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Anima and Africa

C. G. Jung understood the anima in a wide variety of ways but especially as a

multifaceted archetype and as a field of energy. In Anima and Africa: Jungian Essays
on Psyche, Land, and Literature, Matthew A. Fike uses these principles to analyze male
characters in well-known British, American, and African fiction.
Jung wrote frequently about the Kore (maiden, matron, crone) and the “stages
of eroticism” (Eve, Mary, Helen, Sophia). The feminine principle’s many aspects
resonate throughout the study and are emphasized in the opening chapters on Ernest
Hemingway, Henry Rider Haggard, and Olive Schreiner. The anima-as-field can
be “tapped” just as the collective unconscious can be reached through nekyia or
descent. These processes are discussed in the middle chapters on novels by Laurens
van der Post, Doris Lessing, and J. M. Coetzee. The final chapters emphasize the
anima’s role in political/colonial dysfunction in novels by Barbara Kingsolver,
Chinua Achebe/Nadine Gordimer, and Aphra Behn.
Anima and Africa applies Jung’s African journeys to literary texts, explores his
interest in Haggard, and provides fresh insights into van der Post’s late novels. The
study discovers Lessing’s use of Jung’s autobiography, deepens the scholarship on
Coetzee’s use of Faust, and explores the anima’s relationship to the personal and
collective shadow. It will be essential reading for academics and scholars of Jungian
and post-Jungian studies, literary studies, and postcolonial studies, and will also
appeal to analytical psychologists and Jungian psychotherapists in practice and in
training.

Matthew A. Fike, Ph.D., is a Professor of English at Winthrop University in

Rock Hill, South Carolina, where he teaches courses in critical thinking,
Shakespeare, and Renaissance literature. He is the author of The One Mind: C. G.
Jung and the Future of Literary Criticism (Routledge).
ANIMA AND AFRICA
Jungian Essays on Psyche,
Land, and Literature

Matthew A. Fike
First published 2017
by Routledge
2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN
and by Routledge
711 Third Avenue, New York, NY 10017
Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business
© 2017 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, author.
Title: Anima and Africa : Jungian essays on psyche, land, and
literature / Matthew A. Fike.
Description: Abingdon, Oxon ; New York, NY : Routledge, 2017. |
Includes bibliographical references.
Identifiers: LCCN 2016054667 | ISBN 9780415786836 (hardback :
alk. paper) | ISBN 9780415786850 (pbk. : alk. paper) |
ISBN 9781315226668 (ebook)
Subjects: | MESH: Psychiatry in Literature | Jungian Theory | Africa
Classification: LCC BF109.J8 | NLM WM 49 |
DDC 155.2/644—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2016054667

ISBN: 978-0-415-78683-6 (hbk)

ISBN: 978-0-415-78685-0 (pbk)
ISBN: 978-1-315-22666-8 (ebk)

Typeset in Bembo
by Keystroke, Neville Lodge, Tettenhall, Wolverhampton
FOR MY SISTER
Some portions of Anima and Africa were previously published in the following
journals:

• Chapter 1: “Hemingway’s Francis Macomber in ‘God’s Country,’” Journal of

Jungian Scholarly Studies 9.5 (2014): 1–23.
• Chapter 2:“Encountering the Anima in Africa: H. Rider Haggard’s She,” Journal
of Jungian Scholarly Studies 10.1 (2015): 1–18.
• Chapter 3: “Anima and Psychic Fragmentation in Olive Schreiner’s The Story of
an African Farm,” English in Africa 42.1 (2015): 77–101.
• Chapter 4: “‘The Reality of the Singular’: Anima and Unus Mundus in Laurens
van der Post’s A Story Like the Wind and A Far-Off Place,” English in Africa 43.1
(2016): 57–86.
• Chapter 5: “C. G. Jung’s Memories, Dreams, Reflections as a Source for Doris
Lessing’s Briefing for a Descent into Hell,” Journal of Jungian Scholarly Studies 11.1
(2016): 15–25.
• Chapter 9: “Shadow Dynamics in Aphra Behn’s Oroonoko.” Journal of Jungian
Scholarly Studies 4.2 (2009): 1–12.
Contents

Acknowledgementsxi
A Note on the Text xiii

Introduction1

1 Ernest Hemingway’s Francis Macomber in “God’s Country” 11

2 The Anima’s Many Faces in Henry Rider Haggard’s She29

3 The Anima and Psychic Fragmentation in Olive Schreiner’s

The Story of an African Farm41

4 “The Reality of the Singular”: Anima and Unus Mundus

in Laurens van der Post’s A Story Like the Wind and
A Far-Off Place59

5 “We are All Sailors”: C. G. Jung’s Memories, Dreams,

Reflections and Doris Lessing’s Briefing for a Descent into Hell81

6 “Not a Bad Man But Not Good Either”: The Anima and
Individuation in J. M. Coetzee’s Disgrace106

7 “The Eyes in the Trees are Watching”: The Dissociated

Anima and African Agency in Barbara Kingsolver’s
The Poisonwood Bible134
x Contents

8 Mother is Not Supreme: The Anima and (Post)Colonial

Strife in Chinua Achebe’s Things Fall Apart and Nadine
Gordimer’s July’s People150

9 The Anima and Shadow Dynamics in Aphra Behn’s Oroonoko166

Works Cited176
Index189
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I wish to thank the Jungian Society for Scholarly Studies for many opportunities to
present and publish my work and Winthrop University for financial support that
enabled me to travel to the JSSS and other conferences. I deeply appreciate the
support and encouragement of my department chairs: Gregg Hecimovich, Robert
Prickett, and Casey Cothran. Great thanks also go to the staff of the Dacus Library,
especially Nancy White in circulation and Phillip Hays in interlibrary loan. Family
members helped out as well—Francis Fike proofread some of the chapters,
and Deborah Brower suggested topics for two of the chapters. Finally, I am grateful
to the staff at Routledge: Susannah Frearson, for her encouragement and guidance
as this book took shape; and Rebecca Hogg for her assistance in the early stages of
the publication process.
A NOTE ON THE TEXT

Anima and Africa is prepared according to the MLA Handbook, 7th edition, with the
following exceptions: all ellipses are my insertions unless otherwise indicated;
omissions at the start or end of quotations are 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 all items on the Works Cited list are
assumed to be print sources unless otherwise indicated. 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).
Shakespeare quotations are taken from David Bevington’s The Complete Works of
Shakespeare, 4th edition. Biblical quotations are taken from the Harper Study Bible:
Revised Standard Version. MDR refers to Jung’s Memories, Dreams, Reflections and BPE
to his Bugishu Psychological Expedition.
INTRODUCTION

“Wood for you. Hurry up. Approach cautiously,” reads a sign outside the hut
where Charlie Marlow discovers Towson’s An Inquiry into some Points of Seamanship
in Heart of Darkness (52). These seven words are good advice not only for Joseph
Conrad’s character, who needs fuel for his boiler and fears being attacked by natives,
but also for anyone who attempts to apply Jungian theory to literary works with
African settings and characters.
Jung’s writings must be weighed frankly if one is to make use of his helpful
insights without perpetuating his less helpful assumptions. To begin with, there is
much value in Jung’s positions, as Michael Vannoy Adams points out in The
Multicultural Imagination:

Like Freud, Jung was a universalist, who believed that there is a fundamental
unity to the human psyche, independent of time and place—and, I would
emphasize, independent of “race.” According to Jung, at bottom, we are
all archetypally identical, typically human. Jung also believed, however,
that there is a diversity to the psyche—that we are not only archetypally
the same but also historically, culturally, and ethnically different. History,
culture, and ethnicity are circumstances that condition human nature and
differentiate us.
(49)

That is, archetypal similarity and human difference are in the same relationship
as archetype and archetypal image: inherited potential versus its cultural or artistic
activation. However, when Jung strays into “biological reductionism” his theory
becomes “psychological racism” (Adams 131). Sound theory and racism mingle, for
example, in the relationship between the “archaic,” which characterizes the human
psyche across races and ethnicities, and the “primitive,” a category associated with
2 Introduction

the assumed characteristics of indigenous peoples, whom Jung compares to children

and animals and whom he considers unreflective and emotional, though vital in a
way that Europeans are not (MDR 244–45, 269). Such thinking illustrates the bina-
ries that Abdul R. JanMohamed calls “a manichean allegory of white and black, good
and evil, salvation and damnation, civilization and savagery, superiority and inferior-
ity, intelligence and emotion, self and other, subject and object” (Manichean 4). Jung’s
essentialist assumptions about African natives also anticipate Edward Said’s concept
of Orientalism: “The Oriental is irrational, depraved (fallen), childlike, ‘different’;
thus the European is rational, virtuous, mature, ‘normal’ ” (40). Michael Ortiz Hill
gets to the heart of Jung’s attitude by arguing that his Eurocentric advocacy of the
Great Chain of Being relates to his “greatest illumination” in Africa, the discovery
of “the Horus principle among the Elgonyi,” which concerns the birth of light/
consciousness. The 1925–1926 Bugishu Psychological Expedition (BPE) convinced
Jung that humans had evolved from “the darkness [unconsciousness] of prehistoric
times” to the consciousness of native Africans to the higher consciousness that
characterizes civilized culture, with European hegemony as the logical implication
(quotations are from MDR 274; Hill 131).
Also troubling is Jung’s position on “going black,” originally a British expression
that Adams defines as going back in time and space; it is the embrace of “black-
primitive-instinctive” over “white-civilized-rational” (51–53). Jung states that those
who travel to places like Africa that are not “overgrown by civilization” may
experience the shadow as “a relapse into barbarism” and prehistory (MDR 246). Of
his own experience, for example, he writes, “The deeper we penetrated into the
Sahara, the more time slowed down for me; it even threatened to move backwards”
(MDR 240). Similarly, Marlow’s journey up the river is “like traveling back to the
earliest beginnings of the world” (48), and there “on a prehistoric earth” he considers
the loud gyrations of “prehistoric man” on the river bank to constitute a “wild and
passionate uproar” (50–51). A visitor to Africa not only projects the shadow when
witnessing such scenes but may also experience changes within his own psyche.
He may go native, according to Jung, through loss of Western identity, reversion
to the instinctive, and involvement with native women. Following a dream of
having his hair kinked by an African American barber, Jung drew back for fear
of straying too far from his European identity. In contrast, Kurtz has gone fully
native through improper methods of harvesting ivory, murder, and relationship
with “a wild and gorgeous apparition of a woman” (Conrad 76). As Adams states,
Kurtz “epitomizes the associations ‘going black,’ ‘going primitive,’ ‘going instinctive,’
and ‘going insane’ ” (70).
Heart of Darkness sketches several alternative outcomes for the encounter with
“the immensity” of the shadow in the jungle/unconscious (41).1 The white-suited
accountant is unaware that he stands near the abyss, Kurtz falls off the edge and
experiences the unconscious at full force, and Marlow looks over the edge of the
precipice but draws back. Jung achieved a fourth and more constructive type of
encounter with the unconscious both in his mental breakdown in the 1910s and on
his BPE.2 In the former case, he consciously accessed the collective unconscious,
 Introduction 3

