The Secret Places of the Heart. Герберт Уэллс
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some such blow-off as this.”
“Did I?”
“The energy you have! That car must be somebody’s whipping boy.”
“The devil it is!” said Sir Richmond, turning round sharply and staring at it as if he expected it to display some surprising and yet familiar features. Then he looked questioningly and suspiciously at his companion.
“These outbreaks do nothing to amend the originating grievance,” said the doctor. “No. And at times they are even costly. But they certainly lift a burthen from the nervous system… And now I suppose we have to get that little ruin to Maidenhead.”
“Little ruin!” repeated Sir Richmond. “No. There’s lots of life in the little beast yet.”
He reflected. “She’ll have to be towed.” He felt in his breast pocket. “Somewhere I have the R.A.C. order paper, the Badge that will Get You Home. We shall have to hail some passing car to take it into Maidenhead.”
Dr. Martineau offered and Sir Richmond took and lit a cigarette.
For a little while conversation hung fire. Then for the first time Dr. Martineau heard his patient laugh.
“Amazing savage,” said Sir Richmond. “Amazing savage!”
He pointed to his handiwork. “The little car looks ruffled. Well it may.”
He became grave again. “I suppose I ought to apologize.”
Dr. Martineau weighed the situation. “As between doctor and patient,” he said. “No.”
“Oh!” said Sir Richmond, turned to a new point of view. “But where the patient ends and the host begins… I’m really very sorry.” He reverted to his original train of thought which had not concerned Dr. Martineau at all. “After all, the little car was only doing what she was made to do.”
The affair of the car effectively unsealed Sir Richmond’s mind. Hitherto Dr. Martineau had perceived the possibility and danger of a defensive silence or of a still more defensive irony; but now that Sir Richmond had once given himself away, he seemed prepared to give himself away to an unlimited extent. He embarked upon an apologetic discussion of the choleric temperament.
He began as they stood waiting for the relief car from the Maidenhead garage. “You were talking of the ghosts of apes and monkeys that suddenly come out from the darkness of the subconscious…”
“You mean – when we first met at Harley Street?”
“That last apparition of mine seems to have been a gorilla at least.”
The doctor became precise. “Gorillaesque. We are not descended from gorillas.”
“Queer thing a fit of rage is!”
“It’s one of nature’s cruder expedients. Crude, but I doubt if it is fundamental. There doesn’t seem to be rage in the vegetable world, and even among the animals – ? No, it is not universal.” He ran his mind over classes and orders. “Wasps and bees certainly seem to rage, but if one comes to think, most of the invertebrata show very few signs of it.”
“I’m not so sure,” said Sir Richmond. “I’ve never seen a snail in a towering passion or an oyster slamming its shell behind it. But these are sluggish things. Oysters sulk, which is after all a smouldering sort of rage. And take any more active invertebrate. Take a spider. Not a smashing and swearing sort of rage perhaps, but a disciplined, cold-blooded malignity. Crabs fight. A conger eel in a boat will rage dangerously.”
“A vertebrate. Yes. But even among the vertebrata; who has ever seen a furious rabbit?”
“Don’t the bucks fight?” questioned Sir Richmond.
Dr. Martineau admitted the point.
“I’ve always had these fits of passion. As far back as I can remember. I was a kicking, screaming child. I threw things. I once threw a fork at my elder brother and it stuck in his forehead, doing no serious damage – happily. There were whole days of wrath – days, as I remember them. Perhaps they were only hours… I’ve never thought before what a peculiar thing all this raging is in the world. WHY do we rage? They used to say it was the devil. If it isn’t the devil, then what the devil is it? After all,” he went on as the doctor was about to answer his question; “as you pointed out, it isn’t the lowlier things that rage. It’s the HIGHER things and US.”
“The devil nowadays,” the doctor reflected after a pause, “so far as man is concerned, is understood to be the ancestral ape. And more particularly the old male ape.”
But Sir Richmond was away on another line of thought. “Life itself, flaring out. Brooking no contradiction.” He came round suddenly to the doctor’s qualification. “Why male? Don’t little girls smash things just as much?”
“They don’t,” said Dr. Martineau. “Not nearly as much.”
Sir Richmond went off at a tangent again. “I suppose you have watched any number of babies?”’
“Not nearly as many as a general practitioner would do. There’s a lot of rage about most of them at first, male or female.”
“Queer little eddies of fury… Recently – it happens – I’ve been seeing one. A spit of red wrath, clenching its fists and squalling threats at a damned disobedient universe.”
The doctor was struck by an idea and glanced quickly and questioningly at his companion’s profile.
“Blind driving force,” said Sir Richmond, musing.
“Isn’t that after all what we really are?” he asked the doctor. “Essentially – Rage. A rage in dead matter, making it alive.”
“Schopenhauer,” footnoted the doctor. “Boehme.”
“Plain fact,” said Sir Richmond. “No Rage – no Go.”
“But rage without discipline?”
“Discipline afterwards. The rage first.”
“But rage against what? And FOR what?”
“Against the Universe. And for – ? That’s more difficult. What IS the little beast squalling itself crimson for? Ultimately? … What is it clutching after? In the long run, what will it get?”
(“Yours the car in distress what sent this?” asked an unheeded voice.)
“Of course, if you were to say ‘desire’,” said Dr. Martineau, “then you would be in line with the psychoanalysts. They talk of LIBIDO, meaning a sort of fundamental desire. Jung speaks of it at times almost as if it were the universal driving force.”
“No,” said Sir Richmond, in love with his new idea. “Not desire. Desire would have a definite direction, and that is just what this driving force hasn’t. It’s rage.”
“Yours the car in distress what sent this?” the voice repeated. It was the voice of a mechanic in an Overland car. He was holding up the blue request for assistance that Sir Richmond had recently filled in.
The two philosophers returned to practical matters.
For half an hour after the departure of the little Charmeuse car with Sir Richmond and Dr. Martineau, the brass Mercury lay unheeded in the dusty roadside grass. Then it caught the eye of a passing child.
He was a bright little boy of five. From the moment when he caught the gleam of brass he knew that he had made the find of his life. But his nurse was a timorous, foolish thing. “You did ought to of left it there, Masterrarry,” she said.
“Findings ain’t keepings nowadays, not by no manner of means, Masterrarry.
“Yew’d look silly if a policeman came along arsting people if they seen a goldennimage.
“Arst yer ‘ow you come by it and look pretty straight at you.”
All of which grumblings Master Harry treated with an experienced disregard. He knew definitely that he would never relinquish