Freud's Mistress (12 page)

“I'm too little,” she said, smiling.

“I'm teasing.”

“Well, when you
do
get married, will you sthill live with us?”

“I certainly hope so,” said Freud, walking into the room.

“Papa, we have cake!” Sophie said, jumping up.

“How lovely, but there's none left, my princess,” he said, picking up the child and giving her a hug.

Minna leaned back and watched him with his daughter. She had spent the better part of the day deftly avoiding him, which was silly. Naturally, she was bound to run into him sooner or later. They both lived in the same house, for heaven's sake. So why did she feel so uncomfortable?

Ingesting coca with this man was definitely a lapse in judgment, but the more troubling issue was the fear that she was becoming infatuated with him. If that was the case, this was an unacceptable state of affairs. Nevertheless, and despite her misgivings, she registered everything about him at once as he walked in—the tinge of color in his face, his affectionate glance in her direction, the gentle embrace he gave his daughter.

Sophie disengaged herself from his arms and began skipping around the room. The shrill voice of the governess could be heard upstairs, calling her in frustration.

“Go on now,” Freud said in an authoritative tone. Sophie reluctantly walked out the door and banged up the stairs.

“I should go, too,” Minna said, rising from the sofa. “I was about to take a walk. . . .”

“If you don't mind, I'll join you.”

“No patients this afternoon?” she asked.

“Canceled,” he said.

How odd, Minna thought. He doesn't seem the least bit concerned about our conduct last night. In fact, as they ventured out into the streets, he acted as if nothing had happened. Perhaps nothing did, she thought.

But she knew it was a lie.

I
t was twilight, with a perfect quality to the air, and gaslights flickered on the corners where heavy-booted policemen were beginning their night shifts. They walked down a narrow side street, past a row of art dealers and a cigar shop, where he ducked in, walking directly to the back to consult with the owner. She waited up front, surrounded by glazed walnut cabinets, inhaling extravagant, husky aromas of complex notes. The whole place evoked a kind of exotic adventure with names like Monte Cristo, Quintero, and La Gloria Cubana carefully typed on white parchment and displayed in brass plates on the door of each cabinet. Sigmund considered several different brands, selected one, and rolled it gently between his fingers as though it were a fine piece of silk.

“H. Upmann, produced in Cuba by a German banker. It's delicious,” he said, lightly pressing the cigar to her nose. It was sweet and dry with a dark, mahogany-colored wrapper.

“Heavenly,” she whispered, in mock reverence. There was a hush in the room, almost churchlike. Men and their cigars, she thought. And their wine. And their women . . .

They were almost home when he suggested they stop for a drink. Minna could see Café Central up ahead and a few waiters loitering outside. She should have been back hours ago.

“It's getting late,” she said, with a tentative smile.

“It's not that late and I'm parched. . . .”

“I don't know . . . it's been so long . . . the children . . .”

He stared at her, dangling his offer in the air.

“Really, Sigmund, I can't stay.”

“Well, if you were
going
to stay, what would you have?”

She smiled, giving in. “A glass of wine. Half hour at the most.”

The place was dimly lit, with bentwood chairs leaning against bare tables. A few stragglers were still sitting around, nursing their drinks, immersed in early-evening conversation but, other than that, the café was empty. If this were four o'clock, there wouldn't be a seat to be found. The turned-down gaslights hissed softly as they walked to a table toward the back. Minna settled in her chair, unbuttoned her jacket, and straightened her blouse. He sat opposite her, called over the waiter, and ordered a bottle of Barolo. She listened to him tell her how much he loved this café, how it was a refuge from his demanding schedule. How weary he was at the end of the day. And even before. Then he abruptly changed course.

“So tell me candidly, my dear. Are you happy here with us?” he asked.

“Why, of course. Why wouldn't I be? Everything's wonderful.”

“Everything? That's remarkable, Minna.”

“Well, of course, not everything.”

He looked at her and said nothing. He was a man who used silence to his advantage. She peeled off her gloves and then fussed with her napkin while he continued looking at her. He noticed that her neck was longer than her sister's and her lips were glossy and unlined. She glanced up at him, her cheeks still shining with color from the walk.

“Sometimes I worry that I'm a burden to this household,” she said, dabbing her forehead with her handkerchief.

“You're far from that. I hope we've conveyed that to you.”

“And my future. I can't impose on you forever.”

“It's no imposition. I don't understand your—”

“It's not that difficult to understand,” she said, interrupting him. “I'm without a job, funds, penniless, impoverished, destitute,” she said wryly.

“Insolvent?” he added helpfully, with a hint of a smile.

“Exactly.” She laughed.

