The Lost Prince (25 page)

She put on the dress and the necklace and stood transfixed before the mirror, transported suddenly and for a long moment to an image of herself fifteen years before on an evening in Vienna, preparing to attend the opera to see for the first time the magnificence of Gustav Mahler conducting in the company of the great love of her life.

She stood now surprisingly comforted by the image of herself that she took in, not the proper Boston wife and mother, but a seductive woman of elegance, an object of desire. Though bemused and certainly suspicious, she felt herself overtaken first by a desire to end the charade, whatever it was, and to cancel the evening, and then by a second and stronger impulse simply to submit and cross the threshold to whatever was the intention, and she could imagine herself now descending with stunning effect the grand staircase of an opulent ocean liner.

Jung’s time in New York was busy, his days and nights filled with appointments, but he had set aside this evening. His nine speeches at Fordham University were indeed about to set him apart and become the deciding factor in his inevitable rend with his colleague and mentor. It was a time for him of great moment and great exhilaration, a chance to be alone in the
New World, without Sigmund Freud looking over his shoulder expressing eloquently and clearly his own views on the new science of psychoanalysis.

When Eleanor arrived at the entrance to the dining room, she saw none of the seriousness of Jung’s professional dilemma: She found her Swiss friend in complementary evening dress of white tie and tails, beaming at the image he saw before him. “My, what a strikingly handsome specimen,” she said quickly before he could speak, awed by the sight of her old friend so handsomely attired. “I am greatly honored.”

“The honor is all mine,” Jung said, bowing elegantly as he offered her his arm and led her into the dining room, where the maître d’, as if well rehearsed, seemed to know exactly who they were and which table would be theirs. It was not entirely in her imagination that the other diners stopped their conversations and watched the elegant couple being escorted to their table.

“Did you fear that I would not go along with all this?” she asked after he had taken his seat, aware of his eyes on her, taking in with pleasure the image he had created.

“I knew that a Salome was within, crying for recognition.”

“So that is your intention? For me to release my inner Salome?”

He smiled. “It is so.”

“And whose head was to be on the platter?”

“To be determined,” he said, retaining the smile.

“And you are not intimidated in such a presence?”

“I welcome the release of that aspect of your character. No matter the consequence.”

“Well, I am grateful that you do.”

And they both paused.

“Tonight’s wine is Austrian,” he said, “and the meal is Viennese.” Then he stopped and stared at her neck. “And that is a stunning necklace for the purposes of the evening,” he said, shaking his head.

“It isn’t real, is it?” she said.

“Tonight it is.”

“And its intention?”

“Its intention is simply its stunning effect.”

“One assumes that the intention is honorable, Herr Doctor…,” she said, looking up and eyeing him seriously, then with only the hint of a smile said, “Salome herself is feeling actually quite vulnerable.”

“Tonight’s intentions are totally honorable, I assure you,” Jung said, returning her smile. “Tonight we are after a large prize.” He raised his glass to her. “You have traveled far for this special night. We shall not waste it. Tonight we talk about the dreams. Yours have done me a great service. In fact, you yourself have been doing me great service ever since we met at your family’s Putnam Camp. You have caused me to think, and to change.”

“I too have done a great deal of thinking as a result of our conversations.”

“They are precious to me.”

“Like a diamond necklace?” She smiled appreciatively, letting him know that the symbolism was not lost on her.

“Precisely. Our conversations then and in the letters have helped me clarify what I really wish for, and where my ideas are headed.”

“And you have come to New York to tell the world?”

“I have,” he said. “What I am going to say here will set me apart.”

“The direction you wish to go, I assume.”

“Yes, that.” He paused.

“And your vast differences with Dr. Freud,” she filled in for him.

“I suppose,” he said with a slight grimace. “And we must discuss your dream.”

“My dream?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said. “I am greatly interested in the iceberg. The part above the water.” He gestured toward her. “The personality.”

“The part in which we all play a role for the world,” Eleanor said.

