Rendez-Vous — E. Rauschenbach-Jung

— Cornelis de Bondt

On Sunday, 27 February 1938, I ring the bell at the Jung family’s address, Seestrasse 228, in the village of Küsnacht. The couple live in a villa on the shores of Lake Zurich. I wish to speak with Emma, the wife of the famous psychiatrist, or at least to try to make an appointment with her. I am staying at a hotel not far from the villa.

A maid opens the door and asks what I want. ‘Könnte ich bitte Frau Doktor Jung sprechen?’ I ask, to which she replies: ‘Wem darf ich sagen, dass Sie hier sind, und was möchten Sie Frau Doktor Jung sagen?’ I give her my name and explain that I have a number of fundamental questions concerning an essay of hers on the problem of the animus.

To be on the safe side, I also mention that I am an artist. The girl nods and says, ‘Einen Moment bitte, ich frage es Frau Doktor.’ She beckons me inside into the hall and points to two chairs next to a table on which, alongside several magazines and newspapers, there are also various books written by Jung. After a few minutes the maid returns to the hall. ‘Frau Doktor hat jetzt leider keine Zeit, aber Sie können morgen um 16 Uhr wiederkommen.’

— § —

“Sie sind ein Künstler,” Emma Jung begins. “What kind of art do you make, exactly?”

“Ich bin Komponist und Lehrer,” I reply.

“Ah, Musik, das ist großartig!” It sounds sincere. We then chat for a while about the kind of music I write, during which I have to be creatively economical with the truth. I restrain myself from telling the anecdote surrounding the first series of performances of Het Gebroken Oor by the Schönberg Ensemble — in Nijmegen, the programme booklet stated that the ensemble’s conductor, Reinbert de Leeuw, had ‘rescued my piece from oblivion’, since I supposedly belonged to the ‘unjustly forgotten generation between the two world wars’. When, after the concert, I showed Reinbert the programme booklet, he burst into a thunderous fit of laughter, of the sort only he was capable of, before going off to take the young woman responsible for that text to task. She retreated in embarrassment.

“What is the purpose of your visit?” she asks a little later — time to get down to business, my time is evidently limited.

“The purpose is twofold,” I reply. “I am working on a text about the essence of art, and I have run into the problem of the original. Is that ‘origin’ linguistic in nature, or is it a ‘property’, a ‘quality’? I read a text of yours on the concept of the animus, particularly in women. But I assume that the concept, mutatis mutandis, also applies — or can apply — to men. The animus is an autonomous figure — is it, that is my question, ‘original’? And a second question: is ‘art’ a ‘woman’? If so, what does this say about its animus?

“That takes care of the first element of my visit. The second is a practical one: I would also like to put these questions to Doktor Freud, and I suspect that a short letter of recommendation from you might be of use in that regard. Times are hard for him.” I give her a smile that is not overly emphatic, but does convey sympathy.

“Ich habe seit Jahren keinen Kontakt mehr zu ihm gehabt,” she says hesitantly. Seeing my slightly disappointed expression, she nevertheless agrees. “Wenn’s nicht nützt, schadet’s auch nicht.” At that moment the maid comes in with tea, water, biscuits and china.

After a few sips of tea, a lecture follows. “As far as the ‘original’ is concerned,” she says, “you must understand that in analytical psychology we never speak of an absolute beginning. It is rather a ‘working’, a ‘dynamic’, a ‘structure’. Archetypes give form to human experience. I would not, incidentally, call that ‘linguistic’: the archetypal belongs to a formless domain that precedes language; it is articulated, and thus made visible, through symbols, dreams, myths… and also through art!” She gazes pensively into the distance for a few moments.

Then she continues: “The animus is indeed an autonomous figure. But not ‘original’ in the sense of a first cause. It is, as I have said, a formative force, a structure that is constantly developing. It is not the origin, but a mediator between the conscious and the unconscious.” — She takes a sip of her tea. — “You should not imagine the animus as an ‘object’ with a fixed property, but rather as a multilayered structure: opinion, word, idea, and ultimately spirit.”

“What exactly do you mean by ‘language’? Do symbols, or even music, belong to the linguistic domain? And a follow-up question: is the animus linguistic?”

“Das sind grundlegende Fragen,” she begins. She refills both our cups and then offers me the plate of biscuits.

“Perhaps — if I am not being too forward — you could also indicate, in your explanation, the difference between your views and those of Doktor Freud?”

“Ach, frei- oder unbescheiden… wenn ich das wüsste…” She looks at me with a brief smile. “Perhaps we should ask Doktor Freud — he knows a thing or two about that.” Her expression turns serious again as she continues, once more delivering a lecture. I listen dutifully.

