Linda P. Pridgen: The “Jaded Traveller”, Part II

CHAP­TER 3

JASPER CON­FRONTS THE WOMAN WITH­IN

“E

very man has his own Eve with­in him.” With that Ger­man proverb, Wil­fred L. Guerin ap­proach­es the sub­ject of the anima, that mys­te­ri­ous, mul­ti­faceted fem­i­nine per­son­al­i­ty, which, ac­cord­ing to Carl G. Jung, re­sides with­in the psy­che of every man (Guerin 181). Be­cause this image can man­i­fest it­self in some­times con­tra­dic­to­ry ways and through a va­ri­ety of emo­tions and at­ti­tudes, it is, in Guerin’s es­ti­ma­tion, “the most com­plex of Jung’s archetypes,” those pri­mor­dial im­ages that pop­u­late hu­mankind’s un­con­scious (181). The dis­parate forms the anima takes in lit­er­a­ture and art — rang­ing, Guerin notes, from “Helen of Troy [and] Dante’s Beat­rice [to] Mil­ton’s Eve” — at­test to her com­plex­i­ty and uni­ver­sal ap­peal (182).

What­ev­er form the anima takes, she is, as Guerin points out, the quintessen­tial “life force or vital en­er­gy” of man (181). This quintessen­tial fem­i­nine force may man­i­fest it­self in both pos­i­tive and neg­a­tive ways. Whether neg­a­tive or pos­i­tive, the anima is, as Von Franz ar­gues, the “per­son­i­fi­ca­tion of all fem­i­nine psy­cho­log­i­cal ten­den­cies in a man’s psy­che, such as vague feel­ings and moods, prophet­ic hunch­es, re­cep­tive­ness to the ir­ra­tional, ca­pac­i­ty for per­son­al love, feel­ing for na­ture, and — last but not least — his re­la­tion to the un­con­scious” (177). The anima may ap­pear as se­duc­tress, vir­gin, “Sapi­en­ta” (wis­dom), or as a de­mon­ic fig­ure, such as a witch (Man and his Sym­bols 185). In The Mys­tery of Edwin Drood the anima fig­ure comes to life in all of these roles through three char­ac­ters — Rosa Bud, who is a com­plex vir­gin-se­duc­tress fig­ure, He­le­na Land­less, who rep­re­sents wis­dom, and Princess Puffer, who ex­hibits the traits of the witch or the Ter­ri­ble Moth­er.

All of these fe­male fig­ures, whether an­gel­ic or de­mon­ic, play the tra­di­tion­al role of the anima in John Jasper’s life. Ac­cord­ing to von Franz, the pos­i­tive anima typ­i­cal­ly func­tions as “guide, or me­di­a­tor, to the world with­in and to the Self” (183). It is her job, von Franz con­tin­ues, “to put a man’s mind in tune with the right inner val­ues and there­by open the way into more pro­found inner depths” (180). In other words, she helps guide a man to dis­cov­er his best self. On the other hand, the neg­a­tive anima can be so de­struc­tive as to lead a man to his death.

How the anima ap­pears is de­pen­dent, von Franz main­tains, on the role the moth­er played in the man’s life (178). Be­cause we are deal­ing with John Jasper’s char­ac­ter and his anima, it is im­por­tant to try to glean from the ex­tant text of The Mys­tery of Edwin Drood what sort of re­la­tion­ship he had with his moth­er. Un­for­tu­nate­ly, the text does not re­veal much. De­spite the pauci­ty of clues, how­ev­er, it is in­ter­est­ing that sev­er­al crit­ics have de­vel­oped the­o­ries about who Jasper’s mys­te­ri­ous moth­er may have been. For ex­am­ple, Felix Aylmer re­minds us that Cum­ing Wal­ters in Clues to Edwin Drood ar­gues that the opium woman, Princess Puffer, is Jasper’s moth­er (44). Aylmer, how­ev­er, dis­agrees with Wal­ters for a very good rea­son: the opium woman de­spis­es Jasper and shakes her fist at him in out­rage in the clos­ing chap­ter (Drood 279). Aylmer ar­gues that if the opium woman were, in fact, Jasper’s moth­er, she would cer­tain­ly not want to harm him, be­cause such an in­ten­tion would be out of char­ac­ter for the kinds of women Dick­ens typ­i­cal­ly pre­sents as moth­er fig­ures (46). Henry Jack­son also re­acts with skep­ti­cism to Wal­ters’s sug­ges­tion that the opium woman could be Jasper’s moth­er. Ac­cord­ing to Jack­son, Wal­ters’s pro­pos­al that the opium woman had been aban­doned by Jasper’s fa­ther and now pur­sues Jasper in order to make the “child suf­fer for the sins of the fa­ther” is “fan­tas­tic” (60). Fur­ther­more, Jack­son re­jects Wal­ters’s hy­poth­e­sis, be­cause, as Jack­son ex­plains, it “pre­sumes that the opium woman knows who Jasper is, where­as [. . .] she knows nei­ther his name nor where he lives” (60). Jack­son the­o­rizes that the opium woman may pur­sue Jasper at the end of the novel be­cause she be­lieves he cru­el­ly aban­doned a woman who had be­friend­ed her (60). Other than this brief spec­u­la­tion re­gard­ing the opium woman’s pur­suit of Jasper, how­ev­er, Jack­son of­fers no hy­poth­e­sis re­gard­ing the iden­ti­ty of Jasper’s moth­er.

Aylmer, on the other hand, while re­ject­ing Wal­ters’s the­o­ry that the opium woman may be Jasper’s moth­er, sub­sti­tutes his own Byzan­tine, al­beit fas­ci­nat­ing the­o­ry, propos­ing that Jasper’s moth­er was a Moslem woman. Aylmer pos­tu­lates that Jasper’s Chris­tian fa­ther, Drood, may have been work­ing in Egypt where he met and fell in love with a Moslem woman, whom he may or may not have mar­ried. In ei­ther case, the Moslem woman’s li­ai­son with a Chris­tian would have placed her in a dan­ger­ous sit­u­a­tion be­cause the tenets of the Moslem re­li­gion do not con­done in­ter- faith re­la­tion­ships. Aylmer con­tends that when the or­tho­dox Moslem fam­i­ly even­tu­al­ly dis­cov­ered her in­dis­cre­tion, she would have been sub­ject to the harsh laws and pun­ish­ment of her cul­ture, which dic­tat­ed that she ei­ther re­nounce her mar­riage (or li­ai­son) or be ex­e­cut­ed. Aylmer sug­gests that Jasper’s Moslem moth­er was in fact ex­e­cut­ed, an event which pre­cip­i­tat­ed an equal­ly vi­o­lent re­sponse from Jasper’s fa­ther. Ac­cord­ing to Aylmer’s the­o­ry, Jasper’s fa­ther, with Rosa’s fa­ther as his sec­ond, would have de­mand­ed a duel with his de­ceased wife’s fa­ther or broth­er, be­cause it would have been one of them who had car­ried out the ex­e­cu­tion of Jasper’s moth­er.

Fur­ther­more, Aylmer the­o­rizes that Drood (Jasper’s fa­ther) would have killed his wife’s rel­a­tive and per­haps, would have even at­tempt­ed to kill an­oth­er, when Bud in­ter­posed. Now, in a com­plex turn of events, Bud has ac­tu­al­ly saved the life of a Moslem and the en­tire Moslem fam­i­ly will for­ev­er be in his debt (The Drood Case 51-61).

As Aylmer’s the­o­ry would have it, Drood’s ac­tions would have set off a chain of events that would lead to an ir­re­vo­ca­ble blood feud. Forced to flee Egypt for the safe­ty of his then five-year-old-son Jasper, Drood would have re­turned to Eng­land and mar­ried again. This sec­ond mar­riage would pro­duce Edwin. In Aylmer’s scheme, then, Edwin is re­al­ly Jasper’s half-broth­er. In the mean­time, Bud would have also mar­ried, and he and his wife would have a daugh­ter, Rosa. Aylmer sug­gests that Bud and Drood would have drawn up a pact stip­u­lat­ing that their chil­dren would marry upon reach­ing the age of ma­jor­i­ty. Aylmer pro­pos­es that the be­trothal would be a form of pro­tec­tion for Edwin, who might oth­er­wise be­come a vic­tim of the blood feud. In other words, be­cause Rosa is the daugh­ter of Bud, a friend of the Moslems, Edwin’s be­trothal to Rosa should af­ford ad­e­quate pro­tec­tion from would-be as­sas­sins (The Drood Case 56-58).

If, in fact, Aylmer’s elab­o­rate scheme is true, then it is pos­si­ble to un­der­stand why Jasper would suf­fer from neu­roses and com­plex­es that lead him to opium and mur­der­ous fan­tasies. First of all, ac­cord­ing to Aylmer’s hy­poth­e­sis, Jasper would have lost his moth­er at a very early age, a loss that would have led, no doubt, to feel­ings of re­jec­tion and aban­don­ment. Then, short­ly after the death of his moth­er, Jasper’s fa­ther would have up­root­ed him from his home­land and in­tro­duced him to an alien cul­ture where he would thence­forth lead an iso­lat­ed life as one of Eng­land’s dis­pos­sessed. Per­ma­nent­ly sep­a­rat­ed from his moth­er and his na­tive cul­ture, Jasper may have found con­so­la­tion in vague rec­ol­lec­tions of his early years that em­anate from his un­con­scious and resur­face in his tor­tured hal­lu­ci­na­tions of ex­ot­ic pageantry and rit­u­al ex­e­cu­tions. In re­gard to this no­tion, Aylmer pro­pos­es that “Jasper’s mem­o­ry seems to re­tain a dis­tinct, though mud­dled, im­pres­sion of some fes­ti­val pro­ces­sion in Cairo” (55). The vi­o­lent na­ture of the fan­tasies sug­gests that the young Jasper may have even wit­nessed the ghast­ly ex­e­cu­tion of his moth­er. Ac­cord­ing to Aylmer, the ex­e­cu­tion im­posed in cases of “apos­ta­cy” (51) is par­tic­u­lar­ly cold-blood­ed, the of­fend­ing fe­male ei­ther drowned or, even more grue­some­ly, cut to pieces (52). If she had been cut to pieces, her ex­e­cu­tion could be viewed as a grim fore­shad­ow­ing of the kind of psy­cho­log­i­cal dis­mem­ber­ment that Jasper would suf­fer.

Aylmer’s hy­poth­e­sis that Jasper’s moth­er is Moslem also pro­vides sup­port for the the­o­ry that Jasper suf­fers from psy­cho­log­i­cal in­sta­bil­i­ty, be­cause his very ge­net­ic make­up would sug­gest a dual per­son­al­i­ty — one ori­en­tal, the other oc­ci­den­tal. From his con­cep­tion, then, the seeds of dis­cord were plant­ed — the dark de­sire for opium, as well as his dis­taste for the me­thod­i­cal life of the staid, mid­dle-class En­glish­man.

Along with Jasper’s psy­cho­log­i­cal in­sta­bil­i­ty and his feel­ings of re­jec­tion and loss, he is prob­a­bly also feel­ing jus­ti­fi­ably angry be­cause as Drood’s first-born son, it should have been he who was be­trothed to Rosa. It may be pos­si­ble, at least in part, that the wound Jasper suf­fers that should ini­ti­ate the pro­cess of in­di­vid­u­a­tion (but in­stead leads to his opium abuse), is a sym­bol­ic, but nev­er­the­less deeply painful re­jec­tion by the fa­ther, who de­nied Jasper the honor, the priv­i­lege, and the pro­tec­tive shield that a be­trothal to Rosa would have pro­vid­ed. Is the be­trothal never ex­tend­ed to Jasper be­cause the fa­ther be­lieves that Jasper is pro­tect­ed from would-be as­sas­sins by virtue of his Moslem blood? We can only spec­u­late about this point.

While we spec­u­late, how­ev­er, we may also no­tice that Jasper ex­hibits some of the very char­ac­ter­is­tics that are as­so­ci­at­ed with men who have ex­pe­ri­enced neg­a­tive re­la­tion­ships with their moth­ers or who have neg­a­tive mem­o­ries of their moth­ers. Sig­nif­i­cant­ly, these same char­ac­ter­is­tics re­veal the pres­ence of the neg­a­tive anima.

