Freud's Mistress Read online

  “Papa, they hurt us,” Oliver cried, one eye closed and swollen. “They were hitting us for no reason.”

  “There were at least ten of them,” Martin said, lying, averting his eyes, “but I chased them off.”

  “No, you didn’t,” Oliver said, and then began sobbing.

  He took stock of their bruised faces, broken skates, and torn clothing, clapped a paternal arm around them, and then sent them upstairs to wash their wounds.

  “We’ll get you new skates,” he called after them, attempting to sound cheerful. But he wasn’t. Not in the least. As soon as the boys were out of earshot, he turned on Minna.

  “They’re always fighting down by the lake. I don’t know why you took them there in the first place.”

  “Sigmund, that’s not true. We go there all the time—”

  “This isn’t the first time I’ve heard of this sort of thing,” he said, cutting her off. “You have to be more careful.”

  “It all happened so fast,” Minna said, taken aback by the rebuke. “I’m sorry.”

  Sigmund listened in silence as Minna went on to tell him what had happened, how they were ambushed, and what was said, but at a certain point, she knew he wasn’t listening. He was shifting back and forth on his feet, looking out at the street, trying to control his mounting anger. She could see little beads of sweat on his forehead as he took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his brow.

  “I’m relying on you to take care of them,” he said, as if his patience had been put to a severe test.

  “Of course,” she replied. “I’m as upset as you are.”

  “I’m glad to hear that,” he said, as he looked her in the eye for the first time that day.

  Minna was puzzled by his curt manner. It seemed as if his irritation was based on more than simply the children’s harrowing experience. He was treating her like an irresponsible governess. Nothing more. Perhaps he was overtired by the trip and it was all just a misunderstanding on her part. She struggled to maintain her composure and then ventured a hand on his arm. The gesture was clearly misguided—he lowered his head and moved away from her. The serious lines on his face, between his nose and mouth, grew deeper and his dark eyes looked unfamiliar. Just what had happened when he was away? And could it have anything to do with her?

  • • •

  Sigmund spent the rest of the day ensconced in his study, not even coming out to join the family for dinner. Minna had wanted to discuss her notes with him upon his return, but the fight at the lake had obviously affected him and she had no choice but to wait. Upon reflection, she decided to put aside the nagging image of his cool demeanor, attributing it to exhaustion and nothing more.

  When she finally ventured downstairs to his study the next day, the door was open. He was standing with his back to her, looking out into the dark courtyard and puffing on his cigar. She hesitated a moment, then knocked lightly on the heavy wooden doorjamb. In the dimness of the room, she noticed the desk was strewn with a messy pile of papers that had not been there the day before.

  “How was your trip?” she asked, attempting to sound nonchalant.

  A long moment elapsed before he answered. There was something in the air that was amiss, and she had a feeling of discomfort. There was nothing in his stature to reveal this, but she felt it, nevertheless. She waited uneasily for him to turn around, and when he finally did, his expression was absolutely blank.

  “Most productive,” he said, nodding at her politely, but she noted that he did not ask her to sit down. He picked up a large file from the table next to him and placed it on his desk, sat stiffly in his chair, and began thumbing through the documents.

  “If you don’t mind, I must review these. . . . I’m presenting a paper tomorrow.”

  “Well, then, I won’t disturb you,” Minna said, still standing at the door. She turned to leave, but then, against her better judgment said, “I read your report and jotted down some notes. Anytime you’d like to discuss it, I’m ready.”

  “Actually, I went over the report with my colleague Dr. Fliess, in Berlin. We examined everything in great detail and, I must say, he was extremely helpful,” he said, not looking up from his papers.

  “Oh,” Minna said, deflated, as she handed him the report.

  “Thank you,” he replied, glancing up briefly. She watched as he casually flipped the report onto a pile of files stacked on the floor behind him.

  “My notes are attached.” She paused as he picked up an antiquity that had fallen off the side of his desk.

