by D. M. Thomas
Frau Anna was simply in the front line, as it were; and her journal was the latest dispatch. But the civilian populace, if I may so term the healthy, were also only too familiar with the constant struggle between the life instinct (or libido) and the death instinct. Children, and armies, build towers of bricks only to knock them down. Perfectly normal lovers know that the hour of victory is also the hour of defeat; and therefore mingle funeral wreaths with the garlands of conquest, naming the land they have won la petite mort. Not least are the poets familiar with the wearisome strife:
Ach, ich bin des Treibens müde!
Was soll all der Schmerz und Lust?1
While I was thus dwelling on the universal aspect of Frau Anna’s condition, Eros in combat with Thanatos, I stumbled over the root of her personal anguish. I had, up to this point, never been able to establish any particular event which might have been instrumental in unleashing her hysteria. The pains in her breast and ovary had attacked her at a time when she was busy and happy, successful in her resumed career, and eagerly anticipating her husband’s first leave, confident that all would now be well. She could not think of any unpleasant episode which might have had a bearing on her illness. She had gone to bed quite happily one night, after writing her husband a very affectionate letter hinting that she would like to become pregnant during his forthcoming leave. The pains had woken her that same night.
One day she arrived for her appointment with me in an unusually cheerful frame of mind. She explained that she had received a letter from her old friend in Petersburg, with the splendid news that she and her husband had survived unharmed, though in much reduced circumstances, and had been blessed with a son. Though he was already three years old, she reminded Frau Anna of her promise to be a godmother, should the happy occasion ever arise. This was Anna’s first news of her friend for nearly four years, and the first news from her since before the war. Her happiness was therefore easy to understand.
However, while she was expressing her pleasure at the thought of having a little godson, her pains, which had previously been only moderate, greatly increased. They were so severe that she begged to be allowed to go home. I was not prepared to let her go without attempting to find the cause of this sudden deterioration, and I inquired whether she was not perhaps jealous of Madame R.’s happy event. The poor young woman was crying with the pain, while vigorously denying any such unworthy thought. “It would not be at all surprising or discreditable, Frau Anna,” I said. “After all, if you had not left your husband you yourself would doubtless be equally blessed.” She continued, weeping, to deny any jealousy, yet confessed the truth through her gesture of fumbling with the crucifix. I felt it was the right time to tell her, at last, what a “godsend” I had found her crucifix, on occasions; but even before I could explain why, she was saying, with some excitement, that she now recalled the onset of her pains in more detail.
Before going home to write her nightly letter to her husband, she had dined quietly with her aunt, following an afternoon concert. She now remembered it was on that very day that she had last had news of Madame R. The news had reached her by a lucky chance. Her husband wrote that he had been questioning an officer from the Russian capital; and in a lighter moment they had found a slender thread of coincidence linking their lives. The officer was acquainted with Anna’s friend, and reported her as being in good health and (he believed) expecting a child. Frau Anna had discussed the exciting news with her aunt. Could it be true? Was it not dangerous, to be with child in middle life? What christening present should she send, when circumstances permitted? Her aunt had suggested a crucifix, and Anna had concurred. That was all she could remember of the conversation. She had gone home, written a happy, amorous letter, and awoke feeling ill in the night.
The young woman, whose pains had eased somewhat in the excitement of recollection, was stroking her own crucifix during her recital; and I now proceeded to relate the importance to me of these involuntary gestures. My explanation had the effect of bringing back her fierce pains, but also of recalling to her mind a host of forgotten memories of that evening, and thence to unting the knot of her hysteria. Needless to say, it did not happen without much distress on her part and much probing of her defences on mine. The gist of her story was as follows:
She had felt disturbed by the news from Petersburg as well as glad. She confessed it had to do with her knowledge that if she had allowed her husband full intercourse she herself might well have been pregnant by now. But she had shaken off this slight disturbance by discussing the question of a christening gift. Her aunt happened to mention that her own crucifix had come to her at birth, and she had worn it day and night ever since her first communion. On saying this she touched the silver cross proudly. How well worn it was, she remarked—unlike Anna’s; for the simple reason, she added, that Anna’s mother had ripped hers off on her wedding day and never worn it again. It was an angry gesture against her parents’ hostility. Indeed, from that day she had ceased her religious observances. Her crucifix had lain untouched in her jewellery box, until eventually it had come to Anna.
