“Try me.”
“You will not believe me. Even Sybil Quartermaine, my oldest, dearest and most understanding friend, did not completely comprehend how what I told her could possibly be true.”
“Nonetheless, try me,” Jung said. “Think of yourself as Darwin in the early days of his ordeal with the scientific community. Or Galileo, perhaps—struggling to make us believe that the sun does not orbit the earth. Or Louis Pasteur, facing the ignorant wrath of the medical profession. No one believed them, either. Not one soul—at first. But now we know that Darwin, Galileo and Pasteur were indisputably correct in their assumptions and the shoe is on the other foot. So, try me. Make it simple. Remember—I am a child in this. A willing child, but an innocent, nonetheless. I bruise rather easily where belief is concerned. But I’m seated here, as you see, so I won’t keel over and harm myself, no matter what you say.”
Pilgrim said nothing.
Then his fingers moved. The fingers of his right hand spread out wider on the glass while the fingers of his left hand curled into a gentle fist, as if they held some precious insect whose wings he was afraid of damaging.
“It is true,” he said—his back still to Jung, “that I cannot die. And that I have been alive forever is also true. Of course, there are truths and there are also truths. The sky is blue. There’s a truth for you. We all know that. But what is blue, Doctor Jung? What if blue to me is green to you? Have you ever thought of that? Oh, yes, we both say, the sky is blue—but how will I ever know that what you see as blue is what I see? And so, if I say to you: I have lived forever—how am I to make you understand what I mean by that? After all, there are so many valid interpretations of forever. Aren’t there. For instance, there are some who believe they pass instantly from one existence to another, living and dying first in one form, then another—forever. There are also some who believe in vampires—whose lives are forever perpetuated by imbibing the blood of others. But I have never been a fox, a dragonfly or a tree. I have always been me—sometimes a man, sometimes a woman—but always uniquely me. Myself. And I am not a Gothic monster living in a box. I think the evidence for this is fairly clear. You will never have to drive a stake through my heart, Doctor Jung—and if you did, it would not kill me. Nothing can kill me. Nothing. Not even myself. And I am tired. I am tired of being captive to the human condition. Of being so endlessly a human being.”
“Such thoughts occur to all of us, Mister Pilgrim.”
“What—that you have lived forever?”
“Sometimes it certainly feels like it.” Jung smiled, but Pilgrim failed to see him.
“I am mad, of course. Insane,” Pilgrim said. “I keep believing someone will believe me. But they never do, and perhaps this is why I have made so many attempts to take my life—thinking, when the experts recognize I should be dead but am not, that one of them at least—and at last—will say: this is a man who cannot die. But no one says it. Ever.”
Jung was silent.
“And now, even you, the vaunted patron of the impossible, do not believe me. So what am I to do?”
Jung closed his eyes. Pilgrim was so obviously in pain. He was the proverbial witness who, all alone, had seen a falling star and could not convince the world the sky was falling. Or the child, Bernadette, who had seen the Holy Virgin—but who in their right mind could believe her?
Pilgrim said: “muero porque no muero.”
“I beg your pardon.”
“I die because I cannot die. St. John of the Cross—a crazy Spaniard said it. Wrote it. But no one understood.”
“I see.”
“I doubt it.”
“Scepticism is the hiding place of the fool, Mister Pilgrim.”
“Yes. But who is here the sceptic? Me or you?”
Jung thought: Lady Quartermaine said: “I urge you to believe him, if only briefly, for his own sake.”
“I have not yet said I do not believe you,” he offered. “What I need is concrete evidence. More than your mere survival.”
Pilgrim turned back into the room and looked about him. There was sunlight, there were shadows, there were streamers of airborne dust. There were shards of sparkling glass and a mirror splintered within its frame. And there were butterflies. Dozens of them. They were everywhere.
And there sat Jung—the enemy.
Above his head, three butterflies danced. Their wings were the colours of mother-of-pearl and each wing dotted with pale blue coins.
Pilgrim smiled.
