Freud's Mistress (25 page)

M
inna slept well that night. The Fliess fiasco had been a blessing in disguise. Or so she thought. Now that the man's reputation was tarnished, Minna assumed that she would return to her former position of prominence as Freud's friend, lover . . . even his muse.

In fact, the opposite occurred. In the next few weeks, Freud returned to his brusque manner and brutal schedule. He brushed silently by her in the hallway and made no effort to come home for meals or engage in any conversation. But the worst was, except for discouraging glances, he had stopped looking at her.

Somewhere, in the midst of all this, it was slowly dawning on Minna that the more upset she got about her banishment, the more cheerful Martha became. In fact, Martha went about her duties and social schedule with a kind of renewed energy, bright-eyed, independent, and, oddly, optimistic. Martha had changed into the “happy” wife, and now Minna found herself suddenly recast as the one who must somehow carry on.

“Minna, dear. It's such a gorgeous day. I think I'll go down to the Tandelmarkt and stop at the florist afterward. The mums are so lovely this time of year, don't you think?” Martha said, flitting about the room.

“They're quite expensive,” Minna said, not so subtly reminding her of Sigmund's feelings about wasting money on flowers.

“Heavens. Stop worrying. Things aren't that desperate. Would you mind running to the butcher for me? I had him put aside a nice rump roast for the
Rindfleisch
, and while you're out, pick up the cheeses and the bread.”

Minna hardly relished the thought of more errands, but she resolutely grabbed a stray shawl from the front closet and left. She didn't bother with her hair or her face. It was just the market. She made the rounds of the various merchants, thinking that it was nice to get out, but she didn't seem to have much energy.

On the way home, her mood lifted with the clouds, and she noticed that the church spires in the distance were haloed in brilliant light. She decided to prolong the walk, despite her heavy load of marketing, and ventured down a path through the Prater leading to her neighborhood. It was then that she spotted Sigmund, strolling with a fashionably dressed woman, wrapped in an ermine cape and carrying a silk parasol. The couple was deep in conversation, heads bowed, and at one point, she lightly brushed a leaf from his shoulder and rested her hand there for a moment.

Minna stopped, watching in fascination, as she heard him chuckle at something his companion said. The woman trilled back an inaudible reply. They advanced slowly, while Minna struggled to keep her composure. Then she adjusted the packages in her arms and cast a backward glance to see if there was anywhere she could escape where she wouldn't be noticed.

“Why, Minna,” he said, spotting her, his voice chilly yet cordial. “I see you've done the shopping.”

There was an uncomfortable pause as he waited for Minna to say something, but she could think of nothing as she stood frozen on the path. His companion smiled brightly, and Minna noticed with dismay her beautifully flushed cheeks, high forehead, voluptuous figure, and perfect white teeth. Her hair was immaculately groomed, Grecian style, with soft curls framing her face. She was not young, but still striking.

“Are you with the Freud household, my dear?” she asked.

“Yes,” Minna said, straightening her thin woolen shawl as she waited for Sigmund to introduce them, but he did not. She stood there awkwardly, like a girl with no names on her dance card.

“Lovely day, isn't it?” the woman added.

Minna nodded, her hands nervously clutching her purchases, trying not to stumble into some kind of low comedy exit.

“We'll see you at home, then,” Sigmund said as he took the woman's arm and they proceeded in the opposite direction.

Who
was
she? Minna thought, as she did her best to keep walking, her head held high. But by the time she reached the apartment, she was shaking with indignation. Once again, he had treated her like the help. As if no introductions were necessary. Who the devil was she?

The house was quiet when Minna returned. The children were with their governess and Martin was in school, so Minna decided to put the groceries in the kitchen and then go back out. She went upstairs to quickly address her frazzled appearance, dabbing her face with a bit of powder and combing her hair. Of one thing she was certain: she didn't want to be here when Sigmund and
that woman
returned.

She didn't quite make it. As she walked back into the vestibule, she sensed the distinct aroma of expensive perfume mixed with cigar smoke. She couldn't help herself . . . she followed the scent down to the study.

Minna stood in the doorway, holding her coat and hat. The woman was seated on the couch, and the maid was serving her from Martha's well-polished silver tea service. Sigmund was standing in front of her, holding his newest antiquity. When was the last time anyone had visited him in his study at this hour? And she had
never
seen him take tea.

