Freud's Mistress Read online

  “Lord knows, I’ve said this often enough, and it’s not my place to keep harping, but sometimes you’re your own worst—”

  A shriek from the parlor interrupted Martha. Then a crash.

  “Mother! Martin just broke your good vase and he’s bleeding,” Mathilde shouted in her usual annoyed tone.

  “I’m coming! Get a cloth from the kitchen! I swear, Minna, I’m at the end of my rope.”

  Martha and Minna hurried down the hall, passing Sigmund, who was striding in the opposite direction.

  “It’s such a coincidence,” Martha said. “The minute something happens with the children, he’s nowhere in sight, or racing out of here.”

  “Perhaps he’s otherwise occupied,” Minna replied.

  “He’s always otherwise occupied.”

  It was not lost on Minna that he had, indeed, been “otherwise occupied” these last few days. With her. But momentarily she felt a strange lack of guilt, which stayed with her as she helped Martha clean up the mess and patch up Martin’s hand. The thought of settling for a pale imitation of Freud was unthinkable now. And she would do whatever was necessary to be near him.

  33

  Vienna was sweltering. August arrived with a vengeance, and for the first time in years, the Freud family did not escape the oppressive heat for their mountain retreat in Altaussee. To the children’s bitter disappointment, their father had contacted the landlord of the cottage they rented in Obertressen, near the lake, and canceled their reservation. Throughout the month, Martin, Oliver, and Sophie had a succession of illnesses that they then passed on to Martha. In addition, Freud was still wrestling with the final chapters of his dream book, and his publisher, Franz Deuticke, was eager to see it. Deuticke owned a small scientific publishing house in Vienna and had initially sounded surprised at the subject matter, but no more so than with Studies in Hysteria, which he had also published.

  So the family stayed in town, and as the summer days wore on, they were often confined to the house. Most days it was too hot to walk, and all errands were accomplished before noon. Sudden thunderstorms offered little relief, and in the evenings the air was still, heavy with humidity.

  “In America, they have electric fans,” Oliver offered.

  “That would be the only reason to go there,” his father shot back.

  When Minna and Freud first returned from Switzerland, both of them had agreed that the affair could not exist at Berggasse 19. But that didn’t stop them from meeting at the small pension near the train station on an odd afternoon, or carrying on their late-night discussions in his study. Whenever he’d ring for her, after supper, when the children were in bed, she’d change into a muslin summer dress, fill a pitcher with cold beer or lemonade, and walk downstairs to see him. She’d bring along her silk fan in the pocket of her skirt and sometimes apply a cold, damp cloth to the back of his neck as they talked softly into the night about his work—his dream theories, his patients, his self-analysis, and always, the sexual basis of neurotic behavior. Eventually the heat would get to both of them.

  “I can’t go on. It’s like an oven in here. And my shoulders are aching,” he said, smoking so much she could hardly breathe.

  “Would you like a bucket of ice? I could run upstairs. Or would you like me to rub your neck?”

  “No, no,” he said, standing up and snubbing out his cigar. “It’s suffocating. I’m done for the night. Close the window, will you?”

  “Of course.” She paused. “Good night, then.”

  “Yes. Good night, dear.”

  During this period, Freud’s research was all-consuming and he became increasingly obsessed as the weeks went by. Night after night, he stayed in his steaming office, the windows open, nursing a sweaty pitcher of beer as he read through pages of case studies, scratching out copious notes on the margins.

  His only diversion was a short trip to Munich for a conference with Dr. Fliess. He had become even closer to Fliess since his split with Dr. Breuer, and Freud spoke of Fliess’s theories almost reverentially, even though Minna found them all wildly far-fetched.

  To begin with, the doctor believed that nearly every major disease and symptom in the human body was caused by the nose. Physical maladies from migraines to heart ailments, stomach pains, and joint disorders could all be related back to the runny mucous membranes of the olfactory organs. But Fliess went even further, theorizing that the nose was also responsible for sexual disorders.

