by Morris West
“Papa tried to waltz me round the linden tree to the tune of Tomorrow, someday, very soon’. I told him plainly that if he didn’t like the deal, I was leaving and setting myself up in Vienna. I mightn’t make a fortune; but at least I would eat and stay out of the rain. Finally, male pride being satisfied, he consented. Papers were drawn deeding Silbersee to me with an entail that would stop my husband from taking possession if I married. During Papa’s lifetime we would share the income equally. After his death, I would undertake to pension Lily. Whatever other commitments Papa had – to women or children I didn’t know about – he could provide out of his personal funds, which I knew were substantial. So, finally, I was a landowner, with my feet firmly planted on my own soil.”
“From which,” Jung reminds me coolly, “you are now in exile. Have you thought where you are going to go, what you are going to do?”
“Silbersee is up for sale. I’ll probably do very well out of it. War in Europe seems inevitable. The armies are paying high prices for brood stock and stud farms.”
“And where will you go then?”
“At this moment I don’t even know where I shall go when I leave Zurich.”
“Perhaps we may induce you to stay in Switzerland.”
“If you can help me, my dear doctor, I’ll be happy to take up residence next door!”
“My wife might object to that; but I’m sure we could find you something quite beautiful round the lakeshore.”
It is one of these light-headed exchanges which carry a whole gamut of sexual overtones. I am still happy to respond; but after his comments on Kostykian and on his own affairs with Jewish women, I am wary. He adds an unexpected afterthought:
“Joking aside, if you are to continue in analysis with me, we will need to be reasonably close to each other and to establish a routine of conference and communication. Occasionally I find it helps to visit a patient, though I do not make a practice of it. However, we can discuss that later. To get back to your life story. You were the mistress of Silbersee, you were a trained physician with a bright career ahead of you. You had learned that in the cosmic scheme, your unconventional past was of little consequence. In short, all the odds were in your favour. What happened next?”
“I took control of Silbersee, with Lily as my faithful adjutant. I scoured every corner of the estate, went over every detail of the accounts. I promoted Hans Hemeling from head groom to studmaster and began selling off the scrubby breeders that had been our stock-in-trade for too long. I made Lily chatelaine of the Schloss. She could storm like a fury over dusty furniture and wasted food and the next minute have the whole staff in fits of laughter with her bawdy jokes in dialect. We were being cheated in the Stüberl and the guest house and grossly underpaid on the timber contracts. Our cattle were sold through a local auctioneer, who played games with a bidding ring of butchers from Salzburg and Innsbruck.
“I went around swinging right and left, not caring whom I hit. At the end of the first month we almost had a new peasants’ revolt. I was nicknamed Zickzackblitz, forked lightning, because nobody knew where I was going to strike next. But when painters and carpenters began to work on the Schloss and afterwards on the houses of the estate, when the gardens began to look tidy and we got better prices in the market, and Hans and I came home with our first good Arab stallion and a dam to breed with him, then the atmosphere changed. Fräulein Zickzackblitz became the Meisterin, and word of our reformation began to spread around the countryside.
“Then Lily suggested that we set up a local hunt club on the English model, with some fashionable trimmings that we had learned in Lombardy. It would give us a market for our horses. We would make the Stüberl the assembly point for the meet. We would import English and German hounds and breed them for the pack. Papa loved this idea. It gave a whole new dimension to his rather faded social life. After the first meet, he remarked happily, ‘Marvellous. I never knew there were so many good-looking women still hiding in the woodwork!’
“By the time I left for Vienna, the place was a going concern again. I could trust Lily and Hemeling. I myself would be back every two or three weeks to check the operation and enjoy my own domain. The night before I left, Papa asked me to join him for brandy in his study. This was a rare event. He was never one for face-to-face confidences. He liked to float through our domestic life like a philosopher in residence, bestowing words of wisdom, an offhand caress to me or Lily, an enthusiastic pat on the bottoms of the servant girls – and only the illusion of intimacy. This time, however, he had obviously taken a great deal of trouble to prepare a special speech for me.
