Q: A Novel (19 page)

For several weeks, the
Kaiser Heinrich
tracks a humpback through the Caribbean Ocean. Freud is mesmerized by this quest. Humpbacks are a haunting, itinerant species. They roam the planet, sometimes migrating as far as fifteen thousand miles in a given year. They are huge and nimble. Adult humpbacks range between forty and fifty feet in length and weigh up to eighty thousand pounds, but are sufficiently acrobatic to breach and slap the water with their giant wavy tails. They are remarkably resilient, sometimes living for more than one hundred years. And, of course, they sing.

The humpback’s song is the most complex in the animal kingdom. It lasts as long as thirty minutes and is repeated for hours, sometimes even days, at a time. It is both miraculous and mysterious. Even modern scientists are unsure how the whales produce the music. While other baleen whales have a larynx, like their land-roving brethren, the humpbacks lack vocal cords. One modern theory is that they project air through the sinuses of their cranium. The purpose of the song is the ultimate enigma. Freud is fascinated by it. His sloop’s target continues to sing, even as the boat relentlessly pursues the whale through the waters of the Caribbean. In the evenings, Freud stands on the bow, marvels at the beauty of the song, and wonders what story this leviathan is telling.

Thinking about the lamentations of these ancient creatures makes Sigmund Freud and me feel small. When the
Kaiser Heinrich
succeeds in netting the humpback, Freud dissects the creature and is able to identify anatomical similarities to the hippopotamus, which will offer convincing, if not conclusive, support for his theory. His career will be made, but he feels a substantial measure of regret and thinks to himself that the whale’s song might have offered greater insight into the meaning of life than his own puny research ever can.

Following the
Kaiser Heinrich
expedition, Freud’s reputation grows exponentially. With Nastasia’s support, and often her company, he embarks on one expedition after another, each more ambitious than the one before it. By the middle of his life, Freud is a swashbuckling explorer who travels the Amazon with Theodore Roosevelt, follows Mawson and Shackleton to the end of the world, and leads the first major exploration of the interior of Madagascar. From each journey, he brings back riveting tales of existence under extreme conditions. He writes copiously, wondering aloud about the meaning of his observations, and is read widely.

In his public musings, Freud advocates a gentle, nonjudgmental doctrine that views human beings not as the end product of evolution but as one piece in the mosaic of nature, no more or less special than lemurs or emperor penguins. It is science, but Freud’s writing is accessible and possesses a spiritual, Buddhist quality. All life is sacred, he says. Man must be honest about his place in the scheme of things, and accordingly humble. His teachings resonate with people, and over time Freud gains a loyal and substantial following. At the turn of the century, Sigmund Freud is the most noted and influential public intellectual in the English-speaking world.

At the end of his life, he debates Herbert Spencer, the British philosopher, at Oxford University. Spencer is the most noted defender of a view that evolution is a process directed toward an ultimate end. Spencer writes voluminously too, and penetrably, and possesses his own legion of devotees. Taking Spencer on at Oxford is the climactic moment of Freud’s life. The debate is eagerly anticipated throughout all of Great Britain. I anticipate it eagerly for my own reasons: the debate marks an end to Freud’s journey and a beginning to my own next chapter.

Chapter Eighteen

I
n Frewin Court, off Cornmarket Street, the Oxford Union was abuzz. The grand Gothic revival designed by Alfred Waterhouse, architect of the London Natural History Museum and the rival Cambridge Union, had served as the forum for many great debates, but none of this magnitude. The event, bringing together two of the most prominent and influential thinkers of the nineteenth century, had been the talk of the campus for months. On the evening in question, student members of the society and dons of the university alike filed into the great hall with the breathless anticipation of those about to witness a heavyweight prize fight.

Celebrity debating was the brainchild of the president of the union, Frederick Edwin Smith. Chamber debating had been a staple activity of the union since its founding in the 1820s, but it had never been a moneymaker for the struggling union until Smith had the excellent idea of inviting prominent citizens to deliberate on the great issues of the day and the downright smashing idea of selling tickets. This latter idea held the promise of keeping the struggling debating society solvent. For saving the union, and for creating an event that captured the attention of the entire empire, focusing all eyes upon Oxon, Smith became a modest celebrity in his own right on the ancient campus.

Later the Baron of Birkenhead, later still the Viscount of Birkenhead, and latest of all the Earl of Birkenhead, Smith would play a critical role in the Anglo-Irish Treaty of 1921, which established the Irish Free State. He would also successfully galvanize opposition to a proposal that would have criminalized lesbianism, famously saying, “Nine hundred ninety-nine women out of a thousand have never heard a whisper of these practices.”

But this was all in the future. On this glorious evening in the spring of 1901, he was just a young man with a sardonic wit who liked to have a pint or two, or perhaps even three, thank you very much, and who early one morning over black and tans at the Purple Turtle floated the fanciful idea of inviting Sigmund Freud to debate Herbert Spencer, an invitation that was issued and, to Smith’s amazement, accepted by each of the great men, consequently earning F. E., as he was known to his friends, the attention of several people of influence in the Oxford community including, most notably, Margaret Eleanor Furneaux, the ravishing and dutiful daughter of the Reverend Henry Furneaux, renowned scholar of the Roman historian Tacitus, attention for which F. E. was deeply and profoundly grateful.

