The Secret Places of the Heart (5 page)

"Isn't it that there is some greater desire at the back of the human
mind?" the doctor suggested. "Which refuses to be content with pleasure
as an end?"

"What greater desire?" asked Sir Richmond, disconcertingly.

"Oh!..." The doctor cast about.

"There is no such greater desire," said Sir Richmond. "You cannot name
it. It is just blind drive. I admit its discontent with pleasure as an
end—but has it any end of its own? At the most you can say that the
rage in life is seeking its desire and hasn't found it."

"Let us help in the search," said the doctor, with an afternoon smile
under his green umbrella. "Go on."

"Since our first talk in Harley Street," said Sir Richmond, "I have been
trying myself over in my mind. (We can drift down this backwater.)"

"Big these trees are," said the doctor with infinite approval.

"I am astonished to discover what a bundle of discordant motives I am.
I do not seem to deserve to be called a personality. I cannot discover
even a general direction. Much more am I like a taxi-cab in which all
sorts of aims and desires have travelled to their destination and got
out. Are we all like that?"

"A bundle held together by a name and address and a certain thread of
memory?" said the doctor and considered. "More than that. More than
that. We have leading ideas, associations, possessions, liabilities."

"We build ourselves a prison of circumstances that keeps us from
complete dispersal."

"Exactly," said the doctor. "And there is also something, a consistency,
that we call character."

"It changes."

"Consistently with itself."

"I have been trying to recall my sexual history," said Sir Richmond,
going off at a tangent. "My sentimental education. I wonder if it
differs very widely from yours or most men's."

"Some men are more eventful in these matters than others," said the
doctor,—it sounded—wistfully.

"They have the same jumble of motives and traditions, I suspect, whether
they are eventful or not. The brakes may be strong or weak but the drive
is the same. I can't remember much of the beginnings of curiosity and
knowledge in these matters. Can you?"

"Not much," said the doctor. "No."

"Your psychoanalysts tell a story of fears, suppressions, monstrous
imaginations, symbolic replacements. I don't remember much of that sort
of thing in my own case. It may have faded out of my mind. There were
probably some uneasy curiosities, a grotesque dream or so perhaps; I
can't recall anything of that sort distinctly now. I had a very lively
interest in women, even when I was still quite a little boy, and a
certain—what shall I call it?—imaginative slavishness—not towards
actual women but towards something magnificently feminine. My first
love—"

Sir Richmond smiled at some secret memory. "My first love was Britannia
as depicted by Tenniel in the cartoons in PUNCH. I must have been a very
little chap at the time of the Britannia affair. I just clung to her in
my imagination and did devoted things for her. Then I recall, a little
later, a secret abject adoration for the white goddesses of the Crystal
Palace. Not for any particular one of them that I can remember,—for all
of them. But I don't remember anything very monstrous or incestuous
in my childish imaginations,—such things as Freud, I understand, lays
stress upon. If there was an Oedipus complex or anything of that sort
in my case it has been very completely washed out again. Perhaps a child
which is brought up in a proper nursery of its own and sees a lot of
pictures of the nude human body, and so on, gets its mind shifted off
any possible concentration upon the domestic aspect of sex. I got to
definite knowledge pretty early. By the time I was eleven or twelve."

"Normally?"

"What is normally? Decently, anyhow. Here again I may be forgetting much
secret and shameful curiosity. I got my ideas into definite form out of
a little straightforward physiological teaching and some dissecting of
rats and mice. My schoolmaster was a capable sane man in advance of
his times and my people believed in him. I think much of this distorted
perverse stuff that grows up in people's minds about sex and develops
into evil vices and still more evil habits, is due to the mystery we
make about these things."

"Not entirely," said the doctor.

"Largely. What child under a modern upbringing ever goes through the
stuffy horrors described in James Joyce's PORTRAIT OF THE ARTIST AS A
YOUNG MAN."

"I've not read it."

"A picture of the Catholic atmosphere; a young soul shut up in darkness
and ignorance to accumulate filth. In the name of purity and decency and
under threats of hell fire."

"Horrible!"

"Quite. A study of intolerable tensions, the tensions that make young
people write unclean words in secret places."

