help me."
He went on to ask if I had felt grief on that "sad occasion." The question struck me as an odd one; I'd have been much embarrassed if I'd had to ask anyone a thing like that.
I answered that, of recent years, I'd rather lost the habit of noting my feelings, and hardly knew what to answer. I could truthfully say I'd been quite fond of Mother— but really that didn't mean much. All normal people, I added as on afterthought, had more or less desired the death of those they loved, at some time or another.
Here the lawyer interrupted me, looking greatly perturbed.
"You must promise me not to say anything of that sort at the trial, or to the examining magistrate."
I promised, to satisfy him, but I explained that my physical condition at any given moment often influenced my feelings. For instance, on the day I attended Mother's funeral, I was fagged out and only half awake. So, really, I hardly took stock of what was happening. Anyhow, I could assure him of one thing: that I'd rather Mother hadn't died.
The lawyer, however, looked displeased. "That's not enough," he said curtly.
After considering for a bit he asked me if he could say that on that day I had kept my feelings under control.
"No," I said. "That wouldn't be true."
He gave me a queer look, as if I slightly revolted him; then informed me, in an almost hostile tone, that in any case the head of the Home and some of the staff would be cited as witnesses.
"And that might do you a very nasty turn," he concluded.
When I suggested that Mother's death had no connection with the charge against me, he merely replied that this remark showed I'd never had any dealings with the law.
Soon after this he left, looking quite vexed. I wished he had stayed longer and I could have explained that I desired his sympathy, not for him to make a better job of my defense, but, if I might put it so, spontaneously. I could see that I got on his nerves; he couldn't make me out, and, naturally enough, this irritated him. Once or twice I had a mind to assure him that I was just like everybody else; quite an ordinary person. But really that would have served no great purpose, and I let it go—out of laziness as much as anything else.
Later in the day I was taken again to the examining magistrate's office. It was two in the afternoon and, this time, the room was flooded with light—there was only a thin curtain on the window—and extremely hot.
After inviting me to sit down, the magistrate informed me in a very polite tone that, "owing to unforeseen circumstances," my lawyer was unable to be present. I should be quite entitled, he added, to reserve my answers to his questions until my lawyer could attend.
To this I replied that I could answer for myself. He pressed a bell push on his desk and a young clerk came in and seated himself just behind me. Then we—I and the magistrate—settled back in our chairs and the examination began. He led off by remarking that I had the reputation of being a taciturn, rather self-centered person, and he'd like to know what I had to say to that. I answered:
"Well, I rarely have anything much to say. So, naturally I keep my mouth shut."
He smiled as on the previous occasion, and agreed that that was the best of reasons. "In any case," he added, "it has little or no importance."
After a short silence he suddenly leaned forward, looked me in the eyes, and said, raising his voice a little:
"What really interests me is—you!"
I wasn't quite clear what he meant, so I made no comment.
"There are several things," he continued, "that puzzle me about your crime. I feel sure that you will help me to understand them."
When I replied that really it was quite simple, he asked me to give him an account of what I'd done that day. As a matter of fact, I had already told him at our first interview—in a summary sort of way, of course—about Raymond, the beach, our swim, the fight, then the beach again, and the five shots I'd fired. But I went over
He went on to ask if I had felt grief on that "sad occasion." The question struck me as an odd one; I'd have been much embarrassed if I'd had to ask anyone a thing like that.
I answered that, of recent years, I'd rather lost the habit of noting my feelings, and hardly knew what to answer. I could truthfully say I'd been quite fond of Mother— but really that didn't mean much. All normal people, I added as on afterthought, had more or less desired the death of those they loved, at some time or another.
Here the lawyer interrupted me, looking greatly perturbed.
"You must promise me not to say anything of that sort at the trial, or to the examining magistrate."
I promised, to satisfy him, but I explained that my physical condition at any given moment often influenced my feelings. For instance, on the day I attended Mother's funeral, I was fagged out and only half awake. So, really, I hardly took stock of what was happening. Anyhow, I could assure him of one thing: that I'd rather Mother hadn't died.
The lawyer, however, looked displeased. "That's not enough," he said curtly.
After considering for a bit he asked me if he could say that on that day I had kept my feelings under control.
"No," I said. "That wouldn't be true."
He gave me a queer look, as if I slightly revolted him; then informed me, in an almost hostile tone, that in any case the head of the Home and some of the staff would be cited as witnesses.
"And that might do you a very nasty turn," he concluded.
When I suggested that Mother's death had no connection with the charge against me, he merely replied that this remark showed I'd never had any dealings with the law.
Soon after this he left, looking quite vexed. I wished he had stayed longer and I could have explained that I desired his sympathy, not for him to make a better job of my defense, but, if I might put it so, spontaneously. I could see that I got on his nerves; he couldn't make me out, and, naturally enough, this irritated him. Once or twice I had a mind to assure him that I was just like everybody else; quite an ordinary person. But really that would have served no great purpose, and I let it go—out of laziness as much as anything else.
Later in the day I was taken again to the examining magistrate's office. It was two in the afternoon and, this time, the room was flooded with light—there was only a thin curtain on the window—and extremely hot.
After inviting me to sit down, the magistrate informed me in a very polite tone that, "owing to unforeseen circumstances," my lawyer was unable to be present. I should be quite entitled, he added, to reserve my answers to his questions until my lawyer could attend.
To this I replied that I could answer for myself. He pressed a bell push on his desk and a young clerk came in and seated himself just behind me. Then we—I and the magistrate—settled back in our chairs and the examination began. He led off by remarking that I had the reputation of being a taciturn, rather self-centered person, and he'd like to know what I had to say to that. I answered:
"Well, I rarely have anything much to say. So, naturally I keep my mouth shut."
He smiled as on the previous occasion, and agreed that that was the best of reasons. "In any case," he added, "it has little or no importance."
After a short silence he suddenly leaned forward, looked me in the eyes, and said, raising his voice a little:
"What really interests me is—you!"
I wasn't quite clear what he meant, so I made no comment.
"There are several things," he continued, "that puzzle me about your crime. I feel sure that you will help me to understand them."
When I replied that really it was quite simple, he asked me to give him an account of what I'd done that day. As a matter of fact, I had already told him at our first interview—in a summary sort of way, of course—about Raymond, the beach, our swim, the fight, then the beach again, and the five shots I'd fired. But I went over
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