by D. M. Thomas
Praise for D. M. Thomas and The White Hotel
“Authoritative and imaginatively daring…I quickly came to feel that I had found that book, that mythical book, that would explain us to ourselves.”
—Leslie Epstein, The New York Times Book Review
“This brilliant, haunting novel…is compelling, awash with imagery and peopled with characters whose lives are infinitely beautiful and infinitely sad.”
—San Francisco Chronicle
“The White Hotel is a strange and exciting novel—beautifully written, with a care and elegance rare these days, and gloriously original, both in form and content.”
—John Gardner
“The White Hotel is an ambitious and original work whose purpose is to show the value of any single human life.”
—Chicago Tribune
“An extraordinary book, repellent, powerful, tragic…This is a book you don’t read so much as experience.”
—Boston Sunday Globe
“This novel is a reminder that fiction can amaze as well as inform, that an imaginative leap can sometimes take flight.”
—Time
“Repetition, stunningly enacted in imagery that continually circles in on itself, is the method by which Thomas binds us to his prose. The white hotel is the leitmotif…The richness of this book is reminiscent of a painstakingly woven tapestry, one can focus on the details but they must be absorbed by the whole.”
—The New Republic
PENGUIN BOOKS
THE WHITE HOTEL
D. M. Thomas was born in Cornwall in 1935. He was educated there, in Australia and at New College, Oxford, where he gained a first in English. He has been a teacher and lecturer, and is now a full-time writer. His other novels are The Flute Player (1981), Birthstone (1982), Ararat (1983), Swallow (1984), Sphinx (1986), Summit (1987), Lying Together (1990), Flying in to Love (1992), Pictures at an Exhibition (1993), Eating Pavlova (1994), and Lady with a Laptop (1995). Thomas is well-known for his translations of Russian poetry, including The Bronze Horseman and Other Poms by Alexander Pushkin (Penguin, 1982), and for his autobiographical Memories and Hallucinations (1988). The White Hotel received the 1981 Cheltenham Prize and the PEN Silver Pen Award. He has also won the Los Angeles Times Fiction Prize.
The
White
Hotel
D. M. Thomas
PENGUIN BOOKS
PENGUIN BOOKS
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First published in Great Britain by Victor Gollancz Ltd 1981
First published in the United States of America by The Viking Press 1981
Published in Penguin Books 1993
29 30 28
Copyright © D. M. Thomas, 1981
All rights reserved
The author gratefully acknowledges the use in Part V of material from Anatoli Kuznetsov’s Babi Yar (New York: Dell Publishers, 1967; London: Jonathan Cape, 1970), particularly the testimony of Dina Pronicheva.
Section 1 of “Don Giovanni” originally appeared as a self-contained poem in the magazine New Worlds (1979).
The lines from W. B. Yeats’s “Meditations in Time of Civil War” from Collected Poems by William Butler Yeats, copyright 1928 by Macmillan Publishing Co., Inc., renewed 1956 by Georgie Yeats, are reprinted with the kind permission of Macmillan Publishing Co. and A. P. Watt.
THE LIBRARY OF CONGRESS HAS CATALOGUED THE HARDCOVER AS FOLLOWS:
Thomas, D. M.
The white hotel.
ISBN: 978-1-101-65150-6
1. Freud, Sigmund, 1856–1939—Fiction. 2. Ferenczi, Sandor, 1873–1933—
Fiction. I. Title.
PZ4.T4544Wh 1981 [PR6070.H58] 823’.914 80–52004
Printed in the United States of America
Set in Weiss
Designed by Kathryn Parise
Except in the United States of America, this book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
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Author’s Note
One could not travel far in the landscape of hysteria—the “terrain” of this novel—without meeting the majestic figure of Sigmund Freud. Freud becomes one of the dramatis personae, in fact, as discoverer of the great and beautiful modern myth of psychoanalysis. By myth, I mean a poetic, dramatic expression of a hidden truth; and in placing this emphasis, I do not intend to put into-question the scientific validity of psychoanalysis.
The role played by Freud in this narrative is entirely fictional. My imagined Freud does, however, abide by the generally known facts of the real Freud’s life, and I have sometimes quoted from his works and letters, passim. The letters of the Prologue, and all the passages relating to psychoanalysis (including Part III, which takes the literary form of a Freudian case history), have no factual basis. Readers not familiar with the genuine case histories—which are masterly works of literature, apart from everything else—are referred to volumes 3, 8 and 9 of the Pelican Freud Library (Penguin Books, 1974, 1977, 1979).
D.M.T.
Contents
Author’s Note
Prologue
1
Don Giovanni
2
The Gastein Journal
3
Frau Anna G.
