on her? Don’t you feel sorry for the poor child?”
He looked at her. Then he sat down at his leisure. Yes, he obviously seemed willing to discuss the subject at greater length, and a foreboding, both pleasant and unnerving, made her suspect that he was prepared to argue it point-by-point with her. Everything in her was waiting for his long pause to end. But perhaps intentionally, perhaps because he was deep in thought, he let it go on for a long time before continuing.
“Don’t I feel sorry for her, you ask? Well, I won’t say any more about that today. She feels better now that she’s been punished, although her punishment seems bitter too. She was unhappy yesterday when she put the broken bits of the poor little horse in the stove. Everyone in the house was looking for it, and she was afraid all day that it was sure to be found. That fear was worse than the punishment, which after all is something definite, and whether it’s hard on her or not, it’s still better than the terrible uncertainty and cruel suspense she was feeling earlier. As soon as she knew her punishment she felt all right. Don’t let her tears lead you astray; yes, they came pouring out, but they’d been dammed up inside her before, and they hurt worse there than on the surface. If she weren’t a child, or if we could somehow see right into her mind, I think we’d discover that she is really glad to have been found out, in spite of her punishment and her tears. She’s certainly happier than she was yesterday, whenshe appeared not to have a care in the world, and no one suspected her.”
Irene looked up. She felt as if every word were directed at her. But he seemed to take no notice of her, perhaps misinterpreting her movement, and only went on in a firm voice:
“It really is so, you can believe me. I’ve seen this kind of thing in court and from legal investigations. Defendants in court suffer most from the secrecy, the threat of discovery, the cruel pressure on them to maintain a lie against thousands of little surreptitious attacks. It’s terrible to see a case where the judge already has everything in his hands—the defendant’s guilt, the proof of it, perhaps he even has his verdict ready, only there’s no confession yet, it’s still locked inside the defendant, and however he tries he can’t get it out. I hate to see a defendant writhing and squirming while his ‘Yes, I did it’ has to be torn out of his resisting flesh as if it were on a fish hook. Sometimes it gets stuck high in his throat, and still there’s an irresistible force inside him trying to bring it to the light of day. Defendants retch on it, the words are almost spoken, and then the evil power comes over them, that extraordinary sense of mingled defiance and fear, and they swallow it down again. And the struggle begins all over again. Sometimes the judges are suffering more than the prisoner in the dock. Thecriminal always sees the judge as his enemy, whereas in fact he is trying to help. As a defending lawyer I’m really supposed to warn my clients against confessing, I’m expected to shore up their lies, consolidate them, but in my heart I often can’t bring myself to do it, because not confessing makes them suffer worse than confessing to their crime and paying the penalty. I still don’t really understand how someone can commit a crime, in full knowledge of the danger, and then not find the courage to confess. It seems to me that their petty fear of a few little words is more pitiful than any crime.”
“Do you think it’s … it’s always just fear that … that keeps people from speaking out? Couldn’t it be … well, couldn’t it be shame? Suppose they’re ashamed to talk about it and expose themselves in front of so many people?”
He looked up in surprise. He was not used to getting answers from her. But the word she had used evidently fascinated him.
“Shame, you say … well, shame is only a kind of fear, but a better one, a fear not
He looked at her. Then he sat down at his leisure. Yes, he obviously seemed willing to discuss the subject at greater length, and a foreboding, both pleasant and unnerving, made her suspect that he was prepared to argue it point-by-point with her. Everything in her was waiting for his long pause to end. But perhaps intentionally, perhaps because he was deep in thought, he let it go on for a long time before continuing.
“Don’t I feel sorry for her, you ask? Well, I won’t say any more about that today. She feels better now that she’s been punished, although her punishment seems bitter too. She was unhappy yesterday when she put the broken bits of the poor little horse in the stove. Everyone in the house was looking for it, and she was afraid all day that it was sure to be found. That fear was worse than the punishment, which after all is something definite, and whether it’s hard on her or not, it’s still better than the terrible uncertainty and cruel suspense she was feeling earlier. As soon as she knew her punishment she felt all right. Don’t let her tears lead you astray; yes, they came pouring out, but they’d been dammed up inside her before, and they hurt worse there than on the surface. If she weren’t a child, or if we could somehow see right into her mind, I think we’d discover that she is really glad to have been found out, in spite of her punishment and her tears. She’s certainly happier than she was yesterday, whenshe appeared not to have a care in the world, and no one suspected her.”
Irene looked up. She felt as if every word were directed at her. But he seemed to take no notice of her, perhaps misinterpreting her movement, and only went on in a firm voice:
“It really is so, you can believe me. I’ve seen this kind of thing in court and from legal investigations. Defendants in court suffer most from the secrecy, the threat of discovery, the cruel pressure on them to maintain a lie against thousands of little surreptitious attacks. It’s terrible to see a case where the judge already has everything in his hands—the defendant’s guilt, the proof of it, perhaps he even has his verdict ready, only there’s no confession yet, it’s still locked inside the defendant, and however he tries he can’t get it out. I hate to see a defendant writhing and squirming while his ‘Yes, I did it’ has to be torn out of his resisting flesh as if it were on a fish hook. Sometimes it gets stuck high in his throat, and still there’s an irresistible force inside him trying to bring it to the light of day. Defendants retch on it, the words are almost spoken, and then the evil power comes over them, that extraordinary sense of mingled defiance and fear, and they swallow it down again. And the struggle begins all over again. Sometimes the judges are suffering more than the prisoner in the dock. Thecriminal always sees the judge as his enemy, whereas in fact he is trying to help. As a defending lawyer I’m really supposed to warn my clients against confessing, I’m expected to shore up their lies, consolidate them, but in my heart I often can’t bring myself to do it, because not confessing makes them suffer worse than confessing to their crime and paying the penalty. I still don’t really understand how someone can commit a crime, in full knowledge of the danger, and then not find the courage to confess. It seems to me that their petty fear of a few little words is more pitiful than any crime.”
“Do you think it’s … it’s always just fear that … that keeps people from speaking out? Couldn’t it be … well, couldn’t it be shame? Suppose they’re ashamed to talk about it and expose themselves in front of so many people?”
He looked up in surprise. He was not used to getting answers from her. But the word she had used evidently fascinated him.
“Shame, you say … well, shame is only a kind of fear, but a better one, a fear not
Similar Books
