by Morris West
“Well, we had day and night nursing, so I was able to build up a tolerable routine outside the sickroom. I would work with the nurses while Johann was bathed and his dressings changed. Then I would be about the business of the farm until lunchtime. Usually I took Anna with me, driving around in the pony trap, which she loved. At midday I fed Johann his lunch, then went to my office to catch up on correspondence and accounts. Aunt Sibilla took over Anna at this time. She taught her to read and sew and draw. She also kept insisting, The child needs company of her own age. I’m going to bring up some of the village children to play with her.’ She did several times; but it never seemed to work. The gap between the gentry and the village folk was too wide – even the dialect was a barrier.
“As her father got worse and worse, Anna began to have problems. She couldn’t stand the smell of the sickroom. She could not associate the pale, shrunken figure on the bed with her once handsome and vigorous father. She suffered from nightmares: mixed-up versions of local folklore that she had heard from the servants, trolls and giants and krampus figures and vampires and werewolves. I began to have my own nightmares as well: Ilse, in her grave clothes, sitting on Johann’s bed telling him how I had killed her; Johann holding up the crucifix and cursing me with it; most horrible of all, making love to Johann and finding myself embracing a rotting corpse. After a night of bad dreams I used to hate going into the sickroom. The figure on the bed, with the patient suffering eyes and the wan smile, was too close to my fantasies. The touch of his emaciated hand on my cheek burned me like fire. It was about this time that I began to notice Anna’s fear of me and how she cringed away from my embraces. Also Johann’s condition began to deteriorate rapidly. The pain was constant now and we had to keep him heavily sedated with morphia. As each dose wore off he would begin to scream, a high choked cry of agony that tailed off into a litany of broken prayers: ‘Jesus, Mary, Joseph, help me . . . help me . . .’ It was after one of these screaming sessions that Anna saw me coming out of the bedroom with the syringe and the dish in my hand, and fled from me like a terrified animal.
“That night I spoke to Aunt Sibilla, who recommended sending her away to stay with Johann’s sister, Gunhild, and her young family. Aunt Sibilla offered to accompany her and stay until she was settled. I agreed instantly. The child’s obvious revulsion for me was one nightmare too many. The day after they left, Papa arrived for his weekly visit from Salzburg. When he saw the state Johann was in, he swore softly and told me enough was enough. He wouldn’t let a dog suffer like that.
“This time we were partners in the deed. We filled him up with morphia so that the heart was barely pumping. We called up the parish priest and asked him to administer the last rites – and incidentally provide a clerical witness to Johann’s terminal condition. That night, as we were settling him down, I sent the nurse out of the room on some pretext or other, and Papa gave Johann enough morphia to kill him. When the nurse came back, Papa said brusquely, ‘We could lose him tonight.’ The nurse crossed herself and said, ‘It will be a mercy. The poor man has had enough.’ An hour later, while I was dozing in my room, it was all over. The nurse folded his hands on his breast, twined the rosary round his fingers, closed his eyes; then called me in to see him.
“I couldn’t cry. I didn’t know how to pray. I bent and kissed his cold forehead, drew the sheet over his face and walked out. I went to Papa’s room. He was lying on the bed, in trousers and shirt sleeves, reading. He didn’t say a word. He handed me a white pill with a glass of water and made me swallow it. He drew me down on the bed beside him, cradled my head on his arm and crooned over me as he used to do when I was a very little girl:
Sleep then, my little one, sleep,
Angels will watch over thee.
“My last thought as I tumbled down a deep dark hole in the ground was: ‘Angels? Now Papa’s got religion too. Soon I’ll have no one to talk to. . .’ And that, my dear doctor, is my life story. Now you know it all!”
“Except for one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“The transition. The change from mourning wife to black widow – the spider that devours its mate.”
“You really are a bastard!”
“The transition! How did it happen?”
“What does it matter?”
“Because I need to know and you need to tell. It’s five o’clock. You’ve got half an hour. There’s no time for waltzing round the mulberry bush. The transition: how, when, where?”
“Let me get to it in my own way.”
“Just so we get there!”