Von Franz ex­plains that “if [a man’s] moth­er had a neg­a­tive in­flu­ence on him, his anima will often ex­press it­self in ir­ri­ta­ble, de­pressed moods, un­cer­tain­ty, in­se­cu­ri­ty, and touch­i­ness” (178). In the case of Jasper, his mood­i­ness is re­flect­ed in the somber sur­round­ings of his home, a murky qual­i­ty that im­bues Jasper’s very per­son­al­i­ty. More­over, sev­er­al char­ac­ters in the novel no­tice Jasper’s melan­cho­lia. For in­stance, the Rev­erend Sep­ti­mus Crisparkle refers to Jasper’s “black hu­mors” (132) and “oc­ca­sion­al in­dis­po­si­tion” (180). Jasper’s in­cli­na­tion to­ward mood­i­ness is also re­vealed in his diary, an oc­ca­sion­al entry of which he shows Crisparkle. In one such entry, Jasper ad­mits that he feels “dark in­tan­gi­ble pre­sen­ti­ments of evil” re­gard­ing Neville Land­less (Drood 132). Neville is an or­phan from Cey­lon, whom Crisparkle has taken in as a stu­dent . Jasper’s dis­mal pre­mo­ni­tions are yet an­oth­er symp­tom of the neg­a­tive anima and her pen­chant to re­veal her­self in what von Franz calls “prophet­ic hunch­es” (177). An­oth­er il­lus­tra­tion of Jasper’s in­cli­na­tion to mood­i­ness is re­vealed in Drood’s com­ments to Rosa about Jasper’s “wom­an­ish” be­hav­ior, a ref­er­ence, no doubt, to Jasper’s of­fi­cious dis­plays of af­fec­tion to­ward Drood (168). Jasper’s “pre­sen­ti­ments of evil” cou­pled with his “black hu­mors” and “wom­an­ish” man­ner re­veal the pres­ence of an un­usu­al­ly strong and neg­a­tive anima fig­ure at work in his un­con­scious. Other char­ac­ter­is­tics of the neg­a­tive anima that are ev­i­dent in Jasper’s life in­clude his in­cli­na­tion to ex­ag­ger­ate emo­tion­al re­la­tion­ships, to en­gage in un­healthy fan­tasies, to ex­press dis­con­tent with his life, and to spread that dis­con­tent all around him. A pas­sage from Jung’s Archetypes of the Col­lec­tive Un­con­scious men­tions sev­er­al of these char­ac­ter­is­tics of the neg­a­tive anima that plague Jasper’s life:

The anima is a fac­tor of the ut­most im­por­tance in the psy­chol­o­gy of a man wher­ev­er emo­tions and af­fects are at work. She in­ten­si­fies, ex­ag­ger­ates, fal­si­fies, and mythol­o­gizes all emo­tion­al re­la­tions with his work and with other peo­ple of both sexes. The re­sul­tant fan­tasies and en­tan­gle­ments are all her doing. When the anima is strong­ly con­stel­lat­ed, she soft­ens the man’s char­ac­ter and makes him touchy, ir­ri­ta­ble, moody, jeal­ous, vain, and un­ad­just­ed. He is then in a state of ‘dis­con­tent’ and spreads dis­con­tent all around him. (70-71)

The first part of this pas­sage refers to the way in which the neg­a­tive anima “ex­ag­ger­ates, fal­si­fies and mythol­o­gizes all emo­tion­al re­la­tions with [a man’s] work and with other peo­ple of both sexes.” Clear­ly, Jasper demon­strates in his re­la­tion­ship with both Drood and Rosa how strong­ly he ex­ag­ger­ates his af­fec­tion for both of them.

While I be­lieve that Jasper’s protes­ta­tions of love for Drood are all lies, he is so adept at cre­at­ing an il­lu­sion of de­vo­tion, that even Drood be­lieves his uncle loves him in­tense­ly. And Drood is not alone. The en­tire com­mu­ni­ty of Clois­ter­ham, as well, seems to be hood­winked by Jasper’s show of af­fec­tion for Drood and be­lieves him to be the very epit­o­me of avun­cu­lar de­vo­tion. Harry Levin un­der­scores Jasper’s du­plic­i­ty, how­ev­er, point­ing out in his ar­ti­cle “The Un­cles of Dick­ens” that Jasper is “the most com­plex of [Dick­ens’s] un­cles, pro­fess­ing warm re­gards and har­bor­ing jeal­ous reser­va­tions” (29-30). Levin also notes that Jasper is an uncle in the Ri­car­dian tra­di­tion, mean­ing he is fol­low­ing in the foot­steps of King Richard III, who in Levin’s view, was “the very archetype of wicked un­cles” (7), be­cause he dis­dains his role of guardian and be­haves in a man­ner “un­nat­u­ral, hos­tile and ma­li­cious, a pro­po­nent of those neg­a­tive forces which he should be tem­per­ing” (6).

De­spite Jasper’s abil­i­ty to de­ceive most of the cit­i­zens of Clois­ter­ham, at least one char­ac­ter ex­press­es a slight dis­ap­proval of Jasper’s overzeal­ous con­cern for Drood. Crisparkle is trou­bled by what he calls Jasper’s “ex­ag­ger­a­tive” diary entry, in which Jasper ex­press­es his “mor­bid dread” that some “hor­ri­ble con­se­quences” will be­fall his “dear boy” (132). What prompts that fear, Jasper main­tains, is the “de­mo­ni­a­cal pas­sion” he has seen Neville dis­play to­ward Drood (132). Jasper wit­ness­es Neville’s “fury” to­ward Drood in the evening fol­low­ing a din­ner at Crisparkle’s (132). At the din­ner Neville meets and feels at­tract­ed to Rosa. Based on flip­pant re­marks Drood makes about Rosa, Neville con­cludes that Drood does not ap­pre­ci­ate Rosa the way she de­serves to be ap­pre­ci­at­ed. The two men near­ly come to blows on the street after de­posit­ing Rosa, He­le­na Land­less, and Miss Twin­kle­ton at the Nuns’ House — Miss Twin­kle­ton’s school for young ladies — and are only in­ter­rupt­ed by Jasper, who en­cour­ages them to be friends and come into the Gate House for a glass of wine. Ap­par­ent­ly, Jasper mixes some drugs with the wine, for as the nar­ra­tor hints, the prepa­ra­tion of the “mulled wine” “seems to re­quire much mix­ing and com­pound­ing” (100). The nar­ra­tor also notes that the faces of both Drood and Neville “be­come quick­ly and re­mark­ably flushed by the wine,” em­pha­siz­ing this point, per­haps, so that the read­er will not miss the clue (101). Hav­ing drunk the taint­ed mix­ture, the in­hi­bi­tions of the two men are de­cid­ed­ly lower than be­fore.

Jasper takes ad­van­tage of their con­di­tion to in­cite yet an­oth­er con­fronta­tion be­tween them, point­ing out to Neville that Drood has ev­ery­thing that he and Neville do not have. “The world is all be­fore him where to choose,” de­clares Jasper: “A life of stir­ring work and in­ter­est, a life of change and ex­cite­ment, a life of do­mes­tic ease and love! Look at him!” (Drood 100-01). Jasper ex­ac­er­bates the al­ready emo­tion­al­ly- charged sit­u­a­tion by ask­ing Neville to “con­sid­er the con­trast” be­tween their lives and Drood’s (101). “You and I have no prospect of stir­ring work and in­ter­est, or of change and ex­cite­ment, or of do­mes­tic ease and love” Jasper as­serts. “You and I have no prospect [. . .] but the te­dious, un­chang­ing round of this dull place” (101). Be­cause of Jasper’s con­stant goad­ing, Neville grows in­creas­ing­ly ir­ri­tat­ed and angry, and even­tu­al­ly he and Drood again ex­change heat­ed words. The final blow is Drood’s “in­sult­ing al­lu­sion” to Neville’s “dark skin,” a com­ment that prompts Neville to “fling the dregs of his wine at Edwin” (102).

This scene re­veals sev­er­al ways in which the neg­a­tive anima is work­ing in Jasper’s life. It shows that it is Jasper, not Neville, who pos­sess­es the “de­mo­ni­a­cal pas­sion” that is to be feared, be­cause it is Jasper who in­sid­i­ous­ly goads the two young men to vi­o­lence (132). Fur­ther­more, the scene il­lus­trates to what de­gree Jasper is jeal­ous of Drood and dis­con­tent­ed with his own lot in life. The scene also clear­ly pre­sents one way, as Jung points out in the pas­sage above, in which Jasper “spreads dis­con­tent all around him.” In his ex­ag­ger­a­tion of the dan­ger Neville poses to Drood, in his ex­ag­ger­at­ed show of af­fec­tion for Drood, and through his jeal­ousy and ob­vi­ous dis­con­tent, Jasper ex­hibits how pro­found­ly his un­con­scious is in­fect­ed by his neg­a­tive anima.

An­oth­er sig­nif­i­cant as­pect of this scene is that it re­in­forces what Rosa had ear­li­er con­fid­ed in Neville’s sis­ter He­le­na; that is, Jasper has the abil­i­ty to ex­er­cise some mys­te­ri­ous con­trol over her. Rosa ex­plains to He­le­na that Jasper “has made a slave of [her] with his looks [and] pur­sues her as a lover” (95). Rosa em­pha­sizes that it is Jasper’s eyes that fright­en her the most and ex­plains to He­le­na: “I avoid his eyes, but he forces me to see them with­out look­ing at them” (95). Hav­ing heard Rosa’s con­fes­sion to He­le­na, the read­er may now begin to sus­pect that Jasper uses his eyes to mes­mer­ize Rosa.

Arthur J. Cox states un­equiv­o­cal­ly in “The Morals of Edwin Drood” that “Jasper is a mes­merist,” a “dis­cov­ery” that was first in­tro­duced by Aubrey Boyd in his 1922 A New Angle on the Drood Mys­tery (32). Cox as­serts that al­though the word “mes­merism” is never used in the novel, Dick­ens pro­vides hints that mes­merism does play a role, es­pe­cial­ly in his men­tion of “an­i­mal mag­netism” as­so­ci­at­ed with “two states of con­scious­ness” (32). Cox claims it is Jasper’s at­tempt to mes­mer­ize Rosa dur­ing her mu­si­cal per­for­mance that leads her to burst into tears and to scream in sheer ter­ror (32). If Rosa can be a vic­tim of his hyp­not­ic pow­ers, why not oth­ers? Cox says yes, that Jasper does use mes­merism to ma­nip­u­late other char­ac­ters and ex­plains that he uses hyp­no­tism to fo­ment the pre­vi­ous­ly-dis­cussed ar­gu­ment be­tween Drood and Neville (32).

With Cox’s as­ser­tion in mind, it does seem pos­si­ble that Jasper’s abil­i­ty to mes­mer­ize could have some­thing to do with the con­flict be­tween Drood and Neville. Cu­ri­ous­ly, Jasper sud­den­ly ap­pears be­side the two men on the street as sparks began to fly be­tween them. The nar­ra­tor notes that Jasper “has come up be­hind them on the shad­owy side of the road” like Count Drac­u­la who al­ways lurks in the dark­ness, bid­ing his time, and wait­ing for an op­por­tune mo­ment to way­lay an un­sus­pect­ing vic­tim (98). An­oth­er way Jasper re­sem­bles Drac­u­la is sug­gest­ed by Rosa as she dis­cuss­es with He­le­na Jasper’s bizarre pur­suit of her. Rosa ex­plains that she never feels “safe from him. [She] feels as if he could pass in through the wall” (95). As Rosa de­scribes the eerie feel­ing that Jasper gives her, Jasper takes on the un­mis­tak­able image of a vam­pire, who pos­sess­es evil preter­nat­u­ral pow­ers like those tra­di­tion­al­ly at­tribut­ed to Drac­u­la. As with Drac­u­la, so it is with Jasper that the eyes are used to hyp­no­tize and con­trol his vic­tims.

In the vi­o­lent scene that takes place be­tween Neville and Drood in Jasper’s Gate House, it is also Jasper’s eyes that flash be­tween the two and, in a sense, work to mes­mer­ize and ma­nip­u­late the two men. And later in the same scene the nar­ra­tor em­pha­sizes that im­me­di­ate­ly be­fore the ar­gu­ment be­tween Drood and Neville reach­es a cli­max, “Mr. Jasper’s play of eyes be­tween the two holds good through­out the di­a­logue, to the end” (102). Fred Ka­plan notes in Dick­ens and Mes­merism: The Hid­den Springs of Fic­tion that Jasper’s “’optic vi­sion’ is ex­traor­di­nary” (131). More­over, Ka­plan points out that Jasper “has been given a full ar­ma­ment of mes­mer­ic weapons: the power of his music, eyes, hands, touch, voice, pres­ence” (131). No won­der he has the power to in­cite men to vi­o­lence or drive women to the brink of emo­tion­al col­lapse.