“Joking aside, Minna, you know you always have a home with us.”

“That's extremely kind but I can't stay here indefinitely.”

“Why not?” he asked, casting his eye over a group of students who were about to sit down next to them and then thought better of it.

“Surely you don't have to ask. It's keeping me up at night.”

“What is?”

“My future.”

“Your future is keeping you up at night?”

“Well, not only my future,” she said, pausing. “If you must know, I've been having these strange dreams,
Nachtmahre
. Highly disturbing.”

“In what way?”

“Are you analyzing me?”

“Of course not. Do you remember anything about them?”

“Oh, they're nonsense, mostly,” she said, taking a sip of wine.

“Do you dream of missing a train?” he asked.

“No.”

“Do you dream of flying through the air or falling off a cliff?”

“No.”

“Do you dream of standing naked in front of strangers with no embarrassment whatsoever?”

“No. Do you?”

“It's a common dream, Minna.”

“How long have you been having it?” she asked, smiling.

He laughed and then became serious.

“Tell me.”

“Well,” she said in a low tone, leaning forward slightly, “I see myself as an old spinster, living alone in a dreary pension with lots of mangy cats. You're allergic, as I recall? Anyhow, the place smells like mackerel and no one ever comes to call.”

He gave her a withering look. “Don't humor me,” he said.

“I doubt that I could,” she said, draining half her glass of wine. “All right, if you
must
know, sometimes I see Ignaz beside me in bed. He's dead. And he looks terrible, ghoulish. He scares me.”

“Your beloved Ignaz?” he asked, poker-faced.

“I don't know why I'm even telling you this. It's ridiculous.”

“It's not ridiculous. Not at all. In fact, I've been working on a way to interpret dreams.”

“Interpret them? I thought they came from problems with one's internal organs or indigestion or some such thing.”

“Most doctors will tell you that, but they're idiots. It's astonishing that, in spite of thousands of years of effort, the scientific understanding of dreams is still so backward. We're not much better off than the ancients.”

He went on to say that in prescientific times, the classic philosophers believed that dreams were connected to the world of superhuman beings—revelations from gods and demons. And they could foretell the future—a life of good fortune or tragedy.

“Even now,” he said, “the majority of doctors and scientists will argue that dreams are merely a reaction to some external disturbance, like a flickering light from a candle, rain, thunder, or a lumpy mattress. The most educated men of our century still think dreams are caused by sensory stimuli when that's only a minor factor. It's all so unsophisticated. They believe the mind is somehow cut off in dreams. When in fact, the mind is
everything
.”

“So if dreams don't come from rain and thunder, and they don't come from indigestion, where
do
they come from?”

“Ah,” he said, smiling and clearly relishing the question. He gently tapped her on the side of the head. “They come from you. They're derived from your own experiences.
Internal
sensory, not external. And
I'm
the first person to say this.

“Dreams have meaning.”

He searched her face for a reaction, to see if she appreciated his stunning discovery. The image of him at that moment, in magnificent self-confidence, his dark eyes shining, stayed with her long afterward. She took a sip of the very good wine and then said, “So tell me what my dream about Ignaz means.”

“It's not that simple. It's disguised, maybe something from your childhood.”

“I'm not sure what you're talking about, Sigmund.”

“A dream borrows from many places, its fragments from another day, another time . . . strange images of an aunt, a cousin . . . a fiancé.”

“I don't usually remember my dreams, but when I do, they all seem like nonsense.”

“Seemingly. Past loves smiling on the couch beside you, asking after your health and then brandishing a weapon . . . or perhaps a sexual encounter with someone entirely unsuitable. More wine?”

“Yes, please. Go on.”

“My patients' dreams are anything and everything, mixed up from their past and present. Sometimes their stories are completely absurd, and yet, when you understand their lives, it makes perfect sense.”

“For example?”

“For example,” he repeated, “one woman came to me with dreams of her sister in a coffin, an aunt whose jaw dropped off in front of her, and people pelting her with dead animals.”

“It makes mine seem rather tame . . .”

“Ghoulish fiancés aren't that tame,” he said, as he continued on about a forty-year-old widow who had been severely traumatized when her wealthy, older husband dropped dead in front of her while reading a newspaper. His family blamed her for the death, and she was beset by feelings of guilt and shame, which was why, he said, she was plagued by these dreams. And then there was the English governess who was hired by a wealthy widower. She was secretly in love with him but the feelings were not reciprocated. She was eventually fired, but losing the connection to the children caused her to dream about burned pudding. Another young woman kept having nightmares of men with angry faces attacking her, and would wake up with shortness of breath and a crushing feeling of strangulation. After meeting with her several times, he said, he found that her nightmares started when she discovered her sister was having intercourse with her uncle.

