by Morris West
Jung is beginning to be impatient. He is certainly not interested in my sketchy reminiscences of literary London. He urges me back to the main line of my history.
“You finished your term at Saint Mark’s. You went back to Austria. What then?”
“I went to Gamsfeld to visit Johann and Ilse. Johann, the young Lord of the Manor, happy to be out of the army, had a head full of plans for the estate. Ilse, the young bride, still blooming, was trying desperately to fall pregnant. I was welcome on both counts: as business partner for Johann and physician-in-ordinary to Ilse. Even Aunt Sibilla was glad to have me as a house guest. I was a link, even if a tenuous one, to Papa, whose attentions had become rather sporadic. Johann and I decided that, as soon as spring came, we would open the hunt club at Gamsfeld and thereafter run the two studs in tandem, each concentrating on the development of different blood lines.”
“And with all this intimacy, there was still no affair? No sexual interest on Johann’s part? No advances from you? No jealousy from Ilse?”
“No affair. No jealousy. Sexual advances? Don’t forget, my dear doctor; I had great experience of this kind of manipulation. People get used to situations that other folk would consider scandalous. It was the most natural thing in the world for me to be in Ilse’s bedroom, to ride the rounds with Johann at Silbersee or Gamsfeld. It was quite usual for the four of us – because Aunt Sibilla was an ally in Gamsfeld as Lily was at Silbersee – to sit around in our night clothes, drink a night-cap together, embrace before we parted for bed. The embraces could mean whatever you chose to think. The last thing in the world I wanted was a scandal. I wanted to be exactly what I was: Mistress of Silbersee, the Frau Doktor Kardoss, be loved of my patients, friend of the heart to Johann, Ritter von Gamsfeld, and his rich and adorable wife.”
“That must have been quite a complex relationship.”
“On the surface it was very simple.”
“And you worked hard to sustain it.”
“Very, very hard.”
“What did you expect to get out of it?”
“Exactly what I did get: to marry Johann Dietrich, to bear his child and become the Lady of Gamsfeld.”
“Presumably you will explain how all that came about.”
“I think you already know, my dear doctor. I killed Ilse Hellman.”
JUNG
Zurich
Did I already know? Do I know now? Do I want to know any more? My conscious self struggles to set her bald statement within a frame of reason. In evidentiary terms, I did not know she had committed murder. I still do not know. I am a doctor of sick minds which distort reality. I have listened to a narrative, every word of which may be a fiction. I have had no time to test its truth or analyse its hidden meanings.
On the other hand, the unrest in my own subconscious – the sudden release of archetypes of terror and violence – affirms that what I am hearing is truth. It is as if a chord struck on a pianoforte has set up a whole series of sympathetic vibrations. Whether the truth is what the words say – that is another matter. When Toni tells me that I intend to kill Freud at Munich, she is talking of a moral act with moral consequences, not an offence under the criminal code.
Do I want to know more? I must. I have seen what this confession has cost my patient. I know what it has cost me. Each of us must draw some benefit from the experience. There is another reason, too. I am so joined to her, even by this brief day’s experience, that everything that touches her, touches me in a special mystery of conjunction. We are not joined in body yet; but our subconscious selves are very close. Nevertheless, I have to deal – and deal very carefully – with the conscious. I get up from my chair and pace the room slowly, taking care not to pass too close to her until I have finished what must be said.
“This morning we made a bargain, to guarantee that what passed between us in this room would remain secret. That bargain stands. Having come this far we have consummated a kind of sacrament.” Before the last words are out I am aware of myself as a pompous idiot, mouthing banalities like my father in the pulpit. I am standing by the bookshelves. She comes to me. She has her own word to say.
“I’m not worried. That part was settled in my mind hours ago. You see, once you’ve joined the Vogel-freier, the outlaws, the next stop is the sky. I can make that flight whenever I choose.”
“I know that; but I have to be sure of something. There’s so much metaphor and symbol in this business. Did you actually and physically kill Ilse Hellman?”
