When Nietzsche Wept

by Irvin D. Yalom

  “No, not sadness! On the contrary, when I talked to you a few minutes ago about dying alone, I felt a powerful surge of relief. Not so much wheat I said, but that I said it, that I finally, finally shared what I felt.”

  “Tell me more about that feeling.”

  “Powerful. Moving. A holy moment! That’s why I wept. That’s why I weep now. I’ve never done this before. Look at me! I can’t stop the tears.”

  “It’s good, Friedrich. Strong tears are cleansing.”

  Nietzsche, his face buried in his hands, nodded. “It’s strange, but at the very moment when I, for the first time in my life, reveal my loneliness in all its depth, in all its despair—at that precise moment, loneliness melts away! The moment I told you I had never been touched was the very moment I first allowed myself to be touched. An extraordinary moment, as though some vast, interior icepack suddenly cracked and shattered.”

  “A paradox!” said Breuer. “Isolation exists only in isolation. Once shared, it evaporates.”

  Nietzsche raised his head and slowly wiped the tear tracks from his face. He ran his comb through his mustache five or six times and once again donned his thick spectacles. After a brief pause, he said, “And I have still another confession. Perhaps,” he looked at his watch, “the final one. When you came into my room today and announced your recovery, Josef, I was devastated! I was so wretchedly self-absorbed, so disappointed at losing my raison d’être for being with you, that I could not bring myself to rejoice in your good news. That kind of selfishness is unforgivable.”

  “Not unforgivable,” replied Breuer. “You yourself taught me that we are each composed of many parts, each clamoring for expression. We can be held responsible only for the final compromise, not for the wayward impulses of each of the parts. Your so-called selfishness is forgivable precisely because you care enough about me to share it with me now. My parting wish for you, my dear friend, is that the word ‘unforgivable’ be banished from your lexicon.”

  Nietzsche’s eyes once again filled with tears, and again he pulled out his handkerchief.

  “And these tears, Friedrich?”

  “The way you said ‘my dear friend.’ I’ve often used the word ‘friend’ before, but not until this moment has the word ever been wholly mine. I’ve always dreamed of a friendship in which two people join together to attain some higher ideal. And here, now, it has arrived! You and I have joined together precisely in such a way! We’ve participated in the other’s self overcoming. I am your friend. You are mine. We are friends. We—are—friends.” For an instant, Nietzsche seemed almost gay. “I love the sound of that phrase, Josef. I want to say it over and over.”

  “Then, Friedrich, accept my invitation to stay with me. Remember the dream: your slot is at my hearth.”

  At Breuer’s invitation, Nietzsche froze. He sat slowly shaking his head before answering. “That dream both entices and torments me. I’m like you. I want to warm myself by a family hearth. But I’m frightened by giving in to comfort. That would be to abandon myself and my mission. For me, it would be a type of death. Perhaps that explains the symbol of an inert stone warming itself.”

  Nietzsche rose, paced for a moment or two, and then stopped behind his chair. “No, my friend, my destiny is to search for truth on the far side of loneliness. My son, my Zarathustra, will be ripe with wisdom, but his only companion will be an eagle. He will be the loneliest man in the world.”

  Nietzsche looked again at his watch. “I know your schedule well enough by this time, Josef, to realize your other patients are waiting for you. I can’t keep you much longer. Each of us must go our own way.”

  Breuer shook his head. “It crushes me that we have to part. It’s unfair! You’ve done so much for me and received so little in return. Perhaps Lou’s image has lost its power over you. Perhaps not. Time will tell. But there seems much more we could do.”

  “Don’t underestimate what you have given me, Josef. Don’t underestimate the value of friendship, of my knowing I’m not a freak, of my knowing I’m capable of touching and being touched. Before, I only half embraced my concept of Amor fati. I had trained myself—resigned myself is a better term—to love my fate. But now, thanks to you, thanks to your open hearth, I realize I have a choice. I shall always remain alone, but what a difference, what a wonderful difference, to choose what I do. Amor fati—choose your fate, love your fate.”

  Breuer stood and faced Nietzsche, the chair between them. Breuer walked around the chair. For a moment, Nietzsche looked frightened, cornered. But, at Breuer’s approach, arms spread, he, too, opened his arms.

