The World Is Made of Glass

by Morris West

  “As you wish, doctor.”

  “Are we going to carry on this silly quarrel all day?”

  “There is no quarrel, my dear doctor. You’ve taught me my place. Be sure that from now on, I’ll stay in it.”

  “Good! Then bring your notebook over to my desk. I want to get something down immediately.”

  I begin dictating the experience I have just had in the garden: I see her anger abating as her professional curiosity is awakened. She seizes instantly on my description of the “testudo”, the wall of shields. She points out, quite rightly, that the shield is not a weapon but a defence. Could it be that the invisible legions were trying to protect themselves from me? She labours to explain this odd thought:

  “You’ve often described yourself as haunted or inhabited by a daimon. At other times you’ve called yourself a ‘numinous’ person: one in whom power resides without his being aware of it, or even being able to control it. . .” She breaks off as if searching for words, then with an odd unexpected warmth she continues: “Has it never occurred to you that you might be the hostile influence and that these spirits, emanations, personifications – whatever you like to call them – are afraid of you?” She gives me a sidelong, tentative smile. “I’m not trying to be nasty, believe me. I know I’m bitchy today. I’ve got my period, and I feel like hell. But you’re the one who’s been setting everyone’s teeth on edge. The children must go for a picnic! Old Simmel charges too much! Mind your manners, Toni! Yes I want, no I don’t want! No wonder you scare off even the spooks in the garden!”

  We laugh in spite of ourselves. We kiss and make up. We drink a surreptitious glass of brandy just to toast our reunion. I light my pipe and we talk again about the phenomenon. Suddenly out of the blue I remember a quotation from Goethe’s Faust which exactly describes the constellation of personages or influences which I experienced. “It walks abroad, it’s in the air.”

  There is a key here to a puzzle which I have not yet been able to solve. It is the puzzle of time: past, present, future, now, then. I am dredging up memories, symbols, myths, archetypes, whose roots are buried in the mists of prehistory. Nevertheless, they are mine, too. I give them another shape. I endow them with another numen and pass them on. Or do I? Have they perhaps taken possession of me, as the wind takes possession of the hollow reed, making its own music from a passive instrument? I know this is not science. There is no method to it, no logic, no sequence of cause and effect. Rather it is an act of spontaneous creation. Fra Angelico dreams heaven and lo! there it is, limned on the vaulted ceiling. Dante dreams hell and the words ring plangent down the centuries. “Nessun maggior dolore che ricordarsi del tempo felice, nella miseria.”

  I, too, am searching for words to express the nature of the Godlike act when Emma announces that Frau Hirschfeld has arrived. Instantly I am beset by an irrational terror. I do not want to see this woman. No good will come of the encounter. It is too late and I have no valid reason to refuse her entry now. Two minutes later she steps into my study – and takes immediate possession, like a queen entering the domain of a vassal.

  She has all the beauty of maturity. She is elegantly gowned. She has a splendid assurance of gesture and movement. She dominates my scholar’s retreat as a great actress dominates a provincial theatre. I feel the impact of a strong will and a passionate spirit.

  My irrational fear subsides into awe and then into a very lively lust. I hope neither Toni nor Emma will read it in my face. I realise that all my desires have been for younger women and for those emotionally dependent on me. I wonder what it would be like to fall in love with someone who knows how to spell all the words. Then I ask myself: if she knows how to spell the words, why the devil has she come to me? God help you, Carl Jung, for a mealy mouthed Swiss hypocrite! You’re head over heels and gone for this one, and you can’t wait to lay siege to her!

  MAGDA

  Zurich

  This Carl Jung is a good-looking man. He is tall, flat bellied, strongly built, and he carries himself like a soldier. His hair is cropped short and his eyes are bright with intelligence. His handshake is firm and dry. He reminds me vaguely of Papa as a young man – something in the look perhaps, the hint of mischief, the sidelong way he scans you, like a good horse-trader inspecting a promising filly.

