“Oh, shut up! I’m older than you are. I know things you’ve never even heard of.”
“You probably mean about fairies. Old stuff, my poor boy!”
“Carol, I’m going to have to swat you.”
“Putting me to silence by brute strength? Okay, Tarzan. Then you’ll never hear the rest—which is also the best.”
“What?”
“Do you acknowledge me as the superior mind?”
“No. What do you know that makes you so superior?”
“Just the shameful secret of your birth, that’s all.”
“What!”
“I have every reason to believe that you are the son of Dunstan Ramsay.”
“Me!”
“You. Now I take a good look, in the light of my new information, you are quite a bit like him.”
“I am not! Listen, Carol, you just explain what you’ve said or I’ll kill you!”
“Lay a finger on me, dear brother, and I’ll clam up and leave you forever in torturing doubt.”
“Is that what Netty said?”
“Not in so many words. But you know my methods, Watson. Apply them. Now, attend very carefully. Daddy took Mummy away from Dunstan Ramsay and married her. Dunstan Ramsay went right on visiting this house as Trusted Friend. If you read more widely and intelligently you would know the role that Trusted Friend plays in all these affairs. Cast your mind back six years, to that awful Christmas. A quarrel. Daddy sweeps out in a rage. Ramsay remains. We are sent upstairs. Later we see Ramsay leave Mummy’s bedroom, where she is in her nightie. We hear her call out, ‘You don’t love me.’ A few hours later, Mummy tries to kill herself. You remember all that blood, that you couldn’t keep your mouth shut about. Daddy isn’t around home nearly so much after that, but Ramsay keeps coming. The obvious—the only—conclusion is that Daddy discovered Ramsay was Mummy’s lover and couldn’t bear it.”
“Carol, you turd! You utter, vile, maggoty, stinking turd! How can you say that about Mother?”
“I don’t enjoy saying it, fathead. But Mummy was a very beautiful, attractive woman. Being rather in that line myself I understand the situation, and her feelings, as you never will. I know how passion drives people on. And I accept it. To know all is to forgive all.”
“You’ll never get me to believe it.”
“Don’t, then. I can’t help what you believe. But if you don’t believe that you certainly won’t believe what came of it.”
“What?”
“What’s the good of my telling you, if you don’t want to hear?”
“You’ve got to tell me. You can’t just tell me part. I’m a member of this family too, you know. Come on. If you don’t I’ll get hold of Father next time he’s home and tell him what you just said.”
“No you won’t. That is one thing you will never do. Admit yourself to be Ramsay’s son! Daddy would probably disinherit you. You’d have to go and live with Ramsay. You’d be branded as a bastard, a love-child, a merry begot—”
“Stop milking the dictionary, and tell me.”
“Okay. I am in a kindly mood, and I won’t torture you. Netty killed Mummy.”
I must have looked very queer, for Caroline dropped her Torquemada manner and went on.
“This is deduction, you understand, but deduction of a very superior kind. Consider: the orders were strict against Mummy getting a chill, so we must accept either that Mummy opened those windows herself or somebody else opened them, and the only person around who could have done it was Netty. If Mummy did it, she killed herself knowingly, and that would be suicide, and forgetting all that Netty so rightly calls Anglican guff are you ready to believe Mummy killed herself?”
“But why would Netty do it?”
“Love, dumb-bell. That tempest of passion of which you still know nothing. Netty loves Daddy. Netty has a very fierce, loyal nature. Mummy had deceived Daddy. Listen, do you know what she said to me, after we had left you hogging the wine? We talked a long time about Mummy, and she said, ‘Everything considered, I think your mother’s better out of it.’ ”
“But that isn’t admitting she killed anybody.”
“I am not simple. I put the question directly—or as directly as seemed possible in the rather emotional situation. I said, ‘Netty, tell me truly, who opened the windows? Netty, darling, I’ll never breathe it to a soul—did you do it, out of loyalty to Daddy?’ She gave me the very queerest look she’s ever given me—and there have been some dillies—and said, ‘Caroline don’t you ever breathe or hint any such terrible thing again!’ ”
“Well, then, there you have it. She said she didn’t.”
