I have led a happy life. I have tried to stay out of the way and to have as little public impact as possible. I always played my hand behind the scenes. But you do know that the investments of Hyperion Fund monies were extraordinarily successful. Why exactly you will discover from the journal you now have in your possession. The fund was begun by the very successful investment of monies derived from the sale of an immensely valuable object of jewelry: a ring authenticated by the auction house as having belonged to the crown prince of Austria. It came to me in the handkerchief enclosed here. I chose my stocks and investments according to a simple plan, from one simple page in this remarkable volume. And in the buying frenzy of 1929 I withdrew from the stock market entirely and remained out for a few years, thus avoiding entirely the Great Crash in October of that year.
Shortly after my return to Boston, Sigmund Freud published his
Interpretation of Dreams
, and I gave a copy, in German of course, to William James, who had been a dear friend of my mother. With the help of Dr. James, the Hyperion Fund made a large gift to Clark University, near Boston, and the conference of 1909 was created, bringing both Sigmund Freud and Carl Jung to this country. I do not need to tell you the significance of that event. Also during that same time, a large Hyperion gift to the New York Philharmonic allowed the appointment of Herr Mahler. Shortly thereafter, the Athenaeum Press arranged for the first translation of Dr. Freud’s book into English. You may recall that this same press discovered your magnificent book in 1955 and your son’s book in 1975. I do not need to tell you that these and other well-placed projects and investments were made possible by what happened to me in Vienna and the book which I carried away from there.
Where it will go from here, my dear Flora, I do not know.
What I do know is how deeply I feel for you and how greatly heartened I am to know that for all of us life will be an endless cycle. We dream and touch each other in those dreams. As my son, Standish, known as Dilly, would say, we remain eagles.
With the deepest love,
Eleanor, known as Weezie
60
The Rise of the Feminine
At the end of the journal, in one of the passages not in Wheeler Burden’s but a woman’s neat hand, there is a description of the scene outside Frau Bauer’s from which we can construct a picture of what transpired.
Pushing Weezie away from him left Wheeler’s arms out to the side and his chest fully exposed. As Frank pulled the trigger and the air was filled with a most awful deafening concussion, the bullet struck Wheeler square in the chest and knocked him back against the exterior wall of Frau Bauer’s. He seemed to hang for an instant, staring incredulously at his assailant, and he slid down the wall into a sitting position. The life would be out of him within a few minutes.
The witnesses, their ears ringing, could only stare in shock at what had transpired. With her hands on her face, Weezie let out a scream and then rushed forward and knelt beside where Wheeler had fallen. A grimace had settled onto his face. He looked up at her, confused for just a moment, then calming. He raised his hand. “You must get him out of here,” he said in little more than a whisper, pointing at Frank Burden.
For her own stunned and paralyzed moment, Weezie could only stare at the man she loved, and then something seemed to snap inside her, controlling what had to be done, as if in one fateful instant she understood her future and her destiny. Frau Bauer came bustling out the door and stopped in horror, seeing Wheeler on the sidewalk and Frank with the gun at his side. Dr. Freud too looked horrified and stepped away.
Suddenly, Weezie was possessed. Perhaps she had known what was going to happen. However it was, she jumped at Frank, grabbing him by the arm. Frank Burden seemed in a daze, staring at what he had done. “I didn’t know—” he began, and she cut him off.
“Do not talk,” she said with a fierce authority. “You must listen and do exactly as I say. You must leave Vienna immediately.” She handed him one of Wheeler’s train tickets. “This is for the Nordbahnhof, for Budapest, ” she said.
Frank must have been stunned to be addressed this way, by a woman. He took the ticket mechanically and stared at it. “If you are caught in this country, you will be incarcerated and executed,” Weezie said. “Or spend the rest of your life in prison. You must leave and not stop until you have arrived back in Boston.” Frank nodded yes. He tried to speak, but she cut him off again. “Once you get to Boston, they will not try to extradite you, and you will be safe.” She walked him a few steps down the street. “Have you your passport?” she asked, and he nodded. “Now, give me your room key.” He reached into his pocket and gave her the key. “You can wire home for money once you get to Budapest. I will pack up all your trunks at the hotel and send them back to Boston. You will never mention this to anyone. Do you understand?” She gave him a shove away down the street. “Now, go,” she said finally.
