Four Novels in Jung’s 1925 Seminar: Literary Discussion and Analytical Psychology 2019044886, 9780367420659, 9780367420666, 9780367821548

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This topic has been staring every Jungian in the face since 1990 (and even before to those studying Jung in Zurich). But no one before Matthew A. Fike has even noticed it. And yet, as soon as Jungian scholars see the title of this book they will wonder why! Four Novels provides a level-headed assessment that adds considerably to our understanding of Jung’s strengths and weaknesses as a literary critic. Fascinating and important. Terence Dawson, co-editor of The Cambridge Companion to Jung

FOUR NOVELS IN JUNG’S 1925 SEMINAR

C. G. Jung believed that popular fiction often conveyed unvarnished psychological truths. In this volume, Matthew A. Fike skillfully analyzes the novels under consideration in Jung’s 1925 seminar on analytical psychology, corrects Jung’s ill-informed perspectives, and sheds light on a neglected area of Jungian literary studies. Jung originally planned to discuss several novels about the anima—Henry Rider Haggard’s She, Pierre Benoît’s L’Atlantide, and Gustav Meyrink’s The Green Face. At the request of his participants, he dropped Meyrink and included a text about the animus, Marie Hay’s The Evil Vineyard. Fike demonstrates that Haggard’s She and Benoît’s L’Atlantide portray anima possession, the visionary and psychological modes, and traditional versus Jungian approaches to history. Meyrink’s smorgasbord of Jungian theory and religion makes The Green Face a fictional counterpart to The Red Book, and both Meyrink and Hay depict states of higher consciousness that transcend the archetypes.The distinction between archetypal and spiritual possession demonstrates that The Evil Vineyard is a ghost story, and the study concludes with Hay’s dozens of allusions, which provide important metacommentary. Four Novels in Jung’s 1925 Seminar, the first comprehensive study of all four texts, complements seminal works by Cornelia Brunner and Barbara Hannah, critiques the seminar discussion recorded in William McGuire’s edition of Analytical Psychology: Notes of the Seminar Given in 1925 by C. G. Jung, and incorporates Jung’s own comments on the four novels in The Collected Works. Thus, it provides an essential addition to Jungian literary studies and will appeal both to students and practitioners of Jungian analytical psychology and to scholars of British, French, and German literature. Matthew A. Fike, PhD, Professor of English at Winthrop University, teaches courses in the human experience, critical thinking, Shakespeare, and Renaissance literature. His previous studies include The One Mind: C. G. Jung and the Future of Literary Criticism and Anima and Africa: Jungian Essays on Psyche, Land, and Literature (Routledge).

FOUR NOVELS IN JUNG’S 1925 SEMINAR Literary Discussion and Analytical Psychology

Matthew A. Fike

First published 2020 by Routledge 2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN and by Routledge 52 Vanderbilt Avenue, New York, NY 10017 Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business © 2020 Matthew A. Fike The right of Matthew A. Fike to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilized in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. Trademark notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or registered trademarks, and are used only for identification and explanation without intent to infringe. British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Fike, Matthew A., author. Title: Four novels in Jung’s 1925 seminar : literary discussion and analytical psychology / Matthew A Fike. Other titles: literary discussion and analytical psychology Description: New York : Routledge, 2020. | Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: LCCN 2019044886 | ISBN 9780367420659 (hardback) | ISBN 9780367420666 (paperback) | ISBN 9780367821548 (ebook) Subjects: LCSH: Fiction—Psychological aspects. | Jung, C. G. (Carl Gustav), 1875-1961—Knowledge—Literature. | Haggard, H. Rider (Henry Rider), 1856-1925. She. | Benoît, Pierre, 1886-1962. Atlantide. | Meyrink, Gustav, 1868-1932. Grüne Gesicht. | Hay, Marie, Hon. Agnes Blanche Marie, 1873- Evil vineyard. | Psychology and literature. | Jungian psychology. Classification: LCC PN3352 .P7 F52 2020 | DDC 809.3/04—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019044886 ISBN: 978-0-367-42065-9 (hbk) ISBN: 978-0-367-42066-6 (pbk) ISBN: 978-0-367-82154-8 (ebk) Typeset in Bembo by Apex CoVantage, LLC

Some portions of Four Novels in Jung’s 1925 Seminar: Literary Discussion and ­Analytical Psychology were previously published as follows: •

Chapter 1 originated as “Encountering the Anima in Africa: H. Rider ­Haggard’s She” in Journal of Jungian Scholarly Studies, vol. 10, no. 1, 2015, pp. 1–18; and was reprinted as “The Anima’s Many Faces in Henry Rider Haggard’s She,” in Anima and Africa: Jungian Essays on Psyche, Land, and Literature, Routledge, 2017, pp. 29–40. • A shorter version of chapter 2, entitled “Visionary and Psychological: Jung’s 1925 Seminar and Haggard’s She,” was anthologized in Jungian Perspectives on Rebirth and Renewal: Phoenix Rising, edited by Elizabeth Brodersen and Michael Glock, Routledge, 2017, pp. 245–57. • Chapter 3, “Time Is Not an Arrow: Anima and History in H. Rider Haggard’s She,” appeared in ANQ: A Quarterly Journal of Short Articles, Notes and Reviews, vol. 28, no. 2, 2015, pp. 105–9, doi:10.1080/0895769X.2015.1040868. • Chapter 4, “C. G. Jung on Plagiarism in Pierre Benoît’s L’Atlantide,” was ­published in International Journal of Jungian Studies, vol. 9, no. 3, 2017, pp. 167–82, doi:10.1080/19409052.2017.1355331. Permission to reprint this material was granted by the Journal of Jungian Scholarly Studies, Routledge/Taylor & Francis, and BrillOnline.

CONTENTS

Acknowledgementsx xi A note on the text Introduction

1

1 The anima’s many faces in Henry Rider Haggard’s She6 2 The visionary and psychological modes in She19 3 Anima and history in She31 4 C. G. Jung on plagiarism in Pierre Benoît’s L’Atlantide36 5 The Jungian matrix of Gustav Meyrink’s The Green Face50 6 Ghosts and the animus in Marie Hay’s The Evil Vineyard71 7 Hypertext in The Evil Vineyard92 Works cited 112 Index118

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I wish to acknowledge the Jungian Society for Scholarly Studies for many opportunities to present and publish my work and Winthrop University for financial support that helped me travel to the JSSS and other conferences. I particularly appreciate the unflagging encouragement, friendship, and support of Casey Cothran, my department chair; the assistance of two staff members at the Dacus Library, Nancy White in circulation and Phillip Hays in interlibrary loan; and the helpful commentary offered by my father, Francis Fike, professor emeritus, on some of the chapters in Four Novels. Final thanks go to the staff at Routledge/Taylor & Francis: Susannah Frearson for her guidance and continuing interest in my work and many others for their help in facilitating the publication process.

A NOTE ON THE TEXT

Four Novels is prepared according to the MLA Handbook, 8th edition, with the following exceptions: all ellipses are my insertions unless otherwise indicated; omissions at the start or end of quotations are usually not marked by ellipses; all emphases are in the original quotations unless otherwise indicated; double quotation marks are used only when required for clarity; and some URLs have been shortened in the works-cited list. References to The Collected Works of C. G. Jung include volume and paragraph numbers. For example, a reference to paragraph 460 in volume 5 appears as follows: (CW 5, par. 460). AP refers to William McGuire’s 1989 edition of Analytical Psychology: Notes of the Seminar Given in 1925 by C. G. Jung. MDR refers to Jung’s Memories, Dreams, Reflections. Shakespeare quotations are taken from David Bevington’s The Complete Works of Shakespeare, 4th edition. Biblical quotations, unless otherwise indicated, are taken from the Harper Study Bible: Revised Standard Version.

INTRODUCTION

There are two versions of the work in question: William McGuire’s 1989 edition, Analytical Psychology: Notes of the Seminar Given in 1925 by C. G. Jung; and Sonu Shamdasani’s 2012 edition, Introduction to Jungian Psychology: Notes of the Seminar on Analytical Psychology Given in 1925 by C. G. Jung. Four Novels cites the earlier text because it is the one more likely to be available in libraries around the world. Shamdasani’s introduction, however, is a valuable resource because it documents Jung’s professional achievements in the years that directly preceded the seminar. More importantly, it articulates a key point for the present study: “The utilization of popular novels served the function of demonstrating the fact that the psychological dynamics at play within the individuation process were by no means a purely esoteric affair” (xix). The word “esoteric” probably refers to canonical texts, and Jung was certainly interested in literary masterpieces like Johann Wolfgang von Goethe’s Faust and Friedrich Nietzche’s Thus Spoke Zarathustra, as well as countless other major works in Western and Eastern tradition. But he also found psychological depth in novels that did not purport to convey it, especially popular literature written with little or no psychological intention. Two of Jung’s literary essays indicate why he located psychological meaning in popular fiction. “On the Relation of Analytical Psychology to Poetry” distinguishes between “two entirely different modes of creation,” the introverted and extraverted attitudes (CW 15, par. 111), which “Psychology and Literature” renames the psychological and visionary modes (CW 15, par. 141, 144). The introverted/­ psychological approach to literary composition emphasizes the author’s intention, whereas the extraverted/visionary approach allows archetypal material from the collective unconscious to flow through the author. Using the former method, an author purposefully builds psychological content into a text; often this content is related to the author’s life and personal unconscious. In the latter method, psychological content originates in the collective unconscious, is translated into language

2 Introduction

by the author, and imbues a visionary text because of the author’s lack of intention to write psychologically. The distinction is like the relationship between intellect and instinct: one is thought to be under personal control, whereas the other just emerges. The point is that Jung finds particular significance in popular novels because he believes that they illustrate the visionary mode of literary production, though that assumption participates in a false dichotomy. Although Jung himself was capable of channeling texts, even Seven Sermons to the Dead and The Red Book reflect his individuality. No text fully lacks an authorial stamp, and the novels that he considers visionary but not psychological are, to varying degrees, both ­visionary and psychological. Thus, the contrasting modes that he establishes in his literary essays form a Venn diagram rather than a binary opposition. The relationship between authorial biography and literary execution is one of the touchstones in approaches to the works under consideration in Four Novels. Jung’s literary analyses often lack crucial biographical information. Analytical Psychology is a series of sixteen lectures by Jung, with interspersed discussions between himself and his thirty-three seminar participants. (McGuire states that there were twenty-seven but lists only twenty-six persons whose comments are recorded [viii, xviii]; Shamdasani lists thirty-three names, including some whose comments are not on record [xxxvii–xxxviii].) Jung begins in Lecture 1 by stating that his purpose is to view “the astonishing width of the field” of analytical psychology, including information on how his own thinking developed (3). Shamdasani helpfully summarizes the lectures (Introduction xvi–xviii), but here is a briefer summary of the book’s topics. The lectures deal with Jung’s early work with Helly Preiswerk and Miss Frank Miller, dementia praecox and the association with Freud, the influence of Arthur Schopenhauer and Eduard von Hartmann, Jung’s book Psychology of the Unconscious, his dreams and fantasies (Siegfried; Elijah and Salome), the I Ching, monism and dualism, Swedenborg, the qualities of the psyche (thinking, feeling, intuition, sensation), serpent imagery, compensation, the archetypes (anima, wise old man, shadow), and the collective unconscious. In other words, the volume provides an overview of the inner and outer experiences that led to Jung’s psychological theory as summarized by the final lectures in various diagrams of the psyche’s diverse functions. It is the anima, however, that provides a connection to the novels that are discussed in the appendix to Lecture 16. Because Jung believed that popular fiction often conveyed unvarnished truths about the archetypes of the collective unconscious, he was eager to have the seminar analyze “three books written on the anima theme” (118): Henry Rider Haggard’s She, Pierre Benoît’s L’Atlantide, and Gustav Meyrink’s The Green Face—a British novel, a French novel, and an Austrian novel.When the seminar participants requested a text about the animus, Jung dropped Meyrink’s book and substituted The Evil Vineyard by Marie Hay, a British woman of Scottish descent who married a German diplomat. Although Jung and his seminar participants did not discuss Meyrink, The Green Face is included in Four Novels because it was part of Jung’s original syllabus, because it is mentioned in The Collected Works, and because it has received insufficient Jungian commentary. Small groups of seminar participants were then

Introduction  3

assigned one novel apiece and met separately to summarize its contents and analyze its characters in light of “the psychological processes involved, transformations of the libido, and the behavior of the unconscious figures from start to finish” (118). Jung’s own approach to these four novels, though often deeply insightful, sometimes lands wide of the mark. For example, he commits the intentional fallacy by inferring something about Haggard’s experience from that of his main character, Ludwig Horace Holly. His comments on the archetypes are sometimes cursory, and there is more to be said about his understanding that Meyrink is to the anima as Hay is to the animus. Perhaps the most significant problem is that he completely overlooks the fact that The Green Face and The Evil Vineyard both have important things to say about human consciousness and that Hay is writing a ghost story. Whereas there is no previous Jungian criticism of Benoît and little on Meyrink, two foundational studies of Haggard and Hay deserve specific mention. First, there is Cornelia Brunner’s Anima as Fate, a study that includes Jung’s preface in which he states that “the anima is developed in its purest and most naïve form in Rider Haggard . . . [who] remained her faithful knight throughout his literary life and never wearied of his conversation with her” (CW 18, par. 1280). Brunner places a detailed analysis of She in dual contexts—Haggard’s biography and a series of dreams that a forty-year-old man shared with his therapist. The former glosses She’s autobiographical elements, while the latter helps to establish the archetypal underpinnings of various episodes. Overall, Brunner “aims at discovering the being of the Anima and at understanding psychologically the relationship to her of the various stations of the journey,” with special emphasis on unconscious compensation and on amplification via “similar images from religious history, from myths, and from fairy tales” (xxiii–xxiv). Second, Barbara Hannah’s “The Problem of Women’s Plots in Marie Hay’s The Evil Vineyard,” a chapter in her book The Animus: The Spirit of Inner Truth in Women (vol. 2), accounts for numerous narrative details in a powerful reading of the animus as it relates to the main character, Mary Latimer. Brunner and Hannah are largely sure-footed so far as they go, but Four Novels brings new insights to the study of She and substantially advances the study of The Evil Vineyard by investigating two major features overlooked by Jung and Hannah—the presence of ghosts and Hay’s frequent literary allusions. The first three chapters of Four Novels deal with Haggard’s She, which was one of Jung’s favorite novels and is frequently mentioned in The Collected Works. Although his view that She depicts an encounter with the anima is a critical commonplace, his reasons for considering Ayesha, the title character, to be a classic anima figure have not been sufficiently explored. Chapter 1 uses the anima’s widely ranging nature— specifically, Jung’s statements about the Kore and the stages of eroticism—to explain his interpretation and then to analyze Ayesha’s effect on Ludwig Horace Holly, the main character and narrative voice. Holly’s African journey involves a failure of individuation. After repressing his anima in England, he projects it onto Ayesha in Africa, experiencing compensation and enantiodromia (a swing from misogyny to anima possession). In this fashion, She depicts the perils of directly confronting the anima archetype and the collective unconscious.

4 Introduction

Chapter 2 critiques Jung’s understanding of She as an example of the visionary as opposed to the psychological mode of composition, demonstrating that the discussion of the novel in his 1925 seminar, despite the guesswork about Haggard’s life, qualifies this dichotomy by highlighting both visionary and psychological elements. Holly’s encounter with Ayesha, Jung’s classic anima figure, resonates on both levels of the unconscious, the collective and the personal. His journey, however, does not lead to individuation because he merely swings from misogyny in England to anima projection and possession in Africa. Chapter 3 engages with Victorian scholar Patricia Murphy’s Time Is of the Essence: Temporality, Gender, and the New Woman. Whereas Jung believes that Ayesha illustrates the anima’s historical aspect, Murphy, using Julia Kristeva’s categories of linear versus monumental/cyclical time, argues that Ayesha illustrates an ahistorical stance. Jung’s approach to history, however, leads to the conclusion that Kristeva’s binary system is a false dichotomy. Ayesha and the anima She represents are neither linear nor cyclical but participate in a larger category of simultaneous time and the ever-present nature of all times within the collective unconscious. Haggard’s She is considered first, and in three chapters, because it is most central to Jung’s interests and imagination. It also appears first in the seminar’s notes. Benoît’s L’Atlantide is considered second in the present study, though third in the seminar, because Jung responds to the claim that Benoît had plagiarized Haggard. Jung dismisses the possible plagiaristic relationship as either cryptomnesia or archetypal inspiration, but he is misinformed about the case and unfamiliar with Benoît’s life. Chapter 4 critiques Jung’s statements about Benoît and then considers the argument for plagiarism that was published in The French Quarterly in 1919–20. Contrary to Brunner’s assertion that “Benoit [sic] was unfairly accused of plagiarism” (76), neither the typical reply (that L’Atlantide reflects the author’s African experience and historical knowledge) nor the reading of the novel that arose in the 1925 seminar adequately refutes the plagiarism charge. As with She, a depth-­psychological reading of L’Atlantide shows the danger of seeking the anima archetype itself rather than experiencing the anima in a relationship with an available woman. But even if literary analogies, including the Circe myth, suggest that Haggard and Benoît may have tapped into the same archetypal vein, the novels’ similarities and verbal echoes cannot be dismissed outright. The final two novels, though certainly about archetypes, explore a wider and deeper swath of the human psyche. Chapter 5 deals with Meyrink’s The Green Face, which even his publisher did not consider a very good book. Jung disagreed. His positive view may be egocentric insofar as the novel’s composition and content are a treasure trove of Jungian psychology and Jung’s scholarly interests. Key concepts include the visionary mode, the collective unconscious, the archetypes, the stages of eroticism, projection, and the hieros gamos. Jung must also have enjoyed the novel’s references and allusions to topics he deals with in The Collected Works: Elijah, the Koran, and the Wandering Jew. While it is true that The Green Face is about the encounter of the main character, Fortunatus Hauberrisser, with the anima in the person of Eva van Druysen, Jung overlooks Meyrink’s exploration of

Introduction  5

consciousness, which the novel calls “The Great Inwardness” (139).What characters experience resembles in some respects Jung’s own psychic journey as recorded in The Red Book and Memories, Dreams, Reflections. Of particular relevance in Hauberrisser’s experience is the difference between what Jung calls the Spirit of the Depths and the Spirit of the Age. In fact, if Jung had set out to fictionalize his psychological principles and his inner experiences, he might have written something very much like The Green Face. The final two chapters examine Hay’s The Evil Vineyard. Chapter 6 begins by analyzing and critiquing statements about the animus in the novel made by both Jung and Hannah. Hay indeed wrote a novel about the animus but in fuller ways than has been previously acknowledged. Particular reference points for the analysis include Mary Latimer’s dream, frequent references to the shadow, the Swiss castle where the Latimers live, and a story about a young man who gets killed by a bear. The chapter also considers how the ghost narrative not only functions as ­metadrama but also makes The Evil Vineyard a novel about levels of consciousness, especially the dichotomy between Latimer’s conscious rationality and Mary’s numinous experiences. The chapter concludes by suggesting that Mary’s future is more positive than Jung and Hannah foretell. Along with failure to acknowledge the ghostly elements in The Evil Vineyard, Jung and Hannah do not deal with the novel’s frequent allusions to other works. For example, Mary is a young woman who yearns for intellectual stimulation, and she marries Latimer partly because he courts her with a gift of good books. ­Chapter 7 demonstrates that the literary references are central to an understanding of Mary’s psychological journey. That is, there is a hypertextual relationship between her experiences and the content of the allusions that permeate the novel. The references are not meaningless literary decoration. If tracked back to their origins, the allusions provide a built-in commentary, and the references’ overall shift from prose to poetry and song qualifies Hannah’s claim that Mary will be unhappy in her relationship with her late husband’s cousin, Maurice Drummond. Thus, the present study provides significant new (re)readings of novels by ­Haggard, Benoît, Meyrink, and Hay. One cannot predict what future Jungian literary critics may say about She, L’Atlantide, The Green Face, and The Evil Vineyard; but it is certain that the last word on these works has not yet been written. Perhaps the following chapters will facilitate further reflection just as Jung, Brunner, and Hannah have contributed to the development of Four Novels.

1 THE ANIMA’S MANY FACES IN HENRY RIDER HAGGARD’S SHE

In The Archetypes and the Collective Unconscious, C. G. Jung writes: “The anima . . . has not escaped the attentions of the poets. There are excellent descriptions of her, which at the same time tell us about the symbolic context in which the archetype is usually embedded. I give first place to Rider Haggard’s novels She, The Return of She [sic], and Wisdom’s Daughter” (CW 9i, par. 145). Similarly, in his “Foreword to Brunner,” he notes, “The motif of the anima is developed in its purist and most naïve form in Rider Haggard. True to his name, he remained her faithful knight throughout his literary life and never wearied of his conversation with her.” For Jung, “Rider Haggard is without doubt the classic exponent of the anima motif ” (CW 18, par. 1279−80). Jung’s take on She, however, runs more deeply than these opening quotations suggest: it is one of the few literary texts on which he offers significant commentary, which makes the task in in Chapter 1 partly metacritical. He mentions Haggard’s fiction repeatedly in The Collected Works; in fact, as Sonu Shamdasani notices, there are more references to Haggard than to Shakespeare (144). His most extended comments appear in Analytical Psychology: Notes on the Seminar Given in 1925 by C. G. Jung and Visions: Notes of the Seminar Given in 1930−1934 by C. G. Jung.1 Coincidentally, the 1925 seminar took place just months before his Bugishu Psychological Expedition set out for Africa. Not surprisingly, Blake W. Burleson, author of Jung in Africa, notes that She “was one of Jung’s favorite novels” (30). Although Jung’s view that She depicts an encounter with the anima is a critical commonplace, his reasons for considering Ayesha (pronounced Assha [149n]), the She of the book’s title, to be an anima figure have not been sufficiently explored.2 The most helpful concepts for this purpose—the Kore and the stages of ­eroticism— have been virtually ignored.3 This chapter, which uses these tools to examine Jung’s claim in connection with the anima’s effect on Ludwig Horace Holly, the main character and narrative voice, coalesces around the theme of Holly’s failed individuation. After showing that Ayesha closely matches Jung’s understanding of the anima,

Anima in Haggard  7

we will turn to her effect on Holly. In brief, he represses his anima in England and later projects it onto Ayesha in Africa, experiencing compensation and enantiodromia (a swing from inveterate misogyny to anima possession). Sadly, his encounter with Ayesha repeats the relational failure that he experienced a quarter century before: her preference for Leo, the emptier but more attractive vessel, over the erudite but ugly Holly reenacts the situation that sparked his initial repression. Insofar as Holly projects the anima and fails to achieve individuation, Haggard presents the ­African journey as a psychological encounter in the spirit of Jung’s famous statement: “The psychological rule says that when an inner situation is not made conscious, it appears outside, as fate” (CW 9ii, par. 126).

Plot summary Readers who are unfamiliar with She will benefit from the following plot summary. Ludwig Horace Holly is paid a visit one night at his Cambridge University lodging by a dying acquaintance named Vincey, who asks him to become the guardian of his young son, Leo. After some discussion, Holly agrees. Vincey dies that night—an apparent suicide. Once the legal arrangements have been formalized, Holly welcomes the three-year-old boy into his home and begins receiving the promised financial support. As the years roll by, Leo, per Vincey’s instructions, learns Arabic, as does Holly in order to help his adopted son acquire fluency.The younger man earns a degree at Cambridge and then studies law until, on his twenty-fifth birthday, Holly opens the chest that Vincey had left to mark his son’s coming of age. It contains artifacts, including a “scarab” or gem cut in the shape of a beetle. Various documents suggest the existence of an immortal woman somewhere in southeastern Africa. In a letter,Vincey, whose name means avenger, instructs his son either to find and kill her or to put an end to the family obsession by destroying the assembled evidence. Leo enthusiastically vows to find her, and Holly agrees to accompany him on the journey. Together with their long-time servant Job, they sail for present-day Mozambique where their ship goes down, all hands lost. Fortunately, their own smaller vessel carries the trio and their servant Mohammed safely to shore. In their journey inland up a river and through dangerous swamps, they are eventually aided by a native man named Billali and his people, the Amahagger (the people of the rocks). Leo accepts the advances of an Amahagger woman named Ustane, becoming in effect a married man. (Ustane is the reincarnation of Amenartus, the woman for whom Leo’s ancient self, Kallikrates, had rejected Ayesha, the now-immortal woman described in Vincey’s documents. As the philosopher Noot, Holly had shared the same ancient lifetime.) Violence erupts when the Amahagger murder Mohammed by “hot-potting” him (jamming a red-hot pot over his head). In the ensuing fray, Holly and Leo fight for their lives, killing many natives. Billali stops the fight and vows to bring the assailants to Ayesha, She-who-must-be-obeyed, for justice. Leo contracts malaria along the way, but Billali leads Holly to believe that Ayesha can cure him. After a

8  Anima in Haggard

long journey, the expedition arrives at her ancient underground dwelling in Kôr where many embalmed corpses are present. The ancient woman is veiled in fabric wound around her entire body lest onlookers be overcome by her beauty, which is exactly what happens to Holly when she unveils during their first conversation, in which they discourse broadly on history. Later, Holly secretly observes her grief over the embalmed corpse of Kallikrates whom Ayesha murdered twenty-two centuries before when he rejected her for Amenartus. After sentencing the Amahagger criminals to death by torture, curing Leo, and killing Ustane with a thought, Ayesha leads Holly, Leo, and Job through underground passageways and across a seemingly bottomless gulf to the womb of the Earth, a rocky chamber where She wants Leo to bathe in the Pillar of Life, which makes one as immortal as nature itself. When he hesitates, She steps into it in an attempt to demonstrate its benign nature. This time it causes her to age more than two thousand years in a few moments. The shock of her demise causes Job to die of a heart attack. Holly and Leo barely survive the jump back across the gulf (Job having dropped the long plank on which they earlier crossed). With Billali’s help, father and adopted son make it through the swamps and return to England none the worse for wear but haunted by memories of Ayesha, whom they will meet again in reincarnated form in the sequel, Ayesha:The Return of She.

Ayesha as a “classic” anima figure In The Archetypes and the Collective Unconscious, Jung associates the anima with wisdom, the historical aspect, “a superior knowledge of life’s laws,” and the quality of being outside of time (CW 9i, par. 64). All of these qualities directly characterize Ayesha; but in Norman Etherington’s words, “If Ayesha is meant to personify an unattainable dream of femininity, how are her less endearing traits to be explained?” (Rider Haggard 87). Jung’s comment in his 1925 seminar provides the seed of an answer: “Her [Ayesha’s] potency lies in large measure in the duality of her nature” (112). The anima is not only bipolar but multi-faceted, as Jung makes clear in his comments on the Kore and the stages of eroticism; both help to explain his sense that Ayesha is an anima figure. The Kôr/Kore pun has been surprisingly overlooked in the criticism, though “Kôr” has been helpfully glossed, and a connection between Ayesha and the goddess has been noted. On the one hand, Elaine Showalter mentions “the core, Kôr, coeur, or heart of darkness which is a blank place on the map” (81); and Barri J. Gold says that Kôr represents “the very core of a giant female body” (314). Ayesha refers to the pillar of fire as “the very Fountain and Heart of Life” (257; ch. 15).4 On the other, Alan Pickrell states that Ayesha “presents all three faces of the goddess in one personage: the maiden, the matron, and the crone” (20). But no one, not even Jung himself, has put together kore (Greek, girl), Haggard’s Kôr, and the Kore. This nexus implies that Kôr is a fitting locale for Holly to do anima work with a female who represents all three facets of the Kore.5 Ayesha is the virgin mother of her people, has lived for over twenty-two centuries, and through a devolutionary aging process

Anima in Haggard  9

in the pillar of fire becomes a shriveled old hag reminiscent of Gagool in King Solomon’s Mines. Jung claims in “The Psychological Aspects of the Kore” that the Kore corresponds to “the self or supraordinate personality on the one hand, and the anima on the other” (CW 9i, par. 306; cf. par. 314−15). Although Ayesha, a stumbling block to male individuation, hardly represents the Self, the Kore-Ayesha-anima nexus is highly relevant in terms of bipolarity. The description in the following quotation would fit Ayesha almost perfectly if one substituted “murderer” for “whore.” The anima is bipolar and can therefore appear positive one moment and negative the next; now young, now old; now mother, now maiden; now a good fairy, now a witch; now a saint, now a whore. Besides this ambivalence, the anima also has “occult” connections with “mysteries,” with the world of darkness in general, and for that reason she often has a religious tinge.Whenever she emerges with some degree of clarity, she always has a peculiar relationship to time: as a rule she is more or less immortal, because outside time. Writers who have tried their hand at this figure have never failed to stress the anima’s peculiarity in this respect. I would refer to the classic description in Rider Haggard’s She. (CW 9i, par. 356)6 In “Mind and Earth,” however, Jung underestimates Ayesha’s maternal aspect: “The most striking feature about the anima-type is that the maternal element is entirely lacking. She [anima] is the companion and friend in her favourable aspect[;] in her unfavourable aspect she is the courtesan. Often these types are described very accurately, with all their human and daemonic qualities, in fantastic romances, such as Rider Haggard’s She” (CW 10, par. 75). Part of Ayesha’s maternal quality is her association with the anima via a connection between snake imagery and the life force. In a paragraph that ends with another reference to “the novels of Rider Haggard,” Jung comments on the snakeanima connection. The snake’s color, green, is “the life-colour”; and the anima is “the archetype of life itself.” Snake symbolism suggests that the anima not only has “the attribute of ‘spirit’ ” but also “personifies the total unconscious” (CW 5, par. 678). In Apuleius’s The Golden Ass, Isis (the mother of Horus and a mother figure to her people) is associated with snakes (Cott 20); and since Ayesha is an anima figure and a priestess of Isis, a theriomorphic description makes good sense. She moves and hisses like a snake, has “a certain serpent-like grace” (153; ch. 13), and wears a double-headed “snaky belt” (260; ch. 26) around “her snaky zone” (211; ch. 20). Thus, Haggard’s snake imagery signifies both the danger of this particular woman and an archetypal dimension, the maternal life force. Whereas the Kore suggests the anima’s bipolarity, the “stages of eroticism” (Mary, Eve, Helen, and Sophia) show the anima more properly as multifaceted (CW 16, par. 61). Jung suggests that Eve is mother and that Mary represents religious feeling, an interpretation that Daryl Sharp echoes in his Jung Lexicon (20−21). The following

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is a reinterpretation: the four female figures represent stages through which a male progresses with his anima: Mary, mother; Helen, girlfriend, mistress, whore; Eve, wife, murderer; and Sophia, wisdom.7 Considered in this way, the stages align nicely with Ayesha who is a mother or Isis figure to her people; a siren who incites masculine desire with her unearthly beauty; a prospective wife for Kallikrates whom she slew in ancient times and for Leo, to whom her kiss proves fatal in the sequel; and a source of wisdom (like Isis) as well as a living fount of knowledge regarding ancient history and nature’s secrets. Haggard’s descriptions of Ayesha reinforce these connections, particularly with Sophia and Helen. Ayesha claims that her wisdom is ten times greater than Solomon’s (149; ch. 8) and later strikes Holly as “more like an inspired Sibyl than a woman” (218; ch. 21). Although Holly is deeply learned, his wisdom is insignificant compared with hers, as his footnote makes clear: “Now the oldest man upon the earth was but a babe compared to Ayesha, and the wisest man upon the earth was not one-third as wise. And the fruit of her wisdom was this, that there was but one thing worth living for, and that was Love in its highest sense” (221n; ch. 21). Of course, She does not mean agape, and Helen-like associations give Ayesha’s wisdom a dangerous edge: She considers herself more beautiful than Helen (149; ch. 8); radiates life like Aphrodite and beauty like Venus and Galatea (181, ch. 17; 212, ch. 20); and, as “a virgin goddess” like Diana, warns Holly that his own passion (eros) may end him, much as the hounds tore Acteon to pieces (154; ch. 13). Holly recognizes the threat by thinking of her as “this modern Circe” (157; ch. 14). Indeed, Ayesha has the potential to come between Holly and Leo, just as Circe separates Odysseus from his men. As Rebecca Stott observes, like the New Woman of Victorian England, Ayesha “will turn men into beasts, turn them against themselves and each other, infiltrate into and destroy the closed circle of the brotherhood” (Fabrication 117). Ayesha’s status as a dangerous woman and an Eve figure has not escaped the critics. Etherington believes that Haggard’s women simultaneously suggest Eve and Satan (Rider Haggard 79). Evelyn J. Hinz calls her “a pagan Eve” (421), and Bruce Mazlish sees both Eve and Medusa in Ayesha’s background (734). More remains to be said, however, about Ayesha’s parallels to Eve. In the womb of the Earth, Ayesha stands naked “as Eve might have stood before Adam, clad in nothing but her abundant locks” (260; ch. 26), tempting Holly and Leo with knowledge and eternal life, for the fire combines the forbidden biblical trees’ twin benefits, as Holly makes clear. Even on the sidelines he feels the fire’s effects: I know that I felt as though all the varied genius of which the human intellect is capable had descended upon me. I could have spoken in blank verse of Shakespearian beauty, all sorts of great ideas flashed through my mind, it was as though the bonds of my flesh had been loosened and left the spirit free to soar to the empyrean of its native power. The sensations that poured in upon me are indescribable. I seemed to live more keenly, to reach to a higher joy, and sip the goblet of a subtler thought than ever it had been my lot to do

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before. I was another and most glorified self, and all the avenues of the Possible were for a space laid open to the footsteps of the Real. (257−58; ch. 25) In other words, Holly’s temptation is to tap directly into the collective unconscious, the treasure trove of all human thought. The fire would enable him to keep his sanity and to have all the riches of human experience at his intellectual command—forever. The anima as a Helen-like femme fatale is implied in Jung’s statement that those “who have any psychological insight at all will know what Rider Haggard means by ‘She-who-must-be-obeyed’ ” and that “they know at once the kind of woman who most readily embodies this mysterious factor [the anima]” (CW 7, par. 298).8 Susan Rowland echoes this sentiment in stating that “Jung’s erotic anima is dangerous when substantiated into fantasies of female deviousness and power” (Literary Theory 17). Jung himself speaks of something like the femme fatale in “Marriage as a Psychological Relationship”: There are certain types of women who seem to be made by nature to attract anima projections; indeed one could almost speak of a definite “anima type.” The so-called “sphinx-like” character is an indispensable part of their equipment, also an equivocalness, an intriguing elusiveness—not an indefinite blur that offers nothing, but an indefiniteness that seems full of promises, like the speaking silence of a Mona Lisa. A woman of this kind is both old and young, mother and daughter, of more than doubtful chastity, childlike, and yet endowed with a naïve cunning that is extremely disarming to men. His footnote adds, “There are excellent descriptions of this type in H. Rider Haggard’s She” (CW 17, par. 339, n. 3). A Helen type is bad enough; but a woman like Ayesha, who appears multi-faceted to the male imagination, becomes the recipient, to some degree, of all four projected stages of eroticism. Such a woman is a cynosure who allows a man’s imagination to latch on.Whatever his poison, his imagination finds some anchor for it in her persona. This process marks what Mazlish calls “the pubescent aspect of masculinity” in adult men (735), which views women as “everlastingly mysterious, dominating, immoral, terrifying, and fascinating, especially so in the Victorian period” (735). Jung would underscore that the stages of eroticism depict man’s experience of his inner feminine as it appears when projected on women. Like the Mona Lisa, a woman takes shape according to the machinery of the male psyche when he imagines her as he wishes. Like Galatea she springs to life as a reflection of a man’s feminine ideal but has a separate identity apart from the wishes of the male projector. As such a female, Ayesha is devastatingly attractive, for She seems to embody the totality of the anima. Any man who has ever fallen in love with a waitress will agree that W. E. Henley accurately sums up this projection process: “With Ayesha,

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the heroic Barmaid—the Waitress in Apotheosis—numbers of intelligent men are in love, as the author himself appears to be” (qtd. in Cohen 215). Always present in male-female relationship is the possibility that the dynamics of the anima will overwhelm and consume the masculine—that the anima (or the unconscious in general) will swallow the masculine rather than becoming properly integrated into the Self. The threat is most pronounced when a man fixates on a woman who, in his mind’s eye, is a femme fatale. A woman like Ayesha—youthfully ancient, sweetly powerful, coldly alluring—is a fitting repository of male fear and desire because She invites projection so powerful and permanent that it leads to anima possession rather than to individuation through the anima work that Jung calls the “master-piece” (CW 9i, par. 61). Ayesha, a femme fatale, is Jung’s image of the anima because the most powerful figure of the projected anima leads to the most damaging psychological dysfunction. Such a woman disrupts the brotherhood of men (the shadow work or “apprentice-piece” that they are supposed to do first with each other), as when Holly “is rent by mad and furious jealousy” because Ayesha prefers Leo, the younger, more attractive man (CW 9i, par. 61; 212; ch. 20).

Holly, projection, and compensation As the novel’s central character, Holly is like the hub of a bicycle wheel, with projections radiating like spokes to all of the following: misogyny (Billali, Job); the wise old man (Billali); conventionality (Job); gentlemanly qualities (Leo); the intellect (Cambridge colleagues); instinct (the goose that is shot); savage rage (the Amahagger); and the anima (Ayesha, Ustane, Truth). Jung and his colleagues note many of these projections in their 1925 seminar. A more convincing theory of the psyche relates to his sense that “a compensatory relationship exists between persona and anima” (CW 7, par. 304). “The anima, being of feminine gender,” Jung writes, “is exclusively a figure that compensates the masculine consciousness” (CW 7, par. 328). Here is the model that he develops around a central core of ego/ consciousness: External reality Persona EGO Anima The unconscious The persona mediates between ego and the external world, just as the anima bridges ego and the unconscious. Persona and anima are in a compensatory relationship so that a man’s “ideal persona is responsible for his anything but ideal anima” (CW 7, par. 310). A female-resistant persona yields a more powerful anima, which “likewise is a personality” (CW 7, par. 314). Jung might as well be describing Holly’s misogyny in stating, “If the soul-image is not projected, a thoroughly morbid relation to the unconscious gradually develops” (CW 6, par. 811). Jung states, “If the

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persona is intellectual [like a Cambridge don’s], the anima will quite certainly be sentimental,” meaning subject to powerful anima projection (CW 6, par. 804).9 Libido “gets dammed up and explodes in an outburst of affect” (CW 6, par. 808): Holly’s powerful misogyny leads to powerful projection. In other words, it is the anima’s job to remind him that he is not, at his core, a hater of women and that he is still capable of love and lust. That Holly has emphasized his intellect and repressed his interest in women is beyond doubt. As Hinz states, Holly is Western culture’s “intellectual offspring—a skeptical, individualistic, scientifically-oriented academic with a firm belief in the moral and political British constitution” (426). He is, however, an academic in the Socratic mode—learned but ugly. Women loathe his appearance, so he projects his anima on one who pretends to like him for mercenary purposes. Women hated the sight of me. Only a week before I had heard one call me a “monster” when she thought I was out of hearing, and say that I had converted her to Darwin’s theory. Once, indeed, a woman pretended to care for me, and I lavished all the pent-up affection of my nature upon her. Then money that was to have come to me went elsewhere, and she discarded me. I pleaded with her as I have never pleaded with any living creature before or since. (41; ch. 1) From this devastating experience misogyny results, as the faux-editor describes: I remember being rather amused because of the change in the expression of the elder man, whose name I discovered was Holly, when he saw the ladies advancing. He suddenly stopped short in his talk, cast a reproachful look at his companion [Leo], and, with an abrupt nod to myself, turned and marched off alone across the street. I heard afterwards that he was popularly supposed to be as much afraid of a woman as most people are of a mad dog, which accounted for his precipitate retreat. (36; introduction) In believing that men and women shrink from him, Holly creates a cycle of repression and isolation. He even hires Job, a man servant, instead of a female nurse, lest a woman vie with him for Leo’s affections (50; ch. 2). Holly’s libido (sexual and otherwise) is canalized into study and parenthood to the point that he considers himself invulnerable to female beauty. To Ayesha he demurs: “I fear not thy beauty. I have put my heart away from such vanities as woman’s loveliness that passes like a flower” (152; ch. 13). As Jung understood, however, the more repression there is in the persona, the more strongly the anima compensates. When Ayesha unveils herself, Holly’s anima pounces, much as the chthonic crocodile seizes the lion in the marshes. Now the scholar and inveterate woman-hater falls in love with someone on whom he projects his feminine ideal.

