When Nietzsche Wept Read online

  WINNER OF COMMONWEALTH CLUB OF CALIFORNIA GOLD MEDAL FOR FICTION

  “An intelligent, carefully researched, richly imagined novel.”

  —Boston Globe

  “Strong and authentic. The element of surprise is a magical, jolting moment.”

  —Washington Post Book World

  “When Nietzsche Wept is the best dramatization of a great thinker’s thought since Sartre’s The Freud Scenario.”

  —Chicago Tribune

  “In this admirable novel, Irvin Yalom fulfills his promise as a powerful storyteller and a brilliant diviner of the human psyche” .

  —Rollo May

  “When Nietzsche Wept is Irvin Yalom’s next (psycho)logical step forward from Love’s Executioner. Deep thought wrapped up in superb storytelling. What more could one ask?”

  —Theodore Roszak, author of Flicker

  “A fascinating novel of what might have been the embryonic geniuses of Sigmund Freud and Friedrich Nietzsche collided. A fascinating story and a real page-turner.”

  —Palo Alto Peninsula Times Tribune

  HARPERPERENNIAL MODERNCLASSICS

  The essay “On Writing a Teaching Novel: When Nietzsche Wept” is from The Yalom Reader and is reprinted by permission of Basic Books.

  A hardcover edition of this book was published in 1992 by Basic Books.

  P.S.™ is a trademark of HarperCollins Publishers.

  WHEN NIETZSCHE WEPT. Copyright © 1992, 2003 by Irvin D. Yalom. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information address HarperCollins Publishers, 10 East 53rd Street, New York, NY 10022.

  HarperCollins books may be purchased for educational, business, or sales promotional use. For information please write: Special Markets Department, HarperCollins Publishers, 10 East 53rd Street, New York, NY 10022.

  First Harper Perennial edition published 1993.

  First Perennial Classics edition published 2005.

  First Harper Perennial Modern Classics edition published 2010.

  Hand lettering by Honi Werner

  Designed by Ellen Levine

  The Library of Congress has catalogued the previous edition as follows:

  Yalom, Irvin D.

  When Nietzsche wept / Irvin D. Yalom.

  p. cm.

  eISBN 9780465091720

  1. Nietzsche, Friedrich Wilhelm, 1844—1900—Fiction. 2. Psychotherapist and patient—Fiction. 3. Breuer, Josef, 1842-1925—Fiction. 4. Depression, Mental—Fiction. 5. Suicidal behavior—Fiction. 6. Male friendship—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3575.A39W47 2005

  813’.54—dc22

  2004060574

  ISBN 978-0-06-200930-2 (pbk.)

  12 13 14 RRD 10 9 8 7 6 5 4

  To the circle of friends

  who have sustained me over the years:

  Mort, Jay, Herb, David,

  Helen, John, Mary, Saul, Cathy, Larry,

  Carol, Rollo, Harvey, Ruthellen, Stina,

  Herant, Bea, Marianne, Bob, Pat.

  To my sister, JEAN,

  and to my best friend, MARILYN.

  Some cannot loosen their own chains and can nonetheless redeem their friends.

  You must be ready to burn yourself in your own flame: how could you become new, if you had not first become ashes?

  —Thus Spake Zarathustra

  CHAPTER 1

  THE CHIMES OF SAN SALVATORE broke into Josef Breuer’s reverie. He tugged his heavy gold watch from his waistcoat pocket. Nine o’clock. Once again, he read the small silver-bordered card he had received the day before.

  21 October 1882

  Doctor Breuer,

  I must see you on a matter of great urgency. The future of German philosophy hangs in the balance. Meet me at nine tomorrow morning at the Café Sorrento.

  Lou Salomé

  An impertinent note! No one had addressed him so brashly in years. He knew of no Lou Salomé. No address on the envelope. No way to tell this person that nine o’clock was not convenient, that Frau Breuer would not be pleased to breakfast alone, that Dr. Breuer was on vacation, and that “matters of urgency” had no interest for him—indeed, that Dr. Breuer had come to Venice precisely to get away from matters of urgency.