Moments later, far from the scene of the mayhem he had caused one could see Frank Burden hail a cab, climb in, and drive away. Near him, one could see the figure of Dr. Sigmund Freud, walking swiftly from the scene.
Weezie returned to Wheeler, who was sitting at the base of the wall, the life nearly out of him. She knelt beside him and took his hand. She looked fiercely into his eyes. “You cannot leave,” she said, as if still in control. “You must hang on.”
A slight smile came to his lips. “You are going to accomplish great things,” he said.
“I don’t want to accomplish great things,” Weezie said, her fierceness dissolving. “I want to spend my life with you.”
“No,” said Wheeler Burden, making an attempt to lift his hand in protest. “This is how it is meant to be.”
“Take me with you!” she said now in panic, but Wheeler caught her eyes in his and calmed her with his smile.
“We meet again, you know.”
“But you won’t recognize me.”
“Tell you a secret,” he said with almost no breath. “I thought my grandmother most beautiful.” He closed his eyes for a moment. “I had a crush on her.”
“I’ll look forward to it” was all she could think of saying. “Are you in pain?”
“No pain,” he whispered. “There was.” He closed his eyes and looked as if that might be the end, then they fluttered open. “And, hey—” He focused on her. “Don’t forget to send that mythology book ... Edith Hamilton . . . ninth birthday. You can write in it—” He was adding more, but his voice faded.
She squeezed his hand. “I won’t forget,” she said.
“Promise.”
“I promise.”
“That’s good,” Wheeler whispered, slipping away.
“No,” she said resolutely, squeezing both hands now. He opened his eyes wide, one last time and found hers.
“We will waltz again,” he said distinctly.
They exchanged a few last words, Weezie gripping his hands even tighter. And then his eyes closed, and he really was gone.
Weezie knelt beside him with her hands on his for what might have been an eternity, until just before the police came.
61
Fin de Siècle
Grief began descending on Weezie like a thick shroud of night. Much later she would be far enough down the path of self-discovery to know that a good part of it was a revisiting of the major event of her childhood, the death of her mother, which she had not been allowed to feel. But right now she was struggling for breath, afraid to stay awake because of the devastating sense of abandonment, and afraid to drop off to sleep because of the arrival of the terrifying dark figure that rose up and hovered at the foot of her bed, ready to enfold her in its embrace.
In many ways she had been sheltered: she had led a life of privilege and had never endured the hardships of poverty or physical violence or racial prejudice or war. She had come to Vienna in search of something she didn’t know or understand, and in her experiences with the culture and the relationship with one man, she had opened herself to great inner depth but also to unbearable vulnerability. “I feel as if I have given it all to you: my body, my honor, all my dark parts,” she had said to Wheeler while sitting up on the studio couch, draped only in a sheet. “I have fallen completely in love, and that love has allowed you to carry all that for me.”
Wheeler had smiled at that. “That I do willingly,” he said. He was standing beside one of the most striking of the Secessionist paintings, the one of the goddess Athena, she with the fierce eyes and bright helmet.
“And what if I lose you?”
“Oh, my dear,” he had said, fixing his eyes on hers, “my part as guide is only temporary, while you are beginning to explore the dark corners. Soon you will be going on your own, converting the paralysis to strength. You will discover this powerful goddess here beside you, her strength indelibly within you, expunging all those dark memories, to make them a positive part of your new self.” He had smiled then, running his fingers over the thick gold paint of the grimacing Medusa medallion of Athena’s breastplate. “Her great strength is within you, always was, always will be. You must never, never forget that.”
