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The idea of visiting Budapest originally came from Emma’s wish to see the city where her father had established a branch of the Rauschenbach family business in agricultural machinery. She wanted to go to the premises and perhaps meet some of the employees her father had known when he was there back in the 1880s. But if Emma hoped for some time sightseeing with Carl she was mistaken. He showed little interest in it, preferring to spend his time with a colleague, Philip Stein, discussing medical cases and his own recent experiments in word association, so Emma was forced to do most of her sightseeing on her own.

Worse was to come when they arrived in Abbazia, a fashionable resort on the Adriatic coast. A woman staying at their hotel struck up a conversation with them at dinner on their first evening. She was attractive, intelligent, Jewish – a lady of independent means with progressive opinions and quite fascinated by the new and daring science of psychoanalysis. And even more fascinated by the charismatic and handsome Herr Doktor, as most women were. And Carl, in the wake of his infatuation with Freud and all things Jewish, was a willing partner. Every evening he and the woman retreated to a sofa in the corner of the drawing room to discuss psychoanalysis. If Emma joined them the woman talked down to her as the mere wife. Emma, jealous and humiliated, complained to Carl, but he told her there was nothing to it – their discussions were purely professional. It took him two years before he could admit the truth: that this was another of his ‘infatuations’.

2

Two Childhoods

Emma Rauschenbach first met Carl properly when she was seventeen. She had just returned home to Schaffhausen in eastern Switzerland from Paris where she had been staying with friends of the family, being ‘finished off’ in preparation for marriage to a suitable young man from a similar haut-bourgeois Swiss background to her own. She was shy and quiet, but clever, always top of her class at the Mädchenrealschule, the local school for girls from every kind of background, rich and poor alike. She had not wanted to go to Paris; she had wanted to continue her education and go to university to study the natural sciences, a subject which had fascinated her since childhood, but it was not considered the right path for young Swiss women like Emma, and her father would not hear of it. Instead she went to Paris to perfect her French and acquaint herself with La Civilisation Française. Serious young woman that she was, Emma spent hour upon hour in the museums and began to learn Old French and Provençal in order to read the legend of the Holy Grail in the original – the twelfth-century romance about Perceval, a knight in the Arthurian legends, that would fascinate her for the rest of her life. By the time Carl Jung came to pay a visit she was informally engaged to the son of one of her father’s wealthy Schaffhausen business colleagues, and her future lay predictably before her.

Emma’s childhood home, the Haus zum Rosengarten (the House of the Rose Garden), was an elegant seventeenth-century mansion situated on the banks of the Rhine. It had been bought by Emma’s grandfather Johannes Rauschenbach with the fortune he made from his factory producing agricultural machinery, exported worldwide, and the iron foundry next to it, both within walking distance of the house. Later he augmented his fortune by buying the Internazionale Uhren Fabrik (the International Watch Company, IWC), an American firm producing the first machine-made fob and wrist watches. Emma’s grandfather died young in 1881 and her father Jean, aged twenty-five, took over the running of both factories and moved into the house, still lived in by his mother, with his young wife Bertha. Their daughters, Emma and Marguerite, were both born there: Emma on 30 March 1882, and Marguerite fifteen months later.

Emma recalled her childhood as being idyllic, combining untroubled happiness and privilege in equal parts. Her nickname was ‘Sunny’ and her life at that time gave her no reason to feel otherwise. The house itself, large, square, solid, was separated from the banks of the Rhine by a formal rose garden, laid out by her uncle Evariste Mertens, a landscape designer, and which gave the house its name. Schaffhausen itself was a prosperous town of fine Renaissance buildings with stuccoed and frescoed façades adorned with high-minded words exhorting the good burghers to lead virtuous lives. In the back streets and away from the grandeur stood the many factories, small industries and workshops which were the foundation of its wealth, a tribute to the Swiss tradition of hard work, and to the benefits of hydroelectricity, derived from the power of the massive Rhine Falls nearby. ‘Standing in the window,’ recalled Gertrud Henne, Emma and Marguerite’s cousin who came to the house to play with the sisters, ‘I liked to watch the big “Transmissions”: pillars standing in the Rhine with giant wheels that conducted hydropower via cables to the various factories along the Rhine.’ Anyone with ambition might make themselves a fortune in those heady early industrial days in Schaffhausen, and Johannes Rauschenbach, who started with nothing more than a machine repair shop, then a pin factory supplying the local cotton industry, and finally the world-renowned agricultural machinery factory, became the wealthiest of them all, and one of the richest men in Switzerland.

