Pilgrim

by Timothy Findley

  All the luncheons eaten alone across the table from her husband’s empty place. All the nights when she had already gone to bed before he returned. And all the mornings he was gone before she rose. Weeks? Months? How could she remember how long it had been? How could she tell?

  It was over. Everything was over.

  That evening—it was Friday, the 31st of May—Jung received a telephone call from Küsnacht. It was Doctor Richard Walter, Emma’s physician.

  “You should know, Carl Gustav, that Emma has had an accident. My advice would be to return as quickly as you can.”

  She had fallen down the stairs, having dressed for dinner, and the fall had brought on a miscarriage. The child was dead and Emma was comatose.

  Jung did not return for another two hours. The woman had to be informed and dealt with and, for a while, dismissed. The incident in his office would never again be mentioned.

  In 1910, at the time of his affair with Sabine Spielrein, Jung had written to Freud about Emma: she has been staging jealous scenes, groundlessly. She does not understand that the prerequisite for a good marriage—or so it seems to me—is a licence to be unfaithful. Then he had added: I in my turn have learned a great deal.

  Clearly, what he had learned was how to control his wife—but not how to control the mother of his children.

  10

  Emma lay so still that Jung for a moment wondered if she was dead.

  He reached for her hand and held it in his own.

  Doctor Walter stood to one side.

  “Can she have another?” Jung asked.

  “One day, perhaps. I suspect, however, she may not choose to.”

  “I dare say. I dare say.” Jung gave Emma’s hand a squeeze and laid it back on the coverlet. “Could you tell what sex it was?”

  “Yes. You would have had a second son.”

  “Oh, God.”

  Jung turned away from the bed.

  A nurse had been hired to stay for as long as needed. A week at least, perhaps longer, Doctor Walter said. Her name was Berthe. Schwester Berthe. She was tall and calm and silent. She read books and would content herself with reading Death in Venice during the long hours of Emma’s silence. As Doctor Jung and Doctor Walter left the room, she set a chair in place at the foot of the bed where she could keep an eye on her patient, and opened the slim volume—breaking its back in three places and lifting it to her nose so that she could drink in its smell. Ink. Paper, binding glue—Venice. Nothing more was required.

  Once downstairs and the requisite brandy poured, Jung said to Doctor Walter: “what is done with the remains in such a case?”

  Walter, who had attended Emma ever since her marriage and residence in Zürich and Küsnacht, said: “with your permission, the simplest means of disposal is fire.”

  “I see. May I see it?”

  “I wouldn’t advise it, Carl Gustav. It is too sad.”

  “Was it healthy and well formed?”

  “Yes.”

  “And a son, you say?”

  “Yes.”

  “Be honest with me, Richard,” Jung said. “Do you think what happened was truly an accident?”

  “I have no way of knowing.”

  “Who found her?”

  “Frau Emmenthal.”

  “And?”

  “She heard the sound of the fall and came at once. Your wife was unconscious. I was summoned. The miscarriage took place in my presence—perhaps not quite an hour later. I feared it and was prepared. Emma felt nothing.”

  “Where is the child now?”

  “I have it wrapped in a towel in the kitchen, where it can be disposed of in the stove. Frau Emmenthal is with it—and the girl.”

  “Disposed of.” Jung shivered. “Disposed of.”

  “The child was too young for survival, Carl Gustav. You mustn’t think about it now.”

  “May we do it together, then? I want to know it has been done.”

  “Of course. If that is what you wish.”

  In the kitchen, Frau Emmenthal sat with the bundled towel in her lap and a glass of Riesling at her elbow. There was perfect silence. Lotte, having wept, was seated in the shadows. Both rose and curtsied as the two men entered.

  “Oh, Doctor Jung, I am so sorry,” Frau Emmenthal said.

  “I thank you,” said Jung. “I thank you. You may sit.”

  “No. We will stand,” Frau Emmenthal insisted. “It is only fitting.”

  Jung turned to Doctor Walter and said: “may I do this? I want to hold it just for one moment.”