“She said no such thing! If she didn’t, who did? Things make sense, Davey. There is nothing without an explanation. And that is the only explanation possible. She didn’t say she hadn’t done it. She chose her words carefully.”
“God! What a mess.”
“But fascinating, don’t you think? We are children of a fated house.”
“Oh, bullshit! But look—you’ve jumped to a lot of conclusions. I mean, about us being Ramsay’s children—”
“About you being Ramsay’s child. I don’t come into that part.”
“Why me?”
“Well, look at me; I am unmistakenly Boy Staunton’s daughter. Everybody says so. I look very much like him. Do you?”
“That doesn’t prove anything.”
“I can quite understand you don’t want to think so.”
“I think this is all something you’ve made up to amuse yourself. And I think it’s damn nasty—throwing dirt on Mother and making me out to be a bastard. And all this crap about love. What do you know about love? You’re just a kid! You haven’t even got your monthlies yet!”
“So what, Havelock Ellis? I’ve got my full quota of intelligence and that’s more than you can say.”
“Intelligence! You’re just a nasty-minded, mischief-making kid!”
“Oh, go and pee up a tree!” said my sister, who picked up a lot of coarse language at Bishop Cairncross’s.
I took my headache, which was now much worse, to my own room. I looked in the mirror. Caroline was crazy. There was nothing in my face to suggest Dunstan Ramsay. Or was there? If you put my beautiful mother and Old Buggerlugs together, would you produce anything like me? Caroline had such certainty. Of course she was a greedy novel-reader and romancer, but she was no fool. I didn’t look in the least like my father, or the Stauntons, or the Cruikshanks. But—?
I went to bed disheartened but could not sleep. I wanted something, and it took me a long time to admit to myself what I wanted. It was Felix. This was terrible. At my age, wanting a toy bear! It must be the drink. I would never touch a drop of that awful stuff again.
Next day, with elaborate casualness, I asked Netty what had happened to Felix.
“I threw him out years ago,” she said. “What would you want with an old thing like that? He’d only breed moths.”
DR VON HALLER: Your sister sounds very interesting. Is she still like that?
MYSELF: In an adult way, yes, she is. A great manager. And quite a mischief-maker.
DR VON HALLER: She sounds like a very advanced Feeling Type.
MYSELF: Was it Feeling to sow a doubt in my mind that I have never completely settled since?
DR VON HALLER: Oh, certainly. The Feeling Type understands feeling; that does not mean that such people always share feeling or use it tenderly. They are very good at evoking and managing feeling in others. As your sister did with you.
MYSELF: She caught me off balance.
DR VON HALLER: At fourteen, you were no match for a girl of twelve who was an advanced Feeling Type. You were trying to think your way out of an extremely emotional situation. She was just interested in stirring things up and getting Netty under her thumb. Probably it never occurred to her that you would take seriously what she said about your parentage, and would have laughed at you for being foolish if she knew that you did so.
MYSELF: She planted terr
ible doubts in my mind.
DR VON HALLER: Yes, but she woke you up. You must be grateful to her for that. She made you think of who you were. And she put your beautiful mother in a different perspective, as somebody over whom men might quarrel, and whom another woman might think it worthwhile to murder.
MYSELF: I don’t see the good of that.
DR VON HALLER: Very few sons ever do. But it is hard on women to be looked on as mothers only. You North American men are especially guilty of casting your mothers in a cramping, minor role. It is bad for men to look back toward their mothers without recognizing that they were also people—people who might be loved, or possibly murdered.
MYSELF: My mother knew great unhappiness.
DR VON HALLER: You have said that many times. You have even said it about periods when you were too young to have know anything of the sort. It is a kind of refrain in your story. These refrains are always significant. Suppose you tell me what genuine reasons you have for thinking of your mother as an unhappy woman. Reasons that Mr Justice Staunton would admit as evidence in his strict court.