  Minna wasn’t exactly clear on how the good doctor from Berlin made this leap from a sinus infection to frigidity or bisexuality, but Freud seemed fascinated, even bewitched, by such absurdities.

  When Minna heard about Fliess’s preoccupation with the nose, she made a few wry comments comparing Fliess to Cyrano de Bergerac. Freud was not amused, so she kept the Pinocchio joke to herself.

  • • •

  Since Minna’s return, she had taken over almost complete supervision of the children. They kept her busy from morning until night, all of them underfoot and each one restless and bored. She and Martha had always shared the duties in the household equally, but now Martha delegated more responsibilities to her sister.

  “It’s only fair. I worked so hard while you were in Frankfurt,” she said more than once, as if Minna had been on a four-month vacation.

  Ever since they were girls, Martha had been vigilant about a strict division of labor and rewards. Everything with her sister had to be exactly equal. If they shared a piece of cake, she insisted that one cut it and the other choose. If Martha ran an errand for their mother, she’d tell Minna, “Next time, it’s your turn.” She always kept score, in precise terms, of who did what and when, sulking when things didn’t come out even. Minna was hoping that her sister had grown out of this childish form of sibling rivalry, but it seemed that Martha still viewed her world as tit for tat, quid pro quo.

  One morning, when there was a slight breeze and the temperature edged down a few notches, Minna decided they couldn’t, in good conscience, keep the children cooped up one more minute. The house was oppressive and Martha’s instructions made it worse. Windows and drapes were routinely closed against the harsh sunlight during the day, and then only opened again at dusk. In addition, there were no hot meals. Martha “couldn’t tolerate a fire in the kitchen.”

  Despite Minna’s pleas, Martha specifically told her that she didn’t want the children roaming around the streets.

  “It’s too hot, too dusty, and there are reports of random looting downtown. You must have heard about it. Florence Skekel told me they were targeting Jewish shopkeepers. ‘Semitic polluters,’ that’s what they call us. Can you imagine?”

  “I’ve heard Florence is an alarmist.”

  “From who?”

  “Her husband, when we played cards.”

  “He doesn’t understand her.”

  Later that afternoon, after Minna had been run ragged all day, Martha finally relented, allowing the children outside.

  “Take them to the Prater,” she said, waving one hand in the air, as if she were shooing away gnats. And upon hearing a loud crash added, “As soon as possible!”

  But at this point Minna was dead tired. “Martha, let’s do it tomorrow. It’s been a hectic day and I don’t have the energy.”

  “Really, Minna. It’s not that much trouble. Why are you so tired? You certainly had enough rest. Lord knows I’ve dealt with this household by myself all these months you were gone. Are you ill?”

  “No, I’m not ill. But I’m exhausted and it’s just too late to go now.”

  “Perhaps you’re tired because you’ve been visiting Sigmund in his study until all hours, although it’s good Sigi has someone to talk to . . .”

  There was a pause as the two sisters looked at each other. Then Minna slowly turned and headed for the kitchen.

  “I’ll have a cup of coffee and then take them.�
��

  Minna slunk back into the kitchen. She felt perverse around Martha, even pathetic. She was now in the position where she had to lie to her sister about the most basic things and then wonder, constantly, if her words sounded plausible. She had a bad taste in her mouth, felt squeamish even, as if there were something rotten in the room that reeked but she had to ignore. Before she left the house for Hamburg, she was conflicted, even anguished by her desire. She convinced herself that the attraction she felt for Sigmund was something that had befallen her rather than something she had instigated. But now that she was reestablished in the household, there were moments when her stomach turned as Martha and she talked about the marketing, the children, the everyday occurrences. And then afterward, she was surprised at how she could act so cool, and indifferent, as if this brazen violation were not happening.

  Minna sipped her coffee in the kitchen, leaning against the sideboard and wilted by the heat. What if she were a family friend or a neighbor, and had fallen in love with Sigmund? Would that be easier? Yes, easier, she thought. It would be an affair, and wives get over affairs, but this was different—more sinful. At least she still had the decency to be disgusted by her behavior. She smiled to herself at the ridiculous reasoning of this statement.