“‘We’ve had a funny life, Liebchen, all three of us; but we seem to have survived it pretty well. You’ve done better than I ever dreamed. I’m very proud of you, even if I’m not very proud of myself. I wish there were some way I could pass my title on to you, but there isn’t. Even if you have a son, there’s nothing I can do except petition the Emperor to grant him a patent of nobility. One of my girl friends at court might just manage to slip it under his nose. There’d be a bar sinister in the coat of arms, but that wouldn’t matter. The point is that I can’t make a petition until there is a grandson. So, that’s the question: what are your thoughts about getting married? I know you’ve got a year to do in Vienna. There’s a year in England, which I’m not happy about; but you can do it if you want. After that, you’re about as ripe as any girl can risk being for a decent marriage. You’ve got a handsome estate in your own right. You’re damned good looking and although I know you don’t live like a nun, you’ve got to settle down some time. Question is, with whom? I don’t want to see you picked up by some shabby merchant with lots of money and no breeding. On the other hand, if we’re talking of breeding it means someone who’s coming into the marriage market second-time around – a widower in his forties perhaps, with a young family or, better still, without. The problem is that all the young bloods are already pre-empted for girls just coming out at court. I’m sorry, but that’s the way it is. You’re ten times the woman they are; but your birth certificate betrays you. At least you haven’t had to become a dancer or a chorus singer! You do have a profession and money in your own right. So, what are we going to do about it, eh? I can have Louisa von Grabitz scout the market if you like. She charges a fee, of course; but she’s the least gossipy of all these matchmaking dowagers.’
“The longer he talked, the angrier I became. I kept thinking: the gall of the man! I didn’t ask to be born. I didn’t ask to be Papa’s child bride! And if I was damaged goods in the marriage market, pray tell, whose fault was that? Finally I burst out: The fact is, Papa dear, I don’t want to get married yet; and when I do, I’ll choose my own husband, even if I have to make another trip to Hong Kong to find him!’”
“And how did your father take that announcement?”
“With relief I think. He didn’t really want to be bothered. He’d done his duty. If I wanted to skip to the moon on a wooden leg, that was my affair. Whatever his shortcomings, he had kept me out of the music halls and off the streets. In his curious, elitist ethos that was more than most bastards had any right to expect from their progenitors.”
“So, when you went off to Vienna, you parted friends?”
“Only just. That night when Papa and Lily were getting ready for bed, Papa asked me to join them – ‘Just a cuddle, Liebchen, for old times’ sake!’ I was about to tell him the old times were long gone and I never wanted to hear of them again, when Lily – God love her! – saved us from another nasty scene. She laughed and said: ‘Listen, you old goat! Don’t waste yourself on the overture. Save yourself for the big aria!’ Then she dragged him off to the bedroom singing ‘La ci darem la mano’.
“That night I dreamed of my mother. It was midwinter. I was waiting in the snow outside the gates of Schloss Silbersee. Mother came driving by, in a sleigh drawn by white horses with silver bells. She was wrapped in white ermine. I knew it was she from a long way off. I stood out in the middle of the road and
waved to the driver to stop. Instead he whipped up his horses and drove right past me, while Mamma sat there, with the cold, cruel smile of the Snow Queen.”
Jung ponders this piece of information for a while then turns back through his notes. He marks several passages and remarks:
“Here’s something else I find curious. Why, in all these years, did you never press for information about your mother – if not from your father, then from Lily? Why didn’t you just go to London or to your birthplace and find out what you wanted to know? It would have been a very simple piece of detective work. Another thing I can’t understand is Lily’s reticence about the matter, especially when you were older and capable of understanding.”
