The Schopenhauer Cure(118)
And yet I gladly see what I have done
Ever undaunted by what others say.
When his last book, Parerga and Paralipomena, was published, he said, “I am deeply glad to see the birth of my last child. I feel as if a load that I have borne since my twenty-fourth year has been lifted from my shoulders. No one can imagine what that means.”
On the morning of the twenty-first of September 1860 Schopenhauer’s housekeeper prepared his breakfast, tidied up the kitchen, opened the windows, and left to run errands, leaving Schopenhauer, who had already had his cold wash, sitting and reading on the sofa in his living room, a large airy, simply furnished room. On the floor by the sofa lay a black bearskin rug upon which sat Atman, his beloved poodle. A large oil painting of Goethe hung directly over the sofa, and several portraits of dogs, Shakespeare, Claudius, and daguerreo-types of himself hung elsewhere in the room. On the writing desk stood a bust of Kant. In one corner a table held a bust of Christoph Wieland, the philosopher who had encouraged the young Schopenhauer to study philosophy, and in another corner stood his revered gold-plated statue of the Buddha.
A short time later his physician, making regular rounds, entered the room and found him leaning on his back in the corner of the sofa. A “lung stroke” (pulmonary embolus) had taken him painlessly out of this world. His face was not disfigured and showed no evidence of the throes of death.
His funeral on a rainy day was more disagreeable than most due to the odor of rotting flesh in the small closed mortuary. Ten years earlier Schopenhauer had left explicit instructions that his body not be buried directly but left in the mortuary for at least five days until decay began—perhaps a final gesture of misanthropy or because of a fear of suspended animation. Soon the mortuary was so close and the air so foul that several of the assembled people had to leave the room during a long pompous obituary by his executor, Wilhelm Gwinner, who began with the words:
This man who lived among us a lifetime, and who nevertheless stayed a stranger amongst us, commands rare feelings. Nobody is standing here who belongs to him through the bond of blood; isolated as he lived, he died.
Schopenhauer’s tomb was covered with a heavy plate of Belgian granite. His will had requested that only his name, Arthur Schopenhauer, appear on his tombstone—“nothing more, no date, no year, no syllable.”
The man lying under this modest tombstone wanted his work to speak for him.
42
Three Years Later
* * *
Mankind has learned a few things from me which it will never forget.
* * *
The late-afternoon sun streamed through the large open sliding windows of the Café Florio. Arias from The Barber of Seville flowed from the antique jukebox accompanied by the hissing of an expresso machine steaming milk for cappuccinos.
Pam, Philip, and Tony sat at the same window table they had been using for their weekly coffee meeting since Julius’s death. Others in the group had joined them for the first year, but for the past two years only the three of them had met. Philip halted their conversation to listen to an aria and hum along with it. “‘Una voce poco fa,’ one of my favorites,” he said, when they resumed their conversation. Tony showed them his diploma from his community college program. Philip announced he was now playing chess two evenings a week at the San Francisco Chess Club—the first time he had played opponents face-to-face since his father’s death. Pam spoke of her mellow relationship with her new man, a Milton scholar, and also of her Sunday attendances at the Buddhist services at Green Gulch in Marin.
She glanced at her watch. “And now, it’s showtime for you guys.” She looked them over. “Handsome dudes, you two. You both look great, but, Philip, that jacket,” she shook her head, “it has got to go—uncool—corduroy is dead, twenty years passé, those elbow patches too. Next week we go shopping.” She looked at their faces. “You’re going to do great. If you get nervous, Philip, remember the chairs. Remember Julius loved you both. And I do, too.” She planted a kiss on each of their foreheads, left a twenty-dollar bill on the table, saying, “Special day, my treat,” and walked out.
An hour later seven members filed into Philip’s office for their first group meeting and warily sat down in Julius’s chairs. Philip had wept twice as an adult: once during that last meeting of Julius’s therapy group and again upon learning that Julius had bequeathed him these nine chairs.
“So,” Philip began, “welcome to our group. We’ve tried to orient you to the group procedures during our screening session with each of you. Now it’s time to begin.”
“That’s it. Just like that? No further instructions?” said Jason, a short, wiry middle-aged man wearing a tight black Nike T-shirt.
“I remember how scared I was in my first group therapy session,” said Tony, who leaned forward in his seat. He was neatly dressed in a white short-sleeved shirt, khaki trousers, and brown loafers.
“I didn’t say anything about being scared,” replied Jason. “I’m referring to the lack of guidance.”
“Well, what would help get you started?” asked Tony.
“Info. That’s what makes the world go round now. This is supposed to be a philosophical consultation group—are both of you philosophers?”