Freud's Mistress Page 23

  “This doesn’t bother you?” she asked.

  “What?”

  “Writing to Martha while I’m standing here . . .”

  “Not in the least . . .”

  She looked at him skeptically.

  “Minna dear,” he said patiently, “I’ve explained this to you before. Martha and I are living in abstinence, she has no interest in my career or my personal pleasures, and while I sometimes feel sorry for all her troubles, I don’t feel guilty in the least, and neither should you.”

  The devil’s rationale, Minna thought. She listened without further comment, but her calm expression felt pasted on and stiff. His position on guilt left her cold. “Self-imposed” or not . . . it was there. Maybe he could get rid of it, like a reptile shedding its skin, but warm-blooded human beings have a much harder time. The only thing she could agree with was his theory that guilt created a morass of hysterical symptoms and made people very unhappy.

  She listened to the sounds in the hall outside the door. The chambermaids were ending their evening room service, couples were coming up from dinner. She heard the bell-like laugh of a woman with a friend whose rush of conversation had something to do with her house in Prague and an upcoming party. Everyone here was eventually going home. What a simple concept, which somehow always eluded her.

  31

  On their last morning, Minna agreed to a ride on a funicular near an ice glacier called Eiskapelle. Freud had insisted on booking it despite Minna’s tepid response, the problem being that, for Minna, all ice glaciers looked alike. This particular tramlike vehicle was pulled by cable from the base of the mountain, 3,200 meters up the steep granite wall, landing at a rickety viewing terrace on top.

  The cabin was hot and crowded with loud, fidgety tourists who had flocked to Switzerland from all over the German lowlands. Many of them wore traditional Bavarian costumes and posed in little groups for photographs before embarking. Minna had on a jacket, a flowing, ankle-length skirt, a long-sleeved blouse with a stiff collar gripping her neck, and far too many layers underneath. Freud wore a shirt with the sleeves rolled up, knickerbockers, and a green wool hat, which Minna thought didn’t suit him at all. He carried a knapsack filled to the point of bursting with bread, sausage, and cheese, whose ripe smell mingled with the odors already emanating at close quarters.

  She stood against the wall of the cabin, cradling a thick black beer in her hand, which was warm and unsatisfying. The windows were opened halfway, but no breeze flowed through, only the heat of the valley floor. She tried to ignore the little beads of sweat dripping down her back. A young boy in boots, high, thick stockings, and lederhosen leaned against her as the funicular began its steep ascent, smearing his sticky pastry on the side of her skirt.

  The tram rocked and swayed precariously, passing copses of spear-shaped trees, which gradually thinned out toward the top. A local guide, whom Minna had seen working as a porter, began to give a short history of the area, but no one was listening. When they finally reached the platform, the temperature had dropped significantly, and the tourists, wrapping their coats around themselves, flowed out onto a serpentine pathway that led to the glacier ice cap.

  Freud marched around the rocky terrain in an excellent humor, seemingly oblivious to the fact that this was their last day. It was perplexing, this nonchalance about their departure. Minna, however, could think of nothing else, and she had a hard time focusing on his enumerations of the prehistoric granite shelves: “the Piz Palu, the Piz Bernina, the Piz Trovat . . .”

  She closed her eyes in irritation. Who could concentrate on geology at such a time? After a few more steps, she pretended to be affected by the altitude and told Freud she was taking the next tram down. She’d had her fill of the cold, barren landscape, which seemed only to increase her fears about the future. They agreed to meet in two hours at the tourist café at the bottom of the mountain.

  All the way down, Minna struggled not to weep. Normally she restrained the impulse and, in fact, disliked it when other women cried in public. It made her uncomfortable to watch their bottom lips tremble, their jaws clench, and tears well up in their eyes. Weeping women always seemed so . . . well, unstable. One minute they were fine, and the next, waterworks. She had always prided herself on her ability to be stoic in the face of problems. But now her resistance was crumbling.