“The answers, my dear doctor, are so simple that they’re pathetic. Why didn’t I press for information? Because I’d been conditioned all my life not to do it. Why didn’t I go to England and ferret out the truth? Because I was afraid of exactly what happened in the dream: that my mother would cut me dead in the street. Why didn’t Lily tell me the truth? Because, as I’ve only recently discovered, Lily was the reason for the break-up. Lily was sleeping with Papa during my mother’s pregnancy. Lily was conspiring in my seduction to hold on to Papa. Lily was the perfect opportunist. She loved me, yes! No question, no doubt! But Papa paid her wages and what Papa demanded, Papa got. What he needed most of all was silence. Until the day she left to go home to England, what Lily told me about my mother tallied exactly with what my father told. My life, my happiness depended on them both. Why should I risk them for the cold, disdainful smile of the Snow Queen? That’s why I’ve never tried to intrude on my daughter’s life. She probably feels the same way about me.”
“Have you never written to your daughter?”
“Several times, in the early days. I never got an answer.”
“For God’s sake! She was only a child!”
“I know. But after a while, you yourself can’t find the words. What do you say? ‘I’m not a witch, I’m your mother and I love you. I want to hold you and kiss you and make up to you for all the lost years?’ It’s beautiful! But if you shout it or write it or sing it long enough in an empty room, it will drive you mad. You’ve talked of your own love affairs, doctor. Have you ever wanted to unsay something and found no one’s there to listen? Have you never wanted to say tender things only to hear them echo back from a wall of stone!”
JUNG
Zurich
Her declaration is too poignant, too simple to be anything but truth Her dagger thrust at my jugular – “your own love affairs, doctor!” – was aimed with a steady hand and an unblinking eye. The rest of it – the Scotus Society, the flagellation scene, profane passion with Alma de Angelis, sacred love with Sister Damiana, platonic attachment to Kostykian the Wandering Jew who puts jewels on ladies’ pillows and leaves their virtue unsullied – is all too much. It is a hodgepodge of truth, dream stuff and archetypal wish fulfilment.
I do not propose to challenge her on it. The material is valuable anyway. However, I am not prepared to swallow it like the bolus of pitch and hemp that Daniel fed to the great dragon. What is important is that the nearer we come to the moment of revelation, the more my patient divides herself, like an amoeba. So far we have three separate personae: the damned soul, grasping at images of lost innocence, Fräulein Zickzackblitz, mistress of Silbersee, sane and practical, laying about her with a riding crop; the desolate mother mourning her lost child, bereft even of the skill to communicate her love and her grief. Well, we shall see in due time which of these personages is the most durable!
She is sitting bolt upright in her chair waiting for me to continue the interrogation. I say nothing. I go to her, stand behind the chair and begin to massage her shoulders and her neck. Her muscles are hard as boards, knotted in spasm. After a few moments she gives a sigh of pleasure and relaxes under my touch. Then she undoes the top two buttons of her blouse and throws back the collar so that I can work on her bare skin. I begin to coax her in rhythm with the movement: “Let go now. This is easier than talking. It tells us both more too. Close your eyes. Here you are free from nightmares!”
For a while she abandons herself quite happily to my touch; then she reaches up, imprisons my right hand and draws it down to touch it with her lips. Quite calmly she declares:
“That’s enough. Thank you, my dear. I enjoyed it very much. Any more and we are both in hot water.”
I note the endearment with pleasure and her pleasure with delight that I have been able to arouse her. I draw her head back and kiss her on the forehead, then retreat to my chair. She buttons her blouse and sits facing me, half sombre, half amused, sensual as a cat by a fire. I am elated. Physical contact has been made. The first bastion is breached. Time and patience will bring us into the castle keep itself. Then she startles me with a frank declaration:
“I fear you haven’t been listening to me, my dear doctor. I keep telling you I seduce easily and then behave very badly. I think you seduce easily too, and then wonder why things get messy afterwards. You and I should not start any games that we’re not prepared to play right to the end. But thank you for wanting me. That helps more than you know.”
