resonated in the hearts of those who heard this myth? How did they react, if at all? Perhaps women found value in the self-effacing actions of Ariadne, who willingly risked her life to assist the young Theseus. Her cunning and determination make her a candid exemplar for her gender, her abandonment, a warning to all women. Ambition must be tempered by loyalty. Jung finds a much more disturbing element. For the female, it lies in reconciling her inner anima with her true self. She must break free of her Mother’spower. The labyrinth, the womb, the menacing bull—all bespeak her need to become her own person, guided by her own forces as a woman. Theseus’s role in the “rescue” continues to make her subservient to the male, but his abandonment of her is a mixed blessing. Her sexual impulse toward motherhood has now been freed from the “male mind” within herself. She will become Dionysius’s consort. Her association with him blends her erotic needs with her creative unconscious. Ariadne will fulfill her anima as lover and mother.
A different universal theme commands the male attention. It becomes as deontological as aretetical. For the Greek world, the universal takes precedence over the individual. There are political duties (of the polis) that render ones private life subordinate. The State, or evolving clans of like-minded parties, demands an allegiance that puts the solitary life on hold. Courage, selflessness, magnanimity elbow the self to the side. One gains worth, only to the extent that one sacrifices ones personal will to the exigencies of ones city-state. Homer will make this a major point in contrasting Hector’s valor with his brother Paris’s effete disdain for battle.
For the Greek mind, such fate exercises a paramount role; freedom of choice, a lesser one. Theseus is not really free to delegate the saving of the young Athenians to others. As his father’s heir and champion of the hour, fortune places the burden on his shoulders. With his gifts of strength and daring, come obligations. In addition, great mortal achievements require a proportionate pain. It is the way of Greek wisdom. The gods have not granted glory without suffering, life without death. Again, for Jung, powerful psychological forces come into play. The male, too, acts to fulfill his animus. If he fails, he remains captive to his Mother’s anima. His paralysis will become permanent. He, too, must break free of the Mother’s power and assert himself as a man. That Aegeus kills himself is likewise a mixed blessing, since Theseus can now claim the throne in his own right. He has arrived as a man. The slaying of the bull also represents man’s victory over his animality. He is more than just a beast. He is both subject and object. Unfortunately, Plato will carry this awareness too far, relegating mankind’s sensual nature to the domain of perishable transformation, while locating his true nature in the realm of invisible idealism. Not until the Renaissance would this balance be restored.
Those who heard these stories were able to share in the tragic nature of human existence. Acclamations must be earned; valor is never cheap; it defines the human essence, the human telos, or end. Its price is sorrow, its deeds worthy to be sung in ballads, or enacted on the stage or celebrated at the great festivals that mimic the tumultuous banquets of the gods, of the immortals, who, unlike mortals, never die. Examples for self-fulfillment abound for everyone.
I had just completed reading the section, when someone knocked at the door. “Monsieur Clarke! Le telephone, s’il vous plait. Un Monsieur Sue-li-von wishes to speak to you. Vite! I can’t leave the receiver off the hook all day.” It was the concierge.
“Great!” I blurted. I opened the door and stared into the sallow face of Mme. Angleterre. There she stood, her left arm somewhat deformed, she herself short and stocky in stature and clad in a faded black dress. As usual, she had applied too much rouge and mascara about her eyes and cheeks. Her stiff, wiry, dyed hair shimmered auburn in the hall’s dim light. Streaks of gray lay visible about her hair’s roots. Her candor and simplicity of heart, however, more than compensated for her less than bourgeois class. Often, she would bring me tea in the late afternoons if she knew I was working on my book. She wanted to know as much about philosophie as I would tell her. “I’m not an educated woman, you know, Monsieur, just a hardworking widow.”
I followed her down to the second floor and picked up the receiver. “Hello! Is this Carl? This is Clayton here.”
“Good! I have some intriguing news to run by you and desire your presence at dinner this evening. Can you meet Julene and me at the Golden Lotus near the Cathedral of St. Sulpice, about eight tonight? You’ll be our guest.”
“Of course! I’d love to. What’s up?”
“That’s a secret. We’ll explain at dinner.”
“Ok! I’ll be there.”
I replaced the receiver on its hook. Perhaps he and Julene were going on a jaunt and wanted to invite me to travel along. Or maybe he wanted to publish or edit a book jointly with me. That would be worth coveting.
Being a slave to routine, I resolved to pass my afternoon as originally planned before joining them for dinner. The sky had become metallic, heavy, and overcast, and a light drizzle descended with the fog. I pulled on my cap and slipped into a poncho and headed for the park. Traffic spit the misty mess into convoluted trails that swirled gray behind the vehicles. I dodged between a line of taxis and cars, then strode, head down through the Garden. A surprising number of pre-school children were still at play, and mothers, pushing carriages, seemed oblivious to the light rain. I stopped and bought a warm brown crepe, sprinkled white with powdered sugar, and continued toward my goal—the Pantheon, on the edge of the Latin Quarter and just to the east of the Garden. I walked around the little lake, void of children’s sailboats, crossed the Boulevard Saint Michel, and approached the Pantheon by the Rue Soufflot. I had visited it many times but had never gone down to the crypt. I stopped in front of the building’s massive portico of fluted columns and stared up at the pediment overhead. There Lady Liberty hands out laurels to France’s great heroes and saints. In gold letters, the tribute reads: “To the Great Men, the Nation is Grateful.”
On the steps sat a beggar, wrapped in beggar’s rags. With the coming of Spring, squads of these miserable wretches had left their hibernacula, where they slept over the grates above the metro system, and huddled now on church steps, or crouched beside apartment entrances or wherever they could find refuge. I avoided them whenever I could, for to look on them was to experience a harrowing despair. An individual alone would soon exhaust his coins if pity were king. I stepped around the homeless person—a woman, I realized, and entered the great edifice and wandered toward the transept, under the dome. To my mind, there was nothing appealing about this grand stone structure, except perhaps its dome and the people it honored. I made my way toward the right crypt entrance and ambled down the steps into the long gray hall beneath the church. I passed Voltaire’s vault and looked for Victor Hugo’s and Rousseau’s. These were the two giants of liberty and humanity as far as I was concerned. I paused before the tomb of each.
Rousseau’s distinction between amour de soi and amour propre had always appealed to me. Man’s “natural sentiment” versus society’s “artificial sentiment” seemed to sum up both his genius and the folly of his era. The first, held Rousseau, leads to self-respect and, when coupled with reason and pity, produces virtue and humanity. The second, overlaid with social manners and customs, inspires greed and evil. If only Louis XVI had done his homework!
I left the crypt and wandered back out to the portico’s steps. The old woman was still there. She was crying, with her hands raised in an imploring manner. I wanted to escape, to be left alone, to return to my room for tea and reflection, for more reading and, perhaps, writing. She was pointing to her mouth. Her hands were filthy and covered with the black grime of the streets. Her tears created dirty red streaks on her face. “Water! Water!” she begged. I was in the process of withdrawing from her, trying to step around her, when a woman next to me said: “She’s calling to you.”
With reluctance, I approached the woman and bent down. Her eyes stared into my own. They were filled with desperation and a mixture of disdain, if not overt anger,
