Freud's Mistress Page 22
He then described the third part of man’s psyche, the superego, which, he believed, was the most stunning of his scientific discoveries. According to his theory, the superego could be compared to the conscience, but, as he hastened to point out, it was more complicated than that. The superego was an unconscious, highly critical judge that condemned, rewarded, or punished man’s unacceptable id impulses.
“I’m not sure I understand, Sigmund,” she interrupted. “How does this all work? Who’s fighting who?”
He paused for a moment, his gaze trained brightly on her.
“Well, for example, if a man is wildly attracted to a woman, it’s the passion of his id that seeks expression. However, should civilized rules somehow deem this passion sinful, then the ego fights back, repressing the id. But the superego could also join the fray and exert harsh self-judgment. Even to the point of trying to put a stop to this overwhelming attraction. However, one would be doing oneself more harm than good by trying to keep all these elements in check. There would be no inner peace.”
“So what you’re saying is,” she said, with a certain wry humor, “to be happy, one must let these drives have their say.”
“Exactly, my dear.”
As usual, Minna thought. Happiness, in Freud’s world, was all about sex.
The hours went by. They slept and read, put their coats back on, complained to the porters about the cold, and braced themselves on the bench, as the train climbed up the steep side of the valley and then leveled out to the Wetterhorn mountain range. There were stunning views wherever one looked, and he talked of their destination in Maloja, the hidden lakes, waterfalls, high alpine pastures, and air that made one light-headed.
Later on, she rested her head gently on his shoulder and clasped her gloved hand over his. She could not remember when she had felt happier. And the farther the train traveled to this cold, unearthly place, the more elated she felt. She was free, in the way that prisoners are free when they make a run for it. And although, deep down, she knew this divine interlude was fleeting, the specter of her fate did not alter her mood. In the glare of the afternoon light, she shielded her eyes and tried to ignore the fact that she was doing absolutely the wrong thing.
29
The platform at the Maloja stop was deserted when Minna and Freud stepped off the train in the late afternoon. No one was in sight, except a young girl clad in a theatrical version of the local dirndl, standing in front of her souvenir cart, her grizzled mountain dog dozing next to her.
Freud impatiently paced the platform, searching for a cab, while Minna wandered over to the young girl and looked at postcards featuring soaring glaciers and close-ups of edelweiss and trout.
They had apparently just missed a party of officers from the local garrison, who had commandeered all the hansom cabs for an arriving member of the imperial family and his entourage. The stationmaster told her that the royals were staying at the same hotel, the Hotel Schweizerhaus, and when she looked surprised, he informed her that they always came this time of year for “our fresh air and the restorative waters of the mountain springs.” Other transportation, he said, would be available in a few minutes.
Minna settled herself on a crudely fashioned wooden bench and breathed in the crisp, clean air floating off the mountains, the husky aroma of pine mixed with wildflowers. Just before they boarded the next cab, she noticed Freud cross the platform to the souvenir cart, where he bought a postcard and slipped it into his pocket.
After seven they arrived at their destination, an elegant alpine resort, high above the tree line, surrounded by gardens and manicured paths. The sun, which sometimes stayed out until ten at night, was hidden behind clouds moving in from the glacial regions. The temperature was plunging and a light flurry of snow dusted the windows, but the grand Art Nouveau lobby was warm and glowing with exquisite chandeliers and luscious, inviting sofas. A group of bejeweled women in evening gowns lounged in leather club chairs, speaking snippets of French and German, and Minna could hear the sound of violins floating in from the dining room. One red-haired beauty in a gold silk wrap was wearing a small tiara, discreetly nestled in a clump of curls, and she handed a waiter an empty goblet as he walked by, signaling him to refill it.
Minna let out a soft, delighted laugh. She smiled at Freud and he squeezed her hand in response.
“Does this meet with your approval?” he asked.
“It’s a shame you couldn’t find us a nice hotel,” she teased, looking around the room.
The bellman brought in their bags, while a butler offered them refreshments and directed them to the reception desk. There she stood beside him, suddenly self-conscious, her nerves tingling in her fingertips as she stared down at the beech-wood parquet floors. She heard him give his name to the chilly desk manager, emphasizing the fact that he had reserved a deluxe mountain-view room. Then, briefly raising her eyes, she watched in silence as he signed the worn, leather-bound registry.
Dr. Sigm. Freud u Frau.
• • •
He led her by the arm into the elevator and down the hall, her skirt softly sweeping the highly polished floor, which smelled faintly of beeswax. He turned the large brass key in the lock and opened the door. The room was lovely. There was a wide balcony with a view of the mountains, a high vaulted ceiling, patterned wallpaper, a fireplace, two plump armchairs, and a chandelier lit by electric lights. And then there was the bed. It was carved white-lacquered wood with a canopy of elaborately draped trousseau lace, like a wedding veil. On either side, there were matching bed tables, and in the corner of the room, a writing desk laden with silver trays of cheese, chocolates, and, in a silver bucket of ice, a bottle of champagne. From the moment Freud had signed the hotel ledger, she was no longer who she was, or she was someone other than herself. But this place made duplicity easy to forget.