“We buried Johann beside Ilse in the churchyard at Gamsfeld. Everyone was touched by the gesture. Love conquers all! My God, if they’d only known! Then I travelled to Gunhild’s place near Semmering to pick up little Anna. It was the same story all over again. She fled from me, screaming. Gunhild, a warm motherly woman, was as distressed for me as for the child. She offered to keep her, bring her up in the happy hugger-mugger of her own family, until she was old enough to rationalise her terrors. I was only too happy to accept. My emotions were rubbed raw. I was in no state to deal with a disturbed child.
“I went back to Gamsfeld and talked over the situation with Aunt Sibilla. If she were content to stay on as chatelaine of Gamsfeld, I would do a tour of all the major stud farms in Europe, introduce them to our breeding books, and make the contacts we would need for the future development of both Silbersee and Gamsfeld. Sibilla was happy with the arrangement. She had substantial monies of her own. With free residence and an annuity for her services at Gamsfeld, she could maintain herself in style and still keep up the never ending courtship of Papa. She would rather not marry him now, she told me wryly; it would take some of the spice out of living.
“I went to Vienna to buy clothes for the trip. Papa met me there. He bought me dinner and offered me some simple, vulgar advice. I was a new widow, rich and ripe; a natural mark for fortune hunters. He suggested – no, strongly urged! – I put all thoughts of re-marriage out of my head for a while and enjoy myself. Since I was now also a woman in business, I didn’t want to get a bad reputation. I’d be moving with a sporting crowd; but if I wanted to make money out of them, I would need a cool head and a certain basic discretion. So, it would be useful to have an entree to certain establishments where ladies like myself, widowed or simply wandering, could find the amusement and the company they needed without personal risk or social stigma. He presented me with a handwritten list: Paris, London, Vienna, Berlin, all the European capitals. He also gave me a handful of his personal cards, each inscribed: ‘Introducing my dear friend Magda. Please take care of her.’ I hadn’t the heart to suggest that it looked perilously like pimping for his daughter. He wouldn’t have understood. I had learned long ago, on that drunken night in Padua, that he really did see me, not as the fruit of his loins, but as the work of his hands – the best whore in the game!
“You asked how I started as the black widow. That’s exactly how – through Papa! When I left him after dinner I was just drunk enough and reckless enough to telephone the number of the Vienna lokal. A woman’s voice answered. I introduced myself as Magda, a friend of Doctor Kardoss. I was asked to wait in the foyer of my hotel. A carriage would be sent for me. It would, if I so desired, also bring me home. A fee was named, payable in gold crowns. The fee covered all services. It was quite substantial. I was asked to wear an evening dress.
“The carriage arrived. I was handed inside. The windows were painted black; so I had no idea where I was going. Half an hour later I was ushered into a luxurious villa surrounded by parklands. No questions were asked about my identity. The money and Papa’s card were enough. My hostess, a well dressed, well spoken woman in her forties, asked what my pleasure was. I asked what she offered. Anything and everything. I told her that, as this was my first night in this lovely place, I should like to work through the menu. And that, my dear doctor, was exactly what I did. I found several dishes I liked and I order them wherever I go. The res
t you have already in your notes. You see I didn’t hold you up, did I? We still have twenty-five minutes!”
My flippant tone annoys him. He snaps at me:
“I don’t see anything funny in what you’ve told me.
“Neither do I!” It is my turn to be angry. “But what do you want? Blood? You can have that. I’m bleeding inside. The husband I loved died horribly. To my only child I’m a nightmare. My own father sent me out on the brothel route, because he thought that was the safest way for me to travel. The fact that he was right doesn’t make it any easier. What else do you want? A room by room description of orgies in an expensive casino? You can look it all up in Krafft-Ebing – unless you want me to undress and demonstrate! But put this down in your notebook, dear colleague. At least when I’m there, I know I’m alive. I may be half out of my mind with lust; but I’m celebrating life, not death!”
“You’re a liar, Madame!” He dismisses me with cold brutality. “For you, every love story ends in a chamber of horrors. Your own dreams tell you the truth. You’re wedded, not to life, but to death!”
