I am fascinated by this man. I sense his weaknesses. He is obviously a skirt chaser and his lust is as transparent as a farmboy’s. He has a coarse tongue and a quick temper. I think if anyone, man or woman, pushed him too hard, he would hit back. I was goading him, deliberately, because the manager at the Baur au Lac had suggested that it was only the prospect of a fat fee that had induced him to see me.
He probably is venal. Medicine is a profession that deals in costly magic; this medicine of the mind is an expensive novelty, but I have no doubt about this man’s sincerity. When he talked about the search and the pilgrim road, that wasn’t just rhetoric. He meant it. He cares – and he’s furious because he thinks I’m trying to cheat on our agreement.
So what now? Do I play out the game, or pick up my hat and parasol and go home? Jung will not bend to me. Either I tell my story or he will show me the door. Conclusion? I swallow my pride, put another stone on the toy village, follow the master back to his study and hold out both hands for the thumbscrews!
“So . . .” he announces, as he dips a biscuit into his coffee, “we go back to the things which trouble you, the things that drive you to seek help. First, there is the recurrent nightmare. We’ll return to that. What are the other problems?”
I take the plunge – not the big one from the high board, but the small one into the shallow end of the pool.
“I have trouble on my estate, a kind of peasants’ revolt. My people think I’m a witch. My studmaster tells me that unless I stay away for a long time, the whole staff will quit. If I try to run the place with foreigners, they’ll burn me out.”
“Is your studmaster telling the truth?”
“Yes.”
“Why do your people think you’re a witch?”
I tell him about the horse and the hound and the roses. He stabs the tip of his pencil at me and snaps:
“Tell me the rest of it.”
“What do you mean, the rest of it?”
“Please, don’t play games! Why did you ride the stallion past the mares?”
“For curiosity, I suppose.”
“The hell, you suppose! You breed animals. What is there to be curious about? You know what happens when stallion smells mare. Were you in heat yourself?”
“Don’t be vulgar, doctor!”
“Don’t lie to me then! What time of the month was it for you?”
“All right, I was in heat, too!”
“And you knew that riding the stallion would bring you to climax. Yes or no?”
“God, you’ve got a dirty mind!”
“It gets dirtier. It had happened before, hadn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“And always there was cruelty. You had to hurt somebody, break something.”
“Not. . . not always. In the past, it happened only rarely. Now it’s happening frequently, and I’m afraid. Once upon a time, it never happened at all. You have to believe that.”
“I do believe it; but that doesn’t close the matter. We’ll come back to it again.” He is gentle now. He is like me. When people submit, he is calm and pleasant. He makes a note or two and then says: “Tell me about the once-upon-a-time, when these nasty things never happened.”
He dips another biscuit in his coffee. I laugh and tell him that Lily used to do that. She called it “dunking”. He asks was Lily part of the “good times”?
“Oh, yes. She was the biggest part and the best – after Papa, of course. Funny! One of my earliest memories is of Lily bouncing me on her knee and saying the English nursery rhyme:
Ride a cock horse to Banbury Cross
To see a fine lady upon a white horse
I used to feel all shimmery and shivery with pleasure at the motion and the smell of her perfume and the rustle of her clothes against her skin. Strange how things like that stay with you and excite you.”
I wonder if he knows that I am excited now – and if he does, why doesn’t he respond a little? He looks a sturdy enough stallion. I ask him:
“Do you have sexual memories?”
“Everyone does; but at this moment I’m interested in yours. Tell me more about you and Lily.”
“Well, when she went to live in Silbersee . . .” The word is out before I realise that I have given him another clue to my identity. Hoping he has missed it, I hurry on. “We had a small horse breeding operation – hacks and draught animals for the local hunters and farmers. Papa insisted that both Lily and I learn to ride. After we were confident enough, we would ride out with Papa to visit the local gentlefolk. If Papa wasn’t home, Lily and I would go visiting together.”
His next question catches me unaware.
“Did your father ever speak about your mother?”
“Never. I asked him about her only once. He looked at me in the strangest way and said, ‘Be glad she’s gone. She never loved me. She never loved you. She was the Snow Queen, who had a lump of ice instead of a heart. But we don’t need her, do we? I’m your prince; you’re my princess; and Lily will look after us both for ever and ever, amen. Now promise me you’ll never talk about the Snow Queen again! Never, never, never!’ So, of course, I promised.”
“And you never thought about her?”
“Sometimes I did. Once I remember I saw a picture of the Snow Queen in a book of fairy tales. I was surprised that she looked so beautiful. I was tempted to take it to Papa and show him – but Lily said I shouldn’t. It would only make him angry. I was afraid that if he got too angry he would stay away and never come home. He was away so much; that was a very real fear for me.”