Jasper’s at­tempts to mes­mer­ize Rosa may sym­bol­ize his need to ma­nip­u­late, sub­due, and ul­ti­mate­ly in­te­grate the neg­a­tive anima that she em­bod­ies. If this is the case, Jasper is pro­ject­ing onto Rosa char­ac­ter­is­tics of his neg­a­tive anima. Von Franz ex­plains that some­times a man may pro­ject qual­i­ties of his anima so that they ap­pear to be­long to a “par­tic­u­lar woman” (180). Jung elab­o­rates on this idea in The In­te­gra­tion of the Per­son­al­i­ty in which he ar­gues that “as long as a man is un­con­scious of his anima she is fre­quent­ly pro­ject­ed upon a real woman, and the man’s fan­ta­sy equips her with all the fas­ci­nat­ing qual­i­ties pe­cu­liar to the anima” (23). Von Franz also points out that the dan­ger of pro­ject­ing onto an “of­fi­cial per­son­i­fi­ca­tion” is that the per­son who serves as the ob­ject of the pro­jec­tion “tends to fall apart into a dou­ble as­pect, such as Mary and witch” (188). Based on this Jun­gian in­sight, it is pos­si­ble to see Rosa as a dou­ble anima, one who em­bod­ies as­pects of both the neg­a­tive and the pos­i­tive anima.

Ev­erett F. Bleil­er pro­vides some in­sights about Rosa that sup­port the idea that she is, in fact, a dou­ble anima. First of all, Bleil­er shows that Rosa’s very name sug­gests she is a vir­gin fig­ure. As fur­ther val­i­da­tion that the name sug­gests a vir­gin­i­ty, Bleil­er re­minds the read­er that Drood often blends the name Rosa Bud into Rose­bud, “a com­mon term for an at­trac­tive young woman, par­tic­u­lar­ly a nu­bile vir­gin” (91). Tra­di­tion­al­ly, a vir­gin fig­ure would be as­so­ci­at­ed with the pos­i­tive anima, the fem­i­nine force that von Franz says puts men in tune with their “right inner val­ues” (180). But Bleil­er makes some ob­ser­va­tions that would lead one to be­lieve that Rosa is in fact a neg­a­tive anima fig­ure. Bleil­er ar­gues that “Rosa Bud is one of the most cu­ri­ous sex sym­bols in lit­er­a­ture [. . .] some­thing less and some­thing more than a human being” (91). He also as­serts that “she is ul­ti­mate­ly a de­struc­tive el­e­ment,” be­cause those who as­so­ci­ate with her come to trag­ic ends. “Drood dies,” Bleil­er ex­plains, “Jasper will die; Neville Land­less will die” (91). Al­though Bleil­er makes in­ter­pre­tive leaps about the fate of the char­ac­ters that the text can­not sup­port, he does make two sig­nif­i­cant com­ments about Rosa that help sup­port the con­tention that she is a neg­a­tive anima fig­ure. For ex­am­ple, the phrase “some­thing less and some­thing more than a human being” im­plies that while Rosa has not yet achieved her full hu­man­i­ty, she is en­dowed with sym­bol­ic sig­nif­i­cance that sit­u­ates her on a mys­ti­cal, mytho­log­i­cal plane, on a dif­fer­ent level from that of human be­ings. Lawrence Frank sees the un­fin­ished por­trait of Rosa, drawn by Drood and now propped on Jasper’s man­tle, as a sym­bol of her “un­fin­ished” per­son­al­i­ty (The Ro­man­tic Self 208). This un­fin­ished por­trait, Frank says, “pre­sides over Jasper’s cham­bers like the image of an imp­ish, sec­u­lar madon­na” (208). Be­cause of her de­vel­op­ing per­son­al­i­ty, she “re­mains,” in Frank’s view, “a crea­ture of [Drood’s and Jasper’s] imag­in­ings, for­ev­er elud­ing their un­der­stand­ing” (208). Her sym­bol­ic iden­ti­ty is that of the neg­a­tive anima, a femme fa­tale , who like the mytho­log­i­cal nixie (“a fe­male, half-hu­man fish” that fish­er­men on rare oc­ca­sions caught in their nets) has the power to drag men down to their deaths (Archetypes 24).

Fur­ther­more, Bleil­er em­pha­sizes Rosa’s “de­struc­tive” power, a char­ac­ter­is­tic com­mon­ly as­so­ci­at­ed with a neg­a­tive anima (91). She is de­struc­tive in­so­far as she caus­es fric­tion be­tween Drood and Jasper and later be­tween Drood and Neville. As Jasper’s con­fes­sion in the “Shad­ow on the Sun-Di­al” chap­ter clear­ly shows, Jasper has been in love with Rosa for quite a long time, and he ad­mits that had his love for her been any stronger, he would have “swept” Drood away as so much dross ( 229). So while Jasper de­nies hav­ing ac­tu­al­ly killed Drood, he comes as close to a con­fes­sion as pos­si­ble in ad­mit­ting to Rosa that the thought had crossed his mind and that it was his ob­ses­sive love for her that drove him to such a thought.

An­oth­er as­pect of Rosa’s per­son­al­i­ty that makes her such a “cu­ri­ous sex sym­bol” is her blend of phys­i­cal at­trac­tive­ness and her child­like qual­i­ty. While she em­bod­ies what Bleil­er calls “the power of fe­male sex­u­al­i­ty” (91), Rosa also ex­hibits some gen­uine­ly in­fan­tile be­hav­iors and habits, such as her fond­ness for “Turk­ish sweet­meat” (58), her shy ges­ture of hid­ing her face be­hind her apron when Edwin comes call­ing (54), and the once-men­tioned silly ges­ture of plac­ing her fin­gers in her ears in an at­tempt to block out fur­ther rev­e­la­tions about the ar­gu­ment that takes place be­tween Drood and Neville (107). She is in­deed a strange blend of fe­male sex­u­al­i­ty and girl­ish­ness — an in­no­cent, yet provoca­tive, Loli­ta. This blend of child­like in­no­cence and bud­ding sex­u­al­i­ty sug­gests that Rosa shares com­mon traits with Dora Spen­low, David Cop­per­field’s first wife, who in some ways rep­re­sents the ideal Vic­to­ri­an woman, a vac­u­ous and feck­less fe­male, yet cu­ri­ous­ly at­trac­tive in the eyes of Vic­to­ri­an men.

Drood not only refers to Rosa as Rose­bud, but as Bleil­er points out, he oc­ca­sion­al­ly refers to her as “Pussy, a slang term for the fe­male gen­i­tals, which is [. . .] record­ed for this pe­ri­od” (91). These two names blend­ed to­geth­er cre­ate a woman who is an em­bod­i­ment of pu­ri­ty but, si­mul­ta­ne­ous­ly, a sym­bol of pure fe­male sex­u­al­i­ty. Blend­ing these two names cap­tures her con­flict­ing roles as neg­a­tive and pos­i­tive anima. As a pos­i­tive anima fig­ure, Rosa has with­in her what von Franz would de­scribe as the power to “raise love (eros) to the heights of spir­i­tu­al de­vo­tion” (185). But, si­mul­ta­ne­ous­ly, as a neg­a­tive anima fig­ure, Rosa has the power to se­duce and de­stroy.

Clear­ly, then, there is a dis­crep­an­cy be­tween Rosa’s power as a vir­gin fig­ure to “raise love” to the level of “spir­i­tu­al de­vo­tion” and the re­al­i­ty that Jasper’s de­vo­tion to her is based pure­ly on lust. The lust­ful na­ture of Jasper’s at­trac­tion to Rosa is pal­pa­ble dur­ing their last meet­ing in the gar­den of the Nuns’ House. Through­out the scene he calls her by turns, “sweet witch,” “rare charmer” (229), “angel” (231), and “wor­shipped of my soul” (230), con­tra­dic­to­ry terms that em­pha­size her role as both neg­a­tive and pos­i­tive anima. Ac­cord­ing to the con­fes­sion he makes to her dur­ing this scene, he has for some time been tor­ment­ed by his mad love for her: 

even when my dear boy was af­fi­anced to you, I loved you madly; [. . .] even when I strove to make him more ar­dent­ly de­vot­ed to you, I loved you madly; [. . .]. In the dis­taste­ful work of the day, in the wake­ful mis­ery of the night, gird­ed by sor­did re­al­i­ties, or wan­der­ing through Par­adis­es and hells of vi­sions in which I rushed, cry­ing your image in my arms, I loved you madly. (228)

The word “image” in this pas­sage is telling. Here Jasper im­plies that it is her phys­i­cal being alone which at­tracts him. The por­trait over his man­tle also re­flects his in­ter­est in her image, not an in­ter­est in her char­ac­ter or per­son­al­i­ty. He con­fess­es in the gar­den six months after Edwin’s death, that it is not her love that he re­quires. He will even set­tle for her hate, her “pret­ty rage,” “that en­chant­ing scorn,” just so long as her body comes along with it (Drood 229).

Based on Jasper’s con­fes­sion, it is ap­par­ent that Rosa wields suf­fi­cient sex­u­al power (though un­con­scious, I be­lieve) to be­witch ut­ter­ly the al­ready psy­chot­ic Jasper. Richard M. Baker sug­gests that it is Rosa who plays the role of the “danc­ing girl” in Jasper’s fan­ta­sy (42). The dance she per­forms in his erot­ic fan­ta­sy has the same ef­fect on Jasper as a hyp­not­ic trance. The mes­merist be­comes the mes­mer­ized. Jasper uses his hands in the gar­den scene much as a pres­tidig­i­ta­tor would use his hands to de­ceive his au­di­ence; how­ev­er, Jasper’s “men­ac­ing” face (228) and “fright­ful ve­he­mence” (231) do not work in har­mo­ny with his hands, and the “spell” he at­tempts to cast over Rosa is bro­ken (231). The spell may never take hold be­cause Jasper can­not hyp­no­tize his anima into sub­mis­sion. His ef­fort to sub­due her is yet an­oth­er fu­tile at­tempt to rein­te­grate the anima that he has pro­ject­ed onto Rosa. Lawrence Frank as­serts that in the gar­den scene with Rosa, Jasper be­comes “a dis­em­bod­ied self for whom there are no au­then­tic ges­tures, but only fur­ther means of dis­guis­ing an il­lu­so­ry real self hid­den be­hind im­pen­e­tra­ble lay­ers of pos­tur­ing [. . . ]” (The Ro­man­tic Self 231). Be­cause Jasper can as­sert “no au­then­tic ges­tures,” he be­comes what Robert Barnard refers to as “a per­son­al­i­ty on the verge of dis­in­te­gra­tion” (136) and what Jung would call a self suf­fer­ing utter dis­so­ci­a­tion of con­scious­ness (Man and his Sym­bols 24).

Ul­ti­mate­ly, Rosa frees her­self from his in­sid­i­ous at­tempts to mes­mer­ize her and flees to Lon­don where she finds shel­ter with her guardian, Hiram Grew­gious. In run­ning away from Jasper, Rosa sym­bol­izes the archety­pal fem­i­nine prin­ci­ple that para­dox­i­cal­ly gath­ers strength when re­pressed and ul­ti­mate­ly over­whelms the very force that vain­ly seeks to sub­due it. It is ap­pro­pri­ate that an ap­proach­ing thun­der­storm sounds in the dis­tance as she lies in a faint with­in the walls of the Nuns’ House. The sound of the im­mi­nent storm her­alds the Dionysian force that is gath­er­ing strength with­in Rosa’s un­con­scious, a force that was hith­er­to held in check both by the con­strain­ing walls of the Nuns’ House and, more sig­nif­i­cant­ly, by the mind con­trol Jasper sought to im­pose on her.

An­oth­er anima fig­ure in the novel is He­le­na Land­less, the in­domitable twin sis­ter of Neville Land­less. As a pos­i­tive anima fig­ure she would most close­ly re­sem­ble what von Franz calls “Sapi­en­ta,” a fem­i­nine image of “wis­dom” (185). Hav­ing come from the east, she may rep­re­sent ori­en­tal wis­dom that Jasper needs to re­as­sim­i­late if he is to enter into the pro­cess of in­di­vid­u­a­tion. If in fact Jasper’s moth­er was from the east, He­le­na may even be the source of ma­ter­nal wis­dom that Jasper has been lack­ing since the death of his moth­er. The strongest ev­i­dence to sup­port the ar­gu­ment that He­le­na is a wis­dom fig­ure can be found in the scene where Jasper fright­ens Rosa as she is singing to his piano ac­com­pa­ni­ment after a din­ner party at Crisparkle’s home. Edwin at­tempts to ex­plain Rosa’s ter­ri­fied re­ac­tion to Jasper with the ex­cuse that she is “’not used to an au­di­ence [. . .] . She got ner­vous’” (93). But he adds an even more in­sight­ful rea­son for her ap­par­ent fright. Ad­dress­ing Jasper, Edwin says, “[. . . ] you are such a con­sci­en­tious mas­ter, and re­quire so much, that I be­lieve you make her afraid of you. No won­der” (93). When He­le­na echoes Edwin’s last two words, Edwin asks her if she would not also be fright­ened of Jasper “under sim­i­lar cir­cum­stances” (93). But she bold­ly re­sponds, “Not under any cir­cum­stances” (93).