Minna chided herself about her next thought. Here she was on the honeymoon she would never have, with a man who would never be her husband. No sense thinking about reality—it ruined everything. She did, however, think briefly about the romance novels she read as a girl, and the heroine at the end of the book who would triumphantly declare, “And then, kind reader, I married him.”
The first thing he did was uncork the bottle of champagne and pour them both a glass. He drank it down like a beer, winced from the bubbles, and then opened his valise and took out his vial of liquid coca. He motioned for her to come near.
“Again?” she asked.
“It’s an aphrodisiac.”
“And all this isn’t?” she said, glancing around the room.
He gave her an indulgent smile as he dabbed a drop of coca in each of her nostrils and repeated the dose on himself. And once again for both of them. He watched her get up and walk to the balcony, open the door, and step out. He followed her, shivering in the mountain air, and wrapped his arms around her. Faint strains of a romantic Viennese waltz floated up from the dining room. She felt that first, now familiar rush.
“It’s freezing,” he said, rubbing her shoulders. “Let’s go back inside.”
Minna followed him, standing a moment in front of the fire; then she flicked off the lights and lit a candle by the bed. He handed her the bottle of coca again, which she dabbed inside her nostrils. She sniffed deeply, rubbed her temples, and sneezed a few times.
She thought back to her situation a few days before. The hopelessness. Despondency. And now, with the coca coursing through her system, she felt only jubilation. She wasn’t sure whether it was solely the coca or the expensive room. But everything was undeniably more romantic, more thrilling than anyplace she had ever been. A cheap rooming house had its charms but . . .
She plumped the pillows on the bed and was about to lie down when she noticed a large brown spot at the hem of her skirt. What was this? Some kind of dirt? Minna felt herself sweating. Her clothes were so heavy and cumbersome, covered with soot from the train.
She felt like a pile of unwashed laundry.
“Would you like some supper?”
“I’m not in the least bit hungry. How can you ask that?” she said, wandering into the bathroom.
He heard the water running. “Minna? Minna, what are you doing?”
“I can’t hear you over the bathwater. . . .”
“Are you taking a bath?”
“Not yet . . .”
There was a shelf above the tub, laden with expensive bath salts, powders, collections of soap, and thick Turkish towels embroidered with a gold S. She inhaled the sweet smell of lavender and rose as she waited for the tub to fill. She didn’t notice him standing by the door, watching her as she poured in the salts and oils, peeled off all her clothes, and climbed into the bath, her heavy locks of hair unraveling on her wet back.
Dear Lord, she thought as she immersed herself in the warm water, cleanse me from my sins.
• • •
Later, as the two of them lay in each other’s arms, she asked, “I wonder what life would have been like if we were married?”
“I know what life would have been like.”
“Tell me.”
“Do you want the truth?”
“Of course.”
“I wrote an essay on this once.”
“I don’t recall.”
“It was called Civilized Sexual Morality et cetera, et cetera, with the emphasis on the ‘Civilized.’”
“And you concluded?”
“A satisfying sexual relationship in marriage lasts only a few years. After a while, the wife is weighed down by her domestic duties, the children, the household, et cetera, and the passion disappears. In addition, contraceptive methods cripple desire . . . and can even cause disease. . . .”
Minna raised her eyebrows in annoyance. It was obvious Sigmund was using his marriage to her sister as the universal example, and she didn’t want to listen to this any longer. Not now.
“My conclusion was that spiritual disillusionment and bodily deprivation doom most marriages, and the husband is left with only dim memories of the way it once was. Furthermore—”
“Stop, Sigmund! Enough! It wasn’t an academic question.”
“What did you want me to say?”
“Something different . . . something complimentary. Tell me that you’d worship me,” she said.
He smiled as he looked at her lying next to him, her skin warm and glowing from the bath.
“I’d worship you,” he teased, running his hand down her back. “I’d walk through fire for you. I’d climb—”
“All right.” She laughed. “That’s enough. Never mind.”
Afterward, as she sank into the pillows, she heard the loud, lurid call of a snow finch rattling on and on.
30
The next few days they spent touring the area, walking around the lake, and lingering over quiet meals in charming inns, where the soft light reflected the midsummer snow. She imagined what it must be like to live in a place like this, with its barrage of fragrant flowers in the summer and pines fringed with ice in the winter. A place where she could shut out the world. A place where they could be together.
They would fall into a routine every night. She would take off her clothes and slip into bed next to him, enveloped in the cocoon-like comforter. At first, he would talk at an intoxicating pitch, with all his energy and concentration directed toward her. Everything he said had sparkle and brilliance, as if he were presenting her with an extravagant gift of jewels. His intellect was like a drug, intense and erotic, and she couldn’t keep her hands off him. And afterward, when they were spent, she rested her head on his shoulder, entwined her legs around him, and thought, with peculiar gloom, that he was the only person she had ever loved.