“It's my magical amulet. The ancient Egyptians believed the owner of this was supposedly endowed with supernatural powers,” he said, holding it up to the light so that she could see the sun glinting off the bronze.

What does he do—rehearse this? Minna thought. It's exactly the same thing he told her. But without the tea and sugared biscuits.

The woman was tilting her head back, gazing up at him, holding the cup delicately to her lips, obviously captivated. Her skirt was intricately ruched and pleated, and her gloves edged with pearls. Minna hadn't noticed the details before, all of which added up to an aristocratic presence.

“Magnificent, isn't it? My dealer moved heaven and earth to get it.”

Minna could stand it no more. Feigning innocence, she stepped into the room under a pretext she had not yet invented. Sigmund looked over at her with what could only be called a pained expression.

“We meet again,” Minna said, ignoring his reaction. “I'm Minna Bernays. Martha's sister.”

Frau Andreas-Salomé regarded Minna with large sympathetic eyes, visibly surprised.

“Forgive me. I didn't realize you were family.”

There was an awkward moment as Minna waited for Sigmund to say something, but he stood there, his eyes fixed on hers, in no way welcoming. The woman broke the stalemate.

“I'm Lou Andreas-Salomé,” she said, moving over slightly on the couch. “Won't you join us? Sigmund was just showing me his collection.”

“I've seen it before,” Minna said coolly. “In any event, thank you, but I'm on my way out.”

What did she expect? At least a semblance of cordiality from him? Of course, she did.

She went out the door, weighed down by the revelation: There was another woman in his life, and it wasn't her sister.

•   •   •

A
s she headed down the bright, airy Ringstrasse, passing grand residences with gated courtyards, she wiped her forehead and felt her pulse oddly racing. Perhaps she was a bit faint from the sun. Or maybe it was anger. Or the humiliation of it all. She desperately needed sleep, and her eyes were stinging. She had sat up the night before with Sophie, who had contracted a mild case of the stomach flu, and now she herself had an uneasiness of the stomach, even though she was hungry. She could have caught Sophie's bug. In addition, she was precariously close to crying. Definitely not in her character.

Minna sought refuge, entering the nearest café, sitting down at a small marble table, and fanning her cold, clammy skin with her hat. She took off her woolen jacket and hung it on the back of her chair and then loosened the waistband of her skirt, unbuttoning a few of the tightest top buttons. She ordered her favorite coffee, a rich Turkish brew topped with sugar and sweet whipped cream, as she nibbled on some bread and cheese, trying to quiet her growling, churning stomach.

The café was crowded with lunchtime shoppers, military officers in their brightly colored uniforms, and students absorbed in a wide variety of newspapers. In one corner, three young men and a pretty girl were huddled together, tilting back on their beech-wood chairs. They whiled away the day, drinking, smoking, seemingly unscathed by life's complications. The young girl, who had been listening to the others, suddenly burst into laughter, her eyes and cheeks glowing. Minna settled herself at her table, dabbing the back of her damp neck with her napkin, and tried to think, but she felt out of context, helpless.

Without warning, the offending odors of the sweet, syrupy, strong Viennese coffee mixed with cigarette smoke overwhelmed her with disgust. Her windpipe and larynx constricted like a noose as a wave of nausea swept over her, and she fought the urge to retch. She clutched the side of the table and closed her eyes. She rested there a moment and then slowly got up. She had to talk to Sigmund.

W
hen Minna arrived back at the apartment, Sigmund was not in his study, and Martha was arranging the mums in a vase in the hallway.

“Where's Sigmund?”

“He's out with Frau Andreas-Salomé. Have you met her?”

“Yes.”

“Beautiful woman. Poet, I understand. She's taken a real interest in Sigmund's work. Attended several of his lectures. This could be very good for us. She's wealthy and well connected. The gossip is, four men were in love with her at the same time
. And
not just any men—Klimt, Rilke, Nietzsche, and another one, who actually committed suicide when she left him.”

“How fortunate for her.”

“Indeed,” Martha said, missing the sarcasm, “to have a man love you that much . . .”

Minna felt overtired, weary, like a child on the verge of tears.