whereas in Africa the primitive infected his psyche. Although his experiences there
were colored by his essentialist assumptions, Jung genuinely attempted to understand
the common humanity he shared with the natives he encountered, and he recorded
his archetypal experiences and psychological discoveries. Jung also never lost his
connection to the feminine. In Africa, for example, he enjoyed the company of a
young English woman named Ruth Bailey during much of his expedition; her
feminine complement to Jung and his two male companions (she made their triad
a quaternity) was crucial to the success of the BPE.
Marlow, to his credit, tells the story of his journey and learns well the value of
compassion and human solidarity, but the outcome is deficient with regard to the
anima. The setting—he is with four male associates on a yacht anchored in
the River Thames—signals that he remains out of touch with the women of his day
and with an important aspect of himself. Marlow’s deficiency with the anima is
ironic because he is aware of the feminine throughout his journey. He considers the
sea to be a “mistress” (19), benefits from the maternal solicitude of his aunt, notes
the wisdom of one of the knitting women, watches the maternal bush take a tor-
tured African man into its “bosom” (38), recognizes Kurtz’s warrior-mistress as
representative of Africa itself, and shows compassion to the Intended. Troublingly,
many of these experiences reinforce his misogynistic biases about women and
underscore the European notion that Africa is a female body to be penetrated by
trade companies, steamboats, and projectiles from men-of-war and Winchester
rifles. Marlow’s antifeminism simply makes him a period-specific advocate of
women’s place in a sphere separate from men’s and makes Africa a feminine Other.
Literary allusion furthers the understanding of Marlow’s journey and Kurtz’s
situation. Like a descent into hell, the journey to the inner station is both physical
and psychological. Shade at the outer station resembles “the gloomy circle of some
Inferno”; Marlow imagines that he is “about to set off for the centre of the earth”
(27); and Kurtz, like Dante’s Satan, dwells at “the very bottom of there” (31, 33).3
Marlow’s trip upriver, then, is a descent or nekyia into the “region of the first ages”
and down into the unconscious (64). However, he safely keeps his own potential
for psychological regression in check—partly by projecting it onto the natives and
partly, as Rinda West suggests, by shoring up his self-restraint with “a strong
superego” and dedication to a mission civilisatrice (40). In contrast, Kurtz’s Western
self-restraint gives way to shadow possession so that the barbarity that he and his
fellow modern Europeans associated with Africa’s autochthonous culture comes
fully to rest in his psyche. As his inability to leave the jungle indicates, shadow
possession is like the underworld in Virgil’s Aeneid, Book 6, which is easy to enter
but difficult to escape. In the words of the Sibyl, “to recall your steps, to rise again
/ into the upper air: that is the labor; / that is the task” (Mandelbaum trans.; lines
178–80).4
Marlow’s superego focuses, in particular, on his abiding concern with work in
the physical world, which he calls “surface, the reality” as opposed to the “inner
truth” of the unconscious (49). He is attracted to the darkness around him, but work
is his saving grace, especially when duty keeps him from going “ashore for a howl
4 Introduction

and a dance” (51). Jung himself did not resist the desire to dance with the natives
but put an end to the celebration with a rhinoceros whip and German curse words
when the dancing natives became “a wild horde” (MDR 271). In any event,
seamanship, efficiency, and mechanics keep Marlow’s ego intact and enable him to
resist the shadow possession that has ruined Kurtz. Rivets, Marlow’s synecdoche for
work, “were what really Mr. Kurtz wanted, if he had only known it” (Conrad 43).
Ultimately, then, the novel’s main question-at-issue concerns the shadow. What
will happen when Marlow comes face to face with Kurtz who is “that Shadow—
this wandering and tormented thing” and “a shadow darker than the shadow of the
night” (81, 89)? Will Marlow’s ego hold fast, will he succumb to shadow possession,
or will he integrate the shadow and move toward individuation?
What invites the question is the unmistakable Marlow-Kurtz parallel. Indeed, as
the brick-maker tells Marlow, “The same people who sent him [Kurtz] specially also
recommended you” (40). Marlow’s aunt has talked him up in her letters so that he
appears to be “[s]omething like an emissary of light, something like a lower sort of
apostle” (26), much as Kurtz, who has been considered a “prodigy,” “an emissary
of pity, and science, and progress,” and “a universal genius” (40, 42), initially
personifies enlightened civilization. Since “[a]ll Europe contributed to the making
of Kurtz” (65), he attempted to bring European ideals to darkest Africa and believed
his own rhetoric, for a while. When he realized the futility of his efforts (that is,
failed to recognize his own shadow projection), he scrawled in his lofty manuscript:
“Exterminate all the brutes” (66). Kenneth L. Golden accurately describes this shift
of perspective as a Jungian enantiodromia, or swing to the opposite, which compensates
for the repression of the shadow. Kurtz switches from seeing himself as a high-
minded, Jove-like bringer of the light of civilization to the darkness of Africa to
“taking a high seat amongst the devils of the land” (64). Being seduced by the
darkness without, he is possessed by the shadow within and, through madness and
genocide, incarnates colonial brutality. Ego does reassert itself on the downriver run
when he focuses on concrete particulars (“My Intended, my station, my career, my
ideas,” Marlow summarizes [84]). After all, as Adams points out, Kurtz loses his soul,
not his mind (70). But as his diseased body fails, he marks the unconscious (or hell
itself) as it opens to consume him: “The horror! The horror!” (85). In contrast,
Marlow stays anchored to the ego through work, rejects his aunt’s inflationary
rhetoric as “rot” (26), and escapes with a tropical disease and a tale whose lessons
bring him little comfort. Consequently, neither character properly integrates the
unconscious. It consumes and ruins Kurtz. By fending it off, Marlow remains
essentially unchanged, though his body and psyche are somewhat the worse for
wear. He clearly does make some progress with the shadow and the anima (shadow
more than anima) but is far from fully individuated with regard to either. So as the
journey ends and the novel opens, his psyche is characterized more by trauma than
individuation.5
Anima and Africa makes occasional reference to Heart of Darkness but is primarily
not about that novel or its main themes of colonialism and racism. Although
most of the texts discussed in the following nine chapters reflect those concepts
 Introduction 5

to varying degrees, the focus in this study is on the application of Jungian

psychological concepts to male characters. The African continent facilitates access
to the unconscious and thereby aids the individuation process. As Colleen Burke
states, “Africa has become a topology of the mind . . . calling forth something lost
in the psychology of the white European” (n.p.). Or as Said mentions, the Westerner
projects “a sort of surrogate and even underground self ” onto a non-Western
“complementary opposite” (3, 58; cf. 95).6 Although such binary thinking inhibits
Marlow’s individuation, he expresses an openness to the unconscious mind’s
far reaches when he states, “The mind of man is capable of anything—because
everything is in it, all the past as well as all the future” (51). In other words, Conrad’s
description of Marlow’s trip into the heart of Africa anticipates Jung’s insights into
the collective unconscious, which his BPE confirmed. Anima and Africa explores
one waypoint in that massive sea—the anima, man’s experience of his inner feminine
principle—as portrayed in texts selected from British, American, and African
literature.
Verena Kast balances Jung’s period-specific limitations with the anima’s range
and possibilities. “It seems undeniable,” she writes, “that Jung conflated the gender
stereotypes of his time with the notion of anima and animus as archetypes” (116).
She points out that anima qualities such as “vitality, creativity and flexibility,”
as well as eros and relationship, “are not gender specific—both can be constellated
in men as well as women” (113, 126–27). Although this inclusiveness is a given in
real life, fictional characters often illustrate binaries like eros and Logos so that the
gender limitations of Jung’s theory become useful tools, along with the anima’s
more gender-neutral principles. Kast notes, for example, the anima’s compensatory
relationship with the persona, males’ projection of the anima onto females, the
anima’s function as a bridge to the unconscious, and its connection to the anima
mundi.
A number of previous monographs provide scholarly context for Anima and
Africa. Chapters 4 and 5 in Adams’s The Multicultural Imagination deal with Jung’s
two trips to Africa (the first being to north Africa in 1920 when he was 45). Blake
Burleson’s Jung in Africa provides the authoritative version of the BPE, including
helpful discussions of the “primitive” and “going black.” Unlike these studies,
which are not literary by design, West’s Out of the Shadow: Ecopsychology, Story, and
Encounters with the Land analyzes Heart of Darkness and another text under consider-
ation here, Chinua Achebe’s Things Fall Apart, arguing, for example, that Conrad
depicts the “projection of shadow onto nature and natives” (33). Indeed, her study
is primarily about the shadow rather than the anima, and it does not deal with the
majority of authors selected for this study. JanMohamed’s Manichean Aesthetics:
The Politics of Literature in Colonial Africa, Said’s Orientalism, and J. M. Coetzee’s
White Writing: On the Culture and Letters of South Africa—all literary studies to varying
degrees—are not Jungian. Nor do these three books deal to a significant extent
with any of the authors discussed below. In some cases, Jungian literary articles
provide scholarly context, but in many cases there is scant Jungian commentary and
sometimes none at all.
6 Introduction

Anima and Africa contributes new insights into a unique collection of literary
texts, many of which are well-known and frequently studied. All are accessible to
Jungian psychological approaches; most are highly accessible. The following
information attests to the high quality of the works under consideration. J. M.
Coetzee, Nadine Gordimer, Ernest Hemingway, and Doris Lessing won the Nobel
Prize in Literature. Aphra Behn was the first British woman to make a living as a
professional writer. Olive Schreiner wrote the first South African novel to receive
international attention. Henry Rider Haggard was C. G. Jung’s favorite British
novelist and is best known today as the author of King Solomon’s Mines. Laurens van
der Post was a World War II hero, an advisor to Prince Charles, the godfather of
Prince William, a personal friend of Jung’s, one of his biographers, a spokesman for
Jungian psychology, and a Jungian novelist. Barbara Kingsolver’s fiction received
the National Humanities Medal in the United States. And Chinua Achebe wrote
one of the most widely read African novels of all time. Joseph Conrad’s Heart of
Darkness, the ur-novel of the European encounter with Africa, is a touchstone
throughout the study. Three of these authors are British (Behn, Conrad, Haggard);
two are American (Hemingway, Kingsolver); four are South African (Schreiner, van
der Post, Gordimer, Coetzee); one grew up in Southern Rhodesia, which is now
Zimbabwe (Lessing); and one is Nigerian (Achebe).
Anima and Africa’s examination of the individuation process is a triptych:
application of basic principles about the anima (Chapters 1–3), its larger role as a
sea of energy (Chapters 4–6), and its relevance to politics and colonialism
(Chapters 7–9). First, Jung believes that a man must do shadow work before doing
anima work and that the anima is multifaceted—the Kore (maiden, matron, crone)
and the “stages of eroticism” (Eve, Mary, Helen, Sophia). The latter is used in two
ways: Jung’s way, with Eve as biological motherhood and Mary as spiritual
motherhood; and a post-Jungian way, with Mary as mother and Eve as wife. The
proper order of individuation and the anima’s many faces resonate throughout
the book but are emphasized in the chapters on Hemingway, Haggard, and
Schreiner. Second, Jung also describes the anima as a field of energy even broader
than the collective unconscious. Characters in works by van der Post, Lessing, and
Coetzee tap into that larger field, sometimes through nekyia or descent into the
unconscious. These middle chapters make new discoveries regarding Lessing’s use
of imagery from Jung’s autobiography and Coetzee’s use of motifs from Jung’s
favorite book, Goethe’s Faust. Third, the chapters on Kingsolver, Achebe/
Gordimer, and Behn examine the role of the anima in fiction that depicts the
oppressive effect that Western institutions have had on Africa’s native peoples—an
effect of which Jung was well aware.7 In Achebe’s words, Western institutions
impose a version of the feminine in men that makes native cultures “fall apart.”
Chapter 1 draws most heavily on Jung’s autobiographical writings because his
BPE journeyed through Kenya, the setting of Ernest Hemingway’s “The Short
Happy Life of Francis Macomber.” Although the two authors went to Africa for
vastly different reasons, Jung’s insights into the personal and collective unconscious,
along with the discoveries he made while there, provide a lens through which to
 Introduction 7

