by Les Weil
I do not believe that anybody, except a very primitive person, can be reborn in one night, as so many tales of sudden conversions will have it. I do believe that one can suddenly `see the light' and undergo a change that will completely alter the course of one's life. But a change of this kind takes place at the spiritual core of the subject, and it will take a long time to seep through to the periphery, until in the end the entire personality, his conscious thoughts and actions, become impregnated with it. A conversion which, after the first genuine crisis, saves further labour by buying a whole packet of readymade beliefs, and replaces one set of dogmas by another, can hardly be an inspiring example to those who cling to a minimum standard of intellectual honesty. Nor do I believe that a true spiritual transformation can be the result of a process of conscious reasoning, working its way downward, as it were. It begins on the level where the unconscious axioms of faith, the implicit premisses of thinking, the innate standards of value, are located. It starts, as it were, in the boiler-room, at the fuse-boxes and gas-mains which control life in the house; the intellectual refurnishing comes afterwards. Some eminent converts of our time seem to have left it all to the decorators; and the Christian love they show their neighbours is about as convincing as a Comniunist peace offensive.
It was easier to reject the utilitarian concept of ethics than to find a substitute for it. Perhaps the solution was to be found in a reversal of Bentham's maxim:--the least suffering for the smallest number. It sounded attractive-up to a point. But beyond that point lay quietism, stagnation and resignation. To change from Lenin's way to Gandhi's way was again tempting, yet it was another short-cut, a toppling over from one extreme to the other. Perhaps the solution lay in a new form of synthesis between saint and revolutionary, between the active and the contemplative life; or perhaps we lived in an era of transition comparable to the last centuries of the Roman Empire, which admitted of no solution at all.
In the years that followed I wrote a number of books in which I attempted to assimilate the experiences of cell No. 40. Ethical problems had hitherto played no part in my writing; now they became its central concern. In The Gladiators, two-thirds of which was written after Seville, and Darkness at Noon, which was the next book, I tried to come to intellectual terms with the intuitive glimpses gained during the `hours by the window'. Both novels were variations on the same theme: the problem of Ends and Means, the conflict between transcendental morality and social expediency. The next novel, Arrival and Departure, was a rejection of the ethical neutrality of science as expressed in the psychiatrist's claim to be able to `reduce' courage, dedication and self-sacrifice to neurotic motives. The hero, who has been made to see on the psychiatrist's couch that his beliefs `in big words and little flags' have been illusions, his courage vanity, his self-sacrifice the effect of repressed guilt, is apparently cured of all these unreasonable attitudes. Yet after the cure he once more volunteers for a dangerous and self-sacrificing mission, driven by an urge that emanates from his untouchable core, beyond psychological causation and beyond the grasp of reason. Finally, in The Yogi and the Commissar, I tried once more to digest, in the form of essays this time, the meaning of the solitary dialogue of cell No. 40. This book, written in 1943, closed the cycle; it had taken five years to digest the hours by the window.
I have said before that, while in prison, I felt free of guilt and neurotic anxiety. Soon after I had regained my freedom and no longer had concrete reasons for fear, both guilt and anxiety returned. The feeling of guilt centred on certain self-accusations concerning my conduct in prison. I found myself guilty on three counts, which I feel I ought to mention as a psychological curiosity for, in the light of reason, they do not appear very grave, and yet they pursued me for a long time with an intense feeling of shame.
The first episode concerns a single phrase that I used, and that still rings in my ear. One day, after the evening soup had been doled out, Don Ramon, a friendly warder, lingered behind at the door of my cell and asked wonderingly how it came about that as an educated person I got mixed tip with the rojos (Reds). I answered: `But I no longer am a rojo.' I had spoken the truth, but with the intention of telling a lie. Inwardly, I no longer was a Communist, but the break was neither conscious nor definite; and my intention in uttering that phrase was, of course, that Don Ramon should report it.
