by Colin Wilson
The priest asked: Do you think the police are any nearer to catching him?
Who can tell? They have received two letters written by a man who claims to be the murderer. That may help.
Sorme said with interest: Have they? Has this been made public yet?
Today, I think. I personally think they are practical jokes.
What did they say?
Oh . . . they jeer at the police for failing to catch him, and promise more murders. The latest was delivered this morning, a few hours after the second murder.
That sounds like the murderer.
Why? Anyone living in Whitechapel could have written the letter in the available time. Even you. You were told of the murder at six o’clock, you say? The letter was posted at Scotland Yard at about seven o’clock.
Sorme said smiling: I see your point. But what I really meant was that it sounds like the murderer to write to the police.
Why do you say that?
Yesterday the newspapers were asking if he’d moved to Greenwich. Last night, he commits a double murder in Whitechapel. He sounds like a man with a sense of being in the public eye!
Stein said, smiling: That is true. Nevertheless, I suspect a practical joker.
For any particular reason? Sorme asked. He spoke with a cautious politeness, aware that he was in a privileged position in being able to question Stein, and anxious not to appear morbidly curious. Stein interlaced his fingers, and stared gravely at his knees; he appeared to find Sorme’s questions perfectly natural.
To begin with, the pathological killer is not often a boaster. You see, his crimes are often due to an overpowering impulse, and when the impulse disappears he may become a completely different person. In Germany we have a name for this type of crime. We call it Lustmord—joy murder. Motiveless joy murder. And the joy-murderer is not often proud of the impulse that turns him into a wild animal periodically. You see?
The priest said softly:
But if I remember rightly, your friend Kürten wrote to the police.
That is true. But not to boast—only to draw attention to a body. And then perhaps you remember the case of the Chicago murderer—I forget his name—who wrote above one of his victims: Stop me before I kill again.
Heirens, Sorme murmured.
Ah, you know the case! Well, you see, that is the schizophrenic murderer.
He turned to the priest, and an almost mischievous smile passed across his face. He said:
Now you see, Larry, why I had to become a psychiatrist rather than a priest. How could I prescribe penances for sins when I am not sure that the man who performs the penance is the same man who commits the sins? That is a problem you can’t answer me.
The priest said, smiling:
We also recognise your split personality in the Church, you know, Franz. But we talk of sin and remorse instead. It all comes to the same thing. . . .
Stein chuckled throatily. It was obvious that he enjoyed luring the priest into discussions. He said:
No, no, Larry. It is not the same thing at all. When you prescribe a penance, you assume the man who committed the sin is the same as the one who will do penance. But what if they are two different people, eh? What about that?
The priest said quietly:
I wouldn’t prescribe a penance for such a man.
No? Stein said, raising his bushy eyebrows. And what would you do?
Try to help him, just as you would.
And how can you help him, if your only way of describing his condition is in concepts like sin?
The priest said:
I need only two concepts to understand his condition—spirit and matter.
Stein said, smiling: Not even God and the devil?
Not even God and the devil.
Then tell me, sir, how you would explain a man like Kürten in these terms?
I’d have to think about it. . . .
Ah! You said that last time we argued!
He turned to Sorme and winked, saying:
He is a very difficult fellow to argue with. All these Dominicans are the same. . . . When you get them in a corner, they demand time to think!
The priest’s expression remained mild and thoughtful. He said slowly:
Very well, if you want me to try to explain . . . I would express it this way. Man knows himself as body, and what he knows of spirit comes through grace. The poet would call it inspiration. But the spirit bloweth where it listeth. Man has no control over his inspiration. If a piece of music or a poem has moved him once, he can never be certain that it will happen again. But man hates to think that he has no control over the spirit. It would discourage him too much. He likes to believe that he can summon the spirit by some ordinary act. Instead of striving to prepare himself for it through discipline and prayer, he tries to summon it arbitrarily through some physical act—drinking Düsseldorf beer, for instance. . . .