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In this respect, Jung is perhaps too general in his own comments on the novel’s relation to the projection process. Rider Haggard’s She gives some indication of the curious world of ideas that underlies the anima projection. They are in essence spiritual contents, often in erotic disguise, obvious fragments of a primitive mythological mentality that consists of archetypes, and whose totality constitutes the collective unconscious. Accordingly, such a relationship is at bottom collective and not individual. (CW 17, par. 341) The comment makes sense if one remembers Jung’s emphasis on Haggard as an exemplar of the visionary mode, which means that the fictional material comes through a writer from the collective unconscious (CW 15, par. 157). In another remark better suited to Holly the character, Jung states that “a man, in his love choice, is strongly tempted to win the woman who best corresponds to his own unconscious femininity—a woman, in short, who can unhesitatingly receive the projection of his soul” (CW 7, par. 297). Here Andrew Libby’s summary of Ayesha’s qualities is instructive, for all of them are tailored to appeal to Holly: She “is an inquisitive intellectual, a learned philosopher, a talented chemist, a penetrating psychic, and on top of all that, a ravishing beauty” (9). Ayesha, who rivals Helen for loveliness, acknowledges his basic goodness despite his ugliness, and can discuss ancient history in multiple foreign languages, is a disappointed academic man’s dream come true. Numerous passages make it clear that, when Holly’s anima surges forth in response to Ayesha unveiled, his psyche is in a state of anima possession. All that he once repressed becomes anchored in the ancient woman. He is attracted and horrified by her eyes’ diabolically attractive force. He imagines that he will spend the rest of his life sick at heart now that She has set eyes on him. He is filled with passion and jealousy, worships her, and begs her to marry him. He and Leo, “like confirmed opium-eaters,” would not return to Cambridge in an instant even if they could (221; ch. 21). Imagining that her face will be before him always, he grows weary of a life filled with “the bitterness of unsatisfied love” and a broken heart (230; ch. 22). Such anima possession, Holly knows, is “a very bad state of mind for a man on the wrong side of middle age to fall into” (268; ch. 26). In other words, encountering Ayesha does not enable him to make progress in his relationship with the anima; Ayesha is a rather more compelling version of the greedy English woman who earlier rejected him. Leo too is possessed by the anima but against his will: he vows never to consider another woman, and Holly recognizes that they “both loved her now and for always, she was stamped and carven on our hearts, and no other woman could ever raze that splendid die” (267; ch. 26). For Leo, the possession is so severe that, unlike Odysseus who draws his sword and rushes at Circe, he cannot even draw his knife. He instead confesses to Ayesha, his wife Ustane’s murderer, “I am in thy power, and a very slave to thee” (231; ch. 22).

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Possession suggests that She is the story of Holly’s encounter in Africa with what he has repressed in England—the feminine, his sexual libido, and the anima that links the ego and the unconscious. Now various details suggest additional compensation by the unconscious. Geography is the first piece of this process: Africa is depicted as a woman’s body. As Showalter points out, Holly’s dream of being buried alive relates to engulfment in the dreaded female body (86; Haggard 98, ch. 7). Jung would add that if the anima “is regarded as the feminine and chthonic part of the soul” (CW 9i, par. 119), then journeying into a geographical underworld is emblematic of encountering the inner feminine. More specifically, the setting of the climactic scene reflects the female reproductive system. In order to reach the core of the volcano, the company must traverse a bottomless chasm between a rocky spur and a quivering boulder, objects that Lindy Stiebel considers phallic and clitoral, respectively (86). Lest the reader miss the sexual implication, Holly describes the rocky outcropping as like “the spur upon the leg of a cock in shape” (244; ch. 24).The group then moves single file through a Tartarus-like “funnel” or “low and narrow” passage like a birth canal in order to arrive, in Ayesha’s words, at “the very womb of the Earth, wherein she doth conceive the Life that ye see brought forth in man and beast—ay, and in every tree and flower” (256; ch. 25). In a perfect blending of masculine and feminine images, Holly and company now encounter the phallic pillar of fire in a feminine cavern. Thus, having eschewed women and sexuality in England, he penetrates the very heart of that particular darkness: the sexuality he once resisted now confronts him writ large in the geography of the African underworld.The trouble with these details of the landscape, however, is that encountering externals does not mean that internals are engaged. Fearing death, Holly and Leo do not bathe in the pillar of fire but instead draw back from what it represents psychologically, an unfiltered encounter with the collective unconscious. Even so, they barely escape with their lives and their sanity. Africa does compensate for England, but it does so in the spirit of enantiodromia, a swing to an opposite alternative that does not engender a resolution/coniunctio. The statue of Truth—a blindfolded and winged woman holding a torch and standing on the world, encountered earlier in the final journey—represents the same human reluctance to experience the deep unconscious without filters. Sandra M. Gilbert’s sense that Truth represents “the contradictions between power (the torch) and powerlessness (the blindfold)” is largely beside the point (46). If the veil represents the barrier between the ego and the unconscious, casting aside the veil means encountering the unconscious without the mediating agency of the anima. That is why Ayesha’s translation of the statue’s inscription sounds a cautionary note. Is there no man that will draw my veil and look upon my face, for it is very fair? Unto him who draws my veil shall I be, and peace will I give him, and sweet children of knowledge and good works. And a voice said,Though all those who seek after thee desire thee, behold,Virgin art thou, and Virgin shalt thou go till Time be done. No man is there born of woman who may draw thy veil and live, nor shall be. In death only can thy veil be drawn, oh Truth. (240, ch. 23)

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The inscription begins with a stated ideal—seeing the face of truth (achieving full individuation). But Truth will remain a virgin (is not procreative, has limits) because no man can draw back Truth’s veil on this side of another veil, death. One cannot encounter the unfiltered unconscious and survive any more than one could survive a flight into the sun. Insanity would be the result, as it nearly is for Holly when Ayesha unveils.With both Truth and Ayesha, the veil’s purpose is to keep consciousness out, just as the miles of quagmire, crocodiles, snakes, and mosquitoes exist to keep Europeans from penetrating the heart of Africa. The image of veiled Truth, then, builds on Ayesha’s veil, anticipates the withdrawal of Holly and Leo from the womb of the Earth without bathing in the fire, and suggests that individuation (in this life at least) is a journey without an ultimate destination. There is also a connection between the veil image and the Romantic quest poem.10 Showalter sounds an appropriate note—“above all, the quest romances are allegorized journeys into the self ” (82). In addition, the obvious connection between Ayesha and John Keats’s “La Belle Dame Sans Merci” has been discussed by critics such as Gilbert (43) and Robert O’Connor (43−44). Still unnoticed is a remarkable parallel to the veil image in Percy Bysshe Shelley’s “Alastor; or The Spirit of Solitude” (1815), which provides a helpful gloss on the projection process in She. A poet traveling in a Coleridgean landscape complete with a volcano encounters “an Arab maiden” (line 129) who loves him deeply. The poet dreams, however, of “a veiled maid” whose “voice was like the voice of his own soul / Heard in the calm of thought” and who speaks to him of matters dear to his own heart (lines 151, 153−54). Knowledge and truth and virtue were her theme And lofty hopes of divine liberty, Thoughts the most dear to him, and poesy, Herself a poet. (lines 158−61) She parts her lips in a sexually provocative way, and then the poet “Folded his frame in her dissolving arms” (line 187). The Wordsworthian narrator comments, “The spirit of sweet human love has sent / A vision to the sleep of him who spurned / Her choicest gifts” (lines 203−5). Now the poet tragically pursues the visionary maid in the physical world, ignoring “youthful maidens” who express interest (line 266). Eventually, he dies alone and unfulfilled. In “Alastor,” the poet rejects mortal women like Ustane in order to seek a projection of his own anima like Ayesha—devastatingly beautiful but ultimately unattainable. In She, Holly and Leo, like the poet, are haunted by memories of a veiled maid whom they have lost. Inspired by Leo’s psychic dream, they pursue her again in the sequel, Ayesha:The Return of She. Whereas the unfulfilled quest kills the poet, achieving the object of the quest kills Leo when he fails to withstand her potent kiss. “Alastor” and She are both stories about the tragedy that ensues when love of an attainable woman is rejected or denied, and instead the anima is projected onto an unobtainable other.The moral, it seems, is to know oneself well enough to desire

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a partner whose presence facilitates individuation rather than deepening one’s disconnections with the world.

Conclusion This chapter has argued that the anima’s multi-faceted nature is fundamental to Jung’s interpretation of Ayesha as an anima figure and that Holly succumbs, through compensation and enantiodromia, to anima possession, which steers him away from individuation and coniunctio. Her power to enchant and overwhelm mortal men also lies in her being a unity of archetype and archetypal image. As an image, Ayesha is a flesh-and-blood character with whom Holly and Leo can interact; but as an archetype She unveils a nonverbal realm capable of inducing possession and insanity. It is not necessarily, as Claudia Crawford argues, that “the unveiling of She, of woman herself, leads to the impossibility of language” and accounts for Holly’s failure to describe her adequately (86). That failure, expressed in statements such as “The man does not live whose pen could convey a sense of what I saw” (153; ch. 13) and She “surpasses my powers of description” (160; ch. 14), may bear little relationship to Ayesha-as-woman and much more to Ayesha-as-archetype. The description fails because the anima transcends language: Holly cannot adequately capture the woman’s image in words because She represents what words can never capture. Describing the anima is as impossible for Holly as fully summing her up is for Haggard in his dozens of novels. Since the anima cannot be circumscribed, characters must simply experience her. As Jung knew well, Haggard’s simple yarn proves to be a fitting vehicle for that encounter.

Notes 1 Four Novels uses Andrew M. Stauffer’s edition of She: A History of Adventure. Another fine edition is Norman Etherington’s The Annotated “She”: A Critical Edition of H. Rider Haggard’s Victorian Romance. Here is further evidence of the novel’s accessibility to Jungian interpretation. The chest that Leo inherits contains various artifacts, including a “scarab” or gem cut in the shape of a beetle. Although Jung does not comment on it, the image surely resonated with him. In 1913, he had a vision that included the image of “a gigantic black scarab” (MDR 179). Similarly, in Synchronicity: An Acausal Connecting Principle, he recounts how a scarabaeid beetle knocked on the window as a female client was telling him about “a dream in which she was given a golden scarab” (CW 8, par. 843). In this synchronicity and in She, the scarab image suggests movement in the unconscious. 2 Regarding Ayesha’s name, Evelyn J. Hinz notes, “The Greek name for the cosmic order is ‘Aisa,’ the Persian ‘Asha’ ” (421). 3 Some sense of the anima and anima projection runs through much of the previous criticism, though usually minus the Jungian terminology. To begin with, the feminine informs the two major strands of criticism of She: the Victorian “New Woman” (Showalter 85; Heller 62–63, 86) and colonialism/imperialism (Libby 3–4; Stott, “Scaping”; Stiebel). For other studies of imperialism, see Brantlinger and Katz. The novel’s nonJungian critics offer some relevant insights into the journey’s psychological implications (Hallock, par. 26; Mazlish), but Patricia Murphy’s Freudian approach has definite limitations (61). Haggard’s critics have mentioned the process of projecting a man’s ideal feminine image (Cohen 112−13; Ellis 117–18; Etherington, Rider Haggard 77, 87; Moss 28). Also, the psychological and the transpersonal are both present in She (Cohen 112).

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The novel is explored in a chapter of one Jungian doctoral dissertation (Kates) and in an extended explication by an acquaintance of Jung’s (Brunner). More recently, Ayesha has been related to the “Goddess archetype” and Haggard’s interest in such figures to his relationships with women so that writing She is a compensatory act (Pickrell 18, 24). In particular, Ayesha’s nickname, She-who-must-be-obeyed, reflects a rag doll by the same name, which Haggard’s nurse used to enforce his bedtime (Whelan, par. 3). Here Jung’s comment resonates meaningfully: “Those of my readers who know Rider Haggard’s description of ‘She-who-must-be-obeyed’ will surely recall the magical power of this personality. ‘She’ is a mana-personality, a being full of some occult and bewitching quality (mana), endowed with magical knowledge and power” (CW 7, par. 375). Jung did not know about the rag doll, but his projection-related description of Ayesha seems relevant to Haggard’s childhood experience. Finally, Ayesha is often considered to be a femme fatale (Gilbert 42; Hallock, par. 3; Libby 8; Rodgers 36; Stott, “Scaping” 151 as well as Fabrication, ch. 4). For femme fatale, see also n. 8 below. 4 The pillar of fire must have resonated powerfully with Jung because of a dream that he had had as a very young boy. “In the dream I went down into the hole in the earth and found something very different on a golden throne, something non-human and otherworldly [a giant phallus], which gazed fixedly upward and fed on human flesh” (MDR 14). Jung’s explication stresses the dream’s religious antecedents; however, a giant phallus within the earth is also a pairing of masculine and feminine images, much like Haggard’s pillar of fire in the womb of the earth. 5 Regarding the goddess’ tripartite nature, see Adam McLean’s The Triple Goddess. 6 It appears that Haggard’s biographer, Morton Cohen, may have this passage in mind when he sums up “the traditional ideal qualities of womanhood” (113). 7 C. S. Lewis states in A Preface to Paradise Lost that Eve is the first murderer (124). 8 In the criticism, Ayesha is widely considered to be a femme fatale. Gilbert considers her “absolutely identical with the Byronic femme fatale who haunted nineteenth-century writers” (42); Hallock calls her Haggard’s “most famous fictional femme fatale” (par. 3); and Libby sees her as “a femme fatale motivated by a toxic combination of love, jealousy, and ambition who disrupts rational thinking, threatens male homosocial friendship, and endangers British political stability” (8). For Rodgers, Ayesha as femme fatale is “a magnetic figure of male longing but also fear, who threatens the integrity of empire, manliness and brotherhood” (36). For Stott, Africa itself is the femme fatale, “dangerously seductive, potentially violent, unpredictable, all knowing” (“Scaping” 151). See also Stott’s Fabrication, ch. 4. For Austin, Ayesha is comparable to another femme fatale about whom Jung had much to say—Salome. 9 See also CW 10, par. 79: “Self-control is a typically masculine ideal, to be achieved by the repression of feeling. Feeling is a specifically feminine virtue, and because a man in trying to attain his ideal of manhood represses all feminine traits—which are really part of him, just as masculine traits are part of a woman’s psychology—he also represses certain emotions as womanish weakness. In so doing he piles up effeminacy or sentimentality in the unconscious, and this, when it breaks out, betrays in him the existence of a feminine being. As we know, it is just the ‘he-men’ [or intellectual men] who are most at the mercy of their feminine feelings.” 10 Critics have found varied significance in Ayesha’s veil. Gold, not very helpfully, remarks on the nineteenth-century figure of nature unveiling before science (313). Rogers sees the veil as an erotic invitation to the Oriental sexuality of harem girls (41, 44). Showalter, in a comment that Jung would scoff at, recalls Freud’s interpretation of looking at Medusa: fear of female sexual organs and castration anxiety (145). She also considers the veil to represent feminine chastity and modesty versus sexuality and exoticism (144−45).

2 THE VISIONARY AND PSYCHOLOGICAL MODES IN SHE

C. G. Jung has much to say about several of Henry Rider Haggard’s novels, especially She, the tale of a journey by Ludwig Horace Holly, his adopted son Leo Vincey, and their manservant Job to present-day Mozambique where they encounter Ayesha, the She of the book’s title, an ancient, virtually immortal, and fully veiled woman. In The Collected Works Jung frequently refers to her as an anima figure and emphasizes that the novel is an example of a “visionary” text. More extensive commentary appears in his 1925 seminar, in which She is both homework assignment and discussion topic. Although the discussion clearly supports the visionary nature of Haggard’s text, neither Jung nor his seminar participants identify it as such, and they speculate about the novel’s autobiographical (psychological) elements. In the mainstream criticism, there is some mention of the transpersonal nature of Haggard’s composition process but no mention of the 1925 seminar.1 The present c­ hapter, therefore, first establishes that Jung is correct in naming She a visionary text, and it then uses the visionary and psychological modes as a framework for explicating and correcting the statements that Jung and his colleagues make about the novel. The analysis furthers the interpretation begun in Chapter 1: although the seminar discussion falls short in various ways, it properly suggests that, for Holly, there is no renewal. In confronting the unconscious, he does not achieve full individuation but instead, through projection, experiences enantiodromia, a swing from inveterate misogyny in England to anima projection and possession with Ayesha in Africa.

Haggard and the visionary mode There are good reasons to consider She besides the fact that it was one of Jung’s favorite novels. First, the book depicts a confrontation with the unconscious and the feminine.The decision to depart from Cambridge University, the ocean voyage to Mozambique, and the journey overland to Kôr enact a transition from reason

20  Modes in Haggard

and intellect to the unconscious and the anima. Indeed, the ocean was Jung’s frequent image for the collective unconscious, and Africa/Kôr (coeur: French, heart) typically represents the feminine heart within the European. Haggard also seems interested in exploring the ocean’s connection with the anima, for Holly describes the sea as “heaving like some troubled woman’s breast” (73; ch. 4). Second, in ­“Psychology and Literature,” Jung identifies She as an example of the “visionary mode” of literary production in which text comes through the writer from the collective unconscious versus the more workman-like psychological mode in which a high degree of conscious attention informs the composition (CW 15, par. 137). In “On the Relation of Analytical Psychology to Poetry,” he calls the psychological and visionary modes the introverted and extraverted processes of creation, respectively (CW 15, par. 111). The visionary/extraverted is the preferred method, for as Jung remarks, “In general, it is the non-psychological novel that offers the richest opportunities for psychological elucidation,” and then he mentions Haggard’s novels as examples (CW 15, par. 157).The implication is that a higher kind of art results when a novelist reaches beyond his own life experience to imbue his work with elements of the archetypal human experience. The visionary mode, then, refers both to the author’s mediumistic method of composition and the way in which a text deals with the archetypes, whereas the psychological mode figures forth autobiographical details related to the author’s personal unconscious. That Jung saw an archetypal-visionary dimension in She is certain because of the statements he makes about Haggard. Sonu Shamdasani recognizes She as a visionary work, sees in the novel “clear examples of the play of archetypes,” and notes that individuation’s psycho-dynamics are not limited to highbrow literature (C. G. Jung 83, 144). In “Foreword to Brunner” Jung considers Haggard to be “a latter-day troubadour or knight of the Grail, who had somehow blundered into the Victorian Age [1837−1901]” and states that he “followed in the footsteps of the singers and poets who enchanted the age of chivalry” (CW 18, par. 1280−81).These statements imply that the author was serving a purpose greater than transforming his own psychological experiences into art. The point becomes clearer in light of Jung’s statement that Haggard’s work “provides a wealth of material illustrating the symbolism of the anima and its problems.” Jung continues: “Admittedly, She is only a flash in the pan, a beginning without continuation, for at no point does the book come down to earth. Everything remains stuck in the realm of fantasy, a symbolic anticipation” (CW 18, par. 1281). In other words, the text is more than a literal narrative or an allegorical repackaging of the author’s personal experiences. In a statement unrelated to Haggard, Jung might as well be commenting on She: he notes the chthonic nature of “animals such as crocodiles, dragons, serpents, or monkeys” (CW 9i, par. 270). A crocodile kills a lion, Ayesha is frequently described in snake-like terms, Holly looks like a baboon, and She devolves into a primate in the climactic scene. Haggard’s references to all of Jung’s mentioned creatures except the dragon figure forth the underworld of the collective unconscious and signal that the text is visionary rather than purely psychological. Moreover, after commenting on “the visionary experience,” Jung states, “Rider Haggard, pardonably

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enough, is generally regarded as a romantic story-teller, but in his case too the tale is only a means—admittedly a rather lush one—for capturing a meaningful content” (CW 15, par. 143). We know that the novel’s “meaningful content” participates in the visionary mode because Jung states that “this primordial experience is the essential content of Rider Haggard’s She” (CW 15, par. 142). At this point, some clarification of terms is necessary. There is a difference between a literary work’s psychological content and an author’s psychological intention. Jung writes: “If Rider Haggard uses the modest form of a yarn, this does not detract from the psychological value of its content. . . . But anyone who wants to gain insight into his own anima will find food for thought in She, precisely because of the simplicity and naïveté of presentation, which is entirely devoid of any ‘psychological’ intent” (CW 18, par. 1280; emphases added).The novel has psychological content precisely because Haggard intended only to tell a great story. In that respect, Jung considers She to be an example of “the non-psychological novel that offers the richest opportunities for psychological elucidation” (CW 15, par. 137). Of course, his position may appear to be black-and-white thinking. As Haggard’s She bears out, the visionary and psychological modes are not a binary opposition but instead a matter of degree: there is no such thing as a non-­psychological novel, one that reflects the author’s subjectivity to zero degree. A more accurate formulation is that the novel illustrates the visionary mode because its content reflects the archetypal realm of the collective unconscious, more than (not rather than) the author’s intention to create art based on personal experience. Paradoxically, what Jung calls a non-psychological novel can convey serious psychological content. Jung had little or no information about the author’s life, but statements by Haggard and his friends support the conclusion that the novel is a visionary product. Haggard comments, in particular, on the novel’s composition in six weeks between January and March of 1886: “The fact is that it was written at white heat almost without rest, and that is the best way to compose. . . . The only clear notion that I had in my head was that of an immortal woman inspired by an immortal love. All the rest shaped itself round this figure. And it came—it came faster than my poor aching hand could set it down” (qtd. in Ellis 104−5). That Haggard is a conduit for the tale is clear confirmation of its visionary nature, and others agree that She came from beyond the personal unconscious. As V. S. Pritchett states, “Mr E. M. Forster once spoke of the novelist sending a bucket into the unconscious; the author of She installed a suction pump” (qtd. in Katz 125; cf. Pritchett’s “Haggard Still Riding”). Haggard himself recalls a relevant conversation with Rudyard Kipling: Moreover he [Kipling] went on to show that anything which any of us did well was no credit to us: that it came from somewhere else: “We are only telephone wires.” As an example he instanced (I think) “Recessional” in his own case and “She” [sic] in mine. “You didn’t write She you know,” he said. “Something wrote it—through you!” or some such words. (qtd. in Cohen 203)

22  Modes in Haggard

Jung would have no doubt that the “somewhere else” is the collective unconscious, and the image of the author as telephone wires is as good as any description of the visionary mode of literary production.

She and Jung’s 1925 seminar Jung himself has a good deal to say about She as an illustration of the visionary mode, meaning that the novel reflects what is archetypal and transpersonal. In The Collected Works, he mostly emphasizes the idea that Ayesha represents the anima; however, a more specific interpretation appears in a footnote in “The Psychology of Transference” (CW 16, par. 421, n. 17). Here are Jung’s somewhat allegorical interpretations. Leo is “a veritable Apollo” and the hero of the novel (the point about heroism is wide of the mark). Holly is “a paragon of wisdom and moral rectitude.” Together, Leo and Holly represent the sun and its shadow, a probably unintentional pun, for Holly is overshadowed by his son’s beauty and its benefits. Ayesha is Luna, so Leo and Ayesha together are the sun and the moon. Not to be overlooked, Job is “the faithful servant who . . . stands for the long-suffering but loyal companion.” Visions: Notes of the Seminar Given in 1930−1934 by C. G. Jung offers more visionary bits and pieces that reflect the collective unconscious. Ayesha is “the high priestess of Isis” or at any rate “was something like a Greek goddess” (vol. 1, 596−97). A seminar participant named Dr. M. Esther Harding views the tombs at Kôr as representations of “things that have been built up in the unconscious through the past ages” and that manifest themselves “through the anima or the animus” (vol. 2, 1145). But most of the comments deal with the novel’s most significant geographical features. Speaking of the volcano into which Holly and Leo make their final descent, Jung claims that they enter into a mandala (vol. 2, 1142). The pillar of fire that lies beneath represents “the eternal cycle of death and rebirth which is always revolving in the unconscious” (vol. 1, 90−91). Here in “the womb of the Earth” (vol. 1, 411), the pillar of fire has characteristics akin to the collective unconscious: “It is the tree of life really, containing all beings, shrieking with the voices of all forms of life, animal and human, an amazing thing” (vol. 1, 500). As noted in Chapter 1, Holly’s description of the pillar as a fountain of intellect and possibility confirms its connection to the collective unconscious: I know that I felt as though all the varied genius of which the human intellect is capable had descended upon me. I could have spoken in blank verse of Shakespearian beauty, all sorts of great ideas flashed through my mind, it was as though the bonds of my flesh had been loosened and left the spirit free to soar to the empyrean of its native power. The sensations that poured in upon me are indescribable. I seemed to live more keenly, to reach to a higher joy, and sip the goblet of a subtler thought than ever it had been my lot to do before. I was another and most glorified self, and all the avenues of the Possible were for a space laid open to the footsteps of the Real. (257−58; ch. 25)

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In other words, as stated in Chapter 1, Holly’s temptation is to tap into the collective unconscious, the treasure trove of all human thought. The fire would enable him to keep his sanity and to have all the riches of human experience at his intellectual command—forever. She thus appears to be a visionary product with visionary content—specifically, a direct confrontation with the collective unconscious. Analytical Psychology: Notes of the Seminar Given in 1925 by C. G. Jung provides his fullest interpretation of She. Here as well much of the discussion, though not all, reflects the collective unconscious in the visionary mode. Each of three groups was charged to come up with an analytical summary of its assigned text. Beginning in the psychological mode with the idea that Holly is “the conscious side of Haggard,” Dr. Harding advances the following interpretation based on her group’s discussion (136−37). Holly is about to give himself totally to intellectual pursuits but receives “the call from the unconscious” (presumably in the form of Vincey’s request that Holly adopt Leo) and is forced “into a new orientation to life.” This is good reading, for Holly says, “I was about to go up for my fellowship within a week” (40; ch. 1). So the tension is between “conventional morality” (the life of an academic) and “the thing that means life” (raising Leo). The group’s point about the “call” may also relate to Holly’s self-reflection as he confronts the Amahagger for the first time: [I wonder] if any of my eminently respectable fossil friends down at Cambridge would believe me if I were to be miraculously set at the familiar ­dinner-table for the purpose of relating them [‘the very remarkable experiences that we were going through’]. I don’t want to convey any disrespectful notion or slight when I call those good and learned men fossils, but my experience is that people are apt to fossilise even at a University if they follow the same paths too persistently. I was getting fossilised myself, but of late my stock of ideas has been very much enlarged. (89−90; ch. 6) The timing of Holly’s reflection suggests that responding to the call from the collective unconscious requires getting in touch with his inner archaic man, whom the primitive people represent. The group also reports the following points: Leo is Holly’s youthful side, Ayesha is an anima figure, Kôr represents the unconscious, and the adventures there constitute “important mileposts on the way of [sic] Holly’s psychological development.” Dr. Harding concludes, however, on a somber note that supports the thesis of this chapter: “Holly is not ready for the fundamental change of attitude demanded of him. But he can never again be the commonplace person he started out as; something of the inner meaning of life has been found by him” (137). In other words, the journey leaves him somewhere between fossilization at Cambridge and individuation through anima integration. Jung discusses the novel with the seminar participants and shares his own extensive interpretation, which focuses both on Haggard’s personal unconscious (the psychological mode) and on Holly’s visionary confrontation with the archetypal

24  Modes in Haggard

and transpersonal (138–44). For Jung, Leo is “a youthful fool” (142), though a gentleman, and the hero of the sequel, Ayesha: The Return of She. In the first novel, he remains undeveloped, Jung believes, because Haggard sees more of himself in Holly. However, Leo’s youth compensates for Holly’s age (Leo is the greater risk-taker); and Job, “the commonplace, correct man,” represents Holly’s “conventional aspect.” Similarly, “Noot, Billali, and Holly” figure forth a familiar archetype: “Haggard is inclined to identify himself with the wise old man through Holly, but there is more of pedantry than real wisdom in the figure of Holly” (143). Thus, despite his statements about She as a visionary product, Jung also sees the novel’s provenance as heavily psychological, as he also does in this statement about Haggard’s personal life. It [She] is a love story, [Haggard’s] own love story let us say, but it is not given from the conscious side, but instead from the [personal] unconscious side, as a repercussion from the conscious experience, whatever it was. This, of course, is the habit of the introverted [psychological] writer. So She is valuable to us as bringing out these unconscious reactions. The author has evidently had a peculiar love affair which he never quite settled to his satisfaction. It left him with the problem of She, and the same problem follows him through most of his books. Perhaps it happened to him in Africa. . . . It is out of this groping about in his unconscious that She developed. (138, 140) A bit later, Jung adds that “one can read between the lines of She that [Haggard] loved another woman in all probability” (141−42). Jung’s guess about Africa, of course, is completely wrong: Holly’s love of Ayesha in Africa compensates for Haggard’s romantic disappointment in England (his jilting by Lilly Jackson). But the novel is a love story in which art from the unconscious (presumably both personal and collective) compensates for the author’s conscious disappointment. Elsewhere in the discussion, Jung seems more focused on the visionary/transpersonal in pointing out “the duality of the anima figure,” and he uses Haggard’s novel as an illustration: As we have so often observed in connection with Rider Haggard’s “She,” [sic] the classic anima figure, we can never be too sure either of her goodness or of her evilness; now it is the one, now the other that grips us. Her potency lies in large measure in the duality of her nature. A man may, as I have said, know the real woman also as lightness and darkness, but when he sees in a woman the magical quality that is the essence of She, he at one begins tremendous projections of the unconscious upon her. (112) The passage appears to concern Ayesha’s reflection of the anima archetype (“magical quality”); but a less visionary, more autobiographical, and culturally centered

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interpretation is also possible. Good and evil, light and dark are of a piece, Jung might have added, with Holly’s reductive musing prior to first meeting Ayesha. As the ancient woman moves behind a curtain, he tries to imagine who She is—“some naked savage queen, a languishing Oriental beauty, or a nineteenth-century young lady, drinking afternoon tea?” (143; ch. 12). A woman with inappropriate power, a beauty in need of help, and a proper English maiden keeping to her separate sphere are the only categories Holly has at his disposal.The categories diminish from three to a binary in a later episode: “All that she did was to attend to his [Leo’s] wants quietly, and with a humility that was in striking contrast with her former imperious bearing” (198; ch. 18). The point that Jung overlooks when he emphasizes, in the visionary mode, the anima’s binary nature is that Ayesha reflects Victorian males’ anxiety about new opportunities to advance that were becoming available to Victorian women. As a historian, linguist, genetic engineer, chemist, and healer—all in outsize proportion to the achievements of Victorian males—She receives, in the psychological mode, the projected anxiety of Haggard and his countrymen. Jung too is unable to see beyond his own psychological dimension, as an essentialist statement in “Anima and Animus” makes clear.2 Personal relations are as a rule more important and interesting to [a woman] than objective facts and their interconnections.The wide fields of commerce, politics, technology, and science, the whole realm of the applied masculine mind, she relegates to the penumbra of consciousness; while, on the other hand, she develops a minute consciousness of personal relationships, the infinite nuances of which usually escape the man entirely. (CW 7, par. 330) That Ayesha totally reverses this gendered characterization seems to escape Jung and most of his seminar participants. Only Mr. Oskar A. H. Schmitz is on the right track, though he completely misunderstands Haggard’s intention with regard to Victorian women: Could not She be taken as a revolt on the part of Haggard to the whole Victorian age, and especially to the [traditional] Victorian woman? Rider Haggard traveled a great deal in foreign countries and was especially well fitted to overthrow the ridiculous idea of a woman that had grown up in England, and to develop the fact that every woman should have some of “She” in her. (139) A bit later on Mr. Schmitz states that Ayesha, as “a complete opposite to the women of Dickens,” meaning women with conventional roles, may be “a wish-fulfillment” with regard to a woman’s necessary “primitive side” (140). Like Jung’s guess about Africa, Mr. Schmitz’s remarks illustrate the intentional fallacy. His suggestion aligns perhaps with the thinking of actual Victorian New Women, but it is totally out of sync with Haggard, who did not favor education or powerful roles for women and

26  Modes in Haggard

who created Ayesha to reflect the fear and desire he may have harbored for her English sisters. Clearly he and Jung share some of the same essentialist assumptions. The discussion of women continues in the psychological mode, veering now from essentialism into racism when Jung speculates that travel “in primitive countries” activated Haggard’s unconscious. Jung muses that English men who return from India (and Africa too, one may suppose) have “burned brains,” which means that the foreign setting sucks the vitality out of them because “everything is set in the opposite direction” from home.Worse, in the next paragraph, Jung adds that because of “long association with native women,” a male traveler “cannot love European women” (139). First, he presents cultural identification as unstable and relative, like a garment that can be burned away by the tropical sun. Then he proposes a racist formula that he identifies elsewhere as “going black,” or sleeping with black women (MDR 262). Jung incorrectly believes that Haggard’s third-world experiences rendered him “dissociated” (AP 139)—unable to love a proper English woman because he experienced the opposite side of the binary with women in Africa. The remainder of the discussion between Jung and his seminar participants emphasizes the visionary mode and addresses a variety of issues mostly related to the challenge to individuation as it is presented in She.To begin with, there is Jung’s statement about the anima’s role as a mediator between the personal and collective aspects of psyche. [Immortality] is intimately linked up with the anima question. Through the relation to the anima one obtains the chance of greater consciousness. It leads to a realization of the self as the totality of the conscious and the unconscious functions. This realization brings with it a recognition of the inherited plus the new units that go to make up the self. That is to say, when we once grasp the meaning of the conscious and the unconscious together, we become aware of the ancestral lives that have gone into the making of our own lives. (143−44) The anima is like a psychopomp, guiding a man toward greater wholeness (the Self) via greater awareness that psyche includes a personal dimension (consciousness and the personal unconscious) as well as a collective, inherited unconscious, which is immortal in the sense that it contains within it the archetypal material inherited from previous generations. Jung recognizes that She unfolds along these lines, beginning with the image of the chest in which the Vincey family’s secrets are kept: “The fact that there is a chest within a chest suggests a process of involution” (141). The word “involution” suggests that searching the contents is an involved, complicated task; but perhaps it also requires penetrating into hidden reaches, delving to the heart of something, which is in the spirit of individuation’s attempt to come to terms with the archetypes of the collective unconscious. As a visionary novel, however, She presents various challenges to the wholeness that is at stake in the narrative, the first being the opposite of individuation—anima projection. In an exchange with Mr. Leonard Bacon on anima projection in general,

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Jung states: “The whole problem of the projection of the anima is a most difficult subject. If a man cannot project his anima, then he is cut off from women. It is true he may make a thoroughly respectable marriage, but the spark of fire is not there[;] he does not get complete reality into his life” (140).The absence of “the spark of fire” would be an accurate characterization of Haggard’s marriage (he and his wife aged into a great friendship); however, Jung does not have actual information about the author’s life, and the comment does not seem related to Haggard anyway.The first part of Jung’s comment, regarding the inability to project the anima, is relevant to neither Haggard nor Holly. The novel is not about Holly’s inability to project his anima; it is rather about how he represses his anima in England, as if storing up all his projections until he meets Ayesha, on whom all his pent-up emotions are loosed in an instant, leading to a permanent state of anima possession. It is not that Holly “cannot project his anima” but that he chooses not to; his projection ability is alive and subject to enantiodromia—Holly is quite overcome with passion the instant She unveils. Before the novel opens, because of an emotionally devastating experience with a woman he had deeply loved, he developed an acute awareness of his physical ugliness and became a misogynist who literally cringes away at the sight of women. Jung might say that Holly creates a cycle of repression and isolation or, as it were, an ugliness complex.Thus, for him to fall instantaneously and totally for Ayesha is truly a swing to the opposite. Jung’s next subject, the myth of Isis and Osiris (140−41), focuses on the fatherson relationship and on the conflict between two sisters, Isis and Nephthys, which anticipates the conflict between Ayesha and Amenartus (Ustane, Leo’s Amahagger wife, is Amenartus’s reincarnation). More significantly, the Isis/Ayesha connection, which Jung leaves unexplored, points in ways both visionary and psychological to the challenge to individuation when the anima is projected onto a mother figure. Jung is very clear in The Collected Works that Isis is maternal. He writes, “What Isis demands is the transference of libido to the mother” (CW 5, par. 455). He also refers to “mother Isis” (CW 5, par. 265, n. 13), “the Isis mother-imago” (CW 5, par. 514), and Isis “as a mother goddess” (CW 13, par. 228, n. 18). Ayesha, a former priestess of Isis, is a mother figure to her people, especially in the sequel to She. Holly’s anima projection must therefore include a maternal element that Jung overlooks in associating the Cambridge don with the word “holy,” perhaps in deference to his former life as the philosopher Noot (CW 16, par. 421, n. 17). If Cornelia Brunner is correct, there may be a further visionary dimension if “Horace” puns on Shakespeare’s Horatio, to whom Hamlet says: “There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, / Than are dreamt of in your philosophy” (35; 1.5.175–76). The hint of the collective unconscious here seems more likely than her association of Leo with Horus (39). But a more significant linkage is overlooked by Jung, Brunner, and Haggard’s more recent critics: Ludwig Horace Holly’s middle name puns on Horus, the son of Isis and Osiris. If Ayesha is to Holly as Isis is to Horus, then Holly’s projection reflects and conflates both Haggard’s yearning for Lilly Jackson and his affection for his mother. Along with anima projection, inappropriate passion, to which the discussion now returns, stands in the way of individuation in the novel. Jung asks, “Do you

28  Modes in Haggard

know what is the significance of hot-potting?” Mr. Schmitz replies that it means “the heat of the passions taking the head.” Jung interprets the image to mean insanity in “reaction to the collective unconscious,” and he links insanity to succumbing to excessive imagination (the hot pot similarly represents hysteria in Brunner’s reading [64]). He concludes: “That, then, is the danger in hot-potting. It is done by the primitive. The primitive layers are so thin they can easily overcome you” (142). Of course, the primitive/archaic is the basement level in the collective unconscious (quite literally so in Jung’s famous “house” dream [MDR 158−61]) and a clear indication that She participates in the visionary mode. Jung and his seminar participants may have had in mind Holly’s statement regarding the fight with the Amahagger: “I was mad with rage, and that awful lust for slaughter which will creep into the hearts of the most civilised of us when blows are flying, and life and death tremble on the turn” (111; ch. 8). Holly’s passion does lead to a temporary insanity, but imagination is notably absent in the scene. In fact, the passion-imagination-insanity triad is overstated. Elsewhere in the novel imagination sans passion is a gateway to the unconscious and a tool of individuation, as Holly implies. “My wearied body and overstrained mind had awakened all my imagination into preternatural activity. Ideas, visions, almost inspirations, floated before it with startling vividness. Most of them were grotesque enough, some were ghastly, some recalled thoughts and sensations that had for years been buried in the débris of my past life” (159; ch. 14). Although not an enjoyable process, the opening of the unconscious through imaginative reverie no doubt has positive benefits for Holly. The passage may also parallel Haggard’s process of composition, which is a combination of the visionary and the psychological: She merges ideas, visions, and inspirations from the collective unconscious with various debris from the author’s personal unconscious. The next topic anchors the discussion squarely in the visionary: the narrative details allegorize the dynamics of the collective unconscious. Dr. Harding mentions one other detail that relates to the individuation process:“a goose that was shot after the fight between the Lion and the Crocodile.The goose had a spur on its head and I said it associated to the unicorn” (143). Brunner nicely comments on the goose’s visionary significance: Jung’s extensive writings about the unicorn explain that it personifies a demonic-divine nature-power, which has connections with the “holy spirit.” The horn on its forehead is a creative, spiritual quality. As a white bird, the unicorn-goose belongs to the same category as the swan or the dove. In contrast to the dove, the symbol of the holy spirit, the goose is a nature-spirit. Yet like the dove, the goose is sacred to Aphrodite and thus belongs to the world of femininity. (52) Dr. Harding’s details, however, are slightly misplaced: the goose appears several pages before the lion-croc episode, and it has “sharp curved spurs on its wings” as

Modes in Haggard  29

well as “a spur about three-quarters of an inch long growing from the skull just between the eyes” (79; ch. 5). Jung replies that just as the killing of a swan signals Parcival’s transition from unconsciousness to consciousness, so the killing of the goose signals that “the heroes awake to a realization of the extraordinary things ahead of them. A bird is a mind animal, symbolically, so the unconsciousness is in the mind” (143). Killing the goose signifies an overcoming of instinct. Of course, invoking the Grail story is an example of the associational method that Jung calls “amplification”; but in stressing the parallel between the goose and the swan, he overlooks a more fundamental association within the novel itself. There is a rocky spur that protrudes like a phallus across a great gulf that Holly and company must cross in order to reach the pillar of fire in the womb of the Earth. Killing a goose marked with spurs anticipates the difficult underground journey that almost kills Holly and Leo and that does kill Ayesha and Job. As with Holly’s comment on the imagination, the unconscious may be becoming more conscious, but the path to individuation will be perilous. It is strange that no one in the seminar picks up on Dr. Harding’s mention of “the fight between the Lion and the Crocodile,” which runs counter to the positive reading Jung assigns to the killing of the goose and situates She squarely in the visionary mode. In Civilization in Transition, Jung comments helpfully on the crocodile image in a passage unrelated to She: “Sometimes the Kore- and mother-figures slither down altogether to the animal kingdom, the favourite representatives then being the cat or the snake or the bear, or else some black monster of the underworld like the crocodile, or other salamander-like, saurian creatures” (CW 10, par. 311; emphases in the original). If the lion represents the sun, consciousness, and the Self, then its destruction by the chthonic, maternal crocodile represents the triumph of darkness and the unconscious over consciousness. Anima drags consciousness down to darkness; consciousness does not bring anima up to the light of the Self.