He stopped for a moment, carefully unwrapping his new H. Upmann. He clipped the end, wet it with his tongue, and then lit it.

“The reasons for these dreams are hidden,” he said, “but after examination, it all becomes clear. Dreams are simply symptoms, messages to ourselves conveying what's wrong. An allegory for our innermost thoughts, wishes, and beliefs. For instance, another patient dreamed that she kept trying to insert a candle into a candlestick but the candle was broken and wouldn't stand erect. So this meant—”

“Let me guess . . .” Minna interrupted, trying not to smile.

“Of course,” he said, “the symbolism is quite transparent.”

“Have you discussed this with your colleagues?”

“Many times. No one takes it seriously. They call my work fairy tales and foolishness. As Virgil said,
‘Flectere si nequeo superos, Acheronta movebo.'
‘If I cannot bend the higher powers, I will move the infernal regions.'”

There was a silence.

“Sigmund, would you happen to have a cigarette?”

He put down his cigar, motioned to a waiter lounging in the corner, and asked him for a smoke. The man handed him one from a pack in his waistcoat. Sigmund lit it and then offered it to Minna.

“So you'll unlock the mystery of my dreams?” she asked, inhaling deeply and leaning back in her chair.

He smiled at her. And then his smile changed into something different.

“I will indeed unlock the mystery of your dreams. And you, my dear.”

She looked at him and felt a surge of something close to happiness. Something she hadn't felt for years.

“We should leave,” she said reluctantly.

“Just one more drink.”

“I can't. Not for another moment. And I stayed far too late last night.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“No, I don't,” she said, standing up.

“I didn't think so,” he said, throwing some kronen on the table and helping her on with her coat.

There is a moment just short of touching, a slight gesture of the hand, perhaps, an angle of the head or the way two bodies move in tandem that gives a couple the look of intimacy. If someone had been passing Minna and Freud, as they walked out the door of the café, he would have noticed it: Minna, her face moist and flushed, her dark coppery bun slipping out of its confinement, and Sigmund, his hand grazing the small of her back, leading her toward the door.

W
hen Freud and Minna arrived back at the apartment, they were met by the silver-haired night maid, who opened the door at the fourth pull of the bell. The gas lamps in the hall were already lit, and by the sound of the clattering dishes and children running around upstairs, it was obvious they had missed supper.

“Sigi?” Martha called out from the top of the stairs, looking down on the couple. Freud nodded with a forced smile as he helped Minna take off her coat.

“Didn't you hear the bell? We've been standing out there for some time,” he said in annoyance. “Is that maid hard of hearing?”

“Not at all,” Martha said, climbing down the marble stairway. “We were just sitting with the children. Would you like your supper now?”

“Thank you, but I'm not hungry.” He nodded slightly at Minna and then walked past Martha toward his office. She gave him a perfunctory kiss on the cheek, which he barely acknowledged as he disappeared into his study.

“Where have you been?” Martha said, cradling her bad arm. “You've been gone three hours. I had to feed the children myself.” The air smelled of boiled beef, vinegar, and tension.

“I'm sorry, I lost track of time,” Minna said, taken aback by Martha's anger. “I ran into Sigmund and accompanied him on a few errands.”

“Well, you've missed supper, but I can have Cook put together a plate for you.”

“Thank you,” Minna said, irritated. After all, she wasn't a child.

“The beef might be a bit tough. Our butcher was ill and his assistant cut it with the grain even after I told him how I liked it. Now it's falling into stringy threads, which couldn't in any way be called tender . . .
and
it's been cooking for so long. Perhaps you'd like something else?”

There was a long silence as the question hung in the air, Martha holding her ground and Minna deciding how to respond.

“I'm sure it'll be fine,” Minna replied.

“All right, dear,” Martha said, “but the cherry dumplings have gone cold. Would you like Cook to reheat them also? Although, on second thought, she might have left for the evening.”

“It's fine, Martha. Never mind. I'm tired, anyway.”

“All right, then,” Martha replied, as she fiddled with the key on the gaslight, turning the wick down, lifting off the globe, and blowing on the flame.

“They smell less if you blow them out,” she said. “By the way, in the future, suppertime is not a good hour to disappear. Unless of course, Sigmund needs you.”

