Showing posts with label Psychoanalysis. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Psychoanalysis. Show all posts

Monday, 13 June 2016

The Murder of a Doctrinaire Freudian by Her Analysand Nephew . . . . Oneiric Precognition of Parricide . . . . The Case of Hermine Hug-Hellmuth.

QUESTION: Is it possible for an infant of 5½ years to dream of his committing a violent crime . . . a murder to be committed thirteen years later?

ANSWER: Yes, if you’re the infant analysand and nephew of the psychoanalytic pioneer Hermine Hug von Hugenstein (defined as the first child psychoanalyst recognised by Freud and the Vienna Psychoanalytic Society) . . . and if the murder victim thirteen years later is destined to be your aunt.

A garden intruder from the
Fin de Siècle Viennese Crime Sheet:
Illustrirtes Wiener Extrablatt

Extraordinarily . . . and, indeed, sinisterly . . . the nephew in question – Rudolf  Hug (‘Rolf’, illegitimate son of Hermine’s illegitimate half-sister) – was the infant subject of one of the earliest analyses of Kindheitsträume (childhood dreams), an infant whose premonition of the circumstances of his own adult degeneracy were clinically documented in 1912 by his Aunt Hermine in her paper for the Zentralblatt für Psychoanalyse und Psychotherapie under the title of Analyse eines Traumes eines Fünfeinhalbjährigen (The Analysis of a Dream of a -Year-Old-Boy) and written, in consequence, in dutiful adherence to prevailing Freudian psychoanalytic methodology.

A dispassionate record, maybe, but Rolf’s dream is surely one of the most startling testaments in psychoanalytic case histories from the Viennese wellspring, notwithstanding the analyst’s self-censorship – in her eagerness to be recognised by Freud as an accomplished unraveller of childhood’s pharaonic visions – leading to a calamitous failure to interpret the symbolic language of a dream that in so many coordinate details is a parable for the prefiguring of her own death.


Symbolic determinism.

The infant Rudolf is described by his eminent aunt as ‘. . . a strong [sexual] exhibitionist . . . a little tyrant . . .’ of ‘. . . precocious intelligence . . .’ yet ‘. . . an excrement smearer . . .’ who ‘. . . kept up an active interest in his and others’ defecation.’ At five years of age he could read and write. He looked like a ten-year-old, but was pale, according to a neighbour who knew the family. The boy never looked healthy.
  
His prophetic dream was described by Rolf thus: ‘I am so afraid. A big bear wants to eat me. There was also a big picket fence there and lots of pointed arrows on top. The bear wants to hug me with his front paws. In the middle of the ceiling there was a gigantic black spot, no, a big blot.’

Let us be clear. Hermine Hug-Hellmuth (the name by which she was latterly known following the abolition of nobiliary particles under the Habsburg Law of 1919) is remembered certainly for the professional detachment of her meticulous analytic method but – particularly in relation to her principal object of study, the child Rolf – that cold-eyed detachment is revealed to be a process of observation that saw the 5½-year-old as more an object of scientific enquiry than as a vessel receptive of familial affection.

Beyond the Pale? To be ever banished from a tender heart by barbed defences ?
‘. . . a big picket fence there and lots of pointed arrows on top.’

Visceral wish-fulfilment.

Let us examine Hermine’s analysis of Rolf’s dream more closely. 

1 – ‘I am so afraid.’ In his aunt’s view, Rolf was attention-seeking by ‘forcing affection for himself through the pretended fear.’

2 – ‘A big bear wants to eat me . . . and hug me with his front paws.’ The bear can be seen, according to Hermine, as the embodiment of his absentee black-bearded father by whom he wished to hugged  and kissed. At the age of ‘approximately three-and-half years of age he visited Schönbrunn Zoo for the first time. He saw bears standing up clinging to the lattice fence . . . His delight knew no end as he even saw the “standing up” bears’ erect penises.’ The appearance of the bear is, therefore, both a wish fulfilling dream of brute potency and an expression of the fierce ‘longing of the boy for his big, strong father.’ The bear, accordingly, is the ‘leitmotif of his nightly experience.’  

3 – ‘There was also a big picket fence there and lots of pointed arrows on top.’ In the child’s bedroom were ‘. . . Venetian blinds . . . and the light of the street lamp creates . . . shadow stripes like an actual fence drawn on the ceiling . . . In the dream the picket fence primarily refers to the railing of his little bed . . . through which he exhibited his penis . . . In connection with his lust to exhibit himself in bed he also had a habit of urinating during walks at every fence . . . for example, on a certain board or exactly through two slats into a crack.’ This exploit recalls for him the transgressive act, age two years, of making the arms or hands of his female carers ‘the target of his stream.’

4 – ‘Lots of pointed arrows.’ These refer ‘at first to his own penis but also to the penises of several boys who lived in the neighbourhood during his second year of life. They were repeatedly seen urinating through the fence into the neighbouring garden.’