complement previous Freudian and Lacanian studies of the story. Francis, a puer
aeternus and introverted thinker, overcomes his initial mother complex by doing
shadow work with his hunting guide, Robert Wilson. As the story progresses,
Francis makes the unconscious more conscious through dreaming and then connects
with the archaic/primordial man buried deeply below his modern civilized persona.
The chapter thus resolves two long-standing critical cruxes: the title character makes
genuine psychological progress; and his wife, whether she shoots at the buffalo or
at him, targets primordial masculine strength.
Chapter 2 builds on the fact that Henry Rider Haggard’s She was one of
Jung’s favorite novels and is frequently mentioned in the The Collected Works.
Although his view that She depicts an encounter with the anima is a critical com-
monplace, his reasons for considering Ayesha, the title character, to be a classic
anima figure have not been sufficiently explored. This chapter 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 is one of failed individuation: after repressing his anima in England, he
projects his anima onto Ayesha in Africa, experiencing compensation and enantio-
dromia (a swing from misogyny to anima possession). In this fashion, She depicts the
perils of directly confronting the anima archetype and the collective unconscious.
Chapter 3 argues that Schreiner’s The Story of an African Farm, a novel based
on autobiographical fragments, depicts an all-pervasive psychic fragmentation.
In particular, the Kore and the stages of eroticism reveal the characters’ psychic
fragmentation as regards the anima. Among the novel’s male characters, Waldo
Farber and Gregory Nazianzen Rose receive detailed analysis, especially in terms of
the anima’s maternal aspect. Waldo is associated with the maternal through
his creation over two nine-month periods of a sheep-shearing machine and a burial
post. In addition, his attraction to the primitive and his shadow work with other
men precede and enable his interest in marrying Lyndall. Gregory, though his
relationship to the anima is complicated by cross-dressing, achieves a motherly
Christ-like orientation as Lyndall’s nurse. His name alludes to Saint Gregory
Nazianzen, whose theological positions point affirmatively toward individuation,
wholeness, and unity. But while both young men make some progress, neither
properly overcomes his psychic fragmentation to achieve an ideal contrasexual
relationship. As the novel closes, significant individuation remains a far-off
destination.
Chapter 4, on Laurens van der Post’s A Story Like the Wind and A Far-Off Place,
includes a variety of Jungian themes and motifs but analyzes most thoroughly the
ways in which the anima mediates between reason and other faculties necessary for
wholeness. In Jung’s writings, the anima is not only the contrasexual in men but
also a unifier akin to the unus mundus or unitary world. In the two novels the anima
bridges binaries such as reason and intuition and provides an antidote to the
twentieth-century malaise arising from loss of the archaic. Although van der Post’s
work on Jung does not mention the unus mundus, Wind and Place depict not only
8 Introduction

various connections among matter, psyche, and spirit but also the main characters,
François and Nonnie, as a necessary hybrid of European and native African qualities.
Doris Lessing was conversant in Jungian psychology, and her novel Briefing for a
Descent into Hell, the subject of Chapter 5, includes more Jungian elements than
previous critics have identified. In particular, it is likely that she borrowed from
Jung’s Memories, Dreams, Reflections when crafting her protagonist Charles Watkins’s
descent into madness and return to sanity. This chapter argues that the autobiography’s
Chapter 6, “Confrontation with the Unconscious,” and Chapter 10, “Visions”—
Jung’s encounter with madness and his near-death experience—provided Lessing
with not only a successful nekyia by which to evaluate Watkins’s less successful inner
journey but also a series of images that she reworked in the novel. Against this
Jungian background, Watkins’s shortcomings are considered in light of the novel’s
reminders of harmony, unity, and wholeness. These reminders include references
to Africa, legendary sailors, and various images/motifs. The latter include the
number twelve, mandalas, and quaternity as well as evolution, the unus mundus, and
the quantum. All underscore the potential that is lost when Watkins regains his
memory but, unlike Jung, forgets his vision of the collective unconscious.
Psychological studies of J. M. Coetzee’s Disgrace have concentrated on the
relationship between the main character, Professor David Lurie, and the concept of
empathy as it relates to the Romantic poets whose works he teaches. Yet depth
psychology permeates the novel. Chapter 6 pursues two lines of argument. First, it
shows that the main character suffers from anima possession but that he does achieve
some degree of individuation through a series of steps, which include shadow work,
abaissement du niveau mental, nigredo, and nekyia. There are, for example, dreams and
visionary moments in which unconscious content reaches conscious awareness.
Lurie is not free of psychological problems as the novel concludes, but images
of transformation mark his individuation with regard to the feminine. Second,
Coetzee’s allusions to the Faust legend—Arrigo Boito’s Mefistofele and Johann
Wolfgang von Goethe’s Faust—further the sense that Lurie makes progress with the
anima. Jung’s comments in The Collected Works are particularly relevant here because
the “stages of eroticism” arise from his study of Faust.
Unlike Doris Lessing’s Charles Watkins and J. M. Coetzee’s David Lurie,
Kingsolver’s missionary, the Reverend Nathan Price, is described in The Poisonwood
Bible entirely from the points of view of his wife and four daughters. After discussing
the novel’s relationship to Conrad’s Heart of Darkness in ways that complement the
previous criticism, Chapter 7 argues that Nathan’s experience with the collective
shadow in World War II has permanently stunted his individuation. In his case,
the anima is dissociated so that he illustrates many of the statements Jung makes
about a man’s dysfunctional relationship with the anima in “Anima and Animus,”
a chapter from Two Essays in Analytical Psychology (CW 7). As in Jung’s reading of
Goethe’s character Faust, Nathan illustrates the split in the modern psyche between
the rational/spiritual and humans’ connection to the natural world and the
unconscious. The split also applies to the West and Africa, with Africa being a static
backdrop on which Westerners may etch their will.8 Many other binaries contribute
 Introduction 9

to Kingsolver’s diagnosis, but she also offers a prescription for a middle ground of
balance and cultural accommodation. Ultimately, her use of “eye” imagery suggests
that the “eye” of Africa looking back at the Price family is also an “I,” an acting
subject with agency of its own.
Chapter 8 considers Chinua Achebe’s Things Fall Apart, a novel about a colonial
encounter in Nigeria, and Nadine Gordimer’s July’s People, a novel about the con-
sequences of postcolonial upheaval in South Africa. In both cases, political strife is
shown to thwart individuation, particularly work with the anima. Achebe’s main
character Okonkwo embraces hyper-masculinity via repression, projection, and
displacement of his feminine side. The resulting lack of progress with the anima is
evident in a strange episode involving the abduction of his daughter Ezinma by the
priestess Chielo and in comments about chi, which has some similarities with
the personal unconscious. Unlike the local missionaries who model individuation
on the communal level by integrating the outcasts and appealing through emotion,
Okonkwo becomes increasingly separated from the feminine through a series of
offenses against mother earth and the anima such as the judicial murder of his “son”
Ikemefuna. His counterparts in Gordimer’s novel are Bam and Maureen Smales,
whose manservant “July” saves them from violence in Johannesburg by taking them
to his home village. There they find themselves in the bush, a symbol of the collec-
tive unconscious, but do no significant inner work. Helen, Mary, and especially Eve
are relevant to the narration, but Sophia is notably absent. In neither novel, however,
is mother really supreme because of gender- and race-related tensions. Finally, tex-
tuality underscores the characters’ psychic disconnections. They are fictional to
begin with, and numerous textual references imply that the Africa of Okonkwo’s
Umuofia or of July’s village may one day be available only in books.
Chapter 9 serves as a conclusion by first summarizing the points that have
emerged regarding Africa and Jungian psychology in the preceding sections. The
chapter then provides a brief analysis of Aphra Behn’s Oroonoko, which addresses
both the abuses of slaves in Surinam and the psychological complexity of enslavement.
Behn’s portrayal of slavery illuminates the complementary processes that hold
individuation at bay and thus propel the events toward tragedy: men’s shadow
projection manifests as brutality, especially against Oroonoko; and present women
are objects of anima projection, while absent women symbolize the lack of men’s
anima integration. In addition, the narrator’s frequent stress on female characters’
tempering influence on men, which anticipates Jung’s essentialism, is cultural
accretion rather than psychological truth. The novel’s essentialist position, however,
deconstructs itself because of Imoinda’s prowess in battle and the narrator’s own
unrealized complicity in slavery. Ultimately, by providing a compensatory voice,
the novel critiques the culture of slavery that it reflects.
Thus, Anima and Africa provides Jungian readings of selected texts, but by
necessity the study omits more than it encompasses. A companion volume could
emphasize the anima in works by African writers, and a complementary study of
animus in Africa would also be possible. What is not here may yet be accomplished,
and in that respect this monograph is more of a beginning than a final destination.
10 Introduction

Notes
1 The point is in sync with the archetypal approach advanced by Jadvyga Kruminiene and
Arturas Cechanovicius.The authors suggest that Marlow, Kurtz, and the Russian illustrate
the hero, the shadow, and the trickster, respectively. James Mellard analyzes the many
parallels to the hero’s journey articulated by Joseph Campbell in The Hero with a Thousand
Faces. Colleen Burke argues that the novel anticipates “the Jungian concepts of the
personal and the collective unconscious, as a journey of individuation, a meeting with
the anima, an encounter with the shadow, and a descent into the mythic underworld”
(n.p.). Nancy McNeal takes a similar approach with respect to the shadow in her article.
2 For similarities between Jung’s African expedition and Conrad’s voyage up the Congo
River, see Gloria L.Young.
3 For a fuller articulation of the comparison to the Inferno, see Robert O. Evans.
4 Lillian Feder notes this comparison (285) and many other parallels to the journey into
Hades.
5 As Rinda West states, he encounters the shadow but does not confront it (45); as Golden
maintains, Marlow gains “at least a modicum of self-knowledge about the possibilities for
evil even in the ‘good’ man but [does] not consciously realize the oppositional nature of
what resided within his psyche” (36); or as Mellard asserts, Marlow gains only “a knowledge
of the world which reaffirms Kurtz’s final message [‘The horror!’]” (13). McNeal
accurately states that Marlow’s psyche, in his quest for unity and wholeness,“is not affected
by the jungle” (4), but she proposes, less convincingly, that he “represents an individual
who achieves balance and integration” (8). Kruminiene and Cechanovicius are off the
mark in stating that “his return to Europe is symbolically viewed as that of an individuated
Self, liberated and renewed—a complete man having reached the wholeness of his psyche”
(118).
6 Adams, in his Chapter 9, discusses this projection process in connection with Laurens van
der Post’s writings about Africa.
7 Jung writes: “What we from our point of view call colonization, missions to the heathen,
spread of civilization, etc., has another face—the face of a bird of prey seeking with cruel
intentness for distant quarry—a face worthy of a race of pirates and highwaymen. All the
eagles and other predatory creatures that adorn our coats of arms seem to me apt
psychological representatives of our true nature” (MDR 248–49).
8 For Africa as a backdrop, see Chinua Achebe’s “An Image of Africa: Racism in Conrad’s
Heart of Darkness” (12).
1
ERNEST HEMINGWAY’S FRANCIS
MACOMBER IN “GOD’S COUNTRY”

