by Morris West
This was Jung’s first brutal admonition: “Your life is your own, Madame; don’t try to blackmail me with it.” Emma Jung’s warning was more humane but no less definite: that the moment of revelation will be a terrible shock and that I shall have to face it alone. Suddenly the meaning of that new word, “transference”, is very plain to me – plain as my sexual appetite for Carl Jung. I will do anything – anything at all – to bind him to me so that at the final moment he will not abandon me.
He would like a change of clothes? Good! Something casual? The tenue de matelot which Poiret designed for me: trousers of blue shantung, blouse of striped cotton, open sandals, a head scarf. It is more Cote d’Azur than Zurich, more yachting than Kaffeeklatsch at the Baur au Lac; but-to the devil with it! – what the man asked he shall have.
As for the biography, that will be as near to the truth as memory can bring me. I have discovered something. Sexual confession is easy with this man. Under his professional formality there lurks a lusty peasant who enjoys a dirty story and who knows that women enjoy them, too. But when we walk further and begin to explore the dark side of the moon, what then? He is full of middle-class mannerisms and, I suspect, middle-class prejudices. The bluff and bawdy peasant dresses and lives and talks like a petit-maître. If my guess is right, he runs a three-cornered marriage; but he runs it like a bourgeois and not a bohemian.
It may be, of course, that he cannot afford better. Gianni di Malvasia was quite definite that analysis is a profession in which one does not prosper quickly. I wonder what would happen if I tossed a purse of gold coins on this one’s desk and said, “Come on, my friend! Let’s do some really interesting research together.” My first guess is that he would grab the gold, kick up his heels and be out of the house without waiting to pack a shirt. My second is that I would wake up one night and find him squatting naked at some wayside shrine, waiting for the dumb god to speak. My third guess is that I would probably be fool enough to strip off my clothes and join him.
Time to go. Heads turn again as I cross the foyer in my Poiret sailor suit. I hear an English voice, very high coloratura, say: “My God! What an extraordinary woman!” I am tempted to turn and tell her that she doesn’t know the half of it – and if her husband ever wants to get rid of her, I can offer just the right prescription!
JUNG
Zurich
By our sober Swiss standards she is dressed like a French tart. For my taste she is beautifully turned out. The trousers show off her long dancer’s legs and her slim waist. The blouse emphasises the thrust of her breasts, which are neither too large nor too small. The head scarf confines her hair and shows the fine bone structure of her face, cleancut as an old cameo. I pay her a compliment. She accepts it with a smile. Then, immediately, we are down to business. I ask her to sketch for me her student life in Padua, to describe in detail any incident or encounter which was significant in her later life. Without hesitation she plunges into the narrative.
“What Papa had done to me was a terrible shock. It had, however, the same effect as his sending me back to school for matriculation. I was determined to succeed, to establish my own credentials in this new world of university life. You must understand that Padua was a proud place, where students of all tongues and nations congregated. The English and the Scots had long ago established themselves as a ‘Nazione’ with special rights and an honourable tradition. Thomas Linacre, physician to Henry the Seventh of England, Edward Wootton, physician to Henry the Eighth, both studied there. The medical schools of Leiden and Edinburgh, Philadelphia, Columbia and Harvard, all had their roots in Padua. We were taught this from the beginning. We were taught to be proud of it – arrogant if need be – with outsiders. Ours was the most reputable degree in Europe – if you’ll forgive me, Doctor Jung.”
I forgive her. I am happy to see her so excited by so pure a memory of youth. I ask myself cynically how long it is likely to last.
