Freud's Mistress Page 19
She struggled on into the night, looking at all the crumpled, discarded notes on the floor around her chair. Crossed-out lines, insincere passages, subjects of no interest. Hour after hour passed. The candle dripped down to nothing as she wrapped her shawl around her and then put her coat on over everything, searching for just the right thing to say. Eventually, she gave up and wrote her sister a short, breezy note . . . ordinary, yet shadowed by deception.
She wrote that she was obligated to her new post and could not, in good conscience (how ironic), abandon her elderly employers. As to Martha’s personal appeals, she acknowledged, as expected, that, indeed, she missed the children terribly and looked forward to the holidays when the family could all be together. To Sophie, she enclosed a note and promised to send her Reverend Charles Kingsley’s Water-Babies, a book she thought all the children would enjoy.
Regarding her position, she gave Martha little snippets of this and that. There was no mention of the real circumstances, which had become oppressive.
Minna did add that while she was flattered by Eduard’s interest, she didn’t think there was a future between them because she just didn’t feel “that way” about the man.
She wrestled with the question of whether to send regards back to Sigmund. But, first of all, it was so hypocritical it was almost criminal. And, second of all, he hadn’t written to her, not one postcard, and why was that? He was perfectly capable of writing, that she knew. He was, in fact, a compulsive letter writer with all sorts of rules, such as one must answer correspondence within twenty-four hours. The problem was that her motives and desires were so complicated and confused at this point, even she didn’t know what she wanted. Of one thing she was still certain—she must distance herself from this entanglement. She decided not to mention Sigmund at all.
In the end, Minna looked at her letter and wondered how she had gotten to this point. She was gripped by that primal human sentiment of the what-ifs. What if she could go back in time? Could she have tried a little harder to resist temptation? Perhaps. But it was of no consequence anymore. For she knew that she was now incapable of stopping herself from wanting him.
24
Vienna, March 10, 1896
Dear Minna,
I was so happy to finally hear from you, dear sister, but for the life of me, I still don’t understand why you are there, and you make no mention of when or if you’re coming home. I fear that somehow I might be at fault, or that there is some other reason you can’t confide in me. I try to comfort myself with the notion that you are, as always, my independent-thinking sister and that your venturing off has nothing to do with us. Am I correct in this assumption? Or could you possibly still be angry with me for contradicting you in front of the children? In retrospect, I shouldn’t have interfered in such a trivial matter.
In any event, I won’t bother you further about this. You know what’s best—except, perhaps, when it comes to the matters of the heart, which brings me back to Eduard. He’ll not be around for long. I was at the Sterns’ the other night and their daughter (conspicuous creature) was practically flinging herself at him. She sat right next to him on the sofa, laughing too loud at his jokes, leaning in so close she was almost on top of him, and then staring at him with a silly, vapid smile. Finally, he rose to get a drink and I followed him to the bar, where I brought up your name and deliberately monopolized his attention until dinner was called. If I could give you an added incentive to come home, he seemed eager to hear about you. If fate cannot intervene, then I must.
At this point in your life, Minna, perhaps you’re too old for romance or flirtation, or whatever expectations you have floating in your mind. Try to be practical for once and think about your future. You mustn’t wait until the bloom is off the rose. Time is not on your side.
I hope you can read this spindly handwriting, as my arm paralysis, although better, makes for unruly correspondence. The children are keeping me quite busy. Little Anna is doing wonderfully, guzzling Gartner’s whole milk, the picture of health. Mathilde, however, is struggling with a light case of scarlet fever. We’ve isolated her in her room, and so far none of the others have caught it, thank God.
I’m exhausted, as we just returned from dinner at my mother-in-law’s. As usual, Sigmund was late and, as usual, Amalia was completely frantic until he arrived. She knows he’s always late, and yet she spends every minute until his arrival barely acknowledging the children, grim-jawed, darting back and forth from the door to the landing to the front steps. And Sigmund’s father just sits there in his big chair, silent. Honestly, I don’t know how he stands it. And when her “Golden Sigi” finally did arrive, Amalia told him that he looked pale and thinner than usual.
“Are his meals adequate?” she asked, turning to me and implying that it was somehow my fault. Then she made a rude remark about my weight.
No one married to Sigmund could ever live up to her expectations. God forbid she should notice my arm problems or the fact that several of the children were home ill. I did tell her that Sigmund’s practice was growing. At least that made her happy—a rare occurrence. By the way, I read him your last letter and he was pleased that things were going so well.
In any event, my dear, everything here is quite monotonous without you. Do send us more information in your next letter so I can ease my mind about your absence.
Your loving sister,
Martha
Frankfurt, March 15, 1896
Dear Martha,
I just read your letter and must tell you that our petty disagreements over the children had nothing to do with my decision to take this post. I would never leave over such a trifle. I just felt that I had to make a life for myself and not impose on your family any longer.
I am saddened to learn that your arm is continuing to plague you. My employers speak of a new pill called aspirin, made by the Bayer company here in Germany . . . it’s supposed to be better than laudanum for the treatment of pain. You might ask Sigmund if he can get some for you.
