by Morris West
“Not impertinent, just scared. I’m hurrying down a dark street, listening to my own footsteps and my own heartbeat. I don’t know where I’m going or what I’ll do when I get there. So I make bad jokes; I’m sorry.”
“I wish. . .”
“No! Don’t! Lily used to have a proverb about wishes. How did it go? Oh yes. ‘If wishes were horses, then beggars would ride. Put beggars on horseback and then – woe betide!’ Hurry now. I’ll go and chat with your wife.”
As we drive towards the city, the storm which has been brewing all day bursts over the lake. The rain, mixed with hailstones, beats against the windscreen. Thunder rolls up and down the valley. Forked lightning slashes across the tumbled sky. Magda Liliane Kardoss von Gamsfeld takes her leave with an irony:
“Fräulein Zickzackblitz makes her exit and the powers of heaven are moved. Beautifully staged, doctor! I have new respect for the Swiss. Enjoy your evening!”
By the time I reach Toni’s door I am looking like a drowned rat. At least it’s a good excuse to get my clothes off quickly. It is, I find, easier to strip off a wet shirt than the memory of folly, failure and professional ineptitude.
MAGDA
Zurich
The moment I am back at the hotel I regret having zuricn invited Emma Jung to dinner. I am suddenly weary – so weary that I can hardly drag myself upstairs. I am sick of talking, sick of being talked at. My dearest wish is to be deaf, dumb and blind, tranquil in the amniotic fluid of some primal womb.
I draw myself a bath and soak in it for an hour; then put on a housecoat and stretch out on the chaise-longue with the latest edition of Die Dame, a new illustrated magazine for women published in Berlin, which is becoming very popular. After two minutes I have lost the thread of what I am reading. I am too languid, too empty even to be melancholy. As for my plan to take the midnight train to Rome, wild horses will not drag me out of this room tonight.
Tomorrow I will make decisions. Tomorrow or the next day, it makes no matter. I have survived the rack and thumbscrews of a psychiatric inquisition; I can certainly survive a night at the Baur au Lac. I ring for the floor waiter and place my order for dinner to be served at eight-thirty. I also have him ice a bottle of champagne to welcome my guest. I want her to be impressed. I want her to remember a joyful evening. I desire very much that she may like me.
My self-esteem has never been lower. That shabby little scene in Jung’s office – which I staged, not he! – makes my flesh crawl every time I think of it. Fräu lein Zickzackblitz indeed! And as for going out in a thunder of Wagnerian music, I was more like Miss Dirty-Face, offering rough trade with her sisters, up and down the Limmatquai. I wonder how Emma Jung would react if she ever found out what happened. It is not impossible. I have the nagging suspicion that Jung is a man who stores up small malices which vitiate his compassion and his very real understanding. It is one more reason to make this meal a memorable occasion for Emma.
When she arrives, I have a completely new impression of her. At home, with her brood clustered about her, she looked the grave young matron, the Frau Doktor, the well bred mistress of a well ordered house. I had guessed her age at thirty-three or thereabouts. Here, at the Baur au Lac, she looks very much younger, very pregnant and very, very vulnerable. When I offer her champagne she hesitates. Carl has a good head for drink; she tends to get tipsy and talkative. She doesn’t want to upset the baby. I remind her that she has a very good physician in attendance and a chauffeur to drive her home; so she accepts the drink. I make her take the chaise-longue while I settle myself in an armchair near the bell pull and make the toast: “To a new friendship and, of course, to a healthy new baby!” We drink. Then she asks the first and most awkward question:
“When is your next appointment with Carl?”
“I haven’t made one. He feels I should look elsewhere for counsel.”
“Oh dear!” She frowns unhappily.
“Please, don’t be distressed! Your intuition was right in the first place. I have no complaints. Your husband tried very hard to help me. I tried to cooperate. It didn’t work. No blame to either of us.”
“Then tomorrow Carl must write to your physician in Paris. That’s very important. It’s not only courtesy. It’s essential for you too. I’ll have Toni remind him in the morning.” She gives me a small embarrassed smile. “That’s the protocol in our house. All professional business goes through Toni. I suppose it’s natural enough. I married when I was twenty-one. Carl was seven years older. It was he who set the rules. I followed them without question. Very Swiss! After a while it becomes a habit. So much of my time is taken up with the children, I just have to let Carl go his own way. I know that isn’t good for him – especially at this stage of his life – but I can’t fight him any more.”