But now he was gone, and the sense of loss seemed unbearable. She had lost his protection, and no powerful goddess was rising up to save her. She could feel the dark parts returning in waves surrounding her, swallowing her up, with no guide and protector to turn to. She could not come close to finding that power of Athena that had seemed so accessible to her while this one great love of her life was beside her. “Take me with you,” she had said to him in those last moments, as she felt his spirit slipping away, sliding down to the underworld, and his eyes had fluttered open one last time and he had raised only two fingers this time to keep her where she was.
The devastation was complete, and as she lay awake at night, unable to sleep, she gasped for air, feeling herself pulled deeper and deeper into the void that overcame so many in this city of suicides. She did not know what the bottom was, but she felt herself being drawn down, down. Even images of her mother in her white dress and her inviting smile could not help. She was utterly and completely devastated.
In the midst of despair and doom, some tiny spark of hope flared up, at least momentarily, some “self” she had barely acknowledged in her life, some inner power of survival trying to come to her rescue. Somehow, she knew she had to save Frank Burden and return to Boston. She had no choice. And yet while in the throes of this paralyzing and enveloping grief, she knew what she had to do.
She had been questioned at length by the police at the scene of the shooting and waited until the coroner’s wagon came and removed the body. The police agent could see her despair, the enormity of the grief that now had her in its grip, and he escorted her back to Fraulein Tatlock’s, where he took her passport. “We need you to stay in Vienna,” he said.
Barely able to speak, she told the kindly Fraulein Tatlock what had happened in front of Frau Bauer’s. “Who did it?” Fraulein Tatlock asked.
“I do not know,” Weezie said.
And somehow, despondent and shocked as she was, that very afternoon, after the police left, Weezie picked herself up and walked to the Hotel Imperial and let herself into Frank Burden’s room, and fighting off numbness, she collected all his belongings and packed them into his large steamer trunk. Inside the trunk, she found currency from other European countries in marked envelopes. With those funds she arranged to pay what remained of his hotel bill, and she instructed the hotel to ship the trunk back to Frank’s Boston address, leaving a significant tip for those who accomplished the task. By late afternoon, there was no trace of Frank Burden anywhere in Vienna.
With an even greater heroic effort, she scheduled an appointment the next morning with Sigmund Freud and arrived at Berggasse 19 precisely on time. She and the great doctor were the only witnesses to the catastrophe. She knew she had to speak with him personally, and she knew exactly what she needed to say, to give his great mind a mystery to solve: that was the way. As she entered the room, she noticed how short a man he was and how his piercing eyes seemed to take in everything. He showed her to a chair beside his desk, and she sat.
“How may I help you, Fraulein Putnam?” he said graciously.
“I have something very complex to tell you.”
“I am quite good at dealing with human complexities, you may have heard.”
“Good,” she said. “We have never met, but I think perhaps you had heard of me before our unfortunate meeting yesterday in front of Frau Bauer’s.” Dr. Freud nodded the acknowledgment in the least demonstrative way. “Unfortunately, I knew Mr. Truman very well, as you know. You will have to excuse me if I seem a little incoherent during this meeting, but the event of yesterday has left me with little to hold on to.”
“You have my sincere condolences,” he said. There was a tone of more than usual empathy in his voice. “And perhaps I may render you some form of relief.”
“Please do not misinterpret my visit, Herr Doktor. I am not here for myself.”
“Then what do you want from me?”
“I am here to try to protect someone who has been wronged, and I think you might help.”
“I see.”
“A young man named Frank Burden has come to Vienna to seek me out and to ask for my hand in marriage. I deeply regret that I have become greatly distracted by my very strong and very sudden feelings for the man we both saw killed yesterday. I am deeply ashamed of my actions, and I fear I have ruined myself and most likely ruined my chance to honor Mr. Burden’s offer. You know well of the standard held in Vienna for young women who wish to marry young men of promise, and the same standard holds in my native Boston. By my passionate involvement with Mr. Truman and by my devastation at my present loss I have brought things to ruin, I fear. ”
“Perhaps the situation is not as dire as you think.”