by D. M. Thomas
Frau Anna’s analysis was less complete than most. Since she felt practically restored to health, she was anxious to take up again her musical career. There were disagreements, which in a way I was happy to see, since it meant she was regaining her independence. Most of these concerned my estimate of her attachment to Madame R.; she was still loath, at times, to admit openly that it had a homosexual component. We both had a feeling that our discussions should be broken off, and we parted on friendly terms.
I told her I thought she was cured of everything but life, so to speak. She did not dispute this. She took away with her a reasonable prospect of survival, in an existence that would doubtless never be less than difficult, and might often be solitary. By the end, she was able to say that she could understand how her mother might have craved affection and novelty, after the first transport of her marriage had worn off. This acceptance of the unalterable past owed much to the serenity of Gastein and the subsequent writing of her “journal”: an interesting example of the unconscious preparing the psyche for the eventual release of repressed ideas into consciousness.
I have compared the journal to an operatic stage—but it is a stage with one great difference. That is, that the characters in her drama are interchangeable. Thus, the young man is from time to time (or even at the same time) Anna’s father, brother, uncle,1 her lover A., her husband, and even the unimportant young man on the train from Odessa. Anna herself is (at times) the opera singer; but also the prostitute without a breast, the pale, thin invalid without a womb, the dead mistress in the common grave. Sometimes the “voices” are distinct, but more often they blend, melt into each other: “the spirit of the white hotel was against selfishness.” With moderate help from the physician, Frau Anna’s journal moved her towards psychological health, through acceptance of her mother’s mysterious individuality. There is a symbolism of the corsetière which the patient did not mention: hypocrisy. Her mother was not as she appeared, not nearly so strict—with herself. She was Medusa—as well as Ceres. When she seemed most loving to her child, her mind was perhaps elsewhere. But far below the conscious level, the patient was learning to forgive her mother her fallible nature, and thereby (most profoundly) her own.1
I was thus quite mistaken in assuming the central characters to be “a man, a woman; a woman, a man.”2 Whatever the appearance to the contrary, the role of the male, of the father, in the patient’s private theatre was subordinate, and we were faced with two “heroines”—the patient and her mother. Frau Anna’s document expressed her yearning to return to the haven of security, the original white hotel—we have all stayed there—the mother’s womb.1
About a year later, I met Frau Anna again, quite by chance. By a pleasant coincidence, the meeting occurred at Bad Gastein, where I was on holiday with another member of my family. We were out walking when I saw a familiar face. It emerged that Anna was playing in the orchestra of a small touring company, and I was glad to see that she looked well; indeed, she had rather too much flesh than too little. She appeared pleased to see me, and expressed the hope that we would attend the performance that evening. She was on her way to a rehearsal. The opera she was due to play in was a modern piece of some obscurity, and I protested my lack of appreciation of modern music—adding that I should certainly have come had she been performing in Don Giovanni! The sly allusion was not lost on her, and she smiled. I inquired if she was familiar with the language of the opera (the score of which she had in her hands) and she replied that, yes, she had added Czech to her repertoire. My companion expressed admiration that she could learn to read so many languages, and Frau Anna replied with a melancholy smile, delivering her words rather to me, that she sometimes wondered from whom she had acquired that gift. It was perhaps inevitable that she should ask herself whether her father’s coldness, after her mother’s death, sprang from a suspicion that she was not his child.
Frau Anna said she had continued to suffer some mild recurrences of her symptoms from time to time, but not to a degree that would interfere with her playing. However, she feared that her belated start, and prolonged setback, would prevent her from reaching the heights of her profession. I am happy to say that I have continued to hear of her over the years, as a talented musical performer, pursuing a successful career in Vienna, and still living in the company of her aunt.
1 Almost literally so, for the two were identical twins.
1 [Fuel for heating and lighting was in desperately short supply after the war.—Ed.]
