands to reason.’’ I noticed a slight quickening in his voice. He was evidently pleased to get me out of the way, to set me still further on the wrong track. ‘‘You’ll go of course.’’

  ‘‘I’m not sure.’’ I wanted to see what he would say.

  ‘‘You’d be crazy not to. If you’re unable or unwilling to press this girl, the purpose of staying here has gone.’’