5 – ‘A black spot, no, a big blot, in the middle of the ceiling.’ The boy – guilty in his infancy of ‘gross coprophilic activity’ as an ‘excrement smearer’ – was observed ‘some days before the dream’ running ‘obsessively around and around the room, squatting here and there, and calling, “Aunt Hermine, I will sit down and make a blot [faeces].” The dream ‘granted him the fulfilment of his wish, and, further, it was on the ceiling in a very exposed spot where everyone who entered the room could see it. In his defecation games he repeatedly selected to “blot” in the “middle” . . . ’ so, in Hermine’s view, her little nephew’s dream accorded at the most visceral level to Freud’s irrefutable dictum ‘Der Traum ist eine Wunscherfüllung’ (the dream is a wish-fulfilment), and moreover permitted a classical interpretation by which infant urolagnia and coprophilia are seen as simulative of adult sexual gratification and indicative of nascent carnal refinements yet to be fully explored.


13 years later . . .  the murder of Hermine Hug-Hellmuth by Nephew Rolf. 

In the small hours of September 9 1924, eighteen-year-old Rolf Hug climbed over the green fence that ran along the Viennese street on which his aunt lived, and scrambled up to an open window giving him entry to her small, functional ground-floor apartment where the noise of his footfall awoke Hermine whom he at once attacked, attempting to smother her with a pillow when in a fierce struggle for her life she fell on the floor.

When he could not silence her screams he strangled her, then gagged her after he became aware her limbs were still moving. He carried her body to her sleeping-couch in the centre of the room. He placed with care her head on a clean pillow, which concealed the blood-covered pillow that had smothered her. 

One drop of blood remained in her nostril. Her larynx and three ribs were broken. Rolf searched her underwear for money and took 2,600,000 kronen and a gold watch. With the aid of a chair he climbed out of the window and put on his shoes, which he had placed for retrieval in the darkness below, to leave by the way he had come, through the ‘garden of ivy’ that separated Hermine’s apartment house from the neighbouring building. 

In the years preceding the crime, Rolf had approached his aunt and demanded money with menaces on numberless occasions. Since childhood he had been a persistent thief and even neighbours were warned to guard their purses. 

Rudolf Otto Hug – ‘Rolf’ – was apprehended the next day at Mürzzuschlag railway station, some 85 km from Vienna. 

In brief, these are the essential forensic facts and confession evidence as they emerged from the police enquiry and trial.

Dark Street. (1933)
by Nikolai Sinezouboff. 


A child’s foreshadowing of a death

The theory of typological relationships, which sees the Boy as Father of the Man, can be as exegetical for the psychopathography of a patient as those correspondences identified by scholars of biblical prophecy, who find in events in the early scriptures revelatory foreshadowing of the Redeemer . . . sightings of the prefigurative type that anticipates the antitype of the future, proclaimed as the fulfilment of messianic prophecy. 

So, to draw similar parallels, what instructive concordances can we identify when – favoured by 20/20 hindsight – we examine the tragic history of Rudolf Otto Hug and his aunt?

1 – ‘I am so afraid.’ The corollary to Hermine’s dream-analysis of Rolf’s Fear is a counterview that considers the supposed Saviour to whom the infant looks for protection – Hermine herself – from whose hands, she records, he was ‘forcing affection for himself through the pretended fear.’

Yet, according to Hermine’s biographers, Hermine (as Rolf’s closest surviving relative upon the death of his mother) ‘. . .  [never] entered into a loving relationship with Rolf.  On the contrary, her attitude towards him appears to have been distant, hostile, even mean. She kept away from all others’. She also ‘was unable to relate to other people in an intimate manner . . . ’ and she did not have friends in whom she could confide.

Hermine was a person, then, who positively bristled with resistance to intimacy, and it’s significant that in The Analysis of a Dream of a -Year-Old-Boy she recalls ‘Rolf once saw his aunt by accident in her corset . . . ’; significant because the more-than-figurative steel corset has been the oft-repeated symbol of lovelessness for troubled analysands whose unresolved neuroses surface in adulthood to betray minds tormented by the absence of parental affection in infancy . . . the softness of an embrace denied, literally, by steel ribbing. And Hermine, after all, stood in loco parentis  for her dead sister.

So a palisade stockaded against affection is a persona suggestive of many resonances, not least the emotional resonance to be found in the archetypicality of her given name . . .  Hermine is a feminine form of Herman, a variant of which is Arminius, great chieftain of the Germanic tribes whose warriors – shielded by staked palisades – defeated the Roman army in the Battle of the Teutoburg Forest in 9 AD.  Her name is destiny and totemic of indomitable Germania. Nomen est omen. 

Indeed, in addition, the martial defensive connotations of Hermine’s family name, Hellmuth, should not be ignored, composed as it is of the Germanic elements helm (‘helmet’) and muot (‘spirit’ or ‘mind’), a combination redolent of the introspective, cautious, guarded person Hermine evidently was . . . an armour against amour.