  The girl is interesting; not pretty, but with a kind of elfin, gypsy charm. She is full of brisk business, very possessive, very much the assistant to the great man:

  “May I take your hat and parasol, Madame? Please be seated there, by the doctor’s desk. We need to get a few personal details before we begin the session.”

  We? I’m very sorry, my pretty one, but one or other of us will be gone in five minutes, I promise you! Jung is at pains to make me feel at ease. I hand him Gianni’s letter of introduction. He reads it and hands it back. He grins and makes a pedantic joke.

  “Etymologically it’s not quite accurate. You’re pseudonymous, not anonymous. Well, Hirschfeld will be as good a label as any – for the moment! The name is less important than the person; but we do need some facts about her. Miss Wolff will take the notes. I’ll ask the questions.”

  He perches himself on the edge of his desk, swinging his long legs. Miss Wolff, notebook in hand, sits in his chair facing me. I have the notion that this is some kind of ritual to establish her as a personage on the stage. I am still determined she won’t be there too long. Jung begins the interrogation:

  “How old are you, Frau Hirschfeld?”

  “Forty-five.”

  “Married or single?”

  “I am a widow.”

  “For how long?”

  “Fifteen years.”

  “Any children?”

  “One daughter.”

  “And how old is she?”

  “Nineteen.”

  “What is your nationality?”

  “Is that important?”

  “It may be; it may not.”

  “Then let’s say I’m European.”

  “What is your mother tongue?”

  “I am equally fluent in English, French. Italian, German and Hungarian.”

  “How do you occupy your time?”

  “I used to practise medicine. I gave it up after my husband’s death. Since then I have been running a country estate, where I breed horses and dogs.”

  “Where did you do your medical training?”

  “Italy and Austria, with some post-graduate work in London.”

  “Can you give me a summary of your health in medical terms?”

  “As a child I had mumps, measles, chicken pox and the common cold. In adult life I have had no major illness and no surgery. I have no respiratory, cardiovascular or urinary problems. Although I am forty-five, my periods are still regular and I have not yet experienced any symptoms of menopause. I take regular exercise My muscle tone is excellent.”

  “What about sexual activity?”

  “I have no permanent lover, but I am adequately entertained.”

  “How often?”

  “Very adequately, doctor, thank you.”

  “Well.” He gives me a wide, happy smile. “You’re in excellent health, you have a very adequate sex life. What is troubling you?”

  And there it is, flat and pat as a pancake, the question I have been dreading. I am still not prepared to answer it. I tell him with studious formality:

  “With the greatest respect, doctor, and with all deference to Miss Wolff, I desire to consult with you alone.”

  He does not refuse outright. Clearly, he has to save the blushes of his young colleague, who is not, I think, as demure as she looks. He tells me first:

  “Miss Wolff is my assistant and my trusted colleague. Her insights are extremely valuable in diagnosis.”

  “I am sure they are. Nevertheless . . .”

  “Please!” He holds up an admonitory hand. “Please let me finish. I respect your desire for privacy; but as a consulting physician yourself, you will understand the precautions one must take with a new pa
tient. Some of mine can be quite violent. One threatened me with a loaded revolver. Among my women patients there are those who entertain delusions – and spread false gossip – that they are the objects of lustful desire or attempted rape.”

  I assure him, with my most modest smile, that I am neither violent nor deluded. He yields the point with good humour. He tells Miss Wolff to leave us alone. He should be ready for her in about two hours – which, he explains to me, is the upper limit of endurance for patient and analyst in a single session. As Miss Wolff makes her exit, I remark that she seems a very competent young lady – and a beautiful one. He is obviously flattered by proxy.

  “She’s quite brilliant, a fine poet, an outstanding analyst.”

  “And, clearly, she is devoted to you.”

  “As we are to her. In this business one needs loyal and discreet colleagues.”