As He­le­na con­soles Rosa, Jasper dis­ap­pears from the scene, re­al­iz­ing, per­haps, that he is in the pres­ence of a woman whom Richard Baker de­scribes as “a pow­er­ful ad­ver­sary, one who can get the bet­ter of him at his own game” (48). John Beer main­tains that He­le­na pos­sess­es a “basic vi­tal­i­ty, shared with her broth­er, which is the only force in the novel fully to match Jasper’s [. . .]” (171). He­le­na is an an­drog­y­nous fig­ure who, as Neville re­lates to Crisparkle, has even greater courage and de­ter­mi­na­tion than he has. Neville ex­plains that on sev­er­al oc­ca­sions he and He­le­na ran away from their step­fa­ther — each time at her in­sti­ga­tion — and that “each time she dressed as a boy, and showed the dar­ing of a man” (Drood 90). Neville makes it clear, how­ev­er, that the cruel treat­ment they re­ceived at the hands of their step­fa­ther never drove his sis­ter to be­come vi­o­lent, mean-spir­it­ed, or in­hu­mane. On the con­trary, Neville as­serts that the de­pri­va­tions of their youth, while leav­ing him with “a drop of what is tiger­ish in [the] blood,” have, in fact, left He­le­na with a sen­si­bil­i­ty more el­e­vat­ed than his (90). He ex­plains, “She has come out of the dis­ad­van­tages of our mis­er­able life, as much bet­ter than I am, as that Cathe­dral tower is high­er than those chim­neys” (90). By com­par­ing He­le­na to the Cathe­dral tower, Neville of­fers an anal­o­gy that also lends sup­port to her role as pos­i­tive anima, an em­bod­i­ment of both wis­dom and spir­i­tu­al for­ti­tude and, as von Franz points out, a rep­re­sen­ta­tive of a stage of “psy­chic de­vel­op­ment” “rarely” at­tained by “mod­ern man” (186).

Crisparkle soon no­tices for him­self that He­le­na pos­sess­es cer­tain noble qual­i­ties that Neville would do well to im­i­tate. Walk­ing with the twins along the rest­less sea coast, Crisparkle en­treats Neville to for­get about his con­fronta­tion with Drood and seek rec­on­cil­i­a­tion in­stead. At first both Neville and He­le­na are out­raged by such a sug­ges­tion, see­ing that it was Drood’s lack of ci­vil­i­ty and hos­pi­tal­i­ty that led to the ar­gu­ment in the first place. But even­tu­al­ly Crisparkle is able to per­suade Neville to meet with Drood. As their dis­cus­sion comes to an end, Crisparkle ad­dress­es He­le­na, ask­ing her if she can­not “over­come” in her broth­er what she has man­aged to “over­come in [her­self],” name­ly anger and pride (130). The mod­est He­le­na be­lieves her in­flu­ence to be very slight com­pared to that of Crisparkle. But he as­tute­ly as­serts that her wis­dom is “the wis­dom of Love, [. . .] and it was the high­est wis­dom ever known upon this earth” (130). If Jasper could rec­og­nize the type of wis­dom He­le­na em­bod­ies, he might be able to as­sim­i­late this noble fea­ture of the pos­i­tive anima that she rep­re­sents, but after the scene at the piano with Rosa, he avoids her as though afraid of what a con­fronta­tion with her might bring.

Crisparkle and Neville are not the only char­ac­ters in the novel who no­tice He­le­na’s pos­i­tive at­tributes. After Rosa’s fright­en­ing ex­pe­ri­ence with Jasper at the piano and after she and He­le­na have re­turned to the safe­ty of the Nuns’ House, Rosa de­scribes He­le­na’s de­meanor and ap­par­ent strength of char­ac­ter, as “wom­an­ly,” “hand­some,” and “noble” (Drood 94-95). Lawrence Frank be­lieves that “in He­le­na Land­less, Rosa finds her an­tithe­sis” (“In­tel­li­gi­bil­i­ty” 175). Crisparkle has no­ticed their polar dif­fer­ences as well, but he has learned from local “gos­sip” (Drood 122) how they com­ple­ment each other in their “pic­turesque al­liance” at the Nuns’ House (123).

Rosa also refers to He­le­na’s qual­i­ties of “res­o­lu­tion” and “power,” qual­i­ties that pro­vide her (Rosa) with a sense of se­cu­ri­ty in He­le­na’s pres­ence (94). In ad­di­tion to the for­ti­tude He­le­na dis­plays, there is also an in­di­ca­tion that she pos­sess­es both self-knowl­edge and an aware­ness of her lim­i­ta­tions, im­por­tant char­ac­ter­is­tics of true wis­dom. De­spite Rosa’s praise for her, He­le­na humbly con­fess­es that she has “ev­ery­thing to learn” and is “deeply ashamed to own [her] ig­no­rance” (94). But this con­fes­sion does not alter Rosa’s high opin­ion of He­le­na, to whom she at­tributes the abil­i­ty to “ac­knowl­edge ev­ery­thing” (94). By this state­ment, Rosa means that He­le­na has an un­can­ny abil­i­ty to make clear that which may oth­er­wise ap­pear cloudy.

He­le­na’s knack for see­ing into the heart of things and ex­pos­ing their truth to oth­ers may an­tic­i­pate her ul­ti­mate­ly see­ing into Jasper’s dark soul and ex­pos­ing its sor­did se­crets to the cit­i­zens of Clois­ter­ham. Philip Collins notes that “it has often and plau­si­bly been sug­gest­ed that He­le­na Land­less was to have hyp­no­tized [Jasper], thus ‘elab­o­rate­ly elic­it­ing’ his guilt from him” (303). Collins sug­gests that it would have been an in­ter­est­ing turn of events if she had been able to hyp­no­tize Jasper, who, over the course of the novel, fre­quent­ly at­tempts to mes­mer­ize oth­ers (301). Fur­ther­more, if He­le­na has dis­guised her­self as the mys­te­ri­ous Datch­ery, who may be an un­der­cov­er de­tec­tive (G. K. Chester­ton refers to Cum­ing Wal­ters’s ar­gu­ment that the strange Mr. Datch­ery is He­le­na in dis­guise 225-26), then she overt­ly demon­strates her power as a pos­i­tive anima fig­ure. In her ca­pac­i­ty as sleuth, she may not only un­mask Jasper, but lead him to see who he truly is. If he ac­knowl­edges and in­te­grates that part of his psy­che that she rep­re­sents, he would be on the way to at­tain­ing a more in­te­grat­ed per­sona, and He­le­na would have func­tioned as what von Franz calls the archety­pal pos­i­tive anima fig­ure, that is, “guide and me­di­a­tor to the inner world” (186). Para­dox­i­cal­ly, He­le­na in this role of un­masker could also be seen as a neg­a­tive anima fig­ure, for she will de­stroy the façade of mid­dle-class re­spectabil­i­ty be­hind which Jasper has so long lived and, sym­bol­i­cal­ly, de­stroy the self that he has pre­sent­ed to the world. Once the false self is ex­posed, Jasper may have an op­por­tu­ni­ty to re­nounce his wicked past and, as the scrip­ture pas­sage from Ezekiel 18:27 at the end of chap­ter one says, “save his soul alive.”

While He­le­na func­tions as pri­mar­i­ly a pos­i­tive anima fig­ure, Princess Puffer em­bod­ies the tra­di­tion­al neg­a­tive anima fig­ure, a witch who seeks to lure Jasper to his doom. Datch­ery de­scribes her “as ugly and with­ered as one of the fan­tas­tic carv­ings on the under brack­ets of the stall seats, as ma­lig­nant as the Evil One” (Drood 279). In the novel’s open­ing scene in the opium den, Jasper is re­pulsed by her re­pug­nant ap­pear­ance and lean­ing close to her “watch­es the spas­mod­ic shoots and darts that break out of her face and limbs, like fit­ful light­ning out of a dark sky” (39). A truly de­mon­ic fig­ure, she is the per­son­i­fi­ca­tion of Jasper’s dark, se­cret ad­dic­tion to opium, an ad­dic­tion that she finds it prof­itable to pro­mote. She re­minds him that it is not good for him to at­tempt to mix his own opium and en­cour­ages him to rely sole­ly on her as his source of drugs. “’Never take it your own way,’” she says, “’It ain’t good for trade and it ain’t good for you” (Drood 267). In­sid­i­ous­ly, she whee­dles her way into his life, and at least on two oc­ca­sions she vis­its Clois­ter­ham to hang about him like the opium smoke that hangs about his head.

Princess Puffer also rep­re­sents the archetype of the Ter­ri­ble Moth­er who, ac­cord­ing to Guerin, is as­so­ci­at­ed with “the neg­a­tive as­pects of the Earth Moth­er” (163). In other words she is as­so­ci­at­ed with “dark­ness,” emas­cu­la­tion,” and “death,” every qual­i­ty that is in op­po­si­tion to the benef­i­cent “life prin­ci­ple” of the Earth Moth­er (163). In her re­la­tion­ship with her clients, Princess Puffer claims to func­tion as “a moth­er” (Drood 266). As she ex­plains to Jasper, “there’s land cus­tomers, and there’s water cus­tomers. I’m a moth­er to both” (266). In her terms of en­dear­ment for Jasper, she con­notes a moth­er-son re­la­tion­ship, call­ing him “deary” (267), “pop­pet” (267), and “chuck­ey” (268). Like a moth­er qui­et­ly lulling her child to sleep, she “gen­tly lays him back again” when he grows dis­turbed, and like the devil him­self, “re­vives the fire in [his pipe] with her own breath” (270). In her opium king­dom, she rules over the wretched souls who visit her realm, just like a dark queen over the spir­its of the dead.

In A Jun­gian Ap­proach to Lit­er­a­ture, Bet­ti­na L. Knapp dis­cuss­es a Finnish myth that deals with a hero who vis­its the “Abode of the Dead,” much as Jasper vis­its Princess Puffer’s opium den (301). Un­like Väinämöinen, the hero of this Finnish myth who re­fus­es to drink the brew of­fered by the queen of the dead, Jasper smokes the opium that Princess Puffer of­fers him. The Finnish myth makes it clear that by tak­ing the drug and los­ing “lu­cid­i­ty,” a vis­i­tor to the “Abode of the Dead” will “re­main bound, im­pris­oned in this dark­ened do­main, [and] forgo ego-con­scious­ness” (301). In a sim­i­lar way, once Jasper loses con­scious­ness in Princess Puffer’s opium den, he is rel­e­gat­ed to the dark realm of his own un­con­scious, un­aware of his need to pur­sue in­di­vid­u­a­tion.

Wendy Ja­cob­son notes in her in­tro­duc­tion to the Drood com­pan­ion that there is a “dop­pelgänger” “motif” at work in this novel (5). Based on this com­ment, it may be pos­si­ble to see Princess Puffer as Jasper’s dark dou­ble, a ter­ri­fy­ing image of his own mis­shapen hu­man­i­ty. Even Edwin no­tices the sim­i­lar­i­ty be­tween the old woman and Jasper when he by chance en­coun­ters her in Clois­ter­ham on Christ­mas Eve. As Edwin ob­serves her phys­i­cal shak­ing, he is shocked to re­mark the like­ness be­tween her and his uncle. He thinks to him­self, “’Good Heav­en! [. . .]. Like Jack that night!’” (178). In an al­lu­sion to the Jun­gian con­cept of in­te­gra­tion, Ja­cob­son notes that “the dou­bling seems to move to­wards in­te­gra­tion when the Princess Puffer hob­bles into the Cathe­dral, the an­tithe­sis of her opium den. [. . .] she brings to­geth­er the dis­parate parts of Jasper’s life” (5). Ja­cob­son then poses the ques­tion, “Can this be a par­o­dy of a pos­si­ble in­te­gra­tion of Jasper’s per­son­al­i­ty?” (5). The an­swer would seem to be “yes,” be­cause the nar­ra­tor in Drood re­ports that as Princess Puffer watch­es Jasper, “All un­con­scious of her pres­ence, he chants and sings” (279, em­pha­sis added). As long as Jasper re­mains un­con­scious of the pres­ence of the neg­a­tive anima, he will be un­able to come to terms with this ugly as­pect of his per­sona.