Stein said, chuckling:
Which is the way all good Düsseldorfers summon the spirit, since our Dunkelbier is the best in Germany.
The priest laughed with him, and for a moment Sorme had a curious impression that he was listening to an argument between two undergraduates instead of two men in their late sixties. He shrank deeper into his armchair, wanting them to forget his presence. The priest stopped laughing first, and Sorme had a glimpse of the tiredness that always lay behind his eyes. Stein also became grave again. He said:
Very well. But what has this to do with the murderer?
It has to do with sex. For sex is the favourite human device for summoning the spirit. And since it is also God’s gift of procreation, it nearly always works . . . unlike music and poetry.
Or beer, Stein said.
Quite. But even sex is not infallible. And man hates to think that he has no power over the spirit. The more his physical methods fail him, the more voraciously he pursues them. His attempts to summon the spirit become more and more frenzied. If he is a drinker, he drinks more, until he has more alcohol than blood in his veins. If he is a sensualist, he invents sexual perversions.
Ah, Stein said.
There are many other ways, of course—the lust for money and power, for instance. All depend upon man’s refusal to face the fact that the spirit bloweth where it listeth, that no physical act can be guaranteed to summon it. . . .
Sorme had forgotten his resolution to keep silent. He said:
But is there no certain way of summoning it, father?
The priest went on looking at Stein as he answered:
None. The best we can do is to train ourselves in patience. When the priest invokes the descent of the spirit in the Mass, he does not expect to see it or feel it; he accepts by faith that the wine has become the blood of our Lord, the bread His flesh. The priest knows that all he can do is wait. The business of religion is to teach men patience. As soon as man loses patience, he loses all he has. . . .
So! Stein said. What am I to tell my patient who feels an urge to rape a child? To have patience?
The priest said, with unexpected sharpness:
What else? Why does he want to rape the child? Can you explain it?
Stein shrugged:
It usually springs from a feeling of insecurity. Or boredom. Many of my patients have complained that they feel a perpetual sense of injustice—that they have a right to lead more interesting lives. A sexually frustrated man will try to express his sense of injustice in sexual murder.
The priest had begun to look tired; his voice had become low and monotonous:
Religion teaches that all men are equal in the sight of God, that the beggar is no better off than the king, that all men die and are subject to the same miseries. If a man felt that, how could he feel a desire to rape a child?
Stein said: True. But a man would need to be a philosopher to feel that, and most psychopaths are not philosophers. . . .
The priest said quietly: He would need to be a philosopher . . . or a Christian.
Stein stood up. He said: Perhaps
you are right, my friend. But I think we should leave you. I think we are beginning to tire you a little.
Sorme could not help smiling at the injustice of the “we”.
The priest said: It is kind of you to come and see me.
Stein said, smiling: I like seeing you.
He turned to Sorme, and said: We have known one another for nearly fifty years.
Sorme said politely: Really?
So! Stein said. We leave you to your meditations.
The priest said: You must come in again, Gerard.
Thank you, father. I’d like to.
Have you seen Austin since you came here last?
Yes. Quite a lot. I’d like to talk about him some time, father. . . . By the way, father . . .
He glanced uncomfortably at Stein before formulating the question, then went on:
Does . . . Mrs. Nunne know about . . . Austin?
The priest took his meaning immediately. He said quickly:
No. Why?
I wondered. His aunt—a Jehovah’s Witness—found out through some busybody friend of hers. But I don’t think she’d mention it to his parents.
Stein had put on his overcoat, and was standing by the door. The powerful face was beaded with perspiration; it was obvious he found the room oppressive. Sorme said:
Well, goodbye, father. . . .
Goodbye, Gerard. Goodbye, Franz. I hope you’ll come again next time you pass by. Both of you.
Auf Wiedersehen, Larry. I shall certainly come.
Sorme followed the short, broad-shouldered figure down the stairs. Stein said over his shoulder:
I could see he was becoming tired. He tires very easily.