  I give him full marks for that: no concessions, a salute to the absent, a terse little homily on professional trust. I brace myself for a new round of questioning. Instead he gives me an encouraging grin and some gentle advice.

  “I know how you feel. It’s like being asked to undress in the middle of the Bahnhofstrasse. Let me try to explain how we work. It’s quite different from physical diagnosis, where the parameters of the body and its internal structures and functions determine the logic of our investigations. So unless there is a malfunction in the brain itself, we analysts are dealing always with intangibles, giant jigsaw puzzles with pieces scattered all over the board, in the past and in the present. We’re concerned as much with dreams as with realities . . . with crimes that are never committed and those that are perpetrated in a strange kind of innocence. You must understand that the analyst is not a judge. He is, rather, a detective like that famous Englishman, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. He hopes that he may be a healer as well; because much of our mental health depends upon our understanding of ourselves and on coming to terms with what we understand. So, two things to remember. You have nothing to fear from me – and nothing you can tell me will surprise me. I’ve heard it all. I’ve dreamed it all – because what we miss, good and bad, in our daily lives, we make up in dreams.”

  It is as if he has thrown me a lifeline in the midst of a raging sea. I grasp at it desperately. I tell him eagerly:

  “That’s one of the things that brought me to you. I am having a recurrent nightmare which disturbs me very much and leaves me always exhausted and depressed.”

  “Then tell me about it I’ll make some notes as you talk.”

  Now that I have begun, it is a relief to talk. I find myself reliving all the details of the dream, the wild hunt, the vast burned solitude of the desert, the small bloody carcass of the fox, myself naked and shorn, sealed in the glass ball, rolling over and over under the mocking eye of the sun.

  Jung listens in silence. He is studiously neutral. His eyes watch every expression on my face, every gesture. He seems to take notes in a kind of shorthand. When I am finished he asks:

  “Have you ever told that dream to anyone else?”

  “No. Why do you ask?”

  “You recount it so vividly. You are a natural storyteller. Now I’d like to ask you some questions about it. Try to answer spontaneously – not construct anything just to please me. If you can’t answer, say so. If you don’t want to answer, say that, too. Understood?”

  Understood. He is telling me the rules of this new game, and that he understands them better than I. The first question is a surprise.

  “What sex was the fox?”

  “Female.” I am surprised to hear myself answer so positively.

  “Can you tell me the names of any of the people on the hunt with you?”

  “No.”

  “Who killed the fox?”

  “I don’t know. I suppose the hounds did.”

  “Why did your horse throw you?”

  “I don’t know that either.”

  “What kind of women have their heads shorn?”

  “Nuns, criminals, women who need cranial operations.”

  “Which one are you in the dream?”

  “Well, I’ve never wanted to be a nun and I’ve never had a cranial operation. I suppose that leaves criminal. The ball is certainly a prison.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “That’s what it feels like – and after the dream I always feel guilty.”

  “Do you feel guilty during it?”

  “Not really. I feel ridiculous, as if a voyeur is staring at me in the bath.”

  “And the sun is the voyeur?”

  “Yes.”

  “Tell me how you wake up.”

  “How? Oh, I’m curled up, in a foetal attitude. I have to make an effort to straighten up and face the new day.”

  He makes a few more notes and then gives me a grin of approval.

  “You’re doing very well. Stay relaxed. Just let the stuff flow out. It’s a pleasure to deal with an intelligent woman – and a beautiful one.”

  I thank him for the compliment. I know I am being flattered; but I am glad of it. I wonder how long this little pavane can go on. Then the questions begin again.

  “Do you have any religious convictions? Do you belong to any sect or communion?”

  It is Gianni’s question all over again. This time I answer it differently.

  “No. Papa was an old fashioned rationalist who taught me that life begins and ends here and that we have to reach out and grab the best of it while we can.”

  “And you still believe that?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “What was your father’s profession?”