He told her stories of his childhood. Hours and hours of talking. She had heard bits and pieces from Martha over the years, but he retold it now, as the fire burned low and he gently stroked her cheek. He told her how he was the chosen one, the favorite—his five sisters and their parents shared three bedrooms while Sigmund had his own spacious, light-filled room and gas lamps instead of candles. About his baby brother, Julian, who died of an intestinal infection when he was eight months old. Although Sigmund was only two at the time, he remembered wishing his brother would die so he could regain his mother’s attention. He felt “dethroned and despoiled” and even fantasized about killing him. Then blamed himself when his wishes magically came true.
About his father. How as a young boy, Sigmund was enthralled by the heroic lives of famous warriors. How his relationship with his father, Jakob, a traveling dry-goods salesman, was tenuous, based on years of disappointment due to the man’s lack of backbone, success, or ambition. He told her that one of his father’s more colorful blunders was investing in South African ostrich feathers just as women’s fashions changed and the demand collapsed. He then compared Jakob to Dickens’s character from David Copperfield, Micawber, the hopeless optimist who famously repeated, “Something will turn up.” He said it was because of his father’s shortcomings that he began his obsession with Alexander the Great, Hannibal, and Garibaldi.
And then there was the story. Everyone in the family knew the story, but he told it to her again with as much emotion as if it had happened yesterday. When Sigmund was a child in Moravia, he looked forward to his Sunday strolls with his father. They would get dressed in their finest apparel, Jakob wearing his best woolen coat and fur hat, and walk together down the main street of town. His father would amuse him with tales of life on the road. One Sunday, in the middle of their walk, a young thug came up behind them, knocked Jakob’s cap into the mud, and taunted, “Jew, get off the pavement.” Sigmund was humiliated when his father calmly bent over, picked up the muddy cap, and continued on, like a beaten dog, without a word in response. This seemed less than heroic to a boy who was as engrossed as he was in the stories of Hannibal and, in particular, the tale of Hannibal’s father, who made his son swear at an altar he would take vengeance on the Romans.
“I couldn’t forgive him,” Sigmund said, his voice wavering. “I tried. But I couldn’t.”
During these intimate confessions, she tried to memorize everything about him, to pretend she belonged to him. She told herself that they weren’t like other people. An ironic statement she knew wasn’t true.
• • •
She wanted the days to stretch out before them, but she couldn’t help feeling that time was accelerating. Time. It was not on her side. Wasn’t that what her sister had said to her? Or maybe it was her mother.
One evening, she lit a cigarette, stood out on their balcony, and watched as clouds gathered over the mountains. The air was getting cooler, and she could just make out the fog-enshrouded lake across the grassy pasture. The patches of snow on the rocky slope glistened, and there were outlines of black pines everywhere she looked. Just a few more days and then . . . what? Where was she to go after this? Certainly not Vienna. And not Hamburg. Not anywhere. If she had the power, she would begin anew, like a Mary Shelley character, except she would not be a hideous, disfigured monster but a beautiful young girl, pleasant and uncomplicated, and she would live a pleasant, uncomplicated life. She took another drag of her cigarette and tried to remember the last time she hadn’t felt anxious about her life. Maybe last night in his arms.
That night at dinner, they sat at a table next to large picture windows overlooking the beautiful Engadine Valley, a stone’s throw from the Italian border. Freud was in an excellent humor as they dined on sole in wine sauce and galantine de veau, drinking a different wine with each course.
Near the end of the meal, Minna happened to look up and was taken aback as a couple she thought she recognized entered the dining room. She felt a sudden lurch in her stomach and let out a short gasp.
“What’s the matter?” he asked.
“I think I know that woman.”
“Which woman?”
“The one over there. I can’t point. The one with blond hair, wearing a blue evening gown. Change seats with me,” she said, feeling suddenly trapped.
“This is ridiculous. Calm down. Even if it is her, there’s no problem. It’s not unusual for relatives to travel together.”
“Just move,” she hissed.
Minna stood up to switch seats with Freud and stole another glance at the woman. Maybe it wasn’t her, she thought. The hair was curlier and combed up high over the forehead, the nose broader, the eyes too close together. And the woman she knew wouldn’t wear hoop earrings like a pirate. She squashed the urge to rush out of the room.
“Would you like to go back upstairs, my dear?” Freud asked, unruffled.
She nodded.
Minna felt a wash of relief as they slipped away unnoticed through the lobby, with its brocade settees and watery paintings of alpine sunsets, and climbed the stairs to their room. Safe, Minna thought.
She disappeared into the bathroom to get ready for bed. She splashed her face, combed her hair, and smeared some glycerin on her lips. When she came out, Sigmund was sitting at the writing desk, smoking his cigar. The postcard that he had purchased at the train station was in front of him. She walked to the desk and looked over his shoulder. She had only to read the first two lines:
Dear Martha,
I hope you and the little ones are doing well. I’ve taken lodgings at a modest pension.
“I’m almost finished,” he said, smiling up at her—“just a few more lines. . . .”
So here it was. Right in front of her in black and white. Freud cheerfully writing postcards to her sister while she looked on. Not that she ever fooled herself that moments like this wouldn’t occur.