“Actually, physically and by premeditated act. But no court in the world could ever convict me.”
“Did you have accomplices?”
“No.”
“Did Johann know?”
“Never.”
“Who then?”
“No one. Lily guessed. Papa guessed. But no one ever knew, until this moment.”
“How did you do it?”
“Is that important?”
“From this moment, everything is important. You are my patient. It is you who are in jeopardy now.”
“Do you care so much?”
“I care.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know! But I care. Now for Christ’s sake, let’s have the rest of the story!”
I turn away from her to go back to my desk. She catches at my sleeve, turns me in mid-stride and kisses me full on the lips. The mystery of conjunction is complete; for a long moment we are glued together like those little copulating dolls one finds in curiosity shops. The moment passes. She pushes me away and seats herself again in the patient’s chair. She gives me an odd, half-sad smile and an ironic comment: “Now I understand why the Romans use a wire grille in the confessional.” I remind her with a grin that I am an analyst and not a confessor, so the rules of the game are different. Then she begins again; and as she talks, the realisation grows that I have just embraced a murderess and found it a most stimulating experience.
“Everything was planned around that first hunt at Gamsfeld. We had organised it as a full day’s festival: the fox hunt in the morning, a parade of our blood stock after lunch, a hunt ball in the evening, with fireworks and a Bierfest in the village for the locals. We were bringing in some of our own people from Silbersee as handlers and grooms, so that the two enterprises would be seen to be working together. Can you let me have a pencil and a sheet of paper. There’s a certain amount of geography involved. It’s easier if you see it on paper.”
She pulls her chair up to the desk and draws a figure eight with the top loop much larger than the lower one. In the lower loop she marks a cross.
“That’s Gamsfeld itself: the castle, which is small but very old. It’s perched on a hill, surrounded by a wall, with dwellings inside the enclosure for the household staff. Below, in this first round valley, are the home meadows, three hundred acres of them. The perimeter is all hills, with meadows on the lower slopes, then pinewoods, then the snowline, crags and stunted growth. That’s where the Gams, the chamois, could still be found. Here, where the two parts of the figure touch, is a defile, about a quarter of a mile wide between two hills. Beyond that, as you see, the country opens out again into pastures, meadowlands and orchards, each divided by low walls of stone. At the top of the figure eight is the village. Very old, quite beautiful in spring and summer, but grim and depressing in winter.
“We knew we would have a big cavalcade for the event and Johann wanted to ingratiate himself with the village folk. So, we arranged to assemble the huntsmen and the hounds in the village square itself, with breakfast and a stirrup cup and favours for the children. That way the butcher, the baker, the innkeeper, the farmers and the working folk all got a share of the proceeds. After breakfast we would move out to the open meadowland, where there was the best chance of flushing a fox. The hounds would be slipped and the hunt would be on. We would try to drive the fox back through the defile and on to the home estate where the going was rougher but the risks of damage to farm property were less.
“At my su
ggestion, Johann had arranged some insurance against accidents. We had the farm boys trap a fox and keep it penned. If we didn’t flush our own fox before we hit the defile, the boys would release the trapped animal about a quarter of a mile ahead so that hounds and horsemen would have themselves a runnable quarry. The second insurance was to invite the local doctor to join the hunt – and bring his bag of tricks with him. That meant there would be three of us to deal with any casualties, which would be picked up by a farm brake following the cavalcade.
“Finally, the four of us, Johann Dietrich, Hans Hemeling, Ilse and myself rode the whole course, across and around, to note any hazards for novice riders or those unfamiliar with the country. There were several: a bank on the mill stream where the timbers of the chute had rotted, a rabbit warren, honeycombed with burrows, where both horse and rider could come to grief, and a stone wall, higher than the rest, part of an old building complex, with a rubble-filled ditch on the other side. A good rider on a good mount could take it in one stride, a poor one would risk his neck. We agreed to mark the hazards and warn the huntsmen before we set off.