In Death in the Afternoon, Ernest Hemingway states: “If a writer of prose knows
enough about what he is writing about he may omit things that he knows and the
reader, if the writer is writing truly enough, will have a feeling of those things as
strongly as though the writer had stated them. The dignity of movement of an ice-
berg is due to only one-eighth of it being above water” (192).1 “The Short Happy
Life of Francis Macomber,” one of two stories that arose from Hemingway’s African
safari, is a fine illustration of the “ice-berg” principle. Since what lies beneath its
action and dialogue are the characters’ psychological dynamics, C. G. Jung’s insights
into the personal and collective unconscious, along with the discoveries he made
while himself in Africa, are especially relevant. In the two previous decades, studies
by Michael Vannoy Adams, Anthony Stevens (Two Million), and Blake Burleson
have identified Jung’s African expedition as the provenance of many assumptions
within his model of the psyche, but the trip-theory nexus has relevance to Jungian
literary criticism as well. Like most studies of “Francis Macomber,” Chapter 1 is
“traditional” rather than postmodern, though it is post-Jungian in acknowledg-
ing the essentialism and misogyny of Jung’s statements about the feminine, along
with the racism of his view of the primitive. Jung is useful in many respects,
including his theories’ participation in some of the problematic cultural assumptions
that animate Hemingway’s story.
The Jungian rubric, however, is surprisingly absent from previous psychological
approaches to “Francis Macomber” that sound much of the submerged seven-
eighths.2 To begin with Horst Breuer’s view, Francis plays the role of the child who
rejects “mother-imago” Margot and embraces father-figure Wilson (193–94).
Joseph DeFalco also sees Wilson as “not unlike an authority-father figure” (203),
and Richard B. Hovey views him as a surrogate father (126). Kenneth W. Harrow
tracks Francis’s progress through Lacan’s three stages of the Oedipus complex—
desire for the mother, repression of desire because of fear of castration, and accession
12 Hemingway

to paternal authority. In another Lacanian study, Bennett Kravitz sees “the

Macombers’ marriage as a symbiotic relationship” in which husband and wife fill
each other’s “void of ‘ego incompleteness’ ” (84). Using Penelope Brown’s concepts
of polite linguistic discourse to analyze the dialogue’s psychological significance,
Donald E. Hardy suggests that Francis forsakes “not his rational faculties . . . but the
control of his own positive face” (132). Finally, in the study most relevant to this
chapter, Michelle Scalise Sugiyama uses evolutionary psychology to analyze the
dynamics among the three central characters. Margot’s “female reproductive value”
(143), Wilson’s prowess in hunting, and Francis’s ability to make money come into
conflict, generating infidelity, sexual jealousy, and possibly murder. Although
Sugiyama does not mention Virgil Hutton’s well-known study, her evolutionary
approach to Margot—that she is trying to maximize her options—sensibly augments
his claim that “being upset over her husband’s display of weakness” means that
Margot does not really wish “to be the dominating female” (248–49). Instead, she
simply wishes to be well cared for by the fittest male.
Although Sugiyama generalizes about “the environment of evolutionary
adaptiveness” (143), there is no mention that the African savanna, as Jung knew
well, is the place where our species evolved. As Burleson notes in Jung in Africa, that
continent is “the ancestral home of the human brain”; it is “an established fact of
paleontology [that] Homo sapiens originated in East Africa. We now know that we
are all Africans” (18, 62).3 The story’s description of “the parklike wooded rolling
country on the far side” and “the untracked, parklike country” makes it clear that
the setting is the savanna where humans evolved (21). Thus, Hemingway’s modern
characters enact ancient drives in the very place where evolution etched them
permanently into the human psyche.
Along with complementing Freudian/Lacanian and evolutionary readings of
“Francis Macomber,” a Jungian psychological approach challenges the doubt that
various scholars have expressed with regard to the title character’s psychological
state in the moments prior to his death. They believe that his change from cow-
ardice to bravery is “much too improbable” (Gardner 188), that “the fate of
Macomber’s manhood [is] undecidable” (Strychacz 18), and that he “illustrates no
dramatic change from boyish cowardice to heroic manhood” (Hutton 248),
perhaps because his happiness is not “an integrative form of development, but
[merely] an abrupt re-cathexis” (Breuer 195). The Jungian equivalent of these
claims would be that Macomber’s change is impermanent because he experiences
enantiodromia, a swing between the opposites of negative inflation and positive
inflation. DeFalco, however, correctly identifies Francis’s experiences as “the
journey toward individuation” (206), though the statement’s Jungian resonance is
left unexplored. For Jung, individuation means a movement toward psychic
wholeness, or the Self, when the unconscious becomes conscious; in this fashion,
greater psychic integration leads out of the inflationary cycle toward sustainable
well-being. Hemingway hints that Francis’s change is genuine and permanent, and
this chapter will argue that his individuation becomes clearer if the story is read
through a Jungian psychological lens. In brief, Francis, a puer aeternus and
 Hemingway 13

introverted thinker, overcomes his initial mother complex by doing shadow work
with his hunting guide, Robert Wilson. As the story progresses, Francis makes
the unconscious more conscious through dreaming and then connects with the
archaic/primordial man buried deeply below his modern civilized persona. Like
the reader who must infer the seven-eighths below the story’s surface, Francis
discovers psychic resources that lie below the veneer of his comfortable lifestyle,
“the fairytale world of high society” (Gaillard 32).

Jung and Africa

It is hard to imagine two more diverse figures than Hemingway and Jung—the
macho sportsman and the learned doctor; but both visited east Africa, though for
vastly different reasons. Hemingway went on a three-month safari in the summer
of 1933, published an account of the hunt in Green Hills of Africa in 1935, and used
some of the book’s details in “Francis Macomber,” which appeared in the September
1936 issue of Cosmopolitan. Jung made two trips to Africa: the first was to Tunis and
Algiers in 1920; then for five months in 1925–1926 his “Bugishu Psychological
Expedition” (BPE) journeyed through Kenya, Uganda, Sudan, and Egypt. Although
his main objective was to study Africans’ dreams, the trip afforded him the
opportunity to observe what happened to himself, a white European, in a remote
third-world setting. The resulting experiences and insights provide a relevant lens
through which fresh perspectives on “Francis Macomber” may be discovered.
Jung believes that consciousness is not original to our species but rather that
consciousness emerged in prehistory and is still developing. In his autobiography,
Memories, Dreams, Reflections, he identifies the “original state of twilight conscious-
ness” in which humans “had existed from time immemorial” and from which they
emerged “to become aware of their own existence,” that is, to achieve conscious-
ness as we know it (240). A lyrical passage in The Archetypes and the Collective
Unconscious describes how that transformation may have occurred:

I believe that, after thousands and millions of years, someone had to realize
that this wonderful world of mountains and oceans, suns and moons,
galaxies and nebulae, plants and animals, exists. From a low hill in the Athi
plains of East Africa I once watched the vast herds of wild animals grazing
in soundless stillness, as they had done from time immemorial, touched
only by the breath of a primeval world. I felt then as if I were the first man,
the first creature, to know that all this is. The entire world round me was
still in its primeval state; it did not know that it was. And then, in that one
moment in which I came to know, the world sprang into being; without
that moment it would never have been. All Nature seeks this goal and
finds it fulfilled in man, but only in the most highly developed and most
fully conscious man. Every advance, even the smallest, along this path of
conscious realization adds that much to the world.
(CW 9i, par. 177)
14 Hemingway

Noting the contrast to the natural world, which “was still in its primeval state” and
“did not know that it was,” Jung, in an imaginative reverie, experiences the moment
when consciousness emerged from primordial twilight. The last three sentences of
his statement evince both the primitive’s movement from twilight to consciousness
(the world’s spring into being) and the aware person’s journey toward maximal
consciousness. In other words, progress continues in the present within each
conscious person. It is as if the evolution of human consciousness and the indi-
vidual person’s individuation are not separate achievements. Rather, one person’s
movement toward greater awareness mirrors the species’ emergence from
semi-consciousness.
Although Africa is the locale where consciousness emerged, Burleson notes that
Jung understood the continent to represent the unconscious (200). It follows
that the human awareness that Jung observed there diverges markedly from his own
highly rational European way of thinking. Unfortunately, some of his further
conclusions about the psychology of indigenous peoples are in sync with racist
assumptions. He believes, for example, that Africans, like children or adolescents,
are dominated by emotion—“these people live from their affects” (MDR 239–44).
He also considers them child-like in their participation mystique, a term borrowed
from Lucien Lévy-Bruhl.4 In this magical mentality events are attributed to
“so-called supernatural powers” rather than natural causes (CW 10, par. 113), and
there is no distinction between the perceiving subject and the perceived object.
Jung states: “For primitive man . . . the psychic and the objective coalesce in the
external world. . . . Psychic happenings take place outside him in an objective way”
(CW 10, par. 128). For Jung, whereas modern persons achieve psychic differentiation,
“primitives” are less differentiated (CW 7, par. 156). Being “primitive” means
projecting inner content onto the world and blurring the difference.5
Perhaps participation mystique fosters the ability to see the basic unity of all life
rather than divisions like the one between hunter and hunted. Jung’s experiences,
reported in his Visions seminar, bear out the point. One morning he was astonished
to discover that a lion that lived nearby had left tracks outside his tent. The natives
told him, “It is not bad, it is our lion.” Additional evidence came when Jung realized
“the fact that leopards go hunting with you provided you carry your shotgun and
not your big caliber gun; when you carry your big gun no leopard will appear.”
When his company shot a guinea fowl, the leopard made off with it before the
hunters could reach it. The latter experience implies an almost intellectual process
on the leopard’s part, as well as partnership—human and big cat working together.
Commenting on these episodes, Jung suggests, “It is quite possible that participation
mystique with the non-ego means a certain change, not only in yourself, but also in
the surrounding conditions” (qtd. in Burleson 135–36).6 In other words, when one
perceives the world in human terms, the observed animal returns the favor. A lion
or leopard—dangerous prey—is no longer Other but brother. Of course, the main
characters in “Francis Macomber” wish only to hunt and destroy great game, but
the narrator does describe a wounded lion’s agony from the animal’s point of view.
As Carey Voeller states, “The beast’s humanized, dying moments function as the
 Hemingway 15

key factor in forging the connection of humankind with the animal world” (232).
Although Hemingway went to Africa to take life and fancied himself a great white
hunter, including the lion’s point of view suggests that he may have developed some
sense of life’s overarching unity.
Participation mystique, however, is problematic when applied to an indigenous
people because it implies a linkage between their race and their psychology.7 A more
fundamental, less controversial element of the primitive is that we as civilized
persons have “those historical layers in ourselves” that link us to primitive times
(Jung, MDR 244). In “Archaic Man,” Jung states: “it is not only primitive man
whose psychology is archaic. It is the psychology also of modern, civilized man, and
not merely of individual ‘throw-backs’ in modern society. On the contrary, every
civilized human being, however high his conscious development, is still an archaic
man at the deeper levels of his psyche” (CW 10, par. 105). Burleson explains that
when humans evolved out of “the ubiquitous unconscious,” they carried with them
“an undifferentiated layer of the human (and animal) psyche” (16). This layer can
be observed, Jung believes, in the daily lives of modern-day primitives such as those
he encountered on the BPE (CW 18, par. 18, 1288). But because the ancient
wellspring is deeply buried, a modern civilized person like Francis suffers from
malaise, psychic fragmentation, and a loss of vital wholeness.
In the decades when Jung’s BPE and Hemingway’s safari took place, journeying
to Africa was considered therapeutic precisely because it threw the archaic in human
psychology into bold relief. As Marianna Torgovnick states in her book Primitive
Passions, “ ‘The primitive’ was widely valued as a way station or spa for men suffer-
ing from cultural alienation and psychic distress” (qtd. in Burleson 15).8 She adds
that André Gide, D. H. Lawrence, and others including Jung visited the continent.
Jung emphasizes the continent’s positive effect: “these seemingly alien and wholly
different Arab surroundings awaken an archetypal memory of an only too well
known prehistoric past which apparently we have entirely forgotten. We are
remembering a potentiality of life which has been overgrown by civilization, but
which in certain places is still existent” (MDR 245–46). As regards accessing the
archaic in the civilized person, Jung biographer Barbara Hannah notes that encoun-
ters with indigenous peoples and animals mean that “in Africa you are in a way
meeting those layers outside.” Her sense that Africa “is the country of the Self, not
of the ego” has particular significance in light of Jung’s No. 1 and No. 2 personalities
(172). Whereas No. 1 is “the ego-centered, time-bound person,” No. 2 is “the
Self-centered, timeless person of the collective unconscious” (Burleson 61). Jung
went to Africa to seek relief from the stress of his clinical practice, the province of
the ego, by researching the unconscious in others and by exploring its nether reaches
in himself.
Such exploration of the deep unconscious can be perilous, as the Swahili word
shenzi attests. In Green Hills of Africa, Hemingway translates the word as “a wild
man” (180). Burleson states that it means “ ‘uncivilized’ ” and identifies a series of
English equivalents: “Going shenzi meant ‘going black’, ‘going primitive’, ‘going
native’, ‘going insane’ ” (188). In Memories, Dreams, Reflections, Jung states that
16 Hemingway