  “He was a surgeon, a very good one. He used to say, ‘I’ve cut ‘em living and I’ve carved ‘em dead, and I never caught any glimpse of God or a soul.’ I loved Papa very much. I suppose I simply adopted his convictions and habits of mind.”

  “Was your mother a believer?”

  “I don’t know. She left me when I was a babe in arms.”

  “Left you?”

  “Left us both. I was suckled by a wet nurse. Lily and Papa brought me up.”

  “And your mother?”

  “We never saw her again. Papa never spoke of her. Quite recently I discovered by accident that she died a duchess in England.” I realise that I have made a blunder and told more than I intended. I try, awkwardly, to repair the damage. “You see there are good reasons for my wanting to remain anonymous – or is it pseudonymous?”

  Jung smiles and nods assent; but now I sense that he is wary. Perhaps he thinks that a duchess in the family is one snobbery too many! He asks:

  “You mention a Lily. Who is she?”

  “She was my mother’s companion when she came to Europe to give birth to me. She fell in love with Papa and stayed to look after me. She was all the woman I needed – mother, sister, friend!”

  “But your father and she never married?”

  “No. He wanted desperately to marry my mother – but after that – no! He lost all interest in matrimony.”

  “Since we’re on the subject of family, tell me about your husband, your daughter . . . anything you can remember.”

  “Well, I married when I was twenty-five, a year after I had finished medical training. My husband was Austrian, the heir to a large estate and a minor title. He was in his early thirties. I was his second wife. His first had died very suddenly, without bearing him any children. He was a wonderful man and I was desperately in love with him. We lived on his estate and I practised medicine in the surrounding villages. I got pregnant the first year and we had a daughter. We had hoped for a son, to carry on the title, but still it didn’t matter. We were both young. There would be other children. It didn’t turn out like that. When my daughter was coming up to her fourth birthday, my husband contracted cancer. The invasion was rapid. Soon there were metastases everywhere. We both knew there was no hope. His only wish was to die at home, with me, in our own house. My only wish was to make his passing as easy as possible. I hired a nurse, but undertook t
he medical supervision myself. As a doctor, you will understand my treatment.”

  “You have yet to tell me what it was.”

  “Increasing doses of sedatives to keep the pain under control.”

  “Also to depress the cardiovascular and respiratory systems, and so cause early demise?”

  “Yes.”

  “And your husband died peacefully?”

  “As peacefully and quickly as possible without rousing suspicion and enquiry. But there were long, bad weeks. And when the wasting and the symptoms became too terrible, I had to keep my daughter away from the sickroom. That was when the trouble started.”

  “What trouble?”

  “After a while, I noticed that she seemed to be afraid of me. I tried and tried to find out why. It was the nurse who finally explained the reason. She would hear her father groaning and crying. She would see me coming out of the sickroom with instruments to be sterilised and bloody cloths to be burned. The idea became fixed in her mind that I was some kind of witch trying to kill her father.”

  “Which, in a fashion, you were.”

  “Right. But the child had no way of knowing that.”

  “Children don’t have to know things. They absorb them like sponges. Did you ever try to explain things to your daughter? Not the treatment, but the problems of her father’s illness?”

  “Often, but I never seemed able to reach her. She retreated further into herself. The terrible thing was I found myself resenting the child. She was like a constant accuser; and at the end of a long and bitter day with a dying man, I found her presence unbearable. There were moments – frightening moments when I almost wanted to kill her. I knew I could do it, too. So, finally, I talked with a sister of my husband who had a large family. She volunteered to take the child until it was over.”

  “And how did that work out?”

  “She was very happy – except when I went to visit her. Then there would be terrible hysterical scenes. Even after my husband’s death, there was no way she could be persuaded to come home. So, it seemed kinder to leave her as a member of a large, happy family.”

  “Have you ever regretted that decision?”

  For the first time, I am faced with a question to which I have to ponder the answer. I am not tempted to lie about it. It is simply that always in the past I have declined to face it. Finally, I can put it into words.