“Beginnen wir mit dem Thema Sprache,” she says, placing her cup on the tray. “You should not understand ‘language’ in the narrow sense in which it is usually taken, namely as something purely discursive — the written and spoken language we know from everyday life. It is a broader concept. Any symbolic system in which our psyche articulates itself in one way or another — whether words, images, rituals or dreams — constitutes a linguistic principle. Even your own field, music, belongs to this domain. My husband once said that it is “die unmittelbare Sprache des Unbewussten.” For Sigmund, things were different.” — ‘Sigmund’; closer than we often think? —
“For him, music was not ‘language’, but a discharge of drives. He once told me that he was deeply moved by music, but that no decipherable content could be discovered in it. That, of course, has everything to do with the diametrically opposed perspective he chose compared to that of my husband and myself. He chose the biological approach; we chose the mythical one — if I may summarise it so briefly. For Freud, music was not language, nor a symbolic system, but merely an affect produced in our instinctual life. Perhaps interesting for you to discuss this with him?” She looks at me enquiringly; I nod politely. “Then now to your next point.”

“Animus.” She fixes me with a schoolteacher’s gaze. “Let us speak of the animus as a source of logos. That will allow me to answer your question about its linguistic nature. In the text you read, Ein Beitrag zum Problem des Animus, published in 1934 in the volume Wirklichkeit der Seele, edited by my husband, I discuss its role from a female perspective. The reverse — anima from the male perspective — will be addressed later as well. Both are agents of the unconscious, not character traits or anything of the sort. The animus is a creative force, but it can also be destructive. I call it a ‘source of logos’ because it nourishes our actions with insight, courage, and a sense of direction and orientation; it is a bridge between chaos and order.”

She checks briefly whether I am still following her. Apparently I am, because she continues. “Then that ancient Greek concept: logos. It concerns ‘language’ in the broad sense I intend.” She pauses to think. “I suddenly find myself thinking of Goethe’s Faust, where Faust reflects on how to translate the sentence: ‘In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.’ Logos — is it ‘word’, ‘sentence’, ‘force’, or, his final choice, ‘deed’? Logos is an act. That shows how the animus is linguistic: through the act. Not exactly the same, but comparable to your profession — or perhaps your vocation.”

“That reminds me of a remark by Aristotle,” I say, “I believe in the Nicomachean Ethics, that ‘virtue’ is not a property but an activity — a deed, then. I assume Goethe must have realised this when he wrote the text?’

Emma looks briefly up at the ceiling. “Goethe undoubtedly read a great deal of Aristotle, but whether he consciously connected this to the Ethics I cannot say. But who knows — perhaps the connection was indicated to him by his animus.” She actually grins.

“So men also have an animus,” I conclude.

“Certainly — though that is something my husband and I are still working out.”

“Do we still have time to return to the topic of ‘origin’?”

“Yes — but not for much longer, unfortunately.”

I take a moment to formulate my question properly; it is evidently my last. “You said earlier that the animus is not ‘original’ in the sense of stemming from an absolute beginning. But what about the theory you and your husband have developed — does it itself have an origin? Or, put differently, is this theory ‘discovered’ or ‘invented’?”

“An interesting question,” she says, nodding approvingly. “The archetypal order — the term says it all — has always existed in our psyche. Its origin is not linguistic, but symbolic and imaginative. It is independent of time. One could say that my husband ‘discovered’ these archetypes. Myths, dreams and religious rituals are real historical ‘finds’, in the sense of things re-discovered.” She gauges my reaction. “Aber, es ist komplizierter. Nicht eindeutig. The concept of the ‘archetype’ itself is a philosophical construct — through language. And in that sense it is ‘invented’. Entdeckt — zuerst in uns, nicht draußen. And as soon as we grasp them in concepts, they are, of course, also invented. You might say: ‘The theory is discovered in the psyche, but invented in language.’”

— § —

The next day I am once again sitting between my two paradisiacal trees, with Emma’s letter of recommendation resting on my lap. Despite my almost irrepressible curiosity, I have not opened it. Is that because of Emma’s animus, or because of Freud’s Über-Ich? Or both?

It would, of course, be wiser to read the letter before knocking on Freud’s door, since it would give me a better idea of what to say. On the other hand, if he sees that the envelope has already been opened, one can predict his reaction. A new envelope is not an option: Emma’s handwriting on the original reads, Herr Professor Freud, Mit verbindlichen Grüssen, Emma Rauschenbach-Jung. But quite apart from these practical objections, my Über-Ich is evidently so highly developed that I am utterly incapable of opening the envelope. Or of daring to open it. Is the Über-Ich, ultimately, a form of sublimated fear? Dare I ask him that?

Nothing ventured, nothing gained, says my fond-of-proverb Über-Ich, but first I still have to manage to get onto his sofa. I must not only succeed in speaking to him; I must also persuade him into a therapeutic session. I suspect this would be more fruitful than a dialogue reduced to a monologue, since I do not expect him to regard me as an equal conversational partner. But as a patient he might take me seriously — then the division of roles would at least be clear.

I choose Sunday, 24 April 1938, for my visit to Freud: a month after Anna’s arrest — sufficient time for him to put things in order — and with another month remaining before his departure for London.

— Loosduinen, 11 December 2025