Her aunt had then made a somewhat tactless remark about her sister’s character being selfish and worldly; then, quickly repenting, began to praise her and to speak cheerfully about those distant times. It was rare for her to talk about the past, for she found it painful; Frau Anna enjoyed the treat of conversing about the mother she had scarcely known. Her aunt recalled her sister’s good looks; and her own too, in those days before she had become old and crippled, for of course they were so alike. She brought out the photograph album to confirm it: and smilingly she recalled that people used to say you could only tell them apart by glancing at their bosoms to see which one wore the cross! Anna, looking at the two lovely young ladies, smiled too, and thought she dimly remembered people saying such a thing. Then an entirely forgotten memory flashed into her mind: the incident of the summer-house. As she recalled it then—and related it now—it differed in one respect from the version I had previously heard.
The child was bored and hot, impatient with her mother for being so engrossed in her painting. Everyone else had vanished after the noon meal. Anna decided to return to the coolness of the house, and torment her nurse for a while. She had forgotten it was the nurse’s half-day off, so instead, she drank some lemonade and played alone with her dolls in the nursery. It was less hot when she went outdoors again. She went exploring through the trees, and came upon the scene in the summer-house. She was startled to see her aunt’s shockingly naked chest and shoulders, and backed away into the shrubbery. She went down to the beach, to ask her mother to explain why her aunt and uncle were behaving so strangely; but by now her mother was dozing on a rock. She knew it was a strict rule not to disturb adults when they were resting, so Anna returned to the house and played with her dolls again. In her heart of hearts she was glad her mother was asleep on the rock—because, of course, she really knew it was not her mother lying there. Besides the hundred secret signs by which a child knows its own mother, there was no mistaking her aunt’s high-necked dress, the glint of silver on her chest, in contrast to the shocking nakedness of the woman in the summer-house.
But what, then, were her mother and her jolly uncle doing together in the summer-house? It was too disturbing and puzzling, and the child forgot it in play. The adult Anna, when it flashed back to her with all the accretions of mature knowledge, immediately assumed the worst; and likewise found it impossible to bear. Her fragile sense of her own worth had been sustained by the ikon of her mother’s goodness. One flaw and it would shatter, shattering the young woman too. Now, the embrace of a single afternoon became the incest of many summer-houses and many summers. She did not wear a crucifix because she did not deserve to wear one: so her thoughts ran, even as she continued to attend to her aunt’s reminiscences. Then instantly another thought—she, Anna, did not deserve to wear it either; she too should rip it from her neck.1
But for what reason? She knew of none. She performed
her religious duties and led a blameless life. Almost too blameless! In a sense, was she not jealous of her mother? Wicked she may have been; but how much pleasure she must have had, to want to fly into his arms, at the slightest opportunity, whatever the risk. Of course she must have gone to him, all those times she had left Anna with the nurse and returned many days later. There must be something very sadly lacking in me, she thought; for I could not imagine travelling hundreds of miles—to endure the rack! What is wrong with me? Clearly her poison still runs in me but in a quite, quite different direction. And I cannot even share my burden with one other person, as my mother could. I am completely alone. Suddenly the truth about herself which the young woman had not acknowledged burned itself upon her like a lightning flash in the dark: I would travel hundreds of miles—at this very moment, if it were possible—to see my friend! But now she is bearing his child, I am more alone than ever!