“Exactly,” Jung said. “The persona.”

“And the part of the iceberg below the waterline?”

“That too. The ninety percent below, the secret self, our famous unconscious that Dr. Freud has made so apparent. Above the surface we have our public selves.” He held out one hand. “The masks of classical drama. The tragic.” He held out the other hand. “And the comic. The persona, the Romans called the mask each actor wore.”

“Costume jewelry and a revealing dress.”

“In this case a charming and radiant beauty. The part of us above the surface, even the seductive part.”

“And your reason for the celebration tonight?” she asked.

“That persona,” he said decisively. “So much for me seems to be examining and describing the workings of personality, while Dr. Freud is after
quite a different description. And each of us has the underwater part, some near the surface where we know of it, and some deep below, out of reach. That underwater part fascinates me, yes, but so does the visible part. Each of us has a unique persona above the waterline and our entire personal unconscious below. An iceberg there,” he said, gesturing to Eleanor, “and an iceberg here.” He tapped his own chest. “But what of the deep ocean beneath, the terrifying depth that now holds the
Titanic
in its dark and silent grave, the vast depth that has so overtaken you?” A look of concern settled on Eleanor. “It is the ocean depth that connects us all.”

“A common depth.”

“It is our collective unconscious.”

“And that is the meaning of your own dream,” Eleanor said, “the old bones and skulls in the dark cavern beneath your house?”

“It is. And you are good to remember my dream.”

“Your dream that Dr. Freud misinterpreted, I believe.”

“Yes,” Jung said. “That is correct.”

“And the mythical Titans, what of them?”

“And the Titans—” He paused and looked into her eyes. “The predecessors of the gods. Are they not the primal mythic connection of all culture for all time?” Eleanor said nothing and only shook her head slightly, then released a small sigh. “The parapsychology and the spiritual that Dr. James talked about,” he said.

“And that Dr. Freud has little interest in?”

Jung stared at her for a moment, surprised that she could absorb all this so quickly. “Dr. Freud is concerned primarily with the iceberg, the drives that rise up from the majority of the mass, the deep and profound nine-tenths below in the darkness, the underwater part, and the control it exerts on the surface.”

“And you are concerned with the depth even below the iceberg.”

“Yes.”

“And the two of you disagree, as Dr. James pointed out.”

“Perhaps.” Carl Jung looked at her with a smile of concern. “That is what my current lectures are about.”

“The part that Sigmund Freud would not like to hear?”

“Yes, that.”

“And in my dream, it is I, on the surface, clinging desperately, terrified of sliding off into that depth.” She shivered at the mere thought.

He paused for a long moment, holding the seriousness. “You, my dear friend, have had the most profound encounter with that depth, and it has ruined, for the moment, your equilibrium.” He paused again. “What if you simply let go?”

“I could never—” she began, and stopped, shaking her head. “I could never just let go. There is a whole life force.”

“There is immense fear of the depth, propelled by the ‘life force,’ as you call it. We will need to bring you back to the surface. That is our task for your time here.”

“That is the reason for the extraordinary costumes, I gather,” she said.

“Partly, and partly just to enjoy the evening.”

“The larger task will take time,” she said seriously.

“We have time.” He raised his glass. “We begin with the easier part.” And both of them stopped to watch the waiter delivering the Wiener schnitzel and
Kartoffelpfannkuchen,
the potato pancakes everyone remembers from Vienna.

“And the Joseph Conrad book,” she said later, as they were waiting for the dessert course. “What of that?”

“It is
Heart of Darkness,
a story Conrad published a few years ago. Have you read it?”

“I have enjoyed Joseph Conrad, especially his
Victory
. For months, I imagined myself a cello player in a traveling women’s ensemble,” she said. “But I have not read this one. I understand that its contents are rather disturbing.”

“It is an intentionally dark tale. Herr Conrad is a remarkable writer,” Jung said. “A Polish seaman, you know, and yet he writes in his recently acquired English better than most Englishmen write in their own.”