  At noon, on 18 December 1882, Josef Breuer returned to his office, to Frau Becker and his waiting patients. Later he dined with his wife, his children, his father- and mother-in-law, young Freud, and Max and his family. After dinner, he napped and dreamed about chess and the queening of a pawn. He continued the comfortable practice of medicine for thirty more years but never again made use of the talking cure.

  That same afternoon, the patient in room 13 at the Lauzon Clinic, Eckart Müller, boarded a fiacre to the train station and thence traveled south, alone, to Italy, to the warm sun, the still air, and to a rendezvous, an honest rendezvous, with a Persian prophet named Zarathustra.

  AFTERWORD

  Years ago in an essay about the writing of When Nietzsche Wept I cited a phrase by André Gide; “History is fiction that did happen. Whereas fiction is history that might have happened.”

  A felicitous phrase, I thought, and wrote,

  Fiction is history that might have happened. Perfect! That was precisely the fiction I wanted to write. My novel, When Nietzsche Wept, could have happened. Given the very improbable history of the field of psychotherapy, all the events of this book could have come to pass if history had rotated only slightly on its axis. (from The ϓalom Reader, Basic Books, NY, 1998 )

  In February 2003 an event occurred which gave these words an eerie prescience. Renate Müller-Buck forwarded me a remarkable letter she had discovered while working on the commentary volumes for Nietzsche’s correspondence within the historical critical edition of Nietzsche’s works and letters founded by Montinari and Giorgio Colli. In the Weimar Nietzsche Archives, she came across a 1878 letter in which Siegfried Lipiner tries to convince Heinrich Köselitz to send Nietzsche to Vienna where he would be treated by Breuer!

  Siegfried Lipiner was a Viennese poet and philosopher and a friend of Nietzsche, Freud, Mahler, and Breuer. At one time they were all members, along with Freud, of the Pernerstorfer Circle, a group of students and intellectuals interested in philosophy and social democratic literature. Heinrich Köselitz, (a musician with the pseudonym of Peter Gast) was Nietzsche’s close friend, disciple, and amanuensis.

  In other words, the very fictional event which I had imagined and used as the foundation to my novel came close to having been history. Certainly, as the letter below indicates, Siegfried Lipiner was doing his utmost to persuade Nietzsche’s friend to arrange for Nietzsche to visit Vienna and consult with his friend, Josef Breuer. He had found funds to pay for Nietzsche’s several-months stay in Vienna, had arranged with Dr. Breuer, had discussed the plan with some of Nietzsche’s friends, and had even given thought to the neighborhood where Nietzsche might reside.

  The plan never became history. Köselitz replied that he personally found the offer enticing and even entertained the fantasy of abducting Nietzsche and bringing him to Vienna. But, after consulting Nietzsche’s sister, Elisabeth, and his friend, Franz Overbeck, decided it would be best to decline the offer. Nietzsche was too ill to undergo the agitation of a major move. Besides, he was just about to leave for a cold-water cure at Baden-Baden. Furthermore, he had suffered harm by changing physicians too often, and had just entered the care of two eminent physicians and it was felt that he should not change again. Some of Nietzsche’s letters written before this proposal indicate that Nietzsche had taken a dislike to Siegfried Lipiner’s inclination to tell him what to do and it is possible that Niet
zsche himself may have turned down the proposal.

  Here is the letter from Lipiner and the reply from Köselitz.

  Praterstrasse, Vienna,

  22nd February 1878

  My dear friend Köselitz!

  I must thank you so much for your letter which made me very happy.—Could you be so kind as to give my respects to Mr. P. Widemann. It will be a great pleasure to review his works. How are you progressing with your cultural activities, Is there anything I can do to assist you? Do not be shy to ask me, I will ask friends to help wherever possible.