Now my line of defence, if I were interrogated, could only be to persist in my denial that I was a member of the Communist Party--a confession in front of a Franco court-martial would not only have been suicide, but a betrayal of everybody who was involved in the affair: Willy and Otto, the News Chronicle, Chalmers-Mitchell, and so on. So it would have been quite in order had I persisted in my role by saying to Don Ramon: `I never was a rojo.' But the phrase that had slipped out said: `I no longer am a rojo.' It was not only stupid and self-incriminating (that is not the point, and Don Ramon did not report it anyway) ; it was a self-abasement, the revelation of an unconscious craving to curry favour with the enemy, to come to terms with the executioners. I can still see the perplexed and embarrassed expression on Don Ramon's face; he had the Castilian's proud sense of honour, and had caught the meaning of the nuance; he turned and closed the door of the cell without a word.
The shame of this episode has haunted me for years, as a companionghost to that of Nadeshda's figure on the quay at Baku. I kept telling myself that after all it was merely a matter of a phrase blurted out when I was caught unawares, and that it was redeemed by the fact that I had refused to sign the statement in favour of Franco. But such lawyers' arguments carry no inner conviction--as demonstrated by a recurrent dream that kept plaguing me until recently. I saw myself alone in an empty house, attacked by a gang of robbers. For a while I kept shooting at them without much conviction from a window, but seeing that the position was hopeless, I walked out through the gate and, by a little wheedling, made friends with them and was accepted into their gang, comforting myself with the thought that they were not as bad as all that. At this point, I would wake up and remember the dream with shameand horror. But I only discovered the obvious relation of the drearn to that `I no longer am a rojo' as I was writing the present chapter. With that, the feeling of guilt on this particular count began to dissolve, and I began to take a more detached view of the incident. All of which goes to show how a feeling of guilt may appear exaggerated in relation to its apparent cause, and yet reveal the real culpable tendency behind it--in this case an unconscious tendency to betrayal, precariously held in check by a sustained conscious effort.
This motive of a potential betrayal which is never consummated and is only known to the subject himself, crops up in two of my novels. In Darkness at Noon, Gletkin tells how, when he fell into the hands of the enemy, they tied a burning wick to his shaven skull to extract certain information. A few hours later, his comrades recaptured the position and found him unconscious; the wick had burned down to the end, and Gletkin had kept silence. `That's all bunk,' he explains, `I did not give in because I fainted. If I had stayed conscious another minute, I would have spoken.... When I came to, I was actually convinced that I had spoken. But the other prisoners established that this was not the case. So I got a decoration.' In Arrival and Departure there is a similar incident. But just as I did not realise the origin of the dream about the robbers, so in writing these fictitious episodes I was not aware of the motive behind them.
The incident raises the question whether one is ever justified in dismissing guilt-feelings--however unwarranted they may appear--as merely `neurotic symptoms'. I am inclined to think that explanations which trace the subjective origins of guilt to an exacting super-ego acquired in early childhood are more or less correct as far as they go, but that they beg the question of the ethical significance of guilt, and of its creative aspect. Regarding the latter, I believe that if properly canalised, the consciousness of guilt may become a powerful and constructive driving force; and that the anguish which accompanies it should be regarded as income tax paid in emotion
al currency.
The second incident occurred towards the end of my imprisonment and can hardly be called an incident at all.
The British Consul in Seville had at last obtained permission to visit me. He was a quiet, reserved man, and naturally a little distant in his manner, for the case of this Hungarian correspondent of a British newspaper, accused of spying for the Spanish Reds, must have struck him as rather fishy. I had, of course, to stick to my part as a bona fide News Chronicle correspondent, arbitrarily detained because he had expressed his sympathies for the Loyalist Government in his writings. This brought up the subject of L'Espagne Ensanglantee, and the Consul asked, somewhat hesitantly, whether I had proof of all the allegations in the book. It was as if the dentist had touched an exposed nerve with his drill. My pretended self-assurance was suddenly deflated, and I answered meekly that the authenticity of some of the material concerning atrocities was somewhat doubtful. The impression I made at that moment must have been lamentable; I saw it mirrored in the Consul's eyes. He said nothing, and shortly afterwards took his leave with a murmured encouragement and a limp handshake.
