belong to?»
«His name was Arthur...” Philip paused and watched Julius with a trace of a grin
on his lips.
«Arthur?»
«Yes, Arthur Schopenhauer, my therapist.»
«Schopenhauer? You`re putting me on, Philip.»
«I`ve never been more serious.»
«I know little about Schopenhauer: just the clichГ©s about his gloomy pessimism.
I`ve never heard his name mentioned in the context of therapy. How was he able to help?
What—?»
«I hate to cut you off, Dr. Hertzfeld, but I have a client coming and I still refuse to
be late—that hasn`t changed. Please give me your card. Some other time I`ll tell you
more about him. He was the therapist meant for me. I don`t exaggerate when I say I owe
my life to the genius of Arthur Schopenhauer.»
4
1787—The
Genius: Stormy
Beginning
and False Start
_________________________
Talentis like a marksman who
hits a target which others
cannot reach; genius is like a
marksman who hits a target
which others cannot see.
_________________________
Stormy Beginning—The genius was only four inches long when the storms began. In
September of 1787 his enveloping amniotic sea roiled, tossed him to and fro, and
threatened his fragile attachment to the uterine shore. The sea waters reeked of anger and
fear. The sour chemicals of nostalgia and despair enveloped him. Gone forever were
sweet balmy bobbing days. With nowhere to turn and no hope of comfort, his tiny neural
synapses flared and fired in all directions.
What is young–learned is best–learned. Arthur Schopenhauer never forgot his early
lessons.
False Start (or How Arthur Schopenhauer almost became an Englishman)—Arthurrr.
Arthurrr, Arthurrrr. Heinrich Florio Schopenhauer scratched each syllable with his
tongue. Arthur—a good name, an excellent name for the future head of the great
Schopenhauer mercantile house.
It was 1787, and his young wife, Johanna, was two months pregnant when
Heinrich Schopenhauer made a decision: if he had a son, he would name him Arthur. An
honorable man, Heinrich allowed nothing to take precedence over duty. Just as his
ancestors had passed the stewardship of the great Schopenhauer mercantile house to him,
he would pass it to his son. These were perilous times, but Heinrich was confident that
his yet unborn son would guide the firm into the nineteenth century. Arthur was the
perfect name for the position. It was a name spelled the same in all major European
languages, a name which would slip gracefully through all national borders. But, most
important of all, it was an English name!
For centuries Heinrich`s ancestors had guided the Schopenhauer business with
great diligence and success. Heinrich`s grandfather once hosted Catherine the Great of
Russia and, to ensure her comfort, ordered brandy to be poured over the floors of the
guest quarters and then set afire to leave the rooms dry and aromatic. Heinrich`s father
had been visited by Frederick, the king of Prussia, who spent hours attempting,
unsuccessfully, to persuade him to shift the company from Danzig to Prussia. And now
the stewardship of the great merchant house had passed to Heinrich, who was convinced
that a Schopenhauer bearing the name of Arthur would lead the firm into a brilliant
future.
The Schopenhauer mercantile house, dealing in the trade of grains, timber, and
coffee, had long been one of the leading firms of Danzig, that venerable Hanseatic city
which had long dominated the Baltic trade. But bad times had come for the grand free
city. With Prussia menacing in the west and Russia in the east, and with a weakened
Poland no longer able to continue guaranteeing Danzig`s sovereignty, Heinrich
Schopenhauer had no doubt that Danzig`s days of freedom and trading stability were
coming to an end. All of Europe was awash in political and financial turmoil—save
England. England was the rock. England was the future. The Schopenhauer firm and
family would find safe haven in England. No, more than safe haven, it would prosper if
its future head should be born an Englishman and bear an English name. Herr Arthurrr
Schopenhauer, no—Mister Arthurrr Schopenhauer—an English subject heading the firm:
that was the ticket to the future.
So, paying no heed to the protests of his teenaged pregnant wife, who pleaded to be
in her mother`s calming presence for the birth of her first child, he set off, wife in tow,
for the long trip to England. The young Johanna was aghast but had to submit to the
unbending will of her husband. Once settled in London, however, Johanna`s ebullient
spirit returned and her charm soon captivated London society. She wrote in her travel
journal that her new English loving friends offered comforting reassurance and that
before long she was the center of much attention.
Too much attention and too much love for the dour Heinrich, apparently, whose
anxious jealousy shortly escalated into panic. Unable to catch his breath and feeling as
though the tension in his chest would split him asunder, he had to do something. And so,
reversing his course, he abruptly left London, carting his protesting wife, now almost six
months pregnant, back to Danzig during one of the century`s most severe winters. Years
later Johanna described her feelings at being yanked from London: «No one helped me, I
had to overcome my grief alone. The man dragged me, in order to cope with his anxiety,
halfway across Europe.»
This, then, was the stormy setting of the genius`s gestation: a loveless marriage, a
frightened, protesting mother, an anxious, jealous father, and two arduous trips across a
wintry Europe.
5
_________________________
Ahappy life is impossible; the
best that a man can attain is
a heroic life.
_________________________
Leaving Philip`s office, Julius felt stunned. He gripped the banister and unsteadily
descended the stairs and staggered into the sunlight. He stood in front of Philip`s building
and tried to decide whether to turn left or right. The freedom of an unscheduled afternoon
brought confusion rather than joy. Julius had always been focused. When he was not
seeing patients, other important projects and activities—writing, teaching, tennis,
research—clamored for his attention. But today nothing seemed important. He suspected
that nothing hadever been important, that his mind had arbitrarily imbued projects with
importance and then cunningly covered its traces. Today he saw through the ruse of a
lifetime. Today there was nothing important to do, and he ambled aimlessly down Union
Street.
Toward the end of the business section just past Fillmore Street, an old woman
approached him noisily pushing a walker.God, what a sight! Julius thought. He first
averted his face, then turned back to take inventory. Her clothes—several layers of
sweaters capped by a burly overcoat—were preposterous for the sunny day. Her
chipmunk cheeks churned hard, no doubt to keep dentures in place. But worst of all was
the huge excrescence of flesh that buttressed one of her nostrils—a translucent pink wart
the size of a grape, out of which sprouted several long bristles.
Stupid old ladywas Julius`s next thought, which he immediately amended: «She`s
probably no older than me. In fact, she`s my future—the wart, the walker, the wheelchair.
As she came closer, he heard her mumbling: «Now, let`s see what`s in these shops ahead.
What will it be? What will I find?»
«Lady, I have no idea, I`m just walking here,” Julius called out to her.
«I weren`t talking to you.»