  What you wrote about Overbeck confirms my impression of him after reading the paper on discord and accord. Are you familiar with Paul de Lagarde? If not—you should make up for this as soon as possible. His paper “On the Present State of the German Reich” (Göttingen, Dieterich, 1876) is brilliant; I love and adore him in the highest. But now to the essence. Fräulein von Meysenburg has written alarming things about Nietzsche. I was, as you know, at that time in Salzburg, invited by von Seydlitz. Her telegram also did not contain anything reassuring. One thing is certain: Nietzsche must be forced to concentrate in the next few months only on his cure. I have the following plan: He should come to Vienna; if necessary, I will pick him up; we will not travel in one [sic] tour, instead we will make interruptions—then he might as well consult our efficient physicians in Vienna, under their constant supervision and care adhere to a rigorous and continuous healing process; a highly competent nerve pathologist, Dr. Breuer, a personal friend of mine, will look after him with utmost care; Professor Bamberger will have overall supervision of the treatment, an efficient, highly experienced young doctor (specialist and assistant doctor in general hospital) will assist him; I have been provided with the necessary funds to keep N. here for several months living without any worries, except those regarding his health—these will not cause Nietzsche any troubles whatsoever, will and shall not evoke a single doubt. N. shall, if he wishes, not live in, but in the vicinity of Vienna, in our mild climate and in quite healthy and open surroundings; however, he can also have absolutely quiet living quarters in town. Of course I will purchase the whole lot; he need not worry about a thing, will find everything prepared. —Not one word shall be uttered that could upset or excite him,—he will enjoy the most gentle, caring, protecting, soothing treatment. He has here, once a convalescent, the best distraction available. In short: there is no reason in existence nor conceivable that could prevent him from coming here, everything seems to be quite clear. Baron Seydlitz is just delighted about this plan; Hans Richter, to whom I had spoken, also thinks it is highly recommendable.

  Meanwhile I have requested to obtain [sic] medical advice on that question, the result of which will leave no doubt. Please, dear friend, write me immediately of what you think about this matter, talk to Fraulein Nietzsche, try to dissipate all doubts and create a favourable atmosphere. To name it, help me overcome a hindrance: N. should not believe that he is a burden to anybody nor that he should have a bad conscience. He should know that we all who love him would feel hurt if he rejected because of these reasons. Gratitude is also a bit of principii individuationis.

  Everything that I have said is meant word for word. Also, N. should not believe that any of his admirers would bother him; no one will approach him unless he is in good health [sic]. I myself will know how to treat him; you can rely on that, I know that tranquility is most important to him.—If N. is in Lucerne, kindly give me his address. Otherwise, give him my best regards, read to him the letter if you wish and work in any case towards my plan, that is for his sake [sic].—Please also extend my sincerest regards to highly esteemed Fräulein Nietzsche. I will write to Nietzsche as soon as I am in receipt of your reply.

  From the bottom of my heart.

  Yours truly,

  Lipiner

  My dear Sir!

  I could not reply to your kind letter until now since I had been consulting with many an expert. By this delay your patience has been put hard to the test despite my efforts to hasten things.

  All of us are of the utmost admiration for your friendship that you show whilst explaining your wonderful plan. Upon reading your letter for the first time, I was of the impression that Nietzsche could hardly resist this invitation; but before showing it to him personally, I needed to ask various friends for their advice. Overbeck and Nietzsche’s sister felt that even though they are moved by your overwhelming concern it would be more advisable with respect to N[ietzsche]’s present state of health not to mention anything about your plans. First of all, this would excite him far too much, this should be actually avoided as we could make him sick again for a month—and then this suggestion came, unfortunately, a little too late. 4 months ago N[ietzsche] might have been persuaded to accept your invitation; but now he has his own doctors here, very good doctors, even though they are by no means from Vienna. He is being treated by Prof. Immermann (the son of Münchhausen-I [mmermann]) and Prof. Massini, 2 highly intelligent men, whose care he cannot be taken from without running a risk now. N[ietzsche]’s illness goes back in part to the frequent change of doctors, all of whom experimented with him and not actually knowing what he was suffering from. But now he has in fact outstanding doctors whose causality abilities have been acquired by their aptitude and studies. Therefore we are convinced that N[ietzsche] should stay under their care. Of course it is easy to say this long distance, i.e. Vienna which can be very proud of its famous physicians; however, it is rather doubtful that you, who devotes every thought and all your love to finally restoring our poor, poor friend’s health, will be satisfied. However, I hope I can reassure you by formulating what all of us close to N[ietzsche] are primarily concerned about: N[ietzsche]’s fast recovery; how every individual wants to lend a hand and help and, how each and every one of us is stunned at whatever stage by the dreadful mercilessness and inaccessibility of organic nature; how we did everything, what kind of suggestions and contributions for recovery came into mind; how we even thought of abducting N[ietzsche], finally I say to you: hopefully I can convince you that despite of and after all things said, the present treatment by the doctors, and especially in anticipation of its results, seems to be the most appropriate for N[ietzsche]’s state of health.—The trip to Lucerne didn’t take place after all; but next Monday (4th March) N[ietzsche] will travel to Baden-Baden for a cold water cure. I will let you know his address which I hope to acquire on Tuesday. . .