Here again, guilt had become focussed on a secondary event--the admission made to the Consul--whereas its real source was the uncleanliness of the propaganda work I had been engaged in, and all the deception and fraud in which I was plunged up to my neck. My self-deflation in front of the quiet and reserved Englishman who was doing his duty in coming to my assistance, yet could not hide his silent revulsion, had acquired the power of a symbol. It reflected the clash of two worlds: the world of straight, intellectually limited, unimaginative decency, based on traditional values, and the twisted world of ruse and deceit in the service of an inhuman Utopia. It had ended with the humiliation and defeat of the second.
The third count on which I found myself guilty was in failing to fulfil a vow made in cell No. 40: if ever I got out alive I would write an autobiographical essay where truth would be carried to the point of self-immolation, done with the ruthless sincerity of an X-ray photograph that would make Rousseau's Confessions looks like a conventional oil print. I kept postponing this undertaking for fifteen years, and when I started on it I soon realised that the book would never conform to the original intention. Some of the reasons for this are mentioned in the chapter `The Pitfalls of Autobiography' in the previous volume. I would like to add to it a few words.
Take, for instance, the pitfalls of sex. It is usual in our time to measure the `sincerity' of an autobiography by its outspokenness in matters of sex. Thus the fame of Rousseau or Cellini rests largely on certain notorious passages. This attitude is not entirely unjustified. Since in these days confessions regarding his sex life expose the author to infamy or ridicule, courage in this particular field may indeed be regarded as a measure of his sincerity.
On the other hand, this kind of repression always breeds over-emphasis. The pious memoir-writers of the Victorian Age gave such preference to the spiritual over the carnal, that a reaction was inevitable. Yet once the pendulum has been permitted to swing to the opposite extreme, it is legitimate to strive after a balanced position where sexual experiences are treated frankly, but only in so far as they are relevant to the evolution of the character and the story. If I have failed to make Rousseau blush in his grave, I like to believe that this is due not to a lack of sincerity, but to the lack of an appropriately blush-making aberration. Admissions of character-defects in other fields, though no less embarrassing, will not be found wanting in these pages.
I also became aware, in trying to live up to that vow, of the danger of sincerity degenerating into exhibitionism. There is, of course, no literature and no art without a catalytic grain of exhibitionism. The danger-point, in so far as memoirs are concerned, seems to be reached when episodes that should be embarrassing and painful to tell are told with a wallowing gusto. Whenever I noticed symptoms of this kind, I always felt that something had gone wrong; on re-reading such passages I generally discovered that they sounded exaggerated, obsessional and strident, and had to be thrown out.
Finally, the notion of an 'X-ray self-portrait' is obviously a fallacy. Not only because the object is identical with the observer, which fact alone excludes photographic objectivity. But also, because in the realm of psychology no concrete, objective truth exists, only an almost infinite number of levels of truth. In describing the motives of any action we are not making a precise statement of fact, but only an approximation on a certain level. In which direction and on which level the explanation moves is, of course, a matter of a highly subjective choice. Dialogue with Death is an autobiographical sketch written at the age of thirty-two; the present chapter is an `explanation' of the same events, written at the age of forty-seven. I wonder what shape and colour they would take if I were to re-write them after yet another fifteen years have elapsed. Yet in intent each of these versions represents the truth, based on first-hand knowledge of the events and intimate acquaintance with the hero.