  “Of course.”

  Doctor Walter then asked Frau Emmenthal if the fire in the stove had been properly stoked. It had.

  Jung took the silent bundle from the cook’s hands and held it against his breast.

  I have no one to pray to, he thought. No one to pray to—and for once I wish I had.

  “Dear little child,” he whispered, “please forgive us for failing you. You will never be forgotten.”

  He stood there, impossibly torn, knowing that he must let it go.

  High on the wall a clock ticked. Otherwise, nothing.

  Jung turned and went to the stove.

  “Very well,” he said. “We are ready.”

  Doctor Walter lifted the lid above the fire box. There was an upward rush of sparks and the sound of crackling flames.

  Jung leaned down and kissed the towel-wrapped fœtus three times. Then he held it briefly above the fire, closed his eyes and let it fall.

  It made no sound at all.

  Doctor Walter replaced the lid and said to Frau Emmenthal: “I will return in half an hour.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The two men then left and Frau Emmenthal poured herself another glass of wine.

  Lotte took her place at the table and they waited then without a word for the Doctor’s return, neither of them looking at the stove.

  11

  Under the eaves at the Hôtel Baur au Lac, Forster lived out his days inventing ways of achieving contact with Mister Pilgrim.

  He could disguise himself, since they knew him too well, and attempt to visit as a friend from London, innocent of Mister Pilgrim’s condition. He could portray himself as a messenger who had been forbidden to give his message unless he was presented to Mister Pilgrim face to face. He could bring a gift—he could dress as a woman and become Mister Pilgrim’s sister—he could…he could…No. There was nothing he could do. They were too clever by half at the Clinic—too wary, too observant and would have nothing of tricks and disguises.

  He purchased binoculars and scanned the Burghölzli’s façade. How fortunate it was that the windows in his room faced that building four-square. If I had asked for such windows, I could not have done better, Forster concluded, so I will use them accordingly.

  On the morning of June 1, 1912—a Saturday—Pilgrim stepped onto his balcony to feed his birds.

  At once, Forster located him.

  “I should have known,” he said aloud. Doves and pigeons had come and gone on that balcony for two days. “Who else would have so many at his beck and call?”

  Pilgrim wore his blue silk robe and white pyjamas. Watching him, Forster felt a twinge of regret for old times—for the smells of toast and Earl Grey tea in Mrs Matheson’s cheery kitchen—for the perilous presence of the lapdog Agamemnon, always beneath his feet—for all the breakfast trays, newspapers and letters delivered to Mister Pilgrim in his rooms at number 18 Cheyne Walk. For all the scurrying of little Agamemnon’s hurtling, passionate greetings as the door was opened and the day was begun. For all the comfort of these sacred routines and the knowledge that one more night had passed without an attempted…

  Forster refused even to think the word suicide.

  “Good morning and good day,” he said—also aloud, as though Mister Pilgrim was standing close at hand.

  There he was, and if one put out one’s hand…

  Forster counted the balconies on either side of where Pilgrim stood. He is there, he calculated: pr
ecisely there. Now I can watch him every day—and will. Somehow, we will bring this to an end.

  Bring what to an end?

  Our separation.

  Forster let the binoculars fall on their strap to his breast.

  Lady Quartermaine was dead. Forster was now Mister Pilgrim’s only contact with the outside world. He alone stood waiting to receive him.

  And so, he would watch and he would wait. And he would be ready.

  12

  Pilgrim had eaten, but not well. Offered fish—which had been his lunch the day before—he pushed it to one side, almost all the way to the floor.

  The girl who had served him stood nervously to one side. She did not speak English and Pilgrim refused to speak German. His somewhat childish excuse was: I don’t speak Swiss. Go away!

  The fish—it was sole—remained uneaten.

  When a dessert of rice pudding was brought, Pilgrim quite deliberately dropped a spoonful of it on the floor, crumpled his napkin and stood up.

  “I am living in a dietary nightmare,” he said, and left his table. Nearing the dining-room doorway, he turned back and said to the unfortunate girl: “when you have real food, I shall return. In the meantime—good day to you. And to all your cowlike kind.”