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Friedrich Nietzsche and Josef Breuer never met. And, of course, psychotherapy was not invented as a result of their encounter. Nonetheless, the life situation of the major characters is grounded in fact, and the essential components of this novel—Breuer’s mental anguish, Nietzsche’s despair, Anna O., Lou Salomé, Freud’s relationship with Breuer, the ticking embryo of psychotherapy—were all historically in place in 1882.

  Friedrich Nietzsche had been introduced by Paul Rée to the young Lou Salomé in the spring of 1882 and, over the next months, had had a brief, intense, and chaste love affair with her. She would go on to have a distinguished career as both a brilliant woman of letters and a practicing psychoanalyst; she would also be known for her close friendship with Freud and for her romantic liaisons, especially with the German poet Rainer Maria Rilke.

  Nietzsche’s relationship with Lou Salomé, complicated by the presence of Paul Rée and sabotaged by Nietzsche’s sister, Elisabeth, ended disastrously for him; for years he was anguished by his lost love and by his belief that he had been betrayed. During the latter months of 1882—those in which this book is set—Nietzsche was deeply depressed, even suicidal. His despairing letters to Lou Salomé, parts of which are quoted throughout the book, are authentic, though there is uncertainty about which were merely drafts and which were actually sent. Wagner’s letter to Nietzsche cited in chapter 1 is also authentic.

  Josef Breuer’s medical treatment of Bertha Pappenheim, known as Anna O., occupied much of his attention in 1882. In November of that year, he began to d
iscuss the case with his young protégé and friend, Sigmund Freud, who was, as the novel describes, a frequent visitor to the Breuer home. A dozen years later, Anna O. was to be the first case described in Freud and Breuer’s Studies on Hysteria, the book that launched the psychoanalytic revolution.

  Bertha Pappenheim was, like Lou Salomé, a remarkable woman. Years after her treatment with Breuer, she went on to a career as a pioneering social worker so distinguished as to be posthumously honored by West Germany in 1954 in a commemorative postage stamp. Her identity as Anna O. was not public knowledge until Ernest Jones revealed it in his 1953 biography, The Life and Work of Sigmund Freud.

  Was the historical Josef Breuer obsessed with erotic desire for Bertha Pappenheim ? Little is known of Breuer’s internal life, but the relevant scholarship does not rule out that possibility. Conflicting historical accounts agree only that Breuer’s treatment of Bertha Pappenheim evoked complex and powerful feelings in both parties. Breuer was so preoccupied with his young patient and spent so much time visiting her that his wife, Mathilde, did grow resentful and jealous. Freud spoke explicitly to Ernest Jones, his biographer, of Breuer’s emotional overinvolvement with his young patient and in a letter to his fiancée, Martha Bernays, written at the time, reassured her that nothing of that sort would ever happen with him. The psychoanalyst George Pollock has suggested that Breuer’s strong response to Bertha may have had its roots in his having lost his mother, also named Bertha, at an early age.

  The account of Anna O.’s dramatic delusional pregnancy and Breuer’s panic and precipitous termination of therapy has long been part of psychoanalytic lore. Freud first described the incident in a 1932 letter to the Austrian novelist Stefan Zweig, and Ernest Jones repeated it in his Freud biography. Only recently has the account been questioned, and Albrecht Hirschmüller’s 1990 biography of Breuer suggests that the entire incident was a myth of Freud’s making. Breuer himself never clarified the point and, in his published 1895 case history, compounded the confusion surrounding the Anna O. case by grossly and unaccountably exaggerating the efficacy of his treatment.