“How long has he been seeing her?” she asked faintly.

“Seeing her? That's a strange way of putting it. How should I know? Really, Minna. I don't concern myself with that kind of thing. Do you think I should have gotten the pink ones? They had pink mums today.”

“Will he be home for dinner?”

“I'm sure he will, because he's leaving tomorrow for a conference in Göttingen. . . . Frau Andreas-Salomé arranged it.”

“Oh.”

“Get some rest, my dear. You look like death. . . .”

Minna turned to go upstairs, then paused.

“How do you do it?” she said, her back to Martha, gripping the railing. It was so quiet she could hear her own breathing. A trickle of sweat dripped behind her ears.

“Do what, dear?”

Minna slowly forced herself to face her sister.

“How do you stand it when he goes from one person to the next, giving them his full attention, and ignoring everyone else? It's maddening, don't you think? It makes you wonder where his real affections lie and. . . .”

“No, it doesn't. I don't worry about that. Not anymore. Let him have his little flings.”

“Flings?”

“Well, yes, not really. The important thing is, it's never serious. He likes someone who stimulates his mind. They never last. I don't worry in the least about this woman, and you shouldn't, either.”

“But, Martha . . .”

“Minna, think about Herr Dr. Breuer. And then Herr Dr. Fliess and several in between. He worshipped these men, and now he won't even mention their names. He's like a petulant child in that way. Don't you see? He hates this one and that one. He adores that one and then this one. Men. Women. Ancient warriors. Merciful heavens!” Martha said with a gentle laugh. “I can't keep up with all of it, honestly. I have enough trouble with the children.”

Minna could not respond. Perhaps Martha didn't realize that she and Sigmund were lovers, but she certainly wasn't oblivious to the fact that Minna was just one more person who “stimulated his mind.” And that this attachment would eventually pass, just like the others. How ironic, she thought. The one person who could finally confirm her worst fears about Sigmund was Martha.

M
inna climbed the stairs, storming inwardly, hardly able to conceal her humiliation. She started toward her bedroom but then stopped in front of Martha's open door. She hesitated, then went directly for the shelf where Martha kept her indispensable books. She found what she was looking for next to a German translation of
Mrs. Beeton's Everyday Cookery and Housekeeping Book
.

HINTS TO MOTHERS FOR THE MANAGEMENT OF HEALTH DURING THE PERIOD OF PREGNANCY AND IN THE LYING-IN ROOM (1877)

by Thomas Bull and Robert W. Parker

There are certain signs which a female is taught to regard as essential evidences of pregnancy; and it is supposed by most, if not by all women, that their presence is absolutely necessary to the existence of this state.

1. Ceasing to be unwell—the first symptom of pregnancy is the omission of the regular monthly return, which, in female phraseology, would be described as “ceasing to be unwell.”

2. Morning sickness—soon after conception the stomach often becomes affected with what is called “morning sickness.” On first awakening the woman feels as usual; but, on rising from her bed, qualmishness begins; and perhaps, whilst in the act of dressing, retching takes place.

3. Shooting pains, enlargement of, and other changes in the breast—when two months of pregnancy have been completed, an uneasy sensation of throbbing and stretching fullness is experienced, accompanied with tingling about the middle of the breast, centering in the nipple. The nipple becomes more prominent. . . .

Minna had read enough. There was no need to consult a doctor. The signs were all there. She put the book down on her bedside table, leaned back against the pillows, and wiped her hot, sweaty palms against the cool sheets.
Hints to Mothers
was the bible for every “young married woman,” but it was of no further use to her.

She closed her eyes and fell into a fitful sleep. Supper came and went, and when she woke up, it was past ten. She stared into the cold darkness of her bedroom, sat up, and wrapped her shawl around herself. How could she have allowed this to happen? She pushed aside a wave of sadness so overwhelming that acknowledging it would destroy her. One thing was certain. Sigmund must know right away. There was no sense in waiting. None at all.

Minna opened her wardrobe, reached into the back, and pulled out a bottle of gin. She poured a large glass and gulped the burning liquid down like medicine.

The urgency of her situation was apparent. She would tell him tonight.