“going black” means sleeping with black women (262). Cleary shenzi has racist
undertones to the contemporary ear; but Adams, in his helpful study of race,
understands that the term, which is British in origin, also means “to revert . . . to
an earlier and lower state . . . [t]o go black is to ‘go back’—in time and space”
(51–52). For example, Jung interpreted his dream, in which his African American
barber in Chattanooga, Tennessee, applied a curling iron to Jung’s hair (in order to
make it “kinky” like “Negro hair”), as a warning that his No. 1 personality was in
danger of shenzi because his No. 2 personality was reverting to an earlier, more
unconscious state by succumbing to participation mystique (MDR 272). Although a
more positive interpretation of the dream can be advanced, it was not possible for
Jung who pulled back, forewarned.

Francis Macomber’s mother complex

While in Africa, Francis Macomber connects with the archaic psyche that is buried
beneath his life as a socialite and sportsman. Before the trip and in its early stages,
however, the ego dominates his superficial life. As Jung states, “The predominantly
rationalistic European [or American] finds much that is human alien to him, and he
prides himself on this [difference] without realizing that his rationality is won at the
expense of his vitality, and that the primitive part of his personality is consequently
condemned to a more or less underground existence” (MDR 245). The stated
duality has some of its intellectual roots in Friedrich Schiller’s Letters on the Aesthetic
Education of Man, about which Jung comments in Psychological Types, Chapter 2
(CW 6, par. 101–222). Schiller argues that civilization has diminished creativity,
feeling, imagination, instinct, intuition, matter, and the senses in favor of analysis,
empiricism, intelligence, reason, societal control, speculation, spirit, and under-
standing. He suggests that beauty and the “instinct of play” (part 2, letter 14) can be
instrumental in uniting the opposing sets of qualities; and he sounds like Jung in
stating, “It will be quite possible, then, that in remote corners of the world human-
ity may be honoured in the person of the negro, while in Europe it may be degraded
in the person of the thinker” (part 2, letter 7). Schiller’s interest, however, lies in
classical antiquity, the Golden Age of Greece and Rome, not in prehistory or
archaic man. A more personal gloss may have greater relevance: Jung’s own dream
of a multi-story house in which each lower floor depicts an earlier age. A stone-age
cave dwelling, “that is, the world of the primitive man within myself—a world
which can scarcely be reached or illuminated by consciousness,” lies beneath the
cellar floor (MDR 160).
Francis’s connections to the outer world through sports and other activities signal
disconnection from this “underground existence,” the archaic elements within the
collective unconscious. The narrator enumerates these wide-ranging interests:

he was thirty-five years old, kept himself very fit, and was good at court
games, had a number of big-game fishing records. . . . He knew . . .
about motor cycles [sic]—that was earliest—about motor cars, about
 Hemingway 17

duck-shooting, about fishing, trout, salmon and big-sea, about sex in

books, many books, too many books, about all court games, about dogs,
not much about horses, about hanging on to his money, about most of the
other things his world dealt in, and about his wife not leaving him.
(6, 18)

Ben Stoltzfus describes the statement about “court games” and other activities as
summing up Francis’s “essence before he goes to Africa” (220); and Carl P. Eby, who
identifies guns as phallic symbols, “suspect[s] that Hemingway’s guns were seldom
just guns” (283–84 and n. 4). Similarly, Breuer views “sex in books” as signaling
“phallic deficiency” (194). Jung too would see the canalization of sexual libido in
Francis’s hobbies: “In men, sexuality if not acted out directly, is frequently converted
into a feverish professional activity or a passion for dangerous sports, etc., or into
some learned hobby, such as a collecting mania,” like saving money (CW 3, par.
105).9 Not only do Francis’s activities substitute for the inner work he needs to do;
they also fall short of Jung’s idea of American sports, which, being ruthless, brutal,
savage, and gladiatorial, suggest “a glimpse of the Indian” and manifest, in spectators,
“ancient instincts that are akin to bloodlust” (CW 10, par. 100, 977).
Although Francis is now thirty-five years old, his list of hobbies implies a sense
of arrested development. Wilson underscores his client’s status as a boy-man by
calling him “laddybuck” (20) and by thinking that “his American face . . . would
stay adolescent until it became middle-aged” (8). “It’s that some of them stay little
boys so long, Wilson thought. Sometimes all their lives. Their figures stay boyish
when they’re fifty. The great American boy-men” (25–26). Although Burleson is
not writing about the story, he helpfully brings together Hemingway and Jung via
a key concept that applies to the immaturity that Wilson recognizes in Francis:
“There is exhilaration in living life on the thin line between life and death, and
Africa, as Ernest Hemingway discovered, provided the perfect masculine playground
for this edge. From a Jungian perspective, this phenomenon might best be
understood as the problem of the puer aeternus” (32). Some of the characteristics of
the eternal child that Jung’s associate Marie-Louise von Franz enumerates fit Francis
well. Such a person is between thirty and forty-five years of age, has a mother
complex, and engages in dangerous sports in an attempt to separate from the
mother (1). Flying is the example given, but big game hunting can be equally fatal.10
Francis does engage in hunting and does have a mother-wife, but other characteristics
of the puer do not fit him precisely. He does not fantasize ineffectually about future
plans but merely knows that Margot will never leave him. Insofar as Jung understands
that work is the cure for puer aeternus (5), Francis seems poised, despite his past
attraction to “court games” and “sex in books,” to make psychological progress
toward greater maturity.
The passage’s resonance with Jungian typology yields further insight into Francis’s
personality. Knowing about “sex in books,” along with emphasis on many “books,
too many books,” implies that Francis, although “very tall, very well built . . . [and]
considered handsome” (6), is not a man of deep sexual experience and that he
18 Hemingway

would really rather just read. Being certain that Margot will not leave him suggests
that she might want to, perhaps because of sexual inadequacy that motivates her
frequent promiscuity. The narrator states, “If he had been better with women she
would probably have started to worry about him getting another new, beautiful
wife” (18). Francis’s problem is at least, as Hovey suggests, “a timidity whose mark
is lack of self-assertion” (124). Together, the information about “sex in books” and
awkwardness with women suggests that Francis is an introverted thinker, which
makes him easy prey for manipulation by extroverted Margot, whose beauty “had,
five years before, commanded five thousand dollars as the price of endorsing, with
photographs, a beauty product which she had never used” (6). Further evidence of
her extroversion is that she kisses Wilson on the mouth in front of her husband,
something an awkward introvert would be loath to do.
With proper caveats in place, an educated guess as to Francis’s full personality
type is possible: ISTP, which represents introverted, sensing, thinking, and perceiv-
ing. According to “Portrait of an ISTP,” such a person has an adventuresome spirit,
thrives on action, and is attracted to dangerous activities like riding motorcycles.
ISTPs tend to be good athletes and have good hand-eye coordination (“kept
himself very fit, and was good at court games”); follow through with a project,
especially one that involves logical analysis (“hanging on to his money”), and are
good at a variety of tasks (motor cars, duck-shooting, fishing, sports, dogs). ISTP is
also loyal, trusting, and patient—qualities that the narrator implies at the end of the
“sex in books” paragraph: “he had always a great tolerance which seemed the nicest
thing about him if it were not the most sinister” (18; emphasis added). If Francis
as ISTP is an educated guess, Margot’s type is merely a guess—it is harder to pin
down because the narrator comments on so little of her interior life; however, ENFJ
(extraverted, intuitive, feeling, judging) captures some of her characteristics.
ENFJs are people persons first and foremost, but “Portrait of an ENFJ” suggests a
shadow side: they are manipulative and controlling and can easily get under people’s
skin; they can also be fussy and may judge too quickly. Although the two portraits
seem to match Francis and Margot, an exact, reductive identification is neither
possible nor desirable, for they are rounder characters than case study allows. The
more important point is that they are mismatched and have married for the wrong
reasons. Francis’s money and Margot’s beauty (“His wife had been a great beauty”
[18]) bring them together, and significant friction is inevitable between a man and
a woman who approach the world differently. Francis’s interest in dangerous action
brings him to Africa, and Margot dutifully accompanies him; but when inexperi-
ence results in an atypical failure to handle a crisis, consequences ensue: his wife
becomes picky and judgmental; he in turn becomes over-stressed and angry.
Francis, an introverted puer, has arrived at chronological adulthood without
achieving full manhood. Instead, sports and his other interests function as an
avoidance mechanism—the American equivalent of failure to participate in tribal
rites of passage. Jung knows that, in “primitive” societies, chronological age is
an insufficient marker of adulthood. A male must also separate from the mother
and abandon his childish ways while undergoing “initiation into the ‘men’s house’
 Hemingway 19

and ceremonies of rebirth”; afterwards a mother is sometimes not allowed to speak

with her son (CW 7, par. 314; 18, par. 363). Here one may reprise the criticism of
Robert Bly’s promotion of “ ‘male initiations’ to wean boys from the dangerous
contaminations of maternal influences” (Rowland, Literary Theory 17). In other
words, Bly overlooks gender’s cultural subjectivity in order to promote the
essentialist idea that a man achieves the authentic Masculine by eschewing
the authentic Maternal. Still, there is some value in tribal initiation rituals for
modern men, and Jung predicts the consequences of improperly navigating the path
to individuation.

The modern civilized man has to forgo this primitive but nonetheless
admirable system of education. The consequence is that the anima, in the
form of the mother-imago, is transferred to the wife; and the man, as soon
as he marries, becomes childish, sentimental, dependent, and subservient,
or else truculent, tyrannical, hypersensitive, always thinking about the
prestige of his superior masculinity.
(CW 7, par. 316)

Marital dysfunction arises when the order of individuation is violated. For Jung, “If
the encounter with the shadow is the ‘apprentice-piece’ in the individual’s
development, then that with the anima is the ‘master-piece’ ” (CW 9i, par. 61). A
tribal youth does his shadow work in the men’s house and weds only after achieving
full manhood. Otherwise, he is ill-equipped to deal with his mate. Perhaps with
Circe in mind, Jung emphasizes the need for such preparedness in stating that
“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). The statement works
if standard definitions of “animus” and “anima” are held in mind, but he appears to
be referring simply to male strength and female seduction. Without the sword of
masculine power, a man succumbs to feminine illusion, which in Francis’s case
involves a mother complex. Lacking the masculine strength of Odysseus, he has
attempted the “master-piece” in marriage with Margot before laying the foundational
“apprentice-piece” with other men. As a result, their marital interaction sounds at
times like a whining son and a long-suffering mother.