      Barbed defences . . . 
Helmeted Arminius
leads the Germanic tribes from
his staked palisade (see rocky heights, above)
to defeat the Roman army in the
Battle of the
Teutoburg Forest, 9 AD. 

Nor, in this regard, should we forget the cursed name of Rudolph, Crown Prince of Austria, and heir apparent to the Austro-Hungarian Empire, who killed his mistress, Baroness Marie Vetsera, at Mayerling and then turned the gun on himself. Can we be sure that Rolf was not condemned to misfortune by his ill-fated namesake, whose death set in motion a chain reaction that saw the heir presumptive Archduke Franz Ferdinand assassinated, an event that triggered World War I, and a defeat that brought about the collapse of the Habsburg Empire.  Nomen est omen.

So it is possible to see that far from a warm maternal-filial relationship, Hermine (Arminius) and Rudolf (Kronprinz) stood in stark opposition: a Victor-Vanquished nexus that could be resolved only in a high tragedy of mythological dimensions such as those Ancient Greek tragedies from which many of Freud’s psychoanalytical methodologies were derived. In short, did child-psychoanalyst Hermine Hug-Hellmuth, a Freudian doctrinaire and Rolf’s second mother, maintain conformity to Freudian doctrine (namely, belief in a variant-Oedipus Complex) even unto her death?

By examining more closely the remaining strands of 5½-year-old Rolf’s prophetic allegorical dream the embedded truth of Hermine’s analysis may begin to emerge.

2 – ‘A big bear wants to eat me . . . and hug me with his front paws.’ Contrary to the self-censoring interpretation proposed by Hermine (that Rolf’s dream projection is the fierce ‘longing of the boy for his big, strong’ absentee father), the bear’s forepaws can be also interpreted as Hermine’s own repressive hands of his recent infancy. At the age of three, Rolf’s exhibitionism (lifting his nightgown to display his penis) was discouraged by Hermine who admits, ‘In order to distract him [from ‘exhibitionist pleasure’ and the ‘strong auto-erotism’ of the ‘lust to exhibit’ his genitals] . . . I let my hand circle above the bed and swoop down like a swooping bird [pecking?] on his naked foot or hand . . .’ to ‘. . . fly away disgusted if it saw too much nakedness.’ So the [peckish?] hands sought by Rolf for longed-for warm embraces are both desired and feared in equal measure and, moreover, in his dream, become an anthropomorphised expression of a woman’s threat to his sexual potency, and a vision of hands to both clasp and consume him. This sense of repressive menace is more likely the ‘leitmotif of his nightly experience.’

3 – ‘There was also a big picket fence there and lots of pointed arrows on top.’ The significance of the picket fence with arrow-headed palings reappearing at the crime scene thirteen years after its dream occurrence prompts speculations as to second sight, particularly as ‘the picket fence’ of the 5½-year-old boy exerts the same attraction of a taboo as the forbidden barrier to the ‘garden of ivy’ that the eighteen-year-old youth scrambles over: the forest ‘green fence’ – the Arminius-erected palisade – looming in the dark that separates him from the apartment of his aunt.

4 – ‘Lots of pointed arrows.’ If, as Hermine proposes, the dream-arrows refer to penises defiling a garden by their urinating through a fence, in defiance of the rigidities of propriety, then Rolf’s criminal penetration of the ‘garden of ivy’ to reach the murder scene can be viewed as a fulfilment of a rite of desecration long meditated in his quest to be avenged. Hermine in her dream analysis suggests the ‘crack between two [fence] slats . . . could also refer to a vagina’, so the assault on Hermine’s apartment can be similarly seen as a violation preparatory to a virtual necrophilic rape, insofar as Rolf manhandled the half-naked Hermine in her death throes and searched her underwear to steal her long-preserved savings.

5 – ‘A black spot, no, a big blot, in the middle of the ceiling.’ There is conclusive fulfilment, too, of infant Rolf’s prophetic dream in the subconscious stage-directions the eighteen-year-old follows to set the crime scene.

           [Middle] Rolf carried the dying Hermine to the centre of the room.

           [SpotOne blackened drop of dried blood remained in one nostril.  

           [Blot] Her forehead had a swelling with a dark bruise on her neck

Just as Hermine had described Rolf’s childhood games of defilement, so Rolf in adulthood had selected to ‘blot’ in the ‘middle’ of the room and retrace the action of his dream by making a ‘blot’ in ‘a very exposed spot where every one who entered the room could see it.’ 

Murder was the dark stain on the chamber of sleep he foresaw from his infant cot. For Rolf, it was the ultimate act of defiance against the persecutor of his infancy who he believed had treated him with rigidity and without mercy. And indeed, the violence of his resentment can be measured by the smashed larynx and the silenced woman’s three broken ribs, a final breaching of the barricade of aloofness that for so long had resisted him.

