The Lost Prince (15 page)

“How did Jesse Livermore know what was coming?” Eleanor asked Will Honeycutt one morning.

“I told him,” Will said, “and he believed me.” Then he stared at her hard.

“And did you follow his lead and sell short with your own shares?” They both knew that was against the rules. Will had promised in the beginning to keep his own holdings within the Hyperion Fund, to gamble with only his ten percent.

“I did.”

“And you made a great deal of money?”

“I did.” He stared for a moment, then he asked point-blank, “How did you know?”

“I just did,” she said quickly. “I cannot say that I understand you, but I did know that.” And this time Will Honeycutt looked visibly shaken. “And that will not happen again, Mr. Honeycutt. You will not gamble with your own future again. Can I have your word on that?”

Will Honeycutt looked defiant for a moment, but remained silent, then said finally, “You can.” And that was that.

“And now,” Eleanor said again quickly, breaking the spell, “we have our work to do. We can begin reinvesting our Chicago money. We shall continue with motorcars. Again, it will be exclusively the new General Motors.”

“Shouldn’t we just leave it in Chicago?” Will said, very comfortable with the new investment skills he had acquired.

“No,” she said, “there is greater margin back in General Motors.”

And then after the crash of 1907 had run its course, both Eleanor and Will Honeycutt marveled, as did the whole country, at the omnipotence of Mr. J. P. Morgan. “I shall meet that man someday,” Eleanor said seriously, and Will Honeycutt shook his head again.

“I am sure you will,” he said.

“You will help me,” she said. She made no mention that the meeting, one she knew she was destined to arrange, would concern not investments but Eleanor’s foreknowledge of the fate of Mr. Morgan’s great ship the
Titanic
.

DR. HALL’S CONFERENCE

I
t was in 1906 that, sensing the seriousness of his heart condition, Eleanor decided to share with William James the first of her many secrets. “There is something I wish to tell you,” she said on one of their walks along the Charles River near Harvard.

“I am always glad for that,” he said.

“It concerns the book
City of Music,
” she said. “Jonathan Trumpp is a nom de plume.”

“I gathered,” James said. “An artistic young man not far removed from my brother’s crowd perhaps, although I was never able to discover who it might be.”

“Mr. Trumpp is a young woman.”

The great professor looked perplexed as if he, the one who considered every possibility, had not considered that possibility. “A young woman?” he repeated. “And just how would you know such a thing?”

“A young woman,” she said, “and one you know quite well.” She gazed out at the river until the message sank in.

“Oh my,” he said, with something like a gasp.

“I’m afraid so,” she said. “My nom de plume.”

“Goodness,” the great man said. “That is a matter for some consideration.”

“I know,” she said with a soft smile. “It takes some getting used to, even for me, I must admit, and after all this time. It began when I was in my last year at Smith. I had been to hear the New York Philharmonic and
had penned a critique to the
New York Times
. I used the name of the janitor at our house.” William James shook his head slowly. “My letter was published, and the editors asked for more, which I wrote, two or three more pieces, using the same pen name. Then, after graduation my dear headmistress Miss Hewens, who knew of Mr. Trumpp’s true identity, suggested I travel to Vienna and write more. You were one who counseled that, I believe.”

He smiled warmly and nodded his agreement. “I do remember that part,” he said. “I thought it an excellent idea, to give you the breadth of experience. But I did not know of your writing.”

“I had quite a moving experience there in Vienna, and
City of Music
was the resultant work.”

William James gazed at her, taking in the import of what he had just learned. “This book caused quite a stir,” he said. “It is a poignant account of that city’s magical powers.” He smiled at the thought, then wrinkled his brow. “And its vulnerability,” he added. “And I believe it is credited for much of Gustav Mahler’s initial reputation in this country. A considerable reputation.”

“Yes.” She nodded. “He has changed how people look at music, I believe.”

“Well, well,” he said, beaming at her. “I enjoyed it the first time I read it, but I shall reread it with greater care. And with, I must admit, considerable pride,” he added, still shaking his head in disbelief, piecing it all together. “And that is why you went to Vienna in the first place,” he said.

“My dear El,” the professor said to her one morning shortly after that, “you have introduced me to the most interesting ideas and people.” He gazed at her again in amazement. “Since your sojourn in Vienna, you have changed dramatically. You seem to have developed a maturity beyond your years.” He searched for the word. “A gravity, as if you returned with some sort of mission. It has appeared that you have seen the world and know what is important and what is not.”

“Do you think I have become—” She paused, searching for the word. “Do you think I have become
worldly
?” she said.

He thought for a moment on the word. “Yes,
worldly
would be one way
to describe the change I noticed, in the best sense, I would add,” he reassured her.

“My experience in Vienna was all-consuming. I became swept up in a situation that was both wonderful and horrible. I gave all to it and held back nothing. It has come at some price, I fear.” It was the first time that she had revealed to anyone some of the darker parts of this newfound worldliness.

“When you returned, you were different,” he said, a look of concern on his face.

“It is an old story, you know: the loss of innocence. Haven’t you observed that as a universal theme in literature?”

“That was my brother,” Dr. James said. “It was Henry who made that observation that the central theme in all world literature is the loss of innocence.” He gave her a look of genuine concern. “I suppose we ought to talk more about that,” he said.