Her sister's tone was strained, her inflection brittle. How unpleasant she was, Minna thought to herself. Getting so upset because she was a few hours late, when heaven knows she had been working nonstop since she'd arrived. The two sisters stood opposite each other, their countenances so similar. The evening light played on the surfaces of the freshly polished wood as Minna was suddenly seized by a wave of guilt. The problem was not merely that Minna had been at a café drinking with Martha's husband while her sister stayed home to care for the children. The more explosive issue was that Minna's feelings toward Sigmund were not altogether innocent. There was no excuse for it and she knew it. She went back to her room in uncomfortable silence. As though they'd had an argument and both decided not to mention the real reason.

She opened the door to her room to find Sophie sitting cross-legged on her bed, with a book of folktales on her lap.

“Mama thaid you'd read me this before I go to sthleep,” she said.

“Oh, Sophie dear, it's so late,” Minna said.

What she'd really like to do is have a bit of gin, take a bath, and crawl into bed. However, one look at the child's disappointed face and Minna pulled Sophie on her lap and began to read.

It was the story of Franz, a little country mouse who lived in a little country house with red-checked curtains, two mouse-sized armchairs, and a cozy fireplace. He wore a red beret and glasses, and was filled with joy as he had just stolen a plate of strawberries and tartlets from a nearby farmhouse and delivered it to his three good-natured mouse siblings and adorable, round, furry parents, the sort of characters that populate children's literature, but not, alas, their real lives. The stories were sweet and rambling, and as Sophie cuddled into her, both Minna and the child fell fast asleep.

•   •   •

T
he next morning, Minna awoke early and deposited Sophie back in her room, taking care not to wake Mathilde. She was desperate for coffee and bread, as she had had no supper the night before, but the thought of running into Sigmund kept her in her room until the appointed breakfast hour. This morning, as she had done since she arrived, she got the children up, fed them breakfast, and helped organize their schedules. Martha was perfectly pleasant and there seemed to be no residual annoyance from the night before.

“How did you sleep, my dear?” Martha asked.

“Just fine, thank you. And you?”

“Like a baby. I was so exhausted I could barely move. Fell asleep the moment my head touched the pillow. Sigmund, on the other hand, was up most of the night working in his study. I just don't know what to do with that man.”

Martha put on her hat and coat and left for the butcher. She told Minna she was planning to complain about last night's meat, and then afterward she would stop at the dressmaker's. Minna wanted to tell her that she might consider another dress pattern rather than the dowdy, outmoded one she always used, but decided against it. She was straightening the parlor when she heard loud voices coming from the foyer.

Minna peeked out the door and saw Dr. Josef Breuer, Freud's closest colleague and mentor, standing in the vestibule below. Fourteen years older than him, he had the appearance and demeanor of a kindly uncle. The cadence of his speech was impressively slow, like that of a scholar, in contrast to Freud's sharp retorts, infused with unapologetic disappointment and anger.

“Try as I might, I can't agree with your conclusions. My case studies just don't support them,” Breuer said.

“Then your case studies are wrong,” Freud replied, scowling at his former mentor.

“You're taking this too personally, Sigmund.”

“How am I supposed to take it?”

“I'm not saying I disagree with everything. But your findings are a grave overvaluation of sexuality. You've gone too far.”

“You think I've gone too far! I haven't gone far enough!” Freud said, his fury filling the air with tension.

Minna assumed they were arguing over Freud's
Studies in Hysteria
. The lecture that she had attended had been defensive at the end, and he had told her that his conclusions concerning hysteria were being challenged by other scientists.

“You're my most brilliant student. Your theories are inspired, but you must compromise . . . make some changes. . . .”

“There is no compromise with the truth,” Freud fumed, his voice rising as he waved a bunch of papers in the air.

“I'm simply suggesting that you need further findings before presenting this to the council. These men are strong willed, like you,” Breuer said, smiling, trying to appease him. “If you continue in this vein, they'll cut you off.”

“Let them.”

“Sigmund. You know I support you. I send you patients. When you've been short of funds, I've tried to help. But I'm telling you, by doing this, you're isolating yourself.”

“Good day, Josef,” Freud said, his face red with indignation, as he walked the man to the door.

“Can we discuss this another time?”

“I don't see the point,” Freud said.

Minna watched as Breuer carefully placed his hat on his head, straightened his tie, and left as Freud stormed back into his office, slamming the door. She ventured down the stairs and knocked on the door to his study.

“What!” he barked.

“It's me,” Minna said, hesitantly opening the door.

“Come in! Did you hear that? Doling out praise as he tries to destroy me.”

He was sitting in his desk chair, shoulders hunched, puffing on a cigar with that hot-under-the-collar look.

“He thinks just because I owe him money, he can tell me what to do,” he said, flicking his ashes on the floor and kicking them aside.