Conclusion There may indeed be “extraordinary things” in store for Holly and Leo, but She does not depict a successfully negotiated individuation process. Although the journey does provide a confrontation with the unconscious, the result is not wholeness, as Jung correctly notes in the following statement at the end of the seminar conversation: “As Dr. Harding pointed out, these men are not ready for the pillar of fire [direct immersion in the collective unconscious]. The whole phenomenon of ‘She’ [sic] has not yet been assimilated, the task is still before them, and they must have a new contact with the unconscious” (144). In other words,“the whole phenomenon of ‘She,’ ” meaning Holly’s anima projection onto Ayesha, leads into a blind alley. As the novel ends, he and Leo remain in the grip of anima possession and unending passions. Regarding the latter, Norman Etherington, citing D. S. Higgins, reads Ayesha’s fiery devolution into a monkey, “an ancient symbol of wickedness and lust,” as “evidence that repressed sexual desire is the underlying theme of She” (88). Consequently, in the sequel, Holly and Leo must once again seek in the outer world

30  Modes in Haggard

the feminine qualities that they have not brought into inner wholeness in She, much as Haggard himself would continue to create similar anima/goddess figures. As the proliferation of Ayesha-like characters in his fiction suggests, although She is visionary in its method of composition and in its portrayal of men’s anima-related negotiation with the collective unconscious, such figures are also psychological in their autobiographical underpinnings.

Notes 1 For previous criticism of She, see Chapter 1, n. 3 and 8. 2 Susan Rowland identifies two origins of Jung’s essentialism: his tendency to make assumptions about the feminine based on his own anima and his attribution of Logos to men and Eros to women. She demonstrates, however, that his attribution of “plurality and androgyny” to the unconscious qualifies his gender essentialism in a way that opens up possibilities for feminist rereading. See Jung: A Feminist Revision (39−45).

3 ANIMA AND HISTORY IN SHE

For C. G. Jung, Henry Rider Haggard’s Ayesha represents not only the anima but also the anima’s historical aspect. This association is ironclad. He states that “Rider Haggard . . . give[s] unmistakable utterance to this supposition in the historical aspect of [the] anima figure” (CW 7, par. 299; emphasis in the original). Jung also speaks of “the characteristically historical aspect of the soul” and adds that “Rider Haggard has given one of the best descriptions of this in She” (CW 7, par. 303). Elsewhere he states: “The anima is conservative and clings in the most exasperating fashion to the ways of earlier humanity. She [the anima] likes to appear in historic dress, with a predilection for Greece and Egypt. In this connection we would mention the classic stories of Rider Haggard” (CW 9i, par. 60). Later in the same volume, Jung mentions that Haggard “stressed the historical character of the anima” (CW 9i, par. 518, n. 14). Jung believes that Haggard went back to Greece and Egypt to express “this insistent historical feeling” (CW 10, par. 85). And in one final comment related to “compensation by contraries,” he recalls the Vincey family’s emphasis on paternal genealogy: “it is a specifically feminine trait to rack one’s brains over such questions as who was somebody’s great-great-aunt. But it is just this feminine passion for genealogies that comes out very clearly in Rider Haggard, garnished with AngloSaxon sentiment” (CW 10, par. 87). It remains to be seen how Jung’s statements relate to comments by Patricia Murphy on linear and cyclical time. Murphy applies a distinction found in Julia Kristeva’s essay, “Women’s Time”: “linear time connotes the positive masculinist values of history, progress, Christianity, and evolutionary advancement. . . . Monumental and cyclical time, by contrast, evoke the ahistoric, mythic, pagan, and devolutionary traits associated with female subjectivity and immutable essence” (Murphy 32). So for Kristeva, there are two types of maternal time: cyclical time, which involves repetition, and monumental time, which relates to eternity. Linear historical time is masculine, seemingly the direct opposite of Jung’s statements about the historical

32  History in Haggard

character of the anima. For Murphy, the Vincey family’s genealogy is also masculine because of its emphasis on “patrilineal heritage” (36). Murphy further insists that Ayesha exists apart from history, and the critic connects her with negative things: Arabia and the Orient; motherhood and nature; Paganism, Lucifer, and the serpent; “temptation, corruption, and damnation” (44−53). I would add a note to Murphy’s line of interpretation by suggesting that Ayesha must be destroyed when she threatens to move from a feminine position on the sidelines of history to an actively masculine involvement in current events—She wants to rule England and the world in ways that would have reminded Haggard’s Victorian audience of the yellow peril (the threat that the West would be overwhelmed by hordes from China). Indeed, the word “yellow” appears throughout Haggard’s text. These details resonate with Edward Said’s point that the West’s hegemonic discourse portrays “the Orient as a sort of surrogate and even underground self ” (Jung would say object of shadow projection) ready to expand and terrorize civilized nations (3, 5, 59; cf. Stott 114). The necessity of her death is obvious in Holly’s Lacanian-like statement that “Ayesha[,] strong and happy in her love, clothed in immortal youth and godlike beauty, and the wisdom of the centuries, would have revolutionised society, and even perchance have changed the destiny of Mankind. Thus she opposed herself against the eternal Law . . .” (264, ch. 26; emphasis added). The problem is obvious: Jung considers Ayesha an anima figure, the anima is historical, so Ayesha must be historical as well; Murphy associates Ayesha not with linear history but with an ahistorical stance, cyclical patterns, and eternity. It is not necessarily that one of these readings (historical, ahistorical) must be true and the other false, for understanding Jung-on-history points to a third alternative: the idea that all time is simultaneous within the collective unconscious. To begin with, the contrast between Holly’s statements about the novel as a history and Ayesha’s withdrawal from history is not as black and white as Murphy would have one believe. Haggard calls the book a “history” seven times in the introduction by the faux-editor, which includes Holly’s letter regarding the manuscript, and Murphy uses these examples as evidence that history resides in the masculine versus Ayesha’s ahistorical orientation. Perhaps the critic overstates the latter point because Kôr is replete with historical associations. Holly notes, for example, that history is depicted in pictures on the cave walls in the eleventh chapter. A record of the embalming process appears in the form of sculptures, which he supposes would elicit the envy of his “antiquarian friends . . . at Cambridge” (139; ch. 12). History is “textual” in both Holly’s account of events (an actual manuscript) and in the ancient artifacts that he describes. In this respect, She is very clearly a history of events involving an encounter with history. Moreover, history is the first thing that Holly and Ayesha discuss in the thirteenth chapter, and their discussion covers many topics, including the coming of the Messiah. Their conversation makes it clear that She has not only extensive knowledge of ancient Greece and the Middle East but also a keen interest in events subsequent to the commencement of her residence at Kôr. Ayesha herself, though She states, “There is no new thing under the sun,” does

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so in the context of noting that “Time eats up the works of man,” that nations pass away, and that even She “cannot pierce so far into the blackness of Times’ night” as to see Kôr’s original inhabitants (173−74; ch. 16). How, then, can She represent Kristeva’s feminine sense of time if her understanding of history is apparently linear and historical? A Jungian interpretation of Ayesha and history begins with Holly’s comments on the imagination. When he closes his eyes, his mind seems to connect with earlier events: “I could almost for a moment think that I had triumphed o’er the Past, and that my spirit’s eyes had pierced Time’s mystery” (178; ch. 16). What follows is a paragraph of historical reverie on the wings of the imagination, after which he makes an apology that touches on an important truth: Let him who reads this forgive the intrusion of a dream into a history of fact. But it came so home to me—I saw it all so clear in a moment, as it were, and, besides, who shall say what proportion of fact, past, present, or to come, may lie in imagination? What is imagination? Perhaps it is the shadow of the intangible truth, perhaps it is the soul’s thought. (179; ch. 16) That dreams may be historical and that the imagination may be the soul’s thought are among the most Jungian ideas in the entire novel, and both points relate to the ur-dream that underscores Jung’s sense that the anima is historical. In the dream, which appears in Memories, Dreams, Reflections (158−61), Jung encounters a twostory house—his house—in which each lower floor depicts an earlier age. In a parallel to the walls at Kôr, “a number of precious old paintings” “in the rococo style” (early 18th-century France) hang on the walls of the top floor (159). On the ground floor, he finds medieval furnishings and inaccurately mentions the fifteenth or sixteenth century. He passes through a heavy door and takes a stone stairway to the cellar, “a beautifully vaulted room which looked exceedingly ancient.” He now lifts a stone slab on the floor and descends into “a low cave cut into the rock.” After discovering “scattered bones and broken pottery” as well as two human skulls, Jung wakes up (159). His conclusion is that the cave dwelling represents “the world of the primitive man within myself—a world which can scarcely be reached or illuminated by consciousness” (160). It is well worth noting that Haggard had experiences that parallel Jung’s dream. Patrick Brantlinger relates Haggard’s séances with Lady Paulet to “racial memories of events that had happened to forefathers” (244). Similarly, Norman Etherington describes Haggard’s visions of successive lifetimes from different time periods. He believed that he had caught glimpses of his own previous existences in dreams and visions. While writing his autobiography in 1912, he claimed to have had four of these recurring visions. In the first he is a young man dressed in skins at a cooking fire in a setting very like the Bath Hills of England. In the second he is a black man fending off an attack on his black family. An

34  History in Haggard

Egyptian palace is the setting of the third, in which he greets a furtive lover with violet eyes. A slightly taller version of Violet Eyes crops up in the fourth fantasy. She leaps up from her seat in a Viking hall the throws her sobbing self on Haggard’s armor-clad breast. (Rider Haggard 17) Etherington observes that Haggard arranges these episodes “in the chronological order which an Edwardian museum director might have arranged displays on ‘the ascent of man’ from the Stone Age to the Iron Age” (17), not the reverse chronological order of Jung’s descent in the house dream. In another contrast, Haggard’s visions apparently present his own past-life experiences, whereas Jung’s dream suggests that the psyche, in its nether reaches, contains all past time. Jung’s house dream played a role in his break with Freud, who interpreted the two skulls to represent death wishes toward others. Freud might also have noted, as does Raya A. Jones, that the upper floor represents the superego, the ground floor the ego, and the cellar/cave area the id (222). For Jung, however, the dream emphasizes the historical nature of the collective unconscious, in which all time periods are present. It is possible, though, that his house dream is, in Jones’s words, “an active, dynamic, narrative reconstruction influenced by its cumulative significance for him” (208). That is, the dream influenced the theory of the collective unconscious, and the theory helped Jung shape the final account of the dream as it appears in Memories, Dreams, Reflections. In any case, the vision of history that the dream instantiates is neither strictly linear nor absolutely circular. As Jones rightly points out, archetypes are to the psyche as fossils are to the Earth (217). The implication is that the collective unconscious, with the anima archetype as psychopomp, subsumes all time. For example, Jung considers the collective unconscious to be “the deposit of all human experience right back to its remotest beginnings” (CW 8, par. 339) and a “treasure-house of primordial images” (CW 7, par. 110). As Kevin Lu states, “what Jung means by ‘history’ and being ‘historical’ is opposed to more conventional conceptions held by western historians” (“Jung and History” 12). One supposes that these conceptions include Kristeva’s masculine/ feminine binary regarding linear and circular time. Lu further states, “All history and the seeds of historical change are to be found, preformed, in the unconscious” (22). In a later article, he makes a statement that is directly relevant to Jung’s nexus of Ayesha, anima, and history: Jung . . . characterizes images of the anima, for instance, as possessing a “strongly historical character.” . . . As a personification of the unconscious, eternal image of woman residing within men . . . the anima image stretches back into prehistory, “embodies the contents of the past,” and presents to the individual those elements of the past of which he is not consciously aware. The anima further “carries” the past that still lives, psychologically, in the individual. . . . (“Jung, History” 16)

History in Haggard  35

To say that the anima—or Ayesha—has a historical aspect means that it—or She— sums up the totality of man’s experience of the feminine. Therefore, Jung’s house dream, to pick up on Etherington’s image, is like walking through a museum that is organized in reverse chronological order. It is not that one is literally visiting earlier times as they are unfolding; but all times are represented, stored as it were, like displays. History’s linearity or circularity depends on the perspective of the visitors, who may perambulate as they wish.Time may be experienced either way, but all time is simultaneously available within the museum, which is the collective unconscious. Although Jung does not use the word “simultaneous,” it closely aligns with his sense that space-time is relative from the perspective of psyche. Here is his key statement: “Anyone who has the least knowledge of the parapsychological material which already exists and has been thoroughly verified will know that so-called telepathic phenomena are undeniable facts. An objective and critical survey of the available data would establish that perceptions occur as if in part there were no space, in part no time” (CW 8, par. 814). Ayesha’s use of a pool of water to view distant places and events—Robert O’Connor calls it “a kind of spatial and temporal television” (50)—illustrates the point. She can transcend space to view present events and can also view the past. It is possible to view the future as well, but She has not yet learned that secret (150; ch. 13). Although Jung did not comment on this device, he would suggest that it parallels the anima’s historical nature and that of the psyche more generally. He maintains, “The collective unconscious contains, or is, an historical mirror-image of the world. It too is a world, but a world of images” (CW 7, par. 507; emphasis added).That “the unconscious is not just a reactive mirror-reflection, but an independent, productive activity” (CW 7, par. 292) corresponds to Ayesha’s use of mirror-gazing to see beyond the walls of Kôr. What conclusions arise, then, in response to Murphy’s claim that Ayesha represents the ahistorical view of time? Haggard’s character is not a purely ahistorical being but is interested in history; has the capacity to view it and intervene if she wishes; was a participant in historical events in the prequel, Wisdom’s Daughter; and wishes to reenter the flow of history now that She has been reunited with Leo/ Kallikrates. Jung’s approach to history suggests the limitations of Kristeva’s binary opposition, for Ayesha and the anima She represents are neither linear nor cyclical but participate in a larger category of simultaneous time and the ever-present nature of all times within the collective unconscious. Ayesha, as Jung’s ideal representation of the anima, is not ahistorical but pan-historical.

4 C. G. JUNG ON PLAGIARISM IN PIERRE BENOÎT’S L’ATLANTIDE

Chapter 4 uses Atlantida, the 1920 English translation of Pierre Benoît’s L’Atlantide, to discuss C. G. Jung’s statements about the accusation that Benoît had plagiarized Henry Rider Haggard’s She. Receiving the Grand Prize of the French Academy in 1919 for the novel reflects its quality; but, as Edwin Gile Rich suggests, the ruckus surrounding the accusation of plagiarism certainly helped account for its popularity (6). Whereas Philippe Decraene and others take it as a given that Atlantida was directly inspired by She (67), Jung accepts Benoît’s assertion of innocence at face value. Biographical and historical information unknown to Jung does support Benoît’s claim of originality, but it does not necessarily clear him of the plagiarism charge. Contrary to Jung’s view, plagiarism cannot be entirely ruled out because the many parallels between the two novels cannot all be coincidental représentations collectives (a term used here to mean mythological patterns sans primitive connotations). Along with addressing the plagiarism issue, this chapter improves on Jung’s seminar discussion by providing a depth-psychological reading of Atlantida and a sense of its relation to literary antecedents other than She. The analysis emphasizes, in particular, that the novel’s composition blends the visionary and psychological modes of composition and that anima repression leads to archetypal possession.

Jung on Benoît Jung’s explanations for Atlantida’s similarity to She distill down to unconscious borrowing (cryptomnesia) and archetypal influence. Here are his main statements on the matter: Benoît, who produced a surprising parallel to Rider Haggard’s She in the novel L’Atlantide, when accused of plagiarism had to answer that he had never come across Rider Haggard’s book and was entirely unaware of its

Plagiarism in Benoît  37

existence. This case could also have been one of cryptomnesia, if it had not been an elaboration of a sort of représentation collective, as Lévy-Bruhl has named certain general [archetypal] ideas characteristic of primitive societies. (CW 18, par. 457; cf. 17, par. 341) [T]here must be some supra-individual quality in this image of the anima, something that does not owe a fleeting existence simply to its individual uniqueness, but is far more typical, with roots that go deeper than the obvious surface attachments I have pointed out. Both Rider Haggard and Benoît give unmistakable utterance to this supposition in the historical aspect of their anima figures. (CW 7, par. 299) Benoît was accused of plagiarizing Rider Haggard, because the two accounts are disconcertingly alike. But it seems he was able to acquit himself of this charge. (CW 9i, par. 145) [T]he French writer Benoît gave a description of the anima and her classic myth in his book L’Atlantide, which is an exact parallel of Rider Haggard’s She.The lawsuit proved unsuccessful; Benoît had never heard of She. (It might, in the last analysis, have been an instance of cryptomnesic deception, which is often extremely difficult to rule out.) (CW 9i, par. 516) Jung’s comments reflect an awareness of the furor that erupted when Henry Magden’s article, published in the October 1919 issue of The French Quarterly, suggested that Benoît had borrowed narrative details, images, and even language from Haggard’s She. There are, however, obvious problems with Jung’s statements. He both does and does not rule out cryptomnesia, and the supra-individual anima is simultaneously primitive and historical. In addition, Jung makes it sound as if Benoît was sued for plagiarism by Haggard when, in fact, it was Benoît who sued Magden. As stated in “The French World Newton Universe: L’Atlantide,” “Haggard himself remained conspicuously silent during the lawsuit.” Finally, according to Jung, Benoît cleared his name when, in fact, he lost the suit because of parallels that sympathetic critics dismiss as superficial similarities. Jung sees two possible explanations for the duplications. They could have been a case of cryptomnesia, in which forgotten memories of Haggard’s work were presented as new and original. Or, more likely, the parallels are représentations collectives, motifs from the collective unconscious that manifest independently—and innocently—in different works. In the latter case, there was connectivity via the unconscious but not direct influence of one text upon the other. Perhaps both authors drew from the same psychic source, which justifies Jung’s view that She and Atlantida are examples of the visionary mode of literary composition—art that

38  Plagiarism in Benoît

comes through the authors from the collective unconscious and does not necessarily reflect their own subjective experiences, complexes, or foibles (CW 15, par. 142). If both authors channeled the collective unconscious, then, for example, the fact that their novels include anima projection onto a femme fatale who is outside of time but has a historical flavor (this being Jung’s view of Haggard’s Ayesha and Benoît’s Antinea) does not automatically signal plagiarism (CW 17, par. 339 and 339, n. 3; par. 341; 10, par. 75; 9i, par. 356 and 518, n. 14). Supra-individual quality is another way of emphasizing the visionary mode’s access to spontaneous and transpersonal “mythological formulations” (CW 9i, par. 516). In short, it is possible that there is no plagiarism because Haggard and Benoît channeled the anima archetype independently of each other. Although the provenance of Benoît’s novel remained uncertain, Jung maintains that it is “the non-psychological novel that offers the richest opportunities for psychological elucidation.” Haggard and Benoît are then specifically mentioned. Jung explains: “An exciting narrative that is apparently quite devoid of psychological intentions is just what interests the psychologists most of all. Such a tale is constructed against a background of unspoken psychological assumptions, and the more unconscious the author is of them, the more this background reveals itself in unalloyed purity to the discerning eye” (CW 15, par. 137). Sonu Shamdasani probably has this passage in mind when he states that “it was to works such as Rider Haggard’s She and Pierre Benoît’s L’Atlantide that Jung turned to find clear exemplars of the play of archetypes” (81, 83). As this statement indicates, Jung is more interested in what the novel says about the anima than in Benoît’s possible use of Haggard’s She.

Plot summary Unlike Haggard’s novel, Benoît’s Atlantida is a frame-tale. The novel opens in 1903 as the narrator, Lieutenant Olivier Ferrières, receives a new commanding officer at the Post Hassi-Inifel in Algeria, Captain André de Saint-Avit. The former classmates have received orders to journey south on a mission whose purpose is scientific exploration. The trouble is that Saint-Avit is widely suspected of having murdered his fellow officer, Captain Jean-Marie-François Morhange, on their African mission six years earlier. Sensing Ferrières’s suspicion, Saint-Avit frankly admits to murdering Morhange and then tells the story of the two men’s journey deep into the Sahara. According to the retrospective narrative, their native guide, Cegheir-ben-Cheikh, drugs them and transports them as they sleep to the last remnant of Atlantis where Antinea dwells. Her genealogy, as “The French Wold Newton Universe” summarizes, includes Neptune, Cleopatra Selene, the Sultan of Ahaggar, the kings of ­Atlantis, and the Ptolemies of Egypt. Thus, she is “the last descendant of the Atlantides” (Benoît 129). Her servant Le Mesge—Jung calls him “a funny librarian” (Visions, vol. 2, 1145)—shows the soldiers a gallery of 120 niches carved into the wall, 53 of which contain the electro-plated corpses of handsome young soldiers, all of whom died of love for her.When all the niches are filled, she will take her place on a central throne and pass away.

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Saint-Avit falls hopelessly in love with Antinea, but Morhange successfully resists her charms. Therefore, she offers to give both men their liberty; but when Morhange threatens to return with the French army, she strikes him and convinces Saint-Avit to murder him with a silver hammer. Coming to his senses the next morning, Saint-Avit manages to escape with the help of a serving girl named TanitZerga and guidance from Cegheir-ben-Cheikh.Tanit-Zerga and their horse die on the long trek through the desert, but Saint-Avit is rescued by the French army and taken to Timbuctoo, where he evidently incriminates himself during a month of delirium, though the official cause of Morhange’s death is understood to be sunstroke. Unlike the wedding guest in Samuel Taylor Coleridge’s Rime of the Ancient Mariner, Ferrières is not “[a] sadder and a wiser man” for having heard Saint-Avit’s tale (line 624). Instead, the two men will set off with Cegheir-ben-Cheikh, who has just arrived to take them to Antinea and their deaths.

The case for plagiarism There is little in the broad strokes of She and Atlantida to suggest that Benoît borrowed inappropriately from Haggard, but Magden sees Benoît’s indebtedness to Haggard in a myriad of smaller details. The critic begins by adumbrating various parallel motifs in She and Atlantida such as archeology, Greek inscriptions, and Egyptian background. In each novel, a faux editor receives the book’s manuscript from a main character. Both Ayesha and Antinea live in inaccessible regions, are irresistibly beautiful and cruel, kill their suitors, and extend their power throughout their respective regions. Ayesha appears young, though she is thousands of years old; Antinea appears to be a young girl, though inscriptions of her name are ancient. Both women are multilingual. Ayesha knows history and has a magic mirror in which she can see distant happenings; Antinea keeps up on current events and is even familiar with the French railway schedule. Magden’s point, of course, is that “Les deux histoires se déroulent parallèlement” (the two stories take place in parallel) (181). He continues with still further parallels. Holly and Leo regard the inscriptions on the shard of Amenartus; Morhange and Saint-Avit find ancient cave inscriptions of Antinea’s name. In each case travel is dangerous and frightful: a storm at sea in She, a thunderstorm in Atlantida. Natives assist. Leo and Saint-Avit are both cared for by native women, Ustane and Tanit-Zerga, respectively. Billali transports Holly and Leo while they sleep after a battle; Cegheir-ben-Cheikh, with darker intent, transports Morhange and Saint-Avit while they sleep off the effects of hashish. The native guides, Mohamed in She and Bou-Djema in Atlantida, are overcome with fear, and the demesnes of Ayesha and Antinea include rooms carved out of rock where corpses are found. In each case, a shroud is lifted to reveal a mummy. For Holly and Saint-Avit, the way to Ayesha/Antinea is through a long corridor, they are admitted to her presence after bathing and putting on clean clothes, the domestic servants are mute, and various waiting women are seen lounging on cushions. Upon first seeing Ayesha/Antinea, Holly/Saint-Avit throws himself to the ground.

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Both women are associated with snakes, laugh, invite their respective visitors to sit next to them, and kill men who resist—Kallikrates, a priest of Isis; Morhange, an officer who spent three years in a monastery. Ayesha sleeps in the room where the corpse of Kallikrates lies; Antinea visits her hall of mummies once a day. Magden adds to all of these resemblances a list of verbal echoes such as the similar visions of a dead city: Haggard mentions “miles upon miles of ruins” that are “bathed in the red glow of the sinking sun,” and Benoît describes “prodigieux édifices” and “l’horizon en flammes” (prodigious edifices and the horizon in flames) (Magden 184). The critic concludes by noting a similarity between the two novels’ endings.Whereas Ayesha bathes in the pillar of fire and dies (an image of Africa that falls to dust before our eyes), Antinea represents Africa’s penetration by European civilization. Eventually, Holly and Saint-Avit escape with the aid, respectively, of Billali and Cegheir-ben-Cheikh, who both state that they will not assist a second time. But like Holly and Leo who, in the sequel, search for Ayesha’s reincarnation, Saint-Avit cannot forget Antinea’s beauty and will return to her after the novel closes in order to take his place in her gallery of corpses. Magden concludes, despite minor differences (like marshy ground versus the desert), that “la trame du récit est la même” (the frame of the narrative is the same) and that “presque tous cales grands maîtres ont un plagiat sur la conscience” (almost all the great masters have plagiarism on their conscience) (185). Eight months after Magden’s article appeared, the editors of The French Quarterly published a response entitled “À Propos de L’Atlantide,” in which they state, “Une innocente recherché de sources est devenue une ‘accusation de plagiat’!!!” (an innocent source study became an “accusation of plagiarism”) (61). The statement is odd because Magden’s critique actually was an accusation of plagiarism, as his use of the word “plagiat” indicates. The editors then quote Haggard’s statement that details in Atlantida resemble those in his novel The Yellow God (1908). Using Magden’s strategy of parallel passages, the editors offer that they are less and less inclined to believe that Benoît’s echoes of The Yellow God are by chance. Even a casual reader will note, for example, that in each case the corpses of men are sheathed in metal (orichalch in Benoît, gold in Haggard) and arranged in a gallery overseen by a woman who is associated with snakes and has a device for seeing across time and space. The editors conclude that either Benoît knew and was inspired by Haggard’s work or a single source inspired both authors. However, they do not identify an ur-source to justify the former explanation, and they remind us that Benoît did not read English, which, in their view, rules out Haggard’s influence. Thus, an article that sounds, at the beginning, like an attempt to quell an uproar ends up deepening the problem of Atlantida’s antecedents: we are left with no satisfactory explanation for the parallels between Benoît’s novel and two of Haggard’s. In pointing out that Benoît did not know English, however, The French Quarterly’s editors overlook an important fact that may dispel part of the mystery: Georges LaBouchère’s abridged French translation of She, entitled La Reine Ayesha (Queen Ayesha), was serialized in La Vie Moderne beginning in the November 6, 1898, issue with the first chapter. Benoît’s protestation, “Je n’ai pas lu She” (I did not read She;

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qtd. in “À Propos”), may be a way of concealing the fact that he had actually read La Reine Ayesha (the periodical may well have been available to the young Benoît in north Africa, which sounds a note in favor of cryptomnesia). In any case, the existence of a translation that would have been available to Benoît undermines the editors’ protestation that Benoît did not know English. Ironically, though, his inability to read English also undermines the editors’ assertions about The Yellow God, which was not translated into French until 1985 (“The French Wold”). Once again, a definitive answer to the plagiarism question remains elusive.

Benoît’s life and learning Benoît’s biography, knowledge of current events, and awareness of Atlantean theory provide a somewhat exculpatory response to the plagiarism charge. Jacques-Henry Bornecque, author of Pierre Benoit le Magicien (sic), even states that Benoît, having been “[i]njustment accusé de s’être inspiré en catimini de She” (unjustly accused of being discreetly inspired by She), produced a list of his scientific sources on the Sahara and the indigenous Tuareg people (133). But as we shall see, this response, though it helpfully illuminates the provenance of Atlantida, is still problematic because it fails to address the parallels to Haggard’s novels noted by Magden and The French Quarterly’s editors. Incidentally, both Benoît and Jung spent time in north Africa. As William McGuire suggests in Analytical Psychology, he “apparently had first encountered the novel L’Atlantide at the time of his trip to Algeria and Tunis in March 1920” (118, n. 1). According to “The French Wold,” Benoît lived in Algiers and Tunisia from 1892–1907: he was the son of a French colonel who served in Algiers; he went to school in Algeria and did his own military service there. He was eventually demobilized because of illness and turned to writing novels because his poetry was unsuccessful (Chaigne 201; Fowler 74). Having lived in Africa for many years, “The French Wold” continues, he knew of the Tuaregs and was familiar with the theory of French geographer Étienne-Félix Berlioux (La Faculté des Lettres de Lyon) that Atlantis had been located in an ancient Saharan sea. Benoît had probably heard the legend of a sorceress who lived in a garden-like setting at The Mountain of the Spirits of Solitude, from which no man who sought her ever returned. And he knew about a Tuareg named Tin Himan, a fourth century warrior-queen, who “claimed to be a descendent of Cleopatra Selene, the daughter of Cleopatra and Marc Antony.” The conclusion of “The French Wold” is straightforward: “All of these [details] are clearly the foundation upon which L’Atlantide was built, and none of this bear[s] any resemblance to either Haggard’s She or The Yellow God.” Thus, Atlantida obviously has underpinnings that were unique to Benoît’s life and took shape in his imagination at a natural turning point in his career as a writer. North Africa also provides two sources of inspiration for the monastery-trained Morhange’s death. According to Borneque, Benoît knew of Father Charles de Foucauld (156), a French Catholic priest who ministered to the Tuaregs in the Algerian Sahara and was assassinated in 1916; the Catholic Church considers him to

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be a martyr (“Charles de Foucauld”). More fundamentally, Atlantida’s basic plot is based on an account that Benoît was also aware of—the death of Paul Quiquerez in northern Africa, which is summarized in “L’Affaire Criminelle Quiquerez-De Segonzac 1891–1893.” The relationship between Saint-Avit and Morhange resembles that of Sous-Lieutenant Édouard Marie René de Segonzac and his commanding officer Paul Quiquerez. The latter pair were ordered to explore the littoral of the Ivory Coast, to trade with the local chiefs, and to find a way between the coast and the Niger basin. Upon returning to France, Segonzac reported that Quiquerez had died of a fever on May 23, 1891, but the story was inconsistently recounted over various retellings. As a result, Quiquerez’s mother’s husband, Colonel Fix, requested an inquiry into his son-in-law’s death. The corpse was exhumed and the cause of death determined to be a gunshot to the head, which was shipped to France as evidence. Segonzac was accused of murder on October 10, 1893. Evidence against him included local soldiers’ report of having seen him shoot his revolver at Quiquerez nearby the opening of the latter’s tent. Segonzac then maintained that Quiquerez had committed suicide during a fever, claiming that he had previously withheld the truth in order to preserve the dead man’s honor. An additional possibility is that Segonzac walked back the fever-suicide story and claimed that Quiquerez had committed suicide because of despondency over a woman. Bornecque considers this possibility unlikely given the placement of the entry and exit wounds—the occipital area and the front (137)—because people who commit suicide do not shoot themselves in the back of the head. Evidently, Segonzac was acquitted of the charge, though not all sources agree on this point. Whereas accounts of the case are a bit inconclusive, Saint-Avit openly confesses his guilt in murdering Morhange to Lieutenant Ferrières whose manuscript becomes the novel Atlantida. Despite this difference, the role of the Quiquerez story in the genesis of the novel should not be underestimated, for Benoît himself mentions its importance: “Telle est l’idée qui est à la base de L’Atlantide. Il n’y en a pas d’autre” (this idea is the basis of Atlantida; there is no other”) (qtd. in Bornecque 135). Although the biographical/historical approach shows the novel’s broad outline to include original underpinnings, the many small parallels and verbal echoes remain. That is, pointing out the book’s original elements does not counteract the evidentiary summation that Magden levels at Benoît. In most basic terms, if “A,” Magden’s case, shows that Atlantida plagiarizes She, then the reply to the objection must be “not-A”: the opposition must show that the evidence is false. Instead, Benoît’s defenders leave “A” intact and assert “B,” the novel’s biographical/historical antecedents. Although there is merit in showing how Benoît built the tale out of first-hand experience and current events, that approach does not put any chinks in Magden’s accusation of plagiarism. It does, however, suggest that a novel that Jung considered non-psychological (visionary) had been composed partly in the psychological mode. He is somewhat contradictory on that score. When he asserts a role for the archetypes in the composition of She and Atlantida, he downplays the psychological mode, in which personal subjectivity contributes to the composition process, as it clearly does in both cases. Weirdly, Jung calls them psychological novels,

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though he claims that their composition was visionary, not psychological. Nevertheless, he and his colleagues speculate at considerable length about how both authors’ background contributes to their novels’ composition. Like the critics’ biographical/historical approach, however, the discussion of Atlantida is not a genuine reply to Magden’s charge.

Jung’s 1925 seminar According to Analytical Psychology, the group that discussed Benoît’s novel generated three possible interpretations, with the first and second reflecting the psychological mode and the third affirming a more visionary/archetypal mode of composition. The first is clearly psychological and participates in the intentional fallacy. In McGuire’s words, the committee believed that “the book demonstrated a conflict in Benoît’s mind between his spiritual side and a tendency toward material considerations” (151). Here “spiritual” represents the unconscious mind versus factors that would make the book a bestseller—Benoît paid more attention to “literary effect” than to “a creation of unconscious fantasies”; therefore, Antinea is not even a true anima figure. The second interpretation that McGuire notes is also an intentional fallacy: “the book represented a conflict [not between the spiritual and the material but rather] between what was rational and what was irrational in Benoît’s psychology” (152). The point is not developed, and its relevance to the novel’s emphasis on scholarly pursuit and male duty versus surrender to erotic temptation does not necessarily illuminate the author’s inner life. A seminar participant named Mr. Charles Roberts Aldrich then presents his “minority report,” in which Antinea is “a true anima figure,” or “the hetaira—the completely developed woman, the comrade,” who is appropriate for the Wise Man who has achieved significant individuation. Mr. Aldrich gets to the heart of the matter in stating that “for a man who had not passed out of the Warrior stage she was as inappropriate and fatal as a wife would be for a baby” (151–52). For an unindividuated man, the completely developed woman represents the anima as femme fatale. Mr. Aldrich’s views, though not in the majority, are the most insightful.To begin with, they are in accord with Jung’s idea that Atlantida is a visionary reflection of the archetypes.Whereas views one and two focus on the novel’s relation to Benoît’s subjectivity, view three suggests—apart from biographical connections—that he may have been a channel through which the play of archetypes manifested in art. Mr. Aldrich’s interpretation also relates to Jung’s sense that the anima is powerful in direct proportion to the repression that is present in a man’s public persona. “As we know,” he writes, “it is just the ‘he-men’ who are most at the mercy of their feminine feelings” (CW 10, par. 79). Notably, Antinea’s victims, “the youngest and bravest,” are the most vulnerable (Benoît 158). If the masculine persona requires the repression of sexuality, as in the male world of the French military in north Africa, then the challenge from the anima becomes all the more powerful. Slow death via anima possession in Antinea’s lair becomes a psychologically plausible counterpoint to military life. Le Mesge aptly describes such possession: “I only affirm this, that

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when you have seen her, you will remember nothing else. Family, country, honor, you will renounce everything for her” (159). In addition, it would seem that the compensatory unconscious is also signified by her attempt to get revenge on men for the way men in the past treated their women. The list is long: Ulysses and Calypso, Diomedes and Callirhoë, Theseus and Ariadne, Jason and Medea, Aeneas and Dido, Caesar and Cleopatra, Titus and Berenice, the sons of Japhet and the daughters of Shem (157–58). The seminar participants’ interpretations of Atlantida do not include any mention of the plagiarism issue, but the three alternatives may actually strengthen Magden’s case because they could also be applied to She. That possibility, however, lies outside the bounds of their discussion. Jung and his interlocutors then move even further away from Benoît’s possible debt to Haggard by dwelling on how the novels’ difference in ethos arises from French and Anglo-Saxon cultural stereotypes. They note that various things appear only in Atlantida: luxury, sensuality, sexuality. Antinea lacks values and “is on a lower level than ‘She’ ” (154). Jung himself considers Antinea to be as charming and as erotically powerful and instinctive as a native woman—a comment that is definitely sexist and probably racist—and does not consider her “a real woman, but the anima of a Frenchman” (154). Thus begins a long and only marginally helpful discourse on French versus Anglo-Saxon psychology in an attempt to “reconstruct something of the author’s conscious[ness] and arrive at an appreciation of a modern Frenchman” (155), an attempt that illustrates the intentional fallacy and serves mainly to convey Jung’s stereotypical understanding of modern France. The ensuing discussion notes contrasts among some of the male characters: Le Mesge’s pure rationalism, Count Bielowsky’s Parisian manner, and Morhange’s “feeble spirituality” (156). It would perhaps have been more appropriate to consider the three European males at Antinea’s compound as follows: Le Mesge, the academic man; Count Bielowsky, the public man; and Reverend Spardek, the religious man. In any case, Jung concludes that the Anglo-Saxon’s anima “contains a mysterious side of promise” and that there is “more feeling of spiritual potencies in ‘She’ than in Antinéa” (157). It is clear enough that he finds Ayesha to be a more convincing anima figure than Antinea because French rationalism curbs the anima’s power to manifest.