Suddenly it is all too much. I cannot bear to look at his stony, accusing eyes. I am sick of this day-long, shabby, useless inquisition. I burst into tears.
It is a long time before I recover. When I look up Jung has disappeared. His wife is standing in front of me with a glass of cordial. She smiles and hands it to me.
“Carl asked me to bring you this. He’ll be back soon. He’s walking in the garden, getting his thoughts together. This has been a long session, exhausting for you both. Drink it, please.”
I sip the drink and dab my eyes, and wonder why I feel as though a steamroller has flattened me out on the pavement. Emma Jung perches herself on the edge of the desk and talks to me in her calm, persuasive fashion:
“I did warn you, didn’t I? I don’t know what your problems are; but clearly you’ve hit the first crisis point. It’s always distressing. You feel naked and ashamed, as if you are the only one out of step with the world. But you’re not. The hardest thing to learn is to accept yourself for what you are, to be glad of the good and forgive yourself for the bad. Oh dear! I didn’t mean to run on. You’re Carl’s patient, not mine; but I know he’s very concerned for you.”
“He has a funny way of showing it.”
I try to make a joke, but it doesn’t turn out right. I am on the verge of tears again. Emma reaches out, takes my hand, imprisons it between her palms and holds it in her lap. I feel strangely comforted, as if there were a lifeline holding me to sanity. Her calm voice soothes me like a lullaby.
“I have to explain something about Carl; because at this moment in his life, he’s not very good at explaining himself. Although he was brought up in a very narrow world, as the son of a country parson, his forbears on both sides were strange and brilliant people. His grandfather, for whom he is named, spent a year in prison in Berlin, as a suspected accomplice in the assassination of a Russian official. Then he went on to become a brilliant doctor, Rector of the University and Grand Master of the Swiss Freemasons. He was a playwright and essayist. He also found time to father thirteen children! Oh, and there’s a kind of family legend that he was the illegitimate son of Goethe. However, nobody’s too sure about that. Carl’s maternal grandmother was supposed to have second sight; and apparently his mother had quite uncanny insights into people.” She laughs and pats my hand. “It’s an odd inheritance to cope with; when you add to it Carl’s own restless curiosity and his stubborn refusal to come to terms with the ordinary things, well. . . there are problems for us and advantages for his patients. It’s strange. You two are very much alike. I felt it from the moment we met. I don’t know whether that’s a good thing or a bad thing; but there it is. Oh, I almost forgot! Carl wants a little more time with you before you leave. Then he would like to ride back to town with you in the car. He has papers to take to Miss Wolff.”
“I could have the chauffeur deliver them. It would save your husband a trip.”
Her grip tightens a little on my hand.
“I think he wants to do some work with her. He’s told me not to make dinner for him.”
“In that case, may I invite you to dine with me at the Baur au Lac? If you don’t mind leaving the children with Nurse for a couple of hours, I’d love you to come. Tonight of all nights, I don’t want to eat alone. I’ll have you picked up here and brought back.”
She hesitates a few moments then accepts, on condition that I arrange it with her husband.
“I don’t want him to think I’m poaching on his territory; but I know he’ll be out late and – oh dear! – I don’t want to dine alone either!”
We settle on eight o’clock. I will arrange to have dinner served in the suite. We can make girl talk – kick off our shoes and be comfortable. Suddenly I find myself calm again. The floor is solid under my feet. This little female conspiracy, and the certainty that Jung is having an affair with his assistant, restore my shaky hold on reality. These are matters I understand. The rest belong in the chamber of horrors. I wish I could forget the horrors; but I cannot. The door to the chamber is open now and the black bats are flying across the face of the moon. Emma Jung gives my hand a final affectionate squeeze and admonishes me:
“Tidy yourself up before he comes back. Your nose is shiny and your lipstick is smeared. There’s a mirror by the wash basin.”
I am grateful for her sturdy commonsense. In some ways she reminds me of Lily. I wish my own grip on reality was as strong and as stubborn as theirs.