When Jean Rauschenbach took over the business, with factories at home and abroad, Emma’s mother and grandmother took over the running of the house. Grossmutter Barbara lived in rooms upstairs and liked to sit in a fauteuil by the window overlooking the Rhine, reading her Gazette with her lorgnon, wearing a large bonnet with ribbons and surrounded by her collection of dolls, kept in a large old wall bed, and which the girls were sometimes allowed to play with. Having started life modestly, Grossmutter Barbara never fully accustomed herself to the great wealth the family came to enjoy. ‘If only you’d remained a mechanic,’ she used to tell her husband.

The two sisters were very different but they were close and remained so all their lives. Emma could spend hours on her own, reading, writing, thinking. Marguerite was less the thinker, more the sporty, outward-going type, and moodier. Both sisters played the piano well, but Marguerite liked to sing too, and play-act, and she swam in the Rhine in all weathers, right into old age. They shared a private tutor before moving up to the local school for girls, and their upbringing was conventional Swiss haut bourgeois, instilling the values of a Protestant work ethic, social conformity, and feminine grace and good manners, so they knew how to behave when Herr Direktor Rauschenbach and his wife gave one of their grand receptions required of the foremost family of Schaffhausen.

Emma at school, third row, third from right.

Both girls adored their mother, Bertha, who allowed her daughters plenty of freedom. For this the Haus zum Rosengarten was perfect, with its large cobbled courtyard, extensive outhouses, and the stables where the girls kept their horses, Lori and Ceda, looked after by Reeper, the groom, an ex-cavalry officer in the Austro-Hungarian Army. If it was raining there were plenty of toys to play with inside; if it was snowing there was sledging and ice-skating; if it was one of those heatwave summers there was swimming in the Rhine, and all year round Reeper took them out riding to villages and castles and other local landmarks.

The question of Carl and Emma’s first meeting is a moot one: was it in 1896 when he was still a student or was it three years later, when he was poised to take his first job working as a lowly assistant physician at the Burghölzli asylum and Emma had just returned from Paris? If it was in 1896, then it was at the Haus zum Rosengarten and it was an event hardly even remembered by Emma. But if it was in 1899 it was at Ölberg, the Mount of Olives, an ancient property like a small castle, square and thick-walled, with its own medieval chapel, the St Wolfgangs Kapelle, high on the slopes overlooking Schaffhausen with a drive so long and steep you could not see from one end to the other. The family had spent every summer there since the girls were small. But by 1899 Jean Rauschenbach had decided to sell the Haus zum Rosengarten and make Ölberg their family home, replacing the beautiful little castle with a Jugendstil mansion, a vast stone pile in the heavily ornate style of the time, with turrets and gables and oriels, high-ceilinged reception rooms, and a grand stairway leading up to a wide landing with bedrooms and bathrooms off.

One entire floor was set aside for Emma and Marguerite, then in their teens, and the whole house was lit by electricity, heated by central heating, and served by a raft of servants inside and out. The architect was Ernst Jung of Winterthur, by chance one of Carl Jung’s uncles, who had already renovated the Sonnenburg property next door which belonged to Emma’s landscape architect uncle Evariste Mertens, who now proceeded to design the far grander gardens at Ölberg. According to his own account, as soon as Carl first set eyes on Emma, in the half-light, coming down the grand stairway into the hall, he decided this was the girl he would marry. If it was 1899 then Emma would have been seventeen, just back from Paris, more self-assured than before but still shy and retiring, poised on the edge of adulthood. If it was 1896, as Carl described in Memories, Dreams, Reflections, that would make Emma just fourteen.

How an impoverished medical student came to be visiting this prominent and unimaginably wealthy family in the first place is down to Emma’s mother. Bertha was the beautiful daughter of Schenk, patron of the local Gasthof, a successful family business, providing rooms as well as excellent food – but still a Gasthof. So when Bertha married Jean, the son and heir to the Rauschenbach fortune, she married well above her station. But, rather like her mother-in-law, she never forgot her humble origins. Bertha knew the Jung family because she and Carl’s mother, Emilie Preiswerk, had attended the same school, and the Schenk Gasthof was in Uhwiesen, one of three villages in the parish of Laufen by the Rhine Falls where Carl’s father was pastor. The living at Laufen was poor: only enough to employ one maid-of-all-work, which included looking after infant Carl when his mother was not ‘well’, which was often. Bertha Schenk was one of Pastor Jung’s parishioners and she helped him out from time to time, taking the baby for walks along the Rhine in his pram. Years later Carl still remembered her as she was then: ‘the young, very pretty and charming girl with blue eyes and fair hair’ who ‘admired my father’.