  No, she thought, staring out into the void. She would not leap into that precipice. She would divert herself, think of something else, like Baudelaire’s poems, or the succession of the Hapsburg monarchs. Or she could try to switch around the numbers from the Jewish to the Christian calendar so that she’d be slightly younger. Yes, that would work. Her eyes were dry as a bone.

  When Freud finally appeared at the café, Minna was ready to deal with the inevitable. They could no longer defer the discussion. He sat next to her in the booth, ordered a beer, loosened his boots, and smiled with anticipation. She knew what would come next. He was about to run down, God help her, more specifics about the ice caps. Oliver would be riveted, but she wasn’t. How could he be so oblivious?

  “After you left, we—”

  “Sigmund,” she said cutting him off, “I need to make arrangements to return to Hamburg.”

  No sense “beating around the bush.” A governess once told her that this expression originated with laborers hired to hunt wild boar. They would beat the bushes to avoid direct contact with the savage beast. She had done that long enough.

  “What do you mean, Hamburg? You’re coming home with me.” He seemed genuinely puzzled.

  “I couldn’t possibly. How could I live under the same roof as my sister?”

  “It worked perfectly well before. You were an enormous help to her. She desperately wants you home.”

  “She wouldn’t if she knew about us. . . . For God’s sake, we’re talking about basic morality here, not housekeeping.”

  “I can tell you’re getting upset. Try to be rational. . . .”

  “You can’t just pretend we’re a normal family. Or young lovers somewhere meeting under a bridge.”

  “Minna, my dearest. The prospect of your leaving me again is unthinkable. I can’t live without you. If I could afford it, I’d get you an apartment—maybe something with a view of the Prater.”

  She looked at him, incredulous.

  “We can’t do this.”

  “Of course, we can,” he said.

  “Don’t act as if I’m simply being puritanical. This is far beyond the bounds of decent human behavior.”

  “Oh, morality again, is it?” he said irritably, waving away the waiter who had arrived with his beer. “We’re not sinning against ‘God’s law,’ if that’s what you think.”

  “Of course not, because for you there is no God. But for those of us who still believe, the morality of our actions matters.”

  “Just another form of self-flagellation. Self-created hysteria and punishment. Not for me.”

  “No. Not for you. The rules never apply to you.”

  “I know you’re upset. Struggling, trying to do the right thing. Many people have these feelings. We’re all erupting with primitive sexual desires that we can hardly control. . . .”

  Minna rolled her eyes and shook her head. Here it comes again, she thought. His theories turned on her when all else failed.

  “But these feelings we have toward each other are inevitable and powerful,” he said, “and by denying them, you’re traumatizing both of us. You have to acknowledge that these forces exist and respect their power and authority . . . or else they can turn into something nasty. . . .”

  “If you start talking to me about urges and drives and repression, I swear, I’ll scream. You can’t simply conjure up scientific arguments to justify us,” she said, her voice rising with anger, although she knew it was impossible to separate the man from his theories.

  “I wish I could give you some a
ssurance that this would all turn out well.”

  “You can’t,” she said, “because it’s not possible. You have no idea how this will all end.”

  “Yes, I do. You’ll be living in my house and you’ll be—”

  “Not your wife.”

  He was quiet for a moment.

  “No. Not my wife,” he said gently, almost apologetically.

  They sat there a few minutes, neither one of them wanting to move. She sighed and looked at him.

  “Did you ever worry that I would find a husband?”

  “You had many prospects, Minna,” he said, his eyes softening. “You never wanted a husband.” He paused. “Did you?”

  “If I had wanted one, I’d be married by now,” she said in a hushed tone.

  She thought to herself. No. She had never wanted a husband. She had often wondered why, and it suddenly occurred to her. She had always wanted him.