It sounds like Sunday dinners haven’t changed. And what of poor Jakob? Sigmund’s father always seemed so put upon, like a rat in a trap, waiting for the next barb. Amalia has to be aware that her indelicate remarks make everyone uncomfortable, but she doesn’t seem to care, nor should you. She is a silly old woman, and you know as well as I that even Sigmund can’t bear to be near her.
I appreciate your concern regarding Eduard and my future prospects (which you seem to think are dwindling). Despite your admonitions, I can’t enter into a relationship or a marriage simply because the timing is right. You urge me to disregard sentiment for the sake of a good match. I still require, as I always have, some feelings of a romantic nature.
Love to the children.
Yours,
Minna
Minna posted the letter and began her duties at ten. What had started out as a routine position a few weeks earlier had become brutalizing and demeaning. The sisters now requested she stand outside their bedroom doors each morning awaiting their call, and her duties had expanded to include bathing the women, a job ordinarily handled by the ladies’ maid, who had quit unexpectedly the week before.
Today she entered the dark, airless room where sister Bella lay like a leviathan, breathing heavily. Minna opened the curtains, lit the gas lamps, pulled down the bedcovers, and helped the heaving woman out of bed. Supporting her by the arm, she shuffled together with her to the water closet and stood listening to complaints concerning blocked urination. Afterward, she took hold of the lady’s hand, steered her away from the puddles on the floor (which the upstairs maid continually complained about), and bathed her girth in a white enameled cast-iron bathtub that was encased in mahogany, like a large coffin.
Minna had suggested that Bella use the shower ring, which fit nicely over her neck, but Bella insisted on submerging herself in the tub, requiring Minna to haul her out, which put a terrible strain on Minna’s b
ack and gave her a most unwelcome and graphic view of the woman’s naked body.
After the bath, Minna opened a wooden cabinet, which was supplied with an apothecary of remedies, purifiers, lozenges, oils, extracts, and various mixtures of opium powder, tinctures, sedatives, plasters, and soap. She waited while Bella selected the day’s medications: White Pine Cough Balsam with a hint of morphine, brown sarsaparilla syrup for purifying the blood and skin, Dr. Claris’ Family Liniment in an amethyst-colored bottle, Old Dr. Jessup’s Kidney Pills. Bella also swallowed her favorite draft for headaches and lethargy, which contained an alarming amount of mercury and lead.
Then there were the cosmetics. In her youth, Bella had spent time in France, where beauty salons were beginning to make their appearance and cosmetics were eagerly used and readily available. She believed the ancient Roman adage that “a woman without paint is like food without salt.” As a result, Bella used lip reddeners made from mercuric sulfide, eye shadow from lead, and face whitener from zinc oxide.
But she drew the line at belladonna, the juice of the deadly nightshade, which some of her peers used to rinse their eyes in the hopes of obtaining that bright-eyed, youthful look. There had been a few incidents of temporary blindness. She did, however, sometimes sleep with her face wrapped in thin strips of raw beef, which was supposed to have antiaging properties.
Minna then brushed Bella’s long, tangled gray hair and began to dress her.
Today’s morning costume was a day dress with bright blue and heliotrope stripes, which required a heavy, boned corset with flexible steel wires in front. In addition, as was common for problematic figures, and in order for the waist to fit, Minna needed to wrap a band of leather around the whole thing, squashing and flattening any protruding rolls of flesh. It took Minna over thirty minutes to tightly lace the corset and wrap the leather band, breaking most of her nails in the process.
After Minna deposited Bella at the breakfast table, she awoke Louisa and started the whole process all over again. By eleven, Minna was desperate to rest, if only for a moment, but that was impossible. Her duties after breakfast included stopping at the pharmacy, greengrocer, butcher, and baker, picking up chocolates, flowers, and the sisters’ favorite—Blutwurst.
When she returned from all this, she was required to sit in the parlor and act cheerful and interested in whatever feather-headed drivel the sisters chose to discuss. This afternoon, they were talking about purchasing additional pieces of furniture and ornamentation at an auction in the suburbs. Julian suggested two end tables and a chinoiserie lamp with matching urns. Lord knows, thought Minna, where in the cluttered, tasteless reception room they were going to squeeze them in.
“What do you think, Minna?” Bella asked. “Should we add some Bohemian glass? I so adore Bohemian glass. The real thing, of course.”
“Imitations are so vulgar,” Louisa added.
What to say about Bohemian glass? How to tell them, in a nice way, they had enough garbage in this house for ten villas. How to tell them that this house was already vulgar so they needn’t worry about imitations? How to tell them that her head ached, and that she would quit this dreadful job in an instant if she could.
They were interrupted by the day maid, who handed Louisa an envelope on a silver tray. A smile broke out on her face as she read the handwritten card.
“It’s from Julian. He’s invited us to a house party at his villa next month!”
“I imagine the Olbriches will be there. . . .”
“And the Bahrs . . . Goodness gracious, he’s even included you, Minna.”
“How lovely,” said Bella.
“Yes. How lovely. He’s always so polite, even inviting the staff,” said Louisa, pointedly looking at Minna.