F. E. supervised the proceedings with all of the gravity a university student could muster. He wore a tie and a three-piece suit, which attire would become his uniform after he ascended to the bar. He pulled his long, stringy brown hair back behind his ears, revealing a stern part. At precisely seven o’clock, Smith called the assembly to order. With self-consciously absurd formality, he shouted in his loudest, most stentorian voice, “The question: This house believes in the progress of evolution.” Then, “Ladies and gentlemen, the conversants!”

Enter here to robust, deeply respectful applause, Dr. Herbert Spencer, escorted into the well by Alexander Shaw, later the second Baron Craigmyle, and deposited at a semicircular table, bequeathed to the Oxford Union upon his retirement in 1894 by William Gladstone, former head of the Liberal Party, four times prime minister of the empire, and, most importantly, before all that, president of the Oxford Union. Gladstone had the table designed in this fashion so that he could stare each of his cabinet ministers in the eye. In his dotage, Gladstone thought it would be perfect for his beloved union, and so, there it was. As had been scripted, Spencer took his place at the table in the traditional position of the pro discussant, and, when the applause finally subsided, he took his seat with the greatest of dignity.

Enter here to wild, enthusiastic cheers (and, it should be noted, more than a few jeers) the swashbuckling, vivacious, and striking biologist Sigmund Freud. He was, in every respect, a stark contrast to Spencer. Spencer dressed the part of the learned professor, wearing a formal suit, complete with bow tie, white silk pocket square, and pince-nez. He walked deliberately, in a stately manner, and projected from Gladstone’s desk, peering out over the assembly, a sense of gravitas. Freud seemed more akin to a great cricketer than to an academic. He bounded down the stairs into the well with the enthusiasm of a child and wore the clothes of an expeditioner.

As was obvious from the reaction of the assembly, Freud was a polarizing figure. During Spencer’s entrance, most of the philosopher’s supporters emulated the decorum of the great man himself. Freud’s, on the other hand, were rowdy and unstaid in their fervor. They began voicing their approval when Freud entered the room and continued for at least ten minutes after he took his seat. None of this sat well with Spencer’s devotees, who sighed and groaned and expressed their disapproval of Freud and his devotees in all sorts of passive-aggressive ways. Freud rose several times to acknowledge the expression of approval, but the crowd did not quiet, until Freud said loudly, “Gentlemen, please, please, please.”

After hearing this call for order, Edwin Smith nevertheless hesitated, thinking the support for Freud would spontaneously combust again. Even when it appeared that the commotion had in fact subsided once and for all, Smith rose with trepidation from his chair, testing the water in a way, to see if the crowd would remain quiet. It did, and the debate finally began.

Smith said, “By the rules of chamber debating, Mr. Spencer, as advocate of the pro position, shall have the first word.”

Hereupon, Spencer rose from the Gladstone desk and laboriously ascended to the despatch box. The members of the union watched in rapt attention, not because the sight of a man walking up two steps to a pedestal was so enthralling, but because they had a collective sense, as the masses eerily sometimes do, that something great was about to happen. They were right, of course. Jung, who might have been great friends with Freud in another life, attributed this to collective consciousness, but the plain truth is, the phenomenon could be observed but not explained.

As the unioners correctly intuited, this was a significant moment in history, one that would be discussed for decades to come. For Spencer and Freud would each die soon: Spencer, not surprisingly, from the ravages of old age; Freud, quite unexpectedly, from leptospirosis, a spirochete which he had contracted three months before the debate during an expedition to the Amazon. Desperate for water, Freud drank from a muddy tributary into which, unbeknown to Freud, a pizote had relieved itself just five minutes earlier, scurrying off when Freud’s expedition party approached. Even as Freud watched Spencer’s ascension, sharing the assemblage’s sense of awe in the moment, the bacterium was multiplying in his kidneys, which would fail, fatally, in six weeks’ time.

So these would be the last major appearances of the two greatest public intellectuals of their time: Spencer, the great philosopher, and Freud, the great, let us say man, for he was difficult to pin down. The occasion would be aggrandized in retrospect, in the manner such moments often are, and many would claim to have witnessed it who did not or could not possibly have, given the geographical and chronological constraints of their own lives. Such would later be the case with Bobby Thomson’s dramatic home run, which won the pennant for the Giants in 1951 and vanquished their hated rivals, “dem bums,” the Brooklyn Dodgers. Every Giants fan in New York City would claim to have been at the Polo Grounds that day. So it would be with this debate, the defining event of a generation.

Spencer cleared his throat and began. “Ladies and gentlemen of the Union, Mr. President, and my esteemed fellow discussant, Herr Freud, I am deeply honored by your invitation to join you this evening. As many of you know, I am a great supporter of civic discourse, and I applaud the noble intentions and aspirations behind this grand event in this hallowed hall. But I must confess to bewilderment at the specific question before us this evening. For what could be greater evidence of the progress of evolution than this event itself? Here we are gathered in the most modern and elegant of buildings, designed by the great Waterhouse himself, discussing great ideas, in the presence of the greatest minds of our day, at the greatest university in the history of mankind.”