1 She told me one day that the crucifix was an heirloom from her mother. Thus, filial piety reinforced religious awe.
1 An allusion to the long summer nights, in the far north, where the days are only divided by a brief dusk.
1 [In the text there is a play on the word niederkommen, which means both “to fall” and “to be delivered of a child.”]
1 [Freud’s second daughter, Sophie, aged twenty-six, who died in Hamburg on 25 January 1920. She left behind two children, one of whom was only thirteen months old.]
1 [A popular health resort in the Austrian Alps.]
1 In actual fact, ground had been won back from the enemy. What we were seeing was the hysteria fighting back in some desperation.
1 [“Frau Anna G.” was, in fact, an opera singer, not an instrumentalist. Freud’s desire to protect her identity gave rise to the change; though he always regretted having to depart from the facts, even in apparently trivial details.]
1 [Shakespeare, A Midsummer Night’s Dream.]
1 There is also evidence that she helped her daughter through the later stages with a minimum of repression. Passages in the journal hint that Anna possessed a healthy and moderate awareness that the genital apparatus remains the neighbour of the cloaca, and actually (to quote Lou Andreas-Salomé) “in the case of a woman is only taken from it on lease.”
1 Frau Anna used the Russian term, medusa: another example of her occasional introduction of foreign words of which careful note had to be taken.
1 [One of Freud’s favourite quotations. Charcot’s dictum in full was: “La théorie c’est bon, mais ça n’empěche pas d’exister” (Theory is good, but it doesn’t prevent things from existing).]
1 Anna’s father had completely rejected his Jewish heritage, and in consequence she herself felt not in the slightest degree Jewish. She once described herself to me as “mid-European Christian.”
2 From the History of an Infantile Neurosis (“The Wolf-Man”) (1918). Unknown to Frau Anna, there were a surprising number of similarities in their backgrounds. On one occasion, also, she must have passed that particular patient on the stairs, after spending much time in discussion with me of aspects of his case.
1 Evidently in the position to which I had alluded.
1 1920.
1 [Goethe, “Wanderer’s Song at Night” (“I am weary of it all, where is the sense in all this pain and joy?”). The quotation was an apt one in view of the circumstances in which Frau Anna G. was written. In 1930 Freud was awarded the Goethe Prize for Literature. His masterly address of thanks (read in Frankfurt by Anna Freud) so impressed the City Council that he was invited to write a psychoanalytical paper, to be published in an elegant limited edition in honour both of the centenary of Goethe’s death in 1832 and the fortieth anniversary of Freud and Breuer’s Studies in Hysteria. Freud, accepting the commission, proposed to write up the case of Frau Anna. The centenary committee at first willingly acceded to his wish that the patient’s writings should appear as an appendix to his study, but reacted with predictable dismay when they discovered the nature of the material. Beyond the conventional asterisks for indecent words, Freud would not permit any censoring to be carried out. Publication of the paper was delayed. With the rise to power of the National Socialists, it was abandoned altogether; and in 1933 all of Freud’s works were burnt on a bonfire in Berlin.]
1 Her aunt’s account of her sister’s impulsive action had a painful effect on the patient, and she was often to revert to it.
1 Her dream (p. 102) appears to have been preparing the way for the uncovering of the trauma. She gets off at a place that is signposted Budapest, though it is “completely dead.” The man in the train warns her that the T_____s in Moscow would not be able to put her up, and she would have to sleep naked in the summer-house. Frau Anna’s reflection on this, during the period of abreaction, was that it was extremely unlikely her mother would have stayed at a hotel, had she been visiting Moscow; she would almost certainly have stayed with the T_____s, her hospitable relations.
1 Though for the most part her uncle is the “chef”: from the white naval cap which he used to wear jokingly—calling himself the “Chief” to her father’s “Captain”; and from his huge appetite which had stuck in her memory.
1 [Freud’s unusual emphasis on the mother’s role may have owed something to the recent death of his own mother, on 12 September 1930. Cf. his letter to Jones: “Her value to me can hardly be heightened…. No pain, no grief, which is probably to be explained by the circumstances, the great age, and the end of the pity we had felt at her helplessness. With that a feeling of liberation, of release, which I think I can understand. I was not allowed to die as long as she was alive, and now I may. Somehow the values of life have notably changed in the deeper levels.”]