“Even now I’m a good student. If I take up something, I have to do it well or not at all. The Paduan style of teaching threw great responsibility on the student, and the examinations, both oral and written, were rigorous. So, during the week I lived a very regular life: lectures in the daytime, an hour or two in the coffee house, then home to Lily to bathe, change, dine and write up my notes for the day. I was not eager for intimacies among the students. I felt too vulnerable. I had too many secrets. I was content, at least for the beginning, to play the exotic bluestocking, unfamiliar with the student scene, dependent – oh so dependent! – on the chivalry of her escorts. I did, however, learn very quickly that Italian males are incurably spoiled by the time they are ten years old and that any woman who marries one needs the tolerance of Patient Griselda. The senior professors were the best in the world. The juniors were badly paid and of variable quality. Some of them were not above accepting an envelope of cash at examination time in return for a good report and a good raccoman dazione. It was suggested to me that I might like to pay in kind. My standard reply was that if I needed to peddle my body for a pass mark, I would rather deal with the chancellor or a senior professor.”
“But all in all, your academic life was uneventful?”
“Yes. I had one or two small romances; but they came to nothing. I had no taste for teaching young men the facts of life. Besides, I had made another discovery. Love affairs in Italy are highly public. Names, dates, places and sexual manners were bandied about freely. I wanted no part of that scene!
“Weekends were another matter. From Friday to Monday I lived in another world: the Club della Caccia, the gaming salon in Venice, the theatre, the whole social round. You see, there was something about Papa which I had never realised until this time. His name was good; his credit was good; and none of his women ever had a bad word to say about him. So, of course, Lily and I profited from that. Nobody quite knew where I fitted into the chronology of Papa’s life. It was clear that I had been born on the wrong side of someone’s blanket; so, my presence at a party was always good for an hour’s gossip. Lily had schooled me well in social diplomacy. If I wanted to keep our entree open, I should defer to the dowagers in public, permit myself to be courted respectfully by their sons, and flirt with their husbands in private.”
“Did you have any thoughts of marriage at this time?”
“Not only thoughts; I had a serious proposal.”
“From whom?”
“The son of a very old, very wealthy Venetian family. I believe one of his ancestors had been a Doge.”
“But you didn’t accept him?”
“I did. Why not? He was handsome, romantic, rich and just stupid enough so that I was sure I could manage him.”
“What happened?”
“I had forgotten about the small print on the contract. He was Roman Catholic. I was nothing – atheist in fact. He would have to get permission from the Church to marry me. It would be a hole and corner affair. The ceremony would be performed behind the high altar or in the sacristy. I should have to take instruction from a priest to understand my husband’s moral and religious convictions. I should have to promise that all my children would be brought up in the Roman faith. It was all too much. I declined with thanks. His mother was so happy she embraced me and told me I was a noble girl with a beautiful nature. She would write to her brother the bishop and have him say a mass for my intentions. My intentions being all bad ones at that moment, I didn’t see the point of the exercise. However, I kissed hands and cheeks and went back to Padua.”
“Broken hearted?”
“Anything but. I was wild and ready for mischief. The next week at the Caffè Pedrocchi I was telling the story – with dramatic embellishments of course! – to a group of friends from my anatomy class. This lot were all ‘spiriti liberati’, free thinkers and anti-clericals. One of them offered me a bet: that I wouldn’t dare go to confession in the duomo. I asked what he would put up as his side of the wager. He offered a dinner for us all with a chitarrista thrown in to make music. I agreed. Then the boys
– all convent trained, of course! – set about teaching me the ritual and the Act of Repentance I must recite at the end. It was short enough for me to get it word perfect in a few minutes. The next thing was to choose a good list of sins. We settled on fornication, adultery and what we agreed to call abnormal acts. This, according to my friends, was bound to lead to some interesting dialogue with the confessor, all of which I must report to my friends as part of the wager.”
“And you went through with it?”
“Without a tremor. No, that’s not true. When the time came I was scared. I felt as though I were meddling with something magic. I felt the same thing when . . . but that’s another story. Let me finish this one.
I do not see where all this is leading; the story of the marriage proposal and her rejection of it was told in a flippant, offhand fashion like a piece of drawing-room gossip. Perhaps it was no more than that; but she seems more interested in this new anecdote, more eager in tone, more expressive in gesture. So, I make no comment and let her run on.