  But along with everything else, she was frightened. Not just for herself any longer, but for all of them. It was as if she were waiting for that moment when Martha would suddenly turn and accuse her. But that moment had not come. Sometimes she almost wished it would happen so that she would be released from the torture of her shallow, shameless self.

  34

  These days, she was always the one waiting.

  What’s taking him so long? she thought as she paced the floor. He was over an hour late this time.

  The pension seemed dingier in the daylight. There was a stain on the quilt at the end of the bed. The wallpaper was peeling in spots, and the floorboards were buckled and scratched. Didn’t there used to be a carpet here? She could hear a couple in the next room arguing. And then a door slam. She leaned out the window and caught sight of him entering the hotel.

  He came into the room and sat down on the bed next to her, unlacing his shoes. Then he apologized for being late as one does when he is in no way sorry.

  A few months ago, he would have been early. A few months ago, she reminded herself, she would not have been here at all.

  It was getting increasingly difficult to arrange these meetings because of his schedule. This time, there was little more than a moment’s notice.

  “I couldn’t get a cab. I had to walk blocks until I found one,” he said.

  She began fidgeting with her blouse, trying to unbutton the line of tiny buttons. He touched her cheek, pushed her blouse off her shoulders. His lips quickly kissed her stomach. Then he stripped off her clothes and pulled her to him. From the first touch of his fingers, she still felt the thrill. It didn’t take much.

  • • •

  Once they’d done it on the floor. And once in the bathtub. She liked to bring a bottle in her purse and have several drinks before he arrived. Usually he was able to stay awhile afterward, but today he drew away from her and began fumbling for his pants.

  “I have to go.”

  “So soon? You just got here.”

  “I have a patient waiting . . .” he said, in the same tone he used with Martha when he wanted to get out of the room. She watched him get dressed, poured herself another drink, then called his name as he walked out the door. He turned back to look at her with an impassive expression.

  “Never mind,” she said.

  Later, when she went back to the house and resumed her life, a listlessness of spirit would overwhelm her. It wasn’t only the fact that she felt a diminished affection on Sigmund’s part. But also, the fear of getting caught was beginning to blunt the afterglow of desire.

  Sometimes Martha would look at her oddly and say, “Are you all right?” The question would inevitably set off a rush of despair in her gut and she’d scream inside with rage, No! I’m not all right.

  • • •

  Sometime over the next week, a formal envelope arrived, embossed in gold leaf and addressed to Dr. Freud and Frau. The Freuds were invited by Herr Zelinsky and his wife to the opening of the opera and a dinner party afterward in their splendid apartment in the elite Reichsratsstrasse district.

  Minna eyed the invitation with more than passing interest as she and Martha sat down in the parlor and sorted through the mail. Gustav Mahler had just been named director of the Hofoper and was currently the most celebrated figure in Vienna. The opera house itself was recently finished in the grand Imperial style with painted, domed ceilings and Doric columns. And, most important, everyone agreed it had excellent acoustics.

  “Oh, it’s Don Giovanni,” said Minna, her voice rising in excitement.

  “At least Sigmund won’t be bored. Last year it was Norma, and he fell asleep.”

  “What a thrill to watch Mahler.”

  “Not for me. He’s been such a disappointment.”

  “Disappointment?”

  “That whole distasteful conversion business. Now he’s a Catholic? If you ask me, it won’t help him in the least. He still won’t be invited to the palace. Once a Jew, always a Jew.”

  “He had to convert, you know that, or he’d never have been given the appointment.”

  “In any event,” she said, with a dismissive wave of her hand, “his mother must be rolling over in her grave.”

  “Martha, if you don’t care that much about the performance, I’d be happy to go in your place,” Minna ventured, as if the thought had just occurred to her.

  “You mean accompany Sigmund instead of me?” Martha shot back.

  “Only if you didn’t want to go,” Minna responded, backtracking.

  “What gave you that impression? Of course I want to go. It’s the event of the season.”

  “Well, perhaps I’ll just buy a ticket.” Minna said, perversely pushing the issue.

