Naturally, Ernest had a different version. He was not interested in his father, but in being. He was convinced that he had no kind of father-related complex whatsoever. The blunder he made by breaking the clocks and hitting his mother was a consequence of his anger caused by his mother’s indiscretion. Otherwise, he felt deeply sorry for his actions and he loved his mother. He had no intention of abandoning his convictions, but he was sorry that he had confided to me secrets that were worthy only of the elect few, thinking that I was more open to spirituality.
Miraculously, the complete disassociation of Ernest’s personality, which had reached a truly high degree, did not cause suffering, or even asocial behavior. Ernest was reconciled with that duality and he lived, conditionally speaking, quite normally. He no longer came to see me, but I followed his further development with interest. Apathetically he graduated from college and found a job. The people around him were satisfied and they considered him to be completely healed, but I feared that all of that could not end well. As it soon turned out, my fears proved to be justified. On the eve of Easter the next year, I got a letter from Mrs. M., Ernest’s mother, in which I was informed that Ernest had gone out on his bicycle one day and never come back. The police were informed, ads were run in the paper, all in vain. Since then, all traces of Ernest have been lost.
CORRESPONDENCE FROM MRS. MEIER TO FREUD
Zürich
23 September 1930
Dear Herr Doctor Freud,
Two years ago, I informed you of the tragic disappearance of my son. Because I know how carefully you follow the lives of your patients, I feel obligated to inform you that I recently received reliable information that Ernest is alive and well.
When I had finally lost all hope, I was visited by Mr. Schleiermacher, a business acquaintance of my father, who reported to me that, while on a trip to Istanbul this July, he had seen Ernest in the company of some rather dubious characters. Led by a certain J. Kowalsky (Mr. Schleiermacher claims that he is an anarchist), they were riding velocipedes around Beyazit Meydani. Mr. Schleiermacher, being a thorough man and desiring to be certain, said hello to Ernest who got off his bicycle and politely returned his greeting. The abovementioned gentleman assured me that Ernest seemed to be completely composed, that he acted and talked normally, with the exception of the slightly strange comment: “There, now you have a good reason to visit my mother.”
However, a few days later, my joy at hearing these things was clouded by a letter from Ernest. The contents of that letter filled me with a mixture of profound sadness and terrible fear. In that letter bursting with confusing sentences, Ernest accused me of being Mr. Schleiermacher’s mistress, and he predicted that I will die in the near future. Because only you can help me, there is something that I must confess. Before I married my late husband, Rheiner, I did have relations with Mr. Schleiermacher on several occasions. Likewise, during our latest encounter, I had relations with the same gentleman again; you can probably understand: I am a widow, the loneliness, the good news… What bothers and frightens me is indeed the question: How could Ernest have known about my relationship, the first part of which took place before he was born, and the second while he was thousands of miles away from Zürich?
Then, there is one more matter that I have never told you. Several months before his death, Ernest’s father showed signs of, if I may say so, quiet madness. In some old book he had bought at a second-hand shop, he found the notes of the previous owner; some gibberish about a sect of heretics on an imaginary island somewhere in the far north Atlantic. If he had been introverted earlier, Rheiner finally broke off all communication with those around him. He spent his final days at the printer’s, where he printed the abovementioned manuscript — a pile of impudent fantasies — in a print-run of only six copies.
I am convinced that my mistake — not telling you about these facts — was perhaps fatal; perhaps, if you had had those facts available, you could have done more for Ernest.
I hope that you realize what a truly uncomfortable position I am in. I am at the edge of my spiritual strength, and I hope for your support and encouragement.
With profoundest respect,
Herta Meier
FROM ERNEST TO HIS MOTHER
Istanbul
10 October 1930
Dear Mom,
I’m writing to you from Constantinople, the capital of Byzantium. You have certainly heard of Hagia Sophia, the former basilica, later a mosque and now a museum. I go there quite often. Upon capturing Constantinople, the Turks executed a terrible slaughter in the house of God, destroying the frescos, breaking the crystal vessels, but they could not reach the painting of Christ the Almighty in the main dome and his gentle, serious face still looks down from the vault, just as he watches the entire fallen world from eternity and into eternity; among others, he watches you and Mr. Schleiermacher who came here, ostensibly on business, to accidentally find me. Mr. Schleiermacher is a clever gentleman, just as you are also a clever lady. I have no complaints about you. Dr. Freud would have more to complain about in connection to the unconscious, upon which he constantly insists. Your gesture is completely transparent to everyone except for the two of you; I’m not saying that you made a deal for Schleiermacher to find me so that you could fall into my arms — such a thing would never cross your minds, even in your dreams. No, with the words of Dr. Freud: Schleiermacher came here to find me driven by the unconscious, and that should not surprise you because unconsciously he knows where I am. Neither you nor your Romeo can even imagine that you are doing anything improper; on the contrary, your thoughts are ultimately honorable, but you (the entire West) do the iniquities suppressed in the depth of your souls, from where very little manages to surface.
Now I will explain to you what those iniquities consist of, the iniquity of solipsism that forced you to poison my father and then to convince yourself and everyone else that he died of a stroke. I made this decision yesterday, in the Hagia Sophia, looking at the figure of Jesus. Suddenly it occurred to me — Lord, what a circus that will be when we stand before the true face of God, when all our hidden thoughts are revealed, when Mr. Schleiermacher begins to justify himself: “But what was wrong with me going to Constantinople on business?”
What the theologians used to interpret as a multitude of sins, is in fact just one sin — the sin of self-deception. As time passes, it grows and a man becomes a slave to his own lies to such an extent, they take such control over him, that he denies everything before God, who is willing to forgive all, completely obvious things, and that is ridiculous because we exist on God like moss.
In the Gospel according to Thomas there is a line that I will quote from memory: “Whatever you let out of yourself, that will save you; whatever you keep in yourself, that will destroy you.” I want to tell you that those things you have not let out, a rather large pile of garbage, has decided to destroy you, all of those secrets of yours and all that junk from the antique store of your memories.
I am not judging you in any way. Moreover, since you are my mother, that is, if I were in your place that suits me very well, it is my duty to instruct you, in just a few words, about how to behave when death comes. You see, life can be compared to riding a velocipede: you ride automatically, thinking about what will happen at your destination, enjoying the singing of the birds, and then you suddenly lose your balance, everything stops and at the decisive moment (overcome with fear), you see the surface of the earth hurtling toward your face…