This remark sparked a healthy round of cheers, somewhat ironically since Spencer himself had not attended any university as a student. As he yielded the podium to Freud, Spencer sheepishly and graciously said, loud enough for many in the front to hear, thus preserving the moment for history, “Dr. Freud, I hope you will forgive an old man for what they call at Hyde Park a cheap applause line. In my dotage I find that I am more desirous of public adoration than ever before.”

Freud warmly patted Spencer on the back and took his place at the despatch box. “Be not deceived, my friends,” he told the union, “the great Spencer said the same thing when we debated two years ago at Cambridge.” This remark inspired a roar of laughter. Even
F. E. Smith, who had resolved to maintain a dour countenance throughout the evening’s exchanges, could not suppress a smile.

Freud continued, more serious now. “Be not further deceived that complexity is proof of progress. Mankind is hardly unique in the sophistication of the physical structures it builds. Nine years ago, on an expedition in New Guinea, I encountered in the rain forest a heretofore undiscovered bird, which constructs out of fruit and twigs and bark the most magnificent bowers, which are both home to the bird and calling card in its elaborate mating ritual. These bowers rival any Waterhouse creation in complexity of design. And they are far more colorful and cheery!”

Laughter again, and as Freud yielded, Spencer warmly patted him on the back.

“But what bowerbird has ever built a Gothic arch?” asked Spencer from the podium.

“None,” said Freud, then muttered “thank god” to more howls of glee.

More serious now, Spencer said, “My worthy and finely humored adversary misses the true significance of this building in which we are all present tonight. It is not the physical complexity of this edifice that demonstrates the unremitting march of progress. Rather, it is significant for the social relationships that it represents and helps to foster. I will concede, willingly, to my good friend Herr Freud that humans are not alone in benefiting from the pressure of evolution toward increasing complexity. I fail to see how it helps his position to cite examples of increasing physical intricacy in the animal kingdom. This is only further evidence of the direction of time’s arrow. But, be that as it may, what is significant about this building is that it shows what my good friend Auguste Comte calls the progress of society. We are gathered here tonight, goodwilled men all, but of different viewpoints to be sure, for the impassioned but orderly discussion of ideas. Together, we seek enlightenment. That surely makes us distinct from our animal friends and our forebears, and just as surely makes us unique in the universe. It is nothing less than the culmination of thousands of years of evolution.”

Spencer sat down, and as Freud ascended the box again, it was clear to everyone in the room that, for all of his wit and good cheer, he had lost the upper hand in the debate. Freud may have been down, but he was not out.

“As some of you may know, I have just returned from a voyage to the Amazon. While following the River of Doubt, I saw the most wondrous things: flesh-eating fish and flying monkeys and aboriginal men who lack the control of fire. But what intrigued me most of all were the tiniest of creatures we met. Good Spencer, I wish you and your esteemed compatriot Comte could have seen them.

“My traveling companion, Theodore Roosevelt, and I have called these creatures the Amazon ant. The Amazon ant looks in many respects like the ants we all try to shoo from the pantry, but in their social organization, they are quite distinct, and most remarkable.

“The male workers of the Amazon ant have developed giant, daggerlike mandibles. They are fierce warriors and formidable foes in the insect world. But an undesirable consequence of this physical development is that the Amazon ant cannot care for its young. More dramatically, the ants cannot feed themselves.

“So how do they survive? They conduct raids. No colony can compete with the overwhelming strength of the Amazon ants. Indeed, their strength is so overwhelming that their most common victims, the formica ants, generally offer token resistance, if any. The Amazons invade and plunder the pupae, the young, of the formica.

“When these insects emerge from their cocoons, they are put to work for the Amazon ants. But wait, you say, the Amazons are unable to care for their young, so who cares for the children of their victims? The answer, remarkably, is the adults of the victims themselves. These victims are slaves in the truest human sense of the word. They have an integrated, ongoing culture that exists, ultimately, to serve their masters, the Amazon ants.

“By any standard, this is the most complex and intricate of social structures. If so inclined, one could attach great weight to its existence, regard it as proof of the march, if you will pardon the pun, of ant society toward greater and greater complexity. But, at bottom, it is nothing more than a utilitarian adaptation, made necessary by the Amazon’s development of a giant, cumbersome jaw.”

Freud ceded the podium, and it appeared to all gathered that he had regained the position of strength. But Spencer, like Freud, was not one to surrender easily. This time, he spoke from his seat.

“I find it ironic,” Spencer said, “that Herr Freud has once again countered my example of increased complexity with his own example of increased complexity. Complexity does not equate with progress.”

Freud said, “Well played. Were I in your shoes, I would have made the same point myself, good Spencer. I offer these examples for two reasons only. First, to show that the evolution of social complexity is not unique among humans. Second, to show that progress is an illusion. For surely we do not believe that ant society is progressing.”