“On Saturday afternoon – that’s confession day for the Romans; they scrub their souls in preparation for Sunday – the boys walked me down to the cathedral, and knelt with me in the prie-dieus near the confessional. There was quite a line ahead of me, so I had to wait, getting more and more nervous with every moment. What made it worse was that, up ahead in a side chapel, I could see a long line of pilgrims passing by the tomb of Saint Anthony, touching it, kissing it, leaning against the stones, as if the magic of the Wonderworker communicated itself to lips and fingertips. It was quite eerie. These devotees really believed they were in communication with the long dead saint, and that they could count on him to answer their whispered prayers. So, you see, by the time my turn came to enter the confessional, I was ready to cry off and pay the wager myself. The boys would have none of it. They pushed me forward, and the next moment I was inside the box.”
Now a curious thing happens. She gets out of her chair and begins to act out the scene, using me as the priest figure, kneeling on the floor beside me, resting her hands on the arms of my chair.
“The priest was sitting where you are now; only he was behind a little grille. His head was bowed, his chin resting on his hand. I couldn’t see his eyes; but I could smell what he’d had for lunch – garlic and rough wine. I knelt down as I’m kneeling now. I crossed myself and said, as the boys had taught me, ‘Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been a year since my last confession. I’ve done a lot of bad things since then.’ He asks what sort of things. ‘Oh, I’ve slept with a lot of men. The man I’m sleeping with now is married. Sometimes I do it for money and then, often, the clients want – well – strange kinds of acts.’ Then I had my big surprise. He asked quite gently, ‘Have you no other way of earning a living? Do you have to prostitute yourself?’ I wasn’t prepared for this. I mumbled something about how difficult it was to find work. He said, ‘If you’re sincere about it, go to the Mater Misericordiae hospital. I know they’re looking for kitchen maids and cleaners for the wards. It’s rough work, but at least you’ll be independent.’ Then he read me a little lecture about reforming my life and trusting in God’s mercy. He told me to repeat the Act of Repentance, made the sign of the cross over me and told me to go in peace and mend my life. When I walked out of the church the boys crowded round me wanting to know what had happened. I tried to make a big joke of it; but the joke fell flat. I really wanted to believe it could happen: that someone just wiped out your past with a few magic words. Silly, isn’t it?”
She says it with a laugh; but she is very close to tears. I am tempted to take her face in my hands and kiss her on the lips to comfort her; but I dare not. I’ve been caught this way before. First, she wanted me to be Papa; now she wants me to play Father Confessor. It is very tempting to join the game; but I am her only anchor to reality; I cannot surrender my own hold on it. I help her to rise and tell her to be seated again. She pouts like a disappointed child and complains:
“You don’t like my story. Did I tell it badly? It really did happen.”
This little girl act is so alien to her normal persona that I fear for a moment that she may be unconsciously regressing to avoid an unpleasant reality that lies ahead in her narrative. I apply the old remedy, a sound scolding.
“For God’s sake, don’t try these tricks with me! You’re a mature woman. Your story is fascinating – but you don’t have to dress it up like a nursery tale for your dollies!”
As I hope, she is furious and storms at me:
“God damn you! Don’t talk to me like that. You don’t know how hard I’m working to give you what you want!”
“That’s the point! You’re working too hard. And I don’t want anything. What we both need is the truth – and the more simply it is told, the better. Don’t try to guess how I will react to it, or why. That’s my business. How would you feel if a patient of yours wasn’t content with telling you his symptoms but insisted on making the diagnosis as well? Do you understand?”
Yes! Yes! She understands; but I have to understand too. Never before has she revealed so much of herself to anyone. When she falls into acting, it is out of panic, not because she wants to make an exhibition of herself. So again we have a truce. I remind her that she has mentioned another story. Something with an element of magic in it.