Quite.
They let themselves out of the front door. Sorme said: Well, goodbye, Professor. I hope we shall meet again.
You are not walking this way?
No. This is my bicycle.
Ah. I see. Very sensible. Well . . . perhaps you would care to join me in a cup of coffee?
Sorme said: I’d be delighted!
It surprised him that the German should ask. While he had been in the priest’s room, he had been certain that Stein regarded him as a superfluous third. He felt suddenly friendly towards the little man. He replaced the bicycle clips in his pocket, and walked beside Stein along Rosebery Avenue, and into the Farringdon Road. As they walked, Stein explained:
Larry and I studied together in Rome forty years ago. At that time I was to become a Jesuit. Imagine me!
What happened?
I discovered the writings of Freud, and changed my mind!
The German gave a throaty chuckle.
Didn’t you have to study medicine, though?
I did. My parents preferred that I become a doctor rather than a priest, so we had no disagreement. I left Rome, and went to Vienna to seek out Freud. . . .
The café was empty; a woman was cleaning the stone floor with a mop and a bucket. She stood the mop in the corner, and dried her hands on her apron to serve them coffee. Stein produced a packet of Manikin cigars, and offered it to Sorme. He lit one, and leaned back in his chair, puffing meditatively until the coffee arrived. As the woman leaned between them, he looked across at Sorme, and asked suddenly:
How is Austin nowadays?
Taken unawares, Sorme said with surprise:
You know Austin?
I . . . know him slightly. But I know a great deal of him.
With instant certainty, Sorme knew that this was the reason Stein had asked him for coffee. He said:
Oh, he’s very well, thanks.
He poured the jug of cream into his coffee, and left the next move to Stein.
You are a close friend of his?
Sorme looked into the ice-blue eyes, and wondered at the defensiveness that rose in him.
I know him fairly well. He interests me greatly. . . .
Stein smiled suddenly. Leaning forward, he said quietly:
You do not have to be alarmed. I know about him through Larry. I know that he is a sadist.
Why are you interested, if you don’t mind my asking?
Not at all. You do not have to repeat any of this to him. . . .
No.
He was in Düsseldorf for a time, and he was known to the police. Nothing serious, of course, but I came to know of it through my connection with the police.
Stein leaned back, and drew deeply on his cigar. He gave the impression that the subject had suddenly ceased to interest him. Sorme drank his coffee, allowing the silence to lengthen. He was wondering whether Stein was to be trusted, and what Stein thought he might be able to tell him about Nunne. Stein caught his eye and smiled, as if they were two passengers in a railway carriage who happened to be facing one another. Sorme said:
Professor, I’d like you to answer me a question, if you would. . . . Has Austin any reason to be afraid of the police?
Stein answered promptly:
As far as I know, no. Can you think of any?
No. But then I’m neither a homosexual nor a sadist.
I see. But tell me, why are you Austin’s friend if you have so little in common with him?
I happen to like him. . . .
Quite. There is nothing strange about that. How long have you known him?
Sorme said, smiling: Precisely a week.
Sorme could almost see the disappointment and loss of interest. Stein stubbed out the cigar and emptied his coffee cup. He said:
You should talk to Larry about Austin. He knows him better than I do. But allow me to presume to offer you a piece of advice. You may believe you can have a relationship with Austin in which his homosexuality and sadism are unimportant. But don’t take this for granted. He may surprise you.
Sorme said: Thanks, I won’t.
Stein looked at him steadily for a moment, the bushy eyebrows drawn together. Then he said briefly:
Good.
He stood up, and dropped a half-crown on the counter. The woman said: Thank you, sir.
Outside again, in the dull light of the Farringdon Road, Stein said:
Larry is a remarkable man. But he will not live a great deal longer. If you like him, you should see him as much as you can.
I will. I like him very much—although I’ve known him for less than a week.
Really? You are a person who makes many acquaintances?
No. I’m not.