Now, encouraged by his mother, who had remained in touch with Bertha, he decided to pay Frau Rauschenbach a visit, and there saw the daughter Emma coming down the stairs. Even if Carl first clapped eyes on Emma when she was fourteen, she herself first knowingly met Carl in 1899 when she was seventeen. And the first correspondence between them dates from this year, when Emma returned from Paris. It was a one-way sort, that is, mostly from Carl, starting with picture postcards addressed formally to ‘Sehr geehrtes Fräulein!’ – most esteemed young lady, always ending in an exclamation mark.

It took Carl many months before he could summon up the courage to ask Emma to marry him, and when he did she refused him. ‘For various reasons I was turned down when I first proposed,’ he wrote to Freud in 1906: ‘later I was accepted, and I married.’ Various reasons, plural. One was that Emma was already engaged, albeit informally, to the son of one of her father’s business colleagues. Another: Carl’s loud and rumbustious personality was utterly overwhelming for a young woman such as Emma. Another: Carl Jung did not have a penny to his name, nor was he ever likely to have, since by then he had decided to be an Irrenarzt – a doctor of the insane – the most lowly of professions. This presented a serious social barrier and was so shocking that Emma’s father could not be told. Their engagement, when it finally occurred, was a secret one.

What changed Emma’s mind? The short answer is probably Carl himself. It took him a while but he was utterly determined and marshalled everything he had to win her hand, starting with certain natural advantages: his good looks, his imposing presence, his challenging conversation, his intelligence, his lively humour, and what he himself called his ‘intuition’.

Carl’s intuition told him that beneath her reticent, formal manner Emma was yearning for something less conventional, more intellectually satisfying, more adventurous – an outlet for her cleverness which she could not have if she married her haut-bourgeois beau. So he embarked on his campaign, bombarding her with letters filled with fascinating ideas and amusing self-deprecating comments. He told her about his favourite writers and philosophers, his love of mythology, his work, and he confided in her about his ambitions, his hopes and his fears. And he gave her lists of books to read for discussion next time they met. A seduction by intellect.

Even so, Emma still refused him. Everything about Carl, his physical size, his huge personality, his brilliance, was too powerful for her. How was she to know that Carl had another self, well hidden, full of doubt and complexes and feelings of social inferiority? One refusal was enough for ‘other Carl’. ‘Father would never have asked her again,’ their son Franz confirmed years later. ‘He was crushed. He was poor, and not on the same social level as Emma, and so he thought he didn’t have a chance.’ Carl thanked Emma for her honesty and withdrew. These were his early months working at Burghölzli asylum and he became so plagued with insecurity that he hid himself behind the high walls of the institution. By his own account, he never went out for six months, causing colleagues to think he was behaving more like an inmate than a doctor. As for Emma: ‘My mother was very shy then, and introverted,’ said Franz. ‘She was afraid to move ahead, to say yes.’

But Carl had a key ally within the Rauschenbach family. Intelligent, modern in outlook, and coming from modest beginnings herself, Emma’s mother Bertha saw nothing wrong with Carl Jung, the lowly assistant physician now employed in a lunatic asylum. Money? Emma had plenty of money. Bertha remembered the little boy she had pushed alongside the Rhine in his pram, now grown into a fine young man, and here was her daughter Emma, the clever, studious one – and what did it matter that she was engaged to another young man? It was hardly an engagement at all, nothing fixed, nothing formal.

Emma adored her mother and without her encouragement she would probably never have found the courage to marry Carl. After some months Frau Rauschenbach contacted Carl, arranged to meet him in a restaurant in Zürich, and urged him not to be put off and try asking Emma once more. She even invited him back to Ölberg, sending her own green carriage and coachman to collect him from Schaffhausen station. And this time, in October 1901, Emma said yes. Once decided, she never wavered. He need not worry, she assured him: she knew exactly what she was doing.