  Yet here he was, at the Café Sorrento, at nine o’clock, scanning the faces around him, wondering which one might be the impertinent Lou Salomé.

  “More coffee, sir?”

  Breuer nodded to the waiter, a lad of thirteen or fourteen with wet black hair brushed sleekly back. How long had he been daydreaming? He looked again at his watch. Another ten minutes of life squandered. And squandered on what? As usual he had been daydreaming about Bertha, beautiful Bertha, his patient for the past two years. He had been recalling her teasing voice: “Doctor Breuer, why are you so afraid of me?” He had been remembering her words when he told her that he would no longer be her doctor: “I will wait. You will always be the only man in my life.”

  He berated himself: “For God’s sake, stop! Stop thinking! Open your eyes! Look! Let the world in!”

  Breuer lifted his cup, inhaling the aroma of rich coffee along with deep breaths of cold Venetian October air. He turned his head and looked about. The other tables of the Café Sorrento were filled with breakfasting men and women—mostly tourists and mostly elderly. Several held newspapers in one hand and coffee cups in the other. Beyond the tables, steel-blue clouds of pigeons hovered and swooped. The still waters of the Grand Canal, shimmering with the reflections of the great palaces lining its banks, were disturbed only by the undulating wake of a coasting gondola. Other gondolas still slept, moored to twisted poles which lay askew in the canal, like spears flung down haphazardly by some giant hand.

  “Yes, that’s right—look about you, you fool!” Breuer said to himself. “People come from all over the world to see Venice—people who refuse to die before they are blessed by this beauty.”

  How much of life have I missed, he wondered, simply by failing to look? Or by looking and not seeing? Yesterday he had taken a solitary walk around the island of Murano and, at an hour’s end, had seen nothing, registered nothing. No images had transferred from his retina to his cortex. All his attention had been consumed with thoughts of Bertha: her beguiling smile, her adoring eyes, the feel of her warm, trusting body and her rapid breathing as he examined or massaged her. Such scenes had power—a life of their own; whenever he was off guard, they invaded his mind and usurped his imagination. Is this to be my lot forever? he wondered. Am I destined to be merely a stage on which memories of Bertha eternally play out their drama?

  Someone rose at the adjoining table. The shrill scrape of the metal chair against the brick roused him, and once again he searched for Lou Salomé.

  There she was! The woman walking down the Riva del Carbon, entering the café. Only she could have written that note—that handsome woman, tall and slim, wrapped in fur, striding imperiously toward him now through the maze of tight-packed tables. And as she neared, Breuer saw that she was young, perhaps even younger than Bertha, possibly a schoolgirl. But that commanding presence—extraordinary! It would carry her far!

  Lou Salomé continued toward him with no trace of hesitation. How could she be so sure it was he? His left hand quickly stroked the reddish bristles of his beard lest bits of breakfast roll still clung there. His right hand pulled down the side of his black jacket so that it didn’t hunch up around his neck. When she was only a few feet away, she stopped for an instant and gazed boldly into his eyes.

  Suddenly Breuer’s mind ceased its chattering. Now looking required no concentration. Now retina and co
rtex cooperated perfectly, allowing the image of Lou Salomé to pour freely into his mind. She was a woman of uncommon beauty: powerful forehead, strong, sculpted chin, bright blue eyes, full and sensuous lips, and carelessly brushed silver-blond hair gathered lackadaisically in a high bun, exposing her ears and her long, graceful neck. He noticed with particular pleasure the wisps of hair that had escaped the gathering bun and stretched out recklessly in every direction.

  In three more strides, she was at his table. “Doctor Breuer, I am Lou Salomé. May I?”—gesturing toward the chair. She sat down so quickly that Breuer had no time to offer her a proper greeting—to rise, to bow, to kiss her hand, to pull out her chair.