  “Duly noted . . .” he said, examining it with concern. “I think there’s a chip. See there on the left side? That wasn’t there before. . . .”

  He handed her his Egyptian goddess Isis, sister-wife of Osiris, one of his favorites, which he often brought to the dinner table, to Martha’s chagrin.

  “Look at the headdress, by the horn. That’s definitely a chip. . . .”

  “It might be,” she said, sighing imperceptibly. “When do you think we can discuss the paper? To be frank, I’ve spent a good deal of time on it.”

  He stopped and gave her an odd look. She detected an aloofness in his bearing as he cleared his throat and addressed her in an offhand manner.

  “That’s very nice of you, dear, but you needn’t have done that. How are the boys?”

  Minna flushed and blinked her eyes as a sharp pang of reality hit her in the gut. He was not interested in her opinion and he was not going to read her notes. In fact, he never had any intention of reading her notes. Oh, maybe momentarily, when he first handed them to her, and he was outraged at Breuer’s remarks, but then it obviously left his mind completely.

  “They’re fine. So you don’t want to read my notes?” She couldn’t help herself.

  “No offense intended, but I think my colleague Dr. Fliess has given me all the help I need.”

  “Has he?” she asked, bending over and picking up her notes off the pile. “Well, then, I’m sure he’s touched on the possibility that perhaps not all hysteria is sexual in origin?”

  “He had no such criticism.”

  “What if someone were upset over the death of a child?”

  “Well, that could be—”

  “Or they lost all their money?”

  “That also—”

  “Or they didn’t like their lying, philandering husband?”

  “Now, Minna, I can tell that you’re perhaps—”

  “Or they were stuck in a house under the thumb of . . .” She stopped herself. He rose to his feet so they were standing almost eye to eye.

  “In any event, I can think of many reasons to be hysterical,” Minna said, turning abruptly and walking out the door.

  He watched her leave. Then he sat back in his chair and stared at the open door. He just couldn’t, for the life of him, figure out what the woman wanted.

  16

  She was such a fool. Why had she taken the time to pore over his report, to delve into his world of demented humans with horrifying dreams, to force herself to understand the meaning of sexual neurosis and hysteria and phallic symbols, like flagpoles and trees hovering everywhere, when he obviously didn’t have the slightest inclination to listen to a word she had to say? Perhaps he had never taken her seriously. Even that night in his study, with talk of Aristotle and Sophocles, she had merely amused him. Have another dab of coke, my dear. Oh, yes, paint it on and sniff it up and then I’ll discuss with you some problems in my life that are nobody’s business, and I’ll never regret it for a moment and you will, likewise, never regret it unless, of course, it ruins your life. To hell with him! She could tell she was working herself up into a frenzy and she tried to calm down.

  Now it was three a.m. Minna forced herself to think of something else so she could get to sleep. Maybe she would venture into Sophie’s room, get her up for the umpteenth time, and take her to t
he WC. Or maybe she’d go downstairs to the kitchen and fix a cup of tea. No. She couldn’t risk running into him if he happened to be working late—which he often was. Even after all this, in her insomniac opinion, she imagined he was still interested in her. Then again, maybe not. Perhaps he was indifferent yesterday because he was indifferent. But hadn’t he made her privy to his most private thoughts? Even volunteered the information that he and Martha were “living in abstinence.” You’d think these things would be out-of-bounds, but to Sigmund nothing seemed out-of-bounds. Not even his problematic marriage to her sister. Who, by the way, would prefer he were some society doctor specializing in rheumatism or gout.

  Marriage, to Minna’s mind, never quite worked out the way it seemed. The passionate side of marriage, that ineffable image of bliss, subsided; the intensity dissolved and an almost mechanical lack of interest set in. So the husband focused on work and the wife ran the household, an arrangement almost preordained to cure even the most romantic nature. In Minna’s eyes, most women, including her sister, envisioned a relationship that would last for all eternity, but it inevitably became tyrannically conventional and boring, a dull beast.