Depth psychology in Atlantida Although plagiarism was, for Jung, separate from his view that Ayesha and Antinea were classic anima figures, a depth-psychological reading of Atlantida ameliorates the plagiarism charge to some degree by showing the proliferation of supra-­ individual anima figures in literature. To begin with, a main point is in accord with the implications of Mr. Aldrich’s view: Atlantida warns that anima repression can lead to anima possession and that a man should explore the anima in a relationship to a human woman as opposed to a personification of the archetype. This reading is in the spirit of my suggestion in Chapter 1 regarding Percy Bysshe Shelley’s “Alastor; or The Spirit of Solitude” as an analogy for Haggard’s She: when the

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poet in the poem dreams of a veiled maiden who speaks to his soul, he sets out to find her in the natural world, eschews the love of an Arab maiden, and eventually dies alone and unfulfilled. Such spectral anima figures appear elsewhere in English literature: Prince Arthur dreams of the Faerie Queene in Edmund Spenser’s epic, awakens to find her imprint in the “pressed grass” next to him, and will not cease journeying until he finds her in the natural world (I.ix.15). The wandering knight in John Keats’s “La Belle Dame Sans Merci” (the beautiful dame without mercy) is “in thrall” to the visionary female whom he has experienced (line 40). And the narrator of William Butler Yeats’s “The Song of Wandering Aengus” seeks “a glimmering girl / With apple blossom in her hair” who has captivated his imagination (lines 13–14). The consequence of such obsession is that a man takes himself out of the life cycle: when one searches for a visionary female, who represents the anima archetype itself, nature becomes a wasteland, as Keats articulates in stating that “the sedge is withered from the lake, / And no birds sing” (lines 47–48). Pursuing the archetype rather than a relationship with an obtainable woman is a psychological and biological dead end. The soldiers who encounter Antinea are in roughly the same situation. For example, in the twentieth chapter, ironically titled “The Circle Is Complete,” SaintAvit says,“But I have held Antinea’s body in my arms. I no longer wish to know any other, nor if the fields are in blossom, nor what will become of the human spirit” (298). Contrary to the chapter title, there is no circular wholeness here, for Antinea’s embrace is sterile. The opposite—and apposite—choice lies in details such as Ferrières’s girlfriend Madmoiselle C. whom he has left in her separate sphere in France; Count Bielowsky’s story of Clementine; and Saint-Avit’s salvific interaction with Tanit-Zerga, who represents the anima as helpmate. There is also the allusion to Victor Hugo’s poem “La Fille d’O-Taïti,” mentioned in the tenth chapter, “The Red Marble Hall,” as an ironic counterpoint to Antinea and her gallery of corpses. Insofar as the young female speaker of the poem appeals to her sailor-visitors either to stay on her island or to take her with them, she gives voice to Shelley’s Arab maiden by calling men to honor human relationship. Of course, unlike Madmoiselle C. and the Tahitian woman, Tanit-Zerga is an actual character in Atlantida, and as a result she has the most impact on Saint-Avit. He comments on “my friendship with Tanit-Zerga,” the lengths to which “this little barbarian had penetrated into my own life,” and the fact that he “understood the beauty of Tanit-Zerga’s eyes” (229, 286). Although their bond is sufficient to enable an escape, Saint-Avit, like Shelley’s poet, embraces an adolescent fantasy, which he calls “the only destiny that is worth while [sic]: a nature unfathomed and virgin, a mysterious love” (299). Both he and Ferrières will travel back to the Atlantean remnant in the Sahara where they will encounter not only death and the end of their family lines but also a journey out of nature via the orichalch electro-plating that is used to encase the corpses. In other words, the danger depicted in She, Atlantida, “Alastor,” “La Belle Dame,” and “Wandering Aengus” is that bare-handed exploration of the unconscious may obviate the possibility of a procreative relationship with an available woman. The danger lies

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not only with the anima but also with the unconscious in general and the shadow in particular. Saint-Avit explains: “You do not live with impunity for months and years as the guest of the desert. Sooner or later, it has its way with you, annihilates the good officer, the timid executive, overthrows his solicitude for his responsibilities. What is there behind those mysterious rocks, those dim solitudes, which have held at bay the most illustrious pursuers of mystery?” (88–89). That is, isolation (“dim solitudes”) leads to prolonged contact with the collective unconscious (“the desert”); overthrows the persona (“the good officer, the timid executive”); and reveals the archetypes (“mystery”), especially the shadow. This outcome is exactly what happens to Saint-Avit when he murders Morhange. Anima possession obviates the possibility of human relationship, but the reverse is also true: a botched relationship can spark a journey that leads ultimately to Antinea’s lair. For example, it sounds as if a negative experience with a woman motivated Morhange to spend three years in a monastery. “I can marvel,” he says, “that a creature whose sole merit was her beauty should have been permitted by the Creator to swing my destiny to such an unforeseen direction” (64). At Lyon he once took a course with the geographer Berlioux, and at the monastery he displaced his sexual libido onto the study of geography and Tifinar (the Tuareg language). At the end of the three-year trial period, Morhange’s superiors refused to allow him to stay at the monastery. To renewed full-time military service he brought a powerful analytical mind, great erudition, and some degree of religious/ spiritual sensibility. So what happens when he meets Antinea? She falls in love with him not only because he is her most handsome victim to date but also because he is somewhat aloof. His request, that before his death he be allowed to see Saint-Avit once more, illustrates his statement: “Man has this superiority over woman. He is so constructed that he can refuse advances” (179). His refusal, though stronger in theory than in practice, is enough to elicit a capitulation. Antinea says, “[Y]ou had only to oppose me to bend me to your will—I who have bent all other wills to mine. But, however that may be, it is decided: I give you both your liberty” (249). Only when Morhange threatens to return with the French army does she strike him and get Saint-Avit to kill him with a silver hammer. In these details there is perhaps an overlooked parallel to She: Saint-Avit is jealous when Antinea prefers the more-attractive Morhange, much as the ugly Holly is jealous when Ayesha prefers the handsome Leo. But to say that Benoît plagiarized Haggard would be to overlook the episode’s participation in a mythic pattern. Military men who repress their sexuality are particularly vulnerable to sensuous experience and sensual temptation, which is why knights in the Renaissance epic, The Faerie Queene being just one example, face projections of their own unruly sexuality and repressed anima. Behind these examples, of course, lies Homer’s Circe, whom Jung obviously has in mind when he comments on the male-female encounter: “when animus and anima meet, the animus draws his sword of power and the anima ejects her poison of illusion and seduction” (CW 9ii, par. 30). Benoît rewrites the scene, with Morhange as a less successful version of Odysseus. The Homeric character has benefited from Mercury/Hermes’s gift of moly (Morhange’s rational

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and spiritual resources, which he calls “this superiority over woman”), but the two figures quickly diverge. Whereas Odysseus threatens to strike Circe with his sword and extracts the important concession that she will not humiliate him sexually, Morhange capitulates to his fate, asking only to see Saint-Avit one last time. Only after Antinea promises to liberate the two men does Morhange draw his sword by threatening military force. Then Antinea strikes him; tells him that he will die in agony; and compels Saint-Avit, in killing his comrade and friend, to become a Cain figure. Like Ayesha, Antinea disrupts the fellowship of men. But Benoît’s temptress is unlike both Circe and Calypso, who represent the temptations of oblivion and immortality, respectively. Antinea is more of a siren who lures men to their deaths not through seductive sound but through sexual temptation and emotional attachment. As these parallels demonstrate, there is clearly much more of Homer in Atlantida than Antinea’s “Cyclopean seats” (147). Benoît’s more obvious classical sources, as Stéphane Maltere demonstrates, include Plutarch and Plato: the first informs the portrait of Antinea, and the latter provides the principal traits of Atlantis (25). Insofar as soldiers’ encounter with sensual seduction is concerned, however, Homer’s poem may have influenced the depiction of the hero’s journey in both She and Atlantida by providing a common représentation collective from which Haggard and Benoît drew separately. Other details suggest that Antinea’s demesne, like Spenser’s Bower of Blisse in The Faerie Queene, Book II, is a fake earthly paradise—a place that merely pretends to signify psychological wholeness. In Atlantida, the location is even called “a veritable earthly paradise” (115), with its illusory nature being conveyed in numerology and imagery.The numbers 10 and 12 signify wholeness, as does the circle.There are, for example, 120 (10 x 12) niches in Antinea’s circular gallery, as well as 12 lamps, 12 incense burners, and 12 signs of the Zodiac; and 12 hours are implied by mention of a clock (146–47, 161). Moreover, the Zodiac and the clock are circles, as are the round room in which Morhange and Saint-Avit wake up and the orichalch rings that Antinea gives to her men, apparently to mark them as her possessions (173); the rings are worn on the left ring fingers in a parody of marriage. All of these symbols of wholeness, however, signify no such thing. The reticular imagery underscores the present danger: “The balsam spices of Arabia were floating webs in which my shameless senses were entangled,” recalls Saint-Avit (247–48). Likewise, the labyrinthine nature of Antinea’s compound and her linkage to serpents signify the sensual trap that he and Morhange must negotiate (labyrinth: 146, 241; serpents: 169, 262, 301). Knowing very well that the wages of sex is death, Saint-Avit sums up his fate with a vaginal image: “And it will be my turn to penetrate into eternity by the bleeding door of love” (223). Perhaps the bleeding heart is implied, but the door image is clearly sexual, with “eternity” meaning both mystery and death. Sexual lust, if it overrules reason and spirituality, proves fatal not only to wholeness but also to life itself. As if this material were insufficient, Benoît drives home the falseness of Antinea’s earthly paradise with still further details. When Saint-Avit first sees Antinea he describes the setting as like a seraglio, with plush decorations and women on cushions. The skin of a lion lies on the floor: a live lion symbolizes

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wholeness and the Self, but here its remains are a mere decoration to be trodden upon. Similarly, Antinea keeps a leopard named King Hiram. Named after the King of Tyre who was friends with both David and Solomon, the leopard represents masculine authority and fellowship in thrall to feminine sadism. Ironically, an animal whose name represents male solidarity helps Antinea keep her men in line. In the spirit of the fatherly admonition—a man’s dalliance with a harlot “will cost him his life” (Prov. 7.23)—such details constitute a warning against eschewing the difficult right and embracing the easy wrong via a woman who not only echoes various temptresses in the epic tradition but also illustrates the more modern femme fatale. In describing Antinea, Le Mesge provides a perfect description of the latter type: Her body is condescending, while her spirit is inexorable. She takes what these bold young men can give her. She lends them her body, while her soul dominates them. She is the first sovereign who has never been made the slave of passion, even for a moment. She has never been obliged to regain her selfmastery, for she never has lost it. She is the only woman who has been able to disassociate those two inextricable things, love and voluptuousness. (158) Jung agrees. In a comment on the “anima types” in She and Atlantida, he states that “they are quite unmistakable. C’est la femme fatale” (it is the femme fatale) (C. G. Jung Speaking 296). Yet Benoît also includes details that warn and advise. Antinea’s smoking reflects perhaps the male anxiety regarding worldly women, but the greatest cautionary moment comes in the twelfth chapter, “Morhange Disappears.” The walls feature two engravings: “one of da Vinci’s St. John the Baptist [sic], and the Maison des Dernières Cartouches of Alphonse de Neuville” (185). John the Baptist, of course, is a religious man who stays true to himself but loses his head because of a woman’s whim. De Neuville’s painting, which translates as House of the Last Cartridges, depicts French soldiers who have fought to the last bullet; however, though defeated, they still retain their national pride. Together, the two paintings show that men must stay true to their higher faculties and professional obligations even in the face of physical defeat, for the alternative is moral lapse and spiritual perdition. Sadly, these ideals prove impossible for Antinea’s victims to maintain.

Conclusion With the help of Tanit-Zerga and Cegheir-ben-Cheikh, Saint-Avit escapes Antinea’s realm, becoming only the second man to do so. The first was Lieutenant Ghiberti, but he eventually returned to take his place in her gallery. As the novel closes, Saint-Avit will return to her, and he will bring along Ferrières (whose manuscript, in a sense, brings along the reader). The point is that possession by the negative anima, focused on a woman like Ayesha or Antinea, is inescapable once it has been activated. As Cegheir-ben-Cheikh tells Saint-Avit, he will return because,

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“[h]enceforth, one idea [the anima archetype] will follow you everywhere you go” (278). Like a fatal disease, anima possession can go into remission, but eventually it consumes and destroys. Benoît thus presents the shadow side of the anima, which in its positive aspect is a psychopomp or bridge to the unconscious, a mother, wife, or figure of wisdom. In Homeric terms, the anima can guide and advise like Athena, wait patiently like Penelope, or be an unrelenting monster like Scylla. Atlantida, therefore, depicts the thanatotic danger of exploring the unconscious and encountering the anima archetype’s darker aspect: one may not make it all the way back to affirm a procreative relationship with an available woman. At the very least, a man must, like Hercules, choose between virtue/duty and worldly pleasures/vice, both depicted by women in Annibale Carracci’s 1596 painting, The Choice of Hercules. Like the “bubbling fountain” that delights Saint-Avit in the gallery of corpses (147), what comes up from the unconscious may prove delightful, but one must take care not to get lost in its waters. If both Haggard and Benoît are tapping into the same anima-related mythological patterns, then Jung’s belief that similarities between She and Atlantida result not from cryptomnesia but from représentations collectives is a reasonable conclusion. It may even be that Homer provided the ur-story on which both authors drew. Jung had not read The Yellow God or critics’ accusations of plagiarism; nor did he know about Benoît’s early years in north Africa, Father Charles de Foucauld, or Paul Quiquerez. We will never know if additional information would have changed his opinion of Atlantida’s originality. That said, none of the supposed responses to charges of plagiarism leveled in The French Quarterly, not even the clear relationship of the tale to long-standing mythological motifs, addresses the fact that Benoît sometimes duplicates Haggard’s language and details. Also, the existence of even an abridged French translation belies the claim that Benoît did not know She because he could not read English: there is no dependable evidence that he read the novel or that he forgot that he had read it. Ultimately, it is necessary to do with Atlantida what teachers do when a student is suspected of misusing sources: evaluate the text, not the person. Although both Haggard and Benoît produced tales that are original insofar as the psychological mode is concerned, the similarities between the two novels remain an open question. In the end, most readers, like the professional critics, will probably reach the conclusion that corresponds to their degree of reverence for the French master.

5 THE JUNGIAN MATRIX OF GUSTAV MEYRINK’S THE GREEN FACE

At the beginning of Analytical Psychology’s Lecture 15, Jung states his intention to have his seminar participants discuss “She, by Haggard; L’Atlantide, by Benoît; and Meyrink’s Das grüne Gesicht” (The Green Face). After this paragraph, the volume’s editor, William McGuire, inserts the following comment in parentheses: “It was suggested by the class that, instead of having all three books on anima problems, it would be interesting to have one that dealt with the animus. On Dr. Jung’s recommendation, a novel called The Evil Vineyard, by Marie Hay, was substituted for Das grüne Gesicht” (118). Although Jung and his students apparently believed that Meyrink is to anima as Hay is to animus (and, indeed, the homology holds), they overlooked each novel’s greater purpose, which is to explore nonordinary states of consciousness. Gustav Meyrink’s and Marie Hay’s depictions of the anima in human relationships are vastly different from Haggard’s and Benoît’s depiction of a human male’s confrontation with a supernatural female figure or living archetype. Whereas Meyrink’s narrative suggests that a man who puts wanton behavior behind him may achieve a higher state of consciousness, Hay’s novel depicts a man’s descent into madness via the effects of unrestful spirits. The Evil Vineyard, of course, does explore a female character’s animus, just not as dramatically as Haggard and Benoît address the anima. Chapter 6 considers how The Evil Vineyard sets the workings of the animus against the possibility of detrimental intervention in human consciousness by malevolent spirits. However, insofar as Jung and his students considered Meyrink and Hay in terms of archetypes, they lost the forest for the trees: it is the exploration of consciousness that most sets the two novels apart from She and L’Atlantide; the archetypes, though still relevant, are of lesser significance. Why did Jung believe that The Green Face deals with the anima, and why did he consider it a good book worthy of discussion? In answer, Chapter 5 argues that Meyrink’s novel makes important statements not only about the anima and a plethora of other Jungian concepts but also about the achievement of higher

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consciousness, the book’s central concern. In other words, The Green Face probably appealed to Jung because it constitutes a matrix of the ideas that are integral to his psychological system, academic interests, and personal experience. Although there is no evidence that Jung actually influenced Meyrink, The Green Face provides a fictional rendering of Jungian psychology. This chapter proposes that Jung favored the book because it precisely mirrors his own work in many ways.

Plot summary Although The Green Face (1916) is written from multiple points of view, it centers on the experiences of Fortunatus Hauberrisser, an Austrian engineer and inventor, who lives in Amsterdam in the imagined wake of World War I.1 As the novel opens, he visits a magic shop (George C. Schoolfield calls it a “pornography shop” [201]; Amanda Charitina Boyd calls it “a store of curiosities” [235]) that he thinks is called Chidher Green’s Hall of Riddles, which he thinks is run by the old Jewish man he sees in the shop’s office. The shop is actually named after its Balkan owner, Arpád Zitter, “a confidence trickster” (27) who pretends to be both a medical professor from Bratislava and a Polish count named Wlodimierz Ciechonski. The Jew, who is not really there either, anticipates Hauberrisser’s “dream vision” (23) in the shop of communication from a man whose face is “a greenish olive colour” (12). The face is that of the Wandering Jew, referred to in the novel primarily as Chidher Green (the Green One) and as Ahasuerus, the name of the cobbler who denied Christ on his way to Golgotha. Also present in the shop is a Zulu named Mister Usibepu, a circus performer and dangerous medicine man. Hauberrisser thinks to himself in the first chapter:“I want to see a fresh, unknown world[;] I want a new sense of wonder. . . . I want to learn to see old forms with new eyes” (11). The items he purchases, which include the Oracle of Delphi in papier-maché, do little to help him on his way, but the image of the oracle helps appropriately open a novel that includes prophecy. In the vision, however, Chidher Green tells him that “we will have to cry the eyes out of our heads before we can look on the world with new eyes and a smile” (11), smile being an important image that frames the novel. The Green Face is the story of how Hauberrisser gets his wish by transcending sorrow and loss. After leaving the shop, Hauberrisser visits his old friend Baron Pfeill whom he engages in conversation about the Wandering Jew. Whereas Pfeill once saw a portrait of the Wandering Jew in Leyden, which has haunted his dreams ever since, Hauberrisser remains perplexed because he is unable to identify the provenance of the figure in his dream vision. Despite this interesting conversation, he is worldweary, tired, despairing, and mildly suicidal. A day trip to the countryside is helpful, but back in Amsterdam he notices that prostitution and debauchery seem to proliferate. He is unmoved, however, by an erotic cabaret and an invitation to visit Madame Grisel Hussy’s brothel. Baron Pfeill visits Doctor Ishmael Sephardi in order to verify that he, Pfeill, had once spoken of the painting of Ahasuerus but realizes that he had merely imagined the portrait.2 “How the picture came to be in my head is an absolute mystery to

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me,” he admits aloud to Sephardi and Sephardi’s guest, Eva van Druysen (51). Eva, “a strikingly beautiful fair-haired woman of some twenty-six years” (47) and the daughter of a friend of Sephardi’s family, is visiting the Doctor in order to learn about her father’s visions of the Wandering Jew. Like Hauberrisser, she is close to suicide. After Sephardi advises Eva to seek spiritual enlightenment from the God within, they go to Zeedijk, the dingy part of Amsterdam, to visit members of a Christian “spiritual circle,” whose goal is “spiritual rebirth” (57–58). There they encounter various interesting persons: Eva’s aunt, Mademoiselle de Bourignon; Lazarus Egyolk,3 a Russian Jew who runs a liquor store and whose family was killed in a pogrom; Jan Swammerdam, a lepidopterist (“a crazy butterfly collector” [52]), whose “entomological clairvoyance” seems to have arisen from “having lived a blameless life” (54); Mary Faatz, a former prostitute; Anselm Klinkherbogk, “a true prophet of the Lord” (58) who, like Ahasuerus, is a cobbler; and Kaatje, his granddaughter. Klinkherbogk, whose spiritual name is Abram, ominously prophesies, among other things, a future that does not include him and a “curse that lies upon all gold” (70). Meanwhile, at the Prince of Orange, a nearby tavern, “Professor” Zitter goads Usibepu into demonstrating fire walking and explaining how he does it: he has been changed by the sight of the “[s]ouquiant man,” a “big Vidoo-snake, green poison-snake with man’s face” and a “sacred fetish-sign” on his forehead (75). Mary Faatz brings Usibepu back to Klinkherbogk’s attic. There Eva and the Zulu see each other for the first time, and Usibepu sees gold coins on the cobbler’s table and the souquiant man behind him. (The coins are the result of Pfeill’s charitable overpayment for cobbler services.) After the guests leave, Klinkherbogk, in a trance that features slaying Kaatje as Abraham almost killed Isaac, appears to have achieved a “second birth,” a new spiritual level. But when he wakes up he holds a bloody awl in his hand and sees Kaatje lying dead, stabbed through the heart. “The God to whom he had prayed all his life awoke in his heart, transformed into a grinning demon” (80). In the next moment, Usibepu comes through the window, breaks the old man’s neck and takes his coins. Determined to get answers from the old Jew at the magic shop, Hauberrisser returns there and is dismayed to be informed of its true name (Arpád Zitter’s Hall of Riddles) and the fact that there was never an old Jew there. After having spent more than thirty years studying, working as an engineer, and indulging his passions, he now turns to the sort of spiritual exploration described in a roll of papers that he has found, but his life is about to take an interesting turn. Back at Pheill’s house, when Hauberrisser meets the beautiful Eva he is “struck speechless in amazement at her beauty” and is “more in thrall to her than he realized” (103).Then the conversation turns to “the possibility of controlling thought” and of crossing the “Bridge to Life” in order to perceive spiritually (108–9). Since developing one’s consciousness is said to require a “female companion” (109), Hauberrisser is naturally disappointed when Eva decides to return to Antwerp. Although she senses that they will be lovers and mentions “the hope of finding a path that will lead us beyond the

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everyday world” (111), she hopes to be spared “what people call marriage” and does not want to jump headlong into a relationship with him (116). The murders of Klinkherbogk and Kaatje become public knowledge, as does the fact that Egyolk has confessed to the crime, though his supporters know that he is innocent. Meanwhile, Eva has a vision of Chidher Green with his forehead uncovered (signifying death) and seems to become psychic. After she is drawn to Usibepu by his demonic/satanic power, he kills a sailor and kidnaps her. The appearance of her own double paralyzes the Zulu with horror, and in a dream she sees the Wandering Jew, “an old man with cloth [hiding the mark of the cross] round his forehead” who calls her name and carries her until she loses consciousness at the moment of what appears to be her death (127). She disappears without a trace, and when Hauberrisser is unable to find her he turns to the roll of papers, bringing his love for her to the study of the spiritual powers that they articulate. Meanwhile, Sephardi visits the police psychiatrist, Dr. De Brouwer, to assert Egyolk’s innocence. In Sephardi’s long subsequent conversation with Egyolk, it is revealed that the merchant has the psychic ability to experience an event in another person’s life (clairvoyant empathy): he confessed to Klinkherbogk’s murder because he mistook Usibepu’s actions for his own. Like others in the novel, Egyolk is psychic; as he puts it, “the lamps of the Makifim had been changed round inside me” (149). Later Usibepu is recognized to be the actual murderer, and Egyolk is released from “medical custody” to return to proprietorship of his liquor store (184). As weeks pass and Hauberrisser continues to search for Eva, he realizes, regarding his friends Pfeill, Sephardi, and Swammerdam, “that all three of them breathed the same spirit as this roll of papers exuded” (158), as do Usibepu and Egyolk. Swammerdam assures Hauberrisser that there is spiritual benefit in suffering. Through yoga meditation, Hauberrisser achieves “higher wakefulness,” access to a true mystical state (171).4 There he tells Chidher Green that he wants Eva. Shortly thereafter, the physical Eva comes to him out of the fog, promising to be his wife and the mother of their children in their next lifetime together.They spend a single night “in ecstatic, boundless love,” and then the next morning she lies lifeless in their bed (181). Now Chidher Green stands before Hauberrisser. The phantom says, among other things, that what has happened proceeded from Hauberrisser’s original wish for knowledge and new vision. In addition to “pick[ing] up two candlesticks and chang[ing] them around” (a sign that the lamps of the Makifim have been changed around inside Hauberrisser), the Green One promises him reunion with Eva once he has begun his new spiritual life: “As truly as you can put your hand into my side now, just so will you be united with Eva, when you have come into your new spiritual life.” In addition to implying a connection to Christ, the being specifically identifies himself: “I am not only the phantom with the green face, I am also Chidher, the Ever Green Tree” (182–83; boldface deleted). Hauberrisser visits Eva’s corpse before her funeral, as does Usibepu, who is obsessed with her because she was the only woman who did not succumb to him. Previously he called on “the dreadful souquiant, the snake-idol with the human

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face” to make her come to him, and “in doing so he had risked—and lost—the power to walk over red-hot stones” (190). He places a chain around her hands—“a small, white chain made of the vertebrae of kings’ wives that he had strangled: the symbol of his status as King of the Zulus, which grants immortality to anyone who takes it to the grave with them” (191). Then he performs a ceremony that calls on the Egyptian Judge of the Dead. As Eva sits up in her coffin, the Goddess of Truth weighs her heart, and she is found worthy. She steps down from the bier and disappears along with the spectral figures. An empty coffin is buried, implying that Eva, like the Virgin Mary, ascends to heaven in bodily form. Hauberrisser, who is able to experience consciousness apart from his physical body, adds his own story to the roll of papers to illustrate that human beings are more than physical bodies and that wakefulness enables spiritual sight. He buries the papers next to an apple tree that is covered in blossoms. During violent weather, although there is much damage to factories and churches in the area, which fulfills Egyolk’s earlier prophecy, the apple tree remains miraculously untouched, and a vision of the New Jerusalem opens up in the sky. As for the others, Sephardi will start a Jewish state in Brazil. Egyolk remains “in an almost permanent trance” (205). “Professor” Zitter misleads the public by claiming to be Elijah; now married to Madame Rukstinat, he has gambled away her money. Then in Hauberrisser’s final vision, as “[s]cales fell from his eyes,” he sees Eva as Isis (215). As Boyd writes, “Just as Isis and Osiris symbolize the male and female elements of the human soul, their union, according to occultists such as Meyrink, holds the promise of a higher spiritual awareness, and clearly Hauberrisser and Eva have realized this metaphysical ambition” (247). He can now perceive the physical and spiritual realms simultaneously. As Hauberrisser and Eva embrace, Chidher Green says, “You are united to help the generations to come, as I do, to build a new realm from the ruins of the old, so that the time may come when I, too, may smile” (216). Though not in the way he first imagined, Hauberrisser has managed to build the Bridge of Life that is earlier said to require the collaboration of male and female principles.

Jungian elements in The Green Face Analytical Psychology does not contain an extended discussion of The Green Face that corresponds to the sections on She, L’Atlantide, and The Evil Vineyard; but Jung does comment on it occasionally—and positively, for the most part—in his other writings. Critics, on the other hand, rightly criticize The Green Face for being an artistically compromised novel. Meyrink’s own publisher, Kurt Wolff, states, “I was never able to convince C. G. Jung that Das grüne Gesicht . . . was a bad novel—Jung thought very highly of it” (13). Schoolfield echoes this statement in pointing out that “Wolff ’s condemnation of his own publication was correct; the novel—save to admirers of the occult Meyrink—is an artistic catastrophe” but adds that “for Jung, Meyrink belonged in the company of world literature’s greatest visionaries” (202, 205). More specifically, Erik van den Berg remarks, “The ponderous reflections on his spiritual progress read like religious tracts wedged bluntly into the story, and

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there is every sense that Meyrink thought it was fine this way” (n.p.). Biographer Michael Mitchell, who also criticizes the novel’s lengthy, tedious, and transparent didacticism, maintains that Meyrink emphasizes the occult at the expense of the aesthetic (“Gustav Meyrink” 261–62, 281). Even Jung himself raises a critical eye at the novel’s conclusion: “You see, that book has a somewhat unsatisfactory ending. Apparently Meyrink got very involved in a complicated plot and did not know how to find his way out of the tangle; then by divine providence, a great storm came up and devastated the whole Occident and got him out of the difficulty of a satisfactory solution” (Dream Analysis 481–82).5 The ending, however, does hold thematic relevance, as we shall see. Jung’s approach to literary criticism is egocentric insofar as he likes novels that are consistent with his theories of art and other psychological processes. For example, Schoolfield’s sense that Jung views Meyrink as a great visionary calls to mind Jung’s emphasis in “Psychology and Literature” on “the visionary modes of artistic creation,” in which art comes through rather than from the artist (CW 15, par. 141). Similarly, Luis Montiel suggests that “Gustav Meyrink discovered for himself the psychic event that Jung called the ‘individuation process’ and reflected it in his novels,” individuation being “renewal, the discovery of the innermost depths of the personality” (167, 181).6 Jung liked novels that depict the play of the archetypes in the individuation process, and his favorable evaluation of The Green Face is a case in point. A comparative analysis will show why Wolff was unable to convince Jung that the novel’s heavy-handed approach to the occult compromised its aesthetic value. Given all the common ground between Jung’s writings over the years and The Green Face, Jung must have considered Meyrink’s novel to be good and important because it illustrates so many principles of his psychology. What, then, would Jung have seen in The Green Face that Wolff and other critics perhaps underestimated? It is little wonder that Wolff was unable to get Jung to see the novel’s aesthetic limitations amid its manifold psychological strengths: The Green Face is chock-full of details that are compatible with Jungian ideas, and Jung may have been delighted that the novel gives a local habitation to so many of his most important concepts. There is, first, an episode that encapsulates some of Jung’s own intellectual trajectory. When Sephardi visits Dr. De Brouwer, the police psychiatrist offers dementia praecox (schizophrenia) as an explanation for Klinkherbogk’s murder of Kaatje, a diagnosis that resonates with the mainstream clinical work that Jung did early in his career at the Burghölzli Lunatic Asylum in Zurich. Sephardi soon learns, however, that Egyolk has the gift of clairvoyant empathy, not unlike Jung’s own visionary ­capacity—for example, his precognitive visions of bloodshed prior to World War I (MDR 175–76). Thus, the episode at the police station in the tenth chapter juxtaposes the conventional and the paranormal, and Sephardi goes from encountering the psychiatrist’s standard explanation to suspecting “unconscious clairvoyance” (144) to believing in Egyolk’s psychic ability. In much the same way, Jung himself, through his own descent into the unconscious in the decade preceding his 1925 seminar, opened to the possibility that unusual psychological states are not all reducible to schizophrenia—or to deception, as in the case of his cousin, Helly Preiswerk.

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The novel also comments on what Jung would have recognized as the collective unconscious, “the treasure-house of primordial images” (CW 7, par. 110). There is a transhistorical quality to the collective unconscious—it seems to encompass all time and all images, as two of Meyrink’s descriptions suggest. “Hauberrisser strolled back in the direction from which he had come and soon found himself back in the middle ages, as if time had stood still for hundreds of years in that part of the city” (89). Amsterdam’s labyrinthine streets and alleys figure forth the complexities of the human mind, and the character’s wanderings there enact the historical dimension of the deep unconscious, much as Jung’s “house” dream takes him backward in time on each lower floor (MDR 158–61). Moreover, transpersonal images are available in the collective unconscious, as Pfeill’s doubts about Klinkherbogk’s spiritual circle indicate: “I fear it is leading them to a boundless ocean of visions and—” (Sephardi completes the thought) “—and expectations that will never be fulfilled” (104). Jung depicts the collective unconscious as an ocean, consciousness as an island, and the ego as a ship.7 As a sailor himself, he understood the delicate dance that mariners must perform with canvas and rope in order for the vessel to make progress without capsize. Whereas Pfeill and Sephardi are concerned that the members of the circle will suffer disappointment, Jung would rightly have recognized that exploration of the depths is not without peril such as the way Klinkherbogk’s vision of Abraham becomes concrete in the murder of Kaatje. If the collective unconscious is an underlying psychological principle in The Green Face, it follows that the archetypes must also be a factor in the narrative. Indeed, Jung notes that Meyrink, like Goethe and others, makes artistic use of the images birthed by the soul (that is, the archetypes) (CW 6, par. 426, n. 163). In “Psychology and Literature” he makes a statement that knits together Haggard, Benoît, and Merink: “this primordial experience [of the archetypes] is the essential content of Rider Haggard’s She . . . of Benoît’s L’Atlantide . . . [and] of Meyrink’s Das grüne Gesicht” (CW 15, par. 142). Accordingly, Jung considers these works to be examples of “visionary modes of artistic creation,” which include “primordial experience” from “the hinterland of man’s mind” (CW 15, par. 141). In other words, the content of these novels does not come solely from the writer’s mind but also filters through it from the collective unconscious so that the literary artist becomes partly a channeler of visionary (archetypal) content. Such a novel is not merely based on the author’s personal psychological experiences. Jung errs sometimes in proposing a black-and-white distinction between the visionary and psychological modes. As Haggard, Benoît, Meyrink, and Hay illustrate, however, a writer’s personal experience certainly colors the narrative. In The Green Face, for example, Amsterdam is reminiscent of Prague where Meyrink spent much of his life; Hauberrisser’s meditational technique is yogic, much as the author reportedly practiced yoga up to eight hours a day (Mitchell, Vivo 42); and he was in contact with spiritualist circles and brought a great deal of metaphysical lore to bear upon his fiction. The relevant point, then, is that because the novels under consideration in this study arise from archetypal influences and personal experience, the composition process is both visionary and psychological in each case.

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The Green Face illustrates not only the collective unconscious but also the play of archetypes within it, particularly the anima and the wise old man. Regarding the anima, Jung mentions that an “adult man” prefers “the figure of a younger woman” (CW 9i, par. 357), and in Analytical Psychology he mentions the frequent appearance in literature of “a young girl with an old man.”“Besides those examples I have given of Haggard and Melville,” he writes, “there are the books of Meyrink,” and he specifies The Green Face, perhaps thinking of Sephardi’s and Hauberrisser’s respective relationships with Eva or Klinkherbogk’s relationship with his “little granddaughter Kaatje” (AP 64 and n. 10). Jung would have been even more intrigued to see that one of the novel’s antecedents is Elijah, a consummate wise old man. Jung considers Elijah to be a “living” or “constellated archetype, that is to say one that is more or less generally active, giving birth to new forms of assimilation” (CW 18, par. 1529). Since Elijah stands for the collective unconscious and the Self, he represents the individuation process (CW 18, par. 1526), which may be why he is also associated with Christ, the fully individuated man (CW 5, par. 287). As Jung states elsewhere, “The Christ-symbol is of the greatest importance for psychology in so far as it is perhaps the most highly developed and differentiated symbol of the self, apart from the figure of the Buddha” (CW 12, par. 22). Jung’s statements on Elijah and Salome in Analytical Psychology’s Lecture 11 succinctly articulate his thinking on the relationship between these two figures who are familiar to him from his own inner journey as described in The Red Book. Simply put, “Salome is the anima and Elijah the wise old man,” and they represent compensatory opposites: namely, instinct and wisdom (92). Then Elijah is sketched in greater detail: Elijah is an important figure in man’s unconscious. . . . He is the man with prestige, the man with a low threshold of consciousness or with remarkable intuition. In higher society he would be the wise man; compare Lao-tse. He has the ability to get into touch with archetypes. He will be surrounded with mana, and will arouse other men because he touches the archetypes in others. He is fascinating and has a thrill about him. He is the wise man, the medicine man, the mana man. (93) And will arouse other men because he touches the archetypes in others—Hauberrisser benefits from contact with men whose spiritual development is equal to or greater than his own, particularly Sephardi; and that contact is part of the process that turns him into a kind of wise old man himself. Egyolk’s late wife identified Elijah as Chidher Green (149), and Jung makes the same association. He writes, “Elijah is identical with the figure of Khadir or Khidr in Islamic tradition” (CW 18, par. 1525). As in his comments about Elijah, inner life proliferates in the commentary on Chidher Green. Here is a sampling of Jung’s statements. “Khidr may well be a symbol of the self ”; “[a]nyway Moses accepts him as a higher consciousness and looks up to him for instruction.” “Khidr symbolizes

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not only the higher wisdom but also a way of acting which is in accord with this wisdom and transcends reason” (CW 9i, par. 247). In Children’s Dreams, Al-Khidr “is the angel of the face, the Visible Allah, the deuteros theos, the second god, a concrete god. As a human being, he enters into all things; therefore, he is also called the green one, because he is also in the vegetation” (445). Chidher, of course, is “Khidr, ‘the Verdant One’ ” (CW 9i, par. 240); “the mysterious guide and immortal saint in popular Islamic lore and the hidden initiator of those who walk the mystical path” (CD, 444–45, n. 46 [translator’s note]); “the teacher and counselor of pious men, wise in divine knowledge” (CW 5, par. 285); as well as “friend, adviser, comforter, and teacher of revealed wisdom” (CW 9i, par. 251). Jung even associates Chidher with the human soul,“our immortal part which continues intangibly to exist” (CW 5, par. 296). Finally, since Khidr, like Elijah, “wanders over the earth as a human personification of Allah” (CW 10, par. 622), it is little wonder that Khidr/Chidher, Elijah, and the Wandering Jew are of Meyrink’s imagination all compact. The figure is loaded with psychological significance that Jung traces back to the Koran’s Sura 18 where the immortal Al-Khidr appears as Moses’s teacher—the whole Sura, Jung believes, being “taken up with a rebirth mystery” (CW 9i, par. 240). The first part includes the legend of the seven sleepers in a cave, which Jung associates with transformation. The legend has the following meaning: Anyone who gets into that cave, that is to say into the cave which everyone has in himself, or into the darkness that lies behind consciousness, will find himself involved in an—at first— unconscious process of transformation. By penetrating into the unconscious he makes a connection with his unconscious contents. This may result in a momentous change of personality in the positive or negative sense. (CW 9i, par. 241) In the subsequent part of the Sura, Jung reads Moses-as-quester as an “amplification and elucidation” of the sleepers’ story (CW 9i, par. 244), with Al-Khidr, who was “born in a cave, i.e., in darkness,” as Moses’s teacher who represents higher consciousness in (CW 9i, par. 247; Sura 18, verses 60–82). Al-Khidr bores a hole in a poor fisherman’s ship to render it useless, kills a disbelieving boy, and fixes a wall instead of allowing it to collapse. He explains to Moses that the hole kept a greedy king from confiscating the ship, that the death of the boy clears the way for his parents to have a more righteous son, and that the wall belongs to two orphan boys who will later be able to claim the treasure that lies beneath it.8 Just as these actions appear to be negative but have a silver lining, Eva’s death paves the way for Hauberrisser to grow spiritually. That outcome in the novel is in sync with Jung’s sense “that it is Khidr who . . . helps him [man] to attain rebirth” (CW 9i, par. 253). In The Green Face, then, Chidher Green is an appropriate overseer of Hauberrisser’s inner growth because the immortal one both prompts and embodies the individuation process on which the main character embarks and the spiritual vision that he achieves in developing his “wakefulness.”