  32

  As they packed to leave, Minna wondered what Martha knew about their whereabouts. Had there been some sort of negotiation? Did they talk about her desperate situation, her pathetic life? Was she the unwanted relative, the charity case? What exactly had he told Martha? she asked.

  “Everything,” he said. Martha knew that Freud had a conference in Frankfurt and would spend a few days in Switzerland before returning. It was decided that if he could talk Minna into accompanying him, he would bring her to Switzerland (although there was no mention of a grand hotel) and then home afterward. No one would question the arrangement. And Martha would never find out the truth. Ironic he should say this, Minna thought, when he had written in one of his papers that “even when lips are silent . . . betrayal forces its way through every pore.”

  She was suddenly beset by another round of doubts. How could she face her sister, knowing what she had done? And done again. Her mother had always promoted the biblical tenets that if you aggrieve someone, your conscience will torture you until you seek forgiveness. But how could Minna seek forgiveness while living in that house and yearning for her sister’s husband?

  Sometimes she felt as if the past events were beyond her control. Passion—the emotion that sent her sinking into her bed, wondering if she could ever regain her footing. An emotion that allowed her to forget everyone.

  Most people would consult clergy, seeking solutions to their moral dilemmas. But Minna knew very well what the solution was. She was just unable to carry it out.

  Culpa. The Latin word for guilt.

  Mea culpa. My fault. A beloved aunt and sister makes room for a woman who sins.

  Passion. From the Latin word patior, which means to suffer.

  She continued in this chaotic whirl, but in the end it was fairly simple—she wasn’t ready to give him up. She was too far gone to stop. She now knew that there was another state of being. It was a feeling that invaded every cell of her body, a force that changed her from a rational being into one who was decidedly not. Desire—it was a kind of insanity.

  • • •

  It was evening by the time the two travelers arrived at Berggasse 19, and the weather had turned ugly. A summer storm had blown in and sheets of rain hammered down on the two-horse carriage, a ferocious wind ramming the wheels against the muddy curb. The coachman, bareheaded, wrestled with the sopping reins as the horses stamped and spooked each other, their hides steaming with mud and sweat. Minna emerged, clutching her useless crepe parasol, and sloshed through mounds of muck that piled up in front of the apartment. Freud hastily followed, head bowed in protective mode.

  Martha and the children were standing in the doorway, huddled against yet another blast of rain. When the pair finally reached her, Martha pulled Minna toward her as if rescuing a drowning victim and embraced her. She looked relieved to see her sister, and if she noticed anything out of the ordinary, she did not reveal it.

  “I’ve been so lonely without you, my sister,” Martha said, pushing back the stray, wet strands of hair that had fallen across her sister’s forehead. “This is your home for as long as you wish. Would you mind taking your boots off before you come in?”

  Minna could not help but think that this scene was much like the first time she had arrived at the Freud residence. With one exception. Today she had arrived home on the arm of her brother-in-law. She searched Martha’s pale, drawn face for some sign of hesitation or doubt, but there was none, just a weariness beneath her welcome.

  The children were delighted to greet them and, for once, all of them were healthy at the same time. Sophie took Minna’s hand, claiming her in a possessive way and imploring her to come upstairs to see her new dollhouse. The boys surrounded their father, pelting him with questions: “Did you collect mushrooms?” “Swim in the lake?” “Go fishing?” and then there was Oliver’s stream of detailed inquiries concerning the height and flow of the glaciers.

  “Come in, my dears,” Martha said, as she kissed Freud lightly on the cheek. He smiled at her, greeted the children, and seemed perfectly comfortable with the whole arrangement.

  “Sigi, my dear. I thought we’d have a cup of tea and you could tell us about your trip.”

  “I’m sorry. I can’t possibly right now. I’ve lost an extraordinary amount of time these past few weeks and I have to work,” he said as he headed for his study.

  “Of course,” Martha said flatly. “Ernst, Oliver, Martin. Someone help Tante Minna upstairs with her valise.”