A concluding remark on that neglected subject, sex. It was indeed neglected in cell No. 40: from the first day to the last I had no erotic dreams or day-dreams; a fact that I find difficult to explain. When I wrote the book on Sexual Aberrations, I had read enough about sex life in prisons to know that auto-erotic indulgences may quickly become an addiction in solitary confinement, and I resolved to refrain from anything of the kind in thought and deed. But such virtuous resolves always break down, unless they receive powerful support from the regions of the unconscious. The nature of that support is unknown to me. I am convinced, however, that without self-imposed abstinence, the hours by the window would not have borne fruit.
XXXIV. Back to the Trivial Plane
IN the hall of the Hotel Ingles in Valencia, writes Dr. Junod of the International Red Cross in his autobiography,' I had often seen a very beautiful woman go in and out. Her bearing was proud and a little disdainful. She was a typical representative of the old aristocracy of Seville.
'Mu guapa,' a waiter whispered to me, `a highly placed hostage.'
I learned that she was the wife of a Spanish Nationalist airman. Although she was being held as a hostage, she had been spared imprisonment, and she lived in the hotel under close police surveillance. Her charm and her beauty certainly had something to do with the preferential treatment she was receiving.
At the Ministry Jose Gira1 (The Minister for Foreign Affairs.) spoke to me about her. He had just received through the British Embassy a list of twenty-one names of Spanish Republicans imprisoned in Seville. General Queipo de Llano had generously offered to exchange them all against this one woman. Giral smiled knowingly.
'Queipo would like to tempt us, but I'm not playing. Make a counter proposal for us. I'm interested in one man. He's not a Spaniard, but he's a friend of the Republic. His name is Arthur Koestler.'
'Koestler? I don't know him.'
`He's a Hungarian, a journalist who has been sentenced to death by Franco for sending reports to a British newspaper. I should be obliged if you would send an urgent telegram off to Geneva in the matter because his life is in danger.'
`I will do so as soon as I get back. ...'
Koestler against the beautiful woman from Seville?
Yes, Salamanca was agreeable.
Negotiations proceeded for the carrying out of the exchange . . . Gibraltar was informed by wireless, and the obscure Hungarian journalist Franco had intended to shoot was released.
I was flown from Seville to the frontier town of La Linea by the husband of the beautiful hostage for whom I was being exchanged. Her name was Seliora Haya. Her husband was one of Franco's most famous fighter pilots.
On my arrival in London I learnt of the events that had led up to my release.
After we had been separated, Sir Peter was taken to a hotel and kept there under police surveillance. Twenty-four hours later a British destroyer, H.M.S. Basilisk arrived in Malaga. Her commander intervened with the local authorities, and Sir Peter was allowed to proceed to Gibraltar. As I was n
ot a British subject, nothing could be done about me directly. However, Sir Peter informed the News Chronicle of my arrest over the Basilisk's wireless, and thus set into motion the public campaign through which I was saved.
I can speak about this extraordinary campaign without appearing to be immodest, for it was in no way connected with my person or merits. The majority of the individuals and organisations who sent telegrams and letters of protest to Franco I did not know, and they had previously not even known my name. Among them were fifty-eight members of the British House of Commons, nearly half of them Conservatives; authors' and journalists' associations; bishops and clergymen; political and cultural organisations of every variety and shape. Even the Hungarian Government intervened.
L'Espagne Ensanglantee had only appeared in French and German, and many of those who interceded on my behalf must have disapproved of its contents--provided that they had read it at all. In England, the centre of the campaign, no book had been published to that date under my name, which was entirely unknown. So much so that the Foreign Secretary, Mr. Eden, in answering a Parliamentary question, declared that H.M. Government had intervened on Mr. K's behalf `in spite of the fact that he is a Czechoslovak citizen'. All that the British public knew was that one among thousands of newspapermen, the correspondent of a Liberal paper, was threatened with death by the newest dictatorial regime. So far, neither Hitler nor Mussolini had dared to victimise members of the foreign press, except by expelling them from their territory. Franco's threat was therefore regarded as a further step towards the abolition of intellectual freedom in a tottering Europe. To that extent the case of the unknown News Chronicle correspondent had become a symbolic issue.