LITMIR.BIZ

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come in. We explore that failure. Together. What the psychoanalyst does-and I will confess that I owe much to the psychoanalyst—what he does is to direct thwarted, disappointed and perplexed people to the realities of their own nature. Which they have been accustomed to ignore and forget. They come to us with high ambitions or lovely illusions about themselves, torn, shredded, spoilt. They are morally denuded. Dreams they hate pursue them; abhorrent desires draw them; they are the prey of irresistible yet uncongenial impulses; they succumb to black despairs. The first thing we ask them is this: ‘What else could you expect?’ ”

      “What else could I expect?” Sir Richmond repeated, looking down on him. “H’m!”

      “The wonder is not that you are sluggish, reluctantly unselfish, inattentive, spasmodic. The wonder is that you are ever anything else. … Do you realize that a few million generations ago, everything that stirs in us, everything that exalts human life, self-devotions, heroisms, the utmost triumphs of art, the love—for love it is—that makes you and me care indeed for the fate and welfare of all this round world, was latent in the body of some little lurking beast that crawled and hid among the branches of vanished and forgotten Mesozoic trees? A petty egg-laying, bristle-covered beast it was, with no more of the rudiments of a soul than bare hunger, weak lust and fear. … People always seem to regard that as a curious fact of no practical importance. It isn’t: it’s a vital fact of the utmost practical importance. That is what you are made of. Why should you expect—because a war and a revolution have shocked you—that you should suddenly be able to reach up and touch the sky?”

      “H’m!” said Sir Richmond. “Have I been touching the sky!”

      “You are trying to play the part of an honest rich man.”

      “I don’t care to see the whole system go smash.”

      “Exactly,” said the doctor, before he could prevent himself.

      “But is it any good to tell a man that the job he is attempting is above him—that he is just a hairy reptile twice removed—and all that sort of thing?”

      “Well, it saves him from hoping too much and being too greatly disappointed. It recalls him to the proportions of the job. He gets something done by not attempting everything. … And it clears him up. We get him to look into himself, to see directly and in measurable terms what it is that puts him wrong and holds him back. He’s no longer vaguely incapacitated. He knows.”

      “That’s diagnosis. That’s not treatment.”

      “Treatment by diagnosis. To analyze a mental knot is to untie it.”

      “You propose that I shall spend my time, until the Commission meets, in thinking about myself. I wanted to forget myself.”

      “Like a man who tries to forget that his petrol is running short and a cylinder missing fire. … No. Come back to the question of what you are,” said the doctor. “A creature of the darkness with new lights. Lit and half-blinded by science and the possibilities of controlling the world that it opens out. In that light your will is all for service; you care more for mankind than for yourself. You begin to understand something of the self beyond your self. But it is a partial and a shaded light as yet; a little area about you it makes clear, the rest is still the old darkness—of millions of intense and narrow animal generations. … You are like someone who awakens out of an immemorial sleep to find himself in a vast chamber, in a great and ancient house, a great and ancient house high amidst frozen and lifeless mountains—in a sunless universe. You are not alone in it. You are not lord of all you survey. Your leadership is disputed. The darkness even of the room you are in is full of ancient and discarded but quite unsubjugated powers and purposes. … They thrust ambiguous limbs and claws suddenly out of the darkness into the light of your attention. They snatch things out of your hand, they trip your feet and jog your elbow. They crowd and cluster behind you. Wherever your shadow falls, they creep right up to you, creep upon you and struggle to take possession of you. The souls of apes, monkeys, reptiles and creeping things haunt the passages and attics and cellars of this living house in which your consciousness has awakened. …”

      The doctor gave this quotation from his unpublished book the advantages of an abrupt break and a pause.

      Sir Richmond shrugged his shoulders and smiled. “And you propose a vermin hunt in the old tenement?”

      “The modern man has to be master in his own house. He has to take stock and know what is there.”

      “Three weeks of self vivisection.”

      “To begin with. Three weeks of perfect honesty with yourself. As an opening. … It will take longer than that if we are to go through with the job.”

      “It is a considerable—process.”

      “It is.”

      “Yet you shrink from simple things like drugs!”

      “Self-knowledge—without anaesthetics.”

      “Has this sort of thing ever done anyone any good at all?”

      “It has turned hundreds back to sanity and steady work.”

      “How frank are we going to be? How full are we going to be? Anyhow—we can break off at any time. … We’ll try it. We’ll try it. … And so for this journey into the west of England. … And—if we can get there—I’m not sure that we can get there—into the secret places of my heart.”

CHAPTER THE SECOND

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LADY HARDY

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      The patient left the house with much more self possession than he had shown when entering it. Dr. Martineau had thrust him back from his intenser prepossessions to a more generalized view of himself, had made his troubles objective and detached him from them. He could even find something amusing now in his situation. He liked the immense scope of the theoretical duet in which they had indulged. He felt that most of it was entirely true—and, in some untraceable manner, absurd. There were entertaining possibilities in the prospect of the doctor drawing him out—he himself partly assisting and partly resisting.

      He was a man of extensive reservations. His private life was in some respects exceptionally private.

      “I don’t confide. … Do I even confide in myself? I imagine I do. … Is there anything in myself that I haven’t looked squarely in the face? … How much are we going into? Even as regards facts?

      “Does it really help a man—to see himself? …”

      Such thoughts engaged him until he found himself in his study. His desk and his writing table were piled high with a heavy burthen of work. Still a little preoccupied with Dr. Martineau’s exposition, he began to handle this confusion. …

      At half past nine he found himself with three hours of good work behind him. It had seemed like two. He had not worked like this for many weeks. “This is very cheering,” he said. “And unexpected. Can old Moon-face have hypnotized me? Anyhow— … Perhaps I’ve only imagined I was ill. … Dinner?” He looked at his watch and was amazed at the time. “Good Lord! I’ve been at it three hours. What can have happened? Funny I didn’t hear the gong.”

      He went downstairs and found Lady Hardy reading a magazine in a dining-room armchair and finely poised between devotion and martyrdom. A shadow of vexation fell athwart his mind at the sight of her.

      “I’d no idea it was so late,” he said. “I heard no gong.”

      “After you swore so at poor Bradley I ordered that there should be no

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