  The boys argued among themselves for a moment; then Oliver grabbed the bag and headed upstairs. Minna found her room exactly as she had left it, the wardrobe still holding her dresses. She sat down on the bed and took off her clothes, leaving them for dead in a heap on the floor. She stood before the mirror, pulled out her combs, and brushed her damp, wavy hair before selecting a fresh outfit from her suitcase.

  Edna, the housemaid, helped her unpack, all the while chirping merrily like a jaybird.

  “It’s so nice to see Frau Freud up and dressed. She’s been feeling so poorly lately. Her nerves and all. Truth to tell, she’s barely been able to handle the children these last few months. And the doctor never comes out of his study. I’m so glad you’ve come home. Sophie was in tears after you left. You were sorely missed, I can tell you that. . . .”

  There was a light knock on the door as Martha came into the room. Minna glanced at the dark circles ringing her sister’s eyes, and noticed a slight strain in her voice.

  “Are you unwell?” Minna asked, wondering fleetingly if Martha suspected anything.

  “I didn’t get a wink of sleep last night, and when I was finally on the verge, Sophie walked in my room and burst into tears. I swear that child cries at the slightest provocation.”

  “It’s the nightmares. I find that if I read to her, it gets her mind off it.”

  “No wonder she adores you. I haven’t the strength to read a book at three in the morning,” Martha said, squeezing her sister’s hand. “In any event, you must be tired from your holiday. Tell me all about it.”

  Minna examined Martha’s face. There was nothing to reveal anything other than polite interest. But Martha was talking in a tone that Minna knew so well. The tone she used when she was saying one thing but conveying another. Sometimes she wished her sister would just come right out and tell her what she was thinking. Throw a tantrum, scream, get angry. Sometimes Minna would have liked to know what was really going on in her brain. This, however, was not one of those times.

  “Well, Switzerland was lovely. We had much free time . . . we discussed his research . . . and I’ll admit that some of it is so complicated, it tried his patience explaining it to me.”

  “But you eventually understood it?”

  “Oh, yes. He’s found that neurotic behavior can be directly attributed to—”

  “I’d much rather hear what else you did. Did you go hiking? Swimming? Mushroom hunting?”

  “Well, just a bi
t of hiking . . . and we went up a funicular . . .”

  “Dreadful contraption! I hated every moment of it when we went once. But then, if I never go to Switzerland again, it would be good riddance. And what did you do at night?” Martha asked, tidying up Minna’s scattered clothes.

  “At night? Well, there’s really nothing to do up there,” Minna said, now clasping her hands tightly together.

  “They had a nice dining room, as I recall.”

  “Yes. But I wasn’t in the mood for the music.”

  “Music? At that place? They didn’t have music . . .”

  “I think it was just a visiting musician. Nothing fancy,” Minna said, rattled. “In any event, I was tired from the journey and just wanted to rest.”

  “My sentiments exactly. Travel is tedious and difficult. In fact, if I had my way, I’d no longer travel at all. Except for an occasional visit to Mother and our annual holiday with the children.”

  “But surely you don’t want to spend your entire life in Vienna. There are so many places to see.”

  “Let Sigmund tour the world—Rome, Paris, New York, Athens. Let him go wherever he wants with whomever he wants. Lord knows, he doesn’t want to go with me.”

  “I’m sure that’s not true—”

  “Did you ever get a letter from Eduard?” Martha broke in, abruptly changing the subject.

  “Yes, I did,” Minna said.

  “And how did you respond?”

  “I didn’t.”

  “That seems rather rude. How unlike you.”

  “I didn’t want to encourage the man.”

  Martha paused, as if deciding whether or not to continue. Then she exhaled heavily.

  “Oh, Minna, who else do you think is going to come along at this point?”

  There was that stubborn angle to her chin that Minna knew from years of experience meant she was just getting started. She never gave up once she had her teeth into something. This was the prelude to her “you’re your own worst enemy” lecture.