She is anxious to talk. I am happy to listen. I pour more champagne and prompt her gently.
“You mentioned your husband was under great stress. What’s the problem?”
“I wish I knew! No, that’s not true. I do know part of it, a large part. I just don’t like to admit it; and Carl, of course, hates to discuss it with me. He’s always chosen to believe that a wife has fewer brains than other women.” She laughs a little unsteadily. “As a matter of fact, he’s right. Otherwise why would we let ourselves in for marriage and childbirth? Was your marriage happy?”
“All but the last year. That was horrible. My husband died of cancer.”
“Oh dear. I’m sorry.”
“Please! It’s long in the past.”
“Do you have any children?”
“One daughter. She’s married now. We’re not close.”
“That’s sad. And you’ve never wanted to get married again?”
“Well, let’s say I haven’t met anyone who’d want to spend a lifetime with me – or with whom I’d want to spend more than a month. I lead a busy life. I run two stud farms. We sell horses all over Europe. I travel a lot.”
“I envy you that – the travel, I mean. Carl is the traveller in our family. He’s been to Paris, England, the United States, Italy, Germany. I’ve gone with him to a couple of conferences; but there’s not much fun in that. Carl needs to be the centre of attention. I’m not very good at being the modest wife deferring to the great man and his colleagues. I have a few ideas of my own I’d like to air sometimes!”
“You told me your husband trained you as an analyst.”
“He did, but I wasn’t thinking of that. I was thinking of the other side of the story. These people, my husband included, are handling high explosives and they’re as careless and jealous and stubborn as children! You have no idea the backbiting that goes on at these conferences, the cabals and cliques that form around each old leader, each new theorist. I’m dreading the meeting that’s coming up in Munich. My husband is preparing for a big fight with Freud. They’ve been friends for so long. Now they’re sworn enemies. I like Freud. He’s always been kind and understanding to me. He even admits I have a brain. So I’m caught in the middle. Oh dear! I told you I shouldn’t drink. Here I am running on like the village gossip. You talk to me for a change. May I call you Magda? I hate feeling distant from someone. That’s another problem. I’m getting more and more distant from Carl.”
I have a fine ear for malice. I hear none in what she is telling me. Rather I hear regret and the insidious sadness of a woman lonely too soon, imprisoned in a nursery, while her husband, the sportive gaoler, goes off about his business, safe in the knowledge that the children will hold her more securely than locks and bars.
I want to hear more of this clever fellow and how he runs the rest of his life, and what, if anything, I have missed by not submitting myself humbly to his guidance. Because I do not want to offend my Emma – open and vulnerable but relaxed at last – I walk the long way round to get the eggs. I tell her how I did my final training in Vienna, while Freud was teaching there, and how Gianni di Malvasia and I spent our student nights in the glow of the Gay Apocalypse. The tale carries us up to the mo
ment when dinner is served and the consomme is disposed of. Then she is ready to pick up the thread of her own story.
“That’s what Carl missed most, I think – the carefree days. He was always on the move. The family had little money. He had to thrust his own way upwards and he did it by sheer hard work and brains. He lived then, as he would like to live now, largely and lustily. That’s what made me fall in love with him. Everything he did and said – drinking, yodelling, debating – was dramatic, almost greedy. With me it was different. I took everything for granted. My family was rich. I’d always had whatever I wanted. We were big people in Basel. Folk bowed and doffed hats to my parents. I took that for granted, too. Carl resented it. He still does. I have to be very careful in company never, never to push myself forward in his presence. Perhaps I should have fought it from the beginning, but it’s too late now. Carl’s not the king of the profession. Freud still wears the crown. But Carl is certainly the crown prince. He has his own court – and oh dear, oh dear! – his own ladies-in-waiting, who adore him and hang on his every word. He has his mistresses too, as a proper prince should have. Toni, as you’ve probably guessed, is the latest – and I think she’ll last longer than any of the others.”
