The Autobiography of Wilhelm Stekel - The Life Story of a Pioneer Psychoanalyst. Wilhelm Stekel

in his belief that England would be spared from the ravages of war. Apparently this was the optimism his weakened organism employed to ward off the prospect of harmful excitement. Even after Belgium and Holland had fallen and the war came closer to our door, he did not want to recognize the impending danger and felt quite “secure.” He was too ill to move out of London, anyway.

      At that time my mother and I started on a hectic period of wanderings. We were forced to change quarters constantly. It was a time when England proceeded with the internment of foreigners; many areas were declared “restricted,” others “protected,” and evacuation on a large scale was carried out. England prepared for an invasion. In those stormy days I felt keenly what it meant to be without a home and a homeland.

      When I visited my husband in June, I found him physically and mentally in poor condition. His foot was much worse. The collapse of France shocked him profoundly. He loved France. He could not bear the thought that such a country should be enslaved. With the fall of France, serious personal anxieties also appeared. Both of Dr. Stekel’s children lived in France. He was particularly worried about his son, Eric, a renowned musician and conductor, who had been drafted into a work battalion and who, he thought, was in danger of being shot.

      When I saw my husband then, I was painfully impressed by his haggard, yellow-hued countenance.

      Our friend, Mrs. Mundy Castle, who saw him at that time, described him as follows: “He was dressed carefully in grey and white. The grey of his suit toned with the silver of his hair and his well-trimmed beard. The effect was almost ethereal. One could not help looking at this old man astounded, almost with awe, for he was a shadow of his former self. He had passed into a new dimension. A sense of stillness and a sense of resolution emanated from him, which are difficult to describe. He had reached a new composure. Whatever he was thinking was not of here and now; he was looking towards another place. Yet of all the men I had seen in him, here he was, his truest self. Among the various things he said to me, small things, there are three I remember best: ‘The answer to life is work.’ ‘It is joy, the joy of life that is lacking in the world of today. The joy of life is the answer.’ And the third, ‘It is all done by love.’ When a week later a friend of mine, whom I wished to be his patient, rang him up at his hotel, he put the receiver down, saying, ‘He is dead.’ ”

      On the day I visited my husband, Prime Minister Chamberlain was overthrown and Winston Churchill took over the reins of the British Government. When I commented on this new situation, my husband surprised me with the remark, “I am not interested in politics.” I did not understand at that time that these changes did not mean much to him any more. In the course of our conversation he complained that his foot disturbed him at night and that the thought of his family deprived him of his sleep which had always been excellent. He was unable to find a book that could divert him. When I offered to stay with him in London he opposed me vigorously. He said that he needed rest and that since I myself was too restless at night, I would only disturb him. When we parted I cried bitterly. This was the last time I saw him. Four days later my husband took his life.

      Dr. Stekel was well-liked by the hotel guests. They esteemed the sick old man who never complained, who never bewailed his past, and who seemed to have made a complete adjustment to the new life. They were upset by the tragedy. According to their report, on Monday morning my husband went to his doctor to get his regular short-wave treatment. He was in good spirits. When he returned, he said that because of his diabetes his doctor had ordered him to take nothing but tea for one full day. He asked not to be disturbed in the afternoon as he wished to remain in bed. In this way he took precautions against possible obstruction of his plan. When on Tuesday he was not seen in the lobby, the hotel manager grew worried. The door of his room was forced open and my husband was found in bed—lifeless.

      Later, I received an envelope containing a brief note and a few pound bills which my husband had left for me. The note stated that I would probably need some cash.

      All the other envelopes containing farewell letters were held by the coroner until after the inquest. I spent two days in painful and uncertain speculation as to what might have induced my husband to make this fatal decision. Then I received the letters. I found that he had written three letters to me, one to his physician, and one to each of his patients. He also left a letter which was deeply touching. He expressed his thanks to England for her hospitality and his belief in the greatness of the country and its final victory. He asked all his friends, pupils, and patients to forgive him for letting them down but that he could not go on.

      From the long letter which, unfortunately, was kept by the coroner, I am quoting only the few lines which were published by the newspapers:

       “I am passing away like a warrior. Guns and cannons are only temporary. The greatness for which England stands will put right all wrongs.”

      I learned from the letters he had written on three consecutive days that he had planned his suicide several months before taking action. He had always hoped for a change in his physical condition, but now, because of the decline of his health, his life had become unbearable. The agonies Freud had to endure before his passing in 1939 were a warning to him. He asked me to forgive him. He urged me to go on living and to continue his work as an analyst. He also mentioned that his subscription at the lending library was still valid and that I should make full use of it. Nothing touched me more than this trifle which he did not overlook in the last solemn moments of his life. I believe it proves beyond doubt the calmness and clarity of mind that was his at the time. Strange as it may seem, according to the laboratory examination my husband used aspirin to poison himself.

      Dr. Stekel was a master of the art of living and a man who loved freedom above all else. He was impatient with annoying people (except patients) and did not want to put up with the little vexations of life. He often left a theatre after the first act if he did not like the performance. It was, therefore, entirely consistent with his usual behavior that he “walked off” when life became a burden to him. He was a realist, and, as a physician, he was aware of the fact that with his diabetes, his prostatic disorder and his arteriosclerosis becoming more severe, his future held no joy. What he dreaded most was that he might become too helpless to end it all. When he found his time was up, he bowed out gracefully like an ancient philosopher.

      All this occurred at a critical time for all England. Everybody was concerned with his own worries. Thus, only a few people knew of the cremation of my husband which took place at Golder’s Green. His ashes were spread at the Garden of Rest. No memorial tablet was erected.

      The dailies which reported the suicide quoted the verdict of the inquest that it was an act committed by an “unbalanced mind.” This sounds like grim irony in the face of the details mentioned above. Stekel’s Autobiography, therefore, will serve as a justification and a vindication of a great man whose work was often as much misunderstood as was the motive for his death.

      HILDA STEKEL

      London, November, 1948

      ¹ Parts of Wilhelm Stekel’s Autobiography appeared in eight installments in the American Journal of Psychotherapy, New York, 1947-1949.—The Editor.

      ² Verlag für Medizin, Hans Huber, Berne, Switzerland, 1938. English translation: Norton and Co., New York, 1941. At present, out of print.—The Editor.

      WILHELM STEKEL

       THE LIFE STORY OF A PIONEER PSYCHOANALYST

       Chapter One

      CHILDHOOD

      In life as in the practice of a physician—the first steps decide.

      —LICHTENBERG

      IN UNDERTAKING to write my biography, I am fully conscious of the difficulty of the task. Even the intention to keep close to the truth unconditionally, and not to be hampered by prejudice or discretion, represents a conflicting situation.