Yet, in the end, when the deed was done, was it a simply a matter of basest greed for a benefactor’s possessions compounded by a sense of entitlement compelled by a paranoiac grudge?  In this connexion, we should be reminded that murder for financial gain in those desperate times of hunger and spiralling hyperinflation was a primary cause of homicide, with the highest banknotes then circulating printed in denominations of 500,000 kronen; at the time of Hermine’s death Austria’s money supply had increased by 14,250 percent.

Or was it, for Hermine, a case of an ‘elective victim’* submissive to a preordained slayer? There is substance in this suspicion. In the month before her death, in one of her letters to her principal confidant, Hermine confesses her fear of being strangled by Rolf. ‘I will be killed anyway,’ she predicts.

Deterministically, despite her fear of her nephew, only weeks before her death Hermine had placed in the hands of the same confidant a copy of her will in which she named Rolf as her only heir.

Murnau Street with Green-Fenced Garden,
Bavaria, Germany. (1908)
by Vasily Kandinsky.


A victim of psychoanalysis.

In the words of George MacLean and Ulrich Rappenthe joint editors of her work and distinguished as her quasi-speculative biographers, ‘Rolf can be considered a victim of psychoanalytic study that lacked a true loving relationship.’ In point of fact, after being released from prison, Rolf attempted to get restitution from the Vienna Psychoanalytic Association, as a victim of psychoanalysis.

In sum, Hermine’s biographers conclude: ‘Hug-Hellmuth abetted her neglect by others by neglecting herself . . . Lacking friends, she did not create any nucleus of a following of colleagues or students . . She was a closed person who never talked more than was absolutely necessary, and even then reluctantly. One neighbour reported that Hug-Hellmuth talked to his cat more than she talked to him.’

For me, this last observation on Hermine’s detachment summons up the pathos and bathos of the ‘high-functioning sociopathic personality’ that Patrick Hamilton captures so perfectly in the final paragraph of his classic novel, Hangover Square, and the death of his socially-withdrawn protagonist (whose suicide note reads, ‘Please order they look after my white cat which I left behind’):
He died in the early morning, and because of the interest then prevailing in the war, was given very little publicity by the press. Indeed only one newspaper, a sensational picture daily, gave the matter any space or prominence – bringing out (his crude epitaph) the headlines:                                                                  SLAYS TWO                                                                                                            FOUND GASSED                                                                                                      THINKS OF CAT.

A family trait of attention-seeking.

Ironically, when Hermine and Rolf are considered together in a ‘characterological analysis’, the traits that the aunt identifies in her infant nephew’s proclivity for recurring fantasies – ‘attention-seeking statements in his repertoire’ – she, herself, is to be found guilty of, insofar as her calculations to court the attention of Sigmund Freud decidedly succeeded when the Founding Father of Psychoanalysis agreed to write the adulatory introduction to her notorious faux-journal, Tagebuch eines Halbwüchsigen Mädchens – Von 11 bis 14½ Jahren (‘Diary of an Adolescent Girl from 11 to 14½ Years’), an intimate record of the developing sexuality of a ‘young girl belonging to the upper middle class’, first published anonymously in English in 1921.


The fact that Freud wrote in his introduction ‘This diary is gem’ and then withdrew permission for the book to appear after a succès de scandale when doubts arose as to the authenticity of its authorship (purportedly the work comprised the jottings of girl who had later died; an attribution that even today remains an unresolved question) is a measure of the notoriety the Diary won. For reasons of privileged confidential information, the ‘editor’ of the Diary (Hermine herself) protests she must ‘conceal the identity of the author’.


A public thirst for pubertal confessions.

As the writer of an incisive essay in Strange Attractor Journal Two (2005) intimates, there existed in the early 20th Century – an excessively repressive age, particularly in England – an eager reading public furtively grasping after a sexual knowledge that was withheld from the lay reader . . .
It’s now easy to poke fun at those classifications, ‘members of the educational, medical and legal profession’, considered qualified to read such books, but this was the period of the repressive reign of Britain’s infamous puritanical Home Secretary, Sir William (‘Jix’) Joynson-Hicks (the ‘Policeman of the Lord’, 1924-1929) . . . 
As the essayist makes clear, referring to the publication of an imitative work, The Diary of a Public Schoolgirl, (written in 1929 and first published in 1930), the fabricator of the spurious journal  . . .
. . . had again presciently recognised the existence of a specialised readership whose thirst for pubertic confessions he was confident he could satisfy.
Hermine’s journal evidently unloosed a flood of imitators . . .
This fraudulent journal [i.e. Hermine’s Tagebuch, inspired the] spurious Public Schoolgirl’s Diary. And [the faux-diarist’s] motives for the deception are remarkably similar, having at their root a countercultural, feminist-liberationist ideology that was entirely genuine.
In the British Journal of Psychology, 1921, Vol. 1, A Young Girl’s Diary is perceptively reviewed by Cyril Burt, the famous English psychologist, describing it as a journal, telling ‘. . . in her own colloquial phrases, how an Austrian girl [Rita] acquired, during the years of puberty, a knowledge, more or less exact, of the chief biological facts of sex . . . the book is anonymous.’  The publishers note that sale of the book is restricted to ‘. . . members of the educational, medical and legal professions as are interested in psychology.’
Cyril Burt doubted the veracity of this work, and believed the publication was encouraged ‘. . . no doubt, by the popularity attained by such writing as those of Daisy Ashford [1919] and Opal Whitely [1920] . . . purporting to be the unaided work of young children.’
Sigmund Freud exclaims rapturously in his preface: ‘This diary is a gem. Never, I believe, has anything been written enabling us to see so clearly into the soul of a young girl, during the years of puberal development.’ But by 1928 Freud’s laudatory reception of the work had been replaced by doubts. The work is now believed to be bogus, and confected by an adult woman, an ambitious child-psychologist lecturing in Berlin (see Hermine Hug-Hellmuth: Her Life and Work by George MacLean and Ulrich Rappen, Routledge, 1991). 
Its authenticity has been questioned because the document, more fraudulent than Freudian, is understood to have been written to exhibit Hug-Hellmuth’s psychoanalytical knowledge to enhance her stature in the eyes of Freud (she was a rival of Anna Freud).
These remarks from my stable-mate at Strange Attractor (an essay of mine appeared in Journal Three) appear to be a fair summary of the ambiguity of Hermine’s professional reputation, which there can be no doubt was undermined by the suspicions as to her veracity that became associated with her name, due to the obfuscations of her persistent denials of the Diary’s authorship [as Rita].    