But Emma said yes to the Carl she knew: the extrovert, clever, handsome Carl with his earthy energy and loud exuberant laugh, not the ‘other’ Carl, the hidden one. Had she known the strangeness and complexity of the ‘other’ Carl – had she been able to see what lay ahead – she might have answered differently. Or not. Over the weeks till their secret engagement she caught glimpses of this ‘other’ Carl. To her surprise, it was she who had to reassure him, again and again, of her love. She thought it would be the other way round.

‘My situation is mirrored in my dreams,’ Carl wrote in his ‘secret diary’ in December 1898, whilst still a medical student:

Often glorious, portentous glimpses of flowery landscapes, infinite blue seas, sunny coasts, but often too, images of unknown roads shrouded in night, of friends who take leave of me to stride towards a brighter fate, of myself alone on barren paths facing impenetrable darkness. ‘Oh fling yourself into a positive faith,’ my grandfather Jung writes. Yes, I would be glad to fling myself if I could, if that depended only on the uppermost me. But an inexplicable heavy something, a listlessness and numbness, weariness and weakness, always prevents the final step. I have already taken many steps, but I am still a long way from the final one. The greater the certainty, the more superhuman the doubts . . .

This was and always would be the crux of the matter for Carl: he had a personality which was split: sure and unsure, optimistic and pessimistic, introverted and extroverted, sensitive and insensitive, brilliant yet obtuse; genial yet given to violent rages; cold under warm, dark under light – always split, and that split always hidden. Secret.

Later he called them ‘Personality No. 1’ and ‘Personality No. 2’, but growing up he hardly knew the difference. At the parsonage of Klein-Hüningen near Basel, where the Jung family moved when Carl was five, there was an old wall in the garden made of large blocks of stone and in the gaps between the stones he lit small fires which had an ‘unmistakable aura of sanctity’ about them and had to burn ‘for ever’. One stone jutted out of the wall. ‘My stone,’ he called it:

Often, when I was alone, I sat down on this stone, and then began an imaginary game that went something like this: ‘I am sitting on top of this stone and it is underneath.’ But the stone could also say ‘I’ and think: ‘I am lying here on this slope and he is sitting on top of me.’ The question then arose: ‘Am I the one who is sitting on the stone, or am I the stone on which he is sitting?’ This question always perplexed me, and I would stand up, wondering who was what now. The answer remained totally unclear, and my uncertainty was accompanied by a feeling of curious and fascinating darkness. But there was no doubt whatsoever that this stone stood in some secret relationship to me. I could sit on it for hours, fascinated by the puzzle it set me.

He sat on that stone for hours, trying to work out whether it was him, or he was it. This was how Carl Jung described it to his assistant, the analyst Aniela Jaffé, when he was eighty and finally agreed to recount his life. Thinking about it then, he added:

Thirty years later I again stood on that slope. I was a married man, had children, a house, a place in the world, and a head full of ideas and plans, and suddenly I was again the child who had kindled that fire full of secret significance and sat down on a stone without knowing whether it was I or I it. I thought suddenly of my life in Zürich, and it seemed alien to me, like news from some remote world and time. This was frightening, for the world of my childhood in which I had just become absorbed was eternal, and I had been wrenched away from it and had fallen into a time that continued to roll onwards, moving further and further away. The pull of that other world was so strong that I had to tear myself away violently from the spot in order not to lose hold of my future.

A strange child and a strange childhood. When the young Bertha Schenk came to take the infant Carl for walks along the Rhine, Pastor Jung had often been looking after his son on his own, the mother, Emilie, being ‘away’ in some unknown place for people suffering from unknown ills. ‘Dim intimations of trouble in my parents’ marriage hovered around me,’ Carl later recalled. As a child he fell ill with fever and suffered horribly from eczema. ‘My illness, in 1878, must have been connected with a temporary separation of my parents. My mother spent several months in a hospital in Basel, and presumably her illness had something to do with the difficulty in the marriage.’ Usually the maid looked after him, but often it was his father. ‘I was deeply troubled by my mother’s being away. From then on, I always felt mistrustful when the word “love” was spoken.’ Whilst Emilie was ‘away’ Carl slept in his father’s room. He remembered his father carrying him in his arms, trying to get him to sleep, pacing up and down, singing his old fraternity student songs. When Carl’s mother finally came back home his parents no longer shared a bedroom. Frightening things emanated from her room, indefinite figures, floating, headless, luminous. Carl had ‘vague fears’ and heard strange things in the night, all mixed up with the muted roar of the Rhine Falls nearby. He could not breathe and thought he would suffocate. ‘I see this as a psychogenic factor,’ he later told Aniela Jaffé; ‘the atmosphere of the house was beginning to be unbearable.’ He went on sleeping in his father’s room throughout childhood. In fact, until he was eighteen and preparing to go to Basel University.