  “Waiter! Waiter!” Breuer snapped his fingers crisply. “A coffee for the lady. Cafè latte?” He glanced toward Fraulein Salomé. She nodded and, despite the morning chill, removed her fur wrap.

  “Yes, a cafe latte.”

  Breuer and his guest sat silent for a moment. Then Lou Salomé looked directly into his eyes and began: “I have a friend in despair. I’m afraid he’ll kill himself in the very near future. It would be a great loss for me, and a great personal tragedy because I would bear some responsibility. Yet I could endure and overcome it. But”—she leaned toward him, speaking more softly—“such a loss could extend far beyond me: this man’s death would have momentous consequences—for you, for European culture, for all of us. Believe me.”

  Breuer started to say, “Surely you exaggerate, Fräulein,” but could not utter the words. What would have seemed adolescent hyperbole in any other young woman seemed different here, something to be taken seriously. Her sincerity, her flow of conviction were irresistible.

  “Who is this man, your friend? Do I know of him?”

  “Not yet! But in time we shall all know him. His name is Friedrich Nietzsche. Perhaps this letter from Richard Wagner to Professor Nietzsche may serve to introduce him.” She extracted a letter from her bag, unfolded it, and offered it to Breuer. “I should first tell you that Nietzsche knows neither that I am here nor that I possess this letter.”

  Fraulein Salomé’s last sentence gave Breuer pause. Should I read such a letter? This Professor Nietzsche doesn’t know she’s showing it to me—or even that she has possession of it! How has she obtained it? Borrowed it? Stolen it?

  Breuer took pride in many of his attributes. He was loyal and generous. His diagnostic ingenuity was legend: in Vienna, he was the personal physician of great scientists, artists, and philosophers like Brahms, Brücke, and Brentano. At forty, he was known throughout Europe, and distinguished citizens from all over the West traveled great distances to consult him. Yet more than anything, he took pride in his integrity—not once in his life had he committed a dishonorable act. Unless perhaps he could be held accountable for his carnal thoughts of Bertha, thoughts that rightfully should be directed to his wife, Mathilde.

  So he hesitated to take the letter in Lou Salomé’s outstretched hand. But only briefly. Another glance into her crystalline blue eyes and he opened it. It was dated 10 January 1882 and began: “My friend, Friedrich”; several paragraphs had been circled.

  You have now given to the world a work that is unequaled. Your book is characterized by an assurance so consummate as to betoken the most profound originality. In what other way could my wife and I have realized the most ardent wish of our lives, which was that some day something might come to us from without and take full possession of our hearts and souls! Each of us has read your book twice—once alone during the day, and then aloud in the evening. We fairly fight over the one copy and regret that the promised second one has not yet arrived.

  But you are ill! Are you also discouraged? If so, how gladly would I do something to dispel your despondency! How shall I begin? I can do no other than lavish my unqualified praise upon you.

  Accept it, at least, in a friendly spirit, even though it leave you unsatisfied.

  Heartfelt greetings from yours,

  Richard Wagner

  Richard Wagner! For all his Viennese urbanity, for all his familiarity and ease with the great men of his time, Breuer was dazzled. A letter, and such a letter, written in the master’s own hand! But he quickly regained his composure.

  “Very interesting, my dear Fraulein, but now please tell me precisely what I can do for you.”

  Leaning forward again, Lou Salomé rested her gloved hand lightly on Breuer’s hand. “Nietzsche is sick, very sick. He needs your help.”

  “But what’s the nature of his illness? What are his symptoms?” Breuer, flustered by the touch of her hand, was now pleased to coast in familiar waters.

  “Headaches. First of all, tormenting headaches. And continued bouts of nausea. And impending blindness—his vision has been gradually deteriorating. And stomach trouble—sometimes he cannot eat for days. And insomnia—no drug can offer him sleep, so he takes dangerous amounts of morphia. And dizziness—sometimes he is seasick on dry land for days at a time.”

