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by

MRS. HILDA STEKEL

London

MY HUSBAND, Wilhelm Stekel, ended his life voluntarily in London on June 25, 1940. Thus, suffering humanity lost one of its great healers. In his farewell letter, my husband asked me to publish his Autobiography. He suggested that I shorten the manuscript and write a last chapter dealing with his illness and death.

The publication of this Autobiography, a matter so close to my heart, was delayed by the intricate events of world history. I am, therefore, pleased and deeply touched because my husband’s last wish is now fulfilled; and I am most grateful to the American Journal of Psychotherapy and to the Liveright Publishing Corporation for their readiness to honor the deceased by publishing his last work.¹

Within the covers of this small volume is the essence of Wilhelm Stekel’s work and personality. The book also renders a service to the public, to the author’s many pupils, followers, readers, colleagues, and patients in all parts of the world by informing them of the real reasons for his suicide, the motives of which have been misinterpreted by some newspapers and scientific journals and by many individuals.

I asked Dr. Emil A. Gutheil of New York City to undertake the difficult task of revising my husband’s Autobiography. I felt that I was too close to the subject to treat it with the desired editorial impartiality. Dr. Gutheil, as one of Dr. Stekel’s first pupils and most faithful friends, appeared best suited for the assignment. I thank him on this occasion for his splendid achievement.

Dr. Stekel began writing the story of his life while he was still in Vienna. He had finished his Technique of Analytical Psychotherapy² and felt an urge to conclude his literary work with an autobiography. He hoped that by publishing a frank and unbiased account of his own life he might be able to contribute some constructive ideas to the problems of education, mental hygiene, and the prophylaxis of nervous disorders.

Three days before the war started I returned from Norway to England. I had visited my daughter, Dr. Erica Wendelbo, who had gone to Norway after we had fled from Vienna, and married there. I joined my husband who was in the country at this time. Writing his autobiography offered my husband a welcome stimulation and helped him to weather the tense atmosphere of these first weeks after the outbreak of the war.

Our plans were unsettled. We had contemplated a long stay in the country. However, when my husband finished his autobiography he could not endure country life any longer and returned to London. He stayed at the hotel where we had lived upon our arrival in England. Today, I regret that we had no chance to have a home and that it was his fate to die “homeless” in more than one sense.

I could not accompany him to London because I was convalescing after a serious operation and was in poor physical and mental condition. My aged mother and I lived with a friend, Miss Elna Kallenberg, now Mrs. F. L. Lucas, in Cambridge. Elna’s kindness and companionship were indeed helpful as we strove to endure the depressing and uncertain lot of refugees. I am fulfilling my husband’s wish when I thank our “Guardian Angel” in this way.

I also take this opportunity to thank Mr. Fritz Mumenthaler of Berne, Switzerland, who, by storing my husband’s precious library, saved it from destruction. I owe it to this noble-minded man, who previously was unknown to us, that my husband’s library is now available to me. Incidentally, it was Elna and our young friend, Dr. Karl Merkel, who first rescued the library by sorting out the enormous amount of books we had and sending them to Switzerland. In Vienna, all of Stekel’s books and manuscripts were destroyed as were the books of Freud, Adler, and many other authors.

My husband was happy when he was able to resume his practice and continue his other activities in London. The uneventful months of the “phony war” found him in relatively good spirits. He borrowed music from a lending library and spent many hours at a piano which belonged to the hotel. It was remarkable how easily he was able to adapt himself to circumstances, and how patiently he endured the limitations imposed upon him by his diabetes and prostatic trouble. His vital energies, though, were reduced noticeably by the harrowing experience of emigration as well as by an acute intestinal disease which attacked him shortly after his arrival in London. He aged rapidly thereafter. His diabetes grew worse and he was forced to take insulin to keep it under control.

One day, in February or March, 1940, I was called urgently to the hotel. I found my husband in bed, completely apathetic. I was told that he was in a hypoglycemic coma, probably because he had injected too large a dose of insulin. I was surprised that he refused the orange juice we offered and that it had to be forced into him. Soon the glucose had its effect and he recovered. I suspect that this was his first suicide attempt—made with conscious or unconscious intent. He had at that time diabetic gangrene of the foot which troubled him a great deal. Those who know how much my husband loved long walks will appreciate the hardship such suffering brought upon him. As a physician he knew, of course, what this condition meant.

In April, Norway was overrun by the Nazis, and I worried about my daughter who lived in Elverum where the first battles took place. My husband was very much upset about reports of the Nazi occupation of this area, and his foot condition grew markedly worse. When, after two anxious months, we received the news that Erica was alive, our relief was wonderful.

My husband was unshaken 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.