I smile and shrug and thank her in my turn. I, too, like to be wanted at a moment in my life where I feel often like the ugly duckling. Then, the interlude over, we are back to reality. I ask her to tell me about her life as an intern at the general hospital in Vienna. She is not ready for that yet.
“I’d like to tell you first about Ilse.”
“Ilse? I don’t remember that name.”
“We haven’t discussed her.”
“Is she important to your story?”
“Later she is most important.”
“Tell me about her.”
“She was my friend at school in Geneva. She also lived in Land Salzburg. Her father was a mine owner and a big financier. I had a schoolgirl affair with her. Papa would have liked to seduce her, too; but he didn’t, because I wouldn’t invite her to stay with us. However, she was pretty, personable, rich and almost endearingly stupid. She and her two brothers were among the first members of our new hunt club. Ilse was prime meat in the marriage market. Her mother was a doleful, anaemic creature. Her father was rich, rich – and very anxious to find a titled husband for little Ilse. Our monthly hunt meets at Silbersee were an ideal occasion to parade the promising young colts on whom she wanted my expert opinion. She was one of those girls who live in a rose-pink glow of illusion. She recalled incidents from our schooldays in Geneva that never happened, never could have happened. Our schoolgirl affair, which ended the day I saw her setting her cap at Papa, was for her a lifelong bond. I must be bridesmaid at her wedding, godmother to her children, friend of the heart to her and the husband she hadn’t even found yet. A session with Ilse was like gorging yourself on Sachertorte. You ended up sticky and creamy and utterly surfeited with sweetness.”
“A very clear portrait. I now have Ilse graven on my heart. May we pass on, please?”
“You wanted to know about Vienna. From the beginning that was an odd experience. I told you Papa had procured me an appointment as an intern at the Allgemeines Krankenhaus He gave me letters of introduction to the registrar and to three or four of the senior men with whom he had worked over the years. He set me up in a pleasant apartment between the Alsengrund and the Josefstadt, an easy walk from the hospital. He gave me a note to his bankers. And that was it! No social contacts, no women friends, nothing! He had lived a private life for all these years; there was no reason to have it complicated by a bluestocking daughter with a defective birth certificate!
“I was hurt, of course, and angry; but by now I had developed an automatic reaction. If these were the rules of the game, I would play them to the limit – no favours asked, no quarter given! I made my bows to the senior staff, thanked them profusely for their good offices on my behalf, and retreated resolutely to the ranks of the juniors. I made contact with Gianni di Malvasia, who was lodging with a young male f
riend in a rather seedy apartment off the Herrengasse. The friend was a student of piano and composition, and neither their apartment nor their neighbours’, could accommodate a grand piano. I offered the use of my apartment for practice, and an occasional home cooked meal in return for their escorting me to concerts and introducing me to the young life of the city.
“It worked well. Gianni, in his stuffy fashion, was very protective. I understood his needs and his occasional agonies. Soon we had a small circle of friends who made the rounds together: cheap seats at the opera, wine and dancing in Grinzing, booths in the cheaper and seamier night spots in the old city. I met all sorts of interesting people. At Silbersee there’s a portrait of me by Klimt. It’s semi-nude. I’m wrapped in a multi-coloured drape that he painted afterwards. I met Schnitzler and didn’t like him. I found him an insufferable snob. Lina Loos took me up for a while; but she got bored with me because I couldn’t paint or write. It was a strange frantic time. They called it the Gay Apocalypse, but it matched our mood.
“You’ve worked in a public hospital. You know what it’s like. You’re all terribly young. You spend your days and a lot of your nights with the sick, the dying, all the bloody casualties of a big city. You think you’re tough, but you’re not. After a while the sheer futile mess of the human condition begins to appal you.”
I turn back through my notes and remind her that she has made a similar remark before. I quote it back to her: “We bury our successes and our failures in the same grave.” I ask, can she explain it to me?