4
The Health Resort
5
The Sleeping Carriage
6
The Camp
We had fed the heart on fantasies,
The heart’s grown brutal from the fare;
More substance in our enmities
Than in our love…
—W. B. Yeats,
“Meditations in Time of Civil War”
Prologue
Standish Hotel,
Worcester,
Massachusetts,
U.S.A.
8 September 1909
Dearest Gisela,
I give you a warm bear-hug from the new world! What with the journey, the hospitality, the lectures, the honours (mostly to Freud naturally and, to a lesser extent, Jung), there has hardly been time to blow one’s nose, and my mind is in a whirl. But it’s already more than clear that America is eager to receive our movement. Brill and Hal
l are excellent fellows, and everyone at Clark University has overwhelmed us with kindness and compliments. Freud astonished even me with his masterly skill, by delivering five lectures without any notes—composing them during a half-hour’s walk beforehand in my company. I need hardly add that he made a deep impression. Jung also gave two fine lectures, about his own work, without once mentioning Freud’s name! Though on the whole the three of us have got on splendidly together, in rather trying circumstances (including, I may say, attacks of diarrhoea in New York…!), there has been a little tension between Jung and Freud. Of that, more in a moment.
But you will want to hear about the voyage. It was fine—but we saw almost nothing! A great midsummer mist descended almost at once. Actually it was not unimpressive. Jung especially was gripped by the conception of this “prehistoric monster” wallowing through the daylight-darkness towards its objective, and felt we were slipping back into the primeval past. Freud teased him for being a Christian, and therefore mystical (a fate he regards the Jews as having escaped), but confessed to feeling some sympathy for the idea as he gazed at the blank cabin window and listened to what he called “the mating cry of the foghorns”! New York was all the more impressive and unbelievable, rising out of this darkness. Brill met us, and showed us many fine things—but none finer than a moving picture, a “movie”! Despite my wretched stomach I found it highly diverting, it consisted mainly of comical policemen pursuing even more comical villains through the streets. Not much of a plot, but the people actually do move in a very convincing and lifelike way. Freud, I think, was not greatly impressed!
Yes, I must tell you of the rather extraordinary occurrence in Bremen, on the eve of our departure. We were heartily thankful to have made a successful rendezvous, and naturally excited by the adventure lying ahead of us. Freud was host at a luncheon in a very luxurious hotel, and we persuaded Jung to abandon his customary abstemiousness and join us in drinking wine. Probably because he was not used to drinking he became unusually talkative and high-spirited. He turned the conversation to some “peat-bog corpses” that apparently have been found in northern Germany. They are said to be the bodies of prehistoric men, mummified by the effect of the humic acid in the bog water. Apparently the men had drowned in the marshes or been buried there. Well, it was mildly interesting, or would have been had not Jung talked on and on about it. Finally Freud burst out several times: “Why are you so concerned with these corpses?” Jung continued to be carried away by his fascination with the story, and Freud slipped off his chair in a faint.
Jung, poor fellow, was most upset by this turn of events—as was I—and couldn’t understand what he’d done wrong. When he came round, Freud accused him of wanting him out of the way. Jung, of course, denied this in the strongest terms. And he is really a kind, lively companion, much more pleasant than those gold-rimmed glasses and that close-cropped head suggests.
Another brief disagreement occurred on the ship. We were entertaining ourselves (in the fog!) by interpreting each other’s dreams. Jung was greatly taken by one of Freud’s, in which his sister-in-law (Minna) was having to toss bundles of corn at harvest time, like a peasant, while his wife looked idly on. Jung, somewhat tactlessly, kept pressing him for further information. He made it clear that he thought the dream had to do with Freud’s warmth of feeling for his wife’s younger sister. I was staggered that he had so much knowledge of Freud’s domestic affairs. Freud was naturally very put out, and refused to “risk his authority,” as he put it, by revealing anything more personal. Jung said to me later that at that moment Freud had lost his authority, as far as he was concerned. However, I think I managed to smooth over the matter, and they are on good terms again. But for a while I felt like a referee in a wrestling contest! All very difficult. Keep this under your hat.
My own dream (the only one I could remember) was about some trivial childhood disappointment. Freud of course had absolutely no trouble in guessing that it related to you, my dear. He saw straight to the point: that I fear your decision not to divorce your husband until your daughters are married is a self-deception on your part, and that you do not wish to consummate our long relationship by such a profound tie as marriage. Well, you know my anxieties, and you have done your best to dissipate them, but I could not avoid dreaming of them, you see, during our parting (and probably affected by the depressing sea mist). Freud helped a good deal, as always. Tell Elma he was touched by her good wishes, and says he is deeply moved that she found her analysis with him so helpful. He also sends you his respects, and said good-humouredly that if the mother equals the daughter in charm and intelligence (I assure him you do!) I am an enviable man…. I know that! Warmly embrace and kiss Elma from me, and pass on my respects to your husband.