“I have heard this,” she said, suspecting a wish on her host’s part to be acknowledged in a similar light, as one who wrote surprisingly well outside of his native Swiss German.

“In this tale of great depth,” Jung continued, “the narrator, Mr. Marlow, travels into the darkest jungle to find the military and school hero Kurtz,” Jung said. “Kurtz has been trading ivory, surrounded by natives in the Congo, far removed from European civilization. He has descended to the depths, so far that he cannot escape, into ‘the horror,’ as he calls it.
Marlow witnesses the horror, but he is able to extract himself and come back to civilization, alive, but a changed man. He has been on the edge of the abyss that Kurtz has descended into. He has looked into the abyss, and it threatens to make him mad.”

“You believe that I have looked into the abyss, and it threatens to make me mad.”

“There is still much darkness ahead for both of us, but we need to remember to come back to the world of surface.” There was now a look of deep concern on his face. “I wanted you, my dear friend, to come here, to come back to life.”

“And are you perhaps addressing your own self?” She fixed him in her gaze, and he responded with a return gaze and only the slightest nod. “To use the experience but not to be drawn down by it,” she said. “To descend to the heart of darkness and return to this bright world of costumes, slightly bloodied but unbowed, and the wiser for it.”

“Precisely,” Jung said with a contented smile, having made his point. “My thoughts, to the letter.”

“Well then,” Eleanor said, taking in a deep breath and raising her wineglass. “In that case, let us thoroughly enjoy the evening.”

The waiter appeared with two dishes of chocolate cake and whipped cream. “Sacher torte,” Carl Jung said with great pleasure.

“And
mit schlag,
” Eleanor added, “the crowning Viennese touch. You have thought of everything.”

“I wanted you to be content with the meal.”

“Oh, I
am
content,” she said dreamily. Suddenly, a look of concern came onto her face. “I am very content now. But where do we go from this?”

“We go our separate ways,” Jung said, barely pausing. “We exchange letters, and then you come to see me in Zurich.”

“And my coach turns back into a pumpkin.”

Her dinner partner paused now, as if he had totally missed her concern. “Oh, I see,” he said seriously, as if he was only now understanding how much his partner had invested in the ritual of the evening. “You do not have to lose all this, my dear Eleanor. You simply hold the moment.”

“Hold the moment,” she repeated blankly. She closed her eyes, then opened them slowly and looked about the dining room, allowing a contented smile to return. “Yes, I see,” she said. “I shall hold the moment, but that will take some practice.”

“This is the lesson of the evening. You can always recall all this—the jewelry, the fine dress, the music, the food—they are the world of the persona, and they are always there for you to revisit and to bring a smile.”

They agreed to meet the following morning for an early breakfast at her hotel. He was to be up early to refine his lecture for that evening, the fourth in the series of nine, and she had a train to catch.

The tone of this part of their encounter was affectionate but businesslike.

“That was a delightful evening,” Eleanor said, smiling warmly, “grand and theatrical, as promised.”

“One in which we both learned a great deal, I think.”

“Yes, I learned,” she said. “I always learn when we are together.”

“Another rare moment of connection,” Dr. Jung added, which made Eleanor smile. “Our fellow diners must have thought us lovers.”

MOVING OUT

T
he morning following her return from New York and meeting with Carl Jung, the warm glow stayed with her as she greeted her family at Acorn Street. The night before she had received the report from Rose that all had gone well in her absence. At breakfast the girls were eager to tell all that had happened at school, and Frank nodded seriously his confirmation that he had heard the stories the day before. He added after the girls had left the table that a crucial meeting of the Trinity Church building committee with the city council had gone well. Frank knew of her meeting with Dr. Jung and showed polite interest. “Is all as it should be with your doctor friend?” he said, and Eleanor nodded and stated simply that all was well with him. “Good,” Frank said, folding his napkin into its ring.