No? Well . . . I must say goodbye. Or rather, auf Wiedersehen. We shall meet again.
Sorme shook the outstretched hand; the grip was strong. He stood there, watching Stein walk in the direction of the Embankment, the white head thrown back.
. . . . .
He locked the door of his room, and lit the gas-fire; his hands and feet were numb. The knees of his trousers were wet; it had begun to rain as he passed St. Pancras. He removed the trousers and shirt, and slipped on his dressing-gown, then filled the kettle with water and set it on the gas. He sat with his legs stretched out to the fire, too sleepy to read, surprised at the inner silence that took possession of him as he stared at the red-hot fire. It was complete concentration and certainty. His tongue probed his teeth, found a hollow that needed filling, and sucked at it. But there was no sense of urgency, no guilty feeling about his procrastination. He reached out for the book on the table—it was The Trial of John Watson Laurie—and began to read the introduction. After reading a few pages, he dropped it on the floor. The story of the Arran murder seemed commonplace and boring compared with the Whitechapel crimes. The kettle boiled; he made tea, and got into bed to drink it, turning the gas-fire low, now feeling completely warmed and relaxed. As he drank, he felt a temptation to write in his journal, to try to record the insight that was growing inside him. Only the fear of destroying it by trying to intellectualise it restrained him. When he had finished the tea he placed the cup on the chair and sat staring at the opposite wall, not fully aware of it, but knowing that he had achieved the state of creativity that had eluded him for the past year. It seemed ironical, almo
st funny. He was in his own room; the door was locked, in case Carlotte came to summon him to the phone; she would then assume he was out. He felt suddenly as if the world had contracted within the confines of his four walls, and there were no more doubts. What he had achieved was only a certainty of his own existence, it was a recovery of subjectivity. He thought: the man who possesses his subjectivity possesses everything; and knew it to be true. But it was difficult to keep awake. The insight brought a sense of acceptance, of affirmation, that tempted him to lie down and close his eyes. He was at once lying on a hillside above the sea, lulled to sleep by sunlight and insects, and standing on the walls of the palace at Mycenae, watching the soldiers drilling in the courtyard. All poetry and philosophy were contained in the certainty.
To defeat the drowsiness, he switched on the gramophone, and put a record of Sibelius on the turntable. The first notes of the symphony intensified the insight, an awareness of his past. The sensation reminded him of his dream of Nunne in the brothel, and Nunne made him think of Nijinsky. It was all that Nijinsky had ever meant to him, concentrated into one emotion. It was belief: belief in himself, and in life, and in God. He felt like saying: I accept life. I accept everything.
He thought, with a kind of blank wonderment: I have recovered it. I have recovered my subjectivity. If I could live like this all the time, I’d never doubt again.
Unreality. Unreality is loss of subjectivity. For five years I have lived in an unreal city. Now it is my city.
It was becoming more difficult to bear the insight. He made a mental act of turning from it, closing his perceptions. A sort of cool darkness supervened. As the first movement of the symphony came to an end, he reached out and turned it off, then lay down.
Before sleeping, he set the alarm for half-past four, remembering Caroline. He felt exhausted and purified, and the thought of seeing her was pleasant.
. . . . .
When he woke, the fire was out. The winter afternoon was already turning dark. It was not yet half-past four. He reached out for the clock and pressed in the switch that would prevent the alarm from ringing, then got out of bed and switched on the light. He took the new trousers out of the wardrobe and put them on; the knees of the other pair were still damp. As he was transferring his money into the new ones, and searching for a shilling for the gas, he sneezed. It cleared his head. He filled a cup with cold water, drank it down without lowering it from his lips. It dissipated the last of the drowsiness. The mood of certainty had still not disappeared. He put on his jacket, took his heavy overcoat from the wardrobe, and went downstairs. There was a winter smell in the air, a mixture of smoke, coldness and dusk. He walked down Great College Street, past the lighted shop-windows, and found it necessary to suppress a desire to run and laugh aloud.