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The archetypal underpinnings of Hauberrisser’s journey relate to the anima’s Salome/Helen/instinct aspect, which contrasts with Elijah/Sophia/wisdom. The tension between body and spirit constitutes a psychomachia for Hauberrisser and may account for why Jung and his seminar participants considered The Green Face to be about the anima: the story dramatizes the main character’s movement from Helen (sensuality) to Sophia (wisdom). Accordingly, the first chapters are peppered with racy references, which may explain why, “in 1933, Meyrink’s books were banned by the Nazis under regulations promulgated by the ‘Reich Office for Combatting Immoral Pictures and Writings’ and publically burned” (Mitchel, Vivo 129). To begin with, the Hall of Riddles does have some elements of a pornography shop. Hauberrisser notices that “cards were done in transparent coloured paper: wellendowed young ladies in negligées modestly clutched together over their breasts, with the instructions, ‘Hold up to the light to view. For the connoisseur’ ” (4). In addition, men are watching “peepshows” (6); a book called Confessions of a Depraved Schoolgirl is for sale (8); when the cuckoo clock goes off, “there appeared a scantily dressed woman with an extremely saucy expression on her face” (9); and the shop girl is dressed provocatively in a low-cut dress and “brought the whole range of a practised feminine charm into play,” including breasts and scent (5). Thus, visiting the Hall of Riddles is a liminal moment for Hauberrisser who “had been a slave to his passions until he was well over thirty; the only bounds to his search for pleasure had been the limits of his wealth, and his physical and mental endurance” (89–90). The Hall represents not only his past but also an ongoing possibility that he may still choose. The baser lust-filled side of life is also invoked in Hauberrisser’s encounters after he leaves the Hall of Riddles and makes his way around Amsterdam.There are various reminders of the ever-present temptation to debauchery: mention of “international prostitution” (17), “underground brothels in the big cities” (27), “French baronesses who had become filles de joie” (loose women) (32), and the “different kind of life lurking behind the red curtains of the upper stories of the houses” (35). Also, “the ‘Nes’, the notorious street of pimps and prostitutes in old Amsterdam that had been torn down years ago had reappeared in another part of the town, like a new outbreak of some insidious disease” (34), the detail suggesting that repressed psychic energy erupts elsewhere. At a cabaret, Hauberrisser sees four women he thinks may be prostitutes, listens to a song about a brothel and how its prostitutes become nurses in wartime, witnesses an “obscene spectacle” (40), and receives a business card from one of the women for Madame Grisel Hussy’s brothel (sure enough, his suspicion about them is correct). Hauberrisser’s reaction to the invitation, however, aligns with his purchase at the Hall of Riddles of “the Oracle of Delphi in papier-maché” (44), which he finds has been delivered to his lodging when he arrives home. The image signals a turn away from his former sensualist ways (Helen) to a more fruitful stage of the anima (Sophia). In other words, he acts on the wisdom that the skull produces for him at the Hall of Riddles on a tiny piece of paper: “Will thy heart’s longing be fulfilled? Take a firm grip on your life and do instead of merely desiring” (13). As Jung puts

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it in The Red Book, “The spirit of the depths demands: ‘The life that you could still live, you should live’ ” (134). At this point in the The Green Face, as the references to prostitution subside and Hauberrisser turns to spiritual conversation and study, Eva is introduced in the next chapter as she and Sephardi visit the spiritualist circle: she clearly represents the more positive stage of the anima that Hauberrisser will now pursue. Eva herself undergoes a similar psychomachia with respect to Usibepu versus Hauberrisser. After she and Hauberrisser meet and fall in love, she falls “completely under his [Usibepu’s] spell.” As the narrator informs us, “She had often heard and read of women, particularly blondes, who were supposed to have succumbed to negroes in spite of the violent repugnance they felt; they said the untamed African blood exerted a spell over them which it was impossible to resist.” Now she realizes that she is subject to the same pull, which is a matter of “animal instincts,” “a dark force,” “sensual pleasure,” and “the bestial instincts let loose within her.” Usibepu, she speculates, may be a “half animal, half human savage” with “satanic power” and a “magic call” (124). Going to him is an almost mesmeric version of what Jung calls “going black” in his racist comments about European women and African men, but his statement about balance within the psyche is more to the point. He writes,“The unconscious is not just evil by nature, it is also the source of the highest good: not only dark but also light, not only bestial, semi-human, and demonic but superhuman, spiritual, and, in the classical sense of the word, ‘divine’ ” (CW 16, par. 389). Such is the psychological struggle that Usibepu provokes in Eva; and that is why, in The Red Book, he advises readers to “live their animal” (341). Although succumbing to Usibepu’s psychic magnetism results in her death, the way is cleared for Hauberrisser and Eva to achieve a union that includes higher wisdom and spirituality. As James Hollis notes, “The greatest gift of relationship proves to be that as a result of encountering each other, we are obliged to grow larger than we had planned” (xi). That is what happens in The Green Face, as Sephardi makes clear to Hauberrisser and Eva when he speaks of the “Bridge to Life” or the “Bridge of Life,” a spiritual path that leads to perception in the spirit world. Here is the important point: “Only there is one thing that is essential: he [the spiritual seeker] cannot reach the goal alone, he needs a . . . female companion. It is only possible, if at all, by a combination of male and female forces.Therein lies the secret meaning of marriage, which has been lost to mankind for thousands of years” (109; ellipsis in the original). The right position that Sephardi expresses is parodied by “Professor” Arpád Zitter’s marriage to Madame Rukstinat (he gambles away her money). Theirs is a meeting of pocket books rather than of minds and souls. Moreover, when Zitter stirs up a crowd, he cries, “Cast the whores into the flames and bring me their ill-gotten gold” (204). In urging the repression of sexual libido on a mass scale, he recalls the stage of eroticism that Hauberrisser has successfully moved beyond. A bit later Hauberrisser echoes Sephardi’s advice in this comment to Eva: “The danger that was threatening us . . . was that it would be love and desire alone that brought us together. Doctor Sephardi was right when he said the meaning

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of marriage had been lost to mankind” (115). Eva adds the essential female factor to Hauberrisser’s spiritual quest, for he searches for her not only with his physical senses but also—and more importantly—with his mind. Chidher Green (Meyrink 182, quoted above) affirms the link between spiritual development and uniting with Eva. When that union finally happens, the result, as Swammerdam puts it, is that “a young couple would open up a spiritual path which had been blocked for thousands of years, but which would now, in the coming age, be revealed to many people” (187). Again, Hauberrisser makes a transition from projecting his sensual desires onto women to affirming a deeper relationship with the living Eva and eventually, though spiritual practice, a mystical union with her essential being. This process may be why Jung and his seminar participants considered The Green Face to be about the anima, but there is a further concept that must have attracted him to the novel: the union of Hauberrisser and Eva is a hieros gamos or coniunctio. Jung might as well be describing the outcome of The Green Face in stating that the hieros gamos or “chymical wedding” is where “the supreme opposites, male and female (as in the Chinese yang and yin), are melted into a unity purified of all opposition and therefore incorruptible” (CW 12, par. 43; cf. 8, par. 900). Or as he says of the other concept, “The real meaning of the coniunctio [especially of male and female] is that it brings to birth something that is one and united” (CW 16, par. 458; cf. 9i, par. 295). The union of Hauberrisser and Eva, by either term, signals the birth of new possibilities, as if it were springtime in their souls. Jung writes, “The parallel to the motif of dying and rising again is that of being lost and found again. It appears ritually at exactly the same place, in connection with the hieros gamos-like spring festivities, where the image of the god was hidden and then found again” (CW 5, par. 5 31; cf. par. 364). Eva is reborn in a literal sense when Chidher Green brings her physically to Hauberrisser, who is himself reborn through his achievement of spiritual sight.Their respective rebirths correspond to what Jung calls “the consummation of the hierosgamos [sic], the ‘earthing’ of the spirit and the spiritualizing of the earth, the union of opposites and reconciliation of the divided” (CW 14, par. 207).9 Eva, a spiritual being, becomes physical, at least for a night; Hauberrisser, a living man, develops spiritual sight. Therefore, as Jung’s references to spring and earth suggest, the blossoming apple tree that is untouched by the maelstrom that devastates parts of Amsterdam is an apt emblem of their sacred marriage. Here is a first hint that the final storm is more important to the novel than Jung believes. In Meyrink’s novel, it is the Wandering Jew, “Chidher, the Ever Green Tree,” who facilitates the hieros gamos of Hauberrisser and Eva. Chidher Green says to him: “Eva longed for everlasting love; I gave it to her, just as for her sake I now give it to you” (183; boldface deleted). Jung specifically notes that the Wandering Jew in The Green Face wears “a sort of bandage over his forehead in order to cover the mark of the cross which he bore there” (Visions, vol. 2, 1029); and he tracks the Wandering Jew back to Matthew 16.28 where Jesus remarks, “Verily I say unto you, There be some standing here, which shall not taste death, till they see the Son of Man coming in his kingdom” (CW 5, par. 285).10 Elsewhere, Jung clarifies the

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wanderer’s background and offers a psychological interpretation: “In the Middle Ages the role of the restless wanderer was taken over by Ahasuerus, the Wandering Jew, which is not a Jewish but a Christian legend. The motif of the wanderer who has not accepted Christ was projected on the Jews, in the same way as we always rediscover our unconscious psychic contents in other people” (CW 10, par. 374). A somewhat lengthy passage in the same vein, which appears in Psychological Types, furthers the sense that the Wandering Jew relates to projection. Psychologically, it [the story of Ahasuerus] sprang from a component of the personality or a charge of libido that could find no outlet in the Christian attitude to life and the world and was therefore repressed. The Jews were always a symbol for this, hence the persecution mania against the Jews in the Middle Ages. The idea of ritual murder is a projection, in acute form, of the rejection of the Redeemer, for one always sees the mote in one’s own eye as the beam in one’s brother’s. . . . It [ritual murder] is a mythologized projection of a dim realization that the workings of the Redeemer are constantly being frustrated by the presence of an unredeemed element in the unconscious. This unredeemed, untamed, barbarian element, which can only be held on a chain and cannot be allowed to run free, is projected upon those who have never accepted Christianity. There is an unconscious awareness of this intractable element whose existence we don’t like to admit—hence the projection. In reality it is a part of ourselves that has contrived to escape the Christian process of domestication.The restlessness of the wandering [sic] Jew is a concretization of this unredeemed state. (CW 6, par. 454) In Jung’s view, projection occurs in two senses—what precedes the crucifixion and what follows it. The crucifixion (“the rejection of the Redeemer”) arises from a projection of the shadow (the repressed “charge of libido”), and Christians then continue to deny the shadow by persecuting Jews in a similar act of projection. The Wandering Jew thus becomes a receiving object of Christian guilt regarding the crucifixion. However, the energy of which Jung speaks—“[t]his unredeemed, untamed, barbarian element,” “this intractable element”—is precisely what must be recognized, integrated, and harnessed. In The Green Face, it is most directly invoked in Eva’s recognition, in her own savage, animal, instinctual side, “that a dark force of that nature did indeed exist” (124).The novel answers the following question: other than projecting inner negativity onto Jews in general and the Wandering Jew in particular, what are Christians to do with their own unacknowledged animality and inner darkness? Meyrink’s answer would have registered positively with Jung: the Wandering Jew/Ahasuerus/Chidher Green, to the extent that he is acknowledged, ceases to be the carrier of personal and cultural repression and instead personifies a positive psychological/spiritual process. Responding to Chidher Green’s promptings and actually hearing him in the twelfth chapter represent an opening of the unconscious.

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In summary, then, Hauberrisser’s journey is from inappropriate sensuality prior to the opening of The Green Face, to rejected temptations in Amsterdam, to spiritual inquiry with his friends and on his own, to a proper relationship with Eva, to concentrated inner work sparked by loss of her, to an experience of the inner world and direct interaction with Chidher Green, and finally to the achievement of simultaneous physical and spiritual sight. The novel implies that what Chidher Green represents, the psychic energy that is cast off and bottled up both individually and communally, will, if it is acknowledged and embraced, provide healing for the individual and perhaps for European civilization. Although, in Meyrink’s portrayal, the Wandering Jew has ontological existence, Hauberrisser’s encounter with him represents a salvific relationship with an aspect of himself. In The Green Face, the Wandering Jew is not just a bearer of repressed libido but also a kind of guiding spirit who aids seekers in deepening their consciousness. He is the Other who, once embraced, becomes a brother.

“The Great Inwardness”: consciousness in The Green Face The previous section notes that The Green Face is to a significant extent about a man’s interaction with the feminine and that the novel is “Jungian” in a host of ways. Therefore, Jung and his seminar participants were correct in believing that the novel is about the anima, and he probably thought that it was good (contrary to Wolff ’s estimation) because it resonates so strongly with his psychological system. For example, because The Green Face depicts some of the archetypes of the collective unconscious, it may illustrate the visionary mode of literary composition, and it is so chock-full of subject matter and concepts straight out of The Collected Works that Jung may well have had a significant ego-investment in praising Meyrink’s novel.There is, however, another substantial imbrication that must have contributed to Jung’s favorable estimation of The Green Face, one, I would argue, that exceeds the others in scope and importance: namely, the exploration of consciousness. In the broadest terms, The Green Face is concerned with what Sephardi calls “the spiritual evolution of the human race” (152), with Egyolk as a prime example of the mind’s potential.The state of expanded awareness that he and various characters pursue is referred to as “The Great Inwardness,” defined as a medium for communication with “those above” (139). Hauberrisser asks, “Who, apart from myself, knows there is a second, secret life?” (195). Jung knows, and it is likely that his own experience of the unconscious lies at the root of his interest in Meyrink’s novel. In fact, Analytical Psychology contains a statement that suggests a connection between Hauberrisser’s exploration of the inner realm and Jung’s own. Jung references “a definite giving over of the libido in full sum to the unconscious. I trained myself to do this; I gave all my libido to the unconscious in order to make it work, and in this way I gave the unconscious a chance, the material came to light and I was able to catch it in flagrante” (34). One may remember here his statement in the “Confrontation with the Unconscious” chapter in Memories, Dreams, Reflections about how, on December 12, 1913, he “resolved upon the decisive step”: “Then I let myself drop”

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(179). What Jung does in dreams and visions resembles what Hauberrisser does in his yoga meditation. The Red Book is the record of Jung’s exploration, just as additions to the roll of papers are Hauberrisser’s, just as The Green Face certainly reflects some degree of Meyrink’s own mysticism. In each case, the experience of the deep unconscious becomes textual. As previously noted, Hauberrisser’s situation constitutes a psychomachia between lower and higher aspects of the anima, but an additional tension also animates at least his early life and suggests a further parallel to The Red Book. The Green Face is about Hauberrisser’s transition from the Spirit of the Age, characterized by reason and science, to the Spirit of the Depths, which is the province of the archetypes, the unconscious, and the soul. In physicist David Bohm’s terms, Meyrink adumbrates the contrast between the explicate order and the implicate order when Pfeill mentions how “[t]he world we live in is a world of effects [explicate]; the realm of true causes is hidden [implicate]” (100).11 For example, Hauberrisser’s journey begins with a heavy emphasis on science. “He had spent his youth not in the sunshine, but in colleges and libraries, learning how to build machines, and he had spent his manhood building machines that had long since rusted away” (33). He has also been subject to the kind of scientific skepticism that Pfeill criticizes in stating that “the old mysteries conceal . . . dangerous things” but that “the foolish throng would not believe them anyway, only laugh at them.” In Pfeill’s view, even “scholars have thrown away the kernel and kept the husk” (21), embracing the lesser over the greater. In The Green Face, the shift from the Spirit of the Age to the Spirit of the Depths involves moving from “rational thought” to “the inner voice” (59, 186). To Eva’s accusation that the latter is hysteria, Sister Gabriela replies that “our hysteria . . . is a matter of mental balance, the achieving of clarity, and is the way upwards, from insight through rational thought to knowledge through direct contemplation.” She adds that “within those who are spiritually reborn there is another, mysterious language with new words, which are beyond error or even uncertainty. Then thought becomes a new manner of thought.” Further discussion identifies this new mode of communication as a combination of images and “the primal language” (59). The distinction between earthly and spiritual languages is similar to John Milton’s mention of discursive and intuitive forms of reason; the first involves thinking things through in a linear fashion as Hauberrisser has done as an engineer, whereas the second involves the instantaneous attainment of knowledge by contemplation (Paradise Lost, book 5, line 488). Meyrink’s novel posits that the moment of transition from reason to intuition is nigh. In Sephardi’s words, “a time was near when all that mankind had relied on [Spirit of the Age] would be torn apart and that a spiritual gale [Spirit of the Depths] would sweep away all the works of man” (49). Meyrink’s larger purpose in The Green Face is to suggest that western Europe is poised to undergo on a mass scale the same transition that Hauberrisser experiences as an individual. That is why the final chapter describes not only the hieros gamos of Hauberrisser and Eva but also a literal gale that sweeps away vestiges of “all that mankind had relied on,”

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leaving the blossoming apple tree untouched. The Spirit of the Depths (storm) clears out the Spirit of the Age (old structures), potentially ushering in an era when new levels of consciousness (blossoming tree) are possible for western civilization. History shows, however, that hope of positive change is misplaced; and Pfeill’s comment about how “slogans” can “transmit . . . diseases, racial and ethnic hatred, for example, demagoguery and such” (99) is eerily prescient of the nationalism that would lead to a resurgence of the Spirit of the Age in Nazism and its culmination in World War II (99). Be that as it may, The Green Face is a novel about embracing the Spirit of the Depths in general and the unconscious mind in particular. At one point, the “subconscious” is specifically mentioned (60), but there are various less direct references as well. As previously mentioned, Sephardi comments cautiously about the spiritual circle’s engagement with “a boundless ocean of visions” that sounds like the collective unconscious (104). There is a realm “beyond the range of our external senses” and “a parallel existence”; it is “the depths where the eyes of those favoured by destiny [Spirit of the Age] seldom reach” (52, 51, 62). The green face that Hauberrisser sees is a symbol of the unconscious, a catalyst for inner development, and an indicator that such change is under way. The novel specifies various ways to shift toward access to the unconscious. In addition to Hauberrisser’s yoga meditation, there are various liminal states that facilitate communication between the conscious mind and the unconscious. Pfeill’s recollection of the portrait of the Wandering Jew is subject to his imagination, or perhaps he merely dreamed that he saw it in Leyden. The “hypnoidal state” and “the dream bridge that connects day and night” may link us to “a parallel existence that we lead in the depths of sleep,” much as prayer may also force “awake powers that sleep within us” (51–52, 133). Insight, the novel suggests, may also come via seeking guidance from the universe: “sending out questions and patiently awaiting the answer” (175). Hauberrisser’s inner exploration corresponds to his exploration of Amsterdam, which figures forth the unconscious mind. The city is described, first, as a playground of consciousness: “the pressure of events had transformed [Amsterdam] from a centre of international trade into the place where deranged minds from all over the world gathered to give free rein to their wildest fantasies” (31). The city also represents the mind itself, for there is “a parallel between the fantastic tangle of rooms, halls and passageways inside this brick skull and the muddle of thoughts and ideas within a person’s mind. [Hauberrisser] began to feel that behind the dark masonry of the forehead there must be enigmas sleeping such as Amsterdam had never imagined in its wildest dreams” (42).The labyrinth of streets and buildings, especially the “twilit passageways, [and] blind alleys” (88), seems emblematic of the mind; and there is even the sense (Meyrink 89, quoted above), that the city, like the collective unconscious, encompasses and records all times. In addition to the reference (Meyrink 89, quoted above) to the Middle Ages, Hauberrisser realizes, to his shock, “that in the infinite expanse of the universe every event that had ever occurred must be preserved somewhere, as an image embalmed in light” (43).

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Other aspects of the psyche besides the unconscious are mentioned in The Green Face.The roll of papers references “the magical power of thought” and states, “Only when you can command light can you also command the shadow” (90). (In Jungian psychology, the reverse, of course, is true: befriending the shadow is the first step toward developing an integrated psyche. As Jung puts it in The Red Book, “He who comprehends the darkness in himself, to him the light is near” [259].) Meyrink also gives an important image related to thoughts—of bees swarming around a convent beekeeper because he has captured their queen. When Hauberrisser reflects on “the image he had just seen: the man with the mask and the swarm of bees, huddled round their queen as if they could not live without her,” he realizes that it “seemed like a symbolic image.” “He suspected there was some mysterious connection between what he had just seen and the laws of physical and spiritual nature, and he realised how the world would glow anew with a magical radiance if he should ever manage to see all the things that habit and routine had robbed of speech in a fresh light” (92–93). The allegory here is fairly straightforward. The beekeeper is the spiritual seeker; the queen represents the soul, “the innermost core of your being, the core without which you would be a lifeless corpse” (65); and the bees that circle around her are thoughts. In other words, the imagery encapsulates what Jung achieves in The Red Book: namely, the centering of his thoughts on his soul, the anima, much as in The Green Face Hauberrisser centers his thoughts on Eva and, more importantly, on his inner essence.Thus, the bee imagery implies an important role for the feminine-as-psychopomp in a man’s inner exploration, which supports Jung’s sense that the novel is about the anima. The novel’s comments on thoughts also suggest that the characters are tapping into a field of energy that is even larger than the collective unconscious. Jung speaks of the unus mundus, the one mind or the unitary mind, which unites matter, psyche, and spirit.12 The Green Face includes several examples of the kind of connectedness that mind enables and the consequent unity among all persons. Aware that thoughts are energetic things that can manifest, travel, and affect (or infect) other persons, Pfeill says, “Thoughts are contagious, even if they are not expressed; perhaps most contagious when they are not expressed” (99). Similarly, once she becomes psychic, Eva “was astonished to learn that there was a secret, invisible bond uniting all men and that, without any physical awareness of the fact, their souls recognized and spoke to one another in imperceptible vibrations and in feelings that were too faint to be registered by the physical senses” (122). When the physical senses have been transcended, “the curtain that veiled their eyes” sustains a “tiny rent” that enables one to understand that separation, in all its various forms, is an illusion and that “the bitterest of enemies” are actually “the most faithful of friends” (122). Eva’s realization, of course, is ironic because her own psychic empathy draws her to Usibepu, who murders her. Egyolk’s ability to experience an event through another person’s eyes provides an additional example of such empathy. The novel reflects on empaths’ ability to connect with others in the following passage: “Divested for a time of their own personalities, their hearts could feel the joys and sorrows of their fellow men as if

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they were their own. Sephardi had assumed it was myth, but could this confused old man really be the living proof?” (147). The answer is clearly yes; but more to the point, Jung would have seen in the novel not only the mental connection that Pfeill mentions and that Eva and Egyolk illustrate but also the body-mind-spirit connection that characterizes the unus mundus. The connection appears especially in Hauberrisser’s yoga meditation. In “Yoga in the West” Jung is quite clear: “In its [yoga’s] training of the parts of the body, it unites them with the whole of the mind and spirit”; “[i]t works the physical and the spiritual into one another in an extraordinarily complete way”; “yoga is . . . the perfect and appropriate method of fusing body and mind together so that they form a unity that can hardly be doubted”; he adds that “[t]hey thus create a psychological disposition which makes possible intuitions that transcend consciousness” (CW 11, par. 866–67). From Jung’s point of view, it is no surprise that Hauberrisser’s spiritual practice unites body, mind, and spirit in a display of the unus mundus. Before we consider Hauberrisser’s spiritual trajectory in detail, the novel’s catalyst for psychic awakening must be considered. What does Meyrink have to say about the means of transformation that enhances psychic ability? The novel answers by portraying the process in different contexts. First, Egyolk explains his psychic ability by telling Sephardi how “the lamps of the Makifim had been changed round inside me” (149). The opposite sort of person is described as follows: “As long as the lights within him have not been changed round, everything a man believes is wrong, however correct it might be, so completely wrong that it is beyond comprehension” (155). This statement is Meyrink’s version of Jung’s distinction between the Spirit of the Depths (the lamps are changed around) versus the Spirit of the Times (being correctly in sync with the outer world’s emphasis on use, value, and science but being out of touch with the unconscious). Earthly vision must yield to spiritual vision. Second, when goaded by Zitter to reveal the secret of his fire walking, Usibepu mentions that a “big Vidoo-snake, green poison-snake with man’s face come; on forehead sacred fetish-sign.” The “Vidoo-snake [is] souquiant,” and “[s]ouquiant man can change skin. Live for ever. Spirit. Invisible” (75). Jung mentions the Kundalini snake in his Visions seminar: “In Meyrink’s Green Face it works miracles as the Vidu serpent” (vol. 1, 277). In other words, Jung is aware that Kundalini energy can awaken and rise up the snake-like spine, heightening the experiencer’s psychic ability. Usibepu has apparently had this kind of Kundalini awakening. Moreover, “souquiant” is the gerund form of the French verb souquer, which means to tighten a rope, as when tying a knot or securing a vessel to a dock. Interestingly, the verb also refers to rowing or guiding a boat, as if Meyrink’s days as a champion rower somehow influenced the novel’s vocabulary.Today voodoo, snake, and shape changing are associated with Haiti; but since Usibepu is a Zulu, the imagery in the novel more likely refer to the Bantu people of what is now South Africa. The “sacred fetish-sign” marks the souquiant man as a native African version of the third catalyst, the Wandering Jew who has a cross on his forehead. The papers that Hauberrisser reads state: “Some say he is the ‘Wandering Jew’; others call him

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Elijah; the gnostics maintain he is John the Evangelist; but each one who claims to have seen him, gives a different description of his appearance. . . . A being such as he, who has transformed his body into spirit, cannot be bound to a single fixed form” (168–69). The figure’s variable appearance squares with Egyolk’s earlier statement that Elijah came to him but that his wife believed the figure to be Chidher Green (149). Pfeill sums up the point by stating that “the vision of the green face” is “a ‘boundary marker’ in human consciousness [that] is a similar inner experience for all those who are ripe for it” (101–2). In The Green Face Hauberrisser progresses from contemplating suicide to being “one who had been spiritually wakened” (197), but leaving behind his promiscuous ways and loving the virtuous virgin Eva is but the occasion for his change. What are the specifics of this transformation? Since the inner world is ineffable, Meyrink couches his answer in figurative language. Early on, Hauberrisser feels “this eerie sensation, as if something was squeezing his brain” as though he, like Usibepu, has experienced a psychic tightening (30). He also has the sense that “he had slipped one more step down towards the eerie realm where the things of this world dissolved more quickly into shadowy insubstantiality the cruder they were” (42). He has already seen Chidher Green, the “boundary marker” and catalyst for inner unfolding, and then he reads the mysterious roll of papers. Its anonymous author states, “The first enemy you meet on the road to wakening will be your own body”; perhaps this is because “[s]leep, dream and stupor are the armoury of Death.” But we are “sleeping gods,” and once we achieve wakefulness we “will be able to perform miracles” such as communicating with dead friends (161). Following the directions in the papers, Hauberrisser uses yoga meditation to attempt “higher wakefulness” and succeeds on the first try (171). Wakefulness through meditation is Meyrink’s metaphor for individuation, or achieving conscious awareness of unconscious content, which is in the spirit of Jung’s belief that “meditation . . . seems to be a sort of Royal Road to the unconscious” (CW 11, par. 827). Then, with respect to the body, The Green Face shifts toward inclusivity. In addition to being an impediment to be overcome, the body, Hauberrisser realizes, must be part of his awakening. “Again ‘wakefulness’ was the key that helped him to open the hidden lock,” but “it was his body, and not just his mind alone, that had to be aroused to higher activity; the magic powers were asleep within his body, and it was they he had to waken if he wanted to affect the material world” (175). Although it still sounds a bit as if the body is “the first enemy” because it is the slumbering ground where the higher faculties languish, the point is really that the two cannot be separated: the body’s frequency must be raised in order for wakefulness to be properly achieved. The path of spiritual awakening is like the subliming of a solid into a gas without an intermediate liquid state: the body “dies a magic death and turns from matter into spirit, just as the hard ice, under the influence of heat, dissolves into ever-changing cloud-shapes” (161–62). The treatise goes on to say that purging the body of “all trace of the corpse” (spiritual stupor, deadness) enables wakefulness (162). The transformation is also described in terms in a section of the roll of papers called “The Phoenix.” “Our symbol is the phoenix, the symbol

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of renewal,” in which “the body is our starting point,” but now the seeker must “detach” from the body as if “separating light from warmth.” The author does not advocate out-of-body experience, which he calls “tear[ing] yourself away from your body” (165); rather the advice about detaching from the body probably means a phase shift away from the physical realm so that one can have a conscious, wakeful experience of spirit without having an actual bilocation of the astral body.13 The end result of Hauberrisser’s efforts in this vein is summed up near the end of the novel with more metaphors. Chidher Green says, “The walls of Jericho have fallen. . . . He has awakened from the dead” (214; boldface deleted). The narrator says, “Scales fell from his eyes” (215). Finally, here is Meyrink’s summation: “In addition to his previous, familiar human consciousness, he had acquired a new consciousness, which had enriched him with the perception of a new world, which touched the old world, enveloped and transformed it, and yet in some miraculous way let it continue the same” (215). He now perceives the physical and the spiritual worlds simultaneously.

Conclusion Meyrink’s treatment of consciousness in The Green Face is no doubt why Jung believes that the novel achieves “an intensive ‘aesthetic’ elaboration” of the transcendent function (CW 6, par. 205), which involves the union of consciousness and the unconscious, or what Meyrink calls “wakefulness,” in the individuation process. The Green Face is a hopeful novel in this sense and in its dramatization of Jung’s belief that individual change begets social change. As Pfeill maintains, in order “to transform mankind . . . all that is needed is for one person to transform himself root and branch,” which Hauberrisser clearly does (100). Personal change has the potential to beget social change because thoughts are contagious in the sense that they participate in a morphogenic field: “we are merely more or less sensitive receivers for all the ideas that . . . the earth generates” (105). With respect to positive change, The Green Face, in Hauberrisser’s roll of papers, even mentions “the world’s clock” (159), an image that Jung relates to harmony, mandalas, and the Self (CW 11, par. 138, 164; 12, par. 137, 308–9). The clock suggests completion (wholeness) not only because of its four quarters but also because the twelve hours resonate with other twelves, particularly the months of the year and the houses of the Zodiac.The inner work that the clock represents can move individuals and, in turn, their society toward higher consciousness—a point far more fundamental than Jung’s sense that The Green Face is a novel about the anima. Sadly, Meyrink’s fictional prophecy of a spiritual storm that he hoped would transform Europe in the wake of World War I was out of sync with historical reality, for no humanistic spiritual awakening could resist the advance of Nazi nationalism’s collective shadow. Regarding the impossibility of resistance, John Henry Newman aptly states, “Quarry the granite rock with razors, or moor the vessel with a thread of silk; then may you hope with such keen and delicate instruments as human knowledge and human reason to contend against those giants, the passion and the pride of man” (90).

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Notes 1 Amanda Charitina Boyd calls him “a torpedo engineer” (235). But when Ciechonski asks at one point if he is “Chauberrisser the celebrated torpedo constructor,” Hauberrisser replies, “I was never a torpedo constructor” (25). It is not clear whether he states the truth or does not wish to be associated with weapons of war. 2 Sephardi’s interest in Pfeill’s dreams (expressed on pages 51–52) perhaps makes him a prototype of the Jungian analyst in the novel. 3 In the original German, Lazarus’s last name is Eidotter (egg yolk), so “Egyolk” is a translation. 4 In fact, Michael Mitchell calls The Green Face Meyrink’s “yoga novel” (“Gustav Meyrink” 280). 5 In the same paragraph appear two examples of slipshod literary scholarship. Jung considers Sephardi to be the hero of the book and Meyrink to be a Jew. Hauberrisser is the hero, and Meyrink was not Jewish. According to the Encyclopedia of Occultism and Parapsychology, “Meyrink converted from Protestantism to Buddhism and spent many years in occult investigations, including experiments in alchemy” (“Meyrink, Gustav” 879). Jung may have assumed that Meyrink, an illegitimate child, was Jewish because he began life with the last name of his mother, Maria Meyer. He officially changed his surname to Meyrink, after his maternal ancestors, in 1917 (Joshi and Dziemianowicz 803). According to Michael Mitchell, “Meyrink” was the name “of a noble family from which his mother was descended” (“Gustav Meyrink” 262). 6 The individuation process in Meyrink’s work is the subject of Montiel’s La novela del inconsciente: el proceso de individuación en la narrativa de Gustav Meyrink (The novella of the unconscious: the process of individuation in the narrative of Gustav Meyrink). 7 The relevant passages are CW 17, par. 102; 12, par. 305; and 10, par. 285. For a fuller discussion of Jung’s ocean metaphor, see my book The One Mind: C. G. Jung and the Future of Literary Criticism (51–53). 8 Marie-Louise von Franz mentions these interpretations of Sura 18 in “The Process of Individuation” (175). 9 The uniting of spirit and earth secularizes the union of Christ and humanity. Jung references the latter’s source, Ephesians 2.14, in a footnote but does not quote the passage: “For he [Christ] is our peace, who has made us both one, and has broken down the dividing wall of hostility. . . .” 10 The biblical quotation is as it appears in CW 5. 11 Here is the explanation that I provide in The One Mind: “Physicist David Bohm uses the term the ‘explicate order’ (meaning the unfolded order) to describe the everyday world of separation and the ‘implicate order’ (meaning the enfolded order) to describe the deeper unity from which the physical world emerges. The difference is between what is separate and local (explicate) and what is unified and nonlocal/acausal (implicate)” (6). See Bohm’s Wholeness and the Implicate Order 119 and 218. 12 The unus mundus is the main concept in my book The One Mind. I borrowed the phrase “one mind” from Erwin Schrödinger’s Mind and Matter (62). 13 According to Montiel, however, Meyrink himself had ecstasies during the practice of yoga: “a radical separation” occurred “in which the human is divided into a bodily part and a shapeless force” (“Aweysha: Spiritual Epidemics” 169). Also, Thomas Theodor Heine writes, “He could, he said, leave his body at will” (qtd. in Mitchell, Vivo 42). “Basically for Meyrink,” writes Michael Mitchell, “there is the physical body and a spiritual essence; they are both part of the person” (Vivo 210).

6 GHOSTS AND THE ANIMUS IN MARIE HAY’S THE EVIL VINEYARD

Unlike Rider Haggard’s She, Pierre Benoît’s L’Atlantide, and Gustav Meyrink’s The Green Face, Marie Hay’s The Evil Vineyard is not part of Sonu Shamdasani’s commentary in C. G. Jung: A Biography in Books—a clear indication that it is least well known of the novels under consideration in the present study. Few people are familiar with the novel, it is now out of print, and only five libraries in the interlibrary loan system in the United States own a copy.1 There are other contrasts as well. Whereas The Green Face is written during World War I about post-war Amsterdam, The Evil Vineyard is written after the war but takes place during that conflict. And whereas Meyrink builds his narrative around the Wandering Jew and related psychic phenomena, Hay’s narrator refers to women in Rome as the “­pauvres ­déracinees”—cast out, absurd, pretentious, with false values and sterile beauty—who “are the wandering Jews of modern days, accursed too, but not romantic, picturesque or mysterious as the legendary wanderer” (61). The novel’s protagonist, Mary (Carlton) Latimer, in avoiding that particular fate, achieves a somewhat more positive psychological stance than is recognized by Jung in Analytical Psychology and by Barbara Hannah in The Animus: The Spirit of Inner Truth in Women, volume 2. Her chapter, “The Problem of Women’s Plots in Marie Hay’s The Evil Vineyard,” is the only significant piece of criticism (Jungian or otherwise) that could be located on the novel.2 Neither Jung nor Hannah is terribly complimentary about the quality of Hay’s work: he states that “[a] passably good account of the animus is to be found in Marie Hay’s book The Evil Vineyard (New York, 1923)” (CW 17, par. 339, n. 4), and she remarks that although it is “certainly no masterpiece,” it is nevertheless “the most genuine feminine material that I have ever come across” (174). The limitation of both Jung’s and Hannah’s conclusions about the novel comes into focus in the context of the following statement from “Mind and Earth.” “My conception of the soul,” writes Jung, “has absolutely nothing to do with this [‘a metaphysical individual substance’], since it is purely phenomenological. I am not

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indulging in any psychological mysticism, but am simply trying to grasp scientifically the elementary psychic phenomena which underlie the belief in souls” (CW 10, par. 84). He also states that understanding the anima and the animus “is not a question of anything ‘metaphysical,’ but far rather the empirical facts which could equally well be expressed in rational and abstract language” (CW 7, par. 340). Accordingly, Jung’s general approach in examining the dynamics of the psyche is to exclude the soul’s impact on psychological processes: both he and Hannah base their analyses of The Evil Vineyard on the assumption that psyche explains all and that spirits do not intervene in human events. As a result, their readings are limited in the same way that metric tools cannot sufficiently maintain an automobile designed according to Imperial measurement—important interpretive tasks are achieved, but precision is compromised. It may be true that the anima and the animus “bring an uncommonly mystical atmosphere along with them” (CW 10, par. 85), but a proper Jungian analysis must account for the fact that the novel includes not just the physical world and psyche but also the third field within the unus mundus, the spirit world, which makes the novel not only an exploration of higher consciousness, like The Green Face, but also a ghost story. Furthermore, Jung and Hannah overlook various episodes, details, and connections in The Evil Vineyard that would have strengthened their archetypal reading. Neither of them considers, for example, the multitude of literary references throughout the novel that make it a “hypertext,” defined by T. H. Nelson as “a body of written or pictorial material interconnected in such a complex way that it could not conveniently be presented or represented on paper” (qtd. in Harmon 279). Like links on a Web site, the numerous literary references provide not only support for an archetypal reading but also a variety of implications, including ideals that should be striven for, ironic undercutting when those ideals are not met, warnings about unrealistic expectations and dangerous paths, parallels to the plot, and support for a metaphysical reading. Analyzing The Evil Vineyard in the context of its frequent allusions may not elevate the novel to the status of “masterpiece” but does qualify the view that it is only “passably good.” The latter conclusion is a naive underestimation, for the novel has detail, depth, and significance that neither Jung nor Hannah acknowledges. Some of these allusions are addressed in the present chapter, the rest in Chapter 7. Chapter 6 argues that The Evil Vineyard is a highly allusive ghost story that affirms the possibility of higher consciousness and depicts Mary more positively, and her future more optimistically, than do Jung and Hannah. Although Mary does not become a Sophia-like figure of wisdom, she is definitely more self-aware at the end of the novel than she was as a girl, and she can look ahead to eventual marriage to an appropriate partner, her late husband’s cousin, Maurice Drummond.