So in conclusion, I will add that commentators of this affair, including Cyril Burt, have failed to identity what I would regard as a diaristic precursor of this confessional genre in German, and a work that also attracted similar notoriety. I refer to the best-selling Tagebuch einer Verlorenen** (‘The Diary of a Lost Girl’, 1905) by Margarete Böhme, a literary phenomenon, supposedly the true-life journal of a young woman forced into prostitution. This popular work, which scandalised society by prompting comparisons with the works of Zola, opens with the words:
Aunt Lehnsmann brought me a diary yesterday, as a belated Confirmation present. ‘Such a nice thing for a young girl,’ she said. ‘And such a cheap one,’ thought I.
Hermine, in her own Tagebuch eines Halbwüchsigen Mädchensbegins in a similar racy style (for girls, that is, of a similar period): 
July 12 . . . Hella and I are writing a diary. We both agreed that when we went to high school we would write a diary every day. Dora [older sister] keeps a diary too, but she gets furious if I look at it. 
Artfully/artlessly Hermine,  in the guise of editor, writes in her Preface: 
No attempt has been made to correct trifling faults in grammar and other inelegancies of style. For the most part these must be regarded as the expression of a child’s incapacity for the control of language. Rather they must be looked upon as manifestations of affective trends, as errors in functioning brought about by the influence of the Unconscious.
I have had occasion, in an earlier post, to identify certain suggestive passages from Hermine’s Diary, pointing them up as instructive, see Sex Lessons from Literature Unhindered by 20/20 Hindsight:
http://catherineeisnerfrance.blogspot.co.uk/2013/03/sex-lessons-from-literature-unhindered.html

Under one of my note-headings, Sexual Heat, I quote the following from the young diarist, Rita, in her her twelfth year. She is observing her teacher on whom she has a crush:
When he strokes his beard I become quite hot and cold with ecstasy. And the way he lifts up his coattails as he sits down. Its lovely, I do want to kiss him. Hella and I take turns to put our penholder on his desk so that he can hallow it with his hand as he writes. Afterwards in the arithmetic lesson when I write with it, I keep looking at Hella and she looks back at me and we both know what the other is thinking of.  
The symbolism of dip-pen and pen-holder and the excitement stimulated by these objects need not be dwelt on here, other than to observe that the secret sexual life of adolescent girls in the late 19th century, as expressed by contemporaneous women, must be sought in such almost imperceptible textual glimmers.

Similarly, for mydriatic response to stimulus (pupil dilation) as an index to sexual arousal, see Rita’s diary entry for the same year, observing a schoolboy admirer:
When he says that his eyes grow dark, quite black, although his eyes are really grey and they get very large. Especially in the evening when we say goodbye, it frightens me. I'm always dreaming of him. 
So, when Hermine writes in her Preface that we must regard such writings ‘. . . as the expression of a child’s incapacity for the control of language [under] the influence of the Unconscious . . .’, we correspondingly must observe that such clunking symbols as Pens and Pen-holders are very much within the control of a Conscious Mind anxious to please her mentor by conformity to oneiroid symbols central to the practice of doctrinal Freudians.


*For a fine novella tracing the journey of an ‘elective victim’ to her violent end, The Driver’s Seat by Muriel Spark is recommended, a work I first read in its entirety in a special issue of The New Yorker published in May 1970.

**Significantly, Böhme’s Tagebuch einer Verlorenen was first translated into English by Ethelind Colburn Mayne, one of the earliest translators of Freud. 
Note also: Ethelind’s own writings are distinguished by her own very elegant Englishing of the Conscious and the Unconscious mind, which she calls the 'Stage-side' and 'Cage-side' of human personality. How exquisitely neat!