“I asked Ilse how well she rode over the jumps. Johann answered for her. ‘She’s quite good. We’ve been out a lot together; but I don’t want her taking any risks. I suggest she ride with you, Magda. She doesn’t have to prove anything against these big country fellows on their heavy hunters, or my friends from the cavalry who are trained to take risks. I’ve warned her however, if she has any doubts, to pass up the jump. When the pack is in full cry, it’s catch as catch can!’
“For the first time I heard a jangle of jealousy among the silver bells. Ilse didn’t want to be lectured in front of me. Ilse was perfectly able to take care of herself. The Mistress of Gamsfeld had a name to keep up. She wanted her Johann to be proud of her. Amen! So be it! I was absolved from responsibility. Which was exactly as I had planned it.”
“But surely, Madame . . .” Even to me, the sober Swiss from Küsnacht, an obvious question presents itself. “Surely it is the fox who makes the running, not the huntsmen? How could you calculate on hitting this or that obstacle where your accident was to be staged? After all, your neck was at risk, too – from the hangman if things went wrong.”
She gives me a brief patronising smile and shakes her head.
“You miss the point, dear colleague. The danger spots were a diversion, a distraction. There was no guarantee that we would ever come near them at all; but in a steeplechase, a point-to-point, a hunt across country, there is danger at every instant. Accidents can happen very easily. Ilse Hellman was a mediocre horsewoman. She rode sidesaddle like a perfect lady. I am a good rider – a very good one – and I’ve always ridden astride. So you see, the odds were all in my favour. Johann and his friends were out for a fox. I was after the vixen. I would be riding neck and neck with Ilse Hellman until the kill.”
There is no doubt that the voice which issues from her mouth, the fire which lights her eyes, are expressions of the shadow, the dark and primitive element of her self. I begin to understand how deep is the split within her psyche, and what she really means when she claims, on the one hand, to have no religious or moral instincts and, on the other, gropes so desperately for a handhold on faith. I am reminded vividly of accounts which I have read of so-called diabolic possession. I am sure that many of these are phenomena belonging to states of dementia praecox. I am convinced that this woman, while acting with complete rationality is, at certain moments, cut completely in two like a tomato. I urge her to continue. I have to confess that I am irresistibly intrigued by this account of an assassination by the assassin herself.
“At Gamsfeld we all rose early, in order to welcome the guests as they arrived in the village. It was a beautiful spring morning, sunny, crisp, with rime still crackling underfoot and the first faint buds breaking on the winter-bare branches. Johann, Ilse and I set off together. Johann, bred to the cavalry, was riding his favourite mount, a big Furioso from Hungary. I had brought Celsius, a Hanoverian that I had schooled myself, a handy jumper, seventeen hands and steady as a Swiss clock. Ilse’s mount was a gift from Johann, a pretty little half-Arab mare from the stud at Radautz. She was young and mettlesome and Ilse, splendid in a new riding habit, matched her for beauty and line, if not for intelligence.
“I know it sounds strange, a compliment to the woman I wanted to kill; but what would you have instead? A lie? She did look beautiful. Her mount was a beauty too; though I didn’t know how much heart she’d have under pressure. But of course there would be no pressure today. We were out for good, honest country fun, with the village band playing oom-pah-pah in the square, the girls in starched aprons and Sunday dirndls dashing about with beer and bread and sausage, and all the gentry for miles around ready to join a fox hunt à l’Anglaise at Gamsfeld!