Plot summary The Evil Vineyard begins in medias res with Mary at the Grand Hotel in Berne, Switzerland, waiting for her husband, George Latimer, to take her to their new

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home, a castle named the Vignaccia (evil vineyard) and nicknamed by the locals the Casa di Ferro (iron house). At the hotel, where she is surrounded by “diplomats of all nations” and an international array of women who accompany them (1), she engages in conversation with Fräulein Alten, though a Mr. Stirling and Latimer himself warn her about associating with the German woman. Significantly, before Mary leaves Berne, Alten introduces her to Madame de Villeneuve, who later visits the Latimers at the Vignaccia. In the long opening chapter, there is much retrospective narration about Mary’s upbringing at Darnfield, her family’s country estate, where her brothers made fun of her interest in books. Uninterested in the “eligible Yahoos, at balls and dinner parties” in London (13), she returns home and soon makes the acquaintance of George Latimer, a famous archeologist three decades her senior who sends her a gift of good books and later marries her. Husband and wife live for a while in Rome where Mary has access to the culture she desires; however, when Latimer’s passion cools, she realizes that he is interested in neither her body nor her mind. During the First World War they move back to England, and Latimer volunteers for the front. He is “invalided home” because of shell shock, which, along with his terrible experiences, makes him “a little ‘odd’ ” (31). They return to Rome where he does research in the Vatican library. He announces that he has purchased “an old place on the Lago Maggiore” in Switzerland, once “a training barracks for Landsknechts” (33), the fiercest mercenaries of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries.3 Locals believe it to be haunted by Henrich von Brunnen (hereafter Enrico), the late captain of the Landsknechts (literally, servants of the country), who jealously murdered the young Lady of the house and her lover. Mary waits in Rome while Latimer oversees upgrades to the house such as restoring its original décor and secret passageways. In order to maintain secrecy, he hires workmen not from the nearby town but from Zürich and even helps the foreman, who knew too much, emigrate to America. The Latimers move in but sleep, of course, in separate bedrooms. While Latimer becomes more and more influenced by the ghost of Enrico, Mary enters an altered state of awareness and receives, perhaps from the spirit of Enrico’s female victim, assurance that she is protected. Soon her mood is brightened by the arrival of Latimer’s cousin, Maurice Drummond, a veteran of the Black Watch, a Scottish infantry battalion, and of her friend, Madame de Villeneuve, who angers Latimer by purchasing a rare book about the Vignaccia. After unsuccessfully attempting to burn it because he fears that it reveals the existence of the passageways, he later steals it from her room. Maurice uses music and poetry to win Mary’s heart, and the pair, 31 and 29, respectively, fall in love. When she indirectly admits her love for Maurice to Latimer, he becomes totally possessed by Enrico. Mary’s helpful spirit guide alerts her to danger in the night, and she retreats to the safety of Madame de Villeneuve’s room while Latimer insanely stabs her bed where he thinks she lies asleep. Overexerting himself, he falls dead of a heart attack.The attempted murder is covered up to protect Latimer’s professional reputation; and Maurice convinces Mary, with only a little effort, that they should be together after an appropriate period of mourning. As the novel comes to a close, the local priest, Padre Gillardoni, fills in the missing pieces of the backstory.

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A Jungian reading of The Evil Vineyard Verena Kast identifies a fundamental problem at the heart of Jung’s archetypal ­theory—that “in describing anima and animus, Jung is basically using the established gender stereotypes of his time to define what is female and what is male” (113). For example, he indulges in some black-and-white thinking about males and females in the following statement: “Whereas logic and objectivity are usually the predominant features of a man’s outer attitude, or are at least regarded as ideals, in the case of a woman it is feeling. But in the soul it is the other way round: inwardly it is the man who feels, and the woman who reflects” (CW 6, par. 805). In this essentialist formulation, man thinks, and woman feels, except when possessed by a contrasexual archetype. In that case, the anima leads to “irrational feeling,” the animus to “irrational thinking” (CW 10, par. 80). But inner life is not so absolute, as Kast suggests in a properly post-Jungian mode: “In sum, anima and animus are archetypes, but they are not gender specific—both can be constellated in men as well as women, and they often appear in tandem, as couples” (127). Jung’s binary thinking, however, pales in comparison with other statements that impugn women’s intellectual capability. In Analytical Psychology he announces, “It looks to me as if man were really further away from the animal than the woman” (115–16); and he states, “The animal side of woman is probably like that we would find in any such an animal as the horse, if we could see such an animal from within itself instead of just from the outside as we do see it” (116). Jung directly denigrates women in commenting that the animus links to their “masculine rationalism, assuredly not true reasonableness!” (CW 10, par. 246). Women, he insists, assert opinions or “principles whose validity is seemingly unassailable” (CW 7, par. 331). One needs to look no further than Marie Hay to find an exception. Gertrude Atherton argues that Hay “has a mind both intellectual and romantic—a most unusual combination (407), much like Samuel Taylor Coleridge’s concept of the androgynous mind, which Virginia Woolf considers “resonant and porous,” capable of transmitting “emotion without impediment,”“naturally creative, incandescent and undivided” (98).4 Woolf ’s conclusion is that a writer “must be woman-manly or man-womanly” (104), that is, a synthesis of male and female characteristics that belies Jung’s stark dichotomies. Although twenty-first-century readers cannot, with a straight face, speak of Jung’s comparison of women to horses, there are some features of his animus theory that are highly relevant to The Evil Vineyard. His sense that “[t]he animus . . . is just as historically-minded [sic] as the anima” (CW 10, par. 89) dovetails with Latimer’s interest in antiquity, his career in archeology, and his obsession with the Vignaccia’s secrets. Jung points out that the animus, like the anima, is subject to projection upon particular types of men: “[t]he animus likes to project himself upon ‘intellectuals’ and all kinds of ‘heroes,’ including tenors, artists, and sporting celebrities, etc. The anima has a predilection for everything that is unconscious, dark, equivocal and unrelated in woman, and also for her vanity, frigidity, helplessness, and so forth” (CW 16, par. 521). The statement resonates strongly with The Evil Vineyard. Latimer evidently projects his anima onto Mary, who is intellectually

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vain, sexually uninterested, and financially helpless, while she projects her animus onto the artists, intellectuals, and celebrities who visit her salon in Rome; onto British soldiers in World War I; and most significantly onto Latimer, her intellectual husband. As the object of her most potent animus projection, Latimer illustrates Jung’s sense that “[t]he men who are particularly suited to these projections are either walking replicas of God himself, who know all about everything, or else they are misunderstood word-addicts with a vast windy vocabulary at their command, who translate common or garden reality into the terminology of the sublime” (CW 7, par. 333). It would seem that Latimer combines the know-it-all and the word-addict into one. In a longer statement, Jung articulates a principle of the animus that is active in The Evil Vineyard. A passionate exclusiveness therefore attaches to the man’s anima, and an indefinite variety to the woman’s animus. Whereas the man has, floating before him, in clear outlines, the alluring form of a Circe or a Calypso, the animus is better expressed as a bevy of Flying Dutchmen or unknown wanderers from over the sea, never quite clearly grasped, protean, given to persistent and violent motion. These personifications appear especially in dreams, though in concrete reality they can be famous tenors, boxing champions, or great men in far-away, unknown cities. (CW 7, par. 338) Just as the male characters in She and L’Atlantide project their anima, respectively, onto Ayesha and Antinea, Odysseus is allured by one female figure at a time, not many—Circe or Calypso, not both together. In contrast, women project their animus simultaneously onto “a bevy of Flying Dutchmen,” many male figures at once. There may thus be something of animus projection in the novel’s opening scene with a multitude of male diplomats at the hotel in Berne; Jung’s statement that “[t]he animus is rather like an assembly of fathers or dignitaries of some kind who lay down incontestable,‘rational,’ ex cathedra judgments” seems in keeping with Hay’s assemblage of diplomats (CW 7, par. 332). There is also a likely autobiographical connection in the opening scene, as William McGuire’s note in Analytical Psychology suggests: “The Hon. Agnes Blanche Marie Hay (1873–19??), an Englishwoman, married a German diplomat, Herbert Beneckendorff und von Hindenburg” (118–19, n. 2).5 Hay’s husband’s work took them to Germany, Italy, the Netherlands, and Switzerland (“Marie Hay”). Moreover, the Flying Dutchmen are analogous to the Landsknechtes who populate the Vignaccia’s shadowy history. Hannah’s editors point out that “knecht” refers to “uneducated, unskilled farm laborers” (176, n. 13), and their trajectory from farm labor to mercenary infamy may subtly parallel Mary’s journey from Darnfield to Rome. The point is that the diplomats and mercenaries in Hay’s novel illustrate Jung’s insistence on the animus’s “plurality” and “indefinite polymorphism” versus the anima’s “uni-personality” (CW 7, par. 338; 10, par. 81; 7, par. 338).

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We turn now to Jung’s comments on The Evil Vineyard in places other than his lecture in Analytical Psychology. His statement about the historical nature of the animus introduces the following significant, though somewhat unclear, statement on the novel. The animus . . . is just as historically-minded [sic] as the anima. Unfortunately there are no good literary examples of the animus. Women writers seem to be deficient in a certain naïve introspection, or at least they prefer to keep the results of their introspection in another compartment, possibly because no feeling is connected with it. I know of only one unprejudiced document of this sort, a novel by Marie Hay, The Evil Vineyard. In this very unpretentious story the historical element in the animus comes out in a clever disguise that was surely not intended by the author. (CW 10, par. 89) To begin with, the passage reflects Jung’s deficient knowledge of women writers. No one who has studied, for example, the Victorian novel would ever suggest that women who write fiction manifest flawed ratiocination (“naïve introspection”) or that such rational element as they can muster stands apart from emotion. Ironically, Jung displays not only ignorance of large swaths of the literary canon but also misunderstanding of The Evil Vineyard. He considers the text to be an “unprejudiced document,” meaning a good example of the historical character of the animus. That “historical element” is probably the background involving Enrico and his Landsknechts, with the “clever disguise” being Mary’s possession by the animus or perhaps Latimer’s obsession with Enrico. Jung may also mean that the story is “unpretentious” because Mary herself is unpretentious in lacking a formal education, a fact that dovetails with his essentialist assumption that men are to thinking and working as women are to emotion and relationship. As though these possibilities were not sufficiently farfetched, he also proposes that a key element of the plot—one that remains unspecified—“was surely not intended by the author.” The statement implies the visionary mode, in which a story originates in archetypal material in the collective unconscious and comes through rather than from the author. It is hard to imagine, however, that Hay’s carefully plotted tale, which so deftly incorporates “the historical element,” as well as her own experience, could be anything less than consciously conceived. An equally problematic passage appears a few paragraphs earlier: In Marie Hay’s novel the heroine drives her husband insane by her attitude which is based on the unconscious and unspoken assumption that he is a horrible tyrant who holds her captive in much the same way as . . . The uncomplicated simile she left to the interpretation of her husband, who finally discovered the appropriate figure for it in a cinquecento tyrant with whom he identified himself, and lost his reason in consequence. (CW 10, par. 91; ellipsis in the original)

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Jung’s statement that Latimer “finally discovered the appropriate figure for it [his disorder] . . . in a cinquecento tyrant” makes it sound as if his interest in Enrico is caused by Mary’s actions and attitudes. But in fact their relationship spirals downward because of mutual projection, neglect, and misunderstanding. As for Mary, whereas she at first projects positive aspects of the animus onto him (father figure, wise old man), he becomes a negative animus figure (tyrant) in the course of their marriage. For example, he establishes his study in the center of the Vignaccia as though he were a spider, the house a web, and his wife a captive fly; he is also “like a bird of prey” (90) and a jailer to her prisoner. Given the fact that he treats Mary so poorly that she wonders if she is going insane, the notion that she is responsible for her husband’s mental illness is overstated. He is suffering from PTSD (posttraumatic stress disorder), retreats from a loveless marriage into his research, and is possessed by the ghost of Enrico so that supernatural agency augments psychological dysfunction. Latimer’s obsessions (with Enrico and the Vignaccia) and relational dysfunction are mutually reinforcing; but being the elder partner, he ought to know better and is more responsible than Mary. She does not drive her husband insane, and both parties contribute to the death of their marriage. Jung’s reference to the sixteenth century (cinquecento) relates to some confusion regarding the backstory’s timeframe. His claim about the sixteenth century is consistent with the narrator’s sense that the Vignaccia is “a sixteenth century stronghold” (81) and that “care had been lavished on the perfection of sixteenth century detail” (94), but the date that Hay assigns to the murder of the Lady of the Vignaccia is in the seventeenth century, June 3, 1640 (213). The Landsknechts inhabited late fifteenth- and early sixteenth-century Europe, as the title of John Richards’s Landsknecht Soldier 1486–1560 suggests. Richards notes that the first documented mention of the Landsknechts occurred in 1486 and that their last military action was in 1590 (7, 60). Since they were a “mainly Germanic” group (8), Enrico’s possession of Latimer parallels the Germans’ attempt to dominate Europe in World War I. In any case, the Landsknechts postdated medieval Europe, yet Jung and Hannah refer to Enrico as a medieval figure. Jung places the novel’s backstory in “the Middle Ages” and refers to the events surrounding Enrico as “these medieval fantasies” (AP 148–49). Hannah mentions “the medieval figure of Heinrich von Brunnen” and states that “Latimer was possessed by a medieval man” (she means something akin to obsession rather than spiritual possession); furthermore, Latimer’s “consciousness was partially in a medieval state of development” (197, 223). Latimer himself contradicts these assertions. Mary asks, “Oughtn’t we to have the floor strewn with rushes?” (93). She is referring to how, “[i]n medieval Europe, loose fresh rushes would be strewn on earthen floors in dwellings for cleanliness and insulation” (“Juncaceae”).6 Latimer replies, “We are not as mediæval as all that” (93). The section on The Evil Vineyard in Analytical Psychology is more of a lecture by Jung than a discussion between him and his seminar participants. This mostly one-way exchange arises from alternative interpretations of the origin of Latimer’s dysfunction. The small-group members argue, as Dr. de Angulo says, “that Latimer was already split apart, and abnormal through his one-sidedness when he first met

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[Mary]” and that “what drives him to insanity is his inability to get at his feelings”; however Jung “see[s] no justification for assuming that Latimer was abnormal from the beginning” (151). McGuire’s summary of Jung’s view is “that the committee had failed to get at the deeper psychological significance of the book, and that the reason that they had failed lay in the assumption that Latimer was abnormal when he met Mary” (145). The narrator’s comments suggest, however, that Jung is wrong and the small group right. During Latimer’s initial visit to Darnfield, before he and Mary begin to discuss books, “[t]here was something she did not like about him, something chill and repelling,” and “he spent many hours working in Sir Arthur’s study” (19–20). Mary’s first impression is the right one: she sees the authentic man behind the masks of famous archeologist, world traveler, raconteur, and book lover. We see Latimer’s emotional coldness again upon the outbreak of World War I. She develops a “childlike patriotism” for “the martial glory of England” at the start of the conflict, believing at first that his volunteering for the front signaled “some warmer, more generous feeling.” Whereas Hannah believes that “it was Mary’s fantasies that moved Latimer to this adventure” (196), Mary is disappointed to learn that his true motives are egotistical “convention” and intellectual “curiosity” (31–32). Thus, Latimer’s “inability to get at his feelings” predates the marriage and his involvement in the war. Although those things contribute to his psychological decline, the ur-cause, emotional aloofness compounded by long hours of study and writing, predates the marriage. It appears that the seminar participants advance the better interpretation and that Jung’s view is too black and white. Jung is on firmer ground, however, in reading The Evil Vineyard as an allegory of anima and animus. There is no mention of Henry Rider Haggard’s Horace Holly from She in the discussion of Hay’s novel, but Latimer-the-intellectual is certainly a Holly-like figure, “a very intellectual man living in his mind with complete repression of the anima” who suddenly projects his anima onto Mary. Because she will not carry the projection, he feels “something growing in her which he does not understand,” and “we are launched upon the battle between the anima and the animus” (AP 146). Latimer’s initial attraction to Mary illustrates one of Jung’s more memorable statements: “When, for instance, a highly esteemed professor in his seventies abandons his family and runs off with a young red-headed actress, we know that the gods have claimed another victim” (CW 9i, par. 62). Latimer, of course, is about fifty when he marries the fair-haired nineteen-year-old Mary, but their union does illustrate the dynamic that Jung describes. There is “a violent outburst of sexuality at the beginning on the part of the man”—“he made a plaything of her”—but soon becomes impotent (AP 147, 151). Perhaps both partners are at fault here. She finds both sex and sex talk unenjoyable, and Jung states that she is “really untrue to him” by denying him both love and libido and by fantasizing about “lovers who would release her from him” (151). However, it is Latimer who assigns her a separate bedroom at the Vignaccia and fails to come to her sexually in the night. Because his taciturnity illustrates the moods and vagaries that characterize the anima-possessed husband, a chasm develops between his persona and his inner reality (CW 7, par. 308); Latimer, an outwardly famous archeologist, is like the man

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Jung describes “whose tantrums and explosive moodiness terrify his wife” (CW 7, par. 308, 318–19). Jung also states, “Whoever builds up too good a persona for himself [like Latimer’s scholarly reputation] naturally has to pay for it with irritability” (CW 7, par. 306). As for Mary and the animus, McGuire sensibly states, “Taken symbolically, the story is that of a woman giving way to the evil side of the animus, finally to be rescued by the upcoming of the positive side” (AP 144–45). Similarly, Jung considers The Evil Vineyard an opportunity to reverse-engineer the feminine psyche: “We can assume that the author has put feminine psychology into the heroine, and we can try to reconstruct what that woman has experienced and the development of the animus” (145). Growing up at Darnfield, Mary is intellectually starved, and Jung condescendingly notes that “we must admit that there are plenty of serious cases in which a girl can be interested in learning” (146). Into her life steps Latimer who represents wisdom; here Jung and his colleagues might have referenced her “thinking of him as the wise and kindly guide to the hoarded beauty of the ages—­ thinking not at all of him as a lover in fact” (Hay 24–25). The latter part of this quotation may explain why Jung believes that Mary is unaware of her instincts, does not love Latimer, and feigns interest in order to trap him (AP 146). In turn, her repressed instincts lead to her fantasies about being a tyrant’s prisoner who is saved by a young man. Regarding Enrico, Jung states, “As the murderer of his wife and her lover, he forms a suitable figure for the unconscious fantasy material of Mary, who thinks of herself as the prisoner of an ogre” (150). In Jung’s view, the collective unconscious is active in Mary, and Latimer is being chased by her “collective fantasies” (150): she drives him to identify with Enrico, succumb to the fantasy, and be totally taken over by the unconscious. Says Jung in the guise of Latimer: “I am Henrico von Brunnen—that is my form” (150). In Jung’s view, heavy responsibility rests on Mary; her husband’s madness is really her fault. To sum up, we see in this story the complete projection of the woman’s unconscious into the man, the operation of the animus. Then comes the tragic denial of love. All of the repressed instinctive libido activates the deeper layers of the unconscious with the resulting fantasy system we have seen, till the man upon whom it is projected [falls] under its spell and lives it out.That is the story as determined by the woman’s part in it. (150; insertion in the original) Hannah’s “The Problem of Women’s Plots in Marie Hay’s The Evil Vineyard” takes the analysis much beyond Jung’s discussion with his seminar participants. By “plots” she means goals, and Mary’s two goals intertwine. The first relates to her intellection: “She had decided that she would never marry, and, though she was wise enough to recognise that she had no literary gift, she dreamed of being a leader of an intellectual circle. She would have a salon in London, a brilliant house where all the poets, authors, actors, and musicians would find a second home” (Hay 14). Emma Jung offers a comment that nicely relates to Mary’s aspirations:

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“One of the animus activities most difficult to see through lies in this field, namely, the building up of a wish-image of oneself. The animus is expert at sketching in and making plausible a picture that represents us as we would like to be seen” (18). Hannah believes that the salon’s purpose is to help Mary achieve her second goal (finding a man with whom she can fall in love), but the quotation clearly indicates that she wants only a salon, not a salon that leads to a relationship. With Latimer’s wealth behind her, she does achieve a facsimile of her goal, “meeting men and women of intellect” (26), when they live in Rome. There the second goal is implied by the narrator’s indication that her marriage deprives her of “any chance of human happiness,” the implication being happiness with a man (28). Thus, in Hannah’s view, Mary seeks “the treasures of the mind” (Hay 13) as compensation for lack of self-esteem, is possessed by the goal of falling in love, ignores her instinct in her marriage choice, and drives the story toward tragedy by remaining unconscious. As Jung notes in “Marriage As a Psychological Relationship,” since much of young persons’ psychological content is still unconscious, they are unaware of their motives in marrying (CW 17, par. 327). Thwarted potential makes Mary’s animus negative and destructive. Jung writes, “Whenever some social or psychological monstrosity is created, a compensation comes along in defiance of all legislation and all expectation” (CW 10, par. 250). In addition, he notes in “Marriage” that “the children are driven unconsciously in a direction that is intended to compensate for everything that was left unfulfilled in the lives of their parents” (CW 17, par. 328). Hay’s statement about “the undeviating law: as the female is, so is the male” (62) may account for the sense in Jung and Hannah that Mary is the primary driver of marital dysfunction. She assumes that Latimer will be her “wise and kindly guide to the hoarded beauty of the ages” (Hay 24–25); but things go awry, Hannah argues, after she rejects him. Their marriage is based on a tragic misunderstanding, for “he thought she wanted him as a lover, and she thought he cared for her mind” (Hannah 193). In Toni Wolff ’s terms, Mary mistakenly believes that she will be Latimer’s “Hetaera or companion” (7).7 The point echoes the narrator’s statement that Latimer “had duped her—into believing he cared for her mind, while it had been his desire for her body” (130–31). As a result, she falls prey to the animus in emphasizing her victimhood, and he succumbs to the anima’s historical aspect in his archeological studies. While she plays the innocent victim, he plays the victimizer. But Hannah maintains that Mary is the real spider, Latimer the fly; that she is possessed by the animus; that she projects animus in the form of Enrico onto her husband; that her admission of feelings for Maurice, which leads to Latimer’s attack, makes her “actually an accomplice in this crime [the attempted murder of Mary]” (232–33); and that she may be “on the way to becoming a young daughter of Antinea and to start[ing] a salon of dead men” (234). Although Hannah does not use the term enantiodromia, she expresses the idea that, in loving Maurice, “Mary had just fallen from one opposite into the other” (227)—from intellection to love/nature/instinct—and that she will eventually

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swing back to her original position. The reader of The Evil Vineyard, however, may quarrel with this black-and-white, either/or interpretation in light of the narrator’s statement about what Mary has learned: “She knew now that heart, brain and body are a trinity which must be undivided in the quest for the meaning of life” (130). Here is clear evidence that she is psychologically no longer a teenager whose family members do not sufficiently appreciate her intellectual interests. In fact, as the narrator points out, by the time she arrives at the Vignaccia “[s]he was no inexperienced girl” with respect to marital obligations (112). Is it unreasonable to believe that the mature Mary, who understands the value of integration, is still so unconscious that she will merely swing from one opposite to another in an ongoing cycle of compensation? It is strange that Jung and his seminar participants do not include Mary’s dream in their discussion; fortunately, Hannah’s reading of it is on the right track. The dream takes place on a train while the Latimers and their two servants are traveling from Berne to Locarno; Mary is on her way, that is, to live at the Vignaccia. In the dream, “she found herself walking in the garden at Darnfield with Jim, her brother, then somehow it turned into the golf links outside Rome, near the Acqua Santa, and she was topping a ball—” (77). According to Hannah, the animus is often personified in dreams as father or brother (vol. 1, 17). In this case, Jim stands in opposition to Latimer—“Mary is evidently fed up with father figures” (vol. 2, 205)—and Jim’s appearance foreshadows the movement from the senex George to the puer Maurice. “Acqua Santa,” Hannah’s editor tells us, “is a grandiose park and health spa outside of Rome with holy waters that reportedly cure numerous ailments” (205, n. 54), and the acqua santa is “holy, healing water” (Hannah 205), while the golf ball, as a sphere, represents totality/wholeness. There Hannah’s analysis stops, but more can obviously be said. The dream sums up Mary’s movement from England to Rome, from rural life with her family to married life with Latimer. Topping the ball, however, suggests that totality, individuation, and the Self get knocked into the weeds. All that Mary has done in Rome amounts to a botched swing. That the movement in the dream is from England to Rome anticipates Mary’s conscious wish, once she settles in the Vignaccia, “that grim house” (116), to be in England and Rome: “Was it really only for England that she yearned? For if she longed for England, she also pined for Italy. ‘Oh, to be in England now that April’s here!’ And yet she longed for the beloved land of the cypress and the olive tree, and in especial for Rome—‘Rome, city of the soul,’ as Byron sang” (116–17). Mary’s first quotation is from the opening of Robert Browning’s “Home-Thoughts, From Abroad”: “Oh, to be in England / Now that April’s there” (emphasis added). Whereas Browning’s speaker emphasizes that ­England, where spring has finally arrived, is distant, the shift from “there” to “here” in Mary’s thoughts suggests that the arrival of spring in her present setting makes her long to be back home. Of course, Browning is echoing the opening of Geoffrey Chaucer’s The Canterbury Tales, where the coming of April signals both natural and spiritual regreening, which implies that Mary’s presumed return to England with

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Maurice will be renovating in both senses. The line from George Gordon Byron is from Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage (canto iv, stanza 78). Oh Rome! my country! city of the soul! The orphans of the heart must turn to thee, Lone mother of dead empires! and control In their shut breasts their petty misery. The narrator elsewhere quotes a similar phrase, “languishment for skies Italian” (82), which is from John Keats’s sonnet, “Happy is England”: “Yet do I sometimes feel a languishment / For skies Italian” (lines 5–6). If Rome provides shelter for the emotionally distraught, it is no wonder that Mary longs to dwell there again, but the more important thing may be that mention of Byron, the man, anticipates the fact that Maurice “limped slightly” (122). Whereas Byron was born with a physical deformity, Maurice, one presumes, limps because of a war injury. It appears that Hay is gently foreshadowing the arrival of Maurice and implying that he may be a Byronic lover with whom Mary can share her fondness of Rome. The presence of Jim in the dream is also significant in connection with Mary’s shadow dynamics. It is he who drives her to repress her interest in intellection, which in turn causes her to compensate by marrying a man who gives her books. As the narrator notes, “the glamour of his [Latimer’s] personality compensated her for much” (26). Walking in the garden with Jim, her erstwhile tormentor, may suggest that Mary is making some headway in connecting with instinct (garden) and in integrating the shadow (Jim). Less hopefully, the dream also suggests that interacting with Jim, the catalyst for her repression, not only precedes but also contributes to her present lack of individuation, with the golf course itself being a miss, for it is merely close by the Acqua Santa. The missed swing (marrying Latimer) anticipates her later realization that her pride and vanity motivated her terrible choice. However, the dream imagery is ultimately Janus faced: it sums up her past but also includes the hopeful detail of the Acqua Santa, which lies not far off (relationship with Maurice). In other words, the dream registers Mary’s past and present difficulties but implies hope for the future. As Emma Jung mentions, “Often . . . dreams point the way . . .” (39). Jim-as-shadow in Mary’s dream relates to numerous references to repression of psychological content into the shadow. Hannah notes that Marie Alten is a shadow figure (202), which suggests that Mary is beginning to do the sort of shadow work that takes place, according to Jung, when men interact with other men (a contrasexual partner is insufficient for this purpose). But Mr. Stirling, who criticizes Mary for talking with Alten, is a clear figure of repression. He tells her that “it is my duty to warn you against her” (5) because he thinks that she is a “German spy” (72), adding that “[w]e can none of us ever speak to Germans again!” (5). Named after a city in central Scotland, Mr. Stirling, as a British nationalist, is a figure of repression who does not take chances and tries to safeguard his fellow citizens. In time of war, England enacted laws preventing the English from fraternizing with Germans.

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Hay obliquely references such statutes when, at Madame de Villeneuve’s house, Mademoiselle de Griesbach says to Mary, “Umph! of course; your Government makes such ridiculous rules” (69), referring probably to the Defense of the Realm Act (DORA), which listed everything that British citizens were not supposed to do during the war. In particular, its purpose was to curb spying by “prevent[ing] persons [from] communicating with the enemy or obtaining information for that purpose or any purpose calculated to jeopardise the success of the operations of any of His Majesty’s forces or his allies or to assist the enemy” (“Defense”). Mr. Stirling’s claim about Alten—“That old Boche hag is a well-known spy” (6)—resonates with DORA’s main purpose. His advice to Mary, though understandable in context, is psychologically problematic. Fräulein Alten and the Germans in general represent the shadow, and a relationship with her is exactly what Mary should cultivate. In that respect, Mr. Stirling’s advice, though historically apt, is ironically less than sterling. In addition to creating characters who represent shadow work (Alten) and the repression of content into the shadow (Stirling), Hay provides a repetition that relates the shadow to the nature of the difficulties that Mary encounters at the Vignaccia. Back at Darnfield, Mary’s father, Sir Arthur, calls her “Miss Girton-girl” (15), mocking her with a reference to an institution that she will never attend, the first women’s college at the University of Cambridge. Also, one of her brothers calls her “[d]ear old blue-stocking” (15), the kind of intellectual or literary female she of course aspires to be.8 The narrator comments on the ribbing that Mary receives from her family members: “Well, perhaps God Almighty . . . had put the apparently light burden of this chaff into Mary’s existence, lest her path be all too unshadowed” (15; emphasis added here and below). On the other hand, when Latimer lifts his mask in their first conversation, “There was no trace of ‘talking down’ to her ignorance, no shadow of mockery in his tone” (21). Hay uses the same metaphor to describe his reaction to Maurice: “it seemed as if the shadow had been lifted from his mind” (132). Then there is a shift. When Mary is with Maurice, “the world smiled, even though the Shadow lurked near” (141). She determines to “remain in the Casa di Ferro till Nemesis overtook her,” though she desires “to escape from the Vignaccia—from Latimer—from the Shadow which pursued her” (154). A bit later, “there was nothing tangible to account for Mary’s feeling that the Shadow[,] which threatened her, had crept nearer” (169). The use of repetition is telling in itself, but the shift from lower to upper case signifies a shift from the personal unconscious to the collective unconscious and (as I will argue a bit later) from the physical world of shadows to the spirit world. “Nemesis” undoubtedly refers to Enrico’s restive spirit, which is the object of her animus projection. This nexus is bad news for Mary, for as Hannah puts it, “you have not a ghost of a chance while the animus and the shadow are married, for the game always stands at two to one against the conscious ego” (vol. 1, 10). Jung and Hannah have neither accounted for such details nor unpacked the significance of the Vignaccia, which is the physical embodiment of repression. In an earlier era, the castle was not accessible by road, and it was surrounded by walls. In the Latimers’ age, there is still a “garden wall,” and the place is still secluded. “It

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is well hidden—well hidden indeed,” notes Latimer (89). There are rusty iron bars on all the windows, many of the doors are locked, and there are of course secret passages. Hay also gives us the priest’s mention of the “caretaker, an old deaf peasant” (42), whose disability reinforces the idea that the Vignaccia is a place where psychological content is repressed into the unconscious. Latimer has had the interior renovated and redecorated to match its condition and décor during Enrico’s time, but there is irony in Latimer’s comments about it. “I had the place put in order . . . I know my own house well enough without having it explained to me by a stranger” (153). He also says, “I have already told you that the house is so modernized that there is absolutely nothing to explore” (152). That is simply not true; and Latimer, whose own psyche is in disorder, sounds like someone who denies that he needs psychoanalysis. The fact that “the house was divided” (159) between the section where the Landsknechts lived and the Kemenate, “the women’s quarter” (97), suggests the lack of psychological integration. In the middle is Latimer’s study, “the pivot of the rambling old house” (122). Given the layout of the Vignaccia, Hannah is probably incorrect to suggest that “[t]he castle and fortress are . . . symbols of the Self ” (210) because the study (intellection) inadequately unites the separate male and female wings of the building. Even worse, Mary is locked out of the little chapel, where hangs “a picture of Our Lady of the Seven Sorrows” (47). Being barred from the chapel has highly negative implications given Jung’s favorable comment about Pope Pius XII’s endorsement in 1950 of the bodily assumption of the Virgin Mary as “the most important religious event since the Reformation” (CW 11, par. 752). The little chapel and the portrait of the mother of Jesus suggest wholeness via the meeting of body, psyche, and spirit—the sort of integration that Mary Latimer needs and seeks. Like the Vignaccia as a whole, the inaccessibility of the chapel makes the castle an emblem of psychological content repressed into the unconscious. Another setting that Jung and Hannah overlook is part of Fräulein Alten’s narration of a story that took place in Berne. Late one night, half a dozen drunk young diplomats (one recalls the gathering of diplomats in the opening scene) see a narrow “walk along the ledge between the two bear-pits” (54). One bets the others that he can traverse the ledge but slips down into the darkness. The bears at first leave him alone, but when the others’ attempt to pull him out of danger with their tied-together coats and he crashes back down into the pit, the bears attack and kill him. Once the story has been told, both she and Mary acknowledge the similarity between the fatal event in Berne and a similar occurrence “in Sir Horace Rumbold’s Memoirs” (56), from which Hay no doubt borrowed the story. Rumbold’s Recollections of a Diplomatist refers to “The Bear That Ate the Englishman” (195) and “The Fatal Bear-Pit” (199) where Captain Lorch, a Norwegian by birth who is serving as a soldier in one of England’s foreign legions during the Crimean War, attempts to vault back and forth over a railing atop a wall that surrounds a bear-pit. He falls in, and his friend Eden, unable to rescue him singlehandedly, seeks help at a nearby bakery, but the result is a jeering crowd. Lorch is eaten but not before the same method of rescue as in Alten’s story is attempted and fails. The coats give way

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on the first try, and the now-agitated bears attack on his second attempt to climb out of the pit. In both accounts, drunkenness represents psychological ignorance, while the bears in their pits represent the repression of instinctual power, something of which Mary, an “ardent votary of books” (77), is surely guilty.The bear pit’s walls anticipate those around the historical Vignaccia, its current garden wall, and the fact that men were once imprisoned and murdered within. Notably, “the moonlit portion of the den” (56) in Alten’s story serves only to enable the young man’s friends to see his demise, but more hopefully the image does anticipate the moonlight that illuminates the novel’s climax on the night of Latimer’s death. Captain Lorch does not parallel Captain von Brunnen except that they are both soldiers of the same rank. Fortunately, Mary avoids Lorch’s fate: with the help of Madame de Villeneuve she manages to escape death at the hands of Latimer, whereas the young soldier is subjected to public ridicule while his friends try and fail to rescue him. In addition to ignoring the allegory of the house and of the bear-pit story, Jung and Hannah overlook the fact that The Evil Vineyard is, at its core, a ghost story. There is no doubt in the reader’s mind that Latimer’s possession is literal, not just psychological, and that Mary receives supernatural guidance. Therefore, the purely psychological readings offered by Jung and Hannah, though agile depth psychology, constitute a misfit with the novel. Put a different way, the story operates in more parts of the unus mundus—a field that includes physical matter, psyche, and spirit— than they acknowledge. The unus mundus surely includes “the world of psyche” as an “intermediate realm between sense and spirit, which contains something of both and yet forfeits nothing of its own unique character” (CW 10, par. 258), but Jung and Hannah err in reducing the conflict to archetypal possession and projection. As the narrator clearly states, “Life and death are one; ghosts and strange hauntings are mere arbitrary divisions—all is one in the eternal life which is an unbroken succession. Then why be disturbed because some being who has passed on, returns to the plane of our consciousness?” (59–60). Or as Padre Gillardoni explains to Mary, “I have learnt that the world we see and the other world [of spirits] are not divided as much as we think by the barrier of death” (208). These statements clearly affirm the idea that disembodied spirits play a role in the Latimers’ psychological journey. As the novel illustrates, psyche is the place where physical matter and spirit interact. A fair-minded reading of The Evil Vineyard requires attention to various details that strongly affirm the ontological status of the spirits who are affecting the married couple. Here is a survey of the evidence. The audience is primed for ghostly developments by the talk at Madame de Villeneuve’s house of a female ghost at a tea party, “the bal des revenants in the Junkerngasse,” and “that nouvelle of Daudet’s in ‘Les Lettres de mon Moulin’ of the ghost ball” (66–67), and these two balls nicely echo Mary’s earlier debut at “hunt balls” in London (8).9 All this talk, along with Alten’s backstory of the Vignaccia, motivates Mary to ask Latimer directly whether the castle is haunted. He replies, “All houses are visited by the spirits of those who have lived in them,” but he claims that “they do not affect the living” (79). However, Mary comes to understand, as the locals already know, that the Vignaccia “was full of ghosts” (111). Thus, the castle aligns with various places known for ghostly