The world was filled with the unbelievable. With unicorns and færies, mermaids and miracles, flying horses, Moonmen and Charon’s Messengers.
And me. The difference being that I can be seen.
Pilgrim went to the mirror and brushed its broken surface with his fingers, cutting them lightly in the process. Staring at his fragmented image, he traced it with his own blood.
“All the thoughts and experiences of the world,” he whispered, “have been etched and moulded here…the animalism of Greece, the lust of Rome, the mysticism of medieval times, the return of pagan ideals, the sins of the Medicis and the Borgias…I am older than the mountains beyond those windows, and like the vampire I despise, I have lived many times, Doctor Jung. Who knows, as Leda I might have been the mother of Helen—or, as Anne, the mother of Mary. I was Orion once, who lost his sight and regained it. I was also a crippled shepherd in thrall of Saint Teresa of Avila; an Irish stable boy and a maker of stained glass at Chartres. I stood on the ramparts of Troy and witnessed the death of Hector. I saw the first performance of Hamlet and the last performance of Molière, the actor. I was a friend to Oscar Wilde and an enemy to Leonardo…I am both male and female. I am ageless, and I have no access to death.” He turned. “And, by the way, there’s a butterfly sitting on your thumb.”
Going to the window, he opened it and said: “you must bring it here and set it free.”
Jung could barely move. He was both alarmed and thrilled.
“Make a cup with your other hand,” Pilgrim said, “and bring the butterfly here.”
Jung stood up and lightly folded one hand over the other.
“Come along, now. Quickly.”
Jung made his way to the window—aware, but afraid of what he felt or thought he felt beneath his fingers. The fluttering of wings.
At the window, he thrust both his hands outside and drew them apart.
“There it goes,” said Pilgrim. “You have set your imagination free at last.” Then he closed the window.
8
The silver Daimler that had greeted Sybil Quartermaine’s arrival was not there to bid her farewell. It had survived the avalanche, but was in some need of repair and had been returned to its makers in Austria. That departure had taken place on the morning of Wednesday, the 22nd of May.
On the afternoon of that same day, at about the fourteenth hour—which is to say, at two o’clock—the horse-drawn hearse containing Sybil’s casket was driven into the forecourt of Zürich’s Hauptbahnhof, followed by two open landaus whose horses wore black plumes and whose drivers wore appropriate tall black hats and purple armbands.
In one of these carriages, Phoebe Peebles was accompanied by Pilgrim’s valet, Forster. Seated with them was the “nice young couple” by the name of Messager, whom Forster had spotted chatting with Lady Quartermaine in the lobby of the Hôtel Baur au Lac. All were dressed in black.
In the second carriage, Jung rode side by side with Pilgrim—while Kessler sat opposite with his back to the driver. Jung and Kessler wore black suits. Beneath his ulster, Pilgrim still wore white. In his hand was a small bouquet of violets, and on his head a wide, soft trilby the colour of port wine.
A cart had been manœuvred into place on which Sybil’s casket would be delivered to the train, which even then was building steam at the Hauptbahnhof’s platform number three.
It was a beautiful day—high, wide and blue, as Jung would note in his journal. And when the hearse arrived, a host of pigeons rose into the air above it, settli
ng on the glass and ironwork canopy that covered the entrance to the station.
Beyond the forecourt, there were trees and an overview of the River Limmat down the slope of a gently rolling hill, where strollers turned their backs and went their way, as people should and most often do in the presence of other people’s grief. Uniformed nurses with perambulators; soldiers from foreign armies; scholars with books in hand and boys who should have been in school, riding bicycles decorated with coloured ribbons. There were also lovers—of course, Jung would write, how could there not be? And children with hoops, balloons and barking dogs. Nuns in grey and white and fishermen down by the quays and women selling lemonade and others selling favours from baskets slung from their necks.