‘I had never come across such an asocial monster before,’ recalled Albert Oeri, one of Carl’s few playmates during those early years. Albert had been brought to the parsonage by his father, an old student friend of Pastor Jung’s, to play with Carl. ‘But nothing could be done. Carl sat in the middle of the room, occupied himself with a little bowling game, and didn’t pay the slightest attention to me.’ Carl was not used to playing with other children, not even the village children who were anyway mostly out in the fields helping their parents with haymaking or herding the cows. When the Jung family moved to Klein-Hüningen, Albert’s family still sometimes visited on a Sunday afternoon. By now a different Carl had made an appearance: extrovert Carl, boisterous Carl, the one who did not like weaklings, especially one of his cousins whom he teased mercilessly. ‘He asked this boy to sit down on a bench in the entrance way,’ recalled Oeri. ‘When the boy complied, Carl burst into whoops of wild Red Indian laughter, an art he retained all his life. The sole reason for his satisfaction was that an old souse had been sitting on the bench a short time before and Carl hoped that his sissy cousin would thus stink of a little schnapps.’ But the moment he had done it he regretted it. Introvert Carl did not want to hurt anyone.

Under the loud whooping lurked the other Carl, the one with secrets to hide. The first of these was a dream he had when he was four, one so significant and so terrible he never told anyone about it until he was sixty-five: ‘A dream which was to preoccupy me all my life.’ He was in a meadow when he discovered a dark hole which he had never seen before, stone-lined, with a stone stairway leading far down. Fearfully he descended. At the bottom there was a doorway with a round arch and a heavy green curtain, brocade, leading through to a rectangular chamber with an arched ceiling, again of stone. A blood-red carpet ran from the entrance to a low platform on which stood a golden throne and on this throne stood something which he first took to be a tree trunk, twelve to fifteen feet high and two feet thick: a huge thing, reaching almost to the ceiling and made, he then realised, of skin and naked flesh. On the top was a rounded head with no face or hair, only a single eye. An aura of brightness wafted above it. Carl was paralysed with terror, believing it might at any moment crawl off the throne like a worm towards him. At that moment he heard his mother calling from above: ‘Yes, just look at him. That is the man-eater!’ and he woke sweating and scared to death. ‘This dream haunted me for years.’ Much later he realised it was an anatomically accurate phallus.

When the family moved to the old parsonage at Klein-Hüningen, Pastor Jung became chaplain at the local lunatic asylum as an additional role and Carl started going to school. Academic work was easy for him, but not the social side – he was not used to other children and they were not used to a child as strange as him. In time he learned to join in but he always felt it alienated him from his true self. At home he played alone for hours, hating to be watched, building high towers with wooden bricks, making drawings of battles and sieges, lighting fires in the garden. When he was ten he did something which was totally incomprehensible to him, even then: he had a ruler in his pencil case, of yellow unvarnished wood, and out of it he carved ‘a little manikin about 2" long, with a frock coat, top hat, and shiny black boots. I coloured him black with ink, sawed him off the ruler, and put him in the pencil case, where I made him a little bed. I even made a coat for him out of a bit of wool.’

He also put a smooth blackish stone from the Rhine in the pencil case, painted to divide it into an upper and lower half. This was his stone. ‘All this was a great secret. Secretly I took the case to the forbidden attic at the top of the house [forbidden because the floorboards were worm-eaten and rotten] and hid it with great satisfaction on one of the beams under the roof – for no one must ever see it! I knew that not a soul would ever find it there. No one could discover my secret and destroy it.’ He used to go up there to visit the manikin, always surreptitiously, and deposit tiny scrolls in the pencil box for him, written in a secret language. Like sitting on the stone, it always made him feel better, bringing him back to his true self. This ritual lasted for about a year. Then he forgot all about it till he was thirty-five and writing Wandlungen und Symbole der Libido, later translated as Transformations and Symbols of the Libido, the book which would signify his final break with Sigmund Freud.