2 [G. von Strassburg, Tristan.]
1 [The manuscript of 1931 continues from this point with a new paragraph: “It seemed appropriate on this occasion to introduce a case in which reason and imagination can be seen as partners in the search for truth, as they were in the mind and heart of the genius whom we honour. Disordered and sentimental though Frau Anna’s journal is, I believe Goethe himself would have seen in it more of purity than coarseness; and that he would not have been surprised to learn that in the realm of the libido the highest and the lowest are closely connected, and in a way dependent upon each other: ‘From Heaven, across the world, to Hell.’ Long may poetry and psychoanalysis continue to highlight, from their different perspectives, the human face in all its nobility and sorrow."]
4
The
Health
Resort
1
In the spring of 1929, Frau Elisabeth Erdman was travelling by train between Vienna and Milan. She had allowed herself the luxury of a first-class seat, to make sure of being fresh at the end of the journey; and for much of the way she sat alone, enjoying the scenery, reading a magazine from time to time, or closing her eyes and rehearsing, under her breath, the part she had been called upon to sing. The train was almost empty, and she found herself alone in the large and pleasant restaurant car when she took lunch. The attention of so many waiters made her nervous, and she bolted her food and went back to her compartment.
The train stopped at a tiny Tyrolean village—the station was little more than a platform—and Frau Erdman thought at first there must be a dignitary on the train, for the platform seethed with people. But then, to her annoyance, she realized they were travellers, for they were weighed down by rucksacks and suitcases; they were swarming on to the train. There were far too many of them for the second-class coaches; they spilled over into the first class. Five rucksacked men and women forced their way into her compartment, and she had hurriedly to put her things on the rack. There were even people in the corridor, leaning against the windows and door. After the confusion of settling, rucksacks and skis overhung the rack above Frau Erdman’s head, and she felt pressed into a corner by the fleshy bulk of her travelling companions. They wore so many clothes that they looked—even the three men—pregnant; and they talked loudly and laughed with the boorish camaraderie of people who have shared a holiday together, and who therefore, for the moment, regard any stranger as an intrusion. Frau Erdman started to suffer mild symptoms of claustrophobia, amidst so much blubber: that was the word, and image, that came to her. She stood up, apologized for stepping over their legs, and made for the door.
She also, as ill luck would have it, felt just at this moment an urge to go to the toilet. But when she looked along the corridor, both ways, it was clear she would have an appalling struggle getting through the press of people, many of whom sat perched on their suitcases or rucksacks. One young man, a few yards down the corridor, noticed her anxious gaze, and politely gestured that she could come through. But with a wry smile she shook her head, as if to say—It’s not worth it, I can wait!—and he smiled back, interpreting her message and amused by it. Frau Erdman saw that he stood in a small “clearing,” in front of an open window, so she elbowed her way through to stand by him. She put her head out through the window and gulped the air.
Feeling much relieved, she leaned her back against the glass window of a compartment. The young man asked her if she minded his cigarette smoke, and, when she said it did not bother her, offered her one from his case. She declined, whereupon he remarked that it was noticeable how many more ladies smoked cigarettes these days: and had she never been tempted to try? Yes, she said, she had enjoyed smoking when she was a young woman, but had given it up for fear of damaging her voice. Immediately she regretted saying it, for it would mean curious questions, her answers to which might lead him to think that she paraded her talents. The expected questions came, and she admitted to being a professional singer; she was on her way to Milan; she was to sing in the opera house there. And, yes, it was quite an important role.