Faced with three anima fig­ures, Jasper is sur­round­ed by op­por­tu­ni­ties for psy­cho­log­i­cal growth. How­ev­er, each time he has an op­por­tu­ni­ty to ac­knowl­edge and in­te­grate the anima fig­ure, he suf­fers fur­ther psy­chic frag­men­ta­tion. By pro­ject­ing his anima onto Rosa, he de­vel­ops what von Franz calls a com­pul­sive de­pen­den­cy on her (188). Al­though his at­tempts to mes­mer­ize Rosa end in fail­ure and frus­tra­tion, Jasper may be­lieve that hyp­no­sis is the only method he can use as he at­tempts to har­ness the power that the anima rep­re­sents. By avoid­ing He­le­na, Jasper miss­es an op­por­tu­ni­ty to in­te­grate the valu­able wis­dom she em­bod­ies. In Princess Puffer, Jasper meets the Ter­ri­ble Moth­er, who en­cour­ages his drug ad­dic­tion and leads him into even dark­er de­spair and in­san­i­ty. Until Jasper ac­knowl­edges and learns to tap into the power of the anima, he will re­main her vic­tim.
  

CHAP­TER 4

THE AP­PROACH OF THE SHAD­OW

A

t the end of chap­ter one of The Mys­tery of Edwin Drood, the nar­ra­tor cites in bold, cap­i­tal let­ters the open­ing words of Ezekiel 18:27: “WHEN THE WICKED MAN — ” (40). In a foot­note, Arthur J. Cox pre­sents the en­tire Bib­li­cal verse and re­minds the read­er that this par­tic­u­lar scrip­tural pas­sage is read at the be­gin­ning of both “the Morn­ing Prayer and the Evening Prayer in the An­gli­can Church Litur­gy” (302). The en­tire pas­sage as pre­sent­ed in the foot­note reads: “Again, when the wicked man tur­neth away from his wicked­ness that he hath com­mit­ted and doeth that which is law­ful and right, he shall save his soul alive” (302). Cox fur­ther ex­plains in his foot­note that “the im­por­tance [Dick­ens] at­tached to these ‘in­toned words’ is at­test­ed by a no­ta­tion in the plan of the first month­ly num­ber [. . .]: Touch the keynote ‘When the Wicked Man’” (302). From Dick­ens’s own notes for the novel, then, it is pos­si­ble to infer that he em­ployed the verse as a way of in­tro­duc­ing a cen­tral theme for the novel. That key theme has to do with the wicked na­ture of its cen­tral char­ac­ter, John Jasper.

The pas­sage from Ezekiel serves to re­mind the read­er that Jasper is a wicked man who has fall­en from grace and there­fore in need of re­demp­tion. The idea of a fall from grace re­minds us, too, that Jasper is a wound­ed crea­ture, who has suf­fered so deeply that he turns to opium and mur­der­ous fan­tasies in a fu­tile at­tempt to as­suage his psy­chic pain. The psy­chic pain from which he suf­fers could have been pro­voked by any num­ber of events, in­clud­ing the loss of his moth­er when he was young, the loss of Rosa through her be­trothal to Drood, or even by the very na­ture of his monotonous life in Clois­ter­ham. As von Franz ar­gues in Man and his Sym­bols , the wound to his psy­che should prompt psy­chic growth and ini­ti­ate the pro­cess of in­di­vid­u­a­tion (166). But Jasper’s life is an un­re­lent­ing cycle of un­ful­fill­ing, te­dious work, and opi­um-in­duced fan­ta­sy. Rather than em­brace and ex­plore the dark wound from which he suf­fers, con­front the cause, and learn the lessons that the un­con­scious at­tempts to teach him by means of the wound, Jasper avoids deal­ing with the bleak re­al­i­ty that re­sides there and con­tin­ues to es­cape into the smoky world of opi­um-in­duced stu­por. In the dead­ly, daily round of his life, Jasper thus avoids any op­por­tu­ni­ty for psy­chic growth or spir­i­tu­al trans­for­ma­tion.

Be­fore Jasper could em­brace the re­al­i­ty of his dark self, he would have to face and ul­ti­mate­ly in­te­grate his shad­ow self. Von Franz ex­plains that ac­cord­ing to Jung’s model of the psy­che, the shad­ow self is an “un­con­scious part of the per­son­al­i­ty [. . . ] [that] often ap­pears in dreams in a per­son­i­fied form” (168). Von Franz fur­ther elab­o­rates that the shad­ow “rep­re­sents un­known or lit­tle-known at­tributes and qual­i­ties of the ego — as­pects that most­ly be­long to the per­son­al sphere and that could just as well be con­scious” (168). Von Franz adds that in the shad­ow a man may see those “qual­i­ties and im­puls­es he de­nies in him­self but can plain­ly see in other peo­ple” (168). Bet­ti­na L. Knapp clar­i­fies this point, ex­plain­ing that the shad­ow in­cludes “[. . .] those char­ac­ter­is­tics that the ego con­sid­ers to be neg­a­tive and wish­es to hide or re­jects by pro­ject­ing them on oth­ers” (101). Con­verse­ly, the shad­ow may also con­tain qual­i­ties that the ego needs to rec­og­nize and in­cor­po­rate. As von Franz ex­plains, the shad­ow in this re­gard may hold “val­ues that are need­ed by con­scious­ness, but that exist in a form that makes it dif­fi­cult to in­te­grate them into one’s life” (170-71).

Jung ex­plains in The Archetypes and the Col­lec­tive Un­con­scious that there are sim­i­lar­i­ties be­tween the shad­ow and the anima fig­ure. “Like the anima,” Jung writes, “[the shad­ow] ap­pears ei­ther in pro­jec­tion on suit­able per­sons, or per­son­i­fied as such in dreams” (284). As Jasper pro­jects his anima onto Rosa, so he pro­jects his shad­ow onto sev­er­al char­ac­ters in the novel. As in the case of the anima, who some­times em­bod­ies pos­i­tive or neg­a­tive qual­i­ties, so it is with Jasper’s shad­ow fig­ures. In Neville, Dur­dles, and in the Sul­tan fig­ure, who ap­pears in Jasper’s dream, we see per­son­i­fied Jasper’s neg­a­tive, dark qual­i­ties. On the other hand, in Crisparkle we see pos­i­tive val­ues that Jasper needs to as­sim­i­late into his psy­che. Ac­cord­ing to Jung, shad­ow fig­ures com­mon­ly “ir­rupt au­tonomous­ly into con­scious­ness as soon as it gets into a patho­log­i­cal state” (Archetypes 285). Jasper, with his mur­der­ous fan­tasies (ex­ac­er­bat­ed by opium use), his ex­ag­ger­at­ed and disin­gen­u­ous dis­plays of af­fec­tion for Drood, and his ob­ses­sion­al lust for Rosa, is cer­tain­ly a vic­tim of just such a “patho­log­i­cal” state.

From the open­ing scene of the novel, Jasper is por­trayed as a vic­tim of opi­um- in­duced delu­sions. The read­er first sees him in a wretched opium den, sprawled across a bro­ken bed­stead and locked in the un­con­scious throes of one of his per­verse hal­lu­ci­na­tions. One of the cen­tral char­ac­ters in Jasper’s fan­ta­sy is a Turk­ish Sul­tan. Bored with his own mun­dane life, Jasper fan­ta­sizes about the ma­jes­tic and col­or­ful life of an ori­en­tal po­ten­tate. In the fan­ta­sy, he es­capes the con­straints of his ig­no­ble iden­ti­ty and takes on the seem­ing­ly ro­bust life of the pow­er­ful Sul­tan. Richard M. Baker points out this as­so­ci­a­tion, ex­plain­ing that each char­ac­ter in the fan­ta­sy ac­tu­al­ly em­bod­ies a per­son in Jasper’s real life: “Jasper is the Sul­tan; Edwin Drood [. . .] is the rob­ber; Rosa Bud — the ob­ject of his pas­sion — is the danc­ing girl whom Edwin has stolen from him” (42). Von Franz pro­vides more in­sight into Baker’s as­ser­tion by point­ing out in Man and his Sym­bols that a “dream image” is a “sym­bol for an inner as­pect of the dream­er him­self” (220). Von Franz’s ex­pla­na­tion helps us to see that the Sul­tan func­tions as Jasper’s shad­ow self. The Sul­tan rep­re­sents Jasper’s inner de­sire for power and ex­cite­ment, which on the sur­face may be harm­less as­pi­ra­tions. How­ev­er, the Sul­tan also man­i­fests Jasper’s hid­den de­sire to com­mit mur­der. The Sul­tan, then, at least in part, is a man­i­fes­ta­tion of those qual­i­ties of the shad­ow that Jasper tries to re­press and con­ceal.

By en­ter­ing his opi­um-in­duced imag­i­nary world, Jasper mo­men­tar­i­ly shuts out the re­al­i­ty of his life as choir­mas­ter and par­tic­i­pates in an ex­hil­a­rat­ing world where he rules as om­nipo­tent sovereign. As he tells the Opium Woman, he came to the opium den many times when he could “bear” his life no longer, when he had to en­gage in the fan­ta­sy in order to ex­tract from his ster­ile ex­is­tence some sem­blance of plea­sure, al­beit a per­verse plea­sure (270). The ex­ot­ic fan­ta­sy that Jasper en­ters with each visit to the opium den is re­plete with vivid im­ages, com­plete­ly an­ti­thet­i­cal to the gray, ster­ile land­scape of Clois­ter­ham. The dream im­agery in­cludes “thrice ten thou­sand danc­ing- girls strew[ing] flow­ers,” “white ele­phants ca­parisoned in count­less gor­geous col­ors [. . .] in­fi­nite in num­ber and at­ten­dants,” and “ten thou­sand scim­i­tars flash[ing] in the sun­light” (37). In Jasper’s fan­ta­sy, the pow­er­ful Turk­ish Sul­tan ap­pears to be the very em­bod­i­ment of deca­dent power. As om­nipo­tent ruler of his ter­ri­to­ry, the Sul­tan ex­er­cis­es sovereign pow­ers over all the in­hab­i­tants of his coun­try.

The Sul­tan ex­hibits many of the at­tributes that Jasper so des­per­ate­ly longs to pos­sess but is pow­er­less to re­al­ize. For in­stance, the Sul­tan lives in a “palace” in a col­or­ful, ex­ot­ic land, un­like the un­for­tu­nate Jasper who in­hab­its a Gate House in the gray cathe­dral town of Clois­ter­ham (37). At the Sul­tan’s com­mand, beau­ti­ful women dance, his mil­i­tary forces pa­rade be­fore him, os­ten­ta­tious­ly bran­dish­ing their flash­ing “scim­i­tars,” and “a horde of Turk­ish rob­bers” are “impal[ed]” on a threat­en­ing “spike of rusty iron” (37). It is both sig­nif­i­cant and telling that a cen­tral image in the fan­ta­sy is the men­ac­ing and sur­pris­ing­ly Freudi­an spike. This dis­turb­ing image em­pha­sizes the key role that vi­o­lence and eroti­cism play in Jasper’s un­con­scious life. This image of in­cip­i­ent vi­o­lence also sets up a di­choto­my be­tween east and west, be­cause with­in the con­text and east­ern set­ting of the fan­ta­sy the Sul­tan can freely and open­ly prac­tice pub­lic ex­e­cu­tions with­out fear of reprisal. On the other hand, Jasper can­not, in a civ­i­lized and re­spectable En­glish com­mu­ni­ty, open­ly ex­press his clan­des­tine de­sire to ex­e­cute some rob­ber — name­ly Drood — on a rusty spike. How­ev­er, he can give free rein to that ne­far­i­ous idea in his opi­um-in­fest­ed imag­i­na­tion. The east­ern drug evokes an east­ern yearn­ing to em­ploy vi­o­lence in a pub­lic arena, where the cul­ture cel­e­brates the au­to­crat­ic prac­tice of car­ry­ing out pub­lic ex­e­cu­tions. Dick­ens may have been sub­tly in­ject­ing here an in­dict­ment against his own so­ci­ety which al­lowed pub­lic ex­e­cu­tions until the mid­dle of the nine­teenth cen­tu­ry.

Jasper yearns to have an op­por­tu­ni­ty to live an ex­cit­ing life, to es­cape the par­a­lyz­ing im­po­tence of his bleak, Clois­ter­ham ex­is­tence, and to hold with­in his grasp the power of life and death. But he feels trapped. His only plau­si­ble way to es­cape the “op­pres­sive re­spectabil­i­ty” of Clois­ter­ham and sat­is­fy, at least mo­men­tar­i­ly, his “han­ker­ings after the noisy world” is to jour­ney to the opium den, en­gage in delu­sions of grandeur, and pro­ject onto his shad­ow self his dark im­pulse to­ward mur­der (51).