  Long lists of symptoms were neither novelty nor enticement for Breuer, who usually saw twenty-five to thirty patients a day and had come to Venice precisely for a reprieve from such fare. Yet such was Lou Salomé’s intensity that he felt compelled to attend closely.

  “The answer to your question, my dear lady, is yes, of course, I will see your friend. That goes without saying. After all, I am a physician. But, please, allow me to pose a question. Why don’t you and your friend take a more direct route to me? Why not simply write to my office in Vienna requesting an appointment?” And with that, Breuer looked around for the waiter to bring his check, and thought how pleased Mathilde would be by his returning to the hotel so quickly.

  But this bold woman was not to be put off. “Doctor Breuer, a few more minutes, please. I can’t exaggerate the seriousness of Nietzsche’s condition, the depth of his despair.”

  “I don’t doubt that. But I ask again, Fräulein Salomé, why doesn’t Herr Nietzsche consult with me in my office in Vienna? Or visit a physician in Italy? Where is his home? Would you like me to provide a referral to a physician in his own city? And why me? For that matter, how did you know I was in Venice? Or that I am a patron of the opera and admire Wagner?”

  Lou Salomé was unruffled, and smiled as Breuer began to fire questions at her, her smile growing mischievous as the fusillade went on.

  “Fräulein, you are smiling as though you have a secret. I think you are a young lady who enjoys mysteries!”

  “So many questions, Doctor Breuer. It’s remarkable—we have conversed for only a few minutes, and yet there are so many perplexing questions. Surely that bodes well for future conversations. Let me tell you more about our patient.”

  Our patient! As Breuer marveled again at her audacity, Lou Salomé continued, “Nietzsche has exhausted the medical resources of Germany, Switzerland, and Italy. No physician has been able to comprehend his malady or relieve his symptoms. In the last twenty-four months, he tells me, he has seen twenty-four of Europe’s best physicians. He has given up his home, left his friends, resigned his university professorship. He has become a wanderer in search of a tolerable climate, in quest of a day or two’s relief from pain.”

  The young woman paused, lifting her cup to sip while keeping her gaze fixed on Breuer.

  “Fräulein, in my consulting practice, I often see patients with unusual or puzzling conditions. But let me speak honestly: I have no miracles at my disposal. In such a situation as this—blindness, headaches, vertigo, gastritis, weakness, insomnia—where many excellent physicians have been consulted and found wanting, there is little likelihood I can do more than become his twenty-fifth excellent physician in as many months.”

  Breuer leaned back in his chair, took out a cigar, and lit it. He blew out a thin blue fume of smoke, waited for the air to clear, then continued, “Again, however, I extend my offer to examine Herr Professor Nietzsche in my office. But it well may be that the cause and cure of a condition as intractable as his seems to be are beyond the reach of eighteen hundred a
nd eighty-two’s medical science. Your friend may have been born a generation too soon.”

  “Born too soon!” She laughed. “A prescient remark, Doctor Breuer. How often have I heard Nietzsche utter that very phrase! Now I am certain you are the right physician for him.”

  Despite his readiness to leave, and his recurring vision of Mathilde, fully dressed and impatiently pacing their hotel room, Breuer immediately expressed interest. “How so?”

  “He often terms himself a ‘posthumous philosopher’—a philosopher for whom the world isn’t yet ready. In fact, the new book he is planning begins with that theme—a prophet, Zarathustra, bursting with wisdom, decides to enlighten the people. But no one understands his words. They aren’t ready for him, and the prophet, realizing that he’s come too soon, returns to his solitude.”

  “Fräulein, your words intrigue me—I have a passion for philosophy. But my time today is limited, and I have yet to hear a direct answer to the question of why your friend does not consult me in Vienna.”

  “Doctor Breuer”—and Lou Salomé looked directly into his eyes—“forgive my imprecision. Perhaps I am unnecessarily indirect. I’ve always enjoyed basking in the presence of great minds—perhaps because I need models for my own development, perhaps I simply like to collect them. But I do know I feel privileged to converse with a man of your depth and range.”