  With that, he departed.

  The girl, of course, knew only that she had been insulted and turned towards the kitchen in tears. In the meantime, Pilgrim made his way to the elevator where, rising, he looked at the operator’s ever-expressionless face and thought: I live in a world of cattle—a whole, wide world of brainless, cud-chewing cattle!

  Once in his room, Pilgrim opened the doors to the balconies, removed his jacket and shoes, loosened his tie and lay down on his bed.

  It was warm, if not hot, and he had to rise again to draw the shutters partway closed in order to shut out an excess of light.

  Ten minutes later, he rose yet again, went to the bathroom where he urinated, drank a glass of tap water and refused to see himself in the mirror.

  He removed his tie entirely, and his waistcoat—dropped his suspenders, opened his flies and lay back down.

  Some pigeons landed on the balcony beyond the shutters, and spoke.

  “Go away,” Pilgrim whispered. “Go away,” he said. “Go AWAY!” he shouted.

  Fifteen minutes later, he was asleep. Drowning in mud. Don’t know where I am.

  Dark, but not night. Morning light in the sky and am aware of some horizon.

  Everything is brown, grey, wet. The smell of earth—the stench overwhelming. Repulsive, yet welcoming. Death, yes—but peace at heart. Green—green. And brown.

  Don’t know where my feet are. Am wearing boots. These and clothing drag me down. Nothing solid anywhere under me. Try to swim, but effort to keep head above surface is all I can manage. Mud thick as porridge. Bursts of sporadic light, though distant. Not nearby.

  See the shapes of other men. All dressed as I am. Our soggy, sagging clothing confirms we are soldiers. Yes—but when? And where?

  A clock strikes. I cannot count. I try to cry out, but have no voice.

  Sound of gates being opened—the word portals echoes in my mind. P-p-p-portals—the letter like gunfire. A draught has been admitted. There is a rush of windblown rain. P-p-p-p-p-p-portals.

  My hands reach out for someone else’s hand—a human, clean-fingered hand—but it disappears.

  Wonder why I am here, but have no answer. Here is nowhere. Nothing.

  All at once, there is a noise I cannot at first identify—a rushing, monotonic sound not unlike the stutter of a motorcar engine without its being enclosed. No hood. An open, beating sound in the air above my head.

  There follow several small explosions I cannot identify. And then another sound—of shouting, yet again overhead—and a moving shadow falls upon me, like the shadow of a giant bird—after which I see there is an aeroplane—one aeroplane and then another.

  I have never seen an aeroplane except in photographs, but there must be ten of them—twelve of them—even more, passing overhead—firing guns and dropping shells that tear the earth open wider.

  All around me, the stooping shapes of the other men hurry forward, passing me by, not seeing me because they do not look. Everyone is afraid.

  Someone says: I am not allowed to see you. These are the only words I have heard.

  I close my mouth. Another dozen aeroplanes pass.

  I begin to sink.

  My nostrils fill with mud. I am drowning—then I wake.

  Pilgrim, soaking wet, sat on his bed.

  Drowning—then I wake.

  Aeroplanes.

  What he had just experienced could not have been a dream of the past—but a dream of the future.

  Of the future—dearest God. Oh, dearest God!

  Four o’clock.

  Pilgrim put his hands against his face and lowered his head.

  The light in the room had a golden hue, and was filtered through the shutters in slanted, shifting patterns reminiscent of Leonardo’s sfumato, playing through layers of dust and Pilgrim’s fingered blindness.

  “Oh, God,” he said out loud. “Not more. Not more. Not more.”

  He stood up.

  “THERE MUST BE NO MORE!”

  13

  The following incident occurred at 4:15 that afternoon. It is recorded in Jung’s personal journal, in his file on Pilgrim and in both Kessler’s and Schwester Dora’s daily reports. These can be consulted in the archives.