"Yes, we certainly ventilate and sanitate in those matters nowadays.
Where nothing is concealed, nothing can explode."

"On the whole I came up to adolescence pretty straight and clean," said
Sir Richmond. "What stands out in my memory now is this idea, of a
sort of woman goddess who was very lovely and kind and powerful and
wonderful. That ruled my secret imaginations as a boy, but it was very
much in my mind as I grew up."

"The mother complex," said Dr. Martineau as a passing botanist might
recognize and name a flower.

Sir Richmond stared at him for a moment.

"It had not the slightest connexion with my mother or any mother or any
particular woman at all. Far better to call it the goddess complex."

"The connexion is not perhaps immediately visible," said the doctor.

"There was no connexion," said Sir Richmond. "The women of my adolescent
dreams were stripped and strong and lovely. They were great creatures.
They came, it was clearly traceable, from pictures sculpture—and from
a definite response in myself to their beauty. My mother had nothing
whatever to do with that. The women and girls about me were fussy
bunches of clothes that I am sure I never even linked with that dream
world of love and worship."

"Were you co-educated?"

"No. But I had a couple of sisters, one older, one younger than myself,
and there were plenty of girls in my circle. I thought some of them
pretty—but that was a different affair. I know that I didn't connect
them with the idea of the loved and worshipped goddesses at all, because
I remember when I first saw the goddess in a real human being and how
amazed I was at the discovery.... I was a boy of twelve or thirteen. My
people took me one summer to Dymchurch in Romney Marsh; in those days
before the automobile had made the Marsh accessible to the Hythe and
Folkestone crowds, it was a little old forgotten silent wind-bitten
village crouching under the lee of the great sea wall. At low water
there were miles of sand as smooth and shining as the skin of a savage
brown woman. Shining and with a texture—the very same. And one day as I
was mucking about by myself on the beach, boy fashion,—there were some
ribs of a wrecked boat buried in the sand near a groin and I was busy
with them—a girl ran out from a tent high up on the beach and across
the sands to the water. She was dressed in a tight bathing dress and
not in the clumsy skirts and frills that it was the custom to inflict
on women in those days. Her hair was tied up in a blue handkerchief. She
ran swiftly and gracefully, intent upon the white line of foam ahead. I
can still remember how the sunlight touched her round neck and cheek as
she went past me. She was the loveliest, most shapely thing I have
ever seen—to this day. She lifted up her arms and thrust through the
dazzling white and green breakers and plunged into the water and swam;
she swam straight out for a long way as it seemed to me, and presently
came in and passed me again on her way back to her tent, light and
swift and sure. The very prints of her feet on the sand were beautiful.
Suddenly I realized that there could be living people in the world as
lovely as any goddess.... She wasn't in the least out of breath.

"That was my first human love. And I love that girl still. I doubt
sometimes whether I have ever loved anyone else. I kept the thing very
secret. I wonder now why I have kept the thing so secret. Until now I
have never told a soul about it. I resorted to all sorts of tortuous
devices and excuses to get a chance of seeing her again without
betraying what it was I was after."

Dr. Martineau retained a simple fondness for a story.

"And did you meet her again?"

"Never. Of course I may have seen her as a dressed-up person and not
recognized her. A day or so later I was stabbed to the heart by the
discovery that the tent she came out of had been taken away."

"She had gone?"

"For ever."

Sir Richmond smiled brightly at the doctor's disappointment.

"I was never wholehearted and simple about sexual things," Sir Richmond
resumed presently. "Never. I do not think any man is. We are too
much plastered-up things, too much the creatures of a tortuous and
complicated evolution."

Dr. Martineau, under his green umbrella, nodded his conceded agreement.

"This—what shall I call it?—this Dream of Women, grew up in my mind as
I grew up—as something independent of and much more important than the
reality of Women. It came only very slowly into relation with that. That
girl on the Dymchurch beach was one of the first links, but she ceased
very speedily to be real—she joined the women of dreamland at last
altogether. She became a sort of legendary incarnation. I thought of
these dream women not only as something beautiful but as something
exceedingly kind and helpful. The girls and women I met belonged to a
different creation...."

Sir Richmond stopped abruptly and rowed a few long strokes.

Dr. Martineau sought information.