•   •   •

I
t was past midnight when Minna heard the front door open and Sigmund's heavy steps on the landing. She'd been half dozing, but the creaking door abruptly brought her back to life. She jumped out of bed, put on her dressing gown, and grabbed the burning candle from the dresser. The house was quiet, except for the sounds of his walking into the parlor and then back to the landing. She stood there, waiting and listening, stiff with tension. Could he have been with that woman all this time? His foot was on the stairs. If she was ever going to talk to him, it had to be now.

“Sigmund,” she said, leaning over the banister and peering down at him.

He took a step up and saw her, the light from the candle playing on her face. “Minna—you're still awake?”

“I need to talk to you.”

“Now? It's late and you're in your robe. Can't it wait until I get back from my trip?”

“No. It can't,” she said, her cheeks two pinpoints of anger.

“Why don't we go down to my consulting room,” he said. He rubbed his eyes irritably, yawned, and slowly took off his coat and hat. He looked resigned, or was he simply cornered?

In the past few hours, Minna had rehearsed what she would say, how she would unleash her anger and hurt. But when they finally sat down across from each other, that piercing gaze, which had always intimidated his students, gave her pause.

“I'm listening. Is there a problem?” He fished for a cigar in his pocket and came up empty.

“I understand you're going to Göttingen.”

“Yes.”

“For how long?”

“I'm not sure, the usual, ten days or so. Is
that
what this discussion is about?”

“When were you going to tell me?” she pressed, trying to control her tightly wound nerves. He looked at her, confused.

“I wasn't aware I had to share my schedule with you.”

“You're right. Why would you share
anything
with me? We've barely exchanged two words this past month.”

“Of course we have. This is absurd.”

“Am I imagining it, then?”

“I'm sorry if you feel slighted, but you, of all people, should understand how I work. It's sometimes necessary to blot out everyone.”

“Well, not
everyone
,” she said, thinking enough was enough. His weak, pathetic attempts to justify his behavior made her want to scream. “How long have you known Frau Andreas-Salomé? Is she traveling with you? I notice you didn't bother to introduce me.”

“Minna, you're being foolish.”

“Well, I'm a foolish girl. You're the prime example of that. Why didn't you meet me at the pension?”

“I won't try to explain. . . .”

“I doubt that you could.”

“This is ridiculous. I need to get some sleep.”

“Well, that's too bad, because
I
need a little dose of your talking cure.”

He let out an exasperated sigh.

“This is
not
the time. . . .”

“But it
is
the place. . . . Shall I lie down on the couch?”

“What's wrong with you?”

“Almost everything.” There was a moment of silence as she stretched out on the couch, adjusting her robe around her legs. “Oh, this is most comfortable,” she said sarcastically, snuggling into the large velvet pillows. “Where shall I begin? Perhaps I'll start with a question. Or is that your bit? Never mind. Why did you talk me into coming back to Vienna with you?”

“I assumed it was a mutual decision,” he shot back.

“As mutual as ‘I can't live without you' can be. But why quibble?”

“I don't understand. What do you want?”

“What do I want? Isn't that your specialty?” She broke out in a sharp laugh. “You don't have the slightest idea what I want, do you?”

“Would you mind lowering your voice, Minna.”

“Is this better?” she whispered. “Let's be honest. I've changed my whole life for you. And for what?”

“You're upset,” he said, scrutinizing her pale, fatigued face.

“Brilliant diagnosis. Your talking cure quite works.”

“I can't fathom why you're doing this. . . .”

“You can't? You study women who are upset. You want to know why they're upset? I'll save you years of research. They're upset because men like you tell lies to women like me who are stupid enough to believe them.”

“Will you please calm down?” he said, standing over her. “I don't want to talk about this anymore.”

“I'll bet you don't,” she said. She sat up and adjusted her robe. Her shoulders stiffened as she stared at him in fury. “Well, let's change the subject. Let's talk about your work. Something scientific . . . and calm. Didn't you write—where was that? Oh, yes,
The Psychology of Love
—didn't you write that an obstacle is required in order to heighten the libido? That passion and marriage can't coexist?”

“Good God, Minna . . .”

“Didn't you write that?” she asked, seething.

“I did but . . .”

“So that's what I was? The ‘obstacle' to heighten your libido?”

“You're hysterical.”