Apart from arithmetic, which always remained a terrifying mystery to him, Carl was clever and when he was eleven he easily gained a place at the Gymnasium, the grammar school, which was situated in the precincts of Basel cathedral. The work, classics-based, was no problem – he already knew Latin which his father had taught him since the age of six, and he was already widely read, especially the Bible. If anything, boredom was the problem. But social life was another matter. Here came Carl, the poor parson’s son, walking from his village far out in the countryside, through meadows and woods and fields, in his bumpkin clothes and holes in his shoes so he had to sit for the rest of the school day in wet socks, talking in his broad yokel Basel dialect. And there came the well-dressed sons of the foremost families of Basel in horse-drawn carriages, with fine manners, plenty of pocket money, talking in refined High German or French about their holidays in the Alps, and Carl, having no holidays, felt an envy he had never felt amongst the poor farmers’ sons who had been his classmates at his local school.

Now, for the first time, he realised that his family was poor, and when any of his classmates invited him to their grand houses he felt ‘as timid and craven as a stray dog’. His feelings of inferiority, fatefully accompanied by equally powerful feelings of superiority, were exposed to the world: ‘My shoes are filthy, so are my hands; I have no handkerchief and my neck is black with dirt.’ His first year was completely ruined, he said, because he had the ‘disagreeable, rather uncanny feeling’ that he had ‘repulsive traits’ which caused the teachers and pupils to shun him, and it is true – many pupils did shun him, even at times Albert Oeri who was in the same class, because Carl was just too strange, too uncouth, too different. The only boys he spent his time with, if at all, were the sons of farmers, the poor ones who spoke the same local dialect. It did not help that he was clever, thirsty for knowledge, arrogant. On one occasion a teacher accused him of cheating because he could not believe this boy could write such an essay on his own. Carl was mortified. He had spent hours of hard work on it. Grown big by now, he got into plenty of fights and brawls. But he always felt ‘a certain physical timidity’ – a feeling that he was somehow repulsive.

In his twelfth year he had what appears to have been a breakdown. As he described it, he was standing in Basel cathedral precinct one day in early summer, waiting for a classmate before setting off on the long trek home, when another boy from the Gymnasium knocked him over and as he fell he struck his head against the kerbstone. He lay there, half-unconscious, but only half. The other half saw the advantage: if he lay there a little longer he might not have to go to school. From then on he had regular fainting fits, half real, half not, causing his parents so much worry that he was finally allowed to stay away from school for six months. ‘A picnic,’ he called it. But he also pitied his poor parents who were consulting many doctors, all in vain. No one could work out what was wrong with the boy. Finally it was decided he needed a change and he was sent off to stay with his architect uncle Ernst Jung in Winterthur. Carl loved it, spending hours at the town’s railway station watching the steam trains come and go. But when he returned home to Klein-Hüningen he found his parents more worried than ever: he might have epilepsy, he overheard, and what were they to do, with no money and a boy who could not look after himself? ‘I was thunderstruck. This was the collision with reality.’ That same day he went to his father’s library and started cramming. He had only one more fainting fit after that but did not let it master him, and soon he was back at school. ‘That was when I learned what a neurosis is.’

From then on he got up at five every morning to study before setting off for school at seven. Sometimes it was 3 a.m. He felt he was himself for the first time. ‘Previously I had existed too, but everything had merely happened to me. Now I happened to myself. Now I knew: I am myself now, now I exist.’ In this elevated state he went to stay with a school friend who had a house on Lake Lucerne. How lucky the boy was, thought Carl, and how lucky they were to be allowed to use the Waidling, the punt, plunging the pole into the water as they manoeuvred out of the boathouse and into the blue. But when Carl started doing some fancy tricks, showing off, the boy’s father whistled them back to shore and gave Carl a dressing down. Carl was seized with rage ‘that this fat, ignorant boor should dare to insult ME’. But just as quickly he realised it was another conflict with reality: the father was right, he was wrong. It occurred to him that he might be two different people, the unsure boy and the ‘other’, the sure and powerful one. Not only did this other Carl exist, he was an old man, wore buckled shoes and a white wig and drove about in a fly with high wheels and a box suspended on springs with leather straps: a man living in the eighteenth century. The one as real as the other.