“And you approve that?”
“I’m not asked to approve or disapprove. It’s a fact of life. I accept it because of the children. One can only fight so long; after that it’s not home any more but hell on earth. Carl makes it difficult, of course, because he insists on having Toni round the place morning, noon and night. I wish he’d set up another establishment away from the house, and do his business and run his love life from there; but he won’t. He says we can’t afford it. I try to point out that we’re both spending too much life on this mess. He won’t listen. I’m sure the stress of all this is contributing to his breakdown.”
Breakdown? I have heard “problems”, “stress”, “strain”. But breakdown is a new word – and for me a bad one. Is it possible I have made this painful and dangerous confession to a man who is off the rails? There has been talk of scandals, involving other women. Is it possible that Jung, not I, is the clown in this absurd circus? My blood turns to ice. The hairs rise on the nape of my neck. God almighty! Who here is the crazy one? With great calm, with singular sweetness, I ask Emma:
“What form does the breakdown take? How does it show itself? It must be very difficult for you and the children.”
JUNG
Zurich
“Hullo Paris! Hullo Paris! I wish to speak to Doctor Gianni di Malvasia No! Mal-va-sia! I will spell it out for you.”
I am lying naked in bed, while Toni is trying to raise Magda Hirschfeld’s doctor in Paris. The reason is simple – so simple that, in my excited state, I missed it by a Roman mile. This woman is suicidal. She carries poison in her reticule. I have rejected her as a patient and a sexual partner. My wife is dining with her at the hotel. I have consented to the arrangement. What better prelude to a really spectacular suicide!
Toni saw the possibility as soon as she heard my carefully expurgated edition of the day’s events. She insisted that I call Malvasia in Paris and shift the responsibility back to him, as the physician of record. Whether he intervenes or not, it will be some protection against the scandal which will inevitably break if the woman decides to do away with herself, tonight, in the Baur au Lac.
“Hullo Paris! Hullo Paris! Yes! I am still waiting for Doctor Malvasia. Understand please, it is a medical emergency. Yes, an emergency!”
It is more than a medical emergency. It is make or break for me. I am out of a job and subsisting on private practice. I have acquired a reputation as an eccentric. Some of my colleagues suspect that I am unstable. There has already been too much gossip about too many silly affairs with women. I know there are some indiscreet letters lying around. So, all I need is a suicide at the Baur au Lac and a headline: “Rejected by Local Analyst, Woman Kills Herself”. Finally it seems Toni has been able to get through. I hear her saying:
“This is Fräulein Wolff, assistant to Doctor Carl Jung. Yes, the doctor speaks both French and Italian. A moment only! I will pass you to him.”
She hands me the receiver. I introduce myself in my best Tuscan. The line crackles continually; but we are able to understand each other.
“This is Carl Jung. Can you hear me?”
“This is Malvasia. I hear you. What’s the problem . . ?”
“This patient you sent me.”
“What about her?”
“There is no way I can help her. She is not a suitable subject for my type of analysis.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“I have spent six hours with her today. As therapist and patient we are totally incompatible. She is, however, in bad condition – very bad.”
“Is she certifiable?”
“No! No! No! She is more rational than you or I. There are certain things one should not say on a telephone; but I will try. Obsession.”
“Understood.”
“Sado-masochist – increasing frequency, increasing violence.”
“Understood.”
“Great guilt about past episodes which are not – definitely not – for discussion at this moment. A strong suicidal urge. That’s why I am calling you. Does she have relatives who could assume some responsibility?”
“Close ones, no. The husband is dead. His family would help, but she would not apply to them. Her father died shortly after the husband. There is a daughter; but she seems to be totally alienated. How grave is the risk?”
“Very grave. She carries a phial of prussic acid. I’ve seen it.”
“Hell! Where is she now?”
“At the Baur au Lac. My wife is dining with her. They met only today and immediately established a rapport; which of course I approve. But you have to understand, doctor, that, once that dinner is over and my wife returns home, I can no longer be responsible for your patient. She has paid me for today’s session. I have told her I cannot help her further.”
“Can you recommend her to anyone else?”
“No. Because I am not the physician. You are!”