MYSELF: Direct evidence? Does a woman ever tell her children she is unhappy? A neurotic woman, perhaps, who is trying to get some special response out of them by saying so. My mother was not neurotic. She was a very simple person, really.
DR VON HALLER: What indirect evidence, then?
MYSELF: The way she faded after that terrible Abdication Christmas. She seemed to be more confused than before. She was losing her hold on life.
DR VON HALLER: She had been confused before, then?
MYSELF: She had problems. My father’s high expectations. He wanted a brilliant wife, and she tried to be one, but she wasn’t cut out for it.
DR VON HALLER: You observed this before her death? Or did you think of it afterward? Or did somebody tell you it was so?
MYSELF: You’re worse than Caroline! My father told me so. He gave me some advice one time: Never marry your childhood sweetheart, he said; the reasons that make you choose her will all turn into reasons why you should have rejected her.
DR VON HALLER: He was talking of your mother?
MYSELF: He was really talking about a girl I was in love with. But he mentioned Mother. He said she hadn’t grown.
DR VON HALLER: And did you think she had grown?
MYSELF: Why would I care whether she had grown or not? She was my mother.
DR VON HALLER: Until you were fourteen. At that age one is not intellectually demanding. If she were alive now, do you think that you and she would have much to say to one another?
MYSELF: That is not the kind of question that is admitted in Mr Justice Staunton’s court.
DR VON HALLER: Was she a woman of any education? Had she any mind?
MYSELF: Does it matter? I suppose not, really.
DR VON HALLER: Were you angry with your father because of what he said?
MYSELF: I thought it was a hell of a thing to say to a boy about his mother, and I thought it was an unforgivable thing to say about the woman who had been his wife.
DR VON HALLER: I see. Suppose we take a short cut. I wish you would take some time during the next few days to sort out why you think your father must always be impeccable in conduct and opinion, but that very much must be forgiven your mother.
MYSELF: She did try to commit suicide, remember. Doesn’t that speak of unhappiness? Doesn’t that call for pity?
DR VON HALLER: So far we do not know why she made that attempt. Your sister could be right, don’t you see? It could have been because of Ramsay.
MYSELF: That’s nonsense! You’ve never seen Ramsay.
DR VON HALLER: Only through your eyes. As I have seen your parents. But I have seen many women with lovers, and it is not always Venus and Adonis, I assure you. But let us leave this theme until we have done more work, and you have had time to do some private investigation of your feelings about your mother. See what you can do to form an opinion of her as a woman—as a person you might meet…. But now I should like to talk for a moment about Felix. You tell me he has been appearing in your dreams—What does he do there?
MYSELF: He doesn’t do anything. He’s just there.
DR VON HALLER: Alive?
MYSELF: Alive as he was when I knew him. He seemed to have a personality, you know. Rather puzzled and considering, and I did all the talking. And he usually agreed. Sometimes he was doubtful and said no. But his attention seemed to lend something to whatever I had talked about or decided. Do I make any sense?
DR VON HALLER: Oh, yes; excellent sense. These figures we have in our deep selves, you know, have a way of being both external and internal. That one we talked of—the Shadow—he was inward, wasn’t he? And yet as we talked, it appeared that so many of the things you disliked so strongly about him were also to be found in people you knew. You were particularly vehement about Netty’s brother, Maitland Quelch—
MYSELF: Yes, but I should have made it clear that I very rarely met him. I just heard about him from Netty. He was so deserving and he had his way to make in the world single-handed, and he would have been so glad of some of the chances I hardly seemed to notice, and all that sort of thing. Matey’s struggle to qualify as a Chartered Accountant pretty much paralleled my own studies for the Bar, but of course in Netty’s eyes everything had been made easy for me, whereas he did it the hard way. Meritorious Matey! But when I met him, which was as seldom as decency allowed, I always thought he was a loathsome little squirt—
DR VON HALLER: I know. We went into that quite extensively. But in the end we agreed, I think, that you simply read into Matey’s character things you disliked, and these proved after some more investigation to be things which were not wholly absent from your own character. Isn’t that so?
