In the winter semester 1888-89 I was a medical student in Jena and
attended the lecture and clinic of the famous psychiatrist Professor Otto
Binswanger. One dayit must have been in January 1889a patient who had recently
been brought in was led into the classroom. Binswanger presented him to us as
Professor Nietzsche! Now one thinks that this would have caused a mighty uproar!
Not a trace. Although as early as 1888 Georg Brandes had given lectures on him
in Copenhagen, the name Nietzsche was practically unknown in Germany, not only
to us clinicians in Jena but also to quite different people. There is a
classical witness to this fact: Nietzsche is not to be found in the fourth
edition of Meyers grosses Konversationslexikon from the year 1889. And how many
small feathered creatures can be found thereand in the year 1889 Nietzsche's
literary activity was finished forever. So Professor Binswanger should not be
blamed if all he could tell us about Nietzsche's writing activity was that
Nietzsche had formerly been active as a zealous Wagner-apostle but that he had
in recent years become just as fanatical a Wagner-enemy, and that this change
had perplexed his friends. I, for myself, when I heard the name Nietzsche,
recalled having read it once in the writings of the outstanding Viennese music
critic Eduard Hanslick, namely in an essay written in the year of the first
Bayreuth Nibelungen festivals (1876), in which the Wagner literature of that
time was examined critically. Two books which Nietzsche had in print at that
time, belonging to this circle were: The Birth of Tragedy from the Spirit of
Music and "Richard Wagner in Bayreuth." Hanslick dismissed them with a gesture
of contempt and characterized the writer as a crazy philologist who really had
no idea of music. At the time when he was brought into the Jena psychiatric
clinic, Nietzsche was unknown to the German public, and it must well be the
greatest irony of literary history that people were beginning to read his works
precisely when he stopped writing: one or two years later Nietzsche was the
great literary fashion.
But let us return to that Jena classroom. The man
sitting before us did not at first sight have the external appearance of a sick
man. He kept his figure, of middle height, in a stiff position; his face was
haggard, but not exactly emaciatedhis face, which a short time later the whole
world knew from countless pictures: the magnificent forehead bordered by thick,
plain, dark brown hair, the spirit-filled eyes under strong brows, the nose
short as Bismarck's, and under it, also suggestive of Bismarck, the mustache
that covered the beautifully matched lips, and to top the whole thing off, an
unspeakably beautiful chin. The clothing simple, but clean and neat. However,
the patient seemed to be having one of his good days: he was of clear
consciousness and good memory-capacity. Professor Binswanger began a
conversation with him about his former life. We learned to our astonishment that
he had been a professor in Basel at just twenty-four years of age, even before
receiving his doctorate, and that later persistent headaches had forced him to
resign from his office. He did not say a word about his activities as a writer.
Finally, as he reported, he had lived in Turin, and he began to praise this
place, which had particularly suited him since it combined the advantages of the
big city and the small town. This discussion made us all listen attentively, for
we had never heard a man speak this way. And in Jena we were spoiled on this
point, for teaching there at the same time were people like Ernst Haeckel,
Rudolf Eucken, Otto Liebmann, Wilhelm Preyer, all not only famous scientists but
also brilliant speakers. But this Basel professor emeritus was quite something
else! Later, when I read Nietzsche's works it became clear to me what had
startled me. I had just felt the magic power of the Nietzsche style for the
first time. For he spoke as he wrote: short sentences full of peculiar word
combinations and elaborate antitheses: even the scattered French and Italian
expressions which he so loved, especially in his last writings, were not
missing. His way of speaking had nothing of the lecturing professor about it. It
was "conversation," and by the soft tone of the pleasant voice one recognized
the man of best education. Unfortunately he did not finish his discussion. His
thread broke off in the middle of a sentence and he sank into silence. Professor
Binswanger then wanted to demonstrate a few disturbances in the patient's gait.
He asked Nietzsche to walk back and forth in the room. But the patient did this
so slowly and lazily that one could not perceive the phenomenon in question.
"Now, professor," Binswanger said to him, "an old soldier like you will surely
be able to march correctly!" This memory of his military time seemed to have a
stimulating effect on him. His eyes lit up, his form straightened up, and he
began to pace the room with a firm stride.
I subsequently saw Nietzsche
quite often during visits to the patients' ward which our teacher used to make
with us. His health varied: sometimes one saw him quiet and friendly, sometimes
he had his bad days. When I saw him for the last time, he presented a different
picture than the first time: he was in a highly excited state, and his
consciousness was apparently troubled. He sat there with a strongly reddened
face and eyes that flared up wildly and painfully, guarded by a keeper. On the
whole, however, institutional treatment had a favorable effect on him. He calmed
down and could for a time be left in the care of his mother and sister, who took
him to their home in Naumburg.
Simchowitz, S. "Der sieche
Dionysos: Eine persِnliche Erinnerung," Kِlnische Zeitung, August 29,
1925, from Conversations with Nietzsche: A Life in the Words of His
Contemporaries (Oxford Univ. Press, 1987), pp. 222-225.