“You won’t leave me.”

“No,” she said. “I won’t leave you and you’ll behave your self.”
“Behave myself? That’s a way to talk. Behave myself.”
“Yes. Behave yourself.”
“Why don’t you try behaving?”
“I’ve tried it so long. So very long.”
(20)

Hemingway modeled Margot after Jane Mason, with whom he had had an affair
in Havana (Flora 76) and whom he considered the “worst bitch” (his words) he had
20 Hemingway

ever known, though she possessed an admirable “eagerness to get laid” (Gardner
188). Jane is no doubt in the background when Wilson reflects on “American female
cruelty”: “They are, he thought, the hardest in the world; the hardest, the cruelest,
the most predatory and the most attractive and their men have softened or gone to
pieces nervously as they have hardened.” He goes on: “She’s damn cruel but they’re
all cruel. They govern, of course, and to govern one has to be cruel sometimes.
Still, I’ve seen enough of their damn terrorism” (9–10). Hutton aptly points out
“that Wilson criticizes Margaret [Margot] for what he himself practices on the native
boys” (241). The guide’s statements, therefore, are examples of projection. In addi-
tion, Hemingway/Wilson is not a solo voice; Jung, another adulterous man of his
time, sounds the same misogynistic note that accompanies the story.

I asked myself whether the growing masculinization of the white woman

is not connected with the loss of her natural wholeness (shamba, children,
livestock, house of her own, hearth fire); whether it is not a compensation
for her impoverishment; and whether the feminizing of the white man is
not a further consequence. The more rational the polity, the more blurred
is the difference between the sexes.
(MDR 263–64)11

The statement also illustrates Jung’s essentialist position that there is a standard
Feminine from which individual women deviate at their peril. That said, it is true
that the Macombers are childless. Lacking children of her own, perhaps Margot
treats her husband like one. In addition, the further away from the men’s house a
modern male strays, the more feminine he becomes. As humans become more
“rational” (conscious) and more distant from the archaic layer, traditional gender
roles become redefined. Although feminists would not necessarily favor such
conclusions, misogynistic thinking does illuminate the dysfunctional Macombers to
some degree. Jung’s statement is relevant to Hemingway’s story precisely because
both men reflect the sexism of their time.
Hovey notes that Margot “is a Goneril-Regan in her bitchhood, more monster
than woman” (126). Trouble arises when Lear makes his disrespectful daughters his
surrogate mothers, and they mistreat him because doing so aligns with self-interest.
Something similar happens in “Francis Macomber”; but this time, in Breuer’s
words, “mother and wife merge as ‘bitch’ ” (196). The formulation mother + wife =
bitch is a function of Francis’s psychology as much as of Margot’s. Their psycho-
dynamics, however, involve not only Francis’s mother complex but also Margot’s
animus possession. In describing the condition, Jung could not have been more
accurate if he had had the Macombers—or Lear’s elder daughters—in mind:
“Turned towards the world, the anima is fickle, capricious, moody, uncontrolled
and emotional, sometimes gifted with daemonic intuitions, ruthless, malicious,
untruthful, bitchy, double-faced, and mystical. The animus is obstinate, harping on
principles, laying down the law, dogmatic, world-reforming, theoretic, word-
mongering, argumentative, and domineering” (CW 9i, par. 223).12 Statements like
 Hemingway 21

this underlie Susan Rowland’s critique of “Jung’s erotic anima [as being] dangerous
when substantiated into fantasies of female deviousness and power” (Literary
Theory 17). As Richard Fantina speculates, “While the misogyny is unmistakable,
perhaps Hemingway had more in mind than the portrait of a simply vicious
woman” (157). Perhaps bitchery is to the tip of the iceberg as Margot’s “animus
possession” is to the submerged seven-eighths. Even worse, in terms of Jung’s
“stages of eroticism,” Margot merges not only Mary (mother) and Eve (wife) but
also Helen (whore).13 DeFalco rightly calls Margot a “dangerous mother-temptress”
(203). How can Francis as husband-son successfully relate to Margot as wife-
mother, especially when she also plays the role of whore? The final feminine figure
in Jung’s quartet of stages, Sophia (wisdom), plays no part in the inner life of the
story’s lone female character, who appears not to be the sympathetic and “heroic”
figure whose reputation Nina Baym tries to rehabilitate (118).
There are four types of women in Jung’s stages of eroticism and four “persons”
in his quaternity (Father, Son, Holy Spirit, and Satan). The number four is also
central for Jung in a group setting that requires prolonged, purposeful action. He
comments in Memories, Dreams, Reflections on “the archetype of the triad, which calls
for the fourth to complete it, as we have seen again and again in the history of this
archetype” (261). The BPE was originally conceived as a triad—Jung and his
associates Peter Baynes and George Beckwith, a group that would probably have
imploded if an English woman named Ruth Bailey had not joined the expedition.
Francis, Margot, and Wilson—as a triad—have no fourth to round out the group
and relieve the tensions that arise when Francis (son) disappoints Margot (mother)
through cowardice, Wilson (father) fornicates with her, and Francis’s values begin
to shift toward Wilson’s. In this Freudian interpretation of the story, Wilson
functions as a father figure to Francis in order to help him separate from the mother-
wife. Jungian theory, however, places greater emphasis on a male’s accomplishment
of the “apprentice-piece,” shadow work with another man: Francis projects his
shadow onto Wilson; as a result, his interaction with Wilson brings to consciousness
an important aspect of himself.

Macomber’s inner work

Vastly different though the two men may be (Francis, a boy-man; Wilson, a profes-
sional killer and probably a World War I veteran), they share a common typology:
introverted thinking. As previously noted, Wilson thinks about Francis’s boyishness
and Margot’s bitchery. Wilson also thinks about killing, a matter on which he “had
his own standards” (21) so that, when Francis proposes allowing the lion to die on
its own, Wilson “suddenly felt as though he had opened the wrong door in a hotel
and seen something shameful” (15). The narrator registers the hunter’s visceral
reaction as an analogy because even when Wilson feels, he thinks. When Francis’s act
of cowardice sours relations with Margot, Wilson makes a decision that signals an
introversion reminiscent of Francis’s knowledge of “sex in books”: “He would eat,
then, by himself and could read a book with his meals” (8). Lack of feeling, which
22 Hemingway

is implied by “his flat, blue, machine-gunner’s eyes” (8), veers into cruelty as he
thinks about the fornication with Margot: “Well, it was the poor sod’s own bloody
fault.” She makes the same point with equal lack of feeling: “Yes, darling. That’s the
way I meant it to be [she had promised not to sleep with other men on the safari].
But the trip was spoiled yesterday [when Francis acted like a coward; therefore, her
behavior is his own fault]” (19). Then, in a moment of twisted logic, Wilson justifies
his behavior by thinking that “their standards were his standards as long as they were
hiring him” (21). Since Francis is paying for the trip, his standard (no adultery) ought
to be foremost in the guide’s mind.14
Francis’s panicked cowardice, his flight from a lion, is put in terms of another
animal: “ ‘I bolted like a rabbit,’ Macomber said” (8). The image resonates with
Margot’s image a page later when she describes the eland he has killed: “ ‘They’re
big cowy things that jump like hares, aren’t they?’ ‘I suppose that describes them,’
Wilson said.” Macomber’s rejoinder—that eland “are very good meat”—indicates
that he does not grasp the parallelism of bolted like a rabbit and jump like hares or the
implication of hunting prey that are “not dangerous” unless “they fall on you”:
namely, that he, in his cowardice, is a big cowy thing himself. The image of the
fleeing rabbit takes on further significance in light of Hope B. Werness’s statement
that in art “the rabbit symbolized lust, and the image of a knight fleeing from a hare
was a Medieval symbol of cowardice” (340). Francis’s use of the rabbit image
condenses the cowardice of his flight and the sexual desire that he feels for mother-
Margot. What of the lion? In Jung’s Collected Works the lion is indexed as a symbol
of the Self, and it also “stands for the danger of being swallowed by the unconscious”
(CW 9i, par. 315; 5, par. 277). The image of fleeing like a rabbit from a lion, then,
suggests that Francis’s initial response to the shadow work he must do with Wilson
is to flee back to the comfort of the mother figure, followed by negative inflation
(self-loathing).
Francis’s lapse into cowardice is also a sign of a hyperactive imagination.
Hemingway once stated, “Cowardice . . . is almost always simply a lack of ability
to suspend the functioning of the imagination” (qtd. in P. Young 72). Overactive
imagination may be the psychology behind “the Somali proverb that says a brave
man is always frightened three times by a lion: when he first sees his track, when he
first hears him roar and when he first confronts him” (11). Francis’s panic simply
illustrates the point. If lions frighten even brave men, his problem may be not that
he is a despicable coward but that he is just a novice big game hunter, as the narrator
suggests: “He was dressed in the same sort of safari clothes that Wilson wore except
that his were new” (6). Even Jung, who went to Africa to explore the unconscious,
panicked on two occasions. In one instance, fearing injury, he had to crack a whip
and yell curses in German to get a group of dancing natives to end their festivities.
In another that Adams calls “a paranoid delusion,” he spent thirty minutes in the
bush feeling as if unseen eyes were watching him (73). As Jung would agree,
the point is that being frightened by a lion, dancing natives, or unseen eyes is not
a badge of dishonor unless a man first pretends to be something he is not. As Hutton
rightly states, “fear does not necessarily indicate cowardice” (247).
 Hemingway 23

Whereas Francis’s flight seems to indicate fear of the unconscious, he accomplishes

some genuine inner work when he dreams “of the bloody-headed lion standing
over him, and listening while his heart pounded” (18). To say merely that the “lion
symbolizes death,” as Stoltzfus does, is an oversimplification (221). In Hovey’s view,
the dream is part day residue and part a reaction to fear of being “killed or hurt
by the father” (226, n. 16). For Bert Bender, the bloody lion is “an image not only
of primitive suffering, courage and violence, but also of the red-faced Wilson who
is at this moment ‘standing over’ Francis by cuckolding him” (96). Breuer considers
the dreamer’s subordinate vantage point to indicate a feminine position, and he
notes that Francis awakens to discover a Freudian “primal scene” (194). A Jungian
interpretation begins with the distinction Jung discovered on the BPE between
Africans’ big dreams and little dreams. Big dreams are significant for a whole clan;
they are archetypal, collective, God-sent, mythological, numinous, and prophetic.
Little dreams are significant merely to individual persons. Francis’s dream is a little
dream whose most important characteristic is its anticipatory quality. The bloody-
headed lion harkens back to the events of the day (Wilson blew part of the charging
lion’s head off; Wilson has a red face), but it also looks ahead to the final scene in
which Margot shoots Francis in the head. Jung is quite clear about “the aid of
warning dreams” (MDR 245) and their role in both anticipating danger and
identifying the need for inner work. Sometimes even a little dream can participate
in the numinous:

in normal people, archaic dream-products with their characteristic

numinosity appear mainly in situations that somehow threaten the very
foundations of the individual’s existence, for instance in moments of mortal
danger, before or after accidents, severe illnesses, operations, etc., or when
psychic problems are developing which might give his life a catastrophic
turn, or in the critical periods of life when a modification of his previous
psychic attitude forces itself peremptorily upon him, or before during, and
after radical changes in his immediate or his general surroundings.
(CW 3, par. 566)15