“I'm not sure that's fair. It didn't sound like—”

“Fair! You tell me what's fair. I work day and night, I'm on the verge of a major breakthrough, and he harasses me with his picky objections,” he said bitterly. “And what good has he done? I'm not even a professor. Year after year he stands by watching others get promoted over me. Still a
Privatdozent
after all this time.”

“You can't deny the man cares for you.”

“Don't defend him. You have no idea. I hope his practice is obliterated, in ruins. See how
he
likes it when someone wreaks havoc on his work.”

Minna was suddenly reminded of Martin after Oliver teased him about his poetry.

“I hate you,” Martin had said, his face turning red, his veins sticking out of his neck. “I will hate you until the day you die. I hope everything you do turns to filth.”

“You look tired, my dear,” Minna said, observing Freud's puffy eyes. “Martha tells me you didn't sleep at all last night.”

“I was revising part of my theory,” he said, putting his research together in a packet and handing it to her. “And for what, I might ask?”

“What's this?” she asked, taking the folder.

“Worthless pieces of paper, if you listen to Breuer. Read it and decide for yourself. I'll be gone next week, but we can discuss it when I return.”

“Why, of course,” she said, thrilled, clutching the folder under her arm.

•   •   •

M
inna stayed up half the night looking over the notes. She was well aware that Freud had flung this thing into her arms, almost on a whim, after banishing his mentor, Breuer, from his study. Nevertheless, she was flattered. At first she thought it might be just a summary of what she had heard in the lecture. But from what she could glean from a preliminary reading, he had added more case studies and more proof of his discovery.

For the next week, Minna's days were filled with family activities, errands, and outings. But after the children were asleep and the house was finally still, she sat on her bed and took out his report, sifting through it as if it were buried treasure.

I decided to start from the assumption that my patients knew everything that was of any significance to their treatment and that it was only a question of getting them to communicate it . . . penetrating into deeper layers of memory, using all the weapons in the therapeutic armory, forcing our way in, overcoming resistances all the time, like a surgical intervention akin to the opening up of a cavity filled with pus. . . .

She stayed up writing notes on the side, compulsively filling an empty journal with her thoughts. Her neck strain came on about the third night and she borrowed a writing desk from downstairs. She wished she had electric lights in her bedroom. It would be much easier than reading by candlelight. It was a difficult and slow process to digest it all, but this solitary activity gave her a window into how Freud's mind worked. She could hear his disembodied voice in the report and she longed to discuss it with him, but he was still away at a congress in Berlin.

Through it all, she began to form her own opinions of his work. She could see why Breuer had some objections . . . why he disagreed with the proposition that every neurotic symptom had a sexual origin. Weren't fear, injury and disease, the loss of a family member, bankruptcy pivotal? Couldn't these misfortunes also cause neurosis and hysteria? For instance, she had been devastated by Ignaz's death. She still had nightmares about it. But the cause of her discomfort wasn't sexual. Ignaz died of the white plague. She felt guilty she didn't visit him, but what, one might ask, is sexual about that?

Also, she noticed that almost all of Sigmund's case studies were women—upper-middle-class women and very unhappy ones at that. She thought about her mother, who used to eat gobs of strudel at tea or retire to her room for days on end when she was “not herself.” Everyone always knew when Emmeline was upset, which was most of the time after their father had died. Now, according to this report, Sigmund would argue that her mother's behavior was driven by guilt over some secret form of sexual deviance and that she needed to be prodded and pushed to talk about her feelings. This process would eventually make her feel better and, supposedly, she wouldn't continue to torture the rest of the family with her bitterness and frustrations. This sounded highly doubtful to Minna. In Minna's experience, the more her mother focused on her problems, the more she bedeviled those around her. In fact, in Minna's opinion, the less she talked, the better. Perhaps she might be better off not thinking about her mother at all.

When Minna finally reached the last line of the report, she smiled. It was so typical of Freud's unbridled sense of entitlement.

“We shall, in the end, conquer every resistance by emphasizing the unshakable nature of our convictions. . . .”

Like one of his heroes, Julius Caesar, Minna thought. If he couldn't tolerate criticism from his mentor, Breuer, he certainly wouldn't welcome it from her. She could still safely give him her reaction and perhaps just touch on her reservations, but she would have to be extremely careful.

She looked out the window and saw the light breaking through the thick rain clouds that had gathered during the night. It was still quiet in the house except for the wind rattling the windows and the metal radiator hissing away, sounding like an old man half asleep. The heating system was antiquated and erratic, as were most things in this apartment. Her eyes ached and she felt as if she'd been drugged.

By eight a.m., the rain was coming down in hard, steady sheets. The governess had not appeared, and lessons would not resume until tomorrow. The children were naturally at loose ends, their routine upset, their outings canceled.