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activity: “Glamis Castle, the terrors of Ruffort Abbey, the man in chains at Littlecote, Green Jean at Wemyss, the black boy at Knole” (50). The reference to Glamis Castle, the setting for Shakespeare’s Macbeth, is particularly resonant, as Hannah points out, because Hay’s mother was Lady Agnes Duff, the daughter of the Earl of Fife (175), which links the author to the character Macduff. Perhaps Latimer’s talking in his sleep echoes Lady Macbeth’s sleepwalking, but more importantly the narrator makes it very clear that spirits are part of the developing plot. Prior to Mary’s arrival at the Vignaccia, Latimer ignores the Padre’s letter warning him about meddling with spirits. Slowly but surely he is possessed by the ghost of Enrico, which is described as “the unknown power” (191), “some evil incorporate being” (193), “some relentless cruelty” (199), and “the evil spirit of the Condottiere” (207). Meanwhile, Mary is helped by a “being” (115), “some invisible force” (136), and “the unseen being” (201). She feels its gentle touch on her forehead on more than one occasion, and it restrains Latimer “as though a powerful grip had arrested his movement” when he moves to assault her. The sensation is so clear that he says, “Who’s there? Who touched me?” (134). At the end of the novel, there is a strong implication that the spirit leaves once matters have been resolved. When Mary says, “God give good rest to all weary souls,” at that moment “[a] faint breeze sighed round the Casa di Ferro for an instant, then passed out over the tranquil waters of the lake” (201). The implication is that the Lady’s spirit is now able to depart from the Vignaccia. Who or what is this helpful unseen being? Hannah suggests that “the figure must be related to the Self, for it turns out to be more powerful than Heinrich von Brunnen”; that it personifies “the more positive side of the animus”; that it may have originated in Mary’s imagination; and that it is an incubus or simply the Lady whom Enrico murdered (216–18).10 Hannah further supposes that the spirit’s statement to Mary, “Have no fear . . . have no fear” (Hay 109), echoes the voice of God in the Bible and that it “may well be related to ‘the spirit of God’ or the spirit of life” (221, 235). But Hannah also admits that “[o]ne cannot make any definite statement about such [a] phenomenon” as the restraining of Latimer (230). Any interpretation of the being in purely psychological terms should be resisted because it belies the fact that The Evil Vineyard is a ghost story. Nor is the being an incubus—it is benignly, though urgently, helpful but not sexual in the least. That the spirit may be the former Lady of the castle is the most likely explanation, as the Padre suggests at the end of the novel (earlier the reader supposes it to be the murdered Lady of the Vignaccia). There is one further suggestion, however, that Hannah overlooks: namely, that the helpful spirit is that of Jim, Mary’s deceased brother. He has already appeared in her dream, apparently in a friendly fashion, and it would make sense that he wishes to protect the sister whom he wronged in life and that the ghost of a former soldier has the strength to restrain a strapping man like Latimer. The Self and the other psychological alternatives do not exert physical force. It is ironic that Hannah writes about “plots” but fails to see that Latimer, Mary, and Maurice are characters in the ghosts’ metadrama: various theatrical references underscore the ghost narrative. For example, the Vignaccia is decorated “like a stage

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setting” (93). Mary realizes at the start of Chapter 5 that she experiences “only a pause in a drama wherein she was destined to play her part—what that drama would be she could not even guess” (112). A bit later, she wonders if Maurice “would play a part in the drama which she never doubted was to be enacted at the Vignaccia” (121).When he hosts the Latimers for dinner at Ristorante del Grotto, Latimer ominously remarks that “the Vignaccia does not need us yet” (139), meaning that the ghosts do not. During the restaurant scene, the narrator calls him “Signor Latimer” (142), as though he is already shifting from Mr. Latimer into Signor Enrico. Later he even speaks as Enrico: “You have told me yourself—as she did.Yes, it is the same now as it was then—” (173). Madame de Villeneuve, “the intrepid Swiss woman” (195), enters late in the metadrama and aids Mary in her hour of need, disrupting the ghost narrative and shifting the love triangle to a quaternity that leads to an alternative outcome.11 In other words, the old castle and its secrets get a dose of “new city,” the literal translation of Villeneuve’s name. With her assistance in covering up Latimer’s crime, “the final act of the tragedy” unfolds (192). After Latimer’s death, Padre Gillardoni serves quite appropriately as the explanatory Chorus, stating that he warned Latimer “that to meddle with spirits was perilous” and not to “[set] the scene of old crimes” (205). The priest is the logical figure to tie up loose ends because his vocation gives him a liminal point of view between the physical world and the realm of spirits. The point is that the novel’s metatheatrical details, which deepen Hay’s sense that the characters are interacting with actors on a higher plane of existence, justify the need for a more-than-psychological interpretation. The Evil Vineyard is not merely a psychological allegory. The reality of spirits relates to another major emphasis that Jung and Hannah both overlook: namely, the novel’s treatment of consciousness. To begin with, Latimer exemplifies the strengths and limitations of the rational faculty. The narrator refers to “the life of his brain” (29); he is “the owner of a great, cultivated brain” (211); and his person is even reduced to a synecdoche, “a great brain” (194). In general, the narrator understands rationality as “fastidious discrimination” as opposed to emotion (131). One may think here of Emma Jung’s assertion about “the head, [as] the characteristic organ for an animus” (30): Latimer’s deep capacity for intellection makes him a fitting object for the projection of Mary’s animus. Perhaps rationality is the reason why “ ‘here [on Earth] we see as through a glass darkly,’ ” as Padre Gillardoni, quoting 1 Corinthians 13.12, says to Mary (208). He believes that “[t]here is so much more which is inexplicable than we in our ignorance and sterile pride will admit” (203), much as Hamlet says, “There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, / Than are dreamt of in your philosophy” (1.5.175–76). That is, Gillardoni is well aware that reality is not limited to what reason can analyze because “three-fifths of everything on earth is mystery, if we but knew it” (209). The Evil Vineyard contains various alternatives to a purely rational way of seeing. Hay mentions nonrational states of consciousness that are accessible to living persons: dream, fancy, hallucination, hypnosis, imagination, madness, sleep, and trance. Mary does her best to maintain her hold on reality—“she would not be hypnotized

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by fancy, ‘’ippotized’ in Race’s parlance” (75). But she has a beautiful and helpful experience of afterlife communication in a deepened or expanded state of awareness. “The world of external consciousness slipped away” as she enters “a kind of trance.” She “passed beyond the world of everyday cognisance . . . into a plane where Time does not exist” (108). There she receives a message of ­protection— “have no fear, I will watch over you”—and feels the guardian’s touch on her brow, which signifies the opening of the third eye (109). She knows that “it had been no dream, or anyhow it had been a dream of her deeper consciousness” (109), “that someone who had ‘passed on’ had been with her,” “that she had strayed into the world outside the normal consciousness” and “beyond the tangible plane,” and that her experience constitutes a “sacrament of the soul” (110). At the climax of the novel, “[i]t was more as if her waking had come from the depth of her being, as if her soul had woken her body” (176). Again, she feels “a touch of infinite soothing” on her brow (177) and receives a warning of imminent danger—a “voice in her soul” (178). Her “subconscious self ” (178) responds by getting her out of bed before she consciously realizes that she has done so. The implication is that guidance comes to Mary both from her own interiority and through the unconscious from a disembodied spirit. Ordinarily we are unable to have such transrational experiences because “our souls are imprisoned in consciousness” (87). Perhaps Latimer’s emphasis on conscious rationality is one reason why he is so vulnerable to negative unconscious and spiritual forces. Mary, in contrast, opens herself in the way a meditator would, by dropping her awareness below normal waking consciousness into the timeless realm inhabited by spirits. Jung would call her experience an example of abaissement du niveau mental, which he defines as that “which abolishes the normal checks imposed by the conscious mind and thus gives unlimited scope to the play of the unconscious ‘dominants’ ” (CW 11, par. 848); Murray Stein calls it “a lower level of conscious awareness, a sort of dimming of sense” (211). Moreover, Jung assumes “a psychically relative space-time continuum” and asserts that the collective unconscious has “a spaceless and timeless quality” (CW 8, par. 440; 10, par. 849). “In addition,” he states, “it has been proved by experiment that time and space are relative for the unconscious, so that unconscious perception, not being impeded by the space-time barrier, can obtain experiences to which the conscious mind has no access” (CW 18, par. 747). Also, “knowledge finds itself in a space-time continuum in which space is no longer space, nor time time. If therefore, the unconscious should develop or maintain a potential in the direction of consciousness, it is then possible for parallel events to be perceived or ‘known’ ” (CW 8, par. 912). In other words, Jung considers the paranormal to be a function of psyche, much as he reduces Hay’s ghost story to psychological allegory. But Hay’s meaning is clearly that living persons are spiritual beings who are having a mortal, physical experience; that physicality limits our conscious awareness of our souls; that, once released from the body, the soul resumes an independent existence in a timeless realm; but that the spiritual plane is still so closely aligned with the physical world that influence can flow both ways. So it is that spirits consume Latimer but aid Mary, while her efforts

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with Madame de Villeneuve alter the ending of the ghosts’ metadrama so that the helpful spirit can move on to a fuller dimension of the afterlife. The lake next to the castle provides an analogy for the confusion that may result when other realities impinge on consciousness. The narrator informs us: “The lake lay smooth as glass, transparent yet mysterious, immovable, rapt it seemed in an ecstacy [sic] of contemplation of the mountains. Which was reality, which was reflection?—the mountains mirrored in the waters or their proud, inviolate beauty on the distant shore? Lake and hill-land seemed commingled divinely” (143). Similarly, the ghost story and the Latimers’ marriage mirror each other so precisely that it is difficult to tell where archetypal projection and possession end and where the agency of spirits begins, hence Mary’s inability to determine at one point whether “that haunting menace in the Vignaccia” is “fancy, hallucination or appalling truth” (140). Whereas moonlight’s reflection on the lake suggests a deepening of human receptivity to the unconscious and the world of spirits, the novel’s alcohol references relate to a dulling of life and consciousness. During one of her summers in London, as previously mentioned, Mary meets “eligible Yahoos, at balls and dinner parties”; one of them, “the eldest son of a brewer-peer,” proposes to her (13). The obvious reference is to Jonathan Swift’s characters of unrestrained passion, the Yahoos, in Gulliver’s Travels. Mary, the Gulliver figure, rejects an offer of “the prosaic path of his life” with a dullard in favor of Latimer, the Houynyhm figure, who offers her (or so she thinks) a life of the mind. Her rejection of the Yahoo for the hyper-rational scholar is an enantiodromia that parallels Gulliver’s sad mimicking of the Houynyhms’ gait and speech. The allusion gently calls attention to the problematic thinking that underlies her marital choice. A bit later, a hotel porter tells Mary that the Vignaccia “belonged to a wine merchant in Lugano” and that “its vineyards were valuable; some of the best wine in the neighbourhood came from them” (41).The detail may suggest the potential for a fertile married life that does not materialize at the castle, while the vineyard, though profitable, produces a drink that dulls the senses in much the same way that life there withers Mary’s capacity for hope. The final reference is to “Poor Darnfield! Let to a whisky distiller nowadays, for Sir Arthur and Lady Carlton were both dead” (63).The association with a purveyor of alcohol is a fitting outcome for a place where Mary’s family sought to squelch her intellectual interests the way alcohol dulls the senses.The family estate has finally fallen into the hands of someone who represents its negative role in Mary’s upbringing. At the end of the novel, although Mary is not a fully integrated personality, Hannah’s sense that Mary, free of the senex, will now marry the puer does not completely reflect the progress she has made (221). Having had a transrational experience with a helpful spirit and having benefited from the positive example of a Madame de Villeneuve, Mary is unlikely ever to repeat her error in marrying a one-sided man like Latimer; is equally unlikely ever to succumb to the dullness of an unworthy suitor; and will seek the unity of body, heart, and mind with Maurice, a man whose character and interests make him a suitable match for a widowed and very chastened book worm.

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Notes 1 The following institutions own the book: Library of Congress, University of Illinois, Dartmouth College, New York Public Library, and University of Tulsa. 2 Hannah’s essay was originally published as “The Problem of Women’s Plots in The Evil Vineyard” by The Guild of Pastoral Psychology (lecture no. 51, Feb. 1948, H. H. Greaves). The February 1964 reprint indicates that Hannah’s lecture was delivered at The Psychological Club in Zurich on June 15 and 29, 1946. The dates for the presentation given by the editor in The Animus: The Spirit of Inner Truth in Women—June 15 and 19, 1948— appear to be incorrect (vol. 2, 172, n. 1). 3 “During the 16th Century the most feared soldiers on Europe’s battlefields were the landsknechts. These German mercenaries had such a reputation for unprincipled, ruthless violence [that] one chronicler remarked that the devil refused to let landsknechts into hell because he was afraid of them. This infamy was not undeserved as it was not unknown for entire regiments of landsknechts to swap sides in the middle of a battle if they were offered more money or to desert en masse when there was no more gold to pay them” (“Meet the Landsknechts”). 4 See H. N. Coleridge, editor, Specimens of Table Talk of the Late Samuel Taylor Coleridge, vol. 2, John Murray, 1835. “The truth is, a great mind must be androgynous” appears in the entry for September 1, 1832 (96). 5 Marie Hay married in 1903 when she was 29, the same age as Mary during the main part of The Evil Vineyard (124). Beneckendorff was 31 when they married, the same age as Maurice. Hay died in 1938 at the age of 65. 6 The source of this information is Alfred Burton’s Rush-bearing: An Account of the Old Custom of Strewing Rushes: Carrying Rushes to Church;The Rush-Cart; Garlands in Churches; Morris-Dancers;The Wakes;The Rush, Brook & Chrystal, 1891, pp. 1–12. 7 Wolff states, “The function of the Hetaira is to awaken the individual psychic life in the male and to lead him through and beyond his male responsibilities towards the formation of a total personality” (7). Like Mary, the Hetaira may experience sexuality as the result of a relationship, but sometimes she eschews sexuality altogether (8). Mary ends up being instead a “medial woman,” one who is “absorbed and moulded by” “the collective (impersonal) unconscious” (11). Wolff ’s conclusion fits Mary’s situation precisely: “As objective psychic contents in herself and in others are not understood, or are taken personally, she experiences a destiny not her own as though it were her own and loses herself in ideas which do not belong to her. Instead of being a mediatrix, she is only a means and becomes the first victim of her own nature” (12). 8 Of “intellectual women,” Jung writes: “Without knowing it, such women are solely intent upon exasperating the man and are, in consequence, the more completely at the mercy of the animus. ‘Unfortunately I am always right,’ one of these creatures once confessed to me” (CW 7, par. 335). Of the women’s movement, Emma Jung writes, “Happily, we have today survived the worst product of this struggle, the ‘bluestocking.’ Woman has learned to see that she cannot become like a man because first and foremost she is a woman and must be one” (5). 9 The ghost ball reference is to the story “The Three Low Masses,” section 3, in Alphonse Daudet’s Letters from My Windmill. One further suspects that Hay’s reference to a Bergson lecture is of a piece with the hunt balls. Mrs. Edith Gunten—Lady Carlton’s sister, Mary’s aunt—reports that Lady Cynthia Selby asked her at “one of those marvellous Bergson lectures” if Mary was planning to marry Latimer (25).The reference is to the philosopher Henri Bergson. For example, according to “Henri Bergson” in the Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy, “Bergson’s lectures at the Collège de France were filled to capacity, not only with society ladies and their suitors, but also with a whole generation of philosophy students (Étienne Gilson and Jean Wahl among others) and poets such as T. S. Eliot.” Whether the lecture in question was in Paris or London matters little. For Mrs. Gunten at least, the lecture seems to be merely an occasion for gossip about a relative. In addition,

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Bergson’s 1913 Presidential Address, “Phantasms of the Living and Psychical Research,” at the Society for Psychical Research in London, ties in nicely with the ghost theme in The Evil Vineyard. 10 Marie-Louise von Franz’s statement—“Just as the Self is not entirely contained in our conscious experience of time (in our space-time dimension), it is also simultaneously omnipresent” (200)—lends credibility to Hannah’s suggestion that the unseen being is the Self. 11 Hannah stresses that, on the train trip, Latimer, Mary, Race, and Waters constitute a quaternity (204); but she overlooks the fact that Latimer, Mary, Maurice, and Madame de Villeneuve also constitute a quaternity at the Vignaccia. It appears that Hay does not assign the same significance to the number four as Jungians do. Waters is a cipher, and only after Latimer’s death reduces the quaternity to a trinity does Mary have a chance to come into her own.

7 HYPERTEXT IN THE EVIL VINEYARD

As the preceding chapter demonstrates, there is much in The Evil Vineyard that C. G. Jung and Barbara Hannah, in their archetypal readings, either underestimate or overlook entirely. Like the ghost plot, the novel’s relationship to other texts— its hypertextual dimension—is an essential addition. At one point, when “Chiesa’s ‘Legends’ ” fails to satisfy Mary—she finds it somber, morbid, and repellant—the narrator comments that there are “moments when there is no response in the reader” (77).1 But the novel itself is peppered with literary references that comment on the characters and their actions in ways that do evoke such a response.The allusions are not just literary decorations that show Mary to be a potential future blue-stocking but also a helpful commentary on the characters and their actions. Some allusions reflect the positive and negative currents in her reading prior to her first meeting with Latimer: the “treasures” and “well-bound books” in the Carltons’ home library versus the “French trash,” “dirty novels” (7), “rubbishy novels” (9), and “tommy rot” (23) such as Mary checks out of Day’s Library in London. There are references not only to these two libraries but also to the British Museum, where Mary “wandered about, with eager eyes of devout wonder” (14), and to the Vatican Library where Latimer pursues his research on the Landsknechts. Some texts validate a Jungian reading; some challenge it. Others warn, guide, set out ideals, invoke potential, create irony, underscore the love of life in Rome, express sympathy, reflect good or bad psychology, or comment on Mary’s desire to fall in love. Most importantly, an overall shift from prose to poetry and song is the marker, and perhaps an actual catalyst, for Mary’s transition from Latimer to Maurice and reinforces this chapter’s claim that Mary makes some genuine psychological progress. Given the extent and complexity of the hypertextual matrix in The Evil Vineyard, considering a “response in the reader” is a crucial component of interpretation. The novel’s first allusion, which is to the “French trash” that Sir Arthur Carlton wants to keep Mary from reading, comes in a conversation between Fräulein Alten

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and Mary in Berne. Alten says, “I’ve told you enough to show you that Berne is a hot-bed of vileness. I think history will compare it to Constance during the great Concilium.You remember the chapter in the ‘Contes Drolatiques’?” (4). The reference is to Honoré de Balzac’s “The Fair Imperia,” the first of his Droll Stories. A handsome young priest named Philippe de Mala, who is part of the Archbishop of Bordeaux’s retinue, falls in love with a courtesan named Imperia. “Mala” (Latin, bad), the pun on “malum” (apple), and the presence of a courtesan suggest that the story will be about sexual sinning. Imperia services the church officials who are meeting in the city of Constance, which is located in southern Germany along the Swiss border. In between meetings at which they hope to decide who will be the next Pope, they take their pleasure with courtesans. One night Philippe daringly encounters Imperia in her chamber, and they agree to meet again the next evening. The rendezvous is interrupted by the Bishop of Coire and, a bit later, by the Cardinal of Ragusa, who, wanting Imperia for himself that evening, gives Philippe two options: have her but die the next day or leave now and commit to the priesthood. The clever Philippe twists the latter option so that the Cardinal signs over an abbey to him; then he hides. The Cardinal uses fear of the plague to drive off the Bishop, but the stratagem alienates Imperia, who tells the Cardinal to come back the next day if he is not sick. When Philippe comes out of hiding, he and Imperia continue their evening together, and she promises to advance his career and to make him happy. “The Fair Imperia” parallels The Evil Vineyard not just because Berne rivals Constance in infamy but also because the characters project the anima and the animus.To begin with, the story serves as a foil to the situation in The Evil Vineyard. There are parallel love triangles: Imperia, the Cardinal of Ragusa, and Philippe versus Mary, Latimer, and Maurice. Of course, the story of an older, sexually experienced woman and a very young man reverses the December–May relationship between Latimer and Mary. Maurice and Mary are in an age-appropriate match, and they stand a better chance of succeeding in relationship than Latimer and Mary or Imperia and the young priest. Unlike Latimer and Mary, Imperia and Philippe are genuinely attracted to each other; and in contrast to Imperia, Mary has deep misgivings about sex. She “wondered if she had failed in her duty to her husband,” the narrator remarks about “things which had disgusted and perplexed her in the first months of her marriage” (27), and she declines a friendship with a married woman “when she found that friendship meant a detailed description of marital experiences” (29). Meanwhile, Latimer is at first lusty like the Cardinal of Ragusa but evidently ends up being impotent like the Archbishop of Bordeaux.The various relationships in the two works, along with all the sexual issues, reflect the projection of the anima and animus. In particular, Imperia’s name and status as a courtesan suggest that Philippe is being ruled by his projected anima—the Helen stage to be specific. And Imperia states, “I’m sickening for this little priest who dances through my brain” (12), though there may be a motherly element to her projection of the animus. Both works also include the projection of archetypes in a range of female types. In “The Fair Imperia” there is mention of ladies who “cultivate the

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prudent ways of holy virtue” and courtesans who illustrate “the graceful errings of the goddess Venus” (10). In The Evil Vineyard Lady Carlton is a sexually competent but intellectually dull wife who mistakes India for Egypt in Latimer’s travels, while the narrator notes that a woman who lives in London is “intelligent, a frump, or a snob” (10). Following the conversation between Mary and Fräulein Alten at the hotel in Berne, the narrator fills in the backstory, from Mary’s early days at Darnfield to her married life in Italy and Switzerland. The next literary reference comes in that retrospective narrative and informs a conversation with Lady Carlton during the first season in London. “Mary, who had been reading ‘Peter Ibbetson,’ begged to be allowed to go to cheap seats in the gallery.” When her mother demands to know what gave her that idea, she replies, “Oh! only that book of [George] du Maurier’s, where Peter Ibbetson hears all the beautiful things and hears them better than the people in the boxes.” Her mother admonishes her for taking “rubbishy novels” seriously and threatens to cancel her subscription to Day’s Library (9). Lady Carlton sets up repression and the necessity for compensation by seeing it as “her duty to thwart her offspring in their most innocuous desires” (11). The concern is that what Hannah calls “the toxins of modern novels” will contaminate Mary’s imagination (182). Then Lady Carlton condemns “all these nasty modern novels” in an argument with her sister, Mrs. Edith Gunten (11), much as Latimer later reacts to Madame de Villeneuve’s book about the Vignaccia by calling it “a collection of lies, a pack of rubbish” (162). Here is the basic plot of Peter Ibbetson. Peter, finding out that his uncle may be his biological father, kills him, and is sentenced to death. Later his sentence is commuted to life in prison, and he eventually ends up living in the asylum part of the prison. But along the way he discovers that he can achieve “true dreams” in which he can spend time with the Duchess of Towers, who turns out to be his childhood friend Mary (Mimsey) Seraskier. Mary’s reference to du Maurier’s novel probably refers to this passage about the opera: there is “the long waiting in the street, at the doors reserved for those whose portion is to be the gallery. The hard-won seat aloft is reached at last, after a selfish but good-humored struggle up the long stone staircase . . .” (158). Notably, Peter and Mimsey later sit in a box at the opera in the world of dreams. However, there is no statement that those in the gallery hear better than those in the boxes. Hearing better than the people in the boxes, which is Mary’s reader response, exemplifies her romanticized view of art and the vulnerability of her imagination. There is more to the du Maurier allusion, however, than the opera or the basic opposition between the “treasures” (7) of the Carltons’ home library and the kind of books Mary finds at Day’s Library. Like Peter, Mary loves the humanities. More significantly, Peter Ibbetson’s emphasis on female agency—Juliet climbs the balcony, and Hero swims the Hellespont (383)—possibly inspires Mary to think that she can bring about her wishes, while the mention of Abélard and Héloïse may contribute to her hope that she and Latimer will have an emotionally and intellectually fulfilling relationship. These references no doubt color Mary’s imagination and motivate

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her to romanticize the potential of her relationship with Latimer. A more significant parallel is that both novels deal with the supernatural. Peter not only discovers a “fourth dimension” (15), a world of dreams, “a real, stable, and habitable world, which all who run may reach” (81), but also has experiences there with Mimsey on a nightly basis. They share a dream in which they can visit scenes and people from their own memories. Peter calls the state “Magna sed Apta,” great and apt (339).The location of their experience is not exactly the afterlife because it is hard for Mimsey to return to it after she passes away, but the word “ecstasy” (292) does suggest that their shared experiences take place out of body on the lower part of the astral plane. Certainly, “[i]t was no dream; it was a second life, a better land” because an experience shared by two people is objectively real (308). There are other confirmations that the dream encounters are real, most notably a note with flowers that Peter receives in prison; Mimsey tells him in the dream that she will send it to him. Like the touches on Mary’s forehead and the way the ghost restrains Latimer, the note is objective evidence that Peter’s paranormal experience is objectively real.The active agency is “some vast, mysterious power, latent in the sub-consciousness of man— unheard of, undreamed of as yet, but linking him with the Infinite and the Eternal” (331). Time and space disappear in the dream world, much as Mary’s connection with the helpful spirit transports her “beyond the world of everyday cognisance [space]” and “into a plane where Time does not exist” (Hay 108). Reading Peter Ibbetson probably prepares Mary to accept the reality of her own positive spiritual experience, and the language in which the dead Mimsey addresses Peter points to the hieros gamos, the sacred or ideal marriage. “But not till you join me shall you and I be complete, and free to melt away in that universal ocean, and take our part, as One, in all that is to be” (394). It will be “a consummation of completeness beyond which there is nothing to wish for or imagine” (404). Peter and Mimsey even experience a wedding feast in the dream world.That their sacred marriage exists not on the physical plane but beyond time and space should serve as a warning to Mary that the ideal cannot be found in the temporal realm of flesh and blood. She does, however, apprehend one useful message. Peter writes of Mimsey, “Elle a toutes les intelligences de la tête et du coeur”: she has all the intelligences of the head and of the heart (412). The statement parallels Mary’s important realization that “heart, brain and body are a trinity” (Hay 130) and the narrator’s reference to the love between Mary and Maurice as “a union which was of the spirit, of the flesh, of the essence of their beings” (144–45). Although marrying Latimer is a mistake, her relationship with Maurice will bring her closer to the union of spirits depicted in Peter Ibbetson. Love is also the theme of the next allusions that Hay builds into her narrative. After Mary returns from her second season in London, Latimer visits the family at Darnfield, where they have a discussion about books and reading. Shyly she had told him of her love for Keats’ “Endymion” and for Shelley. Latimer took the volume of the “Collected Works,” and turning the leaves with his long, muscular fingers, told her it was a first edition of the poems

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which Mary Shelley edited in 1839, and he spoke of that wonderful preface of hers, so full of sorrow, of love and wise restraint of expression. Latimer’s whole being seemed changed as he talked; it was as though he had removed a mask and Mary saw him for the first time. (20–21) The basic plot of Endymion involves the title character’s pursuit of a love-­relationship with the goddess Cynthia. In the course of his journey he encounters an Indian maiden, eschews Cynthia for the mortal woman, and then discovers that she is Cynthia in disguise. The poem emphasizes that the abstract ideal can be achieved only by embracing human experience. As Harold Bloom writes, “Keats’s special emphasis in Endymion’s baffled quest is on the value of instinctive impulses, which bind us to the earth” (371). If Mary had understood that message, she would not have tried to achieve an intellectual life apart from instinct, emotion, and the body; intellectual interests alone drive Mary’s marriage choice. Moreover, according to Bloom, Endymion “has passed from innocence to experience, touched the hell within experience, and is ready for a more organized innocence that may precede the vision of art” (377). Mary has a similar progression: assuming in her youth that intellection is the key to happiness (innocence); enduring a failed marriage (experience); and hoping for a life with Maurice that unites head, heart, and body (organized innocence). With respect to sexuality, she progresses from virginity to sexual frigidity in marriage to the promise of a fulfilling sexual life with Maurice. That potential is obvious when Mary and Maurice lock eyes and understand that their union is one of spirit, flesh, and essence.Thus, Endymion and The Evil Vineyard share an interest in finding a great love and affirming faculties other than the intellect; but the further implication is that Mary will not, as Hannah claims, merely swing from intellect with Latimer to heart and body with Maurice, with the possibility of one day reversing back to intellect. On the contrary, married life with Maurice may well be a gateway to a proper synthesis of intellectual ideal and physical/emotional grounding to the earth—not a swing to the opposite but genuine individuation. It is hard to believe that a woman whose journey parallels Endymion’s and who realizes the importance of uniting head with heart and body would succumb to enantiodromia. Endymion, along with the reference to Mary Shelley, has still other parallels to The Evil Vineyard. The poem’s famous first line, “A thing of beauty is a joy for ever,” resonates with Hay’s narrator’s comment, “[t]he love of beauty is an intense joy” (84), versus the repulsion Mary feels in the dingy hotel room in Berne. A bit later she thinks, “In silence and beauty the wounded soul can heal its hurts” (107). She cannot remember where she read these words; they have no source that could be located and seem to be an amalgam of personal intention and Romantic sensibility. Further, Keats’s “known Unknown!” (2.739) is an apposite description of the guardian spirit that comforts and assists her at the Vignaccia (although it is likely to be Enrico’s murdered Lady, no definitive identification is possible). Endymion also contains parallels to the men in Mary’s life. As Bloom states, “The man cut off from

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others and from his own true imagination is in hell, for the Romantic hell is neither other people nor oneself but the absence of relationship between the two” (371– 72). The absence of relationship aptly describes Latimer’s isolation from his former self, from his wife, and from all others. In his possession by Enrico, Latimer is indeed in hell, like the poet in Shelley’s “Alastor; or The Spirit of Solitude”: he dreams of a “veiled maid” who is “[h]erself a poet” (lines 151, 161) and in attempting to find her in the physical world eschews relationship with “an Arab maiden” (line 129). In other words, he attempts to find the anima archetype in the concrete world, much as Endymion tries to find Cynthia. But this time the Arab maiden does not turn out to be the visionary maid, and the poet dies alone in the wilderness, lacking the harmony in his soul that leads to relationship. In contrast, Keats’s comment on music anticipates Maurice’s musical ability and deepens the contrast with Latimer: “O did he ever live, that lonely man, / Who loved—and music slew not? ’Tis the pest / Of love, that fairest joys give most unrest” (2.364–66). When music stirs a lonely man’s emotions, that unrest may lead out of solipsism to personal relationship. For Shelley’s poet and Hay’s Latimer, this outcome is sadly not the case. Relational potential is in tune with the definition of love that lies behind the novel’s reference to Percy Bysshe Shelley. In “A Defence of Poetry,” he writes of love as a kind of intellectual empathy: The great secret of morals is love; or a going out of our own nature, and an identification of ourselves with the beautiful which exists in thought, action, or person, not our own. A man, to be greatly good, must imagine intensely and comprehensively; he must put himself in the place of another and of many others; the pains and pleasures of his species must become his own. (1135) Interestingly, Latimer talks not about Shelley’s poetry or prose but about Mary Shelley’s Preface to her husband’s poems, which is “so full of sorrow, of love and wise restraint of expression” (20–21). For example, Mary Shelley states that Percy was “a sublime genius” whose works “sprang, living and warm, from his heart and brain.” He possessed “a gentle and cordial goodness,” was passionate about ridding “life of its misery and its evil,” “was generous to [the point of] imprudence,” and was “devoted to heroism.” Of his poems, Mary Shelley states that they depict “[t]he struggle for human weal; the resolution firm to martyrdom; the impetuous pursuit, the glad triumph in good; [and] the determination not to despair.” Latimer is obviously no block of stone because his “whole being seemed changed as he talked; it was as though he had removed a mask and Mary saw him for the first time” (21). The implication is that he may hope for a loving and intellectual relationship such as the Shelleys enjoyed. In fact, Latimer’s recollection of the Preface is clearly his finest moment, for he speaks not only from his brain but also from his heart about the praise of the sort of man he should aspire to be. He may also hope that, when he is gone, he too will be praised by his own widow in the kind of laudatory terms that Mary Shelley uses in her Preface. Instead, Latimer’s story tragically departs from the

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lofty ideals expressed in the Preface; and at the end of the novel, rather than praising his virtues, Mary covers up her husband’s crime so as not to sully his academic reputation. His legacy is not to be a beacon for humanity but to be remembered merely as the owner of a giant brain. His orientation toward his wife is anything but “a going out” of his own nature. Mary and Latimer’s conversation about Keats and the Shelley depicts, in miniature, an overall current of Hay’s use of literary allusion: namely, the shift from poetry to prose. Mary’s initial expression of interest in the poetry of Keats and Shelley implies that her intellect is open to the heart. Latimer, despite his emotional reaction to the Preface, shifts the conversation from poetry to prose, which implies the ascendancy of intellect and subtly recalls Lady Carlton’s statement that Mary will have to entertain Latimer “if he begins prosing about Roman remains” (17; emphasis added). At the end of the Keats/Shelley conversation, Mary’s admission that she does not know what to read opens the way for Latimer’s gift of books—nearly all prose and all by male writers. Although even Homer has been rendered in prose, Mary’s reaction echoes “the enchanted garden of her mind” (8), which suggests the magical nature of reading for a young woman who longs for intellectual stimulation. What a joy the contents of that parcel had been! Butcher’s Prose Translation of the Odyssey; The Thoughts of Marcus Aurelius; Pater’s “Greek Studies”; Eugenie Sellers’ translation of Furtwängler’s Greek Art; Hare’s “Walks in Rome”; Symonds’ “Sketches and Studies in Italy and Greece”; the Poetical Works of John Keats; Meredith’s “Diana of the Crossways”; “John Inglesant,” Shorthouse’s one great book; and Samuel Butler’s “Erewhon”—it was a heterogeneous collection, but there was wisdom in the choice, for Mary could find many starting points for serious reading if her mind were ready for it. How she had read! It had been to her like coming out of a dark house into an enchanted garden; she had seen fair pathways leading to inexhaustible forests, as if the whole world had been opened out for her to explore.” (23; emphasis added) Ironically, the passage begins with The Odyssey, which contains a warning that Latimer overlooks. Washed up on the shore of Phaiakia, Odysseus first encounters the teenage Nausikaa, who represents the temptation to start his life over again with a much younger woman. Whereas Odysseus resists, partly because Arete, Nausikaa’s mother, possesses intelligence and grace that are reminiscent of Penelope and home, Latimer gives in to the temptation of a relationship in which Mary is “the child” and he “her father” (26). There is one further Odyssean element in the narrator’s comment about how thinking of something else can change one’s mood, though the attempt usually involves shifting “from the Scylla of one gloomy mood to the Charybdis of irritation” (84). Mary does succeed in brightening her mood at the hotel in Berne on this occasion, though the twin Homeric perils may parallel her discontentment at both Darnfield and the Vignaccia: her intellect is ridiculed in one setting and ignored in the other.