An­oth­er char­ac­ter in the novel who func­tions as both shad­ow and dop­pelgänger to Jasper is the local stone­ma­son, Stony Dur­dles. Ac­cord­ing to Ev­erett F. Bleil­er, Dur­dles’s name “is ob­vi­ous­ly de­rived from dirt” (137), an ex­pla­na­tion that is borne out by the nar­ra­tor’s de­scrip­tion of the man. He is de­scribed as “cov­ered from head to foot with old mor­tar, lime, and stone grit,” the very image of hoary death (Drood 74). Harry Stone val­i­dates this view of Dur­dles in his co­gent ar­ti­cle “What’s in a Name: Fan­ta­sy and Cal­cu­la­tion in Dick­ens,” re­fer­ring to Dur­dles as “an in­car­na­tion of the dusty tomb” (200). What fur­ther char­ac­ter­izes Dur­dles as an image of death is his tomb-like home, “a lit­tle an­ti­quat­ed hole of a house that was never fin­ished [. . .] built, so far, of stones stolen from the city wall” (Drood 68). The death im­agery is fur­ther en­hanced by the por­trait of two work­ers, who cut stone in Dur­dles’s chip and stone-strewn yard. They are de­scribed as “two jour­ney­men, who [. . .] in­ces­sant­ly saw stone; dip­ping as reg­u­lar­ly in and out of their shel­ter­ing sen­try-box­es, as if they were me­chan­i­cal fig­ures em­blem­at­i­cal of Time and Death” (68-69). Fi­nal­ly, in terms of an as­so­ci­a­tion with death, there is Dur­dles’s af­flic­tion, which he calls “Tombat­ism” (69). Mr. Sapsea, the Mayor of Clois­ter­ham, be­lieves that Dur­dles has com­mit­ted a malapropism and re­al­ly means to say rheuma­tism, but Dur­dles as­serts oth­er­wise, claim­ing that not only he, but “Mr. Jasper knows what Dur­dles means” (69). Dur­dles then ex­plains the mean­ing of “Tombat­ism” so the Mayor will also un­der­stand: “You get among them Tombs afore it’s well light on a win­ter morn­ing, and keep on, as the Cat­e­chism says, a walk­ing in the same all the days of your life, and you ‘ll know what Dur­dles means” (69). Dur­dles’s ex­pla­na­tion of the mean­ing of this word makes yet an­oth­er strong con­nec­tion be­tween him and Jasper. Clear­ly, “Tombat­ism” has noth­ing to do with rheuma­tism but is in­stead an af­flic­tion sim­i­lar to ennui, the sense of bore­dom and in­er­tia from which Jasper also suf­fers. This syn­drome they share also em­pha­sizes an­oth­er facet of their death-in-life ex­is­tence. In short, they are both near­ly bored to death.

Jasper is in­trigued by Dur­dles’s line of work, or at least pre­tends to be in order to talk Dur­dles into a tour of the crypt. On a sym­bol­ic level, it is pos­si­ble to see a re­la­tion­ship be­tween Dur­dles’s work as a sculp­tor and Jasper’s emo­tion­al re­sponse to the in­tense feel­ings of malaise and im­po­tence that per­me­ate his life. Dur­dles’s oc­cu­pa­tion re­quires that he carve im­ages in stone. But for Jasper, the sculpt­ing oc­curs in a much more fig­u­ra­tive way. He swears that the “daily drudg­ing round” of his life will com­pel him to begin “carv­ing [demons] out of [his] heart” (48).

It is pos­si­ble to draw fur­ther par­al­lels be­tween the char­ac­ters based on com­ments they make about each other. For in­stance, Dur­dles notes a con­nec­tion be­tween the type of work they do, point­ing out that as Jasper “pitch[es] his note” in the choir loft, Dur­dles pitch­es his note by mys­te­ri­ous­ly “tap­ping” with his ham­mer on the walls and floor of the crypt to de­ter­mine whether a space is hol­low or solid, and thus whether it con­tains a des­ic­cat­ed corpse or only empty space (75). Jasper also makes cer­tain com­ments that re­veal his aware­ness that he and Dur­dles share a sim­i­lar “lot” in life, as if to say that he rec­og­nizes that Dur­dles is a shad­owy part of him­self (74). First of all, Jasper re­marks that they seem des­tined to spend their lives “in the same old earthy, chilly, nev­er-chang­ing place” (74). It is note­wor­thy that Jasper should refer to their place of habi­ta­tion as “earthy, chilly, [and] nev­er-chang­ing.” His as­sess­ment of their place of res­i­dence tends to em­pha­size their as­so­ci­a­tion with the cold and sub­ter­ranean earth, an as­so­ci­a­tion that evokes im­ages of death. In this re­gard, both Dur­dles and Jasper are chthon­ic char­ac­ters who dwell both phys­i­cal­ly and psy­cho­log­i­cal­ly in dark­ness. Their affin­i­ty for dark­ness is also mir­rored in their search for dark places in which to es­cape from the monotony of their lives. Dur­dles, it is said, “ha­bit­u­al­ly re­sort[s] to that se­cret place [the crypt],” where he can “sleep off the fumes of liquor” (67-68). In much the same way, Jasper seeks out his se­cret opium den where he can in­dulge in opium and then sleep off its ef­fects with­out fear of de­tec­tion.

In ad­di­tion to these sim­i­lar­i­ties, both Jasper and Dur­dles have dif­fi­cul­ty dis­cov­er­ing their true iden­ti­ties. Al­though Dur­dles as­serts his iden­ti­ty as stone­ma­son, he is more wide­ly known as a “won­der­ful sot” and “char­tered lib­er­tine” (67). As the nar­ra­tor points out, Dur­dles seems to be “a lit­tle misty as to his own iden­ti­ty when he nar­rates,” fre­quent­ly re­fer­ring to him­self in “the third per­son” (68). Sim­i­lar­ly, Jasper suf­fers from a “scat­tered con­scious­ness” that is ex­ac­er­bat­ed by opium con­sump­tion (37). The drugs and al­co­hol that the two men in­gest also pro­duce in them some kind of oc­ca­sion­al parox­ysm. Mr. Tope, the cathe­dral verg­er, first makes the read­er aware that Jasper suf­fers some kind of “fit” (41). Short­ly after Tope re­ports to Mr. Crisparkle and to the Dean that Jasper was “hav­ing a kind of fit on him,” we see Jasper ex­hib­it sim­i­lar symp­toms in the pres­ence of Drood (47). Dur­dles suf­fers a “mild fit of ca­len­ture,” as he and Jasper reach the top of the cathe­dral tower stairs dur­ing their mys­te­ri­ous mid­night in­ves­ti­ga­tion of the cathe­dral crypt (157). Ac­cord­ing to a gloss pro­vid­ed by ed­i­tor Arthur J. Cox, ca­len­ture is “a fever [. . .] giv­ing rise to deliri­ous fan­cies [. . .] some­times ap­plied to a de­sire to leap from a height” (309). From the con­text of the scene in which his fit oc­curs, it is ap­par­ent that it is Jasper’s drugged wine that Dur­dles has freely im­bibed through­out the evening, which has in­duced the stone­ma­son’s mo­men­tary delir­i­um. Henry Jack­son ar­gues that their “un­ac­count­able ex­pe­di­tion” (Drood 160) is Jasper’s method of re­hears­ing the mur­der of Drood (Jack­son 23-26). More­over, Jack­son con­tends that Jasper gives Dur­dles the drugged wine in order to ob­serve whether it will be “po­tent” enough to in­ca­pac­i­tate Drood when the night of the planned mur­der ar­rives (24).

Jasper’s clan­des­tine trek with Dur­dles through the cathe­dral crypt and up the tower stairs also sug­gests that Jasper is sym­bol­i­cal­ly try­ing to be­come bet­ter ac­quaint­ed with his shad­owy al­ter-ego. Their joint ex­plo­ration of the dusty crypt may be a sign that Jasper is grow­ing in con­scious­ness and de­vel­op­ing a more acute aware­ness of the dark side of his self that needs to be in­te­grat­ed. How­ev­er, just as Jasper at­tempts to mes­mer­ize his anima in order to sub­due and ma­nip­u­late her, here he en­gages in a sim­i­lar ac­tiv­i­ty when he tries to in­tox­i­cate the shad­ow self that he has pro­ject­ed onto Dur­dles. Jasper’s need to con­trol the shad­ow by means of in­tox­i­ca­tion is a sym­bol­ic ef­fort to re­press fur­ther his own wicked na­ture, a na­ture that he is un­able to ac­knowl­edge and as­sim­i­late.

Von Franz as­serts that the shad­ow, as rep­re­sent­ed by both Dur­dles and the dream image of the Sul­tan, may be “base or evil, an in­stinc­tive drive that one ought to over­come” (216). She adds, how­ev­er, that the shad­ow “may [. . .] [also] be an im­pulse to­ward growth that one should cul­ti­vate and fol­low” (216). This “im­pulse to­ward growth” is the mes­sage Jasper re­ceives from an­oth­er pro­jec­tion of his shad­ow self, Sep­ti­mus Crisparkle. He is de­scribed as “fair and rosy, and per­pet­u­al­ly pitch­ing him­self head- fore­most into all the deep run­ning water in the sur­round­ing coun­try; [. . .] early riser, mu­si­cal, clas­si­cal, cheer­ful, kind, good-na­tured, so­cial, con­tent­ed” (42). In short, Crisparkle is the very an­tithe­sis of the dark and brood­ing Jasper. Bleil­er ob­serves that this pas­sage im­parts the idea that “Crisparkle’s mode of life cer­tain­ly fits the ath­let­ic Chris­tian­i­ty of the day” (137).

The pas­sage is also strik­ing in its ref­er­ence to the role that water plays in the Minor Canon’s life. It is ap­pro­pri­ate that Crisparkle should be as­so­ci­at­ed with water, an el­e­ment that plays such a cen­tral role in the life of the Chris­tian. Guerin notes that as an archety­pal image, water res­onates with mean­ing. Ac­cord­ing to Guerin, among its many sym­bol­ic mean­ings, water may rep­re­sent “the mys­tery of cre­ation; birth-death- res­ur­rec­tion; pu­rifi­ca­tion and re­demp­tion” (161). Guerin also notes that it is im­por­tant to keep in mind that “these mean­ings may vary sig­nif­i­cant­ly from one con­text to an­oth­er” (161). The vari­a­tion that Guerin notes is cer­tain­ly ob­serv­able in the con­text of Crisparkle’s ex­pe­ri­ence with water as com­pared to that of Jasper. One of Crisparkle’s early en­coun­ters with water near­ly ended in tragedy, when, as a school­boy, he was res­cued from drown­ing by a de­vot­ed un­der­class­man named Tar­tar (Drood 243). Sym­bol­i­cal­ly, Crisparkle’s near-death ex­pe­ri­ence mim­ics the Chris­tian bap­tism in which the sin­ner en­ters the wa­ters so that the old self may die and the new self emerge. Ap­par­ent­ly, the Minor Canon’s near-death ex­pe­ri­ence does not in­still in him a pho­bia of water, for there­after, ac­cord­ing to Tar­tar, he “took to swim­ming” (243). In the tra­di­tion of the Mus­cu­lar Chris­tian, Crisparkle typ­i­cal­ly be­gins his morn­ings by break­ing through “the thin morn­ing ice near Clois­ter­ham Weir with his ami­able head, much to the in­vig­o­ra­tion of his frame” (78). So it is that for Crisparkle, water is a source of life and pu­rifi­ca­tion.

But for Jasper, the ac­tiv­i­ties in his life that re­volve around water are not so pleas­ant. It is the river near Clois­ter­ham, in fact, that be­comes the site of the most in­ten­sive search for Edwin’s body. As Jasper search­es for Edwin’s corpse in the river, this body of water be­comes not a sym­bol of life and re­birth, but a sym­bol of death. As Jasper and other “rough-coat­ed fig­ures” per­sis­tent­ly search the river for traces of Edwin, the river is de­scribed as a hellish place “lurid with fires” (189). When Jasper re­turns to the Gate House, ex­haust­ed from days of re­lent­less search­ing, he is de­scribed as “un­kempt and dis­or­dered [and] be­daubed with mud,” the polar op­po­site of the Minor Canon who re­turns home re­freshed and pu­ri­fied after a morn­ing’s swim (190). It is man­i­fest­ly clear that water alone can­not wash the vil­lainy from Jasper’s guilty being.