Francis’s lion dream, then, represents his fear of the lion (his pounding heart),
Wilson’s superiority in hunting and sex, and Francis’s ultimate fate. But since
the lion is a symbol of wholeness, the dream of a bloody-headed lion implies
that blood sport will bring him closer to the Self and that he will end up a dead
lion rather than a live rabbit—that his final moments will constitute a short, happy
life.
Francis’s dream also moves him closer to the archaic layer whose vitality is a
crucial element of his brief happiness. The East African Standard, a Nairobi newspaper
that reported on Jung’s BPE, supports this archeological role of dreams: “The
primitive man in the European has been found to become active when the individual
is asleep” (qtd. in Burleson 142).16 The dream nudges Francis’s psyche in that deeper
direction; but there is an intermediate step between dreaming and connecting with
24 Hemingway

his hidden primordial strength: anger at Wilson for “topping” Margot (19). Breuer
accurately describes Francis’s transformation as “the repudiation of the mother, and
an unqualified embracing of the father’s mental world” (194–95). Of course, Francis
is clearly not embracing father-Wilson (he refers to him as “red-faced swine” and
“had no fear, only hatred of Wilson” [20, 22]); but Francis does shift to Wilson’s
“mental world” by setting aside thought and imagination in order to funnel his rage
into the hunt, becoming at this moment a more complete man. When an introverted
thinker embraces emotion (Jung’s term is the “inferior function” because it is
secondary to thinking), psychic progress is possible. As a result, the next time he
shoots he “felt a drunken elation” and “had never felt so good” (23). The trans-
formation is especially significant because he is hunting a “Cape buffalo, known
in East Africa for its fierceness” (Oliver 331). After the admission that he was
frightened during the pursuit, fear simply lifts: “For the first time in his life he really
felt wholly without fear. Instead of fear he had a feeling of definite elation,”
“delight,” “a wild unreasonable happiness,” and “pure excitement” (24–25). Before,
he canalized his sexual libido into sports and other activities; now, as he channels
his rage at Wilson into the hunt, the strength of the deep unconscious, “the primordial
man, the two million-year-old man within us all, the positive shadow,” awakens
(Stevens, qtd. in Burleson 61).17 Now when he shoots at the second pig-eyed
buffalo—as “he shot again at the wide nostrils and saw the horns jolt again and
fragments fly” (27)—he is shooting not just to kill Wilson, the swine, but also to
blow the cuckold’s horns off himself. Several lines later, Margot’s bullet hits the back
of his head and blows his face off.18
Hemingway provides several hints that Francis’s new mental state is not a
temporary cathexis, positive inflation, or enantiodromia but instead a permanent
condition. Wilson thinks of it this way: “More of a change than any loss of virginity.
Fear gone like an operation. Something else grew in its place. Main thing a man
had. Made him into a man. Women knew it too. No bloody fear” (26). For Francis,
the experience is akin to “a dam bursting” (25). Surgical removal, loss of virginity,
and a bursting dam are one-way trips that allow no going back. In place of fear there
now grows “something else,” a primordial strength that will brook no more
infidelity. Margot knows genuine masculine strength when she sees it and is now
“very afraid.” When she comments on his bravery, “Macomber laughed, a very
natural hearty laugh,” which bespeaks self-esteem, well-being, and wholeness.
When she asks if it is not “sort of late,” and he replies, “Not for me,” she knows
that he may leave her; he will no longer tolerate her bitchery and infidelity because,
presumably, he is now “better with women” (26, 18). The “apprentice-piece” is
over. He has achieved a synthesis of what Jung calls the No. 1 and No. 2 personalities:
the shadow, no longer an opponent, becomes a source of strength; modern ego
melds with archetypal hunter. Hamlet (another introverted thinker with a mother
complex), rejuvenated by his sea voyage, declares, “This is I, / Hamlet the Dane”
(Ham. 5.1.257–58). Francis, had he lived, might have cried, “This is I, Francis the
American!”
 Hemingway 25

Macomber’s death
Margot’s shooting of Francis is the critical crux that has generated the most widely
divergent opinions. On the positive side, it has been considered an accident (Baym
116) and an attempt to save his life (K. Lynn 436). Being shot in the head is a sign
of “Francis’ forsaking of his rational faculties” (Seydow, qtd. in Hardy 132), and the
act signifies Margot’s “inability to recognize the freedom of the husband-son figure”
(DeFalco 206).19 Perhaps the shooting is “a monumental ‘Freudian slip’ ” in which
she aims at the buffalo but shoots him accidentally on purpose (P. Young 73). “And
what she cannot dominate, she must destroy” (Hovey 126). Nor are Hemingway’s
own statements helpful in reaching a definitive conclusion. In a 1953 interview with
Jackson Burke, the author stated, “Francis’ wife hates him because he’s a coward.
But when he gets his guts back, she fears him so much she has to kill him—shoots
him in the back of the head” (qtd. in Myers 65). In 1959 he was more tentative: “I
don’t know whether she shot him on purpose any more than you do. I could find
out if I asked myself because I invented it and I could go right on inventing. But
you have to know when to stop” (qtd. in Flora 78–79). Of the possible interpretations,
the most likely based on the evidence in the story is that Margot cannot tolerate the
idea that her boy-husband has transformed into a man who might leave her, so she
shoots not to save him from a wild animal but to save herself from divorce and
poverty. The point is akin to James Gray Watson’s conclusion that “her primary
motive is neither to murder her husband nor to save him but to save herself ” (qtd.
in Sugiyama 148).20 The imagery supports this reading. When he is under her
thumb, she calls him “ ‘Francis, my pearl’ ” (9). “The pearl is white, lily-livered, she
implies” (Flora 77). After he attains his manhood and becomes, in Wilson’s opinion,
“a ruddy fire eater,” Margot’s face was white and she looked ill” (25). When Francis
“felt a sudden white-hot, blinding flash explode inside his head and that was all
he ever felt” (27), the transfer of whiteness back to him indicates Margot’s lack of
tolerance for his new vigor and her unwillingness to let Francis live except in his
No. 1 personality. Having connected with the primordial hunter within him,
Francis has incorporated an aspect of the No. 2 personality and can look forward to
a life of sustained individuation. Insofar as the shooting denies him the opportunity
to enjoy his progress and symbolically returns him to No. 1, the ego-centered boy-
man, Margot’s motherhood becomes predatorial.
An analogy to the concept of “bush-soul” may illuminate the shooting in an
additional way. Jung states that the bush-soul is “a ‘soul’ that splits off completely
and takes up its abode in a wild animal” (CW 10, par. 133). In a more extended
comment, he gives examples of what happens when such an animal is slain:

This projection of psychic happenings naturally gives rise to relations

between men and men, or between men and animals or things, that to us
are inconceivable. A white man shoots a crocodile. At once a crowd of
people come running from the nearest village and excitedly demand
compensation. They explain that the crocodile was a certain old woman
26 Hemingway

in their village who had died at the moment when the shot was fired. The
crocodile was obviously her bush-soul. Another man shot a leopard that
was lying in wait for his cattle. Just then a woman died in a neighbouring
village. She and the leopard were identical.
(CW 10, par. 129)

Francis bears a similar relationship to the animals he hunts at the end of the story.
First, his anger displaces his fear like a surgical removal. Then his happiness replaces
his rage, which comes to rest in the buffalo, meaning that the buffalo and Francis
are one-and-the-same. The first buffalo “bellowed in pig-eyed, roaring rage,” and
the second is “coming in a charge” at him (23, 27). Given this identification of man
and prey, it no longer matters whether Margot shoots at Francis or at the charging
beast; either way, the primordial strength of hunter and hunted, which would have
seen her divorced, is the target. Of course, in a modern story, there is no primitive
causality such as Jung observed in Africans’ magical mentality—Francis dies because
he is shot directly, not because his bush-soul departs. The key issue is not Margot’s
specific aim, which is impossible to discern despite the narrator’s indication that
“Mrs. Macomber . . . had shot at the buffalo” (28), but the more general effect,
which is to destroy masculine strength.

Conclusion
Francis Macomber’s temperament, childish pursuits, mother complex, and animus-
possessed wife have conditioned him to panic during the lion hunt. Subsequently,
through shadow work with Wilson, dream, and a connection with the ancient
hunter within, he develops a more integrated psyche by forging a permanent con-
nection to mankind’s primordial vitality. Africa thus functions for Francis much as it
did for Jung, who looked deeply into the collective unconscious during his BPE and
enhanced the connection with his No. 2 personality. Neither the fictional character
nor the famous psychologist fell prey to the type of tourism that Jung criticizes. “Jung
saw the Westerner’s obsession with world-travel to ‘primitive’ places, which for
some meant ‘going black’ in Africa, as symptomatic of the culture’s abiding illness.
Travel was . . . a form of ‘evasion’ ” (Burleson 225).21 Travelers should not make a
full-hearted transformation from a civilized Western mentality to shenzi, insanity, by
falling prey to the unconscious, as Kurtz does in Heart of Darkness. Travel must
instead be part of one’s process of individuation, as it was for Jung on his BPE. His
friend Laurens van der Post sums up Jung’s achievement and his prescription to the
modern masses: “The task of modern man was not to go primitive the African way
but to discover and confront and live out his own first and primitive self in a truly
twentieth-century way” (Jung 51). Macomber and Jung, however, approach this task
in contrasting ways—violent blood sport versus conversation and psychological
observation. Francis makes progress toward individuation the hard way, oblivious to
the attitude Jung tried to cultivate, one of calm openness to what the unconscious
may reveal. As an old Englishman advised Jung early in his journey, “ ‘You know,
 Hemingway 27

mister, this here country is not man’s, it’s God’s country. So if anything should
happen, just sit down and don’t worry’ ” (qtd. in Hayman 267).22 If Francis had done
so, he might have lived to enjoy the fruits of his inner work.