JUNG
Zurich
I am shamed by what I have done. I stand here, fumbling with the stones of my unfinished village, and ponder my cruel folly. I have taken the words of a patient, spoken to me in trust and confidence, and I have used them as a lash to beat her into submission. I have turned the truth she has told me into a lie, and thrust it back at her in mockery. Then, when I saw its shattering effect, I fled. I called Emma from the kitchen, made a hasty excuse about a long day and a hysterical outburst from my patient and left her to cope with the crisis.
I do not know what damage I have done, how far I have thrust her back into her psychotic situation. I do not know what I can salvage out of the mess. All I know is I cannot let her leave like this. I have to go back and talk with her again. The small blue phial in her reticule is not a stage prop. It is an instrument of death, and I am convinced that she has the nerve to use it, once her last hope is extinguished. I must go back to her – but not yet. I have asked Emma to hold her on any pretext at all, until she is composed again and I have my head set on straight.
Why did I do this incredible thing? Why? Why? There is no point in raging at myself. That’s another lie. I know damned well why I did it – for twenty reasons, all bad! This Magda Hirschfeld is probing and tapping at my weaknesses, testing the locks on all the secret doors of my unconscious. She is like Salome’s black snake, coiled inside me, tightening its coils as it settles deeper, hissing quietly to tell me: “I am here. I am waiting!”
I know what she is waiting for; she has told me clearly from the beginning. She read the sign over my door. She read it, rightly, as a promise, that the dumb oracle would speak, that the hidden god would present himself. When he does not, she will blame me, because I am the man who carved the sign and who solicits the belief and the offerings of the pilgrims. I do not want to be unmasked as a charlatan. I hate her for the threat she poses to my unstable persona.
I hate her, but I envy her, too. What I dream in secret, she has dared and done. She has played all the roles in all the sexual mysteries. I have only dreamed priapic pomps and enjoyed my little lusts furtively, in secret. She has dared murder, too, and escaped scot free. I have dreamed murder; but the closest I shall ever come to it is a pamphlet, a speech, a cavil at some conference, some petty spiteful act before bed or after. God help me for a coward and a sham!
You see, that’s what I mean! Which god do I invoke? The old whitebeard, up in the empyrean who obliterated my
cathedral with his great turd? Or the blind, dark phallus god in the cave? Or is there another to whom I am wilfully blind, of whom I am mortally afraid, about whom I weave webs of fantasy, to shut out the pure white light of his reality?
Which one will I show to Magda Hirschfeld when she asks: “Can you open my eyes and make me see what my husband saw, mumbling his litanies in the long, dark nights of his agony?” I know she will ask that – and I have tried to pre-empt the question by accusing her of a passion for the dead!
Elijah! Where are you? I need you now. I have to walk back to the house and up the stairs and into the room where Salome waits for me. It’s a long way. I can’t endure it without your company. You see, I love Salome, but I’m afraid of her, too. Her black snake is inside me; but how can I penetrate her? That’s what I was trying to do, you understand, break down the door, get inside, out of the storm.
I am in panic. I feel myself slipping out of this ambient world into that far, other land of the unconscious. I grasp, like a drowning man, for the nearest tangible object. It is the trunk of the apple tree which overhangs the boathouse and shelters my toy village. I lay my cheek against its rough bark. I reach up and shake the branches. Small unripe apples fall to the ground. One of them thumps me on the head. Like Isaac Newton I discover that the law of gravity still prevails. I am back on earth. I walk reluctantly towards the house. My patient is calm again. She has repaired her make-up. She is chatting amiably with Emma. She offers a brief deprecation.
“I’m quite recovered now. Your wife has been most kind. She tells me you are dining out tonight. I’ve asked her if she would consent to take dinner with me at the Baur au Lac. I’ll have her picked up and brought home safely. I hope you don’t mind. I dread spending this evening alone.”
Mind? Of course not! Why should I? I shall have a whole evening free with Toni – and no possible reproaches afterwards. I shall also have a useful complaint to hold in reserve: I do not approve of my wife becoming intimate with my patients! Then — because nothing in life is as perfect as one would wish – I have a private disappointment. I cannot now call on my patient at the hotel, as I had proposed to do after my visit to Toni. I shepherd Emma out of the room and try to make my peace with Magda Hirschfeld.