In ad­di­tion to his as­so­ci­a­tion with water, Crisparkle’s con­nec­tion to the Chris­tian faith is fur­ther ex­plained by Bleil­er, who points out that “it is also pos­si­ble that the name Crisparkle (the char­ac­ter being one of the few sym­pa­thet­ic re­li­gious fig­ures in Dick­ens) con­veys a hint of Christ” (137). The Minor Canon’s first name, Sep­ti­mus, also sug­gests a par­al­lel with Christ. Sep­ti­mus is a lati­nate form of the nu­mer­al seven. As Guerin notes in his list of ex­am­ples of archety­pal im­ages, seven is “the most po­tent of all sym­bol­ic num­bers — sig­ni­fy­ing the union of three and four, the com­ple­tion of a cycle, per­fect order” (163). Christ is tra­di­tion­al­ly viewed as a ver­i­ta­ble per­son­i­fi­ca­tion of whole­ness, the most high­ly-in­di­vid­u­at­ed man who ever lived. Through his as­so­ci­a­tion with Christ, Crisparkle also func­tions as a sym­bol of the com­plete man. Charles Mitchell cor­rob­o­rates this in­ter­pre­ta­tion of Crisparkle’s char­ac­ter, point­ing out that the Minor Canon is a type of ideal man, who achieves a sense of order and bal­ance in his per­son­al and pub­lic life. Fur­ther­more, Mitchell ob­serves that “Crisparkle is ap­par­ent­ly the whole man in whom there ex­ists a per­fect mu­si­cal har­mo­ny of the self re­ver­ber­at­ing in the so­cial world out­side. [. . .] a syn­the­sis of the inner and outer man” (240). But in con­trast to Crisparkle’s healthy psy­cho­log­i­cal state, Mitchell notes that “Jasper rep­re­sents the inner man in a state of dis­ease,” an in­sight that again sup­ports the view that Jasper suf­fers from dis­so­ci­a­tion of con­scious­ness or psy­cho­log­i­cal in­sta­bil­i­ty (241).

Iron­i­cal­ly, the very day of Edwin’s mur­der, Jasper ap­pears to be adopt­ing some of Crisparkle’s op­ti­mism and good cheer. The nar­ra­tor re­ports that while gen­er­al­ly Jasper’s “ner­vous tem­per­a­ment is oc­ca­sion­al­ly prone to take dif­fi­cult music a lit­tle too quick­ly,” “he quite as­ton­ish­es his fel­lows by his melo­di­ous power. [. . .] has never sung dif­fi­cult music with such skill and har­mo­ny, as in this day’s An­them” (180). This re­port of Jasper’s un­usu­al­ly strong per­for­mance sug­gests that for some rea­son he has been able to over­come, at least tem­porar­i­ly, his ir­ri­ta­tion at lis­ten­ing to what he once de­scribed to Drood as a “dev­il­ish” ser­vice (48). His more pos­i­tive at­ti­tude may in­di­cate that he has re­duced his opium dosage and cleared his head of its ef­fects, per­haps in order to be in bet­ter con­trol of his fac­ul­ties be­fore he sets into mo­tion his plan to mur­der Edwin. More­over, his cheer­ful at­ti­tude may sig­ni­fy that he has en­tered a state of ex­hil­a­ra­tion and eu­pho­ria, be­cause the homi­cide he has so fre­quent­ly re­hearsed in his opium fan­ta­sy will soon be­come a re­al­i­ty.

As Jasper emerges from the cathe­dral on his way home to meet Neville and his nephew and pre­side over their for­mal rec­on­cil­i­a­tion, Crisparkle also re­marks that Jasper’s per­for­mance was “beau­ti­ful [and] de­light­ful!” (180). Crisparkle’s com­pli­men­ta­ry words lead the choir­mas­ter and the Minor Canon into a con­ver­sa­tion about Jasper’s “black hu­mors,” and Jasper ad­mits that he has been “out of sorts, gloomy, bil­ious, brain-op­pressed” but is cur­rent­ly in a “health­i­er state” (181). Re­fer­ring to these dark as­pects of his per­son­al­i­ty, Jasper points out one of the major dif­fer­ences be­tween him­self and Crisparkle: “You are al­ways train­ing your­self to be, mind and body, as clear as crys­tal, and you al­ways are, and never change; where­as I am a muddy, soli­tary, mop­ing weed” (181). It is sig­nif­i­cant that Jasper should use the word “crys­tal” to de­scribe Crisparkle’s per­son­al­i­ty, since, as von Franz ex­plains, the crys­tal has long been con­sid­ered a sym­bol of the self:

In many dreams the nu­cle­ar cen­ter, the Self [. . .] ap­pears as a crys­tal. The math­e­mat­i­cal­ly pre­cise ar­range­ment of a crys­tal evokes in us the in­tu­itive feel­ing that even in so-called “dead” mat­ter there is a spir­i­tu­al or­der­ing prin­ci­ple at work. Thus the crys­tal often sym­bol­i­cal­ly stands for the union of ex­treme op­po­sites — of mat­ter and spir­it. (209)

Equal­ly note­wor­thy is the fact that the name Jasper can refer to the jasper stone, whose char­ac­ter­is­tics mir­ror those of Jasper. Ac­cord­ing to Ja­cob­son, the jasper stone is “’al­ways opaque,’ which is ap­pro­pri­ate to Jasper’s im­pen­e­tra­ble per­son­al­i­ty; and its being ‘not in­vari­ably of one colour’ also ac­cords with the dou­ble per­son­al­i­ty” (35).

The self-in­te­grat­ed, phys­i­cal­ly fit, and emo­tion­al­ly bal­anced Crisparkle func­tions as Jasper’s pos­i­tive shad­ow self, one who “con­tains” what von Franz de­scribes as “valu­able, vital forces, [that] ought to be as­sim­i­lat­ed into ac­tu­al ex­pe­ri­ence and not re­pressed” (175). Crisparkle rep­re­sents an in­choate ten­den­cy in Jasper, who by his as­so­ci­a­tion with the cathe­dral, demon­strates some in­her­ent need to de­vel­op spir­i­tu­al­ly. If Jasper could as­sim­i­late into his con­scious self the “im­pulse to­ward growth” that Crisparkle rep­re­sents, he could enter the pro­cess of in­di­vid­u­a­tion and begin to heal his dan­ger­ous psy­cho­log­i­cal frag­men­ta­tion (von Franz 216).

Neville Land­less is an­oth­er char­ac­ter who, in strug­gling with his own demons, func­tions as Jasper’s shad­ow self. Neville is nei­ther a to­tal­ly pos­i­tive nor a com­plete­ly evil shad­ow fig­ure. He serves as yet an­oth­er pro­jec­tion of Jasper’s shad­ow self, mir­ror­ing cer­tain of Jasper’s char­ac­ter­is­tics that Jasper de­spis­es in oth­ers, yet fails to see in him­self. As von Franz in­tro­duces this par­tic­u­lar di­men­sion of the shad­ow self, she ex­plains that in some cases, “when an in­di­vid­u­al makes an at­tempt to see his shad­ow, he be­comes aware of (and often ashamed of) those qual­i­ties and im­puls­es he de­nies in him­self, but can plain­ly see in other peo­ple” (168). Her ex­pla­na­tion serves to deep­en our un­der­stand­ing of the volatile re­la­tion­ship that de­vel­ops be­tween Neville and Jasper. Neville is a key, shad­ow fig­ure be­cause his pres­ence sug­gests the pos­si­bil­i­ty that Jasper may still have an op­por­tu­ni­ty to ac­knowl­edge and in­te­grate the dark part of him­self that he has fre­quent­ly pro­ject­ed onto oth­ers.

The most ob­vi­ous sim­i­lar­i­ty be­tween Neville and Jasper is their phys­i­cal ap­pear­ance. They are both dark; a fact which may help sup­port Aylmer’s the­o­ry that Jasper has a Moslem moth­er. Neville grew up in Cey­lon, and his dark com­plex­ion may sug­gest that he, too, has an ori­en­tal moth­er. But the like­ness goes much deep­er. As Lawrence Frank points out, they are both “dark, alien young men, with no prospects, and are taunt­ed by Drood’s easy self-as­sur­ance” (The Ro­man­tic Self 220). Frank’s com­ment sug­gests an­oth­er way in which Neville is the shad­ow of Jasper, for he in­sin­u­ates that Neville shares Jasper’s envy of Drood’s prospects, es­pe­cial­ly his forth­com­ing mar­riage to Rosa. The nar­ra­tor’s dis­clo­sure that “Neville Land­less is al­ready enough im­pressed by Lit­tle Ros­abud, to feel in­dig­nant that Edwin Drood (far below her) should hold his prize so light­ly” lends cre­dence to Frank’s as­ser­tion that  Neville is cov­etous of Drood (97).

In ad­di­tion to the envy that Neville and Jasper both feel to­ward Drood, we also no­tice they both pos­sess vi­o­lent na­tures. Neville re­al­izes he has vi­o­lent ten­den­cies and, as he tells Crisparkle, he in­tends to make a sin­cere ef­fort to hold them in check. Part of the prob­lem, he ex­plains to Crisparkle, is his up­bring­ing. Be­cause he was brought up in Cey­lon, he ex­plains, his “ideas of ci­vil­i­ty were formed among Hea­thens” (98). As a re­sult of his en­vi­ron­ment and his “tyran­ni­cal” step­fa­ther, Neville claims that he has a tem­per­a­ment taint­ed with “a drop of what is tiger­ish in [his] blood” (90).

After Drood’s dis­ap­pear­ance and Neville’s ar­rest as a sus­pect, the dam­ag­ing state­ments Neville has con­fessed to Crisparkle are hawked about town (prob­a­bly by the vin­dic­tive Jasper). In ad­di­tion to what Neville has al­ready will­ing­ly dis­closed to Crisparkle, other pre­pos­ter­ous al­le­ga­tions begin to cir­cu­late about Clois­ter­ham. One rumor has it that “be­fore com­ing to Eng­land [Neville] had caused to be whipped to death sundry ‘Na­tives’” (198). Al­though this is a gross ex­ag­ger­a­tion, Neville does admit to Crisparkle that he had con­sid­ered com­mit­ting mur­der — not the mur­der of na­tives, but that of his own bru­tal step­fa­ther, had the man not died when he did.

Neville’s vi­o­lent ten­den­cies, how­ev­er, pale in com­par­i­son to those that Jasper ex­hibits. Jasper’s in­cli­na­tion to­ward vi­o­lence is ev­i­denced by his as­sault on two of Princess Puffer’s clients in the opium den (39) and by his vi­cious at­tack on Deputy in the cathe­dral grave­yard (159). Jasper is so en­raged when he at­tacks Deputy, that his pub­lic per­sona seems sud­den­ly usurped by his usu­al­ly re­pressed, de­mon­ic self, and a star­tled Dur­dles has to urge Jasper to “rec­ol­lect” him­self (159). Fur­ther­more, in his bar­barous hal­lu­ci­na­tions, Jasper re­veals the se­cret depths of his vi­o­lent na­ture.

Philip Collins notes that in ad­di­tion to their pen­chant for vi­o­lence, Jasper and Neville both pos­sess some sort of “para-nor­mal” or hyp­not­ic pow­ers (301). While it ap­pears that Jasper has the abil­i­ty to hyp­no­tize sev­er­al char­ac­ters in the novel, Neville re­lies on his tele­path­ic pow­ers to com­mu­ni­cate only with his twin sis­ter, He­le­na. In the same way, she is also able to com­mu­ni­cate with Neville (91). Neville ex­plains to Crisparkle that their abil­i­ty to com­mu­ni­cate with­out di­rect dis­course de­rives from a “com­plete un­der­stand­ing [that] exist[s] be­tween them” (91).

Ja­cob­son notes in her com­pan­ion to the novel that “some crit­ics, no­tably G.K. Chester­ton, argue” that Jasper ac­tu­al­ly uses hyp­no­sis on Neville to com­pel him to serve as an ac­com­plice in Drood’s mur­der (133-34). If Jasper did em­ploy a kind of mind con­trol in order to force Neville to func­tion as an un­wit­ting ac­com­plice in Drood’s mur­der, this act is fur­ther ev­i­dence of Jasper’s at­tempt to ma­nip­u­late the shad­ow self, much the same way he sought to in­tox­i­cate Dur­dles and mes­mer­ize Rosa. His ma­nip­u­la­to­ry ac­tions fur­ther at­test to his in­abil­i­ty to rec­og­nize and in­te­grate the shad­ow.

