The Schopenhauer Cure(11)

“Well, at Columbia, midway through my reading, I developed a relationship with a therapist, the perfect therapist, the therapist who offered me what no one else had been able to give.”

“In New York, eh? What was his name? At Columbia? What institute did he 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 clichés 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




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Talent is like a marksman who hits a target which others cannot reach; genius is like a marksman who hits a target which others cannot see.



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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.”