MYSELF: It’s difficult for me to be objective about Matey. When I talk about him I feel myself becoming waspish, and I can’t help describing him as if he were some sort of Dickensian freak. But is it my fault he has damp hands and a bad breath and shows his gums when he smiles and calls me Ted, which nobody else on God’s green earth does, and exudes democratic forgiveness of my wealth and success—
DR VON HALLER: Yes, yes: we were through all that, and at last you admitted that Matey was your scapegoat—a type of all you disliked and feared might come to the surface in yourself—please, one moment—not in these physical characteristics but in the character of the Deserving Person, ill rewarded and ill understood by a careless world. The Orphan of the Storm: the Battered Baby. You don’t have to blush for harbouring something of this in your most secret image of yourself. The important thing is to know what you are doing. That tends to defuse it, you understand. I was not trying during those difficult hours to make you like Matey. I was trying to persuade you to examine a dark corner of yourself.
MYSELF: It was humiliating, but I suppose it must be true.
DR VON HALLER: The truth will grow as we work. That is what we are looking for. The truth, or some part of it.
MYSELF: But although I admit I projected some of the least admirable things in my own character on Matey—you notice how I am picking up words like “projected” from you—I have a hunch that there is something fishy about him. He’s too good to be true.
DR VON HALLER: I am not surprised. Unless one is very naïve, one does not project one’s own evil on people who are especially good. As I have said, if psychiatry worked by rules, every policeman would be a psychiatrist. But let us get back to Felix.
MYSELF: Does his appearance now mean some sort of reversion to childhood?
DR VON HALLER: Only to an emotion you felt in childhood, and which does not seem to have been very common with you since. Felix was a friend. He was a loving friend, but because of your own disposition, he was very much a thinking, considering friend. Now just as the Shadow makes his appearance in this sort of personal investigation, so does a figure we call the Friend. And because you have worked well and diligently for the last few weeks, when the going cannot have been very pleasant, I am gla
d to be able to give you good news. The appearance of the Friend in your inner life and in your dreams is a favourable sign. It means that your analysis is going well.
MYSELF: You’re quite right. This probing and recollecting hasn’t been pleasant. There have been times when I have been annoyed and disgusted with you. There were moments when I wondered if I were really out of my mind to put myself in the hands of anyone who tormented me and thwarted me as you have done.
DR VON HALLER: Quite so. I was aware of it, of course. But as we go on you will find that I seem to be many things to you. If you understand me, part of my professional task is to be the bearer of your projections. When the Shadow was under investigation, and so much of your inferior self was coming to light, you found the Shadow in me. Now we seem to have awakened the image of the Friend in your mind, your spirit, your soul—these are not scientific terms but I promised not to deluge you with jargon—and perhaps I shall not now be so intolerable.
MYSELF: I’m delighted. I would truly like to know you better.
DR VON HALLER: It is yourself you must truly know better. And I should warn you that I shall appear as the Friend only for a limited time. Yes; I have many other parts to play before we are done. And even the Friend is not always benevolent: sometimes friends are truest when they seem unfriendly. It’s funny that your Friend is a bear; I mean, the Friend often appears as an animal, but rarely as a savage animal…. Now, let me see; we have reached your mother’s death, and the moment when Caroline, mischievously but perhaps not untruly, made some suggestions that made you see yourself in a new light. It sounds almost like the end of childhood.
(5)
It was. I was adolescent now. Of course I knew a good deal about what people stupidly call the facts of life, but I had not had much physical experience of what sex meant. Now it began to be very troublesome. I find it odd, now, to read some of the popular books that glorify masturbation; I never thought it would kill me, or anything stupid like that, but I did my best to control it because—well, it seemed such a shabby thing. I suppose I didn’t bring much imagination to it.