“Perhaps we shall,” she said. “There is more I have to tell you.”

“As have I to tell you,” he said with a look of seriousness.

It was also on another of their long walks that he mentioned his friend Stanley Hall’s plans for a conference in 1909. “I would like to talk with Dr. Hall about that,” she said with an urgency that surprised William James. “I would like to make certain that he invites Sigmund Freud.”

Regardless of any troubling memories of her encounters with Sigmund Freud in Vienna, she knew the importance of his ideas. She knew from the journal the arrangements she needed to make in order for him to be introduced in America, and she knew it was her lot to pursue those moves with maximum effort and enthusiasm.

“Dr. Freud’s ideas are timely right now,” she said to William James. “There is something of vital importance in his talking cure, something the world needs.”

“Unconscious motivations,” her mentor said with a burst. “Dr. Freud’s talking cure is the key to understanding the unconscious mind. We have all heard much about him and his young colleague Carl Jung. Perhaps at Stanley’s conference we could meet them.”

When the original Austrian editions of his
Interpretation of Dreams
had arrived some years before, sent from Vienna by her friend Ernst
Kleist, she had given two to Dr. James, knowing he would find some appropriate use for the extra copy, and the recipient had been G. Stanley Hall, a former student of James’s who had been founding president at Clark University in Worcester, Massachusetts. And Dr. James had conveyed to her how grateful Dr. Hall was for the gift. “He has found much to be impressed with,” James said.

Then, some weeks later, when Eleanor heard how Dr. Hall had followed up with correspondences to the Viennese doctor, she said to Dr. James, “I wish to meet him. I think we have much to talk about.” So Professor James paved the way for the visit by informing his former student and old friend Stanley Hall in Worcester of Eleanor’s exposure to Sigmund Freud’s ideas on her trip to Vienna.

“You are unusually well informed, Mrs. Burden,” the famously brilliant Hall said to her in that first conversation about psychology and Sigmund Freud.

“Psychology is one of my keen interests.”

“Eleanor met Sigmund Freud when she was in Vienna in 1897,” James added proudly.

“I am impressed,” Hall said. “And I think you will appreciate this.” He reached into a drawer in his desk and produced a paper-bound book, its white cover intact, although extremely well-worn and browned with use and age. “This is a most prized possession.” He ran a hand over the cover. “It is a copy of ‘the White Book,’ the now very rare translation of
The Interpretation of Dreams,
Freud’s most important exploration of the unconscious mind. It was found in a book dealer’s shop and bought for a handsome sum. It is a gift from one of my students. These English translations have become collectors’ items. You can see how tattered it is.”

“I am familiar with the book,” Eleanor said, her surprise barely noticeable. “I am impressed that you possess such a copy.”

Dr. James took the book and turned it over in his hands before passing it to Eleanor, who took the volume and also turned it over a number of times, examining it with care, before handing it back to Dr. Hall, letting on nothing of her intimate knowledge of the volume’s origins.

“Dr. Freud has set us on a new course,” Dr. James said.

“And you find that course an important one?” she said.

“Oh my, yes,” Dr. Hall said, and Dr. James nodded.

Then, after a respectful silence, Eleanor added, “You are about to celebrate
a great anniversary of this university, I believe.” Dr. James had already mentioned that Hall was thinking of putting together a conference to mark the twentieth anniversary of the founding of Clark’s graduate school in 1889. “You could invite Professor Freud here as a commemoration.”

“Oh, goodness, I fear we do not have sufficient funds for such a grand idea.”

“That can be remedied,” she said with remarkable forthrightness. “I know of people with funds who would be interested in underwriting the project.”

“How interesting,” Dr. Hall said with a politely dismissive tone, until he saw the look of seriousness on James’s face and the earnestness in Eleanor’s. “What degree of underwriting?” he said.

“Whatever is needed,” she said. “It would be the conference of your greatest imaginings. Completely underwritten.”

Stanley Hall was silent for a long moment. “Dr. Freud and his colleagues from Europe,” Eleanor continued, confident with the full weight of the Hyperion Fund behind her, “and those you think appropriate from this country.” She paused as Hall only stammered, and then looked over at Dr. James, who simply nodded, with a suppressed smile of pride. “This conference will be of major significance in bringing this new and deeply important subject of psychoanalysis and exploration of the unconscious mind to the American public and thus to the world,” Eleanor said in conclusion. She spoke now with such authority that it took most of the air out of the room. “The gift would be commensurately significant and absolutely anonymous.”

Both men sat in silence for a moment, surprised by such words from this unassuming young woman. Hall pulled himself together enough to speak. “I would be interested in exploring this subject with your sources,” he said quietly, not a man accustomed to modesty.

“It will be arranged,” Eleanor said. “Dr. James will see to that.”

In the following months Eleanor traveled to Worcester by herself, to meet again with Dr. Hall. “Is Dr. Freud able to come?” she asked, and learned that Dr. Freud had declined, saying that a trip was too extravagant, and too much of a financial burden on himself and on his hosts.

“Please write him back and explain that all expenses will be covered in total, plus handsome honorariums for him and his colleagues. His presence
at this conference is of the utmost importance to this proposed event and to the American psychological community.” Dr. Hall did not speak. “Do you doubt my sincerity on this?” Eleanor said. “You have received the funds you need so far, I assume.”