Everything was now clear. I had listened to her agitated account with a growing assurance of its conclusion; it was by no means entirely at odds with certain suspicions I already had. Yet the clarification had a shattering effect on the poor girl. She threshed about, she cried aloud when I put the situation drily before her with the words: “So you didn’t want a child, you wanted Madame R.’s child—if only Nature had made such a thing possible.” She complained of the most frightful pains, and made a desperate effort to reject the explanation: it was not true, I had talked her into it, she was incapable of such feelings, she could never forgive herself, she had meant only that her friend would now be even less likely to sympathize with her unnatural horror of becoming pregnant. I confronted her with inescapable facts. Was it not significant that she suffered her destructive hallucinations during the only sexual activity permitted by her conscience? That her only long-lasting and fruitful relationships had been with women? That she was strongly maternal in her instincts; yet, when it came to the point, was filled with revulsion by the permanent domestic tie which motherhood would entail? That her journal gave a far livelier sense of Madame R.’s personality (in the guise of “Madame Cottin”) than of the young man’s? In comparison with Madame Cottin, was he not a cipher?
Still the poor young woman struggled against acceptance. For a while, her symptoms remained severe. The degree of suffering, and the intensity of her struggle, did not slacken until I offered her my two pieces of consolation—that we are not responsible for our feelings; and that her behaviour, the fact that she had fallen ill in these circumstances, was sufficient evidence of her moral character. For every gift has its cost, and the price of freedom from intolerable knowledge had been an hysteria. By the time she had returned home that night, she had so completely buried the knowledge of her homosexuality that she could write an unusually ardent letter to her husband. A few hours later, her pains came on. The rejected Medusa had exacted her price. But the price was worth paying; for the alternative would have been still worse.
When I explained all this, her resistance weakened, without ever disappearing entirely. Rather, she accepted it and dismissed it at the same time, in her eagerness to turn our discussions to the less threatening discovery of her mother’s behaviour. Her relief at having exposed this childhood memory was palpable; and as we proceeded to explore it there was a progressive improvement in her condition.
I could not help but admire the economical way in which her mind had rendered this memory harmless, by a simple cut as with a pair of scissors, leaving her with nothing more flagrant than a tender marital embrace. Yet I was still not sure what she had seen. If it did not mask some much more devastating discovery, if it was no more than her spirited mother and uncle embracing, more or less for anyone to see who happened to stroll that way, it could have been comparatively innocent. She agreed that this was true—in theory; but was nevertheless convinced that her mother and uncle were adulterers, and that she had somehow sensed this, even at four or five years old. She pointed out, as evidence of their guilt, how excited and overindulgent her mother became as her brother-in-law’s visits drew near. She recalled her depressions in the autumn and winter, her trips to Moscow, and the lavish gifts she brought home—as though to salve her conscience. She did not believe her mother had gone to Moscow at all: but rather to some convenient place between Odessa and Vienna—probably Budapest—to rendezvous with her lover. (As a teacher of languages, he doubtless had plenty of conferences to attend….) She recalled an embarrassed silence, both before and after her mother had been brought home for burial; a reluctance to speak of the dead woman, then or later; the fact that her aunt did not come to the funeral, never visited the house again, and now almost never mentioned that time in her life. When I argued that there were perfectly good, and likelier, explanations for all of this, she became angry, almost as if she needed to establish her mother’s guilt. She recollected, with suspicious suddenness, that the sailors who had insulted her when she was fifteen had made obscene remarks about her mother, saying everyone knew she had perished with a lover in Budapest. They had employed a coarse term to suggest that the charred bodies could not be separated.
