MYSELF: It was Judy, I suppose.

DR VON HALLER: Yes. About Judy—do you realize that in what you have been telling me Judy remains very dim? I am getting to know your father, and I have a good idea of Father Knopwood, and you implied much about Mrs Martindale in a very few words. But I see very little of Judy. A well-bred girl, somewhat foreign to your world, Jewish, who sings. Otherwise you say only that she was kind and delightful and vague words like that which give her no individuality at all. Your sister suggested that she was cowlike; I attach quite a lot of significance to that.

MYSELF: Don’t. Carol is very sharp.

DR VON HALLER: Indeed she is. You have given a sharp picture of her. She is very perceptive. And she said Judy was cowlike. Do you know why?

MYSELF: Spite, obviously. She sensed I loved Judy.

DR VON HALLER: She sensed Judy was an Anima-figure to you. Now we must be technical for a little while. We talked about the Anima as a general term for a man’s idea of all a woman is or may be. Women are very much aware of this figure when it is aroused in men. Carol sensed that Judy had suddenly embodied the Anima for you, and she was irritated. You know how women are always saying, “What does he see in her?” Of course what he sees is the Anima. Furthermore, he is usually only able to describe it in general terms, not in detail. He is in the grip of something that might as well be called an enchantment; the old word is as good as any new one. It is notorious that when one is enchanted, one does not see clearly.

MYSELF: Judy was certainly clear to me.

DR VON HALLER: Even though you do not seem to remember one thing she said that is not a commonplace? Oh, Mr Staunton—a pretty, modest girl, whom you saw for the first time in enchanting circumstances, singing—an Anima, if ever I heard of one.

MYSELF: I thought you people weren’t supposed to lead your witnesses?

DR VON HALLER: Not in Mr Justice Staunton’s court, perhaps, but this is my court. Now tell me; after your talk with your father, in which he referred to Judy as “your little Jewish piece,” and your talk with her father, when he said you must not think of Judy as a possible partner in your life, and after your talk with that third father, the priest, how did matters stand between you and Judy?

MYSELF: It went sour. Or it lost its gloss. Or anything you like to express a drop in intensity, a loss of power. Of course we met and talked and kissed. But I knew she was an obedient daughter, and when we kissed I knew Louis Wolff was near, though invisible. And try as I would, when we kissed I could hear a voice—it wasn’t my father’s, so don’t think it was—saying “your Jewish piece.” And hateful Knopwood seemed always to be near, like Christ in his sentimental picture, with His hand on the Boy Scout’s shoulder. I don’t know how it would have worked out because I had rather a miserable illness. It would probably be called mononucleosis now, but they didn’t know what it was then, and I was out of school for a long time and confined to the house with Netty as my nurse. When Easter came I was still very weak, and Judy went to Lausanne to a school. She sent me a letter, and I meant to keep it, of course, but I’ll bet any money Netty took it and burned it.