The Breaking Point

by Mary Roberts Rinehart

  VI

  On Wednesday morning David was in an office in the city. He satforward on the edge of his chair, and from time to time he took outhis handkerchief and wiped his face or polished his glasses, quiteunconscious of either action. He was in his best suit, with the tie Lucyhad given him for Christmas.

  Across from him, barricaded behind a great mahogany desk, sat a smallman with keen eyes and a neat brown beard. On the desk were a spotlessblotter, an inkstand of silver and a pen. Nothing else. The terribleorder of the place had at first rather oppressed David.

  The small man was answering a question.

  "Rather on the contrary, I should say. The stronger the character thegreater the smash."

  David pondered this.

  "I've read all you've written on the subject," he said finally."Especially since the war."

  The psycho-analyst put his finger tips together, judicially. "Yes. Thewar bore me out," he observed with a certain complacence. "It added agreat deal to our literature, too, although some of the positions arenot well taken. Van Alston, for instance--"

  "You have said, I think, that every man has a breaking point."

  "Absolutely. All of us. We can go just so far. Where the mind is strongand very sound we can go further than when it is not. Some men, forinstance, lead lives that would break you or me. Was there--was theresuch a history in this case?"

  "Yes." Doctor David's voice was reluctant.

  "The mind is a strange thing," went on the little man, musingly. "Ithas its censors, that go off duty during sleep. Our sternest and oftenunconscious repressions pass them then, and emerge in the form ofdreams. But of course you know all that. Dream symbolism. Doesthe person in this case dream? That would be interesting, perhapsimportant."

  "I don't know," David said unhappily.

  "The walling off, you say, followed a shock?"

  "Shock and serious illness."

  "Was there fear with the shock?"

  David hesitated. "Yes," he said finally. "Very great fear, I believe."

  Doctor Lauler glanced quickly at David and then looked away.

  "I see," he nodded. "Of course the walling off of a part of thepast--you said a part--?"

  "Practically all of it. I'll tell you about that later. What about thewalling off?"

  "It is generally the result of what we call the protective mechanism offear. Back of most of these cases lies fear. Not cowardice, but perhapswe might say the limit of endurance. Fear is a complex, of course.Dislike, in a small way, has the same reaction. We are apt to forgetthe names of persons we dislike. But if you have been reading on thesubject--"

  "I've been studying it for ten years."

  "Ten years! Do you mean that this condition has persisted for tenyears?"

  David moistened his dry lips. "Yes," he admitted. "It might not havedone so, but the--the person who made this experiment used suggestion.The patient was very ill, and weak. It was desirable that he shouldnot identify himself with his past. The loss of memory of the periodimmediately preceding was complete, but of course, gradually, the cloudbegan to lift over the earlier periods. It was there that suggestionwas used, so that such memories as came back were,--well, the patientadapted them to fit what he was told."

  Again Doctor Lauler shot a swift glance at David, and looked away.

  "An interesting experiment," he commented. "It must have taken courage."

  "A justifiable experiment," David affirmed stoutly. "And it tookcourage. Yes."

  David got up and reached for his hat. Then he braced himself for thereal purpose of his visit.

  "What I have been wondering about," he said, very carefully, "is this:this mechanism of fear, this wall--how strong is it?"

  "Strong?"

  "It's like a dam, I take it. It holds back certain memories, like afloodgate. Is anything likely to break it down?"

  "Possibly something intimately connected with the forgotten period mightdo it. I don't know, Livingstone. We've only commenced to dig intothe mind, and we have many theories and a few established facts. Forinstance, the primal instincts--"

  He talked on, with David nodding now and then in apparent understanding,but with his thoughts far away. He knew the theories; a good many ofthem he considered poppycock. Dreams might come from the subconsciousmind, but a good many of them came from the stomach. They might besafety valves for the mind, but also they might be rarebit. He didn'twant dreams; what he wanted was facts. Facts and hope.

  The office attendant came in. She was as tidy as the desk, as obsessedby order, as wooden. She placed a pad before the small man and withdrew.He rose.

  "Let me know if I can be of any further assistance, Doctor," he said."And I'll be glad to see your patient at any time. I'd like the recordfor my files."

  "Thank you," David said. He stood fingering his hat.

  "I suppose there's nothing to do? The dam will either break, or itwon't."

  "That's about it. Of course since the conditions that produced thesetting up of the defensive machinery were unhappy, I'd say thathappiness will play a large part in the situation. That happiness anda normal occupation will do a great deal to maintain the status quo.Of course I would advise no return to the unhappy environment, and noshocks. Nothing, in other words, to break down the wall."

  Outside, in the corridor, David remembered to put on his hat. Happinessand a normal occupation, yes. But no shock.

  Nevertheless, he felt vaguely comforted, and as though it had helped tobring the situation out into the open and discuss it. He had carried hisburden alone for ten years, or with only the additional weight of Lucy'sapprehensions. He wandered out into the city streets, and found himself,some time later, at the railway station, without remembering how he gotthere.

  Across from the station was a large billboard, and on it the name ofBeverly Carlysle and her play, "The Valley." He stood for some time andlooked at it, before he went in to buy his ticket. Not until he was inthe train did he realize that he had forgotten to get his lunch.

  He attended to his work that evening as usual, but he felt very tired,and Lucy, going in at nine o'clock, found him dozing in his chair, hiscollar half choking him and his face deeply suffused. She wakened himand then, sitting down across from him, joined him in the vigil that wasto last until they heard the car outside.

  She had brought in her sewing, and David pretended to read. Now and thenhe looked at his watch.

  At midnight they heard the car go in, and the slamming of the stabledoor, followed by Dick's footsteps on the walk outside. Lucy was verypale, and the hands that held her sewing twitched nervously. Suddenlyshe stood up and put a hand on David's shoulder.

  Dick was whistling on the kitchen porch.