“I'm not hysterical. To you,
every
woman who has a problem is hysterical.”

“Well, I think you are.”

“You're wrong, Dr. Freud,” Minna said defiantly, staring him right in the eye. “I'm not hysterical. I'm pregnant.”

He took a step back and closed his eyes in disbelief.

“Are you sure?” he asked.

“Yes, I'm sure. You're aware of basic biology, aren't you? Of course you are.
You're
the one who thinks condoms are psychologically harmful—producing anxiety and depression. However, you were talking about their effects on
men,
when in reality, it's the
woman
who ends up with the anxiety—
severe anxiety—
when she discovers she's pregnant.”

She pushed aside the perverse urge to sweep all the antiquities off his table and shatter them on the floor. To pull the books out of the bookcases. What was the matter with her? Without so much as a hint of her silent tantrum, she stared at him, unblinking. This time he made no effort to answer her back.

“My dear, I'm so sorry,” he said gently, sitting down and putting his arms around her. The impatient look had vanished from his face as he pulled her toward him. She felt his touch for the first time in weeks, and it all came back to her, that slow burn that swept over her each time he was near. She knew what she wanted. She wanted the passion back. And this thought made her even angrier. She didn't want his pity. It was degrading even to contemplate that he would now feel an obligation toward her. The magnitude of what they had done seemed lost on him. It was astounding. The situation was so monstrous that she could not share it with another living soul.

“I'm not sure what you want of me anymore,” she said, pulling away from his touch.

“I want what I've always wanted. My feelings for you haven't changed.”

She listened as he discussed the future with pragmatic cool, like watching water turn to ice.

He told her he had a colleague who “handled these kinds of things discreetly in Meran.” The procedure could be arranged in a matter of days, with little difficulty.

Afterward, she could stay at a private spa nearby, a place where people went when a “change of air” was suggested, as opposed to more isolated, hospital-like sanitariums that accommodated tubercular patients who arrived and, often, never left.

She remembered once at an afternoon tea hearing whispered discussions about a woman's unwanted pregnancy. It was said that there were plenty of inexpensive abortifacients available to induce abortion, many of which were advertised in the newspapers as methods to “regulate menstruation” for “women's salvation.” They mentioned purgatives, oxytocics, iron sulfite, iron chlorides, emmenagogues, the root of worm fern called “prostitute root,” and an old German folk remedy, an abortifacient tea that consisted of marjoram, thyme, parsley, and lavender. Of course, they said that “fashionable” women of Vienna who were “in trouble” generally had operations at private hospitals, and that the cost was upward of five thousand guldens.

How would he afford it, she thought. But then realized that was his problem.

“I'm afraid you'll need to stay for a while afterward.”

She nodded, but as she looked at him, she felt that something between them was ruined. She couldn't speak anymore. She was finally done talking.

•   •   •

S
igmund had initially offered to accompany Minna all the way to Meran, but she decided it would be easier for all of them if she went by herself on the night train. She needed time alone, she told him. What she didn't tell him was that she hadn't decided whether or not she would actually go through with the procedure, or even stay for more than a fortnight at the sanitarium.

He should know that it was not in her nature to slink quietly away and take care of things to his satisfaction. She would make up her own mind in her own time. And at the moment, her mind was conflicted. She was, in fact, floundering, beset by the agonies of indecision. Sigmund's deliberate efforts to arrange things did not assuage her fears, not in the slightest. One thing was certain. She would not allow him to decide her fate. She was aware that most women in her “condition” wouldn't feel this way, but she could not change her personality. Even when it fell short of other people's expectations.

He had paid for a first-class compartment with a sleeping cot, and, for a while, she stared out the window at the blur of scenery, the sky hanging low and gray. Eventually the world of Vienna fell away. At several points, the train stopped at small villages to refill its water and fuel tanks, but even when the ride was smooth, the wheels gliding back and forth on the rails, she sat there rigidly, staring off into the black night. She fired off questions to herself like a grand inquisitor. Why didn't you leave him when you had the chance? Where was your loyalty? She thought about her sister and once again felt the pain, the burden of betrayal. “Guilt upon the conscience,” the scholar Bishop Robert South once wrote, “like rust upon iron . . . eats out the very heart and substance of the metal.”