Next week we are to visit Niagara Falls, which Freud regards as the great event of the whole trip, and we sail on the Kaiser Wilhelm less than two weeks from now. So I shall be home in Budapest almost before you receive my letter, and I cannot tell you how I long for your welcoming embrace. Meanwhile I kiss you (and heavens! much worse! much better!) in my dreams.
Forever your
Sandor Ferenczi
19 Berggasse,
Vienna
9 February 1920
Dear Ferenczi,
Thank you for your letter of condolence. I do not know what more there is to say. For years I was prepared for the loss of my sons, now comes that of my daughter. Since I am profoundly irreligious there is no one I can accuse, and I know there is nowhere to which my complaint could be addressed. “The unvarying circle of a soldier’s duties” and the “sweet habit of existence” will see to it that things go on as before. Blind necessity, mute submission. Quite deep down I can trace the feeling of a deep narcissistic hurt that is not to be healed. My wife and Annerl are terribly shaken in a more human way.
Do not be concerned about me. I am just the same but for a little more tiredness. La séance continue. Today I have had to spend more time than I can spare at the Vienna General Hospital, as part of the Commission investigating the allegations of ill-treatment of war neurotics. It more than ever astonishes me how anyone could think that the administration of electric current to so-called malingerers would turn them into heroes. Inevitably, on returning to the battlefield, they shed their fear of the current in face of the immediate threat: hence, they were subjected to still more severe electric shocks—and so on, pointlessly. I am inclined to give Wagner-Jauregg the benefit of the doubt, but I should not like to vouch for others in his staff. It has never been denied that in German hospitals there were cases of death during the treatment, and suicides as the result of it. It is too early to say whether the Vienna Clinics gave way to the characteristically German inclination to achieve their aims quite ruthlessly. I shall have to submit a Memorandum by the end of the month.
I have also found myself drawn back to my essay Beyond the Pleasure Principle, which had been hanging fire, with a strengthened conviction that I am on the right lines in positing a death instinct, as powerful in its own way (though more hidden) as the libido. One of my patients, a young woman suffering from a severe hysteria, has just “given birth” to some writings which seem to lend support to my theory: an extreme of libidinous phantasy combined with an extreme of morbidity. It is as if Venus looked in her mirror and saw the face of Medusa. It may be that we have studied the sexual impulses too exclusively, and that we are in the position of a mariner whose gaze is so concentrated on the lighthouse that he runs on to the rocks in the engulfing darkness.
Perhaps I may have a paper on some aspect of this theme to present to the Congress in September. I am sure the reunion will hearten us all, after these terrible and dispiriting years. I have heard that Abraham intends to read a paper on the Female Castration Complex. Your suggestions on the development of an Active Therapy in Psychoanalysis seem admirable as a subject for discussion. I remain to be convinced that “one could effect far more with one’s patients if one gave them enough of the love which they had longed
for as children,” but I shall attend to your arguments with great interest.
My wife joins me in thanking you for your kind thoughts.
Yours,
Freud
19 Berggasse,
Vienna
4 March 1920
Dear Sachs,
Greatly though your colleagues will miss you in Switzerland, I think you are absolutely right to go to Berlin. Berlin will become the centre of our movement in a few years, of that I have no doubts. Your intelligence, buoyant optimism, geniality and breadth of culture, make you an ideal person to undertake the training of future analysis, despite your anxiety over your lack of clinical experience. I have the greatest confidence in you.
I take the liberty of sending you, as a “parting gift”—though I trust the parting will not be for long—a somewhat extraordinary “journal” which one of my patients, a young woman of most respectable character, has “given birth” to, after taking the waters at Gastein. She left Vienna thin, and returned plump, and straightway delivered her writings to me. A genuine pseudocyesis! She was in the company of her aunt on holiday, and I need hardly add that she has never met any of my sons, though I may have mentioned to her that Martin was a prisoner of war. I shall not bore you with the details of her case, but if anything strikes the artist in you, I shall be grateful for your observations. The young woman has had a promising musical career interrupted, and actually wrote the “verses” between the staves of a score of Don Giovanni…. This is, of course, a copy of the whole manuscript (the rest was originally in a child’s exercise book), which she has been only too pleased to make for me. The copy is, you might say, the afterbirth, and you do not need to send it back.