The young man was impressed. He scanned her ordinary, somewhat lined face—but she had expressive eyes and lips—to try to recall seeing her photograph in newspapers. He knew little about music, he said, being a geology student at University, but everyone had heard of La Scala, Milan. She must be one of the “greats.” The woman laughed—becoming almost attractive as she did so—and shook her head vigorously. “Not at all, I’m afraid!” she said. “I’m only a replacement. You may have heard of Serebryakova?” (The young man shook his head.) “Well, she’s a great singer. She’s been singing the role, but she fell down some steps and broke her arm. Her understudy wasn’t up to it, so they were in trouble. The opera is in Russian, you see, and there are not many sopranos who can sing in Russian, and who are not booked up for months ahead. I was the only one they could think of!” She gave a ringing chuckle, and the lines at the corners of her eyes crinkled. She felt pleased by her modesty, which was genuine, and happy to be free from delusions of grandeur.
The young man made deprecating noises, and she confirmed: “It’s true! That’s the only reason I’ve got the part. It doesn’t worry me. I feel very lucky. I’m not going to get any better—I’m nearly forty. I shall have sung at La Scala, in a good role. That will be something to remember!” She gave an amused shrug.
She turned the conversation around to the young man. He was taking his finals, this summer, he said, and then he hoped to find a teaching post in Rome and marry his girlfriend there. He was on his way to see her now, after taking a week’s much-needed rest, climbing and skiing in the mountains, sleeping under the stars. He felt refreshed. She questioned him on that interesting experience, but found him disappointingly tongue-tied when it came to expressing the spiritual aspects of mountain climbing. His great ambition, he said, was to scale the Jungfrau. Frau Erdman found his remark, for some reason, rather amusing, but hid her smile in serious nods of the head as he described how difficult it would be.
After the bright lakes and fertile valleys of the Tyrol, the train thundered into a tunnel, discouraging conversation. The underground journey was long enough to convince them both that they had nothing in common, and there was no point in further talk; and so, when they emerged into light, they remained silent, until Frau Erdman said she had better make the perilous journey to wash her hands. When she struggled back, she slid past the young man, exchanging with him a goodbye and good luck. She settled into her cramped seat, and gazed at, rather than through, the window, because heavy rain had started to lash against it.
Fortunately, at the next station, across the Italian border, extra carriages were put on; and the guard came through, ordering the s
econd-class passengers out of the first-class seats. Frau Erdman breathed a sigh of relief, and spread herself again. She thought she had better go through the whole score—there was plenty of time; but the very first chorus, in which the tired peasants were returning from the harvest fields, brought on a dreamy mood, and she read no more. When the train entered the outskirts of Milan, she felt nervous, and had to fight down her breathlessness. She stood in front of the mirror to comb her hair and refresh her lipstick. She worried that they would suddenly realize she was too old to play the part of a young girl. She pictured their faces falling as they greeted her.
But if the welcoming party had any such feelings, they disguised them well. A tall, stooped, balding man stepped forward with a bow, introducing himself as Signor Fontini, the artistic director. His short, plump, fussily dressed wife dropped a curtsey; and Frau Erdman shook four or five hands, too flustered to take in names. Then she was blinded by flashbulbs, and was half carried by Signor Fontini and the others through a hubbub of reporters flinging questions at her, their notebooks at the ready. In the confusion and excitement of arrival, she had left a piece of luggage on the train, and one of the director’s henchmen had to run back to get it. At last they were outside the station and—an umbrella held over her to protect her from the rain—she was ushered to a limousine and driven away. At her hotel, in the heart of the city, another reception committee awaited her, and a bouquet of flowers was thrust into her arms. But Signor Fontini, anxious not to overstrain his replacement star, cleared a way for her to the lift, and escorted her personally to her suite, on the third floor. A page boy and a porter came behind them, with her luggage. Signor Fontini kissed her hand, saying she must rest now for a couple of hours, and he would call for her to dine at half-past eight. Left alone in the luxury suite, she collapsed on to the sofa. The airy, ample drawing room was fit for a queen. There were vases of flowers everywhere. She undressed, ran herself a bath; and as she lay in it, feeling extraordinarily pampered and indulged, worried that her performance would never justify such treatment.