  There were six witnesses—four patients and two staff, the latter being Kessler and Schwester Dora. The patients were the Countess Blavinskeya, the schizophrenic with Robert Schumann’s recalcitrant hands, the man who wrote with an imaginary pen and a man who had completely given up communicating through speech. These were all gathered together—except for Kessler—in the Music Room.

  On the gramophone, a recording of Saint-Saëns’s Carnival of the Animals was playing. Blavinskeya was dancing Pavlova’s Dying Swan.

  There was sunlight. The windows were open. The man who wrote with an imaginary pen felt constrained to express himself and had risen to write his message on the wall by the door. Schwester Dora was knitting a shawl for her beloved patient. The others sat watching and listening, lost in their own private worlds.

  All at once, there was a sound in the corridor. Someone was being pursued and a voice could be heard crying: “stop! Stop! Stop!”

  In seconds, the door burst open and Pilgrim entered in his bathrobe and slippers. It had been Kessler’s intention to take him down to the baths in order to calm him after his dream, but Pilgrim had started running towards the Music Room, banging on all the doors as he ran.

  When Pilgrim stormed into the room, it so happened that Blavinskeya was coming to the conclusion of her solo. She had descended to the floor, and crouching there with her left leg extended before her, she had begun the famous denouement with its fluttering arms, its lowered head and its arching back.

  Pilgrim was barely recognizable. He had lost control entirely of his expression. His face was a mask of rage—his eyes wide and staring, his mouth split in two by what appeared to be a maelstrom of froth and spittle. He crossed the yards of sunlit space with the alarming speed of a cheetah about to bring down its prey, and tearing the needle-arm of the gramophone from its place, he threw it against the nearest open window. Shattered glass exploded into the air.

  Blavinskeya looked up fully expecting a tornado to have struck the Clinic. The woman with Schumann’s hands screamed and ran into a corner, where she sank onto her heels. The man with the imaginary pen stopped writing, but was unable to turn around. He stood against the wall with his right arm raised and his forehead inches from the plaster.

  Schwester Dora rose and set her knitting aside, prepared to go to Blavinskeya’s side, but she was prevented by the violence of Pilgrim’s next moves.

  He lifted the gramophone from its place and crashed it to the floor. Its lid split in two and its disembowelled mechanical innards spilled out. He then sy
stematically took whole albums of recordings from their shelves and heaved them one by one at all four walls, smashing their contents. Whether by chance or by crazed calculation, the album of Schumann’s Scenes of Childhood struck the pianist crouching in her corner and caused a wound that later would require stitches.

  Meanwhile, Kessler was attempting to catch his patient, but at every turn Pilgrim evaded him. His energy was manic. He might have been a juvenile athlete—a wrestler—a runner—a gymnast. Pulling the ‘cello from its place he began to kick its prostrate body, crying out: “damn all music! Damn all art! Damn all beauty! Kill! Kill! Kill!”

  He next smashed the violin and began to use its remains to beat against the glassed-in cabinets that contained the librettos and scores of which the Music Librarian had been so proud.

  At last, Kessler was able to trip him just as he was about to use Schwester Dora’s knitting needles—with wool appended—to stab himself in the face.

  As Kessler dragged his patient to the floor and pulled his arms into a locked position behind his back, the Countess Blavinskeya called out: “DON’T!” and Pilgrim subsided.

  Schwester Dora went for assistance while Kessler sat on Pilgrim’s thighs and twisted his arms every time there was an attempt to escape.

  Five minutes later, a quartet of interns arrived and struggled Pilgrim into a straitjacket. His final gesture was to spit in Kessler’s face, after which he gave an animal cry and fainted.

  Later, when Jung was told of this incident and Pilgrim had been dealt with, Kessler was asked what he imagined might have triggered the outburst.

  “He had taken his afternoon nap,” Kessler said. “And must have dreamt. When I found him, he was shouting—I don’t know what—but shouting. I got his clothes off and put him in his robe to take him down to the baths, where I thought the water might calm him. He kept crying: it will never end—it will never end! But what he meant would never end was never made clear. The only thing he said I’ve never heard him say before was aeroplane.”