Freud's Mistress Page 20

  My “social failing” in her mind is compounded by my views on sexuality, which, as you know, she finds repugnant and embarrassing. She is not interested in discussing my work with me. Never even a whit of intellectual passion about what I do. In her mind, if she runs the household well, that is her sole obligation. In the past, when I’ve tried to explain to her that a man has other needs, she has turned her back on me. Now we are pulling in different directions. We are less sympathetic with each other on almost every subject.

  So I turn to you, Minna, for solace. You’ve always understood me.

  By the way, I would like to point out that, contrary to your condescending inference that I am suffering hypochondriacal symptoms, the doctor just left, and I have a severe case of the most violent arrhythmia and some dyspnea.

  Yours lovingly,

  Sigmund

  P.S. What brand of gin do you prefer?

  Minna folded the letter and put it with the others in the drawer. Honestly! Couldn’t the esteemed doctor come up with something better than “my wife doesn’t understand me”? Minna had often been accused of stubbornness and independence. But such characteristics were not always detrimental. For now, she would rely on them to save her soul, if that was even possible at this point. An errant thought crossed her mind, an old history lesson she had learned as a child. Beware of Turks at your door threatening Christendom. Just as in the siege of Vienna in the sixteenth century, one party would finally win, but a heavy toll would be exacted from both sides.

  26

  On the morning of departure, the sisters chatted with excitement as the maid and footman heaped a pile of shawls and luggage in the front hallway. Julian arrived right on time, oozing charm, and smiled gaily as the sisters emerged from the house, followed by Minna.

  “We’re profoundly grateful to you, my dear Julian, for inviting us,” Louisa said.

  “Profoundly,” Bella echoed. They were dressed in matching gray serge coats, hats, and black leather gloves, an endeavor for Bella, whose gloves had to be pulled in a glove stretcher in order to accommodate her thick, meaty fingers.

  “My pleasure,” Julian answered.

  It was agreed that they would all travel together in the sisters’ extra-wide coach.

  Minna’s long skirt rustled in the breeze as Julian ushered her into the carriage, graciously taking her hand and briefly brushing his lips across the top of her glove. She settled herself on the seat, balancing her purse and a book on her lap.

  Julian’s family villa was fifty kilometers from Frankfurt, built by his father after his Grand Tour of Italy in the mid-sixties. Julian, the only heir, had inherited the estate more than a decade ago, following the untimely death of both parents.

  They drove for several hours through the frost-covered countryside, past churches, villages, and ancient ruins, and maneuvering through the narrow streets of medieval towns. The imposing villa rustica sat at the front of a wooded hillside at the edge of town, surrounded by a thick grove of unusual firs and fruit trees. The group passed a kennel, housing packs of hounds for hunting fox and quail, but the half-timbered stables were overgrown with weeds and empty.

  When the carriage finally arrived at the house, Julian climbed out and rang the bell, waiting several minutes and ringing again, until a butler, who was hastily pulling on his suspenders, squinted at Julian through a crack in the door and then slowly opened it. Minna assumed that Julian’s visits to the villa were probably irregular, especially at this time of year, and he obviously hadn’t notified the staff of his plans.

  The butler placed wooden steps beside the coach door and helped the sisters out of the carriage, ordering the drivers to unload the baggage. As Minna walked through the grand entry, she noticed that although the villa was large and rambling, it was also in disrepair—the paint was chipped and bubbled on the outside walls, the doors needed fresh varnish, and various windowpanes were cracked or missing altogether, having been boarded up rather than replaced. Furthermore, fir trees in front of the public rooms were so thick that there was no light or view. And, walking by the kitchen, Minna noticed what looked like feral cats congregating near the side door. For all his pretensions, it looked as if Julian needed more from the sisters than just their “good taste.”

  While the group gathered in the parlor for late tea, Minna proceeded directly upstairs to supervise the unpacking of the sisters’ belongings.

  She came down several hours later to help the sisters retire to their rooms to rest before the evening festivities. As they reached the landing, Bella, breathing heavily and complaining of pains shooting down her arm, put her arm around Minna, leaned in, and in a sweet, cocktail-scented voice said, “Who would have thought Julian’s home would be such a ruin. I can’t imagine what my sister sees in him.”

  Minna looked at her, taken aback. She’d assumed they were both enamored of the man.

  “Don’t look so surprised. I humor him for Louisa’s sake. Honestly, do you really think we need all those silly cachepots from Aix-en-Provence?”

  Minna looked at Bella’s chalky skin and the dark circles under her eyes and felt chastened. There was a depth to the old bat that she hadn’t anticipated.

  After Minna put the sisters down for their nap, she retired to her room. She tried to nap as well, but the green malachite clock ticking loudly on the dresser was keeping her awake. She drew back the drapes, wrenched open the window, and placed it outside on the ledge. She hoped it wouldn’t fall into the foliage. She lit a Turkish cigarette she had hidden in her baggage and lay awake a bit longer, looking out at the brooding grayness of the countryside.

  She awoke to a knocking on her door. It was Louisa, in a dressing gown and bedroom slippers, saying it was time to get dressed for dinner.