"I suppose," he said, "there was a sensuous element in these dreamings?"

"Certainly. A very strong one. It didn't dominate but it was a very
powerful undertow."

"Was there any tendency in all this imaginative stuff to concentrate?
To group itself about a single figure, the sort of thing that Victorians
would have called an ideal?"

"Not a bit of it," said Sir Richmond with conviction. "There was always
a tremendous lot of variety in my mind. In fact the thing I liked least
in the real world was the way it was obsessed by the idea of pairing off
with one particular set and final person. I liked to dream of a blonde
goddess in her own Venusberg one day, and the next I would be off over
the mountains with an armed Brunhild."

"You had little thought of children?"

"As a young man?"

"Yes."

"None at all. I cannot recall a single philoprogenitive moment. These
dream women were all conceived of, and I was conceived of, as being
concerned in some tremendous enterprise—something quite beyond
domesticity. It kept us related—gave us dignity.... Certainly it wasn't
babies."

"All this is very interesting, very interesting, from the scientific
point of view. A PRIORI it is not what one might have expected.
Reasoning from the idea that all instincts and natural imaginations are
adapted to a biological end and seeing that sex is essentially a method
of procreation, one might reasonably expect a convergence, if not a
complete concentration, upon the idea of offspring. It is almost as
if there were other ends to be served. It is clear that Nature has
not worked this impulse out to any sight of its end. Has not perhaps
troubled to do so. The instinct of the male for the female isn't
primarily for offspring—not even in the most intelligent and farseeing
types. The desire just points to glowing satisfactions and illusions.
Quite equally I think the desire of the female for the male ignores its
end. Nature has set about this business in a CHEAP sort of way. She is
like some pushful advertising tradesman. She isn't frank with us; she
just humbugs us into what she wants with us. All very well in the early
Stone Age—when the poor dear things never realized that their mutual
endearments meant all the troubles and responsibilities of parentage.
But NOW—!"

He shook his head sideways and twirled the green umbrella like an
animated halo around his large broad-minded face.

Sir Richmond considered. "Desire has never been the chief incentive of
my relations with women. Never. So far as I can analyze the thing, it
has been a craving for a particular sort of life giving companionship."

"That I take it is Nature's device to keep the lovers together in the
interest of the more or less unpremeditated offspring."

"A poor device, if that is its end. It doesn't keep parents together;
more often it tears them apart. The wife or the mistress, so soon as
she is encumbered with children, becomes all too manifestly not the
companion goddess...."

Sir Richmond brooded over his sculls and thought.

"Throughout my life I have been an exceedingly busy man. I have done a
lot of scientific work and some of it has been very good work. And
very laborious work. I've travelled much. I've organized great business
developments. You might think that my time has been fairly well
filled without much philandering. And all the time, all the time, I've
been—about women—like a thirsty beast looking for water.... Always.
Always. All through my life."

Dr. Martineau waited through another silence.

"I was very grave about it at first. I married young. I married very
simply and purely. I was not one of those young men who sow a large crop
of wild oats. I was a fairly decent youth. It suddenly appeared to me
that a certain smiling and dainty girl could make herself into all the
goddesses of my dreams. I had but to win her and this miracle would
occur. Of course I forget now the exact things I thought and felt then,
but surely I had some such persuasion. Or why should I have married her?
My wife was seven years younger than myself,—a girl of twenty. She
was charming. She is charming. She is a wonderfully intelligent and
understanding woman. She has made a home for me—a delightful home. I am
one of those men who have no instinct for home making. I owe my home and
all the comfort and dignity of my life to her ability. I have no excuse
for any misbehaviour—so far as she is concerned. None at all. By
all the rules I should have been completely happy. But instead of my
marriage satisfying me, it presently released a storm of long-controlled
desires and imprisoned cravings. A voice within me became more and more
urgent. 'This will not do. This is not love. Where are your goddesses?
This is not love.'... And I was unfaithful to my wife within four years
of my marriage. It was a sudden overpowering impulse. But I suppose the
ground had been preparing for a long time. I forget now all the emotions
of that adventure. I suppose at the time it seemed beautiful and
wonderful.... I do not excuse myself. Still less do I condemn myself. I
put the facts before you. So it was."