Our Lobbying of the Viennese Government for Recognition of Hermine.

It was only after the appearance of this posting (June 2016) and selective, persistent lobbying of the compilers of the Cultural Archive of Vienna that Hermine Hug von Hugenstein was accorded, a month later, recognition on that city’s website. Thanks to these efforts, this permanent record of her status in Austrian cultural development now cites her as a ‘pioneer’ of child psychoanalysis, ‘Hermine Hug gilt als Pionierin der Kinderpsychoanalyse. . .’ 
See :
https://www.geschichtewiki.wien.gv.at/Hermine_Hug-Hellmuth




Catherine Eisner believes passionately in plot-driven suspense fiction, a devotion to literary craft that draws on studies in psychoanalytical criminology and psychoactive pharmacology to explore the dark side of motivation, and ignite plot twists with unexpected outcomes. Within these disciplines Eisner’s fictions seek to explore variant literary forms derived from psychotherapy and criminology to trace the traumas of characters in extremis. Compulsive recurring sub-themes in her narratives examine sibling rivalry, rivalrous cousinhood, pathological imposture, financial chicanery, and the effects of non-familial male pheromones on pubescence, 
see Eisner’s Sister Morphine (2008)
and Listen Close to Me (2011)
and A Bad Case (2015)
 

Thursday, 16 April 2015

Phoney Aphorisms for D-r Tchékhov with Other Doubtful Observations and Flourishes

To tell the truth, the writing of my as-yet-unpublished crime novel, D-r Tchékhov, Detektiv,  was of such a lengthy gestation (since my days as a febrile sixteen-year-old, actually*), I can no longer tell whether the aphorisms I’ve Englished from his observations are my own confections or those of my protagonist.


Can the same fate befall these phoney utterances, I sometimes speculate, as the misattribution that befell the phrase: ‘I disapprove of what you say, but I will defend to the death your right to say it’? (Attributed to Voltaire but an aphorism composed by Englishwoman Evelyn Beatrice Hall as an illustration of Voltaire’s beliefs.) 

This misattribution recalls the schoolgirl, Catherine Winkworth, who, learning of General Napier’s conquest of Sindh (1843), remarked to her teacher that Napier’s victorious despatch to the Empire should have been Peccavi (Latin for ‘I have sinned’), a perfect pun that has usually been credited to Napier.

Which raises the question of women as superior phrase-makers standing in the shadows of great men yet nimble-minded enough to equally fill the declamatory breach with a memorable quip if called upon.

Well, here is a questionable selection of my own attempts for uncertain posterity. 

(I should add that my voluminous notes for this sprawling project are in storage, so I shan’t balk at Chekhovian scholars separating the wheat from the chaff and pointing out for me authentic utterances of Anton’s to distinguish them from the inauthentic.)

Aphorisms, Epigrams, Prophecies, Grotesqueries and Paradoxes.

Apropros Goethe : Tchékhov wrote, ‘I am considering a novel to rival Elective Affinities for Russian readers called Comfortable Assumptions.’

Fish and guests smell after three daysTchékhov mused. In truth, that year at Madame Lintvaryova’s country villa in the Ukraine he had grown restless after two.

Nature’s an idiot, fate is a fool, and life isn’t worth a cracked half kopeck.

Follow Duty too close at the heels and it will strike out your teeth.

Anton thought, ‘A tragical plot may yet produce a comical conclusion.’

A doctor, as everyone should know, enjoys being at a duel. 

While a noose is still running there’s still time to pray.

‘If the doctor cures, the sun sees it, if the doctor kills, the dirt hides it.’ Anton could think only of a century’s end, the sun sinking into dissipation and ruin. He thought: ‘Palliating the symptoms will not affect the cause.’

His natty necktie was adrift but his tongue was knotted.

The room smelled of not having been smoked in.

He has the greatest blind-side who thinks he has none.

‘A rich apothecary, a corruptible doctor.’

‘At this moment I see no good reason to live,’ Tchékhov confided to his brother, ‘but then I remembered an editor had commissioned a magazine article on the poor schools and I recognised that I could not die issueless.’

A sacred mystery, like the pure empyrean fire, can – with faith – be entered solely but never divined, for how else could a mystery ever remain so?

‘All fiction, by definition, is unnecessary,’ thought Anton sourly, ‘with the possible exception of the Bible. There is nothing so deceitful as the deceptions of art.

Russian Character.

He saw his dispensary-maid approaching.  She was new to the job and had any number of complaints. But he let her grumble – it showed she was interested in her work.

Russia – a nation of horse-copers where each rogue passes on his losses to the next man.

He had reached an age when the only subjects in which he was interested were fourteen-year-old girls and four-year-old horses. The man was so dyed in deviltry that his black would take no other hue.

Ivanishche scratched raw scalings from his bald spot with a somewhat hairier forefinger.