“As we trotted off, Ilse was next to Aunt Sibilla. I drew alongside them and reminded Ilse of Johann’s warnings. Let the men take the lead. Once the view halloo sounded, all those big seventeen-handers would go charging forward like a regiment of hussars. She was nervous now and glad to have me by her. The little mare was restive, too, and hard to hold. Ilse complained, ‘I don’t know her well enough. I’m not sure how she’s going to respond.’ I told her to ride with a firm hand. We were in no hurry. If she wanted her head at the fences, give it to her. If she faltered, pass up the jump rather than risk a tumble. I would ride with her all the way but take each jump ahead of her. My Celsius had a big, steady stride, and he would lend confidence to the little mare. Aunt Sibilla added her own counsel. ‘You can trust Magda. Just stay with her, she’ll get you home safe.’ Which was exactly what I needed: clear evidence that I had a great care for my dear friend Ilse. Then the master sounded his horn, the hounds moved off, we trotted after them, out of the square, down the cobbled street, over the little arched bridge – nine centuries old they said! – and into the open meadows, where the hounds were slipped and the horsemen fanned out across the pastures.
“Our luck held. Half a mile from the bridge we flushed our fox, a big, sleek male who appeared from the lee of an ashlar fence and loped away towards the defile, with the hounds two paddocks away from him. At the first cry, Ilse was off at a hand gallop, as I knew she would be. She was jostled in the first rush, was almost thrown, and then fell back to join me and Aunt Sibilla at the tail of the chase.
“Sibilla scolded her. I, the dear and faithful friend, encouraged her. ‘We’ll catch them up. Let’s take it easy over the next two fences, then we’ll move up into the pack.’ She settled down then, we took three stone fences, in beautiful rhythm. By the time the little mare was gathered and ready, I was over and cantering until Ilse caught up. It was child’s play, a training exercise that I used to do with Rudi in the old days in Geneva. The next two fences we took more smartly. Ilse was flushed with excitement. She called out: ‘Now let’s go! Now!’ We were three fields away from the main group. We had to take two stone fences, a brush fence with a ditch beyond, and then, looming up from a different angle altogether, the stone wall with the rubble ditch.
“This was the moment. I knew I had to decide – now or never. The rubble ditch might kill us both. If I judged it right, the brush fence could be the last frontier for Ilse. I answered her cry, ‘Go! Let’s go!’ and took the first two fences, flying, with Ilse ten feet behind me. She stumbled a little after the second, but recovered and was hard on my heels as I made for the brush fence. Johann and I had noted this one as we made our rounds. The ditch on the other side was wide and steep; but any clean jumper could take it with ease. Even Ilse. She was only a length behind me when I jumped, not straight, but slewed slightly across her path. I cleared the ditch easily; but the little mare, thrown off stride, propped at the last moment and Ilse went sailing over the brush fence, to land head first in the ditch.
“There are no good falls – only lucky ones. This was a bad one. She was alive but unconscious, her body grotesquely twisted. There was bleeding from the nose and ears, and one side of the skul
l was impacted against a small sharp rock embedded in the wall of the ditch. The first riders to come on the scene were Aunt Sibilla and Papa. Aunt Sibilla – old regime to the tops of her riding gloves – looked down, stricken but tearless, and announced: ‘I saw it happen. Poor child! Her timing was all wrong. Dear God, what a mess! I’ll get some help.’
“Papa knelt with me, made a quick examination and muttered to me: ‘We’ll be lucky if she’s alive when we get her back home. If she is, then we’ll work on her together. The local man can do the anaesthetic; you assist me.’ Then the men arrived with the brake. We lifted Ilse into it and made her as comfortable as we could. Papa and I rode back with her to the castle.
“Johann was horror-struck, but he carried himself like a soldier. He sent his major-domo and my Hans Hemeling to deal with the guests; then came upstairs to the bedroom where Sibilla and Lily were undressing Ilse while Papa and I and the local doctor were scrubbing up for whatever surgery seemed possible – which was little enough. There was a large depressed fracture of the skull, fractures in the central vertebral structure and, by the look of things, a profuse cranial haemorrhage. Johann asked, ‘Is there any hope?’ The village physician left the answer to Papa. He was gentle but firm in his opinion. ‘Not much, I fear. We might do a little better in a hospital, but she’ll die before we get her there. We need your agreement for emergency work now – but don’t count on any miracles.’