  “Could you please wake Bella?” she asked. “I’ve knocked several times but she’s sleeping like the dead.”

  Minna put on a robe, walked down the hall, and lightly tapped on Bella’s door. No answer. She thought she heard a noise, opened the door slightly, and peered inside. One of the mangy cats had found its way in and was scratching on the quilt near Bella’s head.

  “Shoo!” Minna whispered, batting the air as the creature leapt past her and flew into the hall. Something made her turn to look back at Bella. Maybe it was the absence of any noise whatsoever, not even the light snoring Minna sometimes heard from her room. Bella’s head was turned to the side and resting on the pillow, her hair hanging limply, covering her face. Minna bent down and gently swept aside a tangled strand of gray. She had only to look at her for an instant and she knew. Bella was dead as a doornail.

  • • •

  It was customary for undertakers to send two mutes to stand outside the mourner’s home, as sentries. Why mutes? Minna had asked her mother at a funeral years before. Because, she was told, they were thought to be appropriately solemn and silent and, in addition, positions for the handicapped were limited, poor devils.

  The day of Bella’s funeral, these two grim-faced fellows were standing guard, dressed in shabby, long black morning coats, soiled crepe cummerbunds, and ill-fitting top hats. Only invited guests were allowed access to the bereaved family’s home. The buffet and drinks were for mourners only. Those who happened to notice the wreath of black crepe hung on the door and sought entry for mere curiosity’s sake would be immediately turned away.

  The sisters’ household had been in turmoil since their tragic return. Everything was focused on arranging the elaborate funeral to the point of obsession. The first few days included visits to mourning warehouses, stationers, and dressmakers for appropriate mourning attire, which Louisa ordered for her entire staff.

  Louisa, who had been inseparable from her sister since birth, was inconsolable. She sat in the drawing room, alone at the end of the sofa, her needlework untouched on her lap, her thoughts drifting, no one knew where. She didn’t talk, she didn’t eat. The only movement Louisa
made was to retire to her bedroom periodically for more medication.

  Minna’s duties during the visitation period consisted mostly of sitting in the parlor next to Bella’s corpse, which had turned an unhappy color of puce, even with the bowls of salt strategically placed on the body to slow decomposition. Specially selected strong-scented flowers did little to mask the smell of rotting flesh.

  The stream of visitors, mostly widows and distant aunts and cousins who quickly gave Louisa their condolences, took in the dismal sight of Bella’s body (“Doesn’t she look lovely?”) and hastily left. This was not a home where anyone wanted to spend a moment longer than was required.

  After the funeral and the requisite visitation period, Louisa informed Minna that they would be required to sit inside the darkened home for the next six months. It didn’t take long for the first rush of visitors after Bella’s death to drastically drop off, and now practically no one came to call. But what was worse, if anything could be worse, it seemed Louisa was slowly losing her hold on reality. One would expect some changes in behavior from the bereaved, but no one could address the problem of Louisa’s constant and glazed conversations with her deceased sister, Bella.

  Minna knew she should be offering charity and understanding but, truthfully, she was not capable of dealing with the situation any longer. Sometime over the next few weeks she gave notice and contacted a private registry to find a position as either a governess or a lady’s companion.

  But then she broadened her search to include positions such as a clerk, secretary, or bookkeeper, new fields for women in which she could earn her keep and not be forced to live in someone else’s home. The more she thought about it, the more she liked it.

  • • •

  One afternoon, when Minna was so bored she was contemplating reading one of Bella’s silver spoon novels, she heard a carriage pull up to the front of the house. The sound of horses’ hooves on the cobblestones, harnesses jingling, and then low voices came from the street. She looked out the window and saw Sigmund alight from the cab, holding a valise. He hesitated for just a moment, checking the number of the house. A midafternoon glow of light illuminated his profile as he removed his hat, smoothed down his hair, and headed toward the front door.

  Minna watched him and her heart sank. She wanted to rush upstairs to get her bearings, but it was too late. With a mixture of fear and elation, she opened the door.

  “Don’t look so disappointed,” he said brightly, leaning in to kiss her on the cheek.

  “Disappointed? I’m stunned,” she replied, flustered. “What are you doing here?”

  “Cheerful place . . .” he said, ignoring her discomfort, glancing into the musty parlor. The pungent smell of old rugs and dead flowers was overwhelming.

  “We’re still in mourning.”

  “I can see that,” he said as he walked toward her, refusing to keep his distance. She was struck by how unchanged he was—his neat, official appearance, his polished shoes, and his crisp linen shirt. And the presumption that he would be welcome. Before she could even think, he backed her into a corner and kissed her on the neck. She shrank back against the wall.

  “You shouldn’t have come,” she said.

  “But aren’t you glad I did,” he replied with a confident smile, unfazed by her tepid reaction.

  “You might have written, informed me that . . .” she said, in a strained whisper.

  “I did. I specifically told you that I would come.”

  She met his gaze and resented how she still felt about him. She wanted him to stay and she wanted him to leave.

  “Let’s take a walk, Minna. Go to a café and talk. Unless you’d like to visit with me here.”