Notes
1 The passage is reprinted in John M. Howell’s Hemingway’s African Stories 51.
2 For an annotated bibliography of criticism on “Francis Macomber,” see Kelli A. Larson,
“On Safari with Hemingway:Tracking the Most Recent Scholarship.”All of the important
articles are anthologized in Jelena Krstovic’s Short Story Criticism 90–237.
3 See also Anthony Stevens, The Two Million-Year-Old Self. Stevens states: “To him [Jung],
the two million-year-old was a vivid metaphor for an age-old dynamic at the core of
personal existence, there by virtue of the evolutionary heritage of our species” (3).
4 CW 6, par. 692 is also relevant to this discussion. Lévy-Bruhl uses the term “collective
representations” to describe primitive people’s “collective feeling-value” (Jung’s words).
However, the linkage of idea and affect is a more broadly human phenomenon, as the
passage goes on to acknowledge: “Among civilized people, too, certain collective ideas—
God, justice, fatherland, etc.—are bound up with collective feelings.” The difference—a
racist difference—is that, in primitives, the linkage is “mystical” (Lévy-Bruhl’s word).
5 Michael Vannoy Adams, in The Multicultural Imagination, offers a helpful summary of the
difference between “primitive” and “civilized.” Being primitive involves “concrete
percepts,” attachment to sense perceptions, and emotion; it means being prelogical and
mythical; it emphasizes the collective; and it involves the law of participation or subject-
object unity. Being civilized means dealing with abstract concepts, detaching from sense
impressions, and engaging the intellect; it is a logical, causal, and individual way of thinking
that emphasizes the law of contradiction or subject-object duality (54).
6 See Jung’s Visions: Notes of the Seminar Given in 1930–1934 by C. G. Jung 1.470–71.
7 I critique this shortcoming in A Jungian Study of Shakespeare 89–98. See also Adams,
Multicultural, chapter 4.
8 See Marianna Torgovnick, Primitive Passions: Men,Women, and the Quest for Ecstasy 23.
9 In an Explicator note, Cecil D. Eby rightly states that Francis must make a definitive
transition to manhood through hunting dangerous prey. But Eby is probably incorrect to
identify him as a varsity letterman. Of the mentioned activities, only “court games” are
varsity sports; it is unlikely that Francis lettered in four of them. “Four-letter man” is a
euphemism for various pejorative four-letter words, as Hemingway’s own use of the
phrase in Green Hills of Africa indicates (84, 95).
10 Burleson uses Alan Cobham as an example of puer aeternus probably because von Franz’s
example is Antoine de Saint-Exupéry’s The Little Prince, in which flying is an important
motif. Cobham was attempting the first trans-African flight when Jung encountered him
(182).
11 A nearly identical statement appears in CW 5, par. 272.
12 Jung also states: “A woman possessed by the animus is always in danger of losing her
femininity, her adapted feminine persona, just as a man in the circumstances runs the risk
of effeminacy. These psychic changes of sex are due entirely to the fact that a function
which belongs inside has been turned outside.The reason for this perversion is clearly the
failure to give adequate recognition to an inner world which stands autonomously
opposed to the outer world, and makes just as serious demands on our capacity for
adaption” (CW 7, par. 337).
13 As Jung observes, “The whore (meretrix) is a well-known figure in alchemy. She
characterizes the arcane substance in its initial,‘chaotic,’ maternal state” (CW 14, par. 415).
Jung comments on the “stages of eroticism” in CW 16, par. 361.
14 A view of Wilson as a thinker is in sync with previous comments on the character. Flora
states, “He is an incomplete man—unable to merge his life successfully with that of
28 Hemingway

another person” (80). Also, George Cheatham notes in Wilson “an inadequacy, an
incompleteness, suggested by his incomplete tan. Significantly, moreover, it’s the top of his
head that’s missing, the distinctively humanizing part, a detail underscored by Wilson’s
clipped, fragmented, unratiocinative speech.” Cheatham concludes:“Wilson, in short, lacks
full humanity” (113). Hutton’s statement about Wilson’s eyes begins with the right
formulation but veers into caricature: the eyes “suggest the deficiency of human warmth
one finds in the technicolor movie stereotype of a specialist in torture” (239). Wilson’s
speech is not so much “unratiocinative” as introverted and unfeeling. Yet Wilson is not
wholly without feeling, as the narrator indicates after Wilson shares his Shakespearean
motto: “He was very embarrassed, having brought out this thing he had lived by, but he
had seen men come of age before and it always moved him” (25). Feeling is simply his
inferior function.
15 Adams adumbrates the five types of Jungian dream interpretation: phenomenological,
amplificatory, compensatory, subjective, and prospective (77).
16 See “What Dreams Reveal” 5.
17 See Stevens, Private Myths 122.
18 When Wilson says to Margot, “ ‘I wouldn’t turn him over,’ ” he is implying that Francis’s
face is missing.Wilson then “knelt down, took a handkerchief from his pocket, and spread
it over Francis Macomber’s crew-cropped head where it lay” (28; emphasis added). The
language echoes Prince Hal’s words to Hotspur: “And all the budding honors on thy crest
/ I’ll crop to make a garland for my head” (1 Henry IV 5.4.72–73; emphasis added). The
detail is overlooked in two previous studies of Hemingway’s use of Shakespeare by John
J. McKenna and Marvin V. Peterson, and Gary Harrington. Harrington does note “Hal’s
using his ‘favors’ to ‘hide [Hotspur’s] mangled face’ (1 Henry IV 5.4.96)” (153). The word
“favors” appears in Hal’s promise to “wear a garment all of blood / And stain my favors
in a bloody mask” (3.2.135–36). Hutton also does good reading of the Shakespearean
motto, but his unawareness of the motto’s personal significance to Hemingway weakens
the critique (243–44). As P. Young notes, a British officer taught Hemingway the motto
in 1917 (73). My reading also diverges from Hutton’s sense that “Macomber’s moment of
‘heroism’ resembles that of the soldier who temporarily goes berserk in battle” (248).
19 See John J. Seydow 40.
20 See James Gray Watson 216.
21 Burleson is quoting Jung’s words to Laurens van der Post, as reported in Jung and the Story
of Our Time 53.
22 When Hannah states (above) that Africa “is the country of the Self, not of the ego” (172),
she is interpreting the old man’s words to Jung.
2
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 purest 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 Chapter 2 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). Further discussion appears in Analytical Psychology: Notes of 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
30 Haggard

individuation. After showing that Ayesha closely matches Jung’s understanding of

the anima, 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 pre-
sents 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).

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 (Gk., 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
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.”
 Haggard 31

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 snake-anima
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, Helen, Eve, 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 articulates the reinterpretation suggested in Chapter 1, the stages through
which a male progresses with his anima: Mary, mother; Helen, girlfriend, mistress,
whore; Eve, wife, murderer; and Sophia, wisdom.7 Considered 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
32 Haggard

(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 Actaeon 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
narrates.

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)

In other words, Holly’s temptation is to tap directly into the collective uncon-
scious, 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
 Haggard 33

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 danger-
ous 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 and 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, 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 a 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
34 Haggard

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 (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); 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 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.
 Haggard 35

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 notices:

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.
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 mythologi-
cal 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
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 Karl stood still, with eyes that swam. He began to speak, but ended with
a shake of his head, as if something had choked him.

"To-morrow, dear friends," he muttered very low. "To-morrow. To-night

I am tired, very tired and very happy. Long live George Trafford and his
beautiful bride!" he said in stronger tones. "God bless them! God bless our
poor country! God help me to rule"—but his voice had sunk again to a
whisper and as he spoke he reeled against Saunders.

The latter held the massive but limp frame from falling, while someone
produced brandy from a flask and poured a generous measure down the
King's throat. Then the soldiers made a seat of their crossed weapons, and
shoulder-high and supported by willing arms, Karl of Grimland was borne,
half-fainting with exposure and fatigue, but serene of mind, to the winter
palace of his beloved Weissheim.

EPILOGUE

Down the great, white highway of the Rylvio Pass a bob-sleigh was
speeding in the early hours of a perfect morning. The incense of dawn was
in the air, and the magic of stupendous scenery uplifted the souls of the two
travellers. Fantastic peaks of incomparable beauty rose up in majesty to
meet the amazing turquoise of the heavens. Sparkling cascades of dazzling
whiteness hung in streams of frozen foam from dun cliffs and larch-
crowned boulders. The roadway down which the sleigh was coursing with
unchecked speed wound like a silver ribbon at the edge of precipices,
sometimes tunnelling through an arch of brown rock, only to give again,
after a moment's gloom, a fresh expanse of argent domes and shimmering
declivities. Perched high on perilous crags were ancient castles of grim
battlements and enduring masonry, stubborn homes of a stubborn nobility
that had levied toll in olden times on all such as passed their inhospitable
walls. Below, in the still shadowed valley, were villages of tiny houses, the
toy campanili of Lilliputian churches, and a grey-green river rushing over a
stony bed to merge itself in the ampler flood of the Danube.

"Oh, could anything be more perfect?" asked Gloria, who, as on the

previous night, was doing duty at the wheel. There was a flush on her
cheeks that was a tribute to the keen mountain air, and a sparkle in her dark
eyes that told of welling happiness and a splendid conscious joy. Radiant as
the morn, fragrant as the pine-laden air, she seemed the embodiment of a
hundred vitalities crowded into one blithe being.

"We are on our honeymoon," returned Trafford, "and it would be a cold,

dank day that could depress my soaring spirits. As it is, the impossible
beauty of our surroundings is so intoxicating my bewildered brain that I am
neglecting my duties as brakesman in a most alarming manner. We shall be
over a precipice in a minute, if I don't master my exaltation of spirits."

"Perfect love casteth out fear," laughed Gloria.

"Is it perfect?" he asked.

"Absolutely—now, dear," she replied. "From the first you captured my

fancy; that was why I did not lie to you in Herr Krantz's wine-shop. Then,
when I thought you had killed Karl in the Iron Maiden, my heart grew sick
and cold, for I believed you were, as the others, without ruth or mercy. The
news that you had saved his life while pretending to take it, put new fire
into my soul; but there was ever a war in my breast between true tenderness
and the lust of power. I had inherited ambition from a long line of callous
ancestors; my whole life had been a tale of scheming, deadening
opportunism. And Bernhardt, as we know, with his great domineering
personality, was as death to sentiment. And then, last night, well, you took
the bit between your teeth and let yourself go. You over-rode my will, you
set at nought my interests: you were master, and I handmaid, and my whole
soul went out to you in admiration of your strength, and love of the way
you used it."

Trafford drank in the words as he drank in the clear, sweet air of the
mountain-side, and happiness—the heroic happiness that befel poets and
warriors in the days of the world's youth, when men were demi-gods and
gods were demi-mortals—took him with golden wings and exalted him, so
that the soaring mountain and the wheeling bird and the forest and the crag
and the river were as his brothers and sisters, fellow members of the
worshipful company of rejoicing creation.

Onward and downward they flew, while the beams of the rising sun
climbed down the valley walls, ledge by ledge and rock by rock, turning
brown cliffs to gold, and snowy slopes to diamond and silver. Already they
were far below the supreme height of the Weissheim plateau, and the air,
dry though it was in reality, seemed almost damp in comparison after the
moistureless atmosphere of the lofty tableland they had quitted. The snow
held everywhere, but it was the thin covering of an English hill-side in
January, not the sumptuous and universal mantle of frost-bound Weissheim.
The larch and fir of the uplands were giving gradual place to the stunted
oak and the starved chestnut. A thin hedge maintained a scrubby, struggling
line at the edge of the roadside, and on the southern slopes the fields were
furrowed in endless terraces for the vine.

"We shall reach the frontier in an hour," said Trafford.

"And then?"

"Then we must quit our faithful 'bob.' The road ceases to run downhill
at Morgenthal, and a bob-sleigh will not defy the laws of gravity even for
the happiest couple in Christendom."

"Then what are our plans?" asked Gloria.

"Plans!" he echoed; "we have no plans. The poor, the unhappy, and the
hungry have plans, for they must scheme to improve their condition. But
you and I are rich in every gift, and life will be one delicious and unending
bob-sleigh ride through gorgeous scenery and vitalising air."

The Princes sighed luxuriously. Then, after a pause—

"We must reach the valley some day," she said.

 "Some day, yes," he acquiesced. "Some day the ride will be done, and
the road end in the great shadows which no human eye can pierce. But that
day will find us hand in hand, with no fear in our hearts, and ready for a
longer, stranger, and even more beautiful journey."

As he spoke the valley widened out, and the hills on either side receded
at a broad angle. The roofs of Morgenthal were plain to their gaze, and the
tinkling of goats' bells broke the silence.

"Austria!" cried Gloria.

"Austria, Vienna, Paris, London," he said, "Southampton, and then the

very first boat bound for little old New York. But in our hearts Grimland—
always Grimland."
 *** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GLORIA ***

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