She was now arguing, of course, that her uncle did not die of a heart attack in Vienna a few months after her mother’s death, but died in the same hotel blaze. Her father and her aunt, between them, had concocted the false story to allay gossip; but, in the way of these matters, probably everyone in Odessa knew what had happened, except Anna and her brother. When I asked whether she ought not to approach her aunt with these suspicions, she said she did not wish to reopen wounds. Still I urged her to do so, or even to consult newspaper files; for I was sure her phantasies were running wild. She was now so much better that she was starting to go for walks on her own around the city. And one day she stormed in with an air of triumph. She flourished before me two photographs. One, somewhat brown and tattered, was of her mother’s grave; and the other, a fresh photograph, was of her uncle’s. She had found his resting place only after much searching, she said, because her aunt did not visit it. It was overgrown, as the photograph showed. To my surprise, the dates of death on the two graves, faint but discernible, were the same. I had to admit that I was impressed, and that the balance of evidence, such as it was, had swung toward her version of events. She smiled, and enjoyed her triumph.1
It is time to summarize what we know of this unfortunate young woman’s case. Circumstances from her earliest years had contrived to load her with a heavy burden of guilt. Every young girl, when she reaches the Oedipal stage, begins to nurse destructive impulses towards her mother. Anna was no exception. She wished her mother “dead,” and—as if she rubbed a magic lamp—her mother was dead. Thanks to the serpent (her uncle’s penis) in her paradise, the field was free to Anna, and she could do what every little girl wants, bear a child to her father. But instead of bringing her happiness, her mother’s death brought misery. She learned that death meant being in the cold earth forever, not just staying away for a few more days. Nor was her matricide rewarded with her father’s love; on the contrary, he was colder and more remote; obviously he was punishing her for her terrible crime. Anna had brought about her own expulsion from paradise.
Preserved by the affection of mother-surrogates, nurses and governesses, she was punished—again by men—when a mob of sailors frightened and abused her. She learned from them that perhaps her mother had deserved to die, for being a bad woman. But by this time her father’s harshness towards her had driven her to an intense idealization of her mother; the sailors’ remarks were insupportable, and needed to be buried in her unconscious along with her memory of the summer-house. It was at this time that she developed symptoms of breathlessness and asthma—perhaps a mnemic symbol of choking in a fire. Simultaneously her father proved to her once and for all that he was indifferent to her well-being, and she cast him out of her heart, resolving to make for herself a new and separate life.
In the capital, she had the misfortune to become attached to an unworthy lover, of a sadistic and somewhat sinister temperament. Nevert
heless, it was to be expected that she would select a lover of this kind, for at seventeen the compulsive pattern of her relationships had become established. It was to be expected that the sexual act with A. should turn out to be a failure; and also that she should be befriended by a woman and “saved” by her, though not before further damage had been done. In Madame R.’s home, her self-esteem was restored; the widow’s motherly affection was absorbed into the idealizing pattern of maternal love—the genuine first love. Feelings of a homosexual nature became established in Frau Anna, though she could not admit them to herself, much less to Madame R. Fortunately she was able to survive the shock of her friend’s remarriage through the re-entry into her life of her aunt, a woman whose maternal feelings had been thwarted and who was, in fact, the uncanny image of her mother. One is tempted to see Anna’s discovery of a musical talent at this time, especially as expressed in the rich tones of her chosen instrument, as a spontaneous “flowering” from her restored sense of her own value.
Driven by her desire to prove to herself that she was capable of a normal relationship, she found a husband. Predictably it was another disaster, but she was reluctant to admit failure. She must have been secretly relieved when the outbreak of war separated them. However, it required a serious mental illness for her to take action to end the marriage, giving (to herself and others) the reason that she would be unable to cope with having children.
Some news of Madame R., and a stray remark from her aunt, threatened to overthrow all she had so painfully achieved. Her marriage was an hypocrisy; and her music was, at least in part, a sublimation of her true desires. The incompatible idea had to be suppressed, at whatever price; and the price was an hysteria. The symptoms were, as always with the unconscious, appropriate: the pains in breast and ovary because of her unconscious hatred of her distorted femininity; anorexia nervosa: total self-hatred, a wish to vanish from the earth. Also, the breathless, choking condition which had afflicted her during her puberty reappeared, as a consequence of having glimpsed the true circumstances of her mother’s death. It remained uncertain why the pains attacked the left side of her body. An hysteria not seldom attaches itself to a physical weakness in the constitution, provided it fits in with the primary symbolism; and it may be that there was a propensity to illness in the patient’s left breast and ovary, which would become manifest later in life. On the other hand, perhaps the left-sidedness arose from a memory that was never brought to the surface. No analysis is ever complete; the hysterias have more roots than a tree. Thus, at quite a late stage of the analysis, the patient developed a mild phobia about looking into mirrors, claiming that the act gave her nervous palpitations. This phobia, fortunately short-lived, was never satisfactorily explained.