Beneath the canopy, the sound of the horses’ hooves on the cobblestones was intensified. Pilgrim sat taller, if that was possible, and Phoebe Peebles stood up in the forward carriage while Forster descended and put his hand out to Madame Messager. The latter was extremely young and pretty, but veiled. She alighted from the landau as if a feather had floated to earth. Monsieur Messager followed and then Phoebe Peebles—who had never worn formal mourning dress before and was lost in her veils and crepe the way a child will lose itself in its parent’s clothes. Who the Messagers were remained a mystery. Although they had introduced themselves to Phoebe and to Forster as friends of the deceased, it was still not clear on what basis the “friendship” had been established or to what extent it gave them the right to go into full mourning. They were French, that was known—but little else, beyond their evident concern.
Not until the forward carriage had been emptied did Kessler get out and stand aside, making room on the stones for Doctor Jung and Mister Pilgrim, who got down last.
Pilgrim removed his trilby and his ulster and laid them back on the seat and closed the door. All in white and carrying violets, he put on a pair of dark glasses and faced the sky.
Jung, taking note of all this, also saw that Pilgrim nodded at the sun, in the way that one will pay respects to a superior figure in a public place—a higher rank in the aristocracy—a Prince of the Church—a minor deity. Interesting.
Only now visible as Jung and Pilgrim stepped forward, the Quartermaine family in its entirety was lined up on the far side of the forecourt. All the women were veiled, the men bareheaded, hats in hand, and the youngest child—a girl of perhaps fourteen—with a water spaniel on a lead, the dog with a black crape bow around its collar.
Lord Quartermaine was somewhat older than Sybil had been. Perhaps he was in his early fifties, greying and balding and sad. His eldest daughter, Lady Margot Pryde, stood beside him giving a firm impression that if she did not support him, he might have wavered—even have fallen. On his other side stood David, the eldest son and Earl of Hartford, whose demeanour was absolutely military. All he lacked was a uniform. It was David of whom Sybil had confided to Furtwängler that I do not really care for him. But he was there to do his duty, and he did it well. There was not a trace of emotion in his expression—unless it could be said that control is an emotion. He was supremely self-contained.
Jung’s immediate impression was of a family blessed with universal beauty. Every single one of them was a masterpiece of Aryan Anglo-Saxon breeding—blond and blue-eyed—buffed and shining, with superlative carriage and presence.
Lord Toby, who was just sixteen, stood between the remaining sisters—Lady Catherine and Lady Temple, the child who had brought her dog. The dog’s name was Alice—because she goes down rabbit holes. Or tries to.
Jung and Pilgrim passed the occupants of the other carriage, who were clustered on the stones and not quite sure how to make their next move. Jung took note that, while Forster was on the alert and clearly prepared to speak to Pilgrim, he did not do so. Nor did Pilgrim speak to him.
Kessler, Jung also noted, gave Forster a look almost of disdain. I’ve got him now, and you might not get him back. Jung had to suppress a smile. Servants are funny creatures, he thought. They’re so possessive—like children showing offtheir toys.
There were brief introductions. The Messager couple were total strangers to Pilgrim, though Jung had the distinct impression he himself had either met or seen them before. But Madame Messager’s veiling was too clouded to allow a proper viewing of her features. Her husband was handsome enough, but not distinguished. He had a face that one sees every day in restaurants, banks and riding on the Küsnacht ferry—pleasant, unmarked and clearly innocent.
Once all the names had been exchanged, Jung took the lead and stepped towards the hearse. As they passed, each member of their party paused to bow before the casket, visible beyond the glass—and, if Catholic, to cross themselves. They then made their way across the open drive from which all public traffic had been diverted for the moment, and passed along the line of principal mourners, introducing themselves as they went.
Forster was keenly observant of the Messagers’ introduction to the family. Was the young husband known to Lord David? Were they school chums, as he had surmised? But no. Clearly not. There was no sign of recognition from either young man.
Pilgrim shook hands with Quartermaine and the two sons and was embraced by all the daughters—and with special warmth by Lady Temple. For his part, Pilgrim barely spoke and Jung could see he was on the verge of tears. This perhaps was not just because they had gathered to see Sybil offon her final journey—but because it was Pilgrim’s first taste of being in the presence of old friends since his own troubles had placed him in jeopardy.