  “It’s not a good time. . . .”

  “So what would you suggest? I’ve traveled halfway across the country to see you. You could meet me later if you’d like, or come with me now and have a coffee.”

  He took her hand in his, and for one merciful moment they didn’t say a word.

  “Just a drink,” she said, disengaging her hand, trying to recover her equilibrium.

  She left him standing in the hall, coat and hat back on, as she briskly climbed the stairs to her room, washed her face, and ran a comb through her hair. Then, without stopping to see who might spot her, she walked out with him into the fresh cool air.

  Outside on the streets, they walked together toward the river and, at one point, he gently put his hand on her back and steered her around a group of street hawkers. She breathed in deeply as they entered a tavern, and she followed him to a table facing the water.

  They settled in and he ordered a bottle of wine and then a plate of fruit, cheeses, and bread. Polite conversation followed, with the two of them exchanging bits of news. Minna spoke in half sentences about Bella dying; the long, drawn-out mourning period; and Louisa’s flight from reality. He nodded sympathetically as he filled her glass several more times and talked on about the continued obstructions by the Psychiatric Board in Vienna and his frustration with their failure to endorse his research.

  She stared beyond him at certain times, feeling as if she were in a whirlwind of sound that would blow itself out at some point, even though the place was still half empty. She kept drinking, but her lips felt parched, her mouth dry from the strain of sitting across from him.

  “So then, my darling. Have you had enough of Frankfurt?”

  “I’m not staying on with the Kassels, if that’s what you mean. I actually have several options for a position.”

  “Doing what?”

  “It depends. I might find salaried employment in a new field.”

  “Such as . . .”

  “Working in an office or a school or . . .” She stopped and lowered her eyes as an idea occurred to her. “Perhaps selling hats.” The thought amused her in a dark sort of way, and then she wondered how many glasses of wine she had consumed.

  “A shopgirl?” he laughed, not sure whether or not she was serious. “That’s ridiculous. Completely inappropriate.”

  “I shouldn’t think you’re the one to talk about what’s appropriate. Why not sell ladies’ hats?” she said. “Fancy ones, from Paris. The very latest. You know, the ones with ribbons and feathers and dead butterflies.”

  He looked at her skeptically as she pressed on.

  “Hats make women happy. I’ve never seen an unhappy woman leave a hat shop. Which is more than you can say about your patients.” She smiled inwardly, waiting for his reaction.

  “My dear, I think sitting in that room with the corpse has affected your judgment.”

  Freud leaned back in his chair, lit a cigar, and appraised the situation. He had that look. The look someone gets when he’s about to ask a question he’s been holding back for hours. Let him show his cards, Minna thought.

  “Have you ever been to Maloja this time of year?” he asked suddenly.

  “Maloja?”

  “It’s a resort in Switzerland. In the Alps. Come with me.”

  “I can’t. . . .”

  “It’s just a few days. I’m not asking for much.”

  “Oh, yes, my dear, you are,” she said, looking at him over the rim of her wineglass. She reached awkwardly for her purse. His proposal made her feel light-headed and vulnerable. She should have known all along this was the plan. It seemed so clear now, in retrospect. She met his gaze and then turned away.

  “How could I live with myself?” she asked, her voice tightening. “The guilt . . . My God, Sigmund.”

  “Morals and God don’t come into it—”

  “I’ve heard that lecture,” she interrupted. “Guilt is simply self-imposed punishment thrust on us by civilization. Isn’t that what you said? You can justify everything, can’t you?”

  “Sexual needs are rights, and no one should be expected to live without gratifying them,” he said, putting down his cigar.
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  “So it’s simply a philosophical and academic question.”

  “If you want to look at it that way. It’s the truth. Guilt is imposed by society to stop us from loving who we want to love. Don’t you want to be with me?” he asked, his eyes softening.

  “That has nothing to do with it.”

  “Come with me. Do you know what the Kohlröserl flowers smell like in the final stages of bloom? So strong and sweet,” he said, “and the hillsides are filled with them. Wild purples and reds.”

  She rifled nervously through her purse, stalling.

  “Light this for me, will you?” she asked, handing him a cigarette.

  He took a match from his pocket and lit her cigarette. As she inhaled, he noticed that her hands were shaking. She leaned her head back and blew a shot of smoke into the air. He reached across the table and gently moved a strand of hair from her face and stroked her cheek lightly. She could feel his fingers on her skin and pushed his hand away.

  “I keep thinking about you,” he said, “about the way we—”

  “Don’t romance me,” she said, cutting him off. “It doesn’t become you. And I don’t want to hear about flowers and the hillsides. Stop talking.”

  “All right. I’ll stop talking,” he said, not the least bit deterred. He waved to the waiter for the check, the way a businessman would when he wants to close the deal. “Finish your drink. You’re coming with me.”

  “I don’t know. I just don’t know,” she said, shifting in her seat. He took her hand and squeezed it. He could see her wavering.

  “Stoicism has its benefits, but it’s never been known to be amusing.”

  “You mustn’t be clever now,” she said. “I haven’t any energy left for banter.”

  “I won’t banter,” he said, moving closer to her.