‘They’re poisoning off all the extra people, you see, sir, so there’s more land for the masters!’ 

The infinite credulity of the disenthralled serf.

Life is mad, licentious, turbulent and then, ultimately, unutterably dull.

Man is composed of 60% water; water strives to seek its own level; 60% of a Russian’s soul desires to plunge at once over the side of a ferry boat.

Wittingly, she had struck an attitude which perfectly expressed the evils of the self-serving autocracy. Offhand. Cruel. Doctrinaire. Unforgiving. Proud. Rude.

He was inclined to count his kopecks as if they were roubles, then would gamble them all away like an extravagant vagrant.

‘Russia, Russia,’ he said softly. ‘A ziggurat to Babeldom.’

Beware! The Russian bear runs fastest when reaching greater heights.
(It is commonly assumed that since bears have fore legs shorter than hind legs they are disadvantaged in running downhill. This is a fallacy.)

A drunkard: The abandonment of one whose essential expression is that of an intestable lunatic at the limits of idiocy.

His family had lived so close in those days they would stand on each other’s toes and tongues.

Nothing must be done hurriedly but the killing of a louse.

To the infant dreaming philosopher, who preferred to sit at his study books instead of laying the table, his mother would raise her finger and scold: ‘You know what ‘thought’ done – he planted a feather in the midden and ‘thought’ it would grow a hen!’

Yashka’s wispy beard gave him the appearance of a man who had recently attempted to eat a sprat and who has not removed the fishtail from his chin. 

In the middle of the forest, the rail-track was reckoned to be laid so crooked the enginemen would throw crooked logs grown at night into the firebox – or so it was said.

He was overcome by an otiose afternoonish oblomovshchina and smiled as he recalled from his library the title-page of his own copy  of Oblomov, which he had deleted and reinscribed Drowsey’s Recollections of Nothing – a title, he recorded, embossed on one of the false spines of the imaginary books with which Charles Dickens decorated his study.

The Russian land is like my fur-coat (he decided).  One side is the parfleshed, scraped meadow; the other-side is the secret bristling forest.

He regarded lovingly – and with an unfeigned tribal fealty – the powerful, brachycelaphic, over-stuffed cushion of a head. Authentic homo russicus.

(A brothel.) A beady-eyed old beldame opened the door, wiping her mouth with a dish rag. Anton thought : ‘A bawd named Babylon, the Mother of Harlots, drunk with the blood of saints.’

One of Tchékhov’s (Repeatable) Jokes.

A howl of adenoidal laughter erupting from the cadets almost drowned the punchline, but Anton was able to make out the last few words, ‘You said it, not me!’

(To satisfy the curious reader the jest recorded by Tchékhov has been traced: An old muzhik appears at the front desk of his local police station and timorously complains to the gendarme.  ‘A Swiss soldier has stolen my Russian watch,’ he claims. The policeman shakes his fist at the old man in fury. ‘Make sense, grandad,’ the policeman says. ‘A Swiss soldier stealing a Russian watch?  Surely you mean a Russian soldier has stolen your Swiss watch!’ The old muzhik grins slyly. ‘You said it, not me.’ 

Observations and Flourishes.

Anton had a sensation (not unfamiliar) as of being obliged to act a part in private theatricals at short notice; he had not an idea what to say, and yet his cue waited.

Anton recalled that moment when as a young man he had glimpsed the Tsar in person, a great distance off, in a restless province reviewing troops; and he remembered reflecting at the time how he could not deny that, in profile, the Emperor’s incused head resembled the obverse of a large, rather worn silver rouble; a coin, as it were, thinned by too much superstitious rubbing whose usage was to be touched by every hand in the Empire.

If only like a wild creature he could lick himself whole again. 

He took a sedative and sat down.

In the cold, dark, foul garret, he set his mind to retaining the loose collar with a multiple compression clamp designed for aseptic resection of the gut. A recto-tenacular pile-clip, therefore, must perform the office of a cuff link.

As he said to himself, brooding, some things were to be seen but once in the great game, and it was worthwhile seeing them, even if life were the shorter for it.

His belly protruded; a corporation as resilient as an old medicine ball.


The furious, fatuous, semi-moronic longing for the company of women.

A drug addict: Deipotent. Impenitent. Invincible. Insensate. Narcotised.

Somewhere in the Forest Zone tigers prowl to the music of Tchaikowsky.

The veil that covers the face seldom covers beauty.

He swung out his leg and dismounted smoothly, like a well-turned period.


Military Sketches.

Constancy in a long marriage! I tell you, it’s the ultimate perversion!’ The General made a long arm and patted his wife’s withered hand. ‘But then, I’m a complete deviant.’

Idle officers cannot remain long without a war. Soldiers in peacetime are like chimneys in summer – tædium vitæ.

‘In her day a better horse never rose to a fence,’ he muttered.

‘Beware the hind parts of a restive horse and all sides of a priest.’

The little sergeant’s speech broadened as soon as he stood at ease.

Nothing like blood, sir, in horses, dogs and men.’