“Dio mio! What time is it in Zurich?”
“Nine in the evening.”
“There’s a train that leaves Paris at ten or ten-thirty. It gets to Zurich in the morning. I’ll try to be on it. Is she likely to do anything silly tonight?”
“I doubt it. My guess is that she will not want to shame my wife – and so, she will stage the suicide somewhere else. I emphasise, however, that one can never be sure.”
“I understand. I’ll want to see you as soon as I arrive.”
“Come straight to my house. You have the address. I’ll hand you all my notes and pass on certain matters verbally. We should most definitely confer before you meet your patient.”
“Thank you for the call and for your efforts, Doctor Jung.”
“A pleasure, I assure you. A sadness one was unable to do more. Until tomorrow then!”
Toni throws herself on the bed beside me, chanting triumphantly:
“Tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow! I don’t care about tomorrow any more. It’s all out in the open now. Emma knows. She’s told me in so many words it’s my job to look after you. And, starting now, that’s just what I’m going to do! First, we make love; then we get up and have supper; then we make love again. And if you get home before morning, it won’t be my fault. In fact, if you never go home at all, I don’t care!” She straddles me and pins me to the bed and stares into my eyes. “One question though! Our Magda. You didn’t play games with her, did you? When I left, you had that lecherous look in your eye.”
Und so weiter. And so it goes, the sweet and silly night, when we pay long homage to the blind god who is not a worm any more but a great strong pillar, when I don’t have to think about Emma, because she has finally acknowledged my right to live free. As for Magda Liliane Kardoss von Gamsfeld, well, her physician is on the way from Paris. I’m sure she will be in good hands. Nonetheless, I reg
ret her. She was an experience lost, a moment that found me unready.
Never mind! I am here, celebrating the mystery of conjunction with her who is sister, lover, protector, all in one. I love you, Toni my love! You are my Salome. The snake is our friend. He coils himself about us, binding us together. No. I don’t want to sleep! I want to lie close to you until the snake stirs again. Tonight of all nights, let no dreams come!
MAGDA
Zurich
“The breakdown!” Emma wipes a morsel of salmon from the corner of her mouth, takes a sip of wine and explains. “It’s hard for us all, yes! He gets into these great shouting rages, which are really quite childish, but terrify the children. They’re still very young, as you saw. However, from my point of view and from his too, I think, the withdrawals are worse than the rages. He locks himself in his study or goes wandering off along the lakeshore muttering to himself and sometimes shouting about people whom only he can see. He dreams a lot – bad nightmares! – and flails about in bed. To tell you the truth, I’m quite glad when he doesn’t sleep with me now. I’m frightened he’s going to hurt the baby.”
I watch her as she takes another mouthful of food. She is not beautiful, and yet there is a grave and tender charm about her that tugs at my heartstrings. It makes me wonder, for one poignant instant, what my own daughter looks like. I ask her:
“Is he a good father?”
“Yes. When he can be. I know that’s a silly way to put it; but he really is two people, more perhaps! One of them is a kind and loving man; the other is a dark dreamer, a kind of troubled poet, swinging all the time between hope and black despair. That’s the one I don’t like. I’m very ordinary, you see. When Carl was working at the Burgholzli and lecturing at the university, he was much better, at least for us, than he is now. There was how shall I call it? – an architecture, a structure that held him together. He had routines; he had colleagues; he had a standing place. Now he doesn’t have those things. Just when he needs them most, he doesn’t have them. I can’t supply them. I’m at the wrong stage of life. I have children tugging at my skirts all day. I’m wiping noses and treating coughs and settling nursery quarrels. I don’t have time – even if I had the talent – to sit down and help Carl work things out. Besides, I’m not sure that’s what he wants. He gets bored with people very quickly. Watch him eating an orange! He sucks the juice out and tosses the pulp and the rind away. That’s why women are so attracted to him at first and so angry afterwards.” She laughs and splutters over the wine. I reach out and wipe her lips. She pats my hand in thanks. “He gives them his whole attention, makes them feel like great, complicated romantic heroines. Then he walks away and leaves them screaming or crying into their handkerchiefs. He hates to be committed, you see. He has to spread himself to feel safe.”