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The previous sections examine the significance of Keats’s poems to Hay’s narrative, and some of the other items on the list need only a brief mention. For example, three of the volumes that Latimer sends to Mary reflect his interests in archeology, classical civilization, and Rome. The Adolf Furtwängler reference is apparently to Masterpieces of Greek Sculpture; A Series of Essays on the History of Art, which is a nearly 500-page reference book. By an interesting coincidence, the name of Furtwängler’s early mentor Heinrich von Brunn (“Adolf Furtwängler”) is eerily similar to Heinrich von Brunnen, leader of the Landsknechts. Augustus J. C. Hare’s Walks in Rome is a travel guide of similar length packed with details about specific places. One suspects that Latimer’s motive in giving Mary these books is to fire her imagination with thoughts of foreign lands in anticipation of his proposal that she accompany him as his wife. He “[tells] her of Greece, of the Acropolis, of Mycenæ, of Delphi; giving her Egypt in carefully chosen words; showing her Rome, Florence, Siena, the Etruscan tombs at Corneto; painting Naples and Pompeii, the temples of Pæstum for her—until she was like a dazzled, half-hypnotised being” (24). Even later, as the novel approaches its climax, the narrator stresses that “she had learned to love Rome with that clinging, personal love which we give to the home of our youth” (117). John Addington Symonds’s Sketches and Studies in Italy and Greece, an account of the author’s travels, is both more personal and more thematically relevant than either Furtwängler or Hare. The book is written from a first-person point of view, and even his dreams are all about physical places. References to competing condottieri and to a soldier who deserts to another camp faintly echo the ways of the Landsknechts (Symonds 195–96). But what would have caught the attention of Mary, who has already mentioned the opera reference in Peter Ibbetson to her mother, are the comments on opera. The chapter “Cherubino at the Scala Theatre” resonates strongly with The Evil Vineyard’s emphasis on what Hannah calls the female plot—Mary’s desire to find a fulfilling relationship. Symonds describes Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart’s The Marriage of Figaro, in which the character Cherubino’s attitude is summed up as follows: “I loved not yet, but was in love with loving; I sought what I should love, being in love with loving.” That sentence, penned by S. Augustine and consecrated by Shelley, describes the mood of Cherubino. He loves at every moment of his life, with every pulse of his being. His object is not a beloved being, but love itself—the satisfaction of an irresistible desire, the paradise of bliss which merely loving has become for him. (232) In her marriage to Latimer, Mary too is not in love but in love with loving, like the solipsistic poet in “Alastor,” to which the Augustine quotation is an epigraph. Symonds’s reference to Mozart’s Don Giovanni provides a further warning to Mary about the perils of romantic love. Of the central figure Don Juan, Symonds writes: “He is the incarnation of lust that has become a habit of the soul—rebellious, licentious, selfish, even cruel. His nature, originally noble and brave, has assumed

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the qualities peculiar to lust—rebellion, license, cruelty, defiant egotism . . . he is impelled by some demonic influence, spurred on by yearnings after an unsearchable delight” (231). The description largely applies to Latimer as well, and the love triangle of Don Juan, the Countess, and her husband anticipates not only the love triangle of Maurice, Mary, and Latimer but also a similar triangle among an anonymous lover, the Lady of the Vignaccia, and Enrico. Thus, Sketches and Studies in Italy and Greece anticipates Mary’s marriage (her hamartia), Latimer’s fate, and The Evil Vineyard’s love plot. It is an ironic gift because neither Latimer nor Mary is aware that they will soon experience the same drama as Mozart’s characters. Walter Horatio Pater’s Greek Studies: A Series of Essays continues the emphasis on Latimer’s interest in antiquity, his probable manipulation of Mary, and the foreshadowing of later events. One passage resonates with life at the Vignaccia. The religion of Dionysus takes us back, then, into that old Greek life of the vineyards, as we see it on many painted vases, with much there as we should find it now, as we see it in Bennozzo Gossoli’s mediaeval fresco of the Invention of Wine in the Campo Santo at Pisa—the family of Noah presented among all the circumstances of a Tuscan vineyard, around the press from which the first wine is flowing, a painted idyll, with its vintage colours still opulent in decay, and not without its solemn touch of biblical symbolism. (10) The Greek vineyards parallel the Vignaccia, whose “vineyards were valuable; some of the best wine in the neighbourhood came from them” (41). The painting by Benozzo Gozzoli (the standard spelling today)—“Grape Harvest and Drunkenness of Noah” or “The Vintage and Drunkenness of Noah”—depicts the generations and sexes of Noah’s family as they work together to harvest and crush grapes. Here fertility is the outcome of both successful agriculture and family life. The Evil Vineyard offers no such idyll; the narrator never returns to the castle’s vineyards; and the Latimers’ married life at the Vignaccia does not involve sex, much less procreation. The “solemn touch of biblical symbolism” alludes to Noah’s drunkenness; he is sprawled on his back in the lower right corner, as out of his mind as the possessed Latimer. Greek Studies also mentions Noah’s antitype, Odysseus, who visits “the little island town of the Phaeacians” and the palace of Alcinous; and it later mentions “the curiously beautiful chamber in which Nausicaa sleeps” (113, 138)—another reminder of the Greek Hero’s restraint versus the Latimers’ December-May marriage. As for Dionysus, Pater points out that he is “a dual god of both summer and winter” (23), which ties in with wine’s dual ability to enliven or lower consciousness and the archetypes’ positive and negative characteristics. Dionysus (Bacchus) is associated with civilization, as in Edmund Spenser’s The Faerie Queene (V.i.1–2): “Whereas overindulgence causes drunkenness, wine properly used has a ‘civilizing influence,’ and Spenser’s view of Bacchus is highly positive”; Bacchus is also a figure of justice and a righter of wrongs” (Fike, Spenser’s Underworld 35–36).2 The Latimers’ trajectory in The Evil Vineyard is from civilization in Rome to isolation at

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the Vignaccia; and Latimer—no righter of wrongs—never recovers in the way that Dionysus moves from winter to summer. Jung’s misreading of The Evil Vineyard relates to Pater’s three “phases” of “development” that influence a myth like the story of Demeter. Interpretation begins with a “half-conscious, instinctive, or mystical, phase” characterized by “primitive impressions of the phenomena of the natural world” (52), which sounds a bit like Jung’s comments about participation mystique and primitive cultures and resonates with Latimer’s sense of such cultures. “Yes,” he states, “they are nasty beggars to deal with, these natives, if you happen to knock up against some of their superstitions” (18). The second is a “conscious, poetical or literary, phase” characterized by poetic invention. Then comes the key point: “Thirdly, the myth passes into the ethical phase, in which the persons and the incidents of the poetical narrative are realized as abstract symbols, because intensely characteristic examples, of moral or spiritual conditions” (Pater 53). Jung and Hannah are interested not in the novel’s mystical elements or its craft (phases one and two) but rather in the characters’ ethical/ moral/spiritual conditions or, in short, their psychological dynamics (phase three). In the nutshell of Pater’s phases of interpretation lie both a range of interpretative techniques and a key to the limits of a purely psychological approach. For all of Jung’s complaints about modern science in The Red Book (for example, “In our country we are nurtured on [science] from youth, and that may be one reason why we haven’t properly flourished and remain so dwarfish” [279]), it appears that he sides with science in his interpretation of The Evil Vineyard. Pater bows to psychoanalysis in stating, “Modern science explains the changes of the natural world by the hypothesis of certain unconscious forces; and the sum of these forces, in their combined action, constitutes the scientific conception of nature” (55). But there is an “older unmechanical, spiritual, or Platonic, philosophy [that] envisages nature rather as a unity of a living spirit or person, revealing itself in various degrees to the kindred spirit of the observer, than as a system of mechanical forces.” He notes that it is “systematized” in the works of Wordsworth and Shelley in the form of “a personal intelligence abiding” in earth and sky (55). Although the latter remark resonates positively with the unus mundus, Jung’s reading of the novel obviates the possibility that a Romantic spirit of nature speaks to Mary in her time of need. Instead Pater’s Greek Studies succinctly points the way to an alternative reading: primitive, mystical elements in The Evil Vineyard—extrapsychic forces— complement the purely intrapsychic reading that Jung and Hannah advance. Pater’s Greek Studies pushes beyond the psychological into the metaphysical, but other volumes in Latimer’s gift of books to Mary offer problematic versions of human psychology. Samuel Butler’s Erewhon describes the visit of Higgs, the main character, to the land of Erewhon (“nowhere” spelled backwards, with w and h reversed) where the denizens deny the intergenerational influences on physical and psychological development. In an obvious satire on evolution, minors are forced to sign “a birth formula” that acknowledges that they, and not their parents, are responsible for their own personal deficiencies (163). Every signatory “professes to have been a free agent in coming into the world, and to take all the responsibility

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of having done so on to his own shoulders” (165). The Erewhonians’ inversion of human psychology should make Mary reflect on her family’s influences on her, particularly the shoddy treatment she receives from her brothers and mother regarding her intellectual interests. She is what she is, not because her family set out to make her that way but at least partially because they attempted to make her something else. Intellection is Mary’s genuine interest, but it is also a compensation for a lack of familial support for her interests. She doubles down. It may also be that the limiting of outcome to the agency of individual will accounts for Latimer’s vulnerability to the ghost of Enrico: perhaps he mistakes actual spiritual influence for the mere workings of his own psyche. Whereas Erewhon, as a satire, actually endorses the idea of parental influence by depicting the opposite, Marcus Aurelius’s Meditations is straightforward in its endorsement of the positive influence of family members. It also makes a blunt statement about good wives, who are said to be “so obedient, and so affectionate, and so simple” (7). If Latimer wants such a wife and thinks that Mary possesses these qualities, it is ironic that she misses the book’s implication and marries him anyway. It is doubly ironic that Aurelius subtly impugns the reading of his own book, not to mention gently aligning with Mary’s brothers, in advising readers to “[t]hrow away thy books” and “cast away the thirst after books” in order to avoid distractions, be cheerful, and foster gratitude to the gods (8). More significantly, Meditations establishes a terrible psychology that is relevant to The Evil Vineyard: excess reason, ignorance of the unconscious, and the repression of passion and imagination. If reason, “the ruling faculty,” stamps out lower desires and imagination, then “the mind which is free from passion is a citadel” (69): rational consciousness is a fortress that must be defended through repression of all else. Sans negative influences, reason can guide personal development: “These are the properties of the rational soul: it sees itself, analyzes itself, and makes itself such as it chooses” (92).The obvious objection is that the personal unconscious and the collective unconscious also influence our being and our becoming and that rationality, far from triumphing over the other faculties, must acknowledge and integrate contrary forces into conscious awareness. People like Mary and Latimer who follow Aurelius’s advice in ignoring the subrational power of the anima and the animus do so at their peril. The author is on firmer ground, however, in offering a criticism that underscores Latimer’s folly in purchasing the Vignaccia, which overlooks a beautiful lake. “Men seek retreats for themselves, houses in the country, seashores, and mountains . . . this is altogether a mark of the most common sort of men,” and it is better for a man to “retire into his own soul” (20). In other words, self-understanding is a worthier goal than material acquisition. Latimer also departs from other advice in Meditations: “Keep thyself then simple, good, pure, serious, free from affectation, a friend of justice, a worshipper of the gods, kind, affectionate, strenuous in all proper acts” (45). He should learn from others’ mistakes rather than recapitulating them: “It is thy duty to leave another man’s wrongful act [like Enrico’s] there where it is” (76). So far, Aurelius seems to be at odds with either Jungian psychology or the characters’ choices, but there are some positive intersections. His comment about

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“[t]he spherical form of the soul” (95) relates to the sense that spheres (like the golf ball in Mary’s dream) represent the wholeness of the Self. He seems to affirm the unus mundus in stating, “For there is one universe made up of all things, and one god who pervades all things, and one substance, and one law, [one] common reason in all intelligent animals, and one truth” (52; insertion in the original). Moreover, “[b]ody, soul, intelligence: to the body belong sensations, to the soul appetites, to the intelligence principles” (19) anticipates Mary’s realization that “heart, brain and body” must all be recognized and honored (Hay 130). The unus mundus also serves as a fundamental assumption in J. Henry Shorthouse’s John Inglesant: A Romance, and again there is irony in Latimer’s book gift. The novel describes the life of the title character, a man of great moral integrity who weaves in and out of historical events in seventeenth-century Europe, though the book is primarily about religion and ideas. Its incorporation of the unus mundus, “that common sympathy—magical and hidden though it may be—by which the whole creation is linked together” (316), has both psychological and spiritual implications. In the psychological sense, there are Inglesant’s moral integrity and capacity for forgiveness—connections among human beings require fidelity to one’s convictions and compassion toward others. For example, he is nearly executed early in the book because he refuses to break a vow to King Charles I; and later he forgives Malvolti, his brother’s murderer. Inglesant has the flexibility to see the world from others’ points of view, and he has greater capacity for loyalty and moral virtue than Latimer, who marries a teenager and gets seduced into Enrico’s revenge plot. George Latimer is clearly no John Inglesant, and it may be that reading John Inglesant raises Mary’s expectations of her husband’s moral worth. A further dimension of the unus mundus relates to spiritual phenomena, as when Inglesant sees Christ at a man’s deathbed (407). The novel describes such events in terms of the connection between the spirit world and the physical dimension. Imbrication is the rule, and there is a kind of natural supernaturalism to human life, for “the soul or spirit of every man in passing through life among familiar things is among supernatural things always, and many things seem to me miraculous which men think nothing of, such as memory, by which we live again in place and time” (40–41). Moreover, thoughts, fancies, and memories are the result of the alchemy of the immortal spirit, which takes all the pleasant, fragile things of life, and transmutes them into immortality in our own nature! And if the poor spirit and intellect of man can do this, how much more may the supreme creative intellect mould and form all things, and bring the presence of the supernatural face to face with us in our daily walk! (41) As for the latter, the sort of influence that spirits exert on living persons varies in intent. Some spiritual forces are negative: “We live and move amid a crowd of flitting objects unknown or dimly seen. The beings and powers of the unseen world throng around us. . . . Among this phantasm of struggling forms and influences . . .

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we fight our way toward the light” (314). Others, like the ghost of Strafford after his execution, are merely “the apparition that appeared,” a neutral presence (78). Still others are benevolent: “the Divine Voice” (103), “the voice of the inward monitor,” “the heavenly voice” (176), and the appearance of Christ at a man’s deathbed. The range of possibilities informs the negative threat from Enrico as well as the assistance of the benevolent spirit, and the spiritual phenomena in John Inglesant should have informed Mary’s understanding of events at the Vignaccia. It is ironic that she and Latimer both read Shorthouse yet do not understand that the spirit realm influences human events. She should realize, for example, that her helpful voice may be inner guidance, a guardian human spirit, or something divine. In any case, like the spiritual phenomena in Shorthouse’s novel, those in The Evil Vineyard are clearly not reducible to the play of archetypes. Had Jung and Hannah familiarized themselves with the content of Latimer’s book gift, they might have understood Hay’s intention to write a ghost story by including all parts of the unus mundus—not only matter and psyche but also spirit. Favoring psyche to the exclusion of spirit is an oversight akin to Mary’s error in relying only on intellect in her marriage choice. The inner voice that Mary and Inglesant both experience is also present in George Meredith’s Diana of the Crossways—“a voice within, that she [Diana] took for the intimations of her reason” and “her inward guide” (100, 178). Of all the volumes in the book gift, however, this one is the most ironic because Diana Antonia Merion’s journey and Mary Carlton’s have so many points of intersection. The Crossways, Diana’s ancestral home and her only valuable possession, is a metaphor for the choices she makes along the way. “I am always at crossways,” she remarks (259), and she does not always make the right turns. As the novel opens, the young Diana appears at a party that is the equivalent of the hunt balls in The Evil Vineyard. She is beautiful and intelligent: “the pick of living women” (248), one “of the women whose wits were quick in everything they do” (88), and a “man and woman in brains” (251).The latter sounds like Virginia Woolf ’s recollection of Samuel Taylor Coleridge’s androgynous mind (discussed in Chapter 6), but insofar as she “sustain[s] the weight of brains” (377) she risks becoming like her friend Lady Emma Dunstane who is thought to be “[a] bit of a blue-stocking” (154). “Women with brains, moreover, are all heartless: they have no pity for distress, no horror of catastrophes, no joy in happiness of the deserving” (341). The sort of bias against intelligent women that permeates The Evil Vineyard is present as well in Diana of the Crossways. Yet Diana’s masculine side receives a more favorable rendering in the reference to “the towering Britomart” (123), the female knight from Edmund Spenser’s The Faerie Queene, book 3, and Diana’s dog Leander, a Newfoundland, “the Hercules of dogs” (122). She is certainly superior to Mary in intelligence but shares with her “a woman’s inveterate admiration of the profession of arms” (30) and “a sexual aversion, of some slight kind” (45). Diana’s proper match is Mr. Thomas Redworth, who is very fond of her but does not propose because he wants to achieve greater financial stability before marriage. To his great disappointment, she marries Augustus Warwick, whom she does not love but values as a protector. Like Mary’s marriage to Latimer, her marriage

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to Warwick is her “original error” (63), though later “[s]he did not accuse her marriage of being the first fatal step: her error was to step into Society without the wherewithal to support her position there” (301). Warwick is described in terms that are eerily similar to Mary’s situation at the Vignaccia: “Her first and final impression likened him to a house locked up and empty:—a London house conventionally furnished and decorated by the upholsterer, and empty of inhabitants” (61). Not surprisingly, his interest in her “might be for her beauty only, not for her spiritual qualities!” (61). To Diana’s great distress, Warwick suspects her of an affair with the elderly Lord Dannisburgh (they simply have a friendly correspondence) and serves her “with a process” (71). She is exonerated in court and now lives apart from her husband, though at times she feels “as a quivering butterfly impalpably pinned” (95), and “[h]er bitter marriage, joyless in all its chapters . . . had been an imprisonment” (96).These phrases anticipate Latimer the spider in his central study in a house likened to a prison. Other descriptions of the Warwicks’ marriage have further parallels in The Evil Vineyard: Her dissensions with her husband, their differences of opinion, and puny wranglings, hoistings of two standards, reconciliations for the sake of decency, breaches of the truce, and his detested meanness, the man behind the mask; and glimpses of her too, the half-known, half-suspected, developing creature claiming to be Diana, and unlike her dreamed Diana, deformed by marriage, irritable, acerb, rebellious, constantly justifiable against him, but not in her own mind, and therefore accusing him of the double crime of provoking her and perverting her—these were the troops defiling through her head while she did battle with the hypocrite world. (97) Warwick’s meanness parallels Latimer’s taciturnity, and his mask anticipates the “mask” that Latimer removes when he begins talking about books (Hay 21). Like Mary, Diana is a “developing creature” who has not yet achieved her goal of being a mature, independent woman. Perhaps the Landsknechts’ battles with various adversaries are analogous to both couples’ archetypal projection of blame and continual discord. Diana’s marital dysfunction also foreshadows the Latimers’ problems in Diana’s statement to Emma: “No two have ever come together so naturally antagonistic as we two. We walked a dozen steps in stupefied union, and hit upon crossways. From that moment it was tug and tug; he me, I him. By resisting, I made him a tyrant; and he, by insisting, made me a rebel. And he was the maddest of tyrants—a weak one” (131). The Warwicks and the Latimers have a similar tyrantvictim dynamic in their marriages; however, Diana, who understands that Warwick is a tyrant because she makes him one, is self-aware in ways that Mary is not. Her realization illustrates “the [same] undeviating law: as the female is, so is the male” (Hay 62). Although Diana experiences “a wreck of marriage” and a “life with her husband [that] was a dungeon to her nature” (Meredith 259, 266), she acknowledges that Warwick “is not a contemptible man before the world” but “merely a

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very narrow one under close inspection” (131). Still, though he wants a reconciliation, she ignores him and never forgives him. Not long afterwards, he is killed in an accident. Latimer, in contrast, dies while trying to murder his wife (allegorically, a complete failure of heart/love kills both his body and his brain). After Diana wins her legal case, she cruises the Mediterranean on the Clarissa, a sailboat whose name represents clarity of sight and suggests a contrast to Samuel Richardson’s Clarissa whose virtuous title character, Clarissa Harlowe, is wronged in various ways by her parents and by her would-be husband, Robert Lovelace. Although parents and men present similar challenges in each novel, Clarissa’s life ends tragically, whereas Diana’s ending is comic. In that respect, the characters are foils: Diana, despite many difficulties, manages to transcend the forces to which Clarissa ultimately succumbs. Part of that upward journey involves spending time on the yacht, where Diana’s hosts are Lord and Lady Esquart—they are “as lovers in wedlock on the other side of our perilous forties” (138)—who provide her with a snapshot of an ideal marital relationship. Indeed, “the curious exhibition of ‘love in marriage’ shown by her amiable host and hostess” gives her hope of “human happiness” (141). Back in London, she takes up fiction writing and becomes “Queen of the Salon” (265), an achievement that resonates with Mary’s desire to “have a salon in London, a brilliant house where all the poets, authors, actors, and musicians would find a second home” (Hay 14). Diana’s novels are no doubt superior to “the stuff that Danvers [her maid] delighted to read!—wicked princes, rogue noblemen, titled wantons, daisy and lily innocents, traitorous marriages, murders, a gallows dangling a corpse dotted by a moon, and a woman bowed beneath” (302). This material clearly parallels the rubbish that Mary is accused of reading. During the same period, Diana has a long relationship with Percy Dacier, the nephew of Lord Dannisburgh, while Redworth rises to be a king of the railways—“the lordly merchant, the mighty financier” (262). Although Diana and Percy pledge themselves to each other and she is “the woman to be his wife . . . [and] his mind’s mate” (316), they split up when, under financial pressure, she sells a piece of confidential information that he has shared with her to a newspaper. She thought that there would be no harm; but he feels betrayed, leaves her, and marries a wealthy heiress named Miss Constance Asper. Percy never forgives Diana and cannot trust her again, much as Diana refuses to forgive Warwick. As her mistakes indicate, Diana, though sympathetic, is not a flawless character; like the archetypes, she is a mixture of darkness and light, as several statements directly suggest. She says, “My Christian name! It is Pagan. In one sphere I am Hecate” (213). She notes, “I remember I was writing a story, named THE MAN OF TWO MINDS. I shall sign it By The Woman of Two Natures” (360). Also, “[s]he had no intimate understanding of the deadly wrestle of the conventional woman with her nature which she was undergoing below the surface” (222). What emerges is a portrait of a woman who is more individuated than Mary but is still in progress because she is not fully aware of what is happening in the unconscious. Much as Darnfield passes out of the Carlton family’s hands, Diana eventually sells The Crossways to Redworth but feels as if the transaction and the presence of

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his servants have turned her former home “into a trap” (379). As for Redworth, he lacks “the slightest clue to the daily shifting feminine maze he beheld” (384), just as Mary thinks that she and Latimer “have lost our way in a labyrinth” (Hay 199). Maze/labyrinth is indeed a fitting image for the perilous psychological obstacles that Diana and Mary must negotiate on the way to union with a proper husband— Diana to Redworth and Mary to Maurice. All is well that ends well. But insofar as Diana’s journey anticipates Mary’s in various ways, it is ironic that Latimer gives her Diana of the Crossways and that neither sees it as a warning against marrying without love. Sadly, Mary recapitulates Diana’s marital error instead of learning from it. Diana of the Crossroads is the last volume in Latimer’s book gift to Mary, but there is one further allusion that precedes Maurice’s arrival. Mary asks her husband about the Vignaccia: “Is it a peaceful old house, such as I have always imagined the Landvogt von Greifensee living in?” Latimer replies, “Not a bit like that, nor like any other place in Gottfried Keller’s books!” (34). The novella in question is Der Landvogt von Greifensee, or The Governor of Greifensee, which recalls the title character Colonel Solomon Landolt’s courtship of his “old sweethearts”—“Salome, Figura, Wendelgard, Barbara, [and] Aglaia” (10, 92). At the end of the story, the governor, now forty-two and never married, invites all five women to his home to watch him judge some legal cases and to share a meal with him. Notably, “the [dining] arrangement suggested a Round Table spread only for electoral princes” (87): the Arthurian allusion suggests that the host has made progress in the individuation process toward wholeness and the Self. He asks his guests whether he should marry his housekeeper, Frau Marianne, or the server—“a very experienced old woman, or else a very young girl” (92). They pick the young woman who turns out to be a boy in disguise. Solomon remains single and devotes his life to public service. After governorships end in 1798, he continues to help people; enjoys “painting, hunting, and riding” (99); and dies at age seventy-seven. The novella is relevant to The Evil Vineyard for a number of reasons. It not only illustrates the proper, careful courtship and age-appropriate relationship that Latimer and Mary do not have but also sketches a fulfilling alternative to married life such as Latimer might have pursued, though probably no such independent lifestyle was available to Mary. In The Governor, marriage to a very young female is dangled as a possibility but ends up being merely the evening entertainment with a comic twist. More ominously, the novella depicts the fact that women can be duplicitous (Wendelgard is out to marry a rich man), which should have served as a warning to Latimer, just as the governor’s possible marriage to a teenage girl should have warned Mary. Solomon, as wise a judge as his biblical namesake, has no intention of being unequally yoked in marriage. The fundamental shift in The Evil Vineyard, from intellect to emotion, runs parallel to a shift from prose, such as the books in Latimer’s gift, to poetry and song in Maurice’s courtship of Mary. Compensation characterizes her relationships with both men. The Carltons have not supported Mary’s intellectual interests, so she marries a man who gives her books. Latimer is emotionally distant, so she gravitates to a man who shows her genuine warmth. Whereas Hannah argues that Mary will tire of relationship with Maurice and swing back to the intellectual side of her

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personality, it seems more likely that Maurice is her life-long mate—a final destination rather than a waypoint in an ongoing cycle. Music provides one way to escape enantiodromia, for, as Emma Jung writes, music can be an important vehicle for a woman to access the depths of psyche. For music can be understood as an objectification of the spirit; it does not express knowledge in the usual logical, intellectual sense, nor does it shape matter; instead, it gives sensuous representation to our deepest associations and most immutable laws. In this sense, music is spirit, spirit leading into obscure distances beyond the reach of consciousness . . . music admits us to the depths where spirit and nature are still one—or have again become one. For this reason, music constitutes one of the most important and primordial forms in which woman ever experiences spirit. (36) It is not surprising, then, that music frames Mary’s first experience of the voice. She looks out a window “at the smiling beauty of the lake; a row-boat passed with two workmen in it. One man was singing a melody from the ‘Dollar princess’ ” (106). After her trance experience, she recalls the song “Still wie die Nacht und tief wie das Meer, soll deine Liebe sein.” The narrator states that “her governess had sung that long ago at Darnfield. Some day perhaps this sacrament of the soul would come to her—and meanwhile she was safe” (110). Here are the song’s full lyrics, with the title translated in lines 1–3: As quiet as the night And deep as the sea, Your love should be! If you love me The same as I love you, I want to be yours. As hot as steel And as firm as a rock Your love should be! The song, by Carl Bohm, celebrates a love that combines opposites—calmness/ depth, passion/stability—and emphasizes the importance of reciprocity in love. The Dollar Princess makes the same point, as a summary indicates: “Now that Fredy has shown he is in every way Alice’s financial equal, there is no longer any bar to their love and everything can come to a tidy happy ending” (Die Dollarprinzessin). Here, the characters’ similar financial status corresponds to the similar ages of Mary and Maurice. Thus, song not only frames Mary’s visionary experience but also validates a key aspect of its content: the voice’s implication that “he for whom [she] wait[s]” (109) is an appropriately yoked partner with whom she can share a deep and genuine love, rather than a person who serves as an object of temporary projection.

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Five pages after the narrator mentions Byron’s “Rome, city of the soul” (discussed in Chapter 6), Mary sees Maurice for the first time and notes that “he limped slightly” (117, 122). The allusions to Byron imply that Maurice, who combines martial capacity with emotion, is a more individuated personality than Latimer. In fact, Maurice is a mean between soldiers who represent unacceptable extremes— Latimer, who volunteers for the front out of intellectual curiosity and ends up with shell shock, and Enrico, who manifests extreme cruelty. With music in his soul, Maurice, the wounded veteran of the Black Watch, a Scottish infantry regiment, is like Latimer without the shell shock and like Enrico without the cruelty. A man of action who has the capacity for deep love, a man whose “heart, brain and body” are unified (130), is the goal of Mary’s quest. They grow close emotionally in a way that contradicts notions of “Chance” (87), “destiny—beyond our control” (35), and fate (90). Despite the narrator’s implication that they are playing roles assigned by ghosts or archetypes, their conversation demonstrates that they are the authors of their own story. Maurice notes, “How one worships the makers of beauty,” and Mary responds, “You had dreamed of being a maker too?” (127). Although the exchange refers to musicians, one may recall that Sir Philip Sidney’s identification of a poet as “a maker” (274). Mary and Maurice, the text implies, are now the creators of their own story, not pawns in someone else’s. Now they pass subtle messages to each other—Mary, that her marriage is awful; Maurice, that they can co-create a beautiful life together. They are acting subjects rather than passive receivers of destiny’s dictates, and now Mary and Maurice woo each other with poetry and song, practically right under Latimer’s nose. Mary quotes lyrics from Joseph Victor von Scheffel’s 1853 poem, Der Trompeter von Säckingen (The Trumpeter of Sackingen), which was made into an opera. The story concerns a love story that ends happily (“Der Trompeter”), and Mary’s German governess used to sing these lines to her: “Behüt’ dich Gott, es wär zu schön gewesen,/Behüt’ dich Gott, es hat nicht sollen sein!” (God help you, it was too old, / God help you, it was not supposed to be) (128). Neither is the love between Maurice and his cousin’s wife supposed to be. On the next page Maurice sings Shelley’s love song to his wife Mary—“Oh! Mary dear, that you were here,” etc. (129). Then he sings, in German, Erich J. Wolf ’s “Märchen”: “All the beautiful fairy tales are true” (129). Next he sings, in Italian, “Oh how beautiful it is to dance with a cousin” (141). When she requests a French song entitled “Ce qui vous vient au coeur” (what comes to your heart), and he sings, in French, “You ask me, Marie, if love is changeable, if you can give your heart more than once in life” (144), the implication is yes, give your heart to me. He even says, “I will go where you will, Mary . . . Mary dearest—” (147), an echo of “the undeviating law: as the female is, so is the male” (62). Nevertheless, just before the novel’s climax, Mary thinks of Keats’s “Ode to a Nightingale”: “ ‘Half in love with easeful death,’ ‘to cease upon the midnight,’‘fade far away, dissolve and quite forget’ ” (175; Keats, lines 52, 56, 21). But as she enters into another trance state, the mysterious voice tolls her back to her sole self, and her survival instinct takes over. Through a poetical and musical seduction, Maurice and Mary genuinely fall for each other, and because they are equally yoked she is unlikely to swing away

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from him as she swings away from Latimer. As the narrator indicates, Mary genuinely and passionately loves Maurice: “She did not love it [music] with the fastidious discrimination of the brain—she loved it, wildly, desperately now, because she loved the voice that sang—because she loved the singer” (131). There is never a similar statement about her feelings for Latimer or his for her. In fact, she is merely a thing to him. The narrator points out that “she had been relegated to a place in his thoughts among the things which he accepted as pleasantly existing, but which played no part in his real life—the life of his brain. His house, his servants—his wife—were all a portion of the unimportant machinery of every day” (29). Elsewhere, “[s]he was an adjunct of his household, an unimportant furnishing of daily life to him, accepted without comment as quite an agreeable item, provided she did not disturb him in the calm enjoyment of his mental occupation” (32). In marrying a father figure, Mary hopes that Latimer will be a patron of her intellect, but the ensuing relationship plays out in the way Emma Jung suggests: “If woman does not meet adequately the demand for consciousness or intellectual activity, the animus becomes autonomous and negative, and works destructively on the individual herself and in her relations to other people” (6). Only after Latimer’s death does Mary have significant contact with a genuine wise old man, Padre Gillardoni, who fills in the backstory and helps tie up loose ends. After her departure from the Vignaccia, he tells the local peasants “that the Lady of the Casa di Ferro is living, safe and happy, in a far off country” (216), presumably with Maurice.There are good reasons to conclude that the priest is right and that she is not stuck in endless enantiodromia. How could someone who realizes the hollowness of the “pride of intellect” and of “false values” (130) as well as the “ ‘false Gods’ ” of intellect (141), on the one hand, and the all-important “trinity” of “heart, brain and body” (130), on the other, merely swing back to pure intellection? Moreover, Hay puts in the priest’s mouth the moral of the story, the importance of heart, which is “where the healing of all things is—the healing by tenderness,” and of mercy for “all the ‘darkened’ souls who torture and are tortured” (210). In other words, he counsels Mary to forgive her husband. The moral is repeated when the priest remarks, “Nothing but patient tenderness can build the bridge from one soul to the other, here on earth. Such tenderness is a labour of giving” (214). To overlook the priest’s message and to assume that Mary will return to her old predilection for intellect sans emotion is to suggest that she has learned nothing from her experience. That interpretation is simply not in sync with the evidence that Hay gives us, and it is far more likely that Mary makes some progress. As Jung notes in “Marriage As a Psychological Relationship,” “There is no birth of consciousness without pain” (CW 17, par. 331). In that spirit, Hannah’s misinterpretation contradicts her own more hopeful statement about a woman’s negative experience. Using Marie-Louise von Franz’s metaphor of the animus cocoon, she states that there are “two main aspects of animus activity: the way the animus isolates a woman from her environment by spinning a web of opinions between her and reality, and the fact that if this is accepted and realized, this web yet turns out to have been a cocoon in which the chrysalis of the woman’s spirit can hatch out or transform

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into a winged being” (vol. 1, 97; emphasis added). Mary’s negative experiences with Latimer, particularly those at the Vignaccia, are conducive to a better life that she will share with Maurice. Because she has made psychological progress, Emma Jung’s more hopeful prescription offers a fitting summation of Mary’s situation as the novel comes to a close: “What is really necessary is that the feminine intellectuality, logos in the woman, should be so fitted into the nature and life of the woman that a harmonious cooperation between the feminine and masculine factors ensues and no part is condemned to a shadowy existence” (13). A worthier goal is hard to imagine. Neither Mary nor Maurice is an ideally individuated figure after Latimer’s death, but they have an opportunity now to make progress together.

Notes 1 Chiesa’s “Legends” is the most obscure reference in the novel. No text by that title could be located for an author named Chiesa prior to 1923. Even a search of the online catalog at the Library of Congress yielded no relevant results. 2 The phrase “civilizing influence” is borrowed from Donald Cheney’s Spenser’s Images of Nature:Wild Man and Shepherd in “The Faerie Queene” (233).

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INDEX

Abélard and Héloïse 94 Apuleius 9 Atlantida see Benoît, Pierre Augustine, Saint 99 Aurelius, Marcus 98, 102 – 103 Balzac, Honoré de 93 – 94 Benoît, Pierre: Atlantida 2, 4, 36 – 49, 50, 54, 56, 71, 80; depth psychology 44 – 48; femme fatale 38, 43, 48; Foucault, Father Charles de 41 – 42, 49; Jung on Benoît 36 – 38; life and learning 41 – 43; plagiarism 36, 39 – 41; plot summary 38 – 39; Quiquerez, Paul 42, 49; Segonzac, Édouard Marie René de 42; seminar comments 43 – 44 Bergson, Henri 90n9 Bible: characters (Abraham 52, 56; Christ 51, 53, 57, 62; David 48; Elijah 4, 57, 68; Eve 10; John the Baptist 48; John the Evangelist 68; Noah 100; Salome 18n8, 57, 59; Solomon 10, 48, 107;Virgin Mary 54, 84); passages (1 Cor. 13.12 87; Eph. 2.14 70n9; Matt. 16.28 61; Prov. 7.23 48) Bohm, Carl 108 Bohm, David 64, 70n11 Browning, Robert 81 Brunner, Cornelia 3 – 5, 27 – 28 Buddha 57 Butler, Samuel 98, 101 – 102 Byron, George Gordon 18n8, 81 – 82, 109

Carracci, Annibale 49 Chaucer, Geoffrey 81 Coleridge, H. N. 90n4 Coleridge, Samuel Taylor 16, 39, 74, 104 Daudet, Alphonse 85, 90n9 Dickens, Charles 25 Dionysus 100 – 101 The Evil Vineyard see Hay, Marie The Faerie Queene see Spenser, Edmund Faust see Goethe, Johann Wolfgang von Franz, Marie-Louise von 91n10, 110 Freud, Sigmund 2, 17n3, 18n10, 34 Furtwängler, Adolf 98 – 99 Goethe, Johann Wolfgang von 1 Gozzoli, Benozzo 100 The Green Face see Meyrink, Gustav Haggard, Henry Rider: Ayesha:The Return of She 5, 8, 16, 24, 40; She 2 – 4, 5 – 18, 19 – 30, 36, 41, 44 – 46, 49, 50, 54, 56, 57, 71, 78 (animals 13, 16, 20, 28 – 29; Ayesha as “classic anima figure” 3, 8 – 12, 24, 44; femme fatale 11 – 12, 18n3, 18n8, 38; history 8, 31 – 35; Isis 9 – 10, 27; Jackson, Lilly 27; plot summary 7 – 8); Wisdom’s Daughter 5, 35; The Yellow God 40 – 41, 49 Hannah, Barbara 3, 5, 71 – 72, 75, 77 – 81, 83 – 87, 89, 90n2, 91n10, 91n11, 92, 96, 99, 101, 107, 110 – 11

Index  119

Hare, Augustus J. C. 98 – 99 Hay, Marie: bear story 84 – 85; book gift 5, 73, 98 – 107; consciousness 87 – 89; Defense of the Realm Act 83; The Evil Vineyard 2 – 3, 5, 50, 56, 71 – 91, 92 – 111; Flying Dutchmen 75; ghost story 85 – 87; hypertext 5, 92; Jungian analysis 74 – 89; Landsknechts 73, 75 – 77, 84, 90n3, 92, 99, 105; life 72, 90n5; Mary’s dream 5, 81 – 82; Padre Gillardoni 73, 85 – 86, 87, 110; plot summary 72 – 73;Villeneuve, Madame de 73, 85, 87; World War I 77 – 78, 81 – 82 Hercules 49, 104 Hollis, James 60 Homer 4, 10, 46 – 47, 49, 75, 98, 100 Hugo,Victor 45

“The Psychology of Transference” 22; The Red Book 2, 5, 57, 60, 64, 66, 101; Seven Sermons to the Dead 2; Synchronicity: An Acausal Connecting Principle 17n1; Visions: Notes of the Seminar Given in 1930–1934 6, 22, 67; “Yoga in the West” 67) Jung, Emma 79, 82, 87, 90n8, 108, 110 – 11

Jung, C. G.: selected concepts (abaissement du niveau mental 88; amplification 29; archetypal possession 3–4, 7, 12, 14 – 15, 17, 19, 27, 29, 36, 43 – 44, 46, 48 – 49, 74, 76, 78, 80, 85, 89; compensation 3, 6, 12, 17, 44, 81 – 82, 94, 107; coniunctio 15, 17, 61; cryptomnesia 4, 37, 41; dementia praecox 2, 55; deuteros theos 58; ego 12; enantiodromia 3, 6, 15, 17, 19, 27, 80, 89, 96, 108, 110; hieros gamos 4, 61, 64, 95; Kore 3, 6, 3–9; modes, visionary and psychological 1–2, 4, 14, 19 – 30, 36 – 38, 42, 54, 76; participation mystique 101; persona 12, 46; projection 4, 11 – 12, 19, 26 – 27; quaternity 91n11; représentations collective 36 – 37, 47, 49; stages of eroticism 3–4, 8–11, 59 – 60, 93; transcendent function 69; unus mundus 66 – 67, 70n12, 72, 85, 101, 103 – 104); works mentioned (Analytical Psychology: Notes of the Seminar Given in 1925 by C. G. Jung 1 – 2, 6, 23, 41, 43, 50, 54, 57, 63, 71, 74 – 76; “Anima and Animus” 25; The Archetypes and the Collective Unconscious 6, 8; Children’s Dreams 58; Civilization in Transition 29; The Collected Works of C. G. Jung 2–3, 19, 27, 63; “Foreword to Brunner” 6; “Marriage as a Psychological Relationship” 11, 80, 110; Memories, Dreams, Reflections 5, 17n1, 18n4, 26, 28, 33 – 34, 55 – 56, 63 – 64; “Mind and Earth” 9, 71; “On the Relation of Analytical Psychology to Poetry” 1, 20; “The Psychological Aspects of the Kore” 9; “Psychology and Literature” 1, 20, 55 – 56; Psychology of the Unconscious 2;

Lacan, Jacques 32 Lévy-Bruhl, Lucien 37 Lewis, C. S. 18n7

Kast,Verena 74 Keats, John 16, 45, 82, 95 – 96, 99, 109 Keller, Gottfried 107 Kipling, Rudyard 21 Koran see Meyrink, Gustav Kristeva, Julia 4, 31, 34 – 35

Maurier, George du 94 – 95, 99 McGuire, William 1 – 2, 41, 43, 50, 75, 78 – 79 Melville, Herman 57 Meredith, George 98, 104 – 107 Meyrink, Gustav: Amsterdam 56, 59, 63, 65; Chidher Green 51, 57 – 58, 61 – 62; “The Great Inwardness” 4, 63 – 69; The Green Face 2 – 3, 4 – 5, 50 – 70, 71 – 72; Jungian elements 54 – 63; Koran 4, 57 – 58; plot summary 51 – 54; Wandering Jew 4, 51, 61 – 63, 65, 67, 71; World War I 51; World War II 65, 69 Milton, John 64 Mozart, Wolfgang Amadeus 99 – 100 Murphy, Patricia 4, 17n3, 31 – 32, 35 Neuville, Alphonse de 48 Newman, John Henry 69 Nietzche, Friedrich 1 Paradise Lost see Milton, John Pater, Walter Horatio 98, 100 – 101 Plato 47, 101 Plutarch 47 Richardson, Samuel 106 Romantic quest poem see Keats, John; Shelley, Percy Bysshe;Yeats, William Butler Rowland, Susan 11, 30n2 Rumbold, Horace 84

120 Index

Said, Edward 32 Scheffel, Joseph Victor von 109 Schrödinger, Erwin 70n12 Shakespeare, William 6; Hamlet 27, 87; Macbeth 86 Shamdasani, Sonu 1 – 2, 6, 20, 38, 71 She see Haggard, Henry Rider Shelley, Mary 96 – 98 Shelley, Percy Bysshe 16, 44 – 45, 95, 97 – 99, 101, 109 Shorthouse, J. Henry 98, 103 – 104 Sidney, Sir Philip 109 Spenser, Edmund 45 – 47, 100, 104 Stein, Murray 88

Swift, Jonathan 89 Symonds, John Addington 98 – 100 Thus Spoke Zarathustra see Nietzche, Friedrich Vinci, Leonardo da 48 Wolf, Erich J. 109 Wolff, Toni 80, 90n7 Woolf,Virginia 74, 104 Wordsworth, William 101 Yeats, William Butler 45 Zodiac 47, 69