Tchékhov could imagine the medical officer’s dismay at his dismal posting, as he moped in slow decline, from Knight Hospitaller to then come down, at last, to corns and bunions, idleness and drink.

His endurance of the garrison’s grim entertainments at least compared no worse than his attendance, the year past, at a Christmas party on a padded Violent Ward held for the criminally insane.

In those pages of his journal where he entered his imprest accounts, D-r Tchékhov drew a new line, and itemised his latest expenses – viz. the handout to a battalion commander beseiged by creditors. ‘In Act I,’ he wrote, ‘a respectable man, “X”, borrows a hundred roubles from “A”, and in the course of all four acts he does not pay it back.’ He smiled, and added: ‘To make an enemy is to lend a man money, and ask it of him again.’ To be spared the outgo, the Tsar’s yawning functionary then crossed out ‘expenses, sundry’ and wrote ‘expenses, general’.

Russian Officialdom.

As matters stand, a roaring horse is the only creature which can whistle in the streets without getting locked up.

What a country is ours when, to survive, the righteous man must be ever on his guard, seething with unworthy suspicions, and cannot confide in his most intimate friend, nor in the woman he worships, nor in his own brother!

Anton knew that he, himself, was among the first rank in the long catalogue of enemies of the state under surveillance by the despotic Political Department; not even new-born babes-in-arms were free from suspicion. A dame who kept a forbidden crèche of toddlers had been condemned for harbouring an illegal assembly of infants.

In the Customs Houses they treated a revolver with flippancy, but regarded typewriters as more dangerous than dynamite. No! In these oppressive times, the writer was like a whipped cur and his neck was in the noose of an editorial choke-chain, for there was no subject safe from the Tsar’s forbidding system of mental drill. 

Death is terrible, but still more terrible is the thought that you might live forever and never die. To live one must have something to hang on to. In this country only the body works, not the spirit.

Self-confessional psychoanalysis. 

However glib the psychoanalysis, the truth was that – willing-unwilling – he had persisted, somehow, in confusing his aversion to snakes with the caresses of women. Yet the phobia was so vulgarly commonplace! He knew very well that – despite recognising how unreconciled these foolish conflicting emotions remained – he would not cease to fear the Princess’s glissant arms writhing inside her long sleeves; and would not cease calumniating such women as pythonesses. Yes, Tchékhov confessed, like the pythonesses he condemned he was severe in his strictures. (Tchékhov’s snake phobia – ophidiophobia – was manifested in the mongooses he adored as pets and trained for snake-hunting in the woods.)

He had no wish to remain a moment longer at this dismal spot and dwell upon his own end; his heart suddenly leapt with a passion and he gripped the harness fiercely, shaken by the knowledge that he had no other mortal wish than the desire to probe life ever deeper, to live it to the full, to race the whole gamut of experiences, follies, loves, and sacrifices, to squeeze the orange dry, and then to die quite young, having gone the full compass, the needle pointing home.

I don’t want anything. To die innominate, unperpetuated – as the Great Anon – should be our early resolve,’ he concluded.

Tomorrow there will be another layer of sediment in my soul. Look what a fool stands among you!

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*My grandfather had a number of leftist political idealists as his friends, and one in particular was a subscriber to the Moscow State Publishing House (he was a remittance man who could afford the luxury of ideals).  Grandfather, as an artist and sculptor, was in the habit of bartering his artistic products for gifts; a sketch for a hat or a cigar, say.  A number of these gifts secured the works of Chekhov and Gorki which I read in my early teens.  They made a great impression on me at an early age. (For example, Gorki’s description of a night under the stars is paraphrased in my Man in a Wardrobe text published in the literary journal Ambit 191 in 2008.)

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For excerpts from my as-yet-unpublished crime novel, D-r Tchékhov, Detektiv, see
http://catherineeisnerfrance.blogspot.co.uk/2014/02/khar-r-r-kai-khar-r-r-kai-khar-r-r-kai.html
or
http://catherineeisnerfrance.blogspot.co.uk/2015/01/d-r-tchekhov-skirmish-with-wolves-and.html
or
http://catherineeisnerfrance.blogspot.co.uk/2012/10/dead-wife-new-hat-femme-morte-chapeau.html
or
http://catherineeisnerfrance.blogspot.co.uk/2011/10/inductive-detection.html
or
http://catherineeisnerfrance.blogspot.co.uk/2015/03/winter-rules-and-le-diable-boiteux.html

This long lost crime novel by Chekhov (he, himself, referred to such a work in progress in 1888) charts the misadventures of morphia-addict D-r Anton Tchékhov, aged 28 years, as he investigates the mysterious duelling death of an aristocratic cadet in a remote snowbound northern garrison. In a contest between the animistic pagan beliefs of a Cheremissian shaman-medicineman and his own psychopathological insights as a graduate doctor, Tchékhov, weakened by tubercular fevers and drug dependency, succeeds in solving the case and saving the life of a young prostitute, Mariya.