  “On opening night? It’ll be a fortune. And anyway, who’d watch the children?”

  Minna stared at her sister without comment and then walked out of the room before she said something she’d regret. Martha’s reaction was troubling. Minna knew for a fact that her sister was not a devotee of the opera. And Martha knew for a fact that Minna loved it. Was this simply a case of her sister being insensitive—a blatant disregard for her feelings? Or was Martha suspicious of Minna’s motives? For the hundredth time since she arrived back at the house, she wondered, Did her sister know? Were there fire clouds under Martha’s irritable demeanor? Possibly not. Especially when she later popped her head into Minna’s room and graciously offered to give Minna her opera ticket next time.

  “We can take turns,” Martha said, diplomatically. “But you know how I adore the opening.”

  Thank God, Minna thought. It’s not about Sigmund. It’s about the party.

  On the night of the event, Martha selected a crimson silk evening gown with velvet epaulets and a gored skirt that looked like a half-opened umbrella, black satin boots, and a French jet bracelet borrowed from their mother. Minna walked in as Martha was gathering up her wool capelet and Empire fan. Sophie was fluttering about, telling her mother she looked like a princess, and Mathilde was her usual critical self.

  “Mama, that capelet doesn’t match. Take your fur instead,” Mathilde insisted. “And you shouldn’t be wearing a gold bracelet with silver buckles. Don’t mix your metals.”

  “Martha, Sigmund’s waiting for you,” Minna interrupted.

  “Let him wait. It’s the opera. We’re not catching a train,” Martha said, unhurriedly pinking her cheeks and taking one last look at her profile.

  Sigmund was smoking and pacing in the parlor. He was carefully groomed in a formal white waistcoat, top hat, black cravat, and patent leather shoes, and he kept pul
ling his watch out of his fob pocket, muttering to himself about the hired carriage waiting outside.

  “It’s about time. We’re half an hour late,” he said, annoyed. “And we still have to pick up the Bernheims, who live in the opposite direction. I don’t know why you offered to get them in the first place.”

  “Goodness. You could say something nice about the way I look, Sigmund. I’m wearing your favorite dress. A woman needs a compliment now and then, doesn’t she, Minna?”

  “Absolutely,” Minna said. “Sigmund, tell Martha how lovely she looks.”

  Freud rubbed the back of his neck in exasperation and then stubbed out his cigar. He shot Minna a look of helplessness and resignation.

  “You look lovely, my dear,” he said, in a tone Minna found to be thoroughly unconvincing. Still, it was apparently enough for his wife.

  “Now, Minna,” Martha said, “it’s getting late. Don’t let Sophie talk you into those bedtime stories. She must go to sleep without all the nonsense. And tell Nanny to change the baby before putting her down. She didn’t last time, and it was a mess. Oh, dear, my opera glasses,” she said, rushing out of the room.

  Minna walked over to Sigmund and brushed an imaginary piece of lint off his shoulder.

  “And would you like me to do anything for you, Sigmund, while you’re out?” Minna whispered. “Perhaps shine your shoes?”

  “Stop it. That’s not funny.”

  “I wasn’t trying to be funny.”

  It was odd to think that in other circumstances, Minna would be happy for her sister. But right now, she detested her. As if this painful incident were all Martha’s fault. Sometimes she couldn’t even stand herself.

  Minna took Sophie’s hand in hers and escorted the tired four-year-old upstairs. Mathilde was playing cards with the boys in the parlor and there were faint cries from the nursery, where Nanny was feeding the baby. Sophie’s room was strewn with baskets of toys and knickknacks, and all the furniture from the dollhouse was spread out on the rug like a miniature fire sale. Minna felt a headache coming on, the kind that throbs behind the ears and makes the eyes water. She decided to ignore the mess. She was tired and blue. What did she expect when she came back to this house? That he wouldn’t go out with his wife? Here she was, feeling sorry for herself because she was left behind at the ball. But the fact of the matter was, she wasn’t Cinderella, she was the evil stepsister.