A greater irony would exist if, as Fred Ka­plan pos­tu­lates, Jasper is in fact “self- mes­mer­ized” (154). Ka­plan’s provoca­tive idea lends sup­port to the ar­gu­ment that Jasper lacks psy­cho­log­i­cal in­tegri­ty and is un­able to enter into the pro­cess of in­di­vid­u­a­tion. As Ka­plan ex­plains:

[Jasper’s] own mes­mer­ic trances as well as his use of mes­merism on oth­ers are not in­stru­ments of self-dis­cov­ery but mur­der­ous weapons to de­stroy him­self. Un­doubt­ed­ly the novel would have ended with death and the loss of con­scious­ness. For the most mys­te­ri­ous state of con­scious­ness and po­ten­tial of mind is no con­scious­ness at all. (155-56)
  

Con­clu­sion

The jour­ney motif winds its way through­out The Mys­tery of Edwin Drood, car­ry­ing with it the im­pli­ca­tion that Jasper is on a quest. Al­though dur­ing the course of the novel Jasper does trav­el on at least two oc­ca­sions to Lon­don, most of his jour­ney is psy­cho­log­i­cal — a dark voy­age into the depths of his dis­in­te­grat­ing self. Lawrence Frank cor­rob­o­rates this view, ob­serv­ing that “[. . .] the novel en­com­pass­es [. . .] the full com­plex­i­ty of the in­di­vid­u­al’s sit­u­a­tion in nine­teenth-cen­tu­ry Eng­land: the quest for the uni­fied self is the core of the novel” (The Ro­man­tic Self 167).

In the archety­pal jour­ney, the hero sets out with op­ti­mism and a clear sense of pur­pose. Usu­al­ly, the hero on a quest re­al­izes that the road he must trav­el is fraught with dan­ger, and he an­tic­i­pates that he will face puz­zling rid­dles and en­counter ter­ri­fy­ing crea­tures as he makes his way to­ward his goal. Un­like the tra­di­tion­al hero, Jasper is from the out­set of the novel what the nar­ra­tor calls a “jaded trav­eller” (39). Lit­tle more than a decade be­fore Dick­ens began cre­at­ing Jasper, Robert Brown­ing had de­pict­ed in 1855 a sim­i­lar sort of “jaded trav­eller” in his poem “Childe Roland to the Dark Tower Came.” Like the dis­il­lu­sioned Jasper, Roland is weary of the quest and de­cides to leave the con­ven­tion­al path and set out on a jour­ney through what quick­ly re­veals it­self to be a waste­land that leads to death.

It is ap­pro­pri­ate that the word “jaded” should be used to de­scribe Jasper, be­cause this word re­lates to his name and re­calls his murky and in­scrutable na­ture. The word “jaded” also re­minds the read­er that Jasper is weary of the quest from the very be­gin­ning of the novel, tired of his dull life as a “poor monotonous cho­ris­ter and grinder of music” (49). In yet an­oth­er sense, the word “jaded” re­minds us that Jasper is cyn­i­cal and cal­lous, lack­ing in sen­ti­ment, and, there­fore, ex­hibit­ing what Dick­ens calls in his 1856 House­hold Words ar­ti­cle “The De­meanour of Mur­der­ers.”

In ad­di­tion to his in­ward jour­ney, Jasper makes two sig­nif­i­cant out­ward jour­neys in the nov­el — his “un­ac­count­able ex­pe­di­tion” with Dur­dles that takes him down to the cathe­dral crypt and up to the cathe­dral tow­er — and his final trip to Lon­don to visit the wretched opium den (160). In his noc­tur­nal ex­pe­di­tion with Dur­dles, Jasper is em­bark­ing on what is usu­al­ly a tra­di­tion­al part of the hero’s quest — a ter­ri­fy­ing odyssey into the re­gion of the dead. We see it in Homer’s The Odyssey , when Odysseus vis­its the shades in Hades, so that he may ask for ad­vice from the sooth­say­er Teire­sias (Book 11). Dick­ens him­self had also em­ployed the de­vice in The Pick­wick Pa­pers, when Samuel Pick­wick choos­es to enter debtor’s prison, a sub­ter­ranean dun­geon that takes on the un­mis­tak­able char­ac­ter­is­tics of hell (chap­ters 41-42, 44-47). Where­as Odysseus de­scends to Hades in hopes of ob­tain­ing ad­vice that will ben­e­fit both him­self and his sea­far­ing com­pan­ions, and Pick­wick choos­es to enter the prison in protest against the in­jus­tices of a cor­rupt En­glish legal sys­tem, Jasper de­scends to the crypt in order to re­hearse his homi­ci­dal scheme. Odysseus and Pick­wick de­scend for un­selfish rea­sons; Jasper, on the other hand, de­scends only to fur­ther his ne­far­i­ous plan of par­ri­cide. Thus Jasper’s jour­ney into a sym­bol­ic hell is both a re­flec­tion of his psy­cho­path­ic frame of mind and his ev­er-in­creas­ing psy­chic frag­men­ta­tion and loss of self.

After de­scend­ing into the crypt, Jasper climbs with Dur­dles to the top of the cathe­dral tower, an as­cent that could sym­bol­ize spir­i­tu­al growth. But this jour­ney, too, be­comes an in­vert­ed odyssey that fails to elic­it pos­i­tive re­sults. The Goth­ic at­mo­sphere of the cathe­dral crypt and the mid­night hour of their jour­ney em­pha­size the macabre na­ture of this bizarre ex­pe­di­tion. As the nar­ra­tor says, “their way lies through strange places,” and “dim an­gels’ heads upon the cor­bels of the roof [. . .] watch their progress” (156). Rather than feel the com­fort­ing pres­ence of a guardian angel dur­ing his mid­night ex­cur­sion, Jasper is sur­round­ed by “dim an­gels,” rem­i­nis­cent of Lu­cifer’s fall­en le­gions. Their pres­ence is yet an­oth­er sign that Jasper has en­tered into an un­holy quest.

Jasper’s jour­ney be­yond the stony gates and walls of Clois­ter­ham takes him to Lon­don. His ex­cur­sions to Lon­don al­ways in­volve the same goal — to enter the opium rever­ie and re­peat in his imag­i­na­tion the mur­der of his nephew. In leav­ing Clois­ter­ham, Jasper seeks to es­cape the op­pres­sive An­gli­can rec­ti­tude em­bod­ied in the des­ic­cat­ed cathe­dral town. The first part of the town’s name — Clois­ter — im­plies that the vil­lage pro­vides a re­treat from life, that it is a place where one may es­cape the crass ma­te­ri­al­ism of the age in order to nur­ture the life of the spir­it. But for Jasper, the word “clois­ter” car­ries neg­a­tive con­no­ta­tions. In that placid, bor­ing, staid En­glish com­mu­ni­ty he is im­mured and near­ly suf­fo­cates be­hind his fa­cade of “op­pres­sive re­spectabil­i­ty” (51). In order to find re­lief from his rou­tine life, at least for a brief time, and emerge from be­hind the hyp­o­crit­i­cal mask of mid­dle-class re­spectabil­i­ty, Jasper must oc­ca­sion­al­ly seek refuge in the dingy back streets and squalid opium dens of Lon­don. John Thack­er notes in Edwin Drood: An­tichrist in the Cathe­dral that Jasper is a “pris­on­er” of the cathe­dral (81). Thack­er elab­o­rates this point, as­sert­ing that at some stage in re­bel­lion against the re­stric­tive dis­ci­pline of the Cathe­dral [Jasper] wan­ders about the East End of Lon­don and makes the dis­cov­ery that opium en­ables him to pass through the walls of his prison into a dif­fer­ent and com­plete­ly un­in­hib­it­ed en­vi­ron­ment. (81)

Cu­ri­ous­ly, Jasper’s in­au­then­tic jour­ney to­ward the opium den is de­scribed as one that takes him ever “east­ward and still east­ward through the stale streets [. . .] until he reach­es his des­ti­na­tion: a mis­er­able court, spe­cial­ly mis­er­able among many such” (Drood 266). An east­ward jour­ney im­plies a jour­ney to­ward a new dawn, a re­birth, with its con­comi­tant promise of spir­i­tu­al en­light­en­ment and pos­si­ble epiphany. Sym­bol­i­cal­ly, this east­ward jour­ney could also rep­re­sent Jasper’s search for self-in­te­gra­tion, es­pe­cial­ly if we re­gard him (as Aylmer sug­gests) as a ge­net­ic blend of Moslem and Chris­tian, who seeks to re­as­sim­i­late the ma­ter­nal as­pect of him­self that was lost in Cairo. But this jour­ney does not lead to self-in­te­gra­tion, and de­spite the chap­ter’s ti­tle — “The Dawn Again” — it does not lead to re­birth. On the con­trary, Jasper’s jour­ney to the dark, tomb-like den is any­thing but a new dawn, for it in­spires nei­ther a sense of self- re­new­al nor op­ti­mism. Rather, it is an odyssey into a spir­i­tu­al waste­land, where Jasper may once again enter his per­verse opium fan­ta­sy, re­play in his imag­i­na­tion the in­sid­i­ous jour­ney of death with his “fel­low-trav­eller,” and fi­nal­ly lux­u­ri­ate in the vivid, erot­ic im­ages of the Sul­tan and his col­or­ful cortege (271). Thus the east­ward move­ment to the opium den sug­gests that Jasper is en­gaged in an iron­ic, in­vert­ed jour­ney — not a jour­ney to self-aware­ness and self-re­al­iza­tion, but a jour­ney into psy­cho­log­i­cal dis­in­te­gra­tion and ul­ti­mate un­con­scious­ness.

Once in­side the den, Jasper again en­coun­ters Princess Puffer. To her he de­scribes his jour­ney, the jour­ney he takes in his imag­i­na­tion each time he smokes his opium pipe: “It was a dif­fi­cult and dan­ger­ous jour­ney,” he ex­plains to her. “A haz­ardous and per­ilous jour­ney over abysses where a slip would be de­struc­tion. Look down! Look down! You see what lies at the bot­tom there?” (269). Jasper may be de­scrib­ing what he sees when he looks into the black hole of him­self, a shat­tered image of the “jaded trav­eller” for­ev­er lost in the labyrinth of his dis­in­te­grat­ing self.
   

NOTES 

Chap­ter 1

1) Nicoll and other com­men­ta­tors have point­ed to the tes­ti­mo­ny of Drood il­lus­tra­tor Luke Fildes to sup­port the the­o­ry that Jasper did in fact kill Drood. In 1905, Fildes wrote a let­ter toThe Times Lit­er­ary Sup­ple­ment as­sur­ing the pub­lic that Dick­ens had asked him to de­pict Jasper wear­ing around his neck a long, black scarf. Fildes added that Dick­ens ex­plained that the scarf was to be used to stran­gle Drood. Fildes urged read­ers to ac­cept his tes­ti­mo­ny on the grounds that a sin­cere Dick­ens would never have mis­led him (54-55).

Chap­ter 2

1) Ac­cord­ing to Ed­mund Wil­son, who out­lines Duffield’s Thug the­o­ry in The Wound and the Bow, Jasper is a mem­ber of a Hindu cult whose mem­bers wor­shipped “Kali, the Hindu god­dess of de­struc­tion” (87). Sum­ma­riz­ing Duffield, Wil­son notes that the Thug killers used a “fold of cloth” to stran­gle their vic­tims, much like the “great black scarf” that Jasper is wear­ing the day of Drood’s dis­ap­pear­ance (Drood 182). Among other par­al­lels be­tween Jasper’s al­leged mur­der of Drood and the Thug method of homi­cide, Wil­son ob­serves that both must se­lect a “se­cret buri­al place,” both “prey,” only on “trav­el­ers,” both use “ex­ag­ger­at­ed terms of en­dear­ment,” both en­tice their vic­tims out of their safe home “after mid­night,” and both use some sort of drug “to stu­pe­fy” the un­sus­pect­ing vic­tim (88). The Thug mur­der­er is also to make cer­tain that his vic­tim is wear­ing no gold. As “proof” that Duffield’s the­o­ry is valid, Wil­son clev­er­ly of­fers ev­i­dence from the novel that log­i­cal­ly cor­re­sponds with each of these “rit­u­al­is­tic re­quire­ments for a sanc­ti­fied and suc­cess­ful Thug mur­der” (87). One il­lus­tra­tion of this proof is Wil­son’s sug­ges­tion that Jasper has in fact found a se­cret buri­al place for Drood in the tomb of Mrs. Sapsea (87). An­oth­er piece of sup­port for the Thug the­o­ry, Wil­son says, is the fact that Drood is a trav­el­er, since he is plan­ning to de­part for Egypt. Fur­ther sup­port, as far as Wil­son is con­cerned, can be found in the par­al­lel be­tween the Thug’s use of “terms of en­dear­ment” and Jasper’s ex­ag­ger­at­ed af­fec­tion for Drood (88). Fi­nal­ly, Wil­son sug­gests that the drugged wine Jasper gives to Drood, Neville, and later Dur­dles, could eas­i­ly cor­re­spond to the drug the Thugs used to in­ca­pac­i­tate their vic­tims be­fore the mur­der­ous at­tack oc­curred.

2) In Charles Dick­ens and the Ro­man­tic Self, Lawrence Frank fre­quent­ly em­ploys this metaphor in his dis­cus­sion of var­i­ous char­ac­ters, in­clud­ing John Jasper.

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