“Magic? Oh yes, I remember now.” She begins to take on another character, the bluestocking scholar, possessor of curious learning. I wait, respectfully. “Have you ever drunk Caffè alla Borgia?”
“To the best of my knowledge, never. What is it?”
“It’s coffee, apricot brandy, cream and cinnamon. It was the ritual drink at the monthly meeting of the Scotus Society.”
So we are in for another game. I tell her I have never heard of the Scotus Society. She is delighted with her small victory.
“But you do know the man it was named for.”
“I do?”
“You have his works on your shelves.”
“Have I?”
“Indeed! It’s Michael the Scot, thirteenth century. He translated Aristotle from the Arabic version of Averröes and taught the text in Toledo, Salamanca and Padua. He was supposed to be a wizard. He wrote three works that have survived: On Physiognomy, On Generation . . .”
“On Alchemy!” I leap to supply the answer, and so am sucked into the game. “Of course! And Padua was always known as a centre for the alchemical arts and for necromancy.”
“Bravo!” She applauds me and hurries to embellish the story. “Did you know that there is even a version of the Faust legend in which a scholar of Cambridge named Ashbourner sold his soul to the devil in return for a doctorate of divinity at Padua. When he tried to welsh on the bargain, he was found drowned in the Cam!”
“And how did you stumble on all this?”
“I didn’t stumble on it. I read up on it. The whole point about studying in Padua was that one was grounded in the liberal arts as well as physical medicine and surgery. The Scotus Society was founded in my father’s time. It purported to be an association of scholars interested in occult phenomena. In fact, it was a cover for anti-Habsburg and anti-clerical activities. In my time it was still anti-clerical but rather more frivolous. Its members played at black magic, diabolism, the revival of ancient rites and cults. You’ve probably forgotten how fashionable all that was in its time. Remember what a big stir Huysmans made with Là bas?”
I am suddenly aware that she is not simply acting the bluestocking. She has read widely. She knows what she has read in its social frame. I am still not clear, however, where this story is leading. She continues:
“But I always felt uneasy with it. I wasn’t an unwilling participant. As an unbeliever I had to agree that it was all mummery anway; and most of the time it was an opportunity for some fairly theatrical sex. We used to meet at a country house near Abano, and hold our ceremonies in an abandoned chapel in the grounds. The only role I boggled at was being the naked woman lying on the altar slab dur
ing the Black Mass. First, I didn’t like the man who was playing Satan, and second, I felt vaguely that we were dealing with something dangerous. I didn’t realise that the danger was in me, not outside.”
She hesitates. I wait. If she can break through this block without prompting, it means we have made great progress. Finally, in a roundabout fashion, she does it.
“You said this morning that my story contradicted itself . . . a happy childhood, a happy marriage and then what you called ‘a promiscuous sex life, sado-masochist in character’. Remember?”
I do remember. I was not aware that she had taken the question so much to heart.
“So I kept asking myself, where did it begin? How did it begin? It sounds exaggerated, but I think it began with the Scotus Society.”
“With the Black Mass?”
“No, with something else. Do you have any reference here on the excavations at Pompeii – pictorial reference, I mean?”
I am sure I have. My interest in archaeology has never waned. I find the volume. We leaf through it. Finally she stops me at the pages dealing with the Villa dei Misteri, where it is believed the frescoes depict the celebration of the Isis cult. One of the most notable of the paintings is that of a young woman stripped and bowed over the knee of a priestess, being flagellated by an attendant. I glance at my patient. She is pale and upset. Her voice is unsteady.
“That’s it! We acted out that whole ceremony at one of our sessions in Abano. I was the one who did the scourging. I – I was surprised how much the victim and I enjoyed it. She was studying sculpture at the School of Fine Arts. It was the beginning of an affair between us that lasted nearly a year. I didn’t try to extend the experience at the time. We found other games to play. But later, when the big crisis came in my life, I suppose I was already prepared. Strange though, that it should be associated with a religious act!”