  • • •

  It wasn’t until dinnertime the next day that Minna saw him again. She was determined not to repeat her petulant behavior in the study. When she thought about it, there was something so demeaning about the entire episode. And what was she doing anyway? He wasn’t a suitor who had snubbed her. He was her sister’s husband. Somehow, in the midst of her laborious, critical dissection of his work, she had forgotten this glaring fact. It was a dangerous thing to forget, and she was pained that she had done so in such a selfish manner. She had initially convinced herself that reading his notes would give her an occasion to delve deeper into his mind, that it would be a point of departure for discussion. And she loved these discussions—lived for them. But being attracted to his mind had led her to foreign territory where she didn’t belong.

  As Sigmund passed her in the parlor, he approached with a conciliatory gesture, touching her lightly on the arm.

  “Minna, my dear. I was hoping to talk to you. I was thinking about it. I’d be happy to look at your notes.”

  “Oh, that’s not necessary,” she said, smiling at him as if yesterday’s incident had never happened. “Not at all. In any event, I’m not sure where they are. I might have thrown them in the dustbin.”

  “You’re still angry.”

  “Why would I be angry? You must be terribly tired. I’m sure the trip was exhausting,” she said, entering the dining room. “Would you like a glass of wine? Would you mind getting Dr. Freud a glass of wine?” she asked the kitchen maid.

  “Oliver, dear,” she called to the boy. “Come tell your father about our little outing to the cemeteries while he was away.”

  Oliver, who was just entering the room with the rest of the family, was only too happy to comply in his fastidious, detailed way, reveling in the minutiae of Mozart’s grave, comparing it to other composers’ final resting spots in Vienna.

  “Mozart died at Rauhensteingasse 8 in 1791. He was buried in a pauper’s grave just outside the city, then exhumed in 1855 and relocated to St. Marx Cemetery. Beethoven died in 1827. His memorial is much grander. I liked that the best, next to Schubert’s, who died in 1828. They’re both at Zentralfriedhof.”

  Minna listened attentively, but at some point noticed Sigmund pulling a cigar from his jacket and rummaging through his pockets.

  “Poor Mozart,” Minna said as she stood up, walked to the side table, and picked up a matchbox—“a true musical genius, but spent his final years in poverty, borrowing money from his friends, interred in a common grave. Pathetic, really.”

  She struck a match and held it in front of Freud’s face. “Light?”

  “Why, thank you,” he said, backing up from the flame, which was held just a little too close to his nose.

  “And then there was Baron Ernst von Feuchtersleben, a philosopher best known for . . .”

  “That’s enough, Oliver,” Freud said, impatiently.

  “Bravo, Oliver, quite informative!” Minna shot back.

  “Minna, I’d be happy to read . . .” Freud persisted.

  “Not necessary,” Minna insisted. “It’s such a bore, isn’t it, going over and over one’s thoughts. What else shall we talk about? The new play at the Hofoper? Martha, what shall we talk about?”

  Martha stared in silence at her sister, wondering what had gotten into her.

  “Martha?”

  “Well, Frau Simon just joined our sewing group. You should join us. We’re doing the most marvelous crochet work. You’d love it.”

  Freud was quiet for the rest of the dinner as the two sisters chatted on about nothing. Just before the cheese course, he excused himself and disappeared downstairs.

  • • •

  Late the following morning, Minna decided to accept Dr. Silverstein’s request to call. The timing was fortuitous; Martha had been campaigning for him, and now Minna was ready to accept.

  She sat in the drawing room, feeling like an aging ingénue, wearing a rose-colored day dress that nicely complemented her skin tone. Eduard was seated next to her in an armchair by the window. Her first impression of him at the tarock game had been correct. He was nice looking, with thick eyebrows and dark eyes. He had high cheekbones and a patrician nose—the face of an aristocrat—and he was taller than Sigmund, broad shouldered with a strong jaw. He was dressed faultlessly, in a suit that looked as if it had come from a London tailor, but still he didn’t look British. And when he first arrived, he presented her with a box of chocolates. A nice gesture, she thought. She would give them to the children.