Suddenly, I am self-conscious. I am giving a solo performance. I say as much to Jung. He laughs and waves me on.
“That’s the best thing that can happen. Tell me more about your life at . . . where was it? . . . Silbersee.”
I begin, haltingly at first, then with lively enthusiasm, to tell him about my childhood in the Schloss, with Lily and me living our enchanted existence, while Papa came and went like some gallant from the golden days. I tell him about Papa’s homecomings and the happy sensual intimacies we shared. I find, to my surprise, I am happy to share the memory with my new friend, Doctor Jung.
“One morning, while I was still quite small, I came into Papa’s bedroom and found him making love with Lily. She was straddling him and riding him like a jockey. When Papa caught sight of me, he laughed and beckoned me over and had me join the game. I sat on his chest. Lily put her arms around me and sang ‘Ride a cock horse’, while the three of us bounced and laughed as if it were just another nursery game. Does that shock you, doctor?”
“No. Should it?”
“Well, some people might think it strange.”
“Did you find it strange?”
“No. It was pure pleasure. And it got better the older I grew. I had the best of two worlds – life on a big estate, the sowing and the reaping, the cutting of timber, the mating and birthing of animals, and lovely, cosy hours in our private heaven in the Schloss. Lily and Papa prepared me for puberty. Lily taught me girl things. Papa showed me his medical books, taught me how babies are conceived and born, and how women should conduct their sexual lives. I adored him. I would do anything to please him. I wanted to be as like him as possible. That’s why I made up my mind to be a doctor.”
“What was your father’s name?”
“Oh no, you don’t, doctor! That’s not fair!”
He grins at me, mischievously.
“A little test. Why is your name so important? You’re telling me much more intimate things.”
“Because this way I can tell them like fairy tales. If I don’t have a name, they don’t belong to me, do they?”
“I understand. Please, tell me more fairy tales.”
“It was a terrible wrench when I had to go to boarding school and learn to be a young lady of quality. The hardest thing was to keep quiet about the things I’d learned from Lily and my father. I felt so much older and wiser than all the silly little girls giggling in the dormitory after lights-out. I felt lonely, too, sometimes.”
“But obviously you settled down in the end?”
“Of course. I learned how to make capital out of my secret knowledge. I became a leader, not a follower. I began to build up contacts outside the school. The way I did this was by enrolling in what were called ‘optional courses’. These were given by private teachers in their own homes or studios. For example, as soon as I became a senior, I persuaded Papa to let me enrol at an advanced riding academy near the school. The academy was run by a former captain of cavalry and his two sons. One was a bit of an oaf; but the other, Rudi, was very handsome, and in the saddle he looked like a prince. He knew it too, and I teased him all the time about his arrogance. I knew he wanted me, because every time we talked I could see his erection straining at his tight breeches. One day, he challenged me to ride a big black stallion which the academy had just bought for stud. He was a beautiful beast, but bad tempered – a real rogue. I was hardly in the saddle when he reared and bucked and tried every trick to get rid of me. I hung on, determined to best him if I died in the attempt. I flogged and spurred him and drove him round and round at a bolting gallop until the moment when I knew I had him mastered. My excitement was so great that I came to orgasm – a wild burst of pleasure that excites me every time I remember it. Even now, my dear doctor.”
He does not take the bait. His eyes are fixed on his notebook. Still writing, he asks:
“And what happened then?”
“I rode the stallion to a standstill, then dismounted and tossed the reins to Rudi. I was wet and smelling of sex. Rudi stared at me and said, ‘Christ! I wish you’d ride me like that!’ I laughed and said, ‘Why not?’ We climbed up into the hayloft and made love. But after the stallion, Rudi was a great disappointment. He had no staying power.”
I mean it as a joke. He does not react. He scribbles another note and asks another question.
“How old were you when this happened?”
“Oh, seventeen – a little more, perhaps.”
“But clearly it wasn’t your first sexual experience.”
“Oh, dear no! I’d made all the usual experiments – no, that’s the wrong word, they weren’t experiments. I’d learned how to stimulate myself to climax. I had a quite happy lesbian relationship with a girl at school – and various episodes with male students in and around Geneva. None of them was important. I knew more than they did. Most of them were too eager or too inexperienced. Papa used to say a good lover needs as much training as an athlete.”
“Was your Papa a good lover?”
“The best! The very best! He was everything a woman . . .”
I break off, horrorstruck at what I have told him. I feel a blush like a tidal wave flooding over my breast and my cheeks. I cannot meet Jung’s eyes. I bury my face in my hands. A moment later, I hear him, as if from a great distance, saying:
“There now. Cry if you want. I’m going to pour some brandy.”
As he passes, he lays a hand on my head, as if he is imparting a blessing. I am absurdly grateful for the gesture. At least it proves that I am not a leper.