Truth be known, Minna would rather stay home than spend a weekend listening to the sisters’ high-pitched voices, which reminded her of two hummingbirds flapping their wings at frantic speeds and going nowhere. In fact, when was the last time she had had a decent conversation? And then she remembered. The last time was with him, of course.
25
Over the next few weeks, the sisters were in a tizzy, preparing for the weekend trip, and Minna was working twenty-hour days. Late one afternoon, she noticed a letter sitting on her dresser. This time it was his writing.
Vienna, March 25, 1896
My dearest Minna,
It’s late at night and I can’t sleep. In fact, I haven’t slept well since you rushed out of that hotel room in Hamburg, as if you’d seen a ghost. You must know I have no intention of letting you stay in Frankfurt forever, and that I must see you again.
I’m longing for a few uninterrupted days with you but I’ll settle for a night in Frankfurt. I have colleagues there and I can create a reason to visit anytime you can arrange to get away. Despite your behavior, I know you will see me and that your protestations of “never” and “impossible” should not be taken to heart. Especially if I come bearing gifts, perhaps cigarettes or a bottle of gin? Ah, if only it were that easy . . .
I infer from your note to Martha that you’ve settled in your post for the moment, and have achieved your goal of abandoning me to this infernal state of loneliness and privation. And, yes, it is your doing, along with the shallow mercies of my research, that fill the evening hours and give me monstrous headaches. Even the coca, damn you, doesn’t alleviate the pain.
I am now sitting at my desk, staring at Athena, who has become my favorite antiquity. She rests on the table next to the window, beautiful and lifelike. I’m beginning to understand why the ancient Greeks used to chain their statues to prevent them from fleeing. I, like the ancient Greeks, do not want to let you go.
When can I see you again?
Yours,
Sigmund
Minna folded the letter and carried it around in her pocket for the next several days, reading and rereading it. But she didn’t need the letter to keep him relentlessly present in her mind. He was all she could think about.
The question was, How far was she willing to go? Could she be pushed once more into something so destructive? No. Never again. Her affair with Freud was over. She would not continue these moments of madness. She still felt stained by her disloyalty even as she missed his touch. After all, there were boundaries in her world, if not in his.
How should she answer? She decided not to write to him at all. What would be the point? She would only lie to him, tell him that she couldn’t get away or claim that she didn’t want to see him. No, it was better to hope that silence would dissuade him, and distance her.
Vienna, April 1, 1896
Dear Minna,
For God’s sake, send me a note! You’re either very busy or you’re deluding yourself into thinking that you can run away from all this. You wonder how I am? You haven’t asked, but I will tell you. Thoroughly miserable, like a dog. Depression, fatigue, unable to work.
I assume that you want to conceal the true state of affairs between us. That is noble of you. But I beg you not to do it in this way. Martha and the children are planning to go to Reichenau soon for a short trip. I am supposed to meet them two weeks later. If I don’t hear from you by then, I will come to you uninvited, if I must.
Yours,
Sigmund
Frankfurt, April 15, 1896
Dear Sigmund,
I will get straight to the point. Your letter scared me to death! Are you mad? You can’t arrive here unannounced and spoil everything. We will not see each other again!
I am happy, no, thrilled, with my new position and I have no intention of jeopardizing this life that I have built.
I’m sorry that you’re uncomfortable, but I feel you must be exaggerating your symptoms for my sake.
Yours,
Minna
P.S. You could still send me the bottle of gin.
Over the next few days, the Kassel household staff spent much of the tim
e preparing for the weekend visit to Julian’s villa, while the sisters hovered over them like two skittish hens. Bella constantly voiced reservations over whether the whole trip was too much for them, and her nervous chatter threw Louisa into fits of anger. They had the dubious distinction of not having been in a hotel, train station, or café for years, and Minna kept wondering if, after all the packing of faded sables, yellowing blouses, and woolen suits (smelling distinctly of camphor) they might cancel at the last minute.
The night before they were to leave, Minna didn’t get to her room until almost midnight. After dinner, the sisters requested that she review their medical requirements for the trip, telling her to go through both of their medicine cabinets and carefully pack all the medications, writing down the scheduled times and dosages for each one. Minna reluctantly agreed, but the boredom of the task tempted her to dump all the medications into the dustbin. It did occur to her, at half past eleven that night, that she could kill them both with just a slight discrepancy in dosage. The threat of an official inquisition into foul play was the only thing that held her back.
When she finally reached her room, another letter was waiting.
Vienna, April 30, 1896
My dearest Minna,
I have closed the door to my study and shut all the windows so I can sit calmly at my desk and deal with your mulish refusals to see me. I have laid bare my feelings for you, and now all I can do is appeal to you as a desolate and lonely man who is suffering in every aspect of his life.
You know that my colleagues are still refusing to acknowledge my work. I began my career with the best of intentions—a love of research and of medicine. But I am beset by the unimaginative Neanderthals of the medical establishment who are intent on ruining me. My misfortune is that I can’t compromise and proceed with false flattery, even though Martha never stops reminding me that this is what is keeping me from rising in the ranks of the university.