There was a moment of silence. Then, with no apparent signal being given, Lords David and Toby moved to the rear of the hearse, and together with the driver and his attendants, they drew the casket forward into the light and carried it to the waiting cart.
Lord Quartermaine, foundering on Lady Margot’s arm, leaned down and kissed the lid of the mahogany coffin and laid his forehead against the wood, stretched his arms as if to embrace its burden and stayed this way until the Ladies Catherine and Margot drew him away to one side.
The cart was then pulled forward, all the veils on all the women waving like flags and standards and all heads bowed—but Pilgrim’s.
Then, at the very last moment Pilgrim, laying his violets on the coffin, said—for all to hear: ave atque vale and turned away.
To Lady Temple, he offered a penny, saying to her: you will know what to do with this—to which she nodded.
The ceremony was over. Sybil had been drawn into the dark by her attendants and was gone.
9
That evening, after dinner, Jung sat desolate at his desk beneath the lamplight, pondering the events of the day. His journal was open before him, in which he had already recorded the departure of Sybil Quartermaine’s remains and the melancholy return to the Clinic.
Phoebe Peebles had followed her mistress to England and would continue in service there as maid to Lady Catherine Pryde—the Quartermaine daughter known as Kate, who would one day acquire a reputation as one of British theatre’s brightest stars.
Forster had returned to the Hôtel Baur au Lac in the company of the charming though somewhat mysterious Messager couple, whose connection to Lady Quartermaine remained totally unexplained. On leaving, neither Forster nor Pilgrim had so much as nodded at one another—and thus, another mystery.
As the landau bearing Pilgrim, Kessler and Jung himself had climbed the heights through the woods and gardens below the Clinic, Pilgrim had sat like a deposed king on the far side of the carriage, refusing to acknowledge his fellow passengers and the world at large around him. His gaze was entirely inward, his hands stilled and empty, his dark glasses showing the reflections of passing trees and floating clouds.
Kessler was in mourning, as he would confess that evening to his mother, for the loss of one angel—perhaps the most beautiful I have ever seen. At the station, confronted by the casket, he had wondered what might become of angels when they die. His mother, on hearing this, kept her counsel. She feared all references to winged creatures and said onl
y: like all of us, they are returned to heaven.
Watching Pilgrim, Jung could not help feeling his own deep sense of depression. That things should work out so badly in some people’s lives. That triumph—if, as and when it was achieved—could be won only at the cost of lost dreams, discarded hopes and displaced relationships. Friends fall aside—or are pushed—ejected—refused admittance. Husbands, wives and lovers are separated—children abandoned. Place means nothing. Lost health—fatigue replacing stamina—fear replacing joy—recklessness replacing reason. Then death. This had been the story of his parents’ lives—not only one by one, but as a couple. He had spent his whole childhood in the embrace of their sorrows—of his father’s failure to connect with God and his mother’s ultimate failure to connect with reality. And yet, they had devoted their lives to making those connections. It was more than sad, Jung decided. It was unjust.
Nonetheless, it had to be said that in her final hours and with her final gestures, Sybil Quartermaine had achieved a kind of triumph. Her life had been rounded with a sacrifice—to the unknown God—as she had written herself—who perhaps was the god of reason who would also deliver Pilgrim. Certainly, she had made every effort in Pilgrim’s behalf to guide him to a safe, good place in which to begin the rest of his life.
In the dark, surrounded by his study lamps and by his sleeping family, Jung had the first of what would prove to be a series of revelations regarding his own immediate journey—an epiphany of sorts—almost religious, but not. He eschewed the religious at every turn. All at once, his journal still open before him, he scribbled that happiness is not our goal. And further: that the achievement of happiness deflects us from our true destiny, which is the utter realization of self.
The utter realization of self.
Jung sat back and dragged a handkerchief from a pocket, wiped his glasses, wiped his brow and wiped his lips.