  The two of them had the house to themselves for the moment. The children were at the Prater, Martha was at the Gartenmarkt, and Sigmund at the university. She offered Eduard a glass of wine from an open bottle on the tea trolley and took one for herself.

  “And you now live here permanently, I understand?”

  “Well, not permanently. No. Not at all,” Minna said. “I’m helping her at the moment with the children. As you know, she just had her sixth child. And things can be a bit chaotic, as you can well imagine. . . .”

  “How fortunate for them,” he replied tactfully. “I’m sure your sister would like to keep you here forever.”

  “It’s kind of you to say that, but I’m thinking of traveling abroad next year.” Heaven forbid he should think of her as the spinster sister with nowhere to go.

  They talked of politics, art, and the latest theater. It was obvious he was up-to-date on the current state of affairs and that he read the better periodicals. What was it then that was lacking here? It was clear that he had no passion for medicine. He had inherited the practice and he was not shy about admitting that “it paid the bills.”

  He was on the board of the Kunsthistorisches Museum in Vienna and he happened to own a few small works by Klimt. He traveled extensively, visited galleries in Paris and the south of France, and talked in a cultivated voice of the new influence of the young avant-garde German artists who were scandalizing the establishment with their vivid portraits of prostitutes and naked young girls. But his discussions of art always seemed to veer off to the “exclusive” opening events and gallery parties—who was there, the social side of things, and not the art itself.

  He moved from the art scene to the world of racing, confessing that his other interest was horses. He could tell which stallion was breeding with what mare on every horse farm in the country. As he unhurriedly crossed his legs and leaned in toward her, he was struck by her composure, the unusual quality of her beauty, and the shape of her ankles, which he had not noticed before. She had more knowledge than most women her age. But then again, what was her age? He didn’t dare ask.

  “So, my dear Minna. Have you ever been to Mayerling?”

  “Mayerling,” she re
peated. “Isn’t that near the crown prince’s hunting lodge?”

  “Not too far. I have a small house on the lake across from the village.”

  “Were you there when the prince killed himself?”

  “Fortunately, no. I was traveling.”

  “What was that . . . five or six years ago?” she asked.

  “Six years ago January. The palace initially said it was heart failure, but the local police chief, the one who found him, told my gatekeeper that the prince shot his mistress first, then sat around drinking for several hours before shooting himself.”

  “How tragic.”

  “Quite. I used to see them in the Prater, holding hands and kissing. She was so young. They looked as though they didn’t have a care in the world. The gossip here was that the emperor demanded his son end the relationship, even though they all detested his wife.”

  “Poor Rudolf. Perhaps he should have shot her.”

  Eduard laughed. “Would have been better for the empire, that’s for certain.” He looked around the room. “Hard to imagine doing that when you own everything, have everything. They’ve now converted the hunting lodge to a convent. Can you imagine?”

  “Nuns and guns . . . how picturesque,” she said, sipping her wine.

  “The Carmelites seem to enjoy it.”

  “How long have you owned your house?”

  “Been in my family for years. Directly on the lake.”

  The more he talked about his retreat, the more she grew oddly disinterested. Any woman, especially any woman in her position, would be enthralled. He was clearly courting her, but she couldn’t stop herself from wondering whether she might have left the door to the pantry open or whether or not they had enough bread for supper tonight or if she was supposed to stop at the bakery this morning.

  Minna was about to offer Eduard some tea and cakes when she heard the front door close and recognizable footsteps on the stairs. Then Sigmund walked through the door, bundled in his woolen topcoat, greeting her in mock surprise